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LINES TO MISS BREMER.
BY LAURA LINTON.
Even this will pass away.”— The Diary.
0 holy is thy mission.
Thou of the warm, true heart!
Thine be a rich fruition,
When health and life depart.
Sweet words of hope and gladness
Are thine, to cheer my way,
When bowed by grief or sadness—
E’en this will pass away.”
Thy mission sure is holy,
To bind the broken heart.
To live for others solely,
To bless them, and depart,
Oft have thy gentle teachings
Lighted with genial ray,
The dark, dim vale of sorrow,
And made night “ pass away.”
When by disease and sadness.
And burning, racking pain—
Deprived of joy and gladness,
These words brought hope again.
This aching brow so throbbing—
This heart so sad to-day—
These eyes with tears o’erflowing—
“ E’on this will pass away.”
Ah! e’en when she was dying,
The darling of my heart.
When Joy to Hope replying,
Forever said, “ depart!”
Though Joy’s death knell was ringing,
Along life’s dreary way,
And Hope her flight was winging,
“ E’en thin did pass away!”
And she, the widow lonely,
Whose hopes for life are dim,
To whom all sounds breathe only
“ Their requiem over him
Soon will thy sun declining,
Warn thee to watch aud pray,
And ’mid the ransomed shining,
“ Thy grief will pass away.”
Mourner o’er childhood’s pillow,
O’er sad and sweet decay—
Voyager o’er time’s rough billow,
“ E’en this will pass away.”
Pass like the hues of evening—
Pass like the meteor’s glow—
Pass like the sunset’s gleaming,
O’er yonder stainless snow’.
Those gentle eyes now r glancing
To thee their failing light,
Those fingers frail now clasping
Thine, in the death-grasp tight;
But Life oft has deeper meaning—
Crime; then sad mourner pray,
‘l'hat in thy cup of trembling
This worst “ may pass away.”
And worse than death, the chilling
Os love once warm and true,
The measured, cold words, stilling
The heart once true to you ;
Speak to him softly, sweetly,
Cast all false pride away,
’l’ell ail your faults, and gently
Coldness “ will pass away.”
But there’s a clime so lovely
Os bliss, so pure and bright,
Where ransomed spirits only
Bask in their Saviour’s light!
Joy passes! grief, and sorrow,
And pain, nnd wrong delay ;
These pass, but there’s a morrow—
Heaven will not “ pass aw’ay.”
The Old North State, January, 1851.
Original (Tala
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LUTA
BY ROSE DU SID.
CHAPTER I.
With incorrect notions of the size
and figure of the earth, the ancients
combined crude and fantastic ideas of
the inhabitants of remote, and seldom
‘isited lands. Thus they wrote of a
tribe of men, living in Hyberborean
regions, of perpetual darkness and
trost; of Blemmyos, Pigmies, Ama
zons, and others equally singular in
their reputed modes of life. Belong
ing partly to fable, were the Lotophagi
or Lotos-Eaters. These dwelt in that
delightful country north of the Great
African Desert. Here flourished all
those luxuriant forms of vegetable life,
indigenous to the tropics; and among
these, the Lotos-tree formed a striking
feature, both from its abundance and
peculiar properties. A narcotic—its
berries imparted to those, tvho habit
ually partook of them, a softness and in
dolence of character, which unfitted
them for labour ; and made them de
pendent for subsistence, upon the spon
taneous products of the earth; and for
happiness upon cloudless skies, soft
winds, and unbroken dreaminess. Ad
ministered to the stranger, they pro
duced oblivion of country, home,friends,
in short, of all the past; and assimila
ted him to the character of the Loto
phagi.
Viewing this subject, at the distance
of some hundreds of centuries, it strikes
us, as allegorically signifying, that the
delicious climate of the Lotos region,
with its luscious fruits, and the soft
uud winning manners of the inhabitants,
So fascinated the voyager, worn with
l°ng wanderings, that he willingly aban
doned the idea of again braving the
dangers of the desert and the deep,
ur) d lingered in the seeming Eden, un
tll time had obliterated all vivid recol
'ections of the past; and he lived and
‘bud among the gentle Lotos-eaters.
•'Ut that Love, at least, in one of its
phases, may triumph over the fascina
-110118 of the present, and be faithful to
l he memory of bye-gone joys—let the
simple narrative show.
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CHAPTER 11.
Over a wide and undulating land
scape, was seen, in almost endless pro
fusion, the far-famed Lotos, and its
drooping branches seemed to distil a
palpable languor through the soft air.
