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ts ,opular ®alcs. ’ r For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE LHl’Ell OF AOSTE. FROM THE FRENCH OF X. DE MAISTRE. BY MRS. MARY BABER. [CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.] “ You interest me deeply. I confess 1 could never have formed an idea of such a situation as yours. I think however, that you must have been less sad whilst your sister lived.” “ Gol alone knows what I have lost in the death of my sister. But do you not fear to be so near me ? Place yourself behind the f foliage, and we will converse without seeing each other.” “ Why then ! No, you shall not leave me; place yourself near me.” Saying these words, the tiuveiler involuntarily attempted to seize the hand of the leper who quickly withdrew it, exclaiming: “ Imprudent man ! would you touch my hand ?” “ I would have pressed it with sincerity.” “ It would have been the first time that this happiness had been granted me. Never has ny hand been pressed by any one.” “What then! except this sister of whom you have spoken, you have never had any connexions, you have never been cherished by any of your fellow’ creatures'?” “ Happily tor humanity, there are none like me upon the earth.” “ You make me tremble!” • “Pardon me, compassionate stranger! You know’ the miserable love 10 speak of their misfortunes.” “Speak on, speak on, interresting man! You have tol 1 me that a sister lived formerly with you and helped you to support your suf ferings.” “ It w’as the only bond by which I w'as still united to the rest of mankind. It pleased God to break it, and to leave me isolated and alone m the midst of the world. Her soul was worthy of the heaven w here she now is, and her example sustained me against the dis couragement which often overwhelms me since aer death. We did not live however in the delightful intimacy of which I can form an idea, and which ought to unite unhappy friends. The nature of our sufferings depri ved us of this consolation. Even when we drew near to pray to Go 1 together, w’e mutu aJly avoided looking at each other for fear that the sight of our miseries should disturb our meditations, an l our looks dared only u aite themselves in heaven, After our prayers, my sister commonly returned to her cell or under the nut trees which terminate the gar den, and we lived almost always separate.” “But why impose upon yourself this hard aonstraint ? One might say that Heaven took pleasure in poisoning the sad enjoyment that it left you.” “But at least, I w T as not alone then; the presence of my sister rendered this retreat liv ing. I heard the noise of her steps in my solitude. When I returned at the break of day to pray to God under these trees, the door of the tower opened softly, and the voice of my sister mingled insensibly with mine. In the evening when I watered my garden, she walked sometimes here, in the same place where I speak to you, and I saw’ her shadow pass and repass over my flow’ers, and though l did not see her, I found traces of her pres ence. Now, it happens no more that 1 meet in my w T ay a flower stripped of its leaves, or *ome branches of a shrub that .she has let fall in passing; 1 am alone: there is no more ei ther life or movement around me, and the path which conducts to her favourite thicket, is al ready disappearing under the grass. With out appearing to occupy herself about me, she watched without ceasing all that could give me pleasure. When I returned to my cham ber I was sometimes surprised to find there, vases of fresh flowers, or some fruit that she ■ §® © If* SI Si& El &11 If* &ftA Si ¥ ®A % & Tf* Ts Hi * had herself taken care of. I dared not render her the same services, and I hail even entreat ed her never to enter my chamber, hut who can put bounds to the affection of a sister ? a single example may give you an idea of her tenderness for me. I walked restlessly one night in my cell, tormented with frightful pains; in the middle of the night, having seated myself an instant to rest, I heard a light noise at the entrance of my chamber, i I drew near and listened; judge of my aston ishment ! it was my sister who prayed to God outside the threshold of my door. She had heard my complaints. Her tenderness had made her fear to trouble me; but she had come to he within reach to succour me at need. I heard her reciting, in a low voice, the miserere. I knelt down near the door; and without interrupting her, followed men tally her words. My eyes were full of tears; w ho would not have been touched with such affection ? When 1 thought that her prayer was finished, “adieu, my sister,” said I to her in a low voice, “adieu; retire now, I feel a little better; may God bless you, and recom pense your piety!” She retired in silence, and without doubt, her prayer was heard, for 1 slept at last some hours of tranquil sleep.” “ How sad must have appeared to you the first days which followed the death of this cherished sister.” “ 1 was a long time in a situation which took away from me the faculty of feeling the whole extent of my misfortune: when at last 1 w’as restored and in a state to judge of