TANCREDE DE ROHAN.

DURING the regency of Anne of Austria, while Louis XIV. was yet in his minority, among the young gallants who adorned the brilliant court of France, there was none more distinguished for personal beauty, for brave bearing in the field, and courtly address in the salon, than the young Tancrede de Rohan. His father had been killed in battle; and he was now in the spring of life, with his high spirit and noble aspirations, the head of the house of de Rohan, and like his illustrious and valiant ancestor, whose proud war-cry had been, “King I can't, Prince I scorn, Rohan I am," he saw nothing above him but the throne. No lower station would they have deigned to reach after or envy, and that they sought not, for their loyalty was greater than their ambition. And the young Tancrede seemed their fitting representative; for though not haughty or overbearing in his pride, there was a high sense of the nobleness of his position when he saw himself the head of an illustrious family, and the heir of wealth and honors little less than princely.

How terrible then must have been the blow to his high spirit when the privy council, at the instigation of the Prince of Conde, passed a decree depriving him of his name, titles, and possessions, upon the presumption of illegitimate

birth.

One day saw him a star at the brilliant court, gay, handsome, and accomplished; smiled. upon by the queen, admired by lovely ladies, and envied by less favored gentlemen, and the next an outcast from the courtly circle, without station, titles, or estate.

Was his mother, the fair Marguerite Sully, the noble Duchess de Rohan, as frail as she was beautiful? the mother he had looked up to and loved! could she be so dishonored in the eyes of the world that the council hesitated not thus cruelly to deprive him of his birthright? Was it indeed to a mother that he must owe the disgrace, the stain, which no time, no exertion on his part could wipe away? Was his sweet sister, the lovely Catherine, no more a sister, but the heiress of all of which he was deprived? What cared he now for love or life? Disgraced by his mother, despoiled of his inheritance by his sister, despised by the world, he had met injustice on every side, and the bright light of joy and hope went out in his heart, leaving only the darkness and bitterness of despair.

Alas, poor youth! so early and so suddenly shipwrecked in the voyage of life! Like a brave

vessel upon a summer sea, with silken sails all set and shining in the sun, which richly freighted, and wafted by favoring gales, goes gallantly on, to be stranded suddenly upon some hidden rock beneath the smiling and deceitful waves; so was he, in 3 moment of fancied security and happiness, dashed cruelly upon the rock of adversity, so was his freight of promise strewn afar, and his lofty aspirations, like painted penants, borne down and lost in the shock.

It was the day on which the decree of the council had been communicated to the unfortunate Tancrede, and in the solitude of his own apartment he had given way to the first feelings of amazement, shame and despair. He had not seen his mother. She dared not come to him,

and he felt that her absence from his side at such a time, must be proof conclusive of her guilt. He had paced the wide apartment to and fro with hurried steps, as if motion of the body might calm the tumult of the mind, and then throwing himself upon a couch, lay clutching the silken canopy with convulsive fingers, with damp hair falling away from his pale brow, and with white lips and eyes rolling upward, like one on the verge of madness.

The anxious Catherine, who was a sister in affection as well as in name, had listened without to her brother's troubled movements, hesitating as yet to enter; but when the sound of hurried steps had ceased, softly unclosing the door and gliding to the couch, she threw her arm around him, and laying her cheek to his with all her wonted tenderness, exclaimed, “O, Tancrede! this is terrible! What can I do for you, my poor brother?"

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"Am I your brother, dear Catherine? thought they said I had no right to the name; that I had no longer a mother, a sister, or a home."

"Did you think they could take away my love for you, my brother? Thank heaven that kings and parliaments, however they may dispose of titles and estates, possess no power over the affections! Gladly would I resign the inheritance of possessions which can never bring me a moment's happiness purchased with the suffering of my only brother. Are we not children of the same mother? Have we not been all in all to each other? Who else have we loved so well? Have I known any real happiness in which my Tancrede shared no part? has he felt any joy or sorrow that was not divided with Catherine? and shall she turn from him, or he from her, now that a gulf opens between them? No, let

love span the yawning terror! let their hands be clasped closely still!"

"Dear Catherine! And will you still love me, though branded with my mother's sin? I thought I should be hateful in your eyes; that you would turn from me as one who had no more right to your affection than your name; but I wronged you, sweet Catherine, you are my sister still. And oh, my fair sister, may the soul that looks forth so truthfully and purely from those tender eyes never be veiled in shame, may thy proud unsullied name be ever as now free from the breath of reproach, and may no child of thine curse the hour and the mother that gave him birth! Oh, my sister, you are beautiful! how beautiful I never knew till now, when I seem to be looking for the last time in your lovely face; but beauty is often a fatal gift, and your soft sweet eyes, your rose-leaf cheek, and waves of silken hair, will win admiration from the licentious and the bold, as well as the modest and virtuous. Keep watch and ward then, over your heart, my precious Catherine; resign it to no other keeping but that of spotless honor; give it only to one who is without fear and without reproach. Am I young to counsel? the last few hours have made me old, and it may be that we shall meet no more in such familiar intercourse. I must go forth an outcast from my home. I will not bear the pity or contempt of my former associates. I will not see my mother, who has wrought me this foul wrong. I will gird on my sword and lead in the hottest fight, counting a life cheap that has felt the breath of dishonor, and deeming it well lost if soon sacrificed in the petty wars which distract the country. You shall only hear of me, Catherine, as bravest in battle, or as lying stiff and cold upon the field. You shall only see me crowned with martial honors, which alone can in a measure hide my disgrace, or with my hands folded in that sleep from which, even by your sisterly caresses, I could not be awakened."

