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not in the heart of men what mine desires, the
appearance of nature and inanimate things
console me; I attach myself to the rocks and
trees, and it. seems to me that all created beings
are friends given me by God .”
“ You encourage me, in my turn, to explain
to you all that passes in my mind. I truly
iove the objects which are, thus to speak, the
companions of my life, whom I see every day.
Thus, every evening before retiring into my
tower, I come to salute the glaciers of Rui
torts, the dark woods of Mount St. Bernard,
and the fantastic summits that overlook the
valley of Rheme. Although the work of
God is as visible in the creation of an ant as
in that of the whole universe, the great spec
tacle of the mountain imposes more upon my
senses. I cannot see these enormous masses,
covered with eternal snow, without a relig
ious astonishment; hut, in this vast picture
which surrounds me, I have favorite points
that I love best; of this number is the hermi
tage that you see upon the summit of the
mountain of Chawensod. Isolated, in the
midst of the woods, near a deserted field, it
receives the last rays of the setting sun. Al
though I have never been there, I feel a sin
gular pleasure in looking at it. When the
day declines, seated in my garden, I fix my
looks upon that solitary hermitage, and my
imagination reposes there. It has become for
me a kind of property; it seems to me I have
a confused recollection that I lived there in
happier times, of which the memory is effaced
from my heart. I love, above all, to contem
plate the distant mountains which confound
themselves with the heavens in the horizon.
Like the future, distance creates in me the
sentiment of hope; my oppressed heart be
lieves that there exists for me a land very
distant, when, at some future period, I shall
be able to taste at last, the happiness for
which I sigh, a*>l that a secret instinct pre
sents to me as quite possible.”
“With a soul as ardent as yours, it has,
without doubt, required great efforts to resign
yourself to your destiny, and not give your
self up to despair.”
“ I should deceive you if I allowed you to
believe that I am always resigned to my lot;
I have not reached that state of self-denial to
which some anchorites have attained. This
complete sacrifice of all human affections is
not yet accomplished ; my life is passed in
continual combats—and the powerful succor
of religion itself is not always capable of re
pressing the flights of my imagination.”
“If I could make you read my soul, and
give you the same idea of the world that I
have, your desires and regrets would vanish
in an instant.”
“In vain—books teach me the perversity
of man, and the miseries inseparable from
humanity—my heart refuses to believe it. I
constantly picture to myself societies of
friends, virtuous and sincere—of couples well
assorted, whom, health, youth and fortune
combined, load with happiness. I think I
see them wandering in groves, greener and
fresher than these which shelter me, enlight
ened by a sun more brilliant than that which
shines on me, and their lot seems enviable to
me in proportion as mine is miserable. In the
beginning of Spring, when I feel the wind
from Piedmont breathe over our valley, I am
penetrated with its invigorating warmth, and
I tremble in spite of myself. I feel an inex
plicable desire, and a confused sentiment of a
great felicity which I could enjoy, and which
is refused me. Then I fly from my cell and
wander about the Country to breathe more
freely. I shun to be seen by those very men
that my heart burns to meet: from the top of
the hill, hidden in the thickets like the wild
deer, my looks wander over the city of Aoste.
1 see, at a distance, with eyes of envy, its
happy inhabitants, who scarcely know me; —
groaning, I stretch my arms to them, and ask
from them my portion of happiness. In my
transports, shall I confess it to you, I have
sometimes bound in my arms the trees of the
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forest, praying God to animate them for me,
and give me a friend ! Bat the trees are mute;
their cold bark repulses me; it has nothing in
common with my heart which throbs and
burns. Overwhelmed with fatigue, tired of
life, I drag myself again to my retreat, I ex
pose to God my torments, and prayer restores
a little calm to my soul.”
“ Then poor, unhappy man, you suffer the
evils of mind and body.”
“The last are not the most cruel.”
“ They give you then some intermission !”
“ Every month they increase and diminish
with the course of the moon —When it begins
to be visible, I suffer generally more; the dis
ease then diminishes, and seems to change its
nature : my skin dries and becomes white, and
I scarcely feel the rrtalady; but it would be
always supportable were it not for the fright
ful sleeplessness it causes.”
“What sleep, even, abandons you !”
