circumstances, his talents were wonderfully developed, numerous paintings issued from his brush, in which the young maestro fully verified his chosen motto: "The Drawing of Angelo, and the Colouring of Titian." But no Madonna or even saint were amongst those productions; he shrank from reproducing those images which he had once desecrated with criminal thoughts of murder. He never parted with the box and its contents, and it always stood at the side of his easel as a sort of memento mori. It was long before Piombo had succeeded in drawing him into the circle of the fair sex, and it was also long before he found their society and charms seductive. At last, after the death of his friend, finding solitude irksome, he married a rich young lady at Rome, who adored and followed him to Venice. There he found the palace of Titian deserted; the maestro had removed to Florence, whither Schiavone had followed him. Tintoretto now began to work diligently for himself; his fame soon spread throughout Italy; his works were considered masterpieces, and ere long every palace in Venice had something to show of his brush and pencil. His growing reputation soon brought back to his studio his former protégé Andrea, between whom and Tintoretto's eldest daughter, Alezia-generally called the prettiest flower of la bella Venizia-mutual love had sprung up, and Tintoretto tacitly approved of their eventual union. Alezia was the pride and darling of her father, while her golden hair and complexion frequently reminded him of the first love of his youth.

"What do you think of Andrea, darling?" asked her father one day.

"He is very kind to me," said she, blushingly. "He has painted a Madonna for my missal, since you cruelly refused to do it for me." Tintoretto, embracing her, said, with deep emotion:

"After I have expiated an enormous sin which has darkened the life of my youth, the saints will again allow me to devote my brush to their service; but don't, dear, question me about it-it gives me pain."

Alezia listened with sorrowful astonishment to these strange words, and continually pondered on them. Neither could her mother unriddle the words, she being totally ignorant of Tintoretto's early life at Venice, but she thought that Andrea might give them some clue to the sin hinted at. "I am sure," added she, "that he must know more of his sorrows than we do. I frequently hear them hold private conversations, when alone in the study, in such a low voice as plainly to indicate that they are talking about some secret known only to themselves. Speak to Andrea, love, and ask him."

Alezia did speak to Andrea, but he told her that a sacred oath binds his lips, but that the little box that is always at her father's side in the studio contains the evil spell that casts a gloom over his temper. " Pray, Alezia, to the saints," added he, with deep feeling, "who always listen to the devout prayers of the innocent, to free the mind of your father from sad recollections, and restore to him peace and tranquillity."

The same night, when all were in bed, Alezia stole into the study. In one hand she held a lamp, and in the other her missal, which she pressed against her heart. She approached the mysterious box, but it was locked, and the key was not there. However, after much tossing, shaking, and fingering, it flew open; an overpowering exhalation issued from it as she

was bending her face over it. Having deposited her missal in the box, she closed the lid and retired, satisfied that the spell would soon be broken. Early next morning, before any one had yet risen, she again repaired to the studio, opened the lid, and took out her sacred deposit. A fine grey dust lay upon the blue velvet binding of her missal, while its silver clasps had lost their bright gloss. This unusual appearance augured to her simple mind a miraculous token of a change for the better, and encouraged her to repeat the sacred operation for several nights successively, that the evil spirit might entirely be banished never to return any more to torment the oppressed spirit of her dear father. In this firm belief she opened one morning the missal and kissed the Madonna, the gift of Schiavone, her lover. It seemed to her that the bright colours had faded away, or that her own eyes were covered, as it were, with a thick veil; the air seemed hot and heavy, and a few minutes after she lay on the floor in a deep swoon. On opening her eyes she found herself on a couch at the breast of her father, while her mother and Andrea were kneeling at her side, both bathed in tears. Alezia's countenance was wonderfully changed; she looked pale, breathed heavily, while her feet and limbs had become ice-cold. Slowly, and almost inaudibly, she whispered:

"Weep not for me while I am dying; the Queen of Heaven has kissed my forehead, and you, dear father, will henceforth regain the calm of your mind, and paint again holy images, for I have removed the evil spirit from the fatal box. The missal- Her voice broke.

At these words Tintoretto uttered a terrific shriek of anguish, and fell down senseless close to the couch of his dying child. On recovering his senses, he saw his wife on the floor shedding tears of agony, while at the head of the couch were kneeling pious monks in silent prayer. The candle of death was burning: Alezia was dead!

