Newspaper Page Text
WDTMSM MIME EMBUS.
TERMS, S2.no PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE.
j (Original jDrtrt;.
Korthe Southern Literary Gazette.
THE ABSENT ONE.
BV ISJA AVINTA.
The HUM hath sped ;
His golden head
Lieth lowly, lowly ;
[)ay hath (It'd,
Nitrht instead,
( reepeth slowly, slowly:
Sleep forsakes my weary head,
Downward sinking, sinking.
Weary, drowsy and oppressed,
(hit still never finding rest,
Ever thinking, thinking.
listless brain,
Why again
‘Thinking sadly, sadly ?
Wilt not refrain l
Canst not remain
Hoping gladly, gladly ?
\\l thy toil is in vain,
Time is fleeting, fleeting,
Whom now absent you deplore,
Soon as happy as before,
You’ll be meeting, meeting.
Troubled heart.
Why with start
Sudden beating, beating?
Soothe thy smart,
Let time depart,
And you’ll soon be meeting:
Think that now her faithful heart
Towards thee burning, burning,
E’en in sleep is hoping, dreaming
Os the hour with gladness beaming,
When she’ll be returning.
Think that He
Who doth see
Ever brightly, brightly,
O’er her and thee,
Will ever be
Watching nightly, nightly;
Let your anxious thoughts then flee,
And his care requesting,
Know that lie to her is near—
Banish every doubt and fear,
And he resting, resting.
(Original (Tnlrn.
i the Southern Literary Gazette.
(! IA CO P 0 •
BV ISJA AVINTA.
CHAPTER I.
You have seen the Italians who seem
to pick up a vagabond livelihood, with
their music and plaster figures ? Many
„f them look villanous enough, and all
are dirty. But sometimes you see
among them, a face which straightway
sets you speculating upon the poor fel
low's history. It comes upon you like
anew thought, that his whole lite is not
to be found in this wandering and beg
ging; that he was not born, just grown
a’ he is, into this occupation; and that
In actually, is not altogether like the
ihangeless figures which he sells, but
that there is a part of his existence
which is hidden from you; and that he
lias his hopes, his affections, his circle
of relatives, his social condition, his
griefs, his enjoyments, everything, in
short, of humanity in his sphere, as
really as you have in yours. And then
iou feel a sort of curiosity, tinged with
soilless (at least, 1 do) —to know all
about that under, unseen life of his ;
the sadness, perhaps, arising from some
not definitely shaped-out thought, that
there is a gulf between you; that is,
that his dear and enjoyed things are
altogether different from yours , and so
that somehow, after all, his life, his hu
manity, is inferior to, and less happy
than your own. You associate his
whole life and image with the occupa
tion in which alone, and always you
s ee him engaged, and so come to think
of him in a sort of mechanical way ;
but when you reflect upon his other
life, his being, tilled like yours with
motions, hopes, loves, griefs, and
“oven among its several objects in his
unseen sphere, all as real and absorb
h> him as yours to you, and yet quite
different in many respects —or accidents
;l - philosophers would say ; then it is
that there arises that sort of saddened
curiosity we have mentioned. When
“e arc happy, and conscious of supe
rior blessings, perhaps it is difficult for
us to believe, that others differently
circumstanced, especially inferiors, can
r equally happy in their way, and this
may ho one element in the feeling al
luded to. But, at all events, we feel
uo curiosity to know how the poor
Italian lives, when he is not carrying
‘bout his music and figures; what is
bis social and domestic life; what, and
“honi he loves; and how their round
r f life rolls on.
Well! it is just such a face that
pauses beneath the windows of Julian’s
house. It belongs to a hare-footed Ital
ian hoy,—he cannot lie fourteen or
scarce older —who, with a little musi
cal instrument, pauses before the door,
plays a short air, and then seats him
s, ls upon the steps. The sound of the
musie draws the children to the win
dow.
“I wonder why he stops playing?”
Sa ys one.
“See ! he is sitting down, and looks
“> tired,” says the girl ; “do mamma,
‘‘‘ l Us call him in to play for us ! Per
>s be wants something to eat.”
So tin* bov is summoned into the
L J
K, use. With a very* courteous air he
‘“‘Utes his auditors, and commences
Paying where he stands, but in a very
a fM&Utt wik mmm n Lmmrni. tm aiiys Am mrnm. mb m be mm&smaL
feeble and tremulous manner. He is
pale, and to any eye, evidently weak
and unwell. Little Julie slides a stool
to him, and asks him to sit down. —
How surprised and thankful he looks !
Then he looks to the mother, as if ask
ing permission to seat himself before
the gentry ; and during these little in
cidents his music ceases.
“Sit down, my hoy;” said Lucy,
“you seem to he unwell.”
“Ask him, mamma,” whispered Ju
lie, “if he wants something to eat.”
