HELEN SYMINGTON.

46

AMIDST the hills of Tweeddale there are many lonely valleys, which seem remote from all human ken-little separate regions, where you may loiter for a summer's day without seeing a living thing, save a few straggling sheep, which lift up their heads in seeming wonder as you pass. Or there may rise at your foot a startled hare, or a covey of moorfowl, unused to such intrusion; where no sound reaches your ear excepting the song of the skylark, the bleat of the sheep, the hum of the wild bee, and the low murmuring of a burn, stealing along its quiet way to pay its tribute to the Tweed. It was to one of those sequestered spots, being a stranger in the country, that I was one day led by an old man, who undertook to be my guide to the best streams for trout-fishing. But though now deserted by man, as I have described this valley, there had been a time when it was inhabited, as appeared from a roofless and ruined hut, over the walls of which the ivy and the wild-flower had apparently crept for years. I observed to my guide what a lonely dwelling it must have been. It was so," said the old man ; "but love and youth can make any place a paradise; and happiness once dwelt there, though it did not continue; and though the fate of its hapless inhabitants made a great noise in the country at the time, it is now in a measure forgotten, for it is more than fifteen years since a fire was kindled in that lone house." Perceiving by this that something remarkable had happened to the last occupiers of the desolated hut, and being tired with ascending and descending the neighbouring hills, I sat down, and requested the old man, who was the schoolmaster of a village where I had for some days taken up my abode, to gratify my curiosity by repeating to me the story to which he had alluded. The place where I had chosen my seat was a little grassy bank, near the brink of the rivulet, and about forty yards below the site of the little ruin, which stood on the side of a hill; and the old man, having placed himself beside me, began his narration.

"My occupation as a teacher gives me, of course, an opportunity of observing with accuracy the dispositions of the youth I instruct; and I have never met with a girl of more ardent affections or of better temper, or who possessed more amiable qualities, than Helen Symington. She was the daughter of an honest and respectable weaver in our village, of which, as she grew up to womanhood, she was the pride. When scarce twenty years old, she married William Brydon, a sensible, well-disposed young man, who was principal shepherd to the owner of this property, and came here with him to live in that cottage which is now a ruin, but which was then, by the unwearied industry of Helen, a neat and comfortable habitation; and never, in those early days of her marriage, did lark carol more blithely to the sun, than did she while employed in her household occupations, or, as passing over the heather with a light step, she carried some refreshment to her William, when detained with his flock in some more distant sheep-walk. Even when left by herself in this wild solitude, she felt no loneliness, for all was peace and joy within and without. William loved her entirely, and her alone; and she knew it, and in that knowledge all her earthly wishes were complete. Yet was this feeling of felicity still increased, when, before the year had completed its circle, she sat, in a summer evening, on yonder little turf seat at the door, with her infant in her arms, watching her husband descending the opposite hill, and drawing nearer and nearer, till at length her baby shared with her in his carresses. The second winter of their abode here was unusually severe; but it was William's care to guard his wife and child from its inclemency, by many little ingenious contrivances to render their cottage more impervious to the cold; while Helen looked forward each day with longing solicitude to the evening hour which restored him to a participation of its comforts, and seated him by its cheerful hearth. And thus the winter had nearly passed away, and they began to anticipate the varied joys of spring, when the birds would again sing around their cot, and all nature, awakened from its wintry sleep, would start anew into life and joy. The month of February arrived, and the weather seemed so settled and serene, that, for two successive Sabbaths, Helen, with her infant enveloped in her cloak, and accompanied by her husband, had crossed the hills to the parish church. On the second of those Sabbaths, they took sweet counsel,' and, walking together to the house of God, they conversed of a better and a purer world, where they should fear no after-parting. And as Helen listened to her husband, who was eloquent on this subject, she thought she had never heard him speak so like a minister, or seen him so full of holy hope. I notice this particularly, as it is a circumstance I shall have occasion to mention again. On the next morning after this conversation, William departed with the sheep from this valley for a

and bade farewell to his beloved Helen for three days, promising to return on the evening of the third. He had never been absent from his home all night but twice since his marriage, and that for a single night each time. His wife, however, expressed no fear from being left alone for so unwonted a time; for the fact is, that there is in general more courage in women of her humble rank in life than in any other, for they are too much occupied to find time for the indulgence of idle alarms; nor do they meet with any encouragement to affect fears till the folly becomes a habit. Neither did William experience any uneasiness on account of the solitariness of the dwelling in which he was to leave her, considering that very circumstance as the principal warrant for her safety.

