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3MJHHM HISMif (GUffilH.
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
(Original
for the Southern Literary Gazette.
MAIDENS’ NAMES.
BY ISJA AVINTA.
I full many maidens’ names there be,
Sweet to thee,
| Fair to me,
* Ad beautiful exceedingly ;
Dut none on mine ear ski sweet doth swell,
* As the olden name of Isabel.
Some in their gentle strains out-pour,
Evermore,
I
I Leonore,
| A name for angels to murmur o’er;
jjut none my song doth suit so well.
As the gentle name of Isubel.
Some in verse so lofty and fine,
lutertwine,
Madeline,
Which breathes a nobleness divine ;
But none doth gild my verse so well,
As the lofty name of Isabel.
Some in poesies melting mood,
Soft have wooed
Sweet Gertrude,
Syllabled o’er by Love tor food;
But none my poesie fills so well
As the noble name of Isabel.
Some write in love’s impassioned line,
< I’m only thine
Evelyne,
Name fit for knightly honour’s shrine
But dearer none my heart can tell
Than the royal name of Isabel.
Some faithful swear on beuded knee,
‘ I die for thee,
Rosalie
A note for the spring-birds tunefully
To warble; but I know no spell
Like the precious name of Isabel.
Some in strains like summer breeze,
Seek to please,
Eloise,
That breathes like Zephyr through soft
leaved trees;
But none can wake my lyre so well
As the sweetest name of Isabel.
In some poesie’severgreeu,
Wreathed is seen,
Fair Undine,
Name that speaketh of lovely mien ;
But none can deck my verse so well
As the dearest name of Isabel.
Some in sounding rhyme and sweet,
Tuneful greet,
Marguerite,
Name for the pearly lyre meet;
But none can fill my rhyme so well
As the fairest name of Isabel.
Some from morn to dewy e’en,
Sing, I ween,
Bright Cristine,
Glowing in high beauty’s sheen ;
But none can light my soul so well
As the glorious name of Isabel.
Some with music’s softest swell,
Gently tell,
Christabel,
How she weaveth a magic spell;
But none my love can bind so well
As gentle, fairy, Isabel.
Some sweet lutes no theme can span,
Dearer than,
Lilian,
Os race that from the sylphs began;
But no theme my lute can tell
Dearer than Bweet Isabel.
Many more maidens’ names there be,
Sweet to thee,
Fair to me,
And beautiful exceedingly;
But none on my ear so sweet doth swell
As the name of mine own Isabel.
(Original duilrs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
AGHOP.
BY ISJA AVINTA.
A glorious mountain, is the, so cal
led, Mysian Olympus. Every body
knows it by that name, although it is,
in fact, the highest peak of the Bithy
nian range.
A traveller was descending that
mountain in the autumn, after having
made an excursion to its summit, when
he dismounted from his weary steed,
and suffering him to graze upon what
he could find, seated himself upon a
rock beside a deep cleft or gulley, and
contemplated the beautiful scenery now
softening beneath the mellow light of
approaching sunset. A crashing noise
accompanied with shouts and cries,
dre w his eyes to the rough bed of a
sometime torrent, which formed the
broken path in these recesses of the
mountain. And instantly there ap
peared coming down from above, a
horse in a highly dangerous and frac
tious mood, mounted by a boy who
did not know how to manage the crea
ture, and followed by an old man on
foot, who was abusing the boy most
savagely for his stupidity, and com
manding him to stop upon pain of
death. Behind the old man caine a
patient donkey loaded with snow.
The hind legs of the horse slipped
just as he came prancing and rearing
opposite to the traveller’s seat, and his
fore feet were pawing in the air over
the precipitous brink of the gully, so
that it seemed doubtful for a moment
whether he could recover himself, or
would not pitch over, rider and all,
w here there must inevitably be broken
hones, if not certainly broken necks,
she traveller quickly sprang forward,
seized the bridle close to the great Tur
kish bit, and turning him from his per
ilous position, forced him back nearly
u pon his haunches. The saddle girth
gave way, and boy and saddle slipped
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over the animal’s tail. The old man
tottering up, paid no attention to the
traveller who was quieting the crea
ture, but with a heavy whip stood over
the prostrate boy. “You devil’s son !”
cried he, raising the whip, “is that the
way to ride ?”
“Hold a little, father,” exclaimed the
traveller. “Don’t strike the child, or
this horse may get entirely away from
us. Come here, I’ll thank you, and
help me. God is greut, and what
pleases Him, will happen. Whatever
has been, let it be.”
