Part 13

The Orphan's tear Go wipe away, and bid his heart To be of cheer; Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart, And gild with Hope misfortune's dart.

Say thou to those, Shut out from every good on earth, Lost to repose, Baptized in sorrow at their birth, That worldly joy's of little worth.

The poor soul tell, The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man, Though his heart swell, The ways of God, he must not scan-- But trust the Universal plan.

Tell poor disease, Bravely to bear the piercing pain; Eternal ease, Waits those who do not poorly plain, And worldly loss is heavenly gain.

Tell those who sigh Over some friend's untimely doom, That all must die; He whom they saw laid in the tomb, In God's own paradise may bloom.

Go, say to those Doom'd still to groan and till the soil, That soon repose Shall wipe away their drops of toil, And stay for aye their weary moil.

Tell those who pine In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom, There yet will shine Through their poor melancholy dome, A light to guide their footsteps home.

Tell the Pilgrim, When storms are blackening round his head, 'Tis good for him; What though his thorn torn feet have bled, The heart's blood of his God was shed.

The Mariner, Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze, Bid not to fear; Though thunders hurtle in the air, The Launcher of the thunder's there.

Tell those who fear Their sins can never be forgiven, To be of cheer-- If they have call'd on God and striven, There's mercy for them still in Heaven.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS.

Rush on, broad stream, in thy power and pride, To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride,-- She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine, To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine; Ye have met, ye have met,--and the shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song.

Methinks ye wed as the white man's son And the child of the Indian king have done; I saw thy bride as she strove in vain To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain,-- But the dowry she brings, is so rich and true, That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.

Her birth was rude in the mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell; The path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee,-- But the time of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.

Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide, Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon[1] died; No red man's blood with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God, from that green domain; With the seeds of peace they have seen the soil Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.

On,--on,--thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep; I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen, To the beautiful homes of the western men, Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see, So fair as the Vale of Wyoming to me.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

[Footnote 1: The Indian name for William Penn.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HOPES AND SORROWS.

The fitful beam Of the rippled fountain, The purple gleam Of the eve-lit mountain, The vanishing glance Of the meteors motion, The lights that dance On the darkened ocean, Are the faithful types of the _hopes_ that won us, While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us.

The arid sands Of the sun-dried river, The rock that stands Where lightnings quiver, The pitiless rush Of the earthquake's ruin, The startling hush Of the sea-storm brewing, Are as truly types of the _sorrows_ that found us, When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WANDERER.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.

Along the devious paths of life, A wild and wayward wand'rer, I, Have steered my bark mid passion's strife, And where destruction's pitfalls lie.

When on a dark and rock-bound shore, My bark was wildly tempest tost, And o'er the breakers' sullen roar, Arose the fearful cry--_all's lost!_

I shrunk not from the raging blast, But with a bold and reckless hand I steered her on, till she had past The stormy sea and rocky strand.

A fierce enthusiast, I have dared To risk my all, upon one cast,-- Have seen the danger,--nor have feared, What others looked upon aghast.

Disease has laid her iron hand, With no weak grasp, my frame upon, But all her power could not withstand The spirit which has borne me on.

A demon some have called me--yet, Admit that with my spirit blends, A feeling strangely to forget All thought of self, in aid of friends.

A madman some have deemed me--and, In sooth, dark shadows often run Across my mind, as o'er the land, When darkest clouds obscure the sun.

I often wish to die--and flee Far, far away from earth, that I May search the dim unknown, and see What wonders in its bosom lie.

'Tis not because life has no charm,-- I love the gay and laughing stream; I love the glowing sunshine warm; I love Old Luna's silvery beam.

I love to gaze on maiden's eye, Though it has often been my bane; I love on courser swift to fly, Like arrow o'er the flowery plain.

Yet still, my wayward soul will oft, Cherish the wish to pass that bound, Which spans this life, and seek aloft For bliss which here is never found.

But now my lyre begins to fail I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song. Fearful lest with my idle wail, I linger o'er the chords too long.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE RICHES AND GLORY.

For fortune's prize let others pant, And count the "yellow slave," No joys can gathered jewels grant, No sickening sorrows save-- But bustling and jostling To swell the treasured heap, It cloys us, annoys us, And leaves the _heart_ to weep.

Let others climb the dizzy height Where glory shines afar, Alas! renown is but the light That decks the falling star. Still driving and striving To reach the radiant prize, We grasp it and clasp it, And in our touch it dies.

But, oh! let mine the treasure be That social joys impart, And mine the glory, sympathy Beams on the feeling heart-- Still soothing and smoothing The grief of friends distrest, And lending and spending, That others may be blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

"As the little one turned for the last time, his tenderly beaming eyes on all around, they seemed to say 'Father!--she calls,--I go,--farewell,--farewell.'"

