of expression. A bright eye, a soul-speaking glance, | ed, as it gives to society a much less intellectual cast, and an expressive countenance, aided by a genteel person, confines the pleasures of social enjoyment within too a graceful carriage, an elegance in every act and motion, narrow a circle. It is apt to convert social intercourse but above all, a soft and well modulated voice-these are into whispering tête à tête, giggling gossip, vapid seninfinitely more captivating than mere regularity of fea-timentalism, upon merely personal topics. It is inture, or faultless symmetry of proportion. consistent, too, with the first principles of politeness, which require that respectful attention should be paid to all ladies without exception. and not a word can be addressed to her, except in the hearing of her parent or protector. When she joins the dance, her partner does not permit himself a remark beyond the merest common places of ceremony, and when conducted to her chair, he must not take a seat by her side. She is not even allowed to read a novel, lest it should make her familiar with sentiments, in which she must not indulge before the eventful epoch of mar riage. If she is carried to the play, it is only to see the most moral productions of the most moral stage, and particularly such as inculcate an implicit obedience to parental will, or which display the lamentable conse In France, the greatest attention is paid to the physical education of woman, and all the refinements which heighten or preserve female attractions, are thoroughly In France, perhaps, the opposite error prevails-the understood and practised. Every motion is directed, pleasures and privileges of society being almost engross every gesture attended to, and all the advantages of man-ed by married women. Young ladies, there, are admitner and attitude sedulously cultivated from the most ten-ted into company by a kind of sufferance, and rarely, der age, until the person falls naturally and without effort for a moment, are permitted to leave the eye of the into graceful positions and movements. Delicacy of ex- anxious mother. The poor girl sits by the side of her pression and elegance of language, too, are not only care-mamma or chaperone, with downcast, timid countenance, fully inculcated, but the greatest attention is even paid to the cultivation of the voice. There is nothing which strikes and interests the stranger so much as the elegant deportment and lady-like manners of the female children, who are dressed with great taste, and freely admitted into society until they attain a certain age, when they are again withdrawn. And here I seize with great pleasure the opportunity of defending French women from the calumny so frequently heard, that they sacrifice the care of their offspring, to the frivolous pleasures of fashionable life. This is chiefly founded upon a custom not so prevalent as formerly, about which a great deal of sentimental twaddle has been ignorantly expend-quences that necessarily spring from a mariage de sened, and which proceeds in high life, from certain ideas or prejudices relating to health and beauty, and in the lower ranks from the active engagements of life, not permitting the faithful discharge of the duty. To infer a want of affection from this, would be as logical as to maintain, as has been humorously observed, that a child reared by the hand, should entertain a filial affection for a teaspoon. I have often been agreeably surprised, by dis-question, as the penalties of the law are severe, and no covering upon a nearer acquaintance, that fashionable women, who were to be constantly seen shining in the gay circles of the capital, and apparently thinking of nothing but the pleasure of the moment, were in the daily habit of instructing their children, and devoting much time to the cultivation of their minds, and the formation of their manners. In sickness they are affectionate nurses, and the respectful attachment of their children affords the best proof that they have not neglected the pleasing though often painful duties of maternity. They are also admirable managers, prudent economists, and, in the humbler walks of life, of great assistance to their husbands in their business, in which they often actually participate. Their industry and cheerfulness in foreign countries are proverbial, and the exiles of the revolutions of France and St. Domingo, even women of the highest life and tenderest breeding, evinced a courage and energy which called forth general admiration. We talk heedlessly of the frivolity of French women, and yet the education of many of our young ladies of fashion is in their hands. To revert to a topic on which I have already lightly touched, I would observe, that with us society is instituted almost exclusively for the benefit of the very young and the unmarried, and its chief object seems to be to afford the opportunity and facilities of courtship. Beardless boys and boarding-school misses almost monopolize its privileges, from which persons of riper years are entirely banished. This is much to be lament timent. It