which you hold in your hand. I have kissed | poor brother have grown so well. There their it a thousand times, and there is in it a harvest for your lips to reap." 66 'Ah, dear child, how gladly have I done so!" murmured Girhardi. "It is for you, as for me, an intense satisfaction, is it not, that we are permitted again to correspond? For this permission we owe General Menou eternal gratitude. It is he who has put an end to this silence, which separated us even more than the distance between us. Blessings upon him! Henceforward our thoughts, at least, can fly to each other. I can tell you my hopes, and they will sustain you; you can tell me your griefs, and in weeping over them I shall feel that I am near you. But my good father, if a greater favor was reserved for us,-oh, I pray you, stop for a moment here, and prepare yourself for the sudden joy that I have to communicate. My father, if I should be once more permitted to return to you!-to see you from time to time, to hear your voice, to surround you with my care! For two years this was happiness enough for me, and then captivity seemed light to you! If this hope is realized, soon I shall re-enter those walls from which I have been exiled." "She will come! what! here? be with you?" exclaimed Charney, with a cry of joy. 66 Read on, read on," replied, sadly, the old man. Charney reread the last phrase, and continued: "Soon I shall re-enter those walls from which I have been exiled; this makes you happy, truly happy, I am sure. Dwell a moment on this comforting thought. Your daughter, your Theresa, begs it. Do not hasten to finish this letter; a too vivid emotion is sometimes dangerous. Is not what I have said sufficient for you? If an angel had descended from heaven charged to fulfil your wishes, you would not have dared to ask more. I, too exacting perhaps, before he took his flight back, should have interceded for your liberty-for your complete deliverance. At your age it is so cruel to live deprived of the sight of your na tive land. The banks of the Doría are so beautiful, and in your gardens of La Colline the trees planted by my dead mother and my memory lives more than in any other spot. Then you must so long for your friends; your friends whose generous efforts have so well aided my feeble endeavors. Oh, father! father! the pen burns my fingers-my secret is about to escape me; I have already betrayed it, without doubt. Arm yourself, I pray you, with all your strength and steadfastness, while I tell you of the happiness which awaits us. In a few days I shall rejoin you, no more to soften your captivity, but to bring it to an end; no more to be with you at stated hours, and within the walls of a prison, but to bring you away with me, free and proud! yes, proud! You will have the right to be so, for it is not mercy that your faithful friends, Delarue and Cotenna, have obtained for you-it is justice, reparation. "Adieu, my good father. Oh, how much I love you, and how happy I am! "THERESA." "You will be free!" cried he; you will repose under the shadow of green trees, and look upon the sun!" "Yes," said the old man, "I am going I am going to leave you; and this is the shadow that my joy throws before it, to obscure it." "That matters not!" replied Charney, proving by the vehemence of his delight and his generous forgetfulness of himself how worthy he had become of a friendship. "You will be restored to her at last. She will cease to suffer for my fault; you will be happy, and I shall feel no longer this terrible weight which oppresses my heart. During the little time that remains to us together we can at least speak of her. These last words were spoken in the arms of his friend. While the three were seated on the bench, Girhardi gazing upon his daughter, and Charney occasionally making an indifferent remark, in a movement which Theresa made towards her father, a large medallion, suspended about her neck and hidden in her dress, escaped. Charney could see on one side the white hair of the old man, and on the other a withered flower carefully preserved under the glass. It was the flower which he had sent to her by Ludovic. She had carefully preserved his flower, then,-treasured it with the hair of her father, whom she adored! The flower of Picciola no longer ornamented the hair of the young girl; it reposed upon her heart! This discovery made an entire change in Charney's sentiments. He scanned her features anew, as if she had been metamorphosed, and he might discover there what had not before been visible. Her face, turned towards the old man, was illuminated by a double expression of tenderness and serenity; she was beautiful then with the beauty of Raphael's virgins, with the beauty of a loving and pure soul. Charney gazed on this lovely profile, in which harmonized strength and sweetness, energy and modesty. It was long since he had looked upon a human face so glowing with youth, beauty, and virtue. He was intoxicated by the sight, and fixing his eyes earnestly on the medallion, murmured; "You did not, then, despise my poor gift?" But, low as was the tone in which he spoke, Theresa turned quickly towards him; her first movement was to replace the locket in her dress; but she, in her turn, was aware of the change in the Count's expression, and as their eyes met, the blood mounted in the faces of both. "What is the matter, my child?" said Girhardi, seeing her disturbance. "Nothing,' said she; but instantly correcting herself, as if she scorned to deny a pure and honorable sentiment,"It is this medallion; see, my father, this is your hair;" then, turning to Charney, This is the flower, monsieur, that you sent me; I have kept it, and I shall keep it forever!" 