t judi n envi MARIE DE VILLEMARE. "And we have a new governess!" exclaimed my young cousin Emma, ending a long list of novelties that had been added to the agremens of St. Edmondsbury since the date of my former visit. "SIR “Enclosed, you will receive my definitive reply to the proposal you have presumed to make me. It depends wholly on yourself whether it remain a secret-a hint even to Mr. John Vicars will suffice to ensure me from a repetition of the insult." I sought her that evening. The result of our interview was unmitigated says "No," he replied; "no, not exactly cross, but very proud. Nurse Dinner was announced before I had concluded my toilette. The family were at table. The "new governess" was not present. The guests were few; chiefly men immersed all day in mercantile pursuits abroad, and all the evening in sensual enjoyments at home. At length the cloth was removed, the wine and fruit placed on the table, and in a few minutes the sound of many voices proclaimed the vicinity of the little ones. Soon every unoccupied chair was filled. There was Emma, who was sobriqueted "Fairy," for no other earthly reason but that she was as unlike her name as possible, being short, fat, and dumpy, with unmeaning blue eyes, and flaxen ringlets. Then came Frank, the ingenious watch spoiler, and Susan, and Tom, and others, whose appellatives and attributes (for, like heathen gods and goddesses on a small scale, each had some peculiar quality,) I have long since forgotten. But no governess swayed them. "Where is Mademoiselle ?" demanded my aunt with a portentous frown. "Why did she not come with you?" "She had a head-ache," answered one of the children. "I believe she is gone to bed." "Mamma," observed Sarah, "you ought to speak to her. I observe she never makes her appearance at dessert when we have any one dining here." My smooth, snake-like cousin! How I hated her from that moment, and how I pitied the poor victim that was expected to "Come when they called, Do as they bid, Shut the door after her, As my stay at St. Edmondsbury was prolonged, my knowledge of But I received no testimony that the sentiment was reciprocated by "What has she done?" I demanded. "See!" he exclaimed, pulling forth some papers," see the dd way in which she has served me!" He then proceeded to explain, that he had on the previous evening, through the medium of the nursery-maid, conveyed her an epistle proposing the delicate arrangement of which he had hinted in former conversations with me. "And how do you suppose she answered me? Why, by returning my letter torn in pieces, and with this impertinent note," handing me one which I opened, and read as follows: Three years had passed away, and I stood upon the deck of a Calais I soon discovered that my new acquaintance possessed a mind of no com- under a still unhealed wound which he had received in the struggle of July. 66 fatigued to continue his journey; and I was anxious to meet an only sister, "You know Marie de Villemare?" I repeated. about it. Last year, after those old women at the Admiralty had sent away My poor French friend De Clairac was ill-perhaps dying! For many eye. I had just turned the angle of a street, when I perceived, by the dim light of a solitary lamp, a female struggling in the grasp of a coarse fellow a few paces before me. It was but the impulse of a moment, and the drunken reprobate measured his length on the pavement, from whence he showed little disposition to rise, while the trembling woman proceeded on her way. I followed, and speedily overtook her, though she walked with a rapid step. "Pardon me," I said, perceiving by her attire that it was no common person I addressed," pardon me if I suggest the propriety of your suffering me to protect you until you emerge into a more frequented quarter." At the sound of my voice she turned round. Merciful heavens! Mademoiselle de Villemare! I was about to ask her the reason of her mysterious presence in that neighborhood, when she paused at the door of a humble "De Clairac !" repeated Marie with a faint cry; "De Clairac! do you know him?" "I am here at his own request," and I raised my hand to the knocker, but she arrested it. 'Stay, do not disturb him; I can admit you;" and thus saying she produced a pass-key, and in another moment I found myself in a narrow passage, dimly lighted by a miserable candle which rested on a painted slab. My guide, taking the light, led the way into a scantily-furnished parlor, where a few decaying embers in the grate alone gave. evidence of habi tachment to me and I trembled to think that in the anguish of finding herrelf so cruelly betrayed-so heartlessly forsaken, her over-wrought spirit might have tempted her to lay violent hands on her life. From the demon who had led to such dreadful results, I from that hour turned with loathing and abhorrence; and if to bear about a heart insensible to enjoyment—if to feel the never-dying worm of remorse preying on existence-if this be punishment, Marie, thou art amply avenged! "But a few weeks ago, a new light broke on my darkened soul. An old servant, who had often