less frequent, and at last ceased altogether. Teresa inquired for him, went constantly to the church, wrote to him daily. Her letters were returned to her without being opened, and Giulio never quitted his cell. But Teresa had occasion to speak to him to impart to him a new secret -the secret of a mother. What will become of her should he now persist in abandoning her? She learnt that on the following Sunday he was to say mass; she felt that the occasion must not be neglected, more than her own life depended on it, and this idea armed her with courage and strength. She appeared occupied in some important pro ject, which absorbed her entire faculties: the two days previous to that on which she determined to see Giulio were employed in taking mea sures for a sudden flight which she meditated. The situation of the con vent near the sea shore would facilitate the execution of her scheme, as to the place to which they should direct their course, she had not thought on that point; Giulio was to decide on that at his pleasure; for every thing but Giulio had become indifferent to Teresa.

She had hired a small boat, and had arranged every thing with so much prudence and secrecy that not even the least suspicion was entertained of her design; the trouble she was in even spared her the torment of thinking of the obstacles she was likely to encounter. The day so impatiently looked for, arrived at last, and Teresa, enveloped in a long black veil, placed herself near the altar. Giulio could not distinguish her while she was able to observe every look and movement of his; and when the congregation had departed she glided behind a column near which he must necessarily pass on returning to the cloisters. As he approached she perceived that he was more than ever a prey to grief: his arms were crossed on his breast; his head inclined forwards, he moved with the slow and dragging step of a criminal. These symptoms of his despair excited in Terresa the most lively emotion; she would have sacrificed her own life to procure repose for him; but hesitation was no longer in her power; the innocent being to whom she would soon give life seemed to demand of her a father. She presented herself to Giulio. Stop Giulio,' she cried, 'I must speak with you; you must listen to me. I will not quit you until you have given me the key of the garden of your convent. I must have it. Oh! Giulio, it is no longer my life alone that depends on you.' At this words Giulio felt as if awakened from a frightful dream. Wretched woman,' he exclaimed, 'what is it you say? Begone! Flee from this place.' But Teresa threw herself at his feet, and vowed that she would not quit him until he had complied with her demand. Giulio endeavoured in vain to release himself; all his afforts were useless; Teresa appeared endowed with a strength beyond her nature. 'Swear to me,' she said, ' to meet me at midnight.' While she urged him with vehemence to make her this promise, a slight noise was heard, he gave her the key. At midnight,' he repeated, and they separated. At midnight, accordingly, Teresa repaired to the garden; the night was overcast and dark; she dared not call, for fear of being discovered, but she soon heard the steps of a person approaching. It was Giulio. • What would you have of me?' he said, speak quickly; our time is short. Cease, I conjure you, to follow a wretch who can never render you happy. I love you

6

Teresa! Without you, life is to me an insupportable burden; but with you, my remorse is a torment which it is beyond my strength to endure, poisons even my sweetest moments. You have witnessed my despair. How often had I accused you with it! Forgive me, my beloved forgive me. It is just that I myself am punished. I have renounced you, and may this sacrifice be an expiation of my crime.' He ceased to speak; his anguish prevented his continuing. Teresa sought to console him, to paint to him a future more fraught with happiness. Giulio,' she said, had it been for my own sake alone, I should not have dared to come to seek you here. No more than you should I have feared death; but the pledge of your love demands that we should live; come then, Giulio, let us depart together, all is ready for our flight.' Giulio, in his extreme agitation, allowed her to lead him forward, another moment, and they would have been united for ever. But on a sudden, he disengaged himself from the arm of Teresa, 'No,' he cried, never!' and he plunged a poignard in her bosom.

[On pronouncing these words, Bonaparte approached the empress, with a gesture, as if he was drawing a poignard. The illusion was so strong, that the ladies present threw themselves between him and his consort, with a cry of alarm. Bonaparte, like a perfect actor, continued his recital, without appearing sensible to the effect it had produced.]

