Or •- • a u • . . S . , • . 7 • • - • SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 9.] ZDDI,ISRED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING Office in Northern Central Railroad Cern pany's Building,north-westcorner Front and Indnut streets. Terms of Subscription. ifße Copy per annum,if paid in advance, if not paid within three months from commencement of the year, 200 42,21:LitNSI J 34, Clop , 3r. ileinobseriplion received fora less time than tin inicin‘lis; and ao paper will be dimoniiiineel UMW all ivrearagen are paid, unless at the optionof the pub in-Money may be remitted by mail at thepublish tor's r isk. Rates of Advertising. i square [8 lines) one week, three weeks, GA each +uhsequentinsertion, 10 1 " [l2lines) one week. 50 three weeks, 1 00 ti each subsequentinsertlon, 25 Largeradrertisement.in proportion. A liberal discount will be mode to quarterly, half. gnarly oryearlyadvertisers,whe are strictly confined Ito their business. Et[rtvg. Contentment ET OLIVER WT.:IDYLL BOLUS% "man wants hut little here below! , Little I ask; my wants sire few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I mayitall my own; And close at hand is itch a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for hie; Three courses are as good as ten;— If mature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victuals ttice;-- M y choice would be vanilla•ice. I care not muck for gold or land; Give me a snortgoge here and there,— Some good bank stock.—come note of band, Or trifling railroad sham— r only ask that fortune send A lit* more titan I shall spend. Honors ore silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names;— I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,— But only near St. Jarnes;— I'm very sure 1 should not care To fill our Oubernator's chair. Jewels are baubles; , tis a sin To cure for ouch unfruitful things;— One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so forge, in rings,-- A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;-1 laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire, (Good, heavy silks are never dear,)— / Own perhaps I >nicht dc,irc Sortie shawls of true cashmere,— Some nuirrowy crapes of China Like wrinkled skirts as scalded mill•. I would not hove the korse I drive So find that folks must stop and stare; An ea4y Halt—two, forty-five— Saks me; 1 du not cure;— Perhaps, fur just a singly spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt Of pictures, I should like to own Titian• and Raphael's three or four,— I love so touch their style and tone,— Onc Turner. and no more (A landscape t —foreground golden dirt; The sunshine painted with a squirt). Of books but few,—some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper [Mori— Sonic link luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream. Busts, earnest, geins,—such things as these, %Vhich others often show for rite, /value for their power to please, And selfi.ll churls deride;— Om Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums, I would lain possess. Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glitternig upstart fool; Shall not carved table: serve my turn, But all must be of buhi? Give grasping, pomp its double sha.re, I 'P.M. bat one recumbent chair. Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; IrHeaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,— Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content! [Atlantic Monthly gttrttiinto. Promethean Fire Early one rainy morning in March, some four years since, a young man, enveloped in large cloak, was standing under an awn ing in ono of the oldest and narrowest parts ,of the Rue St. Denis, intently gazing on the windows of the opposite house. This house was one of those constuctions to which age, if not beauty, imparted a sort of respectability. The brick work, accord ing to the fashion of some two centuries .past, was kept together by transversal pieces of wood, the two upper stories jutted out over the ground floor, and the roof termi nated in a sharp point, ornamented by a song chimney. Over the door of the ground poor was an old, half-effaced, grotesque sign, $o which the artist had modestly affixed a title, supposing that his pictorial delinea tion would scarcely designate to the curious the exceedingly singular subject be had in 'nailed to draw, and which, however. now ,as itspertained to be the representation of A "spinning cat." This was the sign (all the old commercial is q9 ses in Boris 'having. to this day, pre ps:Thd the old ftusbion of a. peculiar sign) of one o f the oldest and richest wholesale cloth iers of the Rue St. Denis, belonging, as the dirty gold letters indicated, to "Ambroise Simon, socce. : 74.er to 4.tobroise Pipelot."