more to the pretenses of doubt and suspense than is warranted by the circumstances of the case. Anne Boleyn was too surely guilty up to the height of Messalina's guilt, and far beyond that height in one atrocious instance.

Passing from that to the general pretensions of this very eloquent and philosophic book, we desire to say-that Mr. Froude is the first writer (first and sole) who has opened his eyes to comprehend the grandeur of this tremendous reign.

WHEN the Venetian Republic was at the height of its power and greatness, and ruled over many islands in the Mediterranean Sea, Commerce, Industry, and the Arts flourished as they never have since on the earth. Vast numbers of people came from far and wide to see the majestic churches and proud palaces of marble, which rose on both sides of the canals, and to gaze at the master-works of painting and sculpture, with which the great masters had adorned them.

Amongst these latter was the Maestro Giovanni, one of the most celebrated, though still a youth; and the young artists from all countries travelled to Venice, in order to become his pupils. But he was also highly respected in his native town. The proudest aristocrats, the nobles of princely birth, ay, even the Doge himself, payed him the profoundest respect, and were proud of receiving a painting from his hand.

On one occasion the Doge had arranged a magnificent festival in honor of a new picture which Giovanni had just completed it had been placed in one of the great saloons of the palace, and was to be uncovered in presence of the assembled court. It represented the Doge himself, as a wise and beneficent sovereign in peace, and as a hero returning victorious from the wars, which he had waged for some time against the pirates of the Adriatic and Mediterranean Seas.

On the preceding evening the Maestro VOL. XXXIX.-NO. III.

and his pupils had placed the picture in the saloon, and now on the day of the festival, when the sun was high in the heaven and the light the most suitable for the occasion, the gondolas began to skim over the waters of the canal, bringing guests from all parts to the Doge's palace. The gondoliers were all richly attired in their liveries, and bore the colors of the noble families whom they served; but the nobles themselves wore over their magnificent court-dresses the black jabarro, a long, loose cloak, without which no noble Venetian ventured to appear in the streets.

When all the guests were assembled, Titian, the greatest painter of his time, entered the hall, and a flourish of trumpets gave the signal for the commencement of the ceremony. The doors of the great saloon were thrown open, the guests took the places appointed for them, and in the centre, by the side of the picture (which was not yet uncovered) stood a tall and noble figure-that of Giovanni himself. His eye beamed with inward emotion, his cheek was flushed with a warmer tint than usual, and the long locks of his darkbrown hair set off to great advantage the high and majestic brow. The consciousness of his approaching triumph might be traced in his whole mien and bearing, though he occasionally stole a fugitive glance at the venerable Titian, compared with whom he still felt himself to be but a beginner.

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token of your forgiveness, the grant of that favor which I am now come to beg of you."

"Let us hear what it is, Signor Giovanni," exclaimed the Doge; "we lie under a heavy obligation to you, for your painting will be an ornament to Venice, so long as San Marco protects the republic. I promise you willingly anything that is in my power."

Giovanni was silent a while; at length

he said:

"Permit me, most gracious Sire, to paint Donna Julia's portrait."

had both heard and understood them, but her pride was touched to the quick at the thought that a painter-and even were he the great and celebrated Giovannishould venture to approach her with thoughts of love. Beautiful, and magnificently attired, as he had first seen her, did she enter the room, but a cold smile of contempt played upon her lips as she arranged herself in the position which Giovanni desired for the portrait.

He had well remarked the expression of her features, and it seemed to wither his heart at a stroke-his eye became dim

bled violently, and he felt as though he must fall at the feet of Donna Julia, and beg her not to look at him so. He thought he would return, and not begin the work that day-but what reason could he give Julia for so doing? and might she not refuse a new sitting? No, there was no choice-with a heavy heart, he set to work.

Giovanni was overjoyed beyond all bounds, more so than if he had been promised a kingdom and a crown. He would see Donna Julia again would see her often now-and for hours together-he was permitted to transfer her image to his canvas, and that was all he demanded at present.

He sprang lightly out of the gondola which had borne him back to his abode, and ascended with quick steps to his studio, where he immediately commenced making diligent preparations for the new picture: one would have thought he was about to paint his first portrait, so particular was he in the selection of canvas, colors and brushes, and so anxious was he to find the very best of every thing, in order that this work might be the greatest he had ever produced.

