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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE SOUL-MYSTERY.
IJY O. L. WHELEK.
The human soul! oh, idly still
The sj arching thought we squander:
Beyond life’s dim and twilight bound
No living foot may wander!
The dead are gone into that realm
No living eye may enter;
JBut thence they cannot come to me,
To act my spirit’s Mentor !
Oh ! Vain it were to break the gloom
That hovers o’er the Ages,
And vain it were to tire the eye
Upon the Past’s dark pages:
The worm hath revel’d o’er their hearts—
The solid tombs have crumbled ;
The demi-gods of fame are dust,
And all their might is humbled.
They cannot speak ! From out the gloom
There comes no voiceless token—
Unto our doubting, wav’ring thought,
Nd spirit-word is spoken !
The world of beauty smiles around
The world of God within us ;
Vet all that eye or thought can know,
Will not to faith e'er win us.
We doubt—we doubt—we ponder still,
And When ? and Where 1 we question:
We cannot take the human heart’s
Or e'en a flower’s suggestion !
We ask if earth's fair things are types
Os yonder shining heaven;
But oh ! th> stars but mock our pray’r,
The while our hearts are riveu.
Be still, sad heart—be still, sad thought,
For all my brain is burning !
Nor ask the Mow, the When, the Where —
Endure ! be this thy learning !
Ji JJ iil i\ j'J i; m
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE VOW OF THE HERON.
translated from the french of
ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
It was the 25th of September, 1338 —a
quarter before five in the evening. The
grand saloon of the palace of Westminster
was, as yet, lighted only by four torches,
fastened by iron rings to the walls. Their
wavering and uncertain light hardly dissi
pated lfie gloom caused by the shortening
of the days, already so perceptible, towards
the cjose of Summer and the beginning of
Autumn. This light, however, was suffi
cient to guide, in their preparations for
supper, the attendants of the castle, who
seen, in the dimness, zealously cover
ing, with the rarest viands and wines, a long
fable, elevated to three <1 ifferent heights, so
shat each of the guests might seat himself
in the place assigned to him by his birth or
rank, When these preparations were fin
ished, the steward gravely entered, by a
side-door—slowly made the circuit of the
table, to assure himself that everything
was in place ;• this inspection poinpleted,
lie paused before a footman, who awaited
his orders, near the grand entrance, and
said to him, with the dignity of a man who
knows the importance of his charge : “All
is right—sound.”
The footman raised to his lips a small
ivory trumpet, which he wore suspended
to a band across his shoulder, and sounded
three prolonged notes. Immediately the
door opened, and fifty footmen entered,
hearing torches in their hands. They sep
arated into tvyp bodies, and, extending the
whole length of the hall, aranged tljemr
selves along the walls. Fifty pages fol
lowed, bringing basins and ewers of silver,
tnd placed themselves before the footmen.
Finally,two heralds appeared: each, draw
ing towards him the emblazoned tapestry,
w hich concealed ihe door, stood on either
side qf the grand entrance, and cried with
a Ipud voice—“ Room for their Majesties
the King and Queen of England!”
At the same moment King Edward 111
appeared, giving his hand to Queen Phil
lippa of Hainault, his wife: they were fol
lowed by the most renowned knights and
ladies of the English court, at that time one
of the richest in nobleness, valor and beauty.
Upon the threshold the King and Queen
parted, and each passing to one side of the
table, gained the most elevated seats. —!
They were followed in this manner by all
the guests, who, having arrived at their
destined places, turned each towaids the
page attached to his service. These poured
water from the ewers into the basins, anil
presented them to the knights and ladies, to
wash their hands. This preparatory cere
mony achieved, the guests seated them
selves upon the benches, which surrounded
Ihe table. The pages having deposited the
silver vessels upon the magnificent dressers,
from which they had taken them, returned
\ to await, standing and immovable, the or
ders of their masters.
