bury me down in the ground-down deep in the ground, Nat, where you can never see me again, and where I can never see you." "Won't you grow up into flowers, Nettie, into violets with dew-drops in your eyes? Do, Nettie, and I'll come and sit by you all day; and I'll talk to you." Nettie wound her arms about my neck, and drew my face down to hers and kissed me. She held me there, and I knew that she was crying; and, although I could not understand why she did so, I cried too. "Nat," she resumed, "I'm going to die. I'm going where sweeter flowers grow than those in our garden; where the air is always sweet; where no cold winds blow, and where no snows fall. I'm going to heaven." "Where is heaven, Nettie, and how can you go there when they bury you in the garden among the flowers?" "Heaven is a long way off, Nat,-away up above where you can see the stars shining at night. My body shall not go there, but my soul shall." "What is the soul, Nettie ?" "It is something within me that passes away when I die; but you cannot see it go; and when it is gone I cannot then talk to you any more, Nat; I cannot hear you any more; I cannot see you any more; I shall be still and cold." I was too young to understand what she meant exactly, and I asked: "Whom do you know in heaven, Nettie ?" "I do not know any one, Nat; but mother says that God lives there; he who made you, and me, and all of us, and the trees, and the birds, and the flowers. And she says, too, that angels live there; angels with wings and long white dresses; and that all who are good while they live here on earth go to heaven when they die, and become angels. Nat, I've tried to be good, and I know I shall go there. Won't you try to be good too? and then some day you will come up to heaven, and then we shall see each other again, and never be apart. There is no dying there." I said that I would be good, and that I would go with her right away if she wished it. "No, Nat, you can't go with me now; but some day you will come. And now go down and tell mother to come up. Goodby, dear Nat," and she kissed me again. "Why do you say good-by, Nettie? Shan't I see you again before you go?" "I don't know, Nat; but go now and tell mother." I went down and told mother that Nettie wanted to see her, and she went up stairs. I went out and stood upon the bluff on which our house was built, and looked beneath the fragrant cedar-trees, out upon the broad bright river. I thought of what Nettie had told me; I thought of heaven; and my little heart, which had then only beaten within my breast four summers, could not conceive of anything more beautiful than earth. I thought that if heaven were only half so pretty I'd be satisfied to live there always, provided I could be with Nettie. I turned, and looked up at the window of our room; and there above it were the bluebirds, as busy as ever, singing, and working while they sang. And I wondered if they ever went to heaven when they flew away up into the sky. I felt like asking them; but I knew that they could not understand my talk. And then I looked in at the window, and saw my mother walking up and down, with her handkerchief to her face; and I knew that she was crying. I went into the house, and as I was going up the stairs I met one of the servants who told me to walk lightly. "Is Nettie asleep?" I asked. And then I saw that she was crying too. I went up the stairs, and opened the door softly, and slid quietly into the room on tip-toe. My mother was not walking up and down, but was leaning over the bed, and had her arms around Nettie. I crept up close to her, and when she saw me she drew Nettie closer to her, and cried harder still. I stood there and wondered why I did not hear Nettie cry. Presently mother leaned down and put her arms around me, and then we both knelt down, and mother prayed. I do not remember all that she said, but I recollect that she asked God to leave her her son, since he had taken the daughter. And when she said this I knew that Nettie was dead, and I prayed, "No, God, take me too." We got up from our knees, and I saw Nettie lying upon the bed, and her eyes were closed, and there was a white cloth bound under her chin. Mother helped me up, and I kissed Nettie, and when I did so I started her lips were so cold. The tears came into my eyes, and drops fell down upon Nettie's face. Mother took me away, and we both left the room crying. I did not see Nettie again until next day, and then I stole up into the room with a handful of violets. I found her in a coffin, and the room was darkened. She was dressed in white, with her hands folded upon her breast, and I put the violets there too. Then I leaned over her and kissed her, and wished that she could kiss me in return. After a little while my mother came in, and when she saw the violets upon Nettie's breast she looked at me, and I saw the tears gathering in her eyes; and then she threw her arms about me and said, “ Dear Nat, I shall love you more now than I have done." That same evening four men carried Nettie in her coffin down into the garden, and I know they buried her, but I could not see, for the tears filled my eyes. I heard the clods falling upon the coffin lid, and I felt as though I would have given anything for the privilege of lying there in the dark grave, dead and with Nettie. 