tendencies, the awakening has been sudden, electric-twenty cities have rushed into festivals-the manifestations intended to encourage, to urge forward in the path of progress the man who has shown Italian intentions, have astonished the liberal party themselves. Rome, which was believed to be, and which indeed is in part, corrupt at heart, and infeoffed by its interests to the high aristocracy of the clergy, Rome has taken part in the outburst, and has fraternised with the provinces. And that there might be no mistaking the popular feelings, at Bologna, Ancona, Spoletto, cries of "Down with Austria,' 'vive Italy," mingled with those of 66 Long live Pius IX." At Ferrara the Italian soldiery engaged in bloody quarrels with the Austrian garrison.

This is, we repeat, the really important point of view, from which to study what is passing in Italy; it is as a symptom of the state of affairs, that we should appreciate the spirit of concession shown in the views of Pius IX. The source of that spirit is not in the spontaneous inspirations of the Pope; it is in the opinion of the country.

We do not by this mean to deny the good intentions of Pius IX. But in regarding the man we would not have Italy forgotten, of whose wishes he has been hitherto but a very feeble exponent. We cannot refrain also from pointing out, that when Farretti was elected to the pontifical throne, the horizon was very threatening; so threatening indeed, that Rome had but two courses to follow to maintain itself; to solicit the intervention of Austria, or to dissipate the danger by clemency and promises of concession. The insurrectionary agitation had never ceased since 1843. prisons overflowed with victims. Extraordinary special commissions of mixed composition, that is to say, exceptional tribunals composed of civilians and

The

military men had been sitting sinc the commencement of the agitation Sentences had been promulgated con demning fifty persons at once.* Oper carts passed along the roads of Romagna under the most burning sun, and surrounded by sbirri, loaded with political prisoners being transferred from one prison to another. In prison their treatment was such as reminds one of Spielberg; and that it might be clearly seen that once arrested there was no hope, their defence was committed by the commission itself to some known partisan of the government, who was liable to be interrupted or punished whenever he departed from the undissembled intentions of the judges.† Terror was the order of the day. And yet all this display of repressive means of vengeance, did not deter discontent: At Bologna it muttered its complaints; in Romagna it stalked with uplifted head. Combats

were of continual occurrence. Agents of the government and Swiss fell here and there. A plan was hatching for a new insurrection, more general and more energetic than that of Rimini. It was to commence at Sinegaglia, and break out soon after the death of Gregory XVI. The government knew this; and it was one reason for the conclave to dispatch; for the new Pope, to avert by popular means the storm that persecution had only swelled, and to enter upon a new path.

He has entered upon it; will he have courage, virtue, talent to pursue it? For, to respond to the hopes and wishes of the population by whom he is surrounded, he must advance, still advance, frankly, energetically, unrestingly. Any hesitation, any evasion, any sudden stop, would leave him isolated between the two parties, abhorred by the one, outstripped by the other. He must change all the high officers of government who surround him: with few

He

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exceptions, they are vicious and corrupt, and would impede and vitiate the best possible laws. He must secularise his entire government. He must dismiss the mercenary Swiss, who exhaust while they exasperate the people, and alienate from him the national troops. must organise the communes, and lieve local districts by a just management of their affairs from the arbitrary rule that tortures them. He must cause the general interests, rights and duties to be represented by a body offering securities for its honesty, intelligence, and independence. He must fix the laws by codes, which have long been demanded in vain: put an end to the inequality, by which for the same crime a priest is less punished than a layman: secure by an appeal not merely illusory, individual liberty, now at the mercy of each petty employé or favourite of a legate. He must organize not one school, but a good system of education, freed from the direction of corporate bodies, jesuitical or others; introduce publicity of trial and the jury; abolish confiscation,* suppress the Holy Inquisition and all clerical jurisdiction over the laity. He must open a path to intellect by dealing liberally with the press, domestic and foreign. On the one hand he must recruit the finances, exhausted, indebted, unequal to the expenses of the state;t must, on the other, lighten the taxation which is excessive; must abandon a prohibitive system, that favours not the national industry but the monopoly of a few individuals, while it nurses smuggling; must put an end to the system of farming the duties, under which the consumer pays not only the tax but the profit of the farmer also; must raise fallen credit by the principle of association applied to agriculture and manufactures; must give vital circulation and movement to an economical condition

such that the stamp and registration duties return to the state a net proceed of only 440,000 scudi, so few transactions are there; in which the post, so limited are communications, returns only 250,000 scudi, of which the expenses consume 150,000. He must do all this, for all this is asked, is urgently needed, and will soon be demanded. And when he has done all this, nothing will be done, for a breath, carrying away the pontiff, may carry away all this, unless its permanence be insured by guarantees taken from the inmost constitution of the government; nothing will be done, for the religious question on the one hand, and the national question on the other, will rise before him more threatening than ever, demanding a solution the more impossible for a Pope, as the latter contains within itself the germ of the annihilation of the temporal power of the Papacy, and the first the reduction of its spiritual power at least to a position subaltern to the church, to the assembly of the faithful.

