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Written for the Literary Companion.
THE LAND OF DY FATHERS, * ,
AN EXILE'’S SONG.
. BY DAVID J. DICKSON.
Fair Jand of my fathers! thy blue streamlets lave
No longer the land of the free ;
For the red arm of Tyranny fetters the brave
Who battled for freedom and thee.
Though held in remembrance, I weep not for those
Of thy champions who fell on thy plains;
But I weep for my country, surrounded by focs—
For the land of my fathers in chains.
0, many a check has grown pale at thy wrongs, *
And the eyes of thy daughters are red;
Joy is turned into wailing, and changed are the songs
Of the bridal to sobs for the dead.
Blow softly, ye winds, where the brave lie at rest,
‘And eacredly kiss the red stains!
Fair Liberty smiles on the land of the west,
But, alas! leaves my country in chains.
The land of my fathers no longer is free,
And the cheeks of her daughters are wet ;
But the mourners who weep o'er her ruin, will see
The-triumph of Liberty yet!”
My country! oh, yet ‘neath thy own sunny skies, ,
I shall stand when prosperity reigns—
Though the star of thy freedom has set, it will riso,
And my country will burst from her chains!
Written for the Literary Companion.
THE FLOWER GIRL.
A TALE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
BY, MISS MARY W. JANVRIN,
Ir was on the morning of a beautiful day in
midsummer. Soft, fleeey clouds were floating
in the heavens, ha’f veiling the light of the early
sun. The dew yet sparkled on the green lawn,
and glittered on the half open flowers in the
garden of the Chateau de Challeurs, It was a
scene of rare beauty and enchantment. The
chateau, rising in all the richness of its dark
architectural grandeur—the proud home of the
old dake and hia two fair daughters, Honore and
Engenia—the broad lawn, gently sloping down
to the waters of the Seine, which glistened like
silver in the early sunlight—and the garden,
radiant with flowers of every hue.
The two daughters of the duke were thus
early walking in the garden, as was their daily
custom. They were both beautiful—two buds
of. s prond lineage ; and, standing there in the
early light, they seemed in fitting unison with the
bright scene.
“Honore,” said Eugenia, the younger, to her
sister, “in a few wecks you will be the bride of
our cousin—Dhillip of Orleans—and I shall be
very lonely when you are away.”
““Wash!” replied Honore, “you must not
talk so—for I do not love him—and never will
wed my cousin Phillip. Though my father has
always desired that this marriage should take
place, yet Lam sure he will not urge it now;
for great changes are daily taking place in the
government of France, and he never will wish
me to wed one who is against him.” ©
‘# What mean you, Honore, about changes ?”
inquired Eugenia.
“My dear sister,” replied Honore, “I fear
you little realize the sad fate which evidently
soon awaits us. Even now, the revolutionists
are conspiring against the king, and the govern-
ment ia very unstable; and, if it is overthrown,
our father will be seized and imprisoned for his
friendship to Louis. He is now at Paris to
ascertain the state of affairs, and I tremblé for
his safety.”
“Honore, sister,” said Eugenia, “you are
sad this morning in thinking of our cousin, who
is so distasteful to you. No harm will befall
our father ; he will return to us, with good news
from Paris. But what think you of our garden-
¢r7 he looks not like a plebeian; the stamp of
the aristocrat is on every feature.
“ What, of Phillipe?” inquired Honore.
“Yes, Phillipe Albricorte,” replied Eugenia,
“Thave been imagining, this morning, that he
is no gardener, but some nobleman in disguise ; ;
and I fancy we are going back to the’ days of
romance—when knights disguised themselves as
Peasants, to win the heart of some ‘lady-love.’
But, look you!” she continued, “our Sir
Knight is hastening toward us; what can he
wish of us?” as just then Phillipe, the gardener,
came toward them quite out of breath, exclaim-
ing, with great earnestness of manner—
“ Ladies, your father has just returned from
Paris, and desires your presence immediately L”
, At this information all the feara of Honore
|. the case.
returned; and, with pale face ‘and throbbing
heart, she clasped her sister’s hand and hastened
to the chateau.