“Can you play Mai brook for me?”
demands Edgar.
The Italian commences preluding up
on his instrument; and Julie coaxing
a key from her mother, slips otF. In
the midst of the tune, however, she
returns, and very quietly deposites be
side the musician, her plate of cake and
buttered bread. There is certainly
more cake than bread. The Italian
ceases playing, and looks at Julia with
evident surprise and gratitude; hut
by this time she is hack close to her
mother’s side. He looks wistfully at
the tempting plate, and commences
playing again ; yet his hand falters
more than before.
“My poor boy,” says Lucy going up
to him, “wont you eat something ?
You look very faint and weary ; 1 will
send you some wine ; perhaps you will
feel better after eating; and you can
play for us afterwards, we will come
back here again presently.” And she
makes a sign for the children to follow
her.
But the Italian rises up; his eyes
glisten with tears, and he eagerly says :
“Me thank you —much—much, Signo
ra, but me no English.”
But Lucy has Italian, and she addres
ses him in hisown tongue. The little wan
derer bursts into tears, . nd exclaims
in his own language—“ You arc too
good, Signora ! You are a princess !
an angel! 1 have found no kindness
like this in your country before. No
body can speak my language; nobody
has pity for me ; but, Signora, 1 am
very sick; 1 have eaten nothing--noth
ing, for two days ; and sometimes I
have no where to sleep. It is a very
hard life, Signora; and this very morn
ing, a man beat me and took away my
pennies that I am trying to save to
carry me back to Italy. Oh! 1 w ish
the Blessed Virgin would take me back
to Italy !
“Sit down, —sit down, my poor
child,” says Lucy, who sees that the
hoy is quite exhausted and trembling,
“take courage, you shall yet go back
to Italy. But you must rest yourself,
and have something to eat; and then
you shall tell me your history, and
we’ll talk about Italy. What is your
name?”
“Giacopo, Signora,” replies the Ital
ian faintly, and almost sinking from
his seat, “but excuse me, for 1 am—”
“Oh ! mamma, he has fainted !” ex
claimed the children.
“Why, Lucy —children! what is the
matter ?” demands J ulian, who enters
at this moment. His wife briefly ex
plains.
“We must get him to bed instantly,”
says Julian, “no countryman of Ange
lo and Raphael shall want such help
as we can give. What a beautiful and
noble face! The boy does not look
like a peasant. Edgar, ring the bell;
we must take him to your bed for the
present.” And so the unconscious lad
is borne out of the hall.
“I shouldn’t wonder, if he turns out
to be some nobleman’s son,” says Ed
gar to his sister as they follow.
“Yes,” responds Julia, “and he is so
handsome —and his feet are so small!”
CHAPTER 11.
Giacopo was ill, very ill; and al
though the violent paroxism of disease
had passed, there was too much reason
to fear that he would gradually sink,
and never behold his dear Italy again.
Yet weariless was the attention and
care of the benevolent family of the
artist, —for such was Julian by profes
sion—-and endless their exercise of in
genuity to soothe and beguile the lan
guid hours of the foreign boy. The
children had been disappointed, but
scarcely sorry, (for they loved him
just as much,) in discovering that not
withstanding Giacopo’s handsome face,
and gentlemanly air,and small feet, he
was no nobleman’s son, but the child
of a poor Leghornese widow. For
Lucy and Julian had at various times
gathered from him a history, which is
qu.te at our disposal. It is very mea
gre, and may he briefly told.
Maria Penci had lost her husband
soon after the birth of her son ; and
by untiring industry and steadiness of
character, she had contrived to live de
cently, and to aflord Giacopo some
sort of education at an humble day
school. He was fond of reading, and
his good mother was often grieved by
the master’s complaints, that Giacopo
wasted his precious time much more
over two old volumes of Tasso and
Ariosto, (which he had purchased for
some boyish playthings from some of
his school-fellows,) than he improved it
by due attent ion to the lessons set by his
sapient teacher, in the profound mys
teries of the first four rules of Arith
metic, or in the learned pages of a
Geography, which taught him the in
teresting and accurate facts, that Eng
land was an obscure island, in which
the people were all blood-thirsty here
tics, and the kings all murderous poly
gamists. Giacopo had learned some
thing, too, of music, by the assistance
of a good neighbour, who had lent him
an instrument resembling the one which
had been the means of introducing him
to his present asylum.
Thus monotonously’, however, did
matters go on for years; Maria work
ing, and growing more and more com
fortable in her circumstances; Giacopo
plodding lazily at school, and growing
more and more versed in the Poets
and his music, until a visitor came to
Leghorn, who put new notions into the
brain of the quiet and idle boy. This
was the brother of Maria’s deceased
husband ; a wild, roving character, who
inflamed Giacopo’s imagination with
extraordinary stories concerning foreign
lands, and who being about to set out
upon a wandering tour as a seller of
images, endeavoured to persuade the
boy to accompany him as a musician.