my situation, my reason was ready to abandon me. This period will be always doubly sad to me; it recalls the greatest of my woes, and the crime that had nearly been the consequence of it.” “ A crime ! I cannot think you capable of one,” cried the soldier. “ It is but too true,” replied the leper, “ and in recounting to you this period of my life, I feel that 1 shall sink much in your esteem; —hut I will not paint myself better than I am, and you will perhaps pity while condeming me. Already, while labouring underincreas ed melancholy, the idea of voluntarily quit ting life had presented itself to me—neverthe less, the fear of God had always made me re press it, when a circumstance the most sim ple and apparently the least intended to trou ble, was near ruining me for eternity. I was to feel anew grief—For many years a little dog had taken up its abode with us; my sis ter had loved it, and I declare to you that since she was no more, this poor animal was truly a consolation to me. We were indebt ed withoutkdoubt, to its ugliness, for the choice it had made of our dwelling for its refuge. It had been cast off’ by all the world, hut it was still a treasure for the house of the leper. In gratitude for the favour that God had granted in giving us this friend, my sister had called it a mi ride, and its name, w’hich contrast ed with its ugliness, as well as its continual gaiety, had often diverted pur grief. In spite of the care I took of it, it sometimes escaped, and I had never thought that it could hurt any one —some of the inhabitants of the city were however alarmed, and believed that he might carry among them the seeds of my mal ady. They determined to make complaints to the Governor, who ordered that my dog should he immediately killed. Soldiers, ac companied by some of the inhabitants, came soon to execute this cruel order—They put a cord around his neck in my presence and drag ed him away. When he was at the door of the garden, I could not prevent myself from looking at him once more: I saw him turn his eyes towards me to ask for the succour that I could not give. They wished to drown him in the Doire, but the populace who wait ed for him outside, stoned him with stones. I heard his cries and returned to my tower more dead than alive; my trembling knees could not sustain me : I threw myself on my bed in a state impossible to describe. My g rief did not permit me to 6ee in this just or der. aught but severity, and a barbarism as atrocious as useless; and although I am a shamed to day of the sentimfent that then an imated me, 1 cannot even now think of it with coolness, I passed all the day in the greatest agitation. It was the last living be ing they had just torn from me, and this new blow had reopened all the wounds of my heart. ( Such was my situation, when the same day, towards sunset, I had just seated myself here, upon this store where you are now seated. There I reflected for some time upon my sad lot, when down below towards those two birch trees which terminate the hedge, I saw appear two young people who hal been uni ted in marriage a short time since. They ad vanced along the path, across the meadow, and passed near me. The delicious tranquil ity that certain happiness inspires, was im printed upon the countenance; they walked slowly, their arms entwined. Suddenly 1 saw them stop: the young wife leaned her head against the breast of her husband who folded her in his arms with transport. I felt my heart contract itself. Shall I confess it to you ? envy glided for the first time into my breast; never had the image of happiness been so forcibly presented to my sight. I followed them with my eyes to iheend of the meadow, and had just lost sight of them a mong the trees, when shouts of rejoicing struck my ears ; it was their united families who came to meet them, Old men and wo men and children surrounded them; I heard the confused murmur of their joy ; I saw a mong the trees the brilliant colors of their garments, and the whole group seemed sur rounded by a cloud of happiness. I could not support this spectacle; the torments of hell had entered into my heart; I turned away my looks and precipitated myself into my cell. Oh God! how desolate it appeared to me, dark, frightful! It is here then, said I, that my dwelling is forever fixed ; it is here then where, dragging out a miserable existence, I shall wait the tardy end of my dqys ! The Lord has poured out happiness, he has pour ed it out in torrents upon all that breathe, and l alone, ain without help, without friends, without companion ! What a frightful desti ny! “ Full of these sad thoughts, I forgot that there is one who consoles; I forgot myself. Why, said I, was the light granted me? Why is nature a barbarous step-mother but for me ! Like the disinherited child, 1 have under my eyes the rich patrimony of the human family, and avaricious heaven refuses me my portion. No, no! at last I exclaimed with increased rage, there is no happiness for me upon the earth ; die, miserable wretch, die! long e nough hast thou polluted the earth by thy presence; may it swallow thee up living and leave no trace of thy