Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL IS ITBLISHKD EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY T. LO3l AX & CO. TE3XEN i LOMAX, Pki>chwl editor. O'fice on Randolph street. Citcvanj Department. Conducted by .CAROLINE LEE HE.NTZ. [written expressly for the southern sentinel.] BELL A XI) ROSE. BY CAROMXK LEE HENTZ. CHAPTER 11. “Graceful ami useful all she does— Bfes-rin” ami blest where’er she goes— Pure bo-omed as ?he watery gla.-s. And Heaven reflected in her face.” [OOWPLB. *Tm weary of the brilliant hall. Where fashion’s v tuiies throng— I'm wvary of my own vain heart, Slave of the world too long.” f anon. Rose Mayfield stood at the door of Ikm father’s cottage, watching the setting sun. It was the hour she loved, tor she knew her father's steps were then bending homeward. Everything was prepared for his reception— the little table, covered with the whitest and smoothest (doth, was spread in a hack porch; old Hannah was milking the cow i ; the ham yard, while the odor of warm htead and 1 steaming meat issued from the kitchen. Rose | Stood, looking toward the corn-field waving 1 Leyond, but Iter eye was abstracted, and it i was evident that her thoughts were gone out I n a more di.-taniexcursion. She was think- j ing of the fair equestri.au and her gallant ; brother, for their visit was an event, in her I quiet aud sequestered life. It recalled the j associations of her earlier years, and a quick. j low sigit heaved iter bosom. For Rose, though a hard-working farmer’s daughter, I had passed but a comparatively small por tion of her life in her present humble home. | A brief review of her childhood will explain ; the apparent inconsistency of her education and position. When she was a little child, j site had the misfortune to lose her mother, i Just about tite time when the heart-stricken, j widowed father was mourning over his own j bereavement and the helplessness of his or- j phan daughter, a lady was thrown from her j carriage, almost opposite the cabin, and j brought in for shelter and relief. It was weeks before she was able to be removed. In the meantime, the engaging little Rose i twined herself round her childless heart, and j she entreated the father to allow her to take j the child home with her, and cherish and j educate her as her own. It was net without j many a hard struggle, that Mr. Mayfield con- j quered his reluctance to give up his darling, , but lie believed that Providence had raised J up this friend to her motherless childhood, ; and w ith mingled gratitude and grief, he suf j sered her to depart. Mrs Chandler re.-i led in a city remote ;■ from his little farm, and opportunities of in j tercourse were few and far between. In the j home of her benefactress and adopted moth- j er, she received those advantages of educa tion, which her father could never have im parted. Mrs. Chandler was no worldly, fashionable woman ; she was a simple-heart ed, high-minded Christian, whose influence | was as pure, as benign and as diffusive as sunshine. The emanations of her mind and : heart were radiated into the mind and heart of Rose, and beautiful mental and moral J flowers grew and blossomed, as the result, j Sometimes Mrs. Chandler had a coadjutor, who took a great interest in directing the ! studies of his sister’s protege, ami whose in fluence was almost as powerful as her own— a younger brother, —a man ot remark able depth and reach of mind, as well as benevolence of feeling. The extreme simplicity, hnmilitv and gratitude of tin* young giil pleased him, united as they evi dentlv were with brilliancy of imagination nud vigor of intellect. R. se looked up to him with admiration and reverence, ami when lie departed for a foreign land, with the pros pect of being absent for years, she felt as if a pillar of strength, on which she had been leaning, as an anchor to her weakness and youth, were suddenly removed. Rut a far greater misfortune was impending over her. Her friend and benefactress was taken from Jier, and the last moments of this noble and excellent woman were embittered by the re f.egUv acquired knowledge, that the property •which she had intended to bequeath to her adopted daughter, was no longer hers to be stow. The man who had the charge of her business, during her brother’s absence, proved to be a villain, who absconded, with the tor tune, which she believed secure from treache ry or loss. Rose h:.d never thought of being the heiress of her friend’s wealth, and had she been left the inheritance of millions, it would not have softened the blow that crush ed her to the dust. She was just fifteen when she returned to her own humble dwel ling, and the father who welcomed her as aii angel of light. To say that Rose did not feel the change, that she did not sigh for