The old man held his hand, and the
menaced blow did not descend upon
the boy, but giving him a kick, he cried
—“Get up, quick, you satan!” and
then turning to the traveller, he said,
attic fan, Eflendim well met; 1
give you many thanks for your help, for
without you, that donkey of a boy
would have sent the horse and himself
to perdition.”
“ Atticum Sc lam replied the trav
eller, —“but how did all this happen ?
The horse is a fine horse, and was
frightened, which the boy was not, al
though he could’nt manage him.”
“1 hired the little ra-cal,” said the
old man, “to go with me to the moun
tain this morning to bring snow, and as
we were coming back this evening, he
complained of being tired, so donkey
as I was, I put him on the horse, and
sent him ahead, when just now the
horse turned fool, and what has just
happened took place. I believe he was
playing tricks with the horse, and I
shall (lay him for it.”
“EfFendi,” said the boy to the travel
ler, “I swear it was not my fault; 1
don’t know what frightened the horse ;
but if you don’t beg for me, this She
rlf, Holy Pilgrim, Mustafa EfFendi,
will certainly beat me to death.”
“Hadji Mustafa, my father,” said the
traveller, “this boy is evidently, as you
say, a devil’s son; he has made your
horse break your saddle girth, and it
is getting so late, that if you don’t
make haste you won’t reach Brusa be
fore midnight, especialiy with that don
key to drive. Shall I help you fix your
saddle? And if you will take my ad
vice, you’ll mount your horse and ride
him yourself.”
“Please God, my son, I shall take
your advice, said the old man, as they
fixed the saddle, “and that rascal shall
drive the donkey. Are you not going
with me to the city ?”
“I have business elsewhere,” replied
the traveller, “but I wish you a safe
journey.”
“Eor the sake of God, EfFendi, Pasha,
Sultan !” cried the boy to the traveller,
“beg Mustafa EfFendi not to beat me !”
“Hold your tongue, scamp,” cried
Mustafa, the old man, mounting his
horse, “and drive on before me.”
“Father,” said the traveller, “what
wages do you pay for such a satan as
this boy, exclusive of the beatings you
throw in gratis ?”
“1 would’nt give a para's* wages for
him ;” answered Mustafa, “but 1 hired
him for this one day to go to the moun
tain with me for snow, and our bar
gain was a beshlik ;f but he has played
tricks with the horse, for which 1 shall
deduct two piastres and a half: I shall
deduct two and a half more as the price
of the sound beating 1 mean to give
him, which will be cheap, for he shall
say it is the best beating he ever got,
and I shall use up about that amount
of the whip lash in bestowing it, and
then he will owe me another beshlik
for the saddle-girth.”
“ Ayi vai ! I shall die !” exclaimed
the boy. ,‘Do you hear Eflendim ? I
wish you would kill me on the spot!”
“Father,” said the traveller, “I have
a little business, as I told you, in which
this devil’s son may be useful to me;
suppose I give you a beshlik, and take
upon myself the charge of flaying him
alive?”
“As you please, my son,” replied
the old man, “give me the beshlik, and
may God give you good luck of your
bargain !”
So the traveller paid the beshlik to
Mustafa, who, fastening the halter of
the donkey to a staple in his saddle,
rode on his way down Mount Olym
pus.
“My son,” said the traveller to the
boy, “1 don’t intend to harm you, 1
wish to do you good, so thank your
good luck for escaping from the hands
of the old man. Now if you will stay
with me a little time, as it is too late
for you to get back alone to the city —
I shall take you home safely, and give
you a yermilik J besides. What say
you ?”
“And how much baksheesh ?” asked
the boy.
“O ! 1 forgot the baksheeshsaid
the traveller, “but I’ll give you a yer
milik and no baksheesh, or fifteen pias
tres and a beshlik baksheesh. Come,
don’t be a fool, the sun is down, and
you must either trudge oft in the dark
alone, or stay with me to night and
* A para is a small coin, the fortieth part of
a piastre.
t A beshlik is a five-piastre piece.
f A yermilik is a twenty-piastre piece.
earn a yermilik very easily, I want a
companion. There, lead my horse
along, and follow me.”
“Where are you going to take me ?”
asked the boy.
“Just up to the little plain there in
the mountain said the traveller, “I
have a notion to spend the night there,
and go back to the city in the morning.
You are not afraid?”
“There may be ginns* or robbers in
the mountainsaid the boy.
“Nonsense!” replied the traveller,
“I know words of magic for the ginns,
and I have pistols for the robbers.”
There was no help for it, so the trav
eller and the boy proceeded to the
stony little plain, through which, ran
a small mountain brook. The travel
ler took his bags from the horse, and
tied a bag of barley over the animals
nose, and then with a cord hobbling
him, as it is called, he let the horse
loose, and told the boy to gather fag
gots for a fire.
