hands, did the child fling it from her and kick it for carrion out of her path. There was something in this scene which terrified Geraldine, if in a different manner, yet in a much greater degree, than the furious cat had done. It was the first gleam she had had of the stormy passions that slumbered in that young heart; and she felt what giants to work good or evil were crouching there. Florentia herself could not understand that she had done the least wrong in giving way to her anger; and how could Geraldine chide very severely, when that anger had been aroused in her defence? "What shall I call you?" had been one of the child's earliest questions to her protectress, and Geraldine pausing a minute had said, "Call me sister." So sister, sister, was the sweet word that rung daily, hourly, in her ears, with a harmony of which she never wearied, suggesting as it ever did some thought of affection. Geraldine asked not herself how it was that she cared so much less than before for her acquaintances; and yet it was so: the companionship of the loving and fresh-hearted child seemed all in all to her. This love was her one reality in life. Let us pause to ask if it clashed with that which was her soul's sustaining Idea! Not for one instant. Distinct as double stars, they lent each other a light-blended their rays it might be, but never disturbed the harmony of her being. She wrote to Lionel Weymouth a full account of the shipwreck; mentioned the adoption of the little unknown child; described her extraordinary beauty; sketched her strange impulsive character; gave even the anecdote of the slaughtered cat, which latter incident won from him a hearty approval, and caused him always to mention her as the little heroine. He applauded Geraldine's adoption of her, and rejoiced that she had so interesting a companion; and now, when presents came "from India," the protegée was sure to be remembered. But the gift, however gorgeous or costly, was always a childish toy. Lionel had been told she was a little girl of nine or ten, or eleven years old, and forgot the change that four or five years must work in these early spring-days of life. How swiftly they passed by, seeming like a dream to look back on!-yet they opened to perfect loveliness the budding promise of the child, while they stealthily robbed Geraldine of her early bloom. Still she looked younger than she really was; as they always do-when compared with commoner clay-who have souls to light up the countenance, and make known the one imperishable beauty of expression. (To be concluded in our next.) THE WIDOW BARTHOLOMEW. BY THE HON. J. A. MAYNARD. The good dame Bartholomew, What was her fate? Go, down to her cottage door, Through by the gate The gate without hinges, Sir, They took all her things for rent- She's gone to the Union place, Ag'd and forlorn A widow of three-score yearsObject of scorn! She's poor and a burden, Sir, Her wrinkles thick cluster, Sir, A son and a daughter, Sir, But the son he strove hard, Sir, Early and late; Food was dear-wages low'Twas but his fate! For snaring they took him, Sir, Sent him to jail; And jail it but hardens, Sir, 'Tis an old tale! He's over the ocean, Sir, Alter'd and lost A soul run to waste and crimeReckless, sin-tost. His mother is breaking, Sir, THE EARLY MORNING. (A Sonnet.) BY MRS. CHARLES ROWLAND DICKEN. How sweet the summer-morn!-the golden prime, O'er hill and dale all brightly flowing on, So calm the spirit of the atmosphere. O let me listen to the wand'ring voice, Which, though in sadness, makes my heart rejoice, And brings before mine eyes sweet visions dear. MRS. HARRIET LEE. THE LAST SURVIVING AUTHOR OF "THE CANTERBURY TALES." and vigorous construction of plot it displays, the true and powerful historical colouring which is maintained throughout; and last though by no means the least charm-since it is one in which so many modern would-be-novelists fail If Old Age be always-more or less-venerable, surely it is never so much so as when reposing in dignified retirement apart from the strife and struggle of busy life; enjoying that rest which has been justly earned by honourable exertions, and the fulfilment of difficult duties--for a lucid and euphonious style, which shows in earlier years; and waiting the final summons with hopeful trust and calm content. We have rarely felt more impressed with this truth than on recently reading in the newspaper obituaries the name of Mrs. Harriet Lee, at the advanced age of ninety-five. Belonging to the generation of the grandmothers and great grandmothers of the active, stirring, reading, writing, ruling, prime-of-life men and women of the present day, her having tarried among us so long seemed a sort of anomaly the more strange when announced, because previously so little known even in the Republic of Letters, which is usually pretty well informed about the doings of its citoyens and citoyennes. A brief retrospect of the lives of the two sisters will perhaps, however, best lead up to our subject. Sophia and Harriet Lee were the