Teresa fell, and Giulio was covered with her blood. He remained motionless regarding the corpse with the eye of a maniac. Day began to break, the bell of the convent summoned to morning prayer. Giulio raised the lifeless body of her he had loved so tenderly, and cast it into the sea. Then, with a hurried pace, and beside himself, he repaired to the church; his tunic stained with blood; the poignard, with which he had perpetrated the deed, still in his hand, clearly denounced the murderer. He was siezed without resistance. Giulio disappeared for ever.

[The Empress urged the Emperor to add some details as to the end of Giulio; he briefly replied:]-The secrets of the cloister are impene

trable.'

SKETCHES AND RECOLLECTIONS, NO. I.

[FROM THE NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, NO. CVIII.]

It is by no means a pleasant thing to be stared and pointed at as an object of singularity. Fops and coxcombs are of a different opinion; but since (thanks to an unaspiring tailor, and just so much of common sense as serves to protect me from knocking my head against every post I see.) I am not a member of either of those ancient fraternities, I have felt with extreme acuteness the inconvenience of my position. In society public or private, in the streets, at the theatre, at table, at the club, have I been subjected to this annoyance. Often, when opportunity has served, I have approached a glass, expecting to find that some wag had taken advantage of my " innocent sleep" to black my face, or pin a napkin to my coat, or stick pens, porcupine-wise, in my hair-the most approved witticisms of your practical Congreves: but such has not proved to be the case; and too proud or too indolent to enquire, I might still have remained ignorant of the cause of my attracting, for some time past, such pointed and distressing notice, but for the visit, the other morning, of our friend Dick Ferret. I say our friend, because every body knows Dick, and Dick knows every body! but for the enlightenment of the few nobodies who are unacquainted with him, I will give a slight sketch of his person and character.

Dick, I take it, is about six-and-twenty, though I have heard it asserted that he is considerably older. He is tall, standing about six feet two and a half inches; and if I am not inclined to agree with those who would rank him in "the first order of fine forms," it is because he is some-what too slim, in proportion to his height. His face is thin, and “sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;" and his hair, which is ravenblack, falls in profuse ringlets over his shoulders. His eye is small but dark, intelligent, piercing; and almost seems to possess the wonderful power of looking at, over, under, into, and through you at a single glance. This feature is strikingly indicative of an alleged quality of his mind, which will presently be noticed. His gait is measured, slow, and solemn. With respect to dress, he is negligent in the extreme; I had almost said slovenly. This, in my opinion, is the only point at which Dick lies open to rebuke; for of his moral and social qualities, it may truly be said they are without a flaw. His piety is unsullied by the slightest tinge of moroseness; his abstemiousness-for he never tastes but of one dish, nor ventures beyond a second glass of winerenders him not unindulgent towards those who more easily yield to

the allurements of the table. He is good-humoured. good natured, and
well-meaning. His learning is, perhaps, more varied than profound;
his mind is stored with facts and anecdotes accumulated in the course of
his two voyages round the world, and three pedestrian journeys over
Europe and Asia; and since, in addition to all this, like Desdemona, he
sings, plays, and dances well :" it will readily be admitted that his
accomplishments are amply sufficient for the pleasurable purposes of
society. The only drawback to their display is a natural reservedness,
amounting almost to shyness, which it will sometimes require all the in-
genuity of his friends, by a gradual and dexterous drawing-out, to over-
come. Now, were I to stop here, it might be said that I had drawn a
faultless monster; in justice, therefore, to our friend, I must reduce him
to within the limits of human perfection. I have already alluded to an
alleged quality of his mind, and that is-Inquisitiveness. I say alleged,
because I, for my own part, am unwilling to admit its existence-at
least, as a distinguishing trait in his character. All men are desirous of
obtaining knowledge and information; all men are anxious to know
what is going on in the world; all men, to attain these ends, must, in
some way or other, ask questions, or, to use the other term, be inquisi-
tive;
and where is the real difference between pumping a book or a news-
paper at your breakfast, and pumping your friends and acquaintance at
any time later in the day? The difference, if any there be, is in the man-
ner not in the thing, and Dick's manner is all-to-nothing the best inasmuch
as it is less trying to the eyes than poring over small print. It proves
nothing that Rone day, finding amongst the visiting cards on his
table a small scrap of paper
with merely a note of interrogation marked
on it, said to his servant-" If Mr. Ferret should call again, I shall be
happy to see him ;" and even if it did, Dick is so rich in good qualities,
that he can well afford so trifling a set-off against them.

