acts of brutality, etc. that only husbands are capable of, or of which their poor wives are ever the victims.

If the moral geography of Europe be ever written, the region south of the Alps will certainly be coloured with that tint, whatever it be, that describes the blessedness of a divorced existence. In other lands, especially in our own, the separated individual labours under no common difficulty in his advances to society. The story -there must be a story-of his separation is told in various ways-all of course to his disparagement. Tyrant or victim, it is hard to say under which title he comes out best-so much for the man; but for the woman there is no plea; judgment is pronounced at once, without the merits. Fugitive, or fled from-who inquires? she is one that few men dare to recognise. The very fact that to mention her name exacts an explanation, is condemnatory. What a boon to all such must it be that there is a climate mild enough for their malady, and a country that will suit their constitution; and not only that, but a region which actually pays homage to their infirmity, and makes of their martyrdom a triumph! As you go to Norway for salmon fishing-to Bengal to hunt tigers-to St. Petersburgh to eat caviare, so when divorced, if you would really know the blessing of your state, go take a house on the Arno. Vast as are the material resources of our globe, the moral ones are infinitely greater; nor need we despair, some day or other, of finding an island where a certificate of fraudulent bankruptcy will be deemed a letter of credit, and an evidence of insolvency be accepted as qualification to start a bank.

La Comtessa inhabited a splendid palace, furnished with magnificence; her gardens were one of the sights of the capital, not only for their floral display, but that they contained a celebrated group by Canova, of which no copy existed. Her gallery was, if not extensive, enriched with some priceless treasures of art; and with all these she possessed high rank, for her card bore the name of La Comtesse de Glencore, née Comtesse della Torre.

The reader thus knows at once, if not actually as much as we do ourselves, all that we mean to impart to him; and now let us come back to

that equipage around which swarmed the fashion of Florence, eagerly pressing forward to catch a word, a smile, or even a look; and actually perched on every spot from which they could obtain a glimpse of those within. A young Russian prince, with his arm in a sling, had just recited the incident of his late duel; a Neapolitan minister had delivered a rose-coloured epistle from a Royal Highness of his own, court. A Spanish grandee had deposited his offering of camelias, which actually covered the front cushions of the carriage; and now a little lane was formed for the approach of the old Duke de Bregnolles, who made his advance with a mingled courtesy and haughtiness that told of Versailles and long ago.

A very creditable specimen of the old noblesse of France was the Duke, and well worthy to be the grandson of one who was Grand Marechal to Louis XIV. Tall, thin, and slightly stooped from age; his dark eye seemed to glisten the brighter beneath his shaggy, white eyebrows. He had served with distinction as a soldier, and been an ambassador at the court of the Czar Paul; in every station he had filled sustaining the character of a true and loyal gentleman—a man who could reflect nothing but honour on the great country he belonged to. It was amongst the scandal of Florence that he was the most devoted of la Comtessa's admirers; but we are quite willing to believe that his admiration had nothing in it of love. At all events, she distinguished him by her most marked notice. He was the frequent guest of her choicest dinners, and the constant visitor at her evenings at home. It was then with a degree of favour that many an envious heart coveted, she extended her hand to him as he came forward, which he kissed with all the lowly deference he would have shown to that of his Prince.

"Mon cher Duc," said she, smiling, "I have such a store of grievances to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but verbena."

"Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's."

"Pierrot is a traitor, then; that's all and where's Ida's Arab, is he to be here to-day, or to-morrow ? When are we to see him?"

"Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last."

"Mais a quoi bon l'Emir if he can't do impossibilities? Surely the very thought of him brings up the Arabian Nights, and the Calif Haroun. By the way, thank you for the poignard. It is true Damascus ; is it not?"

"Of course. I'd not have dared--" "To be sure not. I told the Archduchess it was. I wore it in my Turkish dress on Wednesday, and you, false man, wouldn't come to admire me !"

"You know what a sad day was that for me, madam," said he, solemnly. "It was the anniversary of her fate who was your only rival in beauty, as she had no rival in undeserved misfortunes."

