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NEW-YORK SOCIETY, BY THE LAST

ENGLISH TRAVELLER.
THE Hon. HENRY COPE has lately publish-

THE

ed in London a Ride across the Rocky Mountains, to California-a book abounding in striking adventure and description, and illustrating in its general tone the spirit of an English gentleman. Its temper and good sense may be inferred from the following specimen, on the never-failing subject of Society in New-York:

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across its course; which differed from inspiration in degree rather than in kind. The resemblance of Dr. Hooker to these great authors is obviously not an affectation. It is not confined to style, but reaches to the constitution and tone of the mind. His productions indicate the same temper of deep thoughtfulness upon man's estate and destiny; the same union of a personal sympathy with a judicial superiority, which suffers in all the human weaknesses which it detects and condemns; the same earnest sense of their sub'Any observations I might be tempted to jects as realities, clear, present and palpable; make on New-York, or even, I am inclined to the same quick feeling, toned into dignity by think, on any of the civilized parts of the states, pervading, essential wisdom; and that direct would probably be neither novel nor interesting. cognizance of the substances of religion, which can notes,' nor do I care to follow in the footI am not ambitious of circulating more Amerdoes not deduce its great moral truths as conEnough has been sequences of an assumed theory, but seizes steps of Mrs. Trollope. them as primary elements that verify them-rate American society. Good society is the same written to illustrate the singularities of secondselves and draw the theories after them by a all over the world. General remarks I hold to natural connection. Fretted and wearied be fair play. But to indulge in personalities is a with metaphysical theologies; vexed by the poor return for hospitality; and those Americans self-illustration, the want of candor, the fierce- who are most willing to be civil to foreigners, reness, the ungenial and unsatisfying hollowness ceive little enough encouragement to extend that of popular religionism, we turn with a grate- civility, when, as is too often the case, those very ful relief to this soothing and impressive sys- foreigners afterwards attempt to amuse their tem which speculates not, wrangles not, re- friends on one side of the Atlantic, at the expense viles not, but, while it every where testifies of a breach of good faith to their friends on the of the degradation we are under, touches our other. Every one has his prejudices: I freely spirits to power and purity by the constant confess I have mine. I like London better than exhortation of "sursem corda!" New-York, but it does not, therefore, follow that I dislike New-York, or Americans either. I have a great respect for almost every thing American ItI do not mean to say that I have any affection for a thorough bred Yankee, in our acceptation of the term; far from it, I think him the most offensive of all bipeds in the known world. Yankee snobs too I hate-such as infest Broadway, for instance, genuine specimens of the genus, according to the highest authorities. The worst of New-York is its superabundance of snobbism. The snob here is a snob "sui generis," quite beyond the capacities of the old world. There is no mistaking him. He is cut out after the most approved pattern. If he differs from the original, who or whatever that might have been, it must does credit to the progressive order of things, be in a surpassing excellence of snobbism which Taft-hunting is a sport he pursues with delight to himself, but without remorse or pity for his victim. It is necessary for the object of his persecutions to be constantly on the alert. He is frequently seen prowling about in white kid gloves, patent leather boots, and Parisian hat. Whenever this is the case, he must be considered dangerous and bloody-minded, for in all probability he is meditating a call. Often he has been known to run his prey to ground in the Opera or other public places, and there to worry them within less than an inch of their good temper. Offensive as he is, generally speaking, he sometimes acts on the defensive; for, not very well convinced of his own infallibility, he is particularly susceptible of affronts, to which his assumed consequence not unfrequently makes him liable. Baits are often proffered by these swell-catchers to lure the unwary. Such as an introduction to all the theatres private gambling-houses, &c., &c. the nymphs of the corps de ballet; the entré to But beware of such seductions."

The style of Dr. Hooker abounds in spontaneous interest and unexpected graces. seems to result immediately from his character, and to be an inseparable part of it. It is free from all the commonplaces of fine writing; has nothing of the formal contrivance of the rhetorician, the balanced period, the pointed turn, the recurring cadence. Yet the charms of a genuine simplicity, of a directness almost quaint, of primitive gravity, and calm, native good sense, renders it singularly agreeable to a cultivated taste. Undoubtedly there is in spiritual sensibility something akin to genius, and like it tending to utterance in language significant and beautiful. We meet at times in Dr. Hooker's writings with phrases of the rarest felicity and of great delicacy and expressiveness; in which we know not whether most to admire the vigor which has conceived so striking a thought, or the refinement of art which has fixed it in words so beautifully exact.

