which renders a sojourn here almost insupportable. I suppose this
wonderful spectacle does not amuse the inhabitants, since they only give
it once a year; and if it does not, why do they have it even on the
king’s birth-day? I asked this question of a man whom one calls a friend
here, one Mr. Lefort, my neighbor at my unfurnished lodgings, who
answered, “I do not understand you.”
This answer is made to me every day. One would imagine I spoke to them
in Chinese.
Being deprived of these “_feux de joie_,” which delight us at Pekin,
each evening I go to spend a few hours at the Opera, which is a theatre
where they pay public screamers salaries of fifty thousand francs per
annum. When a young man frightens his family by his cries, they shut him
up in a place they call “the Conservatory,” where a professor of
screaming gives him lessons for twenty-four moons. The pupil then enters
the Opera, and acts a part before fifty copper instruments, which make a
thousand times more noise than he does himself. You can well comprehend
that a good Chinaman, habituated from infancy to the soft melody of the
“Hymn to Aurora,” does not feel inclined to have his ears bored twice by
these public screamers at the Opera; so I was about to make my adieu to
the theatre the first evening, but having learned that, with a
contradiction peculiarly French, they performed other pieces, in which
not a word was said, I continued my visits. I was delighted with this
spectacle, which they call the “_ballet_.” Nothing is so admirable at
Paris as this performance; so that when seeing it one does not even
regret Pekin. Figure to yourself fifty women, with Chinese feet, dancing
“_à ravir_” without uttering a word. I have taken a box for all the
“_ballets_.”
There is a _danseuse_ among them called Alexandrine, and surnamed
_Figuranté_. I suppose on account of her fine figure. She has splendid
black hair, which flows down in torrents to her feet; and those feet so
small that, in her perpetual whirlpool of _pirouettes_ and _entrechats_,
they disappear from the sight. For ten nights, would you believe it, I
have watched this “_danseuse_” with particular attention, forgetting the
high mission with which I was entrusted, and the forty revolutions of
twelve moons which rest upon my head.
One evening the door of my box opened and a man entered, bowing
profoundly, and with much respect, said, “Light of the Celestial Empire,
Star of Tien, I have a favor to ask.”
I made him the universal sign which means, “Speak.” He did speak.
“I am a decorator of the Opera,” said he, “and am at this moment putting
the finishing touches to a Chinese Kiosque for the new _ballet_ of
“China Opened, or the Loves of Mademoiselle Flambeau, of Pekin;” may I
request you to come, during the interval of the acts, and give a glance
at my work, and suggest any improvement that may strike you?”
“Sir,” replied I, “your request is not disagreeable. Show me the way—I
will follow you.”
We walked for some time along subterranean damp galleries until we
arrived in the “_coulisses_” of the Opera. The decorator showed me his
work, and I had nothing but praise to offer him; it was in the most
exquisite Chinese taste.
There was a soft whispering near us of sweet and girlish voices, which
caused me to turn suddenly. It was a group of young _danseuses_, who
profited by the interval to gossip a little to relieve themselves, like
mutes delivered from a _régime forcé_. A blaze of light made me close my
eyes—Mademoiselle Alexandrine was there.
I looked for my friend the decorator to keep me in countenance, but he
had disappeared.
I invoked the spirits of my glorious ancestors, and asked of them
courage and calmness of mind, those two virtues so necessary in love and
war.
Mademoiselle Alexandrine had the carriage of a queen; her well-rounded
and graceful person was sustained solely by her left foot, upon which
she stood proudly, while the right one undulated from right to left, the
heel and toe only touching the floor. My eyes followed that wonderful
foot and never left it.
Imagine my astonishment when I heard the mellifluous voice of
Mademoiselle addressing me with a boldness worthy of a captain in our
Imperial Tiger Guard.
“Will you do us the honor, sir, to assist at the first representation of
the _Ballet Chinois_?”
I quitted the foot to look up at the face of the _danseuse_, and
answered with a well imitated Parisian accent, “I should be delighted to
be there, Mademoiselle, to put my eyes at your feet.”
Mademoiselle Alexandrine took me caressingly by the arm, and made me
promenade with her behind the scene.
“So it seems, sir, that China really exists, and that the Yellow river
is not a fable? Tell me, are not all Chinamen made of porcelain? Do they
really walk and talk like you and me? I did not know that there were any
other Chinamen than our Auriol de Franconi—do you know Auriol?”
All these questions were asked so rapidly as to defy answer. At her last
word, the _danseuse_, called upon the stage by a signal, quitted
suddenly my arm, and bounded away with the grace and springiness of a
gazelle, humming the air to which she was to dance. I awaited her return
to answer her questions; but when she again took my arm, she had
apparently forgotten them; her gayety had disappeared—care contracted
her brow.
“Have you noticed how cold the audience is this evening?” said she at
length. “Is there an Opera in your country?”
“No, Mademoiselle.”
“What a miserable country! Without an Opera! What do you do, then?”
“One is miserable _s’ennuie_, Mademoiselle, because you are not there!”
“That is very gallant. By the bye, you have beautiful fans in your
country; the nephew of a peer of France gave me a Chinese fan as a New
Year’s gift—_un bijou adorable_; the sticks were of ivory, with
incrustations of silver filigree work, and the picture of two yellow
cats playing with their tails as they ran in a circle; but I lost it at
‘Muzard’s.’”
“It is very easy to replace it, Mademoiselle; I brought thirty-three
with me, made at the celebrated manufactory of Zhe-hol.”
“Is it possible! And what will you do with such a collection?”
“They are intended as presents for the wives of ministers and
ambassadors.”
“Bah! the wives of ministers will laugh at your fans; and they are only
old withered faces! If I had your thirty-three fans, I would make all
the first _danseuses_ in Paris die of chagrin.”
“Mademoiselle, they shall be at your door to-morrow morning.”
“No one can be more French than you, sir; but who would have expected it
of a Chinaman. I will give you my address—“_Mademoiselle Alexandrine,
de Saint Phar, Rue de Provence, on the first floor._” My porter receives
my presents any time after seven o’clock in the morning, and places them
scrupulously in the hand of my chambermaid after mid-day.”
She made a _pirouette_, and disappeared.
Returning to my hotel after the Opera, I wished to meditate upon my
position, but my ideas wandered. You know my harem of Khé-Emil—it is
the most modest of harems—scarcely can one count in it fifteen women of
Zhe-hol of Tartar blood, and as many of Thong-Chou-fo, of pure Chinese
race, not to speak of some twenty or more _odalisques_, maintained
merely as decorations to the seraglio. Well, if Mademoiselle entered
that harem, she would eclipse my favorites among its women, as the light
of the full moon puts out the morning star. Yes, I have, unhappily,
discovered that her face charms me more than my whole thirty, shut up in
my modest harem. It is an unhappy fate! Happy are the three mandarins of
the seventh class, who have accompanied me to Paris. They dine at the
_Rocher de Cancale_; they eat beef in spite of the beard of Menu; they
attend the minister’s _soirées_, and know nothing of the exquisite foot
of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar.
The next morning at eight o’clock, I sent to her porter the thirty-three
fans, with a box of the delicious tea of “Satouran.”
In the afternoon I dressed myself in court costume, my mandarin’s cap of
canary-yellow, ornamented with a plume of Leu-tze, and long robe of the
color _clair de la lune_, with gloves of citron-colored crape. My glass
told me I resembled the young Tcheon, the Prince of Light, and Son of
the Morning. Flattered by my mirror, I went to visit Mademoiselle
Alexandrine, and was introduced with the most surprising facility.
Her dress costume only rendered her more beautiful; her foot alone was
always the same. It seemed to live in a perpetual motion; one might well
say that it contained the soul of the _danseuse_, and that she thought
with her dear little toes.
“Sir,” said she, taking me familiarly by the hands, “I am the happiest
girl in the world! your present is truly royal. Sit down upon this
chair, and let us converse a little. I wish to present to you my little
sister, a perfect angel, as you’ll see.”
A young girl about twelve years old, as graceful as a fawn, leaped into
my arms, and seized my mandarin’s cap from my head.
“What do you think of her,” said the _danseuse_.
“She is your sister,” said I, with an expressive glance.
“Still gallant, dear doctor!”
“What is her name, Mademoiselle?”
“She has none yet, doctor; she waits for a godfather—it is the custom
at the Opera. Will you be hers?”
“Very willingly, Mademoiselle.”
“Give her, then, a pretty name—some name of your country.”
“Very well; then I name her ‘Dileri,’ which is a Mogul name.”
“What does it mean?”
“_Light of the eyes._ Does it please you, Mademoiselle?”
