It must be deuced sharply thought of, for who is safe now in his own house?"

"If it's to come to blows," resumed the smith, “if there's to be fighting, why, comrades, you've seen me before now. 'Tisn't for nothing I'm called Braccioforte. [Anglicé Strong-arm.]

"And I don't shrink from danger.-Nor I-Nor I:" repeated the usual chorus.

"Oh!" cried Pizzabrasa springing forward; "the third bell is sounding the retreat. Home, home! I've no lantern, and no mind to pay the fine of twenty-five lire."

"Nor I; so good evening."

"When I'm wanted you know where to find me. Good evening-Sleep well."

In those days the poor went to bed at twilight, to rise with morning's dawn to their trades, and candles were a rarity. The houses were therefore dark, except when a moon-beam peered through the oiled paper windows. At the violent bursting open of the door, the wife raised her head from the pillow, to ask why so late; and four or five children lying by her side, kept awake by hunger, asked their daddy what he had brought for supper? But the infuriated daddies, heeding neither wife nor child, kindle a light, and snatch their arms down from the wall, or up from under the bed.

Of supper not a word; but every minute heads are thrust out of windows, ears are anxiously bent to the slightest noise. Every clamorous drunkard, every loudly shut door, creates alarm. Then there is calling from balcony to balcony: "Neighbour, any thing new !"

"No, nothing-and you?"

"Nor I." And then a minute's silence is followed by the repetition of the same questions and the same answers.

Gradually, however, this fervour subsides; the women and prudent greybeards get these raging men to bed; their last word is a threat.

...

In the morning they awake betwixt a yes and a no, and amidst the usual peaceful yawn, remember the tumult, the madness, of the preceding evening.

"What, already daylight?" They listen; all is still; they hear the wonted quiet murmur of other mornings. Disheartened and calm, they stretch themselves, coolly put on their clothes, between whiles looking out of the window. All is tranquil; the shops not yet opened; the bells sounding only for early mass; milkmen, gardeners, builders, labourers, all repairing to their accustomed avocations.

"So much the better!" they exclaim; "the Lord be thanked!" To the courage of fear had succeeded the baseness of safety.

And so Milan thinks no more of the unhappy prisoners, until the heads of families are summoned to assemble and sentence them, which they promptly do, without knowing more of the trial than a report publicly made of the conspiracy detected, of the names of the criminals, and of the sentences proposed. The popular assembly confirms all, and execution follows. The invitation to attend on this last occasion is more general and more exciting; and to the execution we proceed, passing by a pathetic scene in which Margherita is prepared for death by Buonvicino, as her confessor, and informed that her husband and child were already executed-the execution of the child is historical, though, we believe, he was older. The place is thronged with the lower orders, the windows with ladies and gentlemen, and the judges are in their appointed balcony.

They come! they come! resounds; and the whole crowd rises on tiptoe; all necks are stretched, all heads turned, all eyes bent in one direction. And lo! to the accelerated tolling of the bells appears first a black standard, edged with yellow, bearing the effigy of an upright skeleton, with a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other; on his right, a man with a cord about his neck; on his left, another carrying his own head in his hands. Behind the standard walked, two and two, the confraternity of Consolation; a devout association, whose chief business was to assist and comfort condemned persons. The members wore long garments of white cloth, with the hood sewed down to the body, so that it could not be raised. In the part covering the face was seen only a scarlet cross, under the arms of which appeared two small apertures, just sufficient for sight: over the heart hung a black medallion, on which was effigied the crucified Saviour, with the Baptist's head at the foot of the cross. Unshaped by girdles, and their hands folded within their falling sleeves, they seemed nocturnal phantoms. The last of the train bore a coffin, whilst, in lugubrious chorus, they sang the Miserere, they sang the funeral service, they bore the coffin of one yet in full health.

Piercing the crowd, they reached the scaffold, where they deposited the receptacle of death; and, ranging themselves upon and at the foot of the steps, in two lines, to receive the condemned, they formed a sort of barrier between the world and her, who, in a few minutes, would cease to belong to it.

And see where slowly advances a car, drawn by two oxen in black trappings; upon it is our poor Margherita. In obedience to the vague feeling that impels us to adorn ourselves for all spectacles, all ceremonies, even the saddest, she had attired herself in a decent black dress, and had combed and smoothed her hair, the glossy blackness of which was set off by the cold, uniform whiteness of her now morbidly delicate skin. On her neck, where pearls once contended for the palm of fairness, the beads of her rosary seemed to mark the line where the axe was to sever it. Her folded hands clasped the cross attached to it, from which she never raised her eyes-eyes wont to beam with cheerful benevolence, and that now, dimmed with sadness and languor, saw but one object, one hope.