nursed Marie de Villemare in his arms when she was an infant, being on his death-bed, confessed that at her earnest entreaty he had aided my wife to leave the chateau on the night of her child's death, and had conducted her to a convent at some distance, of which a relative of her mother's was abbess; that, from thence she had proceeded to England, where, when last he had heard of her, she was For a few seconds we were both silent, at a loss to commence the con-employed as a governess. Some time elapsed, and I could decide on no versation. Mademoiselle de Villemare was the first to resume composure. "Do you wish to see my-to see the Count?" she asked. tation. Marie seemed to read the thoughts which were passing in my mind, for her brow contracted, and a bright flush flitted for an instant across her cheek, and then died away, leaving it more pallid than I had ever seen it. She drew her slight figure proudly up, and calmly said, "Do not question me now; I will not be suspected. You will know all soon." She left me, and I remained alone until a servant appeared, and conducted me to De Clairac's room. plan to discover her abode: you were out of town, and I had no person * It was about three weeks after this interview that early one morning I received a hurried scrawl from Marie, imploring my immediate presence in N-Street, a sudden alteration in the invalid having much alarmed her. He was alone, reclining on a sofa near the fire. His languid eye bright-I hastened there, and found that during the few hours which had elapsed ened on seeing me; and he stretched out his wasted hand to welcome me. As I gazed on his emaciated features, it required not the gift of prescience to perceive that nothing short of a miracle would ever restore poor-DeClairac, or renew the lamp of life already flickering towards extinction. I told him of my absence from town, which had prevented me from receiving his note until that day; and I spoke of the returning spring as a restorative for his shattered constitution. "No, no," he said, in a broken voice; "I shall never see that season: all is nearly over here," placing his hand on his heart, "and I do not regret it except for the sake of one to whom I would make reparation. Marie, ma bonne amie !" he cried; and at the summons the door of an inner apartment opened, and Mademoiselle de Villemare, having exchanged her wet garments for a loose white robe de chambre, entered. "Marie, these cushions are not comfortable," said the invalid; "no one can arrange them as well as you ;" and in another moment she was bending over the Count with the solicitude of one whose heart was in her avo cation. from my last visit an awful change had indeed taken place. It was but And the shadows of "the night that knows no morrow" were gradually 'Marie, this is Mr. Trevor, the friend of whom I have spoken to you. And this, Trevor," turning to me, "is Marie de Clairac, my own inestima-settling over that beloved countenance on which the gaze of the heart ble wife!" I was hardly surprised, for I had expected some such disclosure; but to say that I did not experience a pang at the discovery would be assuming credit for self-denial which I did not deserve. "I have known Mr. Trevor several years," said Marie. "And why did you not tell me so?" demanded the sick man, turning fiercely towards her. "Simply because, though you often talked of your friend, you never named him." The quiet dignity of the reply convinced De Clairac that there had been no intentional concealment; and with a sudden revulsion of feeling he hastily demanded pardon of his lovely nurse. In reply she bent her lips to her husband's forehead, but I am certain I heard her sigh as she did so. And in what a predicament was I placed! In the presence of a friend, to whose wife I had unwittingly paid my addresses, and whom I still adored with all the madness and hopelessness of passion! But Madame de Clairac, as if in pity for the awkwardness of my position, soon retired, and then came the long desired explanation of the mystery which had so long puzzled me. broken wife was rivited with all the passionate tenderness of one about to be severed from the last tie that bound her to earth. The intensity of her woe admitted not of tears or lamentations; and there she stood wiping away the clammy dew that hung in pearls upon his forehead, as unmoved and nearly as death-like as him she attended. The stony composure of her manner did not deceive me, for there was something in the fixed stare of her dark eye that made my soul shudder within me. I would have given worlds to see her weep-rave-do anything except remain thus rigid and motionless o'er those pallid lips. They were silent for ever-the heart so lately sentient had ceased to exist, and Marie only clung to what had been her husband! Madame de Clairac's reason never recovered the shock of her husband's death. He had been her first love; and in her bosom, which was filled with enthusiasm to overflowing, there was no room for secondary passion. Even her affection for her child had taken its coloring from her conjugal devotion; and