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sufficient infusion, in this mixture, of gentility, both foreign and native; in residents, who have enjoyed the advantage of good literary and practical education; in women rich in beauty and accomplishments, and men of high enterprise and public spirit; some of an active benevolence, which no ingratitude of the world or injuries of fortune can repress, and whose merits would adorn the best communities of America or Europe. Joy and prosperity to those who have left us; prayers for the return of health, to those who are ill; and a tear to those who are no more! One there was, in wit almost divine, and so full of life it seemed he could not die; but the blind Fury came one day, and with her abhorred shears clipped his slender thread. May the cypress grow fresh upon thy honored grave, McGregor, and pure maiden hands deck thee with the pride of spring!

Centre-street is the dynasty of the shop-keepers, auctioneers, lawyers, and publicans ; and when Saturday noon brings the miners out of the ground, they resort with their wives and daughters to this street, to receive their pay, and make their provision for the week; filling up the stores, taverns, and streets, and cheering the long night with a jubilee of feasts. The ale-house rings with its songs around the foaming tankard, and the dancing-room pours out now and then its music in jets through the windows. But a dark and heavy cloud at present broods upon the village: its spirits droop, its activities are benumbed. Is it for the sins of individuals, or the errors of government, that an entire community is thus cursed in the midst of peace, prosperous health, and fertility of the land! All human ills have, however, their infusion of good. The Temperance Society is proud of its new members; eleven hundred from the Catholic church alone! The ale-house has become desolate, and the grass grows upon its threshhold.

To rub ourself against the genteel world, is something of an honor, to say nothing of the pleasure. For this

you

into Mahantongo, or Market-street, or to the ‘Orchard ;' where a little

group

have made a heaven for themselves, and live in it apart. In these streets the élite of the village fashionables, in well-furnished mansions, at respectable distances, ('distances magnifiques,') with tasteful gardens, live their days and nights in undisturbed tranquillity; except that now and then an air from Signor Charivari, ground upon his handorgan, breaks in upon the deep silence; and occasionally a serenade at the window, from the guitar and soft complaining flute,' accompanied by sweet voices, is poured upon the listening ear of the night. Cornelia starts from her couch, as the shepherdess who catches halfdistinct sounds from the brow of a distant rock, and dissipates her dreams. She puts out one leg, then the other; then walks tip-toe, and raises the window slowly, as if hiding the noise she is trying to make; then throws her shawl over the horns of a chair, surmounted by her night-cap, gently fluttering in the wind, and retreats to her pillow. Mount-Carbon House lodges fashionables from abroad, who find here downy beds, limpid baths, and stables worthy the days of chivalry; with parks, pleasure-grounds, and gardens pleasanter far (at least to the present generation) than Armida's, or Ariosto's, or Milton's, or Spenser's Bower of Bliss; and to crown all, sumptuous

must go

entertainments, after the fatigues of pleasure or of business : Flora brings bouquets, Pomona strawberries, and Ceres pours cakes, and ice-cream, and Roman punch, upon the ladies' laps. Ramblings by the Tumbling Run I purposely omit, as too tender a subject for my present mood of mind.

That silvery grove, preserved by a special Providence, which overlooks the village on the north ; where you see a dwelling rude and gray, and lurking in the thicket, is Pine Hill, inhabited by one whom I should be most happy to recommend to your favor, and the only one with whom I would willingly share this advantage. Our friendship is indeed an instance, throughout, of extraordinary fidelity and disinterestedness. With the most opposite dispositions, we have been inseparable; inconstant in our aflections, yet always faithful; deceiving, yet trusting still; in a word, without agreeing for an hour together, we have jogged on through this weary pilgrimage of life, having but one heart, one mind, one wish. We have even twenty times adored the same woman, without being jealous of each other. With his wife I am as intimate (I mention this with the strictest injunction of secrecy) as himself.

But, see! the air is moist with the evening dew, and lengthened shadows fall from the tall mountain pines. I count the pleasure of your company among the peculiar felicities of the day. Indeed, the very mountain seems conscious of the delight of being sat upon by so smart and amiable a lady; and it is hardly without the expense of a tear, that I now bid you Good night!

