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Feb. 25,—13-Im
Southern Whig
THE POET’S GRAI E<
No heme had he, the mountain bre ,vn
His lone and lowly couch supplk d,
And not a star from heaven lookei 1 down,
What time the wandering reins re! died.
Upon that hill
He slumbers still,
No sculptured urn records the spot.
But pity’s tear,
Bedewed his bier,
For strangers mourned, that knew' him n Jt-
Whencc came that minstrel ?—from a cli ne
Far distant o’er the dark blue sea,
Where freedom was so wild a crime,
That none but outlaws dared be free.
A felon band
La id waste the land,
Her slaves were bought—Her freemen bled ,
That minstrel’s songs
Proclaimed her wrongs.
His sword avenged them —and he fled
His country now his home no more,
Dejected, heartless and alone,
He sought upon a distant shone,
For that denied him in his own.
His fortunes fled,
Ambition dead, I
Himself a heartless wanderer, driven,
Without a ray (
To cheer his way
Without a friend —a hope, but heaven.
Lament —lament, ye sons of song,
And chaunt his dirge notes round his grav<, i
There fell a brother of your throng,
To famine and to grief a slave.
Yet why lament? ,
He died content:
No lingering look to life he cast.
His hours were rife,
With grief and strife,
But there in peace he sleeps at last.
From Blacktcood's Magazine for February.
The Page.
A Story oS t«ie ISeign ci Ch# i-lcs IX.
(FROM THE GERMAN. )
The Duke Lewis Gonzaga, th« heir of Man
tua, was standing by the window of his cham
ber in the Louvre. He had just dismissed the
attendant, and had extinguish nd the lights
which he had placed upon the table, as if to
surround himself without with Lhe same gloom
which weighed upon his sp'.rit within. In
this, however, he was unsuccessful: for the
silver moonlight, which had at first been over
powered by the glare of thr : tapers, now pour,
ed into the apartment in it s full lustre, and il
laminated the busy and crot vded street beneath.
The light which streamer! upon ail objects a
rotind him seemed to inc rease the discornpo.
sure of the Prince; he .gazed from the win
dow with looks of inipatt Mice almost approach
ing to passion.
° xxi.l x i.o. .. ... ,v Ufe u,. 1?1US
to fall in love with a s* atue, and still more so
to lose my temper, thrt a mere statue should
ba without heart ant’, without feeling? Yes,
a statue indeed, she is rightly named ; such is
Diana of Nevers. But, I will have done with
this folly. I will Cared my affections to a wor
thier object. Her companion, the Princess
Renee, has charms that, had not mine eyes
been blinded by some spell, must have cast in
to the shade the marble beauties of Diana,
j She is the sist; rof the King. True ; but a
; Prince —who s jes before him in no remote
perspective the prospect of a throne, may
surely, without presumption, lift bis eyes even
to that lofty prize. Yes, Diana, you have re
jected my hand—you have forbidden my at-
I tentions—you shall be gratified; I shall be
( stow them elsewhere.”
! His soliloquy was interrupted by the en-
■ trance of an attendant, who, astonished at fin.
! ding the tapers extinguished, stood iu the
i doorway without entering.
“ What is the matter?” said the Duke with
! some irritation.
j “My Lord, the unknown page, who has call
! ed twice without seeing you, is here a third
I time. He observed you enter the palace, and
[ though 1 tola him you had given orders not to
: be disturbed, he will not go away, but insists
lon speaking to you. I have therefore ventured
■ to announce him.”
j “Light the tapers again said the Duke, en-!
j deavoring to overcome the remnant of his fee
ling of ill-humor. “ Let him enter.”
j A young man entered, dressed in the plain
i garb of a citizen, yet arranged with a certain
j air of stu lied simplicity ; its dark colour relic
j ved by a small white scarf, worn on the shoul
i dor, like that of a knight. The Dake eyed
ibis visitor with astonishment; for the figure
I which this simple attire invested was one to
which the court of Charles, remarkable as it
then was for its display of manly beauty,
scarcely furnished a parallel. The fine pro
, portion of the limbs was equalled by the beau
tv of the features, on which sat an expression
of boldness derived from the consciousness of
their power, with which, however, the niodcs-
i ty of his beat ing was at variance.
I “What is your wish with me?” said Don
Lewis, with a piercing look, mid in a tone in
which his secret vexation was perceptible.
The vouih made a sudden and apparently
' almost involuntary movement, as if to clasp
' his harp; he dropped his own, however, im.
i mediately, and said with some confusion, “To
I obtain something which at present you do not
> ; seem inclined to grant, and yet upon which
, i my whole hope is placed.’’