“Dileri is charming! Do the Moguls have such soft names, doctor?—and
they are still Moguls. It is wonderful! Mademoiselle Dileri, thank your
godfather.”
With that marvellous refinement with which the spirit of the great Fo
has imbued his faithful followers, and which renders them superior to
all of human kind, I asked Mademoiselle Alexandrine, negligently, “if
she had any taste for marriage?”
“Ah!” said she, crossing her beautiful feet upon a footstool of crimson
velvet, “it is not marriage that I fear, it is the husband. You do not
know French husbands, dear doctor. Such egotists! They marry a pretty
woman to have a slave, in spite of the law which forbids trading in
human flesh; and when they have her fast enchained, they show her as a
curiosity to their friends to excite their envy. Well, since China is
now opened, we will go to China to seek husbands. Dear doctor, you will
not find in all Paris a husband who would give his wife thirty-three
fans without any pretension, as if he merely said, ‘good-day!’ Are the
Chinamen good husbands, doctor?”
“Mademoiselle, ’twas a Chinaman who invented the honeymoon!”
“I do not doubt it. What a pity the Chinawomen have such queer eyes.”
“For that reason we come to seek wives at Paris.”
“Truly, doctor, you are _adorable_! and I am confused by your kindness.
I do not know how to express my sense of your compliments, and gratitude
for your splendid presents. May I not offer you a box in the fourth tier
for your suite? Giselle is performed to-morrow. My cousin has written a
play for the Theatre d’Ambigu; I will ask him for a box for you this
evening. Perhaps you will accept a free ticket for a month on the
railroad to Rouen.”
“Thanks, Mademoiselle! I am as grateful for your kind offers as if I had
accepted them. But I have a favor to ask.”
“It is already granted—speak.”
“I have brought with me some Indian ink, and I beg you will permit me to
make a picture of your right foot.”
“What a Chinese idea!” cried the _danseuse_, with a rich burst of merry
laughter. “Do you call that a favor? Take your crayon, dear doctor, I
give you up my foot; will you copy it _au naturel_, or in an odalisque’s
sandal?”
“I will paint it as it is at this moment.”
“As you like; meantime I will amuse myself and little sister by admiring
your thirty fans.”
At the third fan I had a striking resemblance of the wonderful foot. The
_danseuse_ glanced at it and uttered a cry of admiration, saying,
“Dear doctor, you have taken it with a dash of the pencil.”
“Mademoiselle,” answered I, “it is said of me that I could copy the
wind, if I could see it pass. I have copied your foot which is more
agile than the wind.”
“If you continue these compliments, doctor, I am afraid I shall fall in
love with you; I, who the other day shut my door in the face of a Greek
prince and two bankers.”
The candor of innocence was imprinted on the features of the _danseuse_;
and I bowed my head in reverence before this ingenuous woman, who
unveiled her heart to me without reserve. In taking leave of her I was
allowed to touch with my lips the ends of fingers which rivaled her feet
in beauty.
The Secretary for Foreign Affairs awaited me at five o’clock, to inquire
concerning the ceremonies used at Zhe-hol and at Pekin, at the reception
of European ambassadors, and to sound me in regard to certain political
secrets relating to the Chinese empire and Queen Victoria.
During the audience I experienced many distractions and made many
mistakes. May Ti-en grant that my errors may not one day cause trouble
to the Celestial Empire. Whilst the great minister of the Christians was
speaking to me, I was thinking of the foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine
St. Phar! You see that that foot will overturn Pekin yet!
After dinner, a perfumed billet, the paper of which resembled a
butterfly’s wing, was brought to me, and I read as follows:
“DEAR DOCTOR,—I hear that you have brought to this country numberless
Chinese curiosities. Dileri, your charming god-daughter, is so much
delighted in looking at your fans, that she longs to know all the wealth
of her godfather; a childish folly! But I have promised her to visit you
to-morrow at 12 o’clock.
“Your god-daughter kisses you between the eyes, and I place you at my
feet.
“ALEXANDRINE ST. PHAR.”
You know, my dear Tching-bit-ha-ki, that I have not brought with me many
of our toys. I only provided a few as presents to attachés’ wives, and
perhaps ministers. Happily, when I received the billet of Mademoiselle
Alexandrine, I had not yet distributed any of them; nevertheless, I felt
that my collection was too contemptible to be honored with a glance from
the divine _danseuse_, and I resolved to add to it before showing it to
her. I obtained all the information I could, and then went to Darbo’s,
Rue Richelieu, and to Gamba’s, Rue Neuve de Capucines—two merchants of
celebrity in _Chinoiseries_. I purchased at these shops two screens, a
pagoda of rice, two boxes of cloves, four tulip vases, two complete
services of porcelain, with a chamber tea service, a table of sandal
wood, inlaid with cypress, four figures of mandarins in clay from
Pei-ho, twelve pairs of embroidered slippers, a shop in miniature, a
chamberlain with his wand of office, two leaves of tam-tam, a parasol,
two lions _frisés_, and a copy of the royal carriage of the brother of
the sun and moon, the Emperor Tsieng-Long.
Most of these _Chinoiseries_ were made in Paris, and I doubted
particularly the royal carriage; but the imitation was so good, that a
mandarin only of the first class could distinguish the true from the
counterfeit. I did not cheapen these things, and paid the bill, an
enormous sum—thirty-seven hundred francs.
Night arrived; I went to bed to enjoy dreams of happiness to come, and
slept with my copy of the divine foot in my hand. My first thought in
the early morning was to put my Chinese riches in order, to exhibit them
to the best advantage. What a happiness, said I to myself, if she will
deign to point her foot to some one of these _bagatelles_, and say, in
her flute-like tones,
“Dear doctor, give me that for my boudoir.”
At length 12 o’clock struck, and my door opened.
Oh! the City of Houris will be one day destroyed for having forgotten to
produce Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar! I was thunderstruck at her
morning beauty. The divine _danseuse_ led her little sister by the hand.
She threw her hat and shawl upon the first chair, pressed my hands, ran
about the room, _pirouetting_ before each _Chinoiserie_ with cries of
pleasure and joy which went to my very heart. When she had exhausted
every exclamation of delight, she said to me,
“Dear doctor, I am sorry to have brought your god-daughter with me—she
asks for every thing she sees. Oh, these children! one should never show
them any thing. It is true I am somewhat of a child in that way, too. If
I had to choose some one of these things, I should be in great
embarrassment, and would not dare to do it, lest I should to-morrow
regret that I had not taken something else.”
In saying these words with delicious volubility, she pushed out her
right foot from the protection of the shortest of robes. She might have
seduced the most virtuous Lama of Lin-Ching.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, “permit me to point out a plan to avoid that
difficulty.”
“Ah, will you! Dear doctor, tell me this plan!”
“Will you swear to act according to it?”
“I swear it!”
“You will keep your oath?”
“I will.”
“Well, Mademoiselle, take them all.”
The divine _danseuse_ raised her arms gracefully, threw back her queenly
head, and her bosom of ivory palpitated with sudden gladness, like the
throat of a bird that sings with very happiness.
“You are a rare fellow,” cried she; “after your death, your body should
be embalmed, and your tomb be a ‘Mecca’ for all true gallants from
thenceforth forever. But, dear doctor, remember that I am a woman. You
do not know to what you expose yourself. Suppose I were to take you at
your word?”
“I should say you were a woman of your word, and knew how to keep an
oath.”
“No, no, dear doctor, no joking! you wish to try me!”
“Not in the least; I speak seriously. All these curiosities belong to me
no longer—they are yours.”
“Then you must be the brother of the sun and moon and cousin to the
seven stars in disguise. Long live the Emperor!”
[_Conclusion in our next._
* * * * *
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE’S FAREWELL.
BY AUGUSTA.
Come an’ sit thee doon langside me now, my ain, my darling Sue,
Let your laddie view those e’es, lass, that match yon heaven’s blue:
Dearie, pit that wee saft han’ in mine, whiles swear that ye’ll be true
To Willie when he’s gane awa’, to fight for hame an’ you.
Here’s a bonnie sprig o’ broom, I plucked it yander on the lea,
Pit it in the auld ha’ Bible, ’twill mind thee aft o’ me,
Ken ye weel the motto o’ the broom? ’tis “hope an’ constancy;”
An’ dinna, lass, forgit me when I am far awa’ frae thee.
Ye will roam where we hae roamed, lassie, langside the mountain rill,
An’ think how aft thegither we hae watched the brooklet fill:
Ye will miss my step come bounding ’mang the heather on the hill,
But in spirit I’ll be there, lass, an’ guard thee frae all ill.