The fire was kindled, and the skillet
of water was boiling fur the coffee, and
the bread and cheese, and halva, and
olives and figs were spread out, and
the traveller was smoking hisgetchme,
and the glorious heavens above were
rolling their glittering fires over the
wild mountain scene.
“Put this cloak round you, and sit
down,” said the traveller, “it is cool up
here. What is your name?”
“Aghop,” answered the boy.
“A’aai daroo es ?” asked the travel
ler.
“Mashallah!” exclaimed the boy,
“can you speak our language, Eflen
dim ?”
“Do you hear?” said the traveller in
the same tongue, “ Yigoor, kezi hid
’hosink —come, lot us speak together :
jamanagnis barab ants-oonel agheg tche.
And how old are you ?”
“After one year less three months,
1 shall be thirteen replied the boy,
“but Eflendim, you speak our language
well.”
“And why should I not —you boy
who after one year less three months,
are going to be thirteen ?”
“Because, Eflendim, I never heard
an Osmanli speak our language.”
“But I am not an Osmanli,” said the
traveller, “although I perceived that
your old friend, Mustafa, thought I
was, by his giving me the silam atti
cum.”
“But you speak the Osmanli tongue
beautifully ; of what nation are you,
Eflendim ?”
“Guess.”
“Are you one of our nation who
lives in foreign countries?”
“Would you like to see foreign coun
tries, Aghop ?”
“Why should’nt I, Eflendim ?”
“Now r , Aghop, as I said to you be
fore in this tongue of yours, it is not
good to spend our time idly; so tell
me your history.”
So after Aghop told his history, of
who his parents were, and what had
been his father’s trade when he was
alive, and what sort of a vagabond life
he himself led since his parent’s death,
and how he worked for a shoe-maker,
and sometimes got a chance to hire
himself out, or play about idly for a
day, when the shoemaker was absent
or went to make keff, and how he had
an uncle who was a great scamp, whose
exact occupation was not precisely
known to Aghop, but who was also a
very good person, for he often made
presents to his nephew of clothes or
money; in short, after Aghop had told
his history, held some converse with
the traveller, he wrapped himself in
the latter’s cloak by his direction, and
was soon asleep beside the fire; while
the traveller donned a shaggy capote
with its pointed hood, replenished the
fire, examined his pistols, reclined his
back against a rock, mused long upon
the resplendent heavens, and gradually
sunk into slumber.
The night was advancing when the
traveller awoke, for his slumber was
light and his ear was keen.
“Aghop,” said he in a low voice,
touching the boy. The lad raised his
head and answered.
“Sit up quietly;” whispered the trav
eller, “and listen.”
Aghop quietly raised himself and
looked around, and taking hold of the
traveller, he whispered—“ Mart mu gah
hdn /”
Even so it was, there was a man
there, cautiously approaching the little
bivouac. He paused as he perceived
the movement of the boy; and the
traveller stirring up the fire, aud re
newing the bright flame with a fresh
faggot, called out:
“Welcome, guest, whosoever you
may be; the night is cold, and there’s
a place at the fire for all travellers. In
the name of God, I bid you welcome.
Will you Lake a pipe and coffee ?”
The new coiner at once advanced,
saying—“ Who are here?”
“Ginns of the mountain, perhaps ;”
returned the traveller, “but if yonr bu
siness happens to be not very pressing,
* Ginns, L e., genii.
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, MARCH 22, 1851,
sit down and welcome, and let us enjoy
a little conversation.”
“Have you got your load yet, or are
yougoing for it in the morning?” asked
the stranger.
“I have not got my load,” replied the
traveller, “neither am 1 going for one
in the morning. Perhaps, however,
that is your business up here ?”
“I thought,” said the other, “you
might have come to the mountain for
snow. My own business is different.
But what are you doing here at this
time of night? Perhaps you have lost
your way?”
“I have not lost my way,” answered
the traveller, “but being of a poetical
turn of mind, I am here to look at the
stars, and reflect upon astrology. What
do you think, friend, of astrology ?”
“It is a wonderful sciencereplied
the stranger, “do you understand it?”
“Do you?” the traveller asked.
“No;” replied the man, “but if you
are a munedjim, 1 would like to ask
you a question.”
“Os what nature?” demanded the
traveller.
“Tell me,” said the man, “what I am
thinking about.”
“That might not be so difficult as
you may imagine,” replied the travel
ler, “if it were not for a certain thing.”
“What is that?”
