ance. Was 1, by my presence, to add to the malignity or severity of public report?

formance could only be conducive to Mr. you, my dear, that it is a cruel torture for a Dormeuil's absenting himself more and wife to have to blush, before respectable more from me: but, on the other side, what women, at the follies of the father of her consolation should I have left after he had children. I should have been grieved in parted from me, if I had consented to part the extreme if I had been suspected of with you? I loved him so tenderly, I only harbouring any jealousy: nothing could knew of your existence, so far, from the ever extinguish the love which Mr. Dorpain I endured; I therefore, in some mea- meuil had inspired me with; but my consure, might be allowed to hesitate. Your tempt for the rival he had given me, susfirst cry supplied me with due courage, and pended that regret in me which betrayed I determined to fulfil my duty. However, tenderness calls forth. Faithfully adhering my dear child, exaggerate not to yourself to the plan I had adopted, I uttered not the the magnitude of the sacrifice I consented least complaint; I did not even wish to to in your behalf; if I could have relied on appear being acquainted with that which a sincere and true return from your father, every one knew; and it was less as a warńI would have given him the preference. ing to my husband, than from personal No sooner had I fixed upon such a deter-regard, that I gave up the box I had in the mination, than I armed myself with as much || house where his mistress made her appearcourage as the consequences I had foreseen should require. Your father, who had repaired his fortune by using the portion I had brought him, launched again into dissipation, without, however, entirely neglecting his business. At first, he was rather cautious to conceal his bad practices: some interested men wished to inform me of his doings, but I would not listen to them; at the same time, some complaisant ladies were anxious to let me into the secret of his intrigues, but I silenced them at the very hint. I would never allow any one to speak in my presence of Mr. Dormeuil's connexions; my own jealousy threw more than sufficient light upon the subject, but I devoured my chagrin in silence. Calm in his presence, confident with dignity, I knew how to prevent by my austerity such caresses as would have stung me to the quick, and compelled me to betray my secret sorrows: whilst I lost the rights of a spouse, I strove to render the title still more sacred; and if perchance I occasionally dreamt of happiness, it was whilst gazing on the cradle of my infant.

At this period of the French revolution, with a view of seizing his property, the || leaders committed him to prison. I shall not recal here what I did to procure his release it was a duty incumbent upon me. In vain was it objected to me that I should ruin myself, without any avail, for his || safety; that I ought to preserve myself for the sake of my child: I could never have any conception of that prudence which sacrifices a present and sacred interest to uncertain danger. My solicitations were not listened to, I confess; but whilst engaged in petitioning, I discovered the secret of the tyrants and of the judges, and taking advantage of my discoveries, by dint of bribing some of them, I succeeded in having Mr. Dormeuil's judgment postponed. Heaven heard the prayers of the innocent sufferers-the wicked turned their rage against each other, and my husband was saved.

Dear, yet cruel, husband! weak Dormeuil! Hast thou forgotten those days of

the excess of my happiness, thou knowest whether I was so destitute of reason as to upbraid thee for thy former wrongs: I would not even permit thee to mention them. Thou lovedst me, thou lovedst me

Mr. Dormeuil, by degrees, gave up act-purity which followed our re-union? In ing with reserve; and I had the mortification to see him equally forgetful of what he owed to me and to the public, when he took in his pay one of those creatures who make their appearance on the stage, but who, for want of proper talent and abilities, distin-alone-the past no longer existed. Dor guish themselves only by luxury and the most scandalous conduct. At that moment his behaviour afflicted me more for his sake than on my own account; and I can assure

meuil, what a year of felicity ensued! If thou wert not at present besieged by adverse fortune, with what ecstacy would I recal that year to thy recollection! The

various circumstances come crowded, and cheer my imagination-my heart is full.Oh! my child, pity your poor mother.

his idol: he felt for her that passion which renders at once a man fearful and enterprising with that passion that deprives a man of every will of his own, he loved her -as he had never loved me.

