his bosom which wanted but a fostering breath to kindle into a flame. Sixteen summers had passed over his head, and already had he begun to feel the restless workings of ambition in his mind his home became distasteful, and his light labours wearisome; he sighed to distinguish himself in that world, where his fellow-men were toiling for fame, riches, and honour, but he knew not how to emancipate himself from his degrading thraldom. There was, however, a stronger feeling than the half defined workings of natural enthusiasm, operating upon Giulio's mind. Marietta was the loveliest maiden that ever trod the shores of the classic Arno; her raven hair floated over a brow of marble whiteness, and her large black eyes softened into an expression of such melting tenderness, when by chance they met those of Giulio at the village festivals, that the fascinated youth, from at first thinking often of those dazzling eyes, at length could think only of them and their beauteous possessor. Need it be told, Giulio was soon steeped to the lips in love ;-but Marietta was rich, and Giulio poor, and he knew enough of mankind to be assured that with her family his case was hopeless. Day after day he devised wild schemes. of realizing wealth sufficient to entitle him to lay claim to Marietta's hand; but none appearing feasible to his mature consideration, they were all in turn rejected as soon as formed.

One lovely summer evening, when the Val'd'Arno's olive and ilex groves were covered with the purply and blue shadows of evening, as Giulio was leading home his flock, inwardly repining, like the prince of the Happy valley, at the fate which chained him there in inglorious ease, his attention was arrested by a strange voice hallooing to him to stop. The person from whom it proceeded soon appeared at a short turn in the road above him, leading, or rather dragging a jaded mule down the rugged path. "Confound your weary mountain ways!—Santa Virgine! an' a day's journey by one of them be not worse than a barefoot pilgrimage to our lady of Loretto: my name is Nicolai Lamberto," said the stranger in no very complacent tone, as he approached Giulio, who saw in the person who had addressed him a middle-aged stout-built man, habited in the simple costume of a burgher, save that his cap was of the richest Genoa velvet, and that a gold button, in which sparkled a large jewel, looped it up on one side; in other respects his dress differed a little from that of any unostentatious trader. "Young man," said he, addressing Giulio with a frankness of manner which bespoke an acquaintance with the world, "can you guide me to some neighbouring cottage, where I may refresh myself and my tired mule ?"

"If you be content with a shepherd's simple fare," replied Giulio, "my father's roof stands amidst yonder group of olive trees-there, Signor, you will at least find a secure shelter for the night."

"More I seek not, good youth;-and so, if it please you, let us hasten thither, for the day's toil hath given me a marvellous keen appetite." Thus saying, they descended the narrow pass together, Nicolai tugging at the bridle of his mule, and Giulio driving before him his flock of sheep. Nicolai received on that night the cheerful hospitalities of the shepherd's cottage-coarse bread, dried fruits, olives and cheese, furnished forth his table; and if his bed wanted the

downy softness of the couches of the great, it was also without their thorns. In the morning, after a plain repast with the shepherd's family, Nicolai Lamberto prepared to depart; but before he had put his foot in the stirrup, he called Giulio to his side.

"Giulio," said he, you have showed me kindness, and it is meet I should return it in some sort. Your industry and genius are buried in these mountains: come and live with me and I will place you in the high road to wealth-not by the sword or the pen, for I am but a free citizen of Florence, as good a brass and metal founder as any in Tuscany for that is the trade whereby I have made a fortune that would not be altogether despicable in the eyes of the proudest merchant princes of Florence." Giulio's heart throbbed tumultuously on perceiving the road to independence thus suddenly open to him; eagerly grasping the stranger's hand, he pressed it impressively to his lips, and thankfully promised to accept his generous proposal.

"Well then," replied Nicolai, as he turned his mule's head from the cottage door, "when you arrive in Florence enquire for Nicolai Lamberto, the brass founder, and I warrant you will not be long till you find me out."