Golden aecacias mingled their delicate
sweetness with the breath of the eve
ning ; and earth, air, and the moan of
the far-off sea, all wooed to dreamy re
pose. The mellow light of the setting
sun, melted through the rich foliage,
and lay in a golden net-work on the
enamelled turf. In the midst of such
a scene—prone on the grass—lay a
man in the prime of life. His garments
were worn and soiled, but his upturned
face won regard by its fine features,
which were stamped with the marks of
long and wearisome watchings. No)v
they were marbled by the intensity of a
dreaminess—more profound than sleep
—in which the spirit was wrapt, leav
ing the body inert, and almost lifeless.
Reside him sat a youth, who gazed up
on the face of his father, with a glance
of mournful interest. Ever and anon,
he turned impatiently towards the
glowing west, and then strained his eye
eastward, as if seeking there some ob
ject for which his spirit yearned. The
sun sunk—the soft twilight melted
away, and the burning Sirius arose to
bless the sight of the lone watcher—
utterly alone—though beside him, lay
his parent. Rut, steeped in an obliv
ious dream, that father no longer loved
his far-off home, his gentle wife, and his
fair, young children. The wild hills of
the north, once so dear, were forgotten;
activity had departed from his one
time courageous, and toil-seeking spirit,
and to the wild entreaties and remon
strances ofhis boy, whose heart yearn
ed passionately for his home and his
mother; he softly replied : “Let us
rest awhile.”
The youth listened to the words, un
til there fastened upon him, the convic
tion, that the chords of affection were
all broken and shattered in his father’s
heart, and he lived on in bitter isola
tion ot soul. Still, his heart turned
away, and sought over wide and stormy
seas, the bosom of his tender mother.
In imagination, he was with her—he
slept with his head pillowed on her
knee, her soft hand was amid his hair,
her breath on his brow, her kisses on
his lips. The music of her tones sung
ever in his ears, and what to him w ere
the wild-gushing melody of song-bird,
and the thousand harmonies in the air
around him ! The tears she shed at
parting, shone for him in every’ dew
drop that sparkled in the flower-bells,
in the spray of the falling waters, and
in every glimmering star. Eagerly he
watched the mounting orb, on which
they had gazed together,—which she
had first pointed out to him. She lov
ed—she watched it, her eye met his.
Blind w ith fast-falling tears, he turned
to the sleeper:
“Awake, my father! Arouse thee !
Look up ! See my mother’s star ! It
mounts higher and higher! It beckons
us away ! Oh ! let us fly from this fatal
shore! My mother weeps afar ! See,
my father, her star grows pale and
dim ! She weeps for us!”
He called in vain! Roused for a
moment, the sleeper turned languidly
his head, and murmured, “Let us rest
awhile.”
The wild appeal sunk into a low sob,
w hich broke the stillness through the
long night. The air wept its silent
dews upon the suffering boy : the stars
shone brightly’ upon him, and around
him, hovered —ail unseen by r mortal
eye—the spirits that ever minister to
sorrowing humanity.
CHAPTER 111.
Morning dawned, and to the ear of
the sleeper, came the song of the Lotos
eaters, who gathered, at early day, the
fruit, whose juice they loved so well.
He turned to his weary boy.
“Let us arise, my son. How refresh
ing is this morning air/’
Gladly the youth arose from his wea
ry vigil; und laying his hand on his
father’s arm, they wandered among the
trees. Ripe fruits hung in tempting
clusters on every side, and they ate as
they proceeded. The elder pulled ever
the rich, red lotos-berries; while the
younger passed them by, and gathered
the golden-rinded fruits, that refreshed,
without intoxicating. Gradually he
drew his father towards the sea; for
he hoped that its boundless grandeur,
aid the wild heaving of its dark-bo
somed billows, might arouse his torpid
spirit to the recollection of all that lay
beyond ; or, at least, to a memory of
the thrilling pleasure of careering over
its crested waves. They wandered
over the golden sands, the cool waters
crept up, and kissed their feet; and, as
far as the eye could reach, the sea look
ed temptingly bright. There too, lay
the gallant boat that had brought them
to this shore —high on the beach,
shrunken in every plank, by the heat
of the sun.
“See! my father, here is our dear
old boat! How often with her have
we shared the delights of the deep.—
Let us try them again. If we linger
here, she w'ill soon be beyond repair,
and we shall then be prisoners in spite
of our wishes. Then, oh think! we
should never again see our dear home,
my mother and sisters. Father, fath
er, thou can’st not give them up for
ever!” ’
“Nay, nay, my son, but we will rest
awhile, and when relieved of fatigue,
then we will go.”
Wildly the boy flung himself at his
father’s feet.
“Stay ! stay ! the slave of indolent
pleasure ! Live and die in this land of
sickly repose. Thou wert my father—
but I have a mother, and since thou
hast drowned her memory in thine in
toxication, I have no father ! Boy no
longer —my bosom swells with man
hood’s high resolves, and 1 follow the
linger that beckons me beyond the sea
—perhaps to a stormy grave, beneath
its wild waters ! Be it so—nearer my
mother, 1 shall slumber lightly —and I
care not where I perish, so I perish not
in this sickly clime !”