— Ambroise Simon had a reputation for hon esty, shrevrdness and industry, that had be pome proverbial among the business men in Paris. In the way of business he was ex sliding, and as inexorable as the multiplica tion table itself, but for all tbin, he was ;wither a bard-hearted nor a disagreeable man. Business and the 4ue St. izreni g were Otis very' existence, and now, as the young lam watched from the opposite side, lie be, held the door open, and the stout old mer chant himself stand on the threshold, look ing around him as though to ascertain whether the most monotonous and unchangea ble of streets had undergone any metamor phoses since hi had last beheld. it the night before. Having ascertained that all was in its right place, the attention of the merchant was attracted by the young man on the op posite side, who appeared to scan his house as though taking an inventory of each indi vidual brick. Ambroise Simon, like all other shrewd business men, was a keen and quick observer of men and things. Although this rating man was closely enveloped in his cloak, Abroise Simon detected the silk stock ings, the patent leather pumps, the white kid gloves, and the elegant black satin cra vat; he scanned the fashionable hat, the curling locks, the long beard, the pale, re fined features of the young man, and came to the conclusion that he was not or the Rue St. Denis, and that he was no business man. It was but just daylight, and the young man had evidently, from his dress, not risen at that hour, but was probably on his way from some ball or late supper. Ambroise Simon scanned him with a suspicious eye, and then looked back into the dark ware house, in which the scanty daylight, admit ted through the dirty windows, allowed the part railed off at the end fur a private count ing house, to be seen, as well as the little room back, serving at once as the dining, and ordinary sitting-room of the family. The young man, however, appeared per fectly indifferent to the curiosity lie excited, for be continued to gaze at the house as in tently as before, only instead of looking at M. Ambroise Simon. his eyes were directed towards the windows of the third story. All at once one of these windows was suddenly thrown open, and framed as it were in the old oaken and quaint window sill, there ap peared one of the loveliest pictures Raphael ever painted, and one Raphael had divined centuries before, id the now celebrated type called Raphael Madonnas. In this lovely vision on which the young man gazed, there was the same purity of outline, the same re pose, the same heavenly serenity that the Italian painter has given to womonhood made divine. She looked, ns such eyes would naturally look, up to Heaven, then her glance fell upon the stranger, a deep blush suffused her cheek, and the window was instantly closed. EMI MI About the same time Ambroise Simon's head clerk made his appearance at the door beside his master. With a rapid glance, Ambroise Simon attracted the attention of his clerk to the stranger opposite. Joseph Lemoine, however, did not for an instant take the man for a thief, but with the in stincts of youth divined the cause of attrac tion; going into the middle of the street, he looked up just in time to see the shutters of his master's daughter's room close. Turn ing sharply round on the inquisitive stranger, lie beheld him walking at a rapid pace down the street, and get into a hackney coach that was passing. At the moment Mme. Ambroise Simon called her husband and the clerk to break fast. Ambroise Simon belonged to the old school. Ills clerks and apprentices were, during their stay, rated as his children. If they were ill, they were tended by Madame Simon. Madame Simon also took care of their linen and of their morals, fur the young men, according to the ancient cus toms still observed in Paris, slept in the house. According to an old established rule, the bead clerk, if there was one, usu ally succeeded his principal in his business, becoming at the same time, is case he had a daughter, his son-in-law. Ambroise Simon's head clerk was an or phan without fortune, but Simon loved money too well, and was too good a business man not to appreciate Joseph Lemoine's modesty and ability, and not to value them more than a ready made fortune in the hands of a spendthrift or a man of the world. Notwithstanding his want of fortune, Jo seph Lemoine was destined by Ambroise Simorito become his successor and the hus band of his eldest daughter. Joseph Le moine, however, had discovered, spite of his business capacities, that be had a heart, and that heart he had given not to the eldest daughter, Adele but to Virginie, theyoungcst, the one who had been the object of the ad miration of the silent watcher of the morning. Mlle. Adele was the exact counterpart of her mother, excepting that in the daughter, youth still rounded the angles of her form, rouged her sallow complexion with pink, and gave to her long thin features an air of gentleness and goodness her mother's had long since lost; Virginie urns the beautiful creature above described. These two girls bad been educated as be comes the daughters of men in business, as women destined to be the wives of men in business. They knew arithmetic and book keeping perfectly, a little history, a little geography, and a little grammar. Their mother made them good house-keepers and admirable needle-women. They knew the value of money, the price of everything; econ omy was natural to them. Musk, poetry, the arts, were dead lettere to them: of works of fiction they had never read a line. They made all their father's shirts, mended the stockings, and darned the table-linen. They were dressed with the utmost