it to say that the most majestic of the three is the Temple of Neptune, approached by three gigantic steps facing the whole front of the platform upon which it stands, and formed, like the temple itself, of rich, yellow-hued travestine, porous and yet hard; many parts of which are quite honey-combed by the action of air and moisture during a long series of ages. This temple faces the clustering chain of Appenines, to which the inhabitants of Paestum often fled for safety during the many devastating attacks to which they were so long subjected. There is a simple yet sublime majesty in its Doric architecture,—a mellow richness in the hue of its solid and yet tapering columns,-a grandeur in the huge blocks of travestine, of which its walls are composed, that fill the beholder with wonder and delight. It seems to be the silent guardian of those other fair temples which rise on either side of it, and whose soft greyish hue contrasts agreeably with the warmer tint of old Neptune's shrine. The temple once dedicated to fair and fruitful Ceres is the most light and graceful of the group. There is a fairy-like beauty in its form and proportions, well befitting a worship which must have been amongst the purest and most winning in the dark days of heathendom.

It was within the peristyle of Ceres' Temple that we opened our well-filled basket and prepared for our mid-day repast. Scarcely had we seated ourselves on some marble steps and fixed on a fallen capital for our table, when we found ourselves surrounded by a troop of from twenty to thirty ragged blackeyed boys and girls, who, lounging against the columns, stood gazing upon us as if we were some of those fabled monsters of old who were wont occasionally to reveal themselves to the eyes of humanity. Most of them held out some little idol, headless, armless, or legless, which they thrust upon us for sale, crying out, "Venare! Bacco! Ceres!" and when we declined their offers with a smile or laugh, they would burst out into a gleeful grin which formed a very effective chorus of fun, often accompanied by the most extraordinary gesticulations or by a leap of pleasure high into the air. Our small pieces of money being already expended, I took out a silver coin about the value of sevenpence or eightpence, and calling over the eldest of the party told him, in presence of the rest, that this munificent donation was intended for all, and made him promise to divide it fairly amongst them. He promised very gravely to do so, the others listening intently both with eyes and ears to the promise of their coming wealth. But scarcely had the tempting metal touched the palm of his hand, when the faithless youth

bounded over the base of the temple and darted across the open country with a fleetness that seemed to defy all the attempts of his ragged companions to overtake him. The whole party were quickly out of sight, and we were left in peace to enjoy our repast and talk over the delight which this excursion had afforded us. Before quitting Paestum, we plucked bouquets of the acanthus, with whose classic leaves many of the columns are wreathed, and also gathered a profusion of the large richly coloured purple violets which form a carpet of sweet-scented verdure all around. The ever-blooming roses for which Paestum was once famed, have no existence now, save in the pages of the poet.

We went to seek for the ancient Cyclopean wall with which Paestum was once encircled, but which is now in a very fragmentary and ruined state. The eastern gate (or gate of the Syren) is composed of huge massive blocks of stone, and its overhanging arch is about fifty feet in height; but the frescoes of the Syren and Dolphin with which it was once adorned are now quite effaced. There are also some vestiges of tombs and other buildings to be found within the ancient precincts of the city; but trailing plants and shrubby foliage shroud so closely the fragments of art, that one blindly tramples the past beneath one's feet, and vainly long for the unveiling of those treasures which now lie lost and hidden from human gaze.

How regretfully did we learn, after three hours spent at Paestum, that the fitting time of our departure had arrived, and that we must now take our last look at those glorious monuments of Grecian art and of the old world's greatness! Silent,-isolated,-ruined! They will still live on in our loving memory; and often shall we picture them to ourselves, so majestic and yet so fair, with their hem of an azure and classic sea, and their background of picturesque and storied mountains.

Unhappily for the few dwellers on the soil of Paestum and its neighbourhood, fever rages here in its most virulent and depressing form during certain seasons of the year, so that they speak of their lot as being far from a happy one.

Now, however, all looked serene and bright; nor did we bear away with us aught but pleasurable remembrances from the classic soil of Paestum.

