The Montreal museum, or Journal of literature and arts, 1 juin 1833, Juin

THE MONTREAL MUSEUM, No.7.JUNE, 1833.Yol.I.RECOLLECTIONS OF MY SCHOOL DAYS.•i W $ V if Oh say not woman’s love is bought, By vain and empty treasure.Oh say not woman’s heart is caught By every idle pleasure— * 9 % When once her gentle bosom knows Love‘s flame—it wander* * wetter— Deep in her heart the passion glows She loves and loves for ever.“ Ellen Seymour was one of those rare and beautiful beings seldom have existence except in the imagination of the Pdet, and when beheld, afford convincing proof that the spirits pf earth are sometimes permitted to dwell in a form divine, tter features so regular that a sculptor might vainly endeavor to emulate their beautiful proportions, were irradiated by a heavenly f t f * • f I • • , expression, beaming from eyes, which enshrined a soul within their deep blue orbs.1 first saw Ellen in a brilliant circle assem* léd at her father’s house, to celebrate her nineteenth birth-day.* * * • # • ' # ' Was spending the summer holidays in Boston, with a friend ho was favoured with her intimate acquaintance and accord-gly I was numbered in the invitation which requested her mpany.In vain had the belles of the Metropolis exhausted their • f j te to rival Ellen Seymour, and many were the fair and lovely iris, who felt, as they gazed upon Ellen’s surpassing loveliness, t, in her presence, they must be content to join in the admi- lion which she excited, rather than expect their eclipsed at- 60 [ 390 } tractions to secure more than a hasty passing glance.But her kindness disarmed rivalry, and although she was the magnet of attraction, wherever she appeared her smile was reflected in the happy countenances of alt whom she honoured with her attention.Envy could not exist within its influence, for hers was a smile, in which all that is rich and beautiful in woman’s nature was concentrated—it ever lighted that noble, placid brow, and ever appeared like a bright ray of sunshine, illuminating every object around, end demanding from all the heart’s warm tribute of love and admiration—to all she was free and unreserved, and none could regard her without reading in the fascination of her expression, how intimately gaiety of heart and the consciousness and pride of beauty in her soul, were mingled with a deep native passionate tenderness.Many were the young and noble youths who sought her fa* I vour and addressed her in soft accents of courtly adulation.She seemed attentive and listened to their just encomiums, with a graceful dignity—but it was easy to perceive that her heart was uninterested.I watohed her eye as her gay admirers swarnwd around her—but no involuntary burst, of fooling—no peculia» look or cast of expression as she replied to their congratulations I and kind wishes, showed that to one more than the rest, lier I heart dictated a warmer language.I » ^ I « 4# ** Is.it possible” said I to my friend, who seemed absorbed iof contemplating the same beautiful being “ that of all these fa- Eg vouritos of fortune, who arc apparently so interested in seeking I her favour, not one can secure her heart’s young affections.Mil is possible” she replied, and although her countenance indicates || so much genuine sensibility and true feeling, there are* somel who affirm that she is not capable of experiencing a more ardeoll] affection than common place-friendship—’tis true, her heart id unaffected by attractions which awaken in common souls admi-l ration and love, but when I have enjoyed her intimate* unrts- trsined confidence, she has expressed in her own enthusiastic language, emotions, which convince nan that she has a hear.* * w'1 \ 4 * à * which can love with a fervency too deep and heavenly to be be? t 391 ] towed on any earthly being.When fortune smiles and all * • around is joyous and bright, it is easy to secure the friendship of the world’s gayest votaries—but it is in affliction and when her friends have least to boast, that Éllen Seymour exhibits all the tender sympathy of her nature.—Her friendship grows in brilliancy as pleasure’s sun withdraws its light.I found that I had suggested a theme, Which to my friend was inexhaustable, and I drew her to a recess, where unobserved I might become better acquainted with the character of this highly gifted being, whose facinations had completely won my heart.My friend proceeded to inform me that hers had been a life which “ had known no occasion to be sad”— The idol of her fond, indulgent parents and of all who knew her virtues—that her mind was as rich in every mental endowment, as her person was unrivalled in external grace and loveliness— and that many were the wealthy and talented young men who had aspired to her hand, bui none had yet been successful in • • gaining her heart—when my friend had concluded her warm panegyric she complied with my earnest desire to be introduced to her particular notice, and on that evening a friendship commenced between Ellen and myself, which I trust, will not Ccaso when èarthly ties are broken, but will be ripened into a purer and more exalted glow of affection, in another and a brighter world.At the expiration of my visit I persuaded Ellen to spend the month of August with me at my father’s country seat in Brighton.Whoever has visited this cnchnnting place, need not be told that in its retired walks and shady groves, one cannot but feel that he is in the midst of nature’s magnificence, and to one who is not familiar with its scenery, my pen would but faintly • > # ._ portray its surpassing beauty.It was the evening previous to the departure of Ellen and .I • h ' • • myself from this sweetly sequestered spot where wo had experienced so many hours of bright unsullied happiness—Ellen had been summoned by her father to return home immediately, and toy parents had consented that Î should accompany her to Bos- ,[ 392 ] .ton on my way to school.The sun was lingering in the.west- • • * > \ • .*r * ' ft ern horizon, as we had sauntered forth to view its departing glory, and to take a last farewell of those scenes we had loved to contemplate.To me, they were hallowed scenes—for there *¦’**•• .% Ellen had pledged to me her warm, sincere friendship : > * • • • • • And never burned with purer glow— Affections consecrated flame, 0 $ * Than in her breast who was to me More than mere mortal again may be.* I-, it - J ?We obtained a seat which comyiam^ed a view of the unrivalled splendours of the scene—the stillness of the twilight wa» broken only by the murmur of a distant waterfall—my heart was in uni-son with the scene and I gazed upon its beauties with uncontrollable delight.I turned to read in Ellen’s face—that ihdex + • I | % * f 9 • ., • * of her soul—the same enthusiastic emotions,, but I discovered / t11 • that her countenance, which was wont to .be illuminated with 4 • .,, . V I E 413 ] cile France with Europe, 1 may flatter myself that posterity will not he uninterested in the vicissitudes of the agitated existence that lias been my lot from my earliest youth until the day when, after twenty-five years of absence, 1 returned to attach my name to the constitutional era of the kingdom.I please myself also by thinking that I write these Memoirs % entirely for the literary happiness of writing them : this employment was during my exile so sweet a source of consolation, that I should think myself in a manner ungrateful to neglect continuing it now I am seated on the throne; if one day those pages, the confident of my souvenirs, arc opened to posterity, I hope that, theseal of familiar narration, which authorises now the minutest details, and again the capricious omissions of a writer who desires to free himself from the etiquette of historical style will have been respected.When during my life I allowed an extract from these Memoirs to be published, * I wished to learn by anticipation the difference between the eulogiums of courtiers and criticism.No one will accuse me of having on this occasion claimed the privileges of my title.I proved that the King who had given the Charter to dethrone despotism and anarchy, knew' as an author how to observe the laws of the republic of letters religiously.As soon as my father ceased to live, we commenced as it were a new era.To piety and retirement, succeeded a more worldly course which did not displease us.All our saints were transformed into gallant cavaliers, the religious exercises were replaced by amusements of all kinds, analogous to our eye and tastes ; the main object was rathor to be agreeable to us, than to confine us w'ithin proper bounds.In short, 1 soon found that we should do just what we pleased.We continued, the dauphin and myself, to give our time to study, because it was agreeable to us.As to D’Artois, who was less greedy of sicnce, he profited by his liberty and stopped short.Upon my endeavouring to make him blush for his inac- ’H.M.hcrc alludes to the journey from Paris to Brussels.