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I dreamed that at the dead of night my false one did appear,
And wide awake, my faith I'd plight, I saw him standing here.
He drew the troth-ring from my hand, and broke it, ah! in two;
A crystal, watery pearl-band to me instead he threw.

II.

Then to the garden straight I sped, my myrtle sprigs to see,
Which for a garland to my head I tended carefully;
Then brake in twain my pearl-band, and ere I could beware,
They rolled away midst earth and sand, and not one more was there !

III.

In pain and fear I sought and sought; in vain ! how changed the scene !
My lovely cherished myrtle-plot to dismal rosemarine !
What that night's vision did betide, fulfilled is long ago;
The book of dreams I cast aside, nor to wise woman go.

IV.

Now break, O heart! the ring is gone, the pearls, too, wept are well ;
For myrtle, rosemarine has grown; that dream did death foretell.
Poor heart to garland thy cold brow, the rosemarine has grown,
The pearls all wept away are now — the ring, the ring is gone!

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Hark to the Quaker wren, whose chattering note
Proclaims the rapture of his little heart!
Hark how the robin swells his mellow throat
How the brown thrush essays his rival art!
The twittering swallows skim along the ground,
Or, beating, mount upon the buoyant gale;
Now dart, in rapid whirl, the pool around,
Now on the breeze with silent pinions sail :
List to the lark, that on the topmost bough
Of yon high oak his swaying balance keeps;
Sweet is the oriole's voice, loud caws the crow,
And chirps the sparrow, and the grass bird peeps;
Their plumes composed, they hail the genial spring
Joy tunes the song, and Health unfurls the wing.

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: I have already given you a few anecdotes of characters and events drawn from the French memoirs of the last century, and am inclined to while away an idle hour in giving you a few more. You may use your discretion, either in throwing them aside, or handing them to your readers. Respectfully Yours, GEOFFREY CRAYON.

One of the most remarkable personages in Parisian society, during the last century, was Renée Charlotte Victoire de Froulay De Tessè, Marchioness De Créqui. She sprang from the highest and proudest of the old French nobility, and ever maintained the most exalted notions of the purity and antiquity of blood; looking upon all families that could not date back farther than three or four hundred years, as mere upstarts. When a beautiful girl, fourteen years of age, she was presented to Louis XIV., at Versailles, and the ancient monarch kissed her hand with great gallantry ; after an interval of about eightyfive years, when nearly a hundred years old, the same testimonial of respect was paid her at the Tuilleries by Bonaparte, then First Consul, who promised her the restitution of the contiscated forests formerly belonging to her family. She was one of the most celebrated women of her time, for intellectual grace and superiority; and had the courage to remain at Paris, and brave all the horrors of the revolution, which laid waste the aristocratical world around ber.

The memoirs she has left behind, abound with curious anecdotes and vivid pictures of Parisian life, during the latter days of Louis XIV., the regency of the Duke of Orleans, and the residue of the last century; and are highly illustrative of the pride, splendor, and

licentiousness of the French nobility, on the very eve of their tremendous downfall.

I shall draw forth a few scenes from her memoirs, taken almost at random, and which, though given as actual and well known circumstances, have quite the air of romance.

6

THE TAKING OF THE VEIL. All the great world of Paris were invited to be present at a grand ceremonial, to take place in the church of the Abbey Royal of Panthemont. Henrietta de Lenoncour, a young girl, of a noble family, of great beauty, and heiress to immense estates, was to take the black veil. Invitations had been issued in grand form, by her aunt and guardian, the Countess Brigitte de Rupelmonde, canoness of Mauberge. The circumstance caused great talk and wonder, in the fashionable circles of Paris ; every body was at a loss to imagine why a young girl, beautiful and rich, in the very spring-time of her charms, should renounce a world which she was so eminently qualified to embellish and enjoy.

A lady of high rank, who visited the beautiful novice at the grate of her convent-parlor, got a clue to the mystery. She found her in great agitation : for a time she evidently repressed her feelings; but they at length broke forth in passionate exclamations. Heaven grant me grace,' said she, ‘some day or other to pardon my cousin Gondrecourt the sorrows he has caused me!'

