PETER: A GERMAN TALE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE CHEVALIER DE FLORIAN.

THE German language is too difficult; scarcely any Frenchman learns it; and this is a pity, for we lose pleasure, and the Germans lose glory. If we could but read, in the original language, their best authors, we should be delighted by the simplicity and sweetness which characterize their works. They are better acquainted with nature, particularly with rural nature, than we are; they love it more ardently; and they delineate it in truer colours. The mere translations of Gessner are superior to our best pastorals. No one can read the Death of Abel, the Idylls, or Daphnis, without being more patient, more affectionate, more mild, in a word, more virtuous, than he was before he read them. In every instance we see that happiness is the result of pure and simple morality and of virtue. Were I a village pastor, I would read from my pulpit the works of Gessner, and I am quite sure that all the men would become good, all the females chaste, and that no one would feel disposed to go to sleep in the church.

In the meanwhile, I occupy myself with making tales, and here is one, which I was told by a Swiss boy, of thirteen, who was for a long time the cow-herd of Mr. Gessner.

In a village of the margraviate of Bareith, in Franconia, there lived a husbandman, named Peter. He was the possessor of the best farm in all the country, but this was the least part of his riches. Three girls and three boys, whom he had had by his wife Theresa, were married, had children, and were all inmates of his habitation. Peter was eighty years of age, Theresa was seventy-eight, and they were attended on, beloved, and respected by this numerous family, whose sole business it seemed to be to prolong the declining years of their parents. Having been sober and laborious during the whole of their lives, no infirmity tormented them in their old age; quiet in conscience and contented in mind, still loving each other, happy in and proud of their offspring, they thanked God, and poured forth blessings on their children.

One evening, after having passed the day in harvesting, the good Peter, Theresa, and their family, seated on the sheaves, were resting before their door. They were admiring the charms of one of those beautiful summer nights which are entirely lost to the inhabitants of cities. "See," said the old man, "how that lovely sky is strewn with stars, some of which quit their places, and leave behind them a track of fire. The moon, hidden behind those poplars, sheds a pale and trembling lustre, which tinges all the surrounding scenery with an uniform whiteness. The winds no longer breathe, the quiet trees seem to respect the slumber of the birds, who are reposing in their nests; the tom tit and the linnet sleep with their heads under their wings; the wood-pigeon rests with his mate among the little ones, which are yet covered by no feathers but those of their mother. The deep silence is broken only by that distant and plaintive cry, which strikes our ears at regular intervals of time. It is the cry of the owl, the emblem of the wicked. He watches when others sleep, he complains unceasingly, and he dreads the light of day. O, my children! be always good, and you will always be happy. For sixty years your mother and I have enjoyed a tranquil felicity; may your's not be bought as dearly as our's was bought."

At these words a few tears stood in the eyes of the old man. Louisa, one of his grand-daughters, who was

only seven years old, ran to embrace him. "Dear Grandpapa," said she, " you do please us so much when you tell us, of an evening, some pretty story. Only think, then, how much more pleased we should be, if you would tell us your own! It is not late; the night is a very fine one, and nobody wishes to go to sleep." All the family of Peter joined in the same request; they formed a circle round him; Louisa seated herself at his feet, and begged that every body would keep silence. Each mother took on her knee the child whose crying might disturb the attention; every body listen ed; and the good old man, caressing Louisa with one hand, and holding the hand of Theresa with the other, began his story.

It is a long time ago since I was eighteen, and Theresa was sixteen. She was the only child of Aymar, the richest farmer in the country. I was the poorest peasant in the village, but I was never aware of my poverty till I fell in love with Theresa.

“I did all in my power to stifle a passion which could only make me miserable. I was very sure that my want of fortune would be an eternal obstacle to my obtaining the hand of Theresa, and that I must either give up all thoughts of her, or find out some means of obtaining riches. But to procure riches, I must quit the village where Theresa lived: this was an effort which I could not make; and I, therefore, preferred offering myself as a servant to Theresa's father.