“ Ah, Sir ! sleeplessness ! sleeplessness !
you cannot figure to yourself how long and
sad is the night that an unhappy creature
passes without closing his eyes, the mind fix
ed upon a frightful situation, and a future
without hope. No ! none can comprehend
it. My inquietude increases as the night ad
vances; and when it is nearly gone, my agi
tation is such that I do not know what is to
become of me: my thoughts become confused;
I feel an extraordinary sensation, that I never
experience save in these sad moments. Some
times it seems to me that an irresistible force
drags me into an unfathomable gulf; some*
times I see black spots before my eyes; but
while I examine them they increase with the
rapidity of lightning, they grow larger as they
approach me, and soon they are mountains
that overwhelm me with their shadow. At
other times also I see black clouds come out
from the earth around me, like waves which
swell, heap themselves up and threaten to
swallow me; and when I wish to raise myself
to dissipate these ideas, I feel restrained as it
were, by invisible bonds, which take away
my strength. I see, without ceasing, the same
objects, and it is a sensation of horror which
surpasses all my other sufferings.”
“It is possible that you have fever during
this dreadful sleeplessness, and without doubt
it is that which causes this kind of delirium.”
“You believe that it may come from the
fever'? Ah! I would that what you say
may be true. I had feared ’till now that these
visions might be a symptom of madness, and
I confess that it has disturbed me much. God
grant that it may be indeed the fever.”
[Conclusion in our next.]
Sketches of £ift.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE LISTENER,-NO, 6.
NOT BY CAROLINE FRY.
MODERN SOCIETY.
“ But what else, but automata, has society made
of women in general—conventionalism their law, and
their conscience only a trembling apprehension of
the ‘ qne dira-t-on ? ’ ”
[Charms and Counter-charms.
While a sojourner in the little town 1 re
ferred to in my last sketch, I one morning re
ceived a note from an old and esteemed friend,
begging me to bring my work and spend the
day with her. I gladly complied, for my
friend, as you will perceive, was one of those
who grow old and yet
“ The full, nourished heart weareth no wrinkle.”
She was a widow lady, whose three children
w-ere already established in life. The eldest
daughter was a wife of several years stand
ing, and living at a great distance from her;
the second child was a son engaged in busi
ness in the neighboring city; the youngest, a
young married woman, lived near her moth
er.
The daughters were highly educated and
accomplished women, whose hearts were full
of deep, tender thoughts—whose souls w-ere
filled with high purposes and noble aims—
and who sought to live, in their families and
in the world, in fulfillment of their duties as
wives, mothers, daughters, and friends, mak
ing their duties their chief pleasures. But
they were still young, and they often turned
away from the world around them, wearied
with the insipidity or disgusted with the nar
rowness and frivolity which the. characters of
many of their sex presented.
The day I passed wfith Mrs. Bentley, I was
a “Listener” to the following conversation,
which develops many things in relation to the
state of society in our midst. Sad, but true
developments !
Ellen Bentley, now Mrs. Eaton, had been
passing the morning in making a round of
visits—“ returning calls,” as it is technically
termed. She entered her mother’s parlor evi
dently much annoyed at something, for her
countenance bore a very unusual expression
of gloom and dissatisfaction. She impatient
ly removed her bonnet and shawl, and. throw
ing them upon the table, on which she had
placed her card-case and visiting list, she
said:
dear mother, Charlie has gone into
the country, and his grandmother Eaton has
sent for our little Charlie to spend the day
with her, so pray let me stay and dine with
you and Mrs. . I have come here quite
disgusted with myself, and all the world, in
the hope, that an hour or two of rational con
versation will bring back to me, the love and
charity this morning’s events have completely
scared away.”
“My child,” said her mother gravely, “we
shall be glad to have you with us as you
know, but I say I am sorry to see you
in such ill-humor with the world. What has
occurred to annoy you so much
“Oh! this senseless visiting; truly the most
soulless and heartless of all the conventional
ities society imposes on us. I look upon the
custom as so entirely of the world’s ordaining,
so utterly at variance with the high and noble
purposes and pursuits of life, that I have no
patience with the system which prescribes it,
or with myself for complying with it!”
“ Ellen, such language does not please me.
It is intemperate and ungenerous; and if you
will tell me where you have been this morn
ing, I think I can find some reasons for a less
harsh judgement. Are you growing unsocial
and disdainful"? Do you seek only the faults
of those in whose society you are placed ?”
“ No, mother, I believe I am naturally of a
social, unreserved and trusting nature. Some
have thought to flatter me, perhaps, by telling
me I was eminently qualified to shine in so
ciety, by my vivacity, my quick apprehension,
and ready command of thought. Now, that
I know what society is, I regard such an
opinion as anything but complimentary.—
Heaven forbid I should ever become distin
guished in circles, where nonsense passes for
brilliancy, stupidity for decorum and propriety,
or the vehement and voluble expression of
false sentiment, for true and ingenuous feel- j
ing!”
