Part 9

On reaching home we found Mr. Danville and Leonora much diverted at the exploit of a monkey that had climbed in at the window, and ere they perceived it, twitched from Leonora's hand a bunch of raisins she was eating. It was the property of a little Savoyard, who had taught it a variety of tricks in order to gain a few sous by their exhibition. The Boulevard abounds with these little wanderers, and their marmosets.

This evening we are going to a fête at the Tivoli Garden; the _New_ Tivoli as it is called; the old one (which I am told was far handsomer) has been converted into ground for building. We have seen the Ballet of Mars and Venus, at the grand opera; nothing can be more beautiful and splendid than it is! Leaving it for your imagination to fancy, I subscribe myself your affectionate

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER THIRTEENTH.

Fête at Tivoli--The Catacombs--Cemetery of Montmartre--Abattoirs--Lady Morgan--Mrs. Opie--A Quaker Meeting.

Paris, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

We were much entertained at Tivoli. The garden was brightly illuminated, and all sorts of amusements went on; and what a variety of these the French have, and with what zest they partake of them! We did our part very well too. We swung, we rode on wooden horses, we sailed in ships, looked at a cosmorama, witnessed a phantasmagoria, rope dancing and fire works, a play performed by puppets, and some metamorphoses of little paste board figures, that were quite wonderful; for instance:--a tiny lion was changed, as if by magic, into a cupid driving a car drawn by swans, a young lady into a basket of flowers, a butterfly into a beau, &c. &c. These transfigurations, I think, must be produced in the following manner: Two different objects are painted on a bit of pasteboard, one on the back and the other on the front of it; the pasteboard is then folded into the shape of one of them, and threads, too fine to be visible at a moderate distance, attached to it; after exhibiting the first figure a sufficient time, the threads are pulled and the pasteboard adroitly turned round and thrown open, thus displaying the second figure, to the form of which its edges are trimmed. As no person was visible, the threads were undoubtedly passed through the scenes of the miniature stage into the hand of the skilful operator,--for skilful he or she was who conducted the business. When tired of strolling we entered a fine café, situated in the centre of the garden, and refreshed ourselves with ice creams; afterwards, attracted by the sound of music, we repaired to an open space, where an orchestra was erected and a band of musicians were playing quadrilles for a party of beaux and belles, who danced away merrily, not on the _turf_ but in the sand; they were, however, so inspired by the tones of violins and clarionets, that they moved along as if on a board floor.

You will wonder, perhaps, how we sailed in ships without the aid of wind or tide! I will tell you. Two poles, with a little ship suspended by a rope from each end, were placed crosswise on a pivot, and turned as rapidly as you chose, carrying you round and round in the air, with an undulating motion, not dissimilar to that of a vessel at sea, and so unpleasant to our feelings that we soon _disembarked_. This diversion is termed "les Espagnolettes." The wooden horses are arranged in like manner, except that they are firmly fixed on the ends of the poles, and consequently, in riding on them you do not experience the sickening, waving motion. The machine for swinging, is denominated a "Balancoir." This also consists of a couple of beams placed athwart each other, with chairs attached to their ends, which are thrown alternately up and down. Several parties, as they glided round on the wooden horses, amused themselves by trying to pass a stick through a large ring which was held towards them by a woman mounted on a bench. Whenever a ring was caught and borne off, it was instantly replaced by another, until one of the competitors had obtained _five_ and thus won the game. I must now change my theme and inform you of our disappointment as respects seeing the catacombs. They are closed at present by order of the government--I _believe_ on account of the danger there is in visiting them. We have been to the "cemetery of Montmartre," or "Field of Repose," as it is likewise styled. It is of much older date than "Pére la Chaise," but not so extensive, nor does it contain such handsome monuments; there are however some shady, melancholy dells and moss covered tombs, that render it peculiarly interesting. Vestris the celebrated dancer and Very the chief of Restaurateurs, are buried there. From the cemetery we proceeded to the "Abattoir," or "Slaughter-house of Montmartre;" an establishment of this kind is erected in every department of the city. Within them the butchers exercise their sanguinary functions, and the expense of them is defrayed by taxes on the animals that are killed. They are kept in the neatest order and composed of numerous buildings, each of which is appropriated to a particular branch of the business. In one the poor animals are knocked in the head; and there is a receptacle for the blood, which trickles into it through furrows made in the floor: in a second the carcase is skinned: in a third quartered: in a fourth the entrails are separated and cleansed: in a fifth the fat is boiled in an immense kettle. There are besides spacious tables, where the unconscious victims are sheltered and amply supplied with food and straw, while awaiting their fate. It made me quite sad to behold them eating and reposing so calmly, and then to think of their bloody destiny! The "Abattoirs" are liberally watered and often washed, and therefore no disagreeable odour is perceptible about them. I wish our butchers would follow the example of their French brethren as regards these places!