—NoU byEdt.53 [ 414 ] tion, he answered that a son of France was formed to handle a sword, not'a pen.This chivalric phrase had an astonishing success at Versailles, prognostics for the future were drawn from it.History will piovc if they arc realized.Seeing things in a different light, I thought that although the blood royal flowed through my veins, it was not necessary that 1 should always have recourse to the knowledge of others ; that moreover, not being heir to the throne, and being never to com- % mand armies, as the new politics of the court forbade it, I sought in study the elements of an agreeable diversion and of a conside-ration entirely personal.I persisted then in instructing myself, and far from tiring, I laboured with renewed ardor.I fancied this resolution was not quite agreeable to rnypre* ccplors, the solicitude of these good folks towards me was such, that they would willingly have taken upon themselves the trouble of thinking, speaking, and acting for me, in order to spare me the trouble.The obstacle Ï raised to this charitable intention, appeared like ingratitude in their eyes, and inspired them with a bitterness that was but ill concealed, and which became the [ germ of the species of ill-favour with which my youth waste* garded.The more I sought to render myself worthy of public esteem, by giving myscl f up to glorious labor, which a prodigious memory facilitated, the farther I was from my object.D’Artois, on the contrary by a different course, found every heart open at his ap-proach, and every countenance smiling.His goodness, grace* sense and good looks were all cried up ; lie was gay, ardcÉ and adventurous, and could not but please the nation.Hh very faults passed for good qualities, his impetuosity was frankness, his hatred of study, absence of pretention, his ignorance) an amiable simplicity, his prodigality, a noble munificence; in a word, the flatterers and interested made him in every point, a worthy descendant of Henry IV, forgetting doubtless, that this great King to whom they compared him, loved the fine ari»t though unable to cultivate them. f *15 3 The weakness of my younger brother, was principally a virtue which could scarcely be sufficiently appreciated by those who desire to govern princes, and establish an empire over them, so much the more to be dreaded, as it is not discovered until too late to shake olf the yoke.I own that in this point I was less worthy of the love of the nation.I kept up a reservo that rendered it difficult to approach me, much less could any influence over me be obtained by the many who desired it.This reserve was called pride.I did not lavish my homage upon all women, and I was accused of disliking them.I must be a bad master, as no one ruled me.I was not yielding, so I was said to be wanted in sensibility ; my reserve and cautiousness passed for duplicity, my fondness for labor, was disguised ambition; even my memory,and dislike of show' and splendour was imputed a crime ; my tastes, my actions, my words, even my silence were calumniated, and I was so often reproached with aspiring to the throne, that at length the desire arose of making myself worthy of the trust, if Providence should one day call me to fill it.This was my only plot, my only intrigue, and God is ray witness that whatever steps I have taken, I had no other object Ilian the welfare of the nation, and of my family.Ail my fault consisted in seeing the incapability of the latter to govern properly, and in sometimes advi-siuc means to save it from the faults which came from the throne, and which tended to compromise our existence and our future.If I have then occasionally put my hand to the helm without the permission of the pilot, w'hose good intentions did not divest me of alarm, it was necessary to strengthen the crown, and I flatter mvself that I have succeeded, in such a manner m that it will remain firm and unshaken on our heads as long as my charter is the fundamental law' of the state.It wras thus that from my infancy, I have breathed in the midst of an atmosphere of ill-favour.As I advanced in my career, I have had to struggle against ingrates, with the clergy and with the nobility.They did not understand that by refusing something at lirst, I could assure them of much more afterwards; r 4i« ] they misunderstood my wisdom and fore-thought, and hated me for my good intentions.Senseless beings ! 1 knew the human mind better than they did ; I have followed the progresses of the age, step by step, I know what suits the light it has acquired, to go contrary to this, were to dash against the rock that a skilful hand should avoid.Nevertheless I had some flatterers ; I was a son of France, That was saying enough, and yet I knew the public opinion oi me : truth has a perfume that penetrates even to places from which it is banished.This knowledge affected my temper, soured it, and l gave myself up sometimes to movements of impatience caused by tire injustice of man.From that time 1 was feared, and less loved than ever ; I saw this, it afflicted me, and I was a long time in accustoming myself to a disgrace which 1 had done every thing to avoid.The Dauphin, later the unfortunate Louis XVI, was no! better appreciated with his perfect virtue and love of the public welfare, lie was good, hut wanted firmness, his eye was sure, but lie had an extreme distrust in himself ; ho did not know how to refuse, or grant seasonably ; he gave to others the credit of good intentions, and judged of men by himself.Not fond of medling with affairs of State, he frequently abandoned them to his ministers, frequently to his wife even, and diverted himself in solitude when he could for a moment throw of his character of King, forgetting that a King should never cease o1 o o ~ to be one, that for him there is neither interlude, or recreation, and that like another Sisyphus, ho should constantly roll the burden of royally up the brilliant steep assigned to him.« ' The court did not like Lôliis XVI ; ho was too much a stranger to their manners (mœurs, ) and this monarch knew not ho* to set it aside to draw near the people ; for ihere are moments when a sovereign should know how to choose between the one and the other.How many evils would my unfortunate brother have spared himself and his family, had he but held the sceptre 0 that Providence had confided to him, with a firm hand ! [ 4.17 ] I prefer speaking of my family to dwelling upon the first years of my life, on the actions and sayings of a child whoso pretty tricks are always admirable in the eyes of parents, but very tedious to others.The marriage of my brother with Marie Antoinette, I own, displeased me sovereignly; Austria had interests so opposed to those of France, that I dreaded the influence of an Archduchess amongst us.I knew the weakness of the dauphin, and the careless ease with which he allowed himself to be governed by others and I particularly feared the ellects of the empire his wife would of course take over him : this princess, brought up as an Austrian, could she forget her first principles of education to become entirely french ?It was at least doubtful, and it was to be feared on the contrary that the Cabinet of Vienna would find in her an auxiliary entirely disposed to serve its interests.Besides too, this house of Lorraine which was almost our subject, the remembrance of the Guises who had been so fatal to France, this chimerical pretence, but sustained so seriously, caused the gravest reflections to arise within my mind, for in spite of my youth, T sought to read the future, and I should have preferred that another wife than the Austrian had been given to the presumptive heir of the kingdom ; but I was not consulted.— The princess arrived provided with a list of those who were to partake of her good graces most particularly.They were for the most part Lorraines and descendants of the Guises.However her mother’s happy star placed near her a Frenchman, an Austrian in his heart, the Abbé de Vermont, a mysterious personage, always behind the curtain, whose immense influence from its not appearing in broad day was tho more dangerous.