from the moment that reunited her to De Clairac, her all of life condensed itself into the dream of restoring him to health, and retiring with him and the wreck of their fortune to some quiet retreat in their native land. But the frail bark in which she had embarked all her hopes foundered; and the dreamer was awakened, never to repose again in such she struggled less for the painful pre-eminence of concealing the barbed an Eden! Her powerful mind was shattered by its very strength. Had Clairac as happy in after years as her genius and virtues deserved. But it arrow within her bosom, all might have been well at last, and Madame de is in vain to fancy what might have been. God willed it otherwise, and I have learned the bitter but salutary lesson of submission. It was but the repetition of an often-told tale. De Clairac, attracted by But she was not suffered to enjoy her flattering delusion. While weeping beside the death-bed of her only child, the savage inhumanity of Madame du D contrived that she should find, as if accidentally, a letter written by De Clairac to that lady, in which he utterly disclaimed ever having loved Marie, and offered to sacrifice her society at the bidding of his enchantress. She died-died in a fitting season for one so good, so gentle, and so fair! In the last days of autumn, when the bright flowers and green leaves were fading, when the summer-birds were winging their way to more They lie side by side. Their lowly grave lies a little apart from the others which fill the enclosure, and is sheltered by a noble lime-tree; "Nor storied urn, nor monumental bust" is there. A simple headstone, and a short inscription, constitute the only memorial of the ill-fated pair. "Peace to the broken-hearted dead!" Straws indicate in what quarter the wind sits.-The Queen lately went in state to Covent Garden theatre, attended by the same cortege as when she visited Drury Lane theatre. The performances were the Lady of Lyons, and two acts of Rob Roy. The house was crowded to excess, and the ebullitions of loyalty and attention were most enthusiastic. Her majesty remained till the close of the performances. A passage occurred in the first scene of the play relating to a marriage with a foreign prince, which was seized by the audience in a marked manner. The General, in the dramatis persona, exclaims "A foreign prince! a foreign fiddlestick!" The cheers which this satire upon continental royalties elicited were most vehement and long continued. "My unhappy girl!" continued the penitent husband, while tears rolled in quick succession down his pale face" my unhappy, injured wife! this was the last bitter drop in the chalice-and she drained it to the very dregs. When I arrived at the chateau, whither I hastened on the tidings of my Adalbert's danger, I found the household in confusion-my lovely boy was no more--and the Countess had mysteriously disappeared the night of his decease. Nor could all our inquiries obtain the least clue to her place of concealment for I had at first refused to concur in the fears of those around The Sheffield Iris has a wood-cut representing an Englishman in fetters, me, that in the desperation of her maternal anguish she had sought a grave sitting on an island, holding a diminutive six-penny loaf in his hand, with a in the waters of the Loire-and it was not until I found the fatal letter that Frenchman grinning at him with one at the same price and double the I renounced all hope of finding her. Then I called to mind her purity of weight, and a Russian with another four times the size. character-her gentleness-her talents—and, above all, her enthusiastic at-motto-"England, the envy and admiration of the world!” Beneath is the A Gazette of Literature, Art, Dramatic Criticism, Fashion and Novelty. VOL. I. NEW-YORK, SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1839. No. 4. OFFICE IN ASTOR HOUSE, NO. 8 BARCLAY STREET.....EDITED BY N. P. WILLIS AND T. O. PORTER.....TERMS, FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. There was a time young Roland thought His huntsman's call was worth a dozen Of those sweet notes his ear had caught, In boyhood, from his blue-eyed cousin : How is it now, that by MY FIRST" Silent he sits, nor cares to follow How is it now, when Isabel Breathes one low note of those sweet numbers, That every thought of hill and dell, And all-save that sweet minstrel--slumbers? Why does he feel that long, dull pain Within "MY SECOND"-when she leaves him?When shall his falcon fly again? When shall he break the spell that grieves him? And Isabel-how is it too That sadness o'er that young brow closes? How hath her eye lost half its blue? How have her cheeks lost all their roses? Still on her lute sweet numbers dwell, Still magic seems the breath that sways it; One summer's eve, while Isabel Sang till the starlight came to greet her, A tear from Roland's eyelid fell, And warp'd the string and spoil'd She could not sing another note, the metre: Wherefore, or why, I've not a notion; And he the swelling in his throat Seem'd working from some poisonous potion. I know not-I-how