Part 4

Oh! Jane, how we wished for you yesterday! Early in the morning we received a note from Madame F---- saying, that if the ladies of our party would like to witness the ceremony of "taking the veil," and would repair to her house by nine o'clock, she would accompany them to a neighboring convent where it was to be performed about the hour of ten. The Abbess being her friend and cousin, she had obtained her consent to our attending on the occasion in case we wished it. We _wished_ it, you may be sure, and her kindness was eagerly and thankfully accepted. On reaching the convent its portal was opened by two of the sisterhood, who greeted Madame F---- very cordially, made their curtsies to us, and then conducted us to the gallery of a small chapel, the main body of which was filled with nuns clad in black, and seated on rows of benches each side of the aisle. In the centre of it, upon a damask chair, sat a young lady richly dressed. She wore a yellow silk frock trimmed with lace, white satin shoes, long white kid gloves, and ornaments of pearl. A wreath of orange blossoms mingled and contrasted with her dark hair, and were partly concealed by a flowing veil. Madame F---- related her history, and to our surprise we learned she was an English girl who had been placed in the convent at an early age to be educated. As might have been expected, associating so constantly and closely with Catholics from childhood, she became one herself; and when her parents came over to France for the purpose of carrying her home, they found her resolved on becoming a nun. Having tried in vain to dissuade her from it, they at length yielded to her entreaties, and were even present when she took the vows; and as they did not appear distressed on the occasion, I suppose they had finally become reconciled to their bereavement. I wonder they did not _compel_ her to relinquish her determination. But to proceed to the ceremony. Long prayers were said, incense scattered, and a fine hymn chanted--the novice kneeling down before a table covered with a crimson cloth, and reclining her head upon it, in humble submission to that Divine Power to whom she was dedicating her heart and days! When the music ceased the Abbess advanced, and taking her hand, led her out through a side door; and while they were absent, a nun distributed among the sisterhood a number of large wax candles, which she afterwards illumined. The Abbess now re-entered with her charge, and prayers and incense were again offered, a second hymn sung, and the novice had her hair, or a portion of it, cut off; she then prostrated herself before the altar, and a black pall was cast over her, to signify she was dead to the world. On rising, she retired a second time with the Superior, and in a few minutes re-appeared, clad in the habiliments of the cloister, and went round the chapel to receive the kiss of congratulation and welcome from each of the community; after which the lights were extinguished, and every one departed, leaving her to solitude, meditation and prayer, until the vesper bell should tell the hour for rejoining her. How awful I felt while a spectator of the solemn scene; and how strange, is it not? that reflecting beings who know the fickleness of human nature--that "nature's mighty law is change," can venture thus to bind themselves for life to stay in one limited space, and pursue one unvaried mode of existence! I hope and think I love religion truly; but I am sure if I were a _saint_ upon earth, I should never hide my light in a monastery. I ought to mention, that except the father and brothers of the new nun, no gentlemen were admitted to the ceremony; and I ought also to state that she was very pretty. Leonora says that notwithstanding the scene and place, she was constantly imagining the interference of some brave youth, to save the fair creature from her fate, by rushing in and bearing her off by force; but alas! the age of chivalry is long past, and now-a-days a _hero_ in _love_ would be thought a prodigy and hard to find, unless perhaps, he was sought for is a certain old fashioned fabric in the vicinity of Morven Lodge. _There_, peradventure, such an _odd personage might be discovered_.

From the convent we drove to what is called the "Palace of the Warm Baths." This is a relic of Roman antiquity. In it, the Roman emperors, and after their dominion ceased in France, the French monarchs, used to reside. Its foundation is attributed to Julian the Apostate. The sole remaining apartments consist of an extensive and lofty hall, and some cells beneath it. The hall is lighted by an immense arched window, and its vaulted roof for several ages supported a garden. By this we may judge how firmly and strongly the Romans used to build. I cannot, for lack of space, express to you the kind messages with which I am charged. Suffice it to know, we all love you dearly.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER NINETEENTH.

