COUNT CAVOUR.

DAY dawn'd on vine-clad Italy, and red the rising beams
Flush'd o'er the land of heroes' hopes and poets' happy dreams,
Dyed deep her marble mountain sides, rush'd rosy through her plains,
And darkly tinged her sunny seas with broad empurpled stains."
The long, cold night of helpless right; the starless, breezeless sky
Were fleeting past, the spectre chill of gloomy hours gone by-
A phantom dread of terrors dead, a hideous, crawling thing-
Before the storm-driv'n winds of morn, loud-voiced, and swift of wing.
Before the tempest-clouds of day, full charged with fury's gale,
Dense with revenge's memories deep, with hatred's anger pale;
Red-hot with freedom's lightning fire, fierce with defiant pride,
Which on Old Rome's republic homes pour forth their bloody tide.
Forth looked he from his realm of thought upon that daybreak dread,
That fearful breaking of the tombs above the rising dead;'

That pang of life quick starting through the pulseless, nerveless earth;
A people's labouring agony, a nation's fiery birth.

His life! his life! for all his life this vision on his sight

Has risen through the toilsome day and through the weary night!
This pictured scene of wrong and rage in mortal strife, before;
Behind, a fetter's shiver'd links, a dungeon's shatter'd door.

In front the grasp of vengeful arms, the lurid glare of hate;
Behind, clasp'd hands, and smiling brows, and reason's calm debate:
For all his life he's toil'd for this-now roll storm-clouds away!
'Tis nothing all that he has done-his work begins to-day.

His work begins-why droops his head? why falls his nerveless hand,
While waiting on his mind and voice a rescued people stand?
Why feeble grows the quickening pulse, disturb'd the restless brain?
Why languid beats the fluttering heart? why throbs the swelling vein?

Was there no glorious battle-field to claim his parting sigh?
Was there no day of bright success in which for him to die?
Why nobly fell the lesser stars in that exultant strife,
Whilst he to fever's noisome grasp gives up his struggling life?

This is his day-oh, give it him!—since in that struggle brief
Died greatly beardless boys and men, the vassal and the chief;
Let him, too, meet time's end like them with triumph on his brow;
There stays his task!-oh, let him ask an hour of respite now!
He'll leave to every patriot fall'n a nation's grateful tears;
He'll leave to every martyr'd head the hallow'd love of years;
He could have died as these have died; he lived to take the weight,
The ceaseless care, the straining toil, of this new-risen State.

The spirit war, the mental pain, and then his country's peace;
These are the work, and this the gain: then let life's contest cease;
But if it must be even here, not thus, Great Power above!
Let all his past plead for him now, Spirit of deathless love!

Oh! spare him from the darken'd room, hush'd voice, and muffled tread,
The loathsome breath of pestilence, the sick and sleepless bed,
The tortured sense, the wandering mind, dim eye, and failing limb.
Are there no coward fools on earth? is this the doom for him?

Close fast his eyes! 'tis over now-"God's noblest work lies there-"
A man with spirit strong to will, with soul set firm to bear;
With reason stern, with judgment calm, and feeling's finest tone,
With all which keeps that Image clear, our hearts bend low to own.

Thank Him who made for many, such. Earth's fairest lands would grow
The hell for passion's fiercest wrath, for misery's direst woe,
Could not the souls, now whispering still, in grief, thy name, Cavour,
With reverend thanks bow down to bless His name for many more.

ALISON PENN.

THE more I reflect on the Volunteer movement the greater is my admiration of its blessings and advantages. A defender of my country myself, I can speak from observation amongst my comrades, as well as from the confidences they have reposed in me, privately, in moments of refreshment and relaxation. I ought to say, however, before I go into this matter, that the satisfaction I derive from having rallied round the colours of the 10th Tower Hamlets is purely classical. It is enough for me to feel, when I sally out to drill, that I am one of the hundred thousand who sprang from the earth at the first sound of danger, like the armed men we read of in Lemprière's learned Dictionary. This, however, is mere sentiment, you will say. Well, it is a sublime sentiment; and it is enough alone to elevate me above the loss of time, expenditure of money, colds in the head, the chaff of boys, and other incidental annoyances which we find ever strewn in the path of Duty.