"The weather, I have said, was fine at the time of his departure; but in our treacherous climate, and especially in these hilly districts, there is nothing more uncertain than a continuance of settled weather at that season of the year; and never did it exhibit more rapid transitions than during the three days of William's absence. Before the shades of the first night had fallen on the hills, the rain had descended their sides in torrents, and swelled the little burn into a river. On the second night the clouds had disappeared, and a keen frost succeeded, which, ere morning, arrested the water in its course, and transformed the ground for some distance round where we now sit into a frozen lake. Again, another change came o'er the spirit of the storm; dark clouds began to gather, and showers of sleet and snow to fall, till all again was hoary winter. But still, when night came on, there was seemingly, from the quietness, of its descent, no depth of snow, though it had fallen at intervals for many hours, and as the time was now arrived when Helen expected to see her husband, she felt no dread of harm; and no sooner had she put her baby to sleep, than she prepared a change of garments, a warm supper, a blazing ingle and a clean hearthstane,' for her William, and often opened the door to listen and and look out, if haply she might discern his dark figure against the opposite white hill, descending the footpath towards his home. She was, however, as often disappointed, and returned again to heap fresh fuel on the fire, till she began to feel, first the heart-sickness of 'hope deferred,' and then the heavy pressure of foreboding evil; and when her baby waked, there were in the melancholy tones of the hymn with which she soothed him to rest a soul subduing pathos; for it has been my lot to hear again that lullaby, when it sounded even more deeply affecting than it could then have done. Poor Helen continued all night her visits to the door, till at length, just as morning began to dawn, she heard her name shouted out by the well-known voice of William. Joy came to her heart, for she thought he had seen her, and though she looked in vain for him, still he was near. But again she heard his voice, and his words fell distinctly on her ear-'Oh, Helen, Helen, I perish!' She flew with the speed of lightning down the bank; but when she approached near to this spot, her progress was arrested, for the ice, from which the water had receded below, could not bear her weight. And then it was for the first time she discovered, through the indistinct glimmering of the dawn, and by his own words, that, on William's having reached the middle of the burn, where the force of the stream below had rendered it hollow, the ice had given way, and he was only kept from sinking by his arms resting on the surrounding part, which was still firm. Again and again Helen tried in each direction to reach him, in spite of his urgent entreaties to keep off, and his assurances that he had hopes of being able to maintain his position for a length of time, from the manner in which he was wedged between the ice, and its apparent thickness in that place where it had been gurged together; though he feared to make the smallest exertion to extricate himself lest he should go down. In this extremity there was only one course which gave the agonized wife any chance of saving the life of her husband, and that was to seek for more efficient aid than her own. Meantime William was almost fainting with exhaustion from fatigue, cold, and hunger; and Helen, thinking that if she could supply him with some food, he would be better able to endure his situation till she could procure assistauce, ran to the house, and putting some of what had been intended for his supper into a small basket, took a sheep-crook, and, having tied a stick to one end of it, hooked the basket on to the other end, and in this manner conveyed it to him. At the same time she pushed a blanket close to him with the crook, and having seen him draw it by degrees round his head and shoulders, she returned to the cottage, wrapped her child in a small blanket, and throwing her cloak around her, took it in her arms; then, having taken a hasty leave of her husband, in words which were half a farewell and half a solemn prayer for his preservation till her return, she set off on her journey of four miles to the next farm-house, for no nearer was there a human dwelling.