simplicity; had never worn a silk dress, and only on Sunday a woolen one. Their family con nections were numerous, so that three or four times daring the winter they went to balls. They never had, however, been in "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANT PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 4, 1 aide a theatre, and being timid and unused to the world, preferred the fete days in churches, when high mass was sung, to all the parties and dinners to which they were invited. Adele enjoyed the monotony and regularity of life, for her as well as her mother, home and its duties constituted her universe. Knowing the traditions of the house, Adele expected that at a given time she would become the wife of the head clerk, as her mother had done before her. Not being romantic or imaginative with the pos itive common-sense of her character, Adele, the moment this conviction had entered her mind, began to love Joseph Lemoine as a well brought up girl should love her future husband. With Virginie it was different, the regu lar routine of her life wearied her, she loved the country, she was fond of flowers, she listened with pleasure to the music of the organs in church, and above all admired the brilliant equipages in the boulevards, when at rare intervals she was taken there, and the harmonious colors and graceful forms of i• the ladies, ;dresses. Joseph Lemoine, who had seen this young girl, she was now but seventeen, a mere child, had observed her closely and had fallen in love with her. The incident of the morning, revealing that Virginie had another admirer besides himself, had caused him a sharp pang of jealousy, and he determined to confide his passion to Ambroise Simon. This, however, was not the time, for the whole house was in a state of excitement and profound occu pation, being in the midst of the important business of taking the inventorg. Master, clerks, Mtne. Simon, and Adele, were all ' busily engaged from morning till night in measuring, numbering the pieces of cloth, and in writing down the result of such in vestigations. Virginie, meanwhile, sat si lently at work; darning a damask table cloth, and thinking of the romance of life, which was beginning to dawn in the person of the young stranger, whom she had often seen, but to whom she had never spokeni her dreams no wise interrupted such mysti cal sentences as these. How much 11 ; N, Z? Any Q, Z? Two yards. What price? Five, five, three. Put down three Cto J, J,; add ten to M. P. Result, V. D. 0. The result of three weeks intense labor lay at last in Adele's handwriting on a long sheet of paper by the side of Simon, who read it with a look of beatific satisfaction, for it proved that the house of Ainbroise Simon, late Pipelot, did not owe a sou; that it had good incoming debts of from four to five thousand francs, a floating capital . % two millions, and that in fact everything proved that through industry, skill and economy, a fortune had been realized. Upon which Simon, smacking his lips, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, felt encouraged to begin his speculations and hard work all over again with redoubled ardor; not hav ing either imagination or philosophy suffi cient even to inquire eui bono? During all this time, every morning and evening, Virginie from her window had per ceived her admirer; spite of wind and weather he was at his post, They had as yet never spoken to each other, but every Sunday at church they had found means to exchange letters. This young man was an artist who had some years before obtained the first prize in the Academy of Fine Arts, and was now one of the most distinguished painters of the day—a man of refined manners, good family, good looks, and some fortune. Besides his special talents in painting, be was a man of great intellect and brilliant conversation, and much sought after by the very highest circles. Theodore de Hauterive bad all the susceptibilities and impetuosities of men of genius. Virginia's beauty, its peculiarly delicate and refined style, contrasted as it was with all that surrounded her, had struck upon his imagination, till at last his imagi nation assumed the form of a violent passion. lie could not quit the Rue St. Denis. Al though without the slightest chance of ever speaking to Virginie, he would walk up and down before the house, hour after hour.— Evening was the time he waited most im I patiently for her. The house being still dark, the room at the back brightly lighted, displayed as in a picture the family group at table—his idol looking in their midst as though she belonged to another sphere. "What pictures are you going to send to the exhibition De Hauterive?" said one of his friends, lounging in his studio just be fore the opening of the salon. "Two," replied Theodore, "they are within, in my private studio; eomo, no one has yet seen them." His friend, wife 'alto an artist, although well aware of Theodore's genius, was taken by surprise as ho contemplated these two pictures. One was a portrait of Virginie, the other represented, with all the idealiza tion of art, the old house of the Spinning Cat, and the dining room in all its truthful details, as the artist had so often seen them. Afters long examination, the artist turned to Theodore. and pressing his hand, ex claimed: "There is but one inspiration for 511031 work—love. You are in love." Both knew that the works which have made Titian, Raphael, and Leonardo de Vinci immortal, were inspired, like all great works of genius, by a profound passion.