SUNSET.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,
BY R. 8. CHILTON.

EE with what pomp the golden sun goes down
Behind yon purple mountain!-far and wide
His mellow radiance streams; the steep hill-side
Is clothed with splendor, and the distant town
Wears his last glory like a blazing crown.
We cannot see him now, and yet his fire
Still lingers on the city's tallest spire.--
Chased slowly upward by the gathering frown
Of the approaching darkness. God of light!
Thou leavest us in gloom,-but other eyes
Watch thy faint coming now in distant skies:-
There drooping flowers spring up, and streams grow bright,
And singing birds plume their moist wings for flight,
And stars grow pale and vanish from the sight!

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A MORNING at Là Morgue is hardly as daily, and walking painfully up to the parti

agreeable as a day at the Louvre, yet it is not without a certain fascination. Let but the influence once fasten on you, and it will be very hard to shake it off. At one period I confess it was to me almost irresistible, and I shudder sometimes when I recollect how punctually every morning at the same hour I took my place on one side of that fearful room-not for the purpose of inspecting the bodies of the suicides (I rarely turned to look at them), but to regard the countenances of the anxious ones who came to realize the worst, or to take hope till the morrow. Literally there are no spectators in that dismal solitude-if we except an occasional visit from the foreign sight-hunter, who comes in charge of a valet, and passes in and out and away to the "next place." In London or in New-York, an establishment so public would be thronged with persons eager to gratify a prurient curiosity. Not so in Paris. The French possess a sensibility so refined-it may be called a species of delicacy-that they cannot enjoy such a spectacle, can scarcely endure it: and if the tourist will bring the subject to mind, he will recollect that while his guide pointed out the entrance, he himself declined going into the apartment.

I know not how it happened, but, as I have remarked, the habit of visiting this spot every morning, was fastened on me. Never shall I forget some of the faces I encountered there. One image is impressed on me indelibly; it is that of a woman of middle age, with a

tion, looked intently through the lattice work, and turned and went away. I never before felt so strong an impulse to ccost a person, without yielding to it. Indeed I had resolved to speak to her on the morning of the fifteenth day, but she did not come and I never saw her again. Who was she? did her fears prove groundless? what became of her? An old man I remember to have seen-a very old man, feeble and decrepit, who came once only, looked at the dead, shook his head despairingly, and tottered away: I know not if he discovered the object of his search. Young girls who had quarrelled with their lovers, and lovers who in moments of jealousy had been cruel to their sweethearts, would look anxiously in, and generally with relieved spirits pass out, almost smilingly, resolving no doubt to make all up before night should again tempt to suicide. Another incident I cannot omit. although it is impossible to recall it without a dreadful pang. One morning a pretty fairhaired child, not more than four years old, came running in, and clasping the wooden bar with one hand, pointed with her little finger through the opening, and with a tone of innocent curiosity said, "There's mamma!" The same moment two or three rushed in, and seizing the unconscious orphan, carried her hastily away. She had wandered after some of the family, and heard enough as they came from the fatal place to lead her to suppose her lost mamma was there, and so she ran to What could be the circumstances so un

see.

toward, that even the child could not bind | listening to them, my friend seized my arm the mother to life? and exclaimed in a whisper, "Look!" I cast my eyes across to the other side, and beheld a figure advancing slowly toward us. It was that of a young girl, in appearance scarcely seventeen. Her form was light and graceful, simply draped in a loose robe of white muslin. On her head she wore a straw hat, in which were placed conspicuously a bunch of fresh spring blossoms. The gloves and mantelet seemed to have been forgotten. Her demeanor was one of gentleness and mod

A long chapter might be written of the occurrences at my singular rendezvous, but I had no design, when I began, of alluding to them, and I will only remark here that, leaving Paris some time after for the south of Europe, I got rid of this nightmare impulse, and although I returned the following season I never again entered La Morgue...

