or builds a city on the banks of a fertilising river; he can dwell among the snows of the Alps, or beneath the sun of the tropics; he bends the material laws to his purpose, yet receives a lesson from the insect or the flower. Oh yes," he cried; "believe what Newton says 'The universe is one perfect whole; all is harmony; all the evidence of one Almighty Will. Our feeble minds cannot grasp it at once, but we know from the perfection of parts that it is so!' Oh that proud man would learn from the flower, and the bee, and the butterfly!"

At that moment a letter was brought to Girhardi. It was from Teresa, and ran thus: “Is it not a happiness that they permit us to correspond? Kiss this letter a thousand times, for Ì have done so, and thus transmit my kisses to you. Will it not be delightful to exchange our thoughts? But if they should permit me to see you again! Oh, pause here, my father; pause, and bless General Menon, to whom we owe so much. Father, Í come to you soon, in a day or two; and-and-oh, pray for fortitude to bear the good tidings-I come to lead you to your home-to take you from captivity!"

Yet his joy was moderated by the thought that Charney would again be solitary.

She came. Charney heard her step in the next room; he conjectured what her person could be he could not picture it. Yet he trembled with apprehension: the polished courtier grew bashful and awkward as a schoolboy. The introduction was appointed to take place in the presence of Picciola, and the father and daughter were seated on the bench when Charney approached. Notwithstanding the exciting scenes with which they had been mutually connected, there was restraint in their meeting; and in the beautiful face of the young Italian, Charney at first persuaded himself there was nothing but indifference to be read. Her noble conduct had only proceeded from a love of adventure and obedience to her father's commands. He half regretted that he had seen her, since her presence dispelled the dim and shadowy thoughts he so long had nourished. But whilst they were seated on the bench, Girhardi gazing at his daughter, and Charney uttering some cold and unmeaning phrases, Teresa turned suddenly to her father, by which means there escaped from the folds of her dress a locket, which she wore suspended round her neck. Charney perceived at a glance that a lock of her father's white hair was on one side, and on the other, carefully preserved beneath the crystal, a withered flower. It was that he had sent her by Ludovic!

A cloud seemed to pass away from before the eyes of Charney. In Teresa he recognised Picciola, the fair girl of his dreams, with the flower resting on her heart, not in her hair. He could but murmur some words of rejoicing; but the ice was broken, and they understood how much they had mutually thought of each other. She listened to his history from his own lips; and

when he came to the recital of all he endured when Picciola was about to be sacrificed, Teresa exclaimed with tenderness, "Dear Picciola, thou belongest to me also, for I have contributed to thy deliverance!" And Charney thanked her in his heart for this adoption; for he felt it established more than ever a holy communion between them.

Willingly would Charney have sacrificed for ever liberty, fortune, and the world, could he have prolonged the happiness he experienced during the three days which passed before the necessary forms for Girhardi's liberation were completed. But, in proportion to this happiness, must be the pang of separation; and now he dared to ask himself the bold question, "Was it possible that Teresa loved him?" No; he would not dare so to misinterpret her tenderness, her pity, her generosity; and he tried to believe that he rejoiced; that it would have been an additional pang to think he had ruffled the serenity of her heart. “But I,” he exclaimed—"I will love her for ever, and substitute this exquisite reality for all my unsatisfying dreams." This love, however, must be cherished in secret; for it would be a crime to impart it. They were about to be separated for ever; she to return to the world, doubtless to marry; and he to remain in his prison alone with Picciola, and her memory. He tried to assume coldness of manner, but his haggard countenance betrayed him; while Teresa, equally conscious and equally generous, willing to endure all, so that his piece of mind were not injured, assumed a gaiety of manner that ill accorded with the scene. Modesty and timidity, also, conspired to make her

conceal her emotions. Yet there are moments when the heart will speak its language without control; and that of their parting was one. But few and broken ejaculations were heard, though Teresa's last words were, stretching out her arms to the plant, "I call Picciola for my witness!"

Happiness must be tasted and lost to be appreciated; and so Charney felt. Never had he so appreciated the father's wisdom and the daughter's excellence, as now that they were no longer beside him. Yet memory was sweet, and his former demon of thought was banished for ever.

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One day, when Charney least expected it, the doors of his prison were thrown open. The persons who had been appointed to examine the handkerchiefs had carried them to the emperor. After looking at them for a while, he exclaimed scornfully, This Charney is a fool, but no longer a dangerous one; he may make an excellent botanist, but I have no fear of another conspiracy." At Josephine's intreaty his pardon was granted. And now it was Charney's turn to quit the gloomy fortress of Fenestrelle, but not alone. No; Picciola, transplanted into a large box, was carried away in triumph. Picciola, to whom he owed every happiness; Picciola, who had saved him from madness, who had taught him the consolations of belief; Picciola,

te whom he was indebted for friendship and love; Picciola, who had restored him to liberty!