“Do as thou wilt, mad boy—l return
no more.” And he passed on to the
grove, whence the soft sounds of mu
sic told that the Lotophagi had com
menced their dances.
Left alone,the boy wandered towards
the boat; and gazing mournfully upon
its shattered sides, grief, fatigue and
excitement overcame him, and he sank
down upon the sand.
CHAPTER IV.
Luta was the loveliest of the Lotos
maidens. Her footstep was light as
the fall of flowers, and her movements
graceful as the bending spray. No
more ? There are many such forms !
Look in her dark and passionate eyes,
and see that a Soul informs her loveli
ness ; and if thou hast learned the
value of so rare a gift, thou can’st love
her for it, though beauty crowned not
her young form. Gayest in the dance,
she is tenderest beside the sick, most
pitiful and loving to the aged and the
children.
Luta had seen the fair haired Strang
ers of the north, and her young heart
was full of pity for the sad boy who
shunned their dances; whose eyes sought
not the maidens, and whose heart seem
ed ever wandering from the bright Ely
sium, which had intoxicated the elder
stranger. She had said to herself,
“Perhaps he mourns for his mother
and sisters. How sweet to be his sis
ter.” The timid girl had never ven
tured to approach him. The groups
of gay maidens had surrounded him
in their dances, flung garlands over his
pale brow, wooed him in witching song
to join their pleasures—but all in vain;
he had heeded them not. Luta had
shrunk away, for she venerated the
grief, that seemed to consume him. —
She had longed to steal silently to his
side, and w hisper words of comfort in
his ear; —but how could she ? Oh!
Luta, guard thy young heart! Pity ?
Pause! or thou wilt love in vain!—
Thine were a heart worthy of the no
ble youth—but he goes from earthly
love.
Luta’s quick eye missed the strangers
when she joined the morning dance in
the grove. Her heart was troubled,
and her thoughts forsook the festivity.
The elder came alone. She could en
dure the gay scene no longer, and steal
ing through the shrubbery, she wan
dered away. She said : “I will go look
at the vessel that brought the strangers
to our land.” She had often viewed it
with wonder ; for the Lotophagi were
ignorant of the art of navigation, and
a ship they deemed more wondrous
than some strange monster of the deep.
Footsteps were on the sand, but he
was not there; for Luta strained her
eyes up and down the beach, ere she
ventured to proceed. She reached the
vessel, looked at it with interest, and
passed round it. She turns to fly—
she pauses —trembles —looks back.—
Stretched on the sand, is the youth of
whom she dreams. Shall she go ? He
is moveless. Does he sleep ? Timid
ly she returns, and softly approaches
him. She kneels beside him. Will
she go ? No! no ! no ! He is sense
less. The sun beats on his bare head
—he heeds it not. Hot tears are on
his face—he feels them not! But, if
life is yielded to love, he will live !
She sits beside him, and bathes his brow
and hands, and shades him from the
heat of the ascending sun. He revives.
Now r , she will go. But, a hand is on
hers, and a voice murmurs :
“Go not, my sister.” He dreams ;
but the words thrill her heart.
“Oh! let me be your sister, and
share your sorrow.”
He lifted his eyes, and met the earn
est gaze of hers, large, dark and timid
ly pleading. Like his sisters, they w T ere
full of tenderness.
“Bless thee, gentle girl, for thy soft
tendance. But, waste not thy’ cares
on the lone stranger: the dance and
the song are for such as thou ; but for
me, there is no more pleasure.”
“Rest, oh rest! Thou art sick and
weak. I will bind thy brows with the
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, FEB. 22, 1851.
soft leaf, that will heal thy malady ;
and 1 will tend thee till strength re
turn to thy limbs, aud then, perhaps,
thou wilt call me sister again.”
“Sister, my sweet sister, thou shalt
be, for thou hast forsaken thy gay com
panions for me. Thou hast a kind
heart. Far beyond the sea, I have a
mother, and a young sister. She is
beautiful as thou ait, yet unlike thee.
She is fair as the foam of yonder wave;
her hair is vellow as this golden sand,
and the heavens are not more blue than
her soft eyes. But her heart looks
through them as thine does through
thy darker orbs, showing that, in soul
at least, ye are akin. Gentle girl, I
will love thee for her sake, and thou
too, shalt be my sister.” Luta asked
no more.
CHAPTER V-
Day after day passed, anti each one
found the noble boy labouring to lit
the shattered boat for sea. ’ Nerved
by his high purpose, he took little heed
of his fast failing strength. He toiled
on, tire in his eye, enthusiasm in his
heart. Luta was ever with hint; and,
like a true sister, helped him as she
could. But, will he go away, and leave
her to pine alone ? Oh! no. lie will
bear her to his distant home—she shall
be another daughter to his dear moth
er. And she !—will she abandon coun
try and friends for the pale stranger ?
