Part 2

Now for our peregrinations. The weather being remarkably fine on Tuesday, and the carriages at the door by nine o'clock, according to order, we proceeded to Montmorency and the Abbey of St. Denis. Oh, how your pensive spirit will luxuriate in wandering through the solemn aisles and caverns of this "hoary pile," among the sepulchres of its mighty dead! You are aware that during the revolution, this asylum of deceased royalty, was invaded by a barbarous populace, who dragged the corpses from their graves, loaded them with indignities, and cast them into ditches and other places of filth. It is related that the corpse of the brave Louis XIV, when thus profaned, raised its arm, as if to strike the miscreant who dared the deed, while that of the good Henri Quatre (which was found uninjured by time) smiled benignantly on his ungrateful subjects! The tombs have since been restored by Napoleon, who intended for himself and his descendants the vault which is appropriated to the Bourbons. It is secured by two massive bronze gates, which he had made to close upon his own ashes, that now repose under a simple stone on the barren island of St. Helena! So changes the glory of this world and its mighty ones! The Abbey of Saint Denis was originally a plain chapel, erected by a pious and wealthy lady named Catulla, to shelter the remains of that martyr (St. Denis) and his companions, after their execution. The generosity and care of various monarchs, have transformed the humble chapel into the present majestic cathedral. The relics of St. Denis are enclosed in a splendid shrine, the gift of Louis XVIII; and the sumptuous altar in front of this, with its enormous gold candlesticks, was given to the church by Bonaparte, after his marriage with the Empress Marie Louise, on which occasion it was first erected in the Louvre, where the ceremony was performed. In the side aisles of St. Denis, are several superb monuments, in memory of Francis I, Henry II, and Henry III, and their queens. The antique sepulchres of Dagobert, and his spouse Nantilde, are near the door, and that of Dagobert most curiously carved. In one of the vaults we saw the stone coffin of King Pepin; it is open and empty, and when struck upon the side, sounds like metal. Near the mausoleum of Francis I, stands the mimic bier of Louis XVIII, canopied and richly decorated with funereal ornaments. It will remain until succeeded by that of Charles X, for such is the custom of France. What gave rise to it I know not; but we may reasonably suppose that it was intended, like the monitor of Philip of Macedon, to remind the reigning monarch of his mortality.

At Montmorency we had fine sport riding about on donkeys to the different points of view that merit notice for their beauty. The little animal upon which Mr. Erisford rode, was at first extremely refractory, and the trouble he had to force it along excited our mirth; then my saddle girth broke, and this was another source of merriment. After riding over the valley, we alighted at the hunting seat of the unhappy father of the murdered Duke d'Enghien, the present prince of Condé, who is said to be yet overwhelmed with affliction at the untimely and cruel end of his noble son. The place is called the "Rendezvous;" it is shady and pleasant--the house a plain stone building: we did not enter it, but partook of some cool milk beneath the trees, in front of the door. We purchased it of the game keeper and his wife, who reside there. Retracing our path, (and the little donkeys, I assure you, trotted _back_ much faster than they _went_,) we stopped at the Hermitage. This is the most interesting object to be seen at Montmorency, and indeed the chief attraction to that spot--although circumstances induced us to defer our visit to it till the last. It is a quarter of a mile from the village, and was the residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and afterwards of Andrew Gretry, the musical composer, whose family still occupy it. They are so obliging as to allow strangers to visit this rural retreat of those celebrated men, and have arranged in a small apartment, various articles that were owned and used by them, and that are consequently interesting to the spectator; for instance, the bedstead and table of Rousseau; the cup and saucer of Gretry; his comb and spectacles, and the antique little spinet upon which he tried his compositions. A flower garden adjoins the mansion, and there we saw a rose bush that was planted by Jean Jacques, and the stone bench upon which he used to sit while writing his "Héloise." From the bay tree that shades it, I procured a leaf for your herbarium. A rivulet meanders through the garden, and empties into a small lake, near which is the bust of Gretry, supported by a column, with an inscription in gilt letters. Rousseau's bust occupies a niche in the wall, and is covered with a glass to protect it from the pencils of scribblers, which have disfigured it considerably. Bidding adieu to the Hermitage, we returned to the "White Horse," an excellent inn we had selected in the town, and having recruited ourselves with a hearty dinner, resumed our seats upon the donkeys, and repaired to the village of d'Enghien, (a mile distant,) to see its neat and commodious sulphur baths, and the pretty lake of St. Gratien, on the border of which it stands. In the centre of the water is a restaurant, to which, if you choose, you are conveyed in a boat; but it was so late, that our parents would not consent to make this aquatic excursion, and we therefore returned to Montmorency, and thence to Paris. A bright moon lighted us home, where we arrived about eleven o'clock, pleased with our day's adventures, and so sleepy we could scarcely reach our chambers without falling into a slumber on the way. On Sunday Mr. Dorval brought us six tickets of admission to the Chapel of the Tuileries, where high mass is performed every Sabbath while the king is in the city. Not a moment was to be lost, so we hastened to array ourselves for the occasion, as full dress is required if you sit in the gallery with the royal family, and our billets were such as to admit us there. Marcella, Leonora and myself had just purchased new bonnets, and these we wore. Their's are of straw colored crape, ornamented with blond and bunches of lilacs, and are very becoming; mine is of pink, and decorated with blond and white hyacynths. Our party, consisting of Mamma, Papa, Edgar, and our three ladyships, was soon ready and at the palace. The chapel was crowded, but we found no difficulty in obtaining seats--for on presenting our tickets, the captain of the guards handed us to them, and the throng yielded to him without hesitation. The music was very fine, and we had a close view of the Bourbons and their suite. They were sumptuously clad, and the King and Duke and Duchess of Angoulême seemed very devout. The Duchess has a most melancholy expression of countenance, owing perhaps to the sad vicissitudes of her youth. Neither she, her spouse or uncle are popular. The Duchess de Berri is exceedingly so, and is considered one of the most charitable ladies in the kingdom. She is extremely fair, has light hair and a pleasing face. She is not sufficiently dignified, I think, and is a terrible fidget; during service she was continually adjusting her tucker, necklace, or sleeve. It is reported, that when the omnibuses, or circulating carriages of the boulevards were first introduced, she made a bet with the king that she would ride in one of them, and actually did so, in disguise! I am summoned to the parlor to receive visiters--so kiss my hand to you.

