The Stamford Mercury gives an interesting account of the life and fortunes of a young woman of that neighborhood who rose to a high station by means of her personal attractions, and, after a checkered life, died in Italy a few weeks ago. She was the daughter of John Peele, a small farmer at Corringham, near Gainsborough, who eked out a somewhat declining livelihood by dealing in horses, &c., having previously been in better circumstances. Being an only daughter, and aware that she possessed no small share of rustic charms, she resolved to try her fortune in a higher sphere. She became a dressmaker in Gainsborough, and resided subsequently in Hull, and it is said as housemaid in a good family in London, where her attractions obtained for her the attentions of a person of rank, to whom she afterwards averred she was married; and she from that time occupied a position where her fortunes led her into contact with some of the highest classes. A few years afterwards she astonished her former companions by appearing with her carriage and livery servants in the character of chère amie to Mr. Fauntleroy, then a flourishing banker in London. The riches of the banker were of a doubtful character, however; some time afterward she was convicted of forgery, and paid the penalty with his life. Affected by the ruin, but not participating in the crime of Fauntleroy, she struggled bravely with fate, and generally maintained a fair appearance in society both in London and Paris. She shortly reappeared in her native county as Duchess of Palata. At this time the fortunes of her family had reduced them to be the occupants of a small cottage at Morton, and age rendering her father incapable of active exertion, he filled the humble office of rural postman. To her honor it should be recorded that she enabled her parents to pass the remainder of their days in comfort. Six or seven years ago she again visited her native place, a widow, his grace the Duke of Palata having paid the debt of nature. Her mother she left at Morton, paid the last duties to her father (somewhat ostentatiously), and volunteered her assistance to promote the advancement of her female relatives. Again, however, "a change came o'er the spirit of her dream;" and some three or four years ago the public journals announced her marriage to the son of an Irish clergyman of good family. In this character, accompanied by her niece as femme de chambre, but not by her husband, she once more visited Gainsborough and the scenes of her youth; after making her mother an allowance, she again departed for Italy, in good health; but death, which spares neither rank nor character, has closed the "last scene of all, in this strange eventful history."
The author of the "Nibelungenlied" is unknown, and, whether it be the work of one poet, of two, or twenty, is still a matter of doubt, among German critics. That the Nibelungenlied has been extensively interpolated, is, I believe, agreed on all hands; we may conclude as much, from having reason to believe that it was handed down for some time (how long, nobody knows for certain), by oral tradition, and what effect such a state of things may have on popular poetry, we may readily collect from what Bishop Percy and Sir Walter Scott have told us of the variations in the old ballads of England and Scotland. Lachmann attributes it to the thirteenth century.
Original Correspondence.
Paris, Dec. 2, 1850.
From time immemorial, no one knows why (for the legends which recount her history leave it doubtful whether she performed on any instrument), St. Cecilia has been chosen by musicians as their patron saint; and the musicians of Paris, on the approach of winter, always celebrate a mass, in music, to her honor, and for the benefit of the distressed members of their body. Not that they entertain any exaggerated idea of the consoling powers of the musical art, or hope to relieve the positive sufferings of poverty and destitution by any combination of sounds, no matter how harmonious; but this festival being held in the church of St. Eustache, the largest in Paris, and all lovers of music being so eager to gain admission, that the immense aisles of this grand old pile (which will contain five thousand persons), are always crowded to overflowing on these occasions, every one paying a franc for his admission: the sum thus gained, together with the collections taken up in the middle of the service, by the committee of ladies chosen for that purpose (who go round among the crowd, preceded by the beadle, and followed by two or three attendant gentlemen, carrying a little embroidered bag of a particular shape, used for that purpose, in which they receive the contributions of the benevolent), constitute a fund, from which many an unfortunate or superannuated brother of the tuneful craft obtains relief.
This vast building, with its lofty arches, is admirably calculated for the performance of grand religious compositions; the effect of the music being enhanced by the aspect of the building, and the accessories of sculpture, painting, and carving, which render this church one of the richest in the capital.
To obtain places on any occasion of the kind, it is necessary to go an hour or two in advance; and the gradual filling of the aisles is one of the most curious scenes which a stranger can contemplate. As there are no pews, each person, on entering, helps himself or herself to a chair, which he holds aloft over the heads of his already seated neighbors, as he slowly forces his way onward through their serried ranks, until he espies some unappropriated gap into which he can insinuate his chair and himself; the police and the beadles always taking care to keep a little pathway, just large enough to squeeze through, open all through the outer aisle that runs round the church. For the unfortunate people who form the walls of this pathway, the process of filling is a severe infliction; the uninterrupted stream of in-comers, forcing their way along with a ruthless disregard of the shoulders of those between whom they pass, is really, (especially when the in-comer happens to be a very stout man, or a very fat lady, enveloped in an unusual quantity of drapery,) almost overpowering. Every now and then the beadle comes along, rapping his silver-headed cane on the pavement, and crying, "Way, there! keep out of the path!" and escorting a party of privileged individuals for whom seats have been reserved; and, as the beadle is always tall and stout, and always forces his way through in defiance of apparent impossibilities, a chorus of murmurs accompanies his progress. The beadle is a very grand personage, and his appearance sufficiently indicates this fact. He wears a cocked hat, covered with silver lace, and decorated with nodding white plumes; a scarf of crimson velvet, stiff with embroidery in silver thread, covers the upper part of his person; black velvet smalls, fastened at the knee with silver buckles, white silk stockings and gloves, and enormous buckles in his polished shoes, complete his attire. He wears a massive silver chain round his neck; and a sword hangs at his side to strike terror into the hearts of all beholders. Besides the grand beadle, there are several minor ones, dressed in black, but wearing heavy silver chains; gens d'armes also are always present, and often soldiers, who mount guard, musket in hand, at all the doorways, and on the steps of the chancel.