various regions! Besides these, there are nondescript draperies, bones and skins of animals, antlers, and horns. Her book-case, instead of being filled with the labours of the learned, is crammed with casts and skeletons; whilst it is encompassed by busts, shields, groups in plaster, and other artistic treasures, gathered from all parts, and hoarded with a miser's care. One who has been in the studio informs us, that there is a great Gothic-looking stove at the upper end of the room, covered with casts and bronzes; and that there are paintings of all sizes in every stage of progress. Thus she is always manipulating on several works at a time. Living birds are hopping in cages of different dimensions; whilst, scattered over the floor, are skins of tigers, leopards, foxes, and oxen. "These give me ideas," she says; "whereas the most costly and luxurious carpet is suggestive of nothing." Just so: Rosa is the painter of nature; and whether she is contemplating the skins of dead animals on her floor, or carefully noting their living motions in the field or the forest, they enable her to produce, on the canvas, the images of realities with a perfection which the merely theoretical amateur, who does not pursue a similar mode of study, will strive in vain to attain.

WOMAN.

(From an unpublished Poem by the Author.)

O WOMAN! what a thing of strength ye are
In thy young love, when beauty's budding spring
Lends its soft light to make each eye a star
Bright with intelligence-to subtly fling
Its rays into the heart's most inmost string.
If love be weakness, what a conqueror

He is in thee, with wondrous power to wring

The sternest breast, and all its pleasures mar,

And leave it writhing, scorched with many a burning scar.

Ye well know of what mould man's heart is made

That temple of life's universe in him ;—

Ye know, too, when you can in ruins lay't,
And spread around it desolation grim:
Ye care not either to indulge the whim
Of doing this, if conscious to your view
Your end is safe, and wily Cupid trim,
And at his post, and to your int'rests true,
The fabric to rebuild and passion it anew!

THE DOGE OF VENICE.

FRANCESCO FOSCARI, the Doge of Venice, had reigned thirty-four years, and in that time had twice offered to abdicate; but his resignation of the high office, to which his talents, courage, and ambition had raised him, would not be accepted. He had had four sons; but three of them were already dead, and the fourth had, accompanied with great rejoicings, married into the House of Contarini-a house so illustrious, that, among

"Its ancestors, in monumental brass,
Numbers eight Doges."

On this occasion, it would appear that a bridge of boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for the bridegroom, who had a retinue of 300 horse; whilst tournaments were held for three days in the place of St. Mark, and celebrated by the presence of 30,000 people. Four years, however, had scarcely elapsed from this event, when the son of the Doge fell under the suspicion of the Venetian authorities. He was charged with having taken presents from foreign potentates, which, according to law, was one of the most enormous crimes that a noble could commit. For this he was broken on the rack; and then sentenced, by his own father, to perpetual banishment to Napoli di Romania. On his passage thither he fell ill; and, at the prayer of his father, was permitted to reside at Treviso, where he was followed by his wife. A few years after this, Hermolas Donato, chief of the Council of Ten, was murdered at his own door in Venice; and the banished Foscari was believed to be deeply implicated in the crime. He was, accordingly, brought from Treviso, and again placed upon the rack in his father's presence; but he endured all its tortures without making any confession. Indeed, he had nothing to confess, as he was innocent of having had anything to do with the murder. He was remitted to his place of exile; but, after enduring six years more of banishment, from the love he had for his country-a country, too, in which he had been so ill-used—he was induced to write a letter to the Duke of Milan, beseeching him to use his influence with the senate to have his time of punishment remitted.

This letter he purposely left where it would be discovered, and conveyed to the Council of Ten, who he knew would once more command him to be brought before them. This was the case; and, for the third time, Francesco Foscari, the aged Doge, had to listen to the accusation brought against his son; and also to hear his son avow himself guilty of having solicited a foreign government to intercede with that of his own, for a reversal of his sentence of exile.

The voluntary confession of the younger Foscari, however, would appear to have given as little gratification to the Council as his inflexible silence and endurance had done on the former occasions. Accordingly, they hesitated to accept it; and now, for the third time, put him upon the rack, in order to force him to retract his acknowledgment of guilt. "The father," says Mr. Smedley, in his Sketches of Venetian History, "again looked on, while his son was raised on the accursed cord no less than thirty times, in order that, under his agony, he might be induced to utter a lying declaration of innocence. But this cruelty was exercised in vain; and when nature gave way, the sufferer was carried to the apartments of the Doge, torn, bleeding, senseless, and dislocated; but firm in his original purpose. Nor had his persecutors relaxed in theirs; they renewed his sentence of exile, and added, that its first year should be passed in prison. Before he embarked, one interview was permitted with his family. The Doge, as Sanuto, perhaps unconscious of the pathos of his simplicity, has narrated, was an aged and decrepit man, who walked with the support of a crutch; and when he came into the chamber, he spoke with great firmness, so that it might seem that it was not his son whom he was addressing; but it was his son-his only son. 'Go, Giacopo,' was his reply, when prayed, for the last time, to solicit mercy-'Go, Giacopo, submit to the will of your country, and seek nothing further.' This effort of self-restraint was beyond the powers, not of the old man's enduring spirit, but of his exhausted frame; and when he retired, he swooned in the arms of his attendants. Giacopo reached his Candian prison, and was shortly afterwards released by death."

The Doge was lame, and leant upon a crutch;
His body bent with years, and his broad beard
Spread, like a spray of foam, upon his breast,
As it would form a plate of steel to guard
His heart from the sharp points of poniards of
Detesting foes, who plotted for his life.
A low, close-fitting cap enwrapped his head,
But left the broad brow bare, with all its lines

Of thought, and grief, and care exposed to view.
An ermine tippet from his shoulders hung
In ample folds; and, reaching far below
His waist, imparted breadth and fulness to
His form, already nearly spent with Time's
Decay but not so was his mind, which beamed
With all the vigour of its youth, and which
Shot radiance through his burning eyes, that flash'd
With the bright gleams of polished sabres in
The sun, or in the battle's heat, when round
The lightning of the red artill'ry streams.
The other features of his visage dark
Were bold and prominent, and well-defined,
And made the face such as Canova's hand

Might carve when some strong feeling of the soul
Was wished to be evoked from marble, or

That son

From stone. Thus looked the aged Doge, when to
The cell, where lay his son, he came.
His only son was stretched in pain upon
A couch, to which he had in sorrow been
Conveyed, torn and bleeding, senseless from the
Rack, which well the work of dislocation

Had accomplished. His wife, high-souled,

Was with him; she, in whose proud veins the blood
Of the great Contarini ran, and raised her
Now-though suffering more than mortal grief—
Far, far above the usual weakness

Of her sex, in admiration of her
Well-loved lord, who thus the Doge addresses :-

"Father, three times now have I borne the rack
Of torture; and would yet once more-if strength
So far is left to bear such pain, and live-
That pardoned I might be, and once again

Restored to my too well beloved Venice.

My crimes have not been great; and thou hast seen
With what endurance I have borne the sharp
Agony with which the tight-drawn cord has
Stretched my powerless limbs. O! wilt thou, then,
In pity, plead for me, and try to get
The Council to reverse their stern
Decree of banishment for ever from

My native soil ?"-Thus far he spoke, then sank
With weakness on the couch, leaving his wife's
Fond tears to plead the rest he could not speak.
His father thus, with calmness great, replied:-
"My son, it is your country's will, therefore