hawk observed the favourite, and was ready to pounce upon it, when he himself fell the victim of the rifle which Estelle had seen. The accident introduces to her acquaintance young Adhemar; she warns him of the danger he runs by exposing himself to the emissaries who were in pursuit of him. In short, the scion of the exile, and the daughter of the court-favourite, were already charmed with each other. Estelle, upon her arrival at home, suddenly learns that the king is about to visit Avilly, and that in his train would come the Duke of Montbel, whom her father wishes she should marry. These tidings were sufficiently distressing. But her father reminding her of the personal influence which she had already obtained amongst the inhabitants of Avilly, requests that she would use it for the purpose of discovering the abode of Adhemar, who was known to be concealed in that neighbourhood. This request places her in a condition which enables her to cultivate the acquaintance thus accidentally commenced: the natural cr nsequence follows; they are deeply enamoured of each other. Estelle, however, yields to her father's commands, marries the Duke de Montbel, and pines to death in splendid misery. Some parts of the tale are wrought with considerable power, which gives promise of still better things, from the pen of the fair author. NOTICES. ART. XI.-The Ladies' Cabinet of Fashion, Music, and Romance. 18mo. No. 3. London: G. Henderson. 1832. It gives us much gratification to understand that this little work has had prodigious success. It is ad dressed chiefly to the female mind, and without being ever didactic, it is well calculated to spread through society the seeds of rational improvement, a taste for intellectual entertainment, as well as for music and the fine arts. It has nothing of a feeble or juvenile character in its various compositions, whether in prose or poetry. They are all evidently framed with the view of engaging the attention of women of sense and education; and an idea seems to pervade them, that the female mind is just as capable of relishing well written tales, good move, The angel-type of wedded love, A beautiful engraving, from a painting by Claude Lorraine, embellishes this Number. The name here assigned to it is "The Convent of the Apennines," and a story is given in illustration of it, which we shall extract for the amusement of our readers. 'Whoever has been at Florence can hardly fail to recollect the Arno, with its numerous bridges, its waters shining in the mid-day sun, the crowds of churches and palaces rich in all the most precious works of art, which meet the eye on every side; the trsnsparent sky above, and the gay scenery which, like a panorama, spreads over the earth below, converting every street, I might say every particular edifice, into a brilliant picture. Florence, in the light of the day, is, indeed, a glorious object of contem plation; but to be seen in its most beguiling aspect, you must traverse it, as I have frequently done, during the hour of midnight. The heat of the day is excessive, there is scarcely any twilight, and it is only in the serene and silent watches of the night that the air is cooled by a fresh and balmy breeze which breathes along the Arno. It is then, too, that the beautiful, the poetic river, is beheld surrounded by all those divine associations which have given it celebrity throughout the world,-the moonbeams casting their radiance upon its ever-flowing waters, touching with silver the tops of the towers along its banks, and shewing its bridges in a softened and dreamy perspective; while the huge masses of ancient buildings which fill the city, lie in full deep shadow, apparently sunk in profound repose. The loveliness of the night, in this fine climate, must be felt, in order to be understood; it cannot be described. The sun dips below the horizon, the evening suddenly falls, and before we can discern the first star twinkling in the azure concave of the sky, the day has departed. In a moment the firmament is glowing with its innumerable lights; the milky way is so luminous and so clearly defined, that it looks like a path of diamonds spread out in the heavens. Perhaps, from a few thin clouds in the distance, an electric flash now and then breaks forth, and adds to the splendour of the scene above, while below it quickens the movements of the fire-fly, which, as it springs from every spot deepened by foliage, flings its sparkles on the bosom of the night. The stillness of the atmosphere is occasionally broken by sounds of merriment, or the hum of assembled crowds, arising in various quarters of the city; or, perhaps, by the voice of the nightingale, which comes from the rich and beautiful gardens that skirt the walls of Florence. Somebody has well compared the soothing influence of its little song, consisting of a lengthened and oft-repeated note, to that of a light sleep, so softly does it steal upon the senses, as it floats through the midnight air. 