roof, and rested on a tiny board between the windows. A mass of reins, and horses' heads and tails, which flitted on before, on either hand a perpetual fence, a closer inspection showed it was the division of the window, and hopeless of sight-seeing, recoiling on himself, sank back, to try and think, or rest, or dream, perhaps of better, brighter eves.

The conducteur, an iron fellow cased in a sheep-skin cloak, seemed wrapped in slumber; let the pace, however, but slacken, or a jolt of more than usual strength occur, and he was roused: down went the window, and anathemas, loud and deep, were hurled past the driver's legs at the dark, quiet night beyond. His pipe quitted not the hairy mouth: a small column of smoke curled about his face in sleepy wreaths, and then rolled off to mingle with its fellow-mists, and so wearied they on. A change of horses without, a change from pipe to cigar within, alone told the progress of time. Occasionally a light gleamed, and noisy rattle told they were in a village. Each light showed the Romanesque helmet of a Prussian sentry; but ere politics could fill the weary mind the blast of the driver's horn had died away, and on they went the country dark around. With sleepless senses the hours passed-thoughts dark and drear had come and gone-the dawn hung back. No ray of hope or light yet pierced our pilgrim's night. At last the day came slowly on, not as in tropic lands, with bursting sun and genial rays, but blue and cold, a night with light to show the dreary morn of an autumnal day. The sun, unwilling to forsake the East, where orient verdure, classic ground was grateful for his warmth, held long on the horizon -not angry and sullen, nor with his cheerful smile, drove clouds and mists away. The open country now gave way, and copse and wood, like startled deer, herded together more and more as the road entered the broad forest of Thuringia. The sun, aroused from his lethargy, shone forth, and before his herald beams the light masses of detached clouds flew, scared, across the heavens to make dark days in distant skies. The country caught the light and valley and woodland gleamed out beneath the genial heat. Slowly rose the curtained mist, and mountain and dale glistened beneath the god of day. The forest, in its autumn dress, swelled over varied ground, a sea of different colours rolling into mighty billows. The red of young decay upon the leaves ran in streams of crimson above their tops, as if angels had flown above, and morning marked their track with tears of blood. The conducteur, with feverish eye, looked longingly for the journey's end; the pilgrim, with impatient glance, watched for the Patmos of the stern father of his faith; the horses trotted on, all eager for the stall; the driver blew his horn; the echoes died away. "La Wastburg! Aisenach! Aisenach! my own dear Aisenach!" exclaimed the two within, as a turn revealed the town and castle all so longed to reach. On the right, high up on a woody height, stood the place of Luther's refuge, raising its castellated walls amidst the folds of green, which fell away in steep descent to the town of Aisenach beneath. The coach rolled on through long and noisy streets; a turn, a bump, and fearful plunge, and it stood within the court. The first stage of the journey was done. Here Luther had been-here Luther's words still stand-his work remains-his spirit haunts the spot.

A SONG OF COMO THE BEAUTIFUL.

AN exiled daughter am I of that land,

Where laurel-rose, and myrtle intertwine;
Where, mid the wreathing foliage of the vine,
The zephyr's fragrant breath is pure and bland;
Where, at the twilight hour a happy band,

Their voices soft and light guitars awake;
In fairy barks glide o'er the purple lake,
While lovers sit apart, hand clasped in hand.
Some pluck the wilding lilies, and entwine

A chaplet for their dark-eyed mistress' brow,
Some chaunt the vesper hymn, and as they row
With every stroke the melody combine;
But to the ancient poets those most incline
With commune of the past in whispers low :
Sweet Como! where are all thy glories now ?-

The Tuscan Medici, with brow of snow,

There last I saw, the loveliest of her race,
She wore the charmed robe of native grace,
Rosebuds her lips, her soft hair's sunny glow

Hung round dark eyes, whence flew the shafts of Love
In all the pitying softness of the dove,

Mid sun-kiss'd cheeks, black eyes, and raven hair,

Thou Tuscan Lily! fairest of the fair!

Yet, ah! what is she, and where is she now?

All coldly pale the marble of her brow,

And closed in death those bright and dove-like eyes,
Pillowed on stone that tender form now lies.

Yet from the tomb such beauty shall arise!
Vanished from earth that sweet, that seraph face,
Shall to an angel lend immortal grace.

Just where the lime-trees over-arching meet,
Their fragrance pouring on the evening air,

An aged mother's+ last and calm retreat

Is by a daughter's love created there.