the refined anil cultivated society which she had been accustomed to meet at Mrs. Chandler’s, that she did not shrink from the homely du ties that devolved upon her, would be false ; but she struggled bravely, heroically, with her repiuings, and tried to come down gracefully and meekly to the lowly realities of her con dition. i hen it was so ungrateful in her to murmur. There was old Hannah in the kitchen, to do all the drudgery of the house work; she had time to read and cultivate all her acquired taste ; then her father yvas so good, so kind and indulgent, and loved tier with such unmeasured could •he help being happy ? VOL. 11l M:s. Chandler had always dressed her j with elegant simplicity, and site had return | ed with an ample wardrobe of her own, as well as the gift of her benefactress: but with I a good sense and propriety remarkable in one j so young, she felt that such dresses were in ; appropriate to the home she now inhabited. [ So she made herself garments of plain do mestic, and when her father came in from his daily Libor, in his shirt sleeves, soiled per chance, and moist with the dew of toil, she did not shrink from his embracing arms, nor fear that her dress would be spoiled by the contact. She often thought of the brother of her benefactress, wondered if he iiad returned to . i is native land, and whether he retained any recollection of the little girl, he had so kind ly instructed and so wisely counselled. Rut as neat ly three years had passed away, she gave up the hope of beholding him again, and feaied he had found a grave in a foreign land. It is not strange that the sudden appear ance of the beautiful Roll and her brother ; ihould have ruffled the calm and uniform sur face of her existence, or that the sparkling draught of social enjoyment, of which she h id just tasted, should have wakened a thirst the pure waters of her can fountain could < not quench. j The moment she saw her father she ran to meet him, took his straw hat from j his hand and sportively fanned his sun-brown ed face. The smile of grateful and admit - - i ing fondness with which the weary farmer greeted her, touched her with remorse for the vague repiuings she was conscious of feel- j iug a moment before. “Oil ! dear father,” thought she, “let me ! think more of your comfort than of strangers l may never meet again.” If Frank had thought Rose p-i tty and graceful, under the cloud of embarras-ment j and constraint that obscured in some measure ! her natural attractions, how much more he would have admired her, as she flitted lound ! her father, anticipating his wants and sooth ing him with her gentle caresses ! He had | compared her to the Ladv of the Lake, and ! certainly she resembled Eilen in her devotion ! to her father and the grace and tenderness of j her filial attentions. While partaking of their supper, Rose told him of her visitors, : and described with animation the beauty of; Isabel, though she smiled at her affectation ; and caprice. The farmer looked grave, when she told him of Frank’s offer of books, w hich implied an intention of renewing bis \isit. He wanted his Rose to be seen and admired, ; yet he was anxious and troubled lest admira tion should flow from a doubtful source. He could not bear to dump the pleasure with which she evidently and welt on this incident, and he knew the modesty and simplicity of her character too well, to fear of her being lured by mere fashionable graces. It was for her happiness lie trembled, and yet hmv could lie think of immuring her in perfect soli- j tude and suffering her bloomingyouth to pass away, like the flower of the oasis, unseen and unappreciated ? After the first feeling of alarm had subsided, a pure and honest pride in her beauty and refinement lighted up bis countenance. Perhaps the young man was of that noble, honorable class to which her benefactress had belonged—and through : O O j him Rose might be restored to the sphere ‘ she was born and educated to adorn. While ! these thoughts swelled his bosom, he laid down Ins knife and fork, looked earnestly at Rose, then round the little stoup, beneath which they were seated, shook his head, took up his knife and fork and said, almost uncon sciously— “ Who knows ? Who knows 1” “Who knows what, father?” “Rut what these voting folks mav prove very good friends to you, after all ?” “1 hope so,” replied Rose, “and yet I had better not indulge in hopes that may end in disappointment. It is more likely that they may never think of me again, and it is better that I banish them from my thoughts.” This was more easily said than done—but there is power in action, and Rose was su perfluously industrious after the supoer was over. the swept the floor after Hannah, though not a particle of dust was left upon it, and w iped over the