"Pauvre Reine!" sighed the Countess, and held her bouquet to her face.

"What great mass of papers is that you have there, Duke ?" resumed she. "Can it be a journal ?"

"It is an English newspaper, my dear Countess. As I know you do not receive any of his countrymen, I have not asked your permission to present the Lord Selby; but hearing him read out your name in a paragraph here, I carried off his paper to have it translated for me. read English, don't you?"

You

"Very imperfectly; and I detest it," said she, impatiently; "but Prince Volkoffsky can, I am sure, oblige you;" and she turned away her head in ill-humour.

"It is here somewhere. Parbleu, I thought I marked the place," muttered the Duke, as he handed the paper to the Russian. "Isn't that it ?"

"This is all about theatres, Madame Pasta, and the Haymarket." "Ah! well, it is lower down: here, perhaps."

The Grand Duke

"Court news. of Saxe Weimar." "No, no: not that."

"Oh, here it is. 'Great Scandal in High Life-A very singular correspondence has just passed, and will soon, we believe, be made public, between the Herald's College and Lord Glencore." Here the reader stopped, and lowered his voice at the next word.

"Read on, Prince. C'est mon mari," said she, coldly, while a very slight

"Then he is an infame, and I'll tell him so," cried the other passionately. "Which is he? the one with the light moustache, or the short r one?" and, without waiting for reply, the Russian dashed between the carriages, and thrusting his way through the prancing crowd of moving horses, arrived at a spot where two young men, evidently strangers to the scene, were standing calmly surveying the bright panorama before them.

"The Lord Selby," said the Russian, taking off his hat and saluting one of them.

"That's his lordship," replied the one he addressed, pointing to his friend.

"I am the Prince Volkoffsky, Aidde-Camp to the Emperor," said the Rus sian; and hearing from my friend, the Duke de Bregnolles, that you have just given him this newspaper, that he might obtain the translation of a passage in it which concerns Lady Glencore, and have the explanation read out at her own carriage, publicly, before all the world, I desire to tell you that your lordship is unworthy of your rank-an infame! and if you do not resent this- -3 polisson!"

"This man is mad, Selby," said the short man, with the coolest air imaginable.

"Quite sane enough to give your friend a lesson in good manners; and you too, sir, if you have any fancy for it," said the Russian.

"I'd give him in charge to the police, by Jove, if there were police here," said the same one who spoke before he can't be a gentleman."

"There's my card, sir," said the Russian; "and for you too, sir," said he, presenting another to him who spoke.

"Where are you to be heard of ?”

said the short man.

"At the Russian legation," said the Prince, haughtily, and turned away.

"You're wrong, Baynton, he is a gentleman," said Lord Selby, as he pocketed the card, though certainly he is not a very mild tempered specimen of his order."

"You didn't give the newspaper as he said

"Nothing of the kind. I was reading it aloud to you when the royal carriages came suddenly past; and, in taking off my hat to salute, I never noticed that the old Duke had carried off the paper. I know he can't read English, and the chances are, he has asked this Scythian gentleman to interpret for him."

"So then the affair is easily settled," said the other, quietly.

"Of course it is," was the answer; and they both lounged about among the carriages, which already were thinning, and, after a while, set out towards the city.

They had but just reached their hotel when a stranger presented himself to them as the Count de Marny. He had come as the friend of Prince Volkoffsky, who had fully explained to him the event of that afternoon.

"Well," said Baynton, "we are of opinion your friend has conducted himself exceedingly ill, and we are here to receive his excuses."

"I am afraid, messieurs," said the Frenchman, bowing, "that it will exhaust your patience if you continue to wait for them. Might it not be better to come and accept what he is quite prepared to offer you-satisfaction ?"

"Be it so," said Lord Selby: "he'll see his mistake some time or other, and perhaps regret it. Where shall it be?--and when ?"

"At the Fossombroni Villa, about two miles from this. To-morrow morning, at eight, if that suit you."

"Quite well. I have no other appointment. Pistols, of course?"

"You have the choice, otherwise my friend would have preferred the sword."