“A id that is” continued the Duke, still
i eyeing him steadily,
J ’ “It is three days,” repliej the youth, “since
; I came to Paris: da .Y 01 ln - v arr ‘‘
i val your first page ftiv a fall of his
, horse in hunting. n his place;
i for 1 am not my way up
• j to preferment from bt
.i “Hah!—that place is not to be obtained so
I lightly. Who are you ?”
I “ A stranger,” r< pli< d he youilr, “as my ac
i 1 cent must have informed you. 1 tint what 1
’’ appear. If you are pleased with inv outside,
I I you shall not find yourself deceived in the in
. I nor man ; but I have no recommendations to
t i
I preset;t to you.
j “Whence arc you them? of what family
“{fl please you, my lord, my zeal shall do
’ I no discredit to it.”
’ | “Y on may please mo,hut tout is not enough.
s j “Let it be enough. [L»w easy it would be
I for me to iave. t a story, to exhibit papers ;m I
jlelt'rsof recommer.diition ; but I disdain to
* I deceive a good and cotifidi ig master by a lb;,
and 1 cannot i'll the truth. My wish is simply
I to form invself under so renowned a master ol
arms, an 1 believe me I shall do you no’disc:e-
I dit.”
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMED Y. Jefferson.
I “ What is your name ?”
' “I call myself C.iussade do St. Megret;
I but that is not my teal name.”
I “Youngman, I too am young, but olderthan
I you. Believe me, no good can come of half
revelations. If you would gain my confi
dence—bo open with me. Tell me all.”
“Duke!” exclaimed the youth, interrupting
him, “ have I not already in w hat I have said
shown the greatest confidence? I iutrus’ you
with my life, with my happiness —and willing,
ly would I intrust you withall, did not the vow
which I have made to my lady forbid.”
“Your lady!” repeated the Duke, scarcely
restraining a slight sneer as his eye glided over
I the beardless beauty of the youth, and rested
on the white scarf he wore ; “and that scarf is
of course of her color?”
- “ Even so,” said the youth.
“Strange!” whispered Gonzaga to himself
—and the word was no sooner uttered than a
sudden thought seemed to cross his mind. He
! rose and stood for a moment before the mir-
I ror, as if comparing his own noble and ex
j pressive features with those of the youth ;
j then continuing his whispered soliloquy, “ Be
lit so,” he said. “ Could I find a better or fit
| ter revenge than that this proud beauty sh< uld
j prefer the page to the Priuce, the boy to the
| man ?—that she has perhaps already done so.
I I will make the experiment. Caussade,” tur- I
I ning to the page, “ I will try at least how far !
' you are qualified to fill the place of my poor '
! follower.”
j That very evening Caussade wis admitted
! into the service of the Prince. He seemed
overjoyed at his situation. Not so Gonzaga
himself, As ho lay that night tossing on his
couch, be began a littio to I v- I ;. J ..f,the nrecipitan- '
cy with which he had acted. The n flection
occurred to him that he had thus perhaps been
.’he means of enabling an adventurer to prose
cute soma unworthy design against her whom
he secretly—though he could hardly say why—
believed to be the object of his attentions, and
yet he felt again as if he could rely securely
on the cold heart and icy virtue of Diana.
A voice within whispered that she who had
remained untouched by the honorable homage
of the Prince’s heart, Would not yi“. ! d to the
arts or idle flatteries of a page. He determi
ned, however, to keep a watchful eye on both ;
and should his worst apprehensions be confirm
ed, he would then at least have the bitter com
fort of knowing thst Diana had been unwor
thy of his love, and would be enabled to ban
ish entirely every lingering thought of her
from his bosom.
Several weeks elapsed, but with all his at
tentiou the Duke could perceive no traces of
the least intelligence or even acquaintance be
tween the page and the fair Diana. He tho’t
he perceived indeed, that when Caussade was
in the company of the Princess of Nevers,
and her friend the Princess Renee, as he some
times had occasion to be, while in attendance
on the person of the Prince, the page’s eye
sparkled with unusuvd lustre ; but if so, it en- j
countered no answering glow on the part of
Diana ; and her look still wore that calm and
. kv..>o r .» 1..’-., io. U.vvi iw 14U.M11 UUI CX-
pression. To the Duke himself, since she had
declined the offer of his hand, her conduct
was marked by all her former gentleness ; nay, '
he almost thought at times that he could trace !
an air of pity m her eye, as it rested upon him |
—though the instant he turned towards her, or ■
addressed her, she seemed to shr.nk into her- j
self, and to resume her former air of impas- |
si vencss.
