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nightly resorts where the greatest portion of his estates was already forfeited.

At length, when the lady had not seen him for some days, and in the very last week before that which had been appointed for her marriage, she received a desperate letter from Malaspini, declaring that he was a ruined man, in fortune and hope; and that at the cost of his life even, he must renounce her hand for ever. He added, that if his pride would let him even propose himself, a beggar as he was, for her acceptance, he should yet despair too much of her pardon to make such an offer; whereas, if he could have read in the heart of the unhappy lady, he would have seen that she still preferred the beggar Malaspini, to the richest nobleman in the Popedom. With abundance of tears and sighs perusing his letter, her first impulse was to assure him of that loving truth, and to offer herself with her estates to him, in compensation of the spites of Fortune: but the wretched Malaspini had withdrawn himself no one knew whither, and she was constrained to content herself with grieving over his misfortunes, and purchasing such parts of his property as were exposed for sale by his plunderers. And now it became apparent what a villainous part his betrayer had taken; for, having thus stripped the unfortunate gentleman, he now aimed to rob him of his life also, that his treacheries might remain undiscovered. To this end he feigned a most vehement indignation at Malaspini's neglect and bad faith, as he termed it, towards his sister; protesting that it was an insult to be only washed out with his blood: and with these expressions, he sought to kill him at any advantage. And no doubt he would have become a murderer, as well as a dishonest gamester, if Malaspini's shame and anguish had not drawn him out of the way; for he had hired a mean lodging in she su burbs, from which he never issued but at dusk, and then only to wander in the most unfrequented places.

It was now in the wane of autumn, when some of the days are fine, and gorgeously decorated at morn and eve by the rich sun's embroideries, but others are dewy and dull, with cold nipping winds, inspiring comfortless fancies and thoughts of melancholy in every bosom. In such a dreary hour, Malaspini happened to walk abroad, and avoiding his own squandered estates, which it was not easy to do by reason

of their extent, he wandered into a bye place in the neigh. bourhood. The place was very lonely and desolate, and without any near habitation; its main feature especially being a large tree, now stripped bare of its vernal honours, excepting one dry yellow leaf, which was shaking on a topmost bough to the cold evening wind, threatening at every moment to fall to the damp dewy earth. Before this dreary object Malaspini stopped some time in contemplation, commenting to himself on the desolate tree, and drawing many apt comparisons between its nakedness and his own beggarly condition.

"Alas! poor bankrupt," said he, "thou hast been plucked, too, like me; but yet not so basely. Thou hast but showered thy green leaves on the grateful earth, which in another season will repay thee with sap and sustenance ; but those whom I have fattened will not so much as lend again to my living. Thou wilt thus regain all thy green summer wealth, which I shall never do; and, besides, thou art still better off than I am, with that one golden leaf to cheer thee, whereas I have been stripped even of my last ducat!"

With these and many more similar fancies he continued to aggrieve himself, till at last, being more sad than usual, his thoughts tended unto death, and he resolved, still watching that yellow leaf, to take its flight as the signal for his own departure.

"Chance," said he, "hath been my temporal ruin, and so let it now determine for me in my last cast between life and death, which is all that its malice hath left me."

Thus, in his extremity he still risked somewhat upon fortune; and very shortly the leaf being torn away by a sudden blast, it made two or three flutterings to and fro, and at last settled on the earth, at about a hundred paces from the tree. Malaspini instantly interpreted this as an omen that he ought to die; and following the leaf till it alighted, he fell to work on the same spot with his sword, intending to scoop himself a sort of rude hollow for a grave. He found a strange gloomy pleasure in this fanciful design, that made him labour very earnestly; and the soil besides being loose and sandy, he had soon cleared away about a foot below the surface. The earth then became suddenly more obstinate, and trying it here and there with his sword, it struck against some very

hard substance; whereupon, digging a little further down, he discovered a considerable treasure.

There were coins of various nations, but all golden, in this petty mine; and in such quantity as made Malaspini doubt, for a moment, if it were not the mere mintage of his fancy. Assuring himself, however, that it was no dream, he gave many thanks to God for this timely providence; notwithstanding, he hesitated for a moment to deliberate whether it was honest to avail himself of the money; but believing, as was most probable, that it was the plunder of some banditti, he was reconciled to the appropriation of it to his own necessities.