“ My daughter, spare us this bitterness till j
you have detailed your morning’s employ
ments, that we may see if your good sense
and better feelings have been thus outraged—
if you have really cause for such tirades.”
“Wellthen, I was as usual, unwilling to
go, knowing what I must endure, but Charles
insisted upon my taking advantage of the fine
day, to pay visits I had been owing two or
three months, and fairly coaxed up within
me, a resolution to attempt it. So I came out,
in tolerable good humor, for the weather is
really charming, and I had the agreeable con
sciousness of pleasing my husband, and of
discharging a most onerous duty. I was dis- j
posed to look complacently at the best side of
everything and every one.
“ The first person I called on was Mrs.
Charlton. I entered her well-ordered house
with a positive leelingof pleasure, which was
enhanced by the appearance of her three chil
dren, w-ho were neatly and tastefully dressed
and who are extremely well-bred. Ready,
their red lips were almost as sweet as those
of my darling. Their mother had allowed
them to come in and greet me, because she
knew how well I loved sweet children, and
she knows w r hat a child's attractions should
be. When Mrs. Charlton came in, they all
left the room as merrily as possible, and yet
with no noise or rudeness. I passed more
than half an hour there, and the time ap
peared very short, for Mrs. Charlton conver
ses delightfully. We spoke of children, as
mothers will speak of them—then, of Mrs.
C’s household system, which is truly admira
ble, and next of Madame Calderon de la Bar
ca’s “Two Years in Mexico,” which was ly
ing on the table with a paper knife in it.
The conversation turned on female writers,
and our favorites were discussed—the gentle
and gifted Felicia Hemans, whom every wife
and mother loves —the womanly S. C. Hall,
and intellectual Mrs. Jameson. She had just
read the last named lady’s “ Characteristics of
Woman,” for the first time, so we reviewed
it, and she praised Aer heroine, while I brought
forward my proud, passionate Constance, with
her virtues and her faults, so true to her sex.
I spoke of Mrs. Jameson as I had heard Mr.
Harden describe her last winter; then I told
her what he said of his singular interview
with Madam Guizot just before her death;
and then I recollected myself and reluctantly
took leave of my friends. • Mrs. Charlton
seldom goes out, for she is a devoted mother,
a true wife, and an indefatigable house-keep
er, but she reads and thinks and a half hour
spent in conversation with her presents an
oasis in the general desert of the female mind.”
“ My daughter,”—the old lady commenced
in a deprecating manner.
“Pardon me, mother, I will promise to try
and be more respectful to our sex.. But hear
all I have to say, and you will not condemn
me entirely. Leaving her I -went to Mrs
Hall’s, You know she was married at the
same time with Mrs. Charlton, and has like
her, three children, a good house, and a suffi
cient number of servants to take care of them
both; but she is so indolent, so destitute of
system and order, that her whole establish
ment is a perfect contrast to her friend's.—
The children rushed in tumultuously, and you
saw at a glance, that a servant, instead of a
mother, presided over their wardrobes and
baths. I shrunk from the kisses I w-as evi
dently expected to give, and shrunk still more
from the details I was forced to hear of Jim
my’s pranks and Sarah’s precocity. Then
their mother entertained me with complaints
of her servants; they were so indolent, imper
tinent and dishonest, and she enquired how 1
managed to get along so well; paid me some
fulsome compliments, on my reputed skill and
tact in this matter, so remarkable in a literary
body; she had heard, too, that I did all my
own sewing—she did not know how I found
time to read so much, for between the servants
and children, and the dressing and visiting her
duty to society demanded of her, she hardly
had time to read her bible and the town news
paper. Her “ duty to society! ” What knows
she of it! Words which are full of meaning
on some lips, are only miserable cant when
they fall from hers.
“ At Mrs. Austen’s, I was received by that
lady, and her father, who happened 46 be
present, with great empressement : particular
enquiries were made about the well-doing o !
my child and my husband. Now it’s my pri
vate opinion that neither the lady nor the gen
tleman care two straws about any of u*-* —in
fact, would not scruple to injure Charlie couL
they thereby gain anything for their own ad
vantage. Mr. Austen has always seemed to
be a great friend of Charlie's, and I presume
is as much his friend as he is any one’s who
cannot advance his interest in any way. ® ut
he is an ambitious man, and therefore selfish
* i
Ido not know a living being who is swaip l
by ambition, but is intensely selfish, and friend”