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* * % A 3BOTMM f'MjH llM.. s „..Jfmiß TO BITMMBII, Till MTS 118 KIIIt5IS„ MB TO SIfHM, ffimMBSMSL 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,