When the moon is saftly beaming, love, an’ a’ are wrapt in sleep,
When starlets frae the curtains o’ the sky come forth an’ peep,
When the heath-bell bends its tiny head, while dew-draps o’er it weep,
’Tis then my spirit shall its welcome vigil o’er thine keep.
When the haly Sabbath morn comes roun’, an’ sweet the kirk bells ring,
When wee birds wake the dingle with the songs o’ praise they sing,
When ye bend before the throne o’ HIM to whom all praise we bring,
Oh! ask him then to guide me, lass, an’ guard me with His wing.
* * * * *
A TWILIGHT LAY.
BY W. HORRY STILWELL.
This glorious sunset I behold,
This lovely closing scene of day,
The western sky embathed in gold,
The calm, low murmurings that play
Upon the quiet ear of eve;—
Yon fields, in waving beauty spread,
The summer-rose now paling here,
The sunflower’s gently drooping head,
Proclaim the day, the hour near,
O’er which, for aye, I vainly grieve!
No more the rapture now, that grew
Within our hearts, pale sleeping _one_!
While dwelling on that gorgeous view
Unfolded by the setting sun—
No more thy loved, thy lonely flowers
Will bend to kiss the gentle hand
Outstretched to train their heavenward bloom;
No more that angel form will stand
Beside me, in the twilight gloom,
To light with love my darkened hours!
* * * * *
THE CHAMBER OF LIFE AND DEATH.
BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.
CHAPTER I.
A light was seen gleaming at an unusual hour, in one of the rooms of
—— college. The sole occupant of said room was Willard Carlton, a
member of the junior class. He was a diligent and successful student,
but was not wont to trim the midnight lamp. By a wise employment of
sunlight, by avoiding the loss of isolated moments, he accomplished as
much mental labor as the laws of health would allow, and devoted a large
portion of the night to refreshing sleep.
The light attracted the attention of a friend and fellow student, who
was laying the foundation of a life of suffering, by prolonging his
night studies to the morning hours. He repaired to Carlton’s room, and
found him leaning upon his table, his countenance marked with deep
dejection.
“Are you ill?” said Temple.
“I am not,” said Carlton, pointing to a seat.
“I knew there must be some cause for your being up at this late hour, I
thought it could be nothing less than sickness.”
“It is something more than sickness.”
“Is it any thing in regard to which I can be of any service to you? I am
entirely at your command.”
“Thank you—you can do nothing for me. I have received a letter from
home.”
“It contains bad news.”
“Yes.”
“Is your father ill?”
“My father is well; but I am informed that another—friend has a mortal
disease.”
“Another friend! a lady?”
Carlton bowed his head in reply.
Temple was silent. He knew that Carlton had no relative in his native
place except his father. He inferred at once the nature of his
connection with the invalid whose situation caused such deep solicitude.
He felt a little hurt at the reserve with which he had been treated.
“Perhaps,” said Carlton, rightly divining what was passing in the mind
of his friend, “I should have informed you of my acquaintance with Miss
Warren. I have tried to do so more than once. My silence has not
resulted from a want of confidence, or from a desire of concealing my
engagement.”
“I think,” said Temple, “I can understand and appreciate the reason.
Does Miss Warren live in your native place?”
“Yes; her parents removed there just two years ago. I became acquainted
with her in the course of the first vacation after I entered college. We
have been engaged nearly a year. She has recently been traveling for
several months in hope of benefiting her health. My father incidentally
mentions that her lungs are diseased beyond hope of recovery.”
“What is her age?”
“She was eighteen yesterday. She has seen only eighteen summers, and yet
she must go down to the grave.”
“May we not hope that the fears of her friends have led them to overrate
her danger?”
“The error always lies in the other direction.”
“Is it your purpose to go home?”
“I have written to my father for permission to do so,” pointing to a
letter which lay on the table. “It is useless for me to stay here. When
she is gone, I shall have no motive to study. I have desired distinction
for her sake. I have lived for her alone.”
Temple strove to think of some topic of consolation which he could
appropriately present. He knew his friend too well to suggest any thing
which did not fully meet his case. He was constrained to leave him to
his own reflections. Assuring him of his sympathy, and exhorting him to
seek repose, he withdrew to his own apartment.
Carlton remained in his seat until his lamp was paled by the morning
light. He then vainly sought an hour of repose; then rose, and having
obtained leave of absence, seated himself in the morning stage-coach,
and was borne over the hills and plains toward his native village.
The forests were putting on the scarlet and gold of autumn; but he saw
not their beauty. He was like the shipwrecked mariner whose eye is fixed
upon the bark which is fast receding in the distance. He was well nigh
insensible to every thing around him.
His father was surprised and alarmed as the coach drew up at the door,
and his son alighted. The pale and anxious countenance of the son had no
tendency to dispel the fears which his sudden appearance had occasioned.
To the hurried inquiries made respecting his health, he gave
satisfactory replies, and then added:
“I came home solely on account of Miss Warren. Have you heard from her
to-day?”
“She is not quite so well to-day,” said the father, in a tone of
sympathy which went to the heart of his son. He comprehended at once the
state of the case. Sympathy for the evident suffering of his son,
prevented him from making even the mental inquiry, whether that son had
not failed in duty to him, by not seeking his approbation in a matter so
momentous in its influence.
It was not from want of respect or regard for his parent, that Willard
had not made known to him the state of his affections. In all ordinary
matters, the wishes of his parent were a law to him; concealment was
foreign to his nature. But when those dreams, and longings, and
aspirations which the young heart is scarcely willing to confess even to
itself, began to cluster around a living object; when, ere he was aware
of it, all the wealth of his ardent soul was bestowed upon Eliza Warren,
he felt an almost invincible repugnance to speak of it to any one but
her.
After attempting to partake of some refreshment, he directed his
footsteps toward the chamber of sickness, and to him of sorrow. His
father kindly offered to attend him, but he begged permission to go
alone.
A chill autumnal wind swept through the branches of the shade-trees,
which were rapidly losing their foliage in consequence of the early
frosts. The hues of evening were falling upon the landscape, and it
seemed to him that it would never more be illumined by the morning sun.
As he reached the door of Miss Warren’s dwelling, he met the physician,
who advised that she should not see him, or be apprised of his arrival
until morning. Willard turned and made his way slowly homeward. His
father, not expecting his speedy return, had gone out. The house was
desolate—his mother had died when Willard was an infant.
He went to his chamber. Exhausted nature claimed repose. He slept till
the light of morning began to struggle for entrance through the window,
thickly shaded by the woodbine, which had not yet felt the influence of
the frost.
At an early hour he presented himself at the door of the invalid. She
was dressed in a robe befitting the sick-chamber. She attempted to rise
as he entered, but her strength was not equal to the effort, and she
sunk back in her chair. The crimson attendant upon the attempt was
succeeded by a deadly paleness, which, however, did not drive the sweet
smile from her lips. He stood and gazed upon her, as if upon a statue of
surpassing loveliness, or a vision from another world. It was not till
her hand was extended to invite him to approach her, and the tears began
to fill her eyes, that the spell was broken, and he advanced to press
her thin hand to his aching heart. He sat down by her side without
speaking.
“I am glad to see you,” said she, almost in a whisper, which to his ear
had a sepulchral hollowness. “When did you hear of my return?”
“Have you a cough?” said he, not heeding her question.
Before she could answer, a paroxysm of coughing, which she strove in
vain to repress, shook her delicate frame in a manner which caused him
to feel from that moment that there was no hope. He rose and paced the
room in agony.
“Sit down,” said she, as soon as she had recovered strength to speak. “I
shall use no ceremony with you now—sit down here,” and she drew the
chair he had occupied closer to her own. “I have heretofore I
felt—shall I own it?” and here a smile, such as first won his heart,
lighted up her features—“a little afraid of you. I do not feel so now.”
“You do not expect to get well,” said he, as he sat down and took her
hand in his.
“I do not,” was her reply, but her countenance underwent not the
slightest change. A convulsive burst of grief on his part caused her to
weep in sympathy.
“Do not,” said she, “make me weep. Dry your tears and let us talk
together.” He endeavored to obey her request.
“Have you suffered much since I saw you?”
“Not much physical pain.” She did not say how much she had suffered when
the darkness first fell upon all her prospects and hopes of life. She
did not tell him how much she had suffered in view of the anguish which
her early death would give to her friends, and most of all to him.
“How can it be,” said he, as though speaking to himself.
“It can, and must be,” said she, with entire composure, “and there is
one thought connected with this dispensation, which does more than all
other things relating to earth, to reconcile me to it.”
“Nothing can reconcile me to it”—said he, in a manner indicating
disapprobation of the expression she had used.
