THE WEHR-WOLF. 'Twas the hour of sunset. The eastern horizon, with its gloomy and somber twilight, offered a strange contrast to the glorious glowing hues of vermilion, and purple, and gold, that blended in long streaks athwart the western sky. For even the winter sunset of Italy is accompanied with resplendent tints--as if an emperor, decked with a refulgent diadem, were repairing to his imperial couch. The declining rays of the orb of light bathed in molten gold the pinnacles, steeples, and lofty palaces of proud Florence, and toyed with the limpid waves of the Arno, on whose banks innumerable villas and casinos already sent forth delicious strains of music, broken only by the mirth of joyous revelers. And by degrees as the sun went down, the palaces of the superb city began to shed light from their lattices, set in rich sculptured masonry; and here and there, where festivity prevailed, grand illuminations sprung up with magical quickness, the reflection from each separate galaxy rendering it bright as day far, far around. Vocal and instrumental melody floated through the still air; and the perfume of exotics, decorating the halls of the Florentine nobles, poured from the widely-opened portals, and rendered the air delicious. For Florence was gay that evening--the last day of each month being the one which the wealthy lords and high-born ladies set apart for the reception of their friends. The sun sank behind the western hills; and even the hothouse flowers closed up their buds--as if they were eyelids weighed down by slumber, and not to wake until the morning should arouse them again to welcome the return of their lover--that glorious sun! Darkness seemed to dilate upon the sky like an image in the midst of a mirage, expanding into superhuman dimensions--then rapidly losing its shapeliness, and covering the vault above densely and confusedly. But, by degrees, countless stars began to stud the colorless canopy of heaven, like gems of orient splendor; for the last--last flickering ray of the twilight in the west had expired in the increasing obscurity. But, hark! what is that wild and fearful cry? In the midst of a wood of evergreens on the banks of the Arno, a man--young, handsome, and splendidly attired--has thrown himself upon the ground, where he writhes like a stricken serpent, in horrible convulsions. He is the prey of a demoniac excitement: an appalling consternation is on him--madness is in his brain--his mind is on fire. Lightnings appear to gleam from his eyes, as if his soul were dismayed, and withering within his breast. "Oh! no--no!" he cries with a piercing shriek, as if wrestling madly, furiously, but vainly against some unseen fiend that holds him in his grasp. And the wood echoes to that terrible wail; and the startled bird flies fluttering from its bough.