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'prospect of leaving her mother.

She But

wept; that will pass off, I hope. "what if I should not fill the void "which her mother's departure will create? Either I should die, or else "I should go and live with her in Rus"sia, a species of moral, intellectual, "and perhaps physical suicide. I am "stupid, or mad, or something of the "kind. I am haunted by a presenti"ment that I shall make Alexandrine "very unhappy. I should like to be a "monk. But no, I am getting unrea"sonable. I will plunge my head in "my pillow, and there bury myself till "I am transformed into something pos"sessed of common sense."

The presentiment was but too well founded. It was only ten days after the wedding, as he and his bride were enjoying the honeymoon at Castellamare, that Albert's dreaded disease returned, and he broke a blood vessel. From this time Alexandrine, the most devoted of wives, never knew what it was to be free from anxiety. "Is there "then," she writes during his illness, "is there in truth only the shadow of "happiness upon earth? Is it only "what is distant that appears charming, "and must it always lose its colours as we seize it? Is there then no true 'poetry, save in the love of God, and

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are we so miserable that that cannot "suffice us, and that we must always "long to idealize, to deify, some object 66 on earth? . . . Oh! are we not often "consumed by the desire for a country "where we shall be sure of what we see, where we shall be sure of loving "for ever, where we shall have no false fears, where we may without anxiety "love with all our being another being? "This country, if we ever reach it, is "Heaven! We die with desire for it, "and yet, through weakness or indifference, we make no effort for it."

The journals and letters from this time contain little else but the record of the alternate hopes and fears attendant on the husband's fatal but flattering disorder, and the continual changes of residence undertaken with the vain endeavour to conquer it. They went

first to Pisa, where for some time they enjoyed the society of Montalembert,"Montal," as Alexandrine calls him in affectionate abbreviation. Here Albert's health for a time improved, and he and his young wife seem to have been really happy. We quote from Alexandrine's journal for the 13th Jan. 1835:

"We have been to the Cascine, and "afterwards went to order a hat for me, "which afforded us great amusement. "At dinner, Albert took a sudden resolu"tion to go to a ball which was to take place in the evening, and which we had "all three declined. I objected, fear"ing it might be bad for him, but he

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we forced Montal to come with us. "He made us supplicate him a long "time. He had nothing to wear; "Albert lent him almost everything; "then he had to go for a shoemaker, "and a hairdresser to cut his hair. All "this amused us very much, and finally "what made us laugh as much as any"thing else was that, being at that time "without a man-servant, we were fol"lowed to the ball by the shoemaker's "boy."

As the invalid recovered strength, he became restless, and longed for change. In a journal which he kept for a friend, he writes:-"I gain fresh strength "every day, at least in my own opinion; "and I hope, by God's help, that I "shall soon be freed from this tribula❝tion of cares and precautions. I do "not know whether it is the approach "of spring, but I feel the want of air, "of movement, of life. . . . My passion "for travelling increases every day. "There are times when the soul seems "to drag us towards unknown regions, "where one fancies that everything must "be more beautiful than what lies be"fore our eyes. Is not this need of "movement, of change, of escape from

...

my present feelings. I am touched "with love in retracing my recollections "of the past, my present heaven, and "the infinity of my future bliss. I "have been blamed for my unsocia

bility; but what would the noise of a "salon be to me now that the true "sweet enjoyment of my life has been "vouchsafed to me? Is not the twilight "of my lamp, illumining her beloved head, something better than all the "world beside?"

In consequence of this supposed return of health, the La Ferronnays started in the spring of 1835 on a journey to Odessa, to visit Madame Lapoukhyn. They went first to Naples, and thence by sea to Constantinople and Odessa, which they reached early in July; but they had not been there many days before the fatal blood-spitting returned again, and poor Alexandrine felt that she must give up all hope, and prepare for the worst. One morning, as she returned from her husband's sick room to her own, full of agonising fears, she opened the New Testament at hazard, with a sort of superstitious feeling. Her eyes immediately lighted on the verse, "Honour those widows that are widows indeed." "I thought I had seen a "ghost," she says, "and almost screamed.

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My imagination had never before "realized that horrible word-widow!" She was, however, not destined to realize it just then. Albert recovered sufficiently to return to Italy, travelling through Poland, where Alexandrine visited a salt-mine, of which she gives a graphic account in her journal, and then through Austria.

They first domiciled themselves in Ve

nice, where the young wife settled down into a nurse and housekeeper, giving up all amusements and gaieties for her husband's sake. She writes to one of her sisters-in-law :-"I am getting rid of my refinement. I am turning myself "into a cook, a farmer, or what you will, "and it is frightful to see how completely I am made for it. My care of Albert, which you think so highly of, "is really worth nothing; ask Pubus: "he will tell you, as he tells me, that I "have a natural taste for this kind of "thing, that I enjoy managing and

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petty arrangements, that I should get "ennuyée if Albert were in better health, "that I have no greater amusement than "in physicking and nursing..." Again, to M. de Montalembert :--- "If you only 'knew, dear Montal, how I am buried 'body and soul in housekeeping, you "would pity me and laugh at the same "time; there is no vestige left of the "poetical Alexandrine, surrounded as "she is by stores of oil, potatoes, rice, "candles; and knowing, I beg you to believe, what they are all worth, even "to the price of an egg. .. Albert says "the first sheet of my letter smells strong of the kitchen. It is true, and "I blush for it: pardon me; but only "conceive our little old woman is so "unskilful that I have to teach her how "to make dishes, and this is all so new "to me that I tell all my friends of it; "and then I am drawn on by your

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...

brotherly request to give you all sorts "of housekeeping details. Forgive me!"