“The munedjim’s art, you know, is
principally great in detecting thieves,
and casting nativities, and reading the
doings of rogues; but it can see very
little into the thoughts of honest per
sons, with whom it does not meddle,
for it has little power over them ; and
1 perceive that my honourable guest
belongs to this distinguished class. It
becomes, therefore, very difficult to
answer your question ; although, if you
were, on the contrary, a rogue, it might
not be difficult to read your intentions
by the light of the stars.”
“Adjaib! but you speak wonderful
ly !” said the man, “where are you
from ?”
“Whence should you suppose?” ask
ed the traveller.
“From your language, I should say
from Stamboul.”
“Uncle!” cried Aghop, who had
hitherto kept himself quiet, muffled in
the cloak, “Uncle!” exclaimed he in
his own language.
“Aghop !” cried the stranger in the
same tongue, “how came you here?—
What are you doing here? Who is
this with you ?”
So Aghop told the history of how
he came to be there, and how he didn’t
know what the traveller and himself
were doing there, and how he*had no
knowledge whence the traveller came,
but how he had a notion that the trav
eller was one of their own nation from
foreign parts, seeing that he spoke their
language like a veritable disciple of
Loos-avoritch; which being interpreted
is The Illuminator.
“This is strange;” said Aghop’s un
cle, “are you, then, Baron, one of our
nation ?”
“What, if I am not?” the traveller
said.
“Why, what,” returned the man,
“but that for the sake of our tongue
which you speak, and for the sake of
the boy whom I love, and for the sake
of the yermilik you have promised
him, I should like to be friends with
you.”
“j Dzara im —l am your servant,” re
plied the traveller, “I am most happy
to make your distinguished acquain
tance, and to be numbered among your
intimate friends. And now, Aghop,
make us some coffee, and fill the pipe
for your honourable uncle.”
A strange night was that to the trav
eller in the lonely and wild, and beau
tiful mountain ; such a night as it falls
to the good luck of not every traveller
to spend. And strange discourse w r as
held that night by the cheerful fire, be
neath that glowing and resplendent
sky. Wild speculations on the stars
were uttered, and wondrous tales of
ginns and astrologers were told, some
of which, perhaps, should the traveller
ever make a book, may yet be written.
Aghop’s uncle likewise said, that his
nocturnal business in the mountain was
to look after certain traps and snares
of his for game. And the traveller
could say nothing to the contrary, for
wolves might be taken there, perhaps ;
and the uncle might also have a way of
calling game, stray sheep caught in
snares, for the shepherds had flocks in
the mountains sometimes. And after
such discourse, the man departed about
his business: and the boy and the trav
eller watched for the grey dawn, and
gloried exultingly in the intoxicating
breeze of a spring-like morn, and at
the grand, swift march of the mighty
sun. So the strange night passed, and
they took their way again towards the
haunts of men.
While the traveller tarried in Brusa,
to strange places and people did Aghop’s
uncle introduce him, which otherwise
he would never have seen; and years
afterwards, that same Aghop recognized
the traveller when he was in difficulty!
and rendered him good service and
true.
But pertaining to that same adven
ture of Olympus, there is something
else to be told. As the traveller and
boy proceeded down the mountain,
(O! if we had only time to describe
the gorgeous and majestic scenery,
glowing in the cloudless glory of that
magnificent morning!) a certain con
versation took place between them.
“Aghop,” said the traveller, “I find
your uncle to be a very fine personage,
why did you tell me that he was a
scamp ?”
“Oh ! he is a great sheitan, Eflen
dim said the boy, “he is wonderfully
devilish.”
“That is,” said the traveller, “he is
a man of genius.”
“Certainly, Eflendim ;” the boy re
plied, “shall I tell you a fine proof that
he is a scamp, and a good person, and
a very great sheitan?”
“By all means, Aghop, let us hear
on the spot.”
So Aghop told the traveller the fol
lowing remarkable story. * * *
[lt is too long for present insertion,
but as it is one of the best stories we
heard in the East, it will depend upon
circumstances whether it be told or not
hereafter.]
“Aghop,” remarked the traveller,
when the boy concluded his narration,
“that is a very fine, and a very curious,
and a very amusing, and a very shei
tanlu story; and in consideration there
of, I shall pay you the yermilik agreed
upon, and give you a baksheesh be
sides.”
“Sti nor hagai im ; As-doodzo par in!”
said Aghop.
Cjjt ,storij €tlkr.
