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volume ii. | & JFamUg JUtosiKwev: DcUotrtr to Sericulture, i&icciuuCcs, Saftucatiou, jporeiflu attti ©cmcKtic EutcUiucwce, *cc. j number 34.
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
®ELIE©T[E[O) TALII.
THE DIVORCED.
I had not seon my friend, Julia Herbert,
since we left school. In the eight years that
had elapsed, we had seen the usual career of
young ladies—had both been wooed and
(von—and while she had liecome the wife
of a lawyer, and had settled in the commer
cial emporium of the Empire State, 1 had
contented myself with an M. D. and a res
idence in one of the beautiful towns of New
England. Unlike boarding school friend
ship, however, ours had been cemented and
continued by a constant correspondence;
and it was with no ordinary pleasure that I
found myself one bright Spring morning,
in company with a friend, on my way to vis
it her. It was my first separation from my
family; and, as in duty hound, “some nat
ural tears I dmptbut by degrees the
whimpering babies and long faced gentle
mar. 1 had left, gradually faded from my
mind, and. like Christians of old, “addres
sed myself to my journey.”
Traveling is now performed with such
expedition that there is little time for inci
dent ; and it was therefore, without the
shadow of an adventure that I arrived at my
fr iend’s door, in one of the most fashionable
streets in New-York. Nothing could ex
ceed the friendliness and cordiality of her
greeting; 1 was delighted to find that time
had in no degree diminished her native
warmth of heart, or detracted from the ease
arid frankness of her manners. Dearly had
1 loved Julia Herbert; and tears were not
unmiuglcd with sm : les, as —after the first
congratulations over —we seated ourselves
to talk over the past. There had been some
mournful passages in the life of each since
we parted ; still, in the main, our lot was a
prosperous one, arid the most of the impor
tant events of our lives, such as the change
ol’our names and residence, or the addition
of another inhabitant to tire State, had been
duly chronicled ; yet there were a thousand
minor matters to lie handled and discussed
in all their various lights and bearings.—
Adsorbed in these reminiscences, we were
unconscious of tire lapse of time,till lire din
ner hour arrived and with it—Mr. Herbert.
Although my friend had been too good a
correspondent not to have given me the
precise color of his eyes and hair, and the
exact number of inches he stood in his—
slippers; yet 1 was far more prepossessed
in his favor than I had expected, for he was
singularly interesting, both in person anil
manner, and bail that indescribable air of
high-breeding which is so rarely seen, and
so much to be coveted. His reception of
me wms such as I could have anticipated
from the husband of Julia, and were soon
conversing with the ease and familiarity of
old acquaintances. He soon excused him
self, and departed.
“ I shall not tax your sincerity or your
politeness, by asking for your opinion oil
my husband,” said Julia; “but just confess
you are surprised that such a madcap as my
self should have secured such a piece of
dignity and propriety. But, indeed, it was
not always so; when I first knew him he
was the gayest of the gay, but some distres
sing events in his family have given a tinge
of seriousness to his manners which is not
natural to them. Three years ago, and the
sun never shone upon a happier family
than ours. Col. Herbert occupied the old
family mansion with his eldest son Philip,
and a widowed sister, making a delighful
head-quarters for us all. Helen, her only
daughter, were most agreeably married, and
lived near us, while Edward had just made
a match that, at any rate, suited himself ;
and if he was not happy, made violent pre
tentions of being so. It was in such a cir
cle—so refined, so full of warm affections,
that 1 became on inmate; and you may well
believe that, orphan ns l was, and little used
to the dear delights of kindred, I was hap
py. And it was a happiness the continu
ance of which we might reasonably count
upon, for it was rational and innocent—it
consisted not in the mere gayeties of life,
but in the exercise of the best feelings of
Qurngfuie; butalas! for tbo uncertainty of
all human enjoyments, a storm was even
then gathering on our horizon that was des
tined to overwhelm us in gloom and deso
lation.
“I have spoken of Helen, but I despair
of conveying to you any idea of the pecu
liar beauty and loveliness of her character.