|
Edward was so absolved in thought, that
the first course had been removed, before
he perceived that the seat nearest him, on
his left, remained vacant —that a guest was
absent from his royal banquet. However,
after a moment of silence, which none dared
to interrupt, his eyes, either wandering by
chance, or seeking where to fix themselves,
ran over that long array of knights and
ladies, sparkling with gold and jewels, un
der the gushing light of fifty torches, and
rested, for an instant, with an indefinable
expression, upon the beautiful Alice de
Graufton. She was seated between her
father, the Earl of Derby and her clieva- j
lier, Poster de Montague, to whom, in re-1
ward for his good and loyal services, the j
King had just given the Earldom of Salis
bury. Finally, the King’s eyes turned,
with surprise, towards the place so near
him, and which, though it was a disputed
honor to fill it, was now vacant. This>
sight, undoubtedly, changed the current of
the King's thoughts; for he cast an inter
rogatory glance upon the whole assemblage,
to which none replied. Seeing, then, that I
a direct question was necessary in order to
obtain a precise explanation, he turned to
wards a young and noble chevalier of Hai
nault, who was opposite the Queen :
“Sir Gauthier de Manny,” said he to
him, “chance you to know what impor
tant business deprives ns, to-day, of the i
presence of our guest and cousin, Count
Robert d’Artois ? Would he again enter
into the favor of our uncle, King Philip of
France ? and was he in such haste to leave
our island, that he forgot to make us his
farewell visit?” “I presume, Sire.” re
plied Gauthier de Manny, “that my lord
the Count Robert would not so soon have
forgotten, that King Elward had the gen
erosity to give him an asyium, which,
through fear of King Philip, the Counts of
Auvergne and Flanders had refused him.”
“1 only did my duty, however: Count
Robert is of the royal line, since he de
scends from Louis VIII, and it was right
that I should, at least, shelter him. Besides
the merit of hospitality is not so great for
me, as it had been for those princes whom
you have mentioned. England is, through
the favor of Heaven, an island more diffi
cult to conquer, than the mountains of
Auvergne or the marshes of Flanders: ami
it is able to brave with impunity the anger
of our Lord paramount, King Philip. But
this matters not; I am none the less anx
ious to know what has become of our
guest. Have you learned any news ol
him, Salisbury?”
“ Pardon! Sire,” exclaimed the Earl;
“ but you ask of me that to which I cannot
return a suitable answer. For some time
my eyes have been so dazzled by the bright
ness of one countenance, alone, and my
ears so attentive to the melody of one voice,
that had Count Robert, grand-son of the
King though he be, passed before me, him
self telling me whither he went, probably,
l should have neither seen nor hearJ. But
stay, Sire, behold a young man, who leans
over my shoulder, he has, donbtless, some
thing to say to me upon the subject.”
Jn fact, William de Montague, nephew
of Salisbury, behind whom he stood, at
this moment bowed and whispered a few
words in his uncle’s ear.
“ Well ?” said the King.
“I was not mistaken, Sire,” continued ;
■ Salisbury, “ William met him this morn
ing.”
“ Where ?” asked the King, addressing
his words directly to William.
“ Upon the banks of the Thames, Sire ;
he descended towards Greenwich, and I
doubt not he has gone to the chase, for he j
carried upon his wrist the handsomest fal- 1
con ever trained to fly at a lark.”
“What was the hour?” demanded the
King.
fljotyards the Sire.”
” For what were you upon the banks of
the Thames, at so early an hour?” inquired
Alice, with a sweet voice.
‘• To muse,” replied the youth with a
sigh.
“ Yes, yes,” exclaimed Salisbury, smil
ingly, “it appears that William is not hap
py in his love, for some lime I have re
marked in him all the symptoms ol a hope
less passion.”
“My uncle!” said William blushing.
“Truly!” erred the beautiful Alice, with
curious sympathy, “if it be so, I wish to
become your confidant.”
“Pity me, lady, rather than ridicule,”
murmured William, in a low voice, at the
same time stepping back, and raising his
hand, in order to conceal the tears which
trembled upon his eyelids.
“ Poor child!” said Alice, “ but this ap
pears to he a serious thing.”