— It was he who governed my sister-in-law till the last moment, every night ere resigning himself to sleep, lie sought in his mind what he could do in favor of Austria the next day.This man was destitute of capacity, had no knowledge of aflbirs, and liking nothing but disturbance and intriguers, he kept in the back ground, while he made his friends act, being himself like a [ 418 J « spider who spins his web in the shade that his prey may more surely lull into it.My sister-in-law had unbounded confidence in her Counsellor ; he ended by estranging her from us and prejudicing her against the sincere partizans of the monarchy.1 flatter myself with holding the highest rank among those, and she testified towards me the utmost coldness , when the dread of my ambition did not mix with it, which consisted in willing the greatness of France to die detriment of Austria.The Archduchess at her first coming out conquered all hearts ; she was beautiful, seducing, and gracious ; she dazzled : her success was complete.She was worshipped like a deity ; moreover the court gave the word of command, and as they expected everything from the wife of the dauphin, they would not refuse her any thing.This lasted till lier accession to the throne, and eight days after the Queen had lost half of what the dauphino had gained.The court commenced by stripping the Idol, which later was broken by the people.My sister-in-law did not deserve this hatred, nor perhaps the infatuation which had first been testified V .i \ • s towards her.I must say that 1 feel a certain embarrassment in explaining my opinion of her ; we were never cordial to each other, I have even little to praise in her proceedings towards me, nevertheless Î shall endeavour to he impartial in my judgment ; besides, her misfortunes inspire me with a reserve from which 1 trust 1 shall never depart, and this idea will help mo to keep in the explosion of discontent which a recollection of past times might sometimes occasion.The Queen loved her children and the King, this was perhaps all she loved in France, with the exception of Madame de Polignac, who, in obtaining her good graces, became in a manner a now member of her family, for she bore towards her the affection of a beloved sister ; this was wrong, Madame dc Polignac, mild, good and affectionate, possessed none of the quafi ties lirai could he useful in a favourite.Her influence could r [ 119 ] serve the State ; she employed it merely to enrich hcrscifand her creatures : she surrounded herself with nullities of which she soon formed a rampart round the Queen, wishing to render her, as it were, invisible to all who were strangers to the sphere in which she lived.This sphere, where were confounded, hatred, mortifications, fears, and personal hopes, became the centre of petty intrigues and narrow ambition, from which none of the generous thoughts and resolutions can arise which forms the glory of an empire by strengthening it when menaced with a fall.War, peace, with the administration of the interior, or overseeing of distant affairs, weighed nothing in the scale in the Queen’s circle,against the acquisition of an article of furniture, of a cordon blcv, a fashionable head-dress, or a plume of feathers.These were the great interests that occupied this frivolous court, where it was thought that time could not be better employed than in singing, dancing, performing theatrical pieces and inspecting workmen who were making preparations for a new fête.Neither the men or women disdained this employment which passed for the quintessense of bon ton.Money too was to be procured, no matter at what price, to support a pomp behind which was hid a frightful abyss ! Also did these careless beings see the approach of the revolution without a thought of what was reserved for them, and it was only on becoming its victims that they learned.Unfortunately the innocent were crushed in the common wreck.Muric-Antoincttc’s debut, as I said, was much to her advantage.I shall ever remember the moment that first placed her on an intimate footing with us.Her looks were at once directed to her husband, then on the King and the rest of the family.She seemed to seek in the countenance of euch, the character which had been traced out to her beforehand ; I know not why but her examination of me lasted longer than the others.She addressed me in the softest accent, requested my friendship in return for hers which she said was already wholly mine,and begged me to believe that she already considered herself a member of the family, f 420 ] that she wished to live but for us, nnd would sacrifice all her habits for our sakes.It.was honey that llowed from her Austrian lips, and she had nothing to complain of in the compliments I paid her in return.The very next day my brother followed his youthful bride like a slave, he was dazzled by her graces, with her merit, and her maidenly dignity; he saw only her, which was already a step towards to see but through her, and it was not long ere this was the case.—««•Ol©! c-LE SALMIGONDIS, CONTES PE TOUTES LES COULEURS.Paris : Fournier, jeune ; London, Treullel * « .’ ed, that the vessel in which he sailed was wrecked upon the coast of Ireland, and that all on board perished.The shock did not break her heart at once—-but it was her death blow, and it was evident that although she lingered in this world it was as ' # * one, who was not of it—and whose earthly career would soon close, and now it was that Caroline May exhibited all the untir- « ., f * v •* *v ing devotedness of her nature.She had rejoiced in the bright « » prospects of her friend, and now that they were blighted in this hour of bereavement, with all the winning art which devoted lovo only knows, did she endeavour to soothe and comfort her.She avoided society and devoted herself wholly to her friend.Her kind parents indulged her affectionate desire, and every feeling of her fond heart was absorbed in attempting to divert the melancholy of her beloved Isabel.It was an evening, when they were taking their accustomed ramble, that Isabel complained of weakness, and was frequently obliged to rest.With distress, Caroline noticed it—and for the first time became sensible of the ravages which grief had made in a countenance, once so blooming and joyous.Her emotions were too powerful to be concealed and she burst into tears.They were then entering a grave yard, and seated themselves upon the turf.“ My affectionate Caroline,” said Isabel, “ do not mourn at these tokens of weakness and decay.Remember that death has no terror for me, and it is with joy, that I look forward to an union with my Edward in heaven.Yes, I feel, that soon a few feet of earth in this grave yard will be all that remains of Isabel Norton and that the same Almighty Being who took • > • my Edward’s spirit to himself as it rose from the billows, will also bear my soul to the regions of the blessed.” • # fame was dearer to her—and when she heared I r , ’ ,* 1 .• ,- ) * *« “ Talk not of dying’’ murmured Caroline, in a voice,.avUosb„ ?1 tones indicated heartful anguish—*' You must not leave me— • » » ' • 4 ' ¦ .• I » .‘ I > ¦ .11 1 ' ^ t { live for your parents—for the many who love you—oh my.Isa-bel—will you try to live ?Arc you willing to do all that can be * ’ f 1 « | * 1 * * m M • ê done to restore your health V’ And with beseeching earnest-ness she gazed into her lace.Isabel replied—“ Caroline, I will not deceive you, libel that, death has already commenced its work with me, and although for your sake I should be willing to linger yet a little longer, yet 1 cannot regret that I am going to meet one who is in heaven, and although I feel that it will be of no avail, yet if it will be any satisfaction to my friends—to you my Caroline,.I will do anything which may be thought beneficial.” Caroline’s countenance brightened and after she had accom- panied Isabel to her home, she communicated to Mr.and Mrs.« .Norton the conversation which had passed.These afflicted parents were but too sensible of the great change which was so evident in their beloved daughter, but they did not allow themselves to feel that she could die—now they awoke to the dreadful reality of her situation, and their family physician wasimme-diatcly called.It was evident that nothing could be of material benefit, unless her mind could be diverted from the painful causo of her sufferings.Accordingly the physician prescribed travelling, and suggested that a jaunt to “ Saratoga” might be beneficial—Isabel acquiesced in this arrangement, but it seemed to her anxious friends, that she hoped nothing from it.Caroline would not be denied the favour of accompanying her, and early in the month of May, Isabel with her afflicted parents and devoted friend commenced their tour.They travelled by short stages, and Caroline’s sanguine feelings led her to hope that the invalid was improving in health, but whenever she fancied that she could perceive some favourable symptom, she found new cause for alarm.Caroline now looked forward to the time when she would receive the benefit of the springs, and hoped > everything.In the course of a week they arrived at Sara- • toga, but for several days, from debility and fatigue, Isabel r 433 j * .