It was in the spring when I came back. The foliage was deep and green, and in the Jardin des Plants, which was near my quar-esty. She cast her eyes around as if expecting ters, the various flowers and shrubs and trees filled the atmosphere with fragrance, and tempted us to frequent strolls along its ave

nues.

"Come with me at six o'clock," said my friend Partridge, "and you shall see an apparition."

"Where?"?

"I will not tell you, till we are on the spot?"

to meet a companion, and then quietly sat down on a rude seat not very far from where we were. I remained for ten minutes patiantly waiting a demonstration of some kind, either from my companion or the strange appearance near us. But now I began to yield to the influence of the scene. The sun was declining, and cast a mellow and saddening light over the various objects around. Gradually as I gazed on the motionless form of "I will go, but hope the rendezvous will be the maiden, I felt impressed with awe, which an agreeable one." Just then, I know not why, was heightened by the solemn manner of my I thought of La Morgue, and shuddered. friend, who appeared as much under the charm "The most agreeable in all Paris." as myself. At length I whispered to him, This conversation took place in the Hospi-"For Heaven's sake tell me what does all this tal de Notre Dame de Pitie, just as we were finishing our morning occupation of following the celebrated Louis through the fever wards. Partridge was my room-mate, and generally a fellow traveller, but I had left him behind in my late tour, to devote himself more entirely to his medical pursuits, while I, to my shame be it spoken, began to tire of the lectures of Broussais, and the teachings of Majendie; and, even now that I had returned, was tempted every day to slip across to the Rue Vivienne, where were staying some fascinating strangers, whose acquaintance I had made en route, and who had begun to engross me too much for any steady progress in my studies; at least so thought Partridge, who shook his head and said it would not do for a student to cross the Seine-he ought to stay in his own quartier; that I had had too much recreation as it was-I should forget the little I knew, and as for the Rue Vivienne, and the Boulevard des Italiens, the Rue de la Paix, &c., I must break off all such associations or be read out of the community. I was glad, therefore, to appease my friend by consenting to go with him-I knew not where-and see an apparition.

Accordingly a few minutes before six, we started together on the strange adventure. We passed down the street which leads to the Jardin des Plants, and entering through the main avenue, walked nearly its entire length, when my companion turned into a narrow path, almost concealed by the foliage, which brought us into a small open space. Here he motioned me to stop, and pointing to a rustic bench we both sat down. At the same moment, the chimes from a neighboring chapel pealed the hour of six, and while I was still VOL. V.-NO. IV.-29

mean?" A low "Hush," with an expressive gesture to enforce quiet, was the only response. I made no further attempt to interrupt the silence, but sat spell-bound, always looking at the figure, until I was positively afraid to take my eyes from it. Again the chimes began their peal for the completion of the last quarter. It was seven o'clock. The moment they ceased, the girl rose from her seat, glanced slowly, sadly, earnestly around, pressed her hand across her eyes, and proceeded in the path toward us. We both stood up as she came near; my friend lifted! his hat from his head in the most respectful manner as the maiden passed, while she in return gazed vacantly on him, and walking slowly by, disappeared in the direction opposite that from which she came. We did not remain, but proceeded with a quickened pace to our lodgings. Arrived there, I asked for an explanation of what we had witnessed.

"Do you remember," said Partridge, "Alfred Dervilly?"

"Perfectly well. He was your room-mate after I left you last summer, and twenty times I have been on the point of inquiring for him,. but something at each moment prevented.. Where is he?"

"Dead."

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himself to his seat in a comfortable manner, | plexed him; one thing filled him with vague my companion commenced:

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Yes you recollect Dervilly of course, and must remember that before you left us we used to joke him about a fair unknown, who was engaging so much of his time."

