eied he heard the voice of the Colonel, imploring him to stop, but at the very instant Florence would murmur in his ear, "Faster, Charles, oh, faster yet!" Suddenly she fell with her whole weight upon her lover's arm, and he stopped. Pale as a statue, her eyes closed, her lips just parted, she had fainted. V. After lingering a few days, alternating between the two worlds, like the flame of the candle flickering in the socket, Florence died. The physicians said nothing but a miracle could have saved her. The excitement of the waltz might have precipitated her death, but no medical art could have carried her through the winter. It would have been dangerous, besides, to have refused her leave to dance, as her moral nature needed management no less than her physical, and she would have fainted from jealousy if she had not from exhaustion. Yes, Florence was jealous of Fanny. Her heart was always in tumult on her account. She was fearful that Fanny's bloom, vivacity, and exquisite grace would lead Beaufort from her; and she fretted and became angry with all around her whenever she suspected Beaufort and Fanny were together. It was this feeling, more than a girlish desire to dance, that made her so anxious to waltz with Beaufort; she saw no other way to prevent his waltzing with Fanny. Fanny perceived all this, and it made her unhappy, for she loved Florence with a full sisterly affection. She therefore avoided Beaufort as much as she could, without the appearance of doing so, and at the ball, though gratified with his solicitation of her hand for a waltz, cheerfully and gladly made way for Florence. Whatever might be the feelings of her heart toward Beaufort, her manner and deportment evinced nothing but the affectionate familiarity of intimate friendship. Nor had this jealousy on the part of Florence toward Fanny escaped her father's observation. He had, indeed, early endeavored to divert Beaufort's thoughts from his daughter to his niece, by always praising her virtues and beauty to him, and by the intimation that she would share equally with his daughter his large estates; both because he did not wish Florence to be taken away from himself and because he feared that the passion of love, with all its inseparable anxieties, once having gained mastery over her heart, would be too much for her fragile constitution. It may be, however, that the very pains he took to bring about a result so much desired by him had just the opposite tendency. He may have awakened, or at least strengthened, the feelings he sought to suppress. Love can not be coaxed nor controlled; it springs spontaneous, and it reigns supreme. But Beaufort had never entertained the least suspicion of a feeling of this kind in Florence. Otherwise, perhaps more of his thoughts might have been turned toward Fanny, if only to satisfy himself that, so far as she was concerned, there was no foundation for the feeling. He was no coxcomb, and it had never for a moment entered into his imagination that he could win the affections of both. His love for Florence was so intense, so selfish, and exclusive that he had indeed no thought for any one else. He had at times, it is true, found Florence petulant, fretful, and almost harsh toward Fanny; but such little ebullitions of temper he had attributed to some temporary access of fever-a conviction which Fanny took the earliest opportunity when they were alone to confirm. VI. On Florence's death Beaufort traveled for a year, visiting in that time the most celebrated places in Europe, in hopes to gain some distraction from his deep-seated sorrow. At first the burden of his great loss overwhelmed him with stupor. He went nowhere, saw no one, but made the gloomiest thoughts his sole familiar companions. Violent emotions, however, of whatever nature, are transitory; if they do not kill, they exhaust themselves; and Beaufort was too young, of too healthy organization, to die of grief, however poignant. After he had recovered from the first stunning effect of the shock, he began to hold up his head and breathe regularly; soon began to feel angry with himself for the interest he felt he was taking in renewed life. From day to day, unconsciously at first, and afterward from habit or inclination, he mingled with the world; visited the grand scenes of nature, or places of picturesque tradition; took an interest in current events; and at last surprised himself at the theatre and opera. Nor was this unnatural. A deep passion, like a powerful dose of medicine, racks the system, weakens the nerves, and temporarily suspends the vital functions. But the effect once passed off, the whole economy, mental and physical, becomes purer, stronger, and more active. Beaufort stilldeeply grieved for his loss; but the purifying nature of grief, while it subdued his temperament, and clouded his brow, gave a healthier tone to his mind. That which had been a passion, reckless and extravagant, became now a cherished sentiment. Another cause had aided to soften the rigor of his loss. During his travels Fanny had been his constant correspondent. The intimacy in which they had been brought up, the relationship she bore to his fiancée, and the common sorrow between them, suggested, and Colonel Wentworth's permission justified, the correspondence. Heaven first sent letters to some wretch's aid, and surely there is nothing