— True disciples of art, and of thesegrent mas ters, both these young artists, acknowledged the truth of the powers of love, It was :pat about the time that the inven tory was finishing at 24. sir t loes that the exhibition opened. These two pictures at tracted universal attention. They had al ways a dense crowd around them. Rich men offered their weight in gold for them; engravers offered any terms for permission to engrave them, but in vain. De Haute• rive obstinately refused all propositions.— All ho desired was that Virginia herself should see them; this alone would repay him. But Madame Simon scarcely knew what an exhibition of pictures meant. Neither herself or her daughters bad ever been in side the Louvre. One day, a cousin of Mme. Siimon's whose husband had a retail perfumery store in the Rue de la Paix, and who affected fashiona ble manners becoming the fashionable part of the town in which she3lived, burst into the dingy warehouse of the Rue St. Denis. "Cousin," said she, "I have seen such a singular thing I could'nt help coming to tell you. Do you know there's Virginie's por trait at the exhibition; and what is more. cousin Ambroise, there is actually your very house, with the sign of the spinning cat, your dinning room, simian of yount suppezt It's quite wonderful, and there is such a crowd around it." As the fine lady cousin went on talking, Madame Simon knit her brows, Ambroise Simon took off his spectacles and looked up from his ledger, while Virgipie looked down at her work and blushed scarlet. "Won't you come and see it !" "Come and see it, madame!" exclaimed Ambroise Simon : if I did I would put my fist through the canvass. Impudent puppy, whoever he is !" "I, indeed I I never go to such fine places. You may take Virginie, however, if you like: she has nothing to do, but we are all too busy." Virginie, with a beating heart, followed Madame Boehm., and soon found herself op posite to her own portrait, by the side of which stood. Theodore de Ifauterive. Vir ginia looked at him, then blushing deeply, Corned away. lie advanceda few steps, but by a rapid glance Virginie showed him Madame Rocher. and trembling with fear and emotion, she hurried on and saw him 1333023 That evening theinventoryvvascompleted. After every one had retired to bed, Simon bid Lemoine stay behind. "Joseph, my boy," said lie, "this is a glorious dividend; our house is, indeed, flourishing; a great deal of this prosperity is due to you. DOn't thank me:l knowwell; I am going, from this moment, to give you nn interest in the house—Simon& Lemoine, how it sounds. Don't thank me—that isn't all. How do you think you could bide any thing from me? Who can tell, to a minute, when a house is going to fall. My boy, I know you're in love, ain't you?" "Sir?" murmured Joseph. "Never mind, ray boy, I approve." "Approve!" "Yes, and she loves you." "She—Virginie?" "Virginie the devil—no, Adele." "Adele! I was—" "In love with Virginie,was you? That's of no use at all. Virginie is too young for you; besides, Madame Simon and I have settled the matter; it's no use to try and change it." "May I ask Virginie if she loves me?" said Joseph, still clinging to his only dream. "I don't know; well not directly; and don't tell my wife; but I know Adele loves you." The next morning being Sunday morning, Joseph Lemoine, in consideration of his new dignity, was incited to go to mass with the family, and Ambroise Sinion, with great tact and management contrived that Vir ginie should walk with Joseph. Virginie did not understand any of the young man's covert declarations, but calmly took her place beside him when they reached the church. The ladies were devoutly attentive, and kept their eyes on theirbooks, at least Adele and her mother, but Virginie had her eyes fixed on the two dark, ardent eyes of Theo dore, who, standing, leaning against a pil lar, was contemplating his living madonna. Unhappily, in a. moment of unusual fervor, Mine. Simon looked up and discovered the direction of her daughter's eyes, and at the same time found out that she was holding her book upside down. "Virginia" said her mother,"l forbid you to look up from your book; wait till you get home." De ilauterice, who had no motive for not continuing to look towards Virginie, eawher team stream down herclaeeke,and rushed in agony from the church. On their return. Virginia was ordered be fore her father and mother, and there made to confess all. A very little all, but which was a heinous offense in the eyes of the merchant, and especially of his wife. Joseph Lemoine was in despair at finding Virginie loved another. Adele deeply wounded when Joseph revealed, in his dis appointment, that he loved another. The whole family was in confusion, when all at once Mme. Kocher, all smiles and importance, made her appearance. "I'll set all right, cousin. M. de Ilanterive has been to see me—he ain't a Door artist— h; has three hundred