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make her first appearance before a public au
dience. Much was anticipated from a pupil of
Ma me.Viilaret, nor were those anticipations
d;>a o ted. Pauline made a splendid debut,
her Oiiess was quite satisfied, and the sim
ple girl. dazzled a*d bewildered flattery
tmd adulation, began totnink it was a blessed
day w.ien tne French lady* paused to listen to
her as she sat singing by the ruined well. Af
ter a short and mg.ily' successful season, M.
Vniaret proposed a journey to Naples, where
he iiad excepted a lucrative engagement in the
name of Ins young protege. Pauline offered
no objections; sue only stipulated that they
should make the cottage of her father in the
route. T e old man received her with rap
turous delig.it; he looked younger and better
than wiieu they parted. The cottage was
simply, but neatly and comfortably furnished,
and as Paulino glanced around her, she re
meinliered that these comforts she had already
procured for her parent. Andre was absent,
but she left a thousand kind messages for him
her father, who told her that the fame
she had acquired, had uhready readied this re
mote village, and formed a tneme of wonder
and conversation amongst her old companions,
but that such reports had only served to ren
der Andre more than usually gloomy and dis
pirited,
“He has not yet learned to trust me, then,”
thong it Pauline. “ Well, no matter, another
voar, and all this doubting and fearing will
have passed away, and l shall lie all his own.”
Alas ! who shall dare to say what one year
may produce, to what ages of joy or sorrow it
may be the forerunner. God only knoweth
the future ! This visit was noccssar ly a hr; f
o 10, hut her former companions ali followed
the carriage for some distance on its route, of
fusing their simple flowers, and their heart-felt
wishes lor her speedy and happy return. Af
focted by their love, Paulino leant back in the
carriage, and covering her face with her hands
wept lung and silently; such tears, shod for
such a cause, were indeed u luxury.
A lapse of several years must intervene be.
fore 1 again commence my narrative, nor will
wo e lqiiii'o what were Pauline’s pursuits in the
interim. Ir is a painful task to trace too min
utely the progress of demo al zatioa and vice ;
to mark tile plague spot of sin and misery,
gradually deepening and spreading over the
o ice innocent and young heart, until cverv
t .<*r o ‘ its e irl v purity is effaced. 1 shall a l *-
siii f oni doing t lis, and return to our hero
ine', .vii) was now in full career of what men
c < gory, and angel’s sin !
O.i t ie evening to which l refer, she stooi'
before a crowded and enthusiastic audience in
the the itre at Naples, and the tumultuous mur
muring* of applause flushed the pule chocks
utid kindled the bright eves ot* their universal
favorite. Taut night sho had been even more l
than usually effective, and the people hold their;
breath lest one no’e of that sweet melody
should be lost. Suddenly the songstress paus
ed, and the air was abruptly terminated bv a
wild shriek; there was music even in that
&hriek ; ii was the voice of human agony.—
M ny t lo .igiit it but the startling effect of pre
mo litated art, but those who were near enough
to m irk nor lived brow, and shuddering frame
felt it to he the language of irrepresible emo
tio l. Sue was born from the stage to her
own dressing room, where she soon recovered
at least the o t vaid appearance, of coinpos
u a
“ Vanvitelli.” she said in a whisper to the
handsome yo mg Neapolitan, wiio was bend
ing anxiously over her couch, “ return instant
ly to the theatre, and seek out the young man
wiio wore a green jerkin, and scarcely took
his eyes otf me the whole evening.”
“ I saw that y’ou noticed him.”
“You must bring him to me, I would speak
to him in private.”
Tne count hesitated, and Pauline perceiv
ing the frown which gathered over his brow,
laid her white jeweled hand upon his, and ad
ded with a persuasive smile—•
“ It is an old friend, a countryman of mine ;
I would hut ask if my poor father is yet alive!”
Subdued by the tears which dimmed her
beautiful eyes, the count bowed and withdrew
to fulfil her request,
The following morning as Pauline sat sad
O O
and alone in her desolate, yet splendid apart
ments, the aoor was suddenly flung ojxtn, and
the accents of a never-to-be-forgotten voice,
thrillod to her very soul.
“ I have brought the stranger you wished
to see,” said Vanvitelli, and drawing nearer,
he added in a whisjaer, “ let your conference
be a short one, I shall return in an hour.”
