thousand ways in which the discovery could be made. That is nothing strange. The only wonder is, that, though there had been nothing to reveal it-no toy, nor memento, nor letter, nor anything else—they should have been able to treasure up and keep their mutual secret so long. I only know that he discovered it first, and some months before she did, and in his manly and noble heart buried the awful truth and scarcely breathed it to himself again, knowing as he did the agony of spirit it would waken. Still he was tender and kind, and full of affectionate attention to her. Perhaps he thought he might yet win her love, or that he might even now have no mean share in her heart, obscured as he knew he was by the image of one who evidently had long held a larger part, and to whom she now clung in memory with wonderful constancy.

It is singular that he did as he did, feeling at the same time that he did not love her, and never had; that she had been deceiving him, as he had himself for so many years; and knowing now that all their mutual protestations of affection had been the strained and forced exhibition of feelings that never had a place in either of their hearts. It must have been a life of terrible agony to him, for the subsequent months during which he suffered her to live on under the impression that she was still loved— to receive from her the same caresses he had received for years, and know they were the fondlings of a hypocritical hand, and that while she bestowed them, she was thinking of another. It must have been just as hard for him to return her tokens of affection, while he knew all this. But he did, and would have done the same till death divided them, had not accident in time revealed to her the true state of his heart. It must not be wondered at that, situated as he was, there were strange inconsistencies in his feelings and his conduct. The consciousness of his own want of love for her, struggling with his high sense of honor and his sincere wish to make her happy, would have made any man inconsistent.

Amy would often ride with him, in his visits

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into the country, to see his patients. It was on one of these occasions that he had taken her with him some miles, to the house of a gentleman who had been unfortunate in business, and had recently taken up his residence on a small farm, and whose wife was in feeble health. It was their first visit to the house. The gentleman was absent, and they were shown into the parlor, where they were shortly joined by the lady of the house. I cannot describe the scene which took place upon her entrance, for she was the early loved of Henry. For a moment all was forgotten; the presence of his wife-the misery of all the past years of deception-all was swallowed up in the bitterness of that one instant. What hours of agony followed! But afterward the calmness of their former life returned to them, and they revealed to each other all their thoughts and feelings for years past, their mutual deceit and loathings; and then what was left for them to do? To live as they had done? That they could not. They were no longer ignorant. They had tasted of the tree of knowledge. Henceforth life was a barren waste, leafless, flowerless, hopeless. They knew each other's hearts, and now they hated. They could no longer look in each other's face and wear even the smile of hypocritical affection.

It was after midnight, that night, when they parted. She left the room calmly as if nothing had occurred. She left the house, but he did not know it. He sat in his chair, and hour after hour passed on. He did not slumber, neither did he take any heed of passing time. It was long after sunrise when he was aroused by the voice of his neighbors approaching the house, and they entered bearing the dead body of his wife. Some fishermen had found her in the river below.

It might have been entirely accidental that she was drowned. Let us believe so. But Henry never believed it, and a few weeks afterwards, when, as he was leaving the place, he told me the story which I have repeated in my own words, he was prematurely old and gray.

Florence.

MY DEAR A. :-I will explain hereafter why I am finishing my last letter from Rome at Florence.

Rome in three letters! is almost enough to condemn a man; but you have understood from the first that they were to be strictly eclectic, and that I claimed the largest liberty in my selections. It would be very pleasant to live in Rome a year or two, but this is not my privilege; so I shall group in this letter a few remaining points of special interest, and for the present pass the others by.

Shortly after the visit described in my last to St. Peter's and the Vatican, I accepted an invitation from an American gentleman, who had taken rooms in the same house, to accompany himself and lady in a ride about the city and vicinity. The acquaintance thus formed was very pleasant, and I have reason to remember them gratefully for many kindnesses. Our excursion was very satisfactory, as we saw much of the modern city, and passed some interesting relics of the Rome that once was. Many of these are so surrounded by modern objects and intermingled with passing scenes, it is hard to realize that they belong to periods so distant. There is too much of the noise and bustle of the present, to allow the mind to run back freely and commune with the mighty past. You want the silence and "nakedness of desolation." Hence a stroll through the Forumespecially at evening, and pre-eminently by moonlight-is so satisfactory, so deeply impressive. In our drive we passed the Pantheon—a striking monument of the art and superstition of the ancient city, but so well preserved and so environed by modern objects, you can hardly believe that for so many centuries those

