Friedlinberg, received me into his family, and took me to Vienna, where he resided. Several years passed without maniany festations of this horrible propensity. At length I became restless and uneasy; I felt agitated at the least crackling of fire, and arose frequently at night to gaze upon the starry firmament. Anxious to combat the increasing danger, I subjected myself to a rigid abstinence, ate no meat, and took violent exercise in the hope of procuring some repose: I would also frequently close my eyes to shut out the lightning or the brilliant glare of lamps. But all was useless-I could find no rest. About this time the family removed to the country for the summer, where they were joined by a medical friend of the count's. Doctor Concetti, an enthusiast for the system of phrenology, was much struck by the appearance of my head, which, upon an accurate examination, he pronounced to be an absolute phenome

non.

He questioned me closely as to my propensities, thoughts, and feelings; but receiving unsatisfactory answers, he was obliged to content himself with observing me narrowly, hoping by that means to solve the mystery. He had watched me closely for the space of ten days without success, when one night, during a thunderstorm, it was discovered that one wing of the mansion had been struck by lightning, and was already in flames. The family and household were soon assembled, when, unable entirely to conceal my satisfaction, I attracted the attention of the doctor, who followed me closely, watching both my movements and my countenance."

In continuation, she thus described that eventful night.

"The presence of the doctor, and the dread I had of betraying to him my fatal secret, which I saw he suspected, enabled me at first to conceal, in great measure, my feelings; but when I saw the bright and gorgeous flames burst forth like liberated prisoners, and rising in the air, illumine the scene for miles around-when I heard the tower beneath their fury crumble in one vast blazing pile, when I saw the livid streaks of living fire shoot upwards and dance in the air, and fall, and re-kindle and shoot again-oh! then-then I was no longer mistress of myself: I shouted-I applauded with transport-uttering cries of joy, till, in my delirium, I rolled upon the earth in ecstasy, rending the air with

shouts of joy, and wild and frequent bursts of laughter.

"The doctor, no doubt, informed his friend of the result of his observations; for the next morning the count, under pretext of some new family arrangements, told me that he could no longer retain me in his family. He, at the same time, gave me a proof of his friendship, in procuring for me the situation of governess in the family of the Baron Carintz. I was immediately installed at the château de Lustras, an old gloomy mansion. The daughters of the baron, sighing after the pleasures of a metropolis, often complained to me of the dull monotony of the life they led. I wish,' said the youngest, one day laughing, ، that some body would set fire to this old heap of ruins, and then we should go to live at Vienna.' This unfortunate word kindled the flame smothered in my heart, but not extinguished:-the idea presented itself continually to me, pursuing me night and day. Eight days after, the castle was observed to be on fire in consequence of a plentiful supply of water, the flames were extinguished. Some circumstances, however, occurred to cast a suspicion on the governess, and I was again dismissed.

"I then returned to my family, resumed my native costume, and assisted my mother in the duties of the household and farm; and by my obliging, intelligent, and affectionate disposition, I succeeded in making myself universally beloved.

"A young schoolmaster in the neighbourhood having demanded my hand in marriage, we were united. About a twelvemonth afterwards, in order to escape from the noise of my husband's pupils, I returned to my mother's farm to be confined.

"Some days after my confinement, my mother finding me sufficiently recovered, assisted me to rise, and placed me in an easy chair near the fire; she herself, with my infant on her knee, came and sat opposite to me. I never felt so happy as when I looked upon those two beings, dearer to me than all the world beside; I could not refrain from shedding tears. The infant was already asleep, and my mother, overcome with the fatigue of continual watchings, had just dropped into a deep and heavy slumber. I watched them both for some time, and was just sinking into a dose myself, when sud

third word, properly applied from the natural system, presents the student with a notion of the structure of the plant through all the gradations of seed, stem, and leaves. Such is the use of the system of Jussieu, which, when perfected and united to the system of Linnæus, and that of Tournefort, will make a student wise in any unseen plant that is duly classed.

Our fair readers must not suppose that these learned men explode or supersede each other. Very far from it: Linnæus has invented a system, which, in a few syllables, precisely informs the student of

the number and position of the anthers and pointals of a plant; Tournefort, of the shape of the blossom; and Jussieu, of the structure of the seed, bark, and leaves. Yet each of these great men have left to the botanists of the present age the task of uniting their labours to form an applicable whole. It is and has been a favourite object with this Magazine, to guide the female mind to those works which will afford enlightened information without pedantry; and we do not scruple to affirm, that Mr. Loudon's publications are eminently qualified to effect this object.

In the summer of 1831, the Marquis Angelo Foscarini was induced, by illhealth and an unquenchable desire for change of scene, to visit Dieppe. He was a noble of Genoa, and the name he bore was long honoured in the annals of that proud city, ere she had fallen from "her high and palmy state." The marquis was accompanied by the Senora Olympia, the only remaining child of several marriages.