“One of ihe most serious,” replied the
Earl of Salisbury, with affected gravity,
j “hut William is a discreet person, and I
forewarn you, that you will only know his
secret when you are his aunt.” Alice, now
blushed in her turn.
“Then all is explained,” said the King,
i “ the chase will take him to Gravesend,
and we shall not see him again until to
morrow, at breakfast.”
“I think your highness is mis'.aken,”
observed Count John of Hainault, “lor 1
hear sounds in the ante-chamber, as of
voices, which mayhap, announce his re
turn.”
“ He shall be welcome,” replied the King.
At this moment, the door of the dining
hall was thrown open, and Count Robert,
magnificently arrayed, entered, followed by |
two minstrels playing upon the viol; be-!
hind them were two beautiful young dam
sels, bearing upon a silver dish a roasted j
heron, whose long beak and legs had been
allowed to remain, that the bird might be ;
more easily recognised ; finally, after the i
damsels, came a juggler, leaping and grim
acing, and accompa.tying the minstrels up
on the labour. Robert d’Artois proceeded ;
slowly round the table, followed hy this j
singular train; and. pausing near the King,
who regarded with astonishment this novel !
viand, he made a sign to the damsels to ;
place the heron before him.
Edward leaped from his seat, and, turn- ‘
ing towards Robert d’Artois, he looked up- j
on him with eyes flashing with rage; bin
seeing that his gaze could not cause the i
Count to avert his eyes: “What means !
this, Sir Count?” he cried, his voice trein- |
bling; “is it thus that hospitality is re- j
warded in France ? and a miserable heron,
whose flesh my falcons and hounds despise,
is this the royal game to be placed before
us?”
“ Listen, sir,” replied Count Robert,
calmly, “ it entered my head, to-day, when
my falcon took this bcasf, that the Heron
is the most cowardly of birds; because it
fears its own shadow, and when, walking
in the sun, it sees it near, it screams and
weeps, as if it were in danger of death ;
then I thought that the most cowardly of
birds ought to be served before the most
cowardly of Kings!” Edward’s hand was
upon his poignard. “Now,” continued
Robert, without appearing tc notice this,
“is not Elward of England the most cow
ardly of Kings? Heir, by his mothsr Isa- j
bella, of the kingdom of France; he has
not the courage to retake it from Philip ol
Valois, who has robbed him of it!”
A terrible silence succeeded these words.
All present rose to their feet, knowing the
impetuosity of the Kmg; every eye was
fixed upon these two men, one of whom
had spoken such violent words to the other.
However, all their expectations were de
ceived. The countenance of Edward
gradually returned to an appearance of
calmness, he shook his head as if to drive
hack the blood which had mounted to his
cheeks; then, gently placing his hand up
on Robert’s shoulder:—“You are right,
Count,” he said, in a low voice, “ 1 had
forgotten that I was the grandson of Charles
IV. ol France; you have made me to re
member it, thanks; and, though your mo
tive may have been rather hatred for Philip,
who has banished you, than gratitude to
Edward, wtio has received you ; 1 am not
the less obliged, lor now, that the thought
that the true King of France has returned
to me, be content, I will not forget it; and !
as a proof, hear the vow I shall now make. .
JJe seated, my noble lords, and lose not a
word I pray you.”
All obeyed ; Edward and Robert alone,
remained standing. Then the King extend
ing his hand over the table : —“ l swear, 1 i
said he, “by this Heron, which has been
placed before us, because it is the basest 1
and most cowardly of birds, that before six
months I shall have crossed the sea with
an army, shall have set my foot upon 1
French soil, whether entey hy Hainault, I
i Guienne or Normandy ; I swear that I will
oppose Philip wherever I shall meet him.
at all times, even though my retinue or my
army should he only one against ten. —
Lastly, I swear that before six years from
this day 1 shall have encamped in sight of
the noble towers of Saint Denis, where the
body of my ancestor is interred : and this
I swear notwithstanding the oath of allegi
ance, which I took to Philip at Amiens,
but into which I was surprised, when a
child. Ah! Count Robert, you wish for
fighting and battles ; well, I promise you
that neither Achilles, nor Hector, nor Paris,
nor Alexander of Macedon, who conquer
ed so many countries, shall have made in
their routes, such ravage as I shall make
in France: at least, if it jilcasps God, my
Lord Jesus, and the blessed virgin Mary,
that I may not die in the attempt, and be
fore the accomplishment of my vow. I
have spoken ! Now take away the heron,
Sir Count, and come and sit near me.”