is not surprising, then, that she should look forward with eagerness to the day which is to put an end to her captivity, as the school-boy anticipates the approach of the holidays. A husband is the knighterrant who is to relieve her from thraldom, and she regards the wedding day as the era of emancipation from irksome control. Runaway matches are out of the marriage is valid without the consent of the parents, until a certain age at least, and then recourse must be had to legal forms and judicial proceedings, tedious, degrading, and accompanied by a humiliating publicity. But what a change is wrought by the wedding day! An almost unlimited liberty, within the bounds of decorum, succeeds to the previous restraint, and the brilliant pleasures of society woo with resistless attrac tion the youthful bride. She arrays herself in the costly ornaments of her corbeille de mariage, and shines among the gay and the fair, at the court, the opera, the ball room and the promenade. The modest timidity of the maiden gives place to the elegant ease and dignified confidence of the woman of the world. The susceptible ear of the stranger is sometimes of fended by a certain freedom of language and manner in French women, which is not altogether compatible with his idea of female delicacy, and of which I do not wish to become the apologist. It would be a mistake, however, to argue from this, a want of essential propriety, since it is met with in persons of the most unques tionable character. French custom permits the use of any language or allusion, which is not coarse, repulsive or absolutely improper, and does not recognize the ver bal abstinence which is enforced in this country. Even in England the rule is much less rigorous than with us, though by no means as lax as in France, where nothing is proscribed which is not absolutely criminal or repulsive. Of the extremes, ours is certainly the preferable, and I would only remonstrate against drawing harsh and unjust inferences from what is often a mere difference of custom. We should recollect, too, that every thing which does not involve essential principle, is in a great measure arbitrary and conventional, and not be too prompt to subject the conduct of others to our own standard of habits and education. I am but pleading for charity in our judgments of others, for I repeat, both reason and feeling induce me to prefer the cautious reserve and watchful scrupulousness which prevail with us. It has been observed, with equal truth and point, that in France nothing is Salic but the throne. In fact, women there perform duties, and are entrusted with functions, which in other countries are appropriated exclusively to the stronger sex. They not only wait upon customers in the shops, they preside at the cafés and the restaurants, they book passengers for the diligences, they are the box-keepers at the theatres, they write in the office of the notary, they are the prominent and active managers of numerous establishments, and finally their names appear as principals or partners in commercial firms. The participation of females in so many masculine employments, may be in some degree owing to the sanguinary wars of the republic and the empire, which diminished the natural proportion of active men in the resident population. But this is a cause of but partial and temporary influence. In shops and other establishments, female charms are resorted to systematically, and with great success, to attract custom. A pretty woman will make the fortune of a café or a fancy store. The pleasure of being waited upon by a fair damsel, is often dearly purchased by needless expenditures and exorbitant prices, which it would not be gallant to begrudge. There is no city where this system is carried to so great an extent as in Paris. Some of the greatest establishments owe their vogue chiefly to the attraction of the presiding beauty, who, arrayed in all the splendor of costume, sits enthroned beneath a II. I recollect the opening Spring, To my dear mother's room; The Red Bud stood, with blushes deep, And made my heart exulting leap, Spread like a carpet green, With peach and cherry blossoms sweet, Embroid'ring all the scene. III. That wheat, in Summer, changed in hue- And as the soft winds o'er it flew, Oft sink into the tomb ? But, oh! their place was quick supplied And for the loss of those who died, There was no heart for grief; For there was fruit, and there were leaves Fast flutt'ring ev'ry one The shady veils which Mercy weaves IV. Autumnal days! ah, they were soft- And then the wood-the waving wood- With some trees dyed as red as blood, And some with golden leaf; Deep orange tints, and purple too, Were mix'd with evergreen, And ev'ry shade and ev'ry hue Within the rainbow seen; In color'd map, those trees were group'd, All over hill and dale And such the groves, where fairies troop'd, In some Arabian tale. V. But Winter came to blast that scene, And lay it bleak and bare; And nothing save the Evergreen Was left of all so fair. How was it, glorious Evergreen! That thou wert smiling on, When other trees around, were seen So