daughters of a gentleman who, originally articled to a solicitor, subsequently adopted the stage as a profession. Sophia, the elder, was born in 1750, and though early evincing a taste for literature, the domestic duties which devolved on her in consequence of the early death of her mother seem to have delayed the development of her powers. She did not appear as an authoress till her thirtieth year, when a comedy from her pen, called "The Chapter of Accidents" was brought out at the Haymarket under the management of the elder Colman, and received with great applause. The profits derived from this play were devoted to the establishment of a ladies' school at Bath, where both sisters now settled, and seem to have combined for many years, in a singularly happy manner, the arduous duties of instruction and authorship. In 1784 Miss Lee published "The Recess," which may justly be considered the pioneer of the historical romance. The scene is laid in the time of Queen Elizabeth; Norfolk, Essex, Leicester, and the unhappy Queen of Scots, being the principal real personages introduced. It is a book which, judged even by the modern canons of criticism, displays many admirable qualities. Somewhat verbose it is, and replete with minute details; but in those days a good novel was a feast never complained of for the tediousness of its courses: it is full of high-wrought romantic incidents, verging on the debateable ground between the improbable and the impossible; but sixty or seventy years ago we suspect the delicate flavour of the genuine simple story would have been voted insipid and unpalatable. While, with these drawbacks-to modern readers-"The Recess" is still remarkable for the brilliant imagination that composition had been studied as an art. It has been said that Scott was indebted to this novel for many suggestions for his Kenilworth; and he, so ich in gifts that were all his own, would probably have been the first to acknow ledge his obligation. About the year 1797, the first volume of the celebrated "Canterbury Tales" *--the joint production of the two sisters-appeared, and met with so decided a success, that the series was quickly extended to five volumes. The plan and outline of this work belonged exclusively to Harriet, the younger sister, although the author of "The Recess contributed The Young Lady's Tale, or the Two Emilys," and "The Clergyman's Tale, or Pembroke;" together with the narrative introduction to the first volume. To Harriet Lee, however, belongs the fame of having written the powerful and original story of "Kruitzner," which appeared in the fourth volume of the " Canterbury Tales,” and suggested to Lord Byron, as is so widely known, his tragedy of "Werner." Indeed, the noble poet acknowledged and announced his obligation, saying in his preface—“I have adopted the characters, plan, and even the language of many parts of this story. Some of the characters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself; but in the rest the original is chiefly followed." A writer in the twelfth volume of Blackwood's Magazine is very severe on Byron, declaring that he has invented nothing, and contrasting his manner of appropriation with that of Shakspere, who, when he was indebted to some old novelist for a story, breathed a life into the cha racters which they had never possessed before. Writing of Werner, this critic says:- Indeed, but for the preparation which we had received from our old familiarity with Miss Lee's own admirable work, we rather incline to think we should have been unable to comprehend the gist of her noble imitator, or rather copier, in several of what seem to be meant for his most elaborate delineations. The fact is, that this undeviating closeness, this humble fidelity of imitation, is a thing so perfectly new in anything worthy of the name of literature, that we are sure no one, who has not read the 'Canterbury Tales,' will be able to form the least conception of what it amounts to. lived, and before Louis Seize mounted his rotten crumbling throne! What a century to have so nearly rounded! What an experience to have crowded even into ninety-five years! life. A few years afterwards they took up their abode in a charming house at Clifton, and honoured and esteemed for all the virtues which adorn private life, and famous for talents which had always been employed to improve while they amused, they must have spent many years of repose and enjoyment not easily to be overestimated. In the year 1803 Sophia and Harriet Lee re"Those who have never read Miss Lee's book linquished their school, having not only acwill, however, be pleased with this production; quired a provision for their old age, but estabfor, in truth, the story is one of the most power-lished a large family of nephews and nieces in fully conceived, one of the most picturesque, and at the same time instructive stories, that we are acquainted with. Indeed, thus led as we are to name Harriet Lee, we cannot allow the opportunity to ass without saying that we have always