She did not look up—she dare not! The
door closed, and she was alone with her first
love! Neither spoke for several minutes, and
wrapt in gloomy abstraction, the young man;
was unconcious that the gifted, the beautiful, y
the idol of Naples was kneeling at his feet.
“ Pauline !” he said at length, and the memo
ry of early innocent days, came back to her
with the sound of that voice.
“ Pauline, mine own love! why this position
to me ? It is I who ought to kneel for having
dared to doubt your purity and truth. But
fearful rumors reached me in my far off home,
and almost drove me mad. I have travelled
hundreds of miles to hear them contradicted
by your own lips; and now I ask not one
word. It is enough to gaze on thy young
face to know there is no shade of sin on that
high pure brow.”
lie bent over her with all the long hoarded
affection of years, but Pauline sprang from the
ground, and avoided his embrace.
“ Oh do not, do not curse me !” she exclaim
ed wildly. “It was all true that you heard of
me, ah! lam indeed fallen, lam unworthy of
you!”
“And this parazzo?” asked Andre, gaz
ing around the splendid apartment with the
bewildered air of one who dreams.
“ Belongs to Count Vanvitclli, he who
brought you hither.”
“ Then your are his wife—his countess. —
God grant that his love may be able to recom
pense you for that which you have scorned and
.despised.”
“ No, no !” interrupted the agonized girl,
while a burning blush crimsoned her neck and
brow, “it is worse, even than that. Although
the mistress of this splendid mansion, I am
only Pauline Durant, if one so lost dare assume
a name until now unsullied.”
The young man rudely snaclied his cloak
from her frenzied grasp, but she flew to the
door, and extended tier snowy arms to prevent
him leaving her, exclaiming—
“But one word! Oh! in mercy, Andre, tell
me of my father.”
“lle is dead.! Return thanks to God, wretch
ed girl, that he lived not to see this day.”
The heart stricken Pauline uttered oi.o low
cry, and sank lifeless on the ground. In the
delirious fever which followed this sudden
shock, Count Vanvitclli sent for Madam Vil
iaret to take charge of her laic pupil, and their
united care and attention in time restored her
to health. But a change seemed to have pas
sed over her ; the still small voice of conscience
Iliad Ixren awakened, and refused to sluinbc.
I again, and bo’h the cairessess of Madam are 1
tne love of the young count were become liate
j ful toiler After a long interval oc‘asioned
by ill health, the re-apporance of Pauline Du-
rant.was announced to take place in a few days,
and a crowded audience assembled to welcome
back their favorite. But they came in vain!
after waiting some time the manager made his
appearance before them, and informed them
that there was reason to believe that Made
moiselle Durant had secretly quitted Naples
/unvitelii was like one distracted. lle oflere:
rewards for anv intelligence of her, and dis
>a*ched messengers in all directions, but with
o t success ; Pauline was last to him and to the
world for ever.
It was at the close of a beautiful Sabbath
eve ling, concluded in a way which may aj>-
p nr strange to our English prejudices, by r a
dance on the green turf, that a female form
was and seemed, mo. ing forwards with feeble
tops it paused repeatedly, as if oxercome
with fatigue, and dropped down at length wit 1
a heavy gro m. Tre dancers suddenly paused,
i .u g i ie ed anxio i sly around the stranger.
“Sure’y I hou’d know that face ?” exclaim
ed a young girl, pressing eagerly forward,
“ Can it be Pauline Durant ?”
“Fanchon,” said the wanderer in a feeble
voice, “ do not forsake me ; you all loved Pau
line once—for the memory of those hajipy
days, then do not scorn me!”
Her young companions wept, and kissed
her pale emaciated hands in silence. There
was but one sentiment in every breast—pity for
the unfortunate, and they said among them
selves, “ we all know that she was once inno
cent and good; but we cannot, in our igno
rance of the world, conceive the power of those
temptations which have led her to fall. God
forbid that we should judge harshly of her, or
scorn her, now that she is ill and unhappy.
This was simple reasoning, but it was the lan
guage of the heart—and worth all the philoso
phy in the world.
At her request they bore her in their arms
to the cottage of Andre and laid her on his
rude couch. Life was ebbing fast, she could
not speak but the heart of her lover was not
proof against the mute eloquence of her looks ;
he supported her head on his bosom, and
wiped away the damps which gathered over her
pale brow. At that moment years of past sin
and misery were blotted out, and she was a.
gain his own, his pure—-his first, and only
love.