sigh or tear Cause these hysterical effusions; But from that eve--one little year, Witnessed, you'll say, such strange conclusions ! Beside "MY ALL" I saw them sit; And that same lute of song so tender, A little child was thumping it With all his might-against the fender! And Isabel-she sang no more, But ever that small urchin followed; And Roland's hawk hath loosened jesses; Sir Harry is famed for his amiable way Not a word that he said could the maiden tell! Sir Harry has ears, and Sir Harry has eyes, And his breath, tho' resembling in nought the "sweet south," And yet, from the hour that Sir Harry was nursed, People said that his head was no more than "MY FIRST!" Sir Harry has ringlets he curls every day, And a fortune he spends in pomatums, they say; He is just such a youth as our Rosalie bides with, Were a youth that I know to be caught in the noose; That she'd ne'er take a bridegroom who hadn't "MY SECOND!" Sir Harry sat out, the last visit he paid, From when breakfast was over, till dinner was laid; He talked in his usual lady-like way, Of the ball and the ballet-the park and the play. When ev'ning at length was beginning to fall, THE MANAGER'S PIG. "Some people are not to be persuaded to taste of any creature they have daily seen In this behaviour, meand been acquainted with whilst they were alive. thinks there appears something like a consciousness of guilt; it looks as if they en deavored to save themsalves from the imputation of a crime (which they know sticks somewhere) by removing the cause of it as far as they can from themselves."--Mandeville. ARISTIDES TINFOIL, it is our fixed belief, was intended by nature either for lawn sleeves or ermined robes: he was, we doubt it not, sent into this world an embryo bishop, or a lord-chief-justice in posse. Such, we are convinced, was the benignant purpose of nature; but the cruel despotism of worldly circumstance relentlessly crossed the fair design; and Tinfoil, with a heart of honey and a head of iron, was only a player-or, we should rather say, a master among players. Tinfoil might have preached charitysermons till tears should have overflowed the pews; no matter, he acted the benevolent old man to the sobs and spasms of a crowded audience; he might, with singular efficacy, have passed sentence of death on coiners and sheep-stealers; circumstance, however, confined his mild reproofs to sceneshifters, bill-stickers, Cupids at one shilling per night, and white muslin Graces. "Where is Mr. Moriturus?" asked Tinfoil, chagrined at the untoward absence of his retainer. "Where is he?" "Ill, sir," was the melancholy answer; "very ill." "Ill!" exclaimed Tinfoil in a tone of anger, quickly subsiding into mild remonstrance; Ill!-why-why does'nt the good man die at once?" A pretty, budding girl, had unhappily, listened to the silvery tongue of a rival manager. "Take her from the villain!" exclaimed Tinfoil, to the sorrowing parent; "bring her here, and then-then I'll tell you what I'll do." "Dear, kind Mr. Tinfoil, what will you do?" "I'll bring her out, sir-bring her out in-" and here the manager named a play in which the horrors of seduction are painted in bold colors for the indignant virtuous; "I'll bring her out in that, sir; and, more than that, sir, as a particular favor to you, and sympathizing as I must with the affliction you suffer, I—I myself will play the injured father, sir." These, however, are but faint lines in the strongly marked character of Tinfoil, and merely showing them to awaken the attention of the reader to what we consider a most triumphant piece of casuistry on the part of our hero-to an incident which admits of so many hundred worldly illustrations -we shall proceed to the pig. The subject, we own, may appear unpromising from its extreme homeliness; yet, as the precious bezoar is sought for in deer and goats, so may a pearl of price be found even in a pig. It is our fervent wish to be most exact in every point of this little history; yet cannot we remember the exact year in which Tinfoil, revolving in his managerial mind the very many experiments made under his government, on the curiosity and sensibilities of the public, in a golden moment determined upon the introduction of a pig, in a drama to be expressly written for the animal's capacities. In the slang of the craft, the pig was to be measured for his part. We cannot take it upon ourselves to avow, that an accident of late occurrence to a brother actor, did not, at least remotely, influence the choice of Tinfoil. The mishap was this. A few miles from London-for the sake of unborn generations we conceal the name of the town-the dullard denizens had manifested an extraordinary apathy to the delights of the drama. In the despairing words of one of the sufferers, "nothing could move 'em." However, another of more sanguine temperament, resolved to make a last bold effort on their stubborn souls, and to such high end, set a pig at them. Mingling the blandishments of the lottery with the witcheries of the drama, he caused it to be printed in boldest type to the townspeople of —, that a shower of little bits of paper would take place between the play and farce, and amidst this shower, a prize would descend, conveying to the lucky possessor the entire property of a real China-bred porker! Inconceivable as to us it is, the scheme failed--the pig remained live-stock upon the hands of the projector, who, the next morning, walked to town; and recounting his adverse fortune to the calculating Tinfoil, supplicated any employment. 