"Alas! my brother! must you thus leave me? thus leave the paternal home and all that we have been wont to enjoy together? and are you, so young, so loved, so tenderly reared, to battle for life with the foe without and the bitterness within? Cruel indeed was the blow which thus destroyed your peace! Must we indeed part? and now? ah, do not go so suddenly!"

"Catherine, I cannot remain here a day or an hour longer. I will join the army immediately, and seek the most arduous and dangerous duties, that I may forget myself in constant exer

tion; that I may soon win a name for myself, or perish sword in hand. Farewell, then, my beloved sister, we shall meet under different circumstances, or we shall meet no more."

The unhappy Tancrede joined the party of the Fronde, and serving under the Marquis of Vitry, soon became distinguished for his reckless daring, and contempt of danger. He wore his armor day and night, would take no time for rest, and was foremost in every active service. He kept entirely aloof from his comrades, and joined in no convivial pleasures.

A life so little valued by its owner, and so recklessly exposed, could not, except by a miracle, long escape unscathed, and the detachment in which he served being surprised near Vincennes by two squadrons of German cavalry, and overpowered by numbers, the young Tancrede was mortally wounded, and being left for dead, by his comrades, upon the field, was borne to the German camp; but he would not reveal his name, or speak any thing but Dutch while he lived. After his death, the enemy, believing him to be a person of distinction, from his noble bearing and remarkable beauty, exposed his body on neutral ground, that it might be identified by his friends; and thus his mother, the Duchess de Rohan, was apprised of his death.

We may image her grief and remorse, at the woful ending of a life lately so joyous, and so bright in its promise, a life which her own sin had made too bitter to be borne. And deep was the sorrow of his gentle sister, and mournful the hearts of friends and comrades, for him who thus sadly perished the victim of his mother's dishonor.

Catherine mourned long for her unfortunate brother; but in time she loved and married M. de Chabot, who took the name of De Rohan, with the family estates. It was a marriage of affection; for the beautiful young Duchess had refused, for his sake, the Comte de Soisons, the Duke de Wiemar, and the Duke de Nemours; and it was even rumored that she would have refused the crown of Poland also, which was then seeking a wearer at the French court.

In a corrupt age, and at an intriguing court, where youth and beauty were but too often sacrificed to further the ends of policy and ambition, sometimes reluctantly, and sometimes, alas! willingly, an attachment like that of the Duchess and M. de Chabot, a union so happy as theirs, was seldom known, and could not but be looked upon with wonder and envy.

That there should be love at court, was scarce

ly to be believed by manouvering dames and maids of honor, or by crafty courtiers and diplomatists. But it was nevertheless true, and the fair Duchess found no reason to regret her preference of a private gentleman over Counts and Dukes; and though she never ceased to lament the sad untimely fate of a brother with whom she would have gladly shared her wealth and her blessings, still she was happy in her husband's love and fidelity.

NOTE. The incidents of the above sketch form a part of the romance of history, though some license has been taken in their arrange

O ENVY not a lot like hers,

Nor ask one flashing gem,

Nor wish to pluck one single flower
From her fame's diadem.

O ask not for her poet lyre

With its entrancing strain, For with each note of melody Is mingled one of pain.

The tinsel drapery of wealth

Is but a shroud for care,
And in the chambers of her heart

Is graven deep-despair!

And couldst thou read the volume deep

Within that aching breast,

Thou'dst ask no more for lot like hers,
But feel more truly blest.

Couldst thou but know the slightest love
Her woman heart has borne,
And feel her grief as, one by one,

Each kindred string was torn,—
Couldst thou but dream of all the woe

Her dreary soul must bear,
Thou'dst turn from happiness like hers,
Nor wish her joys to share.

Couldst thou but read the fearful doom
That weighs her spirit down,
And trace her thread of destiny,

Thou wouldst not ask her crown
Of verdant bay-leaves, twined by those
Who bow with worship pure
Before the gifted one, whose fate
Is, "suffer and endure."

Yes, she has suffered-blighted hopes,
And darkening clouds of dread,
And guilty thoughts of days gone by,
And spirits of the dead,

All haunt her through the dreary nights
And in her statued halls,

While by her side, in grove and bower,
A phantom shadow falls.

O, couldst thou see, as she has seen,
Each cherish'd joy decay,
Each glowing vision of delight
Forever fade away;

O, had thy hand the life-blood drained
Of one more dear than all,

Thou wouldst not live to wear like her
Fame's dazzling coronal:

For 'neath that weight of woe and guilt,
Thy spirit could not mount

To bask in poesy's bright rays,

And sip its classic fount.