strength seemed to be given her; and, in spite of her burden, she proceeded swiftly through the snow, ascending the hills with incredible rapidity, and flying rather than running down their declivities. Thus she proceeded till nearly three of the miles were passed; but the snow, which had ceased falling for some time, now began again to descend thickly, and was accompanied by sudden gusts of wind, which drove it full in her face, and prevented her from seeing the different objects by which she marked her way. She wandered on in this manner, endeavouring to avoid the deeper parts of the snow, which the wind was beginning to drift into hillocks on all sides of her; while she was almost driven frantic by the fear of losing her way, and by the cries of her infant. In vain did she endeavour to warm him, by pressing his little limbs close to her bosom, and by doubling and redoubling the cloak over him, regardless of her own exposure to the biting blast. He at length ceased crying, and fearful that the torpor of death had seized him, and feeling her own strength beginning to fail, despair seemed to take possession of her, when the snow ceased for a short time, and she found that she had wandered far away from the road to the onstead which she so eagerly sought to reach. But thoughts of her husband again strung her nerves, and she once more regained the right direction. This happened several times; and had she alone been concerned, she must have perished; for nothing but the energy inspired by the faint hope of saving her husband and child prevented her from lying down to die. But what a gleam of joy shot through her overspent frame when, on looking up just as a fierce blast had swept by, she beheld the farm-house at a short distance! New strength seemed to be again imparted to her stiffening limbs; and at length she reached the door, told her tale, and almost immediately four men, belonging to the farm, were ready to start, with all necessary implements for extricating William from his singular and perilous situation. Helen's infant, who had been benumbed for many hours, showed little signs of recovery: she, however, delivered it, though with an aching heart, to the farmer's wife (a benevolent woman, who was herself a mother), and determined, contrary to all advice and opposition, to return to her husband. Nor, had she remained, could she have served the poor infant, who died shortly after she left the house.

"The poor distracted wife, mounted on horseback behind a man, now proceeded on her way with all the speed the animal could exert in its toilsome journey, while her whole soul was absorbed in the one desire of finding her husband alive; of which no hope could have been entertained but for the depth of the valley, which, from the way that the wind set, might in a great measure have occasioned it to escape the drift that was fast blocking up the roads, and transforming plains into hills. But who shall calculate the years of misery which Helen seemed to endure while this suspense hung over her? She was, as I have said, possessed of deep and ardent feelings, and they were now strained to their utmost tension. After much difficulty in avoiding the deeper wreaths of snow, and in floundering through the less dangerous, the party at length reached the entrance of the valley. All here seemed propitious to there hopes, for the snow was but little drifted. The men who were on foot had, however, by a nearer way, which the horse could not travel, first reached the spot, where, sad to tell, though poor William still retained his suspended posture, the snow was drifted over him, and he no longer breathed. They had succeeded, however, in extricating the body, which they bore to the cot, and laid upon the bed before the arrival of Helen, who, with a frantic hope still clinging to her heart, repeated, unweariedly and often, every means to bring him back to life, though foiled in all. Alas, poor giri! her young and ardent heart had loved her husband almost to idolatry, and with him the charm of life was filed. The spring of hope and existence was dried up at the fountain head. The stroke was too heavy for her to bear, and a brain fever was the immediate consequence of her great bodily exertion and mental suffering. For a considerable time her life was despaired of; yet youth, and the natural strength of her constitution, gained a transitory triumph, and some degree of bodily health returned; but the mind had become an utter ruin. She was removed, as soon as it could be safely accomplished, back to our village, and became again an inmate of her father's house, where I have often sat for hours listening to the suggestions of her wayward fancy, where William still reigned paramount. Fortunately, all that had passed since the intensity of her suffering began, seemed quite annihilated in her recollection; for she talked of her husband as being still absent at fair, and still sung to her infant that hymn with which she soothed it to sleep on the first night of her misfortunes, and which has often forced the tears from my eyes and the sobs from my breast. No tongue can describe the touching melody of her soft and melancholy voice, or the sweet subdued expression of her beautiful countenance, which became daily more wan and delicate; till, at the end of two years, her