THE YOUNG COUNTESS-
Eugene Marsouin is, without excep
tion, the most eccentric young man it
was ever my fate to fall in with, llaud
some, well made, even striking-looking,
both men and women are always sure
to turn round and stare after him as he
strolls along the Boulevards of Paris,
his only walk, for he was never known
to extend it further than the Place de
la Concorde. The Champs Elysees is
to him an unknown land. He came
to Paris ten years ago as a law student,
and took a cheap lodging, at twelve
pounds sterling per annum, in the Rue
du Seine. Here he vegetated on his
allowance of four pounds a month, and
made an effort to study. But the ef
fort was almost vain : he fell asleep
over his law books, and was never
known to rise in time to attend to the
morning lectures. At the end of three
years, in the twenty-first year of his
age, he had made so little progress,
that his father determined to recall
him. But Eugene was too idle to
pack up his things for a journey ; too
indolent to engage anybody to do it.
His portress, a good old woman be
tween fifty and sixty, cooked his dinner
for him, fetched him novels from the
circulating library, and arranged his
room. He could not change his exis
tence. His father threatened to stop
his allowance, but Eugene wrote back
that he would as soon starve as travel
two hundred miles.
About a week later he was called on
by a lawyer, who announced to him
the important fact, that his mother’s
eldest sister, a maiden lady, had just
died, and left him twelve thousand
francs per annum —nearly five hundred
pounds sterling. Eugene bade the law
yer sit down, rose from his own chair,
and taking up his student books, one
by one, put them on the fire. He then
returned to his chair, and proceeded to
calculate what this allowed him to
spend every week. The lawyer stopped
him, and demanded instructions. Mar
souin told him to receive his money
for him, and to let his old woman have
it, at the rate of two hundred and thir
ty francs every week, on his written
order. The man of law readily con
sented, got him to sign the necessary
papers, and bowed himself out.
The existence of Eugene Marsouin
scarcely changed. lie kept his old
lodging at twelve pounds a year, but
he had it beautifully furnished; he re
moved old Catherine from the porter’s
lodge to the post of his sole servant;
he dressed well; he subscribed to two
libraries, to be sure of having the book
he should want; and instead of dining
at a sixteenpenny ordinary, took his
dinner ala carte , now at the first res
taurant on the Boulevards, now in the
Palais-Royal. He awoke with clock
work regularity at eight, took his choc
olate ; and, turning round in his bed,
went once more off to sleep. At elev
en he again awoke; and, lounging half
dressed in a huge arm-chair, attacked
his breakfast. It was composed of va
rious delicacies, of which he scarcely
ever ate two mouthfuls ; but he amused
himself by lazily cutting up some small
pieces, and offering them on a fork to
his old servant.
“Here, Catherine, eat,” he would say.
This was in his days of effervescing
gayety; for if he was at all grave, he
said nothing, but sat stupidly looking
at his bottle of wine. About two he
was dressed. If a friend came in, he
was generally found lying on his back,
puffing huge volumes of smoke towards
the roof.
“What are you doing, Eugene?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Nothing.”
This was his universal answer.—
About three he would take his hat, his
eane, and his gloves, and, descending
the stairs, make slowly for the first
bridge which led him across the water
towards the Boulevards. As an inva
riable rule, he dined one day at the
Case de Paris, the next at Very’s. He
said he was fond of variety, and show
ed it by this regular alteration between
two houses. He dined well; some
times alone, sometimes with a friend,
if he happened to meet him exactly in
his way. lie then took his coffee, lit
another cigar, and strolled home. A
divan, his pipe, and his book, were his
ordinary resources of an evening; ex
cept when a party of friends came in,
and then he roused himself sufficiently
to order punch, etc., and sometimes
ventured on an unexciting game. But
he never encouraged late hours. He
could not live without his eleven hours
of bed.
And thus did his existence move on
for years. He neither changed his hab
its, manners nor looks. When the
Revolution happened, he was annoyed
at having to dine at home for a few
days; and that was all the effect it
had on him. As he did not sell out of
the funds, his income continued una
bated ; and as soon as the last shot
was fired, he resumed his placid exis
tence. He was not a bad fellow, though
so essentially wrapped up in himself;
he would often rouse himself slightly
to serve a friend, and took in good part
the practical jokes sometimes played
upon his indolence and absence of
mind.
One morning, a few months after the
Revolution of February, Marsouin had
just risen to his eleven o’clock break
fast, when a knock came to the outer
door. Eugene looked uncomfortable,
but nodded to Catherine to open. A
young man immediately entered. He
was tall, well-dressed, and strikingly
handsome. Intellect was stamped on
every feature of his face. He was,
however, ghastly pale ; his cheeks livid,
his eyes hollow aud fiery. He came
in with a poor attempt at a strut, and
sank in an arm-chair.
“I have come without ceremony to
breakfast with you,” he said with a
terrible effort at a laugh.