We had the gratification of meeting with Lady Morgan last night at Madame B----'s. Mamma had a great deal of conversation with her and found her extremely affable and agreeable. You know we were told she was ugly--we do not think her so, but she certainly dresses too girlishly, rouges too highly and seems too desirous of admiration. This cannot be said of Mrs. Opie, to whom we were also introduced. She was as plain in her attire as a dark grey silk gown and a white muslin kerchief and cap could make her. In her manners she is unaffected, in her conversation animated and intelligent. Her countenance is open and expressive of her lively mind. The moment we beheld her we recognized her as a lady we had seen at a quaker meeting which we attended from motives of curiosity on Sunday. A quaker meeting in Paris! you will exclaim. Even so my dear, for what is there on the face of the earth (that depends not on _soil_ or _climate_) which may not be found in this bustling capital? The meeting was held in a house in the Champs Elysèes, belonging to a quaker family with whom Mr. D. was acquainted, and who gave him a cheerful permission to bring with him whenever he wished it, any friends desirous of going there. We were shewn into a neat parlor, where about twenty persons were sitting in solemn silence, and for nearly an hour not a sound was heard, save the occasional sneezes of an old lady who had a violent cold in her head. At length however the spirit moved a dark eyed gentleman and he gave us a tolerable sermon. I conclude with love from all of us to yourself, aunt M. and Albert, and to our relations and friends in the vicinity of Morven Lodge. I have not always room for affectionate messages, or be assured they would always be inserted.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER FOURTEENTH.

Soirée at General Lafayette's--Benjamin Constant--Messrs. Perrier, Laffitte and Ternaux, &c.--"Conservatory of Arts and Trades"--Diorama--Georama--Neorama--"Royal Printing Office"--Manufactory of Plate Glass--Hospital of the Quinze Vingts--Castle of Vincennes--Fountain of the Elephant--Franconi's Circus--The Duchess of Berri's children.

PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

Another busy week of pleasure and amusement has glided by since you have heard from us, and two evenings of it have been spent at two delightful soirées. The first at Madame de N----'s, the second at the gallant old General Lafayette's, in the rue d'Anjou; where he has a suite of small and neat apartments illuminated for the reception of his expected guests on every Tuesday evening. We made our debut there about 9 o'clock and found them crowded. Among the throng were many celebrated and interesting personages, for the worthy and enlightened of all nations seem ever ready to do homage to the virtuous patriarch of Lagrange. At his soirées the greatest ease prevails--the refreshments are simple and plentiful, and in compliment to the Americans and English, tea is always served, a custom not practised among the French. We again saw Sir Charles and Lady Morgan and Mrs. Opie, with whom by the bye we have exchanged visits. Then there was the orator Benjamin Constant, a pale, thin man, with light blue eyes and snowy hair, looking as if he were far on his passage to the next world. He was environed by a crowd of gentlemen, to whom he was speaking very earnestly with a great deal of gesture. Not far from him we observed other stars of the Chamber of Deputies, and these were Messieurs Casimir Perrier, Laffitte and Ternaux, whose countenances bespeak their noble minds. Monsieur Ternaux has introduced here and carries on the manufacture of cashmere shawls, and they not only equal those of India in tints and texture, but surpass them in the beauty and richness of the borders. To him also is attributed the discovery of the art of stamping patterns in relief on cloth table covers, &c. In the next room, we saw Mr. Cooper, the American novelist, and his lady--the two Miss P----'s, cousins of Lord Byron and Mr. and Mrs. ----. She is the daughter of Gen. Bertrand, and a beautiful creature she is. The lovely countess d'A---- was sitting near her. She is the sister of Madame George Lafayette, and is an intelligent and fascinating woman. She called here yesterday with Madame Lasteyrie and her daughters.

