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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
ISIDORE.
PT T. H- CHIVKUS, M. D.
“I approach thee—l look dauntless into thine eyes:
the soul that loves can dare all things. Shadow, i
defy thee, and compel.” Zanoni.
While the world lay round me sleeping,
I, alone, for Isadore,
Patient vigils lonely keeping—
Someone said to me, while weeping,
“ Why this grief forevermore 1”
And I answered “I am weeping
For my blessed Isadore !’*
When the voice again said, “Never
Shall thy soul see Isadore !
God from thee thy love did sever —
Jfo has damned thy soul forever!
Wherefore, then, her loss deplore I
Thou shalt live in hell forever !
Ileavcn now holds thine Isadore !’*
“She is dead—the world benighted—
Dark for want of Isadore !
Have not all your hopes been blighted T
How can you be reunited 1
Can mere words the dead restore 1
Have not all your hopes been blighted ?
Why, then, hope for Isadore V*
“Hack to hell, thou ghostly horror !’*
Thus I cried, dear Isadore !
“ Phantom of remorseless sorrow !
Death might from thee palor borrow—
borrow palor evermore!
Hack to hell again!—to-morrow,
I will
** When my soul to Ileavon is taken,”
Were thy words, dear Isadore !
“ Let no other one awaken
in thy heart, because forsaken,
What was felt for me before !
When my soul to Heaven is taken,
Oh ! forgot not Isadore !”
“ Oh ! remember this, Politian !’*
Said my dy ig Isadore !
“ Till from out this clayey prison,
In the flowery fields elysian,
We unite forevermore !
Oh ! remember this, Politian !
And forget not Isadore !”
Then before my raptured vision
Came sweet Hope, dear Isadore !
From the flowery fields elysian,
■Crying out to me, “ Politian !
Rise—rejoice forevermore!”
Angels wait for thee, Politian!
Up to Ileaven to Isadore !”
Then from out my soul departed
Deepest grief, dear Isadore !
bliss, that never me deserted,
Entered in the broken-hearted—
Giving life forevermore;
bliss, that never me deserted,
Like thy love, dear Isadore!
Myriad voices still are crying,
Day and night, dear Isadore !
“ Come, come to the Pure Land,* lying
Far up in the sky undying,
There to rest forevermore!
Purified, redeemed, undying—
Come to Heaven to Isadore!
lt Blest companion of th’ Eternal!
Come away to Isadore !
From the griefs that arc diurnal
To the joj’s that arc supernal—
Sempiternal on Heaven's shore !
Bliss supernal, joys eternal,
Up in Heaven with Isadore!
“Caat away thy garb of mourning,
Worn so long for Isadore!
For those glory-garments burning
In the bright isles of the morning,
Like the stars forevermore !
Golden days are now returning
I p to Heaven to Isadore !
“ Lay aside thy load of sorrow,
liome so long for Isadore !
Pilgrim, pierced by Death’s cold arrow,
Thou shalt see thy love; to-morrow,
Up in Heaven forevermore !
Lay aside thy load of sorrow—
( omo to Heaven to Isadore!
“ Come away, oh ! mournful mortal!
Come to Heaven to Isadore !
Through Death's ebon, iron portal,
To the joys that are immortal,
Dn Helu-ion’s happy shore!
Come away, oh ! mournful mortal!
Into Heaven to Isadore !
“ Up to God, who will befriend you !
1 p to Ileavcn to Isadore !
* Plato speaks of the Pure Earth above, (rrjv
xa&apao fv \adapu x eL(JuaL wpaw,) the
abode of Divinity, of innocence and lifo. It is an
immemorial tradition : it was a revelation to the
Hebrews. This “Pure Earth” above is, no
doubt, the primeval Paradise of I^ove—the ante
t.Vpe of that which Adam lost. Aristotle, in his
Hymn to Virtue, speaks of the Blessed Isles
above. The Ni/ooi yLaifupuv, or Isles of the
Blest, were the elysium of the departed heroes
who were considered immortal—the same as the
Manitoline of the Indians, where they say the
s<*uls of the deathless chieftains dance in harmo
nious choirs around the throne of Atacnsic to the
most delightful music.