While Caussade continued to rise in the
good graces of his master, his position among
his fellow servants .was very different. In
proportion as he was zealous and -dutiful in
presence of his master, he was dictatorial and
imperious among the household: contriving
with great dexterity to throw upon his compa
nions all the troublesome and disagreeable du
ties of his office, and yet in such a manner '
that they did not venture to complain, for the
rapid and mysterious way in which he had ;
at once been placed over their heads, and the 1
obvious freedom with which he treated even
his master, plainly showed that he was far dee
per in the Duke’s confidence than themselves.
His uncommon dexterity in every thing rela
ting to hunting, and the presence of mind
which he had occasional opportunities of
show ing, had not only won the favor of the
Duke, but even attracted the notice of the
King, at whose hunting parties he now formed
a regular attendant. To the King’s inquiry
after his birth, ho had answered that he was
! the son of a nobleman of Savoy ; and all hough
his accent was evidently that of a furcirru-7,
he spoke French with so much fluency.
would have required n more practised ear than
was then to be found nt the Court to determine
to what nation he owed his birth.
It was on a fine summer morning about this
time, when the rays of the sun, though giving
'promise of a sultry day, still shone only with
| a mild and refreshing warmth, that two females
] were seen standing side by side on a terrace
of the cast'.- of Vincennes, to wlfich the Court
had removed with the commencement of sum
mer. An arbor, composed of rare and fra-
■ grant plants arranged in flower-pots, the brun
ches of which were.entwined in festoons above
their heads, shaded them from the sun, and al
most conceded them from the eye.
The one was little, delicate, ethereal, such 1
as one would picture a sylph, though a com
plexion inclining to the brunette, and two dark
! eyen that sparkled like playful lightning, gave
I token, after all, of her terrestial origin. The
. i other was lull, slander, with features of the
| most regular beauty; the slightest tinge of
j color animated her check ; mildness and re-
I pose spoke from the dark hue. of her eye,
: while a dewy moisture v ithin it gave to her
I countenance an expression of still melancholy,
| which seemed to speak of sacrifice and resig- '
I nation. The former was tho princess Renee <
: i of France—the latter her friend, Diana of Ne-
! vers.
1 j The cheerful note nf preparation for the
j hunt, which rose from the castle court below,
1 j had moused the royal princess at an earlv
■ hour. Waking her friend, who, according to
; the custom of the time, shared with her, as
! dame d'atours, her chamber and her Couch.
, I lhey hastened, in light morning attire, to the
. ; terrace, where, concealed within their flowe
i : ry arbor, they waited to witness the departure
!of the royal cavalcade. They stood there in
■ . silence, with eyes and years intent, till the train
, ' wound out, the last blast of the horn sounded,
j and the castlegatos were again closed. Tho
’ j Pri icess Renee turned to her friend with a look
,i of archness in her countenance. She saw
: ! that the shade of pensiveness which general
, ! ly characterised her looks hud now gathered
, I itself into tears.
“Do I see aright?” she exclaimed joyfully,
f “Yes; you are not the cold statue which the
Court calls you. Ah! that stolen glance,
which sought you from below, I gee, has found'
ATHEA'S, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JUYE 10, 1837.
its object. You have a heart, Diana ; conceal
; it not.” .
Diana looked at her as if with surprise. “I
i observed no glance,” said siie, with aconstrain
[’ ed. smile, through which, however, a suppres-
■ sed sigh made its way.
I “ Happy gill!” replied the Princess, lighten-
J ing her heart by a leud sigh, which she did
1 j not seek to suppress, “ Why deny it? You
| are not prevented by the ceremonial of a court
jor the caprice of an imperious brother from
following the inclinations of your heart. Why
.look you on me so suspiciously? Lay that
glowing check on my bosom, and confess to
me—‘Sister. I am happy.’ Ah! had that
glance been directed to me !” And so saying,
she embraced her friend with agitation, bury
ing her cheeks and eyes in h > bosom, ns if
seeking to conceal the tears which threatened
’ to burst forth amidst the folds of her drapery.
“ I und. rstand ye net Renee ; speak more
plainly.”
“ The glance —must I speak it ? —of (he lair
Caussade,” whispered the Princess, looking
up with an air ot suspicious fear: “he alone
observed us. As he rode out, I saw him turn
round twice to gaze upon you.”
“I observed him not,” said Diana, coldly,
.almost contemptuously.
“ And yet there glitters a t ’embling mois
' ture in your aye. On whom, if not on him,
I were its glances directed? Why do you blush ?