“You surely would not have me like the imprisoned bird which wounds
itself against the bars of its prison?”
“Oh no, I was selfish in the remark. I was thinking only of myself.”
“No, Willard, you shall not do yourself injustice, you were thinking of
me. But the thought I alluded to is this—all your hopes have had
reference to this world. They have not reached beyond the horizon of
time. You have loved me as I do not deserve to be loved. I know and
appreciate the depth of your love. The loss of your idol may cause you
to take off your thoughts from the earth, and fix them on an enduring
portion. If my death could be the means of your spiritual life, I think,
solemn and awful as is the change which it brings, I could willingly
meet it. And will it not have that effect? When I am gone will you not
seek a better portion—even an heavenly?”
“When you are gone life will be utterly valueless to me.”
“Do not say so. You cannot say so and be blameless. If I now speak with
calmness respecting our situation, you will not ascribe it to
indifference to life, and the objects it set before me. You are not less
dear to me than I am to you. Nothing has kept my heart from breaking in
view of the blighting of all my earthly prospects, but a firm conviction
that all events are ordered by Infinite Wisdom—that I am in the hands
of a Being whose tenderness far surpasses that of my earthly parents,
and whose power will cause all things to work together for my
everlasting good. This conviction, and the hope that you will be induced
to seek a better portion, enable me to go calmly forward by easy, but
somewhat rapid stages, toward the grave. I have ever been very anxious
on your account. Even in my happiest moments I have often trembled lest
I should be the means of your continuing to rest contented with this
world.”
The entrance of the physician prevented further conversation. He found
her pulse accelerated, and advised that she should seek repose.
CHAPTER II.
Young Carlton had not enjoyed the advantages of early instruction in
religious truth. His pious mother died while he was in his infancy. His
father took the utmost pains with the intellectual, social, and emotive
education of his son. The subject of personal religion was never
mentioned by him. He was not a disbeliever in Christianity; but he gave
little heed to its peculiar claims. He was much in public life, and a
reputation for high and honorable principle was all the religion to
which he aspired. It is not strange therefore that Willard was ignorant
of those consoling truths which formed the support of Eliza in her dark
hour of trial.
In his view, she was a perfect being. He questioned the justice of the
decree which was about to consign her to an early grave. He questioned
the right of the Great Disposer to take from him his portion and destroy
his hope. His life had been marked by strict integrity. He had no
sympathy with the sensual. His aims had been purer and higher than those
of the great majority of men. Why should the scathing bolt fall upon
him, while the mercenary and abandoned passed on and realized their
ends? Thoughts like these passed through the mind of Carlton, and as he
walked to and fro in his chamber after the interview above described,
they had no tendency to calm his agitation. The tempest in his bosom at
length overpowered him. His father found him in a sleep bordering upon
insensibility.
A day of illness intervened. On the next morning he again visited Eliza.
There was the game voice and smile—perhaps the one was a little
fainter—the other, if possible, a little sweeter than at the previous
interview. Eliza entered upon a series of cheerful inquiries respecting
his studies, his friends, and his purposes: she failed to chase away the
deep expression of sorrow that rested upon his brow.
“It is useless,” said he, comprehending her purpose, “let us speak of
what concerns us more, or let us enjoy each other’s society in silence.
When with you I can even now speak of enjoyment.”
“I hope you will speak of it and feel it when I am gone; but I know that
you cannot unless your affections are set in right tune by the hand of
God. You are different from all other men. In my young dreams I used to
fancy one whose whole life should consist in the exercise of affection.
I never expected to find such a being. I have found one. Those
affections will be to you ministers of sorrow, unless they are fixed
upon something more enduring than an earthly object.”
“I can now think of nothing but you. If I am to have you but for a short
time longer, do not attempt to turn my thoughts to other things. If I
survive you, I will do all you wish.”
“I shall insist on the fulfillment of that promise.”
“Can you tell me,” said Willard, after a brief interval of silence, “why
the heartless and cruel are suffered to remain, while the pure and
gentle are taken away?”
“I cannot. I cannot tell why the summer flower was not made to endure as
long as the mountain rock. We can only refer it to the wisdom and the
will of God. But I begin to feel too much fatigued to converse longer.
Will you read to me?”
“From what book?”
“From this, if you have no objection”—handing him a small copy of the
New Testament, which she drew from her bosom. He took it and pressed it
to his lips. He then read chapter after chapter, as she named them to
him. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her countenance as she
shaded her closed eyelids with her hand—beautiful as a statue, yet
revealing the priceless soul in every vein.
“I wish you could pray with me,” she whispered, as he closed the volume
and rose to depart.
“I cannot,” was the reply. This answer did not drive away the smile that
was upon her lips—it was transferred to his, as they met.
“How long before you return to college?”
“I shall never leave you again.”
He retired. His last expression caused a flowing of tears more copious
and exhausting than had been shed during the whole period of her
decline.
Day after day Carlton took his station in the chamber of the
consumptive, and watched her rapidly decaying strength. He spent much
time in reading to her, occasionally from their favorite poets, but
generally from the sacred volume. He thus became familiar with its
truths, and no longer wondered at the calm confidence with which his
beloved could look forward to lying down in the dark and narrow house.
At length she became too weak to rise from her bed, except for a few
moments—usually at the close of the day. One evening she was sitting
supported by her lover. Lights had not yet been brought into the
apartment. The beams of a full October moon streamed through the
casement, and painted its outlines in silver upon the floor. They sat
and gazed in silence upon its soft brightness. For a few moments she
leaned upon him more heavily, as if in sleep; then partially raising
herself, she said:
“I saw many bright beings all clothed in that silver light, and they
promised me that they would take care of you, and bring you to me.”
“Where were you?” said he, a chill creeping over him as if the
inhabitants of the spirit world were around him.
She did not seem to hear his question, but continued—“Oh, it was
beautiful—not an imperfect flower on all that plain—and such delicious
gales—and such a firmament—and they looked upon me as the eyes of
beloved friends, and I knew that they would watch over you for good.”
“Where was this?” said Willard, almost with terror. Still she heeded him
not.
“The stream was as smooth as glass, and the moonbeams covered it with
silver—it was wide, wide, and I could not see you. I looked in the far
distance and saw a boat swiftly gliding toward me, and I knew you were
in it, and were safe.”
“You are dreaming, dearest.”
She leaned more heavily upon him, and slept. He feared she was passing
away. He tried to still his heart while he listened. He heard her gentle
breathing. He laid his hand upon her heart. It still kept up its
workings. He laid her as gently as one would lay an infant upon her bed,
and summoned her attendants. She continued to sleep. The physician
assured him that death, though near, was not yet at the door.
The next morning revealed a marked change in the condition of the
invalid. At first, she did not seem to recognize Carlton. The cloud,
however, soon passed from her mind, and she gave him her usual smile and
welcome.
“I shall never rise from my bed again,” said she; “do not leave me
except when I sleep. My mind begins at times to give way. Remember your
promise to prepare to meet me in the better land.”
“I will,” said he, nerving himself to composure for her sake. He then
read the Scriptures to her, and, unasked, kneeled and offered a prayer
in her behalf.
Ere long the aged pastor of the village church entered the chamber. He
had been absent some time on a visit of mercy to a prodigal son of one
of his parishioners. He silently pressed the hand of Carlton, and
passing to the bedside, impressed a kiss upon the forehead of Eliza. His
experienced eye told him that the silver thread of life was well nigh
broken.
“You are on the verge of Jordan,” said he.
“Yes,” was the calm reply.
“Its waves are not rough?”
“Calm and peaceful.”
“You have no fears of death?”
“None.”
“Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus
Christ. You can say Thy will be done?”
Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness upon Carlton, she
closed her eyes and said, in a low but thrilling tone, “_Thy will be
done._”
Her parents were called in. After uttering, from the depths of his
experience, a few words of consolation, the pastor kneeled down and
offered a prayer, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched
over her, and then for her parents and friends. During the prayer
Carlton held her hand in his, and felt its feeble pressure as the
petitions had reference to him.
She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as the prayer was ended.
Perfect silence was preserved, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton
still retained her hand. The mother was about to make a whispered
inquiry of the pastor, when the sleeper awoke.
“Did you hear that music?” said she.
“No, dearest.”
“It was the sweetest I ever heard. It must have come from the golden
harps. Hark! hear it again.”
She closed her eyes. Carlton felt her hand relax its feeble grasp. He
looked toward the pastor who came to the bedside.
“She is with her God,” said the old man, bending down and imprinting a
kiss upon the cheek which felt not the warm tear that fell upon it, “and
you my friends”—turning to the parents—“can say, ‘the Lord gave, and
the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’”
CHAPTER III.