thousand francs in the funds. Ile loves Virginia desperately; I never heard any but heroes in novels talk as he does; she mustmarry him. Nowlisten to what I have to say." There vras a long conversation—etorroy at first, then calmer--thee, at lagtki, after every one bad spoken violently in opposi tion to each other, they came to an under standing. That very evening Theodore de Ilauterive found himself seated by the side of his idol in the little dining-room he had immortalized. So thick was the bandage love bad placed over the eyes of the artist that the common-place vulgarity of his future family had charms for him; be was in high spirits, and condescended to amuse them by lively anecdotes and welt turned speeches. Even Mme. Simon thought him charming. Some months later two marriages were celebrated in the church where thernemora hie discovery of Virginie's love had taken place. Virginie and Theodore, in the full effulgence of their youth, love and beauty; Adele and Joseph Lemoine, in quiet, sober garments, looking serene and resigned, were married on the stone day. After the mar riage feast, a ball and supper, according to the traditions of old times, Joseph handed his sedate but happy bride into a comfortable hired carriage, and conveyed her to the Rue St. Denis; whilst Theodore, who had been wishing the whole company at the devil for the last four hours, snatching up Virginia in his arms, placed her in herown carriage, and in a few moments they were taken to the delicious apartment prepared for them in the Chaussee d'Antin. Theodore's love was so ardent that, dur ing a whole year, it underwent no change. Ile knew no more of Virginia's real charac ter and disposition at the end of that year than he did before, when she was still the ideal he had created. The birth of his son, by forcing him to be less with Virginie, gave him back to his ambitions and his studies. Poetry, litera ture, painting and the arts, have all great influence over high intellects. Love, to be perfect in such natures, must encounter sympathies with itself in all. Virginie, as soon as Theodore found other occupations than that of adoring her, betrayed her want of imagination, her ig norance, her utterdistaste fur the arts. All Virginie's sympathies were of the heart. If her husband showed her a sketch, and ex plained his ideas, she would reply by an unmeaning smile and a kiss. Theodore dis covered, with a sigh, that she was not in his sphere; his head was in the clouds—she never soared above the earth, she could not comprehend his sudden changes of humor, his sudden fits of sadness, his wild enthus iasms; his very language was incomprehen sible to her. De Hauterivo trusted that the society of the artistic world might rouse in his wife the intelligence he could not but imagine existed, though at present in adamant state. But Virginia wasshocked at the laisser alter of this society, at the freedom of these dis cussions. She turned away from it with prudish disgust; it wearied her, all this con versation, as though it had been in an un known tongue. Yet she loved Theodore, though she no longer understood him. With the indomitable perseverance of which a woman who loves is alone capable, she ap plied herself to study. She read all the poets, but they failed to interest her; she thought most of the poetry which was sheer nonsense. She learned to sing, but never acquired expression. the very soul of music, and in conversational powers she was totally deficient. She began to feel in the way; she felt as though Theodore's wings were grow ing, and that he was soaring above her into a region where she could not follow. "Your wife is very beautiful," said an old friend of Theodore's as, with a sigh of relief, he watched Mine. de Hauterive leave the room. "Quito a picture." "It's a pity De Hauterive don'tframeher," replied another; and Theodore, who felt how much she was out of placenmong them, did not resent the joke, but almost re-echoed it. Theodore was quite a celebrity, and be ing rich, young and handsome, was ofcourse much sought after by Parisian society. Virginia, who considered it a sin in a married woman to excite admiration or to care for the world, willingly stayed at home. Theodore, therefore, was now very rarely with her; she hid her grief and wept in silence, till at length, weary with life and herself, she determined to seek consolation in her family. Adele, whom she had but rarely seen, occupied her mother's place in the counting house. Joseph was by her side; they ap peared perfectly happy together. They had looked on marriage as a business trans action, and fulfilled its duties as they honored their notes. Joseph had not been in love with his wife when he married her, but he loved her now; community of inter este, of occupation, the same habits, the same education, had now united them. It was useless for Virginia to speak of her sorrows; here she felt she would not be under stood. She went to her mother, now estab ished in great solid magnificience in the Faubourg du Route. Here she was wel comed with the tenderest affection. The spledid style in which they lived was so wearisome that besides the pleasure of see ing Virginie, they bad the hope of passing is less tedious