■ I disguise not my feelings. My brother's train
j consists of the very flower of chivalry. To
Charles himself Nature lias not been indiffer
ent ; but I have eyes only for one. Forgive
your friend if, occupied v ilh her own thought*,
she has failed to spy out your favorite, and tell
me, without further concealment, who, amidst
ihm glittering cavalcade, appears the fairest
and the most amiable in your eyes. Nay, no
preaching tones,” said she, laying her finger
on Diana’s lips. “Be gentle; repel not my
confidence ; for I,too, feel impelled, by an ir
resistible temptation, to deposit a sweet secret
io your breast. Whois the fairest and the
most amiable ?”
“Be it so then,” said Diana gazing on her
with a look of anxiety, “your confidence is
dearer to me than any thing. The fairest,
say you —in truth, Renee, I know not —but the
most amiable is the Duke Gonzaga. ’
“Gonzaga:” exclaimed the Princess, with
surprise, “ and is it he you love? ’
“ Love him !” repeated Diana, I said not
that; and yet, Renee” —and shs with difficul
ty repressed her tears,—“l almost believe so.
But fear not. You see how his whole attach
ment. his whole attentions are directed to you
alone. Mistake me not. It is not love, —it is
sisterly anxiety which agitates me. What
can come of it? Your brother will never be
stow your hand upon the Duke.”
“ I love him not,” said the Princess, hastily;
“but you! This does indeed surprise me.
Why then did you refuse his hand, or are the
reports of his secret courtship and your refu
sal untrue? I cannot believe it.”
“ Were he again offer me his hand it
would be again refused, 'said Diana, sinking
ucr eyes to i”u j-
“ flow am I to understand this ?”
“ His happiness is too dear to me to allow me
[to sacrifice his prospects on my account. A
I princely coronet in prospect is his; but were
| unclu in Mantau dead, his pretensions uro not so
! elixir, so undisputed, but that, i.< that land ofin
! trigue he would have ample need of powerful
connections, active relations, and ample trea
sures to support bis claims. hat could the
poor parentless Princess of Novers do for him ?
A union with me would only closi the door
against his rights and make his wife a burden
to him.”
“Strange, ovarscrupulous girl!” said the
Princess, looking at her intently and with sur
prise—“ You might be happy, and yet for the
sake of a lucre chimera you sacrifice that hap- !
piness. Alas! what have we poor maidens
left in this world, if we are voluntarily to sa
crifice its brightest jewel—love ? I must re
's sign it,l was born to dos>—but you— strangv!”
“Thon Karn from me, dear Renee, to make
the sacrifice patiently when it must be made.” j
41 1 shall make none to which lam not com- !
polled by outward force,” said Kcnee, with I
emotion. “And so it is to me that your faith
less swam pays his court? I will not deny )
that I was flattered by the thought of being able j
by a gentle smile to atone for your coldness-;
but now since this confidence I look upon the ,
matter in another light. I love him not—and ■
could'not—Oh! Diana, ungrateful frioufl”— ,
stoppi' g short, and h;i’ glowing |
Checks on the boAun cl her friend—“Oh, Di- !
ana! you have attached to yourself a sweeter
glance, and will not perceive it: Oh ! how I [
loathe this greatness, which scarces from the I
heart every feeling of love.”
“ What do you mean,” said Diana ; “ and of s
what glance do you speak?”
“Os that which reached you without your !
knowing of it—of that of the liuiidsoine Caus
sade.”
“The madman!” replied Diana, in a tone of!
irritation. “True, it is not the first time I
have witnessed bis shameless glances—not I
directed indeed to me, but to you ; although I j
will not deny it, I perceived also that he had I
no objection to make use of me as a device to !
conceal their true direction. Be candid with
me, Renee ! you know it us well as I; trust not
the audacious youth.”
“I wished but to hear it confirmed by you.”
said Renee, blushing; “ but you ctill him
shameless, audacious. Why so ? because
he has an open heart—an eye for beauty—
• because love gives him courage to dare any
j thing
! Their conversation was here interrupted by
the entrance of some ofthe attendants of the
Princess, to announce that her presence was
required in some ofthe usual monotonous uvo
cations of the day. Nor did the friends find
an opportunity of meeting again till the vesper [
b :11s were ringing, and the hunting party,amidst i
a peal of woodland music, had re-entered the i
castle.
Renee pressed the hand of Diana, and whis j
peretl, “I have thought ofaP you said. You I
are a saint, Diana, however heathenish your i
name may sound. Yet even the saints are j
pet milted to be happy—and, by our Lady, J !
shall do my best to make you so: Gonzaga i
shall be yours.”
*■ For Gon’s sake,” exclaimed the princess j
;of Nevers, tu terror, •* let me not have occasion '
! to repent my cm.fluence in you 1”
“T1 at yon shall not,” replied Renee. “Con- <
; fide in me : I will not mteifere, if such is your ;
rosolve ; but, at least, be not angrv if I would ’
fain learn wfi’ether Gonzaga is to be the man.