The maestro then bid them all to leave the room, and leave him alone with the corpse. He sent for his easel and painting materials, and began to take the likeness of his child before the cruel hand of death had time to disfigure the delicate features. Not a tear moistened his burning eyes, not a convulsed muscle shook his hand during the operation, until he had finished the likeness, and when at last he quitted the chamber of death late in the evening, his hair had become white, and his appearance was that of a very old man!

On the day of Alezia's funeral Tintoretto began his celebrated picture of the Virgin, which he afterwards presented to the Cathedral Maria della Salute, and which is considered the most brilliant execution of art. It bears the features of his Alezia.

Ever since the death of his daughter, Tintoretto only painted pious or scriptural subjects. His "Last Doomsday," "The Adoration of the Golden Calf," "The Crucifixion," "St. Agnes and St. Rochus," are amongst the chefs-d'œuvres of the sixteenth century. In 1594, Tintoretto began and completed his largest picture, for the palace of the Dogi, "The Paradise." It is thirty feet high and seventy-four long, and contains upwards of one hundred figures. A few days after he had put the last stroke on it, he died.

MR. GRIMSHAW'S LITTLE LOVE-AFFAIR.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

[However it may fare with the "immortal part" of authors, it is at least certain that their bodies are by no means exempt from the "ills that flesh is heir to." This unfortunate condition of things has been the reason why our old contributor, Mr. DUDLEY COSTELLO, who has filled so many pages of the Miscellany, was compelled for a time to suspend his literary labours. We are happy to say that he has now resumed his pen-we trust, to the edification and amusement of our readers.— ED. B. M.]

XIV.

GRIMSHAW had not forgotten his old friend Fogo, though he appeared to have neglected him. There had been reasons, and cogent ones, why Grimshaw should, for a time, forbear the delights of Fogo's society; but another set of reasons now operated to induce him to seek them again.

The fact is for between ourselves the truth may as well be spokenGrimshaw wanted Fogo's advice. He had often sought it in matters of business, and habit now led him to ask it on quite a different subject.

In French tragedies of the classical period, the confidant in all love affairs is the dame de compagnie, or lord in waiting, who never, by any chance, has had an opportunity of indulging in the tender passion on her or his own account; and, following the example of French classical tragedy, Grimshaw addressed himself to Fogo, who, though a married man, had achieved wedlock without any of the tender torments which usually precede, if they do not follow, that operation.

It matters little, however, if you have a confidential communication to make, whether its recipient be a qualified person or not; the great thing, in all cases, is to have somebody to confide in, and as there was no one with whom Grimshaw stood on such terms of intimacy as with Fogo, to Fogo he addressed himself.

"Where do you eat your steak to-day, Fogo?" asked Grimshaw of his colleague, after settling the terms of a time-bargain on the morning after his adventure at Conger Hall.

"As usual, at Joe's," replied Fogo, in a careless sort of way.

"It makes no difference, I suppose," said Grimshaw, “if you have it anywhere else?"

Pro-vided it's tender, and has the gravy in it," returned Fogo, "in course not!"

"Then," said Grimshaw, "let it be at Will's. Quite as good there, you know."

"But what makes you

"Well-perhaps!" said Fogo, thoughtfully. want to change? Anythink gone wrong at Joe's?"

"No, nothing!" answered Grimshaw, "only I want to keep clear of Bouncer's lot. I've something rather particular to say to you, and those fellows never let one have a moment's peace."

VOL. LIV.

2 L

"Ah, they're desperate skylarkers!" observed Fogo. "They carry on at such a rate that many's the time they've made me swallow my fat without tasting of it!"

"Say the word, then, as soon as you're ready," said Grimshaw, “and we'll go to Will's together."

"I've a few Great South Tolguses to buy first," replied Fogo; "you don't happen to have any?"

"South Tolguses? No! I've some Wheal Mary Anns. They won't do, I suppose! But you'll get 'em of Bluffy. He's a holder, I know. I heard him say so."

"There he goes," said Fogo. "I won't keep you five minutes."

The mining transaction accomplished, the friends linked arm in arm, and departed for Finch-lane.