cups and saucers with a dry napkin, though Hannah had made them shine with all the lustre of neatness. ! % “ Are you never going to be ready to sit down to reading ?” said the fanner. “What 1 a hustling little body you are to-nifflit!” c> “Oh, yes, I am ready now. Rut let me brush your hair first, and smo Mh t! is rumpled shirt collar. You know i’ve no one to look at but you, and I love dearly to see you look ing nice and comfortable. Now, take this old arm-chair, and tell me what I shall read. Suppose I soothe you with a little poetry to night.” She took down the volume which she had seen in the hands of Frank, and began to flutter the leaves. “I had rather listen to some of good old Plutarch’s Lives. Thev mean something and give a body something to think about after wards. But as for poetry, it comes in at one par and goes out of the other. Never mind, please yourself, my darling; your voice will make anything pleasant.” Rose immediately exchanged the books, and cheerfully commenced what she had read at least a dozen times. Mr. Mayfield sat op posite his daughter, in the old arm-chair, Ji i’ | COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 30, 1852. with his hair as sleek aud shining as comb and brush could make it, and his white shirt collar, relieving the hardy brown of his com plexion. He sat gazing on hisyoung daugh ter, whose fair brow was inclined over the book, while her rosy cheek rested in the hol low of her right hand. Her attitude was graceful, her face surpassingly sweet, and her voice was music itself. He gazed upon her with a fondness so intense that it deepen- j ; ed into sadness. Site came out in such blight and beautiful relief, in that dark cabin, her accents glided so gently into his ear and sunk j down so meltingly in his heart, that his eyes j closed f>om excess of delight, arid his ear ; grew heavy w ith its weight of melodv. ; , What a lu.vury for the toil-worn and weary man to leave behind him the labor and dust j i and burden of his day of care, and in the quiet i and comfort of his own tome to recline at ; ease, and look at and listen to such a dangh i ter! It is no wonder such a stale of luxuri j ous content should compose the feeling for a : deeper calm. Rose was reading the history of Paetus i aud the devoted Ai na. Her eye kindled and her cheek glowed over the record of her self sacrificing and matchless love. “Oh! father,” said she, looking up and i suffering the book to drop upon her lap, “1 j | never, never can be tired of this. It : s sad, j but it awakens such exalted sentiments. I j remember a beautiful litile poem, written on j this subject. I think it began thus: When Amato hei husband gave the sword, W liieh from her chaste and bleeding breast she drew, i “Take this,” she cried —‘‘.My Paetus, do not tear— | Sweet is the wound that has been given for you.” j A sudden,loud, nasal sound arrested ihe ; poetical reminiscences of Rose. The poor, i tired farmer was soothed into a deep sleep, an.i as Lis head was leaning luck ward, he was indulging in a most anti-heroic snore. The enthusiasm of Rose gave a quick, pain ful rebound to her own bosom. She had of ten experienced a similar shock, but never bad she felt it so acutely. It j,-tired on every nerve ; she could not help contrasting the discordant notes wi h the music of Hell’s gav laugh—the accents of the graceful and gallant Frank. She felt more intensely than she had ever done before, the want of sym pathy, the want of congenial youth and re finement, and despised herself for experienc- j ing it. She would not have wakened her fa ther for the world, but she went softly behind him and insinuated a pillow between his head and the chair, thereby closing the open gates from which the sonorous breathings came forth. “v~ Such was the tenor of the life of Jhe voung Rose; one*a offline of the next, and timber bushel, 0 jjjj 2 -, s tbs lot of the brilliant and 0n,... 350 (S> OOAiuj yet Rose was (lie happier of the two; she had a self-sustaining piiuciple within ; she j looked to God above, and then into her own pure heart, to see His image there. The paths of these two young maidens widely diverged, and yet, as they may per chance approach more closely - , we must fol low, first one and then the other, in their dif ferent orbits. Bell had now anew object of interest, that roused her from the ennui that so often op pressed. It was singular, but the ..dmirntion of Mr. Urvin was not diminished by his ex pressed reluctance to her society. It was rather increased. ’I here were many mo ments when she despised herself for being a belle, as much as she did the insipid beings who fed her vanity with the fuel of adula tion—when she felt more than willing to bar ter the incense of the multitude, for the sin cere but silent homage of