sad and woe-begone? Yet, still there was in Winter's face A might-a majesty and grace, t The storm and tempest sweeping past, The torrents too of rain, The flaky snows descending fast, VI. And there were moonbeams cold and bright, "The floor of Heaven was thick inlaid A firmament beneath was made- Yes, Winter, lock'd in “thick-ribb'd ice," And dark my path on earth, Through my Redeemer's worth. all through the town. It is said too, they have brought news that the Home Ministry continue, and almost al the same Parliament, and that they are determined to carry things to the utmost extremity. I don't know how they could know this, for I suppose they were not all chosen when she sailed; though I think the letters some have received, of later date than your's to me, imply almost as much. May God defend and preserve us. December 15. I wrote the above in order to send by the first oppor tunity; since which cousin Williams has received one from you and from their son, whose sentiments and the spirit he writes with, are very pleasing to us all here. The anxiety we feel for each other, you for us and we for ourselves, and for what we know you suffer on our account, is not among the least of our afflictions. Since I saw one of your letters to the Speaker, mentioning your anxiety for us, I have blamed myself for writing you an account of a fray that happened in this neigh borhood; but it is gone and I cannot recall it ; but I have seen nothing of the like nature since; and I really think that part of General Gage's letter to Peyton Randolph, Esq. is a truth, (however some contest about some other † Patines were small flat dishes used in the administration of parts of it) that never was more pains taken to keep an the Eucharist. army in peace with the inhabitants than there is among thesc. There is a number of officers in this street, almost every other house between the Orange Tree and King's Lane. They are all very peaceable, but the LETTER FROM MRS. JANE MECOM, neighbors do not associate with them. I really pity Since I wrote last, which was by Capt. Calahan, I received your's of September 28. Your affectionate concern for my satisfaction, excites my sincerest gratitude and warmest affections. I am pleased, beyond expression, to find you are not discouraged under all you and our dear country suffer. I myself am not much discouraged, but I feared I was only fool-hardy, for many of our people are alarmed at the news of more ships and more soldiers coming; but the only way, as you have observed, is to keep on in the way of duty, and put our trust in God. The slander you mention, (for I also look on it as such,) was told me before I saw the papers; but it took no hold on me, for I immediately told them it was false. I knew you would scorn to accept any favors from them. I hope God will* [prosper your] advice and endeavors for our good. Our case requires all the strength and wisdom that can be collected. I hear the Scarborough came in yesterday; but if she did, it was very silently; not a gun fired; and we know it was not in regard to the day, for we had drumming and whistling There are a few words illegible here in the fold of the letter, The words supplied in brackets were probably those written. them sometimes *** touching book of music; having [time] hanging on their hands and no *** This has been our Thanksgiving Day. Our God has told us that all our sueing for a reconciliation will prove abor tive without a regeneration of morals among us; and I am in hopes we have that token, for *** several within my observation appearing to be of that number. I have sincerely pitied poor Mrs. H-- for her loss of so amiable a husband as I have heard he was, in so dismal a manner. The father of her dear babe *** is much missed in their education, if the means [be not] supplied another way; but I know by what I have heard of her and seen of her writings, that she is seized of a zeal of philosophy, and, I hope, of christianity, which will enable her to bear the affliction and acquit herself. Present my respects to Mrs. Stevenson and to Jona than. Tell him I wrote to him in the vessel Mr. Hislop and Mr. Quincy went in, and so I did to my dear brother; but not being under cover, I fear they may not get to you. SONNET-THE RECALL. BY PARK BENJAMIN. Oh truant heart! come back to thine own home- They break in showers-and sudden tempest hurls Fountain of hallowed genius, thoughts sublime, That flows through dream-land, pure, and bright, and freeThere is thy home, my heart: the fount is Poesy. A cloud swept o'er the lover's face, Two years of exile passed away, and Ernest Gordon was again in England. Time and change had wrought their usual work, and calmed the tumult of feelings which nothing could entirely subdue. Though his brow wore no longer its deep sadness, yet it was shaded still; and it may be, that the memory of some early sorrow urged him to flee from the gaieties of the metropolis, and seek the solitude of his childhood's home. There, he could be alone with his own thoughts. Society no longer charmed him; and steadfastly scrutinizing the frivolities