And yet, these first steps, which we have briefly indicated, and without which the public enthusiasm will take a new direction in four or six months, will Pius IX. take them? Speaking as individuals, we do not think he will. In another number we will give our rea

sons.

We shall not the less attentively follow his bold or hesitating march, and we shall not hail with less sincere approbation every progressive measure he may adopt. Great institutions should never be stifled in the mire, and there would at least be something touching and solemn to see the papacy, which has done so much evil to Italy, do homage, beore it expires, to public opinion, aid her in those paths of improvement to which God calls all nations, and which, whatever be done to prevent it, must soon irrevocably be opened to her.

"Good night, dear Constance," said Mr Bouverie to his cousin, as he accompanied her to the door of her apartment, may you enjoy quiet repose under the 'shadow of the Almighty,' and be strengthened for our journey of to-morrow."

Constance did not reply. The tears that had been filling her eyes while her cousin spoke, now overflowed, and withdrawing her hand from his affectionate pressure, she turned hastily aside and entered her room.

She advanced to the window, and throwing it wide open, leant upon the casement, and pressing her hands upon her throbbing brow, wept for some time with unrestrained bitter

ness.

At length she looked up and turned a long gaze of mournful affection upon the lovely scene that lay before her, in deep repose, beneath the unclouded radiance of a bright harvest moon.

There lay the calm Ulleswater, on whose tranquil bosom the moonbeams slept, a pillar of unbroken light. Close to the shore was moored the little bark, in which she had often glided over those waters; and there, bending, as in days of yore, their feathery branches to meet the wave, were the trees, under whose shadow she had played in the bright noontide of her childhood's days.

And there, towering in majestic grandeur, were the mountains, each familiar form of which seemed that of a friend, known and loved from infancy; and Constance wept again in the anguish of her spirit, when she remembered that the morrow must bear her far from those cherished scenes, to which the endearing name of home belonged no more.

Constance was the only child of the late honourable and reverend Frederick Lyndsay. Deprived in infancy of a mother's care, she had been from her

earliest years almost the idol of her father; the companion of his walks and rides, the sharer in all his hours of recreation. Even in his study, her place was by his side, and the most delightful employment of his leisure hours bad been to instruct her, not only in those accomplishments in which he excelled, but to lead her in paths of literature and science, such as rarely form a part of female education,

Constance had just entered upon her seventeenth year, when the health of her father began to decline, but she would not see what was but too evident to every other eye; and when at length a sudden attack of illness proved too much for his enfeebled frame, and in a few days terminated his life, she gave herself up to the wildness of uncontrolled sorrow, and mourned as if every hope and joy of her life were blighted for

ever.

The only surviving relations of Mr Lyndsay, with the exception of his nephew, Lord Carrysford, a fine boy of thirteen, were a sister, a few years older than himself, and her children.

Lady Catherine Lyndsay had, at an early age, become the wife of Viscount Delamere, and from that time she had rarely met the brother, to whom she, nevertheless, continued fondly attached, as she had resided since the period of her marriage, almost entirely on the continent.

Immediately after Mr Lyndsay's death, his curate, Mr Stanley, had written to announce the mournful event to Lord Delamere, who was then about to return to England. He arrived too late to pay the last sad duty to his departed brother, but Mr Bouverie, his eldest son, hastened to Beverleigh, to conclude any arrangements that might be necessary, and conduct Constance to Delamere Castle, her future home.

During the interval that elapsed before the arrival of Mr Bouverie,

Constance had found in the parental tenderness of Mr and Mrs Stanley, all the comfort that Christian sympathy could administer to her desolate heart; and amongst the trials to which she looked forward on the morrow, that of separation from those friends was not the least.

The bright sunbeams pouring through the roses and jessamine that clustered round her casement, awoke Constance from the feverish slumber into which she had not fallen until the dawn of morning. She rose, and placing herself at the window, gazed long in a half-unconscious reverie upon those beloved scenes that had so often met her glad awakening.

The sound of the church clock striking the hour of seven, at length aroused her. In one hour they were to begin their journey, and rising, she hastily summoned her maid, and began her brief toilet; dismissing her attendant as soon as it was completed, she wandered into a small room opening from her dressing room, which had been furnished as a boudoir. All looked blank and desolate. Her harp, her books, all the things which had become so blended with her thoughts and feelings, as to seem almost a part of herself, had been removed to be conveyed to Delamere Castle, and, sad at heart, Constance turned away, and passed through the open porch into a beautiful flower garden, where, in the beloved society of him whom she should behold no more on earth, she had spent many bright summer hours.

From hence she could see the windows of her father's study and private apartments, but she turned shuddering away from their closed blinds, for hers was not the calm heaven-taught grief, which, resting in the joyful hope of a re-union with the lost one, when time shall be no more, can bear to cherish each sacred memory of the past.

