"The most sublime art in existence, mother. Does it not give the power of representing all that is most grand and beautiful? of perpetuating the noblest actions, and of preserving the most cherished forms and features, to say nothing of immortalizing the painter's name." “And all that won't give us bread, Giacomo; and we can't do without that. Your father's dyeing brought us a hundred times more than your painting." "I am not a dyer," interrupted the painter, coldly. "That is just what I complain of," replied his mother; "if you were, we should do better; as it is, were it not for Marietta, we should not get on at all; and how the poor child manages, I do not know, but she makes a ducat go farther than any one else can." "But she is never at home, mother; why is she away now, when we ought to be at supper? You should watch over her better." "Your daughter does not want any one to watch over her," said his mother, somewhat angrily; "she is an angel, and angels take care of themselves and of each other." Further discussion was prevented by the appearance of a third person, whom Giacomo and his mother advanced to meet, as soon as they perceived her. On the flight of steps leading into the garden stood a young girl, whose remarkable beauty might have arrested the attention of even the most indifferent. Her figure was slight and graceful, and appeared to considerable advantage in the picturesque costume of the young Venetians of that day; a profusion of dark hair was drawn away from her face, and fastened at the back of her head by two large gold pins, leaving fully displayed a forehead of marble whiteness, and features whose perfect outline might have served for a sculptor's model, even in the classic land of Italy. A close observer might have remarked that her extreme paleness was unnatural in one so young, and that the deep blue eye wanted the animation of youth, and had, instead, the thoughtful and anxious look of one who had known something of the trials of life. As she perceived the Signora Robusta and the Tintoretto, a slight blush for a moment dispelled the paleness of her complexion. "Have you forgotten that supper is ready," said she, in a sweet musical voice, “or has working taken away your appetite, father?" "I should like to see my grandchild a countess." "I would rather see her happy in the station in which she was born." "She might be equally happy as a countess," return. ed the old woman. "I desire no honor but that which talent gives," said the painter. "Talent cannot give you rank, or make you noble, Giacomo." "Oh, grandmother," exclaimed Marietta, who had hitherto been silent; " can you, the mother of the Tintoretto, say that talent does not ennoble?" "Your father is not noble, child," replied the perverse old woman; "he has no title." "That is true, grandmother, but he has what is better; that which talent and genius alone can give," said Marietta, whilst some of her father's spirit flashed in her dark eyes, as she fixed them on the painter's face with a look of pride and affection. "Venice is proud of my father, and ranks his name amongst those of her most celebrated citizens; and tell me, dear grandmother, if any title of count, marquis, or prince, gives more honor than that of The Tintoretto?" The painter gazed with deep admiration on his child, as he listened to her enthusiastic expression of his own feelings: and, perhaps, enjoyed at that moment the purest gratification his well-earned fame ever afforded him. "Pooh! pooh! pooh!" said the old Venetian, as she shook her head incredulously; "your father may paint good pictures, but he is still the son of a dyer, and mixes colors as he did; only he doesn't make half as much by it as my poor husband did." "Well, grandmother, dear, we will not talk any more about either dyeing or painting," said Marietta, gently, as she perceived a cloud gathering on her father's brow." "You are right, Marietta," said he: "tell me, instead, where your brother is; when I left my studio I went to his, but he was not there; do you know where he is?" The color again mantled on Marietta's face, as, with some hesitation, she replied "We have been waiting for you, Marietta," he he added, on observing her extreme paleness as the replied; "where have you been all day?" แ "At the Palazzo Grimani, dear father." "Marietta," said the painter, as he led his daughter into the house, “you are no longer a child; all Venice is talking of the beauty of the Tintoretto's daughter! The Countess Grimani has a son " "And if he admires our Marietta, he will perhaps marry her," said the Signora Robusta, as she seated herself at the table. "I would rather my child chose a husband from amongst her equals," replied her son, as he seated himself by her side; one who would not be ashamed to call me father." color faded from her face, are you ill? you look pale and tired what ails you, my child?" Marietta raised her eyes, without reply, to her father's face; but as quickly