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lingering recollection of them will be dear and refreshing to those who can only at holy intervals visit them. They will lead the minds of many back to ages of piety with reverence, and forward with such eager longings as will fill up the future with fabrics of hope. "Who can lift up his eyes," asks a modern writer, "to the pinnacles and towers, and stand beneath the vaulted roof of any of our noble cathedrals and minsters, without feeling that there once was something higher and purer working in the general mind of the people, than that which has produced the hideous painted and whitewashed parallelograms that we have raised up and called churches in these our days? We shall not get better by the mere copying of the antique models by line and compass. When the spirit which created our early ecclesiastical architecture has once more penetrated into the hearts of the people,when it shall be held that man's cravings after the eternal and the infinite are to be as much provided and cared for as his demands for food and raiment,—then the tendencies of society will not be wholly exhibited in the perfection of mechanical contrivance, in rapidity of communication, in never-ceasing excitements to toil without enjoyment. When the double nature of man is understood and cared for, we may again raise up monuments of piety which those who come five hundred years after us will preserve in a better spirit than we have hitherto kept up many of those monuments which were left to us by those who did not build solely for their own little day.”

WHAT A DAY MAY BRING FORTH.

THE recollections of my first visit to Italy (like most first recollections) are vivid, and many of them are very pleasant; but there is one, of an incident, which, though simple and unexciting, is so associated with the sanctity attached to the good and the beautiful, that I dwell upon it with tenderness and affection myself, and am therefore led to make a simple narrative of it, in the hope that it

may claim even a passing interest from some of my young friends.

During a residence in the Baths of Lucca, in the summer of the year 18-, I accompanied a party of friends on an early walking excursion up one of the high hills that overhang those picturesque valleys. The sun had not long risen, and his beams, like the early age of the being of whose life his course is so true a type, shed brightness and gladness around. The heat of the noontide, and the languor of the evening were absent, and every leaf and flower that met us in our path seemed to sympathize in our lively enjoyment of the fresh morning scene.

The hills which we ascended were rich in their natural productions of flowers and fruits, and the air was redolent with their fragrance. When we had reached a favourite resting-place, a sort of natural platform on the side of one of the hills, I felt disposed to rest, and await the return of my companions, who were eager to ramble further in search of flowers; for the beauty and abundance of which these hills are so justly celebrated.

The view from this point, though not nearly so extensive as that from the more distant height, was peculiarly attractive to me from the quiet home charm it possessed. The valley below was wide, and owing to a sudden turn and projection of the bank, the river here assumed the appearance of a still clear lake; there were green meadows beyond, into which the shepherds and herd-boys of the mountains had driven their flocks; the opposite hills were broken and rocky, and interspersed with banks of vines, whilst the embankment which appeared to close the valley, and confine the river, was covered with the dark foliage of the chesnut, and the soft bright green of the acacias which are found in such numbers in Italy, and in such perfection. Many wreaths of slowly ascending smoke indicated the dwellings of the simple peasantry of the territory, and just above them on the summit of one of the lower hills, a small Church, with the curate's house and garden close beside it, completed the picturesque and domestic character of the scene. Seated on a rude stone bench, I gazed long in deep, undisturbed enjoyment, both of that lovely hour of an Italian day, and of the beautiful

work of an Almighty Hand which was spread before me. I watched the yellow rays of the sun as they glanced through the dense foliage of the forest trees, and lay broadly smiling on the emerald meadows, or as they danced in wild sparkles on the river, and made the little cross on the Church glitter and blaze in their brightness. Nor were there wanting those sounds, which so harmonize with nature's solitudes as to appear what they indeed are, voices and sweet music from herself; the birds sang tunefully, and the muffled buzz of the winged insects, like a sustained note of harmony, chimed softly in with the more distant sounds of the distant bleating of the flocks, and the clear ripple of the water in its pebbly bed. Every breath I drew was enjoyment pure and fresh; thoughts of my childhood awoke up within me, and of that far-off home where my spirit had first stirred to a dawning sense and love of the. beauteous form in which GOD has made the dwelling-place of His creatures. Νο association of more mature life could be suggested by the young, fresh beauty of that morning scene. "The Heaven that hangs around us in our infancy was there, and its peace was reflected in my own heart.