Listen, and do not chide me. 1 have spent the
morning, ns usual, in the apartment ofthe
Duchess of Mantau, tumbling over her books. I
She is a very learned lady, as you know, the’ j
she makes little pretension tojt. Among oth-|
J era, I met with a thick quarto volume, written
I on vellum, and illuminated with strange painted ■
figures. Know you of what the book treated ?
Os natural magic! The Duchess and I talked
a great deal about it: n is all perfectly inno
cent, I assure you. And now, tell me”—said
she, pausing, and putting her finger to her fore
head—“ do you happen to have in your pos
session any sword or weapon belonging to your
family ?”
“I believe, said Diana, with some surprise,
“my brothers, when they joined tlie army, left
a number of articles in my possession ; and
that there are wepons among them.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed her friend, clap
ping her hands joyfully together. “ Come,
come!” And hurrying to tho wardrobe, she
was not long in finding a sword among its mis
cellaneous contents.
“But explain, explain,” cried Diana, fol
lowing her.
“We have found what was wanting. Ere
to-morrow morning—if you have courage to
confide in good spirits—you shall know wheth
er Gonzaga is destined to be yours or not.—
Natural magic, you must know, Diana, teaches
us, that if any one, man or woman, wishes to
know whether the beloved object shall betheirs,
she must place under his pillow a naked sword ;
and if she dream of him during the nigh?, when
he sleeps above the blade, her wishes shall bo
realised. Why do you look at me thus dotibt
ingly ? The hour is favorable. The Duke is
• gaged at a late dinner with the King: we
can cross his mother’s apartment, who is now
gone to vespers. A small stair, as you k.'.ow,
leads from her chamber to his sleeping-room :
we cannot be surprised ; and we can easily
conceal the weapon in the folds of our robes.”
The princess of Nevers had listened in si
lence, with a blush on her cheekr she had in
voluntarily pressed the hand of her friend—a
gentle hope seemed unconsciously to arise in ,
her mind and to be reflected in her looks ; but ;
suddenly calming her emotion, she exclaimed, :
“To tb.e Duke’s chamber. Oh ! never—ne
ver will I do that which would call a blush ;
into my cheek, even though undetected; I will ,
never do that which the whole world might I
not behold. Would Renee of France advise s
her friend to do what she conceives to be be. j
neath hey own dignity ?’’ ]
“ Had I the same inducement, Diana, I
would not hesitate an instant.”
“ I cannot.” i
“ And you believe me capable of leading
my friend into a snare I would myself avoid? (
Give me the sword, I will myself place itun.
der his pillow.”
“You! the sister of the King, enter the
chamber of the Duke !”
‘•And why not? He is not there. Come
io the window ; see how busily the pages and
servants are still occupied with the banquet.
Come, I will take your place.”
“O, Renee, bo prudent. Should any one
meet you”
“Accompany me only to the Duchess’s apart
ment. Once there, all is easy. Ou the little
stair leading to the Duke’s there is no chance
of meeting any one. And should impossibili
ties happen,” she added,“ a Princess may lose
-o-xrj- +tt Ttrc ottTKq.asaages of the casUe as
well as others.”
“Do as you will then,” said Diana, “but re
member your promise.”
Tiiey soon reached the apartment of the
Duchess, Renee, light as a nymph, with one
finger placed on her smiling mouth, and the
sword in her other hand, flew without hesita
lion towards the door in the tapestry leading to
the stair, and disappeared. Anxiously, and
with beating heart, Diana awaited her return
in the middle of the room ; she could not hear
a footstep, so gently had the Princess ascended
the stair. She counted, with anxiety, the mi
nutes till her return, which was not long de
layed; but instead of the noiseless step with
I which she had mounted the stairs, Diana now
; heard her rush down the stair as it pursued.
She burst into the room, glowing, breathless,
almost sinking to the grouud but for the sup
port of the sword which she still held in her
hand, and with terror in her looks she threw
j herselfinto the clasping arms of her friend.
I “ What has happened ?” exclaimed the lai.
i ter, al most on the point of fainting, like her
I friend.
{ “Oh, nothing—nothing; and yet everything!
Nothing that will betray you ; but I—l am lost,
I And yet would I not exchange that moment foi
I a crown.’
“Speak—Speak—l am dying with anxiety
I and terror,” interrupted Diana.
“ Oh! would I had died before this,” cried
[ the princess, bursting out into a passion of tears.