LEONTINE.

P. S. Our guests proved to be General and Mr. George Washington Lafayette. They came to take leave of us ere their departure for La Grange. The Chamber of Deputies having dissolved, they go to the country to-morrow, where the rest of the family have already established themselves. We have been so pressingly invited to pay them a visit, that we have determined to do so, and anticipate great pleasure and gratification from spending a day or two in the midst of this charming and highly respected family. Again adieu.

L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

Tune--"The Sunset Tree."

Come! Come! Come! Come to thy Mother's breast! The day begins to close: And the bright, but fading west Invites thee to repose. The frolic and the fun Of thy childish sports are o'er: But, with to-morrow's sun, To be renewed once more.

Come! Come! Come! Come to thy Mother's breast! The day begins to close: And the bright, but fading west Invites thee to repose.

Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet on thy Mother's knee! To con thine evening prayer, To him who watches thee With a Father's tender care. For parents and for friends Then breathe thy simple vow; And when life's evening ends, Be innocent as now.

Come! Come! Come! Come to thy Mother's breast! The day begins to close: And the darkening of the west Invites thee to repose.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep till the morning beams! My song is in thine ear, To mingle with thy dreams, And to tell thee I am near. Bright be thy dreams, my child! Bright as thy waking eyes, As the morning beaming mild, Or the hope that never dies.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep on thy Mother's breast! Thine eyes begin to close; And she that loves thee best Has lulled thee to repose.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Troy, June, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--The very polite invitation received in yours of February 11th, (the more valuable because it in part originates with Mr. R.) to contribute to your well conducted, entertaining and instructive periodical, would have been sooner answered, but that I was desirous to write something specially intended for the Messenger. But owing to my having a work (Universal History in Perspective) now in the press, the manuscript of which is not yet quite finished, I am obliged to devote every leisure moment in that direction. Unwilling, however, not to respond to the Virginian politeness which dictated your letter, I have sent you, from my port-folio, some little poems which have not been published.

The Messenger, as I have learned from some of our gentlemen who frequent the reading room, is highly spoken of here. Accept my grateful acknowledgment of your favor, in sending it to me.

Respectfully, yours,

EMMA WILLARD.

OCEAN HYMN.

Written on board the Sully, on a return voyage from France, July, 1831.

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep, Father, protect me while I sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For thou my God hast power to save. I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall, And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine, Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine; Or tho' the tempest's fiery breath Rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death, In ocean-cave, still safe with thee, The germ of immortality, And sweet and peaceful is my sleep, Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

* * * * *

The following was written soon after the intelligence of Lafayette's death reached this country. At the public examination of the young ladies under my charge, they appeared in mourning, on the last day, August 5th, on account of the death of our country's father, and also on that of the death of two of their former school companions. At the close of the school exercises, the little poem in blank verse, was read by one of their number, and the dirge, with a plaintive accompaniment on the harp and piano, was sung. It may be thought strange that I should venture to produce this, when the performances of such eminent men as Messrs. Everett and Adams are before the public.[1] But the incidents of the life of Lafayette are so well known, that it appears to me only necessary to give to memory the key-note and excite her to use her own powers; and to this end a poetic diction gives to the writer some advantages, as it admits of greater condensation of narrative, of thought, and feeling.