The intermediate time, until the day appointed for the first sitting, he passed as in a dream; waking and sleeping her image alone filled his soul; and it was with a beating heart that he entered on the appointed day the apartments of the proud and beautiful princess.

And had she really not heard the words of the painter on that eventful day, nor understood their meaning? Oh yes, she

Week passed after week. The picture rapidly neared its completion, growing more beautiful each day, and the original growing each day more deeply into the heart of the painter! Nor did Julia remain unmoved; as long as Giovanni painted, she could not but feel, as she studied hour by hour those noble features, that he possessed a something higher than either rank or birth, but when he ceased, the contemptuous and scornful expression which so wrung his heart and extinguished all hope in his breast, resumed its sway.

At length the portrait was finishedand as he put the last stroke, he exclaimed, in accents which betrayed no less the ecstasy of his love, than the pride of selfsatisfaction: "Now come, Madonna, and see how beautiful you are."

But she, proud and stern as ever, struggling between the feeling of actual love which had gradually taken possession of her heart almost without her own knowledge, and the haughty and unbending pride which strove in vain to deny and ignore it, did she approach the picture, exclaiming: "Is this your highlyvaunted skill, Signor; was it for this that you refused the laurel wreath? methinks you had done better to have accepted it for this picture will certainly not earn you it."

Giovanni was stunned-the earth seemed to be turning perceptibly beneath his

feet-he knew not how to give vent to his feelings, but he felt in that moment as if he could curse the woman who had the heart to strike so cruel a blow. Suddenly and swiftly he raised his arm with the intention of destroying the picture at a blow, when it was arrested by the Doge, who had entered the room that moment and had heard the last words which his daughter had spoken; but this would not have prevented his carrying out his design, had he not caught the smothered exclamation of horror which involuntarily escaped from Julia, as she remarked the rapid motion of his arm. Could his ears have deceived him- surely there lingered on that sound the accents of love as well as of regret he raised his eyes once more to those beautiful and well-loved features, but the old expression of cold contempt had returned. As she resumed, speaking to her father: "It is true, Sire, that Signor Giovanni has executed his task ably and faithfully, and I thank him even for that, if it gives you pleasurebut from an artist as Giovanni I had awaited even more-I had expected that it would have started from the canvas as true and life-like as the original." So saying, she quitted the apartment. Nothing that the Doge could say in explanation of his daughter's words, which he attributed to female vanity, had any effect upon Giovanni-he paused a moment as if to collect himself, and then said in a low, sad tone: "Permit me to leave you, most gracious sire; poorer than the poorest beggar do I go from this place."

Silently he quitted the palace and descended the marble steps-slowly and sadly did he pass along the streets and up the stairs to his studio.

CHAPTER II.

Darkness fell upon the streets of Venice, upon the studio of Giovanni, and upon the ducal palace, where in one of the saloons adjoining Donna Julia's apartments, lay the fatal picture, still in the same position upon the easel as the painter had left it: there was no other light than that which shone in from the gardens and courts outside, but there was enough to show all the more prominent objects in the room.

At the hour of midnight the door was gently opened to admit a tall figure, attired

in a long loose mantle reaching to the ground, and a hood which almost entirely concealed the face. It was Donna Julia, who, unable to sleep after the events of the day, had stolen unperceived from her apartments, to spend a few moments in that room, where she had passed so many happy hours, and to take a last look at the picture. She gazed long and earnestly, until she almost fancied she perceived Signor Giovanni standing in the gloom at her side, occupied as she had been accustomed to see him day after day with his palette and brushes, and with that expression of unutterable love upon his features which she so well remembered, and so resolutely persisted in ignoring.

She was on the point of quitting the room when to her horror she perceived the picture becoming gradually animated. Surely her senses were deceiving her! She could not remove her eyes from the canvas, nor attempt to flee-she had lost all power of motion; thus then she stood watching the magic picture: the rolling eyes, the heaving breast, the motion of the whole figure, which the next moment, to the astonishment of the affrighted girl, started from its frame, and stepping down upon the ground immediately opposite Donna Julia, grasped her hand tightly. "Your wish is fulfilled," she commenced in a tone of derision, in which Julia recognized her own voice: "you required that the picture should start life-like from its frame; you see it before you, more beautiful than yourself!"