Visit to Versailles--The Little Trianon--The Grand Trianon--Church of St. Louis, and Monument of the Duke de Berri--Mendon--Chalk Quarries--Tortoni's--Wandering Musicians--An Evening at Count Ségur's--Children's Fancy Ball.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I have really a great mind to give you a _scolding_, instead of a _description_, for your perusal. What are you all about at the Lodge, that you have not written to us for this fortnight. Papa and Mamma are quite out of patience with you, and desire me to request you will answer this the moment it reaches you. Indeed I hope you _will_, for they are evidently uneasy in consequence of your long silence.

Now let me tell you of our visit to Versailles. We spent Friday there, and carrying with us a cold dinner, partook of it under the trees near the Petit Trianon, having gained a keen appetite by first walking over the immense palace and its garden; of the splendors of both you are well aware. We were not much pleased with our rustic mode of eating on the grass, the premises of the table cloth being frequently invaded by insects. Like dancing on the turf, such arrangements are pleasanter in description than in reality. The Petit Trianon was the favorite residence of Marie Antoinette, and there she passed a great deal of her time, free from the bustle and formality of the court, and devoted to rural occupations. The place still exhibits evidences of her taste and innocent amusements. The grounds are diversified with grottos, cottages, temples, mimic rivers and cascades. Then there is a beautiful little music room, a labyrinth, a dairy, and a lake. The palace is a tasteful edifice, and a part of the furniture is the same that was used by the decapitated queen.

The Grand Trianon, another palace situated in the park of Versailles, is superior to this in elegance and embellishments, but not half so interesting. The parterre behind the mansion, teems with Flora's choicest gifts, and reminded me of the saying, that "Versailles was the garden of waters; Marly the garden of trees; but Trianon that of flowers." In the orangery at Versailles we were shown an orange tree which is computed to be three hundred years old! It is denominated "The Old Bourbon," and has been the property of several kings of that race. Its trunk and foliage are remarkably thick. The garden and park are five miles in circumference; and only think of these and the magnificent structure overlooking them, being completed in seven years! But perhaps did we know the number of workmen employed upon them during that period, the fact would not seem so amazing.

We rode through the wide streets of the town, visited the Church of St. Louis, where a simple monument is erected in honor of the Duke de Berri, and then turned our course homewards, stopping for an hour at Mendon, a royal chateau that Napoleon fitted up elegantly for his son; it is now unoccupied, though I believe the Duke de C---- sometimes spends a few weeks there. A noble avenue leads to the house, and from the terrace in front of it the prospect is very fine. As we traversed the grounds, guided by an old soldier, we were quite diverted at the astonishment he expressed, on discovering from an observation of Leonora's that she and her family were Americans. "Mais comme vous êtes blondes!" cried he, "et j'ai toujours en tendu dire que les habitans d'Amerique étaient rouges ou noirs!"[1]

[Footnote 1: But how fair you are! and I have always heard that the inhabitants of America are _red_ or _black_.]

At the foot of the hill of Mendon, near the banks of the Seine, are large quarries of chalk, that we were told merited our attention; but it was too late to profit by the information, and we hastened on to Paris.

After resting ourselves and drinking tea, we sallied forth again, and strolled on the Boulevard as far as Tortoni's, to eat ices. He is master of a grand caffé, and famous for his ices and déjeunés à la fourchette. His establishment is splendidly illuminated every night, and so thronged with customers, that it is often difficult to procure a seat. Some prefer regaling themselves before the door in their carriages; and there is generally a range of stylish equipages in front of the house, filled with lords and ladies, and beaux and belles, partaking of the cooling luxuries of iced lemonade and creams, and listening to the bands of ambulatory musicians, that here are always to be found and heard, wherever there is a crowd. They select the popular airs of the theatres and those of the first composers of the day, which are as familiar to the common people as they are to amateurs.

