If the angels could die, they would die as she did. Her last words to Albert's mother were: "Tell Pauline it is so sweet to die."
On the 14th of November of the same year, Madame de la Ferronays rejoined her husband, her son, and her three daughters. On the tombs of Albert, Alexandrine, Olga, and Eugenie, and of their father and mother, one single epitaph is necessary. It comprehends their life; it is the epitome of their faith; it is the conclusion, the explanation, the design of this book: "Love is stronger than death."
Original
The Church And The Sinner.
The Church
Prithee, why continue eating,
Child, the husks of swine?
Thou thy soul art only cheating
With this food of thine.
The Sinner.
Other food hath long been wasted,
Mother, by my sin;
All its empty joys are tasted,
Sorrows now begin.
The Church.
Hadst thou not a loving Father,
Child, and happy home?
There with him have rested, rather
Shouldst thou than to roam.
The Sinner.
Yes; but he his now degraded
Son would never know;
From his memory I have faded,
Mother, long ago.
The Church.
Child, the Father ne'er forgetteth
Whom he called his son,
To him naught but pride now letteth
Not thy feet to run.
The Sinner.
Worthy for his lowly servant
Am I not, I know;
Yet with love and sorrow fervent
Will arise, and go!
From The Dublin University Magazine.
Modern Writers Of Spain.
The literary portion of English and French people take little interest about what philosophers and romance writers are doing on the outer borders of Europe. Scarcely does an editor of a literary journal direct his subscribers' attention to the current literature of Russia, Norway, Spain, or Portugal. The most universally-read Englishman would be puzzled if you asked him who is the Dickens or the Braddon of Transylvania, or if anything worth reading has lately appeared in the Portuguese province of Alentejo. Thanks to the talents and the genial disposition of Frederica Bremer, and the vigorous and original character of Emily Carlen's novels, and the interest excited for Norse literature by William and Mary Howitt, we have become familiarized with the popular literature of Sweden. Worsae and Andersen have made us attend to literary sayings and doings among the meadows and beech woods and havns of the Danish Isles. The efforts of Count Sollogub and one or two other enlightened Russians have failed to dispel our apathy on the subject of native Russian literature, and at this moment we can recollect among the contents of our own reviews and magazines for five or six years back, only two notices of the productions of living Spanish novelist or romancist. Either we (English and French) are too much absorbed in our own literature, and consequently negligent of that of our neighbors, or those neighbors are producing nothing worthy [of] notice, and in either case our efforts will scarcely turn public attention into a new channel. Our intention is merely to advert to some literary features in the life of the Spain of the present day. We shall not find her altogether neglectful of the claims of her children who are at the moment striving to add to her literary renown.