These lively letters were probably written to be seen by her sick husband; in her private journal and letters to Pauline we see the workings of her grief and her affection, which were gradually and irresistibly leading her to fulfil her dying husband's most ardent wish by embracing his religion. It was not a conscientious preference for the faith in which she had been brought up which had so long withheld her from this step-on the contrary, she had long been attracted by the Romish ritual in the Italian churches she was in the habit of frequenting, and she boasted sometimes that she had "a Catholic air" and

had been taken for a Catholic; but she was restrained by her respect for her mother, who, on consenting to her marriage had strictly charged her never to forsake the Protestant faith; and still more by her reverence for her father's memory. Referring to the story of the heathen king who refused to embrace Christianity because he would not go after death to a Paradise into which his friends could not enter, she writes to M. de Montalembert, who had often seconded her husband's entreaties:"Indeed, if I were told that my father "had taken the wrong road and Albert "the right, and that I must choose one "and be for ever separated from the "other, I believe that, as Albert would "be sure of bliss, I should let him go "alone, and should follow my father "like that heathen prince." In the following extracts we trace the gradual yielding of this filial piety to her deeper love for her husband :

"My God, Thou hast granted me great happiness in my life, but Thou "hast denied me repose. I hope I do

"have often made me believe in an "eternal happiness extended to all and "everything. Yesterday I thought of

nothing but the pain and danger that are beside all that is sweet and happy. "I reflected how the sun, which is so superb, is often the cause of death and "suffering. And the sea, calm and "smooth and blue as it is, are not men "drowned in it all the same? Danger "and suffering surround us. Our life, "the life of those we love, hangs only "by a thread, and even that thread is "not broken without frightful suffering. ... I was indulging in such thoughts yesterday, as I sat by the window "gazing on this lovely view, when these comforting words came into my mind, "whispered, perhaps, by one of the "angels who watch over me—that the very hairs of our heads are all numbered. Thus, then, all our sufferings have an "object. Oh, I feel that it is good for CC me to be tried. It makes me think "of God, and renders me, I hope, a "little better. And then (another

heavenly word that has recurred to 'me), 'Blessed are they that mourn, for "they shall be comforted.'

Father, I ask of Thee (for Thou hast

permitted us to ask), I ask of Thee in 'the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom Thou hast promised to refuse "nothing, that I may live, die, and be "born again with my beloved Albert. "I love him, my God, in Thee, and "because he loves Thee. Oh keep

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us ever together in Thy love, and "separate us not! Oh, dear good "saints, pray for me! Oh Jesus, listen "to me! Let my voice reach Thee, as "did that of the poor women, of the 66 centurion, of so many others! I say "with one of them, 'Lord, I believe, help "Thou my unbelief!' Oh vouchsafe to "enlighten me Thyself, to make Thy "truth shine in my heart; but suffer 66 me, oh sweet Jesus, Thou who hast "had pity on Thy mother, suffer me to spare my mother's heart!

My soul was very sad, very anxious, "yesterday. The sun was bright, the sea calm and beautiful. Such scenes

Letter to Pauline. "He is alive, Pauline, but I have no more hope. "Hope is a thing we part from with "such difficulty that I have never yet "lost it till this evening, in spite of the

many times I have been told that he "might die at any moment. . . . Oh! "it is so difficult, even when one has "experienced it before, to believe that "what one loves can die! I am sitting "alone in his room, whilst he is asleep

alone, thinking that he is dying, with"out mother, without sisters, without brothers, in whose arms I can for a "moment give vent to my terrible "anguish. I should be suffocated if I "did not write. . . . This, then, is the "end of our poor love! ten days of happiness in not yet two years of marriage, and loving each other as "much as it is possible to do. Oh "God! ten days-for I have not been "above ten days entirely free from "anxiety about his health. God has "prepared me slowly, imperceptibly

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even, perhaps in His pity, for I have "always preferred lengthened grief to "sudden shocks.