withdrew them as she marked the look of anxious inquiry with which he was regarding her. "There is something I do not understand," resumed the painter. "You have lost your gaiety, Marietta; I seldom see you now in the garden amongst your flowers: you rarely touch your mandoline, or go singing about the house as you used to do; what is the cause of all this?" A gentle knock at the door which opened into the studio, saved Marietta from the difficulty she might have ❘ yet slept in the Tintoretto's house, the door of a room found in replying to her father's inquiries. She rose hastily to see who it was that sought admittance. "You are welcome, Father Antonio," said the Signora Robusta, as a man entered, wearing the dress of the order of St. Ambrosio; "will you sit down and share our humble repast? Marietta, child, why do you not offer the good father a seat?" added she, turning to her granddaughter, whose countenance plainly expressed that to her the visit was anything but welcome. Her grandmother's speech, however, seemed to rouse her; and closing the door, she placed a chair near the table. The somewhat stern countenance of Father Antonio relaxed as he turned to her. "Thank you, my child," said he, as he seated himself; and adding, "do not let me disturb you, Signora Robusta, or interrupt your meal, Signor Giacomo; I have only come "To pay us an evening visit, father" interrupted Marietta, as if anxious to prevent some communication which she seemed to fear their visitor was about to make. "I wanted to speak to your son, Dominico, signor," resumed Father Antonio, without heeding the interruption. was softly opened, and Marietta advanced a step into the corridor, and listened anxiously for a moment. Not a sound disturbed the stillness around, and she herself might have been taken for some marble statue, as she stood so pure and fair in the attitude of earnest attention. “I hear nothing,” said she; "he has not come home. Oh, my brother! if you only knew the many weary hours I have watched for you!" She then advanced cautiously along the corridor, descended the stairs, and gently opening the door of the house, hastened along the street; only her light veil wrapped around her to shade a face which could otherwise scarce have passed unnoticed. Having reached the canal, her eyes wandered amongst the gondolas, which glided silently along, even at that hour, when most in Venice yet slept, and no sound disturbed the stillness of early morn, save the occasional splash of the oars in the smooth waters of the canal, or the sweet notes of one of the boat-songs so popular amongst the gondoliers of that "City of the Sea." The young Venetian's quick eye soon ascertained that the object of her search was not amongst them; and turning from the canal, pursued her way through the narrow streets or pathways. Suddenly, the sound of her own name, uttered close to her, caused her to turn round. "Dominico!" she exclaimed, as she perceived a youth, whose disordered dress and heated countenance told "But Father Antonio can tell me what he wants with but too plainly how he had passed the night. "DomDominico," said the Tintoretto. inico!" repeated the poor girl in a tone of mournful reproach. Their visitor was about to reply, when Marietta again interposed, and fixing her dark eyes imploringly on his face, she exclaimed "He wants the painting for the chapel of Sta. Maria dell' Orta. It is nearly finished, and if you will trust to me, good father, it shall soon be in the chapel; but I implore you," added she, lowering her voice, "to say no more at present." Who could have looked on the poor girl's pale but beautiful face, and have resisted the appeal? Father Antonio marked the anxious look, and, rising from his seat, he replied "That is all I require-at least for the present!" he added, with marked emphasis; “but if I have not the picture in three days I shall return, my child. I know that charity bespeaks our indulgence, but when it is carried too far it becomes weakness, and is the cause of faults and errors which a little firmness might correct. I do not say this for you only, Marietta, we all need the caution." It was evident from the expression of Marietta's countenance that she understood him, and with this he was apparently satisfied; and when he soon after left the little party, Marietta saw him depart with more pleasure than she had shown when she admitted him. It seemed as though she had got rid of some great anxiety. "Well! what wilt thou, Marietta?" replied the young man, affecting an unconcern which he was ill able to maintain; "you think I am a profligate, a drunkard, an idle fellow !" "You are worse, far worse, Dominico," said his sister, in a tone of deep sorrow; "you are an undutiful son, an unkind brother." "Oh, stop, stop, Marietta mia! any thing but that. I honor and respect my father; and as for thee, my sweet, my gentle sister, I love thee more than thou thinkest." "If you love me, Dominico, you