“Who knows,” said he artfully to his
simple nephew ; “but that you may
have adventures like the fine, wander
ing cavaliers you lead about in your
Poets; and astonish Maria some day
by coming back with loads of gold, a
princess for your wife, and a coronet
on your lucky head ? Ah ! if you on
ly possessed a fine mandola! 1 know
a friend who has such a beautiful one
for sale; if Maria would only buy it
for you, you would be sure to make
your fortune, instead of living here up
on your poor mother, and perhaps half
starving all your days as a servant, or
a petty- artizan in this dull town.”—
Giacopo was in sad perplexity. lie be
lieved every word his uncle said, and
was eager to have the mandola, and to
go forth seeking his fortune, but he was
grieved at the thought of leaving his
mother; while she, for her part, did
not credit the half that her brother-in
law affirmed, and would, by no means
hear of parting with her son. An
event, however occurred, which gave a
new turn to affairs.
A lire rendered Maria a houseless
beggar. All that she saved from the
ruthless conflagration —except the very
clothes she wore—was a very small
sum in silver. She now yielded to her
brother-in-law’s entreaties, and urged
Giacopo—who was then more unwil
ling than ever to leave her—to go with
his uncle and seek his fortune. For
herself, she was able at once to procure
the situation of a very humble domes
tic; but it was impossible with her al
most nominal wages to provide longer
for Giacopo, nor was it easy for him to
obtain employment. Maria decided on
the spot. She purchased the mandola
without her son’s knowledge, and put
ting it into his hands, with smiles and
tears, commended him to all the saints,
and committed him solemnly to his
uncle’s charge, with the earnest injunc
tion that he should not too much pro
long his wanderings, but be contented
with moderate gains and speedily re
turn to his native city*.
A voyage in the steerage ofa barque
brought the image-maker and his young
companion directly from Leghorne to
the” city in which Julian resided. A
few weeks had they wandered through
its streets, plying their beggarly occu
pation by day, and occupying such
lodging as chance afforded by night—
sometimes in a churchyard, or beneath
some sheltering porch; sometimes,when
their gains permitted, hiring a wretched
lodgment for a night, in some of those
dens, of whose existence in a great
city, oidy the abject and the police ap
pear to be cognizant. One day, wheth
er by design or accident, the image
seller was separated from his nephew,
and the lad was left abandoned in the
world. Fruitless was his search for
the companion of his wanderings ; and
on the second day after this mischance,
Giacopo found his asylum in the artist’s
house.
Now ten to one, if the lad happened
to play beneath your window, you lis
tened carelessly to his simple music,
perhaps, were annoyed, and threw him
some small coin, not for charity or re
compense, but to be rid of his humble
mandola ; and never bestowed further
thought upon the seeming idle vaga
bond, nor reflected that his poverty
might be gilded by the honest hope of
affording aid to some well-loved pa
rent ; nor that his unseen heart might
be as full of affections or keen sorrows
as your own ; nor that, perchance, he
might have some distant mother to
wards whom he yearned, and who
might be weaving tender dreams of his
every step, and putting up loving pray
ers for his success and safe return from
the foreign laud, where none could
know or sympathize with his hopes, his
affections and his griefs. In short, it
is a hundred to one, that you never
took the trouble to imagine all the hu-
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY. MARCH 1, 1851.
i
j inanities (and what dear and tender
I things does not that include!) which
I might be inwoven with that wandering
j boy. And yet the annoying mandola
| might (ah ! if you had only known its
j history !) have breathed to you very
touching strains of its priceless worth —
even all that the self-denying love of a
mother’s poverty could give.
CHAPTER 111.
“Doctor, do you think Giacopo will
get well ?” asks Edgar of the physi
cian, as the latter is upon the threshold
of the street door, whither the children
have silently followed him from the
sick room.
“It is avery — eery bad ease, Ed
gar?” replies the physician, “you must
nurse him as well as you can.” And
the doctor hurries away.
“Julie,” says Edgar, “I’m afraid he
will never he able to ride our new
poney.”
The little girl’s eyes glisten as she
replies—“And he will never play for
us any more; and he will never see
his mother again. Oh ! Edgar, if we
had to die away from home and mam
ma—” There is a sad choaking in lit
tle Julie’s throat; and Edgar with all
his childish pride of manliness, almost
feels that he need not be ashamed even
if he does cry, but he only says mourn
fully—“l wonder what papa will do
with the mandola.”
