In quitting these charming assemblies the had been their friendship. They soon ad happy couples dispersed throughout the adja- || dressed worship to their friend in Olympus : rent woods, and over the hanging mountains. Hymen led them through secret labyrinths; and during the silence of night nothing was to be heard but soft sighs auswered by the echoes, and tender murmurs proceeding from the depths of natural grottos. Too frequently happiness remains only while she is veiled: report published that of Apollo, and of his sylvan companions; the Gods became jealous of his enjoyments, and recalled him to Olympus. The son of Latona regretted his exile, as we should regret our country." Alas!” cried he, skedding bitter tears; "must I quit you for ever, sweet asylum, beautiful shades, where far from the tumult of courts, liberty shared my days between nature and the arts! Ye woods where I loved to respire peace and freshness in solitude! Ye mysterious grottos where my heart yielded itself to the voluptu-. ous tenderuess of tears and sighs! shall I never sce you more?—Nymphs of these groves they elevated temples to him, and assembled in them to sing his praise. Apollo was no longer upon earth, but he dwelt in the hearts of those who had associated with him-how sweet is such a thought to sincere friends!Does it not sometimes even reach you, my Emilia? and at this very moment, exiled to the bosom of Paris, far from the smiling abode of Pomona and of Flora, do you not feel, that with the most devoted, most tender of lovers, you still secretly dwell in the retreat whence I now write? Of all the Gods of antiquity, Apollo is, per haps, the one whose worship has been the most extensive. The hymns sung to his honour were denominated Paans, because they usually commenced by these two words, Io Paan! These words were consecrated to recal the victory of Apollo over the monster Python. The witnesses of that terrible combat, cried out to him incessantly, "Io Paan! Iomord!→→→ strike!"-and consequently, after all vic and plains, forget my youthful errors? Naiadstories, this burthen became a cry of exulta It was usual to immolate upon the altars of Apollo a white bull or a lamb. They added to these sacrifices some libations of oil and of milk; the one in memory of the period in which he tended sheep; the other, because that the olive, faithful to the God of day, flourishes only in those regions where his beams shine brightest. ed to weep, forgive me! I was fickle, I wounded tender hearts; the court had polluted my morals; but in this happy corner of the world, far from state-intrigues, beautiful Naiads, my love has become pure as your waters; and I owe to you the delight of having tasted supreme bliss in the bosom of fidelity-Herdsmen, whom I love, and whom I quit, when you see my radiant car begin or finish its career, think that it is the eye of your friend which watches over, and enlightens you!ture, is supposed to announce the decrees of Yes, beyond every other scene, this region shall ever be dear to me! I will be prodigal there, of my light and of my precious gifts. I will make genius flourish there; and Greece shall be the country of philosophers and demi-gods. "Adieu, my friends! I pray you to cherish my sisters. Forget not my tenderness; continue to me your affection."-At these words the son of Latona mounted upon a cloud and disappeared. The herdsmen who had tasted the charms of his society, felt all its value when it was lust; and their regret was more tender than Besides these, they offered upon his altars, the crow, which like Apollo, foreseeing the fu destiny; the eagle, who, with daring eyes, gazes on the sun's fullest lustre; the cock, whose morning cry celebrates his return; and the grasshopper, who sings the lovely season of his reign. This God was represented under the figure of a young man without a beard, his hair bright and floating, and his brows bound with laurel. With the right hand he held a bow and arrows; with the left, a lyre of seven strings, emblem of the seven plauets, whose celestial harmony it is supposed to imitate. Sometimes he carried a buckler, as protector of mankind, and presented the Graces, whe animate genius and the elegant arts. A cygnet was placed at his feet; this bird was consecrated to him on account of the tender and melodious mauner with which it sings its approaching death, as if the term of existence was the epoch of happiness. I will not detail to you the infinite number of temples which were dedicated to this God, nor the multiplied feasts which they celebrated to his honour. The most celebrated temples were, that of Delos, the place of his nativity, where Theseus afterwards established the Pythian games; that of Mount Soracte, where the priests walked with naked feet, and burning censers; and that of Delphos, where young people offered him their flowing hair. It was here that Apollo distributed oracles from the lips of the Sybils. The Delphian Sybil was called the Pythoness, because that while she delivered her oracles, she seated herself upon the skin of the serpent Python. This skin covered a tripod