This lady possessed exquisite-brilliant -dazzling beauty. Her complexion was that clear olive through which her blush of maiden loveliness exhibited itself in a soft and delicate bloom. Her eyes were dark, full, and flashing, yet tempered into meekness by the softness which at times beamed from them. Her dark hair well accorded with her clime and beauty: its silken tresses fell upon a neck of exquisite roundness, and separated so as to show the surpassing beauty of a forehead, high and formed as that which a sculptor who loved his art and caught the spirit of antique times, would give to a bust of Minerva. Delicately pencilled was the dark, thin outline of her eyebrows; and the profile of her face recalled to fancy that in its Grecian contour the eye beheld the features of some Athenian maiden of that early time when the women of Greece might seem true models for the forms of grace with which her sculptors delighted that period and bewildered this. Then the lips-so beautifully separated, yet trembling ever and anon with the impulse-words which sprung to their portals, and-so sensitive was her maiden diffidence-too often died

away unuttered. When she spoke, how beautifully fell the music of her voice upon the listener's ear,-like the far-off strain which floats upon the waters, and hushes the air to silence, that such sweet melody may be heard. So with the beautiful Olympia: in the rudest crowd, amid the noisy din of society, her gentle accents came, refreshingly, upon the senses, and were scarcely breathed ere they commanded that quick and hushed silence which is the sweetest tribute of respectful attention woman can receive. Nor was this all her form was moulded in the loveliest grace that beauty ever possessed as it were, a visible atmosphere around her. Her features were surpassingly lovely, as those described in the thrilling words of poetry, or dreamed of in the vision of high imagination. But, besides this, her mind, naturally strong, intelligent, and vigilant, had been cultivated with extraordinary care. She had all the accomplishments-music, painting, dancing-which the warm south delights in, with others of more solid worth which she cherished in the north. With the page of poetry-whether of her own or other countries-she was familiar : history unveiled its marvels to her view, and not in vain. In a word (for there is no occasion to catalogue her accomplishments), Olympia Foscarini was an extraordinary woman. Rare as was her beauty, still more rare was the height of cultivation by which her intellect had been elevated.

Italy could scarcely boast a fairer flower. Yet, great as was her father's pride in the exquisite beauty and yet more surpassing

accomplishments of his daughter, she was to him the cause of endless and bitter vexation. The marquis, if the truth must be told, prided himself on his high descent, and cherished deep and unavailing regret, because, from want of a male heir to perpetuate it, in his person would expire a title which, originally won by the sword in a hard-fought field of fame, had been transmitted through long centuries in a right line, acquiring fresh laurels from many who bore it. He would have given all his fortune, immense as it was,-he would have fed upon water and a crust, -he would even have laid down his own life, or sacrificed that of his daughter, much as was his fitful and wayward love for her, to have a son, by whom the proud name of Foscarini might be saved from extinction. To perpetuate that name was with him a passion: the failure of that engrossing wish almost drove him to despair almost perilled the safety of his faculties.

The Marquis Angelo Foscarini had been born to extensive possessions: these he had much increased by fortunate marriages. Before he had attained the age of sixty years, he was the widower of two noble Roman dames, and had also followed to the grave a daughter of the imperial house of Austria. Of all his children only one had survived-and he cursed his fate and gnashed his teeth, in his splendid solitude, as he thought that the sole survivor was only a daughter. Years rolled on,-the excitements of public life had lost their spur,-the snows of age had blanched his hair,-the touch of time had robbed his check of its bloom, and his heart of its freshness of feeling; he felt that, with swift steps, death was rapidly approaching; and he had a feverdread of thinking on the final hour which was to hurry him from time into eternity. So, to diminish cares,-to dissipate the ever-present dread of death-the last of the Foscarini plunged headlong into the vortex of society, and strove to conquer care by mirth.

The whirl of pleasure delighted for a season, but soon cloyed. He next had recourse to the excitement of play. He staked wealth upon the cast of the die, and usually lost. At first he played to divert his thoughts; soon, to win back (oh, fruitless pursuit !) the treasure he had lost. If at times the thought of his daughter flashed across his mind, he

would still the involuntary remembrance with a "Tush!-a girl-a woman-there will be enough for her. What could a child of eighteen do with all my palaces

my jewels-my pictures-my gold? I collected wealth, long ago, to be enjoyed by my heir. Now, I have none: let it go how it may. Come on come on, it is vain to think of it; perhaps I may die to-morrow; there will be enough left for a girl."

