the city of Paris with its foundation stone, opened a last asylum to the population of many centuries.

* The removal of the bodies from the cemetery of the Innocents, was succeeded by a similar removal from the churchyards of Saint Eustache and Saint Etiennedes-Grès. Every human fragment was piled up in this vast charnel-house, and received for a second time the honors of sepulture. But the revolution was soon destined to accumulate its victims there ;-there were deposited the remains of those who fell in the different battles which took place in the heart of Paris, in 1783 and 1789, and at the Tuileries on the 10th of August 1792—and the bodies of those who were butchered in the prisons on the 2nd and 3d of September fol. lowing. In the same year, the Convention decreed the suppression of all cemeteries in the interior of Paris. An ample repository for the dead then became more necessary than ever.

• From 1792 to 1808, the catacombs received the exhumations of twelve ceme. teries ; -from 1808 to 1811, all the bones discovered by fresh diggings in the old cemetery of the Innocents; at a latter period, those of the cemetery of the Isle of Saint-Louis ;- and lastly, in 1813, those of the Hépital de la Trinite. At first, funeral monuments were likewise carried to the catacombs, where they were rang. ed in order, round the principal entrance called the tomb of Isoire or Isouard, from the name of a famous robber who is said to have been killed and buried there. But they were destroyed in 1792 as objects of religious worship. Isoire's tomb, which belonged to the city of Paris, was sold as national property; and after changing owners ten times in the space of twenty years, was at last transformed into a guinguette, in the same manner as the cemetery of St. Sulpice was turned into a place of dancing, with the words Bac de ZEPHIRE, in large letters placed just above the following pious inscription :

Has ultra metas requiescunt, beatam spem expectantes." To the above, we add the following historical fragment from a paper entitled, 'L'Eglise des Petits Péres à Paris,' by Madlle. Elise Voiart:

THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF MEDECIS. When the Emperor Charles V. was only an Archduke, he, in a journey of pleasure to Italy, fell in love with a beautiful lady of that country, whose name,

like that of most of his other mistresses, has not transpired. All that is known • concerning her is, that she was of noble descent, and that had she given birth to a

son, the Prince would have acknowledged him. She died, however, leaving only a daughter, whom Charles loved most tenderly, and had carefully educated.

• At fifteen, this daughter appeared at the court of Charles Sforza, whom Charles, then Emperor, had re-established in the Duchy of Milan. Here, her beauty and accomplishments attracted a host of admirers, and among them a young man of the house of Medecis, handsome and amiable, but without fortune. His family having been driven by factions from Florence, he had entered into the service of the Emperor. Although his humbled fortune allowed him not to aspire to the hand of so distinguished a lady as the Emperor's daughter, he could not refrain from paying her attentive homage, for which the numerous fetes afforded abundant opportunities. The lady, on lier side, felt a reciprocal passion; but though she knew the secret of his birth, she dared not encourage the love she had inspired. She therefore, by a mixture of reserve and affability, endeavored to reconcile her secret feelings with what was due to her rank.

* At this period, Italy was devastated by war. Rome had just been sacked by the troops of the Emperor, who was irritated at the league which the Pope had formed against him, in conjunction with France, England, and the Princes of Italy, to expei him from the latter country. The youthful Medecis, forced to follow

the fortunes of his relative Clement VII., took leave of her who was so dear to him, left Milan in a state bordering on despair, and joined the Pope, then a prisoner in the Castle of St. Angelo. To the disgrace of the Christian world, the caplivity of the head of the church lasted upwards of six months. At length, to obtain freedom and peace, Clement consented to the conditions imposed by Charles, and deputed his relative to bear his submission to the Emperor. Two years after, the young Medecis was appointed plenipotentiary to treat with the Emperor on the subject of the alliance which Clement was about to form with him, and to obtain betier conditions for the Roman Stales in the general peace.