[Footnote 1: This was prepared for the Messenger before the number was received containing the critique on those publications.]

LAFAYETTE.

On Seine's fair banks, amidst Parisian towers, Gather a multitude! Slowly they come, And mournfully. The very children weep; And the stern soldier hath his sun-burnt face Wet with unwonted tears. And see! From forth The portals of a venerable church, The mourners following, and the pall upborne By white-haired ancients of the sorrowing land, A coffin issues. Needless task, to tell Whose pallid lineaments--whose clay-cold form They bear to his long rest. France hath but ONE So loved, so honored; nay, the world itself Hath not another. Who shall fill his place? Who now, when suffering justice pleads, will hear? And when humanity with fettered hands Uplifted cries, who now will nerve the arm? Who break the silken bands of pleasure, spurn Ancestral pride, the pomp of courts, and sweet Domestic love, and bare his bosom in The generous strife? Let us recall his acts And teach them to our sons. Perchance the spark Extinct, rekindling in some youthful heart, The hero's spirit, will return to bless. Who treads Columbia's soil, but knows his blood Hath mingled with it, freely shed for us. For injur'd France, impoverish'd and oppress'd, In freedom's sacred cause, he next stood forth, And despotism closed her long career. But wild misrule uprose; and murder's arm Was bared to strike. Lafayette interposed;-- Chief of a distant armed host, he wrote And bade the legislative band beware! Then Jacobinic tigers growled, muttering A Cæsar! Slay him! At an army's head He dictates to the Senate! Hush! he comes-- Alone, unarmed, save with the sword of truth, And beards the monsters in their very den. They quail, and freedom's sons arouse. Then thou, poor sufferer, Louis had not died, Nor hapless Antoinette, thy beauteous neck Had never fed the greedy guillotine, Nor yet had Olmutz' dreary dungeon held That noble man, had ye but trusted him. O'er the broad page of history, there comes A meteor glare. Napoleon rises! Other lights grow dim, or fade away; But plagues are scattered from the burning trail-- Lafayette's star, tho' hid, moves on unquenched; O'er fair La Grange it shines with beauteous ray, And fosters in its beams domestic joy. The comet sinks beneath Helena's rocks; The star remains, undimmed, a guide to France. But hath Columbia no gratitude? She woos her brave deliverer to her arms! Again he rides the wave; not now, as once, The banner'd eagle droops the pensive wing, But proudly fluttering, o'er his favorite's head Bears high the starry crest. He comes! resounds Along Manhattan's strand and o'er her waves; The city is unpeopled, thronged the shore, Gay pennons wave, and cannon roar; men shout, Children leap up, and aged veterans weep. Even here he came; within these walls we saw His face benign, and heard his kindly voice; And here we blessed him in our artless song, And raised our tearful eyes, and called him "father;" And with a father's love he looked on us And wept. And now HE sleeps in death, 'tis meet That we should mourn. Would we could seek his grave, With those the sorrowing ones, he loved the best, There too would we, the mourning flowers of France, And drooping willows plant, and kneel and weep. Take comfort ye his offspring! God's own word Is pledged to you; seed of a righteous man! Lift up your downcast hearts, and joy for this, That he hath died unchanged, as long he lived. And tho' the perils of his age, outwent The dangers of his youth, yet he hath stood, And calm and fearless, tower'd above the storms That scared the timid and o'erwhelmed the vile. His fame shall be a light to future times; But it shall fall in glance portentous, On tyrants and their leagues; on the oppressed, In gentle rays of pity and of hope,-- On dark hypocrisy, that hymns the name Of liberty, to cheat for power, it falls, Revealing guilt and shame. Meanwhile it shows The good even as they are, not to be bought No sold, nor daunted. Such a man was he, Your father and your friend; nor yours alone; Whoever bears man's image, he hath lost A countryman, a father, and a friend! Thus human nature mourns, and sympathy, Wide as his generous heart, shall sooth your grief.

DIRGE,

Commemorative of the deaths Gen. Lafayette--of Miss Mary A. Coley, and Miss Helen Stuart Bowers.[2]

Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe, Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low; For sorrow flows--a strange and mingled tide, The Beautiful are gone--the Brave hath died!

So good, so dauntless, generous, and kind, Our Country's Father leaves no peer behind; But ah our Sisters! must the bright and gay, Leave the fair earth, and moulder in the clay!

Thus saith the Word, "Be not of little faith;" Prepare for life,--prepare for early death; So shall ye calmly part, or peaceful stay, Be honor'd here, or sweetly pass away.

Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe, Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low, For sorrow still, will flow in mingled tide, The BEAUTIFUL are gone--the BRAVE hath died!

[Footnote 2: Miss Bowers (who was a young lady of exquisite personal beauty) had a remarkably peaceful and happy death.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

MR. WHITE,--The attention of the traveller through Lower Virginia, is often powerfully arrested by the fine old churches in a state of dilapidation and decay, and he reverts with a melancholy feeling to the days when they were built, and the people who worshipped within them. During our last war with Great Britain, these churches served as quarters for our soldiery, and sometimes as stables for the horses of our cavalry.

NUGATOR.

Yon ruined church! how it dimly stands With its windows sunk and broken-- Of the parent scoff'd at the children's hands, 'Tis a sad and a guilty token.

Thou'rt a noble work and a lofty pile! With thy spacious, vaulted ceiling; These massy pillars, and long deep aisle, Touch the heart with a holy feeling.

'Twas a proud, proud day, when our fathers laid This stone of the mould'ring corner; Ah! they did not dream 'twould so soon be made A jest for the passing scorner.

Cold, cold in death are the hearts which throbb'd To view thy rising glory-- Are we their sons, who have basely robb'd What Time had left so hoary?

Long years have pass'd, now silent fane! Since you rang with the solemn warning, And years may pass, but for thee, in vain The return of the Sabbath morning.

Ye slumbering dead! what a change is here, Where once ye worshipp'd--kneeling-- No sound is heard but my hollow steps, near Where the full tones once were pealing.

Lo! the sacred desk where your pastor read, While angels smiled--impending-- There the ceaseless worm hath in silence, fed With your dust, 'tis slowly blending.

God's tables torn from the sacred wall! What hand was so rashly daring? And their whiteness stain'd by the fiend-like scrawl Of some lost spirit--despairing.

Oh, sight of woe!--the altar gone! That spot of the Christian union, Where once ye sought the eternal throne, With the cup of the lov'd communion.

E'en soldiers here, beneath this roof, Have held their midnight orgies, And without hath tramp'd the charger's hoof, Till the grave well nigh disgorges.

Adieu! adieu! lone house of God! I shrink from thy profaning-- The impious foot of war hath trod Where the Prince of Peace was reigning.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESTELLE.

I'm standing at thy couch Estelle-- Thy hand in mine--awake my love!-- O'er silent lake and leafy dell Calm eve is sinking from above; Wilt thou not look upon the scene Which from yon casement woos thine eyes? The light shines beauteously between The far off mountains where its last blush dies.

I kiss thee sweet--how cold thy lip!-- How pale thy cheek!--thy brow how white!-- And chill as unsunned flowers that dip Their colorless leaves in dews of night. In vain--in vain I call on thee-- Thou answerest not that once loved call-- Thou hast no word--no look for me-- How heavily from mine thy hand doth fall!

Yet dearest, while I gaze on thee, Whom I have loved so long--so well-- It seems not all reality That I have lost thee quite, Estelle. I have a sense, though vague and dim, Of something which my heart hath stilled-- The formless shadow of a dream That with oppressive thoughts my mind hath filled.

The mist is fading--yet so fair! Can this be death?--this, beauteous sleep!-- Yes!--Yes!--and they will lay thee where The earth is damp and worms do creep-- Oh! God!--that reptiles--horrid thought!-- Must banquet on those lovely limbs, Whose faultless outline, seemeth not Traced for this world of dark and sullen dreams.

It must be so--the grave--the grave Relentless swallows all we love,-- Mind--Beauty--Virtue--naught can save-- And yet there is a God above!-- I only know--I only feel Thou'rt doomed to be the earthworm's prey, The newt will o'er thy bosom steal, And loathsome things through thy rich tresses stray.

* * * * *

* * * * *

I hear the sound of many feet-- A moment more, they will be here-- One kiss--one more.--Farewell my sweet, Let others weep around thy bier, Who loved thee well--yet loved thee less-- I cannot weep--the fount is dry In sorrow's utter wilderness-- And with a tearless voiceless thought I die.[1]

[Footnote 1: But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought sheathing it as a sword. [_Childe Harold_, Canto III. Stanza xcvii.

Not a plagiarism but a _coincidence_; a softer term, and more in vogue.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

----through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the night, there was a charm upon his soul--a hell within himself; and the curse of his sentence was never to forget.--_Falkland_.

There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours; It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers: Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye, I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die.

At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise, Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes, That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves, And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves.

In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle--'tis in vain-- My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain; And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and free-- What ghastly echo of their mirth!--what bitter mockery!

Alas! the silver chord is loosed--the golden bowl is broken; Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token; And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more-- A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.