weakness was so great that she was unable to rise from her chair, and I was one evening sent for in haste to see her. When I entered her father's house I was met by the old man, who imparted to me the surprising intelligence that Helen had recovered her senses. I immediately anticipated that a change was about to take place; and had no sooner looked upon her, than I was confirmed in my opinion. Sorrow had completed its work, and she was about to pass from our sight for ever. The recollection of her husband's sad fate had returned with her reason. But neither the remembrance of it, of her own sufferings, nor the knowledge of her child's death, which she now knew for the first time, seemed to trouble her; for her thoughts were fixed on that better country where she rejoiced that they were already waiting her arrival, and spoke of the conversation which passed between William and her on the last Sabbath they were together, as an earnest which it had pleased God to vouchsafe of their happy meeting. I am an elder of the church, and it was in that capacity that Helen sent for me to pray with her, which I did with a fervour I bave seldom felt. But never has it been my lot to witness an appearance so heavenly as she exhibited when I rose from my knees. She sat in her chair supported by pillows, with her hands clasped, and her dark soft eyes beaming with an expression so holy, that she seemed like some disembodied spirit, which having been perfected by suffering, had returned to encourage and comfort those who were still in the vale of tears. When I bade her farewell, and promised to see her next day, it was with a presentiment that I looked upon her for the last time. And so it proved; for I was next morning informed that her spirit had taken its flight about twelve o'clock the night before."

The old man thus concluded his melancholy tale; and after sitting for some time in silent reflection, my guide again spoke, and, pointing to a deep pool at some distance down the stream, informed me that large trout were sometimes caught there; and having adjusted our fishing-tackle, we proceeded to it. But though our sport was unusually good, it did not banish from my mind during that day for a single instant the affecting story of the ill-fated Helen Symington.

THE FROST.

THE Frost looked forth, one still clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way:

I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who makes so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads-and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept,

By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things:-there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers, and these
All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare-
"Now just to set them a thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,

"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left me
Shall tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

biography, compiled by a near relation, excited much curiosity. That curiosity, however, was sadly disappointed by the work, and those who knew Madame Récamier by name only, will form a very erroneous opinion of her, if they trust solely to these confidential revelations.

Juliette Bernard was born at Lyons in 1777, and appears early to have shown a strong passion for music and flowers. When yet a child she was present at the last grand concert given by Louis XVI., and was fortunate enough to attract the notice of his Queen, the ill-fated Marie Antoinette. In 1793 she married M. Récamier, a man of wealth and of some standing in society; but in his conjugal relations he was as a father to the youthful Juliette, and nothing more. Immediately upon her introduction into society, she became popular -the belle of the season. She was the queen of Longchamps, and danced like a fairy. The first and only time she appeared at the soirées given by Barras in the Luxembourg, she met Napoleon Bonaparte. Lucien Bonaparte too was there, and, as her name was Juliette, he expressed his passionate admiration under the signature of Romeo, declaring that "without love, life is but a long dream." Romeo's letters, which are as ridiculous as can be conceived, Juliette showed to her husband, suggesting that it would be wise to close her doors against the writer; but M. Récamier thought such a measure "would compromise him seriously, and be the ruin of his bank." The great Napoleon, in his turn, felt the power of her charms. It was just after the eighteenth Brumaire: he was in the spring-tide of his glory, and already master of France. He had made his brother Lucien Minister of the Interior, who in return gave an inaugural fête, to which Napoleon was invited. Madame Récamier was among the guests, dressed in virginal white, as was her habit until the end of her life. Among the crowd, but unapproachable, she caught sight of a face which she took to be Romeo's. She nodded to him in a friendly manner, and then to her surprise discovered that it was the First Consul. This astonishment did not prevent his returning a graceful salute, but he seems not to have pardoned the young beauty her neglect of him at the Luxembourg soirée. When the First Consul had become Emperor, Madame Récamier, alone of all who were great or fashionable in Parisian society, kept away from the Tuileries. This tacit rebellion seems to have irritated the man who saw all the continent at his feet, but was unhappy because two women, our heroine and Madame de Stael, refused their homage. Fouché, the Emperor's man of all work, particularly of his dirty work, was ordered to convey the Emperor's pleasure to Madame Récamier. After breakfast, the unscrupulous negotiator communicated his message with a coolness strongly contrasting with the dishonourable nature of the Imperial propositions. The greatest dames of France, he said solicited the honour of seeing the Empress, but there was always a place at the court for Madame Récamier. As the lady did not appear to understand him, Fouché added that she would be in the strictest sense of the word une dame d'honneur—an absolute mistress; and then, with the Emperor for her slave, she might do all the good she desired. Her reply was as unmistakeable as the message-" she did not deserve so great an honour," and the virtuous Fouché returned to report his failure to his Imperious master.