“ Not yet, Sire,” repliel Robert, “ it is
necessary for the heron to go around the
table : mayhap, there is present some noble
Knight who will esteem it an honor to join
his vow to that of his King.” At these
words he ordered the young damsels to
take again the silver dish, and he continu
ed his march, followed hy them and the
minstrels, who played upon the viol, while
the young maidens sung a song of Guilbert
de Barneville ; and thus playing and sing
ing they arrived behind the Earl of Salis
bury, who was sitting, as we have said,
near the beautiful Alice de Graufton.—
Here Robert d’Artois halted, and made a
! -ign that the heron should be placed before
j the Earl. It was done. “ Worthy knight,”
! said Robert, “ you have heard the words
of King Edward. In the name of Christ,
the King of the world I adjure you to swear
hy our heron.”
“You have done well,” replied Salis
j bury, “to adjure me by the holy name of
Jesus, for, had you so done by the name of
ihe virgin, I should have refused, as I no
! longer know whether she he in heaven or
! upon the earth, so noble, wise an I beauti
! ful is the lady who holds me in her service,
i She has never, yet, told me that she loves
me, she has never granted me aught, for, I
’ have never, yet, dared to ask her for her
love. Ah, well! to-day 1 supplicate her
j to grant me a favor, it is to place her finger
upon one of my eyes.”
“Upon my soul!” saij Alice, tenderly,
“a lady, so tespectfully entreated hy her
i knight, could not refuse him. You have
asked one of my fingers; 1 would be gen
erous towards you : behold my whole
hand.” Salisbury seized and kissed it
several times with transport, he then placed
it upon his face in such a manner as to
cover his right eye entirely. Alice smile I,
not understanding the meaning of this ac
tion. Salisbury perceived it:
“ Do you believe that this eye is quite
closed ?” asked he.
“Certainly,” repliel Alice.
“Well!” continued Salisbury, “I swear
•o see the light, with this eye, only upon
French ground, I swear that till that hour
neither winds, nor grief, nor wound shall
force me to open it, I will combat with my
eye closed, in the lists, tourney, or battle.
I My vow is made come what will! Have
you none tq make, in your turn, lady ?”
“Oh! yes, my Lord,” replied Alice,
blushing, “I swear that day on which you
return to London, having been to France,
1 will give you my heart and purse as free
ly as I have to-day given you my hand;
and in token of this promise, behold my
■ scarf, to aid you in fulfilling your vow.”
Salisbury knelt, and Alice bound her
i girdle about his forehead, amid the accla
mations of all the table. Then Robert
caused the Heron to be removed from be
fore the Earl, and resumed his inarch, fol
lowed, alway by the minstrels, (he maidens
and the juggler. This time the train stop
ped behind John of Hainault.
“Noble Sire of Beaumont,” said Robert
Artois, “as uncle of the Kmg of England,
and as one of the bravest knights ot Chris
tendom, will you not vow, upon my heron,
to achieve some great enterprise against
the Kingdom of France !”
“Certainly, brother,” returned John of
i Hainault, fojr, jike you I am banished, and
that for having lent qul to queen Isabella,
when she reconquered her Kingdom of
England. I swear, then, that if the King
i will accept me for his marshal, and wishes
to pass through any Earldom of Hainault, j
I will lead his armies over the French
borders; this i would do foi no other man
| living. But if ever the Kmg of France,
my only and true sovereign, recalls me
and removes my ban, 1 pray my nephew
Edward to restore me my word, which I
shall quickly demand of him.”
r “It is just,” said Edward, bowing his 1
head, “for I know that in heart you are
more French than English. Swear, then,
in all peace, for upon my crown, if the
case happen, 1 will relieve you of yonr
i vow.”