of the world, he had learned to shun and pity those who loved them. Books were now his companions; and sometimes, in his bitterness of soul, he deemed them the only friends who never altered or betrayed. It is a sad period in life, when such feelings crowd upon us; when the beauty seems taken from our future, and the light gone from our path-way. Gloom like this was on Ernest, as he wandered through the old familiar haunts of his boyish days-and he pondered on those days as the only happy period he had ever known; forgetting that many hopes brightened over him still, that no era of existence is without its blessings, and that none can be really unhappy while there is good remaining to be done on earth. How few, in such mournful meditations, perceive that the change is not in the scenes and objects around them, but in themselves; that the blight has fallen, not on their prospects, but on the withering flowers of their own hearts. The stars are always in Heaven, and the darkness which shuts them from us, is around ourselves. It was early on a summer afternoon that Ernest was seated in the library, whose treasures had so often contributed to the consolation of his loneliest hours. The windows of the room were open, and the soft breeze sighed through the curtained casements; repose rested like a mantle on all, and its influence fell on Ernest also. His eyes were fixed on the page before him, but his thoughts had roamed far away to the records of the past. Throwing aside the learned volume, he took a pamphlet from the table and carelessly opened it. While he glanced at its contents, a change came over his countenance, as if the lava of years had been suddenly removed from the world of his memory. The lines he looked on were addressed to the writer's "only friend," and were these: "I will not forget thee! the links of the past, They are clinging around me yet; And the thoughts which connected my spirit with thine They are lingering near me in tenderness still, And are brighten'd by gloom, as stars shine at night I will not forget thee! too many bright hopes For with accents of kindness thou greetedst me oft, Thy memory comes like the breath of the south, Ernest's conscience smote him for his forgetfulness, as he read the verses addressed to himself and signed with the name of Walter Vere. Since their parting, these friends had heard nothing of each other-for Walter, with that peculiar reserve which generally forms a feature of an imaginative character, had said nothing of his plans or destination; and Ernest, in the selfishness of his individual disappointments, after the lapse of a few months' absence, had rarely thought of his youthful companion. Perhaps he may be forgiven this neglect, by those who feel that the memory of childish friendship is often lost in the engrossment of a deeper passion. But now, when the variety and distraction of travel had passed away, and he was once more enjoying the quiet of home, Gordon's interest in his friend returned with redoubled ardor, and he dwelt with the tenderest affec tion on the proud and sensitive disposition of the gifted poet. Entirely ignorant of Walter's residence, Ernest wrote to Sir Godfrey Kneller inquiring for it; for he had resolved to compensate by future kindness and attention, the past neglect and suspension of their intercourse. A few days brought the wished-for information, and Ernest despatched a note to his friend. "Once more, dear Walter," he said, "my wanderings are ended, and again I am among the tranquil beauties of home. This place recalls the happy hours we have passed here, and in roaming through its familiar scenes, I can scarcely realize that years have fled since we enjoyed them together. Will you not come to me, Walter? The sight of long forgotten things will impart to you a new inspiration—and communion with your earliest friend, will blot out the memory of sorrows we both have known too well. Do not deny me, Walter; I have so much, so very much to tell you, VOL. V.-39 which I cannot write. Moreover, I long to learn your prospects and hopes; they were confided to me so openly once, that I cannot relinquish the pleasure of a renewal of your confidence. I am here alone, and the thought of having you for a companion, has given me a taste of joy I have not felt since we parted." Ernest wrote truly. In solitude, his more youthful feelings had returned, and it was with an interest he had long ceased to cherish for the common events of life, that he looked for Walter's answer. It came at last, and Ernest read as follows: was poor; his sufferings had been increased by silence and loneliness; there was no excitement to draw his thoughts from the hour which had sealed his misery in revealing the hopelessness of his early passion. He had worshipped too long at that forbidden shrine, to kneel before another. The incentive to exertion was gone with the faithless dream in which he had garnered up the hopes of his life. The poet was of too gentle, too loving a nature, to find support in the pride which had proved a solace to Gordon. He could not, like him, repay the scorn