Olympia was aware of her father's reckless mode of life. Indeed, he took no pains to conceal it from her. Too regardless of how he wounded her sensitive feelings, he incessantly complained, in her very presence, of his disappointment in not having a son, and cursed her mother -herself-sometimes he cast imprecations even on his own head. Olympia was all gentleness and love to him,-for she felt that he was still her father,—but these made little impression on a heart which hourly seemed to become more ossified. To her the false pride which debased his spirit was too familiarly exhibited. Yet sometimes this love and gentleness would subdue even his heart of pride. When he saw her weeping bitterly-her hands clasped in most unfeigned sorrow-when he heard her implore him to bestow kind words upon her, and entreat pardon for the involuntary crime of being a woman, he would cease his reproaches, and looking with tenderness and admiration on the graceful form bent in humble entreaty before him, would forget his wrath, press a father's kiss upon her brow, and abruptly leave the apartment.

In fact, he did love Olympia. Not, indeed, with pure, paternal love-for all the father was lost in the son whose youthful remains, long since, he had committed to the grave-but he loved her because she was a being of whose beauty, grace, and attractions he felt very proud. On that account he obliged her to accompany him wherever he went-on that account he had refused the richest offers which the admiring nobles of Austria and Italy had made. With him pride was the first and the last that passion made him exhibit the daughter who, but for that, might have wasted her bloom in the solitude of a convent. While she was with him-the object of universal admiration -his pride was gratified, for she was his. "Remain with me yet a little longer,"

he would say to her, "it will be time enough for you to wed when I am gone."

At Dieppe he plunged yet deeper than ever into excesses, alike unsuited to his years and his declining health. To the wine-cup and the fatal attractions of the gaming-table he devoted the night in the morning it was his wont to bathe in the sea, and thus recruit his strength for the renewed carousals of the evening. It chanced one morning, when the sea was more boisterous, and his frame more enervated than usual, being overpowered by a monstrous wave, he was dashed, fainting and breathless, on the beach. The next rush of the tide would have borne him out into the midst of the eddying current, without the power of existence, ifa young man, who happened to be bathing near the spot, had not dashed forward and rescued him. Foscarini, on his recovery, recognised his preserver as a young officer in the Austrian service whom he had known at Vienna, and whose attentions to Olympia had caused him serious uneasiness. Yet he owed his life to this gentleman now: so, when the young German asked permission to wait upon the marquis at the hotel, to inquire after his health, common courtesy dictated an assent, however cold, to the request.

The young German was in love with Olympia more than ever; but he was now too expert in the ways of the world to betray that love, as he once before had done. He met and accosted Olympia without trepidation, and she received him without much embarrassment; he had paid her the usual compliments of society with every politeness, and she returned them in the same unsuspicious manner. From all this Foscarini did not doubt that although the young man once entertained a passion for his daughter, its very hopelessness had caused its cure long since. Accordingly, the coldness with which he received him was soon dissipated; and, in less than a month, who such friends as the Marquis Angelo Foscarini and Stephen Uterclio! By degrees, the marquis had formed an attachment for the young man,-made him his confidant,-revealed to him the secret cause of his reckless mode of life, and laid open to him all that bitterness of heart which he vainly attempted to hide from the world beneath the mask of gaiety. In a word, Stephen soon knew all his past and present life. His baffled hopes

his secret sorrows-his undying regretshis deep remorse at times-talent and wealth thrown away-all were unhidden from this young man.

To him, also, Olympia revealed all that she knew. Long since,-when they first met at Vienna, she had given her heart to Stephen Uterclio. Its chief wish now was to draw her father from the debasing pursuits which confirmed his ill health, and were hourly wrecking his fortunes. With this hope she eagerly proposed a plan, by which the marquis might be detached from his vicious habits: it was a most innocent conspiracy of the two lovers against the marquis,—a plot to seduce him back to the paths of honour and virtue.

Stephen had become so necessary to the marquis, that he spent every evening in his company. He humoured his eagerness for play, and, in consequence, became one of the most adventurous gamblers in Dieppe. The end was that in one month he had lost to Foscarini whatever money he could command. He told this to Olympia, who was well pleased to find that her father, at least while he was winning Stephen's money, could not lose his own. She supplied her lover with money, which, with his usual bad luck, he lost. The more he lost, the better was the marquis pleased with him;-for Foscarini-once the rival of princes and the pride of courtscould now be excited only by the heated flush of wine,-could find happiness only in winning that gold, which had once been the slave of his will, and now was the ruler of his heart. But at last the fickle goddess, Fortune, deserted her recent favourite.

There is a continental game called brelan, of which the marquis was passionately fond. He apprised Stephen

of his predilection, and the German lost no time in discovering that it was the most interesting game in the world. Up to this time he had lost above ten thousand louis, when, one evening, he came to Foscarini with his mind fixed on his course of action. He brought fifty louis with him—all that he could procure. This money came from Olympia,-it was the whole which she could give. Her allowance from her father was splendid, and it had been the lovers' plot to keep the marquis at play with Stephen alone. They expected that at last Stephen