Chiusi as the sepulchre of Lars Porsenna: I pondered well that narration. The magnitude of the tomb appeared to exceed the limits of probability; a circumstance which could not but indicate that the scale of Etruscan tombs, at all events, was great; probable was it, indeed, that as the winged sphinx and lion were guardians of the dead of Etruria, as well as of Egypt, the tombs of both were alike vast. At Chiusi the form of the tomb was said to be pyramidical, in which it was like the Egyptian; and another point of resemblance between the two was their labyrinthine recesses. Thus, then, I obtained the idea of a spacious labyrinth tapering above into a pyramid: might not my sphinx surmount such? In the land of Nile the pyramid was frequently thus crowned by colossal sculpture; witness the great Labyrinth itself. I reflected long and intently; I bore my conclusions to the ground whereupon my discovery had been made, and this again I compared with the written account. A new idea then struck upon my mind. Porsenna's tomb was underneath a town; might not my suspected one extend beneath my castle, which was the site of an ancient citadel? The foundations, and some of the walls which rose out of the steep which the castle overhung, were Etruscan; indeed, there were traces along the rocky boundary of Cyclopean walls, massive, formed of huge polygonal stones, and altogether ruder than the masonry of the Roman or Etruscan era, which is characterised by a higher taste and perfection, though not by equal boldness or grandeur. Thus there were speaking proofs of the antiquity of this site, which evidently had not been deserted for three thousand years. Where had the dead of thirty centuries reposed? Not the ignoble dead, but the mighty who lived encased in armour, and bearing shield and spear, and whose stature towered aloft. They were the defenders of human liberties in the early age of time, and the infancy of justice, when, to be secure from outrage at the daily risk of life, was to enjoy freedom. After some weeks had elapsed, it came into my mind to explore those subterraneous portions of the castle which lay in the neighbourhood of my sphinx; at the same time I dismissed messengers to Musonio, desiring his speedy presence. I had never explored the uninhabited parts of the building, nor made examination of the regions underground. A motive to do so had now arisen, and I proceeded to the task with curiosity. In the parapet wall which bounded the north terrace walk, and arose in massive masonry out of the rock itself, appearing almost identified with it, there was a door, deep within a circular archway, which had not been set open for many years. The rusty lock was soon made to give way to force; the massive hinges creaked, but did not break, and the door swung forward against boughs of dwarf willow, which overhung and clothed the rock. From this archway a flight of steps sloped down the side of the steep, guarded outside by a huge wall, raised on circular arches, springing over the ravine beneath, and under which its waters, those of the Cecina, rushed. At a height of a few feet from the stream bank, the stairs turned at a right angle, walled in on either side, and projecting in front of the cliff itself, and, like the flight above, supported on an arched foundation. Numerous plants of a picturesque kind grew from the rock, and between the stony crevices of the steps. Among these was to be observed the maidenhair, which luxuriated ever in the spray of a falling cascade; while a variety of mossy fern formed a network down the rock. On gaining this last flight of steps, I stood still a moment in delight, to gaze upon a pair of winged lions which rested upon the copings of the wall, and faced the stream. They had evidently been removed from their original situation, and placed there at some remote period, their Etruscan characters being inconsistent with the Norman masonry on which they reposed. These, with the sphinx above, I should have deemed from the Nile, but I suspected that a more interesting explanation was at hand. They were in a perfect state, and continue so to this day, after a lapse of nearly fifty years. Ippolito had proceeded to Florence in quest of Musonio, and, as I might expect them on the morrow, I desisted from further search until they should arrive. In expectation of their coming on that same evening, I walked up and down the south terrace with Adora, and paused to witness the first bursting forth of the evening star, which by silent consent we gazed at with curious love. Faint was at first its fire, like the dimness of revelation; but it came upon us at the close of twilight, the rapid crepuscula, and like a ray of hope appeared to suspend the soul between it and darkness. At the hour of nightfall, sadness damps the mortal spirit—a sadness which renders music grateful, and light a boon, especially the light of the first evening star. We had passed the time in sweet concord, mingling thoughts the most pure in language worthy to express them. We seemed only to need an assistance apparently at hand, to raise all that lives to our own level of bliss, while, supremely blessed ourselves, we felt capable of rising to a participation of joys yet higher. From our present state to one of immortal joy had been but a simple and natural transition. The twilight had suddenly damped our ardour; the star only stood between us and night. We hailed it with some emotion; while it could not save the gorgeous pictures of our fancy from destruction, its feeble but supernal light encouraged us, spoke of aspirations to be respected, and of patience as a means through which to realise all at last. The virtues of endurance seemed revealed in its steady beams, but we felt yet the more strongly that we were mortal. The spirits of the community are never thus uneven; they are disturbed by selfish influences, not by those extrinsic phenomena which shake the soul itself. But a select class exists unseen among nations of men, who at evening are collected under heaven by the chimes of the firmament, and drawn into the cathedral beyond by the invitation of the sky. There may the beggar and his infant kneel as they traverse the desert where living temples subsist not more; there they will find a priest on whose alb glitters the Southern Cross-a crucifix of stars. He who has never entered a shrine below, nor looked on the frescoes which animate the dome of an earthly house of worship, may yet rise at once unto the Only, and be seen throughout-cry "Father!" and be everywhere heard. And there even the earthly potentate, surrounded by his court and compassed by gorgeous machinery, may forget for a moment his perishable greatness, and by those heavenly silent chimes be drawn above to behold, with the beggar, a King of kings; his final rights not sacrificed to his sceptre, nor his hopes to his possessions; for he is one of these elect. The divine spark consumes the vanities of the heart, it burns there eternally, and proclaims him, to himself, an elect whose destiny has but begun ; a peculiar spirit who can everywhere see the One only; a remnant cast out for a time from the nationality of the chosen, and wandering desolate among thrones. 