“ But stay—calm yourself—you shall hear
I all. First, however, we must conceal the
; sword,” and seating herself, she enveloped it
dexterously in the folds of her dress. “ Listen,
’ then. I reached the Duke’s chamber. The
I atmosphere felt faint and sultry—l never was
< conscious of such a feeling of oppression. I
j summoned up courage, however, and stool for
I a moment listening under doorway. All
; was still around me—not a hush. Alas, it
I was a treacherous stillness. I advanced to
! wards the bed with a stealthy pace. I drew
! back, with hasty hand, the silken cuitains. I
The chamber, as you know, fronts the west.
I The last ruddy rays of the setting sun illumi
nated the couch. Oh ! conceive my terror!—
here he lay.’
“ How ?—who ? The Duke ? Oh ! my
God !’l
“No!—the graceful page, Caussade de St.
Megret. The lazy page, tired with hunting,
and, perhaps, unwilling to he caught asleep by |
his fellow-servants, had availed himself of his
master’s absence at the banquet to enjoy an j
hour upon bis bed. I had never had an op
portunity of seeing him so near—vo exactly.
And now 1 comprehended why I had found tho
air ofthe apiuUneut so sultrv so oppressive.”
“ And you hurried away immediately,” cried
: Diana, clasping her hand.
■ Renee shook her head. “I could not, at !
! first. I was fettered—fascinated” and she j
; paused. I
| “ But why did you hurry back in such tcr-
i ror, Princess?”
> “Ho awoke. Nay, start not. He did not
I recognise me. As he opened his eyes I van-
I ished. He may have observed my flight, but
i ere be could raise himself from the couch I
I was gone. Chide me not, Diana ; it was done
| through love of thee.”
i “ But -ot through my wish, Princessthen
: changing her tone of displeasure to one of deep
| pity—“ Alas! Renee,” said she, as she wit-
■ nessed the agitation of her friend, “ If this be
l love, I thank God for that coldness of heart
I with which you reproached me. Cold it is
not; but it knows no flame like this. You
terrify me. You love an adventurer, of whom
the Duke himself, it appears, knows little.
i though he conceals his ignorance in a veil of
j mystery, that he may not appear to have been
| guilty of a foolish action. Renee, Princess,
flunk ofthe consequences.”
“ The consequences!” repeated Renee, bold
ly. “ I will tell you what they will be. First,
a brief, happy dream of love, then a long and
hapless marriage. I will secure some mo
ments of happiness first, that I may have
sti-ength to bear my misery afterwards. Fear
me not, though I am made of different mould
from thee. Your friend, and the sister of a
king, will not forget her rank ; but to see him
—to listen to the accents of his voice—to speak
to him”
“Speak to him !” exclaithcd Diana, in ter
ror.
“ Not w ith words; but I fear my glances
have spoken long before. Listen, Diana; »t
was but lately the King communicated to me
that the second son of the King of England, the
Duke of ah > what care I for the name—
is a suitor for my hand. His picture will ar
rive immediately. Short is the space, then,
allowed me to be my own mistress. If I lose
il”
“ But if some spy-—ifthe King himself”
“The King ! I fear him not. We have no
thing to fear from the jealousy of any one ex
cept Gonzaga; and against his jealous ob
servation a beloved friend knows how to guard
us.”
“ I!” cried Diana, with anxiety.
“ Why that look of terror ? I ask not much.
I ask you only, as before, to be by my side—to
follow my footsteps—to watch my glances—
to let hirn dwell upon your f tee when jealous
observers are by; be my protecting spirit, if
you will not be the patron of my love.”
Reconciled, but not calmed, Diana with
drew from her friend’s embrace to her cham
ber. The lively temperament of her friend—
the recklessness with which she was accus
tomed to give free play to her inclinations,
wure not calculated to remove the fear she felt
of some unfortunate issue, and it was with an
anxious heart and gloomy presentiments that
she retired to rest.
Renee, on the contrary, would readily have
regained her ordinary light-heartedness, had
not her apprehensions been awakened again
by an unfortunate discovery. In undressing,
she found she had lost a white silk sash, with
a gold clasp ornamented with rubies, which
had been the gift of her royal brother, and
which the beauty of the workmanship would
have enabled any one easily to recognise. She
thought of her hasty retreat from the Duke’s
bedroom, and began to fear she might hi.vc
dropt it on the stair, or even in the room itself.
