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all the way unless it was 'presto -Gigi!' or 'go faster, thou beast of a donkey!' Alas, she never understood the virtues of that good creature! and when we reached Rocca, if you will believe me, I was sent to bed immediately; and in the morning there was the bambino; per Bacco! and thou art Duke Agostini, and it was thee!"

"It is strange, certainly," said Francisco, stopping the enthusiasm of his new partisan; "but we are far from the festa and the fireworks yet, my Gigi. It may be long enough before I can even bring my cause before the Tribunale; and, in the mean time, it will be much better that thou hold thy peace. But you would not fear to appear before the judges, Gigi, and say what you have said to me?" Gigi grew red and then pale, and scratched his head once more.

"I do not like the name of the Tribunale, my son. They are not good sport for poor men. Ah, Eccellenza, scusa! I will never remember thou art not Chichino; and these Monsignori are such great peoplethey are confusing to a poor fellow like me; but to serve thy cause

Here came an interruption grateful to poor Gigi, in the shape of a voice, calling outside the Osteria upon Luigi Baretti. "Ecco!" cried that honest fellow in evident relief. But it was only Mariuccia, who came in, immediately afterwards, in all the glory of her festal costume-her red jacket and embroidered apron making quite a dazzling show, as she stood in the great doorway of the Osteria, concentrating in her person all the light there was. Mariuccia came forward with such affectionate

reverence to kiss her nurseling s hand, that Gigi's awe and wonder grew in just proportion. It was true, then. Somehow it is always more convincing to see that another person believes in a new and great discovery than to be ever so sure one's self of the proofs of it. When he heard his mother address her former charge as Don Franciscowhen he saw the humility with which she kissed the young man's hand, poor Gigi's wonder and enthusiasm almost overwhelmed him. If he had not finished the polenta by this time, he might have missed his dinner. He could scarcely be convinced that it was necessary to go to the homely practical business before him-to get out his horse, and arrange the baskets and bundles which he and his mother had to take back with them to Rocca, or to leave Rome without seeing anything done towards the bringing about of that festa which should dazzle Monte Cavo. He could not see any difficulties in the way, the innocent Gigi. Were not he and his mother ready to face the very Monsignori themselves if that was necessary? and what could any Tribunale in the world, not to say in Rome, require more? His eagerness, his enthusiasm, and the blank face with which he yielded to the representations of Mariuccia, and reminded himself of the long road and early sunset, were quite exhilarating to Francisco. To be sure there were ditficulties known to that hero, which had no weight with Gigi; but still, with witnesses so faithful, so devoted, and so unquestionable, what had the Duchessa's son to fear?

CHAPTER XIV.

Francisco wandered about all day long, vainly trying to put some heart into his old pursuits, and if he could not determine what step to take first for the establishment of his claims, at least to occupy or amuse himself in the interval. But vain was the attempt. It was as impossible to stroll comfortably into the café and talk of indifferent things, as it was to mount up to his little

apartment and paint even the portrait of the English Signorina. All Rome, so full of acquaintances and interests for him a little time ago, contracted into a narrow circle of women now-women not attractive to a young man-Teta, to whom alone he could talk freely-Madame Margherita, whom it was important to keep on good terms with;-and very different, attracting him with

a strange horror and fascination, that pale old witch face, so dismal in its wasted beauty and exhausted passion, the woman who was his mother. The young man spent all the afternoon lounging languidly about Monte Pincio looking into the carriages. When at last he did see the Duchessa -and, stationing himself at one spot which her carriage passed, again and again, as it made the little round, fixed his eyes so fully and curiously upon her that her curiosity was aroused also he thought he saw a little eagerness in the face glancing at him out of the carriage. He thought that some thrill of recognition looked out, startled and in trouble, from the haughty wonder of her eyes; and, with a quickened impulse in his own, stood and gazed fiercely, scarcely perceiving how the innocent English Lucy, in a guard of invincible English matrons, passed the same way. Roman as he was, he was accessible to other emotions than those of love-making. At that moment, he was no lover waiting for a smile. He was a man watch ing, courting the observation of one who was at once the nearest kindred of his blood, and the bitterest enemy of his life.

Lucy could see him, however, though he was all but unconscious of the encounter, and the interest of the English girl grew and increased. He had not come there merely to see herself; it was with a purpose that he stood under that tree, with his eager eyes, motionless, and keeping his post, while the carriages went round and round in their monotonous circle. Lucy leant back in her corner, losing herself in a pleasant youthful trance, while the trees and the people glided past-while Rome in the distance was now visible, now disappeared-while the music of the band sank and rose; as her chaperone's carriage went round and round the same course, she heard the voices running on in a lively strain-she heard the sound of the promenaders on foot-she saw that one face, eager and intent, so unlike the gay leisure of the rest; and dimly conscious of everything, but particularising nothing, felt herself borne along with a gentle motion both of person and of thought.

"Could any one suppose it," said the lady by Lucy's side, suddenly rousing her languid interest by the name. "Look at that old Duchessa Agostini-she was a great beauty in her time."