"Take him at his word, Selby," whispered Baynton; "you are equal to any of them with the rapier."

"If your friend desire the sword, I have no objection-I mean the rapier."

"The rapier be it," said the Frenchman; and with a polite assurance of the infinite honour he felt in forming their acquaintance, and the gratifying certainty they were sure to possess of his highest considerations, he bowed, backed, and withdrew.

"Well mannered fellow,the Frenchman," said Baynton, as the door closed; and the other nodded assent, and rang the bell for dinner,

THE grounds of the Villa Fossombroni were, at the time we speak of, the Chalk Farm, or the Fifteen Acres of Tuscany. The Villa itself, long since deserted by the illustrious family whose name it bore, had fallen into the hands of an old Piedmontese noble, ruined by a long life of excess and dissipation. He had served with gallantry in the imperial army of France, but was dismissed the service for a play transaction, in which his conduct was deeply disgraceful; and the Colonel Count Tasseroni, of the 8th Hussars of the Guards, was declared unworthy to wear the uniform of a Frenchman.

For a number of years he had lived so estranged from the world, that many believed he had died; but at

last it was known that he had gone to reside in a half-ruined villa near Florence, which soon became the resort of a certain class of gamblers, whose habits would have speedily attracted notice if practised within the city. The quarrels and altercations, so inseparable from high play, were usually settled on the spot in which they occurred, until at last the Villa became famous for these meetings, and the name of Fossombroni, in a discussion, was the watchword for a duel.

It was of a splendid spring morning that the two Englishmen arrived at this spot-which, even on the unpleasant errand that they had come, struck them with surprise and admiration, The Villa itself was one of

those vast structures which the country about Florence abounds in. Gloomy, stern, and gaol-like without; while within, splendid apartments open into each other, in what seems an endless succession. Frescoed walls, and gorgeously ornamented ceilings, gilded mouldings, and rich tracery are on every side, and these, too, in chambers where the immense proportions and the vast space recall the idea of a royal residence. Passing in by a dilapidated grelle which once had been richly gilded, they entered by a flight of steps a great hall which ran the entire length of the building. Though lighted by a double range of windows, neglect and dirt had so dimmed the panes, that the place was almost in deep shadow. Still they could perceive that the vaulted roof was a mass of stuccoed tracery, and that the colossal divisions of the walls were of brilliant Tierna marble. At one end of this great gallery was a small chapel, now partly despoiled of its religious decorations, which were most irreverently replaced by a variety of swords and sabres of every possible size and shape, and several pairs of pistols, arranged with an evident eye to picturesque grouping.

"What are all these inscriptions here on the walls, Baynton ?" cried Selby, as he stood endeavouring to decypher the lines on a little marble slab, a number of which were dotted over the chapel.

(6 Strange enough this, by Jove," muttered the other, reading to himself, half aloud-"Francisco Ricordi, ucciso da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29 Settembre, 1828."

"What does that mean?" asked Selby.

"It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here in '28." "Are they all in the same vein ?" asked the other.

"It would seem so." Here's one : gravamente ferito,' badly wounded, with a postscript that he died the same night."

"What's this large one here, in black marble?" inquired Selby.

"To the memory of Carlo Luigi Guiccidrini, detto il Carnefice,' called the slaughterer: cut down to the forehead by Pietro Baldasseroni, on the night of July 8th, 1829."

"I confess any other kind of lite

Yes, yes. I know it all. Volkoffsky sent me word. He was here on Saturday. He gave that French colonel a sharp lesson. Ran the sword clean through the chest. To be sure he was wounded too, but only through the arm; but La Marque' has got his passport."

"You'll have him up there soon, then," said Baynton, pointing towards the chapel.

"I think not. We have not done it latterly," said the Count, musingly. "The authorities don't seem to like it; and, of course, we respect the authorities!"

"That's quite evident," said Baynton, who turned to translate the observation to his friend.

Selby whispered a word in his ear. "What does the signore say?" inquired the Count.

My friend thinks that they are behind the time."