"Who calleth thee, my darling boy? What voice is in thine ear?" He answer'd not, but murmur'd on In words that none might hear; And still prolong'd the whispering tone, As if in fond reply To some dear object of delight That fix'd his dying eye.

And then, with that confiding smile First by his Mother taught, When freely on her breast he laid His troubled infant thought, And meekly as a placid flower O'er which the dew-drops weep, He bow'd him on his painful bed, And slept the unbroken sleep.

But if in yon immortal clime Where flows no parting tear, That root of earthly love may grow Which struck so deeply here, With what a tide of boundless bliss, A thrill of rapture wild, An angel mother in the skies, Must greet her cherub child.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER EIGHTH.

Hotel des Invalides--Chamber of Deputies--Pont Louis 16th--Bridges of Paris--The Pont Neuf.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

"Let them gild the dome of the Hotel des Invalides," said Napoleon to an officer, who informed him that unless the war in Italy was discontinued, there would certainly be a revolution in Paris. The mandate was issued, the dome covered with the shining leaf, and the minds of the people immediately turned from the operations of war, to those of the artisans employed on the cupola of the military asylum. Napoleon foresaw this, for well he knew the character of his subjects. A mere trifle, having _novelty_ to recommend it, attracts their notice, engages their attention, and forms the theme of their conversation for a long while--at least, until another new bubble arises. This we must own is a happy disposition, and better calculated to render a nation contented and joyous, than the sober, phlegmatic temperament of our Islanders.

Thus, my dear Jane, have I managed to describe to you in a very few words--the dome of the Invalids and the character of the Parisians. Knowing you hate prolixity, I rejoice at my success, and for the same reason, proceed without delay, to give you an account of the Hospital in question. It is a stately edifice, and was erected by Louis 14th, for the reception of brave and disabled old soldiers. In approaching it, you traverse a vast esplanade embellished with a fountain and bordered by a grove of lofty trees, with seats beneath them, to tempt the lounger and rest the weary; some of them were occupied by veterans whom I readily imagined to be telling "how fields were won." We spent three hours in their noble asylum, examining its spacious halls and dormitories, its cleanly and well arranged kitchen, its library and magnificent church, and its cabinet of architecture, which consists of two large rooms, containing models of all the fortified towns in the kingdom. These are most ingeniously and beautifully executed, and give you a perfect idea of the places they represent. The council chamber adjoins the library, and this and two other apartments are decorated with the portraits of the deceased marshals of France; while the originals are living, their likenesses are deposited in the "Salle des Marécheaux," at the Palace of the Tuilleries. In the church we saw the mausoleum of Turenne and that of the famous engineer Vauban.[1] The interior of the dome and the ceilings of six chapels surrounding it are richly painted, and the tesselated pavement, interspersed with fleurs de lis and other symbols, is exceedingly beautiful. Three hundred flags, the spoils of different nations, were once suspended from the dome; but when the allies entered Paris the _invalid_ warriors tore them down to prevent their being retaken.

[Footnote 1: He was deformed, and being once asked by the king what his enemies thought of his back,--"Sire, (he replied) they have never seen it."]

From the Hotel des Invalides we rode to the Chamber of Deputies, adjoining the palace of Bourbon, and situated on the southern bank of the Seine, which separates it from the "Place Louis Quinze." It is a handsome building, adorned with statues and corinthian columns, and has a pleasant garden attached to it; the deputies hold their assemblies in a semicircular hall, lighted from the top and appropriately arranged. Monsieur de N---- was so kind and polite as to send us tickets, and we have been twice to hear the debates; they were very animated, though whenever a member wished to speak, he was obliged to curb the _spirit that moved him_, until he could cross the floor and mount a rostrum, which delay I should think is most unfavorable to extemporary eloquence. Returning, we passed over the Pont Louis Seize, and examined the twelve colossal figures of white marble, that have recently been placed on it; they are masterly pieces of sculpture, but too gigantic for the size of the bridge and their approximation to you. There are no less than seventeen bridges athwart the Seine, but not one of them can be compared to those of Waterloo, Blackfriar's, or Westminster at London, as regards strength or magnitude. The Pont Neuf is the largest; it is more than sixty feet wide, and lined on each side with stalls of every description; the passengers are continually beset by the importunities of the shoe-black, the dog-shaver, the ballad singer, the bird seller, the fruiterer, the pedler, the vender of second-hand books, and various other petty dealers. Good night, dear sister. My paper and candle warn me to conclude, which I fear you will not regret.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER NINTH.