She loves—question it not! Oh ! youth,
thy heart is full of joyous hope : thou
see'st but the sun, and forgettest that
his brightness begets the wild tempest
that may desolate the loveliest scene,
on which his beams ever shone. ’Tis
well, the present alone is thine; enjoy
it, for dark are the shadows of the
coming future.
When the labours of the day were
ended, the boy and the maiden reposed
on the soft grass ; and amid the beauty
of the still night, he won her ear, by
recounting the wondrous legends of
the north—by descriptions of his coun
try —its barren heaths, and desolate
moors, and its snow-clad scenes, over
which, howled the fierce winds, when
wintry skies grew’ dark. He told her
of his wanderings by sea and land ; of
the strange savages who dwelt in the
isles of the deep. He taught her the
names of the stars, and the thrilling
histories they chronicle. lie pointed
to the burning Sirius—the star his
mother loved—the association was ir
resistible, and he turned from the hea
vens to speak of his mother—of her
gentleness and piety. - Luta listened,
until her love for the youth—who, to
her, seemed possessed of all knowl
edge,—grew,till it embraced his friends,
his home, his country, all that was dear
to him. Thus is it ever. Love ex
pands the heart, widens aud deepens its
sympathies. Let it be pure, and it
will overleap the barriers of association
and prejudice, and create for the soul
that cherishes it, an existence more
boundless than the material universe,
and lasting as the eternity of God !
One morning Luta sought her broth
er on the beach ; but not finding him
there, she turned to the wood. His
name echoed through the grove, but
there was no reply. Soon she discov
ered him, stretched on the grass. She
was quickly beside him. He was lan
guid and faint, and seemed incapable
of the least effort. Luta bent over
him in speechless sorrow. The glitter
ing brightness of his eye, and the rich
colour in his cheek had deceived her,
and she had believed that health had
returned to him. Now, his shrunken
and pallid features, and the relaxation
of his whole form, convinced her that
she had been mistaken. Her agony
\va< indescribable.
He took her hand, and pressed it to
his cold lips.
“Luta, my lovely, my beloved sister,
I must leave you. I may not stay
longer with you.”
“But, you have told me I should go
with you, and how can you go so soon?
Yonder boat will not yet bear us over
the sea.”
“Listen to me, dearest Luta. Last
night I was on the beach long after you
left me. I mused over the past —on
all that thou hast been to me, and on
the future. A light cloud seemed sleep
ing on the sea. Gradually it arose,
and gathering its far-spreading misti
ness into filmy brightness, slowly it
took the form of a woman. Luta, my
mother walked the waters ! I would
have rushed into the sea, to grasp the
lovely being, but a resistless power
bound me to the earth. Slowly, the
w’ondrous form advanced, gliding, mist
like, over the hushed waves. Lovely,
serene, 1 could not mistake my mother.
She looked at me with her soft, tender
eyes, and beckoned me with her sha
dowy hand. My heart was filled wdth
wonder and terror. I spoke not —
moved not —but down, deep in my
soul, was a voice, which said: ‘I come
to thee, my mother!’ I came here at
dawn. I shall not go away again. Tell
them, Luta, to bury me in the sea.
The winds and waves will bear me to
my mother. Perhaps my father will
love her again, when I am gone. Luta,
hold mv hand. Kiss me my sweet
sister. Now I will sleep !”
lie closed his eyes, and death sealed
them, lightly as does sleep the lids of
babes. Luta, poor Luta! watched and
wept long, long, long. But he awoke
no more. He had gone to join his be
loved mother in the land of shadows,
for she had died of grief for her lost
husband and son. The faithful Luta
soon followed him. They sleep to
gether on that distant shore; and the
sea moans a perpetual requiem over
their low grave.
Charleston, January, 1851.
ftlrrlrii €nlts.
From the London Court Journal.
A CHANGE OF FORTUNE-
On the 3d of January, 1838, during
the cold which reigned so severely in
Paris, at the moment when the snow
was falling in heavy flakes, a stoppage
of passengers, horses, and vehicles
took place suddenly at the corner of
the Rue St. Honore, and the Rue de 1’
Arbre Sec.
“What’s the matter?” asked a young
man, whose accent declared him to be
an inhabitant of the South of France.
“1 really can’t inform you, Monsieur,
1 was going to ask the question my
self.”
“It's only a man who has fallen on
the ice,” said an orange woman who
had overheard the colloquy. Nothing
more. “Two sous a piece—come buy!”
“It’s a man dead drunk,” said a por
ter, pushing his way out of the crowd.
