to be, that she was persuaded into her marriage with Vicente, as the most eligible person amongst all her real or professed admirers. "They were married, and after spending some time in travelling over various parts of the continent, they retired to the Count's seat, which is charmingly situated among the lower mountains of the Apennines. It is approached by an ancient Roman bridge, which stretches across a magnificent river, composed of several tributary streams, which unite a league or two above the bridge, and form one of the finest waterfalls in that part of Italy. The mansion is built in the castellated style, but some modern additions had been made to it, which rendered it a residence worthy of a nobleman. The prospect which it commands of the lower hills, and of the fertile plains at their feet, is enchanting. Among the various interesting objects which it embraced, was a convent of the order of the Virgin, called the Convent of the Apennines, seated on the declivity of a mountain, which rises abruptly to a considerable height behind it, and protects it from the north wind. I have occasionally visited my friend at his Apennine residence, and envied him the enjoyment of such a scene, which looked to me like a terrestrial paradise. Our Claude has left a picture of it, which he painted for one of Vicente's ancestor's; you may see it in the Gallery of Fine Arts-I think, on the right hand as you enter "If woman could be happy, as one would think she might, in the enjoyment of such a residence as this, attended by the most affectionate of husbands, and surrounded by three or four of the most engaging children I ever saw, Isidora ought to have deemed herself the most fortunate of her sex. For a time she did appear to be in possession of the most unqualified bliss. It was delightful to me, who rejoice in hearing of the happiness of any of my fellow-creatures, especially of my immediate friends, to receive letters occasionally from Vicente, in which he described their mutual habits and amusements. Sometimes they walked up the mountain, and loitered about the banks of the stream, listening to the music of that fine waterfall, with which the bells of the distant convent occasionally mingled their sound. Sometimes Isidora would spend a day at the convent, for the sake of the converse of the nuns, whom she always found as cheerful as the morning. Having no wishes that went beyond the precincts of their mountain residence, their world was within themselves, and their happiness sprang from the rigid performance of the duties which they had undertaken. Upon these occasions, Isidora would have her children taken to her, and their presence was always a kind of jubilee at the convent. Vicente went for them in the evening before sunset; they all rode down the mountain upon donkeys, and their journey home on these occasions was a continued flow of juvenile laughter and delight. "But their greatest enjoyment, as Vicente bas often told me, was to wander out in the afternoon through the fields amongst their deer and sheep, to recline under a shady tree upon the margin of that beautiful river, and to sketch the matchless scenery by which they were surrounded. Such was the impression which those pastoral days, as he called them, made upon his fancy, that he had his portrait and that of Isidora, added to Claude's painting, he being represented as holding a shepherd's crook, Isidora sitting on a bank, with a young fawn at her feet, and both apparently listening to those mystic hummings which, without any apparent cause, sometimes are heard in the summer sky. The murmur of the bee, the chirp of the grasshopper, and the distant song of the woodman, they could easily trace to their natural sources; for those other sounds, however, above their heads, in which they found infinite delight, they could not so well account. "Thus ten or twelve years passed on, and during my more recent visits, it was with the most unaffected pleasure that I beheld their union crowned with so many blessings. The heart of Isidora was, as well as I could observe, completely won by the tender assiduities of her husband, and it seemed as if their happiness were destined to have no end, save with their existence. Unfortunately, however, for their welfare, it entered into Isidora's plans for the education of her eldest daughter, to have her taught French, by one of the most eminent masters whom Paris could produce. A gentleman was accordingly found, who agreed, for a liberal stipend, to bury himself, as he represented it, for a year or two among the Apennines. His name was De Moray, a smart little man, very much marked from the effect of the small-pock, but possessed of uncommon confidence, or, as indeed I might call it, effrontery of manners. You will, perhaps, be much surprised to hear, that this person, though destitute of every external attraction which could fix the attention of a woman, was scarcely six months in the house of my friend, when he succeeded in seducing Isidora from the duty which she owed to her God, her husband, her children, her relations ! "You will, I know, excuse these tears, which involuntarily burst from my heart. I know not whether they are a tribute to indignation or pity. I was overwhelmed with the fatal intelligence, when Vicente came to inform me of what had occurred― the mother of his children bad fled; the innocent ones deprived of her who best knew how to minister to their wants; the honour of his family tarnished beyond all human power of redemption; and the prospects of his children clouded by the example of their parent. I feared that he would not survive the day he came to Florence to