The fact is, that the Italian boy was
then actually dying. “What!” exclaims
somebody, who, perhaps, has so far
listened to our sketch—“was he suffer
ed to die in his dreadful popish blind
ness?” Now this question is entirely
impertinent. We are not bound to
tell busy-hi Mies one word beyond what
may appeal to the universal sympathies
of humanity; but we are bound to
think whatever we would esteem most
consistent with our notions of charity,
about the kind hearts who so Christian
ly afforded an asylum to the houseless
wanderer. And yet, Lucy would not
be ashamed to have it known, that by
her quiet, affectionate, and judicious
selections of the Scriptures and Pray
ers wherewith she soothed the spirit of
the sufferer, she did not convert the
fleeting hours of the dying boy, into a
scene of controversy about the faith
and hope which her gentle and unos
tentatious consolations insensibly in
fused like heavenly balm into his de
parting soul.
There is a silent group gathered
around Giacopo’s bed. Lucy is bend
ing over the poor boy in performance
of some office of soothing kindness,
when he gently puts his arm around
her neck, and kisses her cheek. “For
give me, Signora,” he whispered faint
ly, “but I could not help it; you are
so good—you are a mother to me. ’ —
His voice fails. Is he conscious of
the kiss impressed upon his brow, or
of the gentle words whispered in his
ear ? Ah ! he tries to speak again—
Lucy barely catches the sinking husky
whisper,“Writeall —the mandola,send
to mother.” A moment more, and
Lucy gives sign that all is over. “Oh !
mamma,” sobs Julie, burying her face
in Lucy’s gown, “his poor mother!”
Reader, will you think gently of the
wandering music-boys for Giacopo’s
sake ?
€’jjc ftoni Tiller.
ROSALIE D’ELAMERE.
Three miles from Havre, in a fertile
hollow, lies the sleepy little hamlet of
Royes. To this place 1 was advised to
proceed by the excellent hostess to
whom 1 have alluded, for, as she as
sured me, it had many antidotes to en
nui ; a complaint made known to the
French by English travellers, and re
garded with unimaginable disgust by
that volatile people.
The country looked much better af
ter its washing, and I entered the mer
ry little inn with better spirits than I
supposed possible after my late har
rowing of nerves. 1 say merry little
inn, not that there was a group of rubi
cund fellows at the door, whiling away
time with stale jests and drunken laugh
ter, as is often seen in England; the
merriment of this was ot a quiet kind.
The house was constructed of rough
beams, of divers shapes, such as the
tree wore before it groaned and fell.—
The interstices were filled with clay,
roughly plastered, and tinted with a
lively colour. The house was one of
many such throughout the land. A
gourd-vine had climedto the eaves, and
was peeping down the chimney, the
large leaves being fresher and larger
than those below; and well they might,
feeding as they did daily on the savory
steam that ascended like incense from
the kitchen altar. The gourds were
rapidly hastening to maturity, assisted
by the warm sun. and no less warm
chimney. A kitten was catching (lies
in the window, and a dog was dancing
erect on the door step to the music of
a flageolet, played by a cherry-cheeked
youngster, who kept time with his
wooden shoes, producing a noise simi
lar to the castanet. A pot of migno
nette in the window-sill tilled the air
with fragrance, and a clock tolling the
hour, with a most musical voice, com
pleted this combination of attractions.
As I dismounted, the garqon came to
our assistance, and after many direc
tions from Francois, led away the
horses, whistling a lively tune as he
went.
The entrance room was neatly sha
ded, and papered with the history of
Paul and Virginia, in tableaux. The
pendulum of a Swiss clock frisked to
and fro across the wall, now springing
into Paul’s face, then threatening to
disappear in the branches of a stunted
palm-tree beside Virginia. lively
parrot was perched near the window,
with a chain attached to its leg, and
fastened to a hook in the wall. A huge
lemon-tree stood in the centre of the
floor, and brushed the ceiling with its
glossy leaves. After this description,
you will think the term “merry” no
misnomer. I awaited the host or host
ess, half reclined on a comfortable set
tee, and noting the above-mentioned
pendants to the whole picture. A door
opposite to me 1 had decided upon as
the entrance-porte of the owners of
tlie ~ i, inasmuch as there was but one
utile*, which opened on the street. 1
turned quickly as the lock clinked the
approach of someone, and there stood
the landlady. There stood a young
being, irresolute whether to enter or
retreat, with a straw hat strung on her
arm, and the head—it was a shame to
conceal by its broad rim—half bent in
salutation, and a serio-comic smile,
curling the rosiest lips, dimpling the
plumpest cheeks, and brightening the
brightest eyes I had looked upon for
many a day. 1 arose, bowed us polite
ly as possible, and the form (a very
fine one, too) advanced into the room,
bowed again slightly, and vanished
tlirough the other door. 1 was just
wondering rather suspiciously whether
there was but one egress from the
house, when a tall, pale gentleman en
tered, and welcomed me to his hotel.