On our way home, the whole scene was kindled into a still higher and more vivid beauty by the splendour of an evening sun; nor can we, amongst our many happy days in Italy, dwell on one more rich in unclouded enjoyment than the 24th of February, 1864, which I have thus faintly endeavoured to picture to my readers.

LOUISA HALL.

Hides her fruit under them, hard to find, And, being a tree of steadfast mind, Makes no show of blossom or berry, Lures not an idle bird to make merry

Under her boughs, her dark rough boughs, The prudent mulberry tree.

But by-and-by, when the flowers grow few,
And the summer fruits dwindle, poor to view,
Out she comes in her matron grace,
With the purple myriads of her race,
Full of plenty from root to crown,
Showering plenty her feet adown;
While far overhead, hang gorgeously,
Large luscious berries of sanguine dye;

For the best grows highest, always highest, Upon the mulberry tree.

And so she lives through her fruitful season-
Fairest tree that blows summer breeze on!
Till the breeze sharpens to fierce wind cold,
And the sun's warm beams wax pale and old ;-
Sudden hoar frosts the white lawn cover,
And the day of her beauty and strength is over.
Her blighted berries strew all the grass,
Or wither greenly aloft. We pass

Like faithless friends, when her summer ends;Not a glance for the mulberry tree!

Yet there she stands in the autumn sun,
Her fruits all gathered, her duty done :

And lets the wind rave through her emptied boughs
Like a mother left lone in a childless house:
Till some still night, 'neath the frosty skies,
She drops her green clothing off and dies;-
Answering the call that nature sends,
And ending her life as a good life ends:
Ripe without haste-dying, green to the last,
The grand old mulberry tree.

PARISE THE DUCHESS.

A Tale of the Carlovingians. AMONG the great barons of the time of the glorious Charlemagne, who was more noble or more powerful than Raymond, Duke of Saint Gilles? for in his obedience were Vauvenice, Beaucaire, Tarascon, and Valence, and all the countries around, and he had married the beautiful lady Parise, the daughter of the high duke, Garnier de Nanteuil. But there was a great moral sore in Duke Raymond's court at Vauvenice-his douze pairs were twelve unprincipled traitors of the "lineage" of Ganelon, of him who had betrayed Charlemagne's army in Spain, who had been the cause of the disaster of Roncevaux and of the death of Roland. They had murdered Garnier de Nanteuil, the father of the fair Duchesse Parise, and their rightful lord.

Once, when Duke Raymond held a full court, as usual, on Ascension Day, the twelve traitors met in council together to consider their particular interests; and their chief, Berenger, who addressed them as their leader,

slain Garnier, but his daughter remains, and as long as she lives we are not safe-one of these days she will revenge his death by causing us all to be hanged or burnt. I propose that we provide against this danger by poisoning her; and I have a fair daughter whom we will marry to Duke Raymond, then we shall all be his peers and masters in the land." Berenger added that when he was a student he had learnt how to mix a very subtle poison, and with this he offered to prepare poisoned apples and send them to the duchess. All the "traitors" agreed to Berenger's plan, but it failed in its direct aim through an unforeseen accident. Thirty tempting apples are imbued with the deadly poison, and sent as a present to Parise by a messenger, who was instructed not to say by whom they were sent, and who, on his return from his errand of evil, was murdered, in order that there might remain no witness of the crime. Meanwhile, the duchess has taken one of the apples to eat it; but she is prevented by the sudden arrival of Duke Raymond's brother, a young and handsome knight, named Beuve, who is received gracefully, and invited to partake of the fruit. He took the apple in his hand, and in an instant dropped dead. Parise was, as might be expected, shocked and disconcerted; but other feelings soon gave way to the sense of her own danger: and, fearing to be accused of murder, she contrived, with the assistance of a faithful maid, to carry away the body unobserved and throw it into an adjoining river; but it had not been carried far by the stream when it was dragged out by fishermen, and the news spread abroad that the duke's brother, Beuve, was dead. The apple still remained tightly grasped in his fingers, and when it was taken from them and thrown into a corner, a swine picked it up to eat and died instantly. The manner of Beuve's death was thus discovered. Duke Raymond had just inquired for his brother, and when he heard what had happened, he made a vow that he would inflict upon the murderer a terrible punishment.