So pure, so unsallied, the idol of so many
hearts, who could have believed that such
supereminent misery was in store for her,
or that she. who bail never given pain or
sorrow to human heart, was doomed to ex
perience in her own bosom the bitterest
pangs of sorrow and misfortune. You may
think me extravagant and compare small
things with great, but never could I read
Burke’s exquisite description of the unfortu
nate Queen of France, without being struck
with its approptiateness to poor Helens
fate. “ Surely, never lighted on this orb,
which she seemed to touch, a more delight
ful vision. I saw her just above the horizon,
decorating and cheerngthe elevated sphere
she just began to move in. glittering like
the morning star, full of life, and splendor,
and joy ! Oh! what a revolution, and what
a heart must I have to contemplate without
emotion that elevation and that fall. -ly
friend here paused, but rapidly resumed ;
“ I shall not enter upon her sad story at
present as I am momentarily expecting her,
•nd you will listen with more interest when
you have seen but my feelings had been
too much excited by her remarks to give
my attention to ordinary topics, and 1 was
not sot ry when the conversation was inter
rupted by the enterance of two children,
followed by a lady, whose identity I had nr,
difficulty in conjecturing. Julia saluted
her with great affection, and introduced her
j to me as Mrs. Everson ; and I was soon
i engaged in studying the lineaments of one
! who had taken such hold on my imagina
tion. She was strikingly like her lirotli
-1 er, both in face and person ; there was the
‘ same air of refinement and true nobility—
the same noble and intellectual cast of fea
tures ; but the expression was different— |
so sad, so inexpressible mournful—it told ‘
of blighted hopes, of tr ust betrayed, of grief j
too deep for utterance. Nor did her men- j
tal qualities appear to have been overesti- J
mated ; foi though she spoke but little, it !
was sufficient to indicate a mind of more than !
ordinary ability. Ho impressed was 1 will |
the quiet dignity of her manners, and pro- I
found, though chastened melancholy of her J
air, that my countenance, I doubt not, was |
a faithful index of my feelings, for at part- I
itrg, she pressed rr.y band and hoped we j
should meet again.
“Poor Helen,” said Julia, “her visit has
been but a brief one; for although two years
have elapsed since her misfortune, and she
has regained, in some degree, her tranquil
ity, yet she avoids tire presence ofstrangers.
But to her history. You will readily believe
that at eighteen Helen Herbert must have
been an attractive girl. She bad entered
life with every advantage—she had beauty,
talents, and most devoted friends; and, to
crown all, her life and conduct were regu
lated by a deep and unaffected sense of re- j
ligion.
“ That she had many admirers was a
matter of course ; but no one, I believe, ev
er touched her heart till she met Charles j
Everson. He was from one of our most i
respectable families, and had exactly the ,
qualities calculated to attract a mind like j
hers. He was fine looking, full of talent j
and enthusiasm, and bis manners had been j
improved and polished by a residence abroad, j
I am not conversant with the particulars of j
their early acquaintance and wooing; I on- !
ly know lie seemed devoted to her, anil tlint
her friends were satisfied with their enqui- j
ties as to his general character and habits, j
When 1 entered the family they had been i
married three years, and seemed in posses- j
sion of every earthly happiness. Col. Her- !
bert had provided them with a beautiful res- J
idence near bis own, and Mr. Everson had
formed a legal partnership with Edward. |
“ For the first six months of my married j
life I saw nothing to convey the impression j
that Helen was otherwise than happy, or
that there was any want of confidence be
tween herself and husband. He was like
many men, fond of society, rather more
brilliant abroad than at borne ; still, he was
ordinarily attentive, and no unworthy sus
picion had attached itseif to him—but a
change gradually came over Helen ; she ap- j
peared restless and abstracted, and there !
seemed a weight upon her spirits. Her
books, her music—everything, in short, that
had formerly interested her were neglected ;
and even the praises of her children failed
in awakening an answering chord. Know
ing Edward’s great attachment to her, I
forbore alluding to it; but nt length it be
came so evident, that lie called my atten
tion to it himself. He bad made similar
observations to my own, and even more, for
he had several times found her apparantlv
in tears, and upon inquiring the cause of
her sorrow, she had answered evasively,
but left it to be inferred it was the recoilec- ‘
tions of their deceased mother. Upon look- j
ing for a reason, it was natural to think of t
Mr. Everson ; and Edward admitted that j
he had become negligent in his business, )
and that lie had frequently seen him in com
pany with young men of known profligate j
habits. ‘After all,’ said he, ‘it may nut he
as serious as we fear ; Helen has great sen
sibility and strong feelings, and a slight cle
: gtee of neglect or indiuerence would effect
| her more than most women. I cannot ob
trude myself on her confidence, and we
must therefor e rest satisfied for the present.’