that sooner alleviates sorrows than the pouring them forth, with unrestrained fluency of pen or voice, into a sympathetic heart. The grief that is shared is broken; and Beaufort, indeed, found more consolation from his letters with Fanny than from every thing he found around him. One evening as Fanny, for the thousandth time, was endeavoring to console the brokenhearted father by fond enumeration of the vir tues of his departed daughter, the bell rang, and he found it necessary to fortify his failing vira step was heard in the hall. "It is Beaufort," said Colonel Wentworth, quietly. "Beaufort!" exclaimed Fanny, blushing violently, and then suddenly turning quite pale. tue. He endeavored, too, to stimulate his grief by the recollection of the most poignant details of her sickness; and he would have given much to have found again those rivulets of tears which six months before had gushed spontaneously from his eyes; but their source seemed dried He entered, and was received by the Colonel with kind civility, but without empressement; by Fanny with mixed gratification and embarrass-up; he could only summon up a tender languor. ment. After a few words of customary courtesy, they looked at each other a few moments in silence. In vain he leaned his head against the trellis with which her ringlets had commingled, and which her breath had perfumed; in vain shut his eyes, and by dint of the most melancholy recollections, sought to conjure tears: all was in vain. Twelve months had changed the Colonel more than as many years could have done under ordinary circumstances. His hair had become bleached, his forehead deeply wrinkled, and his But after a while it seemed to him, as he step unsteady. But each day that had added a mused with closed eyes, and with thoughts wrinkle the more to his countenance, had given wholly turned to the past, that Florence was a new grace to Fanny's, and she was now more near him; the air that fanned his cheek was lovely than ever. The undulating and elegant her breath; the waving branches of the trellis outline of her form; her dark, well-opened, and her floating curls; and the seat upon which he humid eyes, adapted either to melancholy or reclined pressed as with additional weight. The sport; her cheeks, with all the freshness and illusion was complete. velvety smoothness of the peach; her full and red lips; and her white, delicate, and beautifully-chiseled hands, made a tout ensemble wholly irresistible, while the air of utter unconsciousness of so many charms greatly heightened their effect. Beaufort looked at her, and could hardly recognize her. Such a change a year in the teens makes in a girl's appearance! We leave them a bud, we find them a blossom. He murmured some words, of which he did not understand the purport, and put out his hand; it was taken by another. He opened his eyes, and started as he saw a woman near him. "Florence!" he exclaimed. "Ah! no," replied a sad voice, "only Fan ny." 66 Fanny! ah, Fanny! How deeply we both loved her!" And here the tears which he had in vain attempted to extract from the mournful past "You see, Fanny," he said, "that I was think On her side Fanny found him much changed, and also for the better. Grief, instead of injuring his features, had improved them, in throw-flowed freely. ing over them an expression of seriousness which well became them. Solitude, too, had ing of her!" been advantageous in begetting habits of thought His pride was satisfied; he had been seen to which his former busy idleness had never in-weep, and there was some one to say how much dulged; had enlarged his brow, and given more meaning to his eye. Paler, he appeared more earnest, more sincere, and more manly. Fanny looked at him from under her eyelids, and a thousand confused and conflicting emotions agitated her heart. Beaufort himself was not unmoved by the recollections that crowded upon him. Fanny was sitting in the very place where he had been so often accustomed to sit while Florence sat beside him. It was a year before that he, entering this very room quietly, so startled the cousins. Their look of surprise still haunted him, and Florence's soft voice still vibrated on his soul. There was the window through which Fanny had gone to cull the bouquet, and afforded him the opportunity of a tête-à-tête with Florence! These crowding memories were too much for his self-control, and he hastily passed out into the garden to calm his thoughts. He had sworn to himself a thousand times that he would never forget Florence, and that he never would outrage her memory by even the profession of an attachment for another. The sight of Fanny, in all her dangerous bloom, compelled him now to renew these oaths, as if he had suffered. Not that he had not suffered. The death of Florence had been nearly fatal to him. He had mourned her as one refusing to be comforted; nor at the time of her death could he have been made to believe any consolation would ever avail him. But it is not the least of the mercies of Providence that our passions are fugitive in proportion to their vehemence, and the very violence of the blow to Beaufort had caused a sanitary reaction. rence's grave; and as for Fanny, she had never looked upon him in any other light than that of a brother." Still, he was at the house always, went nowhere else, and seemed to care for no one else. If