Count Robert passed the heron to Gau
thier de Mauny, “No, Sire, no, if you
please,” said the young knight, “ for you
know that a person cannot fulfil two oaths,
at the same time, and I have already taken
one ; it is to avenge my father, who was
as you know, assassinated in Guienne, to
find his tomb and his murderer, and to slay
the one upon the other. But he content,
Sire, for the King of the French shall lose
| nothing there.”
“ We believe you, sir knight, and we
; like a promise from you as wellasan oath
from another.”
Meanwhile, Robert d'Artois had ap
i proached the Queen, the heron was put
before her, and kneeling, he awaited her
pleasure, in silence. The Queen turned
towards him, smiling: “ What would you
I of me, Sir Count 1” she asked, “and what
came you to demand of me 1 You know,
that a wife may not vow since she ts in
the power of her husband. Shame to her,
who in such circumstances should so far
forget her duty, as not to await the per-
I mission of her lord !”
“Boldly make your vow, madam,” said
Edward, “and 1 swear to you, that from
.ne you shall always have aid and not hin
drance.”
“Well!” returned the Queen, “1 have
not yet told you that I have the hope of
becoming a mother. Now, listen to me,
for since you have authorized me to swear,
i 1 swear, by our Lord, born of the Virgin,
and who died upon the cross, that my child
1 shall come into the world only in Fiance ;
and if you have not the courage to take
me thither, when the time for my delivery
shall come, 1 also swear to stab myself
with this knife, thus holding to my vow
at the expense of the life of my child ami
■ the safety of my soul. Look to it. Sire, if
! you are rich enough in heirs to lose at one
time voiir wife arid your child.”
*
“ Let there be no more vows,” cried El
| ward, in a changed voice. “ Enough of
! such oaths as these, and may God pardon
I us!”
“It matters not,” said Robert d'Artois,
rising; “ I hope there are, thanks to my
heron, more words engaged, this day, than
are necessary to make King Philip eternal
ly repent having driven me from France!”
tiie
SONG AND THE SINGER.
BV PEIICY B. ST. JOHN.
It was in the year 1792, during the early
days of the great French Revolution, when
a young officer in delicate health took up
his quarters in the city of Marseilles for
the six months leave of absence. It seem
ed a strange retirement for a young man,
for in town he knew no one, and in the
depth of winter Marseilles was no tempting
residence. The officer lived in a garret
looking out upon the street, which had for
its sole furniture a harpsichord, a bed, a
table, and a chair. Little but paper ever
entered that apartment, where food and
fuel both were scarce ; and yet the young
man generally remained in-doors all day
assiduously writing, or rather dotting some
thing upon paper, an occupation he altern
ated with music.
Thus passed many months. The young
man grew thinner and paler, and his leave
of absence appeared likely to bring no
convalescence. But he was handsome i
and interesting, despite his sallow hue.—
Long hair, full beaming eye* that spoke of j
intelligence, and even genius, frankness of
manner, all prepossessed in his favor, and j
many a smile and look of kindliness came
to him from beautiful eyes that he noticed
not nor cared to notice. In fact he rarely
went out but at night, and then to walk
out by the booming sea, which made a
, kind of music he seemed to love. Some
times, it is true, he would hang about the
theatre doors when operas were about to
; be played, and look with longing eye j
within; but he never entered: either his
i purse or his inclination failed him- But
he always examined with care the name
of the piece and its author, and then walk
ed away to the sea-shore to muse and me
ditate.
Shortly after his arrival in Marseilles,
he visited, one alter another, all the music,
sellers and publishers ijj the town with a
bundle of manuscripts in his hand ; but his
reception was not. apparently very favor
able, for be left them all with a frowning
air,and still with his bundle of manuscripts.
Some had detained him a long time, as if!
estimating the value of the goods he offered
J
for sale ;. but these were no more temple I
than the others to try the saleable character
■of the commodity. The house he lodged
in had attached to it a large garden. By
permission of the landlord, the young man
1 often selected it for his evening walks, and,
despite the cold, would sometimes sit and
muse in a rude and faded bower under a
wall at one of the gables. He would oc
casionally even sing, in a low tone, some
of his own compositions, ft happened
1 once or twice that when he did so, a fe
male head obtruded from a window above
him, seeming to listen. The young man
at length noticed this.