“ Things remained in this state, when one
evening a servant entered and handed Ed
ward a note. He looked disturbed, and
thrusting it into my hands, rose abruptly
and left the room. It was from Helen, and
contained simply these words: ‘Come to
me clear Edward, immediately.” He was
absent perhaps an hour, and when lie re- I
turned, he found her, he said, in a state of |
great excitement, and unable for some time j
to give a reason for the hasty summons; at j
length, making a strong effort, she told him :
that she needed his advice and his assistance j
—that he must have seen that sho was mise- |
table, but Heaven only knew what she had
suffered —that she bad never breathed her
wrongs to human ear, but at length she had
grown desperate, and was resolved to know
the worst. ‘ Six months ago,’ said she, ‘ I
was a happy wife, and had a husband that
I dearly loved, and poor fool that I was,
thought that I was loved in return: but the
veil was to be rent from my eyes ; he grew
; cold and indifferent, and though not postive
ly unkind, nothing that I could say or do
would interest him. Never, never did poor
drowning wretch so struggle for existence as
I did to recall his wandering affections ; hut
it would not do, it would not do—if I dres
sed to please him, he was unconscious of it.
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 18, 1813.
if I was ill, lie was the last to notice it. At ‘
length he became irregular in his hours, up- i
on various pretences —pleading in excuse !
for his absence business engagements or an )
invitation to sup with a friend ; he was of
ten out till past midnight, and when lie did
return, not one kind word or look for the
poor slave that waited for him. As yet,
however,” said she, ‘my fears had assumed
no definite ot tangible shape ; tiil at length
one night, one miserable night, as he lay
sleeping at my side, he murmured a name
—oh! Edward, it was a woman’s name!’
Tears choked her utterance, but putting
i great force upon herself, she continued.—
j 1 But I lived through the night ! Heaven
: and tlie unconscious innocent that slept in
; my bosom preserved me from self destrnc
■ tion, and in the morning with despeiate
! calmness, I said to him, “I need not ask you, !
| Charles, if you had pleasant dreams, for the ‘
! name of a fair lady was upon your lips 1” [
| Oh ! Edward, the guilty paleness that over- I
i spread his face !—lie turned from me—lie |
| trembled, and in an engry voice replied, i
I “ that doubtless it was the part of a good j
, wife to act as spy upon her husband.” Oh!
had he raised his eyes, had he witnessed
the agonies of the poor stricken wretch who
stood beside him—even his heart, base and
unfeeling as it was, would have felt one
1 touch of pity !’
“ She then went on to say that he was
evidently alarmed, and for some time passed
his evenings at home, but that one evening
lie hud again told her, be should be detain
ed at bis office till a late hour. Her desire
therefore was, that Edward should follow
him—should trace his footsteps, and not re
turn till he could either convince her her
; fears were gioundless, or bring her back
proofs as would be sufficient in a couit of
justice to enable her to obtain a divorce.—
‘ln vain,’ said Edward, ‘I endeavored to
reason with her, and explain away suspi
. cious circumstances; she would rot be con
vinced, nor did the fact that I knew on this
: particular evening he had a business engage
| merit, make any impression upon her. But j
\ admitting, my dear sister,’ said he, altempt
; ing in the fullest manner to sooth her, ‘that
vour suspicions may be correct , will you
beany the less unhappy for being certain
jofit ? ‘Oh ! Edward,’ said she, ‘do you
think so meanly of me as, knowing this, I
, would remain bis wife? No; givemepov
! erty, or give me death, but ask me not to
place myself on a level w ith the vile and
dessolute. If,’ and sire clasped her hands
I with frantic energy— ‘ If le has broken those
solemn vows which were witnessed by God
j and man, I leave him ; I leave him, so help
me Heaven ! Do not attempit to reason j
with me, I cannot he influenced; if Charles I
; Everson is the villain I believe him, tlie (
tie that united us is broken forever.’
