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(strength; his eyes became animated ; his
face lighted up; his lips contracted; some
thing supernatural appeared to be passing in
him. His father finished reading the letter;
then he cried with an altered voice : “ Emi
lic! my father!” and extended his arms to
wards them; but suddenly he fell back with
out strength ; M. Menard placed his trem
bling hand upon his heart —it beat no longer!
*******
Several months after, at the entrance of a
magnificent garden, there arose a tomb of
black marble, surrounded by the waving
branches of four weeping willows. Upon a
table of white marble was written, in letters
of gold, this epitaph :
‘•ln this tomb repose the father and son.
Julian Menard, aged 27, advocate near the
Court Royal of Paris: deceased in the month
of November, 1832. He possessed all the
virtues which could render man happy; but
the fatal pas'sion of play conducted him to a
premature death, at the moment when, to re
compense one of his noble actions, he was
about to receive an immense fortune. His
father, Colonel of the ancient Army, died
from sorrow a month afterwards.”
According to his desire, the last words
which he pronounced upon his bed of death,
were engraved upon this marble.
“If ever,” said he to the inconsolable wid
ow of his son, “your son should come to
weep upon the tomb of his father, let him re
collect that, running after fortune in the in
famous houses of play, he found but death.
Let him have a horror of these places, where
cupidity cannot satisfy itself, but with that
which costs the repose, the honor, and the
life, of so many unfortunates. If he is as
eloquent as his father, let his voice echo in
the tribunals, and cause a government so cul
pable to blush for sustaining these houses of
horror; let him have always present to his
memory, that the fortune which he possesses
was given to his father to assist the unfortu
nate ; and that if, by his efforts, he contributes
to the destruction of such houses, it will be
the greatest benefit he can confer on man
kind.”
Sketches of £ifc.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE LISTENER—NO. 10.
NOT BY CAROLINE FRY.
RICHES AND TRUE RICHES.
Many years ago, while 1 was still too
young to discriminate character, or look be
neath the surface of things, I passed a sum
mer visiting, with my parents, some relatives
at the North.
One was a maternal uncle, whose reputa
tion as a ripe scholar, and a devoted clergy
man, inspired me with affectionate veneration.
The other was my father’s brother, the pos
sessor of ships, and houses, and lands, and
stocks. I knew nothing more of him. I
had seen him once, when he spent a few
days with my father, as he passed through
the city, on his way to the far West, where
he was commissioned by the State to execute
some high official business. I remembered
him only as a tall, fine-looking man, with a
cold blue eye, and a hard, impassive counte
nance —who talked all the time to my father
about things I did not understand. The cost
ly toys he gave me, were not prized, for no
words of love accompanied them.
Not so with Uncle Herbert’s gifts. There
was great joy when he visited us, for he al
lowed us to sit upon his knee, while he ca
ressed us, and our prattle received from him
smiles full of love, of the tender love he bore
to a dear sister’s children. His smallest gifts
were treasured, and the memory of his visits
hallowed by affection.
The bright months of May and June
spent at Hampton parsonage. It was a white
cottage building, nestling in’ the shade of tall
H. Li ‘ff HUE A£& ¥ ®AB£lf IT B ♦
oaks and over-spreading elms. A multitude
of vines grew about it, and Hung their grace
ful drapery over its walls; even the humble
morning-glory, in which, my aristocratic sis
ter could see no beauty whatever, had clam
bered over a low kitchen casement, and where
the sun shone upon it, flooded the room with
a soft emerald light. The interior of the
dwelling fulfilled the promise of its exterior.
On one side of the wide hall, was the library
—the only lofty room in the cottage. Gothic
book-cases reached to the ceiling, filled with
books of all sizes and sorts, from the heavy
Hebrew Bible, and the huge volumes of
learned commentators, down to the neat co
pies of “ Anna Ross,” “ Sergeant Dale,” and
“ Henry and his Bearer,” which the juveniles
claimed as their portion. A table occupied
the centre of the room, covered with the best
periodicals of the day —and a few rare pic
tures hung in niches on the walls. A large
closet opened from it, where the antiquary
might feast his eyes with tomes, whose black
letter would attract no one else. All the
windows were overgrown with vines, except
one, where a tall rose-tree had obtained the
ascendancy, and thrust its fragrance and
beauty within the apartment.