“Pardon, lady,” said he one evening:
“ perhaps I disturb you ?”
“Not at all,” she repliel: “ I am fond
of music, very fond, and the airs you hum
are new to me. Pray, if not a rude ques
tion, whose are they ?”
“Citoyenne,” he answered diffiJently,
; “ they are my own.”
“Indeed!” cried the lady with anima
tion; “and you have never published
them ?”
“I shall never try — again,” he murmur
ed, uttering the last word in a low and
j despairing tone, which, however, reached
the ears of the young woman.
I “Good night citoyen,” said she, and she
closed her window. The composer sighed,
rose and went out to take his usual walk
by the sea-beach ; there, before the gran
| dear and sublimity of the ocean, and amid
the murmur of its bellowing waves, to tor
get the cares of the world, his poverty and
his crushed visions of glory and renown—
the day-dream of all superior minds —a j
dream far oftener a punishment than a re
ward : for of those who sigh for fame, few
indeed are successful.
Scarcely had he left the house, when a
lady, habited in a cloak and hood, entered
: it, and after a somewhat lengthened con
ference with his cortege, ascended to his
room, ami remained there about an hour.
At the end of that time she vanished. It
was midnight when the composer returned
He entered with difficulty, the cerberns of
the lodge being asleep, and ascended to his
wretched room. He had left it littered and
dirty, without light, lire or food. To his
surprise a cheerful blaze sent its rays be
neath his door. He opened it, not without
alarm, and found his apartment neatly or
dered, a fire burning, a lamp, and on the |
table a supper. The young man frowned,
and looked sternly at the scene.
“Who dares thus insult my poverty?
Is it not enough that 1 am starving with ;
1 cold and hunger, that I am rejected by the
i world as a useless and wretched thing, in
! capable of wielding either sword or pen,
hut I must be insulted by charity ? Fire,
! light, and wood, all sent hy one who knows
my necessity ! And yet who knows ? Per
haps my mother may have discovered my
retreat. Who else could have acted thus? :
My mother, I bless thee both for thy ac- ;
I tion and for respecting my concealment!” I
And the invalid officer sat down to the first!
hearty meal he had eaten for weeks. He
had left home because his friends wholly j
disapproved of his making music a proses- !
sion, an<J wished him to employ his leave
of absence in learning another occupation. !
His mother so pressed him, that he saw no j
resources but a soldier’s last chance—a re
treat. For two months no trace of the
fugitive had been seen—two months spent !
in vain efforts to make his chosen career
support him; and now, doubtless, his 1
mother had fouud him out, and had taken
this delicate way of respecting his secrecy j
and punishing his pride.
Next morning the young man awoke
with an appetite unknown to him of late.
The generous food of the previous night
had restored his system, and brought him
to a natural state. Luckily, sufficient wine
and bread remained to salisty his craving,
and then he sat down to think. All his
efforts to get his music sung, or played, or
published, had been in vain. Singers knew
him not, publishers declared him unknown,
and the public seemed doomed never to hear
him; a logical consequence very injurious
to young beginners in literatue, poesy,
music, and all the liberal arts. But he
was determined to have one more trial.—
Having eaten, he dressed and went out in
the direction of the shop of the Citoyen
Dupont, a worthy and excellent nqan, who
in his day had published more music, bad
and good, than a musician could have play
ed in a life-time.
“You have something new, then, citoy
ne ?” said Dupont after the usual prelimi
naries, and after apologising to a lady
within bis office for leaving her for a while.
“ As my time is precious, pray play at once,
and sing it if you will.”
The young man sat himself at the harp
sichord which adorned the shop, and be-
i irynjiTi'M—.Min ••ra.vv .-irs: .t. M W
gan at once the * Song of the Army of the
Rhine.’ The music-pnbliaher listen :.! with
the knowing air of one who is not to he
deceived, and shook his heal as the com
poser ended.