“My dear children !” said the duke, as he
met them at the door, clasping them in his
arms, “T have long expected this. It has come
at last! Imust soon leave you. All France
is in a state of anarchy and confusion. The
work of cruelty and bloodshed has commenced ;
‘and the thirst of the tyrants for blood will only
bo allayed by the death of the king and his
faithful followers; but, I never will forsake
him! The horrors of this revolution are full
enough for him to contend with, without the
desertion of the few friends that remain to
him.”
The two girls clung to their father ia terror ;
but at length Honore said, mastering her emo-
tion :
“Father, you must not leave us! You can
be saved! Are there no places of concealment
in our home—where you could remain if they
seck you—and then you could escape in disguise
after a time ?””
““My dear Honore,” said the duke, “Iam
indeed in great danger, for I learned these facts
in Paris, and fled home in disguise for fear of
being discovered. But, let them come; I never
will turn traitor to my king. Life is nothing to
me, if my country is to be ruined. O, my dear
daughters, it is well that your mother lived not
to see this day! But I could bear all this; I
could bear to see my king and country threaten-
ed with danger by strangers ; but, to sce his own
relatives, and mine too, turn against him, it is
too much ;” and the duke wept aloud.
* “Father, dear father,” said Honore, ‘of
whom do you speak? Who has turned against
the king ?”
“Of Phillip of Orleans, my child; he is
against Lonis. Honore, I know that you have
always been averse to a union with his son
Phillip, and now I rejoice that it has never
taken place. Iknew that Phillip had always
some prejudices against Louis, but never im-
agined that himself and son could avow them-
selyes at open enmity with him; yet, such is
I congratulate you, Honore, my dear
child, from your escape from a traitor !”
At this moment Phillipe Albricorte, the gar-
dener, rushed into the apartment, pale and trem:
bling, exclaiming :
“They have come—they have come! The
soldiers from Paris have surrounded the chateau
and demand admittance !”
a“ Texpected it,” suid the duke. “My hour
has come; but you, my dear children,” em-
bracing them both, “you must not be sacri-
ficed !” .
“O,ask us not to leave you! We will fol-
low you to prison—and to the scaffold!” cried
Honore and Eugenia, with one breath.
“No, my dear children, your lives must be
saved! You are young, and haye much to live
for; while your father, could not long survive
the’ downfall of Louis, his king. Tere,” he
continued, pushing aside a panel in the wall,
and touching a secret spring, at which a door
sprung open, revealing a small closet within,
“here you will be safe.’ This closet is unknown
save to those present. Enter, my children, and
you will be saved. Phillipe,” turning to the
gardener, who had remained, “I leaye my
children in your care. You alone: know the
secret of their retreat ; and, when I am gone,
you must liberate them, and provide them with
the disguise of peasant girls, and escape with
them from France. My daughters, endcavor to
find your way to your grandparents in Vienna.
To your care, my faithful Phillipe, I leave
them,”
“Twill do my utmost to 5 protect them,” cried
Phillipe.
“T will never leave you, O, my father !” cried
Tlonore, “Do not ask me!” and with pale
face she clung to him. As the stir of the sol-
diers without drew nearer, Eugenia, with white
face and trembling form, had hidden her face in
her father’s bosom ; but, at the sound of the ad-
yancing soldiers, and their loud raps against
the onter door, she had fainted. And her father,
tenderly embracing her, placed her inanimate
form in the closet, and, replacing the pancl,
awaited, with a sullen manner, the entrance of
the fierce soldiers, while his eldest daughter clung
to him.
The ‘terrified servants came rushing in, closely
followed by the rude soldiers; and, for « mo-
ment, the room was a scene of wild confusion,
the servants shrieking loudly, and calling on all
the saints to preserve them, in their wild fright.