Rich jasmines by the tall mimosas climb,

And there the orange stands in courtly rows,

With golden fruit and green, it buds and blows.

Sweet mockery of seasons and of time!
Dewdrops, the pearls in Flora's diadem,
Lie hid within the delicate musk rose;

The oleander waves its graceful stem,

The scented night-flowers all their cups unclose.
The evening star now glittering like a gem,
Sheds on those marble forms a dewy light,
That, bowered in myrtles, shine all coldly bright.
See, where the willow's flexile boughs are hung,

All weepingly enamoured of the wave,

Forth from the knotted roots and rocky cave,
Safe anchorage! yon tiny shallop sprung.

Light is her prow, of fairy hue her sides,

And rosy red her silken streamer waves.

Down the transparent stream she gently glides,
And silently, her floating beauty laves.

• The Madame de Medici, the most beautiful woman in Florence, since deceased. + Madame Pasta has built three beautiful villas, one expressly for her mother.

Now, as she leaves the steep and rocky shore,
What female hand propels the bark along,
Poising with skill the light and dripping oar?
Medea's self! enchantress! Queen of Song!
Who erst in car of triumph dragons bore,
While Europe cried, exulting in her fame,
"Immortal as the Muse be Pasta's name!"

The fishermen still linger on the beach,
Breathing the fragrance of the loved cigar,
While to the tinkling of his old guitar,
A comrade sings, or frames his witty speech,
The Bergamasc,+ mid laughter heard from far.
How sweetly on the voice of echo borne,

Peals from its height the lonely convent bell;
How faintly sounds the goatherd's rustic horn,
Calling his stragglers from the chestnut fell!
Some pious few, in yonder sacred fane,

Lit by the silver lamps that palely shine,
All humbly kneel before Madonna's shrine,

And kiss the ground, nor shall they pray in vain,
Though homage of the heart, and tearful vow,
Be all the gifts these votaries can bestow.

The Queen of Night shines forth-she comes to make
A second day, more lovely than the first:
Beneath her beams what happy hopes are nurst,
When first Love dares his silence sweet to break.
When does the heart so soothingly o'erflow

In its own commune, and with tears confess,
And murmured sounds, its sense of happiness,
As when the moonlight sleeps on all below?
What youthful footsteps ever fall so light

As those that dance beneath the starry queen?
What palace pageant in their eyes so sheen,
As the green Treillis and the fireflies bright?
Earth's stars which gem the mantle of her night,
And glittering mid the vine leaves seem to say,
"Short as our life is your's-joy while you may."
Now peasant girls are clustering in the shade

Of the acacia's sweet and pleasant grove,

With eyes like night's, that seem to swim in love;
And jewelled ear, and darkly shining braid,
With silver bodkins crowned. And this the time
For childhood's gambols, sunny as its clime.

Alas! my glowing pulses beat too fast

For these cold climes, where feeling withering dies,
Where in each bowl of pleasure Caution lies
In wait, to dash it from man's lips at last.
Let me escape from these scul-chilling snows!
And may I, ere my latest sigh be past,

Make on sweet Como's shore my mossy grave,
And sink beside those waters in repose,
While rose and cypress gently o'er me wave!

THERESA C. I. WEST.

• Madame Pasta herself, who paddled about in her large straw hat and little boat.

+ The people of Bergamo are noted wits and story-tellers—raconteurs.

ANTONINA; OR, THE FALL OF ROME.

Ar the latter end of the fourth century, four hundred and twenty-four Pagan temples, large and small, stood within the walls of imperial Rome, while, before the idols they severally contained, sacrifices were daily made, libations poured out, and incense arose. Not satisfied with these privileges, the majority of the senators, who were heathens, sent a deputation to the Emperor to solicit his authority to reinstate in a temple where they met an altar of Victory which Gratian had a few years previously removed from their senate-house. But the religion of the Emperor was not the same with that of these senators; he denied their request, and the Christians of Rome, who were already greatly scandalized in daily witnessing in all parts of that city the worship that was paid to idols, encouraged the Emperor Theodosius formally to propose in a full meeting of the senate, convened for that purpose, the important question, "Shall the worship of Jupiter or the worship of Christ be henceforth the religion of the Romans?" By a very large majority the senate decided that the Capitoline Jupiter should be degraded, and henceforth receive no further honour from the Romans; and soon the decrees went forth to shut up all the temples of the heathen deities throughout all the provinces of the empire, to destroy the instruments of idolatry, to abolish the privileges of the priests, and to confiscate the temple property.