“ Such was the substance of her conver
sation with Edward—but who could de
scribe her distraction as she yielded for one
moment to an indignation as strong as death,
j only to be succeeded by the more agoniz
ing feeling of wounded affection ; certainly
; not Edward, for, stunned and overwhelmed
with the affection of a sister he so tenderly
loved, he seemed almost incapable of the •
task he had undertaken. ‘ God alone knows
what is before me,’ said he, solemnly, ‘but !
I am prepared for the worst;’ and bidding
me ready to accompany him on his return,
left me. How the time passed during his
absence I knew not, but never shall I forget
the expression of his countenance as he en
tered. He was white as death, except
where a crimson spot hud settled in either
cheek, and his eyes flashed fire, ‘Come with
me,’said he, and Iris voice sounded strange
ly hollow and unearthly, ‘come help me to
| carry these tidings worse than death.’ We
proceeded in silence, and at such a rapid
pace, that at length I was obliged to stop
; from exhaustion. ‘Forgive me dear Julia, I
if in this hour of sore calamity I seem to
forget you, hut I would faintly fiom my
self.’
“As we neared the house his emotion
was so great, that we weie forced to linger
on the threshold before he could summon
sufficient resolution to enter. Tlie parlors
looked cheerless and deserted, and w ith a
feeling ofdesperation we bent our steps to
the library. Helen had evidently risen to j
meet us, but had reached only the middle of
the room ; there she stood, her arms hang- !
ing helplessly at her side, her eyes almost
started from their sockets : and though her;
lips were parted, not a sound escaped them. |
Edward was instantly at her side. ‘God j
i help thee, my poor sister,’ was a’l that he
could say, but that was enough; she faltered,
she attempted to speak, but here voice died
away in an inarticulate murmur, and she
sank senseless into bis arms. We raised
her and attempted to testore her, but oh !
that dreadful wakening 1 Her first entrea
ty was for her father, her next foi her brother
Philip; it seemed as if gathering around
her those she loved she would fain lessen
the sense of her desertion. They came,
but 1 dwell not on the meeting ; there was
a depth, an intensity in her despair that ad
mitted not of the mockery of consolation.
“ Thus wore aivav the hours, till at length
we heard the sound of approaching foot
steps. Helen was the first to hear them,
and her agitation became intense. She
clung to her father, and with frantic shrieks,
entreated him to save her. Dear excellent
old man ! iri an agony of wo which no words
can describe, he folded her in his arms,
and calling her by every endearing name 1
; declared they would never he seperated.—
Edward who alone retained any self-coro
-1 rnand left us, and prepared to meet the
guilty husband. Fearing I know not what,
and scarcely conscious of my own move
ments, 1 involuntarily followed, and for a
few moments was aware of what passed at
theirinlerview. He came carelessly inlium
niing a tune ; but seeing Edward at such at)
unseasonable hour, he started, and asked in a
voice of alar m what had happened. I can
not recall all that took place, 1 only recol
lect, that when Edward reproached him
with his baseness he seemed disposed to re
sent it; but as he continued and heaped
upon him full proofs of his guilt, he cowed
down and burying his face in his hands
heard him in silence. ‘Miserable unfortu
nate wretch,’ said Edward, walking the
room in uncontrollable agitation, ‘God grant
. that I may not listen to the promptings of
| my own wild nature and avenge her inju-
I ries with my own hand. But a day of re
tribution is near—from henceforth you arc
j nothing to her;, yon have looked your last
j upon your wife, your last upon your chil
dren, for the grave should not more surely
divide you, than your lot w ill he divided
from theirs. Yes; sooner than that she
should again link her fate with youts, I
would stab her to the heart.*
Uttering an exclamation of dismay, Ever
son started to his feet and would have rush
ed from the room, but Edward prevented
him. ‘Pollute her not with your accursed
presence,’said he violently; ‘you have wilful
ly deserted angelic purity and goodness,
for the infamous and degraded, and hence
fnttil you must content yourself with such
campanionship. Brit there is another to
whom you must render an account—he who
bestowed the gift and witnessed your vows,
will demand of you how you have kept
them.’
“ Humbled to the dust and without an at
temptatjustification.did Everson receive the
reptoaches of the heart-broken father. But
of what avail were tears—what avail were
reproaches ? they could not recall the past,
or bring peace to the heart so bitterly
wounded, that even the most unforgiving
might have spared their maledictions.