We recently spent another delightful evening at Count Ségur's. We found him, as usual, surrounded by the learned and refined; and he met us with his accustomed smile of benevolence and bonhomie. There was a lively young relative of his present, and when most of his visiters had departed, she insisted on his joining her and myself in playing "l'Empereur est Mort," &c., and with the utmost amiability he complied with her wishes. The play of l'Empereur is similar to that termed the "Princess Huncamunca."

While we were at the Count's, Mr. and Mrs. Danville attended a levee at the Hotel Marine, and the girls accompanied a young friend of Marcella's, (a Miss Y---- from Soissons) to a fancy ball given by the children of Madame Clément's seminary. Miss Y---- being a pupil, had the privilege of inviting two acquaintances, and chose Marcella and Leonora as her guests. They were highly entertained. All the scholars wore costumes, and several supported the characters they assumed with proper spirit. There was a little round, rosy faced girl, of five years old, decked as a Cupid. She was entwined with a silken drapery, thickly studded with golden stars; sandals laced on her feet, and a quiver slung over her plump and naked little shoulders! In her right hand she held a gilt bow, and her curls were confined by a glittering bandeau. They danced until ten o'clock, and as none of the masculine gender were admitted, the elder Misses played the part of beaux. I should have liked to join in the frolic, I confess, though not upon condition of foregoing the pleasure we had at No. 13, Rue Duphot, Count Ségur's residence.

Papa has presented me a beautiful watch, and intends purchasing another for you. With tender regards to aunt M---- and Albert, I remain your attached sister

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER TWENTIETH.

Mechanical Theatre--The Boulevards--the derivation of the term.

PARIS, ----.

"Joy! joy!" cried I, on looking out of the window yesterday, and spying Arnaud returning from the post office with a letter, which, according to our wishes, proved to be from our naughty Jane. Arrant scribbler that I am, I hasten to answer it, though you must feel you do not deserve to be replied to so speedily. However, as this is the first time you have been negligent, we ought not to be relentless--so here is my _hand_ in token of forgiveness and good will; but beware of repeating the offence.

Having finished my lecture, and knowing you are fond of listening to adventures, I will now recount a droll one that happened to us last evening. At sunset we were walking on the Boulevard du Temple, which abounds in every variety of the lower order of amusements, when suddenly a violent shower began to fall, and of course every body to scamper to some shelter. _We_ took refuge in the portico of an illuminated building, entitled in large transparent letters over the door, "Theàtre Mecanique," and finally determined to enter and witness the acting within. We accordingly purchased tickets of the woman employed to sell them, and following her up a narrow flight of stairs, were ushered into a confined gallery, overlooking a dirty pit, the highest grade of whose occupants seemed to be that of a cobbler. Four tallow candles lighted the orchestra, where _two hard_ plying fiddlers performed their tasks. We began to think we might be in "Alsatia!" and then the actors and actresses! what were they? Why, a set of clumsy wooden figures that tottered in and out, and were suspended by cords so coarse, as to be visible even amidst the gloom that surrounded them. A ventriloquist made these puppets appear very loquacious; and whenever they stopped to make a speech it was quite ludicrous, for they vacillated to and fro like the pendulum of a clock, for more than a minute. We would have rejoiced to get out, but the rain still poured, and we were compelled to remain. After the piece was concluded, and the fiddlers had put up their instruments, and were puffing out and pocketing the bits of candles, and we were reluctantly preparing to issue forth into the storm, up came the above mentioned vender of billets, (who it seems was manager likewise,) and calling to the musicians to resume their operations, begged us to be re-seated, in order to see the first act repeated, which we had lost by arriving too late. We availed ourselves of her politeness and _honesty_, but could scarcely refrain from laughing as we did so--and fortunately, during the half hour that succeeded, the weather cleared, and we were thus enabled to get home without the dreaded wetting; but the Boulevards not being paved, the walking was exceedingly muddy, and it was so long ere we reached a stand of carriages, that when we did, we thought it more prudent to continue our route on foot, than to risk sitting in our wet shoes.