Suddenly Pauline lifted up her pale wan
face from his bosom, and shook back the damp
and disheveled masses of hair which had half
concealed it. Her mind was evidently wan
dering to the past, her eyes shone with intense
lustre, and she sang. The notes were beuti
ful, touchingly sweet, and the peasant girls clung
to each other and listened as though under the
5 influence of a spell. The strain terminated
abruptly, and a thrilling cry from Andre pro
claimed tiiat the soul of the vocalist had pas
sed away in its sweet but unholy melody.
Thoughts on Life and Death.
“ Time, like an ever rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away—
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.” -
llow applicable are the figures here made
use of; for no sooner do we take our stand on
the wide and busy stage of life, than we are
hurried with a rapid flight down to the vale ot
death! Men of mature and advanced age
can look back on the days of childhood, anti
all its passing events, with all the vividness of
recollection, as though but an hour had inter
vened. Each one recollects when he rambled
into the green field, culled the Fir flowers
thereof, and inhaled their sweets; or how he
sprightly played under yon nodding trees, or
lightly skipped upon the streamlet’s bank, with
all other scenes in his juvenile history, as though
this earth had but performed one revolution
since the events transpired. Such is the bre
vity of life!
Then, if life be so short, does it not behove
us to seek a refuge where death never comes,
but where beauty blooms through endless
years? O, how solemn must the thought
of death be to one who seeks no hope in future
bliss—but who wanders on through the rugged
path of life, trusting to none but himself- —a
broken reed at best. When the thoughts of
death rush into his mind, O how he shrinks !
He looks upon the earth, and sees it barien of
hope ; not a solitary gleam gilds the \ ista of
his coming years, nor lights up his imagina
tion with expected scenes of ne\er fading beau
ty. Ah, no ! To such a one death is a ] oint
at which he st >ps : he dare not look beyond
t; for it is to h m a dreary waste, on which
no beauty blooms—a stormy ocean, on which
no bark can ride in safely—a fiery element,
that blasts a id destroys a ! ! ope.
Thus wh it is to the Christian a source of
joy. is to the wicked a source of misery. Fee
bow changed are the Christian’s views.—
Death s a point from whence he begins to see
the glories of Paradise!—it is an eminence
! on which he o-/eßooks the boundaries of time,
and takes a view of the delightful scenery am
happy employments in a glorious eternity ; i 1
is a point whence hope shrinks not, but beam3
brighter and brig]iter into perfect gloiy. 0
yes! It is the Christian’s observatory, from
which he looks with eyes possessing the mag
nitude of a telescope, into the fair objects ofi
more glorious region; and it is also a stand
from which he looks with microscopic eyes
upon the dim and fading vanities of this inno
cent sphere. And while the one recedes and
i disappears, the other opens on his eyes and
'ears with sights and sounds seraphic : at length
he cries :
“ Lend, lend your wings, I mount, I fly—
O "rave, Witre is thy victory ?
O death, wh re is thy sting f”
RELIGION,
We pity the m:m who has no religion in
his heart—-no high and irresistible yearning af
ter a better and holier existence—who is con
tented with the sensuality and grossness of
earth —whose spirit never revolts at the dark
ness of its prison house, nor exults at the
thought of its final emancipation. We pity
him, for he aflbrds no evidence of his high ori
gin—no manifestation of that intellectual pre
rogative, which renders him the delegated lord
of the visible creation. He can rank no high
er than animal nature, the spiritual could nev
er stoop so lowly. To seek for beastly ex
citements—to minister, with a bountiful hand
to depraved and strange appetites—are the at
tributes of the animal alone. To limit our
hopes and aspirations to this life, and this world,
is like remaining forever in the place of our
birth, without ever lifting the veil of the visible
horizon which bent over our infancy.
There is religion in every thing around us ;
a calm and holy religion in the unbreathing
things of nature, which man would do well to
imitate. It is meek and blessed influence;
stealing in, as it were, upon the heart. It
comes quietly, and without excitement. It has
no terror; no gloom in its approaches. It
does not rouse up the passions; it is untram
melled by the creeds and unshadowed by the
superstitions of man. It is fresh from tl
hands of the author, and glowing from the
immediate presence of the Great Spirit, which
pervades and quickens it.
It is written on the arched sky. It looks
out from every star. It is on the sailing, and
in the invisible wind. It is among the hilh
and valleys of earth—where the shrubless
mountain top pierces the thin atmosphere of
eternal winter—or where the mighty forest
fluctuates before the strong wind, with its dark
waves of green foliage. It is spread out like
a legible language upon the broad face of the
unsleeping ocean. It is the poetry of nature.