“Bah!” cried an old woman, “1 bet
that it’s those cursed omnibusses w hich
has overturned some poor wretch. I
had my leg broken by one two years
ago.”
“No such thing,” cried a stout man,
warmly wrapped up in a thick wrap
per, a large handkerchief up to his
nose, and his hands fixed in his side
pockets. “It’s no such thing. It’s a
man struck with cold and hunger, lie
is dying —that’s evident. Poor man !
These things quite affect me ! I should
have stopped to lend him some assis
tance, bat the fact is, 1 am too late as
it is, for my wife is waiting dinner for
me. Pardon, Monsieur, permit me to
pass.”
The stranger, however, to whom this
request was addressed,pushed the stout
man in a contrary direction, and pres
sed through the crowd of gazers until
lie arrived, not without difficulty, at
the spot where the cause of this as
semblage was lying. There, near the
fountain, was extended on the ice, an
old man scarcely covered with a lew
rags. The stranger, yielded only to
the dictates of a kind heart, stooped
down, and was in the act of raising the
unhappy man, w hen a cry broke the si
lence of the crowd, and a sweet voice
exclaimed, with deep emotion, “It is
my poor old man !”
At the same moment a young girl
piercing the crowd came forward to
join her feeble aid to that of the stran
gar. ,
“\ou know him, then ?” he demand
ed without looking at the new comer,
but in trying to prevent her from hav
ing any share of the burden.
“Yes and no, Monsieur,” she replied,
in taking out a smelling bottle. ‘1
know him by sight, and am ignorant of
his name.”
A third person came to add his as
sistance to the efforts of the young
people. “It is old Gerald !” said he :
“He must have gone out this morning
the first time for these four days. This
way, Monsieur,” said he, speaking to
the stranger. “He lives at number 30,
and I am the porter of the house. —
Come, let me take your place, my lit
tle woman,” continued he to the young
girl; “this gentleman and lean take
him to his room at the top of the
house. It is sheer want that has re
duced him to this state. They say he
was once rich, and I believe it; for it
is only’ the rich who allow’ themselves
to famish from hunger when they are
poor—we have still two stories to go
up—l would not be guilty of such a
foolish act; I would at once go to the
Mayor and demaud aid. Take care—
the stairs are so steep —there’s a step;
it is so dark here, you can’t well see
it. It is different with me, lam used
to the place —that’s the door. Push.
He never needed a key to lock up his
property, poor man. They say Gerard
is not his real name—Diable! how
cold it is up here under these tiles !”
They placed the old man on some
straw’ in the corner of the garret, and
the stranger hastened to feel his pulse.
“He is dying of cold and want,” cried
he, “here my friend, here’s some money
for you; bring up some soup, some
wine, and a fire.” The porter held out
his hand to take the money, when the
stranger suddenly exclaimed, after hav
ing searched his pockets, “Good heav
ens ! they have taken my purse,” and
his features expressed most vividly
vexation and fear for the old man’s re
covery.
“I will get them.” cried a gentle
voice ; it was that of the young girl,
who had follow ed them unperceived.
She hurried out of the room, and re
turned speedily ; for she perceived that
the slightest delay might be fatal. A
woman followed her, bringing fire and
wood, w’ith which she lit a fire and then
retired. The young messenger was
loaded with a bottle of wine, a small
loaf, and the wing of a fowl, wrapped
up in a newspaper. She placed the
whole near the old man, and then,
kneeling down, arranged the fire, and
stirred it up to a blaze.
The old man, by degrees recovered
his senses ; he was presented with food
in small quantities, and in a short time
animation was restored. Too weak to
thank his benefactors, he could only ex
press his feelings by looks of the most
touching gratitude, particularly when
they rested on the young girl, still oc-
cupied near the hearth. To the stran
ger she appeared nothing else than a
charming and mysterious vision. Who
could this young creature be, who so
earnestly and effectively devoted her
time to a w’ork of charity, when her
own attire gave every indication of
privation and penury ? Cold as the
weather was, the bonnet which encir
cled her delicate and beautiful features
was of black straw; thin silk gloves,
mended in several places, served to
cover her hands, but certainly not to
guarantee them from the cold. An old
cachemerc, worn to the last extremity,
was throw n over a faded gown of dark
silk,and her whole appearance betoken
ed the absence of any warm garment.
The young man would undoubtedly
have been struck by the extreme beau
ty of her features had there been no
other charm to attract him, but there
w as about her that indescribable some
thing which pleases man more than
mere beauty ; and that is, a union of
goodness and elegance, which is, in
deed, but seldom met with, but when
seen, is irresistible. At last, her self
imposed task was over; she approach
ed the old man, and stooping down to
wards him, nodded her head kindly as
she uttered the words, “1 will soon re
turn.”