"I had forgotten-but I now recall the cumstance; I remember, I was walking with him near the Garden,' and he made some trivial excuse to leave me and turn into it. You afterwards told me he had an appointment there, but I thought little of it."

fears and apprehensions, and checked the ecstatic feelings which were ready to overflow his heart. A mystery hung about this beau tiful girl; she claimed no one for her friend, she spoke of no acquaintances, she never alcir-luded to parents, or to brother or sister, or other relation; she made no mention of her home. Besides, a strange sadness, strange in one so young, seemed to possess her, and to pervade her spirit, and while contemplating that imperturbable countenance, Dervilly at "Well, I will give you the story as I now times felt an awe come over him for which have it, quite complete, for I was partly in he could not account, and which for moDervilly's confidence, and was with him du- ments subdued even the force of his passion. ring his illness and when he died. He was It appeared to him then, as if he were under born in Louisiana, of French parents, who, a spell; but presently, when a gentle smile after spending some years in America, re- illumined her face, her eyes would be turnturned to their native country. He spoke ed on him so lovingly, and her look express, English fluently, as you know, and when you as plainly as look could, that all her trust deserted me we became very intimate. Then was in him and in him only. Dervilly would it was I learned how deeply the poor fellow forget every thing in the raptures of such was in love, actually in love. No mere tran- moments; indeed in his ecstasy he would be sitory emotion-no momentary passion for driven almost to madness; for of all charan adventure-no affair of gallantry, was this: acters," continued Partridge, "hers was the his very being was absorbed-he became one to set a youth of ardent temperament wholly changed-it seemed as if he had bound absolutely crazy. So matters advanced, or himself, body and soul, to some spirit of an- rather I should say, so time advanced, while other world. I never saw, never read, of so affairs did not. It was at this period," said engrossing a feeling. At last he confessed my friend, “that Dervilly gave me his conto me. He said he had met, a few months fidence. Our intimacy had gradually increas before, at the house of a former friend of his ed from the hour of your leaving us, and at family, who had been of considerable conse- length he unbosomed himself completely. quence under the previous reign, but was My first impression, after hearing his story, now reduced, and lived in obscurity, a crea- was that the pretty mademoiselle was no more ture of most exquisite shape and feature, who nor less than an arrant flirt; that her charms proved on acquaintance to be possessed with were magnified to a lover's vision, and that a loveliness of character, a modesty, an irre- the mystery which attended her would turn sistible charm of manner, which took him out to be no mystery at all-so I treated the captive. Dervilly became completely enam- case lightly, laughed at his description, called ored with Emilie de Coigny. This he discov- Mademoiselle Emilie a coquette, and added, ered to be her name, but on inquiring of the a little seriously, that it was a shame for her persons at whose house he first met her, he to trifle with so warm-hearted a fellow. You could get no satisfactory information; indeed know how grating are the disparaging rea very singular reserve, as poor Dervilly marks of a friend about one in whom we thought, was maintained whenever her name confess to ourselves a deeper interest than was mentioned, so that he could not, in fact, we care to acknowledge. What I had said glean the slightest particulars about her. was kindly intended, but it touched DerThis did not prevent him from confessing his | villy to the quick. I did not think you capassion, for the girl came frequently to this pable,' he exclaimed, of thus making light house, and their acquaintance ripened very of my confidence-I find I was deceivedfast. Emilie de Coigny felt for the first time you are at liberty to make as much sport of that her heart was occupied, and all that rest-me as you will. I have learned a lesson which lessness of spirit caused by the unconscious I shall take care to remember.' 'You must longing of the affections laid at rest, and Al- not speak so,' I said, 'I really was not serious. fred Dervilly became the sole object of her I take back every word. I would not wound thoughts and of her hopes, if hopes she had. you for the world-forgive me.' Then we All this, I repeat, Emilie de Coigny felt; but, shook hands, and Dervilly assured me I had singular to say, she hesitated to confess what misjudged his Emilie; he would ask her perwas in her heart, even when her lover pas- mission to introduce me, and I should see for sionately entreated; it seemed as if something myself. The permission was never accorded, stood between her and happiness, to which although Dervilly urged to Mademoiselle de she feared to allude. It is not easy to de- Coigny, that I was his best and almost his ceive the heart, and Dervilly knew, despite only friend. She was unyielding; she would the apparent calmness of Emilie, despite her not see me. Meanwhile his passion increased sometimes cold demeanor, that he was loved with every impediment-yet he gained no in return. But one thing troubled and per-assurance of its being returned, save what his