66 There was in her words and the sound of her voice, and in that delicate instinct which led her to address her explanation as well to her father as to the stranger, so much frankness and modesty, an expression so tender and chaste, that Charney felt himself touched as he had never been before. The rest of the day passed in the effusions of a friendship which each minute seemed to enhance. Apart from the secret attraction which sometimes draws us to another, intimacy grows with a rapidity proportioned to the time we may have to spend with our new friend. Charney and Theresa had never spoken to each other till to-day, but they had each thought much of the other, and they would perhaps have so few hours together! When Charney, by an instinct of etiquette and good breeding, rose to retire, saying that after so long a separation he would leave the father and daughter alone to enjoy their happiness, she exclaimed: Are you going?" detaining him by a look, and Girhardi by a gesture. “Are you, then, a stranger to my father -or to me?" added she, with a charming tone of reproach. To convince him that his presence was no restraint upon them, she entered into the detail of all her adventures since she left Fenestrella, and the means employed by her to reunite the two captives. Having finished her recital, she begged Charney to commence his, and to relate the employment of his days, and his observations on Picciola. He then entered upon the history of his earlier days in prison, his ennui, and his manual labors, the welcome appearance of his plant, and its progressive development, while Theresa with interested and intelligent questions stimulated his narrative. Girhardi, seated between the two, holding in one hand the hand of his daughter so lately restored to him, and in the other that of the friend he was so soon to leave, listened to them both, looking first at one, then at the other, with mingled feelings of joy and sadness. But at one time the old man drew his hands together, and by the same movement those of Charney and Theresa. Then the two young people, agitated, embarrassed, with quickened heartbeats, became silent. At last the young girl, without any appearance of prudery or affectation, gently withdrew her hand, and placing it upon her father's shoulder, leaned her head carelessly upon it, in a charming manner, and smiling, turned her eyes towards Charney to invite him to continue his discourse. Drawn on and encouraged by her ease and interest, he even went on to relate his "My son! my dear son!" faltered the old man. 'Have courage; count on us; adieu, adieu!" He pressed him again and again to his breast, and suddenly withdrawing from him, turned to Ludovic, and, to hide his emotion, gave him several useless recommendations concerning his care of him who was to be left alone. Ludovic did not reply, but gave his arm to the old man, whom he saw needed support. The narrator took care not to name the true model of his sweet image; but finishing the history of the misfortunes of his plant, he recalled the instant when the dying Picciola, by the order of the commandant, wasto be uprooted before his eyes. "Poor Picciola!" exclaimed Theresa, During this time Charney had apwith irrepressible emotion, "thou belong-proached Theresa, to take leave of her. est also to me, dear little one, for I contributed to thy deliverance." And Charney, transported with joy, thanked her in his heart for that adoption which established a sacred tie between them. The last rays of the sun illuminated the little court and the face of Theresa; the breeze played in her soft curls and in the folds and ribbons of her dress. Laying down her work, and raising her head, she shook back her hair and seemed to yield herself to an intoxicating draught of air, light and happiness. At this moment the door of the court was opened. Colonel Morand, followed by an officer and Ludovic, came to announce to Girhardi his liberation. Girhardi was to leave the fortress immediately; a carriage was in waiting outside of the gate to convey him and his daughter to Turin. At the entrance of the commandant, Theresa had risen, but immediately sank again into her chair, and, with one glance at Charney, all color and smiles faded from her face. But Charney remained on his seat with bowed head, while they presented Girhardi with the papers which restored to him his honor and liberty. The preparations for departure could not be long. Already Ludovic had descended from the chamber of the exprisoner with his trunks. The officer waited to accompany them to Turin. The hour of separation had come. Theresa rose again and appeared to be occupied with folding her embroidery, and putting it in her bag; then she attempted to put on her glove, but her trembling hands made it impossible. Leaning with one hand on the back of her chair, her eyes fixed on the ground, she stood thoughtful, motionless, as if nothing had been said of leaving. When she saw Charney near her, rousing from her reverie, she looked earnestly at him for a moment without speaking. He was pale and dejected, and words failed him. Suddenly the young girl, forgetting her resolutions, extending her arms toward the captive's plant, said, “I call our Picciola to witness"-but she could articulate no more. One of her gloves which she held in her hand fell to the ground; Charney picked it up, pressed a kiss upon it, and silently returned it to her. Theresa took the glove, wiped with it the tears which were streaming from her eyes, and then returning it with a last smile to Charney said, "Till we meet again," and drew her father outside the little court. A long time had passed since the gate was closed