with the words "nothing the whole month―mass in the gallery." Had Louis enjoyed the same prosperity as his predecessors, he would have gone down to the grave with the character of a man without passions, affections or intellect-the most imbecile of a degenerate race of monarchs. But adversity aroused great and good quali ties which lay dormant within his nature, and of which he was unconscious in the day of his power. He was long in awaking from the torpor of selfish indifference, but he did awake, and it may be said of him most emphatically, that "Nothing in his life became him like its end." And what was the true character of his Queen? How can we dissipate the gorgeous-tinted clouds which fancy has thrown around her, and gaze at the simple, unadorned fellow being. Possessing every thing that is lovely in woman-beauty, gentleness, delicate taste, refined intellect, exquisite grace of woman, and warm affections-she was richly gifted with qualities to com enteenth and eighteenth centuries gave birth, we should |' and the momentous July is disposed of in a single bracket, have a more accurate idea of that portion of history than of any other on record. There is, perhaps, no age round which has been thrown so much of the glare of false glory, as that of Louis the Fourteenth. The victories achieved by the arms of France, the pomp of a court unrivalled, even to this day, in magnificence, and the galaxy of brilliant stars which then adorned the intellectual firmament, have blinded many writers and readers to the cloud no bigger than a man's hand,' which then arose in the heavens, and was destined to gather over the nation until it burst in the wild tempest of the revolution. Poverty was treading fast upon the heels of victory-infidelity was following the stately march of philosophy, like its shadow-vice, clad in 'purple and fine linen,' miugled boldly in the festivities of the court, while the voice of a famishing and discontented populace was heard from afar off, like the sullen murmur of a distant ocean. But these coming evils were unmarked by the busy actors in the gay scenes of aristocratic life. Absorbed in the pursuits of interest,mand the attachment of all around her. But the very ambition or pleasure, they lived but for the present charms that would have rendered her the ornament of a moment, and while the people, in their thraldom, were court, unfitted her to be its Queen. She was too slowly gathering strength to break their chains, the prin- womanly for her high and difficult position. All who ces, buried in sloth and luxury, were rapidly losing the have resembled her, have been alike unfortunate in such power to oppose the encroachments of popular will. The a station. The lovely Mary of Scotland, the fascinaseeds of that tree of liberty which produced such balefulting Joanna of Naples, and the beautiful Maria Antoifruits in less than a century afterwards, were sown in the reign of Louis le Grand, while the profligate regency of Philip of Orleans, and the imbecile reign of Louis the Fifteenth, tended to produce, throughout the nation, an atmosphere in which the plant could not fail to thrive. Yet were the nobles blind to their danger, and a writer of the period, the celebrated Saint Simon calmly tells us that "in order to make revolutions, three things are necessary, leaders, minds and money, and France has neither." nette, may be classed as singularly alike in character, and all equally unhappy in their fortunes; while the sullen Anne of England, the masculine Elizabeth, and the termagant Catharine of Russia, ended a life of prosperity amid the blessings of their subjects. Forgive me, gentle reader, if I have led thee too far into the labyrinths of courts and palaces. The records of those past ages afford many an incident which far exceeds the most extravagant fancies of the votary of fiction; and such is the tale I am now about to tell. An allusion in the sketch of James the Second, by Jesse, drew my attention towards it, and from the various memories of the period, I have drawn the details which may serve to interest thee for an idle hour. THE ABBOT OF LA TRAPPE. MANFRED. But the time came when none of these requisites were wanting when the people, despairing of finding proper rulers among the mighty, chose them from among the humblest of their fellows, and then began the reign of crime and rapine and bloodshed, which makes the very name of the French Revolution a sound of horror. And what a singular picture of blindness and insensibility is presented in the private diary of the unfortunate Louis the sixteenth, during the progress of those frightful events which hurried him onward to the fatal guillotine. One would suppose, from the perusal of that singular record of private feeling, that he fancied the individual Louis Capet had little interest in the affairs which concerned One of the most brilliant ornaments of the splendid the King. During the eventful month of July, 1789- and profligate court of Louis the Fourteenth, was the the month when the revolution actually commenced-young Abbé de Rancé. Originally destined to the his diary is made up of stag-hunts, masses, and noth-career of arms, the death of an elder brother, which left ings; Rien, Rien' being the word which recurs most frequently. The fourteenth of July, when the