By her side sat Buonvicino, paler, if possible, than herself; in his hand the crucified image of him who so suffered for us; from time to time he suggested to her a prayer, a consolation.

Nothing was looked at but Margherita. Although faint from intense suffering, though bearing the stamp of imminent death upon her countenance, at sight of her, all exclaimed, “Oh, how beautiful!—So young!" and more than one tear fell at this moment; more than one handkerchief covered the eyes of the ladies, more than one glove, accustomed to grasp the sword, brushed away the moisture gathering on the lashes of the cavaliers. Then all eyes turned to the judge's seat, to Lucio,—could he not wave the white scarf, the sign of mercy?

Behind the car, his arms bound at his back so tightly that the cord cut the flesh, his hair and youthful beard dishevelled, his head bandaged with a ragged handkerchief, in tattered garb and hemmed in by soldiers, limping and sorrowful, followed another of our acquaintance, Alpinolo.

We must here briefly state that Alpinolo, disguised as a common soldier and unknown, had been severely wounded in endeavouring to effect the escape of the Pusterla family, and had been doomed to witness their execution prior to his own.

Already the car had stopped at the foot of the scaffold; a solemn silence prevailed throughout the gazing multitude, Margherita alighted and approached the steps for her, steps leading to heaven. The executioner came down to meet her, extending his hand as though to help her up-that hand which, the

day before, had been steeped in the blood of those she loved! With an instinctive shudder, but without aversion, Margherita declined it, and, as steadily as she could, began to ascend. Poor martyr, thy sufferings are not yet over!

As she passed through the confraternity of Consolation, she heard herself addressed in a suppressed but ferocious tone:-" Margherita, recollect the eve of St. John."

As the dead frog is convulsed at the passage of the electric stream, so did Margherita, who had seemed far beyond earthly concerns, start at this taunt; she turned a look replete with terrible majesty and profound horror upon the wretch who had spoken; and, through the aperture of his hood, saw an eye like that of the venomous serpent glaring upon her. Buonvicino recognized the speaker by his words, and gave his hand to Margherita, who grasped it with that energy of terror, with which, when outraged by a foe, we cling to a friend. The monk held up the crucifix before her, saying, "He died, forgiving his murderers."

Margherita fixed her eyes on the sacred effigy, raised them to heaven, and seemed comforted. Radiant with the presentiment of immortality, she reached the fatal platform. The next minute the executioner displayed to the people her gasping head, held up by the black tresses.

Then, with the insane eagerness of thirsty dogs rushing to a fountain, several persons were seen running to the scaffold with a porringer, catching the blood as it gushed from the trunk or rained from the head, and gulping it down still smoking. They were unhappy epileptic patients, who thought by this horrid remedy to cure that most horrid of human maladies.

When Margherita offered her neck to the blow, Buonvicino, kneeling with her, whispered his last consolation to ears that would soon cease to hear; then grasping the crucifix, like one relieved from a painful situation, he raised it towards heaven, lowered it to the platform, and sank resting his forehead upon it. The blood of the victim sprinkled him. All was over, and he moved not. They lifted him-he was dead!

Alpinolo is about to be executed, when Ramengo recognizes him. Furiously he interferes to rescue him, (still, be it remembered, concealed under his close hood,) declares that he has his pardon at home, if the executioner will but give him time to fetch it, and proclaims the unknown victim to be his son. Alpinolo, whose ignorance of his family has been his constant misery, revives to thoughts of happiness, and clings with rapturous affection to his still unrevealed father, exclaiming :

"Father, save me! Yes, I am Alpinolo, I am your son, save me!".. But the commanding officer, Sfolcado Melik, [meant for a German name,] weary of the delay, called out to the soldiers, "Come, come, let it not be said you suffered a ruffian to delay justice. Drag him forward."

All bestirred themselves, but Alpinolo struggled for life, and, wresting a battle-axe from one of the soldiers, prepared for a desperate effort. Ramengo, blocking the narrow stairs with his person, shouted to Melik, "Whom dost thou call ruffian? Ruffian thyself, thou that sellest thy carcase! Dost thou not know me?" And he tore the hood from his face; "I am Ramengo da Casale: learn to respect me!"