Now, too, Ludovic, stifling his emotion, extended his rough hand to the count, his friend; for he was no longer the jailer. Charney shook it with emotion, exclaiming, "We shall meet again.” “God bless you! Adieu, Count! adieu, Picciola !”

Six months afterwards, a splendid carriage stopped at the stateprison of Fenestrelle. A traveller descended, and asked for Ludovic Ritti. A lady leant upon his arm; they were the Count and Countess Charney. Once again they visited the prisonchamber. Of all the sentences of despair and unbelief which had soiled its white walls, only one remained. It ran thus:“Science, wit, beauty, youth, and fortune, cannot confer happiness!". Teresa added—“ Without love!"

Charney came to request Ludovic to attend a fête which he designed to give at the christening of his first child, whose birth was expected towards the close of that year; and to beseech that he would quit Fénestrelle for ever, and take up his abode with him. The jailer inquired after Picciola, and learned that she was placed close to the count's private study, that he watered and tended her himself, and forbade a servant to touch her.

Ludovic arrived at the count's splendid chateau a few days before the christening. Almost the first thought of the honest fellow was to visit his old friend the prison-flower; but, alas! amid the emotions of love and happiness which had ushered the yet more dearly loved one into the world, Picciola had been forgotten, and was now fading to decay. Her mission had been happily fulfilled.

INTRODUCTION-GOING TO SETTLEMENT.

HE wilds of Australia present at this time some strange scenes. Persons of all characters, and every variety of previous habits, are there planting themselves as sheep-farmers, each family being generally placed in some rude hut in the centre of its " run," or sheep-walk, rarely at less than five miles' distance from another. Thus transferred all at once from parlour life in this country, perhaps from some learned or elegant profession, into a primeval solitude, and left to their own resources, a change of life and occupation is induced such as we have no experience of in civilised climes. Young men who once figured here in quadrille parties, are there seen driving cars and drays, or milking cows; while ladies, who once presided over a refined hospitality in some better part of a British city, are, in "the bush," fain to cook victuals for their husband and his shepherds. Occasional adventures with the savage aborigines streak the homeliness of the picture with something like the hues of romance. all is not hardship and vexation. Labour and exposure in that country are attended with an excitement which prevents anything like low spirits, and, joined to the fine climate, tend to keep up a tone of health which few in civilised life ever enjoy. Then there is no eye of fashionable neighbour to look pityingly or quizzingly on the mean details of the mud-house and the life which passes within it. Above all, the star of hope is present, instructing how to bear with the present for the sake of the future. It is readily to be supposed that a picture of this strange

But

kind of life, drawn on the spot, must possess some interest, and such we have now to introduce to the notice of our readers. A married pair of our acquaintance, in the bloom of life, emigrated a few years ago to Australia, taking with them their infant daughter, a shepherd, his wife, and a female servant. They were accompanied by two brothers of the lady, who were associated with the husband in his proposed new course of life. They were upwards of two years upon a "run" in the inland parts of the Port Philip settlement, where they realised, without mitigation of any kind, the whole hardships, difficulties, and troubles, and also the whole of the pleasures, of bush life. The lady lately returned to her native country, and has communicated to us a journal, in which we find a remarkably interesting account of this wild kind of existence. In presenting some portions of it to our readers, we only deem it necessary to remark, that the name is, for obvious reasons, fictitious; and that, from our recollections of the amiable writer, we could scarcely suppose any one of her sex less prepared by education and habits for bush life, than she must have been at the time when her husband emigrated.

The family arrived at Hobart Town in October 1838, and her husband and brother soon after proceeded to Port Philip, in order to secure a sheep-farm. They obtained one which was considered of a highly advantageous nature, except that it was a hundred and twenty miles back from the settlement. Meanwhile, at a farm near Launceston, Mrs Thomson gained some insight into dairy management and other branches of rural economy. Having purchased at Launceston a dray and bullocks, also some horses, goats, pigs, geese, ducks, hens, rabbits, tubs, buckets, and a number of small tin utensils of various kinds, together with some flour and other provisions, they sailed for Port Philip, which they were eleven days in reaching. It is pleasant to hear of neighbourly kindnesses exercised in that remote part of the world. Mrs Thomson mentions that, at her departure from Launceston, she had presents of poultry from various persons; and one lady, whom she had only seen once, made her several large jars of preserves. While lying off George Town, a lady, hearing that one of her own sex with a young child was on board, sent her a box of eggs for the child-a very useful present. “I was fortunate," says Mrs T., "in meeting with kind friends wherever I went." It may here be mentioned, that Mrs T. left her female servant at Hobart Town, so that the only female now with her was the shepherd's wife.]

We landed [January 1839] at Point Henry, about eight miles from Corio, which is intended to be a town some future day. I did not go on shore the first day, as my husband, as soon as possible, got the mare and bullocks landed, which he took to Mr Fisher's station, near Geelong. The poor bullocks looked miserably thin, but the mare looked very well, and we were glad they were alive. It took a long time to land all the stock in the