Newspaper Page Text
MARY E. BRYAN,
NOW \ Ml TIIEV.
Unclasp an old miniature or daguerreotype of
yourself, taken in childhood or early youth, and
look upon it to-night while the footsteps of the
mournful rain are wandering over the house-top
and over the sodden ground. Look upon it, if
you can, for it is hard to stand face to face with
even the pictured semblance of ourselves as we
were years ago, as we are not note, for we change
so rapidly, so wonderfully, so fearfully, that paus
ing sometimes, and looking down into the magic
mirror of memory, we start at beholding our
selves as we were in time gone by, and almost
doubt our identity. I speak not now of the
outer, so much as of the inner being. The eye
fades, the lip sheds its roses, the hair loses the
glory of its lustre and luxuriance, but what are
these to the changes that go on within ?
Time plows deeper furrows upon the heart
than upon the brow. Tears may be effaced from
the cheek, but they are mildew and canker upon
the soul. If the likeness only of our face makes
us shrink as though we looked upon the ghost of
one we had seen dead and buried, how would we
start if there rose before us a picture of our inner
selves, of the henrt anil the feelings that time
has so strangely transformed ?
There is not one of us who cares to sit down,
in the solitude of midnight, and deliberately
face a memory of himself — compare his present
feelings with those that filled his breast in some
former time.
We do not like to contemplate the changes that
heart and brain have undergone. It oppresses
with a vague uneasiness; we feel as though we
were slipping away from ourselves, as though
the very earth we tread was uncertain and might
slide away from beneath our feet.
Across our forward path loom shadows cast by
events yet to come; behind us walk spectres in
the misty twilight of memory. Richard quailed
before the past, — Macbeth before the future.
And as you sit gazing upon the picture of your-
self, so altered, more in its expression than its
features, from the face reflected in yonder mir
ror, memory holds her magic lantern, and the
camera obsc.ura of the brain gives a train of phan
toms that go gliding by, and look at us with so
strange a meaning in their eyes, that we trem- ;
hie as did the king in his haunted tent on Bos-
worth’s field of battle.
There is a smile on that pictured lip that tells
of a joy which has since flown from the heart,
like a bird from its ruined nest. Yon may smile
still, but the smile does not leap up from the
very soul and light upon the lip like a sunbeam
upon a rose.
There is a look in those clear eyes that tells
the old, old story which is written upon the
leaves of every life-book on that page marked
with the passion-flowers of youth. A tale of
love, of murmured pledges under summer twi
light skies, of delicious dreamings, of days that
glided by with the halcyon's downy flight to the
young heart, wrapped in the rosy mantle of its
own sweet thoughts. You smile now at the silli
ness of that dream; you flush with shame at the
memory of the kisses that seem now to burn
upon your cheek; you wonder if it can be your
self, your present self, that was then so led away j
by the hand of passion, and you smile again to
think how you have changed since then—how
indifferently you could now meet the eyes that
were once all the heaven you cared to gaze upon—
how coolly you could take the hand whose pas
sionate clasp once sent a thrill of delight through
your frame how calmly listen to the voice whose
every murmured word once seemed sweeter than
the harp of Israfil.
How indignantly you would then have repelled
any doubt that such a love would not last for
ever: now. you wonder that you ever bowed in
worship to the broken and discrowned idol that
now lies before you—the Eidolon upon whose
shrine you poured all your heart’s rich, wasted
wine, and lavished all the fresh flowers of youth
ful feeling.
Look again upon the picture: there is a holy
trust, a pure truth upon the brow, that is not
stamped upon yonder image in the glass. Alas,
for the trustfulness of early youth! You have
gained worldly wisdom since then; but at what
a price: the loss of the sweet faith that made
life so beautiful — the unsuspicious, guileless
spirit that saw its own innocence reflected in
every face—the simplicity that believed the world
and men what they appeared, viewing all through
the medium of its own purity. Alas ! that this
loving faith should give way to bitter cynicism—
that you have learned to hear the hiss of the ser
pent in the murmured protestations of love and
friendship, and see the snaky gleam in the smile
that wreathes the lips of those around you ! And
alas! that you, too, have learned to weave the
tangled web of deception, to mask the face and
school the voice, to utter words you feel not. and
smile when you wish to weep, and look sad when
you are perfectly indifferent! Ah ! you have lost
the perfect trustfulness of earlier days, and after
life has nothing to repay you for the lost treas
ure. You hardly dare look at the calm, rebuking
openness of that pictured brow. The wind, be
fore whose blast the old oak shivers and wrings
piteously its brown and withered hands, seems
the voice of an accusing spirit. You shut the
picture which has been the charm to call up
all these phantoms, and the panorama of the
past, with its ruined hopes, its blasted joys, its
dead loves, its withered friendships and shat
tered faiths, fades from the camera obscura of
memorv.