of massy gold, which had been found in the sea by some fishermen. These fellows having vainly disputed between themselves for the possession of it, agreed to consult the oracle, which commanded them to bestow the tripod upon the wisest man in Greece. The fishermen presented it to Thales: this philosopher joined to the sciences of geometry, physics, and astronomy, a profound study of morals; it was he who said, that of all human studies, that of one's-self was the most difficult. Thales sent the tripod to Bias, whom he regarded as wiser than he. Bias was, indeed, a treasury of science and virtues. This was he, who, at the moment in which an enemy's army carried Prienne, his country, by assault, being warned to save his wealth, replied, as he moved on" I carry it all in myself." In spite of the vanity which may be found in this response, Bias had the modesty to send the tripod to Pittacus, who passed it to Cleobulus, and he sent it to Periander. I will say no more of these three worthies, than that they were philosophers. Periander offered the tripod to Solon, who made true riches consist in virtue, that only treasure which neither time nor fortune can alter. Solon refused the tripod, and made him propose it to Chilos, whose philosophy bounded itself within this simple maxim, "moderation in all things."The tripod after having thus passed through the hands of seven sages, returned to Thales, who deposited it in the temple of Apollo, when it was consecrated to the service of the Sybil. Such were the manners of the Greek philosophers. When we recal those glorious ages in which that happy country flourished, tenderness and admiration are divided between the virtues and the graces which were fostered in ber bosom, and which have long been exiled thence, by barbarism and oppression.Adieu. (To be continued.) THE CHATEAU OF ROUSSILLON. (Continued from Vol. III. Page 296.) his conduct has rivetted that prepossession into real esteem. It will sincerely grieve me if when he leaves us he forgets us; or what is more likely, if the circumstances of his situation should oblige him to relinquish our friend WHEN Julie reached her mother in the garden, she found Madame so occupied with her own reflections that the emotions of her daughter escaped unnoticed. "I know not when I have been so interested in the fate of a stranger as I am in that of this young Vene-ship." tian," observed Madame St. Hypolite. "There must be something very singular in his destiny; his resemblance to the Marquis Solerno prepossessed me in his favour the first instant I saw him; and the subsequent nobleness of "Relinquish our friendship!" repeated Julie, scarcely able to articulate the words; "O Heaven! are we then never to hear of him more?" The voice in which this was spoken, and the deadly paleness which accompanied it, struck a new light upon Madame St. Hypolite"Julie!" she exclaimed in a tone of surprise and alarm. Julie turned away her head; aud as her mother laid her hand upon her arm with a tender air, she was seized with an universal trembling. This confusion, this tremour, the tears that began again to stream from her eyes, spoke but too forcibly the language of her heart; it is true she attempted not to speak, but her silence arose not from a wish to conceal her heart from the most estimable of parents-virgin bashfulness alone restrained the sad confession. Madame St. Hypolite drew her silently into a hermitage, where sitting down with her upon a bench, she pressed her hand repeatedly without speaking; profound sighs accompanied the action, and at every sigh Julie's tears flowed afresh. Misconstruing her mother's silence, Julie suddenly started up, and cast herself on her knees before her. Her burning cheeks hastened to hide themselves in the folds of her mother's gown, but she found voice to say: "O pardon me, dearest mother!" Madame pressed her in her arms :—“I have nothing to pardon, my child, though much to lament; you will hear no reproof from me, no exhortations. I trust to your own good sense, my daughter, your own sense of duty, for the cure of this hopeless affection. All that regards Bertolini is involved in mystery; yet circumstances have uniformly tended to persuade us of his being otherwise engaged. With this conviction, alas! what remains to you? Reflect on it seriously, my beloved, and tell me to-morrow what plan you will pursue. Bertolini may remain at the chateau longer than-." "O, I will go from it!" interrupted Julie in an agony of shame and gratitude. "Send me away, dearest mother, to-morrow; send me to my aunt's, to Dauphiny." "Dear, excellent child!" exclaimed her mother weeping; "I know the value of this sacrifice. You shall go; and when Bertolini leaves Roussillon, I will reclaim my daughter." Julie's tears redoubled at this expression; she would fain have believed they flowed at her mother's goodness, but an inward voice too surely told her it was the probible separation from Bertolini which caused this increased emotion. Madame St. Hypolite would not torture the delicacy of a heart new to that sentiment which is inseparable from virtuous