* * j vt AS unable to leave her room and lier friends feared • that thr » .f A \ J » ^ « 1 HL | \ ^ J # ( ’ ^ \ * • v • ¦* • hour of separation had come, hut she was yet spared to them, and for a time was evidently better.One morning, when the invalid appeared weaker than usual, as‘Mr.and Mrs.Norton were seated at the breakfast table, Mr.N.was told that a gentleman wished to speak with him ; he left the room and did not return till Isabel and Caroline had withdrawn to their own apartments.It was evident that something had powerfully affected him, lie paced the room in great agitation, and for a time did not reply to the anxious inquiries of i his wife.But as he noticed her distracted looks, he advanced and taking her hand, begged her to bo composed for her own sake, and for the sake of Isabel—“ Edward Drayton lives” t * said he, and as be glanced at the incredulous expression of her countenance he added—“ lie is here, I have seen him.” Mrs.Norton clasped her hands in silent gratitude, and ere she could make further inquiries, Mr.Norton withdrew, hut soon returned and introduced one, who next to her Isabel was dearest to her heart.As soon as the mutual congratulations of such a meeting were exchanged, they considered how they should communicate the joyful intelligence to Isabel.Mrs.Norton went to her daughter’s room, and sent Caroline to learn the welcome ti-dings while she prepared Isabel to bear it with calmness.But notwithstanding all the cautious prudence which a mother’s love • • dictated, the happy group in the drawing room were soon summoned to assist Mrs.N.in restoring Isabel from a swoon, into which she had fallen at the first intimation of the inteiligencc.Edward stood by her side, as if rooted to the spot, he was shocked at the awftil change which had taken place in a few short months.When last he pressed that cheek, it was flushed with health, now it was hollow and sunken.The impress of death was on her beautiful features—and in the agony of his soul he groaned aloud.For a time their united efforts were in- • »»»t' effectual, but at length she slowly recovered.Edward stood behind lier.u Oh what a sweet dream" nnmnered she, ” and fi .: ‘ vet was it al! a dream ?Oh yes—there is no such happiness [ 401 J in rescivc for me”—“ Isabel”—said her father in a low and solemn tono—“ have you never indulged a hope that your Ed- t ' i 1 ¥ 1 i ' 9 f % JT ./ t ^ \ ' I I * * 11 * ward has escaped the sad fate which we feared was his, and that he yet lives ?”—What mean you” exclaimed she, wildly, and clasping her hand upon her brow—“ Ah now I remember— can it be ?” “ It can, my child, and it is so.” Isabel's weak frame was powerfully agitated, and it was with difficulty that they could prevent her from relapsing into a state of insensibility.As soon as she was capable of speaking, she asked, “ where is he ?—let me sec him before I die.” Caroline with a face radiant with happiness, and yet expressing anxiety begged her to be composed, conjuring her to think what might be the effect, should an interview affect her too deeply.“ Then lie is here” she exclaimed, Edward stepped forward, and the lo« vers were clasped in each other’s arms”—My Edward ! my Isabel ! burst from their lips, and all was silent.As soon as they could in any degree compose themselves, Edward briefly related the particulars of his miraculous preservation.When the vessel struck he was thrown upon the rocks—the blow made him insensible, hut when his consciousness returned, with great difficulty he released himself from his perilous situation and sought the inhabitants who lived near.They welcomed him with kindness and hospitality, but in consequence of his exposure a fever ensued which threatened to terminate his life.« Thus situated, without money and among strangers, he had not bedn able to inform his friends that he yet lived.The exertions which he made in endeavouring to procure the means of returning, occasioned a relapse and it was long before his health would enable him to travel.At last he succeeded in his endeavours and once more trod his native soil.He wrote to Isabel and followed the letter immediately.At her home he heard of her illness and without delay proceeded to Saratoga.“ But” said he as he closed his narration, “ I can now say, would that I had not been rescued from a watery grave if my fearful forebodings arc realized”.Mr.and Mrs.Norton endeavoured to reas* [ 435 ] sure him, and Caroline with enthusiastic ardour expressed hcr belief that Isabel would indeed be spared to them."With a melancholy smile the dying girl regarded her idolizing friends, and her eye with melting tenderness rested upon Edward.—“ Oh'’ said she “ I fear that I am now too willing to live, since earth’s choicest treasure is restored to me, but it is too luted’—Edward’s agonized countenance showed that his breaking heart felt the truth of what she uttered, and she added.—But let me direct * * .¦ ’ - * < • • your thoughts to a better and a brighter world where we shall meet, to part no more forever.There, my Edward, my dear parents, and my beloved Caroline, shall we be united in bands of eternal love and everlasting friendship.With sad countenances did these afflicted friends respond to her pious thoughts, and as ]\irs.Norton noticed that the invalid appeared much exhausted, she took her husband’s arm and with Caroline left the room.And now would Edward have relieved his bursting heart by pouring forth the sad feelings which overpowered him, but he feared to excite Isabel, he pressed her hand and with a countenance expressive of deep heartfelt grief, regarded her in silence.She was engaged in silent prayer to Ilim, who hears the secret breathing of his children.She supplicated for Edward, grace to support him in the trying hour which she felt was near.— The exercise composed her tender feelings, and although she would have spared him the anguish the subject occasioned, yet she was so convinced that the time of separation was at hand, that she determined to take this opportunity to express to Edward her dying wishes.With an enthusiasm, which Caroline’s disinterested friendship well deserved, did she speak of this beloved friend.She expatiated upon her sw’cet untiring love : of the devotedness with w’hich she had sacrificed every selfish interest, that she might afford her comfort and consolation ; and then with solemnity laying her hand in his, she said “ My Edw'ard, had it pleased God, I would have remained on earth, till he » • • • ^ *• should take you hence, I would have been to you all that you [• -130 i could n.^k, or devoted love teiu-li me to be—your Cbmpahfoit—v —your solace—your all—but as lie, who is infinite in wisdom,'1 has otherwise determined, I am willingly to leave you, but oh how happv can you render my dying moments, by assuring rrie'n that when I am gone and time has soothed your grief, you will select my beloved* devoted Caroline, as the partner ofyour' bo^1* som—promise me this, and I shall feel that a ministering angt*ff‘ will be your companion on earth—will cheer your pathway to the tomb, and while I rise to live in heaven, from that abode of bliss I shall be permitted to bless your union.“ Isabel/’ said Edward, “ my heart will be buried in your grave, and soon will this frail tenement be laid by your side.Say then can I promise to give my hand to one, whom for your sake I shall ever regard with interest, but whom I cannot love ?—Ah '* my Isabel ! you have never known the deep, deep love which mt heart feels for you, hut ask your own devoted soul, if you could have given your affections to another, when you thought your Edward had found a watery grave ?She replied not to this in- v terrogation, but reurged her request.“ Should I live” said Edward, I promise that your wishes shall be solemnly considered by me, but for the present, 1 conjure you say no more of it.” The dying girl survived a week after the arrival of Edward Drayton, hut the shock which this joyful event occasioned, exhausted her feeble strength, and she never after left her room.—.Caroline was ever at her side, and it seemed as if she hoped, n by unbounded love and indefatigable exertions to retain her friend, but the hour was soon coining in which she would cen3C to bean inhabitant of earth.One ovening Caroline and Edward retained their usual station by her side, while Mr.and Mr.Norton sought a few hours of .rest.They watched her sweet repose in silence, till Caroline's ,, anxious eye noticed a change in her friend, and tremblingly., she grasped her hand—ft was cold—and in breathless anxiety /; she attempted to discover if she breathed—alas—no beating y pulse indicated that life was there.