ear:

"I command thee from this hour never to admit the scandalous visits of Duke Salviati. Thy life hangs on thy obedience. Dare admit him to one interview more, and dread the vengeance of an insulted wife!" Catherina provokingly replied, that she was perfectly willing to relinquish the duke's society, provided the duchess had sufficient influence to detain him; and that she could only advise her to exert her utmost attractions for that purpose; adding, that should they fail, and the duke persist in his admiration of her inferior charms, she would not promise to shut her door on so amiable and noble a visitor. The tone of contempt and derision which accompanied these words fell bitterly on the heart of Veronica: she uplifted her veil, and cast one withering glance on the imprudent Catherina; that glance conveyed a most eloquent and emphatic denunciation of vengeance, vengeance speedy and terrible.

Meanwhile the duke visited with more perseverance than ever the object of a passion which now possessed him with uncontrollable violence. His whole soul was devoted to Catherina, his whole time consumed in the contrivance of new amusements for the light-hearted being who thus monopolized his affections, and he became equally indifferent to the feelings of his wife or to the observations of the multitude.

"The wrath of the duchess was thus led step by step to its climax, and she was only perplexed as to the means by which she might put her deadly design in execution. The silent agency of poison was her first resource; but by some chance her attempt proved unsuccessful. Resolved not to be baffled a second time, she at once adopted another method more desperate and more decisive. She sent her confidante to Bartolomeo and Francesco, the sons of Canacci, requiring a conference with them; she then artfully and forcibly set before them the dishonour of their father's house; assuring them that the well-known frailties of their stepmother reflected contempt and ridicule even upon them, who, being of an age to avenge themselves, could nevertheless tamely contemplate the ignominy of their family. "If," cried she, you are not yet made sensible that the injured honour of your name calls on you to cancel this foul stain in the blood of its author, I will no longer detain ye; but if ye possess such sentiments as ought to inhabit the bosoms of noble youths like yourselves, if you have courage to do justice on this wretch, and avenge by one courageous act your father and yourselves, then be assured of my powerful co-operation; and, as to the after consequences, I make myself answerable for your entire impunity. Should the deed ever be brought home to you, you will be regarded with esteem and admiration as the generous vindicators of your house.”

This proposal was at first received by both the young men with horror and dismay; nor could Francesco be prevailed with to concur in the bloody enterprise farther than by swearing to conceal the overture he had received. Bartolomeo was persuaded finally by the arguments of the duchess to accept this horrible agency, and he set himself without delay to collect the means of accomplishing his dark task, and to contrive the introduction into his father's house of those who were destined by the duchess to effectuate her scheme of vengeance.

That implacable lady took into her service four ruffians, who held themselves in constant readiness to execute her commands at the first signal.

The fatal conjuncture arrived on the night of the 31st of December, 1638, and the act of vengeance was thus accomplished. Bartolomeo Canacci, about three o'clock in the morning, left the palace of the duchess, accompanied by his desperate agents, and went to the house of his father, who lived in the way of the colonnade near the Piazza of St. Ambrogio. Being arrived, the hired ruffians concealed themselves while Bartolomeo knocked gently at the door. Cathe rina's maid-servant looked forth from the window, and demanded who was there. Hearing the well-known voice of Bartolomeo utter the accustomed word "Friends," she instantly drew the cord. The door was no sooner opened than this ruthless avenger, followed by his four bloodhounds, entered immediately, and rushed furiously up the staircase. Catherina chanced at the moment to be solacing herself with the society of her friend Vincenzio Carlini, who, alarmed by hearing their violent approach and certain words of a menacing and appalling import, thought only of escape, which he effected with difficulty by means of a secret staircase which led out upon the roof, and from whence he contrived to obtain ingress into a neighbouring house. Arrived in the chamber of the ill-fated Catherina, these mer ciless butchers, regardless of the most piercing cries and affecting entreaties, barbarously murdered her; and, that there might be no witness of this scene of horror, her maid partook the miserable doom of that mistress of whose vices she had probably been the partaker and instrument.

Having done the deed, the assassins cut in small pieces the bodies of the two women, and, silently carrying forth their horrible burden, cast them into a pit which existed in the quarter of the Via Pentolini. They preserved, however, the head of the wretched Canacci, which they bore to the duchess, to satisfy that vindictive lady that this fatal tragedy was exactly accomplished, and that her sanguinary desires had been confided to faithful executors.