It is now time to speak of some of the curiosities of Paris to which we have recently been devoting our mornings. I believe the "conservatory of arts and trades" stands first on the list. It is also termed the "museum of industry," and is a collection of all sorts of machines and models, patterns and specimens of things that French genius and labor have produced; for the government obliges every Frenchman to deposit here a sample or model of whatever he improves or invents, and to accompany it with an account of its manufacture or construction. Besides several halls exhibiting machines and models, there are others filled with specimens of porcelain, glass, stone ware, lace, silks, ribbons, tapestry, colored and stamped paper, scissors, knives, fans, watches, clocks, lamps and a thousand other articles. One of the halls contains a number of _miniature_ buildings, representing sundry manufactories. They are open in front, and display in different apartments the various processes of each business and the implements required in it, not omitting the most trifling tool. Another hall contains a library of 10,000 volumes, written in almost every language, and treating on subjects connected with the purport of the establishment--and professors of geometry and natural philosophy give lectures there to such pupils as are recommended by the minister of the interior. Would it not be shameful if the French nation did not rapidly progress in the arts and sciences, when the government is so liberal in encouraging them, by affording those persons who possess talents every advantage gratuitously, so that the poor may rise as well as the rich, if blessed with abilities? Among the patterns of tapestry is one concerning which a droll story is related, viz. that Vaucanson, a skilful mechanic, being offended with the inhabitants of Lyons for undervaluing some looms he had invented, tied an ass to one of them and made him execute the piece of embroidery from which this specimen was cut, and which excelled any _they_ had ever done.

We have also visited the Diorama, the Georama and the Neorama, the royal printing office, the manufactory of plate glass and the hospital of the "Quinze Vingts." A diorama you have seen. A georama is a panoramic representation of the earth with its divisions of land and water; the spectator standing in the centre. A neorama is a painting so ingeniously designed and arranged, as to produce the illusion of your being within whatever building it represents. The one we saw is a picture of the interior of St. Peter's at Rome, and Mr. Dorval who has been there says it is an exact copy. The royal printing office is an establishment of great magnitude. There is a vast collection of types and several hundred presses. We were informed that Pope Pius VII visited this office during his sojourn in Paris, and that while he was there the Lord's prayer was printed in no less than 150 languages and presented to him. At the plate glass manufactory we beheld mirrors of wonderful magnitude. The plates are cast at Cherbourg and at St. Gobin, (a castle in the department of Aisne) and sent here to be quick-silvered and polished. Eight hundred workmen are constantly employed in the business. The French are indebted to the great Colbert for this establishment; prior to its foundation plate glass could only be had by sending for it to Venice. Having satisfied our curiosity here, we proceeded to the hospital of the "Quinze Vingts," founded by St. Louis in 1220 for the maintenance of 300 blind--a larger number is now admitted. It was customary in the age of St. Louis to count by twenties, and there being 15 twenties in 300 this institution derived its appellation from having that number of pensioners. We were pleased with the neatness and comfort that reigned, and arrived there just in time to hear a class of the blind sing and play; for those who evince a talent for music are instructed in it. The women were the vocalists and the men performed on various instruments. Even the leader was sightless! They kept time very well and we enjoyed their concert exceedingly, though the distorted faces some made while singing were horrible. They are taught a variety of trades, and not only reading but the art of printing, and we saw a man arrange the types and print several words with both skill and quickness. The types were extremely large and made of wood, and no ink was used in the operation, but the letters pressed on the paper, so as to leave the traces of them perceptible to the slightest touch.