Opposite the library was an equally attrac
tive room, bearing the old-fashioned name of
parlor. The stately title of drawing-room
would have been quite out of place, bestow
ed on that charming old-time apartment. —
The library was hung with a sober-tinted pa
per, but the parlor walls displayed a delicate
green vine on a light satin ground. One
window’ descending to the floor, opened into
a conservatory, where fuschias, and callas,
and tall geraniums, bloomed in surpassing
beauty. The pictures of the parlor were not
very rare, but were choice for beauty, and
the truthful delineation of fair landscapes.—
A fine-toned piano occupied a recess, and
beautiful engravings and richly-bound books
were strewed about. Can you not, from
such ornaments, judge of the tastes and oc
cupations of the members of that secluded
household I—music and flowers, poetry and
painting, found shrines there; the very at
mosphere was redolent of refinement and
beauty.
One other little room I must describe to
[ you —my Aunt’s sanctum, leading from the
library. There was but one window in it,
I and that was a large bay window, opening
i into the garden. There were cushioned seats
1 at its side, and near one was a work-table,
fitted up with all the appliances for the truly
feminine art of sewing; an embroidery frame
leaned against it, and some baby aprons and
dresses peeped out from the basket beneath—
articles to be bestowed in charity, as were
half the garments created by the industrious
lady and her daughters. Beside the open
seat, was an exquisitely carved writing table,
supporting a desk of the same workmanship
—both gifts from a friend who had recently
i returned from Europe. I must not omit two
i or three portraits on the walls, of dearly be
| loved friends, and some fine vases filled with
fresh flowers. Oh! if ever I feel discontent
springing up in my heart, it is whenever me
mory pictures again that blessed hour.
But there was no such thing as riches there
—riches which the world appreciates; the
little purses were never very full, and no
costly luxuries found their way thither. Un
cle Herbert’s salary was small, and the de
mands of charity were numerous; what lit
tle was left was not hoarded up, but expend
ed in books, pictures and music. The ladies
never went “ shopping,” or discussed bar
gains with boastful shrewdness. Stocks,
markets, and commercial news, were never
mentioned—political disputes raised no loud
voices there —nor were the vexed questions
of the day alluded to, except to gain informa
tion on the subject, and having established
; reasonable conclusions, the matter was dis
i missed from thought and speech. I have
seen a sturdy politician forget his hobby, and
find happiness in the beautiful refinements of
Hampton Parsonage.
1 never heard a discussion of “fashions”
or a budget of gossip opened in that house.
Nor were any tones ever heard to disturb its
repose, or unkind words breathed. It used
to seem to me, that the kiss pressed on Un
cle Herbert's lips every morning after pray
ers, by each child of the household, w r as a
promise for that day’s victory over had tem
pers and passions.
At breakfast, the news from the literary
world and the Old World, and the council
chamber of the nation, which had been gath
ered from the newspapers, was always men
tioned, and frequently playfully discussed..
After the meal was concluded—and it some
times occupied an hour, for the social gather
ings around the board were made seasons of
improvement to all —my aunt and lit*r eldest
daughters, assisted by a single female ser
vant, passed an hour or two in household
avocations. Then the children’s lessons were
attended to, their tasks appointed for the day,
and their comfort secured. After this, the
time until dinner was devoted to their gravest
and most important pursuits. If they sewed,
someone read aloud from a well-selected
book, frequently stopping to make, or allow
others to make, comments on the author’s
style or views. Sometimes they all separa
ted, and each in her own room pursued im
portant studies, which they had not relin
quished when they had assumed the garb of
womanhood. Occasionally, a visitor drop
ped in ; but the village was not large, and
this was of rare occurrence. A lunch at
twelve o’clock broke in upon these arrange
ments, for a half hour, when they again re
sumed their occupations.