—The chill of death was on [ «ï ] hcr brow, but.so calmly had her spirit fled, that her attentive m 0 friends had not marked the time of its departure.Edward was so completely absorbed in his own melancholy .reflections, that although his eyes were fixed upon the face of his beloved Isabel, he was not aware of the change which had taken place, till a shriek from Caroline attracted his attention.She had fainted and when he learned the awful truth, it was with difficulty that he retained his composure, while he raised Caro- « 0 line in his arms, and attempted to revive her.Too soon she awoke to the consciousness of her loss, and turning to Edward she breathed rather than said—•“ Oh if you knew how my heart was bound in hers—how very, very dear she was to me, you would not wonder that this dreadful hour so completely ovor-powers me.” “ I feel it Caroline, to my hearts core : I know all that you have lost, for oh ! I am too sensible of her worth, and when I think of my own bitter bereavement, 1 can realize how great is your loss.” Mr.and Mrs.Norton were in some measure prepared for the sad tidings, but it was evident that in this case, anticipation of the event did not soften their grief, when it became a dreaded reality.• ' .* # * , , In a few days Isabel Norton the victim of devoted affection was laid in the burying ground of L.but her angelic virtues and exalted worth will ever livo in the memory of her afflicted friends.Caroline arrayed herself in deep mourning"garments, “ for” said she, “ well it becomes me to wear the externals of grief, when my heart has been bereaved of its best earthly friend.” These mourning friends soon returned to their homes, but during the following year, Caroline May was seen only by those who sought her in her retirement.—Hers was the deep sincere grief of the heart, and she sought not to exhibit it to others.With Edward Drayton she continued a correspondence which while it renewed their grief for the departed one, whose transccn- ' r '• 56 ¦ ¦ i » • i rh r 'i3 s j lient virtues was their never varying theme, it endeared them to eacli other—and insensibly did Edward unite the image of the tainted Isabel with the lovely devoted Caroline.The next summer they met at the springs, and over the) grave of his Isabel, did Edward inform Caroline of her adored friend’s wishes—“ I am aware said lie, as he took Caroline’s hand,” that my lieavt has received a shock from which it will never rc* cover—I cannot offer you the first born affection which was my Isabel’s—that is buried in her grave, but next to her, is your place in my heart.Tell me, Caroline, will your benevolent spirit lead you to fulfil the wishes of your friend, and make me happy V’ Caroline replied—“ whatever my Isabel wished I should consider myself hound to perform, aside from that, I frankly ac-knowledge, that as her oilier self, you alone could gain my affections, but in justice to her superior excellence, I would not claim a love, which none but angelic virtues like hers can secure.Edward realized at this moment, that to him, they were one in every surpassing charm, and that as one he loved them, and from that hour did Caroline allow herself to i egard Edward Drayton with the same admiring enthusiasm, which hod marked her love for Isabel.But not till a second year of mourning bad r 3 expired, did they fulfil the dying request of flic sainted Isabel.Then they were united and Caroline imitating the bright example of lier friend, becomes daily more dear to her admiring husband ; while the first sweet pledge of their union—Isabel Norton, is constantly reminded of the exalted character of the angel whose name she bears, and like her she promises to become a being fitted only fur heaven.Bedford, May 30t|i.Maria. [ 130 ] THE SUNKEN ROCK.Ly Mrs.Fletcher; (late Miss Jacsbury.) A gentle ship was sailing Upon the Indian seas, 0 lovely looked she sailing, So fair were wave and breeze : Yet sunken rocks were near her, And but one seaman grey, Of all who had to steer her Knew the dangers of the way : But they hearkened not the fearer, For a syren-song that day.In air, the waves were flinging Their silver crowns of spray, And these their words of singing,— “ Away bold ship away ; To-day, all fair together We bear thee o’er the sea, And who talks of stormy weather, A moody wit is he.“ So white the furrow streamed), As strewn with pearls are w'e, And who of danger dreamelh, A moody wit is he.Light hearts are in thee dancing, Light steps are on thy deck, The sun is cloudless glancing,— Sail on—who dreams of wreck ?“ We are thine, bold ship, and bear thee Home, home,-trust us, not him ; Ay.home, bold ship, we bear thee, Trust us, trust us, not him : The pilot’s trade is caution, And with talk of rocks and sands, He tells foul tales of ocean, And us, his wandering bands.“ Brave bark, bound on, and heed not Let rocks be sunk or seen, \ The chart and line they need not, Where once we’ve pilots been.On, on, and end thy roaming, There are many look for thee, Who will laugh to greet thy coming.Ay, kiss thy sides for glee. [ 440 ] “ Thou hast never heard such laughter As that will greet thee soon ; Thou wilt never hear such after, Beneath the sun or moon.We will love and leave thee never ; We will tell our secrets thee ; And thou shalt be for ever, Our nursling of the sea “ Ha ! ha ! we have won ! and th§ silty ship That braved us so long, is ours ; She sinks in our arms as if drunk or asleep ;— Down with her, fathoms, fathoms deep,— And laugh we, and leap, with conquering roar ; Her wreck had displaced some waves a score, And to all upon earth she’s a name and no more The waves were hushed, the song they spoke In cruel triumph over the waters ; And other, milder music broke, From other, milder ocean’s daughters.“ Well, too well, the depths are cloven, Soon, too soon, the work is done ; Many a weedy shroud is woven— Many a mortal course is run ! Fathoms deep their bodies lie, Stiffened, limb, and stony eye ; Wrapped about with slimy things, Who were Beauty’s queens and kings ; Wealth, with all his gold outspread, Sleeps upon a rocky bed ; And the salt and hungry spray £atelh Valour's sword away, Once, as flashing as the day : Wisdom churmeth now no longer, Weaker brain is as the stronger, And the man of giant size With the little infant lies : Whilst afar the taper burneth, And the watcher’s bosom yearneth, Each, for one who ne’er returnelh ; Buried by our father sea, Where none know their graves, but we ! Wc are daughters of the deep, Yet, because his daughters, weep That the sound of human woe Through our caverned halls should flow, And that he, so calm to us And the fragile nautilus, Stern and full of death should be. [Ml ] P To a mightier race than we ! We would save, but we are weak ; And when mighty tempests break, And a ship with all her crew Sink, as if a drop of dew Fell upon an ocean weed, » We may pity their great need, And, when hushed is foam and surge, Sing as now, their funeral dirge ; Hide awhile the limbs of youth From some monster’s ravening tooth, Bind sea blooms round beauty*» locks Sadly floating on our rocks ; Or remove a hoary head From its lacerating bed, Unto soft sea-weeds instead— But His all that we can do, Mortals, yet our love is true !” Thus, upon the self-same seas, Sang the Oceanides 1 THE COMMISSARY OF POLICE.Seduced by the annual salary of five thousand francs, and persuaded that the office of police commissary might, like many other offices, be converted into a sinecure, I made application for the situation, and,—which is not very surprising, considering that I had no claim,—my application was successful.The arrival of my appointment made me nearly wild with joy, and 1 rushed out, replying only to officious questioners— “ 1 am a commissary of Police !” Having in a few seconds reached the corner of the street, a dense multitude obstructed the way.The confusion increased every instant, and I began to doubt the possibility of ever freeing myself from this moving labyrinth.In the middle of the crowd were two men fighting.“ Take them before the commissary,” was exclaimed on all sides ; and in a moment the spectators had overpowered and seized on the two champions.I turned back and threaded another street—for I hate a mob.But scarcely had I proceeded twenty yards, ere I was impeded by an other quarrel.A tvaggoner had broken a pane of glass. [ 442 ] and the complainant urged the application of the adage, “ Whoever breaks must pay.” But the waggoner was not convinced.After this, agree on political theories if you can ! A voice at length uttered the magic words—“ Take him before the Commissary 1” and the .man immediately pulled out a black leather purse from under a triple rampart of clothing, and paid the money without another word.