one true and noble ; heart. She wanted something to look up to and reverence—something to stir the unsoun } ded depths within. She could not reverence j her mother, fi r she had no qualities to inspire veneration—she was “of the earth, earthly.” ; Frank was too near her own age, too gay j and mischievous, too much on her own level. She could not look up to him. But Mr. Ur j vin! how high he seemed to tower above all surrounding objects! So lofty, so dignified, with eyes so darkly eloquent, and mien so , cold, yet so strangely attractive! She had | now but one thought, one wish—to overcome j Lis prejudices, to conquer his proud reluc tance, and to triumph at last in the possession ; of his admiration. ! Mrs. Raymond had an almost insane de | sire to cultivate the acquaintance of foreign j ers and travellers of distinction. She had seen with pique and resentment, Mr. Urvin’s j avoidance of her daughter, but he was too distinguished to he given up without an ef fort. His reputation for wealth and tal-.-nts threw a dazzling prestige round him, more : hallowed in her aristocratic eyes than the halo that encircles with golden glory the brows | of saints and martyrs. She gave a splendid ! party, for the sole purpose of inviting him, ’ and urged Bell to appear as simple as possi ; ble, in dress and manner. But Bell, with a strange caprice, or perhaps from the fear of having her real feelings detected, would w ear ! her most glittering attire, and instead of flow ers, wreathed her brow with costly gems.— She would not have Mr. Urvin suppose that she wished to attract his attention, or grati fy his pride by subservience to his tastes. Os course, an introduction was unavoidable. It was as a belle, she was resolved to triumph— as a conqueror, she wrnuld hind him in gol den chains to her car of victory - To his grave, respectful, yet most graceful saluta tion, she responded with those bewitching smiles which others had pronounced irresis- tilde. To his intelligent, manly and interest ing remarks, she replied at first with some of those airy nothings, yvhieh generally pass for brilliant yvit, and had there not been some thing in her clear blue eye that seemed to shame the folly of her lips, and had not the roses, coining and going on her cheeks, ap peared to blush for her affectation, it is pro bable Mr. Urvin would have left her side, with his prejudices against belles deepened, instead of being subdued. As it was, be felt amused and interested, for there is a charm in youth and beauty, after all, to yvhieh the gravest philosophers are compelled to boyv. She questioned him of his travels, and while listening to his eloquent description of for eign lands, forgot her wish to shine and cap tivate, and without knowing it, appeared as natural as Rose herself. The influence of a commanding mind was upon her, and a charm —a spell unkno n before—bound her to the spot. She forgot to flirt her ringlets with that iittle sportive motion which had been called so graceful. She forgot to pick off, with her white and sparkling fingers, the green leaves of her beautiful bouquet, or to play a thousand fantastic tricks with her ivory fan. She stood an entranced and eager listener, feeling as if the doors of her understanding yvere just opening, and sun beams darting dazzli.-igly in. She longed to ask him the definition of a belle, but she da red not do it. She had lost the assumed boldness with yvhieh she commenced her at tack, and if could not be recalled. Just before tbe evening closed, when her spirits yvere as elastic as the air she breathed, she was passing through the folding doors, within which Mr. Urvin was then standing, conversing yvith a group of gentlemen. He had his hack toyvards her, and did not see her, though her robes swept lightly against him. lie seemed engaged in earnest conver sation, and she distinctly heard him utter the name of Rose Mayfield. For a moment her footsteps involuntarily paused, then she hur ried on through a side door, nor stopped tiil she found herself in the garden, in whose shaded yvalks she was sure of escaping ob aervation. It was astonishing what an elec tric spark the mere pronunciation of that name had given her. What possible associ ation could there be yvith this proud, stately and yvealthv gentleman, moving in the very highest yvalks of society, and the poor and humble Rose? He had probably seen her accidentally, as she had done, and admired the simplicity of her character and the una dorned grac‘d o f her person. Had not Frank said she was pist the person to charm him? Was she not the very opposite to that object of bis abhorrence, a belle? Jn an instant she arrived at the most surprising conclusions. He yvas the betrothed lover of Rose—those books yvere his gift—be yymuld raise her to rank and