"Here I am, then, coolly calculating "what will become of me. First, O my God, grant that this beloved angel

may not continue to suffer as he has "done, that all heavenly joys may sur"round him, and give him eternal bliss! "Then, for myself, my life I know will "be tenacious, and there will remain no "other happiness on earth for me but "the love of God. May I have but "the energy to throw myself into it! "That should be our strongest love; but "I have always been so weak, I have "had so much need of tenderness, that "to be told at my age that all these joys 66 are over terrifies me. And yet my "only rest would be in feeling myself "inconsolable, for I should be shocked "at myself if I could ever again set foot "in gay society, or attach myself to the "world by any link. For a moment I "thought I should take the veil, but "then I reflected that my fortitude "would not be equal to it; and then the "wish to see my mother, all of you, my "brothers, would disturb me, and I "want, if possible, to rest calmly in "God. I must have solitude and liberty "with some one whom I love, and who "will love me better than my mother? "I think I shall go to her; but, though "with my mother, I shall have Albert's faith, for I will not and cannot believe "otherwise than he believes. . . . . Do "you remember, Pauline, how I once "told you that three deaths or one birth "alone would make me a Catholic? It

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"My God, grant that I may not "forget even for Thee, my mother, my "beloved brothers, my father in the "other world, and the care which I "must give to my Albert! My Jesus, grant that I may accompany every"where my poor friend, whom Thou "Thyself hast given to be my husband"in the shadow of death as in all the strength of life, in the slumber of the "tomb as beside his bed of suffering"that I may be always before his eyes, a well-known and beloved face, an "encouraging voice, a companion in sup"porting everything! My Jesus, preserve my thoughts from any other "wish! Amen. Dear Virgin, dear Saints, pray for me!

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"Before going to confess to the Abbé "Gerbet, I had been reading to him, "and in one of the Reflections which "follow the chapters of the Imitation' "I read the words: "Love is stronger "than death!' These words revived my spirit. Love is stronger than death!' "I thank Thee, my God! for Thy great

mercy; and how, after that, should "I not have faith, when Thou hast thus "heard my prayer that I might feel "how much I loved him! These hor"rible doubts were then delusions, and "now, oh sweet thought, I feel that I "could go down willingly with him "into the gulf of death, which I always "dreaded. Never to be separated from him, my God! He has need of me, "and I can give up all that I shall "leave on earth.

me as if I were going to leave thee! "I will support thee though my bones "should break with grief to see thee "die; my arms, my eyes shall not move "from thee, and thy last look shall see me still there.

"And afterwards, my God, be it as "Thou wilt, all that Thou wilt, when

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be with

happy; if I die, if I may but "him, I shall be happy also. And as "for my life in this world without "him, I will not even be afraid to "take comfort. Let it be as Thou "wilt, my God; only let there not "be sin and remorse! My God, my "Jesus, grant me faith, true living "faith. I wish for nothing, and I wish "for all things. Amen."

M. Montégut's narrative of events closes necessarily with the death of Albert, which took place on the 29th of June, 1836; for, as we have intimated, Madame Auguste Craven's compilation at present seems to extend no further.

remains untold. The extracts which we have laid before the reader form a portion only of those contained in the Revue des deux Mondes; and the original memoir from which they are derived furnishes evidently many more of the same description. Their general character will be sufficiently evident. They have all the interest of fresh and natural expressions of youthful love and sorrow, and fervent piety; but we can hardly say that they exhibit any traces of the real poetical insight into nature and the subtler mysteries of feeling which constitutes the special charm of Eugénie de Guérin's writings.

I THINK there is no country in the world so dreary and oppressive as the country round New Orleans. It is a vast swamp, below the level of the Mississippi, covered with cedars, not evergreen, but deciduous; and when I was there in the early spring, there was not a single leaf upon them. For miles these dreary forests extend, with almost always the same aspect, except, perhaps, for a few miles the trees may be bathed in yellow slimy mud half-way up their trunks, where some lake or river has been swelled and risen for a time some ten or fifteen feet higher than usual.

Natural scenery, untouched by man, has, almost everywhere in the world, some beauty; not always a lovely, graceful beauty, but a beautiful dreariness, or a beautiful wildness, or a beautiful quaintness, or a beautiful luxuriance. Here, in this swampy, slimy Louisiana, there is ugly dreariness, ugly wildness, ugly quaintness, and the country often struck me as absolutely ugly, and, with its alligators basking in the rivers, as almost revolting, somewhat as if it were a country in a geological period not prepared for man's appearance.

We were in New Orleans in 1858, and the state of society was not more pleasant to contemplate than the natural

scenery; the moral atmosphere was as offensive as the swamp miasma. Every day we heard of murders and assassinations in the streets, and crime ruled in society. The fear of vengeance from criminals very often prevented the injured from seeking the protection of the law-in fact, the state of the city was almost lawless. The aspect of the streets was quiet enough, perhaps, with the exception of a few drunken Irish and Germans, whom I saw sometimes absolutely rolling on the pavement; but it was impossible to speak to any person without hearing of recent crime, and the daily papers were crammed with revolting records.

I detested New Orleans; I detested the great Hotel St. Charles, with its 800 people sitting down to table together; and I detested the conversation I heard there at dinner, and in the immense drawing-room crowded with fine ladies. Fine gives no idea how fine these planters' ladies were; indeed, much more extravagantly dressed than crowned heads in old countries, and some wore more jewels in the early morning than a princess would wear in any evening in England. Everything I saw in New Orleans disgusted me. I could not visit the slave auction or slave