“Eat,” replied Eugene, indolently,
after a languid shake of the head, lie
really liked his old school-fellow, Gus
tave de Simonet, but he could rarely
muster more emotion than he now
showed. Gustave was four years young
er, and an artist, hard-working, and full
of talent, and they met rarely. But
they both remembered the friendly
days of school, and kept up their ac
quaintance.
Gustave ate quietly, and with evi
dent caution, lie touched no wine,
but drank a large bowl of chocolate.
As he made his breakfast, his cheeks
flushed, his eyes lost their horrid glare,
and when he threw himself back in his
chair, he seemed a changed man. Seiz
ing an instant when Catherine was
away in the kitchen, he exclaimed :
“This is the first meal I have eaten
for three days!”
“Gustave! you want to give me an
indigestion !” cried Eugene,looking like
a man who had seen a ghost.
“I am serious,” replied the young ar
tist; “and having been pretty nearly
starved for four months, have come to
ask you to use your influence to get
me a place of say a thousand francs a
year, (forty pounds.”)
Eugene heaved a deep sigh. He
saw trouble before him.
“Could I not lend you a thousand
francs ?” he said.
“Eugene ! I have not lived for four
months on a two sous of milk and two
sous of bread for breakfast, and on six
sous of meat and bread for dinner,
since the Revolution—l have not lain
three days on my divan starving, to
come and borrow money. I ask for
work ! I cannot just now find artistic
work ; let me get a place as copying
clerk. You have influential relations.”
“My dear fellow, I am a lazy dog,
but there is my hand. Reach me that
writing desk. I will give you a letter
to the Countess de Montdely, which
will serve your purpose. She has great
weight—l forget with which minister ;
and she is my cousin. I have only seen
her once, because she lives in the Fau
bourg St. Germain, and I hate to go
out of my way. But she invites me
once a week, and my father reproaches
me every month for not going. Some
of these days I will.”
Gustave, rather surprised at his long
speech, handed him pen, ink and paper.
Eugene took the affair in hand with in
tense energy, wrote off four pages in a
very short time, and then sank back,
almost exhausted, in his chair. Gus
tave thanked him warmly, and without
offering to read the note, put in an en
velope, sealed it, and addressed it. —
Eugene then gave him one of his cards,
and stating that this was her reception
day, hurried him off that he might
reach before the general company. He
further appointed to dine together at
the Palais-Royal, at six. Gustave bor
rowed five francs of his friend. With
this he bought gloves, had his boots
cleaned, and hired a cab. At two
o’clock he was before the superb hotel
of the Countess de Montdely.
He rang, and entering the large and
well-paved court, inquired of a tall me
nial if the countess were visible ? The
man hesitated, but rather civilly, as
doubtful of admitting a stranger at that
hour. Gustave produced the card and
the note. The domestic bowed and
showed the young man up a splendid
flight of stairs into a perfectly gorge
ous salon. He then again bowed re
spectfully, took the card and note, and
retired. Scarcely ten minutes had
elapsed before Gustave, who was ad
miring a rich collection of pictures,
was interrupted by the quick entrance
of a lady. He started involuntarily,
and then bent profoundly to a lovely
young creature, blue-eyed, fair-haired,
and sparkling w’ith animation. She
was not more than three-and-twenty.
“Be seated, Monsieur, I pray you,”
she said, after a rapid glance at the ar
tist, from eyes in which stood fresh
started tears; “mv cousin is a most
strange person. lie quite forgets the
Revolution, and the death of my hus
band. He writes as if my husband
were alive, and enjoyed the confidence
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 47 WHOLE NO. 147.
of the late king. This is most annoy
ing. It is true that when my husband
was alive—he has been dead two years
—I had some little influence, and could
serve mv friends.”
*
“Madame,” exclaimed Gustave, ri
sing, not wholly able to disguise his
sorrow, “I am very sorry ”
“Monsieur,” said the young woman,
a little impatiently, “are you aware of
the contents of this letter ?”
“Madame, I understand it to be a
note, recommending me to your notice
for some modest place.”
The countess handed it to the artist,
who, with burning cheeks, read in it
every detail of his misery and suffer
ing. He rose again, his eyes bowed
with humiliation and shame, and, mut
tering something about the folly of
Eugene, was about to rush wildly from
the room.
“Monsieur, have a little regard for
me,” said the countess, somewhat quick
ly, but evidently with much emotion,
at the same time ringing her bell. A
servant came.
“Deny me to everybody. I wish to
consult with Monsieur about the East
era Gallery, and about my portrait,
which Monsieur V has so long ne
glected. Let the gallery be ready in
half an hour and then she continued,
when they were once more alone—“l
am rich, fond of pictures, and shall be
proud to find you employment suited
to your talents. Do you paint por
traits ?”