Bastille was stormed by the populace, and the head of its governor carried on a pike through the streets, is noticed in his journal by the single word "rien." The record of June. 1791 is still more remarkable for its barrenness; even his disastrous flight from Paris is only noticed for the temporary inconvenience it seems to have occasioned; vacant several rich benefices, produced a sudden change in his prospects, and at the early age of ten years, Armand de Rancé, received the tonsure. Those intellectual tastes, for which he was already remarkable, seemed to fit him in a peculiar manner for an ecclesiastical life, and he devoted himself to his studies with a zeal which promised unbounded success to the aspirant for fame. His early acquaintance with the classics was so great, that he published an edition of Anacreon when only twelve years old; and his progress in various other branches of polite learning was so remarkable as to obtain for him the notice and protection of Anne of Austria. Devoting himself more especially, however, to the study of the Scriptures, and of the Fathers of the Church, he passed through the various grades of clerical education with the most distinguished success, and, when permitted to become a public preacher, soon placed himself in the first rank by his learning and his eloquence. Young, handsome, and highly gifted, he became one of the most popular persons about the court, and hundreds who had forgotten to listen to the dictates of virtue in their own consciences, flocked to hear them from the beautiful lips of the young Abbé de Rancé. eyes, her fine hair, her superb figure, the symmetry of her delicate hands and feet, were claims to admiration not likely to be overlooked in so voluptuous a society, and Adéle de Montbazon had listened to the voice of adulation, until its music had become wearisome to her ear. Moving in the gayest round of fashion, breathing an atmosphere of enjoyment, and surrounded by all that a mere votary of pleasure could desire, she had already begun to feel the satiety which ever waits upon indulgence, when she accidentally encountered, at a masque, the gifted Abbé de Rance. The charms of his brilliant wit, and the musical tones in which he uttered those sparkling bon mots which form the zest of conversation, attracted her attention before she was aware of the personal beauty hidden beneath his mask and domino. Pleased with the mystery of the affair, the romance of Armand's nature was awakened, and he determined to win her heart by the magic of intellect alone, ere he discovered to her the features of her unknown admirer. They met frequently at the many entertainments of the society, he managed to preserve his incognito; and it was not until passion had asserted full mastery over the hearts of both, that Madame de Montbazon discovered her secret lover in the person of the handsome and gifted Abbé. It was to both a dream, such as had never before visited their waking thoughts; it was a first and passionate love, for, however inconstant each might once have seemed, other attachments were but the semblance, while this was the reality of affection. Tainted as they were, by evil contact, the voluptuous priest, and the court beauty were, for the first time, sensible of Enviable as it might appear, his position was, in fact, one of extreme danger. Endowed with strong passions, those universal concomitants of great talents, possessing a nature extremely susceptible, and a heart overflowing with warm affections-gifted, also, with a person of the noblest beauty, and a voice of the most winning sweet-court, but by avoiding her near presence in general ness, he was exposed to temptations which might easily have overcome a spirit far more ascetic than that of the young ecclesiastic. To heighten the perils of his career, his father died ere he attained his twenty-fifth year, and Armand de Rancé found himself not only free from control, but also in possession of a large estate. It was at that period of his life, when pleasure intruded itself within a heart formerly devoted to wisdom-that he first began to feel the weight of his saered vows. His thirst for fame had been slaked in the stream of court favor, and the allurements of society now offered themselves to him at the moment when his heart turned in weak-disinterested love, and henceforth the character of both ness from the empty honors which he had achieved. But the morals of the time were not such as to compel him to the practice of much penance and self-denial. His holy office was but a slight barrier to his passions, and however the cowl might conceal, it certainly did not prevent their indulgence. Living in the daily observation of the most flagitious scenes, and surrounded by those whose rank only served to emblazon their vices, the Abbé de Rancé soon became as well known for his reckless dissipation as for his talents, and while he still continued to utter the most eloquent exhortations from the pulpit, his daily conduct evinced how little effect the lessons of virtue had produced on his own heart. Passionately devoted to the chase, he would frequently spend several hours in hunting, and then, travelling with all speed some ten or fifteen leagues, to reach the spot where his duties called him, he would sustain a disputation in the Sorbonne, or