At three o'clock, dinner was served up. —
Over this simple repast, the employments of
the morning were spoken of, the merits of
various authors discussed, or questions asked
by the children, to be answered by the pa
rents. I remember the laugh which greeted
l a question asked by little Alice, who aspired
to be very literary—
“ Papa, dear, will you please tell Anna
and myself, whether Fingal wrote Ossian or
Ossian wrote Fingal? We have disputed
about it all the morning
From dinner to tea was the time for recre
ation; the older members of the family some
times joining the children in their sports, they
had a romp at “Blind Man’s Buff,” or a
game of “ How do you like it ?” or “ What
is my thought like ?” Occasionally, they
acted charades, to the great amusement of
their parents. In pleasant weather, rambles
were taken in the woods, or a favorite book
was read in their dim depths. When the
sun went down—and it’s going down seemed
always beautiful there, whether I watched it
from the knoll behind the house, or the west
window of my own little room—we assem
bled to tea in the parlor. No lamps were
lighted, for the long northern twilights were
sufficient for our purpose : but when the twi
light deepened, if the room was not flooded
with moonbeams, streaming through the tall
windows, and casting a mimic tracery of leaf
and flower on the carpet, a shaded lamp,
placed in the dining-room, threw its softened
light over us. That was the holiest hour of
the day, when it almost seemed to me as
though Heaven was begun on earth. It was
the hour of evening prayer. The twins and
Charlie sitting in the low window seats, join
ed their infantine voices with the more culti
vated melody of Helen and Sophia, and the
rich tones of the piano, in an evening hymn
of praise. Then kneeling, Uncle Herbert
thanked God, who giveth us all our bless
ings, for so much happiness in a world of
sin and sorrow. The prayer ended, the little
ones gave to all a good-night kiss, and retired
to their happy slumbers.
The evening hours passed swiftly,enliven
ed by music, recitations of poetry, in which
all excelled, or reading aloud a dear, familiar
author.
I remember one evening, when my parents
were absent for a few days, I was despatched
to the library by Helen for a volume of Sis
mondi, to determine some uncertain data-/
Uncle Herbert was reading to my aunt* by
the study lamp, while she bent over her'em
broidery. When I returned with the book
he was reclining on the sofa, while she was
translating aloud anew French work on sci
ence. Young as I was, the scene struck me
as a beautiful illustration of wedded happi
ness, and long after, my idea of married life
presented a charming apartment, full 0 f
lounges and easy chairs, wheie one was al
ways reading aloud to the ether. Such hap
piness was worthy the tenacity with which,
its pictures remain in my memory.
At the end of June, we bade adieu to the
dear Parsonage and its dearer inmates, and
proceeded to Uncle Edmond’s. The family
were at their summer residence, on a beauti
ful island near the city. We crossed over to
the island in the “Edmund Crofton,” a steam
boat of which my uncle was chief proprietor.
A handsome carriage awaited us at the land
ing, and we were soon at Crofton House.—
How eagerly I had anticipated this visit!
Even at the Parsonage, I would sometimes
fancy I was weary of the routine which
made up life there, and long for the time to
come when, at my rich uncle’s residence, 1
should catch some glimpses of the gay world
of which l had heard so much. The family
was about the same size as my Uncle Her
bert’s, but there were always visitors there,
and a constant passing and re-passing, to and
from the city.
A number of well-trained servants render
ed useless the services of my aunt and cou
sins about the house; so their affection for
each other could not be displayed in the thou
sand little nameless attentions, which added
so much to the happiness of all at the Par
sonage. The house, which was very large,
was lull of fine furniture; there was also a
room called the library, in which were a few
cases of books that were never opened or re
ferred to. A grand piano forte, a harp, gui
tar, and one or two other musical instrument?,
were in a small room leading from the draw
ing-room, but no music was heard there, save
a few fashionable sonatas, and airs from the
operas. Rare exotics, cultivated at great ex
pense, bloomed for no one to love, though
they received an occasional glance of admi
ration, or furnished the bouquets which were
always in demand in the evening. Spirited
horses were ever at hand for a free gallop
over the surrounding country, and luxurious
carriages were in readiness for the indolent
who preferred them.
The children were seldom seen; a maid
and a governess relieved Aunt Gertrude of
all care of them; still they had their own
sources of amusement, for their parents were
indulgent, and every pleasure that money
could purchase was lavished upon them. —
But they were very different beings from the
children at Hampton; they wen* more selfish,
less docile and loving, and far less intelligent-
Two sons and two daughters were grown,
and already well-initiated in the gaieties of
the world. They had been to fashionable
schools, and even been abroad for two years,
but they possessed much less information
and true refinement than Helen and Sophia
Spencer. The girls were frivolous and vain,
the young men arrogant, and useless drone?
in life. Aunt Gertrude’s time was spent in
planning new scenes of festivity', making
preparations for guests, or giving advice to
her daughters concerning their toilets, or the
treatment of the gentlemen who visited them.
No prayer ascended in all that house to
the Bestower of the great wealth, for the use
of which they were held responsible ; no
sweet voices sent up the grateful incense oi
thankful hearts to Heaven ; no parents’ ex
ample and admonition checked this lavish