• • A few doors further on there was a new scene ; but it could be enjoyed only by the lucky few whom good fortune had first led to the spot.The crowd collected round the door formed a half circle, reaching as far as the kcnnelf ; and as the other half of the street was occupied by omnibuses, citadines, tricycles, béarnaises ); ; hackney coaches, and other vehicles, each passenger who arrived was forced to increase the number of spectators.1 could only see caps dying about, and catch the words trollop, hussey, and others of similar import.On a sudden, in a voice'like thunder, the following words resounded from under the arch-way : “ The commissary ! the commissary ! to the commissary !” The dread sounds re-echoed from the cellar to the garret of the house.The two actresses in the scene were terror-stricken, and disappeared in double quick time, whilst the crowd dispersed.I also went on my way, having gained a new point in experience—namely that when two men arc fighting, they may be separated by once naming the commissary ; but when two women quarrel, the commissary’s name must bo repeated threo times, and with a voice like the roar of cannon, cro they will desist.I then with nervous haste proceeded towards the office of the commissary, to wiiosc authority I was to succeed.It appeared to me terrible and threatening, like the den of Trophonius ; yet it was with sincere delight that l reached the portico of this temple, raised by the moderns to public security.t At Paris, the kennel is in the middle of the street.J The citadines and béarnaises belong to the family of the omnibuses ; the tricycles are likewise public conveyances, but with only three wheels. ( 44.3 ) I bc"an to ascend the stairs.Letters of all forms and sizes scrawled upon the wall would have indicated the way, had 1 not been more surely guided by the confusion of voices, which rnin'ded and melted into one horrible sound, like the demon re-vels in Pandemonium.The staircase at length became so dark, that I seemed as if groping my way under a perpetual eclipse of the sun.On my entrance into the office, I was struck with the disgusting filthiness of the place.As the commissary is obliged to take care that the streets within his jurisdiction be kept clean, I had imagined that he would take special care that this cleanliness should extend to his own office ; but l was mistaken.The walls were black, the registers were black, the tables, chairs, and benches were black—all, in short, was black and dirty ; and the light of day scarcely penetrated into this disgusting den.D e I had fancied that the commissary, whose very name had the power of terminating a riot, daunting a highwayman, making a pick-pocket tremble, and had just set in motion so many pairs of arms and legs and tongues, must be one of Satan’s most powerful ministers.I had not yet seen him, but his portrait was traced on my imagination : it was the bean ideal of ugliness—a sort of sublime honor that would put to flight a whole herd of rhinoceroses, or a real Quasimodo.^ The thoughts which this fantastic portrait had conjured in my mind, were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of an elegant young man.A strong smell of perfume preceded, followed, and surrounded him, like the atmosphere of a planet.Ilis countenance was thoughtful, amiable, and prepossessing ;—his dress denoted care and attention : the fashion was rigidly, though tastefully, followed ; -his manuers were graceful and easy.This was the commissary ! Having shown him my letter, the gracious smile which followed, and the open manner in which he congratulated me, effaced every unfavourable expression from my mind.t The hero of Victor Hugo's * Notre Damo de Paris.’ ( 444 -) As you are to succeed ine,” lie said, leading me into itis private closet, and shutting the door, “ allow me to initiate you into the mysteries of the science—for it is truly a science to‘understand properly the dark, and secret, and hidden powers of thé police.Secret reports, denunciations, calumnies, and crimes—do not these form a complete course of study of the human heart?Here you will not see the most favourable side of human nature, that you may depend upon.* * * “ But we must return, and attend to business.” The splendour which had appeared to me to surround the office of commissary had gradually disappeared ; and my dreams of honour, and opulence, and idleness, fled at the not very flattering picture which my predecessor had drawn.[The scenes in the police office, though clever and graphic, would hardly repay the English reader for the space they would occupy ; and we shall therefore omit them.J Hitherto nothing in my future duties appeared disagreeable.To make up quarrels, settle diffcranccs, and bring rioters to reason, was an honourable and philanthropic task, “ Now,” continued the commissary, after we had returned to the closet, “ 1 must make known to you the personnel of my administration.In the first place, you will have for your secretary an old poet, who devotes his leisure to the muses, writing couplets for the confectioners, epithalamia, and birthday songs.His imagination is so fertile, that his official acts are beset with rhimes ; and even in a signalement,—certainly the least poetical of documents,—he still contrives to rhyme.Behold here a specimen of his talents : Light chcsnut eyebrows, aburn hair, A well-turned mouth, complexion fair, Straight nose, and stature middle size, An oval face, and dark blue eyes.I | ( 4 “ The inspector is a vulgar, positive, dogmatical fellow, who.talks of nothing but beefsteaks and his bottle.” V • Whilst my informant was drawing these portraits, I had opened a register, and its contents raised in me such astonishment and ^indignation, that I scarcely listened .to him.— This he perceived, and tired, no doubt, of playing the part of cicerone, he seized the opportunity of my preoccupation of mind, i E 445 j % * i- took his leave with become commissary; But let us return to the object of my surprise.It was a re* port—and one, too, against myself,£ “ * * * Jules Grailin-patriot-His opinions are moderate-he frequents the club of the Amis du Peuple ; but he is too good to herd with those montagnards.îfe appears, however, on the eve of amendment.” ' I was thunderstruck.The 5th and 6th of June had supplied volumes of accusation.Society, indeed, had then, in the short space of twenty-four hours, sunk almost to the lowest state of degredation, I threw aside the document in disgust.Scarcely had I closed these ignoble archives, when a municipal guard brought me a warrant which required to be immc-diately executed, It was to apprehend a publicist.This mission was far from pleasing, for 1 particularly dreaded the small fry of the public press, f ortunately, my good genius extricated me from this dilemma.The man of letters had changed his abode—nobody could give me his new address—and my heroic expedition was reduced to a mere confidential rèport.It was nine o’clock in the evening before I had dispatched the latter ; and 1 was perhaps the only person in Paris, who, with a good dinner within his reach, had not yet dined.1 was.just about to perform this important business when the secretary appeared) ** Sir,” said he, “ you are waited for with the greatest impatience.There is a disturbance at the-theatre ; the rfoise and confusion are dreadful ; and the manager has sent for you three times.Force cannot be used, unless you are present.” I set out immediately.The noise, the cries, the stamping of feet, the oaths of some, and the lamentations of others, seemed to have assimilated the theatre to Pandemonium in a state of insurrection.The occupants of the galleries showered upon the pit vollies of boiled potatoes and old .crusts of bread, which projectiles were thrown back to the place whence they came.The promptor had abandoned his post, arid the stage lamps were broken.leaving put on my scarf, 1 advanced roy head and body out of my box in order to impose silence on the multitude) At this moment something struck my face and, en*.tered my mouth.I tried to speak—impossible I was under wtudl suffocation.Noisy applause : then burst forth from IW t This ii literally true.—Hmmequin.§7 ( » • i • marvellous address.Thus I really had % # ?