On Wednesday we went to the castle of Vincennes, a gothic fortress, about three miles from the city. It contains the state prisons and an armory. A note to the commandant, from Mr. Warden, the American Ex-Consul and a kind friend of the Danvilles, gained us admission, and we spent two hours in examining the castle within whose gloomy turrets, nobles and monarchs have sighed in captivity. The celebrated Mirabeau was a prisoner there during four years, and there wrote his letters between Gabriel and Sophie. The duke d'Enghien was shot in a moat of this castle--the spot where the execution took place is designated by a willow tree and a black column, bearing this inscription, "Here he fell." In the chapel is a handsome mausoleum enclosing his ashes. Returning from Vincennes we stopped on the _Place de la Bastille_ (once occupied by that terrific building) to view the model of the fountain of the Elephant. It is of plaster, and 72 feet high! A tower on the animal's back is to serve as a reservoir for the water which is to flow from the proboscis, and one of the legs is to contain the stair case leading to the tower. The whole mass is to be of bronze, but it is doubtful if this grand fountain will ever be made; it was one of Napoleon's gigantic designs, which adversity and death prevented his accomplishing. Last night we witnessed the wonder of an Elephant acting a part in a play at the Cirque Olympique, a theatre of the same description as that of Astley's in London. The house was crowded almost to suffocation, and the docile and astonishing creature excited universal admiration by her performance. She is called "Mam'selle Dyjeck," is a native of the island of Ceylon, and was purchased from some Indian jugglers by Monsieur Huguet her present owner. She is so attached to him that she shews evident distress if he is long absent from her, and extreme delight when he returns. If he be fatigued or indisposed, it is said that she even undresses him, puts him to bed and watches by him while he rests. Travellers I know are expected to exaggerate, but I assure you I am not availing myself of the privilege in the present instance. The play was entitled "l'Elephant du roi de Siam," and was written expressly to exhibit the address and sagacity of M'lle Dyjeck, who really acted throughout as if she were a human being. At the close of the performance the audience vociferated for her re-appearance, and after a few moments elapsed the curtain was raised and the _royal lady_ came forth proudly tossing her trunk. She advanced to the edge of the stage and made three courtesies, retreating all the while, and looking round on the spectators as she rose, until she had sufficiently receded, she walked off amidst a roar of applause. It was quite an inspiring scene. The Duchess of Berri and her suite were present.

Apropos--Madame F. lately gave us a most interesting account of her Highness' children, the little Duke of Bordeaux and M'lle Louise. She says they are both remarkably amiable and _le petit Duc_ holds a levee daily, is dressed _en militaire_ and assumes all the airs of a grown gentleman. He is so proud of his sword, that the severest penalty his tutor can inflict, when he misbehaves, is to deprive him of it. He is a pretty boy--we have often met him taking an airing in his coach and four, surrounded by gens d'armes, for the Bourbons are so unpopular that for fear of his sharing the fate of his father, he is always strongly guarded whenever he appears in public. He pays dearly for his lineage, poor little fellow! and I never see him without thinking sorrowfully of the probability of his perishing by the ruthless hand of an assassin. But mercy! what a packet. Have patience dearest! with your

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

In recollection of Thomas H. White, who died at Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years.

Was it a dream? It has pass'd away As vanish dreams at the rising day,-- That graceful form, from the Saco's side, That loved the leap of its dashing tide, And watched full long, in the mild Moon's ray, The rainbow tints of the rising spray.

Fair was that form; and the feature's glow, True to the pulse of the Heart's warm flow, Heighten'd at thought of those friends afar, Who the aspect watched of his rising star; With fervent prayer that that star might shed Benignant influence upon his head.

With heart as joyous, and foot as light As the wild young roe, he scaled the height-- The crystal sought in its mountain-bed, And the fragrant wild flowers gathered; Nature he loved in her freakish mood-- And sought her, deep in her solitude.