"I wonder who that young man is who stares at her so," said their companion. "There's the oddest story going, about some mysterious son of hers who was lost or stolen, or something-or put something-or put in the foundling hospital, or I can't tell you what. But they say there is a son, though nobody can tell where he is, or anything about him. Oh, she's a wicked old woman, that Duchessa ! I should believe anything bad of her. Now we're just about coming to him. Look! I protest I think it must be the Duchessa's son ?"

"Why, for all the world! what puts such an idea in your head?— what a romancer you are!" cried Lucy's friend. "I see nothing particular, for my part, about the man."

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"Ah, I know Rome! I know the Italians! I know they don't look like that unless they mean something," said the other English woman,

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and I could swear he was like her, the old fury! Dear, what an interesting thing! I am positive it must be the Duchessa's son."

Lucy said nothing, but the conversation roused her effectually-in the first place, with a great sense of relief. He was no foreign swindler, that poor young Francisco!-that she should have done him so much injustice! and, to be sure, if he was Duke Agostini, it was very unlikely that grandpapa would object-that is to say, she meant that grandpapa would not be at all displeased to receive a visitor of that rank. It was nothing to Lucy; had she not bound herself, by a solemn promise to grandpapa-poor, selfish, forlorn, old manthat she would never leave him while he lived? It was nothing to Lucy; but she was glad to think that justice would be done to the young painter, in whom it was quite natural, surely, to take an interest. People could not help taking an iuterest in other people who were pleasant and kind, especially if there was any injury in the case. So Lucy concluded, with a little glow

of expectation and pleasure at her heart.

However, it was not till the second evening after, that Lucy found herself free from the perpetual inspection of my lord, or the chaperone he had provided for her. My lord was a wicked old roué, relapsed into compulsory virtuousness by reason of old age and failing health; consequently he had very little dependence to place now upon his innocent granddaughter, not having much knowledge, in his own experience, of what the quality of innocence was. All unlearned as well in filial obligations and natural piety, my lord, much to Lucy's disgust, had really made with her the bargain above mentioned. She was to stay with him until he died, however long he might live; and he was to leave her, in due reward, "a great fortune." He had, it appeared, a certain love for her, as an adjunct to his comfort; and but for that bargain, Lucy might have loved grandpapa quite sufficiently to cling to him in youthful pity and affection, at any cost to herself. As it was, this agreement made the tie much less agreeable than it might have been; and in some degree converted the natural fealty into the obedience of a treaty, which, so long as it keeps by the letter, may be indifferent enough to the spirit. She had no compunctions, accordingly, to mar the gleam of satisfaction with which she heard of a dinner engagement, which did not include herself, and the prospect of "a nice long evening" for her own pleasure. Lucy thought she would look over her expenses and balance her dainty accounts. And then there was that set of cameos for a bracelet, which she wanted other ornaments to correspond with. To be sure, Madame Costini or Sora Teta, as Italian custom called the buxom mistress of the house was much the best person to apply to on this subject. Lucy despatched Reynolds up-stairs instantly to beg a visit from their landlady, with rather a little secret satisfaction in the exceedingly plausible reason she had assigned to herself for seeking an interview with Sora Teta. She sat in a little inner room which, by means of her own taste and Teta's

willing co-operation in hunting up various articles which Lucy fancied from her stock of old furniture, had been made into a kind of boudoir-a maidenly fantastic appendix to the drawing-room. She had a store of little jeweller's boxes round her, over and above the cameos, about which she was so very anxious to consult her visitor-presents from grandpapa to herself, and purchases of her own, which she meant to carry to her friends at home. She thought it would be pleasant to show them to Sora Teta, who was always so goodhumoured and friendly; and besides, it was so much easier to ask questions when some other occupation was going on.

"The Signorina must tell me what designs she wishes," said Teta, examining the cameos, "and I will ask Civilotti to get some very fine ones for her; for the Signorina perceives that I know Civilotti very well, being brought up in the Duchessa Agostini's household; the Duchessa loved nothing so much as change; she would have her jewels reset over and over. Poor Duchessa !-don't you think it must be dreadful, Signorina mia, to turn from a great beauty into an ugly old woman?"

"Dreadful, indeed! and was she really a great beauty? and did you live with her when you were young? and what sort of a person is she?" asked Lucy, closing abruptly one of her jewel boxes, with an assumption of carelessness which betrayed her.

"Ah, Signorina, you good ladies of the Forestieri, who do not love too much distraction and divertimento -if you do not get as much pleasure in your youth," said the insinuating Teta, "at least you are not ugly when you grow old, like the poor Duchessa. She is a very great lady, but I never could love her. I do not think even my mother can love her, though she has been with her forty years. She is somehow antipatica, Signorina-I cannot explain it to you; and Donna Anna, her daughter, who is married to Don Angelo Lontoria, is very much the

same.

Donna Anna is the only daughter. That will be another great estate gone to the family Lontoria, who are nobodies, if all goes well."

"But then, Sora Teta," Lucy said, confidentially, "is not there another story? And the tale which Signore Francisco the painter told me, what does it mean?"