Carlton remained by the bedside of the departed one till the attendants
came to prepare the body for the grave. He then repaired with apparent
calmness to his chamber, and remained there till summoned to attend the
funeral. He took his seat in the church with the afflicted parents, and
with them followed the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from
his eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his countenance
wear the expression of deep sorrow. Some thought he was wonderfully
supported, and others doubted the strength of his affection for the
departed one.
When the last sod had been laid upon the grave, he returned home, and
seated himself by his father’s side.
“You will hardly be disposed to return to college this term, my son,”
said the sympathizing father. “Consult your own inclinations in relation
to the matter.”
“I shall return to-morrow,” was the unexpected reply. The father made no
objection. He looked upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow.
Early the next morning Willard arose, and having visited the grave-yard,
and laid his head upon the sere turf of the new made grave, he set out
on his return to college.
The evening found him at his room, surrounded by his friends, who came
to express their sympathy for his bereavement, or their joy at his
return. At an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. His
well-known habit of retiring early, and the painful scene through which
he had passed, formed, in the judgment of his friends, an ample apology
for any want of courtesy implied in the intimation.
If there were any who thought that his affliction would weaken his
devotion to intellectual pursuits, they were disappointed. His friends
soon found that their society was not desired by him. Even Temple was
constrained to feel that his presence was irksome to his friend. He
seemed to desire to spend every moment in study. No light burned later
than that which threw its rays upon the page before him. Modes of mental
exertion, which he had formerly neglected, now received his earnest
attention. In the halls of debate which he had seldom visited, he was
now present on every occasion, and the energy with which he grasped
every question awakened the highest admiration. In whatever he undertook
there was an exhibition of power never before suspected even by his
partial friends.
But the tense chord was at length broken. An impassioned burst of
eloquence, which, in the judgment of those present, surpassed any thing
they had heard from mortal lips, was followed by the ravings of lunacy.
[Illustration: HOME TREASURES.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]
Released from the control of the will, the mind revealed the thought
which had wrecked it. The name which had never passed his lips, since
she who bore it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now constantly
repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes “unused to weep.”
He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. After a long and
dangerous illness, his brain began gradually to resume its proper
functions. Several relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not
till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind was fully restored.
He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native village. With the
consent of his father, he took up his abode with the parents of the lost
one, and occupied the chamber in which she breathed her last. He passed
the days sitting in her chair, looking out upon the landscape which she
had loved to gaze upon, and in reading the New Testament which had lain
in her bosom.
For a few days his strength seemed to increase; but there was little to
justify the hope of his friends that he would be restored to health.
The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired respecting the state of
his soul toward God.
“He is too strong for me. I cannot contend with Him,” replied the
humbled sufferer.
“It is well for us to be convinced of that truth. It should lead us to
acquaint ourselves with Him and be at peace.”
“I am devoting all my time to the attainment of that knowledge and
peace.”
“_He that seeketh findeth!_ What a blessed assurance!”
After some further inquiries and appropriate counsels, the pastor
withdrew, strongly hoping that that chamber would be the scene of
spiritual birth, and as strongly fearing that it was again to bear
witness to the power of death.
The apparent improvement in the health of Carlton was of short
continuance. Once only was he able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest
upon the turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza.
“Tell my father,” said he, one day to the physician, who had not
expressed his opinion upon the case, “that I shall not recover.”
“Have you no desire to live?” said the pastor, who was present.
“I think I can say with her, ‘_Thy will be done._’ I see that life is
altogether a different thing from what I supposed. If it were God’s will
that I should continue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. But
he excuses me, and I am content; though I have to regret that I have
been of no benefit to my fellow men.”
His departure was much more sudden than was expected. On going to his
chamber in the morning, his friends found that his spirit had fled. Her
New Testament was between his hands, which were clasped upon his bosom.
Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that
precious volume.
The autumn leaves were falling as the procession wound its way to the
church-yard, and laid him to rest by the side of the grass-grown grave
made just twelve months before.
* * * * *
EARTH-LIFE.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
The breeze is blowing fresh and strong;
The rocking shallop chafes its chain,
And the billows are breaking in swells of song,
That call me forth to the deep again:
A fiery charger paws the sand;
A hound looks up with watching eye,
To scour the forest and valley land,
And bay with the winds on the mountain high!
Let horns be heard in the gray ravine,
And stormy songs from off the sea!
There’s blood in my heart, where tears had been,[1]
And the blood of Youth is bold and free!
Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore
Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth—
Lie down to rest on the quiet shore,
While the dust, exulting, marches forth!
Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame,
That once wert ruddy as the dawn!
But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame,
Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.
Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air—
Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;
She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,
And warm thy veins with generous wine!
Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,
On the wild slopes of craggy hills;
Thou shalt bore thy breast to the arrowy shower,
And catch in thine arms the icy rills:
Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,
When fevered cares in the spirit start,
As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame,
Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!
Thou shalt go where the battle clarions blare,
With the fierce, heroic rage of old;
The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear—
Thy heart shall swell like a banner’s fold.
In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame,
Nor shrink from the path of thine arm’s employ,
When the thews are steel and the veins are flame,
And Death to thee is a terrible joy!
Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein!
Unleash the keen, impatient hound,
And deep in the seething foam again
Let every quivering oar be drowned!
We will rock on the ocean’s solemn roll,
Or follow the charging music’s mirth,
And the vine’s bright blood shall crown the bowl
That brims for us with the Life of Earth!
-----
[1] Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes.
LAMARTINE.
* * * * *
ELEONORE EBOLI.
A TALE OF FACT.
BY WINIFRED BARRINGTON.
CHAPTER I.
In the garret room of a little two-story house in Philadelphia, sat two
women, both of whom were foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one
of them, who was haggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her features were of
the Grecian cast, with a most fascinating smile, and hair of a light
auburn, that curled naturally and in profusion around her finely modeled
head.
The appearance of the other woman was common-place, but she had a frank
and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French;
the _blonde_ had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently
came from one of the provinces.
“Ah, Madame Eboli!” said the latter, “now that I am going to join my
husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in
this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure;
and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not
astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from
my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to
bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our
dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these
savages! What a horror!”
“My dear friend,” returned Madame Eboli, “the world has of late altered
in my eyes. The outward forms of men had once an effect on me; now, I
see little beauty in even the finest features where there is no
expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. As to remaining any longer
in this city it is impossible. My funds had been exhausted two days
previous to your sending me that last piece of sewing. I cannot get
sufficient employment by my needle to support myself and Eleonore, and
if I could I should fear the consequences. Bending over my work from
early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. I have now a
constant pain in my side. It is but nine months since I crossed the sea,
when my poor husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then I do
not seem so far away from him whose grave it is—”
“You are a good musician, can you not teach the piano or the guitar?”
“Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no one would take lessons
of a stranger. My garb was an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes
of my inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have endured written
upon it.”
“It is true that the ground is occupied by those of high reputation and
long standing, and I see no other means by which women can earn a
livelihood in this detestable country. Now in France you might go into
one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry in a confectionery. But
in this country men monopolize all the labor, with the exception of
sewing and taking care of the children. However, I must go now and pack
my trunks. God be with you and dear little Eleonore! You must accept
this from me. God bless you!”
The good woman hurried away before Madame Eboli could speak. Her friend
had left her a well-filled purse. “There is money enough,” thought she,
“to take me to New York. In New York I shall find countrymen, and it may
be friends. If I die, they will then take care of Eleonore.”
“Dear mother, kiss me!” said the little three-year-old Eleonore.
“Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and I will take my angel
to New York, where I may find some old friends. My aunt thought of going
there with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear face once more!
She always loved me, and when I married poor Gustave and my father and
mother cast me from them, she addressed me with words of kindness. Dear
aunt!—and my sweet sister too. Alas! I shall never see her more. Dear
sister Eugenie! so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, bring thy
doll; we will go to New York this very day.”
The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomplish this, so it was put
off till the following day. A good dinner gave her renewed strength, it
being the first she had eaten for many weeks.
They were several days on the journey, and late on the afternoon of the
day of their arrival, Madame Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped
at the door of a small house in Seventeenth street. By dint of gestures
and broken English, the Irish, who were its inhabitants, were induced to
relinquish a room to her. She had wandered the city through, until weary
and way-worn, her feet refused her further support.
She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and want of food. Her
child she had fed with cakes, and the little creature had fallen asleep,
wearied by the excitement of the day.
Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli’s reflections. She cared little
for herself, but she thought that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was
without a home and without friends. Not a countryman had she seen that
whole day, and she had been followed by the jeers of the rude and
ignorant German and Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for
the poor stranger who could not make herself understood.