450 THE MILLER'S SONG. Ho! for the stone that crushes; Hey! for the whirling sail; When the old mill shakes in every plank The ponderous mill-wheel round, Hey! for the winds of winter, In the dull, grey night,-the long, long night, A weary man's the miller As he sitteth by his hearth. Hey! for the roaring hurricane O'er the buzz within and the roar without When the bare bleak moor is lying All white beneath the moon, Help from the savage fury Of the wind that flies above- It may rush o'er distant mountains, Dull looks the sunny earth; Is the time for the miller's mirth. The miller is no coward, Though he's pale as a frightened maid; His cheek's as red as the crimson rose In a snowy robe arrayed. O! all night long when the piping wind "Tween the bars of the old mill's window 451 FLORENCE HAMILTON. BY MISS JULIA ADDISON. AUTHOR OF (6 THE CURATE OF WILDMERE." CHAPTER XVI. The stings of falsehood these shall try GRAY. LADY SEAGROVE, Miss Trimmer, and Florence, were sitting in the drawing-room, in the interval between Silverdale's departure and dressing for an early dinner party. "I am sorry to perceive, Florence," Lady Seagrove was observing, with a gravity of manner very unusual to her, "that you still entertain the same prejudices against my poor nephew. I should have thought that my affection for him, and his relationship to me, would alone be sufficient to prepossess you in his favour." She paused. Florence sighed, but said nothing. "Averse as I am," continued Lady Seagrove, "to reminding any one of past kindness, surely the recollection of my more than maternal fondness for you and your sister ought also to have some weight." "I know," said Florence, earnestly, "that I can never repay your kindness, my dearest, best friend. It is, it ought to be, the first wish of my heart to prove my gratitude; but" "You can prove your gratitude," interrupted Lady Seagrove. "Say only that I have your free permission to encourage Sir Robert's addresses -to tell him that you are not unfavourable to "Oh, no, no! my dearest Lady Seagrove, for Heaven's sake do not tell him that. You would not have me pretend sentiments which I can never feel?" "Gently, Florence," said Lady Seagrove, looking displeased. "This is not the manner in which young ladies ought to speak to their parents or guardians. I never anticipated such opposition from you-you, with whom my slightest wish was once as powerful as a command.” "And so it is now," said Florence, with emotion, "in every instance, except 66 Except when my wish does not accord with your inclination. Meritorious indeed, and well calculated to impress me with the sincerity of your love and gratitude." "Oh, Lady Seagrove, do not speak thus, I implore you!" exclaimed Florence, covering her face with her hands. "Florence," said Lady Seagrove, "listen to what I am going to say. It grieves me to give you pain, but I warn you, that unless you speedily change your opinion and feelings on this subject, my serious displeasure will be the penalty." The idea of a young and inexperienced girl presuming to have an opinion concerning any matrimonial alliance her friends might desire for her, appeared quite ridiculous to Lady Seagrove. Believing, as she did, that the sooner a young lady settled in the world the better, provided her husband was rich and of good family, she considered that temper, disposition, and personal merits were of most secondary importance, if, indeed, of any importance at all. She herself had married without knowing anything of her husband's character, without any particular liking for him, and her marriage had been happy enough. It is true, he was a silly, indolent man, but then he was a man of title and fortune, and she did not want a companion in her husband. He had a large and fashionable circle of acquaintance, and allowed her to give splendid parties, and go out as much as she pleased; all which advantages Florence would have if she married Sir Robert. What if the baronet were passionate and ill-tempered now and then? Sir Henry Seagrove used to be cross and disagreeable at times, but she had never troubled herself about that; every one had their defects-men especially. Even supposing a husband to possess the most shocking temper in the world, it need not make his wife unhappy. She was never obliged to see him till dinner, and then, if they always had company when they dined at home, what time or opportunity had the worst-tempered man to be quarrelsome or tyrannical? If by chance she was threatened with the misfortune of a tête-à-tête, what was easier than for the wife to have a bad headache, and remain in her own room? It was natural that a young bride should like to be constantly in society, to show off her fine clothes and gay equipages. Florence liked society and amusement; what then could be her objection to Sir Robert but a foolish antipathy which it would be an act of kindness to the girl herself to compel her to conquer? Thus reasoned Lady Seagrove; and the more she reflected, the stronger became her wish to see Florence married to her nephew, and the more resolved was she to bring about the union. She now, after a silence of some minutes, changed her mode of attack. "Your dislike to my poor nephew," she said, "does, I confess, appear to me so strange, that had I less confidence in you, I should conclude some more fortunate individual had won your heart. You have often assured that you had no secrets from me.' me "Neither have I, dear Lady Seagrove," interrupted Florence. "Then your objection to Sir Robert Craven is not the consequence of being in love with any one else?" "Indeed it is not." "I do not wonder your ladythip ith particular in inquiring," lisped Miss Trimmer, who was lolling in an arm-chair, innocently playing with the ends of her long sash, "for nothing ith tho thoon lotht ath a young ladyth heart." "Very true," said Lady Seagrove; "but Florence is so rational and so candid, that if she assures me such is not the case "I do assure you that I am not in love," said Florence, speaking with what she at least then thought to be the most perfect sincerity; "and surely, my dear Lady Seagrove, you will believe me?" "I do, my dear child," said Lady Seagrove, feeling, as she looked at Florence's earnest, ingenuous countenance, that it was impossible to disbelieve her. "I know, though," said Miss Trimmer, "who would be the favourite with Florenth, if she had a favourite, and that ith a thertain captain." |