* * * * *

He is not now where the rapids play, Or moonlight tinctures the rising spray; Nor like the roe on the craggy height, With heart as gay, and a foot as light;-- Did he hear the howl of the frost-god nigh, And fly like the Birds to his native sky?

His native sky?--Ah! it brightly glows-- It cheers the bird and it scents the rose; It wakes all nature to songs of joy-- _But it smiles all vainly on thee, sweet Boy!_ They laid, who loved thee, all lone and deep, On the James' green shore, in thy last, long sleep!

Yes! 'twas a dream of Life's dreamy day! Beautiful, fleeting, and vain as they! Dreams of the heart, the mind, the eye, Belov'd, how dearly!--how soon to fly! They fade, they vanish, e'er dawns the morrow, And the heart is left to its night of sorrow.

ELIZA.

_Saco, Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SPRING.[1]

Not since the world's first blushing Spring Hath warmer, truer offering Than mine, by minstrel, muse, or maid, Been on thy rose-wreathed altar laid.

May-flower, the first in Flora's band, I've snatch'd from thy half-open'd hand, And help'd the little Daisy shake From her bright head the light snow-flake;

I've watch'd thee while thy crayon spread The first tint on the Violet's head, And wrapt with pleasure, scan'd the grace Thy light touch threw o'er Nature's face--

But more I love thee for thy promise bright, That Man shall spring, revived from Death's cold, wintry night.

ELIZA.

_Saco, Maine._

[Footnote 1: On the warm banks of the James, this Apostrophe to Spring may probably appear altogether too late for the season, but on the banks of the Saco, where a good fire is still necessary to comfort, and the May-flower, the most daring of our wild flowers, is just putting forth its blossom in token of _approaching_ Spring, it is quite early enough.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.

Rude Winter's surly storms are gone-- Spring, in her joy, is passing on: Beneath her light and magic tread, Each flow'ret lifts its gentle head: Streamlets, so long in fetters bound, Leap with a glad, reviving sound: Valleys and hills, so long unseen, Glow with a rich and silv'ry green: The Robin's wild and thrilling note, The silence of the grove, has broke: The Bee, for months, in bondage held, Wakes her hum in the wonted field: The Horse and Ox their stalls forsake, In leaping streams, their thirst to slake;-- To seek, on mountain-side and plain, The feast, that Nature spreads again. Nymph, with the sweetly-laughing eye! Where dost thou dwell, when o'er the sky, The murky storms of Winter scowl, And through the leafless valleys howl;-- That thou, the moment they are gone, Doth, lovely still, come tripping on? Go on, upon thy blooming way! I know thou wilt not, canst not, stay; But oft, as on your course you wind, Oh! cast a "ling'ring look behind!"

ROY.

_Lovingston, April 1, 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger

TO A. L. B.

Author of "_Trust Not_," in the Messenger for February.

Scorn not the love of the gentle one! Turn not away from the heart's devotion! Still to its shrine may'st thou be won, And thy bosom be stirr'd with its gentle emotion.

Spurn not that treasure! its worth is untold; Bright gems are hid in its deep recesses;-- Fear not that her bosom shall grow cold, When the light is gone from her wavy tresses.

There's a fountain of feeling pure and bright, Which the glance of her eye is so gently revealing; Like the twilight dawn of the Summer's light, On the longing sight of the weary stealing.

Trust to the love thou hast falsely disdain'd, So shall the trusted deceive thee never; Forget the scorn thou hast falsely claim'd, And the star of thy breast shall be bright forever.

Then come to "the hall of wine and song," Where the spirit of beauty reposes, And truth shall be crown'd by the shining throng, With a garland of myrtle and roses!

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.

To see thy tiny songsters rear With wondrous skill, their home of love; And hear each praise the other's care In songs, that might be breathed above.

To watch the modest flowret's growth, The spotless type of love on earth Which nightly droops, as though 'twere loath To quit the breast that gave it birth;