between him and them, but Charney still sat, as if turned to stone, convulsively pressing to his heart Theresa's little glove. made by the officers in their visit of search. They brought to the Emperor the cambric manuscripts, until then deposited in the archives of the Minister of Justice. He read them over carefully, and declared loudly that the Count of Charney was a madman, but a harmless one. "He who can so abase his thoughts as to be absorbed in a weed," said he, "may make an excellent botanist, but not a conspirator. I grant his pardon. Let his estates be restored to him, and let him cultivate them himself if such is his good pleasure. Charney, in his turn, left Fenestrella; but he did not go alone. Could he be separated from his first, his constant friend? After having her transplanted into a large case of good earth, he took Picciola in triumph with him; his Picciola-Picciola to whom he owed reason; Picciola to whom he owed his life; Picciola from whose bosom he had drawn consoling faith; Picciola through whom he had learned friendship and love; Picciola, in short, through whom he was to be restored to liberty! As he was about to cross the drawbridge, a large rough hand was extended towards him. 'Signor Count," said Ludovic, trying to conceal his emotion, "give me your hand; now we can be friends, since you are going, since you leave us; since we shall see you no more-thank God !—" Charney interrupted him,-"We shall see each other again, my dear Ludovic! Ludovic, my friend!" And after having embraced him and pressed his hand again and again, he left the citadel. He had crossed the esplanade, left behind him the hill on which the fortress is built, crossed the bridge over the Clusone, and turned into the road to Suza, when a voice from the ramparts reached him, crying, "Adieu, Signor Count! adieu, Picciola!" Six months after, one sunny day in spring, a rich equipage drew up at the gates of the prison of Fenestrella. A traveller alighted and inquired for Ludovic Ritti. It was his former captive who came to pay a visit to his friend, the jailer. A young lady leaned lovingly on the arm of the traveller. That young lady was Theresa Girhardi, Countess of Charney. Together they visited the court, and the chamber where once abode ennui, scepticism, désillusion. Of all the despairing sentences which had been inscribed upon the white walls, one alone remained : "Learning, wit, beauty, youth, fortune all are powerless to give happiness. Theresa added: "Without love.' The kiss which Charney pressed upon her brow gave confirmation to the truth of what she had written. Before leaving, the Count asked Ludovic to be godfather to his first child, as he had been to Picciola. Then saying farewell, the husband and wife returned to Turin, where Gerhardi awaited them in his country-seat of La Colline. There, near the house, in a rich parterre, brightened and warmed by the rays of the rising sun, Charney had ordered his plant to be placed, alone, that no other might interfere with its development. By his order no hand but his might touch it or care for it. He alone would watch over it; it was an employment, a duty, a debt imposed upon him by his gratitude. How rapidly the days flowed by! Surrounded by extensive grounds, on the borders of a beautiful river, under a genial sky, Charney tasted the wine of this world's happiness. Time added a new charm, new strength to all these ties; for habit, like the ivy of our walls, cements and consolidates that which it cannot destroy. The friendship of Girhardi, the love of Theresa, the blessings of all who lived under his roof, nothing was wanting to his happiness, and yet that happiness was to be made still greater. Charney became a father. Oh, then his heart overflowed with felicity. His tenderness for his daughter seemed to redouble that which he felt for his wife. He was never weary of gazing upon and adoring them both. To be separated a moment from them was pain. Ludovic arrived to fulfil his promise. He wished to visit his first godchild, that of the prison. But, alas! in the midst of these transports of love, of the prosperity and happiness with which La Colline abounded, the source of all these joys, of all this happiness, la povera Picciola, was dead-dead for want of care! SUNDAY MORNING. [John Peter Hebel was born near Schoff heim, in Baden, 1760; he died at Schwetzingen, September 22d, 1826. For his poems he selected the simple and popular dialect which prevails near Basle, and, with various modifications, over a great part of Swabia. They contain beautiful delineations of nature, and pictures of manners. The poems were first published at Karlsruhe in 1808; they have been several times translated into German by Schaffner, Girardet, and Adrian. Hebel was also the author of popular tales. His works were published at Karlsruhe in 1832; again in 1837-38; and a new edition in 1842.] "Well," Saturday to Sunday said, His speech was echoed by the bell, Gently, on tiptoe, Sunday creeps,— Now the world is awake and bright, He comes, with soft and noiseless tread, 1 In the German language the sun is feminine, and the moon is masculine. How gayly shines the early dew, Mary, pluck those auriculas, pray, THE BIARKEMAAL, OR BATTLE-SONG OF BIARKE.-A FRAGMENT. [This song was composed in the sixth century by Bodvar Biarke, one of Hrolf Krake's warriors. The following lines are but the commencement of it, the remainder is lost. The original may be found in Sturleson's Heimskringla, and a Latin version in Saxo-Grammaticus.] The bird of morn has risen, The rosy dawn 'gins break; Vil's sons to toil should wake. Har, strong of arm, come forth! 2 The name of a very pretty wild flower. |