CHAPTER II.
“_Maman veut du feu!_” said a little girl, as she pushed open the door
of an Irish shanty, and stood with a shovel in her hand.
“Was there ever the like!” said Bridget, resting her fists on her hips.
“Now this be’s the third blessed day that the child has been here for
coals and said that same thing!”
The child went quietly to the hearth, took some coals on her shovel, and
departed.
“I’se been thinking it isn’t our language she’s a speaking, though she’s
such a bit of a thing one couldn’t tell rightly what she’d be afther?
I’ll follow her, belike she’s in mischief, though it isn’t in my heart
to think ill of such a purty little cratur!”
So away ran Bridget, down one pair of stairs and up another, following
the child, who pushed open a door with her shovel; and there on the
naked bed she saw Madame Eboli, with no covering but a shawl. Madame
Eboli spoke, but so faintly that Bridget could not understand her; she
then laid Bridget’s hand on her forehead, when the Irish woman instantly
perceived that she was dying with fever.
Bridget flew to a poor friend of hers, whom she knew was attended by an
eminent French physician of the city. He had been kind, she thought, and
done much for my sick friend, why should he not do the same for this
woman, who was also in distress? Fortunately he was at the bedside of
his patient when Bridget arrived.
“Och, sir! an there’s a poor woman in Seventeenth street, what’s a
terrible faver on her, and no clothes to her bed, and nothing to ate;
maybe yees’d go and see her a bit! She’s a nice looking woman, and got
as purty a child as ever I see.”
“I will come to her directly,” said Doctor Breton.
“I think she’s a foreigner, maybe yees could talk with her, being one
yoursel; she’s so wake, poor thing! there’s no telling what she’d be
saying.”
It was but a short ten minutes after Bridget’s summons when the doctor
opened the door of Madame Eboli’s room. The little girl was crying, and
making vain efforts to turn her mother toward her. As the child spoke in
French, he addressed the mother in that language, giving her at the same
time, some reviving medicine. After taking it, she was able to give him
an account of herself, and also to tell him of her anxiety concerning
Eleonore.
The doctor left the house, promising to return in an hour or two.
Proceeding to the hospital, he procured an entrance for her, and by the
afternoon she had been carried there, placed on a nice clean bed, and
her wants well attended to—thanks to the generous kindness of a
Christian heart! He then exerted himself in behalf of the little one. He
related the strange history of the mother to all his French patients,
and raised a subscription to pay for the child’s board after her
mother’s death, which was evidently near.
On his way to the hospital one morning, he over-took one Mr. Carron, and
told him Madame Eboli’s sad story, asking his aid. They had by that time
reached the door of the hospital, and Mr. Carron accepted Doctor
Breton’s invitation to enter and see the little Eleonore.
Mr. Carron was a very impulsive man. He never hesitated, never
reflected, (never asked his wife’s opinion, as every reasonable man
should,) but went into raptures over little Eleonore’s beauty, and
offered on the spot to adopt the child as his own—an offer that was
thankfully accepted by the poor mother.
It was but a week after this, that the doctor found Madame Eboli much
worse. On leaving her he requested to be called should any change take
place in her symptoms.
CHAPTER III.
. . . . . It was ten o’clock. The night-lamp of the infirmary showed
with a horrible distinctness the haggard inmates who were tossing and
groaning on their pallets. The doctor sat beside the bed of Madame
Eboli. They were discoursing concerning Eleonore.
“I conjure you,” said the doctor, “tell me the name of your family. It
is necessary to the future welfare of your child!”
“My parents cast me from them. They loved me not—how should they love
my child? No! it is better that she should eat the bread of strangers,
and receive good and evil from their hands, than suffer only insult and
degradation from her mother’s parents.”
“Then at least tell me your husband’s name, and where his relations are
to be found?”
“Alas! Gustave Eboli was an orphan, and poor; therefore my father said I
should not love him. . . . But I feel very faint—you said I should see
my child soon?”
At this very moment the sound of advancing steps was heard, and Monsieur
Carron entered with Eleonore in his arms. He placed her on the bed with
Madame Eboli. The little creature nestled close, kissing and embracing
her mother in a transport of delight; soon, however, the strange sounds,
the shadowy figures that flitted past with noiseless footsteps, startled
and awed the child. And then her mother looked so sadly on her, that she
wept, scarce knowing why, but in a subdued tone, as though some grief
swelled her little heart too deeply to be given utterance.
“Poor child!” sighed the mother, “this is thy first real sorrow. . . .
But I have a request yet to make. In my basket you will find a miniature
of my sister, set in a pearl necklace; and a ring, my dear aunt’s gift.
Should she ever come to this country, which she has spoken of doing, her
first inquiries would be concerning me. The name of Eleonore Eboli and
these jewels, would be sufficient evidence. . . . . There are two
letters also, which I would have saved for Eleonore; they are her
father’s. . . . . . . My sister and my aunt are the only persons of my
family who knew that my destination was America.”
Here she paused, as if exhausted. Little Eleonore had ceased crying, and
was gazing earnestly at her mother.
“Fear not for your child,” said Mr. Carron, “I will take care of her.
You may trust in me.”
Madame Eboli continued—“And now, my Eleonore, listen—you must be good,
and stay with this gentleman, who will love you like papa.”
“It is not papa? Where is papa?” and the little lips quivered.
“Where I shall soon see him, dear Eleonore! I am going to leave you.
Never forget your poor mother.” She then kissed the child several times.
“There is some of papa’s hair in the locket around my neck.” Then
addressing the gentlemen, she added: “Take it when I am gone—not till
then.”
Madame Eboli then sank into a stupor, in which she lay for half an hour;
then opening her eyes, she only said:
“Gustave says come! . . . . My child we will watch over thee. . . . .
Protect her, she is so young—so innocent. I come, Gustave—I come!”
And the angel of death passed by and received her last breath. Sixteen
summers had found her a child, eighteen a woman, and at twenty she was
laid where the aged sleep.
“Be her sleep calm and deep,
Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2]
-----
[2] That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son
of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been
traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from
France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without
resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of
finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His
journey was a lone and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold
induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at
the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbelieved his story,
and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum
directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been
detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her
usual time.
CHAPTER IV.
Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mother, an inmate of the
Carron family. Mr. Carron petted the child for a short time, and then
she was given over to the servants, Madame Carron having something else
to do, as she said, beside taking care of orphans.
Eleonore vegetated—I cannot use any other word—in the servants’ rooms
for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my
heroine, Mr. Carron’s affairs obliged him to leave this country
suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know
nothing of the matter. The consequence to Eleonore was, that she was
left with Mr. Carron’s brother Jerome.
This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who was quite shocked at
finding that the poor orphan had not been instructed even in the common
rudiments of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she could not
undertake the charge of Eleonore’s education, she placed her forthwith
at Mr. Delombre’s boarding-school, one of the best in the city of New
York.
I remember perfectly well the first time that I saw her. She was led by
Madame Delombre into the school-room, and was there introduced to
numbers of children of every size, from her own up to the grown woman.
I, who write this memoir, was there among the rest. It was intermission,
and we were all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A desk next
to mine was empty, and Eleonore was placed there. She looked sad and
frightened, and was withal so pretty, that I felt attracted to her. I
essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of my luncheon—she
declined. I then continued, the ice being broken.
“Do you like going to school?”
“I do not know. I never went.”
I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she blushed. “I wonder if
we shall be in the same class? How old are you?”
“I am twelve years old,” answered Eleonore.
“Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years old. I am afraid they will
put you in the class above me!”
“What will be my studies?” said the young girl, timidly.
I gave her a catalogue of my own lessons, which made her look very
blank, and I then proceeded to tell her who the scholars were, and which
I liked the best; and I also gave her some information respecting the
rules and regulations of the school.
“It is one o’clock,” said the teacher. “The intermission is over!”
We hurried to our desks. I went to my lessons, and though Eleonore sat
beside me I could speak no more to her that afternoon. I saw,
nevertheless, that there would be no danger of her getting in the class
above me for a long time to come.
CHAPTER V.
Two years and a half have passed since I introduced Eleonore as my
companion at the desk. She was now between fifteen and sixteen. A tall
and finely formed girl for her age, her personal appearance was so
pleasing that she attracted universal attention wherever she appeared.
Her hair still curled in the same long golden locks; she had the
straight Grecian nose, and the deep, large blue eyes of her mother, and
a noble forehead. Monsieur Delombre had more than fulfilled his promise.
She was his best scholar.
Our intimacy had continued increasing, and we had become inseparable.