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A slight rustling in the brushwood near me, roused me from the sort of reverie into which I had fallen, and I turned, expecting to see one of my companions or a mountaineer, descending the pathway; but as there was no appearance of any one approaching, I concluded that a bird had caused the rustle, and I was quietly resuming my musing position, when my eye rested on the small form of a child whom, from being at the side from which I had turned away my head, I had not perceived before. There is, I have always felt, a mysterious power about human beauty, which renders an accurate description of it almost impossible. The mere delineation of perfect proportion conveys nothing of the influence which has drawn forth our own admiration, and this has often been proved by the various and false impressions which have been given of persons, though perhaps described minutely and skilfully by those most familiar with their appearance. With children, the difficulty is increased. And I make this digression as an apology for departing from the usual

custom of writing a portrait, much as I should desire my readers to become familiar with the countenance and form of the little girl who suddenly appeared before me. Indeed, though she is often recalled to my own memory as a vision of something more seraph-like than any other form I have ever seen, I do not think I could enter into a distinct description of each childish lineament; the colour of her large soft eyes, I well remember was of that deep violet so uncommon everywhere; but more espe cially so among the dark-eyed inhabitants of Italy. The hair was soft dark brown and hung in thick wavy masses over the head and face, the tint of the latter being of a peculiarly delicate fairness which made more conspicuous the decided lines of the brows, and the long drooping eyelashes.

The child made a timid attempt to approach me, and offer a small bunch of flowers, with the usual greeting of the children of these mountains, "Take, please;" English words which they have adopted, as a compliment to the most numerous visitors of the place, and a means which they generally find successful in selling their pretty and tastefully arranged bouquets. She had advanced to a point where the sunbeams shone with all their gladness, and in their light the little round-limbed child looked the very embodiment of all that was beautiful, bright and fresh in that lovely summer morning. I gazed almost with wonder at her beauty; I had never but once before, and that was in a picture, seen an expression so soft or angelic. My heart leaped towards the little one with. an impulse which such an appearance in a child could hardly fail to inspire. And I think I almost gave utterance to my surprise, as I stretched forth my hands to draw her towards me. The movement startled her, and perceiving that she was inclined to retreat, I spoke, saying that I wished to have her flowers, and to give her a pretty silver coin instead of them. The temptation was not resisted and after a few shy looks, and coy movements, the beautiful child was soon at my side, looking sweetly up into my face, and answering my questions in her own sweet native tongue, which suited well with the soft refinement of her appearance. To inquire her name

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was of course one of my first questions. Violante," was the reply.

"And where do you live ?"

"In the first cottage on that hill, lady," pointing to the one just beyond us.

"And is your mother there ?" I said; for I had already begun to speculate on the parents of such a child.

"No, lady; Gigi takes cares of us—my brother Gigi— father is dead: he was drowned in the floods; and mother lives down at Casa Rossi."

"Casa Rossi !" I said; "no, no, little one, mother does not live there; that is where I live.”

"Yes, lady," replied the little one, "I know that, you live at Casa Rossi, and mother lives with you; she is your servant."

I then saw at once that this beautiful little being was part of the family of a poor woman of the country, who had been recommended to us as an assistant servant. Her husband, a respectable vintager, had been drowned during the winter, in a brave attempt to rescue a poor old man who had fallen over one of the bridges into the river. The floods so prevalent at that season were at a great height, and the current being too strong even for the strong arm of the young man to contend with, both were carried swiftly out of sight, and never seen again in life. The only means of support left to the poor young widow for herself and children, was her distaff and knitting, in the winter, and what money she could earn in summer by her services to the visitors at the Baths. We were glad to take her into our service under such circumstances, and the recollection now clearly flashed upon me, how much I had been struck with the beauty of the purely Italian face, and the almost classic dignity of the figure of our mountain servant; but I had not yet spoken much to her, and she, with the characteristic diffidence of the Lucchese peasantry, had withdrawn from notice.

I had frequently seen her brother Gigi, or Luigi, mentioned by Violante. He was a fine youthful specimen of his race; tall, for his age, which was ten, with a wellproportioned figure, and a noble head of clustering black

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