Blame me, my child, if you think I am

What must have been the corruption of our morals, that so much blood could not wash it off! The French had scarcely ceased trembling for their lives, than plea-deserving of blame. Had I not a right to sures and luxury resumed a stronger empire over them than ever; the thirst of gold became a rage that prevailed through all ranks, and confounded them more powerfully than the eager system of equality had ever done.

complain of your father, after all I had done for him, when I saw him carry elsewhere all the hopes of my earthly happiness? After having so long kept secret the pangs || which his conduct gave rise to; after having spared him my reproaches to soften his remorse, could I lose him anew, and not strive to bring him back to me-not by my exclamations or violence, but by dint of my tears, which it was no longer in my power to withhold? To these tears he was insensible: he carried his barbarity so far as to tell me I made his home insupportable to him. He even made a pretence of those very embarrassments, of which he was the real author, to keep absent from me more repeatedly. You, my daughter, ceased be

Mr. Dormeuil, who regretted a small diminution in his fortune, commenced speculator; and speculations, it is well known, such as they were conducted at the time, lead to dissipation. I foresaw what was to be the consequence, but could not ward the blow, content to keep my own apartment, not to disturb him and his new partners, whose behaviour and manners were as offensive to me, as mine might prove irksome to them. I know not in the palace of which of ouring the same dear object to him. Never modern Cræsuses he met, for the first time, a woman-whose history I shall abstain relating to you. How could nature have succeeded in uniting so many contradictory qualifications in the same individual?-the most captivating beauty to the most perverse miud, the most ingenuous open countenance to the keenest duplicity and malice; the appearance of mildness to the art of tyrannising? This woman, however, was loved by my husband. But what do I say? Loyed!—He worshipped her she was

||

will he who discharges not the duties of a husband know the whole extent of the duties of a father: you will soon have a proof of that sad, cruel truth.

So far all the wrong was on the side of Mr. Dormeuil: I now, perhaps, acted wrong in my turn; but that he might have prevented, whilst I could not possibly suffer for ever without my patience at last failing me.

(To be concluded in our next,)

THE MANIAC OF ST. JOSEPH.

A TALE FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE GRAVE. FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF BARON GRIMM.

It was about the hour of two in the went out; when the same voice addressed morning, and the lamp which was suspend-me, saying, "Hearken-come-and do not ed in the middle of the court was almost make a noise." I drew near, and near the extinguished: as I was retiring to my last step, behind a pillar, I perceived a apartment, I thought I heard a noise at the 1 woman dressed in black, with a white gir bottom of the great staircase; I cried out dle, and an abundance of flowing hair, twice, "Who is there? what are you "Hearken to me," said she, taking me about there?" A sweet and touching voice by the hand; “I will do you no harm-do answered, "It is me-you find I am wait- not hurt me. I have deranged nothing on ing for him.". the staircase-I am in a little corner-no As I was not the person waited for, I one can see me: that hurts nobody, Let

No. 61, Vol. X.

him never know it: he will soon come, frightened too, when that first happened

down; I shall just see him, and then I will go away."

Every word she uttered increased my surprise. I sought in vain how to find out who this unfortunate person could be. Her voice was unknown to me, and it was not possible for me to perceive her exterior. She continued speaking to me; but her ideas seemed confused, and I only discovered the disorder of her head and the sorrows of her heart.

I thought I was going to die. Presently, when it is over, I comfort myself by going to him: if he dies, I shall die also; but without that happens, it is impossible; we only die where we live, and it is not in myself, it is in him that I exist. Some time ago I was mad, very mad; and that must not surprise you, for it was then he began to go up this staircase. I have done every thing I could in my despair, every thingbut I wanted means; and yet it was but a I interrupted her, and tried to point out simple affair; I could not die, however. to her our situation. "If any one was to Now my reason is returned, every thing see you talking with me on the staircase!" come sand goes, she herself. She is in this "Ah!" said she, "I see you do not un- medallion, see, it is a portrait; but it is not derstand this: there is only he who is that of my friend-what would be the use somebody-all the rest are nothing; and of that? He is so handsome, he cannot be when he is going he will not do as you do: more so; there is nothing wants improving, he does not hearken to what is said he || nothing to be altered. If you knew whose only hears her that is above. Once it was picture this is;-it is her's that is above. me-to-day it is her: but that will not Cruel creature! what mischief she has done last." So saying, she took a medallion me since she came near my heart!—it was from her pocket, which she pressed fervent- contented, happy; she broke, deranged, ly to her bosom. and destroyed it. Tormented by the excess of my grief, I have ran about every where by day and by night. Once I found myself alone in the chamber of my friend: alas! he was not there; I saw this picture on the table, I catched it up, and ran away." So