considered her works as standing upon the verge of the very first rank of excellence; that is to say, as inferior to no English novels whatever, excepting those of Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, Richardson, Defoe, Radcliffe, Godwin, Edgeworth, and the author of Waverley.' It would not, perhaps, be going too far to say, that the Canterbury Tales' exhibit more of that species of invention which, as we have already remarked, was never common in English literature, than any of the works of those first-rate novelists we have named, with the single exception of Fielding. "Kruitzner, or the Gerinan's Tale," possesses mystery, and yet clearness, as to its structure; strength of characters, and admirable contrast of characters; and above all, the most lively interest, blended with, and subservient to, the most affecting of moral lessons. The main idea which lies at the root of it is, the horror of an erring father, who, having been detected in vice by his son, has dared to defend his own sin, and so to perplex the son's notions of moral rectitude, on finding that the son, in his turn, has pushed the false principles thus instilled to the last and worst extreme, on hearing his own sophistries flung in his face by a-Murderer!" Though newer names are more familiar in our mouths than that of Harriet Lee, it is not difficult to imagine the high consideration in which she was held, both by the readers and the critics of a past generation. We have failed to discover any published memoir of importance of this venerable lady, but we cannot help conjecturing what an autobiography she might have written, and what curious and intensely interesting memoranda of her life may possibly be in existence. Authentic records show her as the friend of Mrs. Siddons, and John Kemble, and Jane Porter, and General Paoli; and as a clearjudging seer, who predicted the success and celebrity of Sir Thomas Lawrence. What a world of the past do these names conjure up! and what a homily on the length and the brevity, the greatness and the littleness, of human life do they-in connection with the Survivor of all-suggest! To have predicted the fame of the boy-artist, and then to live on till they who at his prime he painted in their youthful bloom have faded to elderly matrons; to have been born when George the Third was a stripling prince, and live into the blessed reign of Victoria, and the days of a Crystal Palace; to have been an intelligent little maiden ere Napoleon Sophia Lee expired at the ripe age of seventyfour, on the 13th March, 1824, in the arms of that attached sister who was destined so long to survive her. Once during the last twentyseven years we hear of Mrs. Harriet Lee as an author; about fifteen years ago a play from her pen was produced at Covent Garden Theatre, but it failed to attract and soon sank into oblivion. With this exception her existence seems scarcely to have been recognized beyond the limited, yet not narrow circle, of her intimate and admiring friends. She met old age gracefully, and it was tenderly kind to her. By those who knew her to the last her memory is said to have retained its always remarkable vigour, and her wonderful conversational powers to have remained unabated. But no persuasions-and must they not have been many?-drew her into general society. We have no account of her faded cheeks and snowy locks decked out for "midnight revelries;" no mention of her among the coteries. No; her truly venerable old age was one of honour, dignity, and repose; the proper sequence to the activity and energy of early life. Mrs. Harriet Lee died at Clifton on the 1st of August, conscious of her approaching end, and devoutly happy and resigned. C. C. WASTED AFFECTION. Oft the dew of love descendeth Then the soul thus ill-requited- Dwells apart for evermore. Yet 'twere well did such bethink them What if Heaven on them in measure Thus its bounteous gifts bestow, IRITZ. THE EXILES EXILES OF CAPRI. (A True Story of Modern Italy.) "Kissing goes by favour," saith the old proverb, and so does praising. The "Continental Bradshaw" devotes half-a-dozen pages to that Cockney-Paris Brussels, and a column of enthusiasm to Capri; while Florence and Venice are disposed of in three lines, naming the Envoy, and the worst, not the best, medical men. Who obtained for Capri that honourable mention? Quoth Bradshaw, "the climate is particularly favourable to all complaints of the bronchia." May be all I know is, that, being myself by habit and repute a victim to that complaint, Capri afflicted me with a severer return thereof than I had experienced since I encountered the east winds of our foggy isle of England. Quoth Bradshaw, "food is there abundant and cheap." May be; but I knew three respectable ladies nearly starved because they could not live upon cuttle fish and pumpkins. Truly Capri is a land flowing with oil and wine, but the solid flesh is rare. Brahminical cows, that die unmolested in a good old age, are its beef; its mutton travels over from Naples, eight hours