He called to mind all the miraculous plants recorded from the earliest times, by poet or historian; the _holly_ of Homer—the palm-tree of Latona—the oak of Odin—nay, even the golden herb which shines before the eyes of the ignorant peasants of Brittany, and the May-flower, which preserves from evil thoughts the simple shepherdess of La Brie. He recollected the sacred fig-tree of the Romans—the olive of the Athenians—the Teutatés of the Celts—the vervain of the Gauls—the lotus of the Greeks—the beans of the Pythagoreans—the mandrake of the Hebrews. He remembered the green campac which blossoms everlastingly in the Persian’s paradise; the touba tree which overshadows the celestial throne of Mahomet; the magic camalata, the sacred amreet on whose branches the Indians behold imaginary fruits of Ambrosia and of voluptuous enjoyment. He recurred with pleasure to the symbolical worship of the Japanese, who elevate the altars of their divinities on pedestals of heliotropes and water-lilies, assigning the throne of Love himself to the corolla of a nenuphar. He admired the religious scruples of the Siamese, which make it sacrilege to exterminate or even mutilate certain consecrated shrubs. A thousand superstitions which in former times excited his pity and contempt toward the short-sightedness of human nature, tended now to elevate his fellow-creatures in his estimation. For the Count had discovered that, from the vegetation of an humble flower, may emanate lessons of wisdom; and doubted not, that all these idolatrous customs must have originated in sentiments of gratitude unexampled by tradition. “From his imperial throne of the west,” thought Charney, “Charlemagne did not disdain to exhort the nation submitted to his rule, to the culture of flowers. And have not Ælian and Herodotus recorded that the great Xerxes himself took such delight in the beauty of an oriental plane-tree, as to caress its stem—press it tenderly in his arms—sleep enraptured under its shade—decorating it with bracelets and chains of gold, when compelled to bid adieu to his verdant favourite!” As the convalescence of the Count proceeded, he was seated one morning reclining absorbed in thought in his own chamber, of which he had not yet ventured to cross the threshold, when his door was suddenly burst open, and Ludovico, with a radiant countenance, hastened towards him. “Vittoria!” cried he. “The creature is in bloom. _Picciola! Piccioletta! figlioccia mia!_” “In bloom?” cried Charney, starting up. “Let me see her. I _must_ see the blossom.” In vain did the worthy jailer represent the imprudence of going too soon into the air, and implore the Count to delay the undertaking for a day or two. The morning was uncertain—the atmosphere chilly. A relapse might bring the invalid once more to the gates of death. But Charney was deaf to all remonstrance! He consented only to wait an hour, in order that the sun might become one of the party.