66 And you still possess the pig? Humph!" mused Tinfoil; " perhaps we may come to some arrangement." "Measure him," said Tinfoil, not condescending to notice the astonishment of the dramatist. "But, my dear sir, it is impossible that—” " Sir! impossible is a word which I cannot allow in my establishment. By this time, sir, you ought to know that my will, sir, is sufficient for all things, sir,-that, in a word, sir, there is a great deal of Napoleon about me, sir." We must admit that the dramatist ought not to have forgotten this last interesting circumstance, Mr. Tinfoil himself very frequently recurring to it. Indeed, it was only an hour before, that he had censured the char-woman for having squandered a whole sack of sawdust on the hall, when half a sack was the proper quantity. "He, Mr. Tinfoil, had said half a sack; and the woman knew, or ought to know, there was a good deal of Napoleon about him!" To return to the pig. "Measure him, sir," cried Mr. Tinfoil, the deepening tones growling through his teeth, and his finger pointing still more emphatically downwards to the pig. "Why," observed the author, "if it could be measured, perhaps-" "If it could! Sir," and Mr. Tinfoil, when at all excited, trolled the monosyllable with peculiar energy—“ Sir, I would'nt give a straw for a dramatist who couldn't measure the cholera-morbus." "Much may be done for an actor by measuring," remarked the dramatist, gradually falling into the opinion of his employer. Every thing sir! Good God! what might I not have been had I condescended to be measured! Human nature, sir,-the divine and glorious characteristic of our common being, sir,-that is the thing, sir,-by heavens! sir, when I think of that great creature, Shakspeare, sir, and think that he never measured actors-no, sir-" "No, sir," acquiesced the dramatist. "Notwithstanding, sir, we live in other times, sir, and you must write a part for the pig, sir." No, sir," cried Tinfoil, "not were I starving, sir-not were I famishing, sir, could I be brought to taste that pig." Much more did Mr. Tinfoil deliver declaratory of his horror, at the bare idea of setting his teeth in the flesh of his quadruped actor; and the rebuked man of letters quitted the manager with an exalted notion of his sensibility. The pig-drama continued to be played to the increasing satisfaction of the public; the audience, however, only being admitted to view the professional abilities of the animal, his suppers-from some extraordinary omission of Tinfoil-not being eaten before the curtain. Great, however, as was the success of the pig; at about the fortieth night, his prosperity began to wane, he was withdrawn and passed into oblivion. A few weeks had elapsed, and the author was summoned to the dwelling of his manager, to write a play for a stud of horses. Tinfoil was at dinner; where to he courteously invited his household scribe. "You oughtn't to refuse," said one of the diners; "for this," and the speaker pointed to some pickled pork in the dish-"this is an old friend of yours." "Good heavens!" exclaimed the dramatist, looking reproachfully at Tinfoil. Why, not the pig?" Tinfoil somewhat abashed, coughed and nodded. Why, you said that nothing on earth would tempt you to eat that pig." No more it could, sir," said the assured manager. "No, sir,-no more it could,-unless salted!" 66 "Very well, sir; if he must be measured, sir, he must," said the author. "It's a melancholy thing to be obliged to succumb to the folly of the day," remarked Mr. Tinfoil; “and yet, sir, I could name certain people, sir, who, by heaven! sir, would not have a part to their backs, sir, if they had not been measured for it, sir. Let me see: it is now three o'clock-led towards a naked precipice of greyish yellow limestone, which was visiwell, some time to-night, you'll let me have the piece for the pig, sir." Now, whether the writer addressed was by his "so potent art" enabled to measure a pig-to write a perfect swinish drama in a few hours-or whether, knowing the Buonapartean self-will of the manager, the dramatist thought it wise to make no remonstrance, we cannot truly discover; certain it is, with no objection made, he took his leave. "An extraordinary young man, sir-I have brought him out, sir,a wonderful young man, sir," observed Mr. Tinfoil to a friend and neighbor, a dealer in marine stores. Only wants working, sir-requires nothing but being kept at it, sir." Well, must be a puzzling trade," remarked the dealer in miscella"Puzzling, sir! By heavens! sir, my heart bleeds for men of letters, sir-they are great creatures, sir-wonderful natures, sir-we cannot think too highly of them, sir-cannot sufficiently reward them, sir! Now, sir, it is perfectly unknown my liberality towards that young man! But then, sir-it is my delight, sir, when I find real genius, sir-when I meet with a man of original mind, sir-by heavens! sir," again cried Mr. Tinfoil, resorting to the exclamation as an outlet for his overcharged feelings. The pig was duly measured-the piece prepared-and, having been produced at an enormous expense, was sealed with the unqualified approbation of a discerning public. The pig-drama had been represented about twenty nights, when the author of the piece in friendly converse with his patron manager, remarked "that the porker had been a most profitable venture." 