appearance in England as his wife. To acknowledge you,' he said, 'is certain ruin; and as I have never been trained to labour, or to procure my own livelihood, I am utterly incapable of making provision for you, and therefore must depend upon the fortune of my father.'

"I see it; I see it all,' said my sister, becoming deadly pale. A woman's accomplishments, virtues, affection, and even honour, have little or no estimation in the eyes of an Englishman if they are unaccompanied with riches. Go to England!-go! And the sooner you quit Rome, the better. Henceforth I renounce your name, and resume my own, and hope never again to see your face.'

"Having said this, she instantly left him, fixed to the spot upon which he stood, with shame and contrition, and she never saw him more." "Was he my father?" asked Enrichetta, eagerly.

"He was."

"And what became of him ?"

"He went to England, and soon wrote to my sister, who returned his letters unanswered. He transmitted several sums of money to her, but she would receive nothing from him; and six months after your birth she expired. For some time previous to that event, she had, as it were, become dead to the world, and often sighed to be beyond the reach of earthly sorrows. And now, my darling, let me tell you what were her last words to me. Teach my daughter, O Gervasio, to beware of Englishmen-to shun their society as creatures too selfish and greedy of gold to allow human affections to stand in the way of their obtaining it.' These were her last words, in the utterance of which she seemed to have concentrated the whole of her remaining strength. And now, my dear Enrichetta, you will understand why it is that I dread your acquaintance with Mr. Alfred Hazlewood, or, indeed, any other Englishman."

At that instant they were startled by a knock at the door; and when it was opened by Enrichetta, who should bound in but the very youth against whose acquaintance she had just been warned.

"Fal de ral de reedle dal de dal!" he sung as he whirled round the room with his face perfectly radiant with joy.

"Why, what is the matter, Mr. Hazlewood ?" asked Enrichetta; but "Fal de ral de reedle dal de dal!" was the only answer she could get, until he threw himself, half exhausted, into an arm chair, and cried with a loud voice

"Wish me joy! wish me joy, ye noble Romanesses! for I am free! Look here!" and he opened a note, as remarkable for its laconism as it

was for the unfeigned delight it had been the means of diffusing through his heart before he had had the chance of communicating its contents to Enrichetta.

"My dear Nephew,-I hope I have more generosity than to allow you to suffer in my estimation for doating on the excellent lady you have chosen to be your wife. I have heard all about her, and give you leave to marry her whenever you please. Your mother I shall continue to act towards as I have hitherto done.

"JOHN BERGER."

Aunt Gervasio looked bewildered. She did not know what to make of the transports into which the reading of this note threw Enrichetta. "What!" cried she, "have you already gone so far in your loves ?" "Indeed we have, aunt," exclaimed Enrichetta; "and you must now consent to the union of Alfred and me."

"Me! What! me consent to your marrying an Englishman! Never!"

Before Enrichetta could reply, the door opened, and in stepped the English officer without his mask.

"Who are you, sir, that thus so unceremoniously enters my dwelling?" demanded the Contessa Gervasio.

"One whom you once knew, and who owes you a debt which it will never be in his power to repay."

"O! I know that voice! You are-yes you are "

"The father of Enrichetta," said he, as he clasped his daughter to

his bosom.

"My dear uncle, Sir John Berger !" exclaimed Alfred, going towards him, and grasping the friendly hand which was affectionately extended to him.

"You, Alfred," said he, "have acted a true, and, I may add, a noble part towards this Roman maiden. She is my daughter, and your cousin ; and as I am already sufficiently aware of the sacrifices you would make to possess her, I freely give her to you, with a present portion sufficiently ample."

Alfred could not express his gratitude; whilst the Contessa and Enrichetta were dissolved in tears.

Sir John, leaving the two lovers to congratulate themselves upon this sudden and extraordinary change in their fortunes, stepped to the side of aunt Gervasio, in whose mind now crowded a thousand memories of former days.

"Gervasio," said he, in a low and tremulous voice, "I have endured a long and a bitter repentance for leaving Enrichetta as I did, now so

many years ago; but our destinies are in the hands of Providence, and mine were cast in a trying mould. The death of your beloved sister long pressed upon my mind; but I refrain, at present, from telling you all that I have suffered. I have come, however, to you to make all the expiation I can by offering you my heart and hand, trusting that you will not reject one who must, as long as he lives, be as unbounded in his gratitude as he is sincere in his admiration of your character, and affection for your person.

"Oh, Sir John!" said the Contessa, "I forgive you all!" and putting her hand in his, burst into a flood of tears.

The night was calm, soft, and starry; the sky was lit up with myriads of twinkling gems as the Contessa Gervasio took the arm of Sir John Berger, and Enrichetta that of Alfred, to proceed to the Teatre d'Alberti. This building was already thronged with maskers; but our party were too much delighted with each other to bestow their undivided attention upon them. They consequently retired early; and, in a few days more, notwithstanding her detestation of Englishmen, the Contessa Gervasio Marivano became Lady John Berger, and Enrichétta, Mrs. Alfred Hazlewood. The happiness of all parties being now achieved, our story must naturally come to a conclusion.

FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH.

WHAT feelings arise 'midst thy dark cloudy grandeur,
Edina! whose soil. I have worshipp'd of yore!
Since then I have wandered, and far may I wander,
But still would I stray where I love to adore.

The parent that bore me can call me her own,

And may talk, in her age, with some pride of my lore;
But parent Edina! 'tis thou that alone

Can make my heart's tide louder beat on its shore.

Farewell, then, in tears! May your untarnish'd glory
For ever keep fresh as the grass of the field!

And though I, your sad-born, am lost in your story,

Still may it be thine better children to yield!

To thee and to thine, then, a long, sad adieu !

No more may my footsteps be traced on thy plains;

Yet, yet will this breast, that to thee is aye true,
Still pray to preserve thee from danger and chains!