'It was a custom with the duchess to send early in the morning on festal days, by one of her ladies, a silver bason to the duke, covered with a napkin, and containing the linen he would use for the day. Now, on the morning of the 1st of January, she sent him the bason as usual, but its contents were of a far different nature. The duke, having received the bason, and dismissed the messenger with a courteous message to his wife, presently rose; and having with a careless. hand and unsuspecting heart withdrawn the napkin, his eyes encountered the ghastly present which a fiend in female form had prepared for him. For some moments, with the napkin uplifted in his hand, he stood as if rooted to the spot, his icy glance riveted to the grisly object before him. Those glassy extinguished eyes had, but a few hours ago, returned his impassioned gaze with playful tenderness; those lately blooming dimpled cheeks were shaded by the wan cada verous hue of death; and the lips, whose beauty was ever animated by the most playful smiles, now exhibited all the distortion of her last hideous struggle; her bright luxuriant tresses had already assumed a

dusky hue, and the horrid hands of the executioners had defiled them with gory stains. As if some irresistible spell chained him to the floor, he stood motionless, his keen and pointed glances anchoring themselves in this most dismal object, till, awakening somewhat from the horror which seemed to stiffen his limbs and freeze his senses, shuddering to the centre, he let fall the napkin, and looked no more on that which, contemplated longer, would have made him mad.

'Duke Salviati was restrained, by a review of his own errors, from punishing this atrocious deed; but his wife became to him an object of horror and antipathy-he commanded her to avoid his sight, and from that hour a total separation took place between them.

'In process of time the suspicions of justice were slowly awakened by the dark hints which were constantly muttered by the people, concerning the disappearance of Catherina: the mangled corses were at length brought to view; and on their evidence the whole family of Canacci were imprisoned. They were, however, all acquitted of the crime, with the exception of the guilty Bartolomeo. This wretch, having confessed the deed, was condemned to death; and, ou the 27th of November, 1639, he was beheaded at the door of the gaol, and his body left exposed during the day to the indignation of the people. The duchess had already escaped beyond the reach of the earthly dispensers of retribution, and had been called to account for her deeds before that awful tribunal from which all justice emanates, and before that all-seeing and impartial Judge to whom vengeance belongs.

We wish that justice may yet be done to the old novelists of Italy; and, in the hope that Miss Holcroft's attempt will have the effect of turning the public attention to this fruitful source of amusement, we refrain from pronouncing upon the volume before us the censure which we think it deserves. It is much to be wished, as well in justice to this branch of the literature of Italy as for the advantage of that of England, that a judicious selection from the works of those novelists should be adopted into our language.

THE THREE PERILS OF WOMAN.

MR. HOGG has published a sort of sequel to his last novels, called The Three Perils of Woman. We are glad to see that they are considerably better than those which have immediately preceded them. We would not be understood to imply that they are remarkably excellent, but they are tolerable-The Perils of Man were not to be endured. We, however, congratulate Mr. Hogg upon having escaped one of the perils of authors-that of writing poetry. We are willing to be lieve he has renounced that dangerous and ungrateful task, in which, whatever he may once have thought, we venture to say Nature never intended him to succeed. No one can read middling poetry (and Mr. Hogg's best never soared above mediocrity); but there is so universal a passion for novels, that it would almost be difficult to write one so badly as to fail of being read, which is an author's first end and aim.

Mr. Hogg has a great deal of humour, and a natural simplicity, which is extremely rare, and would be no less valuable if it were not

spoiled by his overwhelming vulgarity. This is his besetting sin; we can believe that he is as warm-hearted and as honest a man as breathes in the whole kingdom, but we cannot enjoy his jokes, nor always see his merit. In passages of simple pathos he is always powerful, because he is always purely natural; but on almost every other occasion he either fails in his design, or he produces something which nobody cares to see. His style, when he writes English, is plain and smooth; but the patois of the Highlands and Lowlands, which are so plenti. fully introduced, however excellent they may be, are, unfortunately, unintelligible to those who have the misfortune not to be born in Scotland. The Doric beauty of these dialects is lost upon us. The people of the modern Athens may understand them--we do not pretend to do so.