affluence, and they would meet in the social circle, and even her mother would be constrained to tolerate her as the bride of the admired Mr. Urvin. It yvas the most unfortunate thing in the yvorld that she had ever heard that name, sweet and simple as it was, for it acted like an evil spell, and banished all her enjoyment. She tried to conceal her feeling, but when she returned to her guests, her cheek was paler, aud her manner devoid of animation “ Bell, tny love,” said her mother, “what is the matter? Are you fatigued ? I)o try to Gaily a little. I see Mr. Urvin coining this way. Every one is speaking of the impres sion you have made on him. It is such a tri umph, Bell. I’m sure I wonder you do not exult at your success. There, 1 am glad to see the color coming back to your cheeks.” “I am tired, mother—tired to death,” said Bell, pettishly. “I do yvish every one would go—and as for Mr. Urvin, I don’t see what there is in him to make such a fuss about. I really think him a decided bore.” “Bell!’’ cried her mother, in a low voice, for she was fearful of being overheard, “you are the strangest giti I ever knew. You are never in the same mood three minutes in suc cession. You are the most capricious and spoiled of human beings.” “I knoyv that, better than any one else, mother.” The conversation was interrupted by the approach of Mr. Urvin, yvho came to make his parting boyv. “Oh! that I dared to ask him yvhat he kneyv of Rose Mayfield!” thought Bell.— “Yet, that lie knows her at all, is sufficient to prove all my fears.” Fears! why should she fear the influence of Rose on this man, so lately a stranger ? W hat yvas he to her, yvhat could he ever be, even if the farmer’s daughter yvere blotted from the scroll of existence? Again and again she asked herself this question, yvhen, after the dispersion of the company, she sought her chamber, and threw herself yvea rily on the bed. “Oh ! you will spoil your beautiful dress !” exclaimed Anna, in most distressed accents. “I don’t care,” replied her young mistress. “I never will yvear it again. I detest all this finery, jeyvels and all. Take off the dress and keep it, and never let me see it again.” “It is too fine for me,” cried the delighted girl. “I could not think of robbing you of it. But hoyv snail I take it off, while you are lying down ?” “Wait, then, till I am ready,” said Bell, without thinking of the poor, tired waiting maid, who could scarcely keep her weary eyelids from falling together. She did not mean to be unkind, but she yvas so absorbed i in her owe gew and bewildering thoughts, she forgot even her presence as soon as she ceased speaking. She lay for a long time—a strange and radiant figure to be reclining there—yvhen the girl, overcome by fatigue, sunk down upon the floor and bent her head upon the bed-cover. Roused from her ab straction, by the suddenness of the motion, Bell’s heart smote her for her thoughtlessness and selfishness. She rose and suffered her self to be undressed, thinking hoyv much less trouble Rose Mayfield’s simple toilet must be than hers, yvith all its splendid decora tions. Ah! hoyv little did Rose dream of be ing an object of envy to the vain and beau tiful Bell. [to be continued.] BIOGRAPHIC A L. The Vanity of Ambition—Count D’Orsay— Notice of his Life am! Character. M. Scribe has yvritten a short story, yvhieh turns on a young man, yvho, fired yvith the ambition common to youth, leaves his vener able mansion and paternal tenants, to increase the throng yvhieh press around the monarch, that he may obtain—fame. He disregards tbe fast falling tears of his mother, his ear is deafto his betrothed’s supplications, be heeds not the imploring and half reproachful glan ces o 1 the grey haired dependants yvho press around the door, he mounts his steed—and manor, and mother, aud maid are quickly out of sight. He is to pass the night at the ma nor of an old friend of bis father, yvho prom ises him letters of introduction to the power ful of the Court. When lie arrives there, the family have gone on a chasing expedition, and it yvill be some hours before they return. He is shown a seat in the antique parlor, and left alone. He is not alone long. Suddenly awakened from his meditations bv the hasty entrance of a man, yvho throws himself at his feet, lie is surprised to hear himself im plored to intercede between the supplicant and some unknoyvn person. He learns that the gentleman at his feet made a contract some years previous yvith an African, a ser vant in the house, in yvith the devil, by which the servant yvas to secure to the gen tleman the largest measure of fame, the bit ter giving in return ten years of his life.