deliver a sermon to the people with as much tranquillity as if he had just issued from his closet. His fine powers of conversation rendered him so desirable a companion, that he was constantly engaged in some wild frolic, and, listening only to the dictates of his unbridled passions, he was ever foremost in scenes of riot and excess. Among the beautiful women who composed the brilliant circle of Versailles, the Duchess of Montbazon was pre-eminent in loveliness. Her dazzling complexion, so rare a charm in the native of a sunny clime, her splendid seemed to lose the selfishness which had once been their most striking trait. Yet their love was a crime, and however their guilt might be palliated to the eyes of the world by the licentiousness that prevailed around them, in the sight of Heaven, the sin was too dark and deadly to escape its reward. But the heart of the lover was of far different mould from that of his volatile mistress. There was a wealth of tenderness in his bosom of which she never dreamed: his capacity for loving exceeded hers in a tenfold degree, and all the powers of his noble nature, all the energies of his gifted mind, were concentrated upon this affection. Her dazzling beauty, her bewitching gentleness, her fond blandishments, had completely captivated his senses, and the treasures of his gifted intellect were flung like grains of incense on the shrine of her loveliness. But the fire that burned before the idol, was an unhallowed flame-the smoke of the incense ascended not up to Heaven, and the punishment which ever awaits the deeds of ill, did not spare the denizen of courtly splendor. As one of the charms of their intercourse was the mystery in which it was involved, the Duchess de Montbazon had given her lover a private key which admitted him by a secret staircase to her dressing-room; and thus they were accustomed to meet without the cognizance of the lady's most confidential domestics. Months had passed without awakening either from their delirium of passion, when, at length, business compelled and a manteau, which was recognized as belonging to the Abbé de Rancé, together with a glove, stamped with his family arms, lying beside the bier. Death had betrayed the secret of their loves, and ere the disfigured remains of the beautiful Adéle were deposited in the tomb, the whole court rang with the tale of horror. This is no wild and unprobable fiction, gentle reader. Such was the fate, as recorded in the annals of the time, of one of the chief ornaments of a court, and such the revolting barbarity which characterized the obsequies of youth and beauty and rank, in the age of Louis the Fourteenth. De Rancé to leave Paris, and summoning a degree of" entered the room, they found the private door unclosed, resolution of which he was scarcely capable, he repaired to their usual trysting-place to bid her farewell. The lady had just returned from a ball at the Tuilleries, where the lovers had met each other with the careless glance and frivolous words, which served to hide their secret from the eye of prying curiosity. Throwing off her velvet robe, heavy with its embroidery of seed pearls, and loosing her beautiful tresses from the cumbrous head-gear prescribed by the fashion of the times, Madame de Montbazon dismissed her attendants, and awaited the visit of her lover. Never had she looked more enchanting than on that evening. A wrappinggown of dark flowered silk, displayed the beauty of a Months passed away ere the Abbé de Rancé recoverform usually encased in the stiff hoop; while her darked from the terrible shock. Madness would have been tresses fell upon her fair brow and bosom in all the una-almost mercy compared to the pang of grief the stings dorned loveliness of simple nature. Such was the creaof remorse, and the fearful recollections which haunted ture who sprang with joy to greet the coming step of him day and night. The image of Madame de Montbathe young Abbé, and who lay, weeping upon his bosom, zon leaning on his bosom, her arms entwined about his when the hour of parting came. Again and again he neck, her eyes beaming unutterable tenderness into his, bade her farewell-again and again he pressed her to was frightfully blended with the remembrance of the his beating heart, and, as he kissed her fair round cheek, bloodstained head, the loathsome features, the glazed he dared to breathe a sacrilegious prayer that Heaven¦¦ and half open eyes which had so lately met his view; would watch over the object of his guilty love. and often were his attendants aroused at deep midnight Two short weeks only had elapsed, when the Abbé de, by the wild shrieks which told of the horror such visions Rancé, impatient of his exile, unexpectedly returned to || awakened in the suffering penitent. But time wrought Paris. It was late in the evening when he reached his its usual work of peace in the heart. Armand de hotel, and, as he summoned his valet to assist at his Rancé rose from the bed of sickness stricken in toilet, he anticipated the joyful surprize which his sud-spirit, desolate in heart, but resolved to expiate the den return would afford his beautiful mistress. Wrap- sin for which he had suffered. With a calmness that ping his manteau about him, and slouching his hat close seemed almost unnatural, and even led to the suspiover