Bernadotte was also one of her admirers, and as unsuccessful as the great captain. He had been fortunate enough to do the fashionable beauty a service-the liberation of her father, who had been committed to the Temple for conniving as postmaster at the admission of a number of compromising letters and pamphlets. The young soldier appears to have been deeply smitten, but the lady never went beyond the bounds of a warm platonic affection. Another time, at one of the famous opera balls, very much in fashion, she met the Prince of Wurtemberg, who was adroit enough to steal a ring from her charming hand. The famous Metternich was also one of her attentive admirers, and so, too, was the hereditary Grand

Prussia. Three-and-twenty years after their first meeting, he begged Madame Récamier to leave him her portrait by Gérard, which she had formerly given to her betrothed, Prince Augustus of Prussia. A tender worshipper, too, was the Prince Royal of Bavaria, who, as King, scandalised Europe by his amours with Lola Montes.

The fascination exercised by Madame Récamier on all who came near her seems to have been limitless. She gained her victories by her moderation and her retirement. She had no lovers-she had only friends. She dressed in a plain style, simple and elegant, rarely in the fashion, but not opposed to it. She knew what became her a knowledge in which our fair countrywomen are greatly deficient. The failure of her husband's bank only brought fresh worshippers to her feet, such as Junot, afterwards Duke of Abrantes; then M. de Barante and, to crown all, Prince Augustus of Prussia. He had just lost his elder brother in the battle of Saalfield, and had himself been made prisoner. He was melancholy and handsome, still mourning for his brother and for his country when he met the young wife at Madame de Stael's. A pretty romance of Love in a Cottage was enacted in that charming month of May at Coppet. The prince offered to make her his wife; vows were exchanged, and an active correspondence was kept up. She had promised her hand, but she must first be divorced from her parental husband. Here her heart failed her; she hurried away from the Eden where she had been so tempted, and with bitter tears resigned the sweet illusions in which she had for the moment indulged.

After the death of her husband, three men appear to have held a high place in her esteem-to use no warmer word. They were Duke Mathieu de Montmorentcy, Ballanche, and Chateaubriand. A word on each. The Duke was a noble and rare specimen of the French gentlemen, the very soul of purity and honour. He had fought under Lafayette in America; and when he came to know Madame Récamier, he had loved her because he saw her exposed to the dangers of the world, and understood that she had need of his advice and example. The first book he lent her was Madame de la Vallière's Réflexions sur la miséricorde de Dieu, begging her to read one page of it at least every day. "A little solitude with yourself, a moment of prayer and silence, is all that is needful to save you," said De Montmorentcy; and though so young and brilliant, she listened to his words of wisdom, and she had her reward in the respect that accompanied her to the brink of the grave.

Of Chateaubriand we need say little. His vanity overpowered all other feelings; he fancied himself the first genius in France, and was as proud of his birth as Mathieu de Montmorentcy was unconscious of it. Chateaubriand was a spoilt man: all vanity and selfishness. His conceit mounted at times to something almost sublime. One of his best friends, a man who knew him well-it was M. de Fontanes-said of him, "I expect him in office, without wishing it for his sake. He will do something memorable, and then he will fall." Louis XVIII., who also knew him well, but did not like him, said, "Chateaubriand is one of those friends whom it is diffi cult to escape." Charles X., whose ruin was brought about by the very party who acknowledged Chateaubriand as their leader, called him "a terrible man, an implacable genius." While ambassador at Rome, his chief occupation was writing boyish love-letters to Madame Récamier. He was suffering, he said, and wished her to join him: I shall love you so much, I shall tell it you so often, my letters will repeat it, and I shall call you to me with such constancy, that you will have no pretext left for deserting me." At every halt on his way from Paris to Rome, he sent a letter to the fair dame. Once at Rome, he was eager to return, counting the days and the hours which separated him from the lady of his thoughts. At length when Madame Récamier positively refused to join him, he quitted his post and returned to Paris without leave.