66 66 Why, sir," replied Mr. Tinfoil, " tolerably well; but the fact is, I am obliged to bolster him. He has had the advantage of three new afterpieces, and therefore can't complain that he has been let down. Still, the pig has done very well, and perhaps may run a fortnight more." Saying this, Tinfoil quaffed from a brimming glass of his chosen fluid. "At all events," remarked the author, the pig possesses an advantage, not to be found in any other of your actors." And what, sir," asked Mr. Tinfoil, "what may that be?" Why, after the pig has done his work, and the piece is put by, you may eat the pig." The manager started from the inhuman man of letters with a look of mingled horror, disgust, and pity. When he had somewhat recovered from his amazement, he asked with evident loathing, "What did you say, Sir !" thus spoke Mr. Tinfoil. "I regret-much regret, sir, that any thing in my conduct could have induced you, sir, to think so uncharitably of my disposition, sir." "I assure you, sir-" "Hear me out, sir. What, sir! think me capable of feeding upon an animal that I have played with-a creature, whose sagacity has almost made it my humble friend--a pig that has eaten from my hand-that knows my voice that I-I eat that pig-good heavens, sir!""" I'm sure I didn't mean-' ble in the far distance. It was about a quarter of an hour's walk. The elder Stafford mentioned Claudine, the betrothed of his son, and spoke with pleasure of her housewifery, of her serene temper, and the strange capriciousness of her mother, Mrs. Bell. "Claudine would long ago have been George's wife and my daughter-in-law," said the old man, "were it not that thirty years ago the bridals of Mrs. Bell took place on the twelth it was the day also of her husband's death, and heaven knows, what else of October, which was also her birth-day, and likewise that of Claudine's; has happened on that day. She imagines that Providence has linked all the important events of her life with this day, and firmly believes that it will be the day of her death. Women have always some holy supersti tions, which are their secret religion, and to which they cling with greater tenacity than to the instructions of their ministers." and less attention, the nearer they approached to the house of Mrs. Bell, Stafford still continued his conversation, but Florian listened with less which stood in spacious comfort near a fence surrounding a kitchen-garden. He felt us as if in an Arcadia, where under the shingle-roofs of herdsmen, goddesses deigned to dwell, and a glowing thrill rushed through his frame, as he passed through a neat kitchen and entered a low but elegant sitting room. Mrs. Bell received her visitors with attentive politeness. Although she was already nearly fifty years old, her fine features gave assurance, that in the bloom of her youth she had been not less beautiful than her lovely daughter Claudine, who hand in hand in bridal happiness, now stood with George near a small piano, and smilingly welcomed the stranger, Florian. Mrs. Bell with a clean cloth dusted some straw chairs, and begging her guests to be seated, immediately entered into a conversation with the stranger. She wore on her cap a black mourning riband, and around her neck a black crape handkerchief, in memory of her husband, who had died five years before. But the mild pensive melancholy of widowhood, through which like sunbeams through a shower, the natural gentleness of her disposition was reflected, spoke more than all outward badges. A snow The conversation had continued but a few minutes, when the door-opened and Hermione in a simple morning-dress entered the room. white cap, whose richly embroidered lace fell like a mist over her brow and cheeks, did not prevent her auburn ringlets from escaping and playing around her neck and temples. When she beheld the stranger, who was no stranger to her, oue might have fancied a beam of crimson twilight had fallen upon her through the window. Her embarrassment was evident to all, to Claudine most, but to Florian not at all. The conversation soon turned to the important events of the day, and to the warlike disturbances of their neighborhood. Wallenstadt on the lake, between towering mountains, was, as report said, destroyed by fire; the Arch Duke Charles, with his Austrians, had invaded the heart of Switzerland; the Wallisers left their mountains to support the Prussians and Germans against the French. The Glarians, the