Petrarca.

A large ruined arch spanned a fine

spring, that rushes down the green slope.

In the church-yard, on the right, is the tomb of Petrarch.

Its peculiarly bold elevation-the numberless thrilling associations connected with the poetgave a tone and character to the whole scene. The chiaro-scuro of the landscape, was from the light of his genius-the shade of his tomb.

The day was lovely-warm, but not oppressive. The soft green of the hills and foliage, checked the glare of the flaunting sunbeams.

The brothers left the carriage to gaze on the sarcophagus of red marble, raised on pilasters; and could not help deeming even the indifferent bronze bust of Petrarch, which surmounts this, to be a superfluous ornament in such a scene.

The surrounding landscape-the dwelling place of the poet-his tomb facing the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees-the half-effaced inscription of that hallowed shrine all these seemed appropriate, and melted the gazer's heart.

How useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous

decorations of art, amid the simpler scenes of na

ture.

Ornament is here misplaced. The feeling heart regrets its presence at the time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections.

George could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they silently followed their guide to Petrarch's house, now partly used as a granary. Passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown into Petrarch's chamber, damp and untenanted.

In the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet.

There did he sit-and write-and muse-and

die!

George turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and luxuriant as the garden of Eden.

The rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed with the vines that clustered round the lattice.

The round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy slope beneath a grassy walk; and this thicket of fruit was charmingly enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of their blossom.

The poet's garden alone was neglected-rank herbage choking up its uncultivated flowers.

A thousand thoughts filled the mind of George Delmé.

He thought of Laura! of his own Acmé!

With swimming glance, he looked round the

chamber.

It was almost without furniture, and without ornament. In a niche, and within a glass case, was placed the skeleton of a dumb favourite of Petrarch's.

Suddenly George Delmé felt a faintness stealing over him and he turned to bare his forehead, to

:

catch the slight breeze from below redolent of sweets. This did not relieve him.

A sharp pain across the chest, and a fluttering at the heart, as of a bird struggling to be free, succeeded this faintness.

Another rush of blood to the head:-and a

snap, as of some tendon, was distinctly felt by the sufferer.

His mouth filled with blood.

A small blood-vessel had burst, and temporary insensibility ensued.

Sir Henry was wholly unprepared for this scene. Assisted by Thompson, he bore him to the carriage-sprinkled his face with water-and ad

ministered cordials.

George's recovery was speedy; and it almost seemed, as if the rupture of the vessel had been caused by the irregular circulation, for no further bad effects were felt at the time.

The loss of blood, however, evidently weakened him; and his spasms henceforward were more frequent.

He became less able to undergo fatigue; and his mind, probably in connection with the nervous system, became more than ordinarily excited.

There was no longer wildness in his actions; but in his thoughts and language, was developed a poetical eccentricity—a morbid sympathy with

surrounding scenes and impressions, which kept Sir Henry Delmé in a constant state of alarm,— and which was very remarkable.

*

"What! at Mestré already, Pietro?” said Sir Henry.

"Even so, Signore! and here is the gondola to take you on to Venice."

"Well, Pietro! you must not fail to come and see us at the inn."

The vetturino touched his hat, with the air of a man who would be very sorry not to see them.

It was not long ere the glittering prow of the gondola pointed to Venice.

Before the travellers, rose ocean's Cybele; springing from the waters, like some fairy city, described to youthful ear by aged lip.

The fantastic dome of St. Mark-the Palladian churches the columned palaces-the sable gondolas shooting through the canals-made its aspect, as is its reality, unique in the world.

"Beautiful, beautiful city!" said George, his eye lighting up as he spoke, "thou dost indeed