she mentioned any book she would like to read, the next morning she received it with his compliments; if she spoke of riding, he offered his services; or of walking, he recommended the pleasant walks, and volunteered his companionship. This might not be love, but it looked very much like it. The intercepted glance, the mutual embarrassment, the thrilling touch, the frequent sigh, constraint when together, and uneasiness when separated-these would be considered by the experienced as at least premonitory symptoms of love; symptoms, too, that argued a rapidlyapproaching crisis of the disease. But still Beaufort would speak, when with Fanny, of Florence-of his devoted attachment to her of her grace, her beauty, her amiability, and fascinating simplicity; and Fanny would listen with earnest seriousness. Yet while Beaufort talked thus to Fanny of Florence, he was all the while contemplating, with increasing admiration, Fanny's loveliness-her sparkling health, and thousand graces of person and manner; so that the sigh with which he affected to speak of Florence at the commencement of the conversation, was given with his whole heart to Fanny at the close. The true state of things every body perceived but the lovers themselves. It is not to be supposed that a young lady of Fanny's beauty and position, as adopted daughter of so wealthy a person, would be without admirers. But all withdrew their pretensions, however reasonable in themselves, upon their recognition of the intimacy, and probably not far distant relationship, between her and Beaufort. As for Colonel Wentworth, he said nothing, did nothing; and if he perceived the attachment between the parties, he kept his thoughts to himself. Love, like murder, will out. It is a secret with which no man can intrust himself; or, indeed, woman either, remarkable as the latter sex is for its powers of reticence. A secret of this kind, interesting to two parties, will be as sure to be shared between them as water to seek its level. Opportunity is only needed for revelation, and that is always found. necessity of speaking nearer the feeling of their hearts, said, "If I could ever think of marriage again, I know how to describe the person I should like to marry." Fanny blushed, but said nothing. "In the first place," he continued, “I should wish to have known for a long time, and, if I may use the expression, by heart, the girl to whom I was to give my whole life." "As for me," said Fanny, "I have long determined never to marry; but were it otherwise, I should prefer, for the companion of my afterlife, the playmate of my childhood. It is too often the case that one is unacquainted with her husband till the morning after marriage." "It seems," replied Beaufort, with a half smile, "that we agree upon a preliminary. Now I should hope to find in my wife three recommendations-good looks, amiability, and sense." "I trust I should not be considered too ambitious," said Fanny, "in hoping to find in a husband the three corresponding qualities of elegance of person, devotion, and superiority." "Alas!" said Beaufort, "you would have to hunt a long time before you found them united in one man." "Don't be too sure of that," replied Fanny, laughing and blushing; "but go on, and finish your own ideal." "Well, I have not much to add. I should expect, of course, good education and principles, and refinement not only of manners but of mind." "I could not love a man," said Fanny, "deficient in either." "Still, there is one thing," continued Beaufort, "without which all the good qualities I have enumerated would be priceless in my eyes." "And what is that?" inquired Fanny. "Attachment to me," he replied. "Could there be a doubt of that?" said Fanny, unguardedly, and suddenly blushing violently. "But," she continued, after an embarrassing pause, "how could I be assured that my ideal would care for me?" "He would adore you, Fanny," cried Beaufort. "I answer for him; for no one could know you so long, and not love you devotedly and extravagantly." They looked at each other in silence, and both afraid to speak, for the truth showed itself too plainly upon their troubled faces. After a while Beaufort, as if talking to himself, repeated-"A girl that I have known from infancy and by heart!" "The playmate of my childhood!" murmur One evening, a few months after Beaufort's return, the two were sitting together in the same bower where Fanny had found Beaufort in his musing meditation, and been at first mistaken by him for Florence. It was the decline of a summer day, the hour when the stillness that accompanies twilight creates in the soul a pleasing languor, and fills it with soft emotions.ed Fanny. Full of one absorbing sentiment, they had in vain attempted to speak of indifferent subjects; inconsistent sentiments encountered incoherent replies; their hearts were foreign to their language. At length Beaufort, as if acknowledging the "Good looks, amiability, and sense!" Elegant, generous, and superior!" "Good education," continued Beaufort, "and good principles !" "Good principles and education !" repeated Fanny. daily increased, while their sincere and sorrowful remembrance of Florence and the Colonel softened and embellished it. RAKINGS FROM AN OLD FOGY'S A GENUINE, unadulterated old fogy has lately given up the ghost. His name was Thomas Raikes: in his lifetime he "frequented the very best society in England." About twenty years ago Mr. Raikes discovered that the world was going to wrack and ruin, and the conviction grew stronger upon him as his paunch took volume and his head lost hair. In the commiseration he felt for his species, and with the that at least one man had seen where democracy and reform, and revolution and education and invention and railroads and steamers, and all the other new-fangled notions of this degenerate day would lead, Mr. Raikes kept a diary in which he entered his matutinal croak and his evening groan. That valuable record is being published by a judicious friend. Then," said he, encircling her in his arms, "I can yet be happy; my life, my own Fanny!" Here, again, Beaufort was destined to anoth-laudable desire of proving to future generations er unfortunate contretemps, arising from the same cause as before. Before the lovers had time to recover composure, Colonel Wentworth stood before them. "I see all," he said, hastening to relieve their painful embarrassment, "and have seen it for a long time. I do not complain of you, Beaufort; on the contrary, your conduct is natural, and pleases me. You loved my daughter, I know, deeply, and grievously bore her loss; but youth is not inconsolable, and you have sought solace for your wounded spirit in the sympathetic heart of one who loved my daughter as a sister. I am glad you have found it. At my age they die of love; at yours, they live on it. As for you," he continued, addressing Fanny, "you have loved Beaufort for years!" "Uncle!" exclaimed Fanny, becoming very pale. "Do not deny it," he said; "there is nothing discreditable in such an affection. So far from giving him any reason to believe in it, you have denied it to yourself. And when your rival"-here Fanny made a gesture of dissent-"your sister, I should say, left us, still you repressed and endeavored to overcome the feeling, as if it were injurious to her memory. So Beaufort has striven, and striven in vain. Could Florence, whom I am so soon, I hope, to meet and part with no more -could Florence look down upon you from her blessed habitation, she would smile benignantly upon your mutual affection. She is happy now, and wishes to see you so. Your love for Fanny, Beaufort, is but the complement of the affection you bore her; and your heart now will be fully satisfied." The Colonel said that he felt conscious he had but a little while longer to remain with them; that with the loss of his daughter the connecting link between him and life was broken; and that, as he wished to see them united before his departure, he should urge an early marriage. The lovers were easily persuaded to the course he recommended. It is not the intention of the present writer to harrow the feelings of the public by extracting the melancholy forebodings of the prophet Raikes. If we are to do away with railroads, and get back to stage-coaches-if we must come to see the folly of free institutions, and fall back on good sound monarchies, with fine solid aristocracies planted as creepers around them-if it is our destiny to sue for a restoration of the colonial régime, while France is happy once more in the arms of her Bourbons-sufficient for the day will be the knowledge thereof. Let us drink the bliss of ignorance. But as a mild corrective to the gloomy reflections in which he sternly clouded himself, worthy Mr. Raikes occasionally jotted down in his journal anecdotes of the great persons with whom it was his priv ilege to dine; and even so far unbent himself at times as to record, in cold blood, a praiseworthy pun. A few of these may be transplanted into open air. Talleyrand figures largely in the diary. Whenever a bon-mot of the famous wit floated through the clubs, our old fogy copied it in his journal. Many of the jests and repartees thus entombed have found their way into daylight by other channels; some, it is believed, still await the spade of the resurrectionist. Talleyrand was, as is known, Minister to England for many years. On one occasion he was violently attacked by the Marquis of Londonderry in the House of Peers. Shocked at this discourtesy to a foreign minister, the Duke of Wellington rose and defended Talleyrand with warmth. Next day, Lord Alvanley called on the French minister, and found him reading the report of the scene in the Times. He was affect They married, and soon after Colonel Wentworth died, according to his presentiment; but not till he was assured, by every possible demon-ed to tears; and when Alvanley mentioned the stration, that he left no two happier beings on earth than Beaufort and Fanny; whose love, founded on a mutual appreciation of each other's various excellences of person and mind, subject, "Ah!" said he, sobbing, "I am very grateful to the Duke-very grateful; the more so, as he is the only man whom I remember to have known to speak well of me." Tears were a rare occurrence with him. After the battle of Austerlitz, Marshal Lannes drove him over the ground in his carriage. Heaps of dead and dying men surrounded them on every side. The Marshal was so affected at the sight that he burst into tears, and wept profusely; but, "for my part," said the Prince, who told the story himself, "I assure you I did not feel any emotion at all." some unfair practice, and was civilly told by his host that if ever he saw him