abbot of St. Gall, the counsellors of Zurich, and Schafhausen wished under the protection of the Austrian bayonets to renew the ancient bond-service of the people, while the Helvetic government in Bern, in which all confidence was lost, made a show of repenting in sack-clock and ashes; for they precipitately lessened their emoluments of office, laid aside their extraordinary powers, suffered the militia, which they had called out to return home, and abolished capital punishment for political offences. h ་ punish that with death as a crime, which in another territory, at the distance "Shame on us!" sighed Florian. "We Switzers are dumb instruments As Florian paused, the ladies observed the deep sorrow, which from the "It is still questionable, who was the strongest there," replied Florian. "Yet you have already thrown it," answered Florian, drawing out the glove, which he had found in the church of Neuenburg. "But I restore it in all deference to the owner." When Claudine recognised the lost glove of Hermione, she reached it to her friend with a burst of merriment, threw herself laughingly on her neck, and whispering a few words in her ear, laughed still more violently. Hermione endeavored to conceal her confusion by a forced smile. With a low voice she blushingly thanked the finder, and added, "but how could you have known, that it belonged to Claudine or me. I supposed I had lost it in the streets of Neuenburg before entering the church." Florian related his visit to the church. The incidents, and the turn which Florian gave to them in his relation, amused every one; Hermione alone remained silent, and from time to time, musingly fixed her eyes on the glove, hardly observing as the conversation became more animated. Mrs. Bell had meanwhile ordered tea to be carried out upon the open green. Here the conversation like the view of nature was enlarged, and dwelt not upon the relations of the day, but of life. Even Hermione partook in it, and they who in the narrow room were distant and reserved towards each other, now drew nearer in confiding openess. Within the walls of our dwellings we pay greater deference to the customs of domestic and artificial life; in the boundless air. amid the silent majesty and solemnity of eternal nature, all ceremony becomes trifling, and formal etiquette almost ridiculous. In the house Florian would hardly have leclined at the feet of Hermione, would hardly have offered her his hand and arm to assist her in walking; would hardly have addressed his conversation to her individually, but in the open air it was all done, as Stafford and George walked forward by Mrs. Bell and Claudine. They did not separate until late in the evening, and Florian had forgotten that he dwelt a fugitive upon the heights of the Jura. CHAP. XIV.-EXPLANATIONS. The mode of life on the Fairy-steep was as peaceful and quiet, and not The relations into which, by this daily intercourse with Hermione, he The inhabitants of the Fairy-steep were soon aware how Hermione and Florian stood towards each other. The elder Stafford reasoned: "He is an honorable_man, let him pursue his own course; intermeddle not with his affairs. But Mrs. Bell was not inclined to remain silent and passive; for, acting in the place of a mother, she could not be indifferent to the future destiny of her niece. She wished to learn more of the fugitive. Claudine and George on their part were soon of the opinion, that Florian and Hermione would be united; and neither Claudine or George wished for anything more ardently, than to witness the happiness of their companion and friend. As usual, every one else was more intimately acquainted with the affairs of the parties, than were the principal persons themselves. "Ah, little simpleton, I am sure you love him!" said Claudine to Miss Delory. "Can you deny it? Ever since you saw him in the garden of Reichenau, and in the streets of Chur. Recollect how he appeared to you at the chain! Think of our morning dream, of the lost glove and your sensations when it was fulfilled!" "God direct me!" said Hermione, with her hands folded and her eyes lifted towards heaven. "You make me sad, Hermione. What evil has he done to you since yesterday!" "He cannot do evil to me any longer. He has already destroyed me. Destiny has swept darkly over my being, and it has flowed into his, as a trembling dew-drop flows into an other." Now we understand each other! That signifies, that you can no longer live without him?" Believe me, Claudine, what you call love what other people do from choice, from inclination or from calculation, is over Florian and myself an irresistible law of nature. All free agency is at an end. I must meet him! I must find him every where, when I am most anxious to shun him! I must be lost to him." "Well, that is spoken reasonably, my little philosopher, if I have understanding enough to apprehend your syllogisms. You acknowledge that every girl is very willingly lost in the manner in which you and I are. One wins an interest of a hundred per cent. by this process. I love, thou lovest, he loves, we love, you love, all