But there are other pleasures and advantages which I do not affect to despise, since they appear to weigh so much with the youth-and, indeed, with a good deal of the middle-age-of the country. If you have a nice figure a fine

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figure, a sturdy figure-a neat little figure-you join the Volunteers, and there you are! If you wish to grow a moustache, and haven't courage to start one in your capacity of lawyer, fishmonger, grocer's young man, or what-not, you become a Volunteer; and then it is almost a duty to cultivate what has been so aptly called the "manly appendage;" for it is a first law of military science (and not the least difficult for the Volunteer to comply with)—that a soldier should look like a soldier. However, growing a moustache is half the battle: the process is tolerably easy, and the result is ennobling!

And then, again, how many men are there under the gross and unnatural tyranny of women, who find a refuge in the ranks of the Volunteers! You are "engaged;" then must you dangle at the fair one's waist-or, to use language that will be more generally understood-then must you devote every evening of your existence to attending her abroad, or turning over the leaves of her music at home. Of course, a little of this is very agreeable-say, three evenings a week; but many a once light-hearted young man knows how the silken cord, so delightfully fast and loose at first, is gradually drawn in, till at length he hardly dare call his soul bis own. His companions have to be cut, his amusements (generally voted "degraded -a quiet game at bowls or billiards degraded! an innocent Saturday tripe supper and a song degraded !) have to be given up-he must not spend an hour in the invigorating conversation which obtains amongst his Sex, when the other sex is not present. That is one bond-slave. Then there is the other-the married one, whose chains hang palpably about him, and the clank of which is distinctly audible to the keen ear of friendship, whenever he happens to be ont rather late, with or without the key. What lies this poor wretch has to tell, in order to buy his liberty for an evening occasionally! What hypocrisies, what forgeries and false pretences has he to stoop to and to involve his friends in! If he accepts Brown's invitation to a quiet dinner at Greenwich or Richmond, he has to organize telegraphic messages of the most urgent nature, which reach him just as he sits down to a comfortable rubber by his own fireside, or while he is maritally engaged in training the honeysuckle round Mrs. Jones's chamber window. He has to send his wife a hurried scrawl, written in apparent agitation, announcing that poor Brown has been arrested for debt, and implores that he (Jones) will come to him-that refusal is impossible. And Brown, should he subsequently meet Mrs. Jones, will tell her that Jones's company was an inexpressible comfort to him at that trying time, though the debt only amounted to seventeen shillings and sixpence.

Now these subterfuges are not only demoralizing to the mind; but, since the most ingenious of them only serves for once, they are torturing to the invention. It is all very well for the poet to sing that he'll warrant he'll find an excuse for, the glass, but we are not all poets, and this is a practical question. However, it is only necessary to join the Volunteers-the thing is done. One evasion serves for all occasions. Duty calls. There's drill. There's rifle-practice. There's marching out. There is the duty of dining with your commanding officer-which occurs every time you are invited to men's parties anywhere.

But, subterfuge aside, how delightful is the ease and freedom of the marchings out-if the weather is only fine! The healthy tramp, the emulation, the joke, the libertine short pipe, the pot of porter at the roadside inn with your jovial comrades, the song in chorus as you march homeward like a band of big boys

what enjoyments are these! Ah, now I know why "The girl I left behind me" is such an exhilarating air!

Nor is this all. The military have ceased to enjoy all the advantages against us civilians in society: which is a great satisfaction. Ilitherto, whenever their scarlet coats appeared in any assembly, the sweet and flattering glances from woman's eyes, which had previously been distributed with something like equality throughout the room, were immediately focussed on the scarlet objects, to the deprivation and mortification of men quite as brave, and, I even flatter myself, as handsome. Who had the most engaging partners then? What is the use of being witty or wise, while the fair creature at your side is thinking of another man's chivalric deportment, his splendid uniform, his beautiful wing whiskers, and his wickedness-thinking of him, too, as a creature devoted to death and glory? No use whatever. You only increase your own mortification. The only consolation is, that when the officers are out of sight you will probably be taken into consideration again—as a marrying man. That is to say-to them the flirtation, to you the matrimony: a dispensation infamously unjust on the face of it. However, the Volunteer movement has altered that state of things a little. We are devoted to death and glory now, and may change the absurd costume in which gentlemen appear in the evenings, and magpies all the year round, to don an elegant martial costume. It is notorious that many of us make as leonine a figure as any regular; and, at any rate, we meet them on their own ground as officers and gentlemen, and the Fair are expected to smile on us with equal interest and fascination.