Angels waiting to attend you—
Every aid you wish to lend you—
Singing, shouting on Heaven’s shore !
Angels waiting to attend you
To your blessed Isadore !**
There tliy comctes shall be angels—
Whitc-rob’d angels, Isadore!
Singing Heaven’s Divine Evangels
Through the eternal years, all change else,
Changeless there forevennote 1
Thou, Astarte of the angels!
Knowest this so, rk ar Isaaorc 1
From the Paradise now wasted
Os thy form, dear Isadore!
Lily-bell that Death has blasted!
Purest pleasures have I tasted
In th’ Edenic days of yore !
Joys celestial have I tasted
From thy flower, dear Isadore !
Like two spirits in one being.
Were our souls, dear Isadore !
Every object singly seeing—
In all things, like one, agreeing
In those halcyon days of yore.
We shall live so in our being,
Up in Ileaven, dear Isadore !
Myriad voices still arc crying,
Day and night, dear Isadore !
“Come, come to the Pure Land, lying
Far up in the sky undying—
There to rest forevermore !
Purified, redeemed, undying—
Come to Heaveu to Isadore !”
Adon-Ai ! God of glory!
Who dost love mine Isadore!
Who didst hear her prayerful story
In this world, when she was sorry—
Gone to Ileaven forevermore !
Adon-A i ! God of glory !
Take me home to Isadore !
THE E© lit] A53 ©BE.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE PERFUMED GLOVES.
BV MISS C. W. BARBKR.
It was a gala day in Paris. The streets
presented a brilliant array of gaily dressed
men and women, from whose faces care
and anxiety seemed to have taken leave.
Every now and then, splendid cavalcades,
with horses richly caparisoned, and bear
ing the flower of the French and foreign
nobility, swept up the thronged streets. !
leaving behind them the echoes of laugh
ter and gay revelry. Every house seemed
turned into a banqueting hall—from every I
balcony looked forth glad faces—and mu- ’
sic, with its soft notes, added fascination
to the scene. Barges and gondolas glided
swiftly over the bosom of the Seine, and
the ponderous bells of the cathedrals sent;
out peal after peal, while lights sparkled ;
here and there from the bowers of magnifi
cent gardens, and shouts and acclamations
filled the air. What was the cause of all
this mirth-making and joy? What meant
the long lines of foreign ambassadors and
princes which filled the streets ?
Henry of Navarre had entered the city, ,
for the purpose of wedding the fascinating !
Marguerite of Valois, sister to Charles IX,
then monarch of France. From this union,
much good, it was confidently predicted,
would flow. The realm was torn by re
ligious dissensions, for the Catholics and
Protestants both struggled for supremacy
in the land of vines. By this marriage,
both parties would be united, and it was
fondly hoped that Peace, with her white
wing, would brood over the land. Only a
few years before, Mary, the beautiful
Queen of Scots, had suffered from the
rudeness of her Protestant nobles, and
had flown from their persecutions, only to
suffer imprisonment, and subsequently a
horrid death, from the hands of Elizabeth
of England. Bigotry was mixed with the
faith of both parties, and is it strange that
there should have been mirth-making over
even a distant prospect of a union of re
ligionists in France ? But, alas! could
they have lifted the veil which shrouded
the future, gladness would have been turn
ed into sorrow.
In a chamber, high in the palace of
Tournelle, sat a middle-aged woman, deep
ly buried in thought. The glad revelry
without came to her through the half
j closed windows, but she heeded it not. —
, She was a Florentine by birth, and had the
black, piercing eye, and symmetrical form,
which mark the children of that sunny
clime. Perhaps she had once been beauti
ful, but passions had 100 long burned upon
I *lie altars of her soul, not to leave traces
upon her bfow. Her dress was costly and
rich, even to magnificence. A heavy robe
of velvet, deeply embroidered with gold,
was folded gracefully about her tall per
son, and fastened at the neck and wrists
with diamonds. Upon her brow there was
a coronet of rubies, pearls, and emeralds,
which flashed in the sunshine, like the
wavelets of the sea. Her shoes were of
: the same rich material as her robe, laced
with golden cords over the embroidered
! stocking. A small crucifix of pearl, in
j wrought with gold, and ornamented in the
I centre by a row of diamonds, proclaimed
as clearly as words could have done, the
class of religionists to which the wearer
belonged. Near by her stood a small mar
ble table, covered over with articles of the
toilet, strings of pearl, ribbons, fans, gloves,
; and so forth. In the midst of this para
phernalia stood a small vial, filled with a
; liquid somewhat resembling water.