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, MARCH 6, 1875.
Editress.
\ DREAM OF DEATH.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Gml speaks to 118 in visions; clear-eyed Truth
Unveils her brow in the soul’p solitude.
When its dull brother Clay lies dead in sleep.
Forth from the window of dreams the spirit leans
And listens to the music, faint and far.
Borne from the distant, shadowy shore that lies
Beyond the dark gulf of mortality.
Wearied with life, faint with an aching grief,
Tortured with longings for eternal rest,
I gave myself to Death’s twin-brother Sleep,
Who came, while the rain sang a cradle hymn,
And stayed the gnawing vultures at my heart,
And shut the doors of outer sense, but left
Ajar the gate of Dreams, where spirits pass
And whisper their strange mysteries to the soul,
Fettered in its clay prison. So I dreamed.
Metliought that I had climbed, one after one,
The years of life, like steps beneath my feet,
And stood upon the last and looked below*,
Down the dark gulf of space to a black lake.
Stirless as a dead murderer's lips, that lay
With not a sunbeam on its wide expanse;
And in the stead of lilies, fair and sweet,
That lave their white hands in all other streams,
Around this lake lay ghastly, bleaching bones
Amid the matted rushes.
From the pool,
And near its centre, rose a face as pale
As cypress ashes when the watch-fire burns
Low at the midnight. By the hueless lips
And black-rimmed eyes, and thin, uplifted arms,
I knew that this was Death I gazed upon;
And I bent down and looked her in the face—
For often I had called upon her name
When Misery tore my heart-strings and Despair
Bayed like a blood-hound for my soul s best blood.
I gazed down in her eyes, and they were full
Of a deep mystery—of nil the strange,
Unutterable mysteries of the grave.
God! how they thrilled my soul with horror vague,
But wild, as when at silent noon or night,
In a dark alley shut in from the stars.
The cry of murder rings out on the air.
I saw all the dread secrets of the grave
In the deep meaning of those fixed eyes—
Saw them, but dimly, as the felon reads
His own death-warrant by his prison lamp—
And shrank from the revealings that I read
Beneath those pallid lips, and on my knees
Sauk on that last step of the stair of life,
And shuddered as I felt the baud of Time
Urging me on. and saw the shadowy arms
Uplifted to receive me. Oh! I felt
How cold those arms must be! and I had sighed
To be enfolded in their icy clasp,—
Had prayed, in the long, weary day and night,
Only to have them cool my burning heart
And fold me, in a dreamless, endless sleep,
To the soft, Lethean bosom of that Death
Whose eyes now filled my shrinking soul with dread,
And taught it what a fearful thing is death,
And what deep, solemn mysteries lie behind
The thick, black curtain that drops heavily
Upon life’s closing scene.
If the long dead.
The loved and lost on whom we vainly call,
Should answer to our cry, and reappear
In the damp, moulded garments of the grave,
And lay a fleshless hand upon our arm,
It would not freeze the blood with such a chill
As curdled mine, gazing from that far height
Down at the ashen face and moveless eyes
That looked up at me from the livid lake.
The horror grew upon me while I gazed,
As when some victim, fresh from torture's rack,
And thrust down in a darkened cell, looks round,
And one by one the terrors of the place,
Its bloated reptiles and its damp and slime,
And dead men’s bones still chained to the black walls,
Grow visible, as his faint sight becomes
Inured to hi£ < ell’s darkness.
Thus my soul
Sickened and shrank from their revealings strange
In the still eyes of that pale dream of Death.