/ 4 .4 f I * i y r* i • • • * # % J , * • r r 446 ] • c* every part of the theatre ; and cries of bravo and encore were vociferated with a sort of frenzy.One voice, shrill and pier-cing as a trumpet, ntti red the almost prophetic words, “ It is the commissary’s dinner?” I was under the necessity of withdrawing tor an instant.On my return peace was nearly restored, and the play continued, Finding, therefore, my pre-.sence no longer necessary.I went back to my office ; and next day I read the following paragraph in a ministerial paper :—*• 1'here was last night a slight disturbance at the ———theatre : the presence of the commissary of police proved alone sufficient to put an end to i*.” I confess I could with difficulty undeistnnd why I had been forced to swallow a potato to produce this eirect.Be that as it may the receipt may be a good one for the suppression of riots.You had better try it, Messrs.Commissaries Swallow a boiled potato instead of ordering the troops to fire upon the multitude, and matters will end much better.' On my return from my theatrical excursion, harassed and worn out, I was preparing to go to bed, when a violent knocking at the door was succeeded by the entrance of a lady about thirty years of age, rather handsome, and in a dishabille almost equivocal.She stated herself to lie an unhappy wife, deserted for a fat cook wench ; and weary at thus being left alone, stye had imagined that the commissary could seize her husband, and by virtue of his magisterial authority, arrange nil their family differences.It was with the greatest difficulty that I got rid of this strange complainant.Day had now dawned, and my office began to be filled and emptied twenty times an hour.Here, were lodgers who had gone away without paying their lents ; there, women who had insulted passers by ; next, men and women to settle quarrels as impossible of adjustment as they were insignificant.But behold a new personnage taken in flagrante delicto.The witnesses for the prosecution were learned dogs and a monkey : the crime was that of having made these quadruped arlislet dance without a licence from the Perfect of the Police.The Italian boy Knggi, although, accusd, was nevertheless innocent.He had observed the formalities presetibed in the police regulations, with this only difference, that he had addressed his application to the King ! I could have no doubt of the trulh of this defence, for the lad had the answer about him.It ran as follows : “ I have the hgmnir to inform you, that your letter has been forwarded to the Prefect of Police, with directions to attend te it,” • A [ Ml J After such nn example and such a letter, I conceived that I had only t i bow my head, and beat my burthen in silence.If the King had been obliged to read ar.d answer an application for a licence to’‘allow dogs and monkeys to dance,” I surely ought not to comp ain.But go and see the Italian boy Raggi ; he lives at the iarche-Neuf.He will inform you how, in the month of August last, he wrote to Louis-Philippe in favour of his learned animals, and how the King had Hie honour to answer his letter.It was after dismissing this case that I began to feel the weight of my official duties ; but l yet Knew not all.1 was now called upon to have a room opened whose occupant (a female) had suddenly disappeared.Alas ! the wretched woman was lying dead upon the floor, holding in her arms her dead child.A mother’s tenderness had led her to commit iufan’icide : she had been desirous of sparing her * 11 v babe the agonies of poverty and hunger.The state of the room, the complete absence of furniture, and the miserable rags on the body, left no doubt as to the cause of the poor womans suicide.Dreadful as such a spectacle was, how many of the same kind was I not forced to behold ! The rest of my time was .divided between rioter®, boxers, disputants, pickpockets, swindlers, highwaymen, convicts, informers, courtesans, and inlrigans of every description.I was obliged to watch over the dens of prostitution, run after thieves, apprehend malefactors, examine the conduct of suspicious persons visit the gaming tables, seize smuggled goods, act as a spy among the politicians, look out for conspirators, draw up procès-verbaux, and visit the haunts of crimp.It cannot surely excite surprise that with such du-; ties, I should take a dislike tony office.Already bent upon my resignation, a last incident led me to send it in.The iir>t, a man of about forty years of age, was a liberated convict, suspected of a fresh offence.He joked about his arrqst ; and as there was no direct evidence—nothing but ' vague suspicion to support the charge against him—he had assumed htt^irrogant hearing , and his bloodshot and tiger looking eyes expressed the most insulting irony.I actually felt niysclf quail under ilieir audacious scrutiny, and I cast mine upon the ground, without being able to account for this superiority of crime over piobity.Whoever had seen the infernal smile of mockery, - and the air of exultation with which this disgrace to human nature gloried in the experience he had acquired, would, like me, have1 felt confounded.He whs guilty, and his .very guilt fed and nurtured his demon pride.Could any hope of moral (lube entertained with regard to such a being ?I B/A [ 448 ] • • • « ! .* * < • • The second prisoner was a child, with an expressive rather than a handsome countenance.On it were depicted sadness, want, and fatigue.It was childhood seared by misfortune—a young but blighted heart : it was pain, in place of the buoyant pleasure of youiig life.There he stood in the darkest recess of the office, concealing his face in his hands, throug h the fingers of which his tears fell rapidly, and awaiting with shame and visible anxiety the decision of his case.I felt moved and interested ; it seemed to me that this child could not be a criminal.“ Well, my little man,” said I, “ and what enormous offence have you been guilty of?The child made no leply, but his tears increased.A policeman undertook to explain, the case.“ The enormous offence,” said the latter, of which.he has been guilty, your Worship, is no less than burglary.lie has been in the habit of climbing over a wall, and breaking into a kitchen much better supplied no doubt than his own, where each time after regaling himself at his neighbour’s expense, he has carried off a piece of plate.” Thus this child, scarcely twelve years old, had already made frightful progress in vice.Mis tears wrere the resource of cunning—in his distress, he used them as a weapon of defence.— So young, and already so corrupt ! Unfortunate child ! Yet at his age can guilt really exist?Oh, no ! This child was only deserving of pity—the blame, the disgrace of his fault, ought to have fallen upon his parents.Taught from his tendcr-cst infancy to consider the w hole world as his prey, to rob w'as, in his idea, to work and live : it was the exercise of an industry —of a trade which procured him a subsistence.I now turned to the third prisoner, whom 1 had not seen before, and beheld a female leaning against the office table.Her fleshless hands, her livid complexion, her sunken and glassy eyes, her hollow cheeks, and those deep furrows, dug not by age but by starvation, pictured her to my senses as death still clinging to life with desperate and pertinacious grasp.She was a living skeleton.She had been driven to do wrong by hunger, which she had not the virtue to support.Knowest thou not, thou poor wretch, that thou art permitted to suffer, but not to eat ?the law grants thee protection at this price ; and dost thou not appreciate such an advantage ?—dost thou appreciate all that it has done for thee, in allowing thee the privilege of dying, and deserted, on a bundle of straw, in some dark garret ; whilst from the rooms under thee, thou canst hear the song of gladness and ihc mirth of revellers ?How ungrateful thou art ! When thou wert stung by hunger, and all ihy fellow créatures * J 1/4 r H I El B B *.[ 449 3 * 4 • f • • » rejected thee, thou hadst the baseness to take a single loaf of bread ! ! Fie, fie, thou art not worthy of the benefits of our so cial system.To prison with her ! “ Yes,” said the poor woman, with a vehemence of which I should not have supposed her capable ; “yes, Sir, I took a loaf ; but it was not lor myself.AVhat would it signify if I died !— life has little attraction for one who is always suffering.Yes, Sir, I did take—nay, why should I soften the expression—I did steal a loaf ; and I would do it again in the same holy cause : I had no other means of saving the life of my poor child !”— And for the first time she wept.Ilers were tears of bitterness.Until now, she had seemed plunged in a kind of stupid insensibility ; and it requires the associations which the words she uttered had aroused within her, to bring her to a consciousness of her situation.'•I wall visit her dwelling,” said I to myself ; and in a few minutes I had the most heart-rending spectacle before my eyes.The child, about five years of age, lay stretched upon a few handfulls of straw, which constituted the only furniture of the place, and scarcely gave signs of life.Its dreadful emaciation told the tale of its sufferings ; and it was a tale that chilled my blood.“ Make haste,” said I to the inspector, “ and fetch a bottle of wine and a pound of sugar, for there is not a moment to be lost, if we would save the child’s life.” The poor mother began to sob.She thanked me in the most affecting terms— pressed my hands—and I could perceive that it was with difficulty she refrained from throwing her arms round my neck.What a moment ! how my heart dilated ! It had been so contracted, and so full of gall and bitterness, ever since l entered into public life.