Just at that moment we heard a door open, and a lacquey, holding a light in his hand over the balustrade, caused me to distinguish a young man, who stole softly down stairs. Leaning against me, his unfortunate vic-saying, she fell a laughing, and then spoke tim trembled violently; scarce had he passed her, than her strength entirely failed her, and she fell on the steps nearest the pillar against which we stood. I was anxious to procure assistance, but the fear of bringing her into trouble prevented me. I took her in my arms; her senses were entirely gone, and I had a small bottle of English salts, which I put to her nostrils. She appeared to recover; I held her two hands in one of mine, while with the other I supported her head. As she came to herself, her nerves were seized with convulsive tremblings: twice I heard her sigh; her || chest laboured under severe oppression, and her efforts to speak were extinguished by grief. At length, after some moments of silence, which I durst not interrupt, "Hearken," said she; "I feel it now, and I ought to have given you notice. The accident which has just happened to me must have made you uneasy; for you are good, and you have been terrified: I do not wonder at it. I was like you, I used to be

to me of promenades, carriages, and horses, and I again found her senses wandering. She was then silent for a few minutes. I approached her, and said, “Why do you keep so carefully the picture of that wicked woman above?"- -"What," replied she, "do you not know why?-it is my only hope: every day I take it, and place it beside my looking-glass, and I try to form my features after her's. I already begin to resemble her, and very soon, with taking pains, I shall look exactly like her; then I shall go and see my friend-he will be pleased with me, and will no longer desire to see her who is above: for I am sure, if it was not for her face, I should please his taste much better. See now in what some people place their happiness, just in a set of features: why did not he tell me that-I should have arranged mine, as I do now, and he need not have sought out a stranger: it was the easiest thing in the world, and would have saved us both a great deal of trouble-but, certainly, he never thought

of it. Every night I place myself on this || is so soon destroyed in this world?" I staircase; he never comes down till the continued to accompany her. "Stop," clock strikes two: then, as I do not see said she, it go home; I have deprived you him, I count the pulsations of my heart; of a part of your sleep, and 1 have done but since I began to resemble this picture wrong-sleep is so sweet to the happy."I find them decrease. But it is getting I would not afflict her by my presence, and late; I must be gone. Adieu !" I left her. However, fearful of any harm befalling her, I followed her with my eyes, as I slowly walked away. I saw her soon after stop before a little door, which she opened, entered, and closed after her. I then returned home, with equal agitation of heart and mind. This unfortunate fémale was continually before my eyes: I thought on the cause of her misfortunes, and I shed mingled tears of sorrow and regret. I suffered too much mental agony to hope for sleep, and as I awaited the rising of the day, I wrote down what had happened, as the recital will, no doubt, in

I conducted her to the end of the street, which when we had arrived at, she turned to the left, and I went a few steps with her. She fixed her eyes on the rows of lamps which were before us; "You see all these lamps," said she: "well, so pass away the generations of mankind; they are equally agitated by the passing wind, they are animated by a lively fire, are separated equally by distances, and exist only by consuming, while the child who lights them knows no more what he does than the chance which extinguishes them. Why, then, should we be astonished that happiness "terest all susceptible minds.

THE RETURN OF MAURICE.

(Concluded from Page 8.)

MAURICE quitted them the next day with an aching heart at having bid Thérèse an eternal adieu. She wept likewise; but let us not pity her too tenderly, she is young, pretty, and French: Maurice was not her first sweetheart; he will not be the last.

During the first day our traveller was quite disconsolate; the pretty little Lyonese occupied all his thoughts, and the bitterest || tears flowed from his eyes: he was conscious that he had not behaved well to Ernestine, || and he felt also that he was too partial to Thérèse. "Thérèse will console herself," thought he; "but my Ernestine, will she pardon me? Oh yes, she is so good; I will tell her all, and she will praise my fidelity and frankness when she knows how pretty Thérèse was." Full of this soothing hope he continued his journey more cheerfully, and the nearer he approached his dear country the more Lyons, Thérèse, and the shop of Master Thomas, faded from his thoughts:

all that he saw around him revived in his mind the sweetest remembrances. It was the beginning of May, the first Sunday of which each lover sets a young fir or birch tree, surrounded with flowers, before the

