1 10 6 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1849 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. MUCH has been said for and against the first enkindling of this sentiment in the young bosom. All sixteen is for it, much experience, alas! against it. There is certainly something very enchanting in that first love to which all the freshest visions of youth are ministering and subsidiary—which copies its idol in the pure heaven of its own breast without spot or blemish— which fears no change, nor shadow of change— the love, while hope has never been cheated, expectation disappointed, or faith broken—the love that glows in the fire of its own enthusiasm, and is pure as innocence itself, and radiant with "clouds of glory" from our elder home. Most happy—most blessed are those on whose first love the seal of reality has been set, whose summer has developed and ripened the seed sown in spring tone, and who worship through life, at the altar on which the vestal fire was lighted! Something of this I said to a friend, who, with an equivocal smile, replied, that she would tell me a true story of the first love of a friend of hers. I record it here, as well as I can remember, in her very words, without exaggeration or change of any kind. It is only necessary to depart from reality so far as to use assumed names. "I was staying," said my friend, (the relator was an English woman,) "at Avonside, with Lady Anne Harvey, during a vacation at our boarding school. She was an intense sixteen. Lady Anne's education was completely, up to fifteen, the English nursery education. At fifteen she was as ignorant and undeveloped in all that relates to the wonderful relations of man and woman, as the children of your country at five or six. Her dear, kind papa, was the type of all grown up men, and her teasing, tormenting, noisy, but still loving brothers, of the younger portion of that species. Boarding school is a hot bed that develops nature very rapidly and unwholesomely. Lady Anne in the course of a few weeks, was born into a new world there. She read, clandestinely, with the rest of us, the romances—they were mere love stories in those days, or the passionate poetry that was smuggled into the institution—an institution of the severest order—of Madame Racine. Her Latin book would lie shut on her lap, and her glowing cheek rest on her French theme, while she listened to highly colored descriptions of charming young men, or heard related in still more glowing language, the real or fanciful love-passages of her young companions. I was two years older than Lady Anne. But time, in enlarging my horizon, had not chastened my imagination. I conceived a most passionate affection for my charming friend. Feeling very humbly about my own personal charms, my young love's young dreams were for Lady Anne. She was my heroine of romance, and all my romantic lore was lavished upon her; so that precious sentiment which, as I now think, should be developed charily, was nourished into most premature and rank growth. Sir Guy Harvey's park grounds are some of the oldest in England, with long avenues, loving walks, bosky dells, and sparkling waters. There are points of most beautiful view, and many a painter goes there for sketches of that rich, old rural cultivation, characteristic of our country. Lady Anne, at her father's request, rose one morning to show me the rising sun, from a point of view much celebrated, and which Sir Guy thought unrivalled. A winding path by a crisp little brook, overhung with flowery shrubs led to it. It was at the highest point in the park, and crowned with an oak, as old and more beautiful than the royal oak at Boscobel. Under this oak tree were rustic scats, and a table; and as we approached it, we observed a rustling of the high shrubbery that screened the seat from us. Some one was, evidently, hastily retiring from the place, and when we reached it, there were proofs that a real person, and no ghost, had just preceded us. A pencil was dropped by the bench, and on it lay a highly finished sketch of my friend, as she had sat with me, (I was omitted !) the day before near a lovely rosary, trying her maiden fortune, in the fashion of Margaret, in Faust, by picking off the leaves of a rose. Lady Anne blushed as she perceived the unmistakeable resemblance. "How spirited!" she said. "How expressive! how like !" I said. "But who can have done it?" she asked. "Some poor, old artist," I replied, mischievously, "who has run down from London for a breath of fresh air. I have known a hundred in my father's studio, who could do it;" my little friend looked disappointed, and I added, "perhaps it is a young artist—an amateur—it is charmingly done; but then a mere amateur artist might have done it." "I think it was an amateur artist," Lady Anne said, simply; "do you think it is right for me to keep it?" "Certainly, it was designed for you, no doubt; and the designer will be very much disappointed if it do not prove an introductory epistle." All day we discussed this incident, as girls only can discuss such a trifle. We expected from some one of our many daily visitors, to hear of an artist being in the neighbourhood; but, though we introduced the subject of painting and artist, and every topic connected with them, we obtained no light on our surmises. The next day, on a green bank, by a path we daily frequented, we found another sketch, lying under a stem of lovely roses, of a species that did not grow in Sir Guy's grounds. Here my pretty friend again appeared as she had eat the preceding day, under a tree overhung with flowering vines, while I read to her. The little brook was curling away beyond us, or rather beyond her, for the artist seemed never to take me into his field of vision. Her large black Newfoundland was lying at her feet, and her prettiest of poodles lovingly enfolded in its huge paws. "How very strange!" she exclaimed. "How very pretty!" I said, "but where on the earth, or under the earth, does this conjurer hide himself, that we get not a glance of him, or a suspicion of his presence?" It was true, that the labyrinthine walk and dark woodlands of the park afforded abundant hiding places, where one might see unseen. For a whole week, each day, these mysterious sketches appeared, each lovelier than the last, each more stimulating to our curiosity, more flattering to my friend's inexperienced vanity. From the beginning of our recreation, Lady Anne had been learning the art and mystery of driving; and every day, attended by a groom, we took a delicious drive in her mother's pony phaeton, within the park. On the Sunday following the week of our artistic intercourse with her admirer, she had ordered the groom to open the park gate; and, tempted by the beauty of the coming evening, and more by the free spirit of youth, that ever longs to get beyond bounds, we sallied forth. We did not return till the last ray of the long English twilight was fading away. Lady Anne dreaded her father's disapprobation, (she had nothing from that gentle good man more severe to dread,) and she drove rapidly. There was a steep bank, and a sharp turn near the park gate, for which she was too inexperienced to calculate; and in bringing the horses round too swiftly, she overset the carriage, and we were thrown out, and down the bank. As soon as we could rally, for we were not much hurt, but palsied with terror,—we found ourselves, or rather Lady Anne found herself supported and aided by a young man, who had come, Heaven knows whence, to her rescue. The groom was compelled to give his attention to the horses, and the aid of the stranger was indispensable to support the trembling girl to her home. We were met at the door by the father and mother, already apprised of the accident, and amidst exclamations of, "Are you hurt, my child !"—" Nor you, dear Miss ?"—"Thank God!"—"How could you be so indiscreet, Anne?" They did not forget civilities to our cavalier, who, whatever else he might be, was an unquestionable gentleman. He had lodgings at a few miles distance from Avon-side. "You will doubtless," Sir Guy said to him, "take the trouble to come tomorrow, to enquire after these young ladies, to whom you have done such essential kindness; do us the favor to come over to dinner, we dine at six." The stranger accepted, in a manner that proved him familiar with the offices of good breeding, and with a certain modesty that quite won Sir Guy's heart; for, like most persons well advanced in life, he deemed that the quality wanting in the young men of the day. Of course, as soon as we retired to our own rooms, Lady Anne and I compared notes. The stranger could be none other, than her artist admirer. There was a glowing expression, a tremulousness of voice, that betrayed an interest beyond that of a stranger; and if other proof were wanting, I had not been too much terrified to observe the paraphernalia of an artist, which he dropped, and left on the bank where we were upset. Lady Anne confessed she felt the throbbings of his heart, when she was obliged to lean against him; and she remarked, that the tone of his voice was musical,—or, certainly the most expressive she ever heard. Her aristocratic prepossessions did not, however, forsake her, even at this romantic beginning of her first romantic adventure. She was quite sure, "he was not merely a professional artist, he was well-born, that was evident in his fine aristocratic features, his deportment, his voice, his turn of expression." “It is quite true," said my friend, continuing her relation, "that our English aristocracy have a cast of feature, rarely found among the lower classes; though quite common with yours, who, however, with their straight noses, and thin lips, have an intensely vulgar expression." I, however, laughed at Lady Anne, and told her that I thought the mind inspired the form, and that beauty and grace were the outward signs of the beauty chartered by Heaven alone. Basil Astley, that was the name of our hero, made rapid advances in Sir Guy's favor. Sir Guy was himself an amateur artist. He had portfolios filled with sketches made in Italy and Switzerland, when he was a young man; his walls were adorned with pictures from his own designs. The dear, good man's perceptive powers were not sharp, and in the indulgence of his own innocent little egotisms, he never dreamed of the passionate love to which he was unwarily giving such opportunity of nurture and growth. He invited Astley to become his guest. He walked with him over his lovely place, suggested sketches, which were executed immediately and charmingly. He little dreamed of the episodes that were enacting in the bowery park, and during the moonlight evenings, — he was sand-blind, — for never did I see two young creatures more passionately in love than Anne and Astley. It was like nothing but the love of Romeo and Juliet. He was not more than one and twenty,—and she not seventeen, which to our cold northern blood is not more than the fourteenth year of the girl of Verona. She was Astley's idol, and the idol's love matched his idolatry. No woman's instinct could mistake the bliss that shone in the faces of these young people. The mother saw it, and the father was immediately apprised of her discovery. He had looked upon Anne as a child, and she was now caught in toils that no woman's strength is strong enough to break. What was to be done? The affair must be crushed, and at once. Astley was a poor young artist, of obscure birth. Anne boasted a long line of noble ancestry, and had a fortune in her own right. Justly considered, perhaps, these accidental advantages would have been but a fair offset against Astley's high gifts, and by uniting the two young people the social equilibrium would have been restored; but, in my country, society is cast in an inflexible mould. Lady Anne must be mated with her equal in social advantages. She was destined by her father for the son of a neighbor, the friend of his youth—of his life- time. The young man well born, well educated, well principled, and amiable — the beau ideal, or rather the beau actual of discreet papas, was at that present travelling. Sir Guy, as prudent as Brutus, had not even communicated his secret hope and purpose to his wife. Sir Guy was not the cleverest man in the world, but he had good sense, and what is better even than that, a good, most kind, most affectionate heart. The inspiration of such a heart's instincts is far better than the subtlest policy. Sir Guy at once asked a private interview with Astley. He told him that he was aware of the passion into which youth and opportunity had betrayed both him and his child. He did not reproach him, he did not even express a shade of displeasure,—but only sympathy and tenderness. He treated the continuance of their intercourse as simply impossible. He assured Astley that he had never for a moment doubted his honor,—that he was perfectly certain that he would not for the world, after a half hour's cool reflection, take advantage of the romantic fancies of a child. He expressed great regard for Astley, unbounded confidence in his genius, and hope of his future career; advised to his going immediately to Italy, and concluded by saying that, as Astley already knew, he had been enamoured of art in his youth,—that when he was in Italy, he had been struck with the struggles of his countrymen there, and that when he returned, he had set apart a certain sum for their aid and encouragement. That sum, well husbanded, had now become enough to support a young man for four or five years in Rome; and if Astley would go there, and permit Sir Guy to remit it to him from time to time, he would give him the great pleasure of executing a long cherished project. To so much reason and kindness there was no answer but acquiescence. Before they separated, Sir Guy said, "It will be a solace to you both, perhaps, to have a parting interview. As you will feel compelled to leave us to-morrow morning, you can have a last moonlight walk in the Park, where the starry influences will be no longer dangerous." A few more words of the kindest interest were spoken, and they parted. Lady Anne was then summoned to her father's presence. He communicated to her, with the utmost delicacy, the discovery of her love. He did not reason about or discuss it, but to her, as he had done to Astley, he spoke of its indulgence as simply impossible. He did not utter a harsh or a grating word, but was all love and tenderness, as if it were an inevitable sickness of a little child that he was treating. He told her, in conclusion, that Astley was to take his departure in the morning for Italy; and that she would meet him in the park for a parting interview, where he would be at nine o'clock, awaiting her and her friend. Anne left her father, weeping, trembling, heart-broken, but with not the smallest notion of resisting his will,—or rather her destiny, which to her it seemed to be. She came to me, and remained in my arms, with throbbing pulses, sighs, drenching tears, and half uttered sentences of submissive wretchedness, till it drew near nine o'clock. We then went to the park together, and by a sure instinct to the favorite haunt of the lovers, a closely sheltered walk. Astley was awaiting us. I left them, remaining near enough to secure to them the propriety of my proximity. Hour after hour they walked or sat together,—sometimes I heard the murmur of their voices, sometimes intermitted sobs. The day was dawning, and I was obliged to tell them so, to dispel the last shadows of their lovely dream. Ah! I never witnessed such a parting. They both seemed rooted to the ground. "Eternity was in their lips and eyes."—I was at last obliged to take Anne away, and to half drag, half carry her, more dead than alive, to her own apartment. Poor Astley was left lying on the ground. I heard dear Sir Guy still pacing his room, as we passed his door. This all happened fifteen years ago. Last summer I was passing a week with my friend, Lady Anne, now Mrs. Charles Wyndham. A charming little matron she is, after the most approved models, 'fair and fat,' though not yet forty. She has four or five lively children, and is surrounded by the contentments that are in such perfection in affluent country life in England. We were one day at dinner, when her husband, a sensible, good humored man, and a right minded member of parliament, said, " Anne, my love, I saw in the London Times, this morning, the death of Basil Astley." "Did you, indeed?" she replied, as she would to the announcement of the death of any other man. I involuntarily turned my eyes to read her soul in her face; but there was no writing there— not the movement of a muscle—not the change of a shade in her color. After one minute, she asked, "A little more soup, Charles?" The "first love" was forgotten. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource "First Love" Subject The topic of the resource Romance, English countryside, courtship Description An account of the resource Story about a young woman's passionate first love, her parents' intervention, and her subsequent happy marriage to another man. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria Miss C. M. Sedgwick Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>Sartain's Union Magazine</em>, Volume IV, No. 2, 81-82. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1849 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource D. Gussman Relation A related resource Reprinted in <em>The Dewdrop</em>, (Philadelphia, 1852) 43-45. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document courtship English countryside marriage parents Romance Sartain's Union Magazine https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/5c5798cec5431d7a21c50a83ccf5ab15.pdf?Expires=1781740800&Signature=O901koWhOY4KW%7EkRC2EU81y-y9OafR9H1bFs2WL3AaTwEPdfqUQHkWGrwfGkEDJEgQlrlLQF%7EK6buv1lb507A91ENIDYtu4vCHYNB2tY%7EjPFhqQTVplSXJUYZtQXMSZvFlOYMBwH0DrAEEZWmLrVfqB0%7EaVZ4i1beBwNJzdSUd%7EOKd06Nru82d7N-kdSqAe7D-Q%7EZBuOt6gsfnYoRilqIjotauvm8NV7iV7O4wQTxpfyM53D79IBL68UGIAp8EE9OZZBdX3NpsG-nXQAi49lasSssRWVRM5uWNWFPIeyVg4leRvELqf4pJhxUNd3KyFgYzhVLuhdtSVMWEol6cJOIA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 9e33898c5bb6e2ee33368a9c65a0f431 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1846 Subject The topic of the resource Stories published in 1846. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. In the year 1273, and on as bright a day as ever shone, even on that bright land of Italy, two females issued from the bronze gate of the palace Lanbertazzi at Bologna. The one by her stature, her elastic step, rich dress, and close veiling, inspired the ideas of youth, beauty and rank. The other stood revealed, a sturdy serving-woman, who vigilantly watched and cared for the lady she attended. As they threaded their way, through one of the narrow passes which characterized those old fortress-like cities, to the grand square, the elder woman stretched her arm behind the younger as a sort of rampart to defend her from even the accidental touch of a passer-by. Suddenly they heard the tramping of horses behind them, and the elder exclaimed, “Quick, my lady! Turn the corner; these precious gallants of our city, will think no more of trampling us under their horses’ hoofs, than if we were the grass made to be trodden on! There, now we are safe, for they cannot reach us here,” she added, following the young lady who sprang on the elevated pedestal of a cross. “Here how they come, by whether our people or old Orlando’s, who can tell?” At this moment, out poured from the narrow street, some fifty horsemen— horses and men so disguised by paint, caparison, dress and masks, that it would have seemed impossible for those who knew them best to recognize them. It was market day in Bologna, and the square, though it was early morning, was already filled with peasantry. The crowd receded to the right and the left, but as the horsemen did not halt nor scarcely check the speed of their horses, it seemed inevitable that life would be sacrificed. “Holy Virgin! Save the poor wretches!” cried the young lady, in a voice whose sweet tone was to her attendants like that of a lute to a brazen instrument. To exclude the frightful peril from her sight, she put her hands before her eyes, just in time to save herself the torture of seeing a poor woman, who was walking forward with her back to the cavaliers, knocked down by one of them and ridden over by three others, whose horses, though they instinctively recoiled from the body, seemed to tread the life out of it. Loud exclamations burst out on every side. A cry of “Shame! Shame!” “Every bone in her body is broken!” “See the blood from her head!” “She is dead! “She is dead!” One of the cavaliers made a motion as if turning his horse’s head, but an urgent order from the leader of the troop checked this single movement of humanity, and turning out of the square into another narrow and devious passage, they rode unheeding on through the gates of the city in pursuit of some lawless adventure. “Kneel not here, by dear lady Imelda,” said her attendant; “rise up and let us hasten to church and pray to Madonna for the soul so, without rush, sent out of this world.” “Yes, yes, dear Nilla, but first,” she added, taking her purse from her pocket and giving it to her, “go in among these people, take this money and see what can be done for her body or soul. Oh, Nilla— Frederico was their leader. It is but half an hour ago that he came to me to tie that blood read band around his arm. I told him it was an evil omen. “Was it Frederico? Then save thy money, for it will empty the coffers of the Lambertazzi to pay for the sins they brothers are heaping on their wild heads. Alas! That the young should think so long and judgment so far!” “Nay, I tell thee go, Nilla, and offer aid!” said the young lady, with the air of one not to be disobeyed, even by a privileged nurse. “Money may buy bread and cataplasms, but it will not efface sin.” If it would, she thought as Nilla left her side, it were well that our nobles are rich; by precious. Oh, Frederico! My brother! God stay thy violent hand. After a few moments, Nilla returned with the purse. “There is no use,” she said, “in showing it there— she is not dead. She bids them carry her into Santa Maria, and lay her before the alter of Madonna. There where she has prayed all her life— there will she die.” “We will follow her, Nilla.” “Nay, my dear lady Imelda, we cannot. The alter is in the Giéréméi chapel, and I gathered from the words dropped, that this woman’s family are their followers.” “Be it so. We have nought to do with their hates, Nilla; ours is a better part.” “But if your father or your brothers hear you have been in that chapel, my lady?” (Pg. 254) “I care not— they pursue bloody work. We are vowed to our lady of mercy; follow me.” The train bearing the body of the dying woman preceded them into the church of Santa Maria, and turning into the Giéréméi chapel they laid her on the floor before a richly decorated alter of the Virgin. A hundred wax lights were burning before it; a crucifix of silver and precious gems stood on it, surrounded by lamps, images and vases of the same precious metal. Over them hung a holy family fresh from the hands of Grotto, and below stood a sculptured sarcophagus containing a saint’s ashes; all bespoke the riches and devotion of the Giéréméi. Beside the alter was a sitting figure of the Madonna herself, with the infant Jesus in her arms, both sparking with jewels and surrounded with the votive offerings. To the pious Catholic the image of Madonna symbolizes all suffering, sympathy and love. From her sanctified heart radiates the whole circle of human affections. She is far enough above humanity for homage, and near enough for fellow-feeling and aid. The priest officiating at the altar, continued his service without heeding the many feet that came clattering over the marble floor. Even the boy who waived the censer, gave not a swing the less for the spectacle of a violent death. Imelda had thrown back her veil, and discovered a face resembling (if the traditionary portrait may be believed) the immortal Cenci of Guido. There was the same potency of purpose with the undimmed freshness of youth— the same ripeness for Heaven, with the intense susceptibility to human suffering. The crowd gave place to her, as if an angel were passing among them, and still closely attended by Nilla, she knelt beside the bleeding woman, and taking her veil off to staunch the wound, “Can nothing be done for you?” she asked. The woman painfully strained open her failing eyelids, and a faint color returned to her ghastly cheek. “No, no,” she answered, “I want nothing. Madonna has heard me— she smiles on me,” and she turned her eye lovingly to the compassionate face over the altar. “Day and night, lady, I have prayed that my weary life might end. This is joy to me, but wo to those by whom it cometh.” Imelda shuddered. “Perhaps,” she said, “You leave those behind you who can be served by such as are willing and able to serve them. Gold shall not be spared.” “Gold! Oh! You cannot bring the dead to life if you filled their graves with gold— but stay, stay,” she added, and she clenched Imelda’s arm so that the blood trickled down her ermined glove; “I had two sons dearer to me than my life was even then when they made every minute of it glad; they were stabbed by the young Labertazzi on cold blood while they kept faithful ward and watch for old lord Boniface. Oh, they were good sons to me, but they were daring, hot blooded youths. Buy masses for their souls, lady— not for mine— not for mine. Madonna will take care of mine— it matters not for me.” Her voice sank away. “Pray for them, dear lady,” she added, in a whisper, “the prayers of saints are heard. Oh, bid the priest hasten to me!” Imelda beckoned eagerly to the priest who had just finished the morning mass. He came, knelt on the other side, and performed the office for the dying. It was a rough sight for Imelda, that old woman struggling between life and death, her muscles stiffening and tremors and convulsions affecting her whole frame; but she did not shrink from it. She looked like an angel come to attend the parting spirit. Tresses of her bright hair disengaged by the removal of her veil had fallen over her cheek and neck on one side. Her cheek was deeply colored by her emotion, and her blue eyes glowed as she raised it with every amen ejaculated to the priest’s prayer. “Is that angel or mortal!” said a young man, who had just risen from a brief prayer in a retired part of the chapel. “Mortal, I trow, my lord,” replied the person addressed. “It is warm blood that colors that cheek, and that look of pity and sorrow is the common privilege of our humanity.” “Whence comes she, Giovanni?” Surely we know all the beauties of Bologna, and I have seen those of Florence and Pisa, but never has my eye lighted on such as vision as this.” “It is not, my lord, the pearl we have heard of, shit up in old Labertazzi’s oyster shell?” “No, no, it cannot be.” “Cannot! Your wish would say must not, my lord. But though kept like a nun in her cell, I have heard rumors of the young lady Imelda’s rare loveliness. Such a gem will sparkle through the cervices in the walls. They do say that her crafty father is plotting to match her with royalty.” “But, Giovanni, this cannot be the lady Imelda. The Lambertazzi are dark me.” “Nature has such freaks, my lord; the lily grows beside the night-shade.” “My lord Boniface,” said an old man, advancing eagerly from the group, “Why stand ye here and poor Alexa dying? The mother of the boys who lost their lives for you at your palace gate.” “Old Alexa!” God forgive me!” The thought that he had vowed to watch over and protect this most unfortunate woman, pierced his heart as he sprang toward her. She did not see him; her ears received no sound; a thick film was gathering over her eyes. She turned gasping toward Imelda and, nature rally for a last effort, she (Pg. 255) pressed her lips a small crucifix and giving it to Imelda, said, “Seek out my goof young lord Boniface; give him this sign of love and mercy— tell him to forgive the Lambertazzi. No revenge— no revenge for me!” “I will— God so help me as I will.” The agony passed from the dying woman’s face. “She is dead,” exclaimed Nilla, “come away, my lady, quickly. I see the followers of the Giéréméi gathering. You are unveiled in their chapel!” Imelda drew up her mantle close over her head and face and disappeared. _______________ Bologna had long been harassed by the rival factions of the Labertazzi and the Giéréméi, its two most noble families. The Lambertazzi were at the head of the Ghibelines, their rivals commanded the Guelphs. Political, religious and domestic elements inflamed their feud. The spirit of democracy which then pervaded the Italian states governed Bologna. The nobles were still permitted to live within the same walls and sit in the same councils with the citizens, but they were subordinate to them and kept in check by them. The state was free, the factions still were governed by their respective chiefs. Gregory X had just dies, and the unhappy consequence of the removal of a pontiff, whose vigor and sanctity had bridled the hates and restrained the hostile tendencies of the times, was son obvious in new demonstrations of enmity between states and factions. From this kindling of the fevered elements, came bright gold. “In the height of the convulsions of its civil wars,” says the historian of the Italian republics, “Florence renewed architecture, sculpture and painting. It then produced the greatest poet Italy can yet boast; it restored philosophy to honor; it gave an impulse to science which spread through all the free states of Italy, and made the age of taste and the fine arts succeed to barbarism!” “Whether these were the legitimate effects of contention may be questioned. Co-existence is sometimes mistaken for cause, and it is very difficult for human wisdom to solve the mysteries of human development. We know that after the thunderbolt the most delicate of flowers unfold, but is it not the simultaneous shower, and not the dissolving and destructive power, that brings them forth? But these speculations are not for our narrow space. We know, from tradition, that the arts of the 14th century had touched the soul of Boniface Giéréméi to better issues than hatred and war; that though always ready and gallant defense, he was never forward to provoke a quarrel nor first to draw the sword. It is said he brought more painting with his father’s walls than battle trophies, and preferred the society of artists and learned men to the companionship of those whose exploits filled the mouths of the vulgar. ____________ “Dear Nilla,” said Imelda, “do not persuade me from my duty. I will do what I promised.” “Yes, but can’t you see, my lady, that if you do it by my hand, it is the same as if your own dainty hand carried this crucifix to my lord Boniface? I will swear to you to do your bidding— to give this token it into the hand of the young lord; and to speak every word you shall tell me— not a syllable, not a letter more nor less.” “But you are not me, Nilla.” “No, my dear young lady, and the mischief is that the young lord knows the difference too well already. I shall never forget to my dying day how he looked at you were kneeling by old Alexa. He had better have been looking at her. Strange you did not see him, my lady.” “Nilla!” Distrust not my word and obey me. Ask him to meet me in the upper cloister of San Georgio to-morrow morning when I come from confession after matins.” Nilla well knew that her mistress’ gentleness was fortified by the characteristic energy of the Lambertazzi, and she obeyed; muttering to herself retrospective, the vainest of all, wishes. Oh if old Alexa had but dies in the street, or her young lady had but said her prayers at home! And where should she be if her lords, Frederico and Alberti, should know she had gone between their deadly enemy and their sister. They would think no more of poking cold steel into her than if she were a cat! Poor Nilla! It was a fatal embassy. The next morning lord Boniface outwatched the stars, in the cloisters of San Georgio. Every minute seemed an hour and yet never were minutes so precious, for they were freighted with the most golden expectations of his life. He was to see again that face which seemed to him to vivify and make real the ideal beauty of art. He was to hear that voice which was the very concentration of music. He was to communicate, were it but for one brief moment, with a soul indicated by symbols. He was startled by every flutter of the breeze— his heart sank with every receding sound. The place of rendezvous was far retired within the intricate windings of San Georgio, and the day, which was pouring its full light on all Bologna, was still dim and shadowy in her cloisters. At length a door, communicating with the interior of the church, opened and a form issued from it so wrapped in a full gray mantle that nothing but its stature and graceful movement could be perceived. But these were quite enough to assure Boniface that the lady Imelda was coming toward him. The agitation he could scarcely restrain contrasted with the assured step of the young lady who felt nothing but that she was performing a (Pg. 256) simple act of duty. She was conscious of a new interest in it when she was near enough to perceive for the first time the noble figure and soul lit countenance of the hereditary enemy of her house. “Thanks, my lord,” she said “for granting a request that I was compelled to make by a promise to a dying woman.” “Thanks from you, lady Imelda! Haven has my devoutest thanks that I am permitted this unhoped for meeting!” “Nothing short of a sacred promise,” resumed Imelda, with a cold dignity that was meant to qualify the rapturous tone in which she was addressed, “would justify me in breaking through the observances of my sex and venturing to solicit a meeting with my hereditary enemy.” “Enemy, lady Imelda! Love may come against our free will— enmity cannot.” “That sacred promise,” continued Imelda, as if not hearing Boniface’s last words, “was given to Alexa, a client of your house. You, doubles, have heard the tragic circumstances of her death.” “They could not long unknown to me, lady, where there are so many who live by feeding the feud between the Lambertazzi and my father’s house.” “It is to avert the evil effect of these facts reaching you that I am here. Alexa’s last act,” she added, showing him the crucifix, “was to send you this symbol of our Lord and master’s submission to wrong and forgiveness of injuries, and by this token she prayed for you to forgive— not to revenge her death. We may not turn a deaf ear to the words of the dying; they stand on the threshold of the other world. Give good heed, I pray to you.” “In aught else, lady, Alexa’s dying wish— your faintest word, should be law to me, but—” “But you fear the reproach of your faction—or perhaps the scornful taunt of my brothers. These are vulgar fears, my lord. There is a nobler fear; fear above fear— a fear worthy of God’s creatures— a fear of violating his law. This takes the sting and reproach from every other fear.” “Aye, lady, this is true; but truth fitter for these cloisters than the world we live in. He who should adopt it must exchange his good sword for the monk’s cowl.” “Do you then reject this blessed sign?” said Imelda, once more extending to him Alexa’s crucifix. “Nay, nay, sweet lady,” he relied, pressing his lips to it, and bringing them so nearly in contact with Imelda’s beautiful hand, that the spirituality of his devotion was somewhat questionable. “I do not reject— I would fain accept it; but in doing so I should pledge myself to possible dishonor and disgrace. The death of Alexa pass as accidental till I am taunted with my forbearance, and then I must—” “Must like other men— must come down to the level of their standard. Farewell, my lord. My