Then better bear in humbleness

A lowly lot like thine,

Than live a splendid, glittering wretch, Fane's thorny wreath to twine.

Centreville, R. I.

ABBIE E. REMINGTON.

CARRIE LINDEN'S LETTERS. NO. II.

APRIL, 1851.

"I HAVE found violets," sings that poet of ours who would lose half his stock in trade were he to give up flowers and kisses. I always recall that gushing opening of his poem on April, when I catch sight for the first time of the darling little sweetnesses, so redolent of the aroma of the woods. I went out into the woods this morning, taking my way over those "classic grounds" so venerable from the remembered footsteps of the great and good, and so attractive from the kind souls one is sometimes fortunate enough to meet there. Nothing very romantic happened this morning, for it was too early to expect the presence of any other "sandal shoon” than the shadow of a slipper gliding along the passage to the chapel, but that belonged to one of that "sober sort" who can be spared when the smelling bottle is not needed. By the way, I did meet Frank, who was walking vigorously in search of an appetite and to get rid of the dyspepsia, but had taken his lessons with him, | showing that comical combination of feet moving and arms swinging, while the face is blank,

having left the expressive soul in "Room No. -." I am amused many times to see this walking after something when every step is but a retreating, for of what use is it to "take a walk" when the same care, the same intense thoughtfulness, the same jading of the mind, is kept up. The fact is, there is far too little value set on the "trifles" that win the mind to cheerfulness and shake out the torpor that visits ills of body on the soul. I have no patience (though patience is a very maidenly virtue) with the high sounding talk about judging every thing by asking, "Who was ever converted by it?" I took up a religious paper yesterday, in which some Mawworm denounces Readings, Levees, Parties, and other social gatherings, as devices of Satan, and says, "Let us ask the question, Was ever any one converted to God through the instrumentality of the concerts of Madam Bishop, Bisscacianti, or Jenny Lind? If not, what are they worth in a Christian sense?" I wonder if he ever found violets? If they should ever plead for life as his foot is ready to crush them, how interesting must be the question, "Have you ever converted a soul to God?" If the poor little things should be forced to say No! they are doomed, and there will no longer be

"A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden to the eye,"-

it will be all gone, and the stone will have sufficient prominence. How ridiculous is such a test! As though the beneficent Creator had not filled the earth with beauty to overflow the soul by its very affluence, beyond the demands of utility, and any and every method of explaining the why and wherefore. But really, I do just now remember an incident that may hint to this "cloud on a holiday" a new idea. Speaking with a friend not long since, of the freshness given to the familiar words of a song by a new manner of utterance, this friend told me (I do talk with "the clergy," sometimes,) that after he had heard Jenny Lind sing "Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest," &c., he thought if he could go the next day into his pulpit and utter those words with that searching, fathoming and subduing influence, he should convert the whole of the people. "Never," said he, "never did I feel the tenderness, the pitying passionateness of those words, as then. It seemed as though a new revelation had been made through them, and the conquering love of Christ was indeed VOL. XX.

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the love of one who has "a feeling for our infirmities." Such a spirit as that finds violets where the Spring is not dreamed of by others, and while he is ready to see the trail of the royal robes of the King of Glory in the path of triumph, he can also own the worth of the tiniest form of winning beauty. "What are they worth in a Christian sense?" is the query of the cynical spirit who regards Jenny Lind's songs as nothing worth, because he does not know of a soul that was converted by them. O wondrous Diogenes in thy tub! didst thou ever know of conversion prevented by those songs-conversion to any thing good? I have seen conversions wrought by the songs of Jenny Lind-a soul taken right away from day-book and ledgercankering cares and down pulling anxieties-petty strifes and speculating selfishness, and another nature opened, another life revealed. Why, bless me there was our Astor who made out to attend one of "Miss Lind's" concerts, and plague take me if he did not look handsome after the second song; and when the "Echo Song" was ended, every body saw, for the first time, something like a laugh-on any other face it would have been a real gushing of the ecstasies, but every body had so long believed that he was able only to chuckle over a good bargain, that they thought there must be a mistake, and two or three ladies took out their smelling-bottles, imagining he was going into spasms. O that which opens to our view the possibilities of happiness within us--that tells us what resources are given to our nature to be in harmony with our race, is worth something in a Christian Not by a sudden and overwhelming crash is the foundation of wrong in the soul broken up, but rather is it borne away as one wave after another ripples in towards the shore, until the rising waters lift the ship and bear it away from our sight. One impression after another favorable to things good, can lift, and at last bear away, the sin of the soul. Good, winning us from evil, best works the change from sin to holiness-a change I want more than any thing else; and as here and there a cluster of violets attract me from the dusty wayside, till I am far into the woods, and feel myself at prayer with Nature in her morning offering, so the clustering good thoughts of yesterday and to-day, win me farther and farther into the Eden of Christ.

sense.

I have found violets. Yes, in my hand to-day have 1 held them. I have drawn in, as the inspiration of the better world, their sweet breath, and wondered what thoughts the angels have of