The hand of the queen-mother was reach*
I ed out, as if she would have taken it from
its place; hut a voice behind arrested her. :
Catharine de Mcdicis turned, and saw her
Italian physician entering the room.
“Touch it not, noble lady, as you value !
your life!” he exclaimed, in an agitated
voice. “I have mixed, according to your
directions, one of the most subtle of all
poisons. A drop upon that snowy hand of
thine, would leave Fiance queenless, or,
perhaps I should say, our noble monarch
without a mother.”
“Thou sayest well, leech,” exclaimed
the woman, lifting her tall person to a j
more queen-1 ike posture. “France, with
out me. would he queenless, aye, sove- |
reign less! True, Charles wears the crown,
hut t hold the reins, u eau am. tucim- *
nate, he cares not who reigns, provided he j
can wear the golden bauble upon his brow,
which proclaims to the gaping multitude
his sovereignty.”
•‘lt matters little, I suppose,” said the
Italian, with a bland smile, “wAo sways
the destinies of France, provided it be done
wisely. The beautiful and accomplished
queen-mother may as well administer the
laws, as the monarch, her son. But tell
me,” he continued, taking the vial carefully
between the thumb and finger of his gloved
hand, “why, in such an hour as this, when
the throb of every heart is a pulsation of
joy, you have need of this death-draught
in your chamber. For whom can it have
been prepared ? To me, it seems as much
misplaced as a death's head among flowers.”
“ Your simile is well chosen,” said Cath
arine, with a bitter laugh; “ upon many a
one who to-day is almost hoarse shouting
the praises of Henry of Navarre. Death's
head does grin horribly; hut they cannot
see it for the flowers heaped over it. In
yonder apartment,” and she raised her jew
eled finger, and pointed to a room where
da4je d’Albret, Henry’s mother, sat over a
copy of Protestant Scriptures, “ in yonder
sits the first victim .”
The Italian, accustomed as he was to the
subtle ways and shameless intrigues of
Catharine, who never hesitated to accom
plish her designs by any means, however
foul and sanguinary they might be, was,
nevertheless, startled by an announcement
so unblushingly made, of a determination
to murder the estimable mother of the very
prince, chosen only a short time before, as
a husband for her daughter. He started,
and leaned eagerly forward, as though he
might have misunderstood her words.
“Thou hast heard correctly,” said the
queen-molher, lowering her voice almost
to a whisper. “ Jane d'Albret must die—
nor she alone. On the eve of our good
St. Bartholomew's day, when the bell of
St. Germaine de Auxerre strikes the hout
of midnight, a legion of men, armed to the
teeth, shall spring from every nook and
corner and secluded by-way of this vast
capital, and blood shall flow in rivers
through the streets. Those hated heretics
shall be exterminated, root and branch, in
that great hour of triumph, and the flag
bearing the image of our Holy Mother,
and the Cross, shall float proudly overall.”
The leech bent his head, and mused
moodily. “If such decisive measures are
to be taken against Ihesc Protestants,” at
length he ventured to say, “what need of
this liquid poison? If Jane d’Albret is to
die, why not let her perish with her retinue,
when the bell of St. Germaine tolls the
knell ? Ido not comprehend your match
less policy, my noble lady. Thou only art
skilled enough to rule France!”
“ Because,” answered the designing wo
man, without heading the physician's com
pliment, “because I loathe the very shadow
of that saint-like wretch —the merest men
tion of her name. Her influence over her
son is immense, and she is unyielding in
her faith. As long as she lives, her vola
tile boy will never forsake the religion of
j his ancestors.” *
“ But if the massacre of those opposed
j to our holy faith is to be universal,” said
I the Italian, “he will share the fate of his
! followers, and it matters little whether he
j dies a Protestant or Catholic.”