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Julia struggled violently to escape from the beautiful hand, which held her firmly in its iron grasp. "It is vain to struggle," she commenced again; as strongly as I now hold you, did you enchain the heart of the unhappy one; as coldly and inexorably as I now contemplate your agony, did you look upon the sorrow of the truest of hearts!"

Julia fell to the ground with a loud cry, apparently in a swoon; nothing remained to her but a consciousness of herself and what was passing around her; but all the faculties both of her mind and body seemed to be passing away from her into the fig ure; and in the next moment she perceived her father enter, fold it caressingly in his arms, as he had been accustomed to do to her, and retire.

When the light of day dawned again, she was surprised at finding herself in a totally strange place-it was a studio; all was animation and diligence; the counte

"How do I come here?" exlaimed Julia; but no one answered her question. She repeated it, but all remained still. She rose, and approaching Giovanni, she laid her hand upon his shoulder; but he neither saw her nor felt the touch of her hand, and she then discovered with horror, that she was in a form invisible to the eye, imperceptible to the senses of men.

The hours passed on; the evening came; the night wore away likewise, and a second day succeeded; for many successive days did Julia wander through the apartment, which she was unable to leave, watching Giovanni's every motion, and not a little affected at the great love constantly shown him by his numerous pupils, and the many noble traits of character, which had hitherto escaped her attention: when the day's work was over and his scholars were gone, he would approach a portrait of Julia, and after gazing at it sorrowfully for some minutes, would draw a curtain across it, as we place the lid upon the coffin of one whom we have loved dearly in life, and leave the room.

Thus day by day the simple and beautiful life of the artist unfolded itself to her view, and the flame of love which had smouldered so long, began to burn brighter now, that the world and its withering influences had for a time lost its hold on her.

But Giovanni's melancholy deepened from day to day, and he felt, that so long as he remained in Venice, he should be utterly unable to shake it off; he therefore resolved never to see Donna Julia again, but to travel away into distant countries, and seek forgetfulness of the past in a new home and a new scene of action.

He did so; and with Julia at his side, unknown to him, he passed through many countries; whenever he entered a church, or knelt before an image of the Virgin on the roadside, she prayed for him and prayed for deliverance for herself, that she might dedicate her whole love and her whole future life to him. So they wandered on, until they came one evening to the foot of the Apennines; here he lay down to rest. As he slept, Julia watched at his side, bending over him occasionally to imprint a kiss upon his forehead, and

Now he recognizes the liveries of the Duke of Burgundy, and conspicuous above all the rest of that train was the legate of the Duke, come to represent his lord on this solemn occasion-yes, it is Donna Julia's wedding day! Magnificently attired, as becomes a ducal bride, beautiful as a goddess, she approaches the altar in the church of San Marco. Suddenly he awakes and starts to his feet-then mounting his horse, he turned his head towards Venice, and with the speed of the wind retraced the long distance which he had come. Day and night did he pursue his way, forgetful of rest and refreshment, beyond what was absolutely necessary.

One evening, as he was at length within a day's journey of Venice, he stopped to give his horse drink, at a little road-side inn. Here he remarked several loungers, whom from their dress and conversation, he perceived had come from Venice.

"What's the latest news from our good town?" he commenced, addressing one somewhat better dressed than the others.

"Well," replied the man, "with the exception of the great miracle in the church the other day, which, of course, every one knows all about, there is not much news to give."

"Miracle!" exclaimed Giovanni, "I have heard nothing of it, for I am just returned from a long journey."

"You must have been far away, indeed," replied the stranger, "not to have heard of it, for the whole country is talking about it, and even the Holy Church is unable to explain it. Listen to what happened to the daughter of the Doge. You are aware that Donna Julia was affianced to the Duke of Burgundy, and that magnificent preparations have been making, during the last few months, for the celebration of the nuptials. On the appointed day, the Doge, accompanied by a crowd of nobles, conducted his daughter to the church of San Marco (whither the legate of the Duke of Burgundy had already preceded him), to witness the ceremony. Everything went on