his eyes, he hurried to the abode of the Duchess of eion that the taint of insanity still lingered about him, Montbazon, and reached the private portal just at the he set himself to the task of reforming his mode of hour of twelve. Noiselessly making his way up the life. Dismissing his retinue of servants, he sold all his narrow stairs, he approached the secret door, and paused plate, jewels, and rich furniture, and distributed their to listen ere he ventured to unclose it. But all was still, price among the poor. All luxury was banished from and his heart beat high as he imagined his beautiful || his table, and denying himself even the most innocent Adéle lying in peaceful slumbers so near him. Pausing recreation, he spent his whole time in prayer, and the one moment to quiet his excited feelings, he cautiously study of the sacred writings. Neither the railleries of unclosed the door, and the next instant stood in the his friends, nor the jeers of the gay world could deter midst of the apartment. Good Heavens! what a scene him from the course he had now marked out for himself. presented itself! Stretched on a bier, attired in the He sold all his estates, and relinquished all his rich benevestments of the grave, lay the body of the Duchess, fices, reserving only the Abbey of La Trappe, which he while on a table near, with the features distorted by the obtained permission from the king to hold, not as a most loathsome of all diseases, lay the severed head of church gift, but simply as an Abbot, subject to the same her whom he had left in the bloom of youth and health laws that governed the brotherhood. To this humble and beauty! Tall tapers, placed at each extremity of retreat he retired in the year 1662, bidding adieu for the bier, shed a ghastly glare upon this dreadful spectaever to a world in which he had sinned and suffered so cle; and uttering a smothered cry of horror, the wretch- much. ed man fell senseless beside the dead. His mistress had died of small-pox, after an illness of only six hours, and amid the confusion and dread which always attended this frightful malady, her remains were so little respected, that the coffin having been found too short, the surgeons had severed her head from her body! His first care, after opening the duties of the abbey, was to reform the abuses which had crept into the fraternity, through the relaxed discipline of his predecessors; but finding many of the monks unwilling to conform to his severe regulations, he permitted such as were refractory, to retire into other houses, and comWhen he recovered his consciousness, the Abbé demenced his new system with such only as were equally Rancé found himself still alone with the frightful images of death. In a paroxysm of incipient madness, he rushed from the apartment, and at daybreak was found lying senseless at the door of his own hotel. When the attendants, who should have watched the Duchess, zealous with himself. At first he forbade the use of wine and fish, prescribed manual labor, and enjoined unbroken silence; but in later years, he materially increased the austerities of the order. Prayer, reading the sacred authors, and severe labor divided every exiled monarch, the misguided, the bigoted, but unfor tunate James the Second of England. The king's visit seemed to awaken a faint glimmer of early recollection in the breast of the Abbot of La Trappe. The things of the world-the stirring scenes of moment of their time. Every species of recreationeven that of study was prohibited, and the fathers were forbidden to speak to each other, or even to disclose their countenances one to another. So great was the isolation of each individual, that a monk might live for years with the most cherished friend of his youth-cities and courts-the dreams of ambition, the realities might eat from the same board, and kneel at the same altar, yet never learn his identity, 'till death had sealed the bodily eye and lips for ever. The Abbot alone, together with a few lay brethren, were obliged to retain the privilege of speech for purposes of business, but it was only exercised in cases of absolute necessity. The hospitality, however, which had originally been enjoined by the founder of the order, still characterized La Trappe; and amid the silent, solitary, self-denying beings, who glided like ghosts about the noiseless corridors, the spirit of benevolence was ever present. But the health of the melancholy Abbot sunk under the severe penances to which he subjected himself; and even the Pope, unwilling to lose so zealous a son of the church, advised him to relax the severe discipline of his monastery. Inflexible in his purpose, he listened to the advice of none, and having partially regained his health, the only relaxation he allowed himself, was the substitution of intellectual in the place of manual labor. Years rolled on, and amid the destruction of armies, and the convulsion of empires, the name of De Rancé had faded from the remembrance of those whom he had left behind him in the busy world. Absorbed in the desire of reforming the abuses of monastic life, and the wish to expiate, by daily penance, the sins of his youth, the Abbot of La Trappe continued to divide his time between writing treatises for the religious world, and practicing the most rigid austerities. All