After many apologies for his delay, l
was ushered through the door into an
entry, and across that to a pleasant lit
tle room, with one window, which was
shaded by a luxuriant multiflora. Be
fore entering this room, however, l con
vinced myself by a rapid glance that
there was another egress from the
house, and that it lay at the end ot the
entry. Mentally accusing the fair vis
ion of coquetry, and all its attendant
frailties, 1 put Francois on the scent to
discover who and what she might be.
In the meanwhile, lulled by the drowsy
influences of the room, I fell asleep,
and dreamed of the vision. When 1
awoke, Francois was arranging mv
toilet.
“Well, Francois ?” said 1, yawning
with feigned nonchalance.
“It is Mademoiselle D’Elamere.—
She is a pensioner with her grand-pa
rents, and her brother too.” Here
Francois shrugged his shoulders ex
pressively.
“This brother is a Turk, then ?”
“No, Monsieur, not exactly that.”
“A roue, then—l have it.”
“Not exactly that either, Monsieur.
He is—what do you call him?” Fran
co’s tipped the water-bottle to his lips,
with an expressive look.
“Ah, a drunkard !—fie, who could
be such a beast with such a sister ? We
shall see them at the table d’hote—
will we not, Francois?”
“Yes, Monsieur, shortly.”
1 was the first one seated, anxious to
meet the pretty coquette. A fine look
ing old gentleman, and a withered lit
tle lady, half hid beneath the bows of
her cap, entered soon after myself, fol
lowed by a very pale youth and the
rosy sister, the latter taking aim at
me, with numerous darts concealed
around her eyes and lips. I had pre
pared myself for a skirmish of light
artillery, and was too gallant not to be
mortally wounded after a short resis
tance. I had leisure, however, to no
tice the unsteady hand of the sullen
brother, and to wonder that it was
possible for his relatives to indulge
themselves, even temperately, with
the fatal liquor that was hurrying him
to such beastly degradation. It was
sad to see Rosalie (for such they named
her) drinking the health of her acquain
tance with merry laughter, while her
brother quaffed deeply in the same
manner.
The old lady was evidently a retired
veteran, and watched her Rosalie with
keen delight. The old man was very
sad, without vivacity, and evidently
pressed with anxiety. We sat until a
late hour, and 1 noticed that the youth
walked sternly steadily out of the
room. Rosalie wore a full bloomed
rose ; as she was leaving, 1 begged for
it. She extended it playfully, but I
shrank as 1 bent to kiss her hand, for
her breath, as it issued through her
roguish smile, was tainted with wine.
How could she indulge in it! At mid
night I was aroused by a loud howl.
At first 1 thought it came from a dog,
but after listening sometime, became
convinced of its human origin. It was
soon followed by a scuffling. After a
while the noise ceased. Francois made
his appearance.
“Don’t be alarmed, Monsieur, it is
only Monsieur D’Elamere in a fit of
liquor.”
“Shocking! does he always howl
when he is tipsy ?”
“He is one brute, Monsieur, and the
young lady .”
“Proceed.”
“Is a little, a little —ah .”
“Yes, a little tipsy sometimes.”
“Oui, Monsieur, so they tell me be
low. Three of them have died in that
way.”
“Any female among them ?”
“One sister, Monsieur.”
“Horrible! You may go, Francois.
Three of the family, and yet the old
people can abide the presence of liquor
—ay, and drink it in their presence. —
What a world is this!”
1 could sleep no more, but arose
early, and strolled out to an old tower
near by ; it was a remnant of Roman
power. As I leaned against a tree,
comparing the sprightly, sensual Rosa
lie with the spiritual, exalted Anna, a
light laugh above startled me from my
reverie. It was Rosalie; she was look
ing down upon me from a loop-hole in
the tower. Her brother stood beside
her, gloomy and pale. 1 bowed coldly.
She perceived my coolness, and gliding
down the ruined stair-case, came to my
side. Placing her hand on my arm,
she whispered:
“I must beg you to forgive us for
the noise that disturbed you last night.
My brother is subject to cataleptic fits,
but he is better than formerly; much
better since we came here. We are
from Bordeaux; but grandpa came here
hoping to benefit Felix.”
She paused for a reply.
“1 was at first startled,” said 1, “but
was not much disturbed. I sincerely
hope your brother will recover. llis
disorder is not contagious, I trust; It
would be grievous for you to be simi
larly affected.”
“Not at all, Monsieur,” she unhesi
tatingly replied, “my health is admi
rable. Felix, Felix, do not stand so
near the edge !”—she darted from me
to her brother, who proved intractable.
I hurried to her aid. Felix was beside
himself again. Catalepsy affected him
in an unusual manner; he capered,
screamed, and howled. In one hand
lie hehl a quart bottle of alcohol, which
he had smuggled in his pocket. 1 was
obliged to call for help. A couple of
peasants came to the rescue. The bot
tle was wrestled from him, and he
borne howling home. That night lie
died a raving maniac, with the vulture
of Alcohol tearing his vitals. He was
buried. His sister put on mourning
which became her well, looked very
serious a couple of days, but on the
third forgot all propriety, and was car
ried intoxicated to bed.