of the one, on the many; and while Ernest smiled in haughty bitterness, Walter wept in secret sorrow. CHAPTER II. His sorrows were in secret kept, "Thanks, a thousand thanks, dear Ernest, for your kind invitation; it would indeed bring back the past, to be with you again-but it may not be. The poor have but few of the pleasures of this world, and my destiny shuts me out even from these. I must remain here, and toil in solitude-but do not think me insensible of your goodness because I am forced to decline its offers; believe me, your affection is among my dearest consolations, and you can never know how precious I hold it, till, like me, you have only one or two to love you. You express an interest in my prospects; alas! Ernest, It was a sweet summer night, when the brother and there is little in the future that promises well for sister gazed together on the quiet and religious beauty me. My writings are sufficiently profitable to prevent of the far off stars. The poet's brow was pale with our suffering, but I no longer work with the zeal of my deep and troubled thought, and in the uncertain light, past efforts. Now, exertion is painful, and I turn, al- his eyes emitted a strange brightness from their dark, most with loathing from the very lines which are the passionate depths. His smile too, was sad, and beautisole support of my daily existence. Do not deem me un-ful as the moonlight. Lucy looked at him in silence, grateful, Gordon, because I speak often of my sorrows: as, wrapt in the mournful reverie which was now a they have, alas! been more familiar to me than joy. I common mood with him, he gazed on the orbs wanhave but one real pleasure on earth, and that is the con-dering above them. Tears filled the sister's eyes as sciousness of giving comfort to my mother and sister. For she marked the unconscious absorption, and witnessed them I live, and perhaps their affection is the dearer, the gloom which so often cast its shadows over Walter's because, with the exception of yours, I have proved it spirit. to be the only love which changeth not. Do you remember, Ernest, how often in our boyish anticipations, I used to picture a manhood bright with honor and glorious with renown? How confident I once was, in my powers; how soaring was the ambition which urged | me to win celebrity! Those hopes have vanished. I "I can scarcely regret the necessity, dear Walter," find that in trusting to my own intellect, I leaned on a said his sister, "for I think the change of scene and broken reed, and that in sighing for fame, I pined for exercise will improve both your health and spirits." that which can only be gained by parting with happi- "I cannot bear the idea of mingling again in the ness. I am wiser, or at least humbler, than I then was; crowd," he said; "the very air of London makes me for nothing produces in us humility so soon, as the sha-gloomy, and I feel doubly desolate in a throng where dowing of our proudest and brightest hopes. But I will not weary you, my friend, by dwelling longer on my misfortunes; their recital can avail nothing. Will you not write to me, Ernest? Let me realize one of my early dreams, in proving the truth of your friendship. Through years of silence and separation, I have never doubted it, and it would be painful indeed to find it vain at last." "Poor Walter !" murmured Ernest, as he finished these mournful lines: "he has indeed known many sorrows, but he has escaped the haughty scorn whose blight is now upon me!" Ernest did not suspect that the disappointment, which had withered some of the better feelings of his heart, was even then clouding the sunshine of his friend, and stealing away the beauty of his life. He dreamed not that his sadness was as nothing, compared to the wild, unmitigated despair of a being like Walter. Ernest had many resources;-wealth gave him power; and change had brought him calmness. But the poet "I have not told you, Lucy, that I shall be obliged soon to go to London," said Walter, at last; speaking as if with an effort. "The publisher says my presence will be necessary in superintending my forthcoming work, and though I dread the very thought, I must go.” so many are happy. I wish Ernest would go with me." "Can you not ask him?" inquired Lucy calmly; but the mention of his name, whose sound to her was now an abiding sorrow, called up a sudden paleness on her cheek. "I will write to him," continued Walter; "he has so many friends in London, it can but be a pleasure for him to go there. It is the wretched only who shun the multitude!" "And why should you be so wretched, Walter?"" asked Lucy, almost reproachfully. "You have blessings even yet and is it no consolation to remember you are the stay and comfort of our dear mother?” "Yes, Lucy, that consolation is the sole comfort of my life. As for my blessings-where are they? Is it a blessing to toil unrequited and in solitude? Is it a blessing to see you suffering from this harsh climate, without the power to find you a gentler one? If these are blessings, Lucy, I am blessed indeed!" "You must not think of me, dearest," she answered. |