The traitors also were informed of these events, and they held council again. Another cause hastened their resolutions: the duchess was enceinte, and, if she were not soon put to death, a child would be born, who might some day avenge the murder of his grandfather, Garnier. One of the conspirators, Aumauguin, stepped forward to offer his services. He disguised himself as a pilgrim returning from Rome, and in this manner presented himself before duke, and declared that he the had become through confession, he wished to reveal

acquaintech

to him. He told him that the duchess had poisoned his brother; because, as she had no child herself, she feared lest, in the event of her husband's death, young Beuve should inherit his dominions, and lest she should then be driven from her high position into private life and poverty. To reveal a confession was a great crime against ecclesiastic propriety; but the next step of the conspirators was a still greater breach of knightly honour and integrity. The only trial to which the duchess could submit her cause was that of private duel or combat, and if she denied the crime, the accuser was obliged to prove it by force of arms against whoever might offer himself as her champion. arranged that one of the "traitors," Milo, who held the office of chamberlain to the duchess, and whom she had loaded with benefits, should present himself as her champion; but that, after a slight show of resistance, he should allow himself to be vanquished, and thus betray her to her destruction.

It was

To add to the baseness of this treason, Milo breaks his lance and his sword, and joins the pieces together in such a manner that the two weapons would look perfectly whole and sound, and yet, at the first blow, they would break. As the result of these treacherous contrivances, Milo is vanquished, and Parise, condemned to be burnt, is dragged to the stake. To complete the treason, a hoary bishop, who also was one of the family of the traitors, offers himself to the duchess as her confessor, and immediately proclaims that she had avowed her guilt. But a bold clerk, more honest than the rest, here interfered, and, at his instigation, the bishop, accused of the crime of betraying a confession, was burnt at the stake which had been made for the duchess.

The shock of all these events was almost too much for Duke Raymond, who tenderly loved his duchess, and the sternness which he had first shown soon gave way to more compassionate feelings. He changed the sentence of death into exile, and Parise was driven from her country; but the rigorous sentence forbade anybody, on pain of death, to give her shelter or show charity towards her. There was, however, an old noble, named Clarembaut, honest, and bold, and wise, who had already expostulated with the duke on the ease with which he listened to accusations against his duchess; but, finding his counsels treated with contempt, he retired from the court. He had been greatly in favour with the old duke, Garnier, and was the father of fourteen good knights. To Clarembaut's mansion Parise first directs her steps, and the old man comforts and encourages her, and,

for the love of her father, he orders ten of his sons to accompany her in her exile, for her support and protection, and makes them swear never to leave her for fifteen years.

Parise and her ten attendants depart from Vauvenice in the middle of the night. They wander long, until at last they arrive in the great forest of Hungary, where the lady was taken with the pains of labour. All alone, and without the necessary aid, under the shade of a lofty pine, she was delivered of a male child, which bore on its right shoulder the mark of a royal cross. The duchess swathed her infant with rich cloth, as was then the custom, and called her knights to look at it. They found her so weak and feeble that it was impossible to proceed any further, and they broke down boughs from the trees, made her a lodge with them, and laid her on a bed inside. Now, the Hungarians of this period were looked upon as inheriting the predatory habits of their forefathers, the Huns, who laid waste so large a portion of the Roman Empire, and among them robbery was regarded as a very honourable profession. A party of three Hungarian robbers were prowling about the forest near where Parise and her knights had taken their lodging. They watched them, but found them too much on their defence to allow of an attack, but one, approaching in the darkness the place where the lady lay, felt with his hand the swathed infant, and, believing it to be a parcel of valuable articles, carried it away. Next morning, when at daybreak the loss was discovered, Parise was overcome with grief; but the brothers searched the forest in vain, and in sorrow they turned their steps backward until they reached the city of Cologne, and presented themselves before its lord, the Count Thierry. Parise told him that she was a lady of rank flying from her country, where her father had been slaughtered, that her newly born infant had just been stolen from her, and that she sought an asylum in some great man's family as nurse or governess to his child. The Count Thierry took compassion on her, received her into his household as governess to his young son, and took her ten knights into his service.