heart whispered to him. In the Jardin des Plants they were accustomed to meet daily, when the weather was propitious-so much Emilie yielded to her lover-and spend an hour together; and if they could not meet in the open air, they repaired to the house where they first became acquainted. On one occasion Dervilly, unable to bear suspense any longer, seized her hand, and passionately pledged himself, his existence, his soul, his all to Emilie de Coigny; he swore his fate was indissolubly linked with hers, that their destiny could not be severed, and he demanded from her an avowal of the truth of what he said. The violence of Dervilly alarmed her; she drew her hand from his, and looking him steadily in the face, inquired:

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What has prompted Monsieur to this sudden show of feeling?'

"Do you ask what?' exclaimed Dervilly; 'it is you. Are you not answered? How can I resist what is inevitable? how curb myself when all hold is lost? Are you then so cruel? Dieu merci! be not so deadly calm-it means the worst for me-be angry, vexed, any thing, but look not on me with that glazed look-it maddens me.'

"Monsieur Dervilly,' said Emilie, without change of tone or manner, 'what you have said, if it means any thing, means every thing; it means all a maiden longs to hear from lips that are beloved. To respond, I must be assured how far your judgment will confirm what now seems to be a mere passionate ebullition. Excuse me,' she continued, as Dervilly made an impatient gesture; 'I have heard and read of similar protestations which had little true significance.'

"I accept any conditions,' interrupted the young man, and will bless you from the depths of my soul for naming any, even the hardest; yes, the hardest-I care not what, so that they are from you.' The girl regarded Dervilly as if she would search his very nature. You are silent-speak; I can no longer contain myself,' exclaimed he, wildly.

"Monsieur,' once more observed Mademoiselle de Coigny, 'you know not to whom you address yourself; should I tell you, you would retract all those strong words, and hasten to escape in the least humiliating way possible.'

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against such violent indulgence of them. But he was too excited to listen to me. Indeed, I feared he would lose his reason. It seemed as if more than ordinary passion had possession of him, and that it was inspired by something unearthly; and, without ever having seen the girl, I began to attribute to her a supernatural influence. Besides, Dervilly confessed he knew as little of his affianced as before, and that occasionally the same icy look would be turned on him, as it were quite inadvertently, and hold him spell-bound with horror, while it still served to increase his frenzy beyond all bounds. Then, her endearing smiles, her truthful and confiding love, her absolute reliance, her entire dependence, on Dervilly, made him so frantic with happiness, that he lost all capacity to

reason.

"The summer passed away, but Dervilly had learned nothing more of the history of his betrothed; she still avoided the subject, and, when he alluded to it, she would beg him to desist, and hide her face in his bosom and weep.

"Strange thoughts at last found their way into his brain, fearful surmises began to disturb his peace, and, when absent from Emilie, he would resolve at their next interview, to insist on knowing all. But when the time came, and he met, turned on him, the open and innocent look of the maiden's clear eyes, which expressed so earnestly how entirely her soul rested on his, all courage failed him, and he could not go on. . . . .

"One evening," continued Partridge, after a pause, and with the tone of a person approaching an unpleasant subject, "One evening, after dinner-I think it was the first week in September-when the day had been excessively sultry, I strolled into the large garden, which you recollect belonged to our old lodgings in the Rue d'Enfer, and after a while sat down in the summer-house. Presently little Sophie Lecomte came running out to me, and I remained amusing myself with the child's prattle till it was dark. The moon shone brightly, and I did not perceive how late it was, until reminded of the hour by finding that Sophie was fast asleep in my lap. I rose and carried her into the house, and went quietly to my room. I seated myself near the window without lighting the candles, feeling that the glare would not just then harmonize with my feelings. The truth is, I was thinking of you, and of that romantic passage across the Apennines, and of the fair stranger, and so forth. I sat by the window, the moonlight streaming across the room, over the top of the old chapel, the windows and doors open, and every thing still except the monotonous chirping of a single cricket, louder than that of any French cricket I ever heard before, and which sung the very same song I used to hear when a boy from under the large kitch

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