His mind can grow no soaring wing,
Ills heart can feel no gengerous glow;
Ye make of him that wretched thing—
A slave, and yet a foe.

THE WIDOW OF SIXTEEN.

MADAME DE BUFFON, niece of Daubenton
and widow of the only son of the great
naturalist, is just now dead—so the
newspapers of the day announce—at her country
seat of Montbard, in Burgundy. Until
the railway from Paris to Dijon was
projected, few persons, even in France, knew
more of Montbard than its nam; and as the
French, up to a very recent date, were
singularly ignorant of the situation of any
place removed from the capital, they troubled
their heads but little to ascertain the
whereabout of the shabby village-town where the
illustrious Buffon was born, and where he
died. It is different now; for Montbard, as
well as Tonnerre, has a railway station, and
its, name is shouted out by the zealous officers
of the great Dijon line; whence the pretty
spire of the rural church, and the majestic
form of the Great Tower de l'Aubespin can
be plainly seen. The stranger's curiosity is
excited, when he hears that the huge building,
apparently uninjured by time, which peers
haughtily over the surrounding country from
the height of its woody hill, stands in the
grounds of the house where Buffon the
naturalist formerly lived.

It has fallen in my way to visit this spot
three several times. The first time I came
upon it was during a rambling excursion
through Champagne and Burgundy, before I
reached Auvergne, which was my destination;
My reason for turning out of the road was
rather a sentimental one. A friend in England
had related to me a history of her acquaintance
with the niece of Daubenton, the great
naturalist and comparative anatomist, whose
fame is only eclipsed by that of his
collaborator.

My friend was sent, when just emerging
into womanhood, with two sisters to Paris,
to be placed under the care of Madame
Daubenton, the sister-in-law of the
naturalist, who, being a widow in indifferent
circumstances, was not sorry to accept the
charge of a few English girls, belonging to a
rich family, to be educated with her own
daughter Betsy. A strict friendship sprung
up between my friend and the pretty, round,
rosy, cheerful, and affectionate little girl, who
learned English readily "from lips that she
loved," and imparted in return her own
animated accent to the French of her "dear
Sophy." When the time came for them to
part, both being then about fifteen, little
love tokens were exchanged amidst their
tears; and the then broad ocean, unknown
to narrowing steam, separated them. The
marriages of Sophy and Betsy took place
almost immediately after; the latter had be-
come the bride of young de Buffon. Then
came, before she had been a wife a twelve-
mouth, the terrible consequences of several
ages of oppression and misrule; Buffon
himself did not see the Revolution, and the
young couple were living tranquilly in their
charming and happy country-house at
Montbard, when the Reign of Terror burst upon
them. In the madness and confusion of the
time, the friends of humanity suffered alike
with tyrants, and the young bridegroom was
torn from his home and dragged to the guillotine.
Poor Betsy was also destined to suffer,
and had already gone through hardships and
terrors which might appall the most
courageous; had lain in damp dungeons, been
exposed whole nights in a cart full of
condemned prisoners, and had given up all but
the hope of rejoining her husband, when a turn
of the wheel set her free.

After a time, the widow of sixteen regained
part of her property and returned to Montbard,
where little remained that had formerly
adorned her home, except one room, the walls
of which were covered with coloured drawings
of birds, executed under the eye of the great
Buffon himself—the originals of those
engravings published in his great work. These had
been condemned to add to the bonfire which,
kindled in the market-place of Montbard, had
devoured almost all the carved chairs, tables,
and curious cabinets with their contents,
which had belonged to the chateau; but,
luckily, it was difficult to get these feathered
friends from the walls, and delay saved them.

Here, till her seventy-seventh year, suffering
in health and sight in consequence of the
treatment she had experienced, lived Bets
de Buffon, as far as her slender means
allowed, the Lady Bountiful of the
neighbourhood.

Once, twenty years ago, the friends met in
Paris. I was charged, many years after that,
not to pass Montbard without paying a visit,
and bearing a portrait of her beloved Sophy
to the Countess. My welcome was the
warmer for my errand, and as a surprise to
tier friend I sketched the likeness of Betsy;
who, even at her advanced age still retained
much of her former beauty, and whose ancient
lieerfuluess was renewed while she told me
stories of her days of childhood.

"See here," she said, opening a little
cabinet; "look at this relic, and tell my Sophy
how faithful to our childhood I have been
throughout my life. I shall never part with
this little needle-case and these small drawings,
given me when we first parted, by Sophy and
her sisters."

When I considered that the minute red
morocco, old-fashioned article she prized so
much, must have been preserved from
pillage, and fire, and blood, and ruin of
all kinds, I could not but look with
reverence on the little old lady whose
tender heart had been able to keep an early
friendship so long warm and glowing. Betsy