Ballanche was a man of very different character: timid and

a room. Accident brought these two remarkable people together. Ballanche, then a painter at Lyons, was informed that a lady, exiled by the Emperor, was residing at one of the inns. He hastened to offer his services, and Madame Récamier received him as if they had been friends for years. Ballanche was talking in his usual enthusiastic way on subjects dearest to his heart, when he observed the lady turn pale, and look as if she would faint. "What is the matter? asked he, all of a tremble." "Nothing," she answered, smiling, "only your shoes have been cleaned with rank blacking, and I cannot endure the smell." Without saying a word, Ballanche quitted the room, and soon after came back in his stockings. He had taken off his shoes and left them in the corridor. A year later she happened to be at Rome, and not in the best of health, when suddenly Ballanche appeared before her. Canova was in the room at the time, and of the two friends it would be hard to say which felt the deepest affection for the fascinating lady. After dinner, Ballanche, all eagerness to see the Rome and the Capitol of his dreams, proposed a ramble through the streets. "It is not to be thought of," objected Canova. "To go out at this time of day will bring on fever, and perhaps end in death." Ballanche, however, insisted, and Madame Récamier yielded. The carriage, an open one, came round. The lady wrapped herself in a cloud of shawls, Canova rolled himself up in his cloak, leaving hardly his nose visible, and off they set for the Coliseum. Ballanche, in ecstacies, was admiring the starry skies and the ruins of the Roman world, when suddenly Canova uttered an exclamation of terror, and pointed to Ballanche. His hair was floating in the night wind, and he had no hat. My dear Ballanche," said the lady, "what have you done with your hat?" "Faith I was in such a hurry to see you, that I left it in my room at Lyons." Such was Ballanche; and because he was naturally the most simplehearted and devoted of men, Madame Récamier seems to have been attached to him with a sincerity as remarkable as it was unusual. Ballanche was a member of the Académie Française, and, apropos of his election, is a good story of Andrieux. Among his canvassers were some of the most charming women of Paris, all of them friends of Madame Récamier. One of these waited on Andrieux to solicit his vote and interest. The academician objected, that he knew nothing of Ballanche's claims to the honour of being one of the illustrious Forty. 'What, sir, you have not read his works?" "I must confess, madam, that until this moment I did not know even his name. What has he done?" "Done! why he has written-he has written what would fill at least sixteen volumes." "Sixteen volumes," exclaimed Andrieux, starting from his chair. he shall have my vote then: j'aime mieux l'élire que Madame Récamier even in exile never forgot that she was a Frenchwoman. In the year 1814 she was at Naples, and one day in conversation with Murat, the latter asked her what choice he ought to make between the vanquished Emperor and the victorious party. "You are a Frenchman, sir, and must keep on the side of France." At these words, Murat turned pale, opened a window which looked out upon the sea, and pointing to the English fleet just sailing into the harbour, exclaimed "Then I am a traitor!" More romantic and more French was her intercession in behalf of a young Italian condemned to death for smuggling. She had petitioned in vain that his life should be spared, and with difficulty obtained leave to visit him in his cell to console him during his last moments. The poor fellow was stunned by the sentence, and unconscious of her presence. She, too, could not speak, but she threw her arms round his neck, tenderly kissing his insensible face, while the hot tears of pity flooded her cheeks. The prefect of Rome, who had rejected Madame Récamier's petition was M. de Norvins, of whom an anecdote is told, which, if not quite new, is so good as to bear repeating. One day he was sailing on the Lake of Geneva, and as he sat between Madame de Stael and Madame Récamier he hazarded the compliment-" Here I am between genius and beauty." "Without possessing either," retorted de Stael.

66

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