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CHAPTER I.

Recollections excited by the perfume of flowers-Hyacinth; or Theresa Gradenigo, a Venetian tale.

AMONG the spring flowers which are just beginning to bloom in our south window, there is a beautiful pink hyacinth. The fresh and sunnied air from the open window wafts its delicious fragrance to my writing table, and sends my imagination far away to southern climes and days long gone by. This union of the pleasant past and happy present, by the sweet breath of particular flowers, is a very delight

VOL. III.

B

ful sensation; and I cannot but think many people experience it. I feel happy where I am, and with what is doing around me; and yet that sweet carnation recals still more vividly to my mind a scene of many years ago, and thus doubles my enjoyment.

It was at Venice, on an April day, in a room where a warm sunbeam shone upon a stand of magnificent hyacinths, and cast their graceful shadows on the marble floor. The open windows looked upon the piazza St. Marco, where many a picturesque figure, and various costumes from eastern lands might be seen, and where might be heard, mingled with the strains of music, and the gay laugh of the still joyous Venetians, the soft cooing of doves.

A number of these birds were perched upon the window-sill, waiting for their daily portion of food, bestowed on them according to an old custom, which exists in most Venetian families, and amounts almost to a superstition.

A lady of noble mien, but with careworn features, was sitting at an old carved writing-desk near the window. Her eyes were fixed with a

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