"Nay, Signorina, how can I know if you do not tell me?" cried Teta. Then changing her tone suddenly"I can trust to you, Signorina mia; it is true, that strange tale-he is the Duke Agostini, if there is justice in the world. My mother saw him born, and I saw him carried away, my beautiful Signorina. You are sympatica -you understand him-how noble he is. Ah, such a princely young man! And he knew nothing, if you will believe me, Signorina, till the other day; nothing but that he was an orphan child, and the son of St Michele. And now to get his cause to the Tribunale, with advocates to take care of it, and fees, and the rest, drives him to the end of his wits, the dear youth; for you would not have him borrow, such a young man as he is; and for working as he says, that would destroy his health-and to what good, then, the dukedom and the estates? But I tell him, patienza! the blessed Madonna will raise him up friends."

"And do you think really," said Lucy, too much interested to conceal her interest" do you really believe that this is all that he needs-only money to carry on a lawsuit with? -is that all ?"

"That is all, Signorina mia; and I say to him, patienza! the Madonna will raise him up friends; that is all

that and the blessing of heaven," said the confident Teta. "For what would it avail the Duchessa to deny him? My beautiful Signorina, Madame Margherita brought him into the world, and my mother was there when he was born!"

After this conclusive and convincing statement, Teta proceeded to enlarge upon the childhood of the wonderful boy-details to which Lucy certainly gave ear, and did not refuse to be interested; but a half-conscious suggestion, which made the poor girl's face flush one moment, and the most horrorstricken paleness overspread it the next, but which, nevertheless, would not be entirely extinguished, ran parallel with all Lucy's thoughts. One day she herself should be richone day! but only when grandpapa was dead-and Lucy's heart smote her that she could for a moment speculate on such a possibility. She thought herself the most unnatural, the most ungrateful of children. Grandpapa, who was so good to her! But slurring over that thought with a shudder, still, independent of grandpapa, the suggestion would returnone day or other Lucy should be an heiress-should have more money than she knew what to do with if Francisco was still only Francisco Spoleto then!

THE FRESCO-PAINTINGS OF ITALY-THE ARUNDEL SOCIETY.

THE new life which now awakens in Italy incites a freshened interest in those great works which arose in her former days of liberty. The Arts in that hapless land have long been victims to the prostration which afflicts a nation hastening to decay. The energy of the people being trodden out, their wealth despoiled, and their freedom outraged, Art became emasculate, and its ancient vitality was all but extinct. Italy indeed did not remain even a secure resting-place for those treasures which the golden era of her genius had intrusted to her keeping. The temple of the Pantheon, and the Flavian amphitheatre have been long stripped and pillaged. And in more recent days soldiers have been billeted in monasteries sacred to Fra Angelico-have bivouaced in cloisters-have smoked, and drank, and sworn in refectories hallowed by frescoes of the Last Supper. And thus have the arts been desecrated in Italy, and the land which was once their cradle has become their grave. It is then, we think, at this moment specially fitting that attention should be drawn to the work of devastation now and for many years threatening the great Italian frescoes with destruction. Yet a little while, and all remedy may come too late. And Young Italy, when boasting of a possible freedom, may have to deplore the irreparable loss of those great trophies which should ever be cherished as the charters of a nation's liberty and genius.

Italy lies, as it were, hectic in the expiring glow of sunset. The dying glory of the full noonday still burns in evening splendour; but shadows lengthen, and stormclouds thicken; and whether the promised morn be bright in hope or dark in tempest, who shall say? In the arts, too, it is the witching hour of closing day; a fading lustre still lingers in the sky, but

twilight steals along the plain, and night prowls forth for mischief. It is the hour of parting breath-the moment that divides a life of high renown from an untold future, whose portal is the grave. Beauty still lingers in the languor of the placid cheek, but Decay's effacing fingers have come to sweep away her memory. The vesper call is sounding, or the more solemn bell for burial: we pace with heavy step the silent cloister, and hear the footfall echo from the grave beneath. Cypresses, like mutes of death. stand black against the evening sky, and spectral forms fade from the crumbling walls. What a world of ideal beauty painted by imagination is going to destruction! All that prophets have told or poets have sung, is blazoned in fresco visions upon the decaying walls of desolated Italy. Towns lying far from the beaten track, sequestered among the lonely Apennines, are ofttimes dowered with some local Giotto or Perugino, whose thoughts, even as their mountain homes, were kindred with the skies. Here they lived, and here they died; and here their beauteous works, still lingering in life, are now, alas! in the last extremity of decay. Frescoes which, if seen in northern Europe, would kindle our colder hearts to unaccustomed rapture, are still in Italy thickly strewn upon a land fertile of genius as in spontaneous growth. Many a path leading among the solitary hills is under the guardian care of the wayside chapel, where the Madonna, as the earthly mother or the heaven-crowned queen, painted with that loveliness which is akin to mercy, offers shelter to the weary and salvation to the lost. In districts remote from the crowded haunts of men, does many a fabled miracle of saint seem to have wrought a miracle of art. The climbing steps and the winding pathway, leading among overhanging rocks and clustering

The Publications of the Arundel Society for promoting the knowledge of Art, from the first year, 1849, to the eleventh issue, 1859; with the Report presented to the Annual Meeting in 1860.

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