I was busy arranging some papers, when Dick Ferret entered my room.
Scarcely had he taken his seat ere I was convinced, by his look and man
ner, that his good natured soul was agonized by the necessity imposed
on him, by his ardent and sincere friendship for me, of communicating
something which he knew must occasion me pain or uneasiness. Dick
(unlike your meddling tale-bearers, who fetch and carry with a malicious
intent), disdaining the petty arts of hint, insinuation, and innuendo, went
directly to the point, and, with his customary frankness, thus he began
"My dear fellow, you-I-a-hem !-you are a sensitive man, and pay
more attention to such things than they deserve. For my part, I don't
believe it, and so I said at the time."

"What time? and what don't you believe ?"
"There, now! I knew it would make you uneasy.

:

You are wrong;

it is not worth your attention. Besides, if people do point at you as a person affecting singularity, how can you help it? But mind, I don't say they do, I merely say if they do."

"To speak the truth, Ferret, I have fancied as much for some time past, and shall be glad if you can acquaint me with the cause of it."

"There, again! Now you are wrong-I must use the liberty of a

friend to tell you you are very wrong. Why need you care about it?

1

It isn't pleasant, to be sure, but one can't go all over London to stop people's tongues. As to the cause, as I said at the time, every man has a right, in these matters, to do as he likes. But between ourselves, I didn't think it friendly on his part to urge the subject against you in the way he did; and so I told him."

"Then you are acquainted with the cause? allude?"

And to whom do you

"Nobody-nothing. Now mind, I know nothing, and I have told you nothing, so you have heard nothing from me. A-hem! Have you seen our friend Willoughby lately?"

"A week ago. We shall dine together to-morrow."

"Shall you!!! Well-I am glad of it—very glad. I don't like to see old friendships broken up. I know you did entertain a very great regard for him, and so did he for you-I know he did-and, indeed, so he ought, for you have rendered him some services."

"Nothing of any importance. But what is this to lead to ?"

"But I tell you you have, and you know it; and you'll be good friends again one of these days, notwithstanding."

"Pooh, pooh! you must not notice it—when you meet, you must give him your hand as usual-I tell you, you must. Every body knows Willoughby he does not mean half the ill-natured things he says; and he is sorry for it when he has said them. But then the mischief is done, -Eh? Yet he is a good fellow at bottom, and you must not mind this. You will dine with him to-morrow, notwithstanding,-Or does he dine with you?-or perhaps you are to meet some-where?-Where?" "Now, Ferret, you have led me to suspect that Willoughby has said something to my discredit: it was at your option whether or not to remain silent upon the subject altogether; but since you have chosen to say so much, I consider you bound to declare all you know."

"Say! what have I said? I have said nothing. Can you imagine I would go about repeating what I hear at a private table?"

"No; for the certain penalty for such a proceeding would be your exclusion from such table ever after. But, as I have already intimated, you have said either too much or too little, and have now bound yourself to.”

Again I tell you, you are wrong to be in the least annoyed at it; for what was there in it, after all? Nothing-a-hem!—at least, there would have been nothing in it had he said it to me privately. But between ourselves-and this I say to you as a friend-he oughtn't to have said it in the presence of ten others, all friends and acquaintance of your's-for every one of them will find a different motive for your conduct-there he was wrong, and so I told him at the time."

"And in what point is my conduct open to so many and various opinions?"

"What need you care about their opinions? You are not obliged to print your Life' unless you think proper."

"Print my 'Life' what in the sacred name of Foolery do you mean?” "I said so; the very thing I said. But you know Willoughby's way