dwelling of his sweetheart; Maurice recollects how many he had set before the window of his dear Ernestine, and how delighted he was to hear the next day that the prettiest girl in the village had had the finest May. These thoughts inspired Maurice with fresh vigour, he hardly gave himself any time to repose, so eager was he to pursue his journey; but his fatigue was useless, the first Sunday of May was arrived, and he was yet two full days journey distant from Sonnemberg. He found himself in the evening in a large village called Nesselrode, where he determined to rest for the night. Every thing was prepared to celebrate the feast: the May indicated the dwellings of the young maidens, all had flowers, but he remarked a fir which had only white ones, tied together by a black crape. In order to get to the inn he was obliged to pass by the church and churchyard; both were open,the church was full of women, and some men were digging a grave in the church-yard. At this sight Maurice conceived that some interesting being was no more, and that this sad event had suspended the public joy. At the

long silence, interrupted only by the sighs and tears of the groupe; no one wept more than Maurice, who was reflecting that his conduct had perhaps nearly caused the death of his Ernestine.

"Poor Zelie," cried one of the young

always pitied her, though I am a stranger to her sad story. You were in her confidence, Marie," continued she, turning to one of her companions, "relate to us the history of her sufferings."-Marie consented; and the rest pressed round her, Mau rice likewise redoubled his attention.

"Her history is very short," said Marie; "from her infancy she had—” At this moment the bell tolled. "I will give you the history of poor Zelie another day," said Marie, getting up; "come, let us accompany her to her last abode, and deposit our crowns of flowers upon her tomb."

sight of the fir hung with crape, he felt a sentiment of pleasure that he was not at Sonnemberg." Ah, heavens!" thought he, "if on my arrival at home I had found a grave ready dug, what would have been my terror! and if that mournful May had been before Ernestiue's door!" This dread-maidens in a compassionate tone, "I have ful thought quite overcame his spirits, and not wishing to return into the inn with this doleful impression on his mind, he seated himself on a bench in a square planted with trees adjacent to the church: he endeavoured to console himself by reflecting that he was not at Sonnemberg; that he knew nobody at Nesselrode, where he was for the first time in his life, and that we have all our troubles: his heart, however, was still oppressed, but he attributed it to the striking contrast of the preparations for the funeral and those for the feast of May. Every thing around him presented this sorrowful contrast. The place where he had They began the procession two by two: seated himself had been nearly put in order Maurice followed them; he also wished to for the dance; grass plats, tables, a place assist in paying the last duties to the victim for the orchestra, and garlands of flowers of love. The body advanced preceded by on the trees, every thing announced this to flambeaus, which were obscured by the be the place destined for the rustic ball; but light of the moon; it was borne by six instead of the drum and flageolet, he only young men. Henry, the brother of Marie, heard the plaintive sound of the organ ac- was of the number; and to the great surcompanying a solemn hymn; instead of prise of Maurice he was the only one who gay young dancers, lightly tripping over wept, and had the appearance of being the turf, he saw groupes of young maidens deeply afflicted. The men more advanced dressed in black, and each having a crown in years, who followed, even the one who of rosemary with a lily in the middle, walk-conducted it, and who without doubt was ing silently out of the church to wait for the funeral coming up. The soft light of the moon, then at the full, reflected on their countenances through the trees, and gave to them a solemn and touching paleness. They spoke of the deceased; and Maurice understood by their discourse that she was young and handsome.-" Poor Zelie, so young and pretty as she was!" said one of them who was seated on the same bench with Maurice; my God! what can we rely upon?" Yes, but so languishing and melancholy," said a second; " it is said she wished for nothing but death." "Would she not haye done better," said a third, "to have married Henrie, Marie's brother, who loved her so tenderly; she would at present be amongst us happy and content, instead of being in her grave?"

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These observations were followed by a

the father or the nearest relation of the deceased, had only a decent and serious air without any mark of affliction. The body was lowered into the earth. The pastor pronounced a discourse upon the fragility of life, and the certainty of death: the young maidens then advanced, and each threw her crown of rosemary upon the bier, and Marie her whole garland. The ceremony being concluded, the grave was filled up, and as the earth was thrown upon the coffin the sound struck to the heart of Maurice. The young flower thus crushed by misfortune and perfidy, which seemed to be regretted only by one friend and the lover whom she had refused, filled his heart with sadness. The crowd dispersed; Henry and Marie alone remained at the grave. The heart of Maurice was full, he could not restrain his tears, and he approached