— Fame yvas soon acquired, and after a short time's enjoyment of it, the supplicant had be come tired of it, and prayed the African to allow him to exchange fame for boundless yvealth. The negro consented, hut upon condi tion of receiving in return for the boon, ten additional years of the donee's life, which, like the other ceded years, yvere to be added to the African’s life. These terms v'ere agreed to; but the gentleman soon became as tired of the enjoyment of boundless yvealth as before he yvas yvearied yvith the enjoyment of universal fame; he craved other gilts; the negro yvas sought again; his art exerci sed upon the same terms as before. The whole round of man’s desires was exhaust ed; none brought happiness; years had sto len awav, and now the wretched young man had but two hours to live; but be clung to life, the simple monotonous life of tbe coun try boy ; it was the only happy life the yvorld contained. He prayed Isis guest to intercede with the* negro for a respite—a feyv days’ res pite—that he might be a boy again, and lis ten to the babbling of the brook, and hang attentively on the matin the lark sang at Heaven’s gate. How vividly lie painted the emptiness of all the honors of this yvorld!— How clearly lie exhibited the deceptions of all ambitions ! Some servants came in arid led the unhap py gentleman aw'ay, leaving the youth con founded with amazement. In a few minutes, the Lord of the Manor returned from his chase, and, after expressing the regret he felt at being absent from home yvhen his guest arrived, made excuses for the accident yvhieh had befallen the latter, saying—“My poor brother, yvho is a lunatic, unfortunately esca ped from his eeli.” The story goes on to re late, that the next morning, after his guest had ordered his horse, the host offered him letters of introduction to his friends at court, and expressed the confident hopes he enter tained, that yvith such letters, such a youth could not fail of achieving the amplest fame and the most unbounded yvealth. The youth declined them—he had changed his mind—he had determined to return home, and live sur rounded by his mother, his betrothed, and his dependants. The lunatic had given him a contempt for all the pomp and vanities of the world. The story is a true picture of life; and if yve never see the ambitious and covetous re nounce their idols and turn to the gods of their childhood, it is because that return is impossible—they are fired by the fever. “Courts never make men happy—they only prevent them from being happy elseyvhere.” I could not repress these reflections to-day, after being compelled to revieyv the life of one who had nearly every thing which gilds life; the model of ambition to thousands, suc cessful to an unusual degree with the other sex, the ruler, for years, of the “best socie ty” of Paris and London, a scholar, a poet, an artist, a master of all the arts wiiich ele vate and adorn life. Come, listen to the story of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia. It is of the late Count D’Orsay I would speak. He died on the 4th instant, at the country villa, near St. Germain, of his sister, the Duchess de Grammont. Count Alfred d’Orsay was of an aristocratic family, in whom masculine beauty was hereditary. Hie j father—a distinguished General of the Em | pire—bote, before him, the title universally bestowed on the Count by all who saw him —le beau d’Orsay. It was one—not the least bright trait iu the Count Alfred d’Or say’s character—that he loved his father and cultivated his memory with a more than fil ial affection throughout his long life. He lived surrounded by his father’s portraits, and books, and letters, arms, uniforms, and other sbuvenirs. The pseudo elegant, who follows fashion’s every change, shall in vain consult iiis flattering mirror—shall in vain give his days to my Lord Chesterfield, and his nights to Papanli; if a warm heart does not beat beneath his embroidered waistcoat, and a gen erous soul expand under his broadcloth coat, all his labors are lost. lie may be a good haberdasher’s horse; he cannot be a gentle man. II n'est pas du hois dont on enfait! The aristocratic birth of Count d’Orsay opened to him, as a right, the best saloons of Paris; his family was generally and favora bly known in fashionable society, and was connected with the best families of France. Thus early in life, through their common in timacy with the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, he was frequently thrown into com pany with the Earl and Lady Blessiugton, who, being in the meridian of their fortunes and their health, made Paris the head-quar ters from which they made their pleasure tours through France, or through Italy, which furnished Lady Blessiugton themes for her charming books, “The Idler in Italy,” &c. dec The acquaintance soon ripened into intima cy, and it was not very long before this inti macy was increased