“Morning at length dawned upon this
miserable group. Helen, from the combined
effects of exhaustion and a powerful opiate, j
had sunk in comparative quiet, and her j
brothers had with difficulty persuaded their
father to seek in his own home tire repose
he so much needed. Leaving my charge for
one moment, I crossed the hall and encoun
tered Everson. I started as if from a spec
j tre, and w’ould have fled from him ; but he
I fell at my feet, and besought me by all hopes i
:of heaven to listen to him. * Tell me,’ said j
he passionately,‘does she eutse me?’ but !
seeing I was unable to speak, his fears took
anew direction: ‘Oh my God! am Ia mur
derer?’ and before I could prevent him, he
had rushed into the room and stood beside |
her. Oh ! what a change had one night of
sor row made upon that lovely countenance.
She was lying upon a low couch, her hair
damp and dishevelled from the waterwe had
freely applied to her temples, and her hands
i pressed tightly over her heart. Marble is
not more colorless than were her cheeks
and lips, and the fixed and rigid expression
of suffering on those deathlike features, I
can never forget. He saw it, he felt it, and
wringing his hands wept aloud. The sound
awoke her from her icy lethargy, and look
ing up, she shuddered convulsively and
made an ineffectual attempt to i;ise. ‘For
give, forgive,’ said he, sinking upon his
knees, ‘the madness, the folly of niy con
duct. I acknowledge myself wholly upon
your mercy ; but oh ! let a lifeof penitpnre
and devotion atone for the past. Believe
me, and here I most solemly swear, that
weak and criminal as 1 have been I have
never loved but you.’ ‘/.ore/’ cried Helen,
ami even in that hour of anguish, a shade
of ineffable disdain passed across her fea
tures, ‘insult me not with such vain protes
tations, they no longer deceive me; be sat
isfied with the ruin you have wrought, and
leave me to die in peace. Oh ! Charles,
what have I done to deserve this?’ her voice
was lost in sobs, and she yielded to such a
burst of anguish as threatened to tear het
slender frame in pieces.
“ ‘Oh Helen,’ said he, ‘I was ot.ee dear
to you—cut me not from you for evei
think of your children, and let them plead
for their unhappy father. lam an unwor
thy wretch and deserve chastisement, but
oh! not this, not this.’ He paused, over
powered liy the vehemence of his feelings,
hot rapidly resumed—‘But give me hope,
deny me not that solace of the most wr etch
ed—let me believe that, when months or
even years have attested the sincerity of
my repentance, I may hear those blessed
words, Charles Everson, come back to me!’
He approached and would have taken her
hand, but sho recoiled and shrunk from
him, and in feaiful accents entreated him to
leave her. It was in vain that he w’ept,
in vain that he supplicated, she was deaf to
his entreaties. ‘Never never!’ she wildly
exclaimed ; ‘you have basely betrayed me
—you have chosen your own path, and
alone I pass through this dreary world,
alone—alone.’
“ But the conflict had been too much for
Helen, anil she sunk into a brain fever, and
for days and weeks hovered between life
and death. Youth however, and a good
constitution, finally triumphed over the dis-
ease, and she awoke to a renewed sense o i
her wretchedness.
“Upon her recovery her first inquiry
was for Edward, and whether her wishes
had been acted upon; and upon being an
swered in the negative, she desired they
might be immediately, and a divorce wan
accordingly obtained. Tliere was no de
fence ami everything was conducted with as
little publicity as possible.
“Her husband made many attempts at
teconcilation, but she nevot would see him.
He addressed, however, innumerable let
ters to her, but they contained no extenua
ting circumstances, and consisted merely of
passionate appeals to her feelings. His
friends too interceded for him, but without
success; and, however they might lament
it, they could not but acknowledge the strict
justice of her decision.
“Helen lias now been with her father
two years. It was months before she saw
any one but her own family, and even now j
there are days in which she wholly secludes !
herself, and she will never again mingle in j
general society ; but in the affection of her i
friends, the care of her children, and the j
performance of her highest duties, she has j
attained comparative tranquility. Happy |
she can never he; but 1 firmly believe she ■
is happier, than if she had overlooked her \
wrongs and temnined with her husband, as |
most women of less decision and ptinci- j
pie would have done.