Mr. Hogg's knowledge of mankind is very limited, and he absolutely knows nothing of the world, nor of the ordinary manners of good, to say nothing of high, society. We know it would not be fair to state these of themselves as objections against an author; but when one shall pretend, as Mr. Hogg does, to describe men and manners, his ignorance becomes as serious a fault as can be laid to his charge. If he would write a novel about a sheep-farm, we doubt not that it would be excellent; but when he talks about the manners of persons of rank, and education, and fashion, he becomes pitiably ridiculous, because it is easy to see that he is talking about things of which he has heard and not seen. His best efforts are clownish; his best sayings only echoes from the contributors to Blackwood's Magazine. We wonder some of those gentlemen, his friends, do not hint so much to him. They are very fond of making him the buffoon of their party-the butt of all their jokes a sort of jack-pudding to relieve the graver part of their quackery; we marvel they do not tell him that, when he writes on subjects which he does not understand, he is as awkward as if he wore one of Ensign O'Doherty's regulation coats, or Mr. North's gouty slippers. To return, however, to The Perils of Woman: they are threeLove, Leasing, (which does not mean, as our unhappy English readers would have guessed, demising houses or lands, but lying), and Jealousy. The first of these, the author says, is written to caution young ladies against falling in love, in which he sees imminent peril. We cannot answer for the young ladies of Scotland; but here, in England, we believe the consequences of so common an accident are hardly so frightful.

The heroine of this story, Miss Agatha Bell, is the daughter of a wealthy Scots sheep-farmer-a good specimen of his race, we dare be sworn. She falls in love with a young Highland chief, her brother's college companion; and the young gentleman is no less enamoured of Miss Bell. The parents are very well pleased with the match, but Miss Bell is not satisfied with the youth's delay in making his declaration, which proceeds from bashfulness and terror at the lady's assumed frigidity. This misunderstanding leads to all kinds of inconveniences, which are spun out rather tediously. Among other ill accidents, when the young lady has positively declared she will not marry Mr. M'Ion, the Highlander, her father brings a relation of his own, Mr. Rickleton, to Edinburgh, for the purpose of becoming a suitor. This is the best character in the book: he is a Northumberland farmer, a great

brute, and as stupid and as fond of fighting as a bull-dog. Miss Bell's brother Joseph, for the purpose of having some fun with his kinsman, tells M'Ion, with whom they are both dining, to ask him questions upon certain topics which he is sure will breed a quarrel, and the event turns out to his expectation. The guests consist of Mr. Bell and his son, the Northumbrian, M'Ion, and two Highland officers, the latter of whom are also apprized of his singularities, and do not treat Mr. Rickleton with much ceremony. The whole scene of the dinner is so amusing, and so favorable a specimen of that style, in which the author writes evidently con gusto, that we have made rather a copious extract from it. We should premise that Mr. Rickleton had ac quired the nick-name of the heather-blooter, from the odd and loud manner of his laughing:

'These vociferous notes still raised the laugh against him, though every one present felt for him, except Callum Gun and Joseph, who both enjoyed his boorish arrogance mightily, deeming that the more ridiculous he made himself, the sport was still the better; therefore, at some of his rude and indelicate jokes, Callum clapped his hands, and laughed even louder than the laird himself. The latter was so much pleased with this, that he turned to M'Ion, who sat next him, and asked him what was the chap's name.

"Callum Gun," said M'Ion.

"Eh? do they really call him Gun ?" said Dick.-"By my faith, I wad break ony man's head that wad call me sic a daftlike name!” "It is his own name, sir," said M'Ion, “his father's name, and the name of his clan."

"Hoo-hoo-hoo!" vociferated Dick-" heard ever ony body sic a made lee as that?-Hoo-hoo-hoo!-A gun his father?—I wad hae thought less an his mother had been a gun, and then he might hae comed into the world wi' a thudd! Then, according to thy tale, he's the son of a gun, and that used to be thought a name o' great insultation at our skule.-Na, na, Maister Mackane, ye maunna try to tak in simple fo'k that gate.-Ye may tak in a bit green swaup of a wonch, but ye maunna try to tak in men frae the same country."

، MIon looked at Mr. Bell with astonishment, as if expecting some explanation, but the old man only blushed to the top of his nose, and then, to hide this confession of guilt, he applied his handkerchief, and uttered a nasal sound louder than a post-horn. Joseph was like to fall from his chair with laughing; and Callum, rolling his eyes from one face to another, felt great inclination to join Joseph, but the looks of his entertainer and the other stranger deterred him.

“ Certainly,” said MIon, not in the least understanding what Dick meant, or to what he alluded; but, assured that he meant insolently to some one, and anxious to turn his ideas into some other channel, he answered" Certainly; I think so too, sir. Pray, Mr. Rickleton, before I forget, could you procure me a pup from some of your Border breeds of dogs?-I am told that you have many curious and genuine breeds in that country. For instance, is there any remains of the little wolf-dog in your neighbourhood?""

، Dick gave over eating, raised himself slowly up in his chair, turned his face toward M'Ion, clenched his knife firmly in his hand, bit his