by the marriage of Count d’Orsav to the daughter of the Earl , l of Blessiugton. (f think the second Lady Blessiugton had no children.) They went several times to Italy in company, and it was through them Count d’Orsay made Byron’s friends hip; lie won Byron’s heart at once, I and they continued through life warm friends. When the Biessingtons returned to England, he accompanied them and made London his home. Count d’Orsay was now an all accoru | plished man, omnis homo! He was gifted with remarkable physical beauty; bis head might have been taken for the model of an Apollo or an Antinous, it had such strength and softness in its beauty. He spoke sever al languages with elegant ease; lie was at home in the exercise of all arms; he was practiced in several instruments; he was a draughtsman of rare skill and taste; he ex celled in every manly exercise. It is one of the many singular characteris tics of English society, that they allow—nay> seem to desire—a leader to assume regal pow 7, mauv .... . . . ‘lcokets fc l circles, i hey desire a king ol lion whose decrees are laws, who is the model of every thing—of dress, morals, conversation ; who is empow ered t select fashionable rendezvous, to dic tate which promenades, what drawing-rooms,- what theatres,are fashionable; what danseuse an 1 artist shall be applauded, what author shall lie courted, what painter purchased.— To go no further hack, Lord Chesterfield and “Beau” .Nash, “Beau” Brummel and George IV., have in this manner ruled the society of their da v. When Count d’Orsay appeared in England, he was made king of fashion by acclamation ; for let the elected elegant endeavor to decline so noisy a success never so obstinately, his | constituents will prove still more obstinate, and he must wear the crown, or else abandon j England. Count d’Orsay did not decline the title conferred on him ; he was young, and he had all the tastes and ambitions of that age. But he differed—there could, indeed, be no great ! or difference than that which existed between him and Brummel. He was always an aris tocrat. He never had any of the insolence, he had none of the airs of the parvenu. He did not live on his friends, and make them pay his debts by forcing them to his creditors. If he gave time and paid at tention to horses and dogs, and equipages and toilettes—if he made his hat the model for all hats during the season, and invented new cravat-knots or new fashions, it was that he knew’ that to the silly crowd of lordlings who imitated him, these trifles were the seri ous business of life, and that tiiese bagatelles strengthened his position more than serious, useful, and grand deeds would have done.— These frivolities he regarded in their proper light—they were merely the pastime of his | idle hours. It is astonishing with what power lie ruled I society in London; let me cite some instan ces, for they will exhibit more clearly both ! his power and his position. Although every body wears, few know’ the history of the in ; vention of the sack, or paletot, as it is gener i ally called, though neither of these is the true I name of the popular garment. Count d’Or ; say called it Chesterfield, in honor of his friend, the present Ear] of Chesterfield, the great English racing nobleman, who owns the finest stud of horses iu England. Count d’Orsay was returning from a steeple chase, when, being surprised by a heavy fall of rain, ; he ordered his out-rider, who always carried ; his coat strapped on his saddle, that it might be ready to protect the Count, in tiie event ; of an accident like the present —he ordered j his out-rider to bring him his cloak. The servant stammered out some excuse about having forgotten it. No house was near; the ordinary overcoat worn by the Count was ; getting quite wet; suddenly a turn in the • road discovered to the impatient rider a low TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,. ..S2 00 “ “ “ “ “ in six mortr.s, 250 “ “ “ “ “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - . - - $1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of those who advertise largely. NO. 40. drinking shop, and a sailor covered with a sort ot large and long roundabout, which covered him nicely from his throat to below his thighs. “I say, there, my good friend,” said the Count to him, “what say you to a seat by yon counter and a chance at drink ing my health until it clears up:'” “1 should like nothing better 1” “Good! then off with your roundabout and sell it to me. A r ou won’t want it while y’re drinking, and after the rain is over you can buy another.” “Oh! I’m agreed.” Thereupon the sailor took off his coat, Count d’Orsay gave him ten guin eas, put on the thick roundabout over his coat, and entered London in this costume. The rain had ceased; the suu