play again, he would throw him out of window. The gambler took Talleyrand's opinion how he should act under the circumstances. "My dear fellow," said the Prince, “I advise you never to play in future higher than the ground floor." He was a member of the French Academy. It is usual, when a vacancy occurs in that body, for candidates to leave cards on all the members. Talleyrand once received the card of an To those who knew his character there was nothing surprising in this. He had a friendif such a name may be used to describe an indi-individual who had no claim whatever to litvidual who was constantly with him-a Mon- erary distinction, but who, from his influence sieur de Montrond, who was subject to epileptic with government, was well known to be the fits. He once fell down in a fit in the presence likely candidate for the vacancy. A friend who of the Prince. Talleyrand took his glass and was with the Prince when he got the card, exwatched him curiously, as he writhed and claimed at the impudence of the candidate, descratched the carpet with his fingers; then turn-manding, indignantly, "Why, what has he writing to one of the attendants, coolly remarked, ten ?" "Don't you see," said Talleyrand, hand"He seems bent on scraping his way through ing him the card, "that he has written his the floor." Talleyrand rose under the French republic. By adroit management he contrived to induce the Directory to appoint him Minister of Foreign Affairs, though he had no sort of claim to office, had given no proof of political ability, and had only just returned from America with fifteen Louis in his pocket. When he took possession of the Hotel of Foreign Affairs he found himself at the head of a magnificent establishment, with an army of servants under his orders, but without a dollar in the world. His house domestics used the most costly services of Sèvres china, from want of money to buy a cheaper set. It was then that Talleyrand elicited from Pinckney the famous reply: "Millions for defense; not a cent for tribute!" He was luckier with the Portuguese, from whom he got a bribe of eight millions of francs, in consideration of making an advantageous treaty with Portugal. He gave five to the five members of the Directory, and kept three for himself. This was the foundation of his fortune. Bonaparte administered a gentle slap to one of these Directors soon afterward, when Robert Livingston was presented at court. After the formal presenta- | tion and speeches were over, the First Consul observed in French, to the American minister, “Le vieux monde est corrompu; et n'y a plus que le nouveau monde." Livingston, it seems, did not understand French, and looked embarrassed. Upon which Bonaparte turned to Cambaceres, who stood by, and said, "Tell him in English that the Old World is corrupt: you can say so conscientiously." Talleyrand's mot on the poor Duchess of Berry, whose frailty he knew better than most men, was not bad. People were wondering where she was, and reports had been spread of her having been seen in various places. Talleyrand was asked what he thought. He said, "I don't know whether she can be found in Vendée, or in Italy, or in Holland; but one thing is certain, she will be found en homme." A gambler, whose style of play was not strictly according to Hoyle, was once detected in name ?" As a member of the Academy, he was, exofficio, a judge of letters. Many of his criticisms on literary works are on record. One, on the satirist, Barthelemi, is good, but untranslatable. It was simply, "La corruption engendre les vers." He was separated from his wife, and lived with a lady who did the honors of his house. When he fell ill, his wife sent to inquire after him; she wished it to be understood, however, that this civility was not prompted by any desire on her part to come into the property she would acquire by his death, but because she wished to reciprocate the courtesy with which he had sent to inquire after her friend, the Duke of when his health failed. His toilet has acquired a European celebrity. When Lord Sefton went to see him, "he found him in the hands of two valets de chambre, while a third, who was training for the mysteries of the toilet, was looking on with attention, in order to perfect himself in his future duties. The Prince was in a loose flannel gown; his long locks, which are rather scanty, were twisted and crépus with a curling-iron, saturated with powder and pomatum, and then with great care arranged into snowy ringlets. His under attire was a flannel pantaloon, loose and undulating, except in those parts which were restrained by the bandages of the iron bar which supports the lame leg of this celebrated cripple." In royal anecdotes Raikes, who had the Meagles's weakness for rank, intensified, naturally abounds. He rather liked George the Fourth, and speaks with something like approval of the profuseness which led that monarch to pay Rundell the jeweler $80,000 for the hire of jewels for his coronation. With a glow of manly pride he tells a story-which he had from the Duke of Wellington, who saw the scene—of George dining with the King and Queen of the Netherlands, and mimicking, at the dinner-table, the voice and gestures of the old stadtholder of Holland, till the whole table was in a roar, and the King nearly killed himself with laughing. This was a King indeed! |