Arrival of friends--Voyage from London to Calais--Route from Calais to Paris--Levee at the Minister's of the Marine--Expiatory Chapel.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

We were agreeably surprised the day before yesterday, while at dinner, by the arrival of the Danvilles, the American family with whom we were so charmed at Bath last summer. Leonora is as likely as ever, and delighted at the idea of spending the fall and winter here; she expects too, to be joined by her cousin Marcello, of whom we have heard her speak with such affection and admiration. She has been so good as to let me read her journal, and I have obtained her permission to transcribe a part of it for your perusal. It concerns the journey from Calais to Paris, and as I have given you a sketch of that from Havre here, this will enable you to compare the two routes. I dare say you will like, also, to read her observations about the Thames and our steam boats. She writes thus:

"Soon after leaving London, the Thames quite astonished me. I had no idea it was so considerable a river. For many miles it is broad and winding, and each shore presents fine scenery. We had a good view of several noted towns, and remarked the superb hospital at Greenwich and the royal dock yard at Woolwich, where ships of war are made. At Gravesend we passed two vessels transporting convicts to Botany Bay, and I regretted to observe that the women were more numerous than the men.

"The motion of the English steam boats is still more disagreeable than that of ours, but their machinery is less noisy. Coal being used for fuel instead of wood, the passengers soon look dingy in face and dress: therefore one should not travel in them handsomely clad, as clothes are quickly ruined by the smoke and dust. There is no particular hour for breakfast; each person calls for it when it suits his pleasure, and has a table to himself. Dinner is served at five o'clock.

"We reached Calais about eight P.M. At the custom house the officers were not strict in their examination of our baggage; this surprised us, for we had understood that they were always very rigid in performing this troublesome duty. Perhaps our being Americans was the cause of their moderation in disturbing our trunks and boxes,--for the French like _us_ almost as much as they detest the _English_. On landing, we were highly diverted at the scene on the Quay. The instant we left the boat we were beset with men and boys on every side, recommending different hotels,--and frequently cards of address were absolutely forced into our hands. When one overheard another advising any of us to go to a particular house, he would cry out, 'never do you mind that fellow, ma'am, (or sir) he tells a lie; he always tells lies!' Or, 'no such thing, sir; that house is full, sir; you can't get in, and he _knows_ it!' Or, 'that hotel is not a good one, sir,--indeed it is not; try mine, sir; mine's a palace to it!' and fifty other such droll speeches, at which (tormented as we were) we could not help laughing. Sometimes they would even seize us by the arm and entreat us to accompany them to their hotel, if only to see how comfortable it was. These _besiegers_ (we have since been told) receive a trifle from every innkeeper to whom they carry a guest, and it is their anxiety to obtain this fee, that renders them so annoying to travellers.

"Ere leaving Calais we had sufficient leisure to walk about the town and visit the church, the town hall on the 'place d'armes,' and the column on the pier commemorating the landing of Louis 18th, on the 24th of April, 1814. It is a plain stone pillar, surmounted by a ball and a fleur de lis. In front of it is a representation in bronze of the print of the king's foot (or rather his shoe) upon the spot he first stepped on from the vessel. We found the country between Calais and Paris uninteresting, and generally barren. Once or twice we had a fine view of the sea. The French villages appeared horribly dirty after the exquisite neatness of those in England. The highways presented a bustling and entertaining scene; for men and women, boys and girls, gaily dressed, continually passed us, carrying baskets of fruit, riding on donkeys, or driving along pigs, sheep, cows, or geese. The venders of fruit would frequently jump up behind our carriage, and thrust in at the window, peaches, pears and grapes, beseeching us to buy them, and assuring us we had never tasted better in all our lives. Whenever we stopped at an inn, or ascended a hill, we were surrounded by dozens of paupers, begging for a sous. Sometimes they looked so miserable, it was impossible to refuse; at others, we were fain to bestow it in order to get rid of them. Little urchins would also solicit a penny, and scamper after us a considerable distance, often springing up behind and sticking their heads into the coach. Upon the whole I am contented with our journey hither, for if it was not picturesque it was highly amusing.

"The principal towns we have passed through, are Boulogne, Abbeville, and Beauvais. The first is said to have been founded by Julius Caesar; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, died there in 1747; the house in which he expired, is yet shewn as a curiosity. Within a mile of Boulogne is a corinthian column, which Bonaparte began to erect as a memento of his victories over the English; he left it unfinished, and Louis 18th had it completed for his own honor and glory."