The following morning saw Giulio quitting the paternal roof. His step was indeed more elastic and his eye more confident than usual, as he sprang down the rocky path which led to the high road; but he could not avoid turning at intervals to gaze on the humble home which had sheltered his infancy, and a shade of deeper melancholy passed over his open brow as he passed before the white walls of a neat villa, bosomed amongst trellised vines, and almost shrouded by the veil of crimson flowers that overspread its roof-it was Marietta's dwelling. Entering the paradise in which his every hope was centred, he approached the house-all was still, save the ceaseless dropping from the dew-laden shrubs around. Plucking a single blossom from a Clematis whose truant branches had wandered luxuriantly through a half-open lattice, he pressed it passionately to his lips and his bosom, and with a fervent aspiration to Heaven, for her whose happiness was dearer to him than his own, rushed from the spot, as fearful of trusting his resolution should he linger long in that seductive scene. Three years had rolled away before Giulio re-appeared in his native hamlet; and then the slender joyous youth was transformed into the firmly knit serious man. Nicolai had not been unmindful of his promises. The old man loved

Giulio as a son, and under his care he had become the cleverest artist in Florence; he had, however, died suddenly, but not without leaving to Giulio a sufficient independence to entitle him to aspire to Marietta's hand, who still remained unwedded, although numerous advantageous proposals of marriage had been made her. An offer from a person of Giulio's expectations for his daughter's hand stood little chance of being rejected by Marietta's father. The young man was admitted as the formal lover of the beautiful donzella, and before a month had elapsed it was whispered amongst the gossips at the fountain, that Marietta's bridal garments were preparing in a style of magnificence which bespoke the wealth and the attachment of her future lord. One circumstance only delayed their union. Giulio

had exhausted all the ingenuity and skill he possessed in making a
ring of bells, and he only waited their arrival from Florence to pre-
sent them to the church of his patron saint. They at length arrived,
and were hung in the tower of the village church; and on the day
in which Giulio received at the altar the hand of his lovely bride, he
heard those bells, whose sweet tones he prized next to the music of
Marietta's voice, ring out their first joyous peal to celebrate his nup-
tials. Every wish of Giulio's heart was accomplished; his pride and
love were gratified, and he felt, as the rain of roses from the hands
of their bridal train descended on his and Marietta's head, that Hea-
ven had filled his cup of happiness to the brim. For six years the sun-
shine of content shone upon the peaceful dwelling of Giulio and his
happy partner; boys and girls, with cherub locks and rosy cheeks,
had climbed his knees; the sound of the matin chime stirred his heart
to gladness, and the vesper bells at the solemn evening hour attuned
his spirits to calm delight-they were his--the works of his own hand,
and their clear tones came like the voices of old friends upon his ear.
But man is not born to enjoy uninterrupted felicity. Internal war-
fare, which had so often rendered the sunny plains of Italy desolate,
again spread her banners over the Tuscan hills. Allessandro Medici
(afterwards first duke of Florence), who had been banished by the
republican party, endeavoured, with the assistance of the Imperial
troops, to regain his authority in Florence, whose territories he en-
tered with a large army. Giulio, prompt at his country's call, flew
to join the republican bands who were collecting to resist the tyrant's
efforts; and as he kissed away the tears from his Marietta's stream-
ing eyes, and clasping his beautiful children to his bosom on bidding
them adieu, a dark presentiment crossed his mind that he was doing
so for the last time. Giulio foreboded rightly; when he next crossed
the threshold of his home, it was lone and desolate, the door
idly on its hinges, and the lattice flapped mournfully in the blast-
War's ruthless hand had turned his paradise into a hideous wilderness;
slaughter and rapine had rioted in the abode of peace and innocence;
his wife and children had perished, and Giulio was-alone in the
world. He stood by his cottage porch, contemplating in gloomy si-
lence the scene which surrounded him. The setting sun, poised upon
a distant mountain's ridge, seemed to linger for an instant to take a
parting glance on the vine-clad hills and valleys, and then plunged
downwards into the dawn of another world. Giulio started-'twas
the Ave Maria! hour-

"the hour,

The time, the clime, the spot, when he so oft
Had felt that moment in its fullest power,
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,

While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft :”–

swung

-his ear sought to catch the familiar tones of the vesper bells from the village church-but he watched in vain; deep purple shadows overspread the vale below, but that long loved chime, which had

1

ofttimes called the pilgrim and the mountaineer to repose or prayer, was silent.

"They too are gone," he exclaimed; "and their merry peal will never more glad my heart. The hand of the spoiler has taken all; he has torn the branches from the tree, and it is meet that the withered trunk should perish likewise." As he spoke, he rushed from the scene of desolation, fleeing with the blind speed of a maniac, and never again returned to the deserted walls of his once happy home.

