with that of the unhappy parents. Even the most obdurate hearts were not proof against the rising emotions of compassion. The judges, moved with pity, permitted the family to inter the bodies of the parents out of the city. The two children were buried in the church of St. Catherine. The tradition of this melancholy catastrophe has been preserv ed to this day at Pisa, where the unhappy sufferers are still spoken of with sympathy. THE SCHOOL OF MAGIC. At A CANON of Compostello had long been puzzled to determine to what art or science he should apply himself in his mature years. Honours, wealth and afuence were the objects of his wishes; but a life of active exertion was not at all adapted to his taste. length he decided in favour of magic. With the knowledge of this art he conceived that after some difficulties which he would soou be cnabled to surmount, subservient spirits would accomplish all his desires, without any efforts of his own. He immediately inquired for a skilful magician, and was recommended to a certain Don Rodriguez, at Toledo, as the most eminent necromancer of the age. Without loss of time he set out for Toledo, went to Don Rodriguez, and requested the favour of his instruction. The canon had figured to himself a man with a magic girdle and long staff, a counte nance frightfully austere, and a beard a yard in length; but he found only a venerable and af fable old man, resembling in dress and person the rest of the sons of Adam. Having explain. ed the nature of his errand, Don Rodriguez || calmly replied :—“ You are welcome to my house as my disciple and my son. The art to which you have resolved to devote yourself, is indeed the most sublime of all; but it requires in him who wishes to make himself thoroughly master of it a pure heart. Have you this?" "I hope so." "I must take your word for it. The powers of nature are obedient to spirits, but there is only one Being that knows the heart. I shall in the next place ask you, whether you will be grateful to me if I initiate you into the mys teries of wisdom?" "My life should be at your service." "I am not quite so exorbitant in my demands. But you know that you are canon of an ancient and distinguished cathedral; you cannot fail to obtain promotion to higher dignities: iu this case would you bear your instructor in grateful remembrance?" "If you ask this question in earnest what a worthless wretch you must consider me! From this hour all my property and influence shall be at your command." The canon here added a multitude of protestations, which seemed at length to convince the old man of his sincerity. He rose from his seat, and called his cook, she came. “Keep two partridges in readiness,' said he, "but do not pat them on the spit till you receive farther orders. And now, my dear son," continued he, turning to the canon, 66 come along with me." At these words he conducted his new disciple into an apartment full of books and instruments, and commenced his instructious. Scarcely had he begun when two men, who came from Compostello, entered and delivered a letter to the canon. It was from the bishop, his uncle, who had fallen sick since his departure, requesting him to return with all possible dispatch, if he wished to receive his last b'essing. The nephew, who lamented the interrup tion of his lesson, much more than the illness of his uncle, thought that he might very well dispense with his benediction; he therefore excused himself on the plea of business of extreme importance, and the two messengers returned from their fruitless errand. Four days afterwards they came back, and assured him, that he must set out without delay, as his uncle was dead, and the chapter had elected him to fill the vacant episcopal chair. No sooner did Rodriguez hear this, than he intreated his pupil to confer the canonry which he had hitherto held, on one of his sons. With a thousand excuses, the new bishop declined for this time complying with his request; begged Don Rodriguez to permit him to appint his brother to the vacant place, and proposed that he should remove with him to Compostello, and bring his son to that city, promising faithfully to provide handsomely for the young man on the first opportunity. The old man accepted the offer. They set he; "I shall certainly there find abundant means of testifying my gratitude to your son." Again Rodriguez complied. The new cardinal acquired at Rome universal respect. The Pope did nothing till he had asked his advice; but his Holiness was soon attacked out, and had not been long at Compostello when a message and bulls arrived from his Holiness. The new Bishop imagined that the latter related to his confirmation in his new dignity, but what was his astonishment to find that the Holy Father, on account of his extraordinary merits, offered him the Arch-by a disease which proved mortal. The Conbishopric of Tolosa, with the liberty of appointing his successor. He was, to be sure, somewhat puzzled to find out what were the extraordinary merits to which bis Holiness alluded, but yet he thought that he should be exceedingly to blame to refuse the offer on account of this ignorance. He therefore accepted it, and had scarcely done so, when Rodriguez again appeared, and most humbly requested him to think of his son for the vacant bishoprick. His disciple acknowledged that he had promised to provide for his son, but he assured him that previous obligations imposed on him the necessity of giving this bishopric to a paternal uncle.