Every other Saturday had been spent with her uncle and aunt; but as I
was something of a favorite with Mr. Delombre, I was allowed to take her
with me on the intervening Saturdays to my mother’s house.
Oh, how happy we were then! She was so gay and so cheerful, except when
we talked of France, for papa Carron had intimated in his letters to his
brother, that the time was approaching when Eleonore must leave America,
she being now of an age in which her services would be required by the
family.
“She loved uncle and aunt Carron,” she said, “and she dreaded papa and
mamma Carron. She had kind friends in Mr. and Mrs. Delombre, and also in
my mother’s family. It was hard to be obliged to leave them, and live
with those who cared not for her. But she would try to gain their
good-will by all the means in her power.”
Thus she talked as we were seated, one warm summer’s afternoon, side by
side on the green sward before my mother’s cottage.
As the evening shadows fell, she grew more communicative, and gave me
the little history which I have here related. Since then it has been
attested to me by those who saw her mother.
. . . . . . . . The next winter passed by, and when the spring came my
mother took her children to the country again for the summer. I bade
Eleonore a gay adieu, under the promise of a long visit from her during
the vacation. Alas! instead of a visit, I only received a brief but
affectionate note, stating that in two days the “_Silvie de Grace_” was
to take her as a passenger, and she should leave forever the shores of
America.
Men and women usually laugh at the friendships of school-girls. It is
true they are often transitory and of a frivolous character, but they
are often, too, of a lasting nature, and founded on real esteem. I felt
and appreciated the worth of Eleonore, and for years regretted her loss.
Marriage, and a long residence abroad again brought me in contact with
her, but under very different circumstances.
ELEONORE EBOLI TO WINIFRED BARRINGTON.
_Paris, November 1st, 18—._
“MY DEAR WINIFRED,—Now that I am safely housed in Paris, I
shall give you a short account of my journey. We were but four
weeks on the ocean, and had no storms to boast of (at least the
captain maintained this,) though we were all much frightened one
windy night, when a gale arose that shattered our sails, and
tossed us about in a most unceremonious manner.
“I was very sick, and as I lay in my berth I could feel each
wave as it upheaved the ship, and when she pitched, headlong
down its side, I wondered sometimes if we should ever see the
light again. But I felt no fear, I was too sad for that. I
thought of the happy home I had left behind, and its probable
contrast with that of Papa and Mamma Carron’s establishment, I
remembered that it was my mother’s birth-place, that I should
visit Paris. Paris was my goal! There every object would acquire
new interest in my eyes, each house would seem the one in which
my mother passed her girlhood, each beautiful girl my mother’s
darling sister, each man her brother, the aged her parents; ALL
AGES would have the charm of mystery to attract me, and my fancy
would quickly vision forth the family to which I was related!
But I will talk no more of this.
“The captain of our ship conducted me to Paris. He was very
kind, and to gratify me, took the route up the Seine from Havre
to Rouen in the day-boat, that I might see picturesque Normandy,
with its lovely valleys, its cottages, with their thatched roofs
and gables; the varied costumes of its peasantry, and its giant
horses, which move with the power and majesty of elephants.
“I was very inquisitive, and the captain often found a
difficulty in ascertaining the names of the villages and the
castles situated on the banks of the river, to reply to my
queries. A young gentleman seeing our trouble, obligingly
offered his guide-book, which contained all the information we
needed. He also gave us many anecdotes concerning the nobility
who lived in the chateaux. In the course of conversation he
mentioned that his father lived but fifteen miles from Rouen,
and that he was now on the way to visit him. His own name is
Lazun.
“When he heard that I came from America, he immediately offered
to be our guide in visiting the cathedral, and other curiosities
of Rouen, an invitation which we gladly accepted.
“On separating for the night, our traveling companion said that
we might expect him punctually at half-past ten the next morning
to escort us. But when the hour arrived Mr. Lazun did not
appear. The little French gilt clock on the mantel-piece struck
eleven o’clock, then twelve, then one. The captain was fairly
angry, and I must confess I was not at all pleased, for I had
imagined he would come earlier than the hour. I am afraid I have
but little penetration.
“We sallied out alone, but the day was hot, and the city dirty.
We could not find the cathedral, and the captain would ask for
no directions; so we returned to the hotel, where we had but
just time to eat our dinner before the DILIGENCE arrived to take
us away to Paris. You see what civility we meet with!
* * * * *
“I cannot say that I am happy. Yet I do not complain, for I am
well fed and well clothed, but my heart and mind are oppressed
by my dependent situation, which is hinted at on every occasion.
I do _my best_ to assist the family, but they are never
satisfied with my efforts. Little Adele is at a boarding-school,
so that I have no one to love; but say nothing of all this to
any one. I would not have others know that I am unhappily
placed.
“After my first communion, which is to take place next year, I
shall endeavor to gain my own living, though I do not know yet
in what way.
. . . . . “Write to me soon dear Winifred, for I am very lonely,
and believe me, I remain always your sincerely attached friend,
“ELEONORE EBOLI CARRON.”
CHAPTER VI.
Two young men were walking in the _Rue de Rivoli_ one fine morning.
“There is a grand figure before us with a majestic walk,” said one of
them. “Walk faster. I would see her face.”
“What! _you_ run after a woman because she walks well? I thought you
only admired intellect. Beauty never possesses it, don’t you know that
yet, Victor Lazun?”
“No; you don’t know any thing about the matter. Faith! ’tis the lady I
met on board the steamboat between Rouen and Havre! I could not then
ascertain her name, nor have I caught sight of her since till now. You
know my father’s illness compelled me to leave Rouen at a minute’s
notice, and you know I only arrived in time to bid him farewell. But I
will not now lose sight of her. I will know where she lives.”
“You can easily do that!”
Monsieur Lazun saluted the lady; gave the reasons for his singular
behavior at Rouen, which were kindly received, and taking leave, asked
permission to call upon her, which she granted.
On returning from her walk she informed Madame Carron of having met Mr.
Lazun, and of her giving him her address. A storm of reproaches followed
this confession of her _indiscretion_, so that Eleonore concluded that
if she made any friends it would not be through the aid of Madame
Carron. In future she should not mention those she met.
But a few days elapsed before Eleonore met Mr. Lazun again. She gave him
to understand, very delicately, that her guardian did not like to
receive strangers. Which he answered, by saying that he should wait upon
Mr. Carron at the earliest opportunity and show him some letters of
recommendation, and also bring a friend with him, who was one of the
first bankers in Paris, slightly acquainted with Mr. Carron. He thought
he could satisfy any one as to his character and social position.
Eleonore heard this with pleasure, for she felt interested in Mr. Lazun,
and as she had so few opportunities of conversing with agreeable people,
looked upon the young man as quite a god-send.
It was not long before Mr. Carron received a visit from the two
gentlemen, and upon the banker’s sending up his name, they were
immediately ushered into his study with great attention; but when the
object of the visit was made known, “mine host” changed his tone, and
rudeness took the place of courtesy. There was no mistaking his manner,
and Mr. Lazun knew that his acquaintance was not desired, and that he
must give up all thoughts of the fair Eleonore who had made so strong an
impression on his fancy.
But fortunately, or unfortunately, my hero and heroine frequently walked
in the same direction, (drawn probably by some mesmeric attraction)—by
degrees they became strongly attached to each other, and finally, an
engagement of marriage took place.
A hint from one of the servants, who had met the lovers in one of their
walks, made _madame_ send the young lady directly to the convent of St.
Germain, for her communion. She was ordered never to think of marriage,
(for Eleonore had immediately confessed her engagement,) she must make
herself useful in the family to whom she owed every thing, and work she
must and should for them all her life.
Eleonore made no reply to all this, but afterwards, in the solitude of
her convent cell, she made this decision: “I _will_ marry Victor
Lazun—my debt of gratitude has been paid to my guardians. As a child,
my only expense to them was clothing of the poorest quality. My food was
not missed in the extravagant household which they kept. To their
brother and sister I owe much, and also to Mr. and Mrs. Delombre. _They_
taught me _all_ that I know. Since my arrival in France I have
embroidered all madame’s collars, I have done the marketing, overlooked
all household affairs, made preserves, done up the muslins, beside
mending, sewing, and any little odd job which madame did not like
herself.
“This has gone on for two years, and I have done it willingly, but now I
am old enough to choose my future course, and shall do so.”
This passage I have copied from a note which she sent to Victor Lazun on
her departure for the convent. There, of course, he could not see her,
but he well knew that his pretty cousin Victorine La Graviere was at the
same convent, and with a little coaxing, he persuaded his aunt to take a
note to Victorine, in which he begged his cousin to show Eleonore some
kindness for his sake, though without mentioning his name or their
relationship.