She then took up a small case which
site had put down on her entrance, and
saluting the stranger she left the room,
and descended the narrow stairs w ith
a rapid step.
The young man gazed at her for a
moment, then turned towards the inva
lid. “I, on the contrary, shall not re
turn, for 1 leave Paris this evening;
but you will soon hear from me.” He
then pressed the old man’s hand kind
ly and departed. When he emerged
from tint gateway of the house into
the street, though hopeless of seeing
his young assistant in the work of be
nevolence in which he had been enga
ged, lie still could not avoid looking
round, if by chance she was still in
sight. As chance would have it, she
was standing, as if undecided, at the
door of a jeweler’s shop at some dis
tance. At last, she appeared to have
formed her determination, for she open
ed the door and entered. Without ex
actly analyzing the cause of his curi
osity, the stranger approached the win
dow ot the shop, and observed what
was passing inside. lie saw the young
girl takeoff her glove; and whilst he
was admiring the dazzling whiteness
and aristocratic form of the hand, she
drew with some emotion, a ring from
her finger, and presented it to the per
son at the counter. He took it, exam
ined it carefully, rubbed and tested,and
tested the stone, and then methodically
took out a small pair of scales, aud
having ascertained the weight, offered
his customer a price, which it was easy
to see she accepted, from the move
ment of assent with which she bent
her head. The jeweler opened a draw
er, and counted some money, which he
pushed over the counter; and having
written down in his book her name and
address, he cast the ring into another
drawer, amongst a heap of jewels of
all forms and colours. The girl then
departed, and in a minute afterwards,
the young man entered the shop.
In a short time afterwards she turned
into a plain looking house, in one of
the streets of the Rue St. Ilonore; and
opening the door of a room on the rez
dechausse , she entered hastily, crying,
“Here I am, dear mother. You must
have been uneasy at my long absence?”
Madame Revial, the person to whom
these words were addressed, appeared
infirm, though more from trouble than
years. She was stretched on a sofa,
and appeared in delicate health. Her
features, usually pale, assumed an ap
pearance of animation when her daugh
ter entered, and then became more
sombre than before.
“Dear Anna,” said she, “I have an
unpleasant piece of news to acquaint
you with; it was this, perhaps, that
made me rather fear your return, then
take note of your prolonged absence.”
Anna, having cast on a chair her
shawl and bonnet, immediately seated
herself on a low stool near the end of
the sofa, which supported her mother’s
head. The latter passed her hand, af
fectionately over the dark hair of her
daughter, and then continued :
“You know’ that your father had
promised your hand to the son of Mr.
Barsac, of Bordeaux, his oldest friend.
The death of your father—the length
ened illness which has so much reduced
me—had not overcome my courage, as
long as I could live in the hope of see
ing you one day rich and happy, under
the protection of a worthy husband.
This very morning, the scaffolding of
happiness, which I loved so much to
build up for you, fell to the ground.
This letter addressed to our old habi
tation, ought to have come to hand
yesterday. Here, read it yourself.”
Anna took the letter which her moth
er held out to her, and looking at the
signature, remarked, “It is from M.
Jules Barsac himself.” She then read
the contents aloud.
“Madame —As long as fortune smil
ed on me, 1 thought with delight on the
alliance which M. Revial and my fath
er had contracted for me; but the late
failure of the firm of Danderlias &
Cos., has drawn on ours; and as a man
of honour, I deem myself bound to re
store you your promise. If your daugh
ter and myself w-ere acquainted, and if
mutual affection had been the basis of
the projected union, I would have bent
my knee before you, Madame, and
prayed you to wait until I had repaired
our disasters; but have I the right to
call on another to partake in my pov
erty, and to join in my labours ? Do
I even know’ what space of time it may
take to acquire a fortune worthy of
that which you have lost? He that is
above can only tell. Your daughter,
brought up under your protecting care,
is, as 1 am informed, both amiable and
lovely. Who is there then, who will
not be proud and happy to give her an
honourable name, and a position in
society equal to that in which she was
born? As to me, I have nothing left,
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 43 WHOLE NO. 143.
and unwillingly I am forced to renounce
the favour designed for me. You w’ill
pardon me, Madame, for leaving Paris
w ithout paying my respects to you ;
but I should fear, after having seen
your daughter, to carry with me a
keen regret, which might trouble the
calm ot an existence now consecrated
to labour.
Farewell then, Madame; believe me
to be penetrated with every sentiment
of respect for you, and to remain
lour most humble
aud obedient servant,
Jules Barsac.”
The young girl paused a moment af
ter reading the note, and then raising
her eyes to meet her mother’s, she re
marked, as she placed it on a work-table
—“Do you not think, mother, that this
letter is perfect; except the too high
opinion expressed of me? 1 really
think that M. Barsac w rites with the
utmost good sense. I almost regret
that I have not seen a man whose con
duct is actuated by such honourable
motives.”