-"Come with me to Tolosa," continued he, "and I shall not there want opportunities of acquitting myself of my debt with usury," The good old man was again satisfied; they went to Tolosa, where Don Rodriguez spared no pains to instruct the new Archbishop in his art. He made a great proficiency; all hearts were devoted to him; and in two years a new embassy arrived from Rome, bringing a cardinal's hat, and likewise the permission to transfer the Archbishopric to whomsoever he thought fit. Again Don Rodriguez appeared, and spoke with more confidence than on the two former occasious; he represented the patience with which he had waited, and the services he had in the mean time rendered, appealing at the same time to the explicit promise he had received. His eminence seemed extremely embarrassed; he confessed the justice of the remonstrance of Don Rodriguez; but yet he had one more maternal uncle left whose urgent intreaties, as well as the duty in general of providing for his family, he could not resist "But, come with me to Rome," concluded clave was assembled, the arts of Don Rodriguez were successfully exerted, and with an unanimity of which there was no precedent, the late canon of Compostello was elected the supreme head of Christendom. Scarce was the triple tiara placed with due solemnity upon his head, when Don Rodrinuez again appeared before him, repeated the request which he had already thrice preferred, and guessed from the significant shake of the head, as soon as he began to speak, that he would receive the same answer. This rufBed the otherwise placid temper of the old man, who assured his Holiness that he was weary of these everlasting applications, and was determined to be no longer imposed upon by empty promises; that he well knew what he had deserved, and he should now expect the Holy Father to fulfil the promise he had made at Toledo, or to give him a plump denial at once. This bolduess exasperated the Pope.-"Professor of the black art!" cried he, "I know too what you have deserved-the scaffold. Begone from my sight. Too long have I shewn indulgence to your tricks. If I find you in Rome to-morrow, I will deliver you to the holy inquisition, which shall bestow on you a fit rasward for a beretic and magician." At these words Don Rodriguez turned calmly round :—“ Cook,” said he, opening the door, "you need only put down one partridge, for I shall sup alone."-The charm was instantly dissolved. His Holiness was again transformed into the mere canon of Compostello, and perceived that this long series of years, dignities, and events, had been the effect of the art of Don Rodriguez; and that he now stood tried and convicted of ingratitude before a man who was much too wise to throw away his iu. structions upon him. 1 ALPHONSINE D'ARGENNES; OR, THE VICTIM OF AMBITION. [Concluded from Puge £24.] will insure her discretion." ALPHONSINE's tears flowed abundantly; || fide your secret to her, her affection for you overwhelmed with grief at the prospect of losing her affectionate and respected friend, Madame St. Clare lived two days after this solicited by the man who had acquired her || conversation, and then expired in the arms of esteem, afflicted at the thoughts of futurity,her inconsolable friend. Immediately after her mind bewildered by cruel reflections, ail || the funeral the Count insisted on her leaving these various emotions, and the excess of her misery, were favourable to the Count. A generous sentiment prompted her to sacrifice something for a man who seemed devoted to her. Without feeling a violent attachment for him, she thought she owed him much, and what would she not have done for that beloved friend of whom death was about to deprive her! Her presence re-assured Alphousine, and determined her fate. "Give your hand, my child," said Madame St. Clare, "to the Count de Puymarais, let this venerable pastor perform the ceremony, and if I am permitted to witness your vows I shall die contented. Your honour," continued she, addressing the Count, "is responsible for every thing; you know how to appreciate the value of her whom I bestow on you, and always bear in mind that you owe her to your virtues. You, my child," added she, turning to Alphonsine, "receive from me this casket; it contains some jewels; accept them as a feeble mark of the teuder affection which I have entertained for you, and if I could dispose of any thing more it should be yours." Mademoiselle d'Argennes was much agitated during the performance of the marriage cere mony, and at its conclusion her feelings overpowered her reason and she fainted. On recovering she found herself on her bed, and the Count assisting her maid to apply restoratives. Soon after this they were informed that Madame St. Clare was better. This intelligence filled our heroine with hopes and partly restored her strength; but it was ouly a last effort of nature, and did not last long. This worthy woman, however, took advantage of it again to speak to her young friend. My child," said she, "you are now indissolubly united to the Count de Puymarais, and thus my most ardent wish is accomplished; but when I shall be no more you must return to my sister, it is there you must await the declaration of your marriage, as every other asylum would till that period be injurious to your reputation; con || Fargeville, an abode which increased her grief, and conducted her to the Abbey of Reiguy. On their arrival they found that the Abbess was at her country house. The Count immediately determined to repair thither; and Alphonsine, who longed to be folded in the arins of her first friend, made no opposition. Madame de Royan