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CONCLUSION.

A PHILOSOPHER has said that greatness must be abandoned before it can be appreciated; he might have said it with equal truth of fortune, happiness, and all those enjoyments to which one becomes so easily habituated.

Never had the prisoner appreciated the wisdom of Girhardi, the virtues and charms of his daughter, till after the departure of his two friends. For him a profound depression succeeded to the intoxication of a few days. The efforts of Ludovic, and the care which Picciola demanded, had no power to rouse him; but at length the germs of mental and moral strength which he had derived from his studies brought forth their fruit, and the crushed man rose.

In the struggle his soul learned new les

sons.

At first he rejoiced in his solitude, which enabled him to think uninterruptedly of his absent friends; later, he saw with joy some one come to occupy the vacant seat of the wise old man.

Of his new companions, the first and the most assiduous was the chaplain of the prison, that good priest that he had once so rudely repulsed. Informed by Ludovic of the state of melancholy into which the prisoner had fallen, he presented himself, forgetting his former treatment, and was received with gratitude by Charney.

More kindly disposed towards mankind, Charney soon came to love this one, and the rustic seat became once more the bench of conference.

The philosopher exalted the marvels of his plant and of nature, and recounted the teachings of Girhardi; the priest, without entering into the discussion of dogmas, told him of Christ; and each became stronger in leaning upon the other.

The second visitor was the commandant of the fortress, Colonel Morand. Known better, he was a good enough man; his heart was in a military casing, that is to say, he was only hard to those in his little world, by order. He almost reconciled Charney to subordinate tyrants.

At last Charney said adieu to the priest and the Colonel. One day, when he least expected it, the prison-doors opened for him.

On his return from Austerlitz, Napoleon, importuned by Josephine (who, in her turn, probably submitted to the importunities of another interceding for the prisoner of Fenestrella), caused an account to be rendered to him of the seizure 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 sce 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, | He alone would watch over it; it was an and inquired for Ludovic Ritti. employment, a duty, a debt, imposed upon

It was his former captive, who came to pay him by his gratitude. a visit to his friend the jailer. A young How rapidly the days flowed by! Surlady leaned lovingly on the arm of the trav-rounded by extensive grounds, on the borders eller. That young lady was Theresa Girhardi, Countess of Charney.

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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 Girhardi 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.

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.

O, 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, for want of care!

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VATHEK:

AN ARABIAN TALE.

BY

WILLIAM BECKFORD, Esq.

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