will come home with me." "I am ready, Marietta," said her brother, as he passed his arm round her waist, and looked kindly on the sweet face and tearful eyes raised so sadly to his. As the brother and sister pursued their way towards home, Marietta related all that had occurred the evening before. "Father Antonio called last night," said she; "you may suppose how frightened I was, Dominico. If you knew the difficulty I had to prevent his speaking of the money you owe him, and of the picture! I promised it should be finished to-morrow; you must set to work as soon as we get home, Dominico." "I must rest first, Marietta; I am half asleep now." "Sleep! Dominico: you will surely not be able to On the following morning at an early hour, whilst all sleep when time is so precious." "You will soon see if I cannot sleep, Marietta, and | "bring your, mandoline, and sing to me a little this soundly too," replied her brotber, regardless of her morning, whilst I paint." anxiety. She paused an instant, and an expression of pain and disappointment passed over her face, as she replied reproach fully "You can sleep, Dominico, when perhaps this very evening our father, who believes you to be the best of sons, and holds you up as an example to others, may learn that the son he so loves, passes his days and nights at a tavern; that the pupil of whom he is so proud, has, for the last year, scarcely touched a paint-brush; and has besides borrowed money for his unworthy pursuits, which he has no means of paying. Oh, my brother! Father Antonio is not deceived by my efforts to save you from disgrace and from my father's anger. Am I then wrong in trying to save you, when you will not save yourself?" and the tears, so long repressed, started to her eyes. Dominico was softened, and drew | her close to him. "Listen, sweet sister!" said he; "if I get no rest, I shall be ill; and you would not wish that." Marietta shook her head, but made no reply. "Then let me go to bed when we get home,” he added, entreatingly. "And the painting for Father Antonio?" Poor Marietta's countenance fell, as she looked timidly at her father, and replied with some hesitation— Father, will you excuse me-just "Just what?" exclaimed the impatient artist. "Just to let me finish my painting." "Sing when I tell you, and don't talk to me of painting." "I cannot, sing this morning, dear father," said the poor girl, as her eyes filled with tears. "If you cannot sing, you can play." "Father I entreat you to excuse me this morning, I have much to do." "Your first duty is to obey your father; your painting may wait. Painting indeed! I never heard of a woman who could paint; you had better leave that to your brother; so fetch your mandoline, and do not make me angry.” Poor Marietta saw that further remonstrance would be useless, and being well aware of her father's impetuous and singular temper, she took the instrument from its place, and seated herself on a stool near the painter. But her thoughts were full of anxiety on her brother's account-his unfinished painting, her own "You have done without me so far, Marietta, why promised portrait, and dread of Father Antonio's threatnot finish it? It will do you credit." "Impossible!" said his sister; "I am painting the portrait of the Countess Grimani; she has advanced me some ducats upon it, and I will not remain in debt." "You were wrong, sister, to borrow money on your painting; if I did so, it was because I had debts to pay." ened return; and ere she had struck many notes, burning tears coursed each other down her pale cheeks, and fell upon the trembling hands which vainly endeavored to comply with her father's commands. Could the painter have guessed at all his gentle and innocent child was suffering, how different might have been his conduct! But, thinking only of himself, and yielding to Marietta colored deeply at the unjust reproof; but the fiery impetuosity of his temper, he angrily approachreplied gently— "And I had to provide everything at home; my father seldom gives me any money, and how am I to find bread for all? I have no one to help me." Dominico's heart smote him, as he heard these words, and thought of the share he had had in the heavy burden laid upon one so young. "You should have told me that, sister," said he. "Have I not often told you? but, alas! you would never heed me." And the poor girl sighed deeply. Dominico made no reply, and neither again spoke till they reached the door of their own home; on entering it, Marietta turned towards her brother's studio. He, however, took her hand, and kissing her affectionately, said "Adieu, my little sister, I am going to bed;" and without giving her time to reply, he passed quickly into a small room, which he occupied on the ground-floor. For a moment, Marietta remained where he had left her, then, as if she had made some sudden resolution, she again moved towards the studio, but ere she reached the door, she heard her father calling her by