tenderly loved he, sister, and sincerely wept her loss with our heroine. But when the grief of the latter was somewhat moderated, her situation, on which she had scarcely before reflected, began to cause her some inquietude, and she spoke of it to the Abbess. "I am persuaded,” replied Madame de Royan, "that the Count de Paymarais is a man of strict honour, and will keep his word with you, but you must press him to hasten the day. Whilst he remains here with you the moments will unheeded pass away, but you must not allow of this delay. It is of importance to you, my dear daughter, without displaying any mistrust, to determine him to fulfil this duty as soon as possible. The Count still prolonged his stay in the society of his wife, in whose presence he only || seemed to exist. Alphonsine herself could not help looking forward with grief to the moment which would separate her from ber husband, on whom now all her happiness depended; but when she perceived that she was in a situation to become a mother, she could no longer refrain from intreating the Count to make their marriage known, as it now became alsolutely necessary, || telligence. He tenderly embraced the Countess." This new pledge, my love," replied ke," will, if possible, augment my affection for you. Your request is perfectly just, and any duty dircets me to comply with it. Tomorrow I will depart; I will seek the Constable de Luynes, who honours me with his friendship, and intreat him to make my marriage known to the King and Queen. This is a formality which my duty at court obliges me to comply with, and which is also indispensible | on your account, as it alone can secure you that rank which you ought to hold there." "You know best what is to be done," said Alphonsine, "but I conjure you to reflect that every intervening moment will expose my reputation."—" And mine also," interrupted he; "and believe me, yours is far dearer to me than my own. I shall not be absent for more than a few days, and then shall have the flicity of making all the court witness my hap-word is a pledge for both."-"I agree that I piness." cruel embarrassment! It would have been forfeiting his esteem for ever to have declared at that moment that I had already entered into engagements without his consent. My only resource was to appear overwhelmed with astonishment at his overtures, and to require time to reflect on them."-"Time to reflect on them, Sir! and for what purpose? you forget my situation.”—“ That need not torment you; when the time of your confinement arrives we can easily find means of concealing it from the knowledge of the world; and, if it be | indispensibly necessary, I will even consent to see you less often."-" Good heavens! what is it I hear? but no, Sir, I cannot believe it; you wish to try me. You surely cannot wish to expose your wife's reputation to the disgrace of a secret continement; you would not render doubtful the birth of your child; its state and mine can no longer be concealed, but your The Countess, whose bosom was alarmed by no suspicious, saw her husband depart without uncasiness, and felt no other sentiment than that of impatience for his return, persuaded that he would soon come back to fulfil his promises. She was not disappointed in one respect, for he returned about the time she expected him; but at the first glance she perceived an aiteration in his looks. He seemed thoughtful and melancholy, and there was a constraint in his manner which greatly alarmed her. She inquired, with much emotion, what was the matter, and ust receiving an immediate answer she continued:- Your averted looks tell me that some misfortune has happened which you are afraid of communicating to ine. Oh! be more just towards your wife, my dear friend, a d believe that she would be more willing to share your griefs than your good fortune." Puymarais sighed deeply, but appeared still unable to reply. "For heaven's sake speak," cried the alaried Alphousine, "and do not persevere in this cruel silence." “ Before Þansaer your questions,” said the Conit," may I depend that you love me suthciently to consent to a proposition which is necessary for our welfare."-"How can you doubt it? you forget that you are speaking to your wife, and the ties which unite us! How often have you told me that I was every thing to you."-" And I again repeat it," said the Count; "but for God's sake listen to me. The Constable, to whom I wished to confide our marriage, was beforehand with me, and made proposals to me for his sister; judge of my promised you all this; but recal to your mind what you once told me respecting the light in which my marriage would be regarded by the world; how often have you repeated to me that I should be blamed?”—“ You then fear the censures of the world, but do not mind breaking the most sacred engagements? Oh!" continued Alphonsive, "behold me at your feet; behold her whom you have often said you loved more than your own existence; it is I who implore you, my heart lacerated with the most poignant grief, not to forsake me. was not through weakness, but confidence in your honour, that I consented to this private union; would you forfeit all title to my esteem? But I should no longer speak of myself, I am no longer dear to you; reflect at least on your child, has it no claims upon you? Will you allow disgrace and opprobrium to stain its birth? Ah! cast me away if you will, let me remain unknown to all the earth; but do not rob me of the consolation of esteeming the man to whom I am united; only acknowledge the legitimacy of your child, and