well-proportioned columns have upheld their load. Time has played some funny pranks in places, and, unawed by departed glory, has dared to make strange transformations. Two most beautiful columns of an ancient temple, with a richly sculptured architrave, now grace the doorway (pardon of the ages gone!) of a bakery! The Baths of Dioclesian, anciently rich with every ornament of art, made attractive and refreshing with fountains and flowers, and alive with rustling feet and merry voices, now, robbed of columns and marble to build and decorate churches and other edifices, shorn of their glory and lonely in desolation, serve in the humble capacity of depositories for hay and stubble. In another part of the city I saw a blacksmith shoeing horses under the ruins of an edifice on which the ancient Roman looked with pride. Perhaps he would vindicate his office as truly classical, claiming to be a descendant of Vulcan, in regular succession.

We visited, among other places, the church of St. Peter in vincoli. They have many stories for the credence of the faithful, and surely it becomes those who wish to gain the edification designed to be full of faith. I fear I had not attained to so high an exercise of this important grace as to secure to me the full benefit of all I saw. This church derives its name from the fact that it claims to possess the identical chain with which the apostle was bound. In another church are two silver vases regarded with great reverence by the masses, said to contain the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul. They are exhibited on certain occasions to the admiring people, for their spiritual benefit-the vases, mind you, not the heads. This superstitious regard for sacred relics was natural in the early history of the church; but like many

other sentiments proper enough in themselves, it ran wild, became a fundamental of religion, and a substitute for that devotion which is alone accepted. One cannot but be struck in comparing the religious practices in Rome and elsewhere, with the rebuke which Christ administered to the Pharisees of old-" building the sepulchres of the prophets." Many an apostle and martyr is held up for veneration, and his relics regarded with most pious reverence, whose faith-that faith which elevated his character and inspired his zeal-was a perfect antithesis to the corruptions of the church, and whose godly life presented a strange contrast to priestly indolence and vice.

In this church of "San Pietro in vincoli," we saw the celebrated statue of Moses by Michael Angelo. It is well worthy of its fame, if I am any judge-and the world has settled the matter long ago. Larger than life, and robed with an air of commanding dignity worthy the subject, the great law-giver and leader of Israel "sits majestic," holding the tables of the law. The position is easy and natural in the highest degree. The anatomy and muscular development are true to life, as in all the finished works of this great master, while the beaming intelligence of the eye rivets you as if you stood in the presence of a superior being. I could hardly rid myself of the impression, as I passed around the statue, that thought dwelt within, and that the distinguished personage, though buried too deeply in his own reflections to have his glance diverted, was still conscious of what was transacting around him.

I had intended to give you some of my own impressions of certain celebrated works of art; not that I am vain enough to think my judgment of very great importance, or that it will materially affect opinions, on which time and universal consent have stamped infallibilitybut simply because I feel at liberty, in writing to you, to say just what I think and feel, whether it be in accordance with what the rest of the world have thought and said, or not. On the whole, however, I will defer this for the present, and group in one letter hereafter, perhaps, a few thoughts on this subject. In addition to the immense collections of the Vatican and Museo Capitolino, many of the palaces in Rome contain choice treasures. But if I should undertake a minute description, you would become weary and bewildered, as I have, often, in wandering through them. A general

description of these collections might be given as follows: Here and there a gem, which well repays you for hours of weariness and wandering, and to which you return again and again, with ever fresh and growing pleasure; and then acres of indifferent paintings, a summary description of which would be, so many feet of canvas, covered with such and such colors.

But the exceptions to this representation, are exceptions. No description can convey a just conception of the surpassing beauty and loveliness of some of these choicer works. I would that I could look on such pictures as some of these master-pieces, every day of my life-such an one, for instance, as Hope, by Guido. Would that I could convey to you, for your delight and profit, the unearthly sweetness of the face-the glowing, heavenward expression of the eye. It seems that the soul within is kindling with the fire of glories it sees beyond the clouds which overhang it, and is ready to dart through that beaming eye, and haste away to its native sphere. Methinks this picture would have power to win the saddest heart from despondency, and kindle light in the deepest caverns of despair. If it were near me always, I could almost fancy it a good spirit kindly hovering over me to turn my eyes, however steeped in sorrow, and my yearning confidence, still upward to the skies.