'Affected deeply by these enchanting sources of delight, I was once traversing the principal street of Florence, when it seemed to me as if no person was stirring except myself. I was wrapt in a reverie, full of the most absorbing reflections, when suddenly the tower bell of the prison sounded with, as I thought, more than its usual solemnity. It seemed to fill the whole city. I walked on still occupied with my own thoughts, when my attention was attracted by a number of figures dressed in black, and bearing torches, issuing from the portal of a large edifice. They still increased in numbers for some moments, and as they emerged from the building, and advanced with slow and noiseless steps in regular procession, I could have almost deemed them the spirits of another world. Presently, when the whole line was formed, the tones of the requiem for the dead fell upon my ear. I could now perceive that they partly preceded, partly followed, a bier, over which a rich pall was hung, studded by massive gold ornaments, which shone in the glare of the torches. I soon overtook the procession, and found that it was composed of the "Brethren of the Misericordia," an institution which had its origin in the time of the great plague, celebrated by Boccaccio in his Decameron. When the pestilence was at its height, and the nearest relatives abandoned each other through fear of its influence, a few truly charitable persons were found still remaining by the beds of the dying, administering to them all the assistance which they were capable of receiving, and, when they expired, bearing them to the grave. The survivors of these Christian heroes assumed the monastic habit when the plague subsided, and the order still exists at Florence. The members are clothed in a black dress, which completely conceals the person from head to foot. Princes, cardinals, and noblemen, often enter the order for a time, and join in the performance of all its offices, which are principally to attend the sick poor, to convey them to the hospitals, and from thence, when dead, to the tomb; to visit the prisons, to prepare the condemned for their last home, and to take charge of them after the sentence of the law has been carried into execution. 'As I followed the pageant at some few paces distance, I saw a female tottering along close by the houses, apparently anxious to keep up with the procession; now and then her strength seemed to fail her, when she would stop, and leaning against a pillar, endeavour to recover her energies. She would then move on again for a while, but no sound, not even a sigh, escaped her. Her form was covered by a large thick black veil, and though anxious not to lose sight of the bier, she seemed particularly desirous of avoiding observation. I concluded that she must be some near relative of the dead, and finding that she was in so helpless a condition, I lingered near her, and at length begged leave to offer her my assistance. The moment I spoke, she turned away, and stretching out her hand, made a sign that she wished to be left to herself. Under other circumstances I should have at once obeyed so sacred a command; but as I was strongly impressed with the fear that, if she attempted to go much farther, she must fail, I still kept in the shade behind her. My apprehensions were soon realized. After walking onward a few steps she could no longer support herself, and she sunk to the earth. I hastened to the spot, and lifting her head, I raised her veil, in order that the air might reach her more freely. She lay quite senseless for nearly an hour, during which I was exceedingly perplexed as to the course I should take. The last sounds of the requiem had long since died away. The funeral service must have been, I thought, over, and I expected that some of the brethren of the Misericordia might return by that street, and assist me to bear the lady, for such she evidently was, to her home. Fortunately I was not disappointed. Two of them soon made their appearance, and immediately attended to my summons. I informed them of what I had observed, and expressed a belief that the lady was some connexion of the dead whom they had just borne to the tomb. One of the brothers passed his torch over her face. "It is, indeed, Isidora," he exclaimed, "the unhappy Isidora!" At these words she awoke, as if from a trance. "The unhappy Isidora, truly, may you say," she said, in a low, melancholy voice; unhappy beyond the most wretched of human beings! Alas! where am I?" "You are in safe hands, Signora," replied the same brother; "we shall shew you every care, every kindness, of which you seem to stand so much in need. May heaven look down with pity on your forlorn and unfortunate situation ! " "Forlorn, unfortunate, every thing that is miserable, you may now behold in the once happy Isidora! Oh, repeat those words of heavenly charity "not again, they are new to my ear; it is some time since I have met with kindness from any body. Oh! pray for me, pray for me; you are the brothers of mercy; you have taken him to