odious existence. My senseless fury increased by degrees, the de sire of destroying myself seized me, and fired all my thoughts. I conceived at last the res olution of burning my retreat, and of consum ing myself there, with all which might leave any memory of me. Agitated, furious, I went out into the woods. I wandered some time in the shade around my dwelling; involunta ry howls escaped from my oppresed bosom, and frightened me myself in the silence of the night. I re-entered, full of rage, my hab itation, crying, “ woe to thee, leper ! woe to thee !” and as if all was to contribute to iuy ruin, I heard the echo which, from the ruins of the Castle of Bramafan, repeated distinctly, “ woe to thee !” I stopped seized with horror, upon the threshold of the tower, ajnl the fee ble echo of the mountains repeated a long time after: “ woe to thee !” “ I took a lamp, and resolved to put fire to my dwelling, I descended to the lowest cham ber carrying with me some vine branches and dried twigs. It was the chamber that my sister had inhabited, and 1 had not entered I since her death Her arm chair was still pla ced as when had lifted her from it for th e last time. I felt a shudder of fear on seeing her veil and some parts of her dress scattered about the chamber. The last words she had pronounce] before leaving it, renewed them selves in mv thoughts . “In dying I will not abandon thee my brother, remember that I shall.be present in thine agony.” In placing the lam]) upon the table, I perceived the cord of the cross that she wore upon her neck, and that she had, herself, placed between th* leaves of her Bible. At this sight, I recoiled full of a holy fear. The depth of the abyss into which I sought to precipitate myself waw suddenly presented to my opened eyes; 1 tremblingly approached the sacred hook : “be hold, behold,” exclaimed I, “the help that she has promised me!” and as I drew out the cross from the book, I there found a sealed writing that my good sister had left for me. My tears, restrained till then by grief, escaped in torrents : all my fatal projects van ished in an instant. I pressed, for sometime this precious letter to my heart before being able to real it; and, throwing myself on my knees, to implore the divine mercy, I opened it and read amid sobs these words, which shall be eternally engraven on my heart: “ my brother, I am going soon to leave thee; “but I will never abandon thee: from Hea “ven, where I hope to go I will watch ovtr “thee : I will pray to God that he may give “ thee courage to support life with resigna “ tion, until it shall please him to re-unite us “in another world; then I shall he able to “show thee all my affection: nothing shall “prevent me more from approaching thee: “and nothing shall separate us. I leave thee “ the little cross that I have worn all my life; “it has often consoled me in iny sufferings; “and my tears had never any other witness. “ Remember, when thou shalt see it, that my “last wish was that thou shouldst he able to “live and die like a good Christian.” Cher ished letter! it shall never leave me; I will carry it with me to the tomb ; it is that which shall open to me the gates of heaven that my crime ought forever to have shut to me. A* I finished reading, I felt myself grow feeble, exhausted by all that I had just felt. I saw a cloud before my eyes and during some time, I lost at the same time, the remembrance of my sufferings and the knowledge of my exis tence. When I returned to myself, the night was advanced—as my recollection returned, I experienced a feeling of undefinable peace. All that had passed during the evening ap peared to be a dream. My first movement was to raise my eyes to heaven, to give thanks for having been preserved from the greatest of miseries. The firmament had nev er appeared to me so beautiful and serene. A star shone before my window; I contem plated it a long time with inexpressible plea sure, thanking God that he had granted me still the pleasure of seeing it; and I felt a secret consolation in thinking that one of its rays was yet destined for the sad cell of the Leper. “ I returned to my room more tranquil. I employed the rest of the night in reading the book of Job, and the holy enthusiasm with which it inspired my soul entirely dissipated the black ideas that had beset me. I had never felt these frightful moments while my sister lived; it was sufficient to know’ her near me to he more calm—and the thought alone o the affection she felt for me sufficed >o console me and give fne courage.” “ Compassionate stranger! God preserve you from ever being obliged to live alone! Mv sister, my companion is no more, but lleaveu “’ill grant me strength courageously to sup port life : it will grant it to me, I hope, for 1 pray for it in the sincerity of my heart ” “How old,” enquired the soldier, “wa* your sister when you lost her?” “ She was scarcely twenty-five years old, but her sufferings made her appear older. I* spite of the malady which carried her off, sh* would still have been beautiful hut fora fright, ful paleness which disfigured her: it ; the image of a living death, and I could © 1