under a burning sun-a method of cooking not quite agreeable. Its fowls have a mixture of bone and yellow fat, utterly destitute of white meat, which our host used to ascribe to their diet of Indian corn, and which certainly rendered them interesting ornithological specimens, but very bad fare. In short, fish is the staple resource of Capri, as it is of the Hebrides; its fertility reduces its inhabitants to the same diet as does the barrenness of the Scottish isles. Little delicate anchovies, rich cephalopods, eels curly as small snakes, red glistening mullet, and sarpe, a fish that tastes strongly of the sea-weed on which it feeds; these were our dinner materials. When these failed, our host displayed inexhaustible invention in the concoction of entrées, consisting generally of fries. To-day fried potatoes, disguised beyond recognition even by an Irishman; to-morrow fried French beans, cut into fantastic forms; now a fry of cucuzzoli (a sweet-tasted, green sort of gherkin); another time of ricotto, or curdled cream. But a meal off the joint dear to hungry Britons is not attainable in Capri. This much, O Continental Bradshaw, I write, because due to the sacred cause of truth: I must say amen to all praises of its scenery. I used often to think that in the after-life alone could such eye-joy be surpassed. We lived in a lowroofed house, one single story towards the land, but on the sea-ward side sinking abruptly in a precipice, with a range of offices under a broad airy terrace. On that terrace we spent our days. A large swing lamp hanging from its matted roof acted the part of The Salt. Below it was set a table for servants and children; above it we eat our own meals like eastern sultans. The matting overhead kept off the sun, while the air came freely in from the sea, and the view unbroken lay before us. The tongues of men and angels could not describe it; Naples, twenty-three miles off, was distinctly visible. St. Elmo's Castle, like a barometer, registered on its tall crest every atmospheric change. Vesuvius, no longer a twin pair as it appears from the city, at Capri rises in a single cone, with such a gradual slope from the level purple plain, that one fancies it to be a work of man raised step by step above the greensward. Not once during our stay in those vicinities did the hellmouth send out a flame. Weary with the great eruption of March, it lay all July in a dead slumber, only a white puff of cloud hovering as a remembrancer over the crater's top. You did not trace it ascending from the lip: you only saw it hanging motionless in the clear, blue air. And fearless white villas hung on the skirts of that destructive volcano, as children cling on to the sabre-tache and sword-belt of a redoubted warrior. And a huge arm of Capri thrust itself out into the blue sea on our right; while in the shadow of its perpendicular rock face, brown naked boys disported themselves among the transparent waters, and the weedy ruins of Roman palaces. Much, much more did that terrace show us, which sank into our heart of hearts, but which refuses to come drily forth and deposit itself on this prosy page. In the evenings we sallied out and climbed the steep path leading to the town of Capri-a path made for the behoof of shoemakers; to go up it and to go down it would make an end of the finest and strongest boots sold between Temple Bar and the Crystal Palace. It is composed partly of rough shingle, partly of rude steps more than half worn away. Olives rise above you, vineyards and orchards below you, and every step gives a different and a lovelier view of the Bay, of the promontory Massa and Campanella, of the wild masses of St. Angelo towering behind, and the far off Abruzzi peaks, and the solitary mount of Mor dragone, until, as you reach the old town gate, you turn and behold Ischia, Procida, and Nicita, gleaming like topazes in the setting sun. How ever hot might be the evening, always a cold blast rushed through that dark and ancient archway; consequently its two stone benches were more than comfortably full. Peasants and of vine-dressers, fishermen and loungers, and a surf which whitened the narrow strand below, number of melancholy men, to whom, Italians as with such an intense yearning, such a piteous 1 they evidently were, idleness did not seem to appeal to the unchecked seas and tameless winds, bring its own all-sufficient reward. I have been that my heart ached for him-an exile! Í so used to see the southrons enjoying their ex- thought of Campbell's exquisite poem, "There istence, taking in the sense of being at every came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,” and pore, that I felt riveted by these lack-lustre from that moment the scene became consecrated faces and aimless wandering eyes. To them to me with a higher spell than that of mere nathe exquisite beauty all around was as a blank. tural beauty. They pined-and for what? For liberty-they were exiles. Then we rambled through the odd old piazza, with its rusty, absurd old jail, in which I once