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Loading himself, therefore, with as much gold as he could conveniently carry, he hastened with it to his humble quarters; and by making two or three more trips in the course of the night he made himself master of the whole treasure. was sufficient, on being reckoned, to maintain him in comfort for the rest of his life; but not being able to enjoy in it the scene of his humiliations, he resolved to reside abroad; and embarking in an English vessel at Naples, he was carried over safely to London.

It is held a deep disgrace amongst our Italian nobility for a gentleman to meddle with either trade or commerce; and yet, as we behold, they will condescend to retail their own produce, and wine especially,-yea, marry, and with an empty barrel, like any vintner's sign, hung out at their stately palaces. Malaspini perhaps disdained from the first these illiberal prejudices, or else he was taught to renounce them by the example of the London merchants, whom he saw in that great mart of the world, engrossing the universal seas, and enjoying the power and importance of princes, merely from the fruits of their traffic. At any rate, he embarked what money he possessed in various mercantile adventures, which ended so profitably, that in three years he had regained almost as large a fortune as he had formerly inherited. He then speedily returned to his native country, and redeeming his paternal estates, he was soon in a worthy condition to present himself to his beloved Countess, who was still single, and cherished him with all a woman's devotedness in her constant affection. They were, therefore, before long united, to the contentment of all Rome; her

wicked relation having been slain some time before, in a brawl with his associates.

As for the fortunate wind-fall which had so befriended him, Malaspini founded with it a noble hospital for orphans; and for this reason, that it belonged formerly to some fatherless children, from whom it had been withheld by their unnatural guardian. This wicked man it was who had buried the money in the sand; but when he found that his treasure was stolen, he went and hanged himself on the very tree that had caused its discovery.

STANZAS TO WOMAN.
I love thee, Woman! yes, indeed,
I love thee when thou'rt kind;
But ah! how tenderly I love

When virtue forms thy mind!
For I have felt life's thorny woe,
And I have shared its charms;
Yet still the sweetest bliss I found,
Was, Woman, in thy arms.

Beside the bed I've seen her sit,
And brave infection's rage,
And with her soul-subduing care,
The suff'rer's pain assuage;
And I have seen, when fortune frown'd,
Or worldly cares oppress'd,
Her smile appease the troubled soul,
And set the heart at rest.

Yet some will say that woman's frail,
And that men often rue

The day, when they unite themselves
To what is so untrue;
But I have heard a poet* sing,
And I believe it all,

"Domestic love's the only bliss

That has surviv'd the Fall."

* Cowper.

A SWISS DAY.

FROM THE ALBUM OF THE INN AT ZURICH.

'Tis Dawn, lovely Dawn! and the sky is all white,
And the cattle on vale and on hill-side are lowing,
And the lake lies in vapour, half morning, half night,
And the breeze through the tops of the pine-groves is
blowing;

And the vineyards are shaking the dew from their leaves,
And down in the valley the village roofs shine,
And the doves are all rustling their wings in the eaves,
And the earth and the heav'n cool, lovely, divine.

'Tis Morning, rich Morning! the Yagers are out,
And the rifles are ringing from valley to hill;
But the sun rises broad, and the horn and the shout
Sink down, till we hear but the rush of the rill;
And far up the mountain the roebuck's brown troop
Are seen, with the nostril spread out to the wind,
While the eagle above spreads his wings for a swoop,
And the Yagers toil on thro' the forest behind.

'Tis Noon, burning Noon! and the far village spire, And the peaks of the mountain are arrows of flame, And the air is a fever, the sunbeam a fire,

And the deer, like the hunter, are weary and tame; And the Yagers by fountain and pine-tree are spread, Where the smoke of their meal curls up through the trees, And the shepherd is slumbering in chalet and shed,

And the fainting earth longs for the shower and the breeze.

'Tis Eve, balmy Eve! and above the hush'd world,
Like a mother's red cheek o'er her soft sleeping child,
On the east, with her pinion of crimson unfurled,
The twilight is stooping, sweet, dewy and mild;
And the planet of Eve looks on mountain and lake,
Like a centinel spirit just glancing from heaven.
Oh! thus may we life and its trials forsake,

And the hour of our parting be calm as this even.

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