The brow of Catharine grew still dark-
I er. “It should be so,” she said, striking
; her jeweled hand upon the table. “That
boy-bridegroom should perish on the eve
of St. Bartholomew’s; but his hour has not
yet come. Charles, that weak, contempti
ble son of mine, will not sign his death
warrant, and Marguerite loves his baby
face for its beauty, as girls of eighteen
usually love. But I know mv ground. I
will work upon the king's political jeal
ousies, until lie hates the friend he now
admires; and the girl, unless she is en
| iirely unlike our court beauties, will soon
tire of her husband. Then the star of his
destiny will go down in ‘the blackness of
darkness.* if the time be too long in com
ing,” she continued, “pointing to the vial,
! “that subtle fluid will probably take effect
upon the person of the son, as well as the
j mother.”
“Yes, yes,” said the physician, drawing
a small feather from a brilliantly-colored
fan before him, and dipping the end of it
in the liquid, which he afterwards drew
I across the wrists of a pair of gloves be
[ fore him, “one drop, yea. one particle, ab
sorbed through the pores of the finest skin,
will do a lasting work, I will promise you.
Even the perfume which comes from it,
fills every part of this spacious room, as if
an incense-box were broken, and 1 grow
sick while inhaling it. Whoever wears
those gloves, will need no other death-po
tation, I will certify.”
ther, with a gratified air, “ your skill is in
valuable. As long as gold can command
it, it shall be mine;” and she drew from
her pocket a purse glittering with coin,
which she placed in his hands. “Remem
ber,” she continued, “this is the price of
secrecy, as well as of skill.”
“ Your secrets have ever been, noble
madam, my secrets,” replied the Italian,
rising to depart. “ When my services are
again requisite, tememher 1 am at your
command.” And bowing, he left the room.
In another apartment of the palace, there
was a different scene enacting. Before a
rich mirror of Venitian glass, in an arm
chair, covered with damask drapery, the
beautiful Marguerite of Valois was seated.
She smiled as the glass gave hack the
sparkling images pictured in it, for behind
her chair, leaning upon her shoulder, stood
Henry of Navarre. Both were clad for a
file which was soon to be held in the pal
ace, and both were radiant in loveliness. —
The beauty of the Princess had passed
even into a proverb. Her white satin dress
was now decked with diamonds, and her
hair, of a rich brown color, hung in ring
lets about her snowy throat and polished
shoulders. Through her cheek there trem
bled a faint color, like the delicate hue of
the rose-leaf, when it first unfolds to the
spring breeze, and her eyes had in them a
softness of expression—a dove-like ten
derness—as she turned them to the face
above her.
Henry’s dress was of heavy green vel.
vet, ornamented with golden bees. Around
his shoulders, he wore awhile tunic of the
same material, but fitted to display to the
best advantage the extreme beauty of his
stately form. His hair was black as jet,
and curled in a heavy mass over his white
forehead —his eye, when he was angry,
was full of fire, but now it had in it the
light of a loving heart, as he stood, and
spoke vows of love to the Princess, who
was soon to be his wife. Who could have
believed that the mother of the one, even
then, was planning the death of the mother
of the other!
One or two female domestics were scat
tered about the room, busy with prepara
tions for the fete, or gazing through the
windows at some of Henry's retainers in
the court below.
The Princess and her lover chatted mer-
I rily ; they were speaking of the future—
that future which, to the eyes of lovers, is
always clad in rainbow hues. Henry, at
that moment, forgot the fears which his
mother had aroused, about the expediency
of the match ; he thought only of the price
less jewel he had won.
“ I think,” said he at last, after a pause
in the conversation, while lifting a long
curl and twining it around his finger play
fully, that the French court has ever been
remarkable for the beauty of its ladies. I
never pass the portrait of thy sister-in-law,
Mary, Queen of Scots, without pausing to
admire the extreme beauty of her face.—
i Nor am Ia solitary admirer of her charms
’ —the king assured me yesterday, that he
1 had ever envied his brother, whose short
life was gladdened by her love. Do you
remember her, my dear?”