name. "Marietta," repeated the Tintoretto, as he stood before an easel, on which was one of his finest paintings, his brush in one hand and his palette in the other; ed her, and seizing the mandoline with one hand, he threw it to the other side of his studio, and taking Mariettta's arm with the other, he led her to her room, and closing the door as she entered it, forbade her again to appear in his presence. Marietta heard the key turn in the lock, and as her father's footsteps died away in the distance, she felt that all had deserted her. The painter returned to his studio, but his hand trembled as he resumed his brush; after a while, however, he regained his composure, and was again wholly absorbed in his work, when he was once more interrupted by the entrance of his mother, holding in her hand a letter. "A courier, on horseback, has brought this," said she as she laid it on her son's easel, and observing that he was almost too intent upon his work to heed her, she added, "shall I call Marietta to read it to you?" "Marietta!" repeated the Tintoretto, as the name recalled his hasty and unjust anger, "I do not want Marietta." "What is the matter now, and where is Marietta?" said his mother, as she remarked her son's look of displeasure. "Marietta is in her room, which I have forbidden her to leave; she has disobeyed me, mother." "Giacomo, you are mistaken, you have been hasty; Marietta would not disobey you; and if she has unin- "The painting was paid for some time ago," said tentionally displeased you, you will forgive her for your Father Antonio. old mother's sake," and as she spoke, she laid her aged hand on the painter's arm. To avoid a reply to this appeal, the Tintoretto hastened to open the letter, and having broken its seal, he glanced at the signature. "Ferdinand II., Grand Duke of Tuscany!" he exclaimed; "a portrait painted by my daughter; he is mistaken, he means my son, and summons him to his court to paint his own portrait. Mother, call Dominico, he is probably at work in his studio, little dreaming of the honor that awaits him." As he spoke, the door of the studio again opened, and Father Antonio entered. Pardon, my son; I have mistaken the studio," said he, as he turned to withdraw. "Come in, good father; if you want to speak to Dominico, my mother will call him; I also have something to communicate to him." The Signora Robusta left the room, and soon afterwards returned, accompanied by her grandson, whose disordered dress and confused manner did not escape the quick eye of Father Antonio: looking sternly at him, he said: "I am come for the promised picture, Signor Dominico; it was to have been ready for the festival of the Holy Virgin, which was celebrated some days ago." Father," stammered out Dominico, "I-I-assure 66 you "That a promise once made should be kept, young man; but I release you from your engagement: keep the painting and return the money I paid for it." Dominico could not deny it, but stood confused and trembling, dreading further exposure, and conscious that he had nothing to urge in his defence, and but little to hope from Father Antonio's indulgence. After a silence of some moments, the Tintoretto again addressed his visitor. "Father, with your permission we will leave this subject for the present; my son has done wrong, very wrong, but you may perhaps be inclined to deal leniently with him, in consideration of a letter just received from the Grand Duke Ferdinand of Tuscany. Read it, Dominico, it concerns you." The young man took the letter, and having read it, he said, as he returned it, "It is not for me, father, it is for Marietta." "Impossible! Marietta cannot have painted the portrait alluded to." "Father, you are mistaken; my sister paints more than half my pictures; she has worked to make up for the time I have wasted; she has done my work as well as her own, and has neglected her music, deprived herself of rest to paint portraits, by the profit of which we I have lived. She earns more than either you or I, father." He added in a tone of shame and humility; The Grand Duke's letter is for her, and she deserves it; where is she?" "My child! my poor child!" exclaimed the painter, deeply touched, "I have been unjust. I sent her from me; and punished when I should have rewarded, and blamed when I should have pitied. Mother, you were right; forgive me, and go with me to ask Marietta to "Paid for it!" repeated the Tintoretto, looking forgive her father!" angrily at his son. On reaching Marietta's room, they found it unoccu him. "Better, far better, my son," said Father Antonio; who had hitherto been a silent, but not unmoved spectator of the scene. "She is a good daughter, a good sister, a good Christian; for her sake I forgive her brother, and may the God whom she loves and serves forgive him also." pied. "She may be in my studio," said Dominico; and | Tintoretto, as he gazed in delight at the painting before the little party quickly followed him to seek her