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106 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 3 © IIT H& H £ da QIFgIE AIE ¥ ©A&g¥ If is ♦ 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”