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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