saw a prisoner, who had a just appreciation of the advantages of his lot, staring eagerly at a triumphal arch erected close before his grating, and an illuminated display of fireworks let off just under his rejoicing eyes; past the sumptuous and unpicturesque cathedral, up whose steps were hastening, at the vesper-bell, women with white veils on their black plaits, and swaddled babes on their swarthy shoulders; and so diving down a narrow water-course, pebbly and rocky, and a torture to all with thin shoes and corns, we came on a lonely descending path, down among fields of poppied grain, and by the gnarled roots of aged olives, through wildernesses of myrtles and aniseed, and scabious, and clematis, and lovely little campanulas and saxifrage, down to a round projection of the cliff's jutting out into the sea, walled and provided with stone seats. It was a wild and lonely scene. On our right a lofty rock rose sheer from the strand, sloping landward towards the town of Capri, but presenting to the ocean a red, furrowed, unscalable precipice, broken only by a cavern midway, inaccessible save to winged fowl. Its highest peak was surmounted by a ruined castle, strongly fortified by the French, and said to be haunted by spirits for the sake of its buried treasures. Right in front of us, cleaving the calm blue waters, were those remarkable rocks, the Farra Leone, three in number, but two of them standing so near that it is only at particular angles you can perceive the division. In one of them is a high natural arch, under which large boats can pass. Her Majesty's frigate Thetis, with all sails set, was steered in betwixt the shore and the nearest of these rocks. The inhabitants could hardly believe their eyes when they beheld the success of this rash experiment. It proved, however, the immense depth of the water in shore, and the extraordinary height of these lofty rocks, measured from their foundation at the bottom of the sea. A ship seen near them falls to the size of a child's toy: their colour is a rich brown, their shape fantastically gothic. All along this side of the island the cliff's take the strangest forms-pinnacles, arches, spires, flying buttresses, all sorts of combinations, suggest themselves to the imaginative wanderer. Beyond the Farra Leone lay the Great Sea, rolling down towards unseen Sicily and Africa, felt only too palpably in its nightly sirocco blasts. And there on the low beach of rock a young man sat, and gazed over the trembling We stayed long at Capri, roaming nightly over its rocky paths; and ever as we went, the place seemed haunted by these mournful-eyed exiles. They saw the myrtle plain, and the rock-wall silvered by moonlight, with far different emotions from ours. We had chosen to live in that lonely island: they were chained down to it like so many little Napoleons. We could ramble freely even till midnight; but the drum called them into their hot, cheerless quarters just when the outer world was most attractive. Some of them were not ashamed to beg, being forbid to dig. We inquired their story from the judge, who was often with us in our walks, and he told us the following:-They had formed part of a brigade of volunteers, organized in 1848 to march against the Austrians in Lombardy. They were the free gift of the nation; and the king, sitting uneasily, like all his comfraternity in those days, whose place was upon thrones, outwardly approved of their demonstrative patriotism, and himself saw them embark-thus sanctioning the enterprise. But alas! Austria triumphed; and the volunteers, as many as survived, trooped homewards, sorrowful and crestfallen. But little knew they what treachery awaited them at their sovereign's hands! "The same mouth," said St. James, "doth not send forth blessing and cursing;" but the apostle lived before the days of the Bourbons. The king, quaking as much before the stern Austrian as he had done before the heady populace, ordered these remnants of a sanguinary defeat to be seized and flung into prison. War had pitied their fall from rapturous hope into black despair-had abstained from smiting their body, even as Satan long dealt with Job; but the Bourbon claimed "skin for skin." At length, in a merciful mood, he had seventy-five of them swept like garbage out of his city, and cast on the lonely, isolated little Capri, there to subsist on fourpence a-day, strictly overwatched by the military there. Fourpence a-day!" said one of the exiles to us; "why it does not keep us in shoes!" and I believe him. I know we all wore out an incalculable number of strong shoes, made on purpose for those stony tracts, during our month's residence on the island. The story of the young officer whom we had seen near the Farra Leone was still more touching. He was of good family, and not personally compromised in any of the political questions. On the contrary, he had served the king on the bloody 18th of May, doing his duty conscientiously; though aware that his friends and relations were in the Garde Nationale, he had not |