“That Diana of Poictiers over your
own picture is mine,” said the young
artist modestly : “Eugene bought it of
me two years ago.”
“It is the only politeness I ever re
ceived from him,” replied the Countess,
not without much satisfaction, for the
painting was full of talent and prom
ise : “1 hope you will paint me as well?”
“Madame,” cried Gustave, impetu
ously, “you offer to take a poor un
friended artist by the hand. I can nev
er show my gratitude.”
The countess shook her head, and
led the way, after some farther conver
sation, to the picture gallery. While
waiting for this to be ready, Gustave
told his whole history. The countess
pressed him so delicately, he could not
refuse, especially when Eugene had
told the worst. Madame Montdely
casually explained that she had mar
ried the aged ambassador, who had
been her husband, to settle some dis
puted claims about estates, at an age
when she had no wili of her own.—
Both of an imaginative cast of mind,
the countess and the artist soon became
good friends, and before an hour, had
got rid of all the reserve of strangers.
The widow, used to the world, and to
all kinds of society, found pleasure in
the talk of the ambitious, talented but
poor artist; and when she came to set
tle with him the hours of her sittings,
the best position for her to sit, and
other details, they were already on fa
miliar terms. Gustave was a gentle
man in every sense, and this the lady
at once saw.
At last the young artist took his hat
to go, long before the countess seemed
at all inclined to be fatigued with his
company. She then told him that sev
eral public men dined that day at her
table, and she should be happy to see
him. Gustave remembered his ap
pointment at six, and politely declined.
He did not mention with whom he was
engaged, lest he might be tempted to
disappoint him who had served him so
efficaciously. The countess seemed a
little surprised at his not accepting her
invitation, and at his preferring to keep
an engagement in the Palais-Royal.
“Poor, handsome, talented, modest,
unhackneyed in the ways of the world,”
said the countess, as she sat musing
alone after his departure; “this has al
ways been my ideal. Married at sev
enteen to a good old man, a formal
diplomatist, who was like a second
father to me; thrust into the society of
nothing but politicians,! always dream
ed of taking a real husband from the
talented crowd of struggling geniuses.
One has fallen in my way. 1 like him
much, and fancy I shall like him more.
He seems a man of honour and princi
ple. That is all I ask, for I will never
marry a man to whom I cannot confide
property. Ta! ta !ta ! here lam like
a wild girl talking of marrying, and I
know nothing of the man ! Who is
he going to dine with to-day? If I
knew, l might judge him better.”
The countess rang, and ordered a
carriage, and her companion to accom
pany her—another protegi raised from
misery. In ten minutes more she was
on her way to the Palais-Royal, and
soon lounging along the arcades, as if
in search of something. It was just
six o’clock, and she saw Gustave walk
ing in the garden before the case of the
Rotunde, as if waiting for someone.
The gay young countess felt a little an
noyed at her own curiosity, but the de
sire to know who was his companion
in the dinner overcame all. A quarter
past six, and still no one came. Gus
tave went and looked in at Very’s, but
the person he expected was not there.
Then she saw him turn his back to the
crowd, and count his money. It seem
ed only to be a few coppers. Half
past six, and Gustave seemed to grow
impatient. The poor fellow was hun
gry. He seemed anxious and doubtful.
Suddenly he darted away towards the
Rue Vienne, The countess, who was
beginning a second round in the arcade,
stood still and looked, all the while
leaning on the arm of the astonished
Mademoiselle de Fonsec.. In five min
utes Gustave came back, with a small
loaf in his hand, which he began to
break and eat. No one noticed him.
He still walked up and down, but evi
dently not as if he expected a dinner.
Suddenly, as he began his second loaf,
a thought seemed to strike him, and
he moved in the direction of the Fau
bourg St. Germain. But in a minute
he stopped, looked at his soiled gloves,
felt his cravat, and turned back. De
cidedly he would dine on dry bread.
The Countess now hurried back to
her carriage, oonvinced that Gustave
was to have dined with someone, and
not someone with him. The whole
force of the affair was now in question.
Was he to have dined with a man or
with a woman ? Lucie de Montdely,
in all her experience in society, youn<*
and beautiful as she was, had neve*r
been in any way affected by the pas
sion of love. Neither was she now.
But the talent and misfortunes of the
young and handsome artist had excited
in her an interest she had never felt
before; young as she was, she was
quite persuaded that, should inquiry
satisfy her as to his honourable charac
ter, she should feel much more.