“Yes,” said the Princess, half musingly
“I was a mere child when she left France,
yet I remember Mary of Scotland well.
She was beautiful! such a creature as we
sometimes see in dreams, hut never think
of looking for among the realities of life ;
but her fate inspires crowned heads with
terror. Even now, she is languishing in
the dungeons of her ‘good cousin’ of Eng
land.”
“And has not France an arm strong
enough to effect her rescue ?” asked the
bridegroom, affecting not to notice the sar
casm of Marguerite’s last words; “will
not Charles and Catharine yet raise a hand
to relieve her miseries?”
“Mary belongs to Scotland, not to
France,” said the Princess quickly; “were
she now what she once was, Queen of the
French, a thousand troops would rush to
her rescue ; but she is spurned by her own
nobles, and under such circumstances, she
can hardly look for aid even from her be
loved France. Knox and his Reformers
have done in Scotland a precious work.”
There was a bitterness in Marguerite's
last words, and an unguarded reference to
the Reformers in Scotland, which sent a
crimson current over the cheek of Henry.
As I before said, religion was a dangerous
theme of conversation in those days, even
among friends. But the bridegroom curb
ed his temper, and replied mildly—
“ Ascribe Mary’s imprisonment, my dear
Marguerite, to anything rather than the
faith of her enemies. True religion seeks
not the blood of its opposers: it would
rather harmonize discord, and bring peace !
a Protestant, and yet she is full of good”
deeds, seeking ever to conciliate, rather
than offend. I think few know Jane d’
Albret w ithout loving her.”
“ I love her,” said the Princess, sudden
ly changing the theme of conversation, and
looking with an arch smile into the face of
her lover. “I admire your estimable mo
ther, and yet I have only enjoyed her so
ciety for two short weeks. I fear she is
leading a lonely life, although surrounded
by the noise of our gay court, for I passed
her room half an hour since, and saw her
bending over the pages of an old, odd
'ooking volume. I will seek her imme
diately,” she continued, rising, “and say to
her, what I have just now said to her son,
namely, that I love her. My mother is too
busy to entertain her guests. She was
ever more of a courtier than a woman,” she
added, with a light laugh.
Tears sprung into the eyes of Henry of
Navarre, as he gave his arm to his beauti*
ful companion, and led her through the hall
to his mother's apartment.
“It will terminate happily,” he said to j
himself. “My beautiful bride, and my
angelic mother, will he full of tenderness!
for each other; the bigotry which is a j
characteristic of both, will he allayed by
intimate communion, and my happiness se
cured. The prosperity of the Protestants
must be promoted by this union.”
Jane d'Albret, into whose presence the
Princess now came, was a woman truly
feminine in all her ways. Her dress was
rich, such as became her station, hut it was
sombre in its color, and quaker-like in the
simplicity of its construction. Her face !
was very pale, hut lit tip by eyes blue in
color, and remarkable for the mildness ami j
intelligence pictured in their depths. She i
had a low, sweet voice, which harmonized j
well with her appearance, and her happi- j
ly chosen words, and correct sentiments,!
charmed every one who entered into con
versation with her. As Marguerite now
entered, she looked up from her Bible, and
replied to her salutation with a complacent
smile. The Princess seated herself low at
her leet, and conversed with the sprightli
ness and sparkling wit with which she had
held entranced, for hours, the courtiers ever
found followers in her train,
Her future mother-in-law laughed over
her pleasantry—returned her protestations
of affection, and in her heart thanked God
that Marguerite of Valoise, although edu
cated a Catholic, partook so little of the
spirit of her educators. Marguerite was
indeed full of duplicity. It could not have
been otherwise, educated, as she had been,
by a mother whose most simple acts were
made up of wiles and deceit. But she pos
sessed naturally a kind and loving heart,
and had she been differently tutored, would
doubtless have been frank almost to a
fault. She spoke triithfully, when she
said, “ I love Jane d'Albret.”