Thus far, dear sister, I have copied from Leonora's diary; now for something of my own. Last night we were at Mr. de Neuville's grand levee; he has one every week, and being exceedingly popular, his rooms are generally crowded. We saw there, many distinguished characters; among them, Monsieur de Chateaubriand, whose travels have afforded us so much entertainment and instruction, and General Saldanha, the brave Portuguese. He has a commanding figure and face, and wears a pair of tremendous mustachios, which are so frightful and so fashionable! To-day we devoted a portion of our time to the Expiatory Chapel, a beautiful building, constructed in honor of Louis 16th and Marie Antoinette; it covers the spot where their remains were first interred; for since the restoration of the Bourbons, these have been conveyed to the royal vault at St. Denis. The entrance and interior of the chapel are very handsome; the light is admitted from the cupola, beneath which are fifteen niches, destined to hold statues of the chief victims of the revolution. There is a neat altar, and the will of Louis and that of his sister, (the Princess Elizabeth) are engraved in golden letters, on two white marble tablets. A subterranean apartment contains another altar, and in front of this a black marble slab bearing an inscription, still designates the original grave of the royal and unfortunate pair. In the court of the chapel many of their faithful Swiss guards are interred. The testament of Louis, wherein he expresses good will towards his enemies and forgiveness of his unloyal and cruel subjects, is very touching. A peasant girl was reading it when we entered, and her cheeks were bedewed with tears.

I regret to inform you that Mamma has had a return of her consumptive cough, and is compelled to drink asses' milk. She is plentifully supplied with it every morning, by an old man who drives a flock of female asses about the streets, and milks them before the door of each customer. The tingling of a little bell, which he carries, gives notice of his arrival whenever be stops. Farewell: kind greetings to those around you,--and above all, to yourself. From

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER TENTH.

The Luxembourg--The Observatory--Notre Dame--The Pantheon--Madame Malibran--M'lle Sontag.

PARIS, ----.

_Dearest Jane:_

On inquiring the day of the month, I am quite surprised to find that my pen has been idle nearly a week. I will now try to make up for lost time, by describing to you some of the places we have visited in the interim, and the Luxembourg being first on the list, will commence with that. It is one of the most magnificent palaces in Paris. The exterior is highly embellished; and to use the words of an English tourist, "the architecture throughout is distinguished by its bold and masculine character, and by the regularity and beauty of its proportions." This palace was built by order of Mary de Medici, the widow of Henry 4th; it afterwards became the property of some of the French nobility, but was finally restored to the crown. During the revolution, it was used as a prison; the senate afterwards occupied it; at present it contains the Chamber of Peers,--and its galleries are filled with the chêf d'oeuvres of modern artists, whose productions are not admitted into the Louvre until their death. Of course the collection of paintings here is much smaller than at the Louvre, but the pictures are all on the most interesting subjects and are seen to greater advantage, the light being let in from above instead of from the sides of the rooms, as is the case at the Louvre. There are some choice pieces of sculpture; one of them (by Charles Dupaty) represents the Nymph Biblis, changing to a fountain. It is both a singular and ingenious production. The Chamber of Peers, like that of the Deputies, is semicircular in shape; it is hung with blue velvet; and the marble effigies of several orators, legislators and warriors of old, grace its walls. From the ceiling, which is painted, hangs a splendid chandelier. I will only mention one or two more of the apartments--the Salle du Trone,[2] as being particularly rich, and the billiard room, which is tapestried with white velvet, with various views of Rome beautifully delineated on it in water colors. On the ground floor is the chapel--this is very plain; near it is the gorgeous chamber of Marie de Medicis,--the ceiling, walls, and shutters of which are covered with gilding and arabesque paintings. The principal staircase of the palace is remarkably grand and magnificent; there are forty-eight steps, each twenty feet in length, and formed of a single stone; on the right and left of it, are statues and trophies. The garden of the Luxembourg is shady and pleasant, and has the usual embellishments of gods and goddesses amid fountains and flowers; as you are fond of the marvellous, I will tell you a tradition I have just read respecting it.

[Footnote 2: Hall of the Throne.]

There once stood a castle on the site of this garden, which remaining a long while uninhabited, was said to be haunted by frightful demons and apparitions; the whole neighborhood was nightly disturbed by them; no person would venture out after sunset, and finally the inhabitants were compelled, for the sake of rest, to seek other dwellings. In this state of things, the monks of a Carthusian monastery at Gentilly, (who were doubtless at the bottom of the mystery) promised to drive away the malicious spirits by exorcism, if St. Louis would grant them the castle and its appurtenances. Their request was complied with, and they so faithfully performed their part that peace was soon restored and the chateau converted into a convent, which existed about six hundred years.