“This letter,” said Madame Revial,
mournfully, “certainly augments my
regret. I feel that I could have loved
loved this young man as a son. Now
what a different lot awaits you! Are
you not terrified at the idea of being
obliged to work for your poor mother?”
“How unkind,” said Anna, “how unlike
yourself! Why, what is it after all?
Formerly 1 embroidered to amuse my
self now I do the same to contribute
to your comfort. The latter will be
surely the more agreeable. Bsides, 1
can do it now so much more cheerfully.
Look, I have disposed of the collar,”
and she showed the empty case which
she brought in, “and here’s the price
obtained for it,” placing three pieces of
money on the table.
A light knofik at the door interrupt
ed the conversation ; Anna cast a look
of inquietude at her mother, for since
the loss of their fortune, no visit had
broken their solitude.
“Go and open it,” said the lady with
a smile. She obeyed, aud the opened
door gave entrance to a man, whom
she immediately recognized as the
stranger who had assisted the poor old
sufferer.
The countenance of Mademoiselle
Revial at once assumed a grave and
severe expression. Her mother per
ceived the change, but before she could
make an inquiry into the cause, the
stranger advanced aud saluting her with
respect, said, “Madame, you are, I pre
sume, the mother of this young lady?”
Madame Revial made a sign of as
sent, and pointed out a chair to the
stranger. He took it, and continued,
“Chance this morning brought Mada
ntoisclle and myself together in afford
ing assistance to an unhappy —”
“Oh! mother,” interrupted the young
girl, w’hose neck and face were covered
with blushes at this allusion to the
morning’s adventure, “I have not had
time to tell you all about it. Do you
remember the poor old man who gen
orally took up his station at the door
of our hotel formerly ! He always
wore a green bandage over his eyes, to
conceal his face from the passers-by,
and held a small basket of matches in
his hand—”
“Yes,” interrupted Madame Revial
in her turn, “I remember him well;
your father always dropped some mon
ey into the basket when returning from
the Bourse. You used always to call
him your poor old man ; and you, lit
tle as you were, delighted in giving
him everything you could scrape to
gether.”
“Well, since our departure from the
hotel, we have asked each other a hun
dred times what could have become of
him.”
“Yes,” said Madame Revial with in
terest.
“Well, mother, I found him to-day
at last, but in such a state of wretch
edness that 1 was shocked. Stretched
on the snow, dying, absolutely, of cold
and hunger ; and, w ithout the kind as
sistance of this gentleman, he must
have perished where he lay.”
“Say, rather, without your’s,” said
the young man earnestly. “1 could do
nothing, for I had lost my purse. To
you, and you alone, is he indebted for
life.” “But,” continued he in a differ
ent tone, seeing the bright colour again
mounting rapidly to Anna’s face, “it is
not for the purpose of disclosing to
this lady the secret of your good ac
tions that 1 have follow’ed you here; it
is to request you to take the trouble
of buying a bed and some other little
necessaries for this poor child of mis
fortune. Here are a hundred francs,
that you will have the kindness to em
ploy for this purpose. I pray you to
believe that if 1 was not a stranger in
Paris, and on the point of quitting it
this very evening, 1 would not take this
liberty with persons to whom 1 am not
known. I trust that you will excuse
my request.”
“There is no necessity to offer any
apology,” said Madame Revial; “on
the contrary, we ought to thank you for
having selected us to complete a be
nevolent action.”
“Now’, Madame,” added the young
man, with a hesitating and timid man
ner, “it only remains for me to inquire
the name of my young sister in this
work of kindness.”
“Mademoiselle Anna Revial.”
A cry of astonishment broke from
the stranger —“The daughter of M.
Revial, of Bordeaux, who lost his for
tune by trusting in a friend, and died
of grief?”
“Alas! you have but too truly stated
the case. How does it happen that
you are acquainted with these facts ?”
“I am Jules Barsac,” said the young
man, in a voice scarcely audible.
Anna grew pale, and w’ent and placed
herself near her mother’s seat. A
mournful silence succeeded for a short
time, and it was Jules who broke it.
“Ah! Madame,” said he, suddenly
rising, “I perceive that I yesterday
sent you my renunciation of a life of
happiness. This letter,” and he took
it from the table —“this letter,” he re
peated, as he slightly touched it with
the finger of his l ight hand with a look
of disgust—‘'permit me to destroy it,
and to forget that it was ever written.”