And when I woke, the incubus still hung
About me like a chain of serpents, linked
And cold. And then I vowed no more
To turn from life's real duties in despair,
And plead for Death to close the tragedy;
Longing to have her rock my wearied heart
To an eternal slumber, sweet and deep,—
To have her chilly fingers sweep the chords,
The blue and blood-filled chords of life's faiT harp—
Of ivory and ruby—aud for aye
Hush the wild, throbbing music that they make.
A RAINY DAY’S GOSSIP.
Rain, rain ! All day the sky lias been mantled
with a gray pall of clouds, and the rain-drops
have fallen steadily, with a low, lulling music.
The golden goblets of the yellow jasmine, clus
tering near the window, are tilled to overflowing
with crystal drops, and the little brown sparrows
nestle beneath the vines, dripping wet and shiv
ering with cold. A regular fast-dav it has been
to them, as well as to all the rest of the feathered
tribe dependent upon their own diligence for
their daily bread; but it has been to us a day of
quiet, half-indolent enjoyment. Sitting here,
with the crimson flames of a rich lightwood Are
sending a ruddy glow through our study, we
liave^beeu dreaming over the pages of that de
lightful compound of wit and tenderness, fancy
and feeling, “The Midsummer Night's Dream.”
The most charming of all books for a rainy
day are the “Fairy Queen’’ of Spenser and the
lighter and more fanciful plays of Shakspeare.
The mind is too indolent (thanks to the soothing
music of the rain) to follow any train of reason
ing. or be bewildered by philosophical theories,
and is just in the mood to deliver itself up with
out reserve to the airy magic of fancy. There
are times, however, when the mind is so steeped
in dreamy languor, that even this mental pro
cess calls for too much exertion. It was in one
ol these moods that our book was thrown aside,
and looking steadily into the glowing lire, we
betook ourselves to idle speculation.
M e wondered how many parties of pleasure
this continued rain had broken up,—how many
pretty lips have pouted and eyes swam in tears,
as their owners turned away from the window
with the peevish exclamation, that “it never
would stop raining. —how Fannie, who has no
carriage, thinks ruefully of the ball to-night,
and how badly muddy streets and white kid
slippers agree, and Nellie, who has reason to
expect a visit from a certain privileged individ
ual, fears a bitter disappointment, while her little
sister thanks her stars that, instead of getting
spineache over puzzling sums and enigmatical
lessons, she may arrange the paraphernalia of
her dolls and play bo-peep with the baby.
In the luxurious boudoir of her far-off city
home. Miss Isabella reclines on a purple fauteuiU
in a rather shabby dressing-gown, with hair still
in curl-papers and cheeks retaining a portion of
last night's artificial blushes. What matter?
There are only papa and brother Charles to see truth of its origin, but will describe it as near as cover the hidden suffering under that sweet
her to-day: and then she is preparing for new we can. A princess dress of Chinese cloth, ar- smile, or suspect the destruction ot the famous
i in? i i. i i i .. . , , ■. house whose honors that day she was pertormmg
conquests, as she sits there idly holding a halt- ranged with two double box-plaits at back, and with so much tranquillity. As evidence of the
open volume, of Dumas, debating the delicate fastened all the way in front with ornaments of mastery she possessed over her emotions, we
question of point-lace and Brussels. this matted braid, something like passemente- quote her own words: “All through the evening
Madame La Mode spends the dav in inventing ries, only much heavier, and with three tassels * as I were the prc> ot some honible
, . T , nightmare, and mv mental suffering was so great
a new sleeve. Mrs. Grundy puts on shawls and hanging from each one. Large, square pockets th ; u natnral ob j ec ts assumed, to my disturbed
rubbers, and makes it a point of duty to go over on each side, formed entirely of the braid or imagination, strange and fantastic shapes. '
Jeanne Franeoise Julie Adelaide Bernade—
for such was Madame Reeamier's maiden name—
was the daughter of a notary of Lyons, and was
and tell “that poor young married thing” that gimp (as I should name it). Three rows of gimp
her husband was overly polite to a pretty mil- three inches wide trimmed the bottom of the
liner this morning: while in our own prosper- skirt. A cape with two deep points back and b o rn jn that eitv on the fourth of December,
ous Southern homes, the farmer's rosy-cheeked, front, and a hood folded ft la burnouse was grace- 1777. She passed her early childhood in a con-
good-humored wife, in her neat chintz dress and fully heavy with tassels pendant from each point vent, the remembrance of which life she always
spoke of as a “vague, sweet dream. She was
checked apron, flies from kitchen to work-room, and from the hood. This also had one row of
married at a very early age: for it was in 1793,
ing through a dozen or two pairs of busy hands,
It is T. S. Arthur, we believe, who advises
every Codebs in search of a wife to pay unex
pected visits on rainy days; but this, we think,
is hardly fair. No one feels in the humor for
being prim and particular on a rainy day. Judg
ing from our own experience, we should say that
THE A* AI AD’S GIFT.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Where larches weep,
And the wild vines creep
Over a hank moss-grown aud steep,
Half hid behind leaves of feathery fern,
A little Naiad from her bright urn,
Pours a tiny stream,
That, with a flash and gleam,
Seems a crystal gem in the morning beam.