About twelve o’clock the next day
Gustave rang at the door of Eugene
Marsouin. Catherine opened, and, to
his surprise, he found the Countess and
Mademoiselle de Fonsec breakfasting
with the indolent Eugene, who was,
however, trying to look amiable, and
eager so oblige. He looked intensely
relieved when he saw Gustave.
U 1 came,” said Gustave, after paying
his respects to the ladies, “to reproach
you with keeping me an hour waiting
for you in the Palais-Royal. I refused
an invitation to dine with Madame la
Comtesse, because you made me prom
ise to dine with you at Very’s.”
“Jb atal mistake !” cried Eugene, with
a tragic air. “1 was so confused yes
terday morning, I must have said
Very’s ; but it was my day for the Case
de Paris, where I waited dinner an hour
for you. Why didn’t you speak to
the garcon —he would have told you ?”
“So, Monsieur,” said the Countess,
with a smile, which unconsciously was
radiant, “you deserted me for my cou
sin? 1 shall punish him by making
him dine with me to-day; and as I
know his indolent habits, I shall send
a carriage for him. You recollect,
Monsieur de Simonet, that this day at
two is my first sitting. Will you take
a seat in my carriage ?”
Gustave accepted; and that after
noon the picture was commenced.—
Ihree times a week did the young
man stand before the canvas, and
strive to make a copy of the living,
breathing, beautiful thing before him,
but it was more difficult than he expec
ted. The beauty, grace, and unaffected
charming character of the young widow,
the easy and elegant familiarity of her
tone to her protege —Mademoiselle de
tonsec who was always the companion
of these sittings—the real nobleness of
her character, and, above all, the deep
gratitude which he felt for her kindness
to him, produced a result which would
have been surprising if it had not been
produced. Gustave made scarcely any
progress with his picture.
About two months had passed away.
It was May last year; the three were
in the very midst of a sitting. Lucie
was leaning back in her chair, while
Gustave corrected some defects in the
expression of the countess’s eyes. A
servant suddenly summoned Mademoi
selle de Fonsec away. As the door
closed behind her, the artist let his pen
cil fall. He stood pale, and almost
with tears in his eyes, before the love
ly woman.
“Madame la Comtesse, I give it up !
I cannot complete your picture : it is a
vain attempt. lam not worthy to do
so.”
“What mean you, sir?”
“Madame, I am frank and honest.
I have looked too often on your face
for two months past. No artist can
paint the features of her with whom he
is madly, hopelessly in love !”
The countess closed her eyes an in
stant, and spoke not; then she rose,
and, advancing near to the young man,
who stood with his eyes fixed on the
unfinished portrait. “Why hopelessly,
Gustave ?” she said, laying her hand on
his arm.
Half an hour later, when Mademoi
selle de Fonsec returned, and entered
the room unannounced, she started
back, and w r ould have retired. Gustave
was kneeling at the countess’s feet, one
hand in hers, the picture of proud, un
alloyed happiness. Lucie was speaking
in a low tone, and telling him of some
project for their mutual happiness.
“Come in, Laura,” said the countess
with a sweet smile, “and share our hap
piness. We are affianced, and the
world must soon know it.”
It was in June, and at the church of
the Madeleine. The door was crowded
by carriages. It was a splendid wed
ding ; all the fashionables of Paris
were present, and all the leading men
in the arts, for a rich and beautiful mem
ber of the circles of the Faubourg St.
Germain w-as giving her hand to a
young and talented artist. There were
some sneers about the matter, but only
a few. Most persons agreed that it
was a well-assorted match. The pair
were equal in all but money, and Gus
tave brought genius, while Lucie
brought gold. He was, even in those
days, her equal.
Learning French. —When Brum
mell was obliged, by want of money
and debt, and all that, to retire to
France, he knew no French; and hav
ing obtained a grammar for the pur
pose of study, his friend, Scrope Da
vies, was asked what progress Brum
mel had made in French. He respon
ded, that Brummel had been stopped,
like Buonaparte in Russia, by the Ele
ments. “I have put this pun into Bep
po (says Load Byron) which is a fair
exchange and no robbery, for Scrope
made his fortune at several dinners, (as
he owned himself) by repeating occa
sionally, as his own, some of the bu£
fooneries with which I had encountered
him in the morning.”
Pope, who was careful of his
money, and an absolute miser in pa
per, used to write his verses on the
backs of letters or on any scraps of pa
per that fell in his way sans rien coutre.
As Pope’s handwriting was none of
the best, as he corrected and recorrec
ted amazingly, and was constantly
erasing and interlining, his manuscript
must have been hard to print from, or
what the printers call “queer copy.”