tell me of this terrible disaster; but after he had unburthened his mind of the fatal tidings, he seemed to put on a new character. He expelled from his bosom every sentiment of tenderness with which he was once familiar, and kneeling down upon this floor, swore that he would be revenged. I endeavoured to appease his feelings, to direct his mind to more noble views of the duties which had devolved upon him, to induce him to forget a woman who had so treacherously requited his love; but all to no purpose. He wrung his hands in agony, reminded me again and again of the happy days I had seen them spend together, reasoned upon the improbability that she would ever have voluntarily abandoned him, and imputed her conduct to violence practised by the base spoiler upon her inclinations. I of course was obliged to be silent, as I could not bring myself to think for a moment that the mistress of a family could be drawn from her allegiance to home, unless she was herself a consenting party. But Vicente was obstinate, and resolved on pursuing the fugitives. "He followed them to Switzerland, traced them to Lausanne and Geneva, and then to Lyons, where he lost all clue to their further move ments. He returned to Florence a broken-hearted man. I scarcely knew him, he was so altered in every respect. This was about twelve months ago. However, he was indefatigable in his researches and inquiries, and at length heard that the guilty pair were at Padua, Isidora passing for the wife of the Frenchman, who still continued to earn a scanty pittance by teaching his native language. "Vicente was preparing to proceed to that city, but before he set out he went, by my advice, to see his little family, and to provide for their future welfare in case any untoward accident should occur to him in the course of his journey. On his arrival at home, he was astonished that he was not welcomed as usual by his children. They were no where to be found. He called all his servants. They could give no account of the young ladies, and were much surprised at their absence. Vicente rushed instinctively to the garden, and had not advanced far, when he heard all their voices clattering at once in the harbour, in which he and Isidora had spent many a happy hour. Entering this scene of their past felicity, whom should he see before him, with the children clinging in a cluster round her neck, but that same Isidora !no, not the same, indeed, for much was she changed from her former self: she was dressed in a travelling habit, and appeared to have just come off a journey. "Here is Mamma come back,' exclaimed all the children together, in a breath. Oh, we are all so happy, Papa!' Vicente's tongue adhered to the roof of his mouth; words were denied him, so unexpected, so overwhelming to his heart was a meeting of this description. His first impulse was to return to his stables, take his horses, and return to Florence. Would that he had done so! Isidora fell upon her knees, and looked up at him with those well known, though now harassed features, bathed in tears. His heart rose to his throat, and almost suffocated him. He could hardly believe his senses, that she who had so irreparably wronged him, was now before him suing for his mercy. At length, he found utterance enough to ask were was her paramour? I am here, said the French ruffian, carelessly sauntering down the path that led to the arbour. Vicente turned round, and seizing him with the fury of a lion, felled him to the earth. Guided by some demoniac feeling, he then twisted his hand in the back part of the ruffian's neckcloth, and tightened it with irresistible force until he strangled him to death. The children fled, shrieking, alarmed by the frenzy which maddened their father. Isidora was borne away by the servants to the home which she had dishonoured, whence one of them, who was much attached to her, had her secretly conveyed to Milan. Vicente disdained to fly from the scene of his crime. He exulted in it, and cheerfully surrendered his person to the officers of justice, who charged him with the murder of the foreigner. He did not deny, or attempt to extenuate the deed he had done, and accompanied them to the prison of Florence. His trial was fixed for next week, when, doubtless, he would have been acquitted, as the facts of the seduction would be proved by several witnesses, and allowance would doubtless be made by the tribunal for the feelings of a husband and a parent, which had been outraged in the most cruel manner. But he constantly said, that he had now nothing more to live for: he had avenged his insulted honour, and he cared little what was to become of him. The agitation of his feelings, the re membrance of his sufferings, and, above all, that agonizing scene, which presented to him his guilty wife, surrounded by his innnocent and injured children, brought on a violent fever, which terminated, a few days ago, in his death. You know the rset. Isidora, it seems, was apprised of his death, and came too late to pay the tribute of her repentance at his tomb! May Heaven forgive her! May her example be a warning to her sex! "It has been intimated to me, that her sole remaining desire now is to be permitted to retire for the remainder of her life to the convent of the Apennines-not, indeed, to take the veil, for of that she deems herself unworthy, but to clothe herself in sackcloth and ashes, and wash away her crimes in her tears. She promises that she would never step beyond the walls, nor even look towards the mansion where her children reside-the mansion that was to her so many years the abode of all that can be attained of earthly felicity. This is a subject for the consideration of the lady abbess. I can hardly think of pressing it. My inclination rather is that she should remain for the present in Florence." 