the grave, in mercy place me by his side; but no, no, I am not worthy to be near him; lost, lost Isidora!" "Not lost, Signora," rejoined the benevolent man, lost; there is still time for prayer, and there is no more limit to the mercy of God, than there is to that blue sky above us." Saying this, he took from his pocket a small phial, filled with some strong aromatic liquid, which he applied to her temples. She grew stronger by degrees, when being asked where her hotel was, she said that she had no place of abode at Florence; that she had only just come from Milan by a public conveyance, from which she alighted the moment she heard the tower bell of the prison toll, knowing well the occasion which drew forth that melancholy sound. I immediately offered my apartments, until others should be engaged for the lady's use; but the brothers said that it would be unnecessary to trouble me, as there was a convent hard by, in which they had no doubt they could obtain for her a temporary asylum. We then turned into a narrow street, where one of the brothers, stopping before a large house, pulled a heavy chain that hung at the portal. We heard the sound of a bell, and immediately a lay sister, having satisfied herself as to our object before she opened the small wicket, allowed the lady to pass in. My new acquaintances then thanking me for my attention to the object of our common sympathy, accompanied me part of the way to my residence, and before they wished me good night, gave me leave to call upon them at their hospital, in order to make enquiries as to the health of the unhappy invalid, whom I had assisted to pre serve. The next morning, before I sought their cells, I went to the small church of the order, which is near the Duomo, or house of God. Every thing here wears a solemn and even gloomy aspect. The edifice was built shortly after the great plague, on the verge of the abyss which was excavated for the reception of the dead. A silver lamp, which is suspended at the shrine of the virgin, yields a dim light to the aisle. There are six of the brethren always watching in the church, prepared for any calls that may be made for their attendance. Medicine of every kind is at hand, and on the floor are arranged biers, palls, torches, and dresses. If there should be occasion for their services at night, they are summoned to their duties by the solemn tolling of their deep toned bell, which, when heard in that dead and silent hour, falls upon the ear with an appalling sound. 'Just as I was coming out from the church, one of the brethren followed me, and asked whether I was not the English gentleman who had rendered assistance to the lady Isidora the night before. Upon my answering in the affirmative, he led the way into the hospital, and knocking at the door of a small apartment, was desired to enter. He, however, merely opened the door, and shewed me in; when I found myself in the presence of a middle-aged, gentlemanly person, dressed in a close silk cassock, who was sitting at a table writing. The cell was hung with beautifully-executed engravings of scriptural subjects. A silver crucifix was enshrined in a niche of the wall, and in the window were carelessly thrown a few books, apparently of very modern date. An iron bedstead and mattress, with out any hangings, filled up a small recess. The occupant of this humble habitation struck me at once as a man who had seen a good deal of the world. He received me in a frank and cordial manner, and having concluded the page which he was writing, laid down his pen, and opened at once with the subject upon which I was most interested. "I am happy to inform you,” he said, "that the lady Isidora is somewhat recovered this morning from the painful agonies which she had to endure last night. It was no common suffering, for it was that of bitter remorse; she was in a great measure the cause of that funeral which she partly witnessed, as you shall hear. ""Isidora was at one time the pride of Florence; her family ranks among the highest of its nobility: and as she was an only daughter, the utmost attention was paid to her education. Her fortune was equal to her distinguished birth and beauty; and before she arrived at woman's age, her hand was sought by several suitors; among the rest, by the Count Vicente, one of the most sensible and deserving men it has ever been my lot to know. He was my intimate friend, and now that he is no more, I lament him as a brother." Here the narrator's voice failed him, and he was for some minutes unable to proceed. "Well, Vicente's suit having been supported by a great majority of Isidora's friends, and having been urged by himself in a manner that left no doubt of the truth and constancy of his affection, he prevailed on her to share the fortunes of his life. I believe that the heart of Isidora was not at first much interested in this union. She had been so much flattered and caressed by the flower of our Florentine nobility, that my own impression then was, and still continues |