With sweet surprise,
It a moment lies,
Like a child just opening its sleepy eyes;
Then dimpling and trembling with joy and doubt,
It peeps from the brink of its basin out,
And wooed by the play
Of the sunbeams gay,
It parts the fern leaves aud glides away.
Aud blithe and fleet,
With its silvery feet,
And its liquid laughter low and sweet,
It hastens away through sun and shade
Adown the meadow and through the glade;
And as it flows,
A blessing goes
AVith the stream, as perfume with a rose.
Flowers spring to greet
Its gladdening feet,
And laurels and myrtles grow thick and sweet,
And reeds aud grasses crowd high and tall,
To see if the stream can mirror them all;
And wild vines spread
* Their berries red,
A feast for the blue-birds overhead.
Fresh'ning the grain,
Watering the plain,
Gladdening the traveler along the lane,
Soothing the heart with its silvery words,
Slaking the thirst of the singing birds,
The little stream,
Amid shade and gleam,
Goes on and on like a pleasant dream.
her great bunch of keys “making music wher- gimp around the edge. The sleeve was a tight- when she was hut fifteen, that M. Reeamier (then
ever she goes,” superintending the day’s work fitting coat with no ornament save a passemen- forty-two) asked for the hand of Juliette. She
of weaving, spinning, carding and sewing, pass- terie like those on the front. This dress was accepted his otter, although her parents disap-
^ , , , , ... ., , , .. proved of their* union because of the great dis-
““ " “ worn tor a walking-suit, and strange as it may p arit y 0 f their ages. In Paris, the twenty-fourth of
seem for a princess, was cut short enough to April. 1793, at the height of the Reign of Terror,
show the wearer’s pretty, high-heeled button she was married. She lived a secluded and nn-
l )00 j ‘ eventful life for four years, and when she again
. mviKmir nuowv stmt appeared, her beauty had developed from that of
HA.Ni.so.Mi, nw X sill a child into all the splendor of womanhood. A
Mas composed ot basket-cloth and silk in two figtire flexible and elegant, a well-poised head,
shades. The lower skirt of cloth had a deep, throat and shoulders of admirable form and pro-
company on such days is rather a bore; at least, box-plaited flounce, faced bottom and top with portions, beautiful arms a little, rosy mouth,
. , \ . , i n a id.- • -in rpi pearl v teeth, black hair that curled naturally, a
we find it tar more pleasant to sit watching the sllk and confined by a piping ot silk. The apron 5 elicate and regulur nose but bien francaise', an
rain descending like liquid jewels, while the tiny front was formed entirely ot puffs of cloth run- incomparable brilliancy of complexion, a frank,
rivulets hnrrv down the traveled si one ning perpendicnlarlv and divided with silk arch face rendered irresistibly lovely from its
g ‘ 1 ’ pipings. Two straight, square widths, faced expression of goodness, a carriage slightly indie-
. , .... . , .. ative of indolence or pride,—such was the etisem-
with silk two inches wide, formed the back ot that entitled her to St. Simon’s compliment
the overskirt, being slightly draped in three to the Duchess of Burgundy: ‘-Her step was
places. Cuirass basque of cloth, with pipings like that ol a goddess in clouds.