errand is done.” “One moment!” Listen to me, lady Imelda. Command me in aught I can do. I will go to the farthest verge of the world to serve you.” “And yet for my prayer you will not do the duty that lies at your door.” She turned to leave him; he followed her through the cloister. He entreated her to give him the crucifix on his promise to consecrate it to Madonna, and pray to her to enable him without loss of honor to obey Alexa’s last injunction. What we have briefly summed up, Boniface contrived to dilate and involve, and Imelda found herself yielding, perhaps too willingly, to these little arts of delay, when she rejoined Nilla at the church door. “Thanks to our lady!” she whispered; “You are come at last! Did you see him?” “He was there before me.” “So indeed he should be. Were you seen? Through all those long dark passages did no one see you? It were not well that you were seen alone there. Were you met? Are you struck deaf and dumb, my lady? Did you meet no one, I say?” “No-yes-no-I think not.” “The good Lord make me patient! You don’t hear a word I say. I have been a good hour on my knees praying to St. Ursula, and all the blessed saints that watch over young virgins, that no human eye, save that of lord Boniface, might fall on you; and, for aught you care, you may have met half Bologna. Call up your wits, dear my lady, and tell me what has happened in the last hour?” “Hour, Nilla! It seems to me you may count on your fingers the minutes since we parted.” “Humph!” ejaculated Nilla, as she thought that time had a different measure for an old woman waiting, and a young one talking with him of all Bologna’s youth most renowned for all manly graces. “Be it hours or minutes, my lady,” she added, “I care not which, but only if you were observed?” “Only, I think, by father Jerome, whom I met as I returned from the cloister.” “Father Jerome! Our lady forbid! All the gray mantles in Bologna would not hide you from father Jerome. He sees through stone walls. If he should have seen lord Boniface!” Old Nilla was right. Father Jerome was, of all men, to be dreaded and shunned by Imelda. Born with strong passions and condemned by his priestly profession to a passionless life, he used the fuel which should have burned to ashes in the furnace of his holy order, to feed the fiery natures of (Pg. 257) the brothers Lambertazzi, and plied all his craftiness to stimulate their reckless pursuit of personal exaltation. It was their object to extinguish the only family that questioned their supremacy in Bologna. They were fitted for the stripes of barbaric times, natural “enemies of God, of pity and mercy.” Their rival was gifted with the qualities that belonged to the developments of civilized life. He was the friend of poets and philosophers, and the worshiper of art which had sprung forth in all her freshness and beauty from the conflicts of free Italy, like Venus from the tumultuous waves. Imelda’s instinctive sympathy with him was most natural, perhaps inevitable. Her delicate nature had shrunk from the clang of her brothers’ armor and the clamor of their voices. She had devoted herself in the retirement of her own apartments to the study of science and poetry under the guidance of her father confessor, Silvio- a learned and holy man. Lord Boniface, already her ardent lover, had appeared to her as Ferdinand did to Miranda— “A spirit— A thing divine— for nothing natural She ever saw so noble;” and it was most certain that they had but met and parted when they felt that “both were in either’s power.” Love ripens fast in the land of the orange and the myrtle, and love in all lands is miraculously quick in device. The lovers contrived to meet going to confession or returning from mass. Few of these blissful meetings escaped the snaky eye of father Jerome. Did malice and envy stimulate his senses to preternatural acuteness? It seemed so when he overheard a whispering appointment they made to meet at a masked-ball. He communicated this appointment to the brothers. “It is a safe opportunity,” he said. “We can make out opportunity when we are ready to execute our vengeance,” replied the younger brother, Alberti. “Yes, and expose yourself to expulsion from the city. Remember, my son, that the nobles no longer rule Bologna. That scum has risen to the top- the citizens above the noble.” “Curse them! Yes,” muttered Frederico. “Remember, too, that your sister’s lover is a favorite with our masters. He studies the courses of the stars with their sons and lavishes his gold on workers destined to their common use, and employment.” “He earns their favor, then, methinks,” said Alberti. “Yes, my son, their favor is no gratuity.” “He shall pay another debt in another kind- at short reckoning,” growled Frederico. “He who would steal your sister is a felon and deserves to pay this reckoning,” insinuated the priest, “but take heed, my son, if two to one you assault this gallant the blow will recoil on yourselves.” “We need not two; my steel is sure, as you know, father,” said Alberti, glancing significantly at the priest. “I will follow him from the palace Ansiani. A felon merits a stab in the back.” “But, Frederico, what does he merit who this stabs?” asked Alberti. “My son,” interposed the priest, “the means are sanctified by the end. The executioner does God’s will when he takes the felon’s life.” “Let Frederico then be the executioner- an open field and a fair fight for me. I’ll not meddle with this dark work,” and thus making his honest protest, Alberti left the priest and his less scrupulous brother to contrive their plan of assassination. Father Jerome looked after Alberit with a drawing up of the brow and a drawing down of the mouth, expressive of contempt, and then said to Frederico, “I distinctly heard your sister’s”… he hesitated and added, “lover,” with an accent to indicate that a more offensive worked pressed on his lips, “say that he had a friend among the followers of the Ansiani, who would introduce him by a secret entrance which communicated with a passage from the court of the Eastern balcony; he could this enter the halls without a passport, and, once there, mingle unsuspected with the guests. You, forewarned that he is there, will easily identify him. His stature and grace are not common among out gallants of Bologna. While he is dallying with your sister you may glide into that passage and the slightest brush you can give him will be enough if- as I think you meant when you said your steel was ‘sure’ – you have it well anointed with the Saracen’s oil.” “I have – all the posts of Heaven cannot save him from my extreme unction.” “To night, then, as the bell of San Georgio tolls ten. But, my son, sport not, even in word, with the holy offices of the church.” “No, father,” replied Frederico, with a loud laugh, that proved he had at least the merit of not flattering the priest by hypocrisy, “not while I have you to teach me reverence.” Father Jerome had not yet quite reached the meridian of life. Under his priest’s cowl were hidden the worst passions of man. Before the vesper hour he had a private and long interview with Imelda. He told her plainly that her love was discovered, and that mortal danger threatened her lover; and then he darkly hinted at a means of escape. His hints she did not understand, for his foul thoughts passed over her pure mind like breath over the highest polished glass, leaving no stain, and when he came to state more plainly on what conditions he would save her lover’s life – she recoiled as if a venomous snake (Pg. 258) lay across her path. Her face, which had paled a moment before at thought of her lover’s peril, grew red with angry blood. Father Jerome quailed under her glance. She was silent till she could speak calmly. “Go, priest,” she then said, “all life is in God’s hands— the most precious as the most worthless. My honor is in mine own trust. Leave my presence.” Nilla found her mistress an hour after in an ague of terror. “Oh, why have you staid, Nilla?” she said. “Did you find him? What said he?” “Why, firstly, I did not find him; a pretty chase my old legs have had of it over half Bologna.” “Oh, Nilla, do not spend your breath talking of yourself.” “Lord’s love! I have little breath to do any thing for myself.” “What said he, Nilla!” “Why, first, he said nothing.” ‘Nothing!” “No, in truth. What should he say, till he had read your letter? But deal, my lady, why so red, and so white, and shaking as if you had a tertian ague on you?” “Think not of me, Nilla? Say in a word is my lord coming?” “Yes – is one word, he is coming?” “Oh, then, Nilla, you must back to him; his life is threatened; he must not come ton-night.” “Then, my sweet lady, he must escape the danger through some other mode then my croaking. He mounted his horse as I left him and bade me tell you he should ride till the time of meeting.” “We are lost,,” cried Imelda, wringing her hands. “There is no help for us. They know he meets me ton-night. The Ansiani are his enemies – he will have no friends near him, and my brothers – my cruel brothers! That bad priest, Jerome, Nilla!” “Set against him the good priest Silvio, my lady. The children of light should be a match for the children of darkness.” “You are right, Nilla. Call father Silvio to me. If he be possible, truly he will find it.” Silvio came, and listened pitifully to Imelda’s relation of her interview with Jerome. “God alone can help us, my child,” he said; “we know not how nor where the snare is spread, but He who delivereth the bird from the fowler can surely help if he seeth fit.” “And is this all, father, that your wisdom can suggest to me?” “For the present exigency, all, my poor child; but should you escape to-night, I will no longer oppose your lover’s prayer. Come to my cell at dawn to-morrow. I will perform the holy sacrament of marriage for you, and at the first suspicious moment you may escape and take refuge in Florence or Pisa. It is not fitting you should longer swell where the demons of hate – and worse than hate, beset you.” “Is this your counsel, dear father Silvio?” exclaimed Imelda, while for a moment the sun seemed to break through the clouds and shine on her head, so radiant was she with hope. The light passed off as she flatteringly exclaimed, “But there is an abyss of danger, of despair to be overleaped before we reach this happiness. Go, dear, holy father, spend these fearful hours in prayer and vigil and penance for us. Here, take my purse; give all to the wretched, and here,” she added, stripping the brilliants from her fingers, “do what good you can with these; all I ask in place of them is my wedding ring.” “God’s love is not bought with a price, dear daughter.” “Oh, I know, I know – these jewels are but the earnest of what I will be and do if His protection be over us this night. Your blessing, dear father, and depart. I must dress and be first at the palace. They will not dare touch him in my presence.” Alas! Poor Imelda knew not what bad men dare do! While Imelda was kneeling before Madonna to fortify herself by prayer for the trials of the evening, Nilla was preparing for her toilet. “There, my lady,” she said, as Imelda came from her oratory, “there is your green robe embroidered with gold flowers, and buttoned from top to bottom with such diamonds as no family can boast in Bologna, save the Lambertazzi. You shake your head? Well, here is the azure silk knotted with the purest orient pearls. No, again? The silks are fresh from the riches looms of Florence. No married dame or maiden in Bologna has the like of them.” “It matters not, Nilla. Give me a dress all of white – fitting for a bride or for the dead.” “My dear lady!” “Obey me, Nilla. Give me, too, my pearl collar, bracelets and head-gear.” Nilla obeyed in silence and trembling, for she had had bad dreams the night before and her lady’s words seemed their interpretation. When Imelda was arrayed and surveyed herself in her Venetian glass, a blush of conscious beauty overspread her pale cheek. The luster of her white satin harmonized with the soft tints of her Italian complexion, and the dead white of pearls wreathed on her dark hair gave a look of life to the almost colorless hue of her white brow. “Your eyes are dull to-night, my dear lady,” said Nilla, “but for that you would look a king’s bride.” (Pg. 259) “He who only shall make me a bride is a king by divine right, Nilla. Bring me my Persian veil; that will serve me at the altar or – for a winding sheet.” ___________ The festivities at the Ansiana palace had but begun when Imelda appeared there. As she entered leaning on the arm of her proud old father, every eye was curiously fixed on her. Her prolonged seclusion in her father’s palace and the rumor of her beauty had sharpened curiosity; but as she tenaciously kept the mask on her face attention was turned to other known beauties, and after a little while she escaped observation. She soon found herself near a balcony toward which the dancers pressed for air and refreshment. She dropped her fan and a blue domino, who she had just noticed and eyed with intense interest, picked it up and restored it to her, saying, in a voice audible only to her, “The balcony will be empty when the dance begins – linger here till then.” She did so and in a few brief moments her plan was concerted with Lord Boniface, and their fate sealed. The night wore on, the gayety increased, and the lovers again met, near the gallery by which Boniface had gained access to the palace, and by which he purposed to depart. Frederico was lurking there. There was a narrow passage from one saloon to another; out of this passage a door opened into the gallery. Imelda standing mid some ladies at the door of the saloon saw her lover approach his place of exit and saw that at the very bottom he raised his hand to open the door he was encountered by Alberti, in a black domino. “He who seeks a secret passage,” he said rudely in an undisguised voice, “is no friend to the house.” “Who interferes with the liberty of the Ansiani guests is surely not their friend,” replied lord Boniface, in a voice that even Imelda would scarcely have recognized as his.” “Then drop your mask, and verify your right to this liberty,” said Alberti, haughtily. “Not at your bidding, most courteous gentleman, but since you guard this egress I will take any other that may be opened to the guests of our good old host,” and turning away, as if quite indifferent, he re-entered the saloon, encountered face to face, the old count Ansiani, and stopped, as if quite at east, to exchange courtesies with his host. His seeming coolness disconcerted and perplexed Alberti, who stood at a short distance behind him. Imelda with a fluttering heart watched every movement and heard every word. “Alberti, Alberti,” she said, eagerly, in a low voice, and pointing through the door to a lady in an adjourning apartment, “Pray, tell me, is not that the lady Julia!” “By my faith, it is,” he replied, his attention completely diverted; “I have in vain sought her all the evening.” “She has but just entered,” said Imelda, “or you would earlier have recognized her, for though her simple dress denies her princely rant her queenly bearing betrays it. I knew her only from your description, Alberti, or, perhaps, from the instinct of out coming relationship.” “Bravo, Imelda!” “Present me to her, Alberti. You promised it, and surely I deserve it.” “You do – come with me.” If Imelda had dared to look back, she would have seen that Boniface, profiting by the opportunity she had just procured for him, complied at the instant with the rule made by a jealous nobles of Bologna, that every guest, on taking leave of his host, should withdraw his mask. There being no eye on him but the old count’s, dulled with some seventy years wear, Boniface did this fearlessly, and walked slowly past Alberti and out to the grand stair-case. He had scarcely disappeared from the count’s sight when father Jerome whispered in his ear, “Does my lord suspect that the bold youth who but now took leave of him is the boasted Giéréméi?” “Impossible!” “My word – my oath for it.” “Follow him. Give orders to my men to seize him; he shall pay dearly for this audacity.” He was followed, but perceiving this he had, after deliberately walking the stair-case, glided down to the light, passed the retainers of the Ansiani at the gate of their court, and, at the corner of the street, mounted a horse, which, with a trust servant, was awaiting him.” At the dawn of the morning Imelda, closely muffled and attended only by Nilla, entered father Silvio’s cell. Her lover was awaiting her, and the good father performed the marriage rite. “My children,” he said, retaining in his their clasped hands, “these are such bonds as God’s priest may ratify – not accidental, imaginary or selfish, but wrought in the furnace of trial out of your hearts’ best affections; their temper is proof against all the shifting chances of life; death cannot dissolve them, and there, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, eternal shall be written on them.” “Amen! Amen!” cried old Nilla. Father Silvio stood back, and Boniface clasping Imelda in his arms, whispered, “Courage, my love – my wife! One brief separation more, and then o earthly power shall divide us. Remain here one half hour, then father Silvio will meet me with you at the city gate. In Florence we shall find friends and safety, till the old wound that separates our families is healed.” (Pg. 260) “Go grant it!” she whispered, “but my heart bids me cling to you, with fearful prophecy.” “Take courage, love,” he said, “it is but the shadow of past sorrow – we will soon get beyond it.” He left her, and in one half hour she followed with the good father and Nilla. “Stop – stop, my lady,” said Nilla, who stumbled after her mistress’s fleet steps. “I saw the shadow of armed men behind the gate-way we just passed, and I am sure I saw father Jerome just slink behind that wall.” Imelda, trembling, clung to Silvio’s arm. “If it be they,” whispered father Silvio, “it is impossible to gain the gate – but we may evade them by artifice. Return, Nilla, as if you were seeking something dropped on the ground. Eye them closer, and if they be the brothers, still retrace your steps, and we will turn the next corner, gain the palace, and dispel their suspicions and be sage for the present.” He then walked slowly on with Imelda, and before they reached the turn, the old woman had paused at the gate-way, and was receding beyond it. “Patience, dear daughter,” said the priest, “you are baffled this time, but your husband’s vigilance will soon make another opportunity. If they follow lord Boniface to the gate he betrays nothing for he ill infer that you are intercepted, and he will only appear to them armed and equipped for a ride to the hills. We owe this to the diabolical malice and art of Jerome,” he thought as Imelda yielded to his counsel. “So, through life he has crossed and baffled me,” and his thoughts, like an electric flash, retraced the wrongs done him by the envious rival of his childhood – how he had closed against him the avenues of friendship, love and honorable fame, and driven him to seek refuge in the priest’s cell – the precinct of the tomb. __________ One week passed away. The day was near its dawn, and Imelda was receiving the last embraces of her faithful nurse. “Dear Nilla,” she said, “take it not so hard; it is for present safety that we are separated – my lord says father Silvio urges too that we should be free, unembarrassed, in case of pursuit – you see,” she added with a faint smile, “that now I fear nothing. I have no foolish presentiment as before. When I put on my veil I thought it would prove my winding-sheet. If danger beset us, and Heaven please, a way of escape will be opened, and if not death since father Silvio assures me that there we cannot be separated. God’s love casts out all fear, dear Nilla.” “It should – but –” “Nay, nay, Nilla, not another word – time presses – the day is already dawning – you must not follow me one step. All depends on my passing unobserved and unheard through the long, dark galleries to the outer court; to that my lord has secured an entrance. Farewell, dear Nilla – to your prayers found us;” – and then hastily embracing her old friend, she left her in an agony of love and tears, (from which prayer exhales,) passed now swiftly, now slowly, along her perilous descent and gained the landing of the last stair-case – there she heard the ringing of a loud and hasty footstep mounting the winding stairs, and, in time, she darted into a broad niche in the wall, behind the pedestal of a statue. She caught a glimpse of the passing figure, and knew it to be Frederico. His appearance filled her with alarm and apprehension. She had believed her brothers were at Padua, and her flight had, in this belief, been fixed and hastily arranged. Could father Jerome, who seemed to have inscrutable power, have penetrated their secret plans? And was some fatal blow now preparing for them? Should she turn back and avoid the danger? No – for still her husband was in peril, and what was safety to her that did not include him! Her decision was made, and as the sound of the footsteps dies away, she sprang from her retreat, and hardly touching the stairs, passed down and turned to enter a narrow gallery that communicated with the private court. Frederico’s favorite dog, a fierce wolf-hound, was lying across the passage as if stealthily keeping it. He growled without moving. Poor Imelda had an unconquerable fear of dogs, and a particular terror of this brute of her brother’s, which had always seemed to her an impersonation of evil. She instinctively started back and remounted half the stairs before the instinct of fear yielded. Love – oh, how much stronger than fear – overcame. She retracted her steps, boldly stooped to the dog, spoke low and gently to him, looked him directly in the eye, stroked and patted him. There are strange and mysterious modes of communication between all intelligent beings. Our modern Mesmerite would probably sat the dog was magnetized. We cannot explain or name the cause – perhaps it is true that there is “un mystere de sympathie et d’affection entre touit ce qui respire sous le ciel.” Certain it it is, the animal became tractable, rose, stretched himself, “like an innocent beast and of a good conscience,” permitted Imelda to pass without molestation. She scarcely breathed again before she was in the court and in her husband’s arms where, for one instant, danger and fear, the past and future, were forgotten – the rapturous present filled brimmingly the whole of her life. Such moments give us some notion of what may constitute the measurement of time in a more advanced condition of existence. Keenness of sensation, intensity of feeling takes place of duration – the point of time stretches backward and forward, with the velocity of light; and in the (pg. 261) retrospect, the rest of life is compacted into small space – a dark line of shadow along fields of light. We must be forgiven for pausing at this point – it was Imelda’s first and last of perfect human happiness. A sound reached her ear that struck upon it like a death-knell. She uttered a piercing shriek and cried, “Fly – fly!” and at the same instant her brothers with their swords drawn rushed into the court. “Stand back, Imelda!” shouted Frederico to his sister, who had planted herself steadfastly before her lord; “Stand back, I say, or through your body my sword shall pierce that villain – robber!” “Imelda,” said her lover, gently putting her aside, “I can defend myself.” Imelda sprang toward Alberti – “Oh, my brother,” she cried, putting both her hands upon his breast, “there is a drop of mercy in your hear – stand back. It is not manly two to one – get between them – he is no robber. He is my husband! My chosen lord!” “Your husband, Imelda? Then let them have a fair fight. I’ll not make nor mar between them.” The encounter was fierce and obstinate. Both parties were accomplished swordsmen, but Boniface, having but the single purpose of defending himself, armed with the righteous cause, was more adroit; an overmatch for his opponent maddened with conflicting passions. He defended himself at all points, till at the sight of his wife kneeling, her eyes raised and her arms outreached in an agony of supplication, his arm wavered and he failed to quite to parry a blow which aimed at his hear, grazed his shoulder, so that the blood followed. “Enough! Enough!” cried Frederico, with a demonic howl, “you have poison in you for every drop of blood in your veins. You are welcome now to your husband!” he added to Imelda, driving his sword into its sheath. Her husband had already fallen fainting on the ground. “The work is done Alberti,” he concluded – “the day is breaking; we must be gone, or the city-guard on their last round will find us here.” He hastily disappeared. “Cowardice and cruelty, are fit companions,” muttered Alberti, slowly following. ___________ The accomplished historian of Italian Republics this finishes his notice (which we have somewhat amplified) of this tragedy. “The only mode of treatment which left any hope of curing the empoisoned wound, was sucking it while still bleeding. This, it is said, three years before Edward of England had been saved by the devoted Eleanor. Imelda undertook her sad ministry, and from the wound of her husband, she drew the poisoned blood which diffused through her own system the cause of sudden death. When her woman came to her they found her extended lifeless beside the dead body of the husband she had loved too well.” Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Imelda of Bologna Subject The topic of the resource Romance, Tragedy, Italy Description An account of the resource In the Italian city of Bologna, a tragedy unites Imelda with her family’s enemy, the lord Boniface. The two fall in love, but are plotted against by Imelda’s brothers. While Imelda and Boniface plan their escape from danger, Imelda’s brothers plan his death. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine M. Miss Catharine M. Sedgwick Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Columbian Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine [edited by John Inman and Robert A. West] (May 1846): 253-61. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1846 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Shawn Riggins Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Columbian Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine Catholicism Columbian Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine Death Faith Italy marriage religion Romance Tragedy https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/67539f2ee17e08003194b36700bcdf40.pdf?Expires=1781740800&Signature=h1Ot6C2vUqmyvKOugt28i-6i8j1JYo0GDvpOim3bAG0oPKPQGfbwtm7n66biB9kL0gUCTsoEtOe-iE4buxw58a8aU7%7E5JF7adNpC09yT7k6ZWNCWhNNAOkGvWQdyKNo%7EAChOnrDN6r5tw19CwMkDD-GXrZt%7EX6f2hPILZ0ZpXCW5o0CjMR748HJ4dzzv5ffimsxOsvBIrtb-oLtJ40q6NsFmEbZ16FhYiqX3pkX4GDYOmPMglXNWeRC7y0AYMm0L-BFLMtK6xwtVU4Ili7vQG8jPZ%7EvgyUWJ2FXTIKGo3OAoGHo37TwMy%7EJcPUKkRZZbbdsIci13jCXXTowTx9pkLQ__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 5d7506166e2a35732f0e2730ac8ffc79 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1838 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. THE WHITE SCARF. BY MISS SEDGWICK. “Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s. Thy God’s, and truth’s; then, if thou fall’st , O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr.” [1] THE reign of Charles the Sixth is one of the most humiliating periods of the French history, which, in its centuries of absolute kinds and unquestioning subjects, presents us a most melancholy picture of the degradation of man, and disheartening prolongation of the infancy of society. Nature had given Charles but an hereditary monarch’s portion of brains, and that portion had not been strengthened or developed by education or exercise of any sort. Passions he had not; he never rose to the dignity of passion; but his appetites were strong, [2] and they impelled him, unresisted, to every species of indulgence. His excesses brought on fits of madness, which exposed his kingdom to the rivalship and misrule of the princes of the blood. Fortunately for the subsequent integrity of France, these men were marked by the general, and as it would seem, constitutional weakness of transmitted royalty; and were besides too much addicted to pleasure, to crave political independence or renown in arms, the common passions of the powerful and high-born. Instead of sundering the feeble ties that bound them to their allegiance, and raising their princely domains to independence of the crown, they congregated in Paris, then, as now, the Paradise of the devotees to pleasure, and surrendered themselves, as their chroniclers quaintly express it, to “festins, mascarades, danses, caroles et ébattemens,” (every species of diversion,) varied by an occasional affray, an ambuscade, or an assassination. The talent, that is now employed upon the arts of life, in inventing new machines, and contriving new fabrics, was then exhausted in originating new pastimes. Games of cards, and the revival of dramatic entertainments, [3] date from this period,--the beginning of the fifteenth century. There shone at Charles’s court one of those stars, that occasionally cross the orbit of royalty, whose brilliancy obscured the splendor of the hereditary nobility,--the lights, that, according to conservative opinion, are set in the firmament to rule the day and night of the plebeian world. In the month of September, of the year 1409, a stranger, attended by a servant with a small travelling-sack, knocked at the gate of a magnificent hôtel in Paris. He was answered by a porter, who cast on him a glance of inquiry as keen as a bank clerk’s upon the face of an unknown bank-note; and, seeing neither retinue, livery, nor other insignia of rank, he was gruffly dismissing him, when the stranger said, “Softly, my friend; present this letter to the Grand-Master, and tell him the bearer awaits his pleasure! Throw the sack down within the gate, Luigi!” he added to his attendant, “and come again at twelve; “ and, without more ado, he took his station within the court, a movement in which the porter acquiesced, seeing that in the free bearing of the stranger, and in the flashing of [4] his dark eye, which indicated, it were wise not to question an authority that had nature’s seal. On one side of the court was fountain, and on the other a group of Fauns, rudely carved in wood. Adornings of sculpture were then unknown in France; -- the art was just reviving, and the ancient models still lay buried under barbaric ruins. Two grooms appeared, conducting, in front of the immense flight of steps that led up to the hôtel, four horses caparisoned for their riders, two for females, as was indicated by the form of the saddles, and the gay silk knots that decked the bridles, one of which was studded with precious stones. At the same moment, there issued from the grand entrance a gentleman, and a lady who had the comely embonpoint befitting her uncertain “certain age.” She called her companion “mon mari,” and he assisted her to mount, with that nonchalant, conjugal air, which indicated that gallantry had long been obsolete in their intercourse. The interest the wife did not excite, was directed to another quarter. Mon mari’s eye was constantly reverting to the door, with an expression of eager expectation. “Surely,” said the lady, “Violette has had time to find [5] my eau-de-rose; --let us go, my husband,-- we are losing the freshness of the morning. She may follow with Edouard.” “Go you, ma chère amie,” replied her husband. “Mount, Edouard, and attend your mistress, --my stirrup wants adjusting, -- I’ll follow presently. How slow she rides! A plague on old women’s fears!” he muttered, as she ambled off. “Ah, there you are, my morning star,” he cried, addressing a young girl who darted through the door and appeared well to warrant a comparison to the most beautiful of the celestial lights. She wore a Spanish riding-cap, a cloth dress, the waist neatly fitted to her person, and much in the fashion of the riding costume of the present day, save that it was shorter by some half-yard, and thus showed to advantage a rich Turkish pantalette and the prettiest feet in the world, laced in boots. “Is my lady gone?” she exclaimed, dropping her veil over her face. “Yes, Violette, your lady is gone, but your lord is waiting for my lady’s mignonne. Come, mistress of my heart! here is my hand for your stepping-stone.” He then threw his arm around her waist, under the pretext of [6] assisting her to mount; but she darted away like a butterfly from a pursuer’s grasp, and, snatching the rein from the groom’s hand, and saying, “My lord, I am country bred, and neither need nor like your gallantries,” she led the horse to the platform on which the Fauns were placed, and, for the first time seeing the stranger, who stood, partly obscured by them, looking curiously upon this little scene, she blushed, and he involuntarily bowed. It was an instinctive homage, and she requited it with a look as different from that which she returned to the libertine gaze of the Count de Roucy, as the reflection in a mirror of two such faces, the one bloated and inflamed, the other pure and deferential, would have been. Availing herself of the slight elevation of the platform, she sprang into her saddle and set off at a speed, that, in De Roucy’s eye, provokingly contrasted with her mistress’s cautious movement. “who are you, and what do you here?” he said, turning to the stranger. “My name,” replied the stranger, without condescending to notice the insolent manner of the question, “is Felice Montano, and I am here on business with the Grand-Master.” [7] “Did ye not exchange glances with that girl?” “I looked on her, and the Saints reward by her, she looked on me.” “Par amour?” “I stand not here to be questioned; -- I ne’er saw the lady before, but, with Heaven’s kind leave, I will see her again!” “Take care, -- the girl is my wife’s minion, the property of the house, --ye shall be watched!” muttered De Roucy, and, mounting his hourse, he rode off, just as the porter reappeared, attended by a valet-de-place, whose obsequious address indicated that a flattering reception awaited Montano. Montano was conducted up a long flight of steps, and through a corridor to an audience-room, whose walls were magnificently hung with tapestry, and its windows curtained with the richest Oriental silk. Silver vases, candelabra of solid gold, and various costly furniture, were displayed with dangerous profusion, offering a tempting spoil to the secret enemies of their proprietors. There were already many persons of rank assembled, and others entering. Montano stood apart, undaunted by their half insolent, [8] half curious glances. He had nothing to ask, and therefore feared nothing. He felt among these men, notorious for their ignorance and their merely animal lives, the conscious superiority of an enlightened man, that raised him far above the mere hereditary distinction, stigmatized by a proud plebian as the “accident of an accident.” Montano was an Italian, and proudly measured the eminence from which his instructed countrymen looked down upon their French neighbors. As he surveyed the insolent nobles, he marveled at the ascendency which Jean de Montagu, the Grand-Master of the Palace, had maintained over them for nearly half a century. The son of a humble notary of Paris, he had been ennobled by King John, had been the prime and trusted favorite of three successive monarchs, had maintained through all his capricious changes the favor of Charles, had allied his children to nobles and kings, had liberally expended riches, that the proudest of them all did not possess, had encouraged and defended the laboring classes, and was not known to have an enemy, save Burgundy, the fearful “Jean sans peur.” The