whatever may be your treatment of its unhappy mother, she will not complain, or make you any re¦¦ proaches.” He Puymarais could not behold unmoved at his feet the woman he had so ardently loved, and whom he loved still; the tears which bathed her face found their way to his heart. raised her with much apparent affection, and employed hope, great offers, and every means he could devise to calm her despair, but he only met with a severe repulse. "What is it you dare propose to me," said she with indig nation?" I thought you virtuous; is it pos sible that you can have the temerity to cease to be so? Do you know what we feel when we are not satisfied with our own couduct? Compare the flattering opinion entertained of you with that you now force me to adopt?" "I am but too well convinced that you will detest me; I feel all the weight of your displeasure, tho' notwithstanding my conduct towards you, my affection is unaltered, and I have never for an instant ceased to adore you. Yet I vainly war with myself to brave the censures of the world, but find I have not resolution to comply with your wishes." Our heroine's indignation and surprise on hearing these words may be easily conceived; in a voice of contempt she replied :-" And I, Sir, can no longer bear the sight of a man who has so cruelly treated me. Enjoy, if you can, the character of an honourable man, which you so little deserve, whilst I with truly virtuous sentiments, shall live overwhelmed with the shame and humiliation annexed to guilt. Go, Sir, since my prayers can obtain nothing from you, I yield you up to your own conscience which will suthiciently avenge me." With these words she left the room. Puymarais did not attempt to follow her, but immediately entered his carriage and set off for Paris. Madame de Royan, ou being informed of his sudden departure, and not seeing her young. friend appear, entered her apartment. The state in which she found her hat too well informed her that something very unpleasant had happened. Alphonsine's tears flowed abundantly, and her agitation amounted to despair. "Oh! Madam," said she on beholding the Abbess, "pity me; I am abandoned, betrayed, dishonoured by the basest of men ; I shall now be in the eyes of the world an object of coatempt and detestation. Ah! rather let me perish! May death relieve me from the hatred I bear this traitor, and the contempt I have for myself." Madaine de Royan vainly strove to calm her agitation. "You alarm yourself too soon," said she," the Count de Puymarais loves you, he will not resist your tears."-" Alas! Madam, he has witnessed my despair unmoved, my shrieks did not reach his heart. Who will there be to reproach him with his crime? My dear Madame St. Clare is no more; the curate also you know has since followed her to the grave. What witness have I to confront him?" "My beloved daughter," replied the Abbess, "if all should fail, your own virtue and my friendship will still remain unshaken. Believe me, we are never completely unfortunate when we have nothing with which to reproach ourselves. Compose yourself; call your rea || son to your assistance, and make use of your fortitude; let the tenderness I have for you, the affection I know you bear towards me, restore you to yourself; and confide in my friendship to conceal from every eye the knowledge of your misfortune.” Madame de Royan accordingly resolved to prolong her stay at her country house, and resolved to remain with Alphonsine until the period should arrive when she would give birth to that innocent creature whose existence already caused her so much sorrow. The affectionate friendship of the Abbess, and her southing attentions in some measure calined her grief, and pity for her misfortunes endeared her the more to our heroine. After a short silence, Alphonsine sighing deeply, said, "I was destined to fall a victim to the perfidiousness of men; the Chevalier de Fontange's conduct ought to have inspired me with distrust for all the sex, and to have made me shun them for ever." She then related to Madame de Royan, his behaviour towards her when he was engaged to Mademoiselle de Fienne. A few days after this she wrote to the Count. She employed every argument proper to soften him, and recal him to his duties; mentioned his former passion, his vows of eternal constancy, and the rights his child would have over his heart. Madame de Poyan wrote to him also, and told him that fear might be entertained for his wife's life, overwhelmed as she was by her excessive grief. These two letters were carried to Paris by a confidential messenger, who was charged to deliver them into the Count's own hand. The anxiety and impatience with which our heroine awaited the answers, may easily be conceived. The days, the hours, seemed to succeed each other with an insupportable languor. One evening, as she was alone in her chamber, reflecting on her unfortunate sitnation, she was informed that a man who had brought a letter requested to speak to her. Overwhelmed by fear, yet supported by hope, she flew down stairs; here a letter was delivered to her by a strange messenger. She instantly opened it, hoping to trace the well-known writing of her husband; but a severe disappointment awaited her, as the hand was unknown to her. Impatient to discover from whom it could be, she instantly looked at the signature, and to her great astonishment, read the Chevalier de Fontange.-" Good Heavens," exclaimed Alphonsine, falling on a seat," what can he have to say? Does he wish again to deceive me?" No, no," Mademoiselle," cried the bearer |