and sleeves of silk. Tortoise-shell buttons. , Sut * Madame Reeamier at eighteen, as
. described by Madame Lenormant, lier biogra-
Quillings ol Meclilin lace were placed at the p] ier> Her husband's disasters were not the most
throat and wrists, and a ceil-blue twill cravat painful losses that Madame Reeamier was forced
with embroidered ends tied in a sailor’s knot, to hear. A few months after the failure she lost
, , . , . ... , . ■her idolized mother, from whom she had never
The lady s bonnet was ot brown velvet with a , ^
- _ . _ been separated since childhood. For months
brim depressed behind and flaring up in front, after this bereavement she lived in entire seclu-
the same being lined with ceil-blue silk; for face sion, which so preyed upon her health that a
trimmings, a large, crushed rose was placed in change ot scenery and associations was advised
,, , .. , '. , bv her plivsicians. Madame de Stael, who was
quillings ot lace. For outside decoration, two tfien re ‘ si( ’ ling at C oppet, a distance of thirty
! short ostrich plumes curled over the crown, and leagues from Paris, whither she had been sent
I a few loops of repped velvet the shade of the by the despot, Napoleon, sent a cordial invita-
1 nil I- in tbp iIvpss tion to her dearest Juliette to pay her a visit.
She accepted, and it was while on this visit that
general remarks. s he first met Prince Augustus of Prussia. This
Miss Edith M., a visitor here from the “Cres- Prince, being a visitor at the same house, was
cent City,” wore, at a dining recently, a dress of thrown in frequent contact with Madame Reca-
■,, , , , . * , ... niier, and. unable to conquer his passion for her,
currant-colored faille. A court train edged with ... 1 *. , ,, ,
b declared Ins love She was moved and flattered,
a plaiting four inches deep of silk a shade lighter. a nd for a time welcomed his proposal. The
The front was light, and trimmed with a series Prince, a native of a country where divorces were
of three deep plaitings of the dark, headed with n °t condemned by either civil or religious laws,
, , ... .... , . prevailed upon Madame Reeamier to write to her
a bouUloiines and plaited headings. A row of [ ms i mll( j requesting him to consent to a dissoln-
feather trimming was placed between each plait- tion of their union. His reply was so dignified,
ing, making five rows in all. The high bodice paternal and tender, consenting to her wish it
was trimmed with the feather trimming, cut a he . r happiness required it. and Madame Reca-
. T> . _ . . ... mier was so deeply impressed by the tone ot the
l<t ] ompadour in front, and tilled in with a maze letter that she determined never to desert this old
of w'hite lace. Long sleeves of light faille, left I man, who had been so unselfish and devoted to
open at the hand, and also filled with lace. It ber from her childhood. She left Coppet with-
. , •• ., , . , ■ j. out telling the Prince of her change of feelings,
seems that despite the political muss in which , , , . . . . r . q ’
1 1 . but wrote lnm upon her arrival in Pans. She
our sister State has been so long entangled, its maintained a friendly correspondence with him
belles have not forgotten how to make elegant until 1815. He owned the famous portrait of
display in the way of finery wherever they go. Madame Reeamier painted by Gerard, which
i , . , , , . ... i was returned to her after his death in fulfillment
| Truly, fashion rules to a tearful extent the women flf ft promise made by the Prillce .
j of our land. i Napoleon, in order that Madame de Stael
But a limited purse hns taught us some splen- : might never forget his great hatred for her, in-
did lessons in economy, and we stand ready to ! dulged in the revenge of exiling all who dared
, , ,, , .... , , , i to visit her, and from her house Matthew de
help those who are willing to trust us, with our Montmorency an(1 Madame Reeamier were ex
own experience in that way and with any other j Red. *The latter chose as her residence Chalons,
information in our power. We have received t that being exactly forty leagues from Paris, and
three letters, which we annex below with their remained here for eight months; then left for
. . , _ _ .... Lyons m hopes ot being again united to her
answers. All queries addressed to us will be j most beloved friend, Madame de Stael. Her
promptly and cheerfully responded to. Young i exile impaired her health so seriously that a
change was thought requisite; therefore, her
FASHION NOTES.
BY MADAME THERISI.