suitors to the Grand-Master had as- [9] sembled early, as it was his custom to receive those who had pressing business before breakfast, it being his policy not to keep his suitors in vexing attendance. He knew his position even while it seemed firmest, to be an uncertain one; and he warily practiced those arts which smooth down the irritable surface of men’s passions, and lull to sleep the hydra, vanity. “The Grand-Master is as true as the dial!” said a person standing near Montano; “the clock is on the stroke of nine; -mark me! as it striketh the last stroke, he will appear.” Montano fixed his eyes on the grand entrance to the saloon, expecting, that, when the doors “wide open flew, “ he should see that Nature had put the stamp of her nobility on the plebeian who kept these lawless lords in abeyance. The portal remained closed, there was no flourish of trumpets, but, at a low side-door, gently opened and shut, entered a man low of stature, and so slender and shrunken, that it would seem Nature and time had combined to compress him within the narrowest limits of the human frame. His features were small, his chin beardless, and the few locks that hung, like silver fringe around [10] his head, were soft and curling as an infant’s. He wore a Persian silk dressing-gown over a citizen’s simple under-dress, and his tread was so soft, his manner so unpretending and unclaiming, that Montano would scarcely have looked at him a second time, if he had not perceived every eye directed towards him, and certain tokens of deference analogous to those flutterings and shrinkings that are seen in the basse cour, when its sovereign steps forth among his subdues and abject rivals. But, when he did look again, he saw the fire glowing in a restless eye, that seemed to see and read all at a glance,-- an eye that no man, carrying a secret in his bosom, could meet without quailing. “Your Grace believes,” said the Grand-Master to the Duke of Orleans, who had been vehemently addressing him in a low voice, “that these mysteries are a kind of divertisement that will minister to our sovereign’s returning health?” “So says the learned leech, and we all know they are the physic our brother loves.” “Then be assured, your poor servant will honor the drafts on his master’s treasury, thought it be well nigh drained by the revels [11] of the late marriages. The King’s poor subjects starve, that his rich ones may feast; and children scarce out of leading-strings are married, that their fathers and mothers may have pretexts for dances and masquerades.” “Methinks,” said the Count de Vaudemont, the ally and messenger of Burgundy, “the Grand-Master’s example is broad enough to shelter what seems, in comparison of the late gorgeous festival within these walls, but the revels of rustics.” “The festivals within these walls are paid with coin from our own poor coffers,” replied the Grand-Master, “not drawn from the King’s treasury, after being coined from the sweat and tears of his subjects. But what have we here?” He passed his eye over a petition to the King, from sundry artisans, whose houses had been stripped of their movables by the valets of certain Dukes,-- these valets pleading the common usage in justification of this summary process. “Tell our good friends,” he said, “it shall be my first business to present this to our gracious sovereign; but in the mean time, let them draw on me for the amount of their loss. I can better afford the creditor’s patient waiting than our [12] poor friends, who, after their day’s hard toil, should lie securely on their own beds at night. Ah, my lords, why do ye not, like our neighbors of England, make the poor man’s cottage his castle.” After various colloquies with the different groups, in which, whether he denied or granted, it was always with the same gracious manner, the same air of self-negation, he drew near to De Vaudemont, who stood apart from the rest, with an air of frigid indifference, and apparent unconsciousness of the Grand-Master’s presence or approach, till Montagu asked, in a low and deferential tone, “What answer sendeth his Grace of B-b-b-b-b--?” Montague had a stammering infirmity, which beset him when he was most anxious to appear unconcerned. He lowered his voice at every fresh effort to pronounce the name, and this confidential tone gave a more startling effect to the loud, rough voice, in which the party addressed pronounced, “Burgundy! his Grace bids me say, that for some diseases blood-letting is the only remedy.” “Tell Burgundy,” replied the Grand-Master, now speaking without the slightest faltering, an in allusion to the recent alliance of his own with the royal family, “tell Burgundy, [13] that the humblest stream that mingles with the Ganges becomes a portion of holy water, and that blood-letting is dangerous when ye approach the royal arteries! Ah!” he continued, turning suddenly to Montano, grasping his hand, and resuming his usual tone, “You, I think, are the son of Nicoló Montano, -- welcome to Paris! You must stay to breakfast with me. I have much to ask concerning my old friend. It is one and twenty years since your mother put my finger in your mouth to feel your first tooth. Bless me, what goodly rows are there now! So time passes!” “And where it were once safe to thrust your finger, it might now be bitten off. Ha! Jean de Montagu?” growled Vaudemont. “ When there are wolves abroad, we keep our fingers to ourselves,” replied Montagu. These discourteous sallies and significant retorts were afterwards remembered, as are the preludes to an earthquake after the catastrophe has interpreted them. The assembly broke up, Montagu bidding his young friend to take a stroll in the garden, and rejoin him at the ringing of the breakfast bell. When that sounded, a valet appeared and [14] conducted Montano to a breakfast room, where game, cakes, and fruit were served on plate, and the richest wine sparkled in cups that old Homer might fain have gemmed with his consecrating verse. “I had forgotten,” said Montagu, “that a boy of two and twenty needs no whetting to his appetite; but sit ye down, and we will dull its edge. Ah, here you are De Roucy. We have a guest to season our fare this morning, the son of my old schoolmate, Nicoló Montano.” De Roucy bowed haughtily, and Montano returned the salutation as it was given. “Why comes not Elinor to breakfast?” asked Montagu of the Count de Roucy, who was the husband of his eldest daughter. “She likes not strangers.” “God forgive her! Felice Montano is no stranger;-- the son of her father’s first and best friend, --of the playfellow of his boyhood, -- of the founder of his fortunes, a stranger!” “I thought you had woven your own fortunes, Sir.” “So have I, and interwoven with them some rotten threads. Think not, De Roucy, I do not notice, or that, noticing, I care for your [15] allusion to my father’s craft. Come hither, Pierre.” De Roucy’s son, a boy of seven, came and stood at his knee. “When you are a grown man, Pierre, remember, that when your father’s fathers were burning cottages, bearing off poor men’s daughters, slaughtering their cattle, and trampling down their harvest-fields, -- doing the work of hereditary lordlings, --my child, your mother’s ancestor’s were employed in planting mulberries, rearing silkworms, multiplying looms—in making bread and wine plenty, and adding to the number of happy homes in their country. “But, grandpapa, I wont remember the wicked ones that stole and did such horrid deeds!” “Ah, Pierre, you will be a lord then, and learn in lordly phrase to call stealing levying. Go, boy, and eat your breakfast; -- God forgive me ! I have worked hard to get my posterity into the ranks of robbers !” At another moment, Montano would have listened with infinite interest to all these hints, as so many clues to the history and mind of a man who was the wonder of his times; but now something more captivating to the imagi- [16] nation of two and twenty, than the philosophy of any old man’s history, occupied him, and he was wondering, why no inquiry was made about the companion of the Countess, and whether that creature, who seemed to him only fit to be classed with the divinities, was really a menial in the house of this weaver’s son. “Your father,” resumed the Grand-Master, “writes with a plainness that pleases me. I thank him. It shall not be my fault, if every window in my sovereign’s palace is not curtained with the silks from his looms; and, if it were not that my son’s espousals have drained my purse, I would give you the order on the instant for the re-furnishing of my hôtel. But another season will come, and then we shall be in heart again. Your father does not write in courtly vein. He says, that, amid his quiet and obedient subjects, who toil and spin for him while he sleeps, he envies not my uncertain influence over a maniac monarch, and dominion over factious nobles. Uncertain, -- St. Peter ! What think ye, De Roucy? May not a man who has allied one daughter to your noble house, another to the Sire de Montbaron, and another to Meun, and now [17] has affianced his only son to the Constable d’Albret, doubly cousin to the King, may not he throw his glove in dame Fortune’s face?” “Yes, my lord, and dame Fortune may throw it back again. He only betrays his weakness, who props himself on every side.” “Weakness ! I have not an enemy save Burgundy.” “And he who has Burgundy needs none other.” “You are bilious this morning, De Roucy. But come, wherewith shall we entertain our young friend? We have no pictures, no statues. Our gardens are a wilderness to your paradises; but I have one piece of workmanship, that I think would even startle the masters of your land.” He called the servant in waiting, and whispered an order to him. In a few moments the door re-opened and a young girl appeared, bearing a silver basket of grapes. Her hair was golden, and, parted in front and confined on her temples with a silver thread, fell over her shoulders, a mass of curls. Her head was gracefully bent over the basket she carried, showing, in its most beautiful position, a swan-like neck. Her features were all symmetrical [18] and her mouth had that perfection of outline, that art can imitate, and that flexibility, obedient to every motion of the soul, in which Nature is inimitable. Her dress was of rich materials, cut in the form prescribed to her rank. The mistresses were fond of illustrating their own generosity, or outdoing their rivals, by the rich liveries of their train, while they jealously maintained every badge of the gradation of rank. Her dress was much in the fashion of a Swiss peasant girl of the present times. Her petticoat, of a fine light-blue cloth, was full and short, exposing a foot and ancle, that a queen might have envied her the power to show, and which she, however, modestly sheltered, with the rich silver fringe that bordered her skirt. Her white silk boddice was laced with a silver cord, and her short, full sleeves were looped with cords and tassels of the same material. “Can ye match this girl in Italy?” whispered the old man to Montano. “In Italy! nay, my lord, not in the world is there such another model of perfection!” replied Montano, who, changed as she was, by doffing her demi-cavalier dress, had, at a glance, recognized his acquaintance of the morning. [19] “Thank you! Violette,” said Montagu, “are these grapes from your own bower?” “They are, my lord.” “Then they must needs be sweeter than old Roland’s, for they have been ripened by your bright eyes and sunny smiles.” “Ah, but grandfather,” interposed little Pierre, “Violette did not say that, when I asked her for her grapes. She said, they would only taste good to her father, for whom she reared them, and that I should love Roland’s better.” “And why did you not thus answer me, Violette ?” “You asked for them, my lord, --the master’s request is law to the servant.” “God forgive me, if I be such a master ! Take away the grapes, Violette, and send them, with what else ye will from the refectory, to the forester. Nay, -- no thanks, my pretty child, or, if you will, for all thanks let me kiss your cheek.” Violette stopped and offered her beautiful cheek, suffused with blushes, to Montagu’s lips. “The old have marvelous privileges !” muttered De Roucy. The same thought was expressed in Montano’s glance, when his eye, [20] as Violette turned, encountered hers. She involuntarily curtsied, as she recognized the gallant of the court. “A very suitable greeting for a stranger, Violette,” said the Grand-Master ; “but this youth must have a kinder welcome from my household. It is Felice Montano, -- my friend’s son, -- give him a fitting welcome, my child.” “Nobles and princes,” she replied, in a voice that set her words to music, “have welcomes for your friends, my lord ; but such as a poor rustic can offer, she gives with all her heart.” She took from her basket of grapes a half-blown rose. “Will ye take this, Signor?” she said, “ it offers ye Nature’s sweet welcome.” Montano kissed the rose, and placed it in his bosom, as devoutly as if it had dropped from the hand of his patron saint. He then opened the small sack which his attendant had brought to the hôtel, and which, at his request, had been laid on a side-table. It contained specimens of the most beautiful silks manufactured in his father’s filature in Lombardy, unrivaled in Italy. While these were spread out and displayed, to the admiration of the Grand-Master, he took from [21] among them, a white silk scarf, embroidered in silver with lilies of the valley, and throwing it over Violette’s shoulders, he asked, if she “would grace and reward their arts of industry by wearing it ?” “If it were fitting, Signor, one to whom it is prescribed what bravery to wear, and how to ear it,” she replied, looking timidly and doubtfully at the Grand-Master. “It is not fitting,” interposed De Roucy. “And pray ye, Sir, why not?” asked Montagu; “we do not here allow, that gauds are for those alone who are born to them; -- beneath our roof-tree, the winner is the wearer; -- keep it, my pretty Violette, it well becomes thee.” Violette dropped on her knee, kissed the Grand-Master’s hand, and casting a look at Montano, worth, in his estimation, all the words of thanks in the French language, she disappeared. _______ Montagu insisted, that during the time his young friend’s negotiations with the silk vendors of Paris detained him there, he should remain an inmate of his family; and nothing loath was Montano to accept a hospitality, [22] which afforded him facilities for every day seeing Violette. His affairs were protracted; day after day he found some plausible pretext, if pretext he had needed, for delaying his departure; but, by his intelligence, his various information, and his engaging qualities, he had made such rapid advances in Montagu’s favor, that he rather wanted potent reasons to reconcile him to their parting. If such had been the progress of their friendship, we need not be surprised, that one little month sufficed to mature a more tender sentiment, a sentiment, that, in the young bosoms of southern climes, ripens and perfects itself with the rapidity of the delicious fruits of a tropical sun. Daily and almost hourly, Violette and Montano were together in bower and hall. Set aside by their rank from an equal association with the visiters of the Grand-Master, they enjoyed a complete immunity from any open interference with their happiness; but Violette was persecuted with secret gallantries from De Roucy, that had become more abhorrent to her since her affections were consecrated to Montano. At the end of the month, their love was confessed and plighted; -- the Grand-Master had given his assent to [23] their affiancing, and the Countess de Roucy had yielded hers, glad to be relieved from a favorite, whom she had begun to fear as a rival. The eighth of October was appointed for their nuptials. “To-morrow morning, Violette,” said Montagu to her on the evening of the sixth, “ye shall go and ask your father’s leave and blessing, and bid him to the wedding. Tell him, “ he added, casting a side-glance towards De Roucy, who stood at a little distance, eyeing the young pair “with jealous leer malign,” “that I shall envy him his son-in-law; --nay, tell him not that, I will not envy any man aught ; my course has been one of prosperity and possession, -- I have numbered threescore and fifteen years, -- I am now in sight of the farther shore of life, and no man can interrupt my peaceful passage to it!” “Let no man count on that from which one hour of life divides him !” cried De Roucy, starting from his fixed posture, and striding up and down the saloon. His words afterwards recurred to all that then heard him, as a prophecy. Montano asked, for his morning’s ride, and escort of six armed men. “I have travelled,” [24] he said to the Grand-Master, “over your kingdom with no defence but my own good weapon, and with gold enough to tempt some even of your haughty lords to violence; but, till now, I never felt fear, or used caution.” “Because till now,” replied Montagu, “your heart was not bound up in the treasure you exposed. That spirit is not human, that is not susceptible of fear.” The escort was kindly provided, and, by Montagu’s order, furnished with baskets of fruit, wine, and &c., to aid the extempore hospitalities of Violette’s cottage-home. Before the sun had nearly reached the meridian, she was within sight of that dear home, on the borders of the Seine; and her eyes filled with tears, as, pointing out to Montano each familiar object, she thought how soon she was to be far separated from these haunts of her childhood. It was a scene of sylvan beauty and rustic abundance. Stacks of corn and hay, protected from the weather, not only witnessed the productiveness of the well-cultured farm, but seemed to enjoy the security, with which they were permitted to lie on the lap of their mother earth, -- a rare security in those times of rapine, when the lazy nobles [25] might, at pleasure and with impunity, snatch from the laborers the fruit of their toil. The cows were straggling in their sunny pasture, the sheep feeding on the hill-side, the domestic birds gossiping in the poultry-yard, and the oxen turning up, for the next summer’s harvest, the rich soil of fields whose product the proprietor might hope to reap, as he enjoyed, through the favor of the Grand-Master, the benefit of the act called an exemption de prise. Barante, Violette’s father, was lying on an oaken settle, that stood under an old pear tree, laden with fruit, at his door. Two boys, in the perfection of boyhood, were eating their lunch and gamboling on the grass with a little sturdy house dog; while an old, blind grandmother, who sat within the door, was the first to catch the sound of the trampling of the horses’ hoofs. “Look, Henri, who is coming,” she said. The dog and the boys started forth from the little court, and directly there was a welcoming bark, and shouts of, “It’s Violette ! it’s our dear sister !” Amidst this shouting and noisy joy, Violette made her way to her father’s arms, and the fond embrace of the old woman. “And whom shall I bid welcome, Vio- [26] lette ?” asked Barante, offering his hand to Montano. “Signor Felice Montano,” answered Violette, her eyes cast down, and her cheek burning, as if, by pronouncing the name, she told all she had to tell. “Welcome here, Sir,” resumed Barante; “ye have come, doubtless, to see how poor folk live ?” and the good man looked round on his little domain with a very proud humility. “Oh no, dear father; he came not for that.” “What did he come for, then, sister?” asked little Hugh. “I came not to see how you live, “ said Montano, “but to beg from you wherewith to live myself,” and taking Barante aside, he unfolded his errand. “Come close to grandmother, Violette,” said Henri, “and let her feel your russet gown. I am glad you come not home in your bravery, for then you would not seem like our own sister.” “And yet,” said the old woman, with a little of that womanish feeling, that clings to the sex, of all conditions and ages, “I think [27] none would become it better; -- but, dear me, Lettie, how you’ve grown ! I can hardly reach to the top of your head.” “Not a hair’s breadth have I grown, grandmother, since I saw you last; but now do I seem more natural?” and she knelt down before the old woman. “Yes, -- yes, -- now you are my own little Lettie again, -- your head just above my knee. How time flies ! it seems but yesterday, when your mother was no higher than this, and its five years, come next All-Saints-Day, since we laid her in the cold earth. But why have you bound up your pretty curls in this net-work, Lettie?” Henri playfully snatched the silver net from her head, and her golden curls fell over her shoulders. The old woman stroked, and fondly kissed them, and then passed her shriveled fingers over Violette’s face, seeming to measure each feature. “Oh, if I could but once more see those eyes, -- I remember so well their color, -- just like the violet that is dyed deepest with the sunbeams, -- and that was why we called you Violette ; but, when they turned from the light, and glanced up through your long, dark, eyelashes, they looked black ; [28] so many a foolish one disputed me the color, as if I should not know, that had watched them by all lights, since they first opened on this world.” “Dear grandmother, I am kneeling for your blessing, and you are filling my head with foolish thoughts.” “And there is another, who would fain have your blessing, good mother,” said Montano, whose hand Barante had just joined to Violette’s. “What? – a stranger ! – who is this?” “One, good mother, who craves a boon, which if granted, he desires nought else; if denied, all else would be bootless to him.” “What means he, Violette?” “Nothing, -- and yet much, grandmother,” replied Violette, with a smile and a blush, that would, could the old woman have seen them, have interpreted Montano’s words. “Ah, a young spark!” she said. “It is ever so with them, -- their cup foameth and sparkleth, and yet there is nothing in it.” “But there is much in it this time,” interposed Barante; and, a little impatient of the periphrasing style of the young people, he proceeded to state, in direct terms, the char- [29] acter and purpose of his visiter, and said, in conclusion, “I have given my consent and blessing; for you know, mother, we can’t keep our Lettie, -- we bring up our children for others, not for ourselves, and, when their time comes, they will, for it’s God’s law, cleave their father’s house and cleave unto a stranger.” “But why, dear Lettie,” asked the old woman, “do ye not wed among your own people? why go among barbarians ?” “Barbarians !” dear grandmother, --if ye knew all that I have learned of his people, from Felice Montano, ye would think we were the barbarians, instead of they. Why, grandmother, Felice can both read and write like a priest, while our great lords can only make their mark. And so much do these Italians know of what the learned call the arts and sciences, (I know not the meaning of the words, but Felice has promised to explain them to me, when we can talk of such things, that our people call them sorcerers.” “Ah, well-a-day ! I thought how it would be, when the Lady Elinor took such a fancy to your bonnie face, and begged you away from us. But why cannot ye content yourself at the Grand-Master’s ?” [30] “Oh, ask me not to stay there. He is kind as my father, and so is the Lady Elinor; but,” added Violette in a whisper, “her husband is a bold, bad, man; he hath said to me what it maketh me blush to recall.” “Why need ye fear him, Violette.” “If all be true that men whisper of him, he dares do whate’er the Evil One bids him. They say he was at the bottom of the horrid affair at the Hôtel de St. Paul, and that, at Mans, he it was, that directed the mad King against the Chevalier de Polignac.” * [1] [31] “But surely, dear child, the Grand-Master can protect ye.” “Now he can, -- but we know not how long his power may last. They say that he is far out of favor with Burgundy, and none standeth [32] long, on whom he frowneth. Indeed, indeed, dear grandmother, it is better your child should fly away to a safe shelter.” “Ye have given me many reasons; but that ye love, is always enough for you young ones. Well, -- God speed ye, -- ye must have your day; kneel down, both, and take an old woman’s blessing, it may do ye good, -- it can do ye no harm !” This ceremony over, the boys, who heard they were bidden to the wedding, and who thought not of the parting, not any thing beyond it, were clamorous in their expressions of joy. Their father sent them, with some refection, to the men, who, at his bidding, had conducted their horses to a little paddock in the rear of his cottage, where they were refreshing them from his stores of provender. The day was passing happily away. Never had Violette appeared so lovely in Montano’s eyes, as in the atmosphere of home, were every look and action was tinged by a holy light that radiated from the heart. Time passed as he always does when he “only treads on flowers,” and the declining sun admonished them to prepare for their departure. “But first,” said Barante, “let us taste to- [33] gether our dear patron’s bounty. Unpack that hamper, boys, and you, dear Violette, serve us as you were wont.” Violette donned her little home-apron of white muslin, tied with sarsnet bows, and, spreading a cloth on the ground under the pear tree, she and the boys arranged the wine, fruit, and various confections from the basket. “It’s all sugar, Hugh!” said Henri, touching his tongue to the tip of a bird’s wing. “And this is sugar, too! replied Hugh, testing in the same mode a bunch of mimic cherries. The French artistes already excelled all others in every department of the confectionary art, and to our little rustics their work seemed miraculous. “Hark ye, Hugh!” said his brother; “I believe St. Francis dropped these from his pocket, as he flew over.” “Come, loiterers!” cried his father, “while you are gazing, we would be eating. Ah, that is right, Signor Montano! Is it the last time, my pretty Violette?” to Violette and Montano, who were leading the old woman from her chair to the oaken settle. “Come, sit by me, my child. Now we are all seated, we will fill the cup, and drink ‘Many happy years to Jean de Montagu!’” [34] As if to mark the futility of the wish, the progress of the cup to the lip was interrupted by and ominous sound; and forth from the thick barrier of shrubbery, that fenced the northern side of the cottage, came twelve men, armed and masked. “De Roucy! God help us!” shrieked Violette. “Seize her instantly, and off with her, as I bade ye!” cried a voice, that Montano recognized as the Count de Roucy’s. “Touch her at your peril, villain!” cried Montano, drawing his sword and shouting for his attendants. Montano and Barante, the latter armed only with a club, kept their assailants at bay till his men appeared, and they, inspired by their master’s example and adjurations, fought valiantly; but one, and then another of their number fell, and the ruffians were two to one against Violette’s defenders. The rampart they had formed around her was diminishing. “Courage, my boys, courage!” cried Barante, as he shot a glance at his children, crouching round his old mother, motionless as panic-struck birds. “Courage! God and the Saints are on our side!” “Beat them back, my men!” shouted [35] Montano. “Jean de Montagu will reward ye!” “”Jean de Montagu!” retorted De Roucy, “his bones are cracking on the rack! Ah! I’m wounded! –‘t is but a scratch! – seize her, Le Croy! – press on, my men! –the prize is ours!” But they, seeing their leader fall back, for an instant faltered. A thought, as if from Heaven, inspired Montano. De Roucy, to avoid giving warning of his approach, had left his horses on the outer side of the wood. Montano’s attendants had, just before the onset of De Roucy’s party, saddled their master’s horse and led him to the gate of the court; there he was now standing, and the passage from Violette to him unobstructed. Once on him and started, thought Montano, she may escape. “Mount my horse, Violette,” he cried, “fear nothing, --we will keep them back,--Heaven guard you!” Violette shot from the circle, like an arrow loosed from the bow, unfastened the horse, and sprang upon him. He had been chafing and stamping, excited by the din of arms, and impatient of his position; and, as she leaped into the saddle, he sprang forward like a released captive. Vio- [36] lette heard the yell of the ruffians mingling with the victorious shouts of her defenders. Once her eye caught the flash of their arms; but whether they were retreating or still stationary, she knew not. She had no distinct perception, no consciousness, but an intense desire to get on faster than even her flying steed conveyed here. There were few persons on the road, though passing through the immediate vicinity of a great city. Many of those, who cultivated the environs of Paris, had their dwellings, for greater security, within the walls; and, their working-day being over, they had already retired within them.* [2] From a hostelrie, where a party of cavaliers were revelling, there were opposing shouts of “Stop!” and “God speed ye!” and, of the straggling peasants returning from market, some crossed themselves, fancying this aerial figure, with colorless face and golden hair streaming to the breeze, was [37] some demon in angelic form; and others knelt and murmured a prayer, believing it was indeed an angel. She had just made a turn in the road, which brought her within sight of Notre Dame and the gates of Paris, when she heard the trampling of horses coming rapidly on behind her. Her horse too heard the sound, and, as if conscious of his sacred trust and duty, redoubled his speed. The sounds approached nearer and nearer, and now were lost in the triumphing shouts of her pursuers. Violette’s head became giddy; a sickening despair quivered through her frame. “We have her now!” cried the foremost, and stretched his hand to grasp her rein. The action gave a fresh impulse to her horse. He was within a few yards of the barriers. He sprang forward, and in an instant was within the gates. “We are baulked!” cried the leader of the pursuit, reining in his horse; and, pouring out a volley of oaths, he ordered his men to retreat, saying, it was more than the head of a follower of De Roucy was worth, to venture within the barriers. As the sounds of the retiring party died away, Violette’s horse slackened his speed, and was arrested by the captain of the guard, who had [33] just begun the patrol for the night. To his questions Violette replied not a word. Her consciousness was gone, and, exhausted and fainting, she slid from the saddle into his arms. Fortunately he was a humane man; he was touched with her innocent and lovely face; and, not knowing to what other place of shelter and security to convey her, he procured a little, and carried her to his own humble home, where he consigned her to the care of his good wife, Susanne. There being then little provision for the security of private property and individual rights, Montano’s horse was classed among those strays, that, in default of an owner, escheated to the King, and was sent, by the guard, to the King’s stables; and thus all clue to Montano was lost. As soon as Violette recovered her consciousness, her first desire was to get news of those whom she had left in extremest peril; and, as the readiest means of effecting this, entreated the compassionate woman, who was watching at her bedside, to send her to the Grand-Master. “The Grand-Master!” replied the good dame; “Mary defend us ! what would ye with him?” [39] Violette, in feeble accents, explained her relations with him, and her hope, through him, to obtain news of her friends. Susanne answered her with mysterious intimations, which implied, not only that he, whom she deemed her powerful protector, could do nothing for her, but that it was not even safe to mention his name; and then, after promising her that a messenger should be despatched, in the morning, to her father’s cottage, she administered the common admonitions and consolations, that seem so very wise and sufficient to the bestower, --are so futile to the receiver. “She must hope for the best; “ – “she must cast aside her cares;” – “sleep would tranquilize her;” – “brighter hours might come with the morning; but, if they came not, she might live to see what seemed worst now, to be best, and, at any rate, grieving would not help her.” Thus it has been from the time of Job’s comforters to the present; words have been spoken to the wretched, as impotent as the effort of the child, who, stretching his arm against a torrent, expects to hold it back! But, to do dame Susanne justice, she acted as well as spoke; and the next morning a messen- [40] ger was sent, and returned in due time with news, which no art cold soften to Violette. Her father’s cottage was burned to the ground, and all about it laid waste. Some peasants reported, that they had seen the flames during the night, and men, armed and mounted, conveying off whatever was portable, and driving before them Barante’s live stock. What had become of the poor man, his children, and old mother, no one knew; but there were certain relics among the ashes, which too surely indicated, they had not all escaped. Poor Violette had strength neither of body nor mind left, to sustain her under such intelligence. She was thrown into a delirious fever, during which she raved continually about her murdered family and Montano, who was never absent from her thoughts. But, whatever an individual sufferer might feel, such scenes of marauding and violence were too common to excite surprise. “Barante,” it was said, “had but met at last the fate of all those, who were fools enough to labor and heap up riches, for the idle and powerful to covet and enjoy.” This feeling was natural and just in the laboring classes, when the valets of princes were legalized robbers, and were permitted, [41] whenever their masters’ idle followers were to be accommodated, not only to slay the working man’s beeves, and appropriate the produce of his fields, but to enter his house and sweep off the blankets that covered him, and the pillows on which his children were sleeping. Those, who fancy the world has made no moral progress, should read carefully the history of past ages, and compare the condition of the laborers then, like so many defenceless sheep on the borders of a forest filled with beasts of prey, to the security and independence of our working sovereigns. They would find, that the jurisdiction of that celebrated judge, who unites in his own person the threefold power of judge, jury, and executioner, was then exercised by the armed and powerful; that it was universal and unquestioned, whereas now, if he ventures his summary application of Lynch law, his abuses are bruited from Maine to Georgia, and men shake their heads and sigh over the deterioration of the world, and the licentiousness of liberty! On the ninth day of her illness, while Susanne was standing by Violette, she awoke from her first long sleep. Her countenance was changed, her flaming color was gone, [42] and her eye was quiet. She feebly raised her head, and bursting into tears, said, “Oh, why did you not wake me sooner ?” “Why should I wake you, dear?” “Why! do you not hear that dreadful bell?” The great bell of Notre Dame was tolling. “They will be buried,--the boys and all, --all, --before I get there!” “Dieu-merci, child, your people are not going to the burial; -- that bell tolls not for such as yours and mine. We are thrown into the earth, and Notre Dame wags not her proud tongue for us.” “Ah, true, --true.” She pressed her hand on her head, as if collecting her thoughts; and then, looking up timidly and shrinking from the answer, she said, “Ye ‘ve heard nothing of them?” “Nothing as yet; but you are better, and that’s a