*

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*

One evening, at the close of summer, a foreign-looking bark was observed slowly drifting up the Shannon's noble stream, a few miles below the city of Limerick. The last breath of the day breeze was dying away in her flapping sails, and it was quite evident that she would be unable to reach the quay of Limerick that night. A few boatinen, who had been watching her progress from the shore, at length put off, in the expectation of getting some employment as pilots or assistants to the stranger. Upon reaching the bark, a grave-looking man, habited in black, whose sun-bronzed brow and quick black eye betokened him a native of a more southern land, leaned over the vessel's side and anxiously enquired if they would row him up to Limerick without delay, at the same time offering them a liberal compensation for their trouble. The business was easily settled, and the stranger stepping into the stern of the boat, threw himself along the seats, so totally absorbed with his own secret communings that he seemed to view unheeded the picturesque scenery by which they were gliding every moment. The rowers bent to their oars, and the light boat shot rapidly through the water, leaving behind a glittering line of broken light upon the broad expanse of the tranquil river. At length the dusky towers of St. Mary's Cathedral became visible in the distance as the last rays of the sun burnished the still waters, which lay like a broad mirror around them. At this moment the bells from the old cathedral rung forth a solemn chime. The stranger started from his lethargic trance, his sunken eye kindled with unusual lustre, and his sickly cheek became flooded with a dark crimson tide. He listened for a moment, as their clear tones came mellowed by distance over the calm tide. "They are mine! they are mine!" he shrieked, and sunk backwards, overpowered with the violence of his emotions. The rowers, who imagined he had fallen into a swoon, hastened to support-they raised him up. He was dead! The rest of the tale is shortly told :-Giulio had wandered from his country, alone and desolate, through many a foreign clime; his name had been forgotten in his native village, or only spoken of as the young man who had manufactured the fine set of bells, which in the civil wars had been purchased by an Irish ecclesiastic, but no one knew whither they had been conveyed. Such is the history of the ill starred Italian and the Limerick Cathedral Bells.

HORE PHILOSOPHICÆ, No. I.

"For man loves knowledge, and the beams of truth
More welcome touch his understanding's eye,
Than all the blandishments of sound his ear,
Than all of taste his tongue."

AKENSIDE.

MAN may truly be defined to be a philosophical animal. In all ages of the world he has ever manifested the same ardent love for wisdom. Knowledge, or wisdom, which is knowledge digested and matured, has ever been the grand object of his desire. After this he has toiled with an enthusiasm that no obstacles could subdue. Seas have been traversed by him, mountains have been climbed, caverns have been searched, and the most distant countries have been explored in pursuit of this precious treasure. With an indomitable determination he has forced his way into the inner chambers of nature, and discovered the secret of many of her mystic operations. There has been within him an "obstinate activity, an unsuppressive spring," that has ever continually impelled him onward. Everynew discovery he has made has only encouraged him to proceed still farther. As he has advanced in the course, not only has the goal been receding, but his own vigour has been inexhausted. Every fresh irruption into the regions of knowledge has opened new vistas, displayed new lines of country, and pointed to hills still dimly seen on the distant horizon, whose picturesque beauty has tempted him to advance.

Whence then springs this love of wisdom? Whence this unsatisfied desire, this insatiable longing, this restless inquietude of the soul? "If there be," says an eminent writer, " a propensity in the human mind which distinguishes from the inferior order of sentient beings, a propensity which alone may be taken for the characteristic of the species, and of which no trace is to be found in any other; it is disinterested intellectual curiosity, a love of discovery for its own sake independent of all its advantages. In no case that is of essential advantage, of indispensable necessity, not only to our well-being, but to our very existence, has God left us to the care of our reason alone. He has committed the improvement of the intellectual powers of the soul to the sure hand of curiosity, and he has made this so strong in a few superior souls whom he has appointed to give light and knowledge to the whole species, as to abstract them from all other pursuits, and to engage them in intellectual research, with an ardour which no attainment can ever quench, but, on the contrary, inflames it more by every draught of knowledge."

Here then is the true source of all our philosophy. This simple element of feeling, curiosity, implanted by the Author of our being in the human breast, is the radical principle of all those vast discoveries