That superior woman was so unlike any
one with whom she had ever met, that her
singularity at first attracted her attention;
her merit soon after won her heart. She
knew but little of the designs of her mo
ther, but that little inspired her with horror.
i That the slaughter of the Protestants was
I decided upon, she was certain, and she re
! solved, at any hazard, to save the husband
! she loved, and the mother whom she ad
mired.
At the expiration of an hour, she arose
and left the apartment of her guest. As
she was passing through the hall, she met
Louise, her mother's favorite waiting-maid,
bearing a small and curious basket, woven
of gold wire, in which were deposited a
pair of gloves and a delicately folded bil
let-doux. A cloud of perfume came from
the basket, and the Princess gresv pale I
while inhaling it. She knew that it was I
a certain precursor of death, for often hail
she sickened while breathing it in the lab
oratory of the Italian, while he was con- ]
coding his deadly poisons. She stopped ;
the domestic, and read the superscription
upon the note. It was to “Jane d'Albret.
guest at the palace of Tournelle.” A sus
picion of the truth flashed instantly through j
her mind. She grasped the basket ner
vously, and commanded it to he left in her
hands. The maid, well instructed by her
royal mistress, would not yield it, but
with a playful smile, motioned for Mar
guerite to relax her hold.
“Louise,” said the Princess sternly,
“yield me this instantly. Take another
step towards yonder apartment, at your pe
ril! When the daughter of Henry IF.
speaks, it is to he obeyed.”
“I received my instructions from her
royal highness, the queen-mother,” said
the maid, “and cannot give it to any one
save her for whom it is desigued. It is a
present to my lady d’ Albret, with a request
that she will wear the gloves to the fete
cess. Without diso6at??g” vnu nohle Prin-
The eves of Marguerite, which, half an j
hour before, had sparkled with love and |
inirtlifulness, now flashed fire. She raised j
her stately figure to a more commanding
posture, and her lips quivered with sup
pressed emotion.
“Louise,” she said, in a voice which
made the cheek of the domestic pale be
fore her, “give me this basket instantly,
or, mark my words, I will crush you like
a worm in my path—like a poisonous rep
tile as you are! Remember, when Mar
guerite of Valoise speaks, she means what
she says.”
The girl, frightened by the Princess’ ve
hemence, slowly relaxed her grasp, and
Marguerite, turning with her prize, glided
swiftly through the hall, and over the mar
ble steps leading into her mother’s room.
That wretched and ambitious woman sat
alone when she entered. She shrieked
when site beheld her idolized daughter
rushing into her chamber, with a blanched
brow, and bearing in her hands the fatal
missive, just now despatched to another.
She sprung forward, and took the basket
from her hand.
All the incidents of that memorable in- j
terview between mother and daughter have \
never been recorded. One thing, hovvev- j
er, is certain : years, prayers, arguments j
and entreaties, on the part of Marguerite. 1
failed to turn her mother from her bloody i
purposes. Three hours after the princess
entered the presence of her mother, she glid-;
cd noiselessly out, with eyes red and swol- 1
len with weeping, dishevelled locks and j
white lips. The domestics looked inqui- ;
ringly after her, but she sought her own |
room, and nothing further was known of
her until she summoned, at an advanced |
hour, her waiting-women, to re-a'-range
her disordered apparel for the fete.
It was very late, when she entered the
halls of revelry. To those who crowded j
eagerly around her, complaining of her
tardy appearance, she replied that she was
indisposed, and her pallid cheek and lan
guid movements testified to the truth of
her assertion. She cast a fuitive glance
around the apartments, when she first en
tered, but, late as it was, Jane de Albret
was not to be seen. She had not arrived,
and probably would not that night. The
princess instantly fell relieved, It seemed
to her that a great burden had left her.
heart.
“ Ere those fatal gloves are worn,” she j
said, mentally, “ I will purloin them. Per
j haps, after all, they were never sent.”
Comforted and reassured by these reflec
tions, she leaned against a marble column, i
which glittered with chandeliers, and was
mantled by an artificial vine that crept
even to the beam it supported overhead.
| Her color became heightened—her eyes
again sparkled—and the shuttle-cock of
compliment passed rapidly to and fro, be
tween herself and an Italian nobleman,
then resident at court. While she was thus
engaged, a slight bustle by the door of the
reception-room caused her to look up—and
she beheld Jane de Albret entering the
room, leaning fondly upon the arm of her
I son. They were accompanied by Catha
rine, who led them, with smiles and polite
attentions, to the most honorable seats in
the room. Upon the hands of the victim
were the fa'al perfumed gloves.