knowledge of political affairs was prohibited in the abbey, and even the stranger who shared their hospitality, was desired to withhold all tidings of the external world from the inmates of the living tomb. Even the Abbot knew little of the changes which society was undergoing at that momentous period, and, if the convulsion, which shook to its very foundation, one of the mightiest nations upon earth, when the consecrated head of majesty fell beneath the blow of the headsman, was felt within the sullen walls of La Trappe, it was but as a blow inflicted on a palsied and scarce sentient body. On the evening of a mild November day, in the year 1690, a stranger, of sad deportment and careworn mien, attended by a few domestics, claimed the well known hospitality of La Trappe. As he alighted, the Abbot prostrated himself at his feet-an act of humiliation which he always performed to a visitant, and then led the way to the chapel. After the usual religious ceremonies, a supper of roots, eggs, and vegetables was placed before him, and he was conducted to his straw pallet by the lowly Abbot. With the dawn of day, the stranger was astir, and applied himself to the severe duties of the place, with the most fervent devotion. The abbot knew not, and cared not for his name or station; it was enough for him that he was a stranger and a man of sorrow. But even the holy father was moved to tears when he learned that the grief-stricken man, who knelt so humbly to implore his benediction, was an of destiny, once more aroused his long dormant interest, and he listened long and eagerly to the tale of vicissi tudes which James could unfold. But he was too consistent not to repent most bitterly of thus yielding to temptation. When the king departed, he condemned himself to additional penances in order to expiate this violation of his own rules, and allowing himself to think of worldly affairs. The severity of his discipline proved too much for his weakened frame and advanced age. In less than a year afterwards, the grave, which (according to a rule of the order) his own hands had dug, received the remains of him who was once known as the gifted, the ambitious, the voluptuous Armand de Rancé. For thirty-seven years had he been buried in this desert of earthly affections, and, when, at the age of sixty-five, he laid down the burden of existence, the errors of the youthful priest had long been forgotten in the austerity of the pious Abbot of La Trappe. Gentle reader thou hast doubtless listened to many a tale of romantic interest connected with the monks of La Trappe, for the mystery which must envelope men who live together, looking not upon each other's faces, and hearing not each other's speech, must ever make them a favorite subject with imaginary writers. But it may be thou knowest little of the history of the singular fraternity; it may be that thou hast never before heard of him by whose exertions it was transformed from one of the least to one of the most ascetic orders of monks ever known to exist. I can only tell thee that mine is a true record of the past; and the austerities which now waste the lives of the solitary Trappistes owe their origin to the melancholy termination of an intrigue of the seventeenth century.. NOTE. According to Jesse, the house which was the scene of Madame de Montbazon's death, and of the frightful spectacle recorded above, is still standing in Paris. It is No. 14 in the Rue des Fosses St. Germain l' Auxerrois, and is now known as the Hôtel Ponthieu. ON THE HUMAN MIND. NOTHING, perhaps, would conduce so much to the a close attention knowledge of the human mind, as to the actions and thoughts of very young children; and yet no branch in the history of human nature is more neglected. The pleasant and extravagant notions of the infantile mind amuse for the instant, and are immediately forgotten, where they merit to be registered with the utmost care: for it is here and here alone, that we can discover the nature and character of first principles. An attention to the commencement and developement of their ideas would correct many of our speculative notions, and confute most of the sentiments of abstract philosophers, respecting what they so confidently advance concerning these first principles.-Cogan. Original. region, by means of barges. The enterprizing spirit of SKETCHES IN THE WEST.-No. VIII. the Americans diffused itself wherever they approached, It is delightful to have one's pen glide again, smoothly and evenly, over the sheet, free from the nervous twitchings and starts which have characterized it the last ten days, as if the soul of Saint Vitus had entered into it. All who essay to write on a Mississippi steamer, which shakes underweigh, as if a fit of ague had hold of it, must not be surprized if their autograph resembles that of Stephen Hopkins, in the list of signatures at the bottom of the Declaration of Independence. How such a signature should ever have been perpetrated out of a Mississippi steamer, is wonderful. But we are convinced that steamboats did not obtain at that period, and that it could not therefore have been written on board of one. I have been out all day, sight seeing, and will embrace the opportunity a solid edifice affords, of penning the result of my observations. Imprimis: Saint Louis was originally