But the calm tones of the duke reassured them,
as he said:
“Be not alarmed! It is me, your master,
these people seck.” ‘Then, turning to the sol-
diers, he said,—“ I am in your power; do with
me as you will.” For a moment the coolness
and courage of the duke disconcerted them ;
and they gazed at him in amazement; they had
expected fear and entreaties, where they met
such calmness; but, for a moment only were
they awed,—the next, the duke was seized, and
Honore, his daughter, suffered the same treat-
ment, while others searched the house in quest
of his youngest child, Eugenia.
“Tahuman monsters !” cried the duke, indig-
nantly. “You may fetter my body, but never
my thoughts and sentiments! Iam promised
liberty if I will assist the reyolutionists, and turn
traitor to Louis! ButTI scorn your offer!
would sooner die by my own hand than commit
sucha deed. Lead on!” he cried, “ Iam ready
to follow you wherever you will!”
He cast a look on Pbillipe as he passed him,
closely surrounded by the coldiers, and followed
by Honore,—which Phillipe returned, with an
assuring light in his fine dark eyes; and the
duke felt satisfied that Eugenia would escape to
her grandparents in Vienna.
A sad trial awaited Honore as they arrived at
the prison La Conciergerie,—that of separation
from her father, whose cell she had hoped to
bt
m
ea
are,
At the sight of that young and lovely girl—
torn from the side of her father by the ru:hless
soldiery and confined to a lonely cell—many
hearts amid the vast populace which surrounded
the prison were touched, and fierce maledictions
descended upon the heads of the tyrants. But
what availed a few noble hearts amid the excited
multitude. Soon, alas, too soon! they were to
close to all tender feclings, and the sight was to
be that of an every day occurrence; when
through the strects of Paris should’ flow rivers
of blood, during that fierce drama,—* The
Reign of Terror,”—in which Robespierre was
principal actor.
At ten o’clock the next mo:ning, the Duke de
Challeurs was conducted to the place of trial
and condemned to death. Ie was then recon-
ducted to prison, and on the following morning
was led to the Place La Revolution to die! He
ascended the scaffold with a firm step; and,
without betraying any outward emotion, he laid
his head upon the guillotine block, and met his
fate. Thus died one of the defenders of Louis
Sixteenth, with none to witness his death but a
cruel and unfeeling mob.
When Honore, in her lonely cell, was inform-
ed of the death of her father, her heart was well
nigh broken ; she cherished no hopes of escape,
and gave up entirely the thoughts of ever seeing
her sister, Eugenia, again.
But we will return to the chatean, and the
fainting Eugenia. As soon’ as the so!dicrs had
departed, Phillipe touched the secret spring, re-
moving the panel at the same time, and tenderly
raising the inanimate form of Eugenia in his
arms bore her to a couch; then, taking a flask
of perfumed water from the table, bathed her
brow, seeking to restore her to consciousness.
As he held her for one moment in his arms,
tenderly gazing on her the while, his fine dark
eyes, lighted up with the fires of love, and he
exclaimed :
“Tam well repaid for my toil and disguise in
this one brief moment of happiness. Eugenia,
fair Eugenia, you little know who thus holds
you to his heart, and encircles your fair form
with his arms!”
But at the sound of her name breathed so ten-
derly, the young girl opened her eyes, and
meeting the ardent gaze of the gardener, a
crimson flush swept over her pale face fora
moment, then recalling the events of the last
hour, she exclaimed wildly :
“ My father! my sister! Where are they ?”
“The duke, and Honore, your sister, were
carried to Paris by soldiers who surrounded the
house,” replied the gardener, “and you were
saved only by the secret closet. I will leave
you now, lady,” he continued, “for a few mo-
ments, and procure the disguise of a peasant
girl, by means of which you will be enabled to
escape from France and reach your grandparents
in Vienna,” and thus saying ‘Phillipe Albricorte
went out; but to return again in a short time
with the dress of a peasant girl, which he had
procured from a neighboring cottage, and in
which the fair Eugenia soon arrayed herself,
LE6 eOELEASTMS BIFERART COMPANIONS Gow
] M taking the precaution to secrete her own and
sister’s jewels about her person.