In this case it might have fallen i to the hands
ofthe Duke or of a servant, who could hardly
be expected to conceal the discovery, and thus
a detection might take place which would be
attended with the most disagreeable conse
quences. So terrified was she that she did
not even dare to consult Diana; but paying
an early morning visit to the Duchess’s apart
ment, she carried her eyes vainly into every
corner; listened to every, whisper among the
attendants, but still without hearing of any
thing having been found; and now the cer
tainty that the sash must have been dropt out
side the Duchess’s room, increased her anxie
tx. Neither ihiajdax nor the following did
any thing occur to throw light upon its disap
pearance. On the third day the King had
another hunting party ; but this time the Prin
cess had not the heart to watch their depar
ture. In the mean time it had occurred to her
as possible, that tho missing ornament might
have fallen into the hands either of some cov
etous servant, orlh.it per'.tps some more trus
ty attendant, knowing or suspecting its owner,
was only wai'ing a proper opportunity of plac
ing it again in her hand.
Allowing her friend then to attend the Duch
«ss that morning, she herself, under some pre
text, took her away towards a gallery which
connected her apartments with those of the
King, and to which the way fed through one
or two narrow and solitary passages. As she
was passing through one of these, Caussade
suddenly presented himself before her. She
had supposed him at the hunt, and was struck
dumb by his unexpected appearance. What
was her consternation, however, when, after
casting a hasty glance around him, be knelt
down, ami without uttering a word, presented
to her the sash tho ruby clasp.
W hat she Wiuid have snatched with avidity
*ro»a n ny other hand, she allowed to remain for
Some moments in his. His evident conviction
that she was its owner, his position, his si
lence, all announced to her that he had recog
nised her in the Duke’s apartment, and sh-.
felt horrorstruck at the conclusion he might
have drawn from her 1 presence there.—
She ventured not to ask a question or to deign
to him a lock either of censure or of thanks;
as she stretched out her arms to receive the
sash, the hands of both trembled so that they
involuntarily touched each other; and the ear
of the agitated Princess caught the words,
whispered soli and low, “I alone know of the
discovery, and I am silent and true.”
The words pointed too plainly towards the
suspicion of a secret understanding between
the Princess and the Duke, to allow Renee to
hesitate a moment in putting an end to the sus
picion. At first, however, her offended dig
nify could not find words. “It is well then for
your master,” said she gravely, “ that you are
so. To me you owe nothing, farther than that
respect which my sex if not my dignity de
tnands. That respect might teach you to be
lieve that nothing but a mistake could have fed
my steps from the apartment of the Duchess’
mother to that of her son; my very agitation
i on discovering vou might have convinced vou
of this.”
I She paused, she could not proceed; a deep
blush purpled her checks, and, unknown to her- i
self, a look betrayed to Caussade what the i
mouth ofthe Princess would not for worlds
have revealed to him.
11 was true she had been discovered. Caus
| sade had scarcely laid himself down on the
: Duke’s bed, when he heard the tapestry pushed
j aside. Fearful of being surprised, he had
J drawn the curtains hastily together, and looked '
through the small opening still left. The open j
and almost smiling countenance of the Pt in
cess ; the drawn sword in her hand, the haste 1
and anxiety with which she approached the
bed, wore an enigma_to him. Her terrcron
discovering him changing the srnie moment
into a look of too expressive admiration, flat
! tered his excited fancy too much not to quench
' every jealous suspicion which her appearance
fhe’e mijrht have at first awakened; and her
sudden flight, when he pretended to awake,
served to confirm the pleasing conclusions he
had drawn.
“I was aware,” ho replied, without losing
his presence of mind, notwithstanding the se
verity ofthe Princess’s tone, “ I was aware the
instant you fled that your entrance was the con
sequence of mistake. And the proof that I did
so, is that I did not mention to my master what
I had found—as I should otherwise have :
thought rnyeelf bound to do, and that I had i
Vol. V—M®. «.
been vainly seeking au opportunity for two
days past of restoring it to you.”
“ I thank you,” said the Princess in a milder
tone, “and will not forget your discretion.
“O, Princess,” sighed he, still kneeling,“if
Vou are cot in truth offended with me, leave
me a memorial of this hour, the sweetest of
my life—when I was first permitted to ex
change words with you. Take tite jewels, but
leave me this silken baud, valueless to you—
to me of priceless, value.”
Aias! poor Renee was in no condition to
chide. Her thoughts were all confusion; ter.
ror, delight, maidenly shame, the recollections
of her rank, crossed and bewildered each other;
at last, in a tone, to which she endeavored ta
impart as much of coldness and indifference
as she could throw into the words, she said,
“Keep the whole it is enough for me to know
that it is iu safe hands.”
She said no more ; she hurried from him r«
she had done before, but with n look more elo
quent than any confession in words. He sprang
up, and would have pursued her, but at that
instant he heard the door closed and bolted be.
hind her. He paused for a moment, as if in
thought. “No!” he exclaimed, “I were a
monster if, after that look, I could believe in
any connection with Gonzaga ! Now my dee.
tiny is decided.” And he hurried from the
gallery.