evening than was usual. Her mother insisted upon hearing all the details of her life. Captain Cooke's voy ages, or the Arctic discoveries did not reveal greater wonders to Madame Simon than did these confidential communications, "Good gracious, child!" she exclaimed, "do you mean to my that your husband shuts himself up with naked women, and E 1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE. 58. then tells you he's only drawing from mod els?" "All painters have models!" "I never knew that; if I had you should never have married a man guilty of such indecency. It's immoral, against religion. Then be stays out late?". "Till two or three o'clock in tho morning eometimes." "Ah! he's a gambler," exclaimed Am broise Simon; "I'm glad your fortune was settled on yourself, poor child." `.And when he comes he's in a horrible temper?" "Oh, no, not always. Very often he wakes me up and takes me to the Bois de Boulogne with him." "At three in the morning; why he wants to kill you. 'Well; he's mad, perhaps.— Did'nt you say he did'nt like to see you ear! Then he goes off for days, does he? and without saying a word?" "Ile went to Dieppe to paint the sea." "Take a portrait of the sea! who ever heard of such a thing. Well, he has no re ligion—he never went to church in his life, but to look at you. What can you expect?" "But men of genius—" "Men of genius indeed! we don't want men of genius, we want good, steady hus bands. Yours is as capricious as a young girl. Now he won't eat anything but fruit and vegetables; suddenly ho drinks noth ing but water: he loves his horses, and talks of them as if they were human be ings. And then shuts out the light of day, God's sun, to light up the rooms and paint by candle-light." "We can get you separated from this madman, my darling," said her father. But Tirginie wanted advice that would restore her happiness, not destroy it; and so after pacifying them, she returned sad and solemn to her solitary': home. She had no resources, no consolations, all the pursuits in which she had tried to in terest herself, were distasteful since they had not attained the desired effect. She was in the track of this soul of fire, called genius, but she could not follow it far. Months passed on. •They had now been married three years. Virginie's unhap piness had increased; though she had ceased to struggle. Her husband left her to her self; when he saw her he treated her, with a sort of half tender, half contemptuous pity. Her very beauty, when spoken of ap peared insipid to Theodore, used to the pas sions and emotions of the By means of her cousin, Mme. Rocher, Virginia at length ascertained that, for more than a year ber husband had been looked on by the world as the favored lover of the Dutehess of Parmeggio, and that most of his time was spent with her. Virginie felt no anger, sho attributed all the fault to her own incapacity, but she en vied the Duchess the power she had as sumed over her husband; she envied her the possession of the secret that had secured that power. By dint of reflecting always on the same idea. Virginie came to the determination of going to see the duchess, not to beg the heart of her husband, but to learn by what charm sho held him. None but a woman so utterly unacquainted with the world would ever have dreamed of such a proceed ing. She, however, carried it into execu tion. As she passed along the magnificent state apartments of the Parmeggio palace, she felt in another atmosphere, then on into the boudoir of the duchess, where she felt an indescribable charm was infused. Yet there was nothing on which the eye could rest so peculiarly elegant but all was har monious simplicity. The very daylight came in tempered rays through the thick curtains, and the flowers sent forth but a soft perfume. Madame de Parmeggio was alone, and still held in her hand Virginie's card, which she had sent to her. She received Mine. de Ilauterive with an excess of politeness which amounted almost to impertinence. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit madame!" said the duchess. "Madame," replied Virginia "to despair. I do not mean to reproach you; I do not even mean to blame you, but I love my husband, and I have lost him. Two years have I spent in tears—you cannot love him as I do, for you have many adorers; I have but him." As she spoke, Vrginie burst into tears.— The duchess, to whom all this emotion was an indirect compliment, took her kindly by the bawl. "Don't weep, dear lady; tears never bring back love. Let me tell you that if your husband no longer loves you I am not the cause. I have no love for him; never professed any. He was celebrated and I determined be should come to my house, and he did. I would not risk my heart or my reputation with a man of genius. We should admire genius, but it is not meant to be brought down in every day uses, any more than scene painting is meant to be looked at closely." "I was not worthy of him." "Nonsense, child—you loved him too much, and above all, you let him see it.