king, to be washed and baptised, and we will have him nourished and taught, and so, as he grows up, with God's blessing, he will learn to steal." The king gave his consent, caused the child to be carried by the minister to the font, and was so charmed with its beauty that he stood as its godfather, gave it his own name, and called it Hugh. Fifteen years passed by, and young Hugh had become a noble youth, well taught in all princely accomplishments. First, he was instructed in letters till he was proficient in learning; next he learnt tables and chess, till there was not a player in the world who could mate him; and then he learned to manage his horse and handle his spear, till few knights could pretend to equal him; we hear nothing of the progress he made in the art of stealing, for he appears to have regarded this accomplishment with little admiration, though he rose higher and higher in the king's love.

One day King Hugh sat in his hall at his high table, amid his barons and knights, and when they had all eaten well and drunk plentifully, and the napkins were withdrawn from the tables, he called his principal advisers, and addressed them as follows:-"Lords," he said, "listen to me. I am aged and hoary, for I have passed my hundredth year, and it is time to withdraw from the bustle of life. I have a noble daughter, and an adopted son whom I love. I intend to marry my daughter to Hugh, and leave him the kingdom, and he shall reign after me when I am dead."

Among the nobles was a traitor of the kindred of Ganelon, his name was Gontagles de Losane. He, of course, was an alien himself; he had visited Hungary, and been retained at King Hugh's court, where he became one of his nobles. Gontagles replied to the king: "I, sire, cannot approve your design; have you not enough of dukes and counts of high parentage at your court who are worthy of your daughter's hand, rather than give her to a mere foundling, of whose origin we are ignorant.' But the king loved Hugh, and believed in the nobility of his blood, and he was not easily turned from his purpose. It was finally resolved to put the young Hugh upon the trial of his character.

66

Sire," said Gontagles, "send for the three robbers, and let Hugh go and lodge with them. At night they shall take him into the royal treasury to rob it, and if he be really of noble blcod, he will prove it by stealing none of the money."

"Let it be so," said the king.

So Hugh went home with the three robbers,

and they passed the evening in jollity; and at night they proposed to their young guest to go together and make a great prey. Hugh gave

a ready consent, for, as stated above, robbery was not considered a dishonourable way of obtaining wealth; he urged only that he was too young to be able to perform any great exploit. But when he learnt that it was the king's treasure they proposed to rob, he refused in an outburst of indignation. He was informed that he had already consented to the robbery and had associated himself with them, and that it was now too late to withdraw; and, under fear of violence, he went with them to the royal treasury. They made a hole in the wall, thrust Hugh through it, and told him, on pain of their vengeance, to examine well the treasure within, and bring away as much as he could. Hugh looked at the treasure which lay amassed before him, and admired it, but touched none: and then, seeing three beautiful ivory dice lying on a casket, he took them and put them in his bosom, and then returned to the three robbers, who were appeased by an evasive statement; and, in fact, when they knew the truth, they had no cause for dissatisfaction, as they had performed their task of subjecting Hugh to a trial. But the "traitor," Gontagles, persisted in his spiteful hostility, and accused him before the king of robbing the treasury; but Hugh refuted the charge so triumphantly, producing the three dice as his evidence, that the king felt more convinced than ever that he was of princely blood, and announced openly his intention of giving him his daughter and kingdom.

Young Hugh had now fallen under the influence of a new sentiment-an irresistible desire to discover who were his parents; and he resolved within himself that he would not marry the king's daughter until he had fathomed this mysterious secret. The hostility and reproaches of the Hungarian youths of his own age, sons of barons and peers, made him feel the irksomeness of his position. "Accursed be the day," they said, when they met together, "when this low fellow was first brought here. We know neither the father who begat him or the mother who bore him. If he were slain it would be for our advantage -we should then be truly the lords of the land, and we should soon be reconciled with the king."

"Yes," said the son of the traitor Gontagles, who resembled his father in wickedness; "let us challenge him to a game at chess in the deep cellar of the palace, where nobody will hear what takes place. We will call him bastard and foundling; he is sure to take up the quarrel; let each be provided with a good sharp knife, and and we will all fall upon him and put him to eath." This plot

immediately carried into