66 A few days afterward a man came and placed at the head of Nettie's grave a smooth white stone, which had carved upon its face a little white hand-so like Nettie's hand when she was lying in the coffin in the darkened room—and a finger of it pointed ever upward. I was so glad that the man had carved the hand there; for now, that Nettie could not speak, that hand so like her own told me where she was. When the man had gone away I went and dug up some violets, and took them and planted them on the grave. And I used to go every morning while the dew was yet upon the flowers, and I'd stand there at that grave; and I'd look into the cups of the violets, and think of Nettie's eyes and tears as they were on the day she died. And I would go around to the north side of the old house, and look up at the bluebirds in the box above the window that used to be Nettie's and mine. There were evidently young birds there, for I saw the old ones carrying flies in their bills; and I wished that Nettie had lived to see them. The spring passed on, and Nettie's rose-bush, which she was accustomed to water and prune, was cov ered with roses; and now and then I'd take a handful and stick them in her grave, and mother promised me that in the next spring the bush itself should be planted there. Winter came, and the snow covered the ground; and the roses had been scattered over the garden, and the violets had long ceased to bloom, and I could not go down to Nettie's grave. But I used to stand upon the porch in front of the house and look in that direction; and I could see that cold, white, small hand, still pointing upward; and then I would remember how I promised Nettie to try and be good. IN N 1801 Monsieur Suard established a newspaper, under the name of Le Publiciste. A moderate independence; the love of order without oppression, and of truth without boldness; in fact, the philosophy of the eighteenth century, enlightened and intimidated by the revolution, formed the spirit of this publication. It agreed, although imperfectly, with the opinions of Mademoiselle de Meulan, and she did not scruple to take a share in its compilation. She wrote innumerable articles upon literature, society, and the stage; the merit and the success of which decisively established her rank among the first writers of the age. The composition of newspapers is a work which, though sometimes amusing, is necessarily hurried, and is one which both stimulates and wears the mind. Nothing less than varied powers, such as those of Mademoiselle de Meulan, would have sufficed for such an undertaking. Notwithstanding the constant demand upon them, she was never at a loss, and knew, in a species of work in which it is very difficult not to fall sooner or later into routine and profession, how to pursue and even to increase that sprightly originality which distinguished and marked her articles, even better than the first letter of her name, Pauline. The remembrance of them is not effaced among the persons of that time; expected with anxiety, read with eagerness, they often formed the whole topic of conversation in society, which at that time took up those little things with more interest than it would be reasonable to do at present. This was a time of reaction. After violent commotions, society sought only for repose; every opinion which could have contributed to disturb it became suspected; everything that seemed to lead to, or to evince the return of order, was received with favor. Thus, those peaceful occupations, those harmless pleasures, which appear to some minds the whole of civilization-the enjoyment of society, literature, arts, &c.—were taken up again, as benefits long forgotten, as proofs and securities of public tranquillity. At the same time all consideration was withdrawn from the things most important to the community; the great subjects of politics and philosophy gained scarcely any attention; people were unwilling to consider them, lest they might bring everything into question. It has been said that the true wisdom of society was not to meddle with its concerns; and France only desired two things, to be governed and to be left in peace. This weak disposition made the fortune of despotism; but, for a lesson to man, France, abdicating without finding rest, learned by experience that there is no compensation for the sacrifice of liberty. In the general zeal for returning to good principles, literature had not been forgotten, and nothing was more spoken of than the necessity of following the great models in everything, a sort of criticism which consists in drawing up in books the rule for books, and in giving to art for a model the examples which it has itself produced. Women are not easily satisfied with this criticism of rhetoricians; we hear them almost always judge of the compositions of art by the reality, or after their own mind, which is also reality. It is perhaps because they are less learned that they become more true. When they apply themselves seriously to literature, and have received the advantage of strength of mind, the ardor of talent, if they keep their natural manner of judging, they can carry into criticism a genuine superiority, and give to their literary views something of the interest and value which is attached to original works. This is what may be remarked in the greater number of articles by Mademoiselle de Meulan. The value of them is often independent of the work which suggested them: even when they cannot be connected with the general ideas of human nature, they at least join in portraying the manners and the age. A choice of