I had stepped up to Francois’s room,
which happened to adjoin hers. As I
was leaving it, imagine my amazement
at meeting a group bearing in their
midst the senseless form of Rosalie.
“She has fainted,” whispered the
wrinkled old dame to me.
“Catalepsy ?” asked I, utterly dis
gusted. She bowed assent, and 1 wait
ed until they had entered the room ;
but before 1 reached mine, a deep grunt
saluted my ears. Francois came with
lights, dried fruits, and wine.
“Take it away,” pointing to the lat
ter. “Poor, wretched Rosalie —lost,
doomed!”
The next morning, as I descended to
breakfast, 1 met the old man. lie look
ed at me, bowed sadly, and was pass
ing on. 1 followed, wishing to draw
him into conversation. lie placed his
arm in mine and we sallied out. For
some moments he was silent; tears
coursed down his furrowed cheeks.
“Ah, dear sir,” said he, “it is sad to
see the young cut off in so foul a way.
My poor Felix had fine abilities once,
but liquor destroyed every vestige of
himself before you saw him.”
I listened attentively. One of this
family was truthful ; 1 respected him.
He perceived it and continued :
“The same fatal taste pursues Rosa
lie. Her good constitution buoys her
up, but it will soon break. Ah, me!”
“It were better for her to die,” said 1.
“Far better ; but I have a project in
view to save her. 1 shall try to get
her into an insane hospital. There is
one near here. If 1 could ask your as
sistance.”
“Certainly,” l replied, “I will aid
you in any way.”
Before we parted, all was arranged
for the consummation of his plan.—
Sympathy had caused me to forget ev
e*y selfish consideration. Upon reflec
tion, I almost regretted my precipita
tion. It was too late to retract. The
next day Rosalie met me with smiles.
1 invited her to take a jaunt. With
delight the young inebriate acquiesced.
My horses were fleet and the grandpa
grateful. The old lady, evidently in
dignant at not being invited, endeavor
ed to prevent Rosalie from going, but
the beauty was resolute. We rode
through a charming country, and stop
ped at the gate of a charming chateau.
“Superb!” cried Rosalie.
“Prepare for a surprise,” said 1.
“We alighted and entered. A man
conducted us to a gallery filled with
paintings and statuary, from thence a
female invited her to a chamber to pre
pare for dinner. She kissed her hand
to us as the door was closing behind
her. 1 never saw her again. We re
turned to t he dame, who was informed
of all. Her rage at first was great,
but at length she yielded to necessity.
The old man returned to Bordeaux to
settle his affairs. In his absence the
wife died suddenly. I afterward re
ceived a letter from him, informing me
of his second marriage, and of Rosa
lia’s improvement. I kept trace of
them several years, and one bright day
received a letter of thanks, in a female
hand, and signed by the now’ free and
permanently reformed Rosalie.
She remained three years in the asy
lum, then returned to her grand parent,
married well, and by her deportment
testified the gratitude she so warmly
felt. She often wrote to me. Once I
should have thought death a mercy to
her, but it was not without deep regret
and many tears that I read the obitua
ry of Rosalie d’Eiamere.
Yankee Impudence.—A writer in the
Prospective Review tells the following
amusing anecdote of Dr. Neander, the
celebrated Church historian, which fur
nishes at once an illustration of his ex
treme good nature, and of the coolness
of Yankee impudence. American as
surance is certainly hard to beat; snd
we shall begin, ere long, to think that
1 lalleck’s picture ofthac quality, drawn
in his “Connecticut,” is not exaggera
ted :
“He one day received a letter from
the wilds of Western America, from a
correspondent, who, to the characteris
tic assurance of the Yankee, joined the
share of that quality usually possessed
by the collectors of autographs. He
was a perfect stranger to our good Pro
fessor, yet had written to make the
three modest requests following:—
That Dr. Neander would send his auto
graph ; that the said autograph should
be in the form of a long letter, giving
a sketch of the then state of Theology
and Religion in Germany; and that
the Professor would also procure and
send the autographs of Niebuhr and A.
Von Humboldt. Would Dr. Whewell
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 44 WHOLE NO. 144.
or any other Cambridge notability, be
! lieve that Meander not only immediate
ly set about executing the commission
but refused to be persuaded by an En
glish friend, that there was anything
impudent or unreasonable in the re
quest.”
f'lrlfiiirlit nf jfnaljiun.
FASHIONABLE SOCIETY.