love." Claudine, you misunderstand me. I am, against my will, united to him through the influence of higher powers." "Ah, poor thing! Then if it cannot be otherwise, the best way is to make a sweet face to a sour apple. Oh Hermione! Hermione! think of the twelfth of October. Oh, Hermione! if my marriage-day and yours"At these words Hermione pushed Claudine away from her, and, sinking her face upon her breast, cried: "Only that, Oh, do not say that again. I could sooner become the wife of any other. I cannot think of it without terror. No, break off! Let us never speak of it again!" Claudine laughed aloud, and yet could not refrain from gazing at her friend with pity and astonishment. George was almost equally astonished, when he conversed with Florian on the subject. The young Grisoner would not speak of his affection, or dare to believe that Hermione loved him. 66 Between ourselves, Florian, I must say you are a strange fellow. I am sure you love her!" 66 'As I love every thing that is beautiful and good; as you yourself love, George!" 'Hem! I think Claudine would beg me to discriminate a little between the different kinds of love. I cannot conceive what you mean, happy fellow that you are!" "Do not call me happy!" "But I know from Claudine, that this etherial Hermione has long known you. In the garden of Reichenau you had already won her heart; afterwards in the market-place, where, under Hermione's window, you dashed aside a loaded peasant-wagon, because the driver would not make room for a wagon full of wounded French to pass, you completed your conquest." How! was it under Hermione's windows?" 66 "See, Florian, she has forgotten nothing; not even the brown mole there, near the ear. Yes, Claudine knew you through her, long before you had seen each other at the chain. In her dream, Hermione herself saw you restore her lost glove. What would you have more? And if all this is not suficient, the testimony of all eyes and ears must be so." "Were it possible," said Florian, with an abstracted air; "which I never shall believe-should it be-if she felt for me a dawning attachment-then to-morrow I would flee from your country, that I might not cause sorrow to one so holy. I would flee, for through me she shall never be miserable!" "Miserable?" "How would it end?" "As with Claudine and myself. You are independent; you are rich. Miss Delory has an independent estate. Her step-father is said to be a worthy man; therefore' "Ah, George!" cried Florian, "I ought not to say it, but I must: get thee behind me, Satan! I am an exile-a fugitive. My country still claims my blood. I cannot think of quiet and marriage, until the Grisons are freed from the yoke of foreigners. And who is pledge, that my patrimonial estate is not already confiscated, as they have confiscated the property of my relations in Veltlin! I will wait for the day of freedom and independence, ere I allow myself to think of home and happiness. There can be for the Switzer no domestic happiness, without the happiness of his country." George gazed upon the feverish face of the Grisoner, encircled him with his arms, and cried: "You have the soul of a man, as you ought to have, Florian; but you love!" "Yes, but it is a man should love-disinterestedly and magnanimously." After this conversation, George never dared to allude to the subject with Florian. Claudine also took care not to question Hermione. They suffered "both the strange people," as they called them, to pursue their CHAP. XV.-EXPLANATIONS CONTINUED. The explanations of Hermione and Florian were soon known to Stafford and to Mrs. Bell, and both were alike satisfied. own way. 66 Florian is a man!" said father Stafford to his son. "If he had come here as a fugitive, found a pretty girl, became enamored with her, and spoken of love and marriage, he would have acted the part of a fool or an adventurer." Mrs. Bell came to the same conclusion; but the manifest unwillingness of Hermione to express any opinion of Florian, that was favorable to him, and the circumstance that the young lady treated him, as a common acquaintance-neither seeking nor avoiding his company, and even betraying a secret and haughty fear when in his presence, gave her the greatest confidence. "Dear But the elder Stafford smiled at all this. His strong and vigorous understanding solved the riddle in a different manner from Mrs. Bell. neighbor," said he to her, "there is still some danger. I will trust Florian ten years; he is a man; but Hermione I will not trust ten minutes. She loves, and her maiden pride is arrayed against her inclinations. The little princess wishes to justify herself in her own eyes. She affirms: 'I do not love him, but I am as if thrown upon him through the inscrutable power of destiny. Her mind is in the clouds. And so it is with all you women. Every one of you is the founder of a new religion, a new philosophy, and a new poetry. The world around you is too common-place: you must fill it with miracles. Old Morne has communications with unseen spirits; Hermione floats always in divine interposition. You yourself, Mrs. Bell, |