'I was much affected with this narrative, told as it was in a tone of manly emotion, not unmixed with pity for the ill-fated woman. During the time I sojourned in that part of Italy, I occasionally enquired as to her fate, but as my friend was absent from Florence, I could gain no certain intelligence concerning her for many months. My curiosity prompted me to visit the residence of Vicente among the Apennines, and also to pay my respects at the convent, my friends having obtained for me letters of introduction to the lady abbess. When I presented myself at the door, and delivered my letters, I was requested to walk A into the chapel, the way to which was pointed out to me. As no service was at the moment going on, I felt myself at liberty to admire the pictures and monuments which ornamented the lower aisle. small marble tablet, which had been just put up, happened to attract my attention. The only inscription upon it was Isidora.' The explanations of the lady abbess rendered further enquiry unnecessary. Isidora was, indeed, in her tomb, and when I passed it again, I own that I could not repress the tear that fell upon the spot where she lay.'pp. 175-186. Matter of this description may well bear a comparison with any periodical of the day; and when we add that the number, containing seventy-two pages of letter-press, and music, a steel engraving, four plates of fashions of the month, beautifully printed and coloured, (explained, too, by a first-rate artiste,) and a wood-cut, is sold for the price of sixpence, we can hardly be surprised at the great circulation to which the work is reported to have already attained. ART. XII.-The Georgian Era: zetelly & Co. 1832. THIS is the first volume of a series of four, which it is the intention of the compilers to devote to what they call the Georgian era; that is to say, that interesting interval of the history of this country, during which it has been under the sway of the Georges. Luckily for the convenience of the compilers, the period selected has admitted of no interruption, and they have, therefore, a clear, well-defined, and well-marked era, as a groundwork for their proceeding. Perhaps there are few epochs of our history, which possesses greater interest for living persons than that interval which is contemplated in the plan of the present work. The principal actors in the scenes of public life at this day are most of them more or less connected by relationship with the eminent men of the latter part of the last, and of the beginning of the present century. Some of the bio graphical subjects of the volume are still happily spared to us; and on the whole there is an interest thrown round this work which will be responded to in every part of the country. We should likewise bear in mind that the men whose lives are treated of in this volume, have been intimately associated with some of the most important transactions in which this country has been engaged. It was during the Georgian era that the events of the last catastrophe of the Stuart family took place - that America vindicated her right to independence that the revolution of France, (that anomalous chapter in the book of time), occurred — that Napoleon rose, fought, conquered, and died; and that a striking improvement in sound knowledge and in practical liberty, was experienced. The lives of the royal family down to its most obscure member, very properly form the contents of the earlier pages. Those of the Pretenders, and their adherents, follow. The eminent persons belonging to the church, the senate, and the dissenting party are then noticed in succession. The utmost impartiality prevails generally through the work; and its value is considerably enhanced by the beauty of the printing, but especially by the large number of portraits with which it is adorned. ART. XIII.-The Shakespearian Dictionary, forming a general Index to all the popular Expressions, &c. By Thomas Dolby. 8vo. pp. 367. London: Smith, Elder, and Co. 1832. WELCOME!-thrice welcome! ever glorious Shakspeare, even maimed and utterly deprived of thy fair proportions as thou art—still welcome. As Sheridan once enquired, when Dodd's Beauties of the great bard were put into his hands, so do we entreat of Mr. Dolby, to say where are the remaining volumes of the works-the exquisite beauties of Shakspeare? This book contains nothing but extracts from the prince of the dramatic world— need we say that we recommend it?. A far better key to a knowledge of Shakespeare than Ayscough's wordy Index; much more ample than Dodd's ridiculous selection; and altogether a contrast to the laughable, and, for the credit of the country, we hope totally extinct, "Aphorisms," which happily were sent into the world, accompanied with the powerful septic of Capel Lofft's name, Mr. Dolby's volume is entitled to the praise of being the best, because it is the most ample of the smaller selections from Shakespeare. It is on this account well worthy the attention of the public. Those who do not possess the whole of the works of the illustrious bard, or whose minds are so singularly constituted as not to have the whole of their contents by heart, after a few months' acquaintance with his pages, would do well to peruse this book, where they will find some of the most striking of his inspired effusions, classified for the purpose of easy and convenient reference. The work is, however, far from being complete, even in respect of its avowed plan. We would mention, in proof of this state |