She sought an arbour at the farther side of the garden, and lingering there, again yielded her thoughts to mournful retrospection. She was startled at length by a violent movement amongst the thicket of flowering shrubs that surrounded the arbour, and in one

66

moment longer, her favourite dog, a noble animal of the Newfoundland breed, had emerged from amongst them, and with frantic demonstrations of joy, bounded upon her. My poor Oscar," said she, whilst she threw her arms around his neck, and wept afresh, my beautiful dog, must I leave you too!" At this moment she heard a footstep advancing upon the gravel path.

It was her maid, already attired for their journey.

"Mr Bouverie desired me to tell you, Madam, that everything is ready as soon as you feel disposed to set out."

Constance arose; she wiped away her tears, and calmly walked towards her room. In a few moments she was ready. Mr Bouverie met her in the hall; he only exchanged a brief" Good morning," as he led her to the carriage; but the tone of his voice, the kind pressure of his hand, spoke the sympathy that he did not convey by words.

Everything was ready, and only the last trial remained, the uttering of that mournful word, "Farewell."

Her father's attached servants, many of whom she remembered from infancy, were assembled on the steps of the hall.

With a calm brow and pale cheek, Constance exchanged with each of them a kind adieu.

She turned to Mr Stanley, and silently placed her hand in his.

He pressed it with a father's tenderness, while she fervently implored that the presence and blessing of the Shepherd of Israel might be with her for ever. Large tear drops trembled in her eyes, as she was clasped for one moment to Mrs Stanley's bosom, but she repressed the rising emotion, and hastened onward. "Come my poor Oscar, you must accompany us," said Mr Bouverie, after he had placed Constance in the carriage. The dog had but waited for one word of permission. He bounded into the carriage, and took his place at his mistress' feet, One brief glance from the dark eyes of Constance thanked Mr Bouverie, in language that touched his heart, and then she turned aside to conceal the tears that would no longer be re

strained, while she bent over the shaggy head that her favourite had laid affectionately on her lap.

Mr Bouverie forbore to address her, until they had passed every familiar scene; but when, at length, he marked in her countenance an expression of relief, as her eye rested upon objects which no longer recalled the past, he made some brief comments upon the many interesting features of the country through which their journey lay, and soon, unconsciously to herself, Constance became engaged, and won from her own sad thoughts, by the charms of a conversation that expressed at once deep feeling and a vigour of intellect, that met and led onward her own.

Early in the evening they stopped for the night at a retired inn, to which Mr Bouverie had sent a servant in advance, to see that every comfort was provided for them; for the pale cheek and languid eye of Constance told how greatly she needed the repose, which for many nights she had hardly tasted.

On this evening she retired early, and, far from all that could awaken emotion, she soon sunk into a profound slumber, from which she awoke at sunrise, invigorated and refreshed.

At an early hour the travellers resumed their journey; and late in the afternoon of that day, as the carriage reached the summit of a little rising ground, Mr Bouverie pointed out to Constance the lofty turrets of Delamere Castle, rising from the midst of their embowering woods.

As the carriage drove rapidly down the hill, the exquisite beauty of the scene before her, found its way to the heart of Constance, even amidst the many emotions which filled it, at this first view of her future home.

The sun was just sinking behind the mountains of Wales, and his parting beams shed a flood of crimson light on the waving corn fields and rich woods, and clothed as with a radiant mantle, a sloping hill, covered with velvet turf, and shadowing trees.

Delamere Castle was situated upon its declivity—a venerable pile of noble gothic architecture; and at its base,

slept a little lake, clothed with fairy islets.

Constance continued silently to gaze, till the carriage stopped in the wide court of the castle, and she was lifted from it, and kindly saluted by a noble looking man, whose dignified bearing and benevolent smile, reminded her, though he was not otherwise like him, of her father. The next moment she was folded to the bosom of her aunt, whose sweet countenance and gentle tone so strongly resembled those of her father, that for a moment she almost felt as if restored to the parent she had lost.

As she ascended the steps with her aunt, she was met by Mrs Bouverie, who welcomed her with tender kindness; and the whole party entered the drawing-room, whose blazing fire was gleaming brightly through the open door, upon the polished oaken floor of the hall.

"You are very cold, dear Constance,” said Mrs Bouverie, as she pressed the hand that she had retained in her own, and gently drew her cousin towards the fire.

"Yes," said Mr Bouverie," even this bright sunshine fails now to impart its warmth to the evening air, and your blazing faggots, dear Isabella, are most enlivening; but I hear a visitor begging admittance, who, I am sure, will participate in an enjoyment of them.

As he spoke, he advanced to the door, which had been closed, and in opening it, Oscar entered, at first—as if uncertain whether he might venture; but as soon as his eye rested upon Constance, he rushed forward with demonstrations of joy, not to be repressed.

"What a noble dog," said Mrs Bouverie, as she stooped to caress him.

"He is a faithful friend, poor fellow," said Constance, "but I love him most dearly, because he was my fa, but the effort to speak with composure was too great.

She was exhausted by her journey; and by the many agitating emotions which filled her heart, her voice trembled, and she burst into tears.

"My own child," said Lady Dela