When the Princess again reached her cham
ber, she sank exhausted into a seat. Agita.
tion, repentence, shame, ccntended in her
mind ; but she could not but feel that at last
every feeling merged in one of satisfaction, al
most of transport. She determined to conceal
this last secret even from her friend, tvho had
no difficulty in discovering, notwithstanding,
from her agitated embrace, and unconscious
reveries, that something remarkable had taken
place-
in the mean time the portrait of the English
Prince arrived. It represented a young man,
the unpleasing expression of whose features
the painter had used all his art to disguise, but
with partial success. Even the adroit repre
sentations of the ambassador, who requested,
the princess to suspend her judgment till the
arrival ofthe original, on the ground that no.
thing but extreme haste could have induced
him to present to her a portrait which did tho
Prince so much injustice, failed to remove th«
unfavorable impression which the miniature
itself had produced. In the present excited
state of the Princess’s mind, even the disadvan
tages ot the Prince’s external appearance
seemed rather to afford matter for satisfaction;
ami among her confidential friends she ventur
ed to give vent to her satirical opinions on the
subject, with a freedom which induced the
Duchess-mother to remonstrate with her in the
most serious manner on her conduct. The
King, before whom she took no'rouble to dis
guise her sentiments, measured her with a
gloomy expression, but remained silent. He
seemed less imperious than wont, but more
suspicious, more irritable; a state of mind
which was perhaps to be accounted for. or at
least was naturally increased, by the evil tidings
which he at thia time received of the ftite nf
the Neopohtan campaign, in which his army,
it appeared, had been completely defeated, mu.
ny of his nobility killed, among others the two
Princes de Nevers, the brothers of Diana.
This intelligence, deeply as il grieved the heart
of Diana, of course put an end to those pro
jects of a conventual life, which her family
had entertained for her in her childhood.
She became immediately, as might be ex
pected, the “cynosure of neighboring eyes,”
the object of adoration at couri. By the death
ot her brothers her fortune hud now become
enormous. No alteration, however, was ob
servable in her demeanor,except that her friend
observed that her gentle eye seemed secretly
to rust ofiencr than before on Gonzaga, who
with a corresponding anxiety seemed to avoid
her glance.
(To be continued.)
LINES ON THS DEATH OF GEN. »AN
IEE OZLEVi.V, OF J 2IF. HE VOLITICN*
AHI WAR.
SY 9EOXQE F. MORAM.
Let not a tear be shed!
Ofgr.ef give not a token.
Although the silver thread
And golden bowl be broken!
A warrior lived—a Christis-a died !
Sorrow’s forgotten in our pride !
Go, bring his battle biado.
His helmet and his plume '
And be his trophies laid
Beside him in the tomb,
Where files of time-marked vetsrane eoine
With martial tramp and muffled drum !
Give to the oar.h, his frame,
To moulder and decay;
But not his deathless name—
That connot pass away!
In youth, in manhood, and in age.
He dignified his country's page I
Green be the willow bongh
Above the swelling mtjunl.
Where sleeps the hero now
In consecrated ground t
Thy epitaph, oh Delevan!
God’s noblest work—an honest man t
[From the Court Journal.]
The Foreign Sybil and the
British Statesmen.
‘For it is not the past alone that has its ghost;
each event to come has also its spectrum—
its shade ; when the hour arrives, life enters it,
I the shadow becomes corporeal, and walks the
world. Thus, in the land beyond the grave,
are ever two impalpable and spectral hosts, tho
thugs to be, the things that have been.—God
olphin.
At Paris, during the early part of the year
1827, and the autumn of 18’28 and 1829, resi
ded a lady, whose pretensions and pvrforman.
I ces caused no slight sensation among the nov.
| elty seeking coteries of that gsy Capitol,
j Madame cluFrambaud was a woman advanced
1 in years, plain in appearance, and grave in
address. She spoke in the tone and diction of
one who had been accustomed to move in the
higher grade of society : of her descent, con
nexions, plans and resources, no one seemed
able to glean the slightest information. She
professed to unveil the future ; and though her
fee was gold, and though she saw those only
who waited upon her with a formal introduction
from a previous client, Fhe equipages that were
found loitering near her spacious dwelling in
R. u do la Paix chez la Barriere du Roule
contained halfthe beauty and haut ton of Paris.
And as the information she gave was partial
and related to two epochs only in life of those
who consult her—marriage and death. She
would place before you the lively scenes and
gay appendages of the one ; and the langoyr,
gloom, and restlessness ofthe other. Ou usi-