After the fashions for a season have been de
cided, there is little change until a change of j girls especially (with or without “frippery no
season gives the signal for something new. But j tions ”) we will be delighted to correspond with
many slight changes are constantly being made, j through these columns,
and for a little longer the lovers of novelties must I answers to correspondents.
content themselves with a resume of these and j it.—“I am soon to need my bridal trousseau,
an inkling of what will he most in favor when and bave already begun it. I have a black silk,
a navy-blue woolen and silk, and want one more
hoary-headed King Frost is dethroned, and our
gentle spring is once more green.
dress that will do to wear late in the spring.
What would you advise me to get ?” .
friend and mentor. M. de Montmorency, advised
a tour through Italy. Her correspondence dur
ing these three years of travel are exceedingly
interesting, describing her visits to all the points
of, note, to the studios of all the artists, espe
cially to that of the renowned artist, Conova.
In 1817, at the bedside of her dying friend,
Madame de Stael, Madame Reeamier became
^Liglit j acquainted with Chateaubriand. There has
The probable fate of polonaises and narrow brown or gray poplin would make a pretty, in- } )e ‘' n muc ]? comment upon the warm friendship
cHrtc is » snWpnt nf mnet onyiiifir • expensive dress; or a black and white hairstripe between this famous beauty and the famous
skirts is a subject ot much anxietj and inqi.irv (lf) splendidly as the spring advances. author. Suffice it that their correspondence
among those who are disposed to take time bv .. , r ,, , ‘ , , „ ,, .. has been published, and it reveals only the
S.» fur ns polonaises are concerned,
we take pleasure in assuring the anxious ones with them ? Should an overskirt be lined or
that their uneasiness is entirely unfounded, for,
leaving their beauty and grace out of the ques
tion, a more useful style has never been fashion
able. About narrow skirts we are not so san
guine; but when not carried into extreme, mak
ing us (as our observing editor has it) look like
so many elongated exclamation points, they are
not?” . . . The patterns cost two dollars, and
directions accompany each pattern. It depends
upon the style of overskirt whether it should he
lined or not, Most of them drape best without,
hut very often the tablier is lined with cambric
or crinoline.
Girl of the Period.—“Are leather belts still
worn ?—and are as many things attached to them
as ever ?” . . . Belts are still much worn, and
much prettier and more graceful than the bal- not only of leather, but velvet and links of metal.
We believe the mania for attaching parasols,
fans, smelling bottles, etc., has somewhat subsi
ded, but leather chatelaine hags, sometimes
handsomely ornamented with oxvdized silver,
are often seen pendant from the belt.
[For The Sunny South.)
MADAME RECAMIER.
BY MISS E. M. L.
loon-like styles of former seasons. We shouldn’t j
be surprised if they retain their past popularity j
during the coming spring and summer.
A pretty overskirt.
In our researches for something interesting to j
tell you about this week,, we noticed an over- !
skirt which had a peculiarly striking effect. It I
"consisted of a deep, round tablier joined with j
two back breadths and having broad sash ends j
at the left side. Tablier, back breadths and :
sashes were literally covered with silk star-braid
of a bluish east put on in an open pattern, and
crimped fringe of the same shade finished the
bottom of the overskirt and edged the ends of
the sashes. An overskirt of this kind, with
sleeveless jacket to match, would be very pretty
indeed worn over a dark dress, as the spring
advances.
A HANDSOME SACQt'E
Was composed of bands of gray cashmere two rations of those who surrounded her; and, while
inches wide, and joined with gray yak insertion she maintained her undisputed position by vir-
one inch wide. The garment fitted the form tue of her surpassing beauty, cultivation and in-
closely at back and loose in front. Half-flowing telligence, she was inclined to be subordinate
sleeves. Yak edging two inches deep made a rather than assertive in her nature. Hers was
finish for the bottom and sleeves and heart- n °t a stormy disposition, hut calm and equable,
shaped neck. We thought, for the sake of If any emotion was to be conquered, it was con-
change. ribbon of a contrasting color might have quered in private, and so completely that the
been added underneath the insertion and in- most careful observer could never perceive by
creased the beauty of this already pretty gar- a ripple of the surface that any violent agitation
jjj en t. ' was contending beneath. It was in 1806 that she
titian braid i conspicuously displayed this wonderful tran-
briand remained devoted to her for more than a
quarter of a century, and when he became a wid
ower in his eightieth year, urged the object of
his devotion, then blind and approaching sev
enty, to become his wife. Her good sense
prompted a refusal of his offer. In 1829 he
writes: “I was awake and thought sadly of you
when my watch marked the hour of twelve. We
ought to feel ourselves less heavily burdened as
time carries off our years, but, on the contrary*,
that which he takes away from ns is a weight
with which he overwhelms us. Never forget me
even when I am no more. I shall have to leave
you some day; I will go to await you. Perhaps
I shall have more patience in the other life than
in this, where I find three months without you
of immeasurable length.” Such friendship,
founded upon intellectual sympathy and mu
tual appreciation of high moral worth, could not,
at the present day, exist without giving rise to
an amount of scandal destructive to social posi
tion.