— The one who loves the most is always the victim." "But how could I feign when I adored bite?" "Oh, if you talk passion when I am talk ing marriage we shall never understand each other. I bare seen moat of the men of genius of the day, and almost all bet,* [WHOLE NUMBER, 1,466. married women of inferior capacity to themselves, and what is more, hare been governed by them. These women were not frightened by the genius of their hus bands—they did not enter the arena against that, but adroitly discovering the common place qualities in which they were wanting, they displayed thorn in thernseldle, and set them in opposition to their genius. These men of genius have always a weak point, and this must be seized on, for by this they aro governed. Men of genius, like artists and poets, must always be treated as lovers, and never like husbands. They must al ways be left in doubt as to the extent and durability of one's love; we must never, in appealing to their hearts, forget to appeal to their imaginations." "Married life is then a continual com bat?" "In which one must always be on the offensive not the defensive, or we are lost.— But, dear lady, I will give you the means of putting your husband entirely in your power; try and keep him there. My hus band, who adores me, and commands whole armies, who is not afraid of cannon balls, is afraid of me, I mean of my displeasure; but then, see here, this door admits to my apartments from his; I have the key; he has to get it from me only, and to this day it is a favor. Come!" As she spoke she led Virginie into the picture gallery. There hung her portrait the portrait Theodore bad painted of her from memory. "Here!" exelainiad Virginie: "I knew it was gone, but here—" "I only asked your husband to give it me just to see how weak and false men can be when one gets power over them. This shall be taken to your carriage, and if, with the history how you came by it, you do not re gain an influence over your husband, why you deserve your fate." Virginie had neither firmness or courage to follow the counsels of the duchess. She hesitated; sho took one determination, then another. She composed all she could say to Theodore; she resolved to speak with firmness and dignity, even at the thought of meeting Theodore's lightning glance, she quailed before it. At last she decided, ac cording to her character, in taking him by kindness end gentleness. She placed the portrait on a chair in her boudoir; she dressed herself as nearly like it as possible. Then she lighted up her rooms; she filled them with flowers, and at last sat down and tremblingly awaited his return. Towards midnight his cabriolet rolled up to the door. In another instant the artist was in the El=i3 "What is the meaning of this illumina tion?" said he, in a cheerful voice. Virginia threw herself into his arms; he held her from him. Struck by her strange and unusual attire, then his eye fell ou the portrait and flashed lightning. "Where did you get that picture?" "The Duchess of Parmcggio gave it me back." "Did you ask her for it?" "I did not know oho had it." All this was spoken in a tone of gentle ness, capable of disarming a savage, but nothing could calm the fury of the artist's wounded vanity. "That is like her," he at length exclaimed; "but I will be avenged. I will paint her in the garb of Messaline, stealing from her husband's palace." "Theodore!" "I will kill her!" "Dearest Theodore!" "She's weary of me; she's in love with that coxcomb of a colonel." "Dearest, never mind her; I forgive you." "You) forgive me—you! I do not care for your forgiveness, your hatred, or your love. You are too insignificant to create a single emotion—leave me! But first see me destroy this hateful instrument of her vile revenge—behold!" As he spoke, Theodore with a violent blow broke the canvas of the portrait, and soon its fragments were strewed on the floor. The next day, Mme. Simon, who had been sent for took her home. Virginie never complained, nor even breathed her husband's name. ller little boy was con signed to We grandmother's care. Theodore resenting Virginie's supposed auger, kept haughtily silent; at last, about two months after, Joseph Simon came quietly and po litely into his studio. "I am sent Monsieur de Tisuterive, to announce to you the death of my sister-in law, Madamo Virginie de Hsuterive; the funeral will take place to-morrow from her father's house." Theodore rushed to the house of his father-in-law; he wept; he embraced his boy; he knelt for hours by the still cold corpse; ho followed it with agony of tears to the grave. Then he went forth into the world, and thinks of Virginie as an angel in Hea ven, but it never struck him that be was the cause of her sorrow or her death. There was one person, who, on the anni versary of her death, always visits the white marble tomb of Mille. de Mt uterive—doseph Simon. It is the only line of poetry of his life. It does not make hint discontented with the present, perhaps on t Ito contrary, it makes him appreciate better the great happiness he enjoys. "Poor Virginiel" does he say. as he eon templates her grave; "there are humble and modest flowers that bloom and flourish in sheltorel valleys, and die transplanted in high places; the storm destroys them, the sun withers them; so your tender, gentle, womanly nature was shattered and destroyed by the protaottroan fire of genius."
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