• What do you mean ? - what sorrows, my child?' inquired her visiter. What has your cousin done to affect you ?

• He is married !' cried she, in accents of despair, but endeavoring to repress her sobs.

• Married ! I have heard nothing of the kind, my dear. Are you perfectly sure of it ?'

* Alas! nothing is more certain ; my aunt de Rupelmonde informed me of it.'

The lady retired, full of surprise and commiseration. She related the scene in a circle of the highest nobility, in the saloon of the Mar. shal Prince of Beauvau, where the unaccountable self-sacrifice of the beautiful novice was under discussion.

* Alas!' said she, “the poor girl is crossed in love; she is about to renounce the world in despair, at the marriage of her cousin De Gondrecourt.'

• What !' cried a gentleman present, “the Viscount de Gondrecourt married! Never was there a greater falsehood. And her aunt told her so!'Oh! I understand the plot. The countess is passionately fond of Gondrecourt, and jealous of her beautiful niece : but her schemes are vain ; the Viscount holds her in perfect detestation.'

There was a mingled expression of ridicule, disgust, and indignation, at the thought of such a rivalry. The Countess Rupelmonde was old enough to be the grand-mother of the Viscount. She was a woman of violent passions, and imperious temper; robust in person, with a masculine voice, a dusky complexion, green eyes, and powerful eye-brows.

• It is impossible, cried one of the company, 'that a woman of the countess' age and appearance can be guilty of such folly. No, no; you mistake the aim of this detestable woman. She is managing to get possession of the estate of her lovely niece.'

This was admitted to be the most probable ; and all concurred in helieving the countess to be at the bottom of the intended sacrifice; for although a canoness, a dignitary of a religious order, she was pronounced little better than a devil incarnate.

The Princess De Beauvau, a woman of generous spirit and intrepid zeal, suddenly rose from the chair in which she had been reclining. My prince,' said she, addressing her husband, if you approve of it, I will go immediately and have a conversation on this subject with the archbishop. There is not a moment to spare. It is now past midnight; the ceremony is to take place in the morning. A few hours, and the irrevocable vows will be pronounced.'

The prince inclined his head in respectful assent. The princess set about her generous enterprise with a woman's promptness. Within a short time, her carriage was at the iron gate of the archepiscopal palace, and her servants rang for admission. Two Switzers, who had charge of the gate, were fast asleep in the porter's lodge, for it was half-past two in the morning. It was some time before they could be awakened, and longer before they could be made to come forth.

• The Princess de Beauvau is at the gate !

Such a personage was not to be received in deshabille. Her dignity and the dignity of the archbishop demanded that the gate should be served in full costume. For half an hour, therefore, had the princess to wait, in feverish impatience, until the two dignitaries of the porter's lodge arrayed themselves; and three o'clock sounded from the tower of Notre Dame, before they came forth. They were in grand livery,of a buff color, with amaranth galloons, plaited with silver, and fringed sword-belts reaching to their knees, in which were suspended long rapiers. They had small three-cornered hats, surmounted with plumes ; and each bore in his hand a halbert. Thus equipped, at all points, they planted themselves before, the door of the carriage; struck the ends of their halberts on the ground with emphasis; and stood waiting with official importance, but profound respect, to know the pleasure of the princess.

She demanded to speak with the archbishop. A most reverential bow and shrug accompanied the reply, that · His Grandeur was not at home.

Not at home! Where was he to be found ? Another bow and shrug : •His Grandeur either was, or ought to be, in retirement in the seminary of St. Magloire; unless he had gone to pass the Fête of St. Bruno with the reverend Carthusian Fathers of the Rue d'Enfer; or perhaps he might have gone to repose himself in his castle of Conflans-sur-Seine. Though on farther thought, it was not unlikely he might have gone to sleep at St. Cyr, where the Bishop of Chartres never failed to invite him for the anniversary soirée of Madame de Maintenon.'

The princess was in despair at this multiplicity of cross roads pointed out for the chase : the brief interval of time was rapidly elapsing; day already began to dawn; she saw there was no hope

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VOL. xv.

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