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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-