Looking from one lady to the other,
and seeing no sign of opposition, he
tore it down the middle, and threw the
portions into the fire. lie watched
them until the flame had seized on ev
ery part; and then, as if content that
it was wholly and irrecoverably de
stroyed, he approached Madame Re
vial, and bent his knee before her, as
she regarded alternately, with the ut
most satisfaction, her daughter, and
him whom she would have chosen for
her son-in-law', if the choice had been
in her power. “For if the memory of
this unhappy letter cannot altogether
pass aw ay, and if part of it must still
remain in your remembrance, think on
ly of the words which ‘lf your daugh
ter and myself had been acquainted.’
We are acquainted, and know each
other already as if we had never been
apart. Do not separate those whom
charrity has united. I just now called
Mademoiselle by the name of sister;
let me call her by another name, not
less kind, but more sacred —that of
wife. 1 have no fortune to offer her,
but I feel myself now animated by
double courage and hope. For her—
for you, Madame, who will never quit
us, 1 will work with energy and deter
mination, and I feel that 1 shall succeed
in my efforts. Oh! Madame, deign to
answer me! But you weep—you give
me your hand—von consent to my re
quest ?”
“And you, Anna, what do you say?”
asked Madame Revial, as she held out
the other hand to her daughter.
“Have I ever any other will than
yours, dear mother ?” and she pressed
the hand to her lips.
“You consent, then, Mademoiselle ?”
said Jules; “then you will allow me
to present you this ring as a mark of
our engagement.”
He handed a little ring set round
with turquoises.
“It is Anna’s ring!” said Madame
Revial, with surprise.
“Yes, mother,” said Anna, quite con
fused ; “I was obliged to sell it to re
place the money I had received for my
embroidery.
“It was in purchasing it that I dis
covered your address, although you en
tered in the jeweler’s book only the
name of Anna. It is to this ring that
I owe the happiness of again beholding
you.” He took, as he spoke, the unre
sisting hand of the young girl, and
placed on her finger the pledge of their
union.
The same evening, in order to fulfil
the benevolent intentions of M. Barsac,
who was obliged to leave town for
Bordeaux, Anna returned to the old
man’s lodging. He was no longer to
be found ; he had disappeared, without
pointing out his new’ abode!
******
A month after, in the humble lodg
ing of Madame Revial, a few friends
were assembled to witness the signing
of the marriage contract before the no
tary, who soon made his appearance ;
he was followed by an elderly man,
richly attired. As the latter was not
introduced, no person took much notice
of him, for each was too much occu
pied with the ceremony for which they
had come together. Madame Revial
was still an invalid, and had her daugh
ter seated near her. Jules Barsac was
standing on the other side. The nota
ry placed his portfolio on the table, and
took from it a contract of marriage,
which he proceeded to read aloud. Af
ter having specified the little property
of the bridegroom, he went on to de
tail the fortune of the lady: “Madame
Revial makes over to her daughter the
sum of £I,OOO per year—”
“You are making a mistake, Mon
sieur,” interrupted Madame Revial;
“formerly, indeed, I did intend—”
“The notary, without paying any at
tention to this interruption, continued
—“£1,000 a year, arising from money
in the public funds, for which here are
the securities.”
Saying this, he displayed the coup
ons on the table, and Madame Revial,
her daughter, and Jules Barsac, all
made a movement as if about to speak,
when the aged stranger arose, and
made a sign to them to remain silent.
Surprised at this interference, they
awaited with interest the result of this
strange scene.
“What,” said the old man, with a
broken voice, and addressing Anna,
“what, Mademoiselle ! do you not re
member your poor old man
Whilst she w r as looking earnestly at
him, trying to read in his calm and ven
erable countenance, the marks of mis
ery and suffering, he continued—
“ You have then, forgotten ten years
of daily kindness ? You have forgot
ten the 3d of January, with the assis
tance you gave so opportunely—the
fire, the wine, and the wing of fowl
wrapped up in a piece of newspaper?
All forgotten ? Well, that very piece
of newspaper is the cause of all my
misery being at an end. In an adver
tisement which it bore, I read the intel
ligence that a French gentleman,
named Francois de Chazel, had been
for years seeking in vain for his broth
er, Jacques de Chazel, ruined, like him,
in the revolution ; and that, by his will,
he had ordered an advertisement to be
inserted every week, for three years,
that the brother might come forward
and claim his ample fortune. That
Jacques de Chazel stands now before
you,—it is 1. Without delay I set out
for London, and only returned yester
day. Your notary,” continued he,speak
ing to Madame Revial, “is mine: from
him I heard of the intended marriage
of your daughter. To that angel l
owe my life, and the least I can do is
to present her with a part of that for
tune which without her, never would
have reached her hands.”
“But, Monsieur, ’ said Madame Re
vial, with emotion, “perhaps you have
a family ?”
“Yes, Madame,” replied he, bowing
low as he spoke, “if you will admit me
into yours.”
“Ah, you have made part of our