Eugenia, as she emerged from her dressing-
room, looked loyelier than ever to the eyes of her
father’s gardener, Phillipe Albricorte ; and as
she stood before him in the simple dress of the
peasant girl, to his heart came a thrill of de-
light, that he’ was to be the. guide and protector
of one so young and lovely.
To escape detection: they journeyed on foot,
and it was many weeks before they reached
Vienna, their destination, the home of Eugenia’s
grandparents ; but, after a wearisome journey,
they entered the city one bright, ‘sunny, spring
morning.
Eugenia inquired the residence of her grand-
parents, but learned, to her unspeakable sorrow,
that they had left the city for their country
ehateau, nor could she learn the period of their
expected return,
After a conference with Phillipe ‘Albricorte,
as to what course . now to pursue, it was decided
that ho should engage as head gardener with a
gentleman of rank, whose estates were in the
outskirts of the city, and that Eugenia should
offer for sale in the public squares, and at the
houses of the nobility, the flowers with which he -
should supply her; and thus passed several
weeks, during which the maiden of noble birth
pursued her humble avocation. One morning,
Lwhile offering her flowers as usual for sale, she
bent her steps into a street where she had never
before wandered, and called at the houses there-
in. But the appearance of one, larger and more
elegant than the others, attracted her attention,
and she advanced toward it hoping to dispose of
her flowers. But she was rudely repulsed from
the door by the servants, and told that they
wanted none.
She turned to depart, when at that moment a
young man who was crossing the hall called to
her to return, asking : :
“Tf her flowers were for sale ?””
“Yes,” she timidly replied, “ but they have
refused to buy them.”
“TJ have not refused them,” he answered,
“but come with me and you will find a pur-
chaser,” and he led the way to an elegant salon,
wherein a lady sat. ~
“Mother,” he said, “here is a young girl
who has some beautiful flowers for sale. Would
you not like to fill yourvases on the table?”
pointing to.some rare Etruscan vases which |
stood upon the marble table.
“Yes, my.son,” replicd the lady. “And
what beautiful flowers they are,—and arranged
with such artistic taste!’ As she spoke she
selected several bunches, and liberally remuner-
ated the fair flower vender, who was turning to
depart, when the lady, who had been intently
regarding her, eagerly exclaimed :
“Surely Ihave seen those features before!
What is your name, my fair girl?”
“Tam from France,” replied Engenia, “and
my name is Eugenia de Chatleurs., The daugh-
ter of the Duke de Challeurs was forced to flee
in his disguise.”
“My niece! My sister Eugenia’s darling
child !” cried the lady, and she tenderly em-
braced her. “My poor child!” she continued,
“alas, we have but this moment received news
of the death of the duke, your father, and the
imprisonment of your sister Honore !””
At this moment the door opened, and the old
Count de Bulon entered. His long white hair
was pushed back from his aged brow, and as he
advanced with faltering steps, he said :
“Marie, my daughter, I must hasten to Paris
and seek the daughters of my eldest. born—
+ Eugenia—your sister! Ihave just learned the
dreadful tidings !”
“Not so, my dear father, for here, in this fair .
flower girl, behold the youngest child of Eu-
genia!” and as the countess spoke she led him
to Eugenia, who had sunk down, pallid and
terror stricken, at the dreadful tidings of her
father’s death. .
“Yes—yes,” he cried, gazing on her features
and raising her. ““ Yes, this is indeed the child
of Eugenia!” and he clasped his aged arma
about her; and, thus it was, that she found a
refuge in the home of her mother’s girlhood.
A week went by, during which the young
Count Leopold, her cousin, had proceeded to
Paris to take measures for the rclease of Honore.
In the meantime Eugenia had, in a measure, re-
covered from her. sorrow, and often recounted
the story of her escape in tho disguise of a
flower-girl, speaking warmly of the faithful ser-
vices of Phillipe-Albricorte. A few days after,
Se
po