a trading post with the Indians. It was first settled in 1764, by a party of Frenchmen from NewOrleans and other French towns on the Mississippi river. They here laid out the plan of a large town, calling it in honor of the reigning French King, Louis XV. It is known that all the French settlements, in this region, from New-Orleans to Saint Louis, under the appellation of Louisianna, were claimed by France, while to the inhabitants, La belle France, was the paradise of Earth. Subseqent events showed that the site of Saint Louis had been happily chosen. It soon became so important as a point of communication with the Indians of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers, that in fifteen months after its first occupation, the French Governmont sent a Governor with a detachment of troops, to the post. The town continued to increase, and in a few years became the Capital of Louisianna, and until the government of the country passed into the hands of the United States, it was the central point of the French power in North America. The original inhabitants were simple in their habits, and their pursuits were chiefly agricultural. The government parcelled out to them the rich prairie-land in the neighborhood for a circumference of two leagues, where, with but one general enclosure to protect their crops from the wild beasts, they tilled the soil, and lived together in a happy and patriarchal community. There were some, however, who traded in peltries and valuable furs, with the Indians, which they shipped on keelboats to New-Orleans, receiving in return, such merchandize as the citizens required. their industry and talents begun to lay open the sources of wealth, and under their magic touch, commerce and agriculture awoke into a new existence. It would seem that great inventions appear, just at the time when Nature is ready to apply them. Steam navigation twenty years earlier in the West, would have been useless. Printing and the mariner's compass were discovered at the very era human wisdom would have set for them. Great inventions are a part of the "human scheme," they have their own laws, times, and seasons. In 1818, Saint Louis began to exhibit signs of com mercial bustle; Yankees, with busy faces and speculating eyes, ran against quiet Monsieur at every corner; old French houses, with galleries and perpendicular roofs, gave place to smart looking stores, with gold-lettered signs, the town, or village-green, was covered with ware houses, and the oaks, which grew before the ancient stoop, fell before the devastating spirit of "business." In a short time, the town began to wear an American look, and the Americans, as they do wherever they emigrate in any numbers, gave language, manners, and character to the place. So effectually has every thing French, fallen before the scythe of Yankee enterprize, that I have not been able to find more than three or four French maisons of the ancien regime, and but few traces of the former state of things. The society is, however, still a good deal French, and in many families of the first respectability, the French is the household tongue. Some of the lovliest females here are also of French descent. There are several heavy French mercantile houses here. The shadow of the old town, with some modification, alone remains, though the substance is departed. The situation of Saint Louis is highly favorable for commercial purposes. It commands the trade of the Illinois, the Missouri, and Upper Mississippi rivers, with the tributaries, and the fertile regions through which they flow. It also commands the mineral trade, the extent of which is now incalculable. Through the Ohio, one hundred and eighty miles (or, sixteen hours,) below, it is easily accessible from the Atlantic States, and the States watered by the Ohio, Tennessee, and Cumberland rivers. The national road will also terminate at this place, and will soon be made the central point of several projected rail-roads. The soil of the surrounding coun try is rich, and minerals almost every where abound-it is easily cultivated, affording abundant harvests, with but comparatively little labor, while the forests are valuable for their timber. Few places in the United States, West of the mountains, none except, perhaps New Orleans, bid fair to rise to a higher rank among When the government of Saint Louis, with Louisianna, American cities, than Saint Louis. The city is built was transferred to the United States, this town, which over a substratum of limestone, such as composes the had received but little increase by emigration, began to cliffs for many leagues below. Most of the buildings are attract the attention of the Americans, who, like a flight constructed of this material, which gives solidity without of locusts began to flock Westward. About the same any apparent beauty to the whole town. The levee or period the introduction of steamboats on the Western || landing-place, is at low water, one hundred and fifty feet · waters, the first of which, the General Pike, appeared at Saint Louis in 1817, gave new wings to the laborious commerce which had hitherto been carried on in this wide, descending rather abruptly to the water. It is much too narrow for the business done upon it, and the citizens already begin to feel the inconvenience of it. It |