The subjoined remarks on Town So
ciety, though intended for New York,
are applicable to some other c'ties in
the l nited States,among which Charles
ton may, perhaps, be included:
W here there is no taste of a court
to be humoured—where there are no
established and titled classes, who, by
prerogative of birth, carry from gene
ration to generation, as it were, the dig
nity and the rule of social aptitudes—
every man’s own judgment must de
cide tor him; and it is in the easy, re
fined, and gracious adaption of his man
ner and habits to his own taste, that
what is called Fashion, will find its per
fection. Yet there is very little adap
tion of this sort in the town.
Our houses, for illustration, are ar
ranged by rule and by T street; with
no sort of applicability to the peculiar
tastes of the inhabitants, but only for
their “party” capacity, or for a certain
quality of display. Our fashionable
ranks are made up after a similar
method ; an education, fair in the rudi
ments, and touched off with a trifle of
Paris, a trifle of equipage, a trifle of
the opera, a trifle of Grace Church,
and a trifle of religion, completes the
equipment.
lake any given set of what are cal
led tonnish people, and we may find
one, just what would be expected from
his position and influence—possessed of
fair appreciation of music, a decent re
gard for church matters, a knowledge
of the journals, and an easy” air. A
second who is necessary to the other
for some intrinsic quality, either of
name or mercantile position, has scarce
ly any of the qualities of the first; and
though they rood together, under their
wives’ tuition, their sympathies rarely
meet. A third, with intellectual culti
vation and refinement, is attached to
the others, by loose ligaments, either
from special pride in the position, or
for the use that can be made of the
wealthy patronage. A fourth is es
sentially a boor; but by extraordinary
wealth, or persistent search for just
such notoriety, is foisted upon the rest,
and hangs upon the coterie, with a
kind of pleased but foolish bewilder
ment, that reminds one of poor Strep
siad, listening to the cloud teachings of
philosophy.
In all this herding there is none of
that adaptation which results from
careful observation, and a desire to
promote those comfortable elegancies
of life, which go to make up a social
gentility.
Take again the successful adventurer
upon town society ; he is well looking,
possibly clever, graceful, a good dan
cer, and has passed (c'est la plus belle
rose cle sou chapeau ) a winter in Paris.
He is seen at the A.’s, who are of what
is termed the first set; this is enough
to secure him an invitation to the B.’s,
where, if his jokes be creditable over
the “board,” he is guaranteed the en
tree to C.’s ; the sight of him in their
box at the opera, elicits enquiries from
the U.’s, who have daughters so ugly
as to be drumming up very frequently
recruits. Nor is it until our hero
reaches some observing man, who has
more of an eye for qualities and fitness
than for reputable visiting, that his
character is subjected to an enquiry
which secures him— s'on congee. With
all the others he has mingled by a habit
of the class, and nothing else affirmed
his congeniality.
Let us look at a lady of the first set,
and by the first set I mean whatever
set is most talked of, most conspicuous,
most devoted to expensive public
amusement, and most famous for its
balls. Madame is passably looking,
with passably looking children ; she is
generous enough for display, and rich
enough for occasional, well-timed char
ities ; her carriage is known, her foot
man is known, and her milliner, her
clergyman, and, perhaps, her lover.—
She is, very likely, a kindly sort of
woman at heart, with a fair education
—who goes to the opera because she
likes to see and be seen ; and frequents
the balls because she loves attention or
oysters. And what tastes could be
more decided, or who could be more at
liberty to gratify them? And yet
abundance of people are sneering at
her position, and extravagance, and, if
there be a spark of scandal about her,
show r the most Christian solicitude to
fan it into a flame. Very likely we
shall find these very traducers most
anxious to get at her parties, or to fol
low” in the wake of her equipage.—
They do so because she possesses a
fashionable publicity, and not that they
would enjoy a tete-a-tete; yet they
would endure a long one to share her
position, or the softness of her lounge,
or the luxurious suppers, or any of all
these things which give her the emi
nence at which they secretly rail. And
if it be eminence, do you not perceive,
my dear lady, that, by running after it
with your infernal clatter, and wonder,
and scandal, you are exalting it to a
place in the public eye, that its own
unaided qualities could never secure to
it ?
Let her be the princess of suppers,
the queen oflorgnettes, and the sultana
of the divan. Seek your companions
where you find agreements of tastes,
or occupations; in short, give up your
tacit allegiance to those sets, which by
notoriety are first sets ; follow the dic
tates of your own judgment—refined
as much as you please with education
—adorned as much as you dare—with
charity.
As it is, our classes monopolize the
distinctions, to the discredit of the in
dividual attractions. What strange
lady, after a year’s life in the town, is
known as a delightful companion, or a
pleasant entertainer, one half as well
as she is known for a visitor in such
and such circles, or as belonging to
such and sucli a set. And who. under
the present range of artificial classifica
tions, can safely judge of a man’s
character by the houses at which he
visits.
