particular scene of his exploits, and have made themselves minutely acquainted with the strange accounts of Giovanni Sbogarro, which are still in every mouth, will perceive how nearly the present narrative comes to the real history of that extraordinary man, in as far as it has ever been elucidated to the public.

LEGE, CREDE, ET VALE!

GIOVANNI SBOGARRO.

CHAPTER I.

A little lowly hermitage it was,
Down in a dale hard by a forest side,
Farre from resort of people that did pass
In travell to and fro.

FAIRY QUEEN.

Ar a short distance from the port of Trieste, as you advance along the sandy coast of the sea, on the side of the verdant bay of Pirano, you may perceive a little hermitage; formerly the residence of an aged recluse, skilled in the knowledge of simples, and profoundly versed in the language of the stars, who here wore out the tranquil evening of a

blameless life. It has been long deserted, but was originally under the invocation of St. Andrew, and still preserves his name.

The shore recedes gradually toward this place, where it seems to terminate between the foot of the mountain and the waves of the Adriatic, gaining in beauty in proportion as it loses in extent. An almost impenetrable thicket of fig trees and wild vines, whose leaves are kept in perpetual youth and verdure by the refreshing vapours of the gulf, embosoms on all sides this abode of meditation and of mystery.

When twilight darkens into evening, and the face of the sea, lightly undulated by the gentle breath of night,

reflects tremulously the image of the stars, it is impossible to express all that there is of enchantment in this solitude. The soft murmur of the waters, dying away upon the beach, can hardly be distinguished, on account of its unbroken duration, and may be resembled to an eternal sigh.

Sometimes, at rare intervals, a torch moves along the horizon in the invisible boat of some fisherman, casting over the waves a long furrow of light, which extends or diminishes according to the agitation of the sea: it presently vanishes behind a sand-bank, and all returns into obscurity.

In this beautiful seclusion, the reveries of the soul suffer no interruption

from the intrusion of the senses. The mind takes free possession of time and space, as though it already spurned the narrow boundaries of life. It springs aloft, unclogged by the dross of earthly passions, and soars away in blissful visions of futurity.

A rough brigand, whose heart, replete with storms, had long expanded with none but violent and tumultuous sentiments, has been known to feel the influence of this tranquil scene, and to comprehend for once the blissful calm of that profound serenity of soul, which nothing menaces and nothing discomposes, as he paused at the hermitage of St. Andrew.

An interesting picture was once exhibited on this romantic spot. It was a