• The young Ambassador proceeded to Barcelona, whither the Emperor had brought his daughter. Here ihe lovers met for the tirst time after their long separation, during which they had remained faithful to each other. The lady now found 'means so to dispose the heart of her illustrious parent, that, either from extreme love for his daughter, or some political motives that have never transpired, Charles consented to their union. He immediately conferred upon the husband, the title of Duke, and restored him to the inheritance of his ancestors, by placing him at the head of the government of Florence.

'So great and unexpected a happiness was too much for this amiable pair. They tasted its sweets without seeming to believe in their reality. Their bliss was beyond tjeir powers of enjoyment-and an unaccountable heaviness of heart seemed to prognosticate that it could not last.

The cares of government kept the Duke several hours every day from the presence of his bride, and the latter, during her husband's absence, was overwhelmed with the most distressing forebodings. She was as much afflicted at this daily separation as if it were a real misfortune. Ever anxious, and in a state of excitement, the least noise threw her into an agony of tear. As the hostile party in the state had evinced great repugnance to receive the Pope's nephew as their master, the young Duchess constantly imagined that the poignard of one of the factious was about to be plunged into the Duke's bosom; and so powerfully was her mind acted upon by this idea, that she was often observed to start, scream, or groan, according as her imagination conjured up some dreadful picture of assassination.

One day a great noise was heard in the streets, and the unhappy Duchess fancied she distinguished the cries of Carne! carne! Sangue! sangue! which commonly accompanied popular insurrections in Italy. Wild with horror and alarm, and struck with the idea that her husband had fallen under the murderer's knife, she endeavored to rush towards the door, but fell senseless into the arms of her attendants.

"The circumstance was immediately made known to the Duke, who was just leaving the council. Profoundly affected by such a proof of her love, but deploring its fatal effects, he hastened home. Ou entering her room, he found the women in tears, the physicians of the palace in mute consternation, and his lovely wife upon the bed, pale, motionless, and to all appearance dead. In reply to the inquiring glance which he cast around him, there was only a more violent parox. ysin of tears on the part of the female attendants. He approached the bed, touched the white hands and kissed the cold cheek of her he adored, called her by the tenderest and most touching names, but she remained insensible to his caresses. Her lips were cold, her bosom motionless, and her heart had ceased to palpitate. The Duke uttered a fearful cry of despair, and fell fainting upon the body of his wife. For a long time, every attempt to restore them to lite was of no avail. On a sudden, one of the Duchess' women thought of an expedient, which was to call with a loud voice close to the ear of her mistress—“Madam, madam, come to the assistance of His Excellence the Duke! He is dying, Madam! The Duke is dying !”

• These terrible words were successful. The Duchess awoke from the lethargic convulsion which had held her faculties suspended; she opened her eyes, the blood again colored her cheeks, and her senses returned. She arose from the bed, and with unsteady footsteps approached the Duke, who was just then beginning to recover from his swoon. Joy spread through the palace; but that which the lovers themselves experienced was too pure to be manifested by noisy demonstrations. Both arose, and circling each other in their arms, descended io the chapel to thank Providence for their miraculous restoration to life. This event, however, by rendering them still dearer to each other, only increased the melancholy disposition of their minds. Both had a presentiment that they should not live long, and one morning the Duchess spoke thus to her husband.

""Do you not think, dearest husband, that we had better settle our affairs, and prepare, in a Christian-like manner, to meet that death which is certainly not far

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off? My happiness is so complete and so intense that I shall always fear to lose it, until we have carried it to the sanctuary of another world. Let us dispose of our property in favor of the poor, place the government of your dominions in the hands of the elders of the republic, and then, free from anxiety, live solely for each other, until it shall please God to call us to him. And if in his goodness that be soon, so much the better, my own love, for we are too happy to remain upon earth! Bliss like ours belongs only to Heaven. But that our short lives may not pass without teaching a useful moral to the world, let us leave a great example of the vanity of that which is commonly called happiness. Let us show to what extent the desires of man, when gratified in this world, render him miserable, since we who are young, handsome, rich, powerful, loving and beloved, find not these blessings sufficient to prevent us from desiring death! Let us send for some skilful painter, who shall represent us in this our day of beauty, surrounded with all the splendor of our rank. Let a hundred thousand crowns be the price of these portraits, on condition that the same painted shall make two other portraits of us six weeks after our death, and faithfully depict us, such as we shall then be. Do you consent to this, dearest love?'