******
Good breeding does not necessarily
suppose a knowledge of all convention
alities ; and a true gentleman can in no
way better show his gentle blood, than
by the grace and modesty with which
he wears his ignorance of special for
mulas. If there be not a native cour
tesy in a man, which tells him w hen he
is with gentlemen and when with the
vulgar, and which informs him, as it
were, by intuition, what will conspire
with the actions of the first, and offend
against the sympathies of the last, he
may study till doomsday his etiquette,
and his French Feuilleton, and remain
a boor to the end.
To conclude—as the Doctors say —
let me suggest that our Town Society
needs nothing so much as an added
genial ity, honesty, and simplicity. It
hardly seems to me of so much impoi
tance that our streets should show a
Paris pardessus , but ten days old, or
anew polka in the fortnight of its in
troduction along the Faubourg St. Ho
nore—as ihat social Fellowship should
become easy and refined, and a little
wit, taste, and grace, be grafted upon
the body of our Fashion.
By the way—speaking of fashionable
society—the Horne Journal thus de
tails the manner in which “distinguish
ed strangers” are looked up, and invi
ted to parties in New York—that de
lectable home of free-and-easy social
life :
The first thing which a lady does,
who intends to give a fashionable par
ty in New York, is to send for “Mr.
Brown.” If there are any of the more
distant of our fifty thousand readers
who have never heard of Mr. Brown,
it is quite time they had. This out
door Manager of the Stylish Balls of
our great city, is a fine-looking and
portly person, who, in a certain sense,
is Usher also to the most select portal
of “another and better world,” being
the Sexton of Grace Church, the most
fashionable and exclusive of our metro
politan “Courts of Heaven.” Mr.
Brown, we should add, is a person of
strong good sense, natural air of com
mand, and as capable of giving advice
upon the details of a party, as was
ever the famous “Beau Nash,” of Bath,
to whose peculiar functions Mr. Brown’s
are the nearest modern approximation.
Mr. Brown comes, at the summons,
and takes a look at the premises.—
M hether the supper is to be laid up
stairs or down ; where the music is to
be bestowed, to be best heard and take
the least room; what restaurateur,
confectioner, and florist are to be em
ployed ; where to find the ext ’a china,
silver, and waiters—these are but the
minor details upon which he gives his
professional counsel. He is then con
sulted as to the guests. His knowledge
of who is well or ill, who is in mourn
ing for a death or a failure, who has
friends staying with them, and what
new belle lias come out with such beau
ty or fortune as makes it worth while
to send her family a card, is wonder
fully exact; and, of course, he can look
over the list of the invited and foretell
the probable refusals and acceptances,
and suggest the possible and advisable
enlargements of acquaintance. But
this is not all, and we have mentioned
thus much, only to explain the combi
ning circumstances thatgiveMr. Brown
his weight of authority. Besides all
this, he makes a business of keeping
himself “well booked up,” as to the
strangers in town. How he does it
we have no idea; but, upon the quality,
manners, place of belonging, means,
encumbrances, and objects of travel, of
all the marked guests at the principal
Hotels, he can give you list and pro
gramme, with a degree of prompt cor
rectness that is as surprising as it is
useful. Os course it is the list from
which invitations are made, and (as no
man who can afford to give a Ball can
afford to make morning calls) Mr.
Brow n takes the cards of the father of
the family and leaves them ‘in person’
on the distinguished strangers. A man
of more utility, or in the distribution
of more influence, than our friend, Mr.
Brown, could hardly be picked up from
the New York Directory. It will ex
plain, by the way, a phenomenon about
which questions are constantly asked,
to mention the piercing w'histle, which
is heard every few moments outside the
door during a fashionable party is Mr.
Brown’s summons to the servant stand
ing within. His own stately figure
w'rapped in his voluminous overcoat, ia
stationed on the front step throughout
the evening, and he opens carriage
doors, summons the house servant with
his whistle, and ushers in the guests,
with a courteous manner and a polite
word that would well become the no
bleman who is the “Gold Stick in
Waiting” at the Court of Her Majes
ty. When the party breaks up, he
know’s where stands everybody’s car
riage, and it is called up, as each one
appears on the threshold, with an order
and prompt readiness that is no small
improvement upon the confusion and
cold-catching of times gone by.
Our readers will perhaps,have agreed,
as they have kept along with us, that
Mr. Brown is ; an excellent Institution.’
\\ e should never be sure, of course of
getting so able and discreet a man to
succeed him were his duties fairly or
ganized, (by the time of his deprecated
decease) into a regular profession ; but
the experiment would be worth while.
Hospitality to strangers is a principle ,
for the exercise of which , we should be
proud to see a regular system Jirst in
vented in America. The Hotels are
never without agreeable people, whom
it would be delightful to be able habit
ually to approach, ( via Brown) and so
spice and vary our society, whilst we
treat strangers with a courtesy and
kindness that would do us honour.