“ What is the amount of your loss ?” said I to the baker, who had accompanied us.“ Why Sir.this is perhaps not the first time.” “ Well, ask what you like, and you shall have it.” * t The baker’s self-love was aroused at this proposal, and he would take nothing.“ Then you will not prosecute ?” “ No, your worship.” « } * » • , “ My good woman, you are free.Here are five francs— go and put on the pot qu feu ; ( and 'do not blush to receive this trifle ; you shall return it when you are able.” “ Qh, Sir, may God bless you !” Joy and emotion had ex- f 450 ] haustcd her remaining strength, and she fell fainting upon th« floor., .For my own part, leaving her to the care of a neighbour, ana blubbering like a whipped school-boy, I betook myself to flight-then entering a cc/t, L wrote a letter, which I earned myself to its address.It contained my resignation.—( Livre des cent et-un.) SKETCHES OF AN IDLE MOXEXT.1 * y ?If -I hat » cry morn from n fair land I come Yd round me clung'.lie spirit of my own.—Ilf MANS.It was evening—the bright summer sun was slowly fading in the west, while the last rays of his departing splendour, reflec-ted in softened radiance around, the lake was waveless, the black buoys of the fishing nets floated on the waters, and seem, ed stains upon its bosom, like those made on the snow whit# lilly by the careless insect.The village church was peering above the w illow and the eypiess—1 could but gaze as that moment, threw a sudden freshness hack on banished hours, nor could I afford runs thought to external objects, from ihe world within my bosom, I hud been a wanderer, a searcher after hap* pines and vain dreams, and now like the prodigal son was re* tracing my way, from a far country, to the home of my child* hood, the bosom of my family.1 had always an inward veneration for the “ houses of God ’ and a wish to view their site and structure, and with melancholy feeling I slowly l ent my way along the shore towards the village chuich, its wall of the rough nioun* tain granite and its thatched roof had an ait of simplicity, I had often looked for in vain among the stately edifices of rich and more populous cities $ the burial ground encircled w ith a w ooden fence, and a few head-stones of marble or painted wood, on which some were inscribed a simple motto, or recorded the name or age of the tenant beneath ; in one corner 1 maikeda small rising mound, no stone was there, hut in the centre grew a rose bush, on which only one bud expanded its deep but deli* cate flower.I approached and gazed awhile with ihe deepent feeling of melancholy, for youth was buried there—thought after thought came rushing on, of severed affection—pure yet hopeless love—and ruined frame—and I lingered till twilight’s doskj mantle, warned mo of approaching night, and all nature seemed to take the same dark hue of my own feeling—slowly I retraced my way towards the village Inn, and found my hostess like most of her craft conversant with all the gossip for miles «round, I took an early opportunity of enquiring the history af * , » s-'ir.d \ i *»» .c *51 1 ., n , the ^rave, which appeared to interest me more than I could ae* count for, the story was a simple and a common-place-one—but to me fraught with sorrow and misery.The gri.vc v.ns that of theonlv daughter of a widow, some said they had seen better days# she was the lovM of the village and sought after by most of the gentry, one young man, the second spit of u nobleman, she gave a preference to, he was proud and poor, consequently the marriage was postponed from time to time, in the hopes of fortune shining on him—they lived but in each others presence.-“ l ie was the sun of her bright wot Id of dreams, and '* her young heart, like Alemnon’s harp beneath his eye alone “gave out its hidden music.” A situation of profit in the West Indies was offered him.by which he hoped in a short time to-amass sufficient wealth to support her if not with the luxuries of life at least with some of its comforts.And after a heartbreaking farewell, in wh ch reason was almost dethroned, they separated, she took on sad y continued the landlady for a long while, till a letter came and then she went like a bird so blithe-gome and so gay and for a time she received letter after letter,— and then came a dead silence—some said he was faithless, others that he was on his return, hut at last the truth come out, he fell an early victim to the climate.—She lost her judgment fora time, and then slowly dropped into the grave.And her poor mother enquired 1 ?She lives hard by in a small cottage, her religion keeps her tip, but she has not long to live among us, and it is to be rejoiced a’, ’tis a sad thing to live alone in the world-what were their names, that of the poor victim ?M’Neath—Oh God ! it was my sisters grave.F.FASHIONS FOR MAY.1 .J g , Morning Dress.—It is composed of white jaconet muslin.A stomacher corsage made nearly but not quite tip to the throat, and the stomacher part, as also the top of the bust, small plaited.Long sleeves, the upper part bouffanled, the lower setting close to the arm.The top of the corsage is finished with a frill of embroidered muslin.The hair is parted on the forehead ; the hind hair is partly plaited and partly gathered in a tuft on the crown of the head, and decorated with a large knot of green ¦ gauze ribbon.The scarf is of green cashmere, with a rich Indian border.—World of Fashion.• Walking Dress.—Hat of paille de-riz, the front put on $• •s to sit back, and off’ the face as much as possible.A guirlande of fern commences very small on the left side, near thn [ 4:52 J |i bow, and goes gradually broader till it reaches the front, whett it forms a kind of high bouquet, and ends at the lower part of the callotte, near (lie passe.At the right side, underneath the front, are three very long bows, without ends, of gauze ribbon ; ther appear a little beyond the edge ; at the lett side is a narrow border of blan.A rope of cachcmcre striped, the color chamois ; the fond is plain, and a little caehemerc pattern runs up the stripes, The front of the corsage is cut in three pieces, and gathered into small plaits between stripes, which are put on to form a kind of point at the waist, the back is plain.A piece called a revers turns over the top of the corsage ; it is open on the shoulders, forms a sort of cape at back, and is cutaway tot point in front, where it meets.The sleeves are immensely full at top, and gathered into plaits ; they are tight to the arm, from the elbow to the wrist ; the skirt, very lull, is plaited on ; at th| bottom it is gathered into plaits, like the corsage and sleeves, to the depth of about half a yard, or rather less.Between thi^ stripes, and just over the gathers, are small palms of different colours.The chemisette has a full trimming of black lacç, which appears all round, about the edge of the corsage.X guimpe of tulle, embroidered, is on the neck, and the cravatte m a small scarf of blnck lacc, knotted at front.The ceinture is of a ruban de gros de Naples.The hair in curls, falling low ^ the sides, black shoes ; the stocking of fine Scotch thread.*» Gloves, white kid -—Lady’sMagazine.Hats and Bonnets,—The first are of rice straw, poux d^ Stoie, and.gros do Naples cliini ; the same materials are adpj* ted for capotes, with the addition of white straw.There is le^g change in the forms than might have been expected.Tha brims of capotes are longer ; they sit almost close to the lower part of the cheek, against which they are drawn close by the bridges, that tie in a full bow under the chin ; the crowns an half-high, less pointed than in winter and lie on one side.A light sprig of flowers, or a small bouquet, with little or some* times no ribbon, is used for the trimming.Hats are decided^, of a round and open shape, cut in such a manner as to be pldc' fgr back upon the headi displaying the whole arrangement the front hair.\ good many of the crowns are oval, others aiw round, and, have the materials disposed in oblique fol.ds- * same flowers are adopted for hats and bonnets.We may cite is the fashionable, single hyacinths of two colors mingled', with tulips, double pies, lilac, chésnut blossoms, rhododendron.Such are the material* trimmings of the Longchamps hats and bonnets; but we must observe' rice straw, which appeared there for the first time this sedson, is rtidre 9-rterally adopted than any of the other maferfalsi 'it is- worn trimmèd only With a ribbon ae an undress bonnet; adorned with à flower, and it form* ail depant e< ening drees hat wkeo trimmed with fpathera and, blondf Wm-ld»/Fashio*.