Already, in the time of Constantine, the Anician, by far the first of the patrician families of Rome, had adopted the Christian faith, and their example was soon followed by the most influential of the remaining families, such as the Bassi, the Paulini, and the Gracchi, and the result was, that in twenty-eight years after these decrees, Paganism was all but utterly extinct in the once pre-eminently Pagan city of Rome.

It was in this fallen condition of heathenism in the seat of empire that the story of Antonina opens, and from the destruction of the celebrated temple of Serapis in Alexandria, the author has brought out a character that for courage, fanaticism, singleness of purpose, devotedness and perseverance, well displays his fertility of invention and boldness of conception; a character that, embodying as it does, a Pagan's priest's faith in what he considered to be the tutelary deities of the empire, displays a firmness and consistency, a zeal and activity, that even a Christian reader can respect and admire.

But the political condition of the Roman empire had undergone great changes, and the continually increasing pressure of the Asiatic hordes on its frontiers, made its existence for some time doubtful, and at length impossible. The legions of Rome no longer existed but in name; the valour, the discipline, the armour that made the legions of the republic invincible, were disregarded in the legions of the empire; complaining of their weight, they laid aside the cuirass and the helmet, the pilum and short sword, and thus exposed their heads and breasts to the missile weapons of their barbarous but brave adversaries. A pusillanimous Emperor, in the person of Honorius, ruled over a luxurious and unwarlike people; and when he contented himself with the sole employment of feeding daily his poultry, and delegated his authority and the government of the empire to eunuchs and palace favourites, and for their sakes

murdered the only man who had power and ability to make head successfully against his powerful enemies, they naturally enough took advantage of his imbecility and incapacity to press hard upon him for subsidy or territory. As it was impossible to persuade the Italians to enrol themselves in the legions, and the empire was in danger of being left without troops, 30,000 Goths were taken into pay by the Emperor, and their wives and children, scattered about in various Italian cities, were detained there as hostages. By one of those unaccountable acts of folly and perfidy and cruelty so common where eunuchs bear rule, the whole of these women and children were on one and the same day put to the sword, and the inevitable consequence was, that their husbands and fathers became the Emperor's adversaries instead of his mercenaries. To aid them and to avenge them, Alaric the Goth, at the head of a powerful army, entered Italy, and never paused in his march till he encamped his army around the walls of Rome. With this rapid advance of his troops, and this blockade and siege of the once proud Mistress of the World, the story of Antonina begins and ends. A vindictive Gothic widow and a gentle Christian maid are the chief female characters in it, and characters more dissimilar, more wholly opposed to each other, it is not possible to conceive. Goisvintha is a character that should rarely be attempted; few writers are equal to it. Such unmitigated ferocity, such fierce passions, revenge so dire and malignant and deadly, few pens could pourtray, and Mr. Collins has wisely restrained his imagination to the perhaps utmost verge of allowable limits. Goisvintha had most just cause for execrating the Roman name, and for seeking vengeance on her children's murderers; but her language and conduct are so inhuman, so fiend-like, that in any one but her, with her wrongs, and her barbarian pride, and her Gothic feelings and prejudices, they would be revolting. As it is, they but delineate a character that was common enough in those days; and there are many military men who can recal to mind far more atrocious deeds done by the female followers of the camp, than ever Goisvintha planned or committed.

Ulpius and Numerian, the heathen priest and the Christian preacher, are powerfully contrasted with each other; and the first is one of the most vigorously drawn characters we ever met with,-from first to last he interests us; his unceasing restlessness, and that master-thought and purpose of his mind, that accounts for all his strange doings, keep the attention rivetted to him, notwithstanding his treachery and duplicity-the miseries he sought to do and did and his fierce and maddening hatred of the Christian name. His strangely sought for interview with Alaric, and the unexpected consequences to himself from it, are described in a manner that will not speedily be forgotten by those who read it; and one almost sympathizes with him in his misery, when all his fond hopes of vengeance, and all his imaginations of pre-eminence and honour and triumph are at once crushed and annihilated.

But, ably as the personification of a rabid heathen priest is described by the author, it would not, if it stood alone, attract so much of our attention, as it does; but there is a strange and mysterious analogy between the positions of him and Numerian, that enforces our observation to him; the one being as willing to become a martyr for the Temple, as the other a martyr for the Church;-the Christian's principle of action, drawn from the Divinity he served, was love; the Pagan's,