Chateaubriand, the famous author of the “ Ge-
Our purpose is a short biographical sketch, niusof Christianity,” gave his soul to God, July,
rather than a discussion of the last representa- 1348. Madame Reeamier felt that she had
.. , . , , , i-iiix, deeplv afflicted him bv refusing to hear his name,
tive of that society which shed such intellectual yet F ^ sisted U j )0n faring mourning for him.
lustre upon France from the institution of the Blindness had begun the work of separation long
salon at the Hotel Rambouillet, in 1620, until its before his death, for from 1839 a cataract had
final extinction with the brilliant causeries of the j been forming on Madame Reeamier s eyes; but
_ . by the use of belladonna, which dilated the
Abbey aux Bois. pupils, she was enabled to use them for two or
Madame Reeamier was not precisely a woman three hours each day for many years. In 1847,
of genius, hut possessed a sufficient sense of the ske for the first time submitted to an operation;
• i , . n ia,Ati■] - „ • but in her longing to be at the bedside of her
ideal to appreciate tfie loltv tfiongfits and mspi- , . „ . . " ,r> , , . , ,,
11 dying friend, Ballanene, she abandoned all pre
cautions and lost in tears every chance of recov
ering her ' sight. Madame Reeamier always
dreaded the cholera, and frequently said she be
lieved she would die of this horrible disease.
Her fears were realized, for in 1849 she removed,
too late, from her residence in the Abbey aux
Bois to that of her niece, to avoid the infected
districts. At four o’clock on the eleventh of May
she was seized with this fearful disease, and on
the next day expired.
Her niece and biographer gives the following
description of this famous beauty after death:
“ Unlike the frightful traces which cholera leaves
upon its victims, Madame Reeamier’s features
assumed a surpassing beauty*. Her expression
Is fast gaining the favor that the -‘Hercules” has , quillity. In this yearthe famous Reeamier Bank was angelic and grave; she looked like a beau
tiful statue; there were no contractions, neither
were there any* wrinkles; and never was the
majesty of the last sleep attended with so much
grace and sweetness.”
A sketch by Achilles Deveria has preserved the
memorv of this remarkable circumstance.
so long held, and being inexpeAsive, will doubt- failed, and, unfortunately, upon the eve of a
less be much used on wraps and walking-suits grand dinner party to be given by herself. Her
for the remainder of the cold weather. But husband told her of the disaster, but desired
even the Titian loses ground when the new mat- that the entertainment should not be postponed,
ted braid appears, woven together in a matted and that the honors of the occasion be performed
pattern of cords and narrow worsted braids, by herself alone, as he intended leaving the city
This is distinguished in appearance, and at the until his difficulties should be tided over. By order of the German crown princess, the
* . . . . v ■ - . . ... ,.,. , . . „ , female clerks and telegraphers employed by* the
same time not extravagant in price. Nothing is hoping that a petition he had sent to Napoleon. German Government were directed to set aside
more adapted to cloth suits than this. soliciting a loan from the Bank of France, would all extravagances in dress and toilet.
a beautiful princess’ dress. be granted. He was harshly refnsed the loan. •-»*
We saw a suit said to have come from Worth. Her company assembled, and so well-poised was A queer man calls his daughter Misery, be
the Paris dressmaker: will not vouch for the this admirable woman that no guest could dis- cause she loves company.
INSTINCT PRINT