Alpinolo had not hitherto recognized his protector. But when he heard that name, suspending a fearful blow that he was just dealing with both hands, he turned and recollected the face, imprinted upon his memory as the face of a fiend. . . . He hurled the battle-axe upon the platform, and, with glaring eyes, with arms and fingers stiffly extended towards him, he ejaculated, Ramengo! you my father!" He uttered a yell of despair, raised his face

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towards heaven, and, with his hands in his bristling hair, breaking from the hold of his father, who, like a maniac, clung to him, praying, cursing, asking pardon, he ran to place his neck beneath the axe of the executioner.

The next minute the brother of Consolation lay prone, clasping the feet of a corse, pouring forth yells, tears, imprecations.-But who pitied him?-He

was a spy.

With this extract we close Margherita Pusterla; but, before we proceed from the Visconti to the last of the Sforzas, we must observe that both Cantu and Leoni possess the merit of having treated the rather ticklish subjects, upon which these great events turn, with perfect delicacy. Their tales contain not a description, not a word, that can provoke a blush. And we must observe that this is a merit no longer rare in the light literature of Italy, which is setting an example by no means unnecessary to the

continent.

Lodovico il Moro is a pure specimen of our second school, offering a succession of historic scenes, often in dialogue. We have first the nuptials of the minor, Gian Galleazzo, with Isabella of Naples; then those of the regent, his uncle Lodovico il Moro, with Beatrice of Este; then the ambition and manoeuvres of the latter couple, with the arrogance and pomp of Beatrice, and Isabella's exasperation. Then follow her efforts to make Lodovico resign the government to Gian Galleazzo, now of age, foiled by the nephew's weakness and the uncle's plots; Lodovico's fears of the King of Naples, and his consequent invitation of Charles VIII. of France to conquer Naples. We have Charles's arrival, conversations with Lodovico, and interview with Isabella, her infant son, and the dying Gian Galleazzo-whether dying of poison or his own excesses is left doubtful.

In a visit of the French historian, Commines, to the Milanese historian, Corio, the beauties of Milan, and the names and works of the great artists assembled by Lodovico, are displayed to the visiter and the reader; and, in a dialogue between the same Corio and the French general, Brissonet, the former communicates to the latter the follies, if not the vices, of the Duchess Bona, Gian Galleazzo's mother, which had enabled Lodovico to rob her of the regency. The death of Gian Galleazzo, and Lodovico's proclamation as Duke of Milan, in contempt of the rights of the infant heir, are the last scenes; the subsequent conquest of the duchy by the French, and the punishment of the usurper, being briefly narrated.

And this is entitled an historic novel! Should it not rather be termed history imaginatively developed?

WORKS ON RUSSIAN LITERATURE.

Lehrbuch der Russischen Litteratur. (Manual of Russian Literature.) By Dr. Friedrich Otto. Leipzig and Riga. 1837. Literarische Bilder aus Russland, herausgegeben von H. König. (Literary Sketches of Russia, edited by H. König.) Stuttgart, 1837.

If not quite so satisfactory in themselves as we could wish, the two works, which we have placed at the head of this article, will answer our present purpose well enough, our intention now being to treat of Russian literature generally, and to indicate the progress which it has made of late years. They are so different in character as plainly to manifest the very altered point of view from which that literature is now beginning to be contemplated; for, while the one regards it as so entirely unknown that even the slightest information relative to it must be welcome, it being almost a prodigy that it should exist at all, the other takes some previous acquaintance with it for granted, and, therefore, omitting what must be tolerably familiar to those who have read any thing upon the subject, instead of attempting a general outline, in little better than a dry and meagre catalogue of names and dates, brings forward only a few of the more prominent writers, who are characterised in an intelligent and animated manner, if not uniformly with impartiality.

But, although the existence of a literature, or something that may be allowed to pass as such, is no longer regarded with almost incredulous astonishment, as little better than fabulous, very little more is now known respecting it than when it first obtained notice among us. Our curiosity respecting it appears to have been very soon satisfied; its progress, since that time, has been almost unheeded by us, and very few names of recent celebrity have as yet even reached this country. In fact, as far as it is known at all, it is estimated rather by what it was some time back, than what it actually is at present. Few, who know any thing of it, will question its possessing several able and one or two highly-gifted poets; yet, in the opinion of very few indeed, will what it may be able to boast of in that respect establish for it a sufficiently valid claim to distinction, or even attention; more especially if, instead of exhibiting native vigour and a marked impress of its own, it is evidently modelled after types with which we have been long familiar. It were an error, however, to imagine that the comparatively few names, which have been received by foreigners as those of established eminence, at all represent the current literature of the country. So far is this from being the fact, that many celebrities have now merely reference to the past, and are allowed to stand nominally as convenient dates and chronological signs, rather than for any positive value attached to them. They have,