• The Duke, acted upon by a like melancholy imagination, raised no objection to her singular proposal, which was in accordance with the exaggerated feelings of that age. They sought a painter of sufficient courage and ability to execute the intentions of the Duchess, and the choice fell upon Robusti, surnamed Tintoretto. This celebrated artist accepted the strange commission, and swore upon the Holy Evangelists to fulfil both the first and last part of it.

The lovely Duchess who, since she had formed her determination, had renounced the splendor of rich attire, once again resumed her bridal robes. She adorned her person with gold and jewels and flowers; and insisted that her husband should also wear all the insignia of his rank and honors. Tintoretto painted them both.

Scarcely were the portraits finished, and the preliminary measures taken for the new life the Duke and Duchess intended to lead, than the health of the latter, already feeble, suddenly declined, and her husband feared that her sad anticipations would soon be realised. And in truth, whether it was the result of an organic disease, or the consequences of an excited and overwrought mind, the Duchess died almost suddenly. Some moments before her death, unable to speak, she fixed a long and tender look upon her husband, extended her trembling hand towards him, and her fingers, already chilled by the approach of death, seemed to make him a mysterious sign.

• The Duke survived his wife only long enough to pay the last duties to her remains, and take measures for the execution of her dying wishes. He sent for the painter, and made him renew his promise, which 'Tintoretto religiously fulfilled.


By J. F. Hollings.

Night fades o'erpowered, with scattering fires her starry host has set,
Save one, whose golden lamp is bright with parting glories yet ;
And, gleaming where the rified clouds in sullen masses sleep,
Lo! Morning's young and fiery glance is on the waveless deep.
The deer has left the shadowy fern, the lark the rustling brake,
And lightly flies the freshening breeze o'er hill and reeded lake;
And, bosomed in the crimson rack, the lark has called from far,
Hyperion to his eager steeds and gem-encinctured car.
Hour of expectancy and hope, endeared and hallowed time,
When gladness walks the fragrant earth, and hails the dewy prime-

ances of a breeze springing up induced us to take leave. We separated from the old chief, not as the acquaintance of an hour, but with all the warmth-the grasp and pressure of hands-of old friends.

As I parted from him at the gangway, he mentioned having caused a case of claret to be lowered into our boat, which he begged us to present to our Colonel and the other officers of our mess. We pulled cheerily back, but it was not until long after dark that we reached the 'Vibelia,' and which we perhaps could not have accomplished, but for their having exhibited blue lights every few minutes to point out her position. We found our comrades had been in great alarm for our safety. Various had been the surmises. That we had boarded a pirate, and been sacrificed, or made prisoners, was most prevalent, and a breeze was anxiously prayed for, that they might bear down, and release or revenge us.

Half an hour after we returned to our ship, a light wind sprung up, which very shortly freshened into a gale, so that in the morning we had completely lost sight of the Cadmus.'


AWAKE !--The starry midnight hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower ;
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!

Awake! Awake!
Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!-Soft dews will soon arise

From dasied mead, and thorny brake;
Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,
And like the tender morning break!

Awake! Awake!
Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!-Within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee :
Ah, come, and show the starry hour
What wealth of love thou hidest from me!

Awake! Awake!
Show all thy love, for Looe's sweet sake !

Awake!-Ne'er heed, though listening Night

Steal music from thy silver voice:
Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!

Awake! Iwake!
She comes,—at last, for Love's sweet sake!

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We are born; we laugh; we weep;

We love : we droop; we die !
Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?

Why do we live, or die?
Who knows that secret deep?

Alas, not 1!
Why doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die ?
We toil,—through pain and wrong;

We fight,-and fly;
We love; we lose ; and then, ere long,

Stone-dead we lie.
O Life! is all thy song

• Endure and-die?

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