these articles would form an agreeable collection, and some of them might serve for a history of society in France after the revolution. The reputation of Mademoiselle de Meulan made her daily more sought after by the world. She appeared in it as much as her labors would permit; it amused her mind; she excelled in con Mademoiselle de Meulan did not at that time give a reason for this general disposition, which drove all minds under the yoke. She herself partook of it to a certain degree, from the recollections of indignation and grief which the ill time of the revolution had impressed upon her. She was, however, far from calling in slavery as an expiation for anarchy; and struggled undesignedly, and from the sole effort of her own independence of mind, against that timidity of troubled reason, which tends to bring back in books and manners, as well as in the laws and insti-versation, and enjoyed it as affording optutions, that puerile frivolity, the companion and the instrument of superficial literature and servile politics. She accordingly roused herself to what was still called philosophy, but did not adopt all its principles: she soon combatted them on matters of morals, those to which she had devoted most attention; for, from that time, all her compositions prove a visible desire to bring everything back to a moral point of view. Even literary criticism was to her but an opportunity of studying human nature, and she drew up her judgments upon literary productions in the form of essays, which were designed either to portray, or to elucidate them. This method had at that time the great merit of novelty. Ever inde portunities for observation, and exercising sure of the resources of her own talents, and looking forward to the future with a confidence that never forsook her, those acts, which are generally called sacrifices, were to her so easy that it had been almost an injustice to praise her for them. Devotedness was, with her, the very consequence of her independence; it formed a part of her existence; she almost thought she had a mission to regulate everything around her, and to consider herself as nothing; for nothing common would have satisfied her. It was fit that she should do much for the happiness of others, as they could do so little for hers! She felt that it was placed beyond the common lot, and that it did not depend on any one about her, or even on herself, to give it to her. She regretted this happiness that she was born to feel, but she no longer expected it. She was mistaken; it was not an ever solitary and hard lot that awaited her; by a rare dispensation in this life, it was happiness of such a kind as was suited to her nature. She was about to fill the situation for which she was formed, and was one of the very few whom life has not deceived. In the month of March, 1807, she was in much affliction; her sister had just lost her husband, the family affairs were in great disorder, her mind was harassed with a thousand painful cares, and her impaired health obliged her to give up her literary labors. While in this distressing situation she was surprised by receiving a letter without any signature, and in an unknown hand. The writer did not wish to give his name, but said he had heard of her illness, and begged to be allowed to supply the articles she had been engaged to write for Le Publiciste as long as she felt herself unequal to the task. She at first refused, though both affected and surprised at the proposal: it was renewed with more earnestness, when, charmed with the tone of candor and simplicity in which the offer was made, she accepted it, and was supplied from time to time, by a secret conveyance, with such articles as she had no reason to regret publishing in place of her own. In the mean time the mystery continued; in vain, assisted by Monsieur Suard, did she endeavor to penetrate it. At length she addressed her wary correspondent, conjuring him to give his name, and refusing on any other terms to continue under such an obligation. He at length yielded, announced his name, and it was thus she became acquainted with Monsieur Guizot. He was at this time a young man, and had been about two years in Paris, where he lived buried in study, and preparing to make a name for himself some day in the literary world. He had heard Mademoiselle de Meulan spoken of by chance at Monsieur Suard's, and, feeling the deepest interest in her situation, he contrived the plan above mentioned to assist her, which was at once an impulse of generosity and a whim of fancy; but one, however, to decide her future life. From the time they became acquainted they were not long before they had formed a sincere and intimate friendship, which at first consisted more of confidence than sympathy. They differed in many matters, and their opinions were far from being similar; the one being, as we have seen, attached to those of the last century, without entirely adopting them, and preserving the restless curiosity of a mind that wished to seek the truth elsewhere. The other contained within him the germ of all the ideas which have since been developed; but absolute as inexperience, visionary as imagination, the tenets which he professed with enthusiasm at twenty could not at first sight captivate a clear-sighted, particular mind, like that of Mademoiselle de Meulan. For a long time Monsieur Guizot knew only how to please, without persuading her; for a long time she loved without