"I was hired. You may guess with what vigour 1 worked. I soon gained the friendship of Aymar, and still sooner that of his daughter. You, my children, who all married from love, you well know, when the heart is once given, what delight lovers enjoy in each other's society, and how they mutually seek and find each other, to enjoy it! Theresa loved me as dearly as I loved her. I thought of nothing but Theresa; I lived but with her; I saw her daily; and I never imagined that my happiness could have an end.

"I was quickly undeceived. A farmer of a neighbouring village asked Theresa in marriage from her father. Aymar went to examine what number of acres was possessed by the man who wished to become his son-in-law; and, having made this examination, he de

cided that he was just the person who would suit his daughter. The marriage was settled.

"It was in vain that we wept; our tears were of no service to us. The unrelenting Aymar gave his daughter to understand that he was displeased with her sadness. It was necessary for us to add to our sufferings, by putting a constraint upon our feelings.

"The fatal day was at hand; we were deprived of every hope; Theresa was about to become the wife of a man whom she hated. Her death, she was sure, would be the consequence; I was equally sure that I could not survive her; we took the only step which remained; we fled together, and Heaven punished us.

"Theresa and I quitted the village in the middle of the night. She was mounted on a little horse, which one of her uncles had given to her. I had decided that there could be no harm in taking away the horse, as it did not belong to her father. A small bag, containing her clothes and mine, some provisions, and a very little money, which she had contrived to save; this was all that Theresa took away with her. For my part I was determined to take nothing. So true it is that youth makes a virtue of what it pleases! I carried off a daughter from her father, and yet I scrupled to take any of the property which his house contained.

"We travelled all night. At break of day we were on the Bohemian frontier, and out of all fear of being overtaken. We stopped in a valley, by the side of one of those little brooks which lovers are so pleased to meet with. Theresa alighted, and sat down by me on the grass, and we made a frugal but delicious meal. When we had done, we turned our thoughts to the steps which it would be necessary for us to take.

"After having had a long conversation, in the course of which we counted over our money twenty times, and reckoned the horse at its highest value, we found that we could not calculate the whole of our fortune at more than twenty ducats. Twenty ducats are soon spent! We resolved, however, that it was proper, in the first place, to make the best of our way to some large town, that in case of pursuit we might be less exposed, and that we might get married as soon as possible. Having come to this wise resolution, we took the road to Egra.

"On our arrival, we hastened to the church, and the priest united us. We gave him the half of our little treasure, and never was money spent with more goodwill. It seemed to us as if all our troubles were over, and we had nothing now to fear. For eight days every thing went on well.

"At the end of that time we sold the little horse. At a month's end we had nothing left. What was to be done? What was to become of us? I understood no labour but that of husbandry, and the inhabitants of great cities have little respect for that art by which they are fed! Theresa was not more skilful than myself; she was wretched; she trembled to look forward. We mutually concealed our sufferings; and this concealment was a torture a thousand times more terrible than the sufferings themselves. At length, having no other resource, I enlisted in the regiment of cavalry which was in garrison at Egra. The bounty-money I gave to Theresa, who wept while she received it.

"My pay was sufficient to provide for my wants; and the little things which Theresa made, for poverty had been a teacher to her, gave her the means of supporting our humble station. A child now came, to draw closer the ties which united us. It was you, my dear Gertrude. Theresa and myself looked upon you as being sent to be the comfort of our old age. At the birth of every child that Heaven gave us, we said the same; and we have never been mistaken. I put you out to nurse, because my wife could not suckle you; she was inconsolable that she could not, and she passed whole days near your cradle; while I, by a strict performance of my duty, was striving to acquire the friendship and esteem of my officers.

"Frederic, my captain, was only twenty years of age. He was distinguished, beyond all the other officers, by his affability and his person. He took a liking to me, and I told him my story. He saw Theresa, and was interested in our fate. He promised every day that he would intercede with Aymar in our behalf; and, as I was absolutely dependent on him, he gave me his word that I should have my liberty as soon as he had pacified my father-in-law. Frederic had already written to our village, but had received no answer.