As you may not know what is meant by the "_Boulevards_," I will tell you. They are wide roads, or streets, edged with spreading umbrageous elms, and formerly _bounded_ the city, but now, from its increase in size, they are _within_ it. Their appellation of "Boulevards" is derived from "bouler sur le vert," to "bowl upon the green"--being once covered with turf, and the frequent scene of playing at bowls. Here, nightly, the citizens forget the cares and labors of the day, and resign themselves to pleasure and mirth. Rows of chairs, owned and placed there by poor persons, may be hired for two sous a piece. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE.

The following lines are from the pen of a venerable lady of Virginia, widow of one of the patriots of the revolution. They were written in 1812, shortly after the conflagration, and are now for the first time published.

What is this world? thy school, oh misery! Our only lesson is to learn to suffer, And they who know not _that_ were born for nothing. [_Young's Night Thoughts_.

Whence the wild wail of agonizing woe That heaves each breast, and bids each eye o'erflow? Ah, me! amid the all involving gloom That wrapt the victims of terrific doom, While _palsied fancy_ casts an anguish'd glance, What _phrenzied_ spectres to my view advance! Appalled nature shrinks--my harrowed soul Dares not the direful scene of death unrol; Yet o'er the friends she loved the muse would mourn, And weep for others' sorrows and her own; To their sad obsequies would _grateful_ pay The heartfelt tribute of a mourning lay. And lo! through the dark horrors of the night, What form revered now rushes on my sight! Ye blasting flames, oh spare the cheek of age! Ah, heaven! they with redoubled fury rage! Yet undismay'd she view'd the fiery flood, Resign'd amid the desolation stood-- To God alone address'd her feeble cry, Oh! save my child, and willingly I die! Approving heaven propitious heard her prayer, To bliss receiv'd her, and preserv'd her care. Oh, long lov'd friend! oh, much lamented Page! How did thy goodness every heart engage-- How oft for _me_ thy generous tears have flow'd, What kind attention still thy love bestow'd; When sickness mourn'd or sorrow heav'd a sigh, Thy useful aid benignant still was nigh; The best of neighbors, and the truest friend, O'er thy sad urn disconsolate we bend. Heardst thou that shriek? the accent of despair! The mother's deep felt agony was there: My only hope, Louisa, art thou gone? Is thy pure spirit to thy Maker flown? Oh! take me too! the mourner frantic cries, When such friends part _'tis the survivor_ dies! She was my all--so gentle, good, and kind; Then she is blest, and be thy heart resign'd! And see, of sympathy, alas! the theme, In woes experience'd, and in griefs supreme! Yon aged matron now to view appears, One thought alone her anguish'd bosom cheers; For while on vacancy she bends her eye, She sees her children angels in the sky! Juliana! Edwin! beauteous Mary too! To yon bright realm from earthly suffering flew; Well tried in fortune's ever changing scene, A mourner now with calm resigned mien, Who bears a name to every patriot dear, Nelson! who long Virginia shall revere, Ah, see! submissive to the direful stroke, No murmurs from her pallid lips have broke; Though lov'd Maria, long her age's stay, Whose duteous care watch'd o'er her setting day, The awful mandate bade, alas, depart! "Lean not on earth--'twill pierce thee to the heart;" Yet must our sorrows stain the mournful bier, When virtue lost demand the flowing tear! And youthful Mary shares Maria's fate, Her gentle cousin and endearing mate; For hand in hand they mount the ethereal way, To brighter regions and unclouded day. Great God! whose fiat gives the general doom, Speaks into life, or lays within the tomb, Oh! teach our hearts submissive to resign; Thy will be done--be much obedience mine. And lo! advancing from the deepest shade, A generous youth sustains a sainted maid; Down his pale cheeks the gushing tears o'erflow, And fancy's ear attends the plaint of woe. Oh, much lov'd Conyers! lov'd so long in vain, Could but my death thy fleeting soul retain, Far happier I, than doom'd, alas! to prove The bitter pangs of unrequited love; My constant heart disdains on earth to stay, While thou art borne to native realms away-- Nor at my hapless fate can I repine, Since bless'd in death to call thee ever mine! Oh, gallant youth! Oh, all accomplish'd maid! At your sad shrine shall votive rites be paid; There oft at eve shall pensive lovers stray, And future Petrarchs pour the plaintive lay; For, ah! behold a faithful wedded pair, Blest _too_ in death, an equal fate to share! In their sad breasts no _selfish_ fears arise, _Each_ for the other _feels_--_each_ in the _other dies!_ Yon man of woes, oh! mark his furrowed cheek; What deep-drawn sighs his misery bespeak: 'Tis Gallego! Each bosom comfort flown, In the dark vale of years he walks alone. And now amid the victim train appears A friend of worth, approv'd through twenty years; Just, wise, and good, true to his country's cause, He from opposing parties gain'd applause: From life and usefulness forever torn, Virginia long for Venable shall mourn; And for her chief, lamented Smith, shall share His orphan's grief, his wretched widow's care. Nutall--a man obscure, of humble name, Virtuous, industrious, tho' unknown to fame, Escap'd in safety--heard his wife's sad cries! "Safe tho' we are, alas! my daughter dies!" He heard, nor paus'd, but dar'd again the fire, Resolv'd to save or in the attempt expire; Oh! noble daring--worthy to succeed-- But Heaven forbade, yet bless'd the generous deed: The daughter lives--the father's toils are o'er-- Where sorrow, pain and want, can wound no more; In the bright glow of youthful beauties bloom, Ill-fated Anna sinks beneath the gloom: Her lovely orphan--yet too young to know Her cruel loss or the extent of woe-- In deepest grief while all around her mourn, Still piteous cries, "When will Mamma return!" What tender cries, what anguish'd moans prevail, How many orphans join the plaintive wail! For Gibson, Heron, Greenhow, Gerardin, And Wilson, borne from the heart-rending scene! While frantic husbands, mothers, widows rave, O'er the _vast urn_ the _all-containing grave!_ But ah! my muse the death-fraught theme forbear, Nor longer tread the abyss of wild despair; I sink with life's distracting cares oppress'd, And fain with those would share eternal rest; Yet impious, let me not presume to scan-- Great God--thy ways mysterious all to man! But while for mercy humbly I implore, "Rejoice with trembling," and resign'd adore.