The acquaintance of the two girls soon ripened into friendship, and it
was not long before young Lazun thought his aunt sufficiently interested
in Eleonore through his own representations and Victorine’s eulogies, to
confide his secret to her care. Yes, dear reader! it was a secret, and
you would have laughed to see the dismay on the face of the gentle
Countess La Graviere when she learned of his intended marriage.
“But you are not going to marry this poor orphan, are you, Victor? With
your rank and favor at court it is quite absurd?”
“I certainly shall, my dear aunt. As to my rank she knows nothing of
that, nor my fortune either; so, thank God! she loves me for myself
alone.”
“Is this indeed so, Victor?”
“It is all settled. I am my own master, and will marry whom I please. I
do wish you would ask her to visit you at your country-seat during the
next month. You will be delighted with her. She is the very image of
your sister-in-law the Marchioness Eugenie.”
“She must be very beautiful then. I will see her, Victor, and invite her
for your sake. But do not be hasty about the marriage. Think it over
coolly. Your relations will be mortified, and I fear that the king will
be much displeased.”
“The king cares less for rank than most of his subjects. And as to my
relations, _I_ marry the girl, not they.”
CHAPTER VII.
We must now allow six weeks to have passed by, and we shall find
Eleonore at the chateau La Graviere, dressing for a fête which is to
celebrate Victorine’s birth-day. Victorine is assisting Eleonore.
“Only look at this pearl necklace of mine. It is beautiful, and you must
wear it this evening,” said Victorine.
Eleonore returned—“I have also a pearl necklace, which I value highly.
It contains a miniature of my aunt. Here it is.”
“What a resemblance to the marchioness. If I did not know that it was
impossible, I should say that your aunt and mine were one and the same
person. It is strange, now I perceive you have the regular Grecian La
Graviere nose. Papa will fall in love with you at once. He is always
looking at my nose, and wondering there is not danger that it will not
become one-sided. I believe if I were to fall from a carriage the first
question he would ask, would be, ‘Have you hit your nose?’”
“Your father will soon be here, will he not?” asked Eleonore.
“Yes, if the Duke of Orleans do not detain him. There will be eight
gentlemen beside from the court. But I hear carriages. The neighboring
guests have began to assemble, and I must help mamma to receive
them—come!”
The ball-room was brilliantly lighted, and Eleonore’s beauty was the
theme of every tongue. Her dress was white satin, covered with white
lace and looped with white roses. The only ornament she wore was the
miniature necklace, clasped tightly around her throat.
The countess was delighted with the appearance of her young guest, and
introduced her to all her particular friends. In about half an hour
there was a rush in the hall; the folding-doors of the ante-chamber were
thrown wide open, and the prince royal entered, leaning on the arm of
Monsieur La Graviere, and followed by his suite.
Monsieur La Graviere, after saluting his wife and presenting her to the
prince, turned away to pay his compliments to some of the ladies
present, when his eye was suddenly caught by Eleonore’s face, as she
stood within a few feet of him. “Good God! my sister!” he exclaimed,
impetuously.
“She does indeed resemble Aunt Eugenie! We all observed it,” said
Victorine.
“Introduce me, my child. What is her name?”
“Eleonore Carron.”
“Carron—it was not his name. It is impossible.”
The introduction was made, and the master of the castle was inquiring if
she was a native of Paris, when he stopped short—started, and then
said:
“Forgive me, mademoiselle; but is not that a miniature of my sister
Eugenie in your necklace?”
Eleonore trembled, but she stood erect, and answered firmly. “It is a
miniature of my aunt.”
“And what was her name?”
“You will excuse my not answering any further questions.”
“I hope you will forgive my rudeness, when you see its likeness to my
sister,” continued the count. “Here she comes!”
Eleonore turned pale, for she felt that the hour was at hand that would
reveal her name and kindred. Her self-command increased in proportion.
Pride forbade any manifestation of emotion before those who spurned the
mother who gave her birth; yet when she saw a face streaming with tears
before her, that she knew belonged to her mother’s only and dear sister;
when she received a warm embrace, and heard in a soft voice, these
words—“I know it is Eleonore Eboli, my beloved niece!” The poor child
sighed “Yes!” and then fainted.
She was quickly carried out, and though soon restored to consciousness,
did not venture again into the saloon. She was in the arms of an aunt, a
cousin sat beside her; they both gave thanks to God that she had been
brought to them; they wept when she told them of her mother’s death. And
the poor marchioness said—
“I will be your mother in future, dear child! you shall no longer be an
orphan. I am rich, and all that can be done to contribute to your
happiness will be freely bestowed.”
Here Eleonore summoned courage, and with down-cast eyes and faltering
words, told her aunt that her destiny was decided, she should become the
wife of a young architect of Paris. He was poor in purse, but rich in
affection, and she begged her aunt to say nothing against their
marriage, till at least, she had seen the youth.
“She is like her mother in heart as well as in form,” sighed the
marchioness. “But come, Eleonore, I think we must go to bed; we have had
happiness enough for one night, and you, Victorine, must return to the
ball; his royal highness will miss those bright eyes!”
With many a kind embrace they then separated for the night.
* * * * *
About an hour before breakfast, Victorine and Eleonore were taking their
morning promenade on a terrace that overlooked the Seine, and Eleonore
was unburthening her heart to her cousin, when Victorine exclaimed—
“Here comes the prince!”
“Good God! he is arm in arm with Victor Lazun!”
“Yes, that is _my_ cousin, but not _yours_.”
“Your cousin!!! with the prince too. Ah! what will happen next; I hardly
know now what I am saying, my senses are bewildered, one strange scene
succeeds another till I almost doubt my own identity!”
“I salute you, ladies,” said the prince. “My lord duke and I have been
rifling your flower-beds. May I present you this bouquet?”
“My flowers will feel grateful for your highness’ attentions,” said
Victorine.
“Forgive me, Eleonore,” said young Lazun, “you will not love me the less
now that I am a duke and peer of France. I am still Victor Lazun, as you
are Eleonore Eboli.”
* * * * *
I had recently arrived in Paris. A ball was given at the Tuilleries, and
many Americans were there. We stood in rows through which the royal
family passed, followed by several maids of honor and ladies of the
bed-chamber.
I caught my breath as one passed near me. “Who is that?” said I to a
friend, who was well acquainted at court.
“It is the Duchess of Lazun, the intimate friend of the Princess Marie
of Orleans. She is a great favorite with all the royal family, and her
husband also. But here she comes again.”
Our eyes met, we recognized each other—my readers may guess the rest.
* * * * *
HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,
DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
(_Continued from page 72._)
The costume of the Catholic church at the altar has always been
prominent and unchangeable, and even the secular garb of its priests has
undergone fewer mutations than that of any other class of the community.
All, however, will be struck with the marked difference between the
following portrait of a young abbé and the churchmen of to-day.
[Illustration]
We have to do, generally, in this and the following articles merely with
the fashionable dress of the day, and therefore might omit all that
related to what the noblesse were pleased to call the _bas peuple_; we
will, however, give a portrait of a famous French Intendant of that day,
filling an office the English call a steward. Except that the coat is
plainer, that there is no sword, and that the _coiffure_ is less
labored, it is almost identical with the first engraving given.
[Illustration]
An examination of the above will show that one great difference between
the costumes of that day and our own was the use of powder; a stupid
fashion which nothing but the confusion of the French revolution could
do away with, yet which was adhered to with the most wonderful tenacity.
Another whim was the habit of wearing the sword, which may be said yet
more positively to separate the eighteenth from the nineteenth century.
This habit, which had its use in the days of the _Ligne_ and the
_Fronde_, lasted till the commencement of the present century. Etiquette
absolutely required that all who presented themselves within the sacred
precincts of Versailles should be thus decked, and it became ultimately
a passport, so that the shopkeeper, dancing-master and _coiffeur_ had
only thus to deck themselves, and they might jostle in the stairway of
the palace gentlemen as noble as the king. This, however, all
disappeared amid the revolution, when the pike and musket usurped the
place of the gilded rapier.
The materials of the fashionable coat of that day were Brussels’ camlet,
velvet or silk. At this time we can form little idea of the variety of
colors worn; black, green, blue, rose, yellow and violet all were seen.
The waistcoat was not a _gilet_, but reached the hip, extending below
which were breeches, which being worn like a sailor’s, without
suspenders, had from time to time to be hitched up by the hands. In the
cold winter of 1739 the English gaiters and over-coat were worn for the
first time, and to this new fashion an old French nobleman attributed
the decay of the monarchy.