looked as bright as it can look in the leaden sky of England; it was the lime of day when every .body went to the Park; Count d’Orsay rode down the fashionable avenue, filled with ex quisites and belles, bis sailor’s jacket still over his coat. It took at once, and before a week everybody in London was sacked. Here is another example which exhibits life abroad only too truly. A young and pretty French actress had been recommend ed to Count d’Orsay by one of their Paris friends. This beauty had left behind her in Paris some notes, whose rapid advance to old age alarmed her; a note past maturity is perhaps more disagreeable than a woman in the same predicament. Unwilling to lie pres ent at the death, and to receive the funeral t cket benevolent notaries always send, she made an engagement with Mitehel, and ap peared at St. James’ Theatre. Another ac tress (one of the Demain family) succeeded much better in the same line of characters, and the beauty’s engagement was rescinded. She went to Count d’Orsay, avowed her dis aster, and begged him to help her. “Well, in deed, man enfant,” said the Count in his usual kind tone, “voyon*, I must do something for you. You have heard in the green-room that lam attentive to Lady Georgiana R. S. * * * * ; that is not so; but * * but I would not like to give any subject of annoy ance to Lady Blessiugton. * * * I scarcely know vvliat to do. However, * * * to-mor row at three o’clock, I will call by for you; take care to be armed to the teeth with your best weapons, and lie ready to fire on every body.” Next day Count d’Orsay, in one of those admirable negliges dresses, the extreme effort of art, which, too, set off admirably a woman’s toilet, called for the young actress, and drove her in the most aristocratic ave nues ot Hyde Park. Every one ogled bar; the toirn wonder what Lady Georgmpfwnd Lady Blessiugton would say. ‘#h#wdnder was increased when they sayyltim introduce her into his box at Every one sought an introduction to her; in three days, some nabob her from the Count. t a-few week# she returned to Paris with her .poeket full* of guineas, and a Lord on her mr arm. l’O select but one more example from the ten thousand instances of Count d'Orsay’s omnipotence in certain circles—he jokingly said to a friend: “If I should take a fancy to suicide, there would be fifty suicides the next day, and the tribe of dandies would disappear for a time from London.” I may relate bis introduction or coarse packing cloth into the toilettes of the aristocracy. A ‘ Frenchman established in London, a mar chand de noueeautes, called on the Count one morning—“l am ruined, Count! I have no debts, but 1 have spent every cent of my capital! “Diablo! and what are you going to do ( asked the Count. “I should throw myself into the Thames, but for my family !” “Diable! diable! is every thing gone ?” “Yes, sir, every thing!” “What ! havn’t you a thing at home ? Voyons, let's hear what you have. But perhaps the best thing I can do for you will be to come and hunt in your shop for something.” That evening the Count went to the shop; he examined every thing. “What’s that?” said he, kicking over a hale of coarse packing cloth lying on the floor. He was told what it was. “Open it, and let me look at it.” The shopkeeper opened it for lii3 examination. “Send me ten yards of it to-morrow morning, and call in the eVenjmg yourself— we'll then see what can be done."’ JJarly the next day his orders are executed ; a skillful cutter, then out of employment, is’sent for, and all the morning Count d’Orsay and he are engaged discus sing and planning new patterns. At the ap pointed hour, the poor shopkeeper comes.— “I have hit it,” said Count d’Orsay. “Day af ter to-morrow I shall go Id Ascot laces, wearing pantaloons cut in a*new way, and with ail the seams worked like a chamois glove. The next day you will have a thou sand persons at your door to purchase others, l ake this cutter.; he will procure needle-wo men for you ; get plenty of packing v cJoth,and my head on it, your fortune is made.” Count d’Orsay’s prediction was accomplished; the shopkeeper cleared <SMO,OOO that season, and has now retired to a pretty villa, neir Lake Enghieti, worth his “plum.” These, however, were Count d’Orsay’s amusements for whiling away a heavy hour. King of Fashion, he resolved to elevate his kingdom, and extend his power over other subjects than these trifles; he undertook, and he accomplished, a complete revolution in the usages, the tone, the taste and the manners of the society of which he was chief; to do this, required all the varied resources of his mind, his character and his talents, lie had, besides, a powerful auxiliary in Ladyßles sington, who, to extraordinary talents for so ciety, enjoyed dazziiag beauty, groat aequaiq-