Selecting a box for two in the upper corner of the room, each ordered his separate refection, and, while it was being prepared on the universal gridiron, Grimshaw broke ground in a subdued voice.

of

"You missed me yesterday, didn't you ?" he said.

"Yes!" replied Fogo. "I was afraid you was poorly, with a return your old complaint. Nothink of that kind, I hope!"

"No! The fact is, my complaint is a new one."

"God bless me, Grimsher! I beg your pardon, I must call you Grimsher. The name you've took don't seem to fit my mouth. What's the matter? You look well enough."

"That may be, but all's not gold that glitters. You've no idea, Fogo, of what I've gone through lately."

"What's it been? Not small-pox, that everybody's having of? You've been waccinated, I hope! Every one of my servants was done yesterday."

"I was done too-you needn't draw back-it wasn't in the way you mean, though the disease is catching, they say! To tell you a secret, Fogo, I've met with—"

"Two small steaks, one brought the smoking viands. "Stout!" said Fogo.

"Pale ale !" said Grimshaw. "Pints?" asked the waiter.

under" interrupted the waiter, who "What malt liquor, gents?"

Both nodded, and the functionary withdrew, but the conversation was not immediately resumed; for Grimshaw, though in love and on the point of announcing the fact, had always a keen appetite at noon, and Fogo, with a rumpsteak, cuit à point, before him, could not have listened if he would. When, however, the claims of hunger had been recognised, and the great agent of reflection, digestive cheese, had been set on the table, when Fogo had scooped out his nugget of Cheshire, leaving the knife sticking in the mound that his friend might follow his example, the thread of Grimshaw's narrative was taken up at the point where it had been broken.

"As I was going to say, Fogo, I've met with a lady, quite recently, whom I very much admire!"

"So the wind's in that quarter, Grimsher! Well, I'm not surprised. 'Tisn't the first time, I believe !"

"You must not laugh, Fogo. This is a serious matter, and I want your help."

"Do I know the lady ?"

"Not that I'm aware of. But you may be acquainted with her father. Did you ever hear the name of Hardback?"

This last word was uttered in so low a whisper, that if Fogo had heard it before he failed to do so now.

"Hatbox?" he replied. "No! I once knew a man named Topcoat, who might have been a relative of his, though I never was informed that he were. In fact, we was not particularly intimate, and when I say I knew the Topcoat I'm speaking of, it was only in a casual promiscuous sort of way, meeting in the short stage sometimes before the busses was invented

"I mentioned neither Topcoat nor Hatbox," said Grimshaw, rather testily" but Hardback;" and he gave the name a louder intonation through the improvised speaking-trumpet which he formed with both his hollowed hands.

"You

"Oh, Hardback!" exclaimed Fogo, catching the real sound. don't happen to mean the rich fishmonger of Lower Thames-street?" "I mean nobody else," replied Grimshaw. "He is as rich, then, as people say ?"

"I can't answer for that, till I know what they do say; but, to the best of my belief, he's good for a couple of hundred thousand. Bouncer, however, could tell you better than me. He does all Hardback's share business."

"Hang Bouncer! I shan't ask anything of him. Besides, I don't care. It makes no difference to me whether the old gent has two hundred thousand or one. I don't want to be prying into his private

affairs."

"Only you'd like to know something about 'em," observed Fogo, dryly. "Well, at all events he's rich enough to give his daughter a handsome fortune. I suppose that's as much as you care for, Grimsher?"

Relaxing from his affected indifference, Grimshaw smiled.

"I've no concealments from you, Fogo. Hardback's daughter is the party I alluded to."

"You almost said as much before."

"But the cash is the least part of the affair," said Grimshaw, earnestly. "I'm not mercenary, Fogo. When a fellow is hit here"—he smote his left-hand waistcoat-pocket as he spoke "he don't think about money." "Take care what you're doing of, Grimsher!" exclaimed Fogo, in some alarm; "if I was to give myself a punch in the ribs like that, just after swallering my steak, I wouldn't answer for the consequences!" "You never loved!" said Grimshaw, reproachfully. "Well, but how was it, then?" asked Fogo.

"Tell me all about it!"

Thus urged, the ice being sufficiently broken, and the proper amount of curiosity excited, Grimshaw related in detail all that we know already respecting his first meeting with Arabella and the events that followed it, with the natural addition of a few embellishments to heighten the heroism of his own conduct.