“ 1 have been guilty of great injustice to j
Helen if I have conveyed the impression |
that, coldly correct herself, she bad no feel- !
ing or sympathy for the weak and erring— j
it was not so; for never existed a more af
fectionate heart, or one that felt more j
keenly for the sufferings of others ; but such j
was the innate purity of her mind, and her
strict sense of right and wrong, that the idea
of being in so intimate a relation with one
of such abandoned habits, seemed to shock
her very soul ; and I am certain that in this
whole matter she was governed not only by
what was due to herself as a woman, but as
a Christian. It was no mere whim of the
moment, no temporary ebullition of feeling,
; that prompted ber to this step; but it was
the result of deep anil careful inquiry. Tak
ing the words of inspiration for her guide, 1
and feeling secure on ttrfs point, it tnaitcrr-d |
liitle to her what were the opinions or con- f
j duct of others.
“ It is our unquestionable duty to forgive 1
j injuries, but it is not the less so to avoid 1
receiving them if possible. By the laws of !
God, she was free; the question there
fore was simply one ol feeling, whether up
on the whole, she should best promote the
happiness of herself mid children by a life ;
j spent with him or without him. It was but a j
j choice of evils, and she decided for hersel*. |
! She bad never beard it considered meritori- 1
ous in a man to remain with an abandoned
woman, and give his children a mother for ’
whom they would blush ; she therefore was ;
! of opinion, that the rules were equally appli
! cable to her—at any rate he had no right to
comlpain, since she had only pursued the
same course he would have taken in the
like circumstances. Had she been con
vinced of his penitence and that a moral
change had been wrought in his character,
her decision might have been different—but i
she had no reason to suppose this to be the t
case. He felt keenly the discovery of his !
guilt, and the loss of a well appropriated I
household, but that was all ; her sufferings
formed nopaitofit. He had shown him- I
self incapable of a refined and elevated at
tachment and of the Hue feelings of a father,
and had she overlooked this deleriction from
duty, he would not have appreciated the
sacrifice.
“ There has been so much said and writ- ;
ten of the strength of woman’s attachment,
that most m< n believe it irrespective of their
esteem, and that they will easily pass over
and forgive the deepest insult that can be j
heaped npon them ; and indeed they have |
too much reason for this opinion. But a few j
instances, like the one before us, would do
more for the correcting of public sentiment
on this subject than all the homilies that
were ever written.
“ But I forget one part of my tale. Soon
after these events transpired, Everson Bail
ed for Fiance; anil ns his fortune was am
ple took up his abode in Paris, where he
undoubtedly meets congenial spirits, and j
where I trust he will remain.”
I have now finished lire story my friend j
narrated to rue, and though 1 am sensible it
has lost much of its effect in my feeble and
imperfect manner of relating it, yet if it
convey hut a tithe of the interest to the rea
der that it did to me, I shall be mote than
satisfied.
Night air is said tube injurious to health.
This is absurd, for no people are so healthy
as the gypsies, who sleep out amid mists,and
lie mi the damp earth. Night air is not so
bad in well drained soil, and long settled
neighborhoods. Nt ver steep in a draught of
air, and then your windows may be opened
in nccoriliotice to the weather. A free course
of air is the best preventive of colds. Those j
who are housed up the most are the most
liable to colds and consumption.
Happiness. —An eminent modern writer i
heauttfull says—“ The foundation of domes
tic happiness is faith in the virtue of women.
The foundation of political happiness, a con
fidence in the integrity of man. The foun
dation of all happiness, tcmporul and eter
nal —reliance on the goodness of God.”
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR
iSCETCiKI,
A SKETCH OFTHE LA FAYETTES.
From the Fort-Folio of one u ho knew them.
BY HELEN DERKKLX.
“ The La Fayettes ! The hero's children,-
and the hero's grand-children ! How can I
leave Paris williout making their acquain
tance !” said I to myself, as I remembeted
that, in one short month, we should turn our
farewell glances on the closing gales of the
gay capital, which is not inaptly designated
as, “ le paradig deg fern met.”
The following morning beheld me on my
way to the hotel of the La Fayettes. 1 was
accompanied by Madame li , an inti
mate friend of the family, w hose introduc
tion alone would ensure me a grace us re
: ception.