shame, by urging her daughter to converse longer about its object; she hastened her back to the chateau; prayed her to retire to the repose of her chamber, and promised to invent some plausible reason for setting off with her early the next day, without taking leave of their guest. It was Madame's intention merely to give her daughter into the care of Madame Geoffroy, and then return home. This arrangement, like many others which. human prudence plans with such anxious anticipation, was rendered useless the next day. Bertolini received letters which called bim instantly away. He came to seek Madame St. Hypolite with a countenance in which joy and anguish were so visible that it was impossible to look on him without partaking in his emotion. As he entered the apartment he cast a troubled glance around it in search of Julie. She was not there; and Madame observed that as she mentioned her daughter's being detained in bed by indisposition, an expression of satisfaction appeared in his otherwise mournful eyes. "I shall then be spared the pain-" He stopped, looked agitated, then resumed." I am come here, dearest Madam, to bid you farewell; business of the utmost moment requires my instant departure for a remote part of Italy. Francois will tell you as much of my history as is necessary to convince you that the man you have so benevolently nursed through tedious sickness, is not quite unworthy of your goodness; and should circumstances ever admit of it hereaf ter, I will prove still farther, that in the chateau of Roussillon I first learned to form wishes in which the memory of my father had no share." Madame St. Hypolite looked upon Bertolini with carnest emotion; her eyes asked an explanation, but Bertolini simply cast down his while he continued:-" Half my soul's desires are on the point of being accomplished; the other half may never, alas! will never be granted. But dare I murmur when it is given me to bear my father's name without a blush? to hear that honoured name pronounced with respect by others! to raise over his distant grave the monument due to his virtues and his sufferings. Oh my father! seest thou the heart of thy son? pardon it for the weak regrets which mingle with triumph for thee!" Overcome with an excess of agitation, Bertolini melted into tears, and sinking into a seat, covered his face with his hands. Madame St. Hypolite was greatly agitated: she rejoiced that Julie had not seen him in a situation so interesting, and controuling her own emotion, sbe approached him." If so sacred a duty calls you from us," she said, "as that which care of a parent's memory enjoins, I will not seek to detain you, Signor; but you must not leave us without promising to remember us, and to write to Francois. Whatever be your destiny, it will always be interesting to the heart of your Roussillon friends; new honours, new connections, can neither exalt nor diminish their regard; be assured we shall ever think of you with the same partiality; and that if you marry, and become a father, your wife and your children will carry your rights over our affection." Eager to enjoy as much of his friend's society as possible, Francois accompanied him on horseback for some miles, and afforded Madame St. Hypolite an opportunity of telling her daughter that Bertolini was gone. Julie's painful surprize was softened by her mother's assurance that he had promised to continue giving them information of bis health and fortunes wherever they might fix him; she stifled every expression of selfish regret, and renouncing the intention of leaving home, for it was no longer necessary, only besought one day's complete solitude, and then she promised to re-appear amongst her family with the determination of trying to regain her former cheerfuluess. Madame St. Hypolite tenderly yielded to this moderate request, and pensively recalling the feelings of her youth under similar circumstances, left her unhappy child to the temporary indulgence of sorrow. Francois returned to a late dinner; his naturally gay countenance was completely obscured by the pain of parting from a man with whom he had spent the most delightful hours of his life. He sat down to table, but be scarcely ate any thing; and his mind was so occupied that he did not observe the absence of Julie.- "My dear mother," he suddenly exclaimed, "if you can prove to me that a heart is of any other use to a man than to make him miserable, I will confess that man could not do without it; but at present, I confess, a good stout flint in the breast appears to me a much better piece of furniture." "The use of a heart, my dear boy," returned Madame, "is to make a man beloved; it is not to give him happiness, but to render him capable of it, and worthy of it; and in the world to come that heart will find its recompence."-" Very true," returned Francois; "but there are some hearts that I would willingly obtain a recompence for in this world-it shall be tried at least."-" What mean you, my son?"