The princess stopped suddenly in the
middle of the sentence she was uttering,
and grasped the column convulsively with
both her hands; then, turning noiselessly
away, she glided out, unperceived, on to
the balcony, overlooking the Seine. The
city, with its million lights—the bosom of
the river, sparkling with the reflections of
the stars in its sheeny depths—the royal
gardens, with their fruits and flowers, now
bathed in silvery moonlight, were beneath
her; but she heeded them not. She saw
through the windows of the banqueting
halls gay groups, conversing here and
there : and more than once, some of the
noble company were heard inquiiing ea
gerly whither the star of the evening, the
lovely bride, had flown.
But her eyes rested mournfully, at last,
upon one object, at the upper end of the
room. It was the face of Jane de Albret,
who, seated between her brother, the King,
and her mother, smiled complacently upon
the throngs around her. At length, there
was in that direction a confused hum of
voices, a hurrying to and fro,* and shrieks
of fright and distress. Jane de Albret be
came pale as marble, and tottered in her
seat. She would have fallen, had not
Henry of Navarre rushed instantly to her
support. She heard Catharine's protesta
tions of concern, and the rushing here and
there of the domestics in search of cordials
and restoratives. In her heart, she cursed
the duplicity of the mother who had nur
tured her. A stifled groan at last burst
fhen she if hew iMf mmnj Vwmuh.
yielded up its beautiful spirit. She struck
her clenched and jeweled hand madly upon
her brow, there in the moonlight, and then
turned and glided like some frightened spir
it through a private stair-case to her cham
ber.
“My destiny overrules my will!"’ she
wildly murmured. ** Farewell, innocence!
farewell, peace!”
She took from her neck the crucifix she
had been taught to worship, and, throwing
it upon the floor, placed her heel upon it,
as if she would have ground it to powder.
When her domestics found her, hours af
terwards, she was as pallid as the corpse
of her friend, but there was a firm resolve
in her heart. It was to save, if need be,
even by her own life, the life of Henry of
Navarre. How well she accomplished her
purpose, is known to those well versed in
the History of Fiance.
m nr&&&[&¥.
IKTfMfATIONAI, EXCBAMIS
At the last session of the Massachusetts
Legislature, a report was presented hy the
Committee on Education, detailing the
progress of the International Exchanges
with France by the agency of M. Vatte
mare. The system of these exchanges,
which may be extended to the composition
of large libraries, is very simple. An ap .
propriation is made of a certain number of
copies of maps, public documents, &c.,
which are tiansmitted to various institu
tions, libraries, &c., in Paris, the sum of
three hundred dollars, for the State of
Massachusetts, for instance, defraying the
expenses of the agency. Twelve States
, have thus appropriated in all ‘..3.000, and
| Congress $2,000. M. Yattemare returns
from Paris the valuable statistical and oth
er documents, constantly proceeding from
the French government and learned socie
ties. The benefits of this exchange are
obvious every way. Information is diffu
sed through Europe of American institu
tions and affairs; in return, we receive the
experience of the old world, where science
has reduced every state and municipal
matter to the strictest system. For our ci
ties and towns, the value of the documents
! published in Europe, relating to the sanita
| tary regulations, police. &c., &c., is of the
first importance. The system is easily ex
tended to libraries, other than those of the
State and the cities. An abstract of the
report to which we have alluded in the
Boston Daily Advertiser , furnishes us with
the summary of the exchanges of the last
year. “ The books and documents trans
mitted by France to the United States con
sisted of 650 volumes of complete works,
or from 1400 to 1500 volumes, including
duplicates; besides a great number of
maps, lithographs models & c - There
were presented by the United States to
France 1150 volumes exclusive of dupli
cates which swelled the number to about
| 1800. The institutions and establishments
! which participated in this enterprise were,