“ Nous roil a/” said my friend, as we
! drove gaily through the convenient porle
I cocliere. “ La Fayette’s son, George Wash
ington, the adopted son of your General
Washington, with bis wife and numerous
family, occupy the same h6fel as Madame
la Marquise de Lnsteyre’s only daughter.—
! But, if you have no objection, we will make
our first visit to Madame Lasteyrie, fur I am
j exceedingly anxious that you should not
lose an oppoitunity of seeing her. That
■ you are an American will be an 1 instant
| passport to her aflcctinufe.”
I The smiling petite concierge replied to our
: inquiries, that Madame Lasteyrie was at
home, and our faces teflected some of the
good humored smiles which were rapidly
flitting over hers at the agreeable intelli
! gence. One touch of the pretty concierge's
fingers to the silken l>ell rope suspended
| beside her, and before the sound it awoke
1 had died away, a footman appeared, whose
! duty it was to usher us into the piesenCc of
Madame Lasteyrie. He preceeded us up
one flight of stairs, and then auuther, and’
another, and still another, until our limbs
gtew too wearied willingly to keep pace
■ with him.
“Has Madame Lasteyrie changed her
apartments ?” demanded Madame B ,
! resting from her fatiguing ascent.
I “ Afute, rar'i Afnifinne, stre has given op tier
f saloon and boudoir to Madame George La
Fayette’s nurse and children. Two of the
little ones have been ill lately, and the noise
1 in the other rooms disturbs them,” replied’
1 the footman, in French.
“ That is exactly what 1 should have ti%-
peeled of Madame Lasteyrie,” remarked’
Madame B .turning to me; “she al
ways sacrifices her own comfort to that of
| every body else.”
The man overheard her, and, looking
1 back, exclaimed, w ith more feeling and en
thusiasm than is usual to persons in bis sta
lion.
“ Ah, oui, Muelame, ctle egt vn onge f”
“ And because she is an angel,” said Ma-’
1 dame B , as with elastic steps she bound-’
i ed up the last flight 1 of stairs, (which with
j the entresol included brought us to tne fifth
j story) “ my friend must not feel surprised
j at being conducted to the neighborhood of
t* e skies to behold one of their iiihabi
: tunts.”
“Oh, I shall be content if J lias’
1 nriy claim to her dwelling place.”
“ Announce my name only,” said Mod-,
ame B to the footman, as be ushered’
us into a small carpetless ante-ehamber.r—
---“ Madame de Lasteyrie is probably riot prv-J
pared, at this hour, to sec strangers, buts
will be responsible for her receiving tof
friend.”
The footrtinn disappeared, returned, an*V
admitted us into a miniature apartment,,
simply, almost scantily furnished, which
served General La Fayette’s estimable
daughter both as drawing-room and galled
manger. Over the mantel hung a fine po*-
tiiiit of the renowned hero himself. - But a
I mere glowing and faithful image of him
might he traced in the benign countenance’
of the venerable lady, who rose to receive
—or rather, if 1 give the true term to .lief
reception, to velcome us.
She was attired in a sober-colored dress,
scrupulously neat, but of remarkably coarse
texture, and to which the touch of no Pai.j-'.
sian couturiere'g fingers had given an air
fashion, while it destroyed every appear
ance of simplicity. Over her bosom a white
| cambric kerchief was plainly folded, n<T on
1 her head she wore a ribbonless and bodies®
cap, apparently of no more costly materials..
A few loose culls of her own silver hair fell
; about her exceedingly fair face, and gave tfi
it an expression of softness whiih Would
have been totally destroyed hythe
fill false bait benenth which American In
dies (with false pride and falser taste) think
it decorons to hide their own gnnw-bespfilifcv
led locks. Madame de Lasteyrie was long
past her prime ; but the deep lines on her
mild though animated countenance told from
their situation that they had not been trtle
; oil by discontent, nor worn there by ear*.-
! H* - r address, in addition to thd suavity and
i ease peculiar to nil French ladies was char
acterised by an air of kind sinCereity, - which
in a moment won the confidenfe and inspir
i ed the esteem of every one brought within
! htr sphere.
JSf e w as sifting, when we entered, hear a
j blight wood fire, in front of a eftupleof
i meanly clad and sickly looking old women;
’ and beside a pole cheeked young one, with
1 a babe at her breasN A little ttitered ur-