understanding him; yet she carried into this affection an admirable simplicity and devotedness, and guarded herself from imagining that this sentiment should ever become the charm and the happiness of her whole life. Labors in common, mutual services, endless conversations in which these two minds learned to understand each other, and to modify themselves by the impression, appeared for a long time to be the only affinity which ever would unite them. A day, however, was to come, when a complete sympathy would result from a long and mutual friendship and from that day their common fate is to be fixed. The day at length came, when, ceasing to misunderstand the affection which united them, they gave it its true name. Their marriage took place on the ninth of April, 1812. There is a kind of happiness of which one knows not how to write: expressions fail; it proclaims itself not. I find in a letter of Madame Guizot's (dated 1821) these words: "I am happy; the happiest creature on earth." She said the truth; at least she felt it, and happiness can only be measured by feeling; it exists only in the impression which it produces; all its reality is in the heart. A situation at once happy and animated was what Madame Guizot had always wanted; had she been compelled to choose, I think she would have preferred activity to happiness; her sense, and that energy which nature had implanted in her, made activity a law to her; nevertheless none felt more keenly or more deeply the real joys of life. "My resolution is taken," she somewhere says, "as soon as a barrier is raised between me and happiness; I now know very well, and will never more forget, that one can live without happiness; only when it is there I can ill brook anything that disturbs it. You know, for I have told you so a hundred times, that it enfeebles me; or rather it is so suitable to my nature, I was so made for feeling it, that I give myself up to it with all my weakness." Such citations attest better than I can do that deep and overwhelming sensibility which was united in Madame Guizot to the austerity of her judgment. They also explain what influence the unmixed happiness of the last fifteen years of her life must have had upon her. It is seldom that women are active without being excited, and strength of mind is with them scarcely ever free from rigidity. Truth, and truth alone, suffices, I believe at least, for the judgment of men; it can so completely seize upon it as to be no longer distinguishable, without borrowing some other power, some other charm than its own. It is not so with women; truth must take a form which will touch them, which will reach their understanding through their heart, borrow a voice which is dear to them, or present itself beneath a name they love. With whatever spring, with whatever energy the mind of Madame Guizot was endowed, I doubt that, had she lived solitary, it would ever have reached the height that it attained; there would have been always a sort of disturbance in her nature as there was in her lot, and some inequality between her reason and her opinions. The firm and calm judgment of her husband furnished her with the support she required, and brought harmony into her mind, by the united influence of happiness and truth. She had never any other master than he, and no example has better proved that a woman is never by herself all that she can be; it is necessary to her perfection that she should be loved, and that she should be happy. We have seen that Madame Guizot was attached to the philosophy of the last century less from choice than from opposition to reviving prejudices. She had of herself, and by the instinctive uprightness, purity, and disinterestedness which governed her, been able to reform her moral opinions; but in religion, in politics, even on literary questions, she still wavered, seeking for convictions, and feeling a want of truth and liberty that she did not know how to satisfy between skepticism and prejudice. What her mind in fact wanted was not ideas but principles. Her new position was a school where she learned to remodel all her opinions. penetrated into that order of ideas where all the real wants of a rational intelligence are appeased, in which an end is put to all question of the alliance of liberty and rule, of examination and faith, of reason and of truth. She rose by degrees to that tutelary faith which enlightens and strengthens, and makes the mind taste the noble pleasure of feeling itself altogether settled, yet at liberty, proud of its obedience, and yet free in its fetters. She The first advancement of Madame Guizot's mind in this new course is observable in the Annals of Education, a periodical compilation which her husband had undertaken, and which she enriched by a number of articles which contain the germ of her greatest work. Her first collection of stories, entitled Les Enfans, which appeared about the same time, is composed in the same spirit. This kind of work is more difficult than it is brilliant; it must be simple without puerility, refined without affectation; it must be an interesting and yet a simple narrative, an elevated and yet familiar moral. Madame Guizot knew how to unite all these, and her tales have become the model of the style. The Restoration opened the career of public affairs to her husband. Madame Guizot might now hope for a more quiet life, such as she had always wished for. Activity was necessary to her, but labor |