there. As the door was gently opened, the young Venetian artist was discovered seated before her brother's easel; one small hand held his brush, the other supported her head, and was partially hid by the hair which had escaped its fastenings, and fell in rich profusion over her hand and arm, and even lay upon the painting on which she was engaged. Had they seen her face, Marietta's future career fulfilled the bright promise the hearts of both father and son might have been of this beginning. In accordance with her father's touched by the traces left upon it by anxiety, toil, and anxious desire, she cultivated her rare talent, and was watching. The gentle daughter, the loving sister, had celebrated as a portrait painter. The Emperor Maximiworked for those who thanked her not; serving those | lian, Philip II. of Spain, and the Grand Duke Ferdinand who heeded her not. Well might the aged grand- of Tuscany, endeavored, by the most 'liberal offers, to mother rejoice, as the Tintoretto rushed towards induce her to settle at their court; but her devotion to his child, and exclaimed, as he clasped her in his her father led her to reject every proposal. He repaid her affection by almost idolatrous tenderness, and could scarcely bear to be separated from her. His love of his "My sister, my gentle sister!" said Dominico, as he art, and his pride of talent was fully gratified by her knelt at her feet. fame as an artist; while his home was cheered and "My Marietta! thou art a painter after all," said the adorned by her virtues and affection. arms: "My child, my angel child!" THERE had been a heavy shower. But the clouds | pillars written all over with lead pencil, spattered with were hurrying away, the sun was breaking out with a warm slops and stained with tobacco smoke-the very winlustre, and the whole earth was smoking with incense. dows, over which the wild rose yet clambered in large I never saw a more beautiful sky-every cloud was ragged masses, covered with a grog-score-green blinds a picture, every shadow a new transformation of the utterly cast away, and half-buried in the dirt, or hanglandscape. We were sitting together on a little wooden ing by one hinge apiece, and ready to drop at a touch bench, at the door of a one-story house, which had been or a breath, every creak appearing to be the last—the white, with a high, dark roof, and projecting windows-insignia of idleness and mischief, cut and carved all over now the porch of a country tavern, the ante-chamber what had been the portico of a tasteful habitation; of a grog-shop. I was leaning back, with my arms wretched caricatures, bad poetry, and worse whittling folded, and eyes half shut, now wondering at the beauty (where whittling is a trade)—profiles of nobody, with a and freshness of our New England scenery; now looking brush-wood or juniper wig-verses that rhymed everyout over the broad, far common, as level as a floor, where but in the right place-and great staggering inibesprinkled with mintature tents and booths, and all tials, no two of which were of the same size or shape, alive with groups of boys and girls; hardy, but rough though all appeared to be looking for partners, and five and awkward militia, in caps that were too large and or six, of a somewhat similar type, for each other, coats that were too small for them, a corps of artillery, though one-half were built with the wrong end up, and a circulating troop of wheelbarrows, and a squadron of the rest were shadowed contrary to law; and now horse; now studying the far sky through a glimmering hearkening to the roar of the waterfalls, which, as it curtain of hop-leaves, vine leaves, and flowering creepers, grew quieter and quieter abroad, began to draw near, that hung between me and the low sun-a part of the with a heavier and more sea-like roar. transparent foliage overlaying the rest with shadow, changeable, burnished, and dripping with large raindrops-a shower of "barbaric pearl and gold," and let-bench; myself, a stranger, and my companion-I hardly ting the sunshine flash through, and play about the know how to describe him, otherwise than by saying floor, and over the white-washed wall, and the wreck that he was a very small man, who chose to wear of what had been the prettily-contrived and the prettily- a cocked hat, a leathern waistcoat, a pair of cowhide painted trellis-work of a flower-garden, at my elbow, shoes, with silver buckles, and blue yarn stockings as the live drapery broke and fluttered, and swayed rolled up over his knees, in the dog-days. How he this way and that, with every change of the wind; now contrived to occupy so much room as he did, was trying to make out the familiar history of what I saw always a mystery to me. More than half the bench did on every side of me-neatness gone to decay-white he take up, and that half-as some people do their part We were sitting together, I have said; that is, we were sitting back to back on the same badly contrived |