If there were time, and my limits allowed, I might select from the almost endless catalogue of Madonnas, Crucifixions, Ascensions, and other scriptural pieces, some choice specimens. Some of them are singularly effective. In the crucifixion, and several pieces representing Christ taken from the cross, the grief and overwhelming anguish of the disciples and "the women," are so speaking, as to pain the heart. One piece of this kind I notice, as the device resorted to by the artist to give effect to the malignant cruelty of the chief priests and rulers, is so skillful. Christ is represented struggling under the cross. The disciples hang behind, watching carefully the movements of the soldiers who lead the procession, and as they catch an opportunity, unnoticed, by crowding their shoulders under the fatal wood, relieve their beloved Master, weary and sinking under his load. The expression of the Saviour is one of mingled tenderness and grief. The poor disciples look as if their hearts would break, while the women follow on, wringing their hands and bedewing

the pathway of their Lord with bitter tears. In the midst of all this sorrow, the priests and rulers alone are unaffected. They walk proudly on, unmoved. But just behind them, and directly opposite the Man of Sorrows, you see a noble dog, looking up with even more than human tenderness and sympathy into the face of the sufferer. It is a little thing, but it has great meaning. It is often in such little things, that the delicacy of an artist's taste is shown, and a picture made so pleasing and effective. I cannot go into any further details. There are pieces of statuary, which I hardly know how to pass by, as they come up fresh to my mindbut I must go on. I saw in Rome some of those frescoes, which are celebrated the world around. I don't know as you have a clear idea of what fresco painting is-excuse the insinuation. I will relieve the offensiveness of it, by confessing that I never had myself, until recently. The term fresco, in painting, is confined properly, I believe, to painting on plaster or walls. But painting on vertical or side-walls, is not the wonder I am going to speak of. You and I can do that, after a fashion. You are enough of an amateur in art, to know the province and importance of foreshortening-the skillful management of which gives the effect of relative size and distance to the various objects composing a picture. Now to make a difficult matter plain, you know that if you or I should attempt to represent the human form, for instance, upon a ceiling overhead, instead of on a side wall, we might succeed in making something like a representation, and there it would be spread out as flat as the surface on which it was drawn. Now, conceive of such an arrangement of light and shade, that that form shall seem to stand erect from the ceiling above you, receding upward, in size, proportion, and moulding of feature and limb, as perfect as if thrown upon the wall at your side. This will give you a simple idea of the wonder which art has achieved. But adequately to appreciate the magic of the art, you must see the complicated groups of figureseach perfect in proportion and detail, and with all the ease and grace which ever adorned the canvas, which beautify some of the celebrated chambers of Rome, and are the admiration of the world. In some, extensive landscapes stretch away, charming you with their beauty, and leading the eye far away; while in others, gods and goddesses bend over you, as if they

hung from the ceiling, or are borne on clouds, with chariots and flying horses, so veritable, that you start instinctively to get out of their way.

I have given you a brief account of my feelings on first entering this wondrous city, and a sketch equally hurried and partial of some principal objects of interest within.

In closing, I must say a few words upon Rome as the cabinet and armory of the Catholic Church. As the seat of the Pope and the centre for so many centuries of the power and movements of the most wonderful civil and ecclesiastical system the world has ever known, it is alike a place of deep interest to the scholar, the statesman, and the Christian. This is not the place to discuss the secrets of its power, or inquire into its present policy and comparative strength. That conviction which roused the soul of Luther three centuries ago, "Nearest Rome, farthest from God," still forces itself painfully on the mind of every Christian and lover of his race. And who can stand within this mighty city and look over the darkness and despotism which the long reign of the Papacy has spread far and wide, without devoutly praying that the day of its final overthrow may be hastened, and millions now enslaved, soon shout "Hosannah" over their joyful deliverance! One great attraction at Rome at certain seasons, is the round of special religious ceremonies. They are numberless, and some of them highly imposing. The church carries on the religious part of her system in an accommodating way, compensating for her lack of justice, mercy and every fruit of righteousness, by the exuberance of outward rites, burning of candles, ringing of bells, fireworks, illuminations, &c.--a singular substitute for faith, hope, and charity. Many of these ceremonies, though superficially imposing, on a little reflection and familiarity, become distressingly empty, and even disgusting, to any correct taste. Such unmitigated nonsense as blessing horses, asses, candles, &c. &c., regularly practiced with becoming ceremonies, bespeak something worse than stupidity on the part of those who engage in them. We should pity the unfortunate victims of this soul-darkening and degrading system, and pray and labor for the spread of that light which shall yet deliver them. But no language is strong enough to express the detestation which an honest soul must feel toward those who have originated and wilfully perpet