THE CAMPANILE. Underneath, Where the archangel, as alighted there, ROGERS. It was mentioned in the former volume of this work that the Campanile of St. Mark was the scene of Galileo's observations while resident in Venice. It ought to be added, that when the philosopher, in the year 1609, exhibited to the Doge and to the senate his discovery of the telescope, he was munificently rewarded by a decree confirming him in his professorship for life, and by the doubling of his annual salary. A curious anecdote respecting the prosecution of philosophical studies in the Campanile is related by the author of the lately published and excellent "Life of Galileo." Sirturi describes a ludicrous violence which was done to himself, when, with the first telescope which he had succeeded in making, he went up into the tower of St. Mark at Venice, in the vain hope of being there entirely unmolested. Unluckily he was seen by some idlers in the street: a crowd soon collected round him, who insisted on taking possession of his instrument, and, handing it one to the other, detained him there for several hours, till their curiosity was satisfied, when he was allowed to return home. Hearing them also inquire eagerly at what inn he lodged, he thought it better to quit Venice early the next morning, and prosecute his observations in a less inquisitive neighbourhood. The loggia, at the foot of the Campanile, was built from the designs of the celebrated Sansovino, whose genius has added so much beauty to the Piazza di S. Marco. The edifice is of the Corinthian order, ornamented with very rich columns, and with four niches, in each of which stands a bronze statue of the size of life, and executed with the greatest skill. It was the original intention of the architect that the loggia should extend all round the tower, so as to form a perfect base to it, and not be confined, as at present, to one of the fronts only. The marble of which the loggia is built is allowed to be of great beauty and rarity. About the beginning of the last century, the Campanile is said to have been the scene of a singular and fatal catastrophe, the narrative of which has never, we believe, hitherto appeared in print. In the autumn of the year 1713 two strangers arrived at Ravenna-an elderly lady with a young and beautiful girl, who appeared to be her daughter, and whose health had evidently suffered from recent illness. They only stayed at Ravenna till they could obtain possession of one of the small retired villas situated on the borders of the Pineta, or Pine Forest, which stretches over the hills almost as far as Rimini. In this retreat, attended only by a single servant, they passed their time in the most secluded manner, seldom even appearing in the open air until the shadows of evening had begun to descend. They neither sought nor permitted any intercourse with the few persons who resided in their neighbourhood, nor were they ever known to receive any communications by letter. The whole occupation of the elder stranger appeared to be devoted to her young and suffering companion, whose health seemed to be slowly consuming under some mental disease. In the early part of the spring which followed their arrival at Ravenna they were, as usual, taking their almost twilight walk in the Pineta, when they were suddenly confronted by one of a numerous pack of wolves, which had been driven even thus far from the mountains by the severity of the past winter. In general these animals fled at the appearance of the human figure, but the wolf which now crossed the path of the strangers was famished with hunger. As they stopped, it eyed them intently, and then crept towards them with that stealthy pace which too surely marked its design. The elder lady turned in terror and fled; but the younger, with more presence of mind and apparently with little fear for her own safety, kept her place. The wolf naturally made her who retreated his prey, and springing upon her, threw her to the ground. It needed not the shrieks of the victim to bring to her assistance her young companion, who, with a courage which the nerves of few men could have furnished, threw her delicate and weaponless arms round the body of the furious animal, and attempted to drag him from his prey. As she struggled with him for victory, her beautiful countenance, which usually wore a look of deep melancholy, assumed an ex I pression of the most impassioned fierceness-her glittering eye, her perfectly pale cheek, and her arched and quivering lip, all bespoke the intensity and violence of the passionate terror with which her soul was stirred. The animal had just quitted his prey in order to spring upon his helpless assailant, when he suddenly received a blow from a couteau de chasse which cast him, writhing, to the ground. The aid thus opportunely afforded was from the arm of a young hunter, who, passing homeward from the chase, had been attracted to the spot by the cries of the elder lady. Camillo Ranuzzi was the heir of a noble Bolognese family, and as such had been educated with that indulgence which is generally so destructive to the character. In him, however, its injurious effects were counterbalanced by a singular sweetness of temper and generosity of heart. It was only in the pursuit of objects upon which his inclinations were deeply fixed that he displayed the reckless and self-willed pertinacity of purpose which his injudicious education had fostered. The accidental service he had rendered to the strangers led him, in despite of their retiring habits, to something like a friendly communication with them, and it was not long before the feelings of interest with which he had regarded them on their rescue were changed, towards one of them, into the deeper sentiment of admiration and love. It was impossible that a heart so ardent as that of Ranuzzi could remain insensible to the beauty of the younger stranger, heightened as that beauty was by the mystery of her situation, and the soft and tender melancholy of her manners. For some time after their |