It is this which uplifts the spirit within us, until
it is tall enough to overlook tie shadows of our
place of probation;—which breaks link, after
link, the chains which bind us to materiality
and which opens to our imagination a world of
spiritual beauty and holines.
EDUCATION OF FEMALES.
There is a season when the youthful must
cease to be young, and the beautiful to excite
admiration ; to learn how to grow old grace .
folly, is, perhaps, one of the rarest and most
valuable arts that can be taught to woman.—
And, it must be confessed, it is a most severe
trial for those women to laydown beauty,who
have nothing else to take up. It is lor this
sober season of life that education should lay
|up its rich resources. However disregarded
they may have been, they will be wanted now.
When admirers fall away, and if it find no
entertainment at home, will be driven back
again upon the world with increased force.—
Yet, forgetting this, do we not seem to educate
our daughters exclusively to the transient
period of youth ? Do we not educate their
fora crowd and not for themselves? for show
and not for use ? for time and not for eterni.
ty ?
MEW CASE OF ANIMAL MAGNETISM.
BV TOM HOOD,
The patient was a fine young woman
enough, dressed half-and-half between a fine
young lady and a servant-maid ; but as sly.
looking a baggage as you could select from
an assortment of gipsies, and, unless her face
Ixiiied her, quite capable of scratcing a Cock,
lane {.host. Indeed, something came across
me that I had seen her before ; and if my me.
mory don’t deceive, it was at some private the.
atricals cont i ary to law. For certain she could
i keep her counlei nnce; for if the outlandish
figure of a doctor, with his queer faces,had pos.
; tiued, and pawed, and j oked towards me, with
his fingers, for all the world like the old game
of “ My gandmother lends you a staff, and
you’re neither to smile nor to laugh,” as he did
to her, 1 should have bursted, to a dead cer*
tuir.tv, instead of going off, as she did, into an
easy sleep. As soon as she was sound, tlie
Count turned round to me with his broken
English : “ Ladies and gentlemen,” says lie,
“ look here at dis young maidens, Mizz Chariot
Ann Elizabeth Martin,” —for that is his way
of talking—“ wid my magnetismuses I tro her
into von state of sombamboozleism,” —or
something to that effect. “ Mizz Chariot Ann,
j dou art a slijn” “As fast as a church, Mister
| Count,” say r s she, talking and hearing as easy
|as broad aw ake. “ Ferry goot,” says he.—
“ Now, I take this boke—Missis Glasse Coke*
■ ry—and I shall make the maidens read some
j little of him wid her back. Dare he is between
ji er shoulders. Mizz Chariot Ann w hat yon
see now wid your eyes turned the wrong way
for to look ?”—“ Why then,” says she, Mr.
Count, 1 see quite plain a T and an O. Thin
comes 11, and O, and S, and T ; and the next
word is 11, and A, and I, and R.” “Ferry
goot,” cried the Count over again. “ Dat is
to rost de hare. Ladies and gentlemens, yon
all here ? As Gott is my shudge, so is herein
boke. Now, den, Missis Chariot Ann, voitf
more. Vot you test in your mouse V “ Why,
then Master,” says Charlotte Ann, “as sure an
fate, I taste sweet herbs chopped up stnall l”" -
“ Very' goot, indeed ! but w hat mor besides
sweet herrubs?” “ Why,” says she, “ it’* B
relish of salt and peper, and mace—and let
see—there’s flavor of currant jell)'.” “ Bess#
and besser !” cries the Count. “Ladies and
gentlemen are not dese vonderfools ? you shall
see every wort of it in de print. Mizz Char*
lot Ann, vot you feel now ?” “ Lawk a mercy-
Mister Count,” says she, “there’s a sort cj
stuffy feel, so there is !” “ Yaw ! like one fo<|J
abdimun ! Ferry goot! Now, you feel vot ?
“Feel! Mister Count ?” says she. “ Whv,
don’t feel nothing at all—the stuffiness is clcr>n
gone away !” “ Yaw, my child !” says he, “
is because I take avay de cokry boke from y
two shoulders. Ladies and gentlemens dese ’
grand powers of magnetismus ! Ach himme
As Hamlet say, dere mure in our
than dere is in de heavens or de earth !