M. L. P.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

I'll neither call thee beautiful Nor say that thou art fair; I will not praise thy witching eye, Nor compliment thy hair; I'll speak not of the roses sweet, That blush upon thy cheek, Nor of the tresses richly hung About thy snowy neck.

For thou wouldst deem it flattery, Altho' it would not be, And flattery would never do To win a smile from thee; And surely I would proudly win, Without the help of guile, A look that would be mellowed By the magic of thy smile.

JACK TELL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GIRL OF BEAUTY.

Girl of Beauty! can you tell, Gazing in the crystal well, Who it is that madly dreams Of thine eye's bewildering beams?

Girl of Beauty! is the bird, In the spring, with pleasure heard, When the melody of song Leaps the listening boughs among? If the birds delight the grove, Can I hear thee, and not love?

Girl of Beauty! does the Bee Love the rose's purity? Does the Miser love his dross? Does the Christian love his cross? Then _I love thee_, gentle girl, Dearer than the crown of earl.

Girl of Beauty! does the sky Seem all beauteous to thine eye, When the stars with silver rays Brightly beam before thy gaze? Thou art dearer far to me, Than the stars _can be_ to thee.

Girl of Beauty! does the tar Love to dream of scenes afar, When the mildly sighing gale Fills the proudly swelling sail? Then I love to dream of thee, And thy sweet simplicity.

Girl of Beauty! does the boy Kiss his sister's cheek with joy When they meet in after years, Having parted once in tears? May you kiss your brother soon-- Ere the rounding of the moon.

JACK TELL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE RECLAIMED.