I don't know, though, that I have ever seen a Volunteer, however handsome (unless he happened to have a great deal of money), so much admired as the young gentleman in our drawing seems to be. Still, I daresay it is quite correct -from the life, no doubt. And this points the advantage of the Volunteer movement to the non-military sex: it extends the area of legitimate flirtation. The smile of Beauty is the hero's due reward; and society always allows something for the fascination of full-dress uniform. And hence, I say, the uprising of a hundred thousand men armed for the defence of our-what shall I call it ?-Island Home has done much to promote a pastime which is said to become more popular amongst the daughters of England every day. Well, let it be so. I will not, on this occasion, warn the youthful Volunteer that the nearer the song of the syrens -the more they appear above water, so to speak-the greater is his danger. But to the syrens themselves I will say, "Consider your country. Flatter the patriotic Volunteer with your eyes, your soft voice, your nameless blandishments unnumbered, if you please-the young man deserves it. But leave him to his country, nor seek to divert his arm to the turning of the matrimonial mangle."

THE MARCHIONESS OF AUREBONNE.

I.

On the plains of Hyères, and on the shore of a sea as tranquil and blue as ever sparkled in the bay of Baïa, are ruins, called indiscriminately Manare, or Almanare, and which antiquarians assert can be traced to the Romans. These ruins are ill-preserved, consisting only of a few pieces of wall, broken-down arches, and a large brick inclosure; all, however, clearly discernible, amidst a wilderness of thicket and creeping plants of every description.

Nature, as if resolved on humbling man, and on atoning for the humiliation, here contrasts her own eternal youth with the short-lived duration of his achievements, and has flung over the straggling fragments a robe which each spring restores to its early and unrivalled splendour. On this favoured ground trees of all kinds flourish in savage luxuriance, and the otherwise melancholy ruins are transformed by her magic touch into a scene of verdure and glowing beauty. The pistachio-nut, wild fig, sweetbrier, pomegranate, each and all, contribute their liveliest hues to render this a spot as brilliant as it is enchanting.

Between the ruins and the sea stands a clump of colossal pines, that serve in the neighbourhood as a landmark. They allow not a ray of sunshine to penetrate their branches, nor a blade of grass to grow at their feet; yet, when the evening breeze springs up, these giant trees seem to respond in softly plaintive murmurs to the water gently rippling on the shore.

To the right of these trees, at the base of a gradually sloping hill, are several white and picturesque-looking houses: they are generally but two stories high, with a deep veranda in front, which is supported on either side by two elegantlooking columns. Their owners usually occupy the second floor, leaving their best apartments for strangers, who, whether from a love of solitude, or for the sake of health, all appear to prefer living at a little distance from the town; or, what is still more probable, they like the vicinity of the sea, whose breeze is doubly welcome in the somewhat enervating climate of the South. Seldom does it occur that there is not an agreeable intimacy subsisting between the owners of these houses and their lodgers. It would be difficult for an Englishman to maintain his reserve, or a Parisian his indifference, beneath such a sky, and where all is bloom and verdure, flowers and sunshine.

About fifteen years since, the prettiest of these dwellings belonged to a Dr. Assandri, a Milanese by birth, but who had been naturalized in France, where he had married. Left a widower, with an only daughter, the doctor divided his time between her and his patients. He had great repute as a medical man, and people came from long distances to consult him. In a very remarkable degree he possessed the faculty of penetration: it was with him as much a natural gift as the result of long experience; and it proved especially useful in the examination of consumptive patients, for whom, hitherto, the wisest physicians have discovered no better remedy than "a residence in a warm climate."

In the autumn of every year he gazed on numerous arrivals, that had taken flight, like birds, at the first approach of winter-fragile and beautiful English girls, endeavouring to shake off the cold damps of their own fogs, and the fever bequeathed them by crowded and heated saloons-statesmen, worn out by a