“Rough—crude—hut rlever. Young,
man, you will, 1 doubt not, do something
one of these days, but at present I am sor
ry o say, your efforts want finish, polish”
The singei rose, and bowing. left the
shop, dispair at his heart. lie had not a
sou in the world : h s rent was in airear :
he knew not how to dine that evening, un
less, indeed, his mother came again to his
ai I—an aid he was very unwilling to re
ceive. His soul recoiled from it. for he
had parted from her i” anger. His mother
was a Royalist, he was a R ‘publican, and
she had said hi.ter things to him at parting.
But most of all the composer felt onething j
the world would never be able to judge
him, never be able to decide if he had or
had no merit: and this was the bitterest
grief of all.
That day was spent in rr.oody thought.
The evening came, and no sign again of
his secret friend, whether mother, or un
known sympathiser. Towards night the
pangs of hunger became intolerable, and
after numerous parleys with himself the
young man ascended to his room with a
heavy parcel. His eye was wild, his cheek
pale, his whole mien unearthly. As he
passed the door of his lodge the concierge
gave him a t cket for the Opera, signed
Dupont, who was co-manager of the thea
tre.
“Go yourself,” said the composer in a
low husky voice, and he went up stairs.
Having gained the room, the unhappy
and misguided young man sat silent and
motionless for some hours, until at length
hunger, despair, and his dreamy visions
ha 1 driven every calm and good thought
from his head, and then he dared quietly
proceed to carry out his dreadful and des
perate intent. He closed carefully the
window, stuffed his mattress up the chim
ney, and with paper stopped every aperture
where air could enter. Then he drew forth
from bis parcel charcoal and a burner, and
lit it. Thus had this wretched man determ
ined to end his sufferings. He had made
one last effort, and now in that solitary,
dismal garret, he laid him down to die ;
and poverty and misery, genius and death,
were huddled close together.
Meanwhile, amid a blaze of light, the
evening's amusement had begun at the
theatre. Anew opera from Paris was to
be played, and the prima donna was the
young, lovely, and worshipped Claudine,
the Jenny Lind of that lime and place.—
The house was crowded, and the first act
succeeding beyond all expectation, the au
dience were in ecstasy.
“She is a jewel!” said M. Dupont, who,
from a private box, admired the great sup
porter of his theatre. A roar of applause
from the pit didighte 1 at this instant the
good man’s ears. Claudine. called before
the curtain, was bowing to the audience.
But what is this ! Instead of going off,
she has just signed to the orchestra to play.
She is about to show her gratitude to thq
audience in verse. M. Dupont rubs his
hands, and repeats twice between his teeth
‘ She is a jwel!’ But with ease and ra
pidity the band has commenced playing an
unknown air, and the next instant M. Du
pont is standing up with a strange and wild
look. Hushed and still was every breath;
the audience look at each other : not a
word of communication takes place ; men
shudder or rather tremble with emotion. — :
But the first stanza is ended; and then a
frantic shout, a starting of all to their feet,
a wild shriek of delight, a cry of a thousand
voices thundering the chorus, shows how
the song had electrified them.
M. Dupont frowned, for the air and the
song were not new to him: it was the
•Song of the Army of the Rhine’ he had
refused that morning! Rut Claudine pro
ceeds : again the audience is hushed in
death-like silence; while the musicians,
roused to an unusual degree of enthusiasm,
played admirably : and Claudine, still sing;
ing with all the purity, feeling, and energy
of her admirable voice, plunged her eyes
into every corner of the house—in vain.
At each couplet the enthusiasm of the peo
ple became greater, the anxiety of the
singer intense. At length she concluded,
and never did applause more hearty, more
tremendous, more uproarious, greet the
voice of a public songstress. The excitable
population of Marseille! seemed mad.
When silence was restored, Claudine
spoke— 1 Citoyensand citoyennes !’ she ex
claimed, ‘this song is both written and
composed by a young and unknown man,
who has in vain sought to put bis compo
sitions before the public. Everybody has
refused them. For myself. I thought this