-"A hundred and fifty things that I cannot shape yet into form enough to explain. My heart is at this moment aching with all its ability for one that deserves every blessing, and is likely, I fear, to languish in misery. You and Julie are to hear Bertolini's story; but where is Julie?" Madame briefly answered that she was indisposed, then besought her son not to defer his narrative till she could join them. "Bertolini made his communication in writ. ing," replied Francois; "here it is: you may read it by yourself when I am out. I must go and settle a dispute between two of our tenants, who want some peaceable spirit to inter. fere between their churlish characters. "See the use of a heart, my son," exclaimed Madame, smiling on him; "if it pains ourselves it diminishes the pains of others; and that thought is in itself a gratification " Francois kissed the hand she extended for the MS. and after some desultory conversation which he vainly tried to enliven by forced, sallies of vivacity, he went out upon his charitable purpose, and Madame sat down to read the narrative. THE NARRATIVE OF BERTOLINI. tence of perpetual banishment pronounced upon his offspring. Even at that early age, my heart was keenly susceptible to disgrace and insult: I heard the decree with a degree of indignation which While my claims to a name and a countransported me beyond the bounds of discretry remain undecided, my dear Francois, tion. I would have rushed into the presence you must pardon me for continuing to pre- of my sovereign, and on my knees (not bendserve that which I bear after a god-father;ing in supplication to mortal power—but ferand you must be content to see a blank in the || veutly pressed to the earth while I called God space that should be filled with the name of to witness my belief of my father's innothe place that gave me birth. Trust me, I am cence) have sworn to live only in the hope of nobly descended; my ancestors were amongst || obtaining proofs of that wronged father's inthe most distinguished nobility of the Court of|| tegrity. The guards and the courtiers reMy father inherited their titles and pulsed me at the threshold of the palace, and I their virtues; and perhaps had he not transwas carried home insensible, from the viocended them in soul, would have gone to the lence of these emotions. grave with an unsullied reputation. I will not enter here into a tedious detail of political intrigue suffice it, his integrity in opposing the secret but ambitious designs of one of the blood-royal, drew on him the enmity of that powerful person. Prince, conscious that he had imprudently committed his honour and his life to my father's discretion, and fearful that his confidence would be betrayed by the man who spurned his allurements to guilt, hastened to frustrate such a disclosure, by impeaching my father to his Sovereign. My unsuspecting parent was then gone on a foreign embassy. Prince trived to suborn wituesses, and forge proofs Can I ever forget the tears this respectable of my father's having sold himself to the inman mingled with mine, as I sobbed out my terests of that government which was pecu- father's defence!-Yet defence it was not; for liarly inimical to those of his own sovereign. I had no proofs to bring; nothing but asserThe plot was so well contrived,, and so ably ||tions grounded upon ten years experience of executed, that our gracious king was com- the most admirable qualities.-O! Francois, pletely deceived; and he recalled his ambas- || sador in haste, to pass upon him the sentence of eternal imprisonment. Happily-(alas! that a son should say happily!) a fever brought on by over-fatigue in the transaction of some momentous state-business, snatched my father from the world, before this injurious maudate reached the country to which he had been sent. I was them a sad little orphan of ten years (for my mother died in giving me birth), and I returned to my country to learn that I no longer had a country or a name. My father's title was crazed from the list of nobles, his estates confiscated, and the senNo. XXI. Vol. IV.-N. S. Home, did I say?I had no home. My paternal mansion was given to a creature of || Prince -'s; and shunned by every one who wished to profit by Court favour, I might have buried myself in the cells of a monastry, had not one benevolent heart opened to receive me. This was that excellent man whose name I bear. Count Bertolini was a noble Venetian, who had been united from his earliest youth in strict ties with my father. On hearing a murmur of the disgrace and abandonment with which I was menaced, he hurried from Venice to, and arrived time enough to save me from despair. ought I ever to pierce that generous heart with a detail of the sad circumstances that will render obedience to one of his wishes impossible for me! Count Bertolini heard, as I did, the accusation against my father, and saw, as I did, the forged proofs; but with an enthusiasm of friendship, now in mature age, he refused to believe documents, apparently so well attested, when they gave the lie to a life of fortytwo years spent, not merely without reproach, but with honour. In this romantic ardour of devotion to the memory of the friend of his youth, be took me to his abode C |