cannon to thunder. There was great
rejoicing in St. Petersburg.

Issuing from the villa, Count Rasczinsky again mounted his foaming
steed.

Like a storm-wind swept he over the plain--but not toward St.
Petersburg, not toward the city where the people were saluting their new
emperor!

Away, away, far and wide in the distance, his horse bounded and panted,
bleeding with the spurs of his rider. Excited constantly to new speed,
he as constantly bounds onward.

Like a nocturnal spectre flies he through the desert waste; the
storm-wind drives him forward, it lifts the mantle that enwraps him like
a cloud, and under that mantle is seen an angel-face, the smile of a
delicate little girl, two tender childish arms clasping the form of
the count, a slight elfish form tremblingly reposing upon the count's
breast.

"You weep not, my angel," whispered the count, while rushing forward
with restless haste.

"No, no, I neither weep nor tremble, for I am with you!" breathed a
sweet, childish voice.

"Cling closer to me, my sweet blossom, recline your head against my
breast. See, evening approaches!--Night will spread its protecting veil
over us, and God will be our conductor and safeguard! I shall save you,
my angel, my charming child!"

The steed continues his onward course.

The child smilingly reclines upon the bosom of the rider, over whom the
descending sun sheds its red parting beams.

Like a phantom flies he onward, like a phantom he disappears there on
the border of the forest. Was it only a delusive appearance, a _fata
morgana_ of the desert?

No, again and again the evening breeze raises the mantle of the rider,
and the charming angelic brow is still seen resting upon the bosom of
the count.

No, it is no dream, it is truth and reality!

Like a storm-wind flies the count over hill and heath, and on his bosom
reposes Natalie, _the daughter of the empress_!

THE CHARMED GARDEN

One must be very happy or very unhappy to love Solitude, to lean upon
her silent breast, and, fleeing mankind, to seek in its arms what is so
seldom found among men, repose for happiness or consolation for sorrow!
For the happy, solitude provides the most delightful festival, as it
allows one in the most enjoyable resignation to repose in himself, to
breathe out himself, to participate in himself! But it also provides
a festival for the unhappy--a festival of the memory, of living in the
past, of reflection upon those long-sinc