"Per Baccho! Let him be easy as to that. I have known some to think that the Russian came too soon. I never heard of one who wished him earlier! There they are now: they always come by the garden;" and so saying, he hastened off to receive them.

"How is this fellow to handle a sword, if his right arm be wounded?" said Selby.

"Don't you know that these Russians use the left hand indifferently with the right,in all exercises? It may be awkward for you; but, depend upon it, he'll not be inconvenienced in the least."

As he spoke, the others entered the other end of the hall. The Prince no sooner saw the Englishmen, than he advanced towards them with his hat off.

"My Lord," said he rapidly, "I have come to make you an apology, and one which I trust you will accept in all the frankness that I offer it. I have learned from your

friend, the Duc de Bregnolles, how the incident of yesterday occur red. I see that the only fault committed was my own. Will you pardon, then, a momentary word of illtemper, occasioned by what I wrongfully believed a great injury?"

"Of course, I knew it was all a mistake on your part. I told Colonel Baynton here, you'd see so yourself-when it was too late, perhaps."

"I thank you sincerely," said the Russian, bowing; " your readiness to . accord me this satisfaction makes your forgiveness more precious to me; and now, as another favour, will you permit me to ask you one question?"

66

Yes, certainly."

"Why,when you could have so easily explained this misconception on my part, did you not take the trouble of doing so?"

Selby looked confused, blushed, looked awkwardly from side to side, and then, with a glance towards his friend, seemed to say, "Will you try and answer him?"

"I think you have hit it yourself, Prince," said Baynton. "It was the trouble the bore of an explanation, deterred him. He hates writing, and he thought there would be a shower of notes to be replied to, meetings, discussions, and what not; and so he said, 'Let him have his shot, and have done with it.'"

The Russian looked from one to the other, as he listened, and seemed really as if not quite sure whether this speech was uttered in seriousness or sarcasm. The calm, phlegmatic faces of the Englishmen the almost apathetic expression they wore-soon convinced him that the words were truthfully spoken; and he stood actually confounded with amazement before them.

Lord Selby and his friend freely accepted the polite invitation of the Prince to breakfast, and they all adjourned to a small, but splendidly decorated room, where everything was already awaiting them. There are few incidents in life which so much predispose to rapid intimacy as the case of an averted duel. The revulsion from animosity is almost certain to lead to, if not actual friendship, what may easily become so. In the present instance, the very diversities of national character gave a zest and enjoyment to the meeting; and while

the Englishmen were charmed by the fascination of manners and conversational readiness of their hosts, the Russians were equally struck with a cool imperturbability and impassiveness, of which they had never seen the equal.

By degrees the Russian led the conversation to the question by which their misunderstanding originated. "You know my Lord Glencore, perhaps?" said he.

"Never saw-scarcely ever heard of him," said Selby, in his dry, laconic tone.

"Is he mad or a fool?" asked the Prince, half angrily.

"I served in a regiment once where he commanded a troop," said Baynton; "and they always said he was a good sort of fellow."

"You read that paragraph this morning, I conclude ?" said the Russian. "You saw how he dares to stigmatize the honor of his wife-to degrade her to the rank of a mistress -and, at the same time, to bastardize the son who ought to inherit his rank and title?"

"I read it," said Selby, drily; "and I had a letter from my lawyer about it this morning."

"Indeed!" exclaimed he, anxious to hear more, and yet too delicate to venture on a question.

"Yes; he writes to me for some title deeds or other. I didn't pay much attention, exactly, to what he says. Glencore's man of business had addressed a letter to him."

The Russian bowed, and waited for him to resume; but, apparently, he had rather fatigued himself by such unusual loquacity, and so he lay back in his chair, and puffed his cigar in indolent enjoyment.

"A goodish sort of thing for you it ought to be," said Baynton, between the puffs of his tobacco-smoke, and with a look towards Selby.

"I suspect it may," said the other, without the slightest change of tone or demeanour.

"Where is it somewhere in the south ?"

"Mostly Devon. There's something in Wales, too, if I remember aright."

"Nothing Irish ?"

"No, thank Heaven-nothing Irish" and his grim lordship made the nearest advance to a smile of