scene in which that
noble-minded woman, overwhelmed with horror and grief, turned away with
a shudder from objects that so forcibly reminded her of the brilliant
past, and so fearfully contrasted with the terrible present.

He described to me the silence, broken only by the sobs that heaved her
agonised bosom; the figures of the few trusted friends permitted to
enter the presence of the distracted wife, moving about with noiseless
steps, as if fearful of disturbing the sacredness of that grief to
offer consolation for which they felt their tongues could form no
words, so deeply did their hearts sympathise with it.

He told me that the images of these friends in the vast mirrors looked
ghostly in the dim twilight of closed blinds, the very light of day
having become insupportable to the broken-hearted wife, so soon to be
severed for ever, and by a violent death, from the husband she adored.
Ah, if these walls could speak, what agony would they reveal! and if
mirrors could retain the shadows replete with despair they once
reflected, who dare look on them?

I thought of all this to-day, until the tears came into my eyes, and I
almost determined not to hire the house, so powerfully did the
recollection of the past affect me: but I remembered that such is the
fate of mankind; that there are no houses in which scenes of misery
have not taken place, and in which breaking hearts have not been ready
to prompt the exclamation "There is no sorrow like mine."

How is the agony of such moments increased by the recollection that in
the same chamber where such bitter grief now reigns, joy and pleasure
once dwelt, and that those who shared it can bless us no more! How like
a cruel mockery, then, appear the splendour and beauty of all that
meets the eye, unchanged as when it was in unison with our feelings,
but which now jars so fearfully with them!

I wonder not that the bereaved wife fled from this house, where every
object reminded her of a husband so fondly loved, so fearfully lost, to
mourn in some more humble abode over the fate of _him_ who could no
more resist the magical influence of the presence of that glorious
chief, who had so often led him to victory, than the war-horse can
resist being animated by the sound of that trumpet which has often
excited the proud animal into ardour.

Peace be to thy manes, gallant Ney; and if thy spirit be permitted to
look down on this earth, it will be soothed by the knowledge that the