token we shall hear. Now rest again. It is a noisy day. All the world is abroad. It’s the nobles’ concern, not ours; so I pray ye sleep again, and, whatever ye hear, lift not your head; there be throngs of bad men in the street, and where such are, there may be ugly sights. I will go below, and keep what quiet I can for ye.” [43] Susanne’s dwelling was old and ricketty. The apartment under that, which Violette occupied, was a little shop, where dame Susanne vended cakes, candies, and common toys. Violette could hear every sentence spoken there in a ordinary tone; but, owing to Susanne’s well-meant efforts, her ear caught only imperfect sentences, such as follow. “Good day, Mistress Susanne ! will you lend me a lookout from your window to see the -----” “Hush!” “There are Burgundy’s men first; ye’ ll know them, boy, by the cross of St. Andrew on their bonnets; and there are the Armangacs, -- see their scarfs!” “Speak lower, please neighbour!” “It’s well for them they have provided against a rescue; -- the bourgeois are all for him, -- every poor man’s heart is for him; for why? he was for every poor man’s right; God reward him.” “Pray speak a little lower, neighbour.” “But is it not a shame, dame Susanne? [44] But ten days ago and all, save Burgundy, were his friends, and now-----” “There he is, mother ! see ! see!” “They stop ! Oh, mother, see him show his broken joints ! Mother ! mother ! how his head hangs on one side ? Curse on the rack, that cracked his bones asunder ! ” “Hush ! I bid ye hush !” “Who can that goodly youth be, that stands close by his side ? See, he is speaking to him !” “Oh, he looks like and angel,-- so full of pity, mother!” “By St. Dominic, neighbour, the boy is right!” “Oh, mother, what eyes he has ; -- now he is looking up, --see!” “Hush!” “But look at them, dame Susanne,-- would ye not think the lamp of his soul was shining through them?” “See him kiss the poor, broken hand, that hangs down so! God bless him! There’s true courage in that; and see those same lips, how they curl in scorn, as he turns towards those fierce wretches! He is some stranger-youth. Whence is he, think ye, Susanne?” [45] “I think by the cut of his neck-cloth, and the fashion of his head-gear,” replied Susanne, who for a moment forgot her caution, “he comes from Italy.” The word was talismanic to Violette. She sprang from her bed to a window, and the first object she saw amidst a crowd was Montano; the second, her protector and friend, Jean de Montagu, the Grand-Master. He was stretched on a hurdle, for the torments of the rack had left him unable to sustain an upright position. Violette’s eye was riveted to the mutilated form of her good old master. Her soul seemed resolved into one deep supplication; but not one word expressed its intense emotions, so far did they “transcend the imperfect offices of prayer.” Not one treacherous glance wandered to her lover, till the procession moved; and then the thought, that she was losing her last opportunity of being re-united to him, turned the current of feeling, and suggested an expedient, which she immediately put into execution. She had taken her white scarf, in her pocket, to the cottage, to show it to her father; and through her delirium she had persisted in keeping it by her. She now hung it in the window, in [46] the hope, that, fluttering in the breeze, it might attract Montano’s eye. She watched him, but his attention was too fixed to be diverted by anything, certainly not by a device so girlish. The procession moved on. The hurdle, and the stately figure beside it, were passing from her view. She threw the casement open, and leaned out. The scaffold, erected at the end of the street, struck her sight. She shrieked, fainted, and fell upon the floor. That one moment gave the color to her after-life. She had been seen, and marked, -- and was remembered. ---------- The Duke of Burgundy had taken advantage of a moment, when Charles was but partially recovered from a fit of insanity, to compass the Grand-Master’s ruin. The nobles had wept at Montagu’s execution, but they had been consoled by the rich spoils of his estate. There was no such balm for the sovereign; and it became a matter of policy to get up some dramatic novelty to divert his mind, and prevent a recurrence to the past, which might prove dangerous, even to Burgundy. Accordingly, a new mystery was [47] put in train for presentation, and one month after the last act of Montagu’s tragedy, and while his dishonored body was still attached to the gibbet of Montfaucon, the gay world of Paris assembled, to witness the representation of a legend of a certain saint, called “The Espousals of St. Thérèse.” The seat over which the regal canopy was suspended, corresponded to our stage-box, and afforded an access to the stage, that royalty might use at pleasure. The King was surrounded by his own family. His wandering eye, his vacant laugh, and incessant talking, betrayed the still disordered state of his mind; for when sane, amidst a total destitution of talents and virtues, he had a certain affability of manner, and the polish of conventional life, which, as his historian says, acquired for him the “ridiculous title of ‘well-beloved.’” On Charles’s right sat his Queen, Isabel of Bavaria, a woman remarkable for nothing but excessive obesity, the gluttony that produced it, and the indolence consequent upon it, -- and a single passion, avarice. And sovereigns, such as these, are, in some men’s estimation, rulers by “divine right”! Behind the Queen, a place was left vacant for the Duke of Or- [48] leans, who, in consequence of a marvelous escape from death during a thunder-storm, when his horses had plunged into the Seine, had vowed to pay his creditors, and had, on that very day, bidden them to a dinner, at which he had promised the dessert should be a satisfaction of their debts. “So soon from your dinner, my lord” said his Duchess to him as he entered, with and expression of face, which indicated a fear that all had not gone as she wished. “Yes. A short horse is soon curried.” “What? Came they not? Surely of the eight hundred bidden, there were many who would not do you such a discredit, as to believe your virtue exhaled with the shower?” “Ah, their faith was sufficient,-- they came, every mother’s son of them, butchers, bakers, fruiterers, and all.” “And you sent them away happy?” “Yes, with one of the beatitudes; -- blessed are those who have nothing! I charged my valets to turn them back from my gate, and to tell them, if they came again, they should be beaten off!” There was a general laugh through the royal box. The Duchess of Orleans alone [49] turned away with an expression of deep mortification. Valentine Visconti, daughter of the Duke of Milan and Duchess of Orleans, was one of the most celebrated women of her time. Her lovely figure might have served for a model of one of the chef-d’oeuvres of her classic land. As she sat by the gross Queen, she inspired the idea of what humanity might become, when invested with the “glorified body” of the Saints. Her soul beamed with preternatural lustre from her eyes, and spoke in the musical accents of her beautiful lips. Her gentleness and sympathy, more than the intellectual power and accomplishments, that signalized her amidst a brutified and ignorant race, gave her an ascendancy over the mad King, which afforded some color to the wicked imaginations of those, who, in the end, accused her of sorcery! –an accusation very common against the Italians of that period, whose superior civilization and science were attributed to the diabolical arts of magic. The secret of Valentine’s power over the maniac King has been discovered and illustrated by modern benevolence. She could lead him like a little child, when, for months, he would not consent to be washed or dressed, [50] and when these offices were performed at night by ten men, masked, lest, when their sovereign recovered all the reason he ever possessed, he should cause them to be hung for this act of necessary violence! The spectators, while awaiting the rising of the curtain, were exchanging the usual observations and salutations. “Valentine,” whispered the beautiful young wife of the old Duke of Berri, “did not that man, --mon Dieu, how beautiful he is! – who stands near the musicians, kiss his hand to you?” “Yes, --he is my countryman.” “I thought so; --he looks as if the blood of all your proud old nobles ran in his veins; --the Confalonieris, Sforzas, Viscontis, and Heaven knows who.” “He has a loftier nobility than theirs, cousin; his charter is direct from Heaven, and written by the finger of Heaven on that noble countenance. As to this world’s honors, he boasts none but such as the son of a rich and skilful weaver of silks may claim.” “Mon Dieu! Is it possible; he is a counterfeit, that well might pass in any King’s exchequer. But he looks sad and abstracted, and, seeing, seemeth as though he saw not. Know ye, cousin, what aileth him?” [51] “Yes, but it is a long tale; the lady of his thoughts has strangely disappeared, and, though for more than a month he has sought her, day and night, he hath, as yet, no trace of her. He has come hither ton-night at my bidding, for I deeply pity the poor youth, and would fain divert his mind; -- but soft, --the curtain is rising!” “Pray tell me what means this scene, Valentine?” “It is the interior of a chapel. You know the legend of St. Thérèse?” “Indeed I do not. I cannot read, and my confessor never told me.” “She was betrothed to one she loved. The preparations were made for the espousals, when, on the night before her marriage, she saw, in vision, St. Francis, who bade her renounce her lover, and told her, that she was the elected bride of Heaven; that she must repair to the convent of the Sisters of Charity, and there resign the world, and abjure its sinful passions. You now see her obedient to the miraculous visitation. She has concluded her novitiate. One weakness she has as yet indulged. She has secretly retained the last gift of her betrothed. Hark! there [52] you hear the vesper-bell. She is coming to deposite it at that shrine yonder.” A female now entered, closely veiled and clad in a full, grey stuff dress, that concealed every line of her person. She held something in her hands, which were folded on her bosom, and walking, with faltering steps, across the stage to the shrine, knelt and made the accustomed signs of prayer. She then rose, and raising the little roll to her lips, kissed it fervently, and then, as if asking pardon for this involuntary weakness, again dropped on her knees, and depositing the roll, withdrew. It would seem, she had entered completely into the tender regrets of the young saint she impersonated, for a tear she had dropped on the last bequest of the lover was seen, as it caught and reflected the lamp’s rays. Immediately, through an open window in the ceiling, a dove entered, the symbol of the Holy Spirit. It was not uncommon, in these mysteries, to bring the sacred persons of the Trinity upon the scene. The bird descended, and took the roll in his bill. As he rose with it, it unfolded, and the white silk scarf, given to poor Violette, represented the last earthly treasure of Saint Thérèse. The dove made [53] three evolutions in his ascent, and disappeared. While the cries of “Bravo! Bravissimo! Petit oiseau! Jolie colombe!” were resounding through the house, the Duchess of Berri whispered to Valentine, “See your Italian! he looks as if he would spring upon the state! how deadly pale! and his eyes! blessed Mary! they are like living fires! Surely he is going mad!” “Heaven help him!” replied the gentle Valentine. “I erred in counselling him to come hither! Would I could speak with him.” “Never mind him now, cousin; the scene is changing; --tell me, what comes next?” “Next you will see St. Thérèse praying before her crucifix, --ah, there she is! there is the coffin in which she sleeps at night, -- there the death’s-head she contemplates all day.” “Shocking! shocking! I never would be a nun.” “It is but for the last days of her penitence. After her vows are made, she, like all her order, will be devoted to nursing the sick, and succouring the wretched, --a happier life than ours, cousin!” “Think ye so? Methinks the next world [54] will be soon enough to be a saint, and do such tiresome good deeds. But why has she that ugly mantle drawn up over her head, so that one cannot see her hair, or the form of her neck and shoulders?” “Be not so impatient. You see the door behind her. The Devil is coming into her cell under the form of her lover. Ah, there he is!” “Bless my heart, if I were the Devil, I would never leave that goodly form again. Now she’ll turn! now we shall see her face! Pshaw! she has pulled that ugly mantle over, for a veil.” “Pray be still, cousin; --this is her last temptation. I would not lose a word. Listen, --hear how she resists the prince of darkness.” “The pretended lover performed his part so as to do honor to the supernatural power he represented. At first, he would have embraced the saint; but she shrunk from him, and, reverently placing her hand on the crucifix, stood statue-like against the wall. He then knelt and poured out his passion vehemently. He reminded her of their early love, -- of the home, where he had wooed and won her; [55] he besought her to speak to him, -- once to withdraw her veil, and look at him. She was still silent and immovable. He described the wearisome and frigid existence of a conventional life, and then painted, in a lover’s colors, the happiness that awaited them, if she would but keep her first vow made to him. He told her, that horses awaited them at the outward gate. The force of the temptation now became apparent. The weak, loving girl, was triumphing over the saint. Her head dropped on her bosom, her whole frame trembled, and was sinking. Her lover saw his triumph and sprang forward to seize her. But her virtue was re-nerved; she grasped the crucifix, and looking up to a picture of the Virgin, shrieked, “Mary, blessed mother! aid me !” The Evil One extended his arm to wrest the crucifix, when, smitten by its holy virtue, he sunk through the floor, enveloped in flames. The saint fell on her knees, the dove again descended and fluttered around her and the curtain fell. In those days, when conventual life had lost nothing of its sacredness, and men’s minds were still subjected to a belief in the visible interference of good and evil spirits in men’s [56] concerns, such a scene was most effective. The spectators were awed; not a sound was heard, till the Duchess of Berri, never long abstracted from the actual world, whispered, “Valentine, did you see your Italian when she shrieked; how he struck his hand upon his head! and see him no, what a color is burning in his cheek! He will certainly go mad, and, knowing you, he may dart hither before we can avoid him. Will ye not ask Orleans to order those men at arms to conduct him out; -- you know,” in a whisper, “ I have such a horror of madmen.” “You need have none, believe me, in this case. My poor countryman is suffering from watching and exhaustion, and his imagination is easily excited. The next scene will calm him. The saint, victorious over the most importunate of mortal passions, will resolutely make her vows, and receive the veil.” “Oh, then we shall see her face, after all?” “Yes, and with all that factitious charm, that dress and ornament can lend it; for, to render her renunciation of the world more striking, she is to appear in a bridal dress, decked with the vanities that we women cling last to; -- but hush! the curtain is rising!” [57] The curtain rose, and discovered the chapel of a convent. The nuns and theor superior stood on one side, a priest and attendants on the other. A golden crucifix was placed in the centre, with a figure of the Saviour, as large as life. Before this, St. Thérèse was kneeling. Her dress was white sik, embroidered with pearls, with a full sleeve, looped to the shoulder with pearls. A few symbolical orange-buds drooped over her forehead, certainly not whiter than the brow on which they rested. Her hair was parted in front, and drawn up behind in a Grecian knot of rich curls, and fastened there with a diamond cross. St. Thérèse looked, as most saints would, (not as a saint should,) pale as monumental marble; her eyes not raised to Heaven, but riveted to earth, as if she were still clinging to the parting friend. The priest advanced to cut off her hair, the last office previous to investing her with the grey gown and fatal veil. As he unfastened the diamond cross, her bright tresses fell over her neck and shoulders, and, reaching even to the ground, gave the finishing touch to her beauty, and called forth a general shout of “Beautiful! beautiful! most beautiful!” [58] Over every other voice, and soon stilling every other, was heard the King’s, and seized with an excess of madness, he rushed upon the stage clapping his hands and screaming, “She is mine! my bride! Out with ye, ugly nuns! She is mine! mine!” finishing each reiteration with a maniac yell. “Nay, she is mine! my own Violette! my betrothed wife!” interposed Montano, springing forward and encircling Violette with one arm, while he repelled Charles with the other. A general rising followed. The stage was filled with the nobles, rishing forward to chastise the stranger who had presumed to lay his hands on sacred majesty. A hundred weapons were drawn, and pointed at Montano. There was a Babel confusion of sounds. At this crisis, Valentine penetrated into the midst of the mêlée, whispering, as she passed Montano, “Leave all to me.” The lords, who had more than once seen her power over the madness of their sovereign, fell back. She placed herself between the King and Montano, and putting her hand soothingly on Charles’s side, she said, with a smile, “Methinks, my lord King, we are all beside ourselves with this bewitching show, -- we know [59] not who or what we are. Here is a churl hath dared come between the King and his subject, and you, my sovereign,” (in a whisper,) “have strangely forgotten your Queen’s presence. Unhand that maiden, sir stranger. Kneel, my child, to your gracious sovereign, and let him see you loyally hold yourself at his disposal.” Violette mechanically obeyed. “Nay, my pretty one, kneel not,” said Charles, still wild, but no longer violent. “Ah, I had forgot! here are the bridal orange-buds. Come, --come, you lazy priest, --come marry us!” Violette looked as if she would fain again take refuge in Montano’s arms. “To-morrow, my lord King, will surely be soon enough,” whispered Valentine with a confidential air, and, pointing to Isabel, she added, “ it would not seem well to have the rights performed in her presence!” The Queen, with characteristic nonchalance, had remained quietly in her place, where she seemed quite absorbed and satisfied in devouring a bunch of delicious grapes. “You are right, dear sister,” replied the King, --thus, in his softened moods, he always addressed Valentine,--“it is not according to church rule to marry one wife in presence [60] of another!” He then burst into a peal of idiotic laughter, which, after continuing for some moments, left him in a state of imbecility, so nearly approaching to unconsciousness, that he was conveyed to his palace without making the slightest resistance. A general movement followed the King’s departure, and cries rose, that the stranger must be manacles and conveyed to prison. The Duchess of Orleans interposed. “My lords,” she said, “I pray ye give this youth into my charge. He is my countryman. I will be responsible for him to our gracious sovereign.” There were murmurings of hesitation and discontent. “In sooth, my lords,” added Valentine, “ye should not add an injustice to a stranger to our usages, to the error you have already committed this night, in bringing our royal master, but half recovered from his malady, into this heated atmosphere and exciting scene; -- it were well, if we can avoid it, to preserve no memorials of this night’s imprudence.” This last hint effected what an appeal to their justice failed to obtain, and the lords permitted Montano unmolested to withdraw with the Duchess of Orleans. [61] Intent on making those happy, who could be happy, Valentine bade Montano and Violette attend her to her carriage. When they were alone, Violette’s first words were, “My father, --my brothers, Montano, can ye tell me aught of them?” “They are safe, --safe and well, in all save their ignorance of you, dear Violette,” replied Montano; “and by this time they are arrived in my happy country.” “Thank God! – and my dear old grandmother?” “Nay, ask no farther to-night.” “Better it is, my good friend,” said Valentine, “to satisfy her inquiry now, while her cup is full with joy, and sparkling; --you can bear, my child, patiently a single bitter drop.” “She was murdered, then?” “She is at rest, my child, --lay your head on my bosom, --we should weep for the good and kind.” Before the little party separated for the night, Violette told how, in consequence of having been seen at the window on the day of Montagu’s execution, she had been sought out by the managers of the mystery, and [62] compelled, in the King’s name, to obey their behests. “And to-morrow,” said Valentine, “ye shall obey mine. I, too, will be the manager of a mystery, and real espousals shall be enacted by Montano and Violette; then, ho! for my happy country.” ---------- [Sedgwick’s notes] * [1] The two passages, here referred to, so well illustrate the character of the times, that I am induced to translate them from Sismondi’s History of the French. “Among these festivals, there was one which terminated sadly. A widow, maid of honor to the Queen, was married a second time, to a certain Chevalier du Vermandois. The King ordered the nuptials to be celebrated at the palace. The nuptials of widows were occasions of extreme licentiousness. Words and actions were permitted, which elsewhere would have called forth blushes, at a time when blushes were rare. The King, wishing to avail himself of the occasion, assumed, with five of his young courtiers, the disguise of a Satyr. Tunics besmeared with tar, and covered with tow, gave them, from head to foot, a hairy appearance. In this costume they entered the festive hall, dancing. No one recognised them. While the five surrounded the bride, and embarrassed her with their dances, Charles left them to torment his aunt, the Duchess of Berri, who, though married to an old man, was the youngest of the princesses. She could not even conjecture who he was. In the mean time, the Duke of Orleans approached the others, with a torch in his hand, as if to reconnoiter their faces, and set fire to the tow. It was but a sally of mad sport on his part, though he was afterwards reproached with it, as if it were an attempt on his brother’s life. The King discovered himself to the Duchess of Berri, who covered him with her mantle, and conducted him out of the hall.” Four of the five perished. The historian, after saying, that Charles, conducting his army into Brittany, left Mas one very hot day, and that, while riding over a sandy plain, under a vertical sun, and excited by a trifling accident and some random words of his fool, he became suddenly mad, proceeds; “He drew his sword, and, putting his horse to his speed, and crying ‘On, on ! Down with the traitors!’ he fell upon the pages and knights nearest to him. No one dared defend himself otherwise than by flight, and, in this access of fury, he successively killed the bastard De Polignac, and three other men. At first the pages raged him; but when he attacked the Duke of Orleans, his brother, they perceived he had lost his reason.” The historian proceeds to say, that, not daring to control him, they agreed upon the expedient of letting him pursue them till he was exhausted; but finally a Norman knight, much loved by the King, ventured to spring up behind him and pinion his arms. * [2] “In despotic countries, rights are only respected inasmuch as they are sustained by power. The inhabitants of towns, even the poorest, had a certain degree of force. Their title, bourgeois, in the German, whence it is derived, means confederates, a reciprocal responsibility.” – Études de l’Économie Politique, par Sismondi. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The White Scarf Subject The topic of the resource 15th-century France, the Armagnac-Burgundian Civil War, romance. Description An account of the resource An historical romance set in 15th-century France, focusing on a relationship between a French servant girl and an Italian nobleman that is disrupted by political conflicts and rivalries in the court of Charles VI. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine M. [By Miss Sedgwick] Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Token, edited by Samuel G. Goodrich, pp. 1-62. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Boston: Otis, Broaders, and Company Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1839 [pub. 1838] Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource D. Gussman Relation A related resource Reprinted in The Hesperian: or, Western Monthly Magazine, vol 2., no. 5, 1839, pp. 375-390. Collected in A New England Tale and Miscellanies by Catharine M. Sedgwick, New York: George P. Putnam & Co., 1852, pp. 295-334. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Document Language A language of the resource English 15th century 1838 1839 A New England Tale and Miscellanies Armagnac-Burgundian Civil War (1407-1435) bourgeois Charles VI of France Count de Vaudemont Duke of Burgundy [John the Fearless] feudalism France Historical fiction Isabella of Bavaria Italians Italy Jean Charles Léonard de Sismondi Jean de Montagu John - Duke of Berry literacy Louis I Duke of Orleans lynch law marriage mystery play Notre Dame Romance scaffold St. Therese The Hesperian The Token torture rack Valentina Visconti (Duchess of Orleans) https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/38cf057964728e30d191b5a42a12e7f5.pdf?Expires=1781740800&Signature=toJxi%7E67DtVxks1rHQqwB4sAflXZsxA72sZkUTdv0NYYZ4wft0h7Un2qzvtQKN4bXECDbVrtrjbKCT2Xfie2iOLa3yf4RHuzUq5xhyxjc2Z0eQSR6RfYGoNyNnjU4iABCkCt-Ode0WfZuRPZ4n0cqI6poRSApk7hLzcJT37NAkAEeW6gu-GlbTyvkm4ReyH%7E0VKaEx6rae8rD%7E2H3638urFO%7Em6FzfFWPgGdI9cWYWHwgD7xI-ncHoxJdNgTHDHQ9MVCspgRvUUVtMlz4jsh3-iOJJarJua%7Eq3ucwTZCrQvrs5a3Xn0lMmG3O1JXC2NlFtvhZq9PSIIF-3iFZaJS0A__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM d1ee4884acd04e04ce879d051fc14887 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1829 Subject The topic of the resource Stories published in 1829. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. THE ELDER SISTER. _____ ‘Lucy loved all that grew upon the ground, And loveliness in all things living found; The gilded fly—the fern upon the wall Were nature’s works, and admirable all.’ ‘Yet not so easy was my conquest found, I met with trouble ere with triumph crown’d.’ Crabbe. [p. 99] Mr Walsingham was seated at his family writing desk, absorbed in a literary labor, when Theresa, his eldest daughter, opened his door, advanced eagerly, paused for a moment, arrested by his deeply thoughtful aspect, and again advanced, as, without raising his eye from his paper, he stretched his hand towards her and smiled with that sweet parental smile that indicated the father was never quite merged in the student. ‘I would not have interrupted you, papa,’ said Theresa, ‘but I have something so very important to say to you.’ Mr Walsingham, now the sole parent of a numerous family of children, was as much accustomed as a mother to the communication of the manifold wants, that to the magnifying vision of a child are very important, and affection, and necessity, [p. 100] unerring teachers, had taught him the mother’s instinct, to enter completely into his children’s feelings—to stoop to their point of sight. ‘Come in, Theresa,’ he replied to his daughter’s request, ‘you interrupt me no more than the passing stream is interrupted by the shadow of the pretty flower that waves on its brink. What have you so important to say?——a letter! ——from whom?’ ‘From dear Mrs Clifford, papa, and such a pressing invitation for me to pass a few days at Bellevue. Mr Walsingham took the letter, but before he had half read it, or at all replied to the eager petition of Theresa’s eyes, half a dozen of the younger children made a sortie from the nursery; as sturdy a little band of remonstrants as ever appeared before any tribunal. ‘Don’t let Theresa go! papa,—you must not let her go!’ they cried with a unanimous voice. ‘Softly, softly, my children—you shall all be heard in turn. Why not let her go, James?’ ‘Because, papa, it is impossible for me to get my French lessons ready for Mr Rabbineau if Theresa does not assist me.’ ‘Why should not Theresa go, Julia?’ ‘Because, papa, my music master is as cross as thunder, when Theresa does not help me with my practising.’ ‘Why should not Theresa go, Ellen?’ ‘Because, papa, she has not made but just one complete suit for my new doll.’ [p. 101] ‘Why should not Theresa go, Ned?’ ‘Because, papa, she has got to new cover my ball.’ ‘And you, little Willie, have you any reason why you cannot let sister Theresa go away for a little while?’ ‘Yes, indeed, papa,’ replied a bright eyed little cherub, climbing into his sister’s lap. ‘I can’t let her go, because she has done everything for me.’ ‘They are unskilful petitioners, Theresa,’ said the father, his delight at the tribute each had involuntarily paid the sweet elder sister gleaming in his moistened eye. ‘Theresa does so much for us all, my dear children,’ he continued, ‘that I believe we must give her the pleasure of a visit to Bellevue.’ Theresa thanked her father warmly, and soon reconciled the minds of the young tribe to her departure, by shifting disappointment for expectation—easy juggling with juvenile subjects. Theresa Walsingham is the eldest of eight children. At fourteen she met with that irreparable loss, one of the best of mothers. Her father, consulting only her good, and generously sacrificing his own strongest inclinations, sent her away from him for two years, to an institution where her education was successfully conducted. At sixteen she returned home to take the head of his family, and the place of mother, and elder sister, to the infant band. Theresa had no imposing personal qualifications for her official station. We have seen overgrown girls of [p. 102] sixteen, with grave aspect, and magisterial air, and solemn voice, and dignified movement, that looked as if, like Eve, they had been born grown up—with nothing of the dew and freshness—and, it may be, imperfection of the morning of life about them. Not so with Theresa. She is not a hair’s breadth above the medium feminine height; she has a child-like air and movement; a tender, flexible voice; a simplicity, impulsiveness, and gaiety of manner, that ‘betrays inexperience at every turn.’ There is nothing about her that demands respect, but every thing that inspires love. She is not a beauty, and yet who can look in that bright sweet face; at that clear laughing eye; that exquisitely compounded, ever varying red and white, that round dimpled cheek; that sweet tempered graceful mouth; that fair, waving, luxuriant hair—who can look at this combination, lighted up with intelligence, tenderly shaded by feeling, without forgetting the rule and art of criticism—feeling that she is beautiful. Theresa came home to the care of a large family, without any very definite notion of what awaited her. She loved her father devotedly. The memory of her mother was so reverential and vivid, that it operated like her continual presence. But next to the ever-living fountain of love in her affectionate heart, Theresa’s best qualification for her arduous duties was a most happily constituted temper, a perpetual sunshine that brightened every thing around her. This may [p. 103] not be merit, but it is a singular physical felicity to have the instrument so perfect that no jar, no shock, no unskilful touch can put it out of tune, or bring forth a discordant note. Theresa has ardent affections, and strong preferences in matters that all deem essential, but not a particle of sensibility to those trifles at which most persons are disquieted—and disquieted in vain. She cares not whether the day be cloudy or bright; she is unconscious even of the appalling difference between a southwest and northeast wind. Whether she rides or walks, within walking distance, is a matter of no moment to her. She can sit with the windows up or down, as suits the temperament of her companions. She can eat of any dish, cooked in any mode, with a keen relish. She is never discontented alone; never dissatisfied in company; never annoyed by a creaking hinge, or slamming door, or any other trial of delicate nerves. I have seen her sitting in the nursery, reading undisturbed, while her two little sisters, one on each side, were busy with her beautiful tresses, pulling and snarling them into masses which they called curls. The only notice she took of them was to imprint a half-conscious kiss on each warm ruddy cheek as it touched hers. It was a picture of childhood, love, grace, and beauty that a painter should have caught and preserved. No wonder that her father should have delighted to see her sparkling cup of happiness full to the brim; [p. 104] that he took as much pleasure in attending her to Bellevue as she did in going there; that the tear which stole down her cheek at parting, opened a gushing fountain in his heart—a fountain of remembrance and hope. Theresa was to pass the month of June with Mrs Clifford—the jubilee month of the year. Showers and sunshine were bringing forth the prettiest and freshest decorations of the face of nature; the birds were in full choir; the physical and animal world all alive to activity and joy. Mrs Clifford lives on a highly cultivated farm, amidst the loveliest inland scenes of our country, fertilised and embellished by a river, that seems set, like a convex mirror, to catch and reflect every visible object. The mistress of this fair domain is a widow, just past the meridian of life, with a large fortune, and an only son. Her affections and interests do not, as is common in similar cases, all flow in the maternal channel, but are diffused like the bounties of heaven. She is the sun of her little system, and her benevolence is sent forth, like rays of light, in every direction, and to every object within her sphere. She is as genuine an amateur of happy human faces as the good Vicar of blessed memory, and she contrives always either to find or make them. She has the rare felicity of delighting her friends, and surrounding herself with grateful and satisfied dependants. She devotes herself to the business of making other people [p. 105] happy, with as much ardor as a lawyer pursues his profession. She is no reformer, and yet every body becomes more reasonable and amiable in her atmosphere. She has no single form of virtue, no Procrustes standard; and yet, by a kind of softening and harmonising influence, she assimilates every thing and every body to herself. Mrs Clifford is never offended, or in the least annoyed by the peculiarities of any individual; on the contrary, she likes to cherish peculiarities, and bring them out, only taking care to place them in a favorable light. In this benevolent art of showing her friends in becoming lights, she excels any person I have ever known. But philanthropic as her temper is, she has her favorites, and first and chiefest among these is Theresa Walsingham. She loves Theresa, she says, for her mother’s sake, who was her friend; and for her father's, who is; and most of all, for her own sweet sake. There was a natural resemblance and accord between Mrs Clifford and her young friend. If Mrs Clifford had been blessed with a daughter, one would have expected to find her just what Theresa is; and not having one, it was natural for her to think of the only mode of supplying the defects of nature’s gifts. She had no definite plan, no formal design in inviting Theresa at this time to Bellevue; but as soon as she was quietly fixed there, she wrote to her son Newton, then an ostensible student at law in New York, to remind him that his absence had [p. 106] been already too long; that strawberries were ripe; that Bellevue had put on its company suit, its many colored robe, and that he must come home. From this moment Theresa heard of nothing but Newton’s expected arrival. If an excursion was planned, or an extraordinary pleasure designed, it was deferred ’till Mr Clifford should come. Every thing was done, or left undone in reference to him. ‘It is dull enough at Bellevue just now, Theresa,’ Mrs Clifford said, and repeated, ‘but when Newton comes he will make it all up to us.’ ‘Yes,’ chimed in half a dozen cordial and sincere voices, ‘Newton is the soul of Bellevue, that he is.’ Fortunate and gifted must be that person who can sustain the excitation of spirits occasioned by the anticipation of an important arrival in the country! Theresa was one morning rambling alone along the river’s side. She pursued a shaded footpath, ’till she came out upon a fisherman’s hut, on the very verge of the water. A rheumatic, sickly-looking girl was sitting at the door, making artificial flies for angling. They were executed with taste and sufficient skill, and Theresa, after a kind greeting, seated herself, and watched the progress of the girl’s work, and expressed her admiration of her success in no measured terms. Sympathy is the electric touch. Lilly, for that was the girl’s name, Lilly was delighted; never had her fingers worked more dexterously, and never did tongue speak more promptly than her’s replied to [p. 107] Theresa’s questions of how she learned her art, where she procured her materials, &c. Mr Newton Clifford had been at all the trouble of getting an old German to come all the way from New York to teach her. Mr Newton had sent her full twenty dollars worth of materials. Mr Newton, God bless him—and the benediction was not uttered as a phrase of custom, but with an intonation of deep feeling—Mr Newton had done every thing for her father, and herself, and little Ben. ‘Had not Miss ever heard about Mr Newton Clifford and little Ben?’ Theresa confessed she had not; and Lilly dropped her work, and told with such minuteness and emotion, as called forth exclamations and even tears from her pretty auditor—how little Ben, her only brother, a smart daring little fellow, had paddled his father’s boat into the middle of the river; and how, in trying to regain the shore, he had fallen into the stream near the milldam; how Mr Newton, in spite of every body begging him, and screaming to him not to venture in so near the mill-dam—every body but herself—and she looked on and could not speak a word; how he had plunged in and grasped little Ben, but so near the dam, that they both went over together, Mr Newton’s arm fast clasped round Ben; and how he brought him to the shore, though both were like the dead when they got there! Sensibility and gratitude are always eloquent, and what girl of seventeen would not be moved by a [p. 108] generous deed, achieved by a living hero of twenty? Day after day Theresa stole down to the fisherman’s cottage. She assisted Lilly at her pretty work; she even improved on the poor girl’s skill, and under reiterated promises of secrecy, helped her make a beautiful collection of flies, which were designed for a welcoming gift for Mr Newton Clifford. Theresa’s lively imagination seized all the traits that were presented of Clifford by his partial friends, and combined from them a beautiful portrait, colored with the rich and delicate hues of her own genuine feeling, and pure and elevated taste. Was the portrait a likeness? Was this young dream to be verified by the reality? Was the ‘spirit of her imagination, resembling nothing she had seen in life, to be embodied in the heroic person—Newton Clifford? Every successive day Clifford was expected, and each day’s mail brought some trivial excuse for his delay. A fortnight of the time allotted for Theresa’s visit had already expired. Mrs Clifl'ord’s habitual serenity was slightly overclouded, and there were moments when Theresa, to a keen observer, would have betrayed the condition of one who waits, the most unenviable state of the human mind. She took one day her customary stroll to the fisherman’s hut. She had completely won Lilly’s heart; indeed, Theresa played the game of life so well, that she won all hearts. [p. 109] Her humble friend testified her affection, as women of every age and condition are apt to do, by setting the crown matrimonial on the brow of her favorite—and in this case it was, in her estimation, the crown of glory. ‘If matches are made in heaven,’ she said, as her busy fingers were plying at her work, ‘I know what is to happen.’ ‘What do you mean, Lilly?’ asked Theresa, blushing at the slight disingenuousness of asking what she well knew. ‘Oh, Miss, you and Mr Newton are so much alike —you even look alike. To be sure, he is very tall, and you are short, but that difference there should be; and he is very dark, and you are pure red and white, and that difference there should be; and his hair is jet black, and yours a sunny brown; and his eyes are hazle, and yours are blue as the sky, and that difference is prettiest of all.’ Theresa laughed heartily, and asked, ‘Pray, where is the resemblance, Lilly?’ ‘Oh, Miss, it’s that look.’ Lilly was right and true to nature in her perception of harmony in discords. It was after this last walk and conversation that Theresa returned to Bellevue, and entered the house heated, flushed, and tired. She strolled into the parlor, and went up to the glass to adjust her hair, which had fallen in disorder over her neck and face, [p. 110] and reflected in the mirror she saw the figure of a young man stretched on the sofa, with a book in his hand, that had the aspect of a fresh novel. Theresa’s color, deep as it was, deepened to an impurpled crimson. She felt as if she were under a gorgon spell. She could not turn, and nothing, she felt, could be more awkward and silly than to remain as she was. She ventured a second glance at the image, and a third and scrutinising one, for she now perceived that the young gentleman was, or affected to be asleep. ‘This must be Newton Clifford,’ thought Theresa, ‘the figure, hair, complexion, features, all correspond exactly with the description, but, oh how unlike what I expected!’ and if she had been addicted to tears, she would have shed them at her disappointment; but Theresa’s temper was entirely of the l’allegro cast, and she laughed, laughed aloud and heartily. Clifford, for it was he, Clifford awoke, and his mother entering at the moment, after casting a look of surprise at Miss Walsingham and of reproof at the recumbent and nonchalant attitude of her son, formally introduced them to each other. Theresa whirled round on her toe, laughed again, and then flew away like a bird startled from its perch. ‘For heaven’s sake! my dear mother’ asked Clifford ‘who is this hoydenish Blowzabella?’ ‘Who? have I not just introduced her to you, Newton? Theresa Walsingham.’ [p. 111] ‘Heaven forefend! I thought you said so, but I could not credit my ears. I expected to see Miss Walsingham a fashionable, thorough bred girl; this little rude concern looks as if she had just come in from a bout at haymaking—heighho! what time is it?' He looked at an exquisite little watch, that, suspended by a safety chain, was tucked into his waistcoat pocket; ‘Eleven o'clock; this country air is a delicious opiate, mother,’ and then yawning and falling back from his half recumbent posture on the sofa cushions, he relapsed into his broken slumbers, leaving Mrs Clifford looking and feeling much like a child, who has blown a soap bubble, seen it expand and brighten, and then suddenly vanish into thin air. Mrs Clifford was not consoled by being able in part to guess the cause of Theresa’s merriment, for, even to a mother’s eye, there was an appalling disparity between the present appearance of her son and the beau-ideal that had been pourtrayed to Theresa. Eight months before, Newton Clifford had gone to New York, simple but not rustic in his taste, dress and manners. His fortune and connections in life had cast him into the most fashionable society, and accident rather than choice had involved him in an intimacy with an ultra-fashionable young man of his own age, and a married lady of haut-ton. Both these persons, unfortunately for Clifford, happened to be gifted by nature with uncommon talent, which was all employed in giving to the follies and insipidities of fashion a [p. 112] certain interest, grace and brilliancy. The great philosophical truth that knowledge is power, is never more strikingly illustrated than by the influence that a woman of a certain age (that per se most uninteresting period of life) exercises over a young man of ardent feeling and lively imagination. The narrow limits of our story will not permit us to enter into any of the details of Clifford’s fashionable training. Suffice it that he returned to Bellevue an ultraist of the beau-monde, disdaining whatever was simple and natural as much as a thorough-bred amateur of the Italian opera disdains sweet ‘wood notes wild.’ He was dressed in the extreme of the dominant fashion. We cannot describe the particulars, for we have no place in our memory for the coxcombries of five years since, but his whole array was equivalent to a Broadway exquisite of the present season. Oliver’s curled and frizzed imitation of Hyperion’s curls; the ‘boundless contiguity’ of hairs, called whiskers; the checked dishabille linen; the ‘Jubilee stock;’ the diamond studs; the webfooted (we presume to propose the descriptive epithet) the webfooted pantaloon; the person garnished with certain feminine favors, pretty trophies, such as fantastical emblematic finger rings, a porphyry smelling bottle, appended to the ribband of a quizzing glass; and filled with mousseline ambré or some other exquisite perfume; an almost (would it were quite so!) an almost invisible snuff box, with Irish blackguard; [p. 113] and in short all other marks of the most refined dandyism, imperceptible to an unpractised eye, and indescribable by an untechnical pen. And this was the person that, brought into sudden contrast with the heroic image in Theresa’s mind, placed her sweet fancies in so ludicrous a light, and put them to so disorderly a flight. Theresa had, in common with all rational beings, men and women, an instinctive aversion to the unmanly species called dandies—these poor and only worshippers of the image of humanity which they themselves have set up; a dull variety of the monkey race, bearing a resemblance to man, mortifying to the veritable lords of the creation, and no way honorable to themselves. Dandyism was a sympathetic, not a constitutional disease with Clifford; this Theresa did not know, for she had only seen him when ‘the fit was on him,’ but his mother did. At another time she would have quietly waited for the paroxysm to pass off, but now she had wise and long cherished hopes at stake, and she felt too much either to be or to appear philosophical. Clifford’s sagacity had penetrated the secret of his mother’s wishes, without her having expressly communicated them, and knowing that he was a favorite of fortune, and being conscious of qualities that were at present quite hidden under his masquerade dress, and obscured by his temporary indifference to the simple pleasures of home and life, it was not an evidence of very extravagant self love that he [p. 114] should suspect Theresa of partaking his mother’s views, and should consequently be as shy of her as the bird of the decoy he has discovered to be set for him. Fortunately there was no pondering of the matter in our happy heroine’s gay and innocent heart; she was not disturbed by even a suspicion of Clifford's mental conclusions. Her elastic spirit soon rose from the first pressure of dissappointment, and she returned with her usual animation to her accustomed pleasures. She thought Mr Clifford a very conceited, disagreeable person; that Bellevue had been far pleasanter without him; that he was the last man in the world, that if she ever did marry (a supposition a young lady is apt to make mentally,) the last man in the world she would marry! Theresa had yet to learn that there is nothing in this uncertain life more uncertain than the final resolution of a young lady of seventeen! Clifford soon perceived that there was nothing affected nor equivocal in her indifference to him, and he was piqued by it. His natural tastes revived in the salutary atmosphere of home. He observed Theresa more attentively, and to observe was to feel the attraction of her loveliness. He caught himself, when he heard her laugh breaking forth in a distant part of the house, (never was a laugh more heartfelt and musical,) starting forward to listen, and involuntarily responding a faint echo; and once, when she was patting the neck of a spirited little black pony, on [p. 115] which she had been taking a solitary morning ride, he was betrayed into kissing, with real emotion, the whitest, most deeply dimpled and prettiest hand in the world. These and some other trifling circumstances began to intimate that a change was coming ‘o’er the spirit of his dream;’ still he was not so deeply interested as to demonstrate Rosalind's infallible signs; the ‘hose ungartered,’ the ‘bonnet unbanded,’ the ‘shoe untied,’ the ‘careless desolation;’ but he was still ‘point device in all his accoutrements.’ A pastoral poet's hero may love without hope; but not so a fashionable young man of twenty one. Newton Clifford’s love, for he did actually, and that in a few days, feel an irresistible attraction towards Theresa; his love was of the most confident nature. It was true that from day to day Theresa perceived more and more of his agreeable qualities coming out, and once or twice it crossed her mind that she should, if she had not expected so much—at times—she should think Newton Clifford quite interesting. In the meantime the period of her visit was drawing to a close. Mrs Clifford, who was eagerly watching the signs of the times, wrote to Theresa's father to beg an extension of her visit; one week more was granted, but then the order of return was peremptory. On the day before her departure, Theresa went to take leave of her friend Lilly. She had been to the cottage but once before since Clifford’s arrival. On [p. 116] that occasion she went to cull from the collection of flies designed for him, those she had made. The little fly manufacturer remonstrated, but in vain. Theresa possessed herself of them, and strewed them to the winds. As she now approached the hut, she heard voices. Clifford was speaking in a tone of animated kindness to his poor protegé. ‘This is just what I fancied Clifford was before I saw him,’ thought Theresa, and that very thought made her pause at the threshold of the door, from an undefined feeling of awkwardness. While she stood there she heard Lilly say, ‘Here are some flies, Mr Newton, which I made for a present for you, if any thing can be called a present that I give to you.’ Clifford expressed his gratitude by admiring them extravagantly, and then selecting one, ‘This,’ he exclaimed, ‘is the very prettiest I ever saw. I can almost believe, with the poor little fish, that it is a real fly. If you could make me a dozen such as this, Lilly, for a friend of mine?’ Lilly stammered in her reply. ‘Oh!’ thought Theresa, who rightly conjectured that it was one of her own manfacture accidentally left among Lilly’s; ‘Oh, the silly girl will certainly betray me.’ Poor Lilly was confounded between the obligation of her promise to Miss Walsingham, on no account to betray her agency in the manufacture, the feminine desire of permitting the secret to evolve, and the necessity of confessing that she could not make flies equal to the specimen [p. 117] in Mr Clifford’s hand. In this dilemma she did what any other simple girl would have done, smiled, blushed, and faltered, and said she would do her very best for Mr Newton, but she could no way in the world make anything so pretty, her fingers were stiffened with the rheumatism, and besides, they were never handy enough for such a piece of work as that.’ ‘Then you did not make this particular one, Lilly; who in the name of wonder did?’ Before Lilly could reply, and with the intention of preventing her, Theresa entered, but poor Lilly, far as she was from all duplicity, was betrayed by her surprise and confusion, into keeping the promise to the ear, and breaking it to the sense. She threw a speaking glance at Theresa, hung down her head, laughed outright, and turned away. Theresa blushed too, and was quite too much embarrassed, and provoked that she was embarrassed, to make any explanation, while Clifford with the utmost complacency bowed in acknowledgement to her, and taking out a small tablet case, deliberately placed the fly between its leaves. ‘At any rate,’ exclaimed Theresa, half amused and half vexed, and unintentionally verifying Newton’s fortunate conjecture, ‘at any rate‘. Mr Clifford, I did not mean that you should have it.’ ‘Perhaps not. We anglers, Miss Theresa, can never foresee exactly which fish will bite when we bait our hook.’ [p. 118] An older, a more scrupulous, or more fastidious lady than Theresa Walsingham, might have found something offensive in this ‘perhaps,’ this allusion to ‘angling’ and ‘baiting,‘ but it was not in character for her to weigh and sift words; she really did not perceive any particular meaning in Clifford’s; the secret being out, she had no farther concern about the matter. She had never seen him so animated, natural, and pleasing, and after chiding, Lilly for betraying her, and kindly slipping into her hand a farewell gift, she returned with Clifford to Bellevue, but not till Lilly had contrived to say aside to him— ‘Keep the fly for a luck-penny, as they call it, Mr Newton.’ Her eye followed them, till she lost sight of them under the shadows of the lindens that grew on the river’s side, she weaving, the while, the web of destiny, as dexterously as a ‘weird sister.’ It was not one of the fairest days of summer, but the spirits of seventeen and twenty-one are not tempered by the weathergage. A dyspeptic may look at the sky and the vane before he smiles, but our gay pair were in a humor to smile in spite of clouds or storms. Clifford was flattered and elated by the little incident of the morning. It had confirmed all his prepossessions. He had discovered that he was under the influence of Theresa’s attractions. He had made up his mind, at the first propitious moment to tell his love; that moment had arrived, and with it [p. 119] came, not doubts of his success, but some natural shrinkings. He began by speaking of her return in a desperate tone of voice; she replied, but not in an according key. ‘Then you will have no regrets at leaving Bellevue?’ he said half reproachfully. ‘Indeed I shall! There is no place in the world l love so well, but home; and there is nobody I love so well as Mrs Clifford, but papa.’ ‘Nobody!’ echoed Clifford with a look and tone of voice that was meant to convey a world of meaning; ‘can no one rival them in your heart, Theresa?’ ‘Oh the children! of course; I doat on the children; and Willie, my pet Willie, oh, I shall never love any thing half so much as I love Willie.’ ‘Are you quite certain of that?’ asked Clifford. ‘Yes perfectly,’ she replied in the same careless manner. ‘Is this coquetry, the first—last sin of a pretty woman, or is it truth and nature?’ thought Clifford; but before he had solved the riddle, and as they emerged from the shaded walk into the open grounds, they were joined by his mother, who coming from a different direction, was, like them, bending her steps towards home. Her maternal eye read the deep interest that was legible on her son’s countenance; and Theresa’s cheek bright with exercise and spirits, spoke the confirma- [p. 120] tion of her hopes. ‘The dear child has reason to feel happy,’ was the mother’s thought, and vexed that she had interrupted a tête à tête that she believed could be verging but to one conclusion, she said something about ‘old people being in the way,’ and was hurrying past them; but Theresa slipt her arm into Mrs Clifford’s and detained her; ‘I do not know how it may be with old people,’ she said, ‘but I am sure any party is the pleasanter for having you in it.’ Mrs Clifford, half gratified at her favorite’s affection, and half vexed at the inopportune moment she had taken to evince it, was obliged to yield to the gentle constraint of Theresa’s arm, and walk beside her. But her mind, still on one thought intent, she gave Clifford a bunch of flowers she had been culling during her walk. ‘There,’ said she, ‘Newton, when I was young, lovers of common ingenuity would have discoursed with those flowers for an hour, without articulating a word.’ ‘I am ignorant of their language, mother, but if you will teach me, I will endeavor to profit by your instructions.’ ‘Attend to me then, and do not be looking at Theresa; she knows nothing at all of the matter. There is a passion flower, the emblem of hope; there a little bachelor’s button, “hope even in the depths of misery;” that hollow hearted fox glove is insincerity; that wild geranium, cruelty; the honey- [p. 121] suckle, fidelity; periwinkle, friendship, a poor article when you want love; the Lavender confession— “She, Lavender to him sent, owning her love,” Hope, cruelty, fidelity! &c. It would be a poor brain that could not make a moving tale from these cabalistic words.’ ‘But,’ said Theresa in all simplicity, ‘there is no emblem for love, and that is the basis of all the rest.’ ‘True, true, most true, my dear Theresa,’ replied Mrs Clifford, smiling, ‘but I passed over the rosebud, for I thought the simplest, most unlearned in the floral vocabulary, knew that meant a declaration of love; and so it should, for it unfolds into what is sweetest and most beautiful in nature.’ ‘True love, ma’am, you mean?’ asked Theresa; and it was a bona fide enquiry. Mrs Clifford laughed, Newton thrust the rosebud, which he seemed for the last minute to have been most critically examining, into his bosom, and they all mounted the steps to the piazza, where half a dozen of the family were assembled awaiting them. The following morning was the morning of Theresa’s departure. Mrs Clifford, as she had before promised, and Mrs Clifford’s son, which had not before been indicated, were to attend her home. As they left the town of Bellevue, on their way to the pier, where they were to embark in the steamboat, Theresa turned to give one parting look to the beautiful flowers that in unlimited profusion embel- [p. 122] lished the place. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed ‘I wish I had thought to gather a bouquet to take with me.’ Clifford offered to repair her omission, and turned again up the avenue, and did not rejoin the ladies till they had nearly reached the shore. ‘Oh,’ said Theresa, as she took the flowers from him, ‘have you been gone so long and got nothing but buds! What possessed him,’ she continued, ‘to put in this little withered wild rosebud among these fresh ones?’ and she threw it away, and cooly tucked the stems of the rest under her belt riband; the withered bud was that which Clifford had the day before put into his bosom, and he had now added it to the bouquet; to him it seemed instinct with the feelings of the heart which had been throbing against it for the last twelve hours. Fortunately he had walked on, as if to look out for the boat, and did not hear her, but his mother did, and exclaimed in a tone of reproach ‘Theresa!’ Theresa thought her displeasure related solely to the bouquet. ‘Dear Mrs Clifford,’ she said, kissing her in her own affectionate manner, ‘do not be angry with me; there is, I own it, there is nothing so precious as moss rosebuds.’ Mrs Clifford always obeyed the French rule, ‘Whenever there are two interpretations of a phrase, receive the most agreeable.’ ‘My own dear, dear child!’ she exclaimed, returning Theresa’s embrace with a warmth and emotion she did not at all comprehend, and which was not rendered more intelligible [p. 123] by the delighted gaze, with which, as she turned, she perceived Clifford was surveying them. Some acquaintances appeared at this moment, and no farther explanation was then possible, as they were immediately transferred to the thronged deck of a steamboat. Theresa was in irrepressible spirits, and for this, Mrs Clifford and her son had but one interpretation. The one had perhaps forgotten, and the other never yet learned, that all deep emotions are serious. The truth was, Theresa had forgotten the conventional language of the rosebuds; her mind was preoccupied with home images; no brain-woven romance, but with filial thoughts of her beloved father, and of the eager eyes and glad hearts of the little tribe awaiting her. Such a heart as Theresa’s, so full of delicate, strong, and unchanging affections, was not to be lightly won, and this Clifford was yet to learn at the expense of well requited sacrifices. Secure for the present in the estimate of all he had to confer, and in the assurance of a self-complacency that no disappointment had ever yet disturbed, he retired to a solitary corner of the cabin to enjoy in writing to her, a more exclusive and satisfactory communion with Theresa, than he could amid the throng that encompassed her on the deck. The letter was a joyous rhapsody; the interpreter of his soul, ‘and faithful to its fires;’ full of blissful feelings and blissful hopes. He filled it, crossed it, enclosed, and sealed it with the well known device of [p. 124] a laurel leaf, and the motto, ‘Je no change qu’en mourant;’ a motto presumptuously applied to many a passion that has had even a briefer existence than a summer’s leaf. Thus prepared, the letter awaited an auspicious moment for delivery. That moment arrived, when Clifford handed Theresa from the carriage that had conveyed her from the boat to her father’s door. ‘This speaks for me,’ he whispered, ‘I will be with you again in ten minutes.’ But joyous shouts and bounding steps were already ringing in Theresa’s ears, and she heard nothing else, and did not think again of Clifford, till in less than ten minutes he returned, expecting to find Theresa awaiting to reciprocate the expression of those sentiments of which he had just communicated the delightful certainty. She was there, seated on her father’s knee, recounting the pleasures of her jaunt; her pet Willie stood beside her on the sofa, his curly head lying fondly on her shoulder, and one little mischievous hand picking unheeded, one by one, the rosebuds from her waist, and throwing them on the floor, where two or three of the little urchins were dividing the spoil. The letter— the letter on which was suspended the destiny of life, had been dropped and forgotten by Theresa, who had never given it one glance, and if one thought, had supposed it to be one of the numerous unimportant packages belonging to her. Her sister Ellen, a busy, prying little daughter of Eve, had picked it [p. 125] up, torn off the seal, and at the moment Clifford entered was uttering a sort of jargon which she called reading it. Never, at any moment of her life, had Theresa looked more lovely than now, when her sweet face was lighted with the glow of those innocent and tender affections that are kindled at Nature’s altar, and inspired by the breath of the Almighty. But Clifford had looked for something far more precious in his eyes, and mortified and disappointed, he was scarcely conscious of Mr Walsingham’s polite reception; hardly comprehended his words as he said, ‘You are deafened by the noisy joy of my children; they are half wild at the return of their elder sister; and I,’ he added, wiping his moistened eyes, ‘am hardly less a child than any one of them.’ Clifford in vain struggled to reply and to recover his self-possession. Fortunately, all were too much occupied with their own sensations to observe his, and he seized his unread letter, thrust it into his pocket, and made his escape. __________ I know not what, if any, explanation followed, but three years subsequent I met the same parties at Bellevue. Clifford then with a slight abatement for a very youthful imagination, might have realized the [p. 126] early visions of Theresa. The few dregs of folly in his composition, had in the first fermentation risen to the surface, and worked off. How much he might have been indebted to the purifying influence of‘ ‘le grand sentiment,’ (for who shall define or limit its power,) we know not, but with all our preference for our heroine, we must confess he was worthy of her true and tender heart.' Of his dandyism there was no relic, save the identical safety chain he had formerly worn; but instead of the fantastic watch appended to it, I discovered, (though it was scrupulously worn beneath the vest,) the little fly so elaborately wrought by Theresa, and of which, no doubt, he was well informed of the consecrating history. As to Theresa, she was unchanged; the same spontaneous flow of rich feelings, the same beautiful simplicity of character and naturalness, made more graceful, but not in the least impaired or obscured by the polish of the world. One visible change indeed there was, and it was expressed in the quick mutations of Theresa’s beautiful color; in the tender drooping of her eye; in word and action. A stronger, deeper, more controlling sentiment had taken possession of her heart than filial love, or than the affectionate devotion of an Elder Sister. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Elder Sister Subject The topic of the resource Family bonds, love, wooing, inner beauty. Description An account of the resource A selfless daughter who has taken up her deceased mother's family duties is rewarded with a trip to visit a family friend, whose son develops romantic feelings for her. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria. Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Youth's Keepsake Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Boston: Carter and Hendee Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1830 [pub. 1829] Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Kristina Curtis, D. Gussman Relation A related resource Collected (with revisions) as "The Eldest Sister" in Tales and Sketches, 183-203, 1835. Language A language of the resource English "As You Like It" 1829 Blowzabella Broadway Country dandy daughters Eve fathers filial piety fishing flies George Crabbe giftbooks June maternal death Romance Rosalind Shakespeare Siblings sons Tales and Sketches - First Series the language of flowers The Youth's Keepsake widowers widows https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/4bdd8ab286fd377ba95741eeba328700.pdf?Expires=1781740800&Signature=Im%7ErZlxcx23doLm6-JtEMuELAESUg8R%7EUptJYbUeIuL3lc2fdf%7EIa5gzEctRqZ263ecRF8hMfbr6FO5Ia2CHHbfFtB3trueb2qGn3tdlWx2Qo3CIQD64SadIrrTokxvWfkIu26nJYMX4P2MaWBI6FRXBys0NTUcGuErzZc1XdGvxckS0kbaRsSL1ZsSxY6R9uBNbnzIbDYIKHt9bq8rxPBwBW2mrQydmTkgXHJQoi6qm1VOKjB82S0YywfMcPlOV5d2whRSoXe66gFQuHr8Eo8XTNkq00v2V%7E5sIqNpkunV6Qu-GG4pYDNWFBxYYzxfzxJAQy2hlieyEADVhW-ZZCw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 73c5198ed3034f75a7054b05c56ef047 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1827 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE By the Author of ‘Redwood’ ------------ ‘La Nature fait le mérite, La Fortune le met en preuve.’ ------------ [118] Many fortunate travellers on the western border of Massachusetts, and not many miles from the Hudson, have been refreshed at the inn of Reliance Reynolds. Reliance, as his name indicates, was born in the good old times. We are aware that the enthusiasts about the ‘progress of the age,’ deny this golden period any but a retrospective existence, and maintain that, retrace the steps of the human family far as you will, it is like the age of chivalry, always a little behind you. But we adhere to the popular phraseology and call those, ‘good old times,’ when the Puritanical nomenclature prevailed; when such modest graces as faith and temperance had not been expelled from our taverns, kitchens, and workshops, by the heroes and heroines of romance – the Orlandos and Lorenzos, Rosamonds and Anna Matildas. Reliance belonged to the ‘good old times,’ too, in the more essential matter of downright honesty, simplicity, and respectful courtesy. His was a rare character in New England – a passive spirit, content to fill and fit the niche nature had prepared for him. It was not very high, [119] but he never aspired above it; nor very low, but he never sank below it. He was the marvel of his neighbours, for he could never be persuaded into an enterprise or speculation. He never bought a water privilege, nor an oar bed; subscribed to a county bank, or ‘moved to the West;’ or in any mode indicated that principle in man, which, in its humble operations, its restlessness, in its lofty aspirations, a longing after immortality. Reliance’s desires never passed the bounds of his premises, and were satisfied, even within them, with a very moderate share of power. He stood at his door, his hat in his hand, to receive his guests; he strictly performed the promise of his sign, and gave ‘good entertainment to man and horse;’ he rendered a moderate bill and received his dues with a complacent smile, in which gratitude was properly tempered with a just sense of his own rights. In short, as must be already quite manifest, Reliance, though a pattern landlord, is a very poor subject for a storyteller; his qualities, like the color in a ray of light, all bending and forming one hue, and his life, presenting the same monotonous harmony. We should not have forced him from his happy obscurity into the small degree of notoriety he may incur on our humble page, but for his being the adjunct of his wife, an important personage in our narrative. Mrs Reynolds, too, like her husband, performed exactly the duties of her station. She never perhaps read a line of poetry, save such as might lurk in the ‘Poet’s Corner’ of a village paper, but her whole life was an illustration of the oldfashioned couplet – ‘Honor and shame from no condition rise, Act well your part, there all the honor lies.’ She never was presidentess of a ‘society for ameliorating the conditions of the Jews,’ or secretary or treasurer [120] of any of those beneficent associations that rescue the latent talents of women from obscurity and mettrent en scéne gems and flowers that might otherwise shine and exhale unnoticed and unknown; but though humble was her name and destiny, her memory is dear to the wayfaring. Quiet, order, and neatness, reigned at her bed and board. No pirates harbored in her bedsteads, no bad luck, that evil genius of housewives, curdled her cream, spoiled her butter or her bread, but her table was spread with such simple, wholesome fare as might have lit a smile on the wan visage of an old dispeptic; and this we take to be the greatest achievement of the gastronomic art. With the duties of life so peacefully and so well performed, our good hostess ought, according to all the rules of happiness, to have been happy; but it is our melancholy duty to confess she was not, and to explain the cause. She had been married many years without having any children; that blessed possession that in transmitting, the parents’ existence, seems to extend its bounds, and to render even here, the mortal immortal. In addition to the feeling, common to all women, who naturally crave the sweetest objects for their tenderest and strongest affections, Mrs Reynolds lamented her childless state with a bitterness of repining approaching to that of the Hebrew wives. With everything else in her possession that could inspire contentment, her mind was fixed on this one desired good, and, like Hannah of old, she was still a ‘woman of a sorrowful spirit.’ She had endeavoured to solace herself with the children of her kindred, and several, from time to time, had been adopted into her family; but some proved disagreeable, and others homesick, and there was always a paramount duty or affection that interfered with her’s, till finally her [121] almost extinguished hopes were gratified, and Providence gave her a child worthy all her care and love.* In the autumn of 1777, two travellers arrived just at nightfall at Reynold’s inn. Its aspect was inviting; situated in the heart of a fertile valley that had lately been refreshed by the early rains of autumn, and in its bright garb resembling a mature beauty that had happily harmonized some youthful tints with her soberer graces. A sprightly, winding stream gave life and music to the meadows. On every side the landscape was undulating and fertile, but not then as extensively cultivated as now, when, to the Tauconnuc on the south, and the lofty blue outline of the Catskills on the west, the eye ranges over a rich and enjoyed country. Beside the accidental charm of a pretty landscape, the inn had advantages peculiar to itself. Instead of being placed on the roadside, as most of our taverns are – for what reason we know not, unless a cloud of travellers’ dust be typical of a shower of gold to the vision of mine host – Reynold’s inn was separated from the highway by a court yard, shaded by two wide spreading elms, and enlivened with a profusion of autumnal flowers, marigolds, cockscombs, and china asters. There was nothing that indicated any claims to particular civility in the appearance of our travellers. They were well looking and respectably appareled; and, accordingly, having announced their determination to re- [122] main for the night, they were shown to an inner room, the parlour, par excellence, where Mrs Reynolds appeared, and having opened a door which admitted the balmy air and a view of the western sky, just then brightened by the tints of the setting sun, she received their orders for their supper, and retired without one of those remarks or inquiries by which it is usual, on such occasions to give vent to curiosity. Nothing passed between our travellers in the dull interval that elapsed before their meal was ready, to give to our readers the least clue to their origin or destiny. One of them lulled himself into a doze in the rocking chair, while the other, younger and more active and vivacious, amused himself out of doors, plucking flowers, enraging an old petulant cock turkey, and mocking the scolding of some Guinea hens, the Xantippes of the feathered race. The interval was not long. The door opened and the tea table was brought in, already spread (a mode we wish others would adopt from our pattern landlady), and spread in a manner to characterize our bountiful country. What a contrast does the evening meal of our humblest inn present to the leanness of an English tea table! A cornucopia would have been the appropriate symbol for Mrs Reynolds’s table. There were beef steaks, and ham and eggs; hot cakes and toast; bread and gingerbread; all the indigenous cakes, such as crullers and nutcakes, &c.; honey, sweetmeats, apple sauce, cheese, pickles, and an afterpiece of pies. Kind reader do not condemn our bill of fare as impertinent and vulgar. We put it down to show the sacred political economists, that, with us, instead of the population pressing on the means of subsistence, the means of subsistence presses on the population. [123] Our travellers fell to their repast with appetites whetted by a long fast and day’s ride. Not a word was spoken, till a little girl, who was sitting on the doorstep caressing a tame pigeon, perceiving that one of the guests had garnished his buttonhole with a bunch of marigolds, plucked a rose from a monthly rose bush, trained over a trellis at the door, and laid it beside his plate. He seemed struck with the modest offering, and, turning with a look of gratitude to the child, he patted her on her head, and exclaimed instinctively, ‘Merci, merci, ma petite!’ and then correcting himself, he said, in very imperfect English, ‘I thank you, my little girl.’ The child’s attention was fixed by the first word he uttered, and as he addressed his companion in French, her countenance indicated more emotion than would naturally have been excited by the simple circumstance of hearing, for the first time, a foreign language. ‘Qu’elle est belle, cette petite,’ he continued, turning to his companion; ‘c’est la beauté de mon pays – voilá, brunette, et les yeux, si grands, si noirs, et la tournure aussi – quelle grâce, quelle vivacité! Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur, c’est tout-á-fait Françoise.’ As he proceeded the child advanced nearer to him. She shook back the rich, dark curls that shaded her face, bent her head forward, half parted her bright lips, and listened with the uncertain and eager expression of one who is catching a half remembered tune, the key to a thousand awakening recollections. It was evident that she did not comprehend the purport of the words, and that it was the sound alone to which her delighted ear was stretched. A smile played about her lips, and tears gathered in her eyes, and there seemed to be a contrariety of emotions, confounding even to herself; but that which finally prevailed was indicated by her throwing her apron over [124] her head, and retreating to the doorstep, where she sat down, and for some moments, vainly attempted to stifle her sobs. She had just become tranquil, when Mrs Reynolds entered. The elder traveller said, in an interrogating tone, ‘That is your child, ma’am?’ ‘I call her mine,’ was the brief and not very satisfactory reply. ‘She resembles neither you nor your husband,’ resumed the traveller. ‘No; she does not favor us.’ ‘I fancied she had a French look.’ ‘I can’t say as to that,’ replied the landlady; ‘I never saw any French people.’ ‘My friend here is a Frenchman,’ pursued the traveller, ‘and the little girl listened to him so intently, that I thought it possible she might understand him.’ ‘No, I guess she did not sense him,’ replied Mrs Reynolds, with an air of indifference; and the turning hastily to the child, ‘Mary,’ she said, ‘there is more company; go and see if our father does not want you.’ She went and did not return. Mrs Reynolds herself removed the table. The elder gentleman sat down to write a letter; while the Frenchman walked to and fro, opened the doors, and peeped in every direction to get a glimpse of the little girl, who seemed to have taken complete possession of his imagination. Once, as she ran through the passage, he called to her, ‘Doucement! doucement! mon petit ange’ – she stopped as if she were glued to the floor. ‘How call you your name, my dear?’ ‘Mary Reynolds, sir.’ ‘Then Madame there, Mistress Reynolds, is your maman?’ ‘She is – [125] ‘Mary, what are you staying for? Here – this instant!’ screamed Mrs Reynolds from the kitchen door, in a tone that admitted no delay, and the child ran off without finishing her sentence. ‘C’est bien singulier!’ muttered the Frenchman. ‘What do you find so singular, Jaubert?’ asked his companion, who had just finished his letter, and thrown down his pen. ‘Oh! it is nothing – perhaps – but – ’ ‘“But” what, my friend?’ ‘Why, there seems to me some mystery about this child; something in her manner, I know not what, that stirs up strange thoughts and hopes in my mind. She is not one of the pale, blond beauties of your climate.’ ‘Ah! my good friend, we have all sorts of beauties in our clime. All nations, you know, have sent us their contributions. The blue eye and fair skin, the Saxon traits, certainly prevail in our Eastern States; but you know we border on New York, the asylum of the dark eyed Huguenots, and it is not impossible that to this child may have been transmitted the peculiarities of some French ancestor. Nothing is more common than a resemblance between a descendant and a far off progenitor.’ ‘Ah! it is not only the French, the Norman aspect, the – do not ridicule me – the Angely traits that attract me; but you yourself noticed how she listened to my language, and then this Mistress Reynolds does not say she is her child, but only she calls her so.’ ‘Pshaw! Is that all? It is the way of my country people, Jaubert; their indirectness is proverbial. If one of them were to say “yes” or “no,” you might suspect some deep mystery. I confess I was at first startled with the little girl’s emotion, but I soon perceived it was nothing but shame and embarrassment at [126] the curiosity she had betrayed. I see how it is Jaubert; fruitless and hopeless as is our search, you cannot bear to relinquish it, and are looking for some coup de théâtre – some sudden transition from disappointment to success.’ We have put into plain English a conversation that was supported in French, and was now broken off by the approach of Mrs Reynolds, who came to tell the travellers their bedrooms were ready. By the light of the candle she brought, discovered Mary, concealed in a corner of the passage close to the door, where, in breathless stillness, she had been listening. ‘You here, Mary!’ exclaimed the good woman; ‘I thought you had been in bed this half hour. You will make me angry with you, Mary, if you do not mind me better that this,’ she added in an under tone, and the child stole away, but without looking either very penitent or very fearful; and in truth she had cause for neither penitence nor fear, for she had only gratified an innocent and almost irrepressible inclination, and as to Dame Reynolds’s anger, it was never formidable. The travellers retired to their respective apartments, and while the landlady lingered to adjust her parlour, the letter that had been left on the table caught her eye. Nothing could be more natural than for her to look at the superscription. Painfully she spelt out the first line. ‘A Monsieur, Monsieur’ – but when she came to the next, her eye was rivetted, ‘St Jean Angely de Crève-Coeur.’ After gazing on it till she had made assurance doubly sure, she was hastening to her husband to participate the discovery with him, when, apparently changing her intentions, she retreated, bolted the door, and returned to the examination of the letter. It was unsealed. Reluctant to open it, she compromised with her conscience, and peeped in at both ends, but the writing was not perceptible, and her interest overcoming [127] her scruples, she unfolded the letter. Alas! it was in French. In vain her eye ran over the manuscript to catch some words that might serve as clues to the rest. There was nothing in all three pages she could comprehend, but ‘arrivé á New York’ – ‘la rivière d’Hudson’ – ‘le manoir de Livingston.’ She was refolding the letter, when the following postscript, inadvertently written in English, caught her eye; ‘As we have no encouragement to proceed farther in our search, and Jean and Avenel are all impatience, Jaubert will embark in the Neptune, which is to sail on the first.’ A gleam of pleasure shot across Mrs Reynolds’s face, but it soon darkened again with anxiety and perplexity. ‘Why did I open the letter?’ she asked herself. ‘Why did I look at it at all? But nobody will ever know that I have seen it unless I tell it myself; and why should I tell?’ A burst of tears concluded this mental interrogation, and proved that, however earnestly her heart might plead before the tribunal of conscience, yet the stern decision of that unerring judge was heard. Self-interest has a hard task when it would mystify the path of one who habitually walks by the clear light of truth straight onward in the path of duty. It may seem unnatural to the inexperienced, that Mrs Reynolds did not communicate her embarrassment and irresolution, from whatever cause they proceeded, to her husband; but she knew well what would be the result of a consultation; for he, good man, never viewed a subject but from one position, and we are all slow to ask advice that we foresee will be counter to our wishes. Mrs Reynolds, so far then from appealing to the constituted authority of her household, locked her discovery within her own bosom, and to avoid all suspicion and inquiry, she composed herself as soon as possible, and [128] retired to her bed, but not to sleep; and at peep of dawn, she was up and prepared to obtain all the satisfaction that indirect interrogation could procure from the travellers, and her mental resolution, invigorated by a night’s solitary reflection, was to ‘act up to her light.’ They had ordered breakfast at a very early hour, and she took care to be the only person in attendance on them. When they were seated at table, she placed herself in a rocking chair behind them, a position that happily reconciles the necessity of service with the dignity of independence, and began her meditated approaches, by saying to her own countryman, ‘I believe you left a letter here last night, sir; I laid it in the cupboard for fear of accidents.’ ‘Thank you, ma’am; I ought to have been more careful. It was a letter of some consequence.’ ‘Indeed! Well, I was thinking it might be.’ ‘Ah! what made you think so?’ Now we must premise, that neither of the parties speaking, knew anything of that sensitiveness that starts from a question as if an attack were made on private property; but they possessed, in common, the good-natured communicativeness that is said to characterize the New England people, who, in their colloquial traffic, as in other barter, hold exchange to be no robbery. Most women are born diplomatists, and Mrs Reynolds took care to reply to the last interrogatory so carefully as not to commit herself. ‘It stands to reason,’ she said, ‘a letter that is to go all the way over the wide sea to the old countries, should be of consequence.’ ‘Yes – it is a long voyage.’ ‘You have taken it yourself, perhaps, sir?’ ‘I have. I went out an officer on board one of our cruisers, and was wrecked on the coast of France.’ [129] ‘Of France! Well, we are hand and glove with the French now; but I tell my husband it seems to me like joining with our enemies against those of our own household.’ ‘Ah! Mrs Reynolds, “friends are sometimes better than kindred.” I am sure my own father’s son could not have been kinder to me than was Monsieur Angely de Crève-Coeur – hey, Jaubert?’ ‘Ah! vraiment, Monsieur! c’est un bien brave homme, Monsieur St Jean Angely.’ ‘Angely!’ said Mrs Reynolds, as if recalling some faded recollection, ‘Angely – I think I have heard that name before.’ ‘It may be. The gentleman I speak of resided some time in this country.’ ‘But it can’t be the same,’ replied Mrs Reynolds; ‘for the person I speak of lived over in Livingston’s manner; and kind to strangers he could not be, for he deserted his own flesh and blood, and went off early in the war.’ ‘It may be the same for all that, and must be. As to deserting his children, “thereby hangs a tale;” but it is a long one.’ ‘Well, sir, if you have anything to say in his favor, I am bold to say I think you ought to speak it; especially as the gentleman seems to have stood your friend in a cloudy day. The story certainly went sadly against him here.’ ‘I have not the slightest objection, ma’am, to telling the story, if you have the patience to hear it; especially as I see I must wait till Jaubert has finished two more of your nice fresh eggs – “eggs of an hour,” Mrs Reynolds.’ ‘We always calculate to have fresh eggs, sir. But what was you going to say of Mr Angely?’ she added, [130] betraying in the tremulous tones of her voice, some emotion more heart stirring than curiosity. Jaubert turned a glance of inquiry on her that was unanswered by the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks; but the narrator proceeded without noticing anything extraordinary. ‘It was my good, or ill luck,’ he said, – ‘and it is the only in the long run we can tell whether luck be good or ill – but it was my luck to be shipwrecked on the coast of Normandy, and good luck it certainly was, Jaubert, in my distress, to make such a port as the Château de Crève-Coeur – the castle, or as we should call should call it here, Mrs Reynolds, the estate of the Angely’s. A fine family they are. You may think what a pleasure it was to me to find a gentleman acquainted with my country, and speaking my language as did Mr St Jean Angely. He was kind and affable to me, and always doing something for my pleasure, but I could see he had a heaviness at his heart – that he was often talking of one thing and thinking of another – nothing like so gay as the old gentleman, his father; who was like a fall flower – one of your marigolds, Mrs Reynolds, spreading itself open to every ray of sunshine, as if there were no frosts and winter and death at hand. I felt a pity for the young man. With everything that heart could desire, and without a heart to enjoy, he seemed to me like a sick man seated at a feast of which he could not taste. The day before I was to have come away, he took me aside, and, after saying that I had won his entire confidence, he disclosed to me the following particulars: – ‘He entered the French army early in life, and while yet a hotblooded, inconsiderate youth, he killed a brother officer in a duel, and was obliged to fly to his country. He took refuge in Lisbon. Judgment, I may say mercy, too – in the dealings of Providence, Mrs Reynolds, one is always close on the track of the other – followed [131] him thither. Mr Angely found employment in a mercantile house, and was standing writing at his desk at the moment of the terrible earthquake that laid Lisbon in ruins. The timbers of the house in which he was, were pitched in such a manner as to form a sort of arch over his head, on which the falling roof was sustained, and thus he was, as it were, miraculously delivered from danger. From Lisbon he came to this country. “Mechanics,” says a Spanish proverb, “make the best pilgrims,” but, I am sure, not better than Frenchmen; for cast them where you will, they will get an honest living. Mr Angely came up into Livingston’s Manor, and there he took a fancy to a pretty Yankee girl, the only child of a widow, and married her. He earned a subsistence for his family by surveying. The country was new, and skillful surveyors scarce. After a few years his wife died and left him three children.’ ‘Three!’ repeated Mrs Reynolds, involuntarily sighing. ‘Yes, poor things! there were three of them; too many to be left in these hard times fatherless and motherless.’ ‘Ah sir! and what must we think of the father that could forsake his little children at such a time?’ ‘Think no evil, my friend; for Mr Angely did not deserve it. He was employed by Mrs Livingston, early in the war, to go down the river to survey some land near New York. There he was taken by the British as a spy, and, in spite of his remonstrances, sent to England. This was before the French had taken part with us, and he obtained leave to go to France, on giving his parole that he would not return to America. He received a parent’s welcome, and affair of the duel being nearly forgotten, a pardon was obtained for him without difficulty. If he could have forgotten his children, he would have been as happy as man could [132] be; but his anxiety for them preyed on his health and spirits; and when I arrived at the château, his friends imagined he was sinking under some unknown disease. He had not communicated to his father the fact of his marriage and the existence of his children when I arrived there. The old gentleman, kind hearted and reasonable in the main, has all the prejudices of the nobility in the old countries about birth, and his son was afraid to confess, that he had smuggled an ignoble little Yankee into the ancient family of the Crève-Coeurs. So good an opportunity as I afforded of communicating with his children, could not be passed by, and he at length summoned courage to tell the truth to his father. At first he was wroth enough, and stormed and vapored; but after a little while his kind nature got the mastery of the blood of the Crève-Coeurs, and he consented to the children being sent for – the boys, at least.’ ‘Only the boys!’ exclaimed Mrs Reynolds, feeling relieved from an insupportable weight. ‘Only the boys. But the old gentleman might have as well saved all his credit and sent for the girl too; but that was not his pleasure. Well, Monsieur Jaubert here, a relative and particular friend of the family, came out with me to take charge of the children. We found the boys without much difficulty; two noble little fellows that a king might be proud of. After waiting for some time for Monsieur Angely’s return, the overseers of the poor, believing he had abandoned his children, bound them out. The little girl had been removed to some distance from her brothers. We found the place where she had been, but not the family. The husband and wife had quarrelled, and separated, and disappeared; and all the information we could obtain, was a vague story such a child had lived there and had run away; and as nobody in these troublesome times [133] can do no more than look after their own children, this poor thing was left to her fate. Hopeless as it appears, Jaubert is not willing to give up our search. He fancies every brunette he sees is the lost Marie, and only last evening he would have persuaded me, that your black eyed little girl might be this stray scion of the Crève-Cœurs.’ Mrs Reynolds rose and left the room, and did not return till she was sufficiently composed to ask, in an assured voice, ‘What was their object in looking for the girl, if a father did not mean to reclaim her?’ ‘He did mean to reclaim and provide for her,’ replied the traveller, ‘and for that purpose I have ample funds in my hands. He only conceded to the old gentleman her remaining in the country for the present.’ ‘Had you any direction as to how you were to dispose of her?’ ‘Yes, positive orders to convey her to Boston, and place her under the guardianship of a French lady who resides there, a friend of Mr Angely—one Madame Adelon.’ ‘But could you find no trace of the child?’ ‘Not the slightest.’ ‘And you have determined to make no further inquiry?’ ‘Why should we? Inquiry is useless, and would but delay to a tempestuous season, Jaubert’s return with the boys.’ Our readers are doubtless sufficiently aware, that the adopted child of our good landlady was the missing child of Monsieur Angely. A few words will be necessary to explain how she became possessed of her. Mrs Reynolds and her husband were, two years prior to this period, approaching the close of a winter day’s ride. Their sleigh was gliding noiselessly through a dry, new fallen snow, when their attention was arrested by [134] the moanings of a child. To stop the horses and search the sufferer from whom the sounds proceeded, was the instinctive impulse of benevolence. They had not gone many yards from the road, when, nestled close to a clump of laurels, they found a little girl, her hands and feet frozen, and nearly insensible. They immediately carried her to the sleigh, and put their horses to their utmost speed; but, as they were none of the fleetest, and the nearest habitation was at several miles distance, a considerable time elapsed before they could obtain the means of restoration, and in consequence of this delay, and of severe previous suffering, it was many weeks before the child recovered. In the mean time, though Mrs Reynold’s residence was not more than thirty miles from the place where she had found the child, no inquiry was made for her. The account she gave of herself sufficiently explained this neglect. She said she had no mother; that her father had left home just after the snows melted and the birds came back; that he had left her and her two brothers, Jean and Avenel, with a woman to take care of them; that when this woman had waited a great while for their father, she grew tired and was cross to them, and then she too went away, and left them quite alone. Then she said they had nothing to eat, and she supposed they were the poor, for the men they called the overseers of the poor took her and her brothers, and separated them, and she was carried a great way off to a woman who was very cross to her, and cross to her own children, and her husband was cross too. One night he came home in a great passion, and he began to whip his wife with his big whip, and his wife beat him with the hot shovel, and she, the child, was scared, ran out of the house, and far up into a wood, to get beyond their cries; and when she would have [135] returned, the snow was falling, and she could not find the path, and she had wandered about till she was so cold and tired she could go no farther. Her name, she said, was Angely, and she believed her father was called a Frenchman. The only parental relic she possessed confirmed this statement. It was a locket which she wore suspended at her neck. It contained a lock of hair; an armorial crest was engraven on the back, and under it was inscribed, ‘St Jean Angely de Crève-Cœur.’ This simple story established the conviction, that had been gaining strength in Mrs Reynold’s mind, with every day’s attendance on the interesting child, that they had been brought together by the special providence of God; and most faithfully did she discharge the maternal duties that she believed had been this miraculously imposed on her. The little girl was on her part happy and delighted, and though she sometimes bitterly lamented her father and brothers, yet, as the impressions of childhood are slight, the recollection of them was almost effaced when the mysterious energies of memory were awakened by the sound of a language that seemed to have been utterly forgotten. These events occurred during the revolutionary war, a period of disaster and distress, when a very diligent search for a friendless child was not likely to be made, and as no inquiry ever reached Mrs Reynold’s ear, and as she deemed the foundling an orphan, she had not hesitated to appropriate her. Her name was changed from Marie Angely to Marie Reynolds; and the good woman seemed as secure and happy as any mother, save when she was reminded of the imperfection of her title by the too curious inquiries of the travellers. On these occasions, she was apt to betray a little irritability, and to veil the truth with a slight evasion, as in the instance which excited the suspicion of our sagacious Frenchman. [136] Her condition was now a pitiable one. She had the tenderness, but not the rights of a parent. She was habitually pure and upright; but now she was strongly swayed by her affections. She would have persuaded herself, that the abandonment in which she first found the child, invested her with a paramount claim; but the stranger’s story had proved that her father had not voluntarily abandoned her. Then she thought, ‘It cannot be for Mary’s interest, that I should give her up;’ and her mind took a rapid survey of the growing property of which the child was the heir apparent. But she would ask herself, ‘What do I know of the fortune of her father?’ ‘But surely he cannot, he cannot love her as I do.’ ‘Ah I do not know the feeling of a real parent;’ and a burst of tears expressed the sadness of this conviction, and obliged her abruptly to withdraw from the presence of her guests, and leave them amazed at her sudden and violent emotion, while she retired to her own apartment, to implore guidance and support from Heaven. Those who honestly ask for light to point out a way which they would fain to see, and for power to endure a burden from which their nature shrinks, are often themselves astonished at the illumination vouchsafed, and the strength imparted. This was the experience of Mrs Reynolds. She rose from her devotions with the conviction, that but one course remained to her, and with a degree of tranquility, hastened to Mary’s bedroom. The child was just risen and dressed. Without any explanation to her—she was at the moment incapable of making any—she tied her locket, her sole credential, around her neck, led her down stairs, and placing her hand in Jaubert’s, she said, ‘You have found the child!’ and then retreated to hide the emotion she could not subdue. [137] It was fortunate for her, that she was not compelled to witness the gay demonstration of Jaubert’s ecstasies. the graver, but not more equivocal manifestations of his companion’s satisfaction, and the amazement and curiosity of the little girl, who was listening to the explanation of the strangers, with childlike animation, without adverting to her approaching separation from her who had given her the affection and cares of a parent. But when she came to be severed from this kind friend, she made amends for her thoughtlessness. She clung to her as if nature had knit the bonds that united them, and, amid her cries and sobs, she promised always to remember and love her as a mother. Many have made such promises. Marie Angely kept them. ---------- Ten years subsequent to the events above narrated, a letter, of which the following is a translation, was addressed by a foreigner in a high official station in this country, to his friend. ‘DEAR BERVILLE— ‘It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of the true church, that confession of a sin is the first step towards its expiation. ‘Let me, then, invest you with a priest’s cassock, and relieve my conscience by the relation of an odd episode in my history. When I parted from you, I was going with my friend, Robert Ellison, to visit his father, who has a beautiful place on the banks of the Hudson. Young Ellison, as you know, is a thorough republican, and does not conceal his contempt for those of his compatriots, who, professing the same principles, are really aristocrats in their prejudices and manners; who, having parted, and as they pretend voluntarily, with the substances, still grasp at the shadow. To test these false pretensions, and to mortify an absurd pride, he joyfully acquiesced in a proposition I made to him, to lay aside the pomp and circumstances of my official character, and to be presented to his friends without any of the accidental advantages with which fortune has invested me. You will inquire my motive, for you will not suspect me of the absurdity of crusading against the follies of society, the most hopeless of all crusades. No, as our own Moliére says, C’est une folie, à nulle autre seconde, De vouloir se méler de corriger le monde. My motives were then, in the first place, a love of ease, of dishabille; an impatience of the irksomeness of having the dignity of a nation to sustain; and, in the second place, I wished to ascertain how much of the favor lavished on me I should place to the account of the ambassador, and how much I might reserve to my own proper self. ‘You may call this latent vanity. I will not quarrel with you. I will not pretend that I was moved solely by a love of truth, by a pure desire to find out the realities of things; but alas! my dear Berville, if we were to abstract from the web of our motives, every thread tinged with self, would not warp and woof too disappear? Let, then, my motive be what it might, you will allow the experiment required courage. ‘We had some difficulty in settling the precise point at which to gage my pretensions. “Do not claim a drop of noble blood,” said my friend, “it would defeat your purpose. There is something cabalistic in that word ‘noble.’ The young ladies at ____ would at once invest you with the attributes of romance; and the old dowagers would persecute you with histories of their titled ances- [139] tors, and anecdotes of lords and ladies that figured in the drawing rooms of the colony. Neither must you be a plain gentleman of the fortune, though that may seem to you a sufficient descent from your high station; but fortune has everywhere her shrines and her devotees. You must be the artificer of your own fortune, a talented young man who has no rank or fortune to be spoken of. What say you to the profession of a painter, a portrait painter, since that is the only branch of the art that gets a man bread in this country.” I acceded without shrinking, secretly flattering myself that my friend either underrated my intrinsic merit, or did the world rank injustice. ‘When we arrived we found a large party of the neighbouring gentry assembled to dine at _____. I was received with great courtesy by the elder Ellison, and with kindness by Madame, on the ground, simply, of being an acquaintance of their son’s. My friend took care to prevent any elation from my reception by saying to me in a low voice, “My father, God bless him, has good sense, good feeling, and experience, and he well knows that the value of gold does not depend on the circulation it has obtained;” and truly if he had known that I bore the impress of the king’s countenance he could not have received me more graciously. There might have been more formality in his reception of the public functionary, but there could not have been more genuine hospitality. He presented me to his guests, and here I was first reminded of my disguise. Instead of the sensation I have been accustomed to see manifested in the lighting up of the face, in the deferential bow, or the blush of modesty, no emotion was visible. No eye rested on me, not a link of conversation was broken, and I was suffered, after rather an awkward passage through the ceremony, to retire to my seat, where I remained, observing, but not [140] observed, till dinner was announced. From the habit of precedence, I was advancing to lead Madame to the dining room, when I encountered my friend’s glance, and shrunk back in time to avoid what must have appeared an unpardonable impertinence. I now fell into my modest station in the rear, and offered my arm to an awkward, bashful girl, who I am sure had two left hands by the manner in which she received my courtesy, and who did not honor me so far as to look up to see who it was that had saved her from the mortifying dilemma of leaving the drawingroom alone. I helped my companion from the dish nearest to me, and waited myself till Madame, reminded by her son of her oversight, sent me a plate of soup. I was swallowing this, unmolested by any conversation addressed to me, when my friend’s father said to him, “When have you seen the French ambassador, Robert? I hoped you would have persuaded him to pay us a visit.” ‘“Perhaps he may,” replied my friend, “before the summer is over. He is at present out of the city on some excursion.” ‘“A prodigious favorite is your son with the French ambassador, as I hear from all quarters,” said a gentleman who sat next Mr Ellison. ‘“Ah! is that so, Robert? Are you intimate with Monsieur—?” ‘“He does me the honor to permit my society, sir.” Every mouth was now opened in praise of the ambassador. None of the company had seen him, but all had heard of his abilities, the charms of his conversation, his urbanity, his savoir plaire. “You must be proud of your countryman, M. Dufau?” (this was my assumed name) said my host, with that courtesy that finds a word for the humblest guest. [141] ‘I said it was certainly gratifying to my national feeling to find him approved in America, but that, perhaps it was not his merit alone that obtained him such distinguished favor; that I had understood he was a great admirer of this country, and though I should do him injustice to say “he praised, only to be praised,” yet I believed there was always a pretty accurately measured exchange in this traffic. ‘“The gentleman is right,” said an old Englishman who sat opposite to me, and who had not before vouchsafed to manifest a consciousness of my existence; “this is all French palaver in Monsieur —. He cannot be such a warm admirer of this country. The man knows better; he has been in England.” ‘I was too well acquainted with English manners to be startled by any manifestation of that conviction which an Englishman demonstrates in every part of the world, that his nation has no equal; but I instinctively defended my countryman, and eager for an opportunity to test the colloquial powers so much admired in the ambassador, I entered the lists with my English opponent, and thus stimulated, I was certainly far more eloquent than I ever had been before, on the history, the present condition, and the prospects of this country. But alas for the vanity of M. Dufau! my host, it is true, gave me all the attention he could spare from the courtesies of the table, but save his ear, I gained none but that half accorded by my contemptuous, testy, and impatient antagonist, who after barking out a few sentences at me, relapsed into a moody silence. ‘I next addressed some trifling gallantries to my bashful neighbour, fancying that she who was neglected by everybody else, would know how to appreciate my attentions; but her eyes were riveted to a fashionable beauty at the upper extremity of the table, and a half a [142] dozen “no, sirs” and “yes, sirs,” misplaced, were all the return I could obtain from her. To remain silent and passive, you know, to me, was impossible; so I next made an essay on a vinegar faced dame on my left, far in the wane of life. “If my civilities have been lead elsewhere, in this market,” thought I, “they will at least prove silver or gold.” But here I received my cruelest rebuff; for the lady, after apparently listening to me, said, “I do not understand you.” I raised my voice, but she, determining to shelter the infirmity of age at my expense, replied, “I am not so deaf, sir, but really you speak such broken English, that I cannot understand you.” This was too much, and I might have betrayed my vexation, if an intelligent and laughing glance from my friend had not restored my good humor, and a second reflection, suggesting that it was far more important to the old woman’s happiness that her vanity should remain unimpaired, than it could be to me to have mine reduced, even to fragments, I humbly begged her pardon, and relapsed into a contented silence, solacing myself with the thought, that our encounter was but an illustration of that of the china earthen jars. But I will not weary you with detailing all the trials of my philosophy, but only confess that the negligence of the servants was not the least of them—the grinning self-complacency with which these apes of their superiors signified to me that my wants might be deferred. ‘After all, my humble position would not have been so disagreeable, if I had been accustomed to it. The world’s admiration, like all other luxuries, in the end becomes necessary, and then, too, like other luxuries, ceases to be enjoyed, or even felt, till it is withdrawn and leaves an aching void. If this is Irish, set it down to my broken English. ‘After dinner, I followed the ladies to the drawingroom, and was presented by my friend to Miss —, a reigning beauty. She received me with one of those gracious smiles, that a hacknied belle always bestows on a new worshipper at her shrine. These popular favorites, be it a clergyman, politician, or beauty, are as covetous of the flatteries they receive, as a miser is of gold. No matter how unclean the vessel from which the incense rises; no matter what base alloy may mingle with the precious metal. Have you ever encountered one of those spoiled favorites in the thronged street, and tried to arrest the attention for a moment; to fix the eye that was roving for every tributary glance? If you have, you will understand without my describing it, the distrait manner with which the belle received my first compliments. Even this was not long accorded me, for a better accredited and more zealous admirer than myself appearing, she left me to my meditations, which were not rendered the more agreeable by my overhearing an old lady say, in a voice, which, though slightly depressed, she evidently made no effort to subdue to an inaudible key, “I wonder what possessed Robert Ellison to bring that French portrait painter here! How the world has changed since the Revolution! There is no longer any house where you don’t meet mixed society.” My friend had approached in time to overhear her as well as myself. “The ignorant old fool!” he exclaimed, “shall I tell her that artists are the nobility of every country?” ‘“No,” said I, “do not waste your rhetoric; there is no enlightening the ignorance of stupidity; a black substance will not reflect even the sun’s rays.” ‘Ellison then proposed that I should join a party at whist; but I complained of the heated air of the drawingroom, and, availing myself of an insignificance, I fol- [144] lowed the bent of my inclinations, a privilege the humble should not undervalue, and sauntered abroad. The evening was beautiful enough to have soothed a misanthrope, or warmed the heart of a stoic. Its peace, its salutary, sacred voice restored me to myself, and I was ashamed that ‘my tranquility had been disturbed. I contemned the folly of the artificial distinctions of life, and felt quite indifferent to them—when alone. ‘The ground in front of my friend’s house slopes to the Hudson, and is still embellished with trees of the majestic native growth. Where nature has left anything to be supplied by art, walks have been arranged and planted; but carefully, so as not to impede the view of the river, which was now in perfect repose. A sloop lay in the channel, its sails all furled, idly floating on the slumbering surface. While I was wishing my friend were with me, for I am too much of a Frenchman to relish fully even nature, the favorite companion of sentimentalists, in solitude, I saw a boat put off from the little vessel, and row slowly towards the shore. Presently a sweet female voice swelled on the stillness of the night, accompanied by the notes of a guitar, struck by a practised hand. Could any young man’s mercury resist moonlight and such music? Mine could not, and I very soon left behind me all of terra firma that intervened between me and the siren, and ensconced myself in a deeply shaded nook at the very water’s edge, where I could see and hear without being observed. The boat approached the spot where I stood, and was moored at half a dozen yards from my feet; but as my figure was in shadow, and sheltered by a thick copse of hazel bushes, I was perfectly concealed, while, by a flood of moonbeams, that poured on my unsuspicious neighbours, I saw them as plainly as if it were daylight. These were two men, whom I soon ascertained to be the captain [145] of the sloop and an attendant, and that they were going to a farm house in the neighbourhood for eggs, milk, &c. The two females were to remain in the boat till their return. The lady of the guitar was inclined to go with them as far as the oak wood on the brow of the hill; but the captain persuaded her to remain in the boat, by telling her there was a formidable dog on the place, which she might encounter. As soon as the captain was gone, her companion, an elderly, staid looking country woman, said to her, “Now, child, as I came here for your pleasure, you must sing for mine. None of your newfangled fancies, but good Old Robin Grey.” ‘“Oh, Robin Grey is a doleful ditty; but anything to reward you for indulging me in coming on shore.” ‘She then sung that touching ballad. The English, certainly the Scotch, excel us as much in the pathos of unembellished nature and truth, as we do them in all literary refinement, ingenuity, and grace. I know not how much of the tribute that gushed from my heart was paid to the poetry and music, and how much to the beautiful organ by which they were expressed, for the fair musician looked herself like one of the bright creations of poetry. I would describe her, but description is cold and quite inadequate to convey an idea of her, and of the scene with which she harmonized. It was one of nature’s sweetest accords; the balmy air, the cloudless sky, the river, reflecting like a spotless mirror the blue arch, the moon and her bright train; my enchantress, the embodied spirit of the evening, and her music the voice of nature. I might have forgotten that I was in human mould, but I had one effectual curb to my imagination; one mortal annoyance. Argus, confound him! had followed me from the house, and it was only by dint of continued coaxing and caressing that I could keep him quiet. Before the ballad was [146] finished, however, he was soothed by its monotonous sadness, and crouching at my feet, he fell asleep, I believe. I forgot him. Suddenly “the dainty spirit” changed from the low breathings of melancholy to a gay French air – the very air, Berville, that Claudine, in her mirthful moments, used to sing to us. The transition was so abrupt that it seemed as if the wing of joy had swept over the strings of her instrument. I started forth from my concealment. That was not all. Argus sprang out, too, and barking furiously, bounded towards the boat. The old woman screamed, “There is the dog!” and the young lady, not less terrified. Dropped her guitar, and, unhooking the boat, she seized an oar and pushed it off without listening to my apologies and assurances. In her agitation she dropped the oar, and her companion, still more tremulous than herself, in her attempt to regain it, lost the other, which she had instinctively grasped. As soon as the first impulse imparted to the boat was expended, it scarcely moved at all, and I had leisure to explain my sudden appearance and to say that my dog, far from being the formidable animal they imagined, was a harmless spaniel, who should immediately make all the amends in his power for the terror he had caused. I then directed him to the floating oars. He plunged into the water and brought them to me, but he either did not, or would not understand my wish that he should convey them to the boat, which, though very slowly, was evidently receding from the shore. I then, without farther hesitation, threw off my coat, swam to the boat, and receiving there the oars from Argus’s mouth, I soon reconducted the boat to its haven. There was something enchanting to me in the frankness with which my fair musician expressed her pleasure at the homage I had involuntarily paid to her art, and the grace with which she re- [147] ceived the slight service I rendered her. Perhaps I felt it the more for the mortifying experience of the day. I do not care very nicely to analyze my feelings, not to ascertain how much there was of restored self complacency in the delicious excitement of that hour.’ ‘The elderly lady, for lady she must needs be since my fair incognita called her mother, expressed a matronly solicitude about the effect of my wet garments, but I assured her that I apprehended no inconvenience from them, and I begged to be allowed to remain at my station till the return of their attendants. The circumstances of out introduction had been such as to dissipate all ceremony. Indeed, this characteristic of English manners would have as ill fitted the trustful, ingenuous, and gay disposition of my new acquaintance, as a coat of mail her light, graceful person. She sung, at my request, our popular opera airs, with more effect, because with far more feeling, than our best professed artists. She talked of music, and of the poetry of nature, with genius and taste; and she listened with that eager and pleased attention, which is the second best gift of conversation. I should have taken no note of the passage of time but for the fidgeting of the old lady, who often interrupted us with expressions of her concern at the captain’s delay, for which he, quite too soon, appeared to render an account himself. As I was compelled to take my leave, I asked my fair unknown if I might not be allowed to think of her by some more accurate designation than the “Lady of the Guitar.” ‘”My name is”—she replied promptly, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, added, “No—pardon me, your romantic designation better suits the adventure of the night.” I was vexed at my disappointment, but she chased away the shade of displeasure by the graceful playfulness with which she kissed her hand to me as the [148] boat pushed off. I lingered on the shore till she had reached the vessel, and then slowly retraced my steps towards the house. I was startled by meeting my friend, for my mind was so absorbed that I had not heard his approaching footstep. “Ah!” he exclaimed, ‘is this your philosophy? turned misanthrope at the first frown from the world?” ‘”My philosophy,” I replied, “has neither been vanquished, nor has it conquered, for I had forgotten all its trials.” ‘My friend evidently believed, notwithstanding my disclaimer, that my vanity required some indemnity for the humiliations it had sustained, and he repeated to me some assuaging compliments from his father, “But,” he concluded, “tell me, have you really turned sentimentalist, and been holding high converse with the stars?” ‘With a most brilliant star,’ I replied, and related my adventure. ‘Ellison’s curiosity was excited, and he proposed we should take our flutes, go out in the barge, and serenade the “Lady of the Guitar.” I, of course, assented, and the next half hour found us floating around the little vessel like humble satellites. We played an accompaniment and sung alternately, he in English, and I in French; but there was no token given that the offered incense was accepted; no salutation, save a coarse one from the captain, who invited us to go “on board and take some grog.” We of course declined his professional courtesy. “Then, for the Lord’s sake, lads,” he said, “stop your piping, and give us a good birth. Sleep, at this time o’ night, is better music than the jolliest tune that ever was played.” ‘Thus dismissed, and discomfited by the lady’s neglect, we resumed our oars and were preparing to return to the shore, when the cabin window was gently rais- [149] ed, and our fair incognita sung a sweet little French air, beginning “Adieu, adieu ! ” We remained, sound, motion, almost breath suspended till the song was finished.’ “So sweetly she bids us adieu, I think that she bids us return,” said my friend, and we instantly rowed our boat towards the stern of the vessel. At this moment the sash was suddenly dropped, and taking this for a definitive “Good night,” we retired. ‘Now, dear Berville, I have faithfully related the adventures of my masquerade—my boyish pastime, you may call it. Be it so. This day has been worth a year of care and dignity. I shall return to New York in a few days. Till then farewell. Yours, CONSTANT.’ But though M. Constant professed himself satisfied with his day, there was a lurking disquietude at his heart. He had written to assure himself there was nothing there he dare not express, and yet he had concluded without one alluding to the cause of his self-reproach. He had folded the letter, but he opened it, and added ;— ‘P. S. I did not describe to you my friend’s vexation that the responded song was in French. “Ah!” said he, “I see there is no chance for such poor devils as I, so long as you are neither married nor betrothed.”’ He again closed the letter, and was for a moment satisfied that there could be nothing in the nature of that which he had so frankly communicated that required concealment. He walked to the window and eyed the little vessel as a miser looks at the casket that contains [150] his treasure ; then starting from his reverie, he took from his bosom a miniature, and contemplated it steadfastly for a few moments; ‘It is my conscience that reproaches me,’ he said, ‘and not this serene, benign countenance. O Emma ! thou art equally incapable of inflicting and resenting wrong, and shall thy trust and gentleness be returned by even a transient treachery ? Am I so sure of faithfully keeping the citadel that I may parley with an enemy? ’ The result of this self-examination was a determination to burn the letter, and to dismiss forever from his mind the enchantress whose power had so swayed him from his loyalty. But though he turned from the window, resolutely closed the blind, and excluded the moonlight, which he fancied influenced his imagination as if he were a lunatic; though he went to bed and sunk into the oblivious sleep, the spirit was not laid. Imagination revelled in its triumph over the will. He was in France, in beautiful France—more beautiful now than in the visions of memory and affection. He was at his remembered haunts in his father’s grounds ; the ‘Lady of the Guitar’ was with him ; she sang his favorite songs ; he saw her sparkling glance, her glowing cheek, her rich, dark tints, ‘The embrowning of the fruit that tells How rich within, the soul of sweetness dwells;’ He heard the innocent childlike laugh, that, —‘without any control, Save the sweet one of gracefulness rung from her soul.’ Then there was interposed between him and this embodied spirit of his joyous clime a slowly moving figure; a cold, fail, pensive countenance, that had more of sorrow than resentment, but still, though its reproach was gentle, it was the reproach of the stern spectre of con- [151] science. He cast down his eyes, and they fell in the word ‘BETROTHED,’ traced in the sand at his feet. The ‘Lady of the Guitar’ was gaily advancing towards him. Another step and her flowing mantle would have swept over the word, and effaced it forever. He raised his hand to deprecate her approach, and awoke ; and while the visions of sleep still confusedly mingled with the recollections and resolutions of the preceding day, he was up and at the window ; had thrown open the blind and ascertained that the vessel still lay becalmed in the stream. That virtue is certainly to be envied, that does not need to be shielded and fortified by opportunity and circumstance. If the vessel had disappeared, the recollections of the evening might have been as evanescent and ineffectual as the dreams of the night; but there it was, in fine relief, and as motionless as if it were encased in the blue waters. In spite of M. Constant’s excellent resolutions, he lingered at the window, and returned there as if he were spellbound. Strange power that could rivet his eyes to an ill shapen little Dutch skipper! But that body did contain a spirit, and that spirit, seemingly as perturbed as his own, soon appeared, moving with a light step to and fro on the deck. The apartment M. Constant occupied, was furnished, among other luxuries, with a fine spyglass. To resist using this facility for closer communion was impossible; and by its aid he could perceive every motion of the ‘lady of his thoughts,’ almost the changes of her countenance. He saw she was gazing on the shore, and that she turned eagerly to her companion to point her attention to some object that had caught her eye, and at the same moment he perceived it was his friend, who was strolling on the shore. Ellison saw him too, and waved his handkerchief in salutation. M. Constant returned the greeting, threw down the glass, and with- [152] drew from the window with a feeling of compunction at his indulgence, as if he had again heard that word betrothed spoken. Why is it that external agents have so much influence over the mysterious operations of conscience? Why is it that its energy so often sleeps while there is no witness to the wrong we commit? ‘Keep thy heart, for out of it are the issues of life.’ After breakfast, Ellison said to M. Constant, ‘I am afraid you find your masquerade dull. Let us beguile the morning by a visit your “Lady of the Guitar.” There is nothing lends such wings to time as a pretty girl. Our guests are a dull concern.’ ‘A dull concern, when there is a beauty and a fortune among them!’ ‘Yes, a sated belle is to me as disagreeable as a pampered child; as my grandmother’s little pet Rosy, whom I saw the other day, tossing away her sugar plums, and crying “’T is not sweet enough;” and as fortune, though I am neither a philosopher not a sentimentalist, I shall never take the temple of Hymen in my way to wealth; for of all speculations, a matrimonial speculation seems to me the most hazardous, and the most disgraceful. But we loiter. Will you pay your devoirs to our unknown?’ ‘I believe not; I have letters to write this morning,’ ‘To Emma? Pardon me—I do not mean to pry into your cabinet, but if the letters are to her they may be deferred. She is a dear good soul and will find twenty apologies for every fault you commit.’ ‘If they are to her, such generosity should not be abused. No, I will not go. But on what pretext will you?’ ‘Pretext indeed! does a pilgrim seek for a pretext to visit my Lady of Loretto, or the shrine of any other saint ? Here comes the gardener with a basket of fine fruit which I have ordered to be prepared, and of which [153] I shall be the bearer to the sufferers pent in that dirty sloop this breathless August morning—from mere philanthropy you know. Commend me to Emma, ’ he added gaily; ‘I will bear witness for you that your enthusiasm for this unknown was a mere coup de la lune, and that when daylight appeared you were as loyal, and—as dull as a married man.’ Ellison’s raillery did not render the bitter pill of self-denial more palatable to M. Constant. He turned away without reply, but instead of returning to his apartment he obtained a gun, and inquiring the best direction to pursue in quest of game, he sauntered into a wooded defile that wound among the hills, and was so enclosed by them as not to afford even a glimpse of the river. Here he threw himself on the grass, took a blank leaf from his pocketbook and began a sonnet to constancy, but broke off in the middle; scribbled half a dozen odd lines from the different songs that had entranced him on the preceding evening; sketched a guitar, then rose, and still musing, pursued his way up the defile. The path he had taken led him around the base of an eminence to a rivulet that came frolicking down a hill now leaning and now loitering with the capricious humor of childhood. He traced it to its source, a clear fountain bubbling up from the earth at the foot of a high, precipitous rock. Clusters of purple and pink wild flowers hung from the clefts of the rock, wreathing its bare old front, and presenting a beautiful harmony in contrast, like infancy and old age. The rock and the sides of the fountain formed a little amphitheatre, enclosed and deeply shaded by the mountain ash, the aromatic hemlock and the lofty basswood. This sequestered retreat, with its fresh aspect and sweet exhalations, afforded a delicious refuge from the fierce heat and overpowering light of an August day. M. Constant [154] was lingering to enjoy it when his ear caught the sound of distant and animated voices. He started, and for a moment thought himself cheated by the illusions of a distempered fancy ; but, as the sounds approached nearer, he was assured of their reality, and they affected him like the most painful discord, though they were produced by the sweet, clear, penetrating voice of the unknown and the hitherto welcome tones of his friend. The impropriety of a young girl straying off into such a solitude with an acquaintance of an hour was obvious, but was perhaps more shocking to M. Constant than it would have been to a perfectly disinterested observer. It gave a dreadful jar to his preconceived notions, and contrasted, rudely enough, with the conduct of the preceding night, when the lady had, with such scrupulous delicacy, forborne to show herself on the deck of the sloop. As they drew nearer he thought there was something in the gay, familiar tones of Ellison, disgusting; and the laugh of the lady, which before had seemed the sweetest music of a youthful and innocent spirit, was now harsh and hoydenish. The strain of their conversation, too, for they were near enough to be heard distinctly, while the windings of the path prevented his being seen, though it was graceful chitchat enough, appeared to him trifling and flippant in the extreme. As they came still nearer he listened more intently, for he had a personal interest in the subject. ‘And so, my “Lady of the Guitar,”’ said Ellison, ‘you persist in preserving that scrap of paper, merely, I presume, as a specimen of the sister arts of design and poetry. You are sure those scratches are meant for a guitar, and not a jewsharp, and that the fragment is a sonnet and not a monody?’ ‘Certainly it is a sonnet; the poet says so himself. See here—“Sonnet à la Constance.”’ [155] ‘Well, it is certainly in the strain of a “lament.” My friend was in a strait ; what he would do he could not. Constancy is a very pretty theme for a boarding-school letter, but I am afraid the poor fellow will not find his inspiration in this tame virtue ?’ ‘Ah ! these tame virtues, as you call them,’ replied the lady, ‘ are the salutary food of life, while your themes of inspiration are intoxicating draughts, violent and transient in their effects.’ ‘A very sage lesson, and very well conned. Did your grandmother teach it to you ?’ ‘No matter—I have got it by heart.’ ‘O those moral New Englanders, they change all the poetry of life to wise saws. Thank heaven you have escaped from them in time to retain some portion of your mercurial nature. But now let me tell you, my sage young friend, that same paper may prove as dangerous where you are going as a match to a magazine. So let me advise you, either keep it quite to yourself, or give it to the winds.’ ‘You talk riddles, Mr Ellison; but I will not be quizzed into believing this little castaway scrap of paper can be of any import.’ ‘Let me label it for you then, if, as I see, it is to be filed among the precious stores of your pocketbook.’ There was a short pause when the lady, as M. Constant supposed, looking over Ellison’s superscription, read aloud, ‘Love’s Labor Lost,’ and then exclaimed, ‘Pshaw, Robert, how absurd !’ and tore off the offensive label, while he laughed at her vexation. M. Constant felt that it would be very embarrassing for him to be discovered as a passive listener to this coversation. He had been chained to the spot by an interest that he would gladly not have felt, but which he could not suppress. [156] Another turn would bring them directly before him. To delay longer without being seen was therefore impossible. As he put aside the rustling branches, he heard Ellison exclaim, “Ha! there are some startled quail ;’ but before his friend could take a more accurate observation, he had sprung around an angle of the rock, and was beyond sight and hearing. The gentlemen met before dinner. M. Constant was walking on the piazza, apparently moody and little disposed to sympathize with Ellison’s extravagant expressions of admiration of the unknown, or of regret that the fresh breeze was now wafting the vessel and its precious cargo far away. ‘In the name of Heaven, Constant,’ he said, ‘what has so suddenly turned you to ice? Last night you seemed to think it necessary to invent—pardon me—allege some apology for your prompt sensibility, and you said it was not the beauty, the voice, the grace, or any of the obvious and sufficient charms of this young enchantress—that was your word—that fascinated you, but it was a resemblance to the glowing beauties of your own clime ; and now, if you had been born at the north pole and she at the equator, you could not manifest less affinity.’ ‘There are certain principles,’ replied M. Constant, coldly, ‘that overcome natural affinities. I hope you have passed your morning agreeably.’ ‘Agreeably ? Delightfully ! Our incognita is more beautiful than you describe her.’ ‘Is she then still incognita to you?’ asked M. Constant with a penetrating glance. ‘Not exactly ; she favored me with her name.’ ‘Her name ! what is it ?’ ‘ Pardon me, I am under a prohibition not to tell.’ ‘The lady certainly makes marked distinctions. She is as reserved towards others, as frank to you.’ ‘She had her reasons.’ ‘Doubtless; but what were they?’ ‘Why, one was that I refused to tell her your name.’ ‘And why did you that ?’ ‘I had my reasons, too.’ M. Constant was vexed at the mystery his friend affected. H was annoyed, too, at his perfect self complacency and imperturbable good nature, and more than all, ashamed of his own irritability. He made an effort to overcome it, and to put himself on a level with Ellison. He succeeded so far in his efforts as to continue to talk of the lady with apparent nonchalance till he was summoned to dinner ; but though he tried every mode his ingenuity could devise, he could not draw from his friend the slightest allusion to the lady’s extraordinary visit to the shore, or any particular of their interview, which explained the perfect familiarity that seemed to exist between them ; and what made this mystery more inscrutable, was the tone of enthusiasm which Ellison maintained in speaking of the lady, and which no young man sincerely feels without a sentiment of respect. In spite of M. Constant’s virtuous resolutions and efforts, the ‘Lady of the Guitar’ continued to occupy his imagination, and he determined to take the surest measures to dispel an influence which he had in vain resisted. As he parted from his friend at night, he announced his intention of taking his departure the following morning. After expressing his sincere regret, Ellison said, ‘You go immediately to town ?’ ‘No, I go to Mr. Liston’s.’ ‘Ah! Is it so ?’ [158] ‘Even so. Ellison ; but no more till we meet again. I have supported my masquerade with little spirit ; but do not betray me, and we, neither of us, shall lose reputation.’ M. Constant had for a long time been on terms of intimacy and friendship with Miss Liston. This lady belonged to one of the most distinguished families in our country. She was agreeable in her person, had a fund of good sense, was well informed and perfectly amiable. Such characters are admirable in the conduct of life, if not exciting to the imagination ; that precious faculty, which, like the element of fire, the most powerful and dangerous agent, may warm, or may consume us. Long and intimate friendship between unfettered persons of different sexes is very likely to terminate, as that of M. Constant and Miss Liston terminated, in an engagement. He had a sentiment of deep and fixed affection for her, which, probably, no influence could have materially affected; but when that being crossed his path who seemed to him to realize the brightest visions of his youth, he felt a secret consciousness that the fidelity of his affection was endangered. The little mystery in which the unknown was shrouded, the very circumstance of calling her ‘the unknown,’ magnified the affair, as objects are enlarged, seen through a mist. He very wisely and prudently concluded that the surest way of dispelling all illusion, would be frankly to relate the particulars to Miss Liston, only reserving to himself certain feelings which would not be to her edification, and which he believed would be dispelled by participating their cause with her. Accordingly, at their first meeting he was meditating how he should get over the embarrassment of introducing the subject, when Miss Liston said, ‘I have a great pleasure in reserve for [159] you,’ and left him without any farther explanation, and in a few moments returned, followed by a lady, and saying as she reentered, ‘Marie Angely, you and Constant, my best friends, must not meet as strangers.’ A half suppressed exclamation burst from the lips of both. All M. Constant’s habitual grace forsook him. He overturned Miss Liston’s workstand, workbox, and working paraphernalia, in advancing to make his bow. Miss Angely’s naturally high color was heightened to a painful excess; she made an effort to reciprocate the common courtesies of an introduction, but in vain; the words faltered on her lips, and after struggling a moment with opposing feelings, the truth and simplicity of her heart triumphed and turning to Miss Liston, she said, ‘Your friend, Emma, is the gentleman I met on the river.’ Miss Liston had been the confidant of all her romantic young friend’s impressions from her moonlight interview with the stranger, and it was now her turn to suffer a full share of the embarrassment of the other parties. She looked to M. Constant for an explanation. Never had he, in the whole course of his diplomatic career, been more puzzled; but after a moment’s hesitation he followed Miss Angely in the safe path of ingenuousness and truly told all the particulars of his late adventures, concluding with a goodhumored censure of his friend Ellison, who had long and intimately known Miss Angely, and who, to gratify his mischief loving temper, had contrived the mystery which led to the rather awkward d́énouement. Thus these circumstances, which might have been woven into an intricate web of delicate embarrassment and romantic distress, that might have ended in the misery of one, perhaps of all parties, were divested of their interest and their danger by being promptly and frankly disclosed. [160] Miss Angely, whom our readers have already recognised as the little girl of the inn, had met with Miss Liston at a boarding school in Boston, where, though Miss Liston was her elder by several years, they formed an enthusiastic, and rare in the annals of boarding schools, an enduring friendship. Marie Angely had faithfully discharged the debt of gratitude to Mrs Reynolds, and though acquiring, as may be supposed, somewhat of the fastidiousness that accompanies refined education and intercourse, no one could perceive any abatement of her respect or affection for her kind protectress, or the slightest diminution of her familiarity with her. She passed a part of every summer with her, always called her mother, and, by the fidelity of her kindness and the charm of her manner, she diffused light and warmth over the whole tract of Mrs Reynolds’s existence. She linked expectations, that might have been blasted, to a happy futurity, and cherished and elevated affections, which, but for her sunny influence, would have been left to wither and perish. Oh that the fortunate and happy could know how much they have in their gift! Miss Angely had been on one of her annual visits to her humble friend, and was on her way, accompanied by her, to New York, where she was to join Miss Liston, when the incidents occurred which we have related. There is nothing in the termination of our tale to indemnify the lover of romance for its previous dullness; but it is a true story, and its materials must be received from tradition, and not supplied by imagination. M. Constant was, in the course of a few weeks, united to Miss Liston. This lady had long cherished a hope that her friend would be a permanent member of her family, and she used every art of affection to persuade her to remain with her at least so long as she should decline the suits of all the lovers who were now [161] thronging around her, attracted by her beauty, or loveliness, or the eclat she derived from her intimacy with the wife of the ambassador. M. Constant did not very warmly second his wife’s entreaties. He perhaps had a poignant recollection of certan elective affinities, and his experience taught him the truth, if indeed he had not derived it from a higher source, that, in the present infirm condition of human virtue, it is always safest and best not voluntarily to ‘enter into temptation.’ Miss Angely returned to Boston. M. Constant’s union with Miss Liston was one of uninterrupted confidence and conjugal happiness; but it was not destined to be of long duration. His wife died in about a year after their marriage. Among her papers was found a letter addressed to her husband, written in expectation of the fatal issue of the event that had terminated her life, in which she earnestly recommended her friend as her successor. In due time her request was honored. M. Constant married Miss Angely. After residing for some time in America, they went to France, where she was received as an ornament to her noble family, and acknowledged to be, ‘the brightest jewel in its coronet.’ Far from the mean pride of those who shrink from recurring to the humble stages in their progress to the heights of fortune, Madame Constant delighted in relating the vicissitudes of her life, and dwelt particularly on that period, when, as Mrs Reynolds’s handmaid, she considered herself honored in standing behind the chair of the wife of the great General Knox. ‘The longest day comes to the vesper hour.’ Madame Constant closed at Paris a life of virtue, prosperity, and happiness, in July 1827. _______________ *We would gladly have had it in our power to be exact in dates, as our story in good faith is true in all, even the least important particulars. Some few circumstances, and the ‘spoken words,’ had escaped tradition, and of course were necessarily supplied, as the proper statue receives a foot or finger from the ruder hand of modern art. The name of the heroine having been subsequently merged and forgotten in that of her husband, we have ventured to retain it. The rest we have respectfully veiled under assumed appellations. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Romance in Real Life Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria. [By the Author of "Redwood."] Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Legendary, edited by Nathaniel Parker Willis, 118-61. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Boston: Samuel G. Goodrich Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1828 [pub. 1827] Relation A related resource Reprinted in The Garland, pp. 198-264, Boston, 1839. Reprinted in The Diadem, New York: 1850. Collected in Tales and Sketches, By Miss Sedgwick, Author of "The Linwoods," "Hope Leslie," &c. &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard, 1835, pp. 237-78. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Document Language A language of the resource English Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Esther Hagan, Savvy Myles, and Angelica Tijerino, with Dr. Jenifer Elmore (Palm Beach Atlantic University); and Julia Carey, Sean Godbout, Emily Kay, Isabella Lopresti, Diana Villanueva, Jake Lyons, with Dr. Lucinda Damon-Bach (Salem State University), Subject The topic of the resource Historical fiction, Romance, French and American relations. Description An account of the resource An historical romance in two parts, focusing first on the Boston childhood of orphan Marie Reynolds/Angely (implied to be the long-lost daughter of a fictionalized Hector St. Jean de Crèvecoeur), and subsequently on Marie's mysterious meeting with and eventual marriage to a US diplomat. 1777 1787 1827 1839 adoption Alexander Pope ambassador An Essay on Man -Epistle IV Anna Matilda As You Like It Auld Robin Gray boarding school Boston Catskills class Comte de Mosloy constancy Count Louis-Guillaume Otto courtship Death Della Crusco disguise Dogs Elizabeth Livingston engagement France French Friendship General Henry Knox guitar Hannah Hannah Cowley Hudson River Huguenot Hymen I Samuel 1 inn J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur Jewsharp Lady of Loretto Le Misanthrope letters Letters from an American Farmer Lisbon locket Lorenzo Love Love’s Labour Lost marriage Massachusetts Michel Guillaume Jean de Crèvecœur Moliére Mothers music New York nobility Normandy Orlando Paris portrait painter Providence Revolutionary War Robert Livingston Robert Merry Romance Samuel Daniel Saxon Shakespeare shipwreck sonnets spy Tales and Sketches (First Series) Tauconnuc The Complaint of Rosamund The Garland The Legendary United States Xantippes https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/8c2580e0d8c36d5894cd53d3bdb7ed83.pdf?Expires=1781740800&Signature=VcYXNVUg5jkq4IWS3ECCV4OSafH5-PuhBwfnigbwxdP25D2RlgJlnvvJDlnNjtEV6c%7EzyrptCBW8l5TP3Zae-B6CX3jCTtvCKN9VDS8C-Y%7EltjNxstnhDkFkRRKD0TSop94%7EtRk64yJHfD2CukPIG-pSnF4MnGf6Rh72zaQEOi82TTdjc1eTz7mXHINNf0iCh7DGdgdm1dghweP3hKB3aNrW80Q1zU79EqTnuRCeVBnOklLxgTCqLnuj2y%7E94K1yDa6jh1C3B4DB7f5jlvGKGZ%7Eu6jmCLfK8M05i0c4IDUSVDzVVAum2fpGU-WFRyDO6jIiqs7af5EpQY5FefEWGWQ__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 3ad123f7243d39e10c7c532c80496974 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1835 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. Amy Cranstoun By the author of Redwood, Hope Leslie, etc. — The famous Indian war, which ended in the destruction of the chieftain of Mount Hope and his adherents, broke out just a hundred years before our revolutionary war; a circumstance which we leave for the speculation of those who believe that certain periods of time have a mysterious relation and dependance, while we use it merely to fix the date of a domestic story, some important portions of which have been omitted on the page of history, rather we should hope from its fitness for a cabinet picture, than from its insignificance. Madam Cranstoun, at that period, resided at Providence, and was, we believe, the wife of the governor of Providence Plantations. If we are mistaken in his official dignity, we are not in the fact, that he is set down in history as a “notable gentleman.” There was living with Mrs. Cranstoun, a dependant on her bounty, an orphan niece of her husband, Amy Cranstoun. Amy had the figure of a nymph, and a face that expressed a freedom and happiness of spirit that even dependance, that most restricting and acidifying of all states, could never subdue nor sour; and an innocence and open-heartedness, without fear, and without reproach. It cannot be denied that the elderly persons of the strict community in which she lived, looked upon her as a very unapproveable and unedifying damsel; still she had the miraculous art to open a fountain of lobe in their hard bound bosoms. She had the irrepressible gayety of a child. Her elastic step seemed to keep time with the harmonious springs of youth and joy. At all times and seasons, and, it must be confessed, without any very reasonable relation to persons or circumstances, her musical voice would break forth in song, or bursts of laughter— “That without any control, But the sweet one of gracefulness, run from her soul.” Poor Amy often offended against the rigid observances of her contemporaries. She would gape, and even smile in the midst of the protracted Sabbath-service, and that in spite of the bend of her uncle’s awful brow, her aunt’s admonitory winks, and the plummet and rule example of her cousins — maiden ladies, some fifteen years older than Amy, who were so perpendicular and immovable, that our gay little friend sometimes suspected that the process of petrifaction had begun about the vital region of their hearts. Amy had a wonderful facility in committing to memory “ungodly ballads and soul-enslaving songs,” but a sort of intellectual dyspepsia when she attempted to digest sacred literature. She never repeated an answer accurately in the assembly’s catechism; and though she did not, as is reported of those “afflicted by the Salem witches,” faint at the reading of that precious little treatise entitled, “Cotton’s Milk for Babes,” she was sure to fall asleep over it, the very opposite effect to that intended by the author of this spiritual food. She reached the age of eighteen without acquiring the current virtues of her day; but her beauty, spirit, or sweet temper, or all of them united, attracted more suitors than her exemplary and well-proportioned cousins could boast through their long career. Among the rest came one Uncle Smith, the son of Deacon Smith, a precious light in Boston. Uriah was a fair, sleek, softly looking youth, grace and deliberate, and addicted to none of the “fooleries and braveries” of the coxcombs of the day. So said Madam Cranstoun to Amy, for Uriah had not, like young Edwin, “only bowed,” but had told his love — not to the niece, but most discreetly to the aunt. Madam Cranstoun, amazed at the wonder-working Providence, as she was pleased to term it, that had set before her niece the prospect of such a “companion,” communicated, to Amy, Uriah’s proposition, with all the circumlocution and emphasis a prime minister might have employed to announce a royal bounty; but most ungraciously did Amy receive it. She sat the while calmly drawing with her pencil on the blank leaf of a book, her face unmoved, except that now and then a slight but ominous smile drew up the corners of her mouth. “Cousin Amy! cousin Amy!” exclaimed her aunt, “give me that book, and let me hear you testify your thankfulness for a favor of which, sooth to say, you are abundantly unworthy.” “Well, there is the book, aunt Cranstoun, and let it speak for your ‘unworthy’ niece.” One glace at the penciled page sufficed. Amy had delineated there a striking resemblance of the overgrown angular Rosinante, on which Uriah had rid to his wooing, and for the rider she had portrayed the form of Uriah, and the face of a monkey! “Shame! shame to you, Amy!” exclaimed her aunt, “dare you thus to trifle with so serious a subject?” “The subject is too serious, I confess, aunt, to be trifled with, and therefore, being an incorrigible trifler, I must decline it altogether.” Madam Cranstoun started in dumb astonishment. “I am in earnest, aunt,” continued Amy, “Master Uriah must seek a more suitable helpmeet than your foolish niece.” “Foolish! — both foolish and wicked, Amy.” Madam Cranstoun lost her self-command. “Yea, wicked, without leave, counsel, and consultation, from and with those who have given you shelter, food, and raiment from your cradle, blindly and scoffingly to reject this little-to-be expected, and most unmerited provision for your protection and maintenance through life.” Amy’s frivolity, if it must be called by so harsh a name, vanished, while half indignant and half subdued, her cheeks burning, and tears gushing from her eyes, she said — “For food, raiment, and shelter, and for every kindly-spoken word, aunt Cranstoun, the only child of your husband’s sainted sister thanks you, and will, please God, testify her gratitude for your past bounty by every act of duty and devotion to you and yours. But I implore you, in the name of the God of the fatherless, not to drive me from the house of dependenance to a house of bondage — the vilest bondage, service without love, fetters on my affection — joyous would they be in a voluntary service, but rebellious and unprofitable in a compelled one.” Madam Crastoun’s heart was touched. She perceived there was reason as well as feelin in Amy’s appeal. “Well – well, child,” she said, “you know I do not wish to put a force upon you. I do not, nor ever did, feel you to be a heavy burden on us; I only ask you to take the proposition of Master Uriah into consideration, and try to live him, as much as it becometh a virtuous maiden to love a worthy suitor.” “Oh, aunt, ask me to do anything else, but indeed there is no use in trying to love. I did try, and for one whom, I confess, I was not in any sort worthy; and whom, beforehand, I should have deemed it right easy to love, but the more I tried the more impossible I found it.” “And for whim, I pray you, did you make this marvelous trial?” Amy was silent. “Not, I am sure, for Master James Chilton? – nor Nathanial Goodeno?” Amy shook her head. “And you would not, Amy,” continued her aunt with a more scrutinizing glance, “you would try to love that lawless young spark – I will not mention his name, since your uncle has forbidden it to be spoken within his doors.” Amy felt her face and neck flushing and burning, and to avert the right inference from her treacherous blushes, she did what may be most pithily expressed by a vulgar proverb, ‘jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.’ “No, no, aunt,” she said, “he to whom I allude is far – far away, and has I trust forgotten me.” “Surely – surely, Amy, you do not mean Wickliffe Wilson?” “I do, aunt,” replied Amy, with an irrepressible smile that abated the virtue of her humble tone of voice.” “Oh, Amy!” exclaimed her aunt, in a voice of sorrow and rebuke, “you amaze and distress me. I knew you to be giddy and trifling to a degree, but I never before thought you a senseless ad hardhearted.” She paused, and then added, as if a sudden light had broken upon her, “Ah, I see it all now! Little did I think when Wickliffe was spending his precious time, day after day, in teaching you the tongues, that Satan was spreading a snare for him. How could the learned and pious youth suffer his affections to be wasted upon such a piece of laughing idlesse! Wickliffe Wilson, the honored son of an honored sire! the gifted youth! the hope of the plantation! Amy, Amy, was it for that his eye lacked its lustre, his cheek became sunken and pale, and his heart waxed faint! – love of you, Amy, that has sent him forth from his father’s house, and from his native land, and without one accusing word or look?” Amy burst into tears. “He was most generous,” she said, “I would have done any thing to manifest my gratitude to him, and as I truly told you, aunt, I did try in earnest to love him.” “O pshaw, child! – I see through it all. You could not choose but have loved him, had not your unbridled affections strayed another way. The sooner you recall them the better, for never – never shall you wed with Lovell Reeve – a foil, a contrast truly to the worthy youth Wickliffe!” This pursued, Amy turned and stood at bay. “Aunt Cranstoun,” she said, “worthy and noble as Wickliffe may be, and I grant him so, Lovell Reeve, in all gentlemanly points, in all high sentiment and right feeling, is his equal – his equal in every think but yours and my uncle’s esteem; and I have long believed, without the courage to tell you so, that some one has traduced him to you.” “Nay, Amy, his own ill deeds dispraise him. Did he not join the galliards of Boston, in their assemblings for dancing and other forbidden frolics? Did he not aid and abet – nay, was he not the sole instigator and agent in conveying dame Hyslop beyond the Massachusetts, after it was well nigh proven that she was the confederate and vowed servant of Satan, in bewitching Levi Norton’s children? – and was not Lovell Reeve foremost, and ringleader of those ungodly youths, who discredited the right of assistants, and openly opposed the driving forth of the Quakers, and the extirpation of their blasphemous heresy?” “I believe, aunt, he has done all this.” “And still you dare to even him with one, who is in full communion and fair standing with the church, and whose walk has been, like pious Samuel’s, even from his youth, in all godliness.” “Oh, aunt, the Scripture says there be divers gifts; Wickliffe’s are not Lovell’s, neither, under favor I say it, are Lovell’s, Wickliffe’s. And now,” she continued, throwing herself on her knees before her aunt, and clasping her hands, “Now, my dear aunt, that I have boldly foregone maidenly modesty, and spoken, in some measure as I feel, of my true-love, let me plead with you, by all your care for my well-being – by all your gentle; womanly thoughts and memories – by that pure and interchanged affection which Lovell and I have plighted before God, I beseech ye let me follow the biddings of my heart, and profess before the world what I have revealed to you, instead of hiding it like a guilty passion in the depths of my heart – you do feel for us! – you cannot help it – Oh speak to my uncle.” Amy had skillfully touched a powerful spring. Her aunt was affected by her half voluntary confidence; but though the ling congealed sources of sympathy were soften, they were not melted, and when Amy mentioned her uncle, the subject, in Madam Cranstoun, reverted to its old light. “Rise, my child,” she said, “it ill becomes you to put yourself in the posture of a silly damsel of romance. Your uncle and I cannot recede from a decision made after and due and prayerful deliberation. I now perceive that you are apprised of the youth Lovell having applied to us – not as he should have done before communing with you, - for leave to make suit to you, to which we answered with a full negative, and stated our reasons therefor, which were he of a right temper, would have been satisfactory. We have fully warned him not to urge you to an act of disobedience, and secured his compliance by informing him that an marriage bounty, which your uncle might purpose, would be withheld in case of your failure in duty due.” “You mistake his spirit – he spurned the threat, and urged me to forfeit my uncle’s gift; and by me troth, aunt, it was not in the wealth of the Indies to hold me back, but I did fear to violate my duty to you, and I hoped you would grant my prayer when I dared to make it to you.” “Never, Amy, never. I commend you in as far as you have acted wisely in the past; and for the future I command you to dismiss Lovell Reeve from your mind.” “I cannot. I may control the outward act, but how eradicate the image blended with every thought and affection?” “This is girlish talk, Amy. Be humble and teachable, child. Remember they youth ever errs in judgment. But guided by those, who are both wise and experienced; and then, Amy, if you should still be privileged with the favor of worthy Master Wickliffe’s love, you may yet be mated to our acceptance and your own profit.” “Heaven forbid,” thought Amy. Her aunt proceeded, “ I see that thou art self-willed, but take heed – the judgment of Heaven may light upon thee – consider duly – go thy apartment, and commune with thy heart.” Amy obeyed with alacrity; for in these communings she found the only indulgence of an affection, which neither her conscience nor her judgment forbad. Amy’s conscience, though it did not act in obedience to the laws Madam Cranstoun could have prescribed, was a faithful monitor, and Amy was obedient to its monitions. Clandestine proceedings were abhorrent to the integrity of her character. Every delicate woman instinctively revolts from an elopement and a secret marriage. Amy had maintained a firm negative to Lovell’s entreaties. With the confidence of her most happy temper she believed that some favorable circumstances would occur, some influence come, she knew not whence, to shift the wind in her favor. But – when she had put aside her pride and her maidenly reserve, and freely confessed her love to her aunt, and found her unrelenting, and resolved to maintain her power in its utmost rigor – Amy felt a spirit of insurrection rising in her heart, that probably, but for the strange events that followed, would soon have broken out into open rebellion. There were throbbings at her heart at the thought of escape from thralldom; when, at this treacherous moment, a servant tapped at the door to announce “that Wimple, the Boston Pedlar, was in the hall with his box full of nick-nacks, that he was sure would pleasure Miss Amy’s eye.” “Tell him,” said Amy, in a tone that indicated nothing could pleasure her at the moment, “tell him I want nothing.” “Pray do not send him that word, Miss Amy! – Madam has huffed him already; and Miss Prudence and Miss Tempy have bought nothing but knives and whalebones. They were sharp and stiff enough already! – and besides, Wimple bade me tell you he has a violet ribbon, just the color of your eyes.” Perhaps curious to ascertain the color of her eyes, or it may be, like most frail mortals, not deaf to flattery, Amy descended to the hall. She found her aunt and cousins, attracted by the pretty assortment of merchandise, still hovering about the pedlar’s box, inquiring prices, cheapening the articles they meant to buy, and vouchsafing a few grains or praise to such as they did not want. “Ah, my service to you, Mistress Amy,” said Wimple, “it would be ill luck to my box to leave the plantations without seeing you.” “And ill fortune to me, Wimple. But where is the ribbon Judith told me of!” “The ribbon! – what ribbon, my young lady? – ah, I remember,” added Wimple, as the luring message he had transmitted recurred to him, “it should be here – or here – it was of the violet dye, young lady – the flower – and something else I’ve seen – looks as if a drop from the blue sky had fallen into it – the ribbon is clear gone, but here is a pair of gloves, a nice fit for you.” “They are just the color I have been looking for, for a full half hour to no purpose,” said Miss Prudence, “so it is but fair I should have the first trial.” Wimple looked disconcerted – “Indeed, my young lady,” he said, with a discreet emphasis on young, not enough to imply sarcasm, and just enough to seem earnest, “indeed, my young lady, they are a thought too small for you,” and suiting the action to the word, he adroitly measured the glove against the back of Miss Prudence’s broad, sinewy hand; she turned away satisfied, or piqued. Wimple, too politic to leave a shadow on the mind of a customer, added, “I will suit you, Miss Prudy, next time, for one of my brethren in the walking line, is expected from Acadie with French nackeries, and he’ll be sure to bring gloves; - such as these with pretty devices are much sought after, by the Boston gallants, for love-tokens.” “Let me look at the gloves before you purchase,” interposed Madam Cranstoun, whose ear was offended by Wimple’s professional vaunt; “I do not approve these braveries that feed vanity, and draw truant eyes at meeting.” Wimple adroitly exchanged the gloves designed for Amy, for a pair of embroidered with a monumental device, saying, “Madam Cranstoun will certainly approve the wholesome lesson wisely wrought here.” Madam Cranstoun returned the gloves with a cold remark, that she believed they would do no harm; and Wimple unsuspected slipped the right pair into Amy’s hand, contriving as he did so let her see the corner of a note within the glove. “Never mind the ‘pay this time, Mistress Amy,” he said. Amy understood him, dropped a silver penny in his hand, and quickly disappeared. She then returned to her room, bolted her door, and kissing the gloves, – those fated gloves – she read the following note: “My beloved Amy; and yet mine, since your own cruel sentence makes those barriers impassable which tyranny has erected? Still you are mine by your own most precious confession; by vows registered in Heaven, and which not all the power of all the uncles and aunts in christendom can make void. I have something to communicate that I cannot trust to paper – meet me, I beseech you, on Tuesday the 5th, at 7 o’clock, P.M., under the elm tree, just beyond the cove. If you refuse me this boon, I shall fear the freezing atmosphere in which you live has chilled the warm precincts of your heart. At seven, dear Amy, – remember, 7 P.M. of Tuesday the 5th – farewell till then.” “Tuesday the 5th,” had come, and “7 P.M.” drew nigh, when Amy put on the memorable gloves, which were wrought with a bunch of forget-me-nots, tied with a true-love know; and sheltering herself in a dark silk cloak and hood, she eluded all the argus eyes aout the mansion, and reached the place of rendezvous. “He is not here!” she exclaimed, as her foot touched the spot; “there is yet one minute to spare,” she added, looking at her watch; “yet it should have been Lovell, not I, who came the minute too soon – next time,” she concluded, drawing off one of her gloves, “Lovell shall wear the forget-me-not.” Poor Lovell! he would not have broken the thousandth part of a minute in his appointment; but the most faithful are not exempted from the cross accidents of life. His horse, in passing a treacherous causeway, had broken his leg. Lovell did not hesitate to abandon him, and hurried on with all the speed that vigorous and agile limbs, and a most impatient spirit, could supply; but even love cannot travel like a sound horse, and when Lovell reached the cove it was a quarter past seven. There was still enough of twilight left, for him to discern the print of Amy’s little foot on the white sand. He bent and kissed it, then sprang up the bank and onward to the elm-tree – she was not there! He thought that in the spirit of sportive retaliation for his delay, she might have hidden in some shaded recess. He explored every recess, penetrated every possible hiding-place, he pronounced, and imploringly repeated, her name, but all in vain. “She must have been here!” he exclaimed, “I could not mistake the print of any other foot for her’s – Oh Amy, could you not wait one quarter of an hour for me! – Can any thing have happened to her? – She may have been followed hither by some evil-minded person!” Apprehensions accumulate most rapidly where the safety of a defenseless object, and the dearest one in life, is at stake. Lovell reiterated Amy’s name in a voice of agony; he looked over, again and again, the places he had already thoroughly searched; he then returned to the cove, there was not mark there of a returning footstep; she could not then have gone back that way. He remounted the bank, intending to extend his search farther up the river. After passing some willows, the shore was rocky, and just beyond the rocks was a thicket of saplings, and tangled bushes that led to the water’s edge. “She could not have passed here,” he said. Something caught his eye at the bottom of the rock. He descended, and just on the margin of the river he found on of Amy’s gloves, one of the pair which he had sent by Wimple, and on the sand was imprinted the mark of a small foot, that must have been recently there. His head became giddy with terrific apprehensions, and now, as he looked up the rock, he saw the fibrous plants that grew from their fissures had been freshly uprooted, and appeared as if their insufficient aid had been resorted to. The mind will not at once surrender itself to despair. It was barely possible that some acquaintance had been sailing on the river, and that, to avoid surmises, Amy had returned to town in the boat. But there was the glove! – Amy would not have carelessly dropped his love-token – and the uprooted plants! Still there was a ray of hope, and in one half hour Lovell burst into Governor Cranstoun’s parlor, and darting his eyes around the formal circle, he explained its glance by asking in one breath, “Is Amy here? – has no one seen her?” The family all rose, startled at his wild appearance. “Is the youth crazy?” asked Madam Cranstoun. “This intrusion is unlooked for, and manifestly indecorous!” said the governor. “Will no one answer me?” exclaimed Lovell, and snatching a hand-bell from the table, he returned to the hall and rang it furiously. The servants, alarmed, obeyed the summons. “Have any of you seen Mistress Amy?” he asked, “and when? – and where?” All looked amazed, non answered. “For the love of Heaven speak, - go to her room – search every where.” “Hold, young man!” said Governor Cranstoun, “you are mad.” “Mad? – I shall be mad! – she is lost! – it may be, murdered.” The last word, articulated as it was in a broken and suppressed voice, penetrated to every heart, and instantly every mouth was opened, every room was searched, and every corner of the mansion in an uproar and confusion. “I saw her before tea,” said one. “I saw her go out the side gate!” said another. “Yes,” said Miss Prudence, “and I saw her from my window, and thought then she was going on a wild goose chase.” The alarm soon spread from the governor’s family to the town; alarm-bells were ring, and the men in separate and small bands went out on a scout in every direction. The search was continued for days, and not relinquished till neither reason nor hope held out the slightest probability of success. But after the people had returned to their usual occupations, and Amy’s disappearance had become an old story, it continued to be as acutely felt by Lovell Reeve, as at the first terrible moment of conviction that she was gone. He abandoned his ordinary pursuits, forsook his accustomed haunts; and worn and wasted wandered over the country, seeking and inquiring, but finding nothing to feed his hopes, which were only kept alive by the undying fires of love. Amy’s disappearance was just about the period of the death of the heroic Indian, king Philip. A few of his old comrades still maintained a feeble resistance to the English. Lovell sometimes encountered their parties in the fastness of the savage forests. They answered his questions patiently, and treated him kindly; probably his wild and haggard aspect impressed them with the belief that he was suffering from one of those visitations of Heaven, which elicit far more tenderness and respect from the savage than the civilized man. On one occasion, at late twilight, he had thrown himself down in a little nook made by the turning of a brook that ran rambling past it, and wearied and exhausted he had opened his wallet, when he heard some one striding down the rocky hill above him. From the dimensions of the figure he mistook it for that of a man, but as it approached nearer, her perceived it to be a young Indian woman. Her head was thrown back, her brow painfully contracted, and her eye fixed, and indicating a mind abstracted from all outward things. She threw herself on the ground, almost at the feet of Lovell, without seeing him. Her check was hollow, and her limbs tremulous; but she seemed as if some passionate grief obscured the sense of corporeal wants. Lovell spoke to her; asked her whither she came” where she was going? to which she replied, in such imperfect English, that she conveyed no meaning to Lovell. One word alone he understood, and that was the name of the famous Annowon, the Indian chieftain, who had been the companion of Philip’s father, the tried and trusted associate of Philip himself, and who, still unsubdued, though hunted like a beast of prey, maintained his national independance in the gloomy depth of a forest – all that was left of the wide domain inherited from his fathers. Lovell offered the woman a portion of his evening mean; she took it eagerly, devouring it ravenously, and then drawing her blanket over her head, she pillowed it on the rock, and was soon lost in deep sleep. Poor Lovell envied her short oblivion, and continued, hour after hour, watching the stars on their courses, till at last nature overcoming his sense of misert, he too fell asleep. When he awoke in the morning, the Indian woman had disappeared. On the crushed grass where she had lain there was something that quickened Lovell’s pulses. He sprang forward, seized, and examine it – it was Amy’s glove. The mate he had worn in his bosom, from the fatal hour of her disappearance. But alas! the woman who had possessed this clew had gone. H shouted, he ran hither and yon, calling in the most supplicating voice, but he was only answered by the forest echoes. He had, however obtained some light; and vague, and feeble as it was, it might prove a guiding beam over the weary waste that had encompassed him. Annowon either did possess the secret of Amy’s fate, or could command it. This conclusion made, Lovell instantly conceived a project, and set forward to execute it. — We return to where we left out little friend Amy. She was startled from her mental reproaches of her lover by the plash of oars, and, turning, she saw a canoe rowing through the cove, and stealthily close into the shore. There were two Indians in the canoe, but as there were many friendly natives in the vicinity of Providence, she was not alarmed till the canoe, having turned the ledge of rocks and disappeared, she saw the Indians coming up the bank towards her. Escape was impossible. The one was the old man, the other a youth. The young man asked her to come with them. The elder, without ceremony, seized her arm and dragged her forward. She resisted with all her might, shrieking the name of Lovell, and vainly hoping he might be near enough to hear her voice, but that hope soon vanished. She was thrust into the canoe, and it was rapidly rowed down the stream to a swampy landing-place, where the Indians disembarked, drew their canoe up into the thicket, and began their scramble through the morass. In the short itme that had passed since Amy had relinquished the hope of a rescue, she had, with her strong native good sense, surveyed her position, and made up her mind as to her mode of conduct. In carrying her resolve into execution she was sustained by an unconquerable, a Heaven-inspired cheerfulness of spirit, that like a cleaf meridian sun brightened even the darkest objects. Poor girl! she needed all its power. The Indians were amazed to see her, instead of lagging, press forward without a word or sigh of complaint. The elder of her captors she soon ascertained to be the far-famed Annowon, now verging to old age, but still retaining many of the attributes of vigorous manhood, a fiery eye, an upright person, and a firm step; the younger was Mantunno, a young man of two and twenty, an exception to, rather than a specimen of his race. His aspect was that of a man of peace and gentleness. His voice was sympathetic, as he ever and anon cheered on his captive, and where the passes were most difficult he carried her, sinking to his knees in the bogs, till he reached a firm foot-hold. Thus they proceeded till they approached a place, which still, after the passage of more than a century and a half, retains the name of “Annowon’s rock.” This rock, or rather ledge of rocks, for it extends from 70 to 80 feet, was then inaccessible except from one point, being nearly surrounded by a morass which, before the land was drained, was covered with water. Near its base the rocks have deep recesses and shelving places, and being well hedged in with felled treed and dried bushes, they afforded a sort of sheltered nest for these wild denizens of the woods. A beacon-light had penetrated through the tangled wood, guiding Amy’s step over the slippery rocks and trembling mosses, but the way suddenly became more difficult; the poor girl’s heart of grace failed, and exhausted she sunk down and burst into tears. The old Indian muttered, “Telula cry? – never.” “Telula no woman,” replied the young man, and taking out poor little friend in his arms, he strided on through bush and through brake, till emerging suddenly, they came upon the access to their wild resting-place, and as the now unimpeded light streamed cheerfully up from it and shone on Amy’s face, Mantunno saw there a tolerable successful effort at a smile of gratitude, which wen very near to his heart. Refreshed by her rest in the Indian’s arm, and encouraged by the wilderness and novelty of the scene, – for Amy’s was a somewhat romantic and most buoyant spirit, – she descended the ledge of rocks, sometimes upheld by Mantunno, sometimes sustaining herself on a foothold that seemed scarcely qualified to afford support for a bird, and sometimes holding fast by branches of the trees that here and there had forced themselves through the crevices of the rocks. This she reached safely the broad base of the ledge, and looking around her at various distances, and imperfectly, as the firelight glanced athwart them, she saw small groups of Indians. Near her a bright fire was burning under a caldron, from which issued fumes so savory, that considering the gross appetites of which common souls are compounded, they would have been much more like, than those strains the poet magnifies, to “create a soul under the ribs of death.” Tending this caldron was a tall bony Indian girl; her features were large, and expressive of turbulent passions, but without a particle of the feminine softness that is common to young woman of all hues. She looked like a vulture, eager to grasp a dove in its talons, as she fixed her eyes on poor little Amy. Some broken sentences she spoke to the youth, in her native tongue, complaining of his protracted absence and her wearisome solitude, and then turned her eye again on Amy, as if she longed to know, but would not ask, why the little garden-blossom had been brought to their wild home. Mantunno neither heeded her words nor her looks. He was busied in making a bead of dry mosses and leaves for his captive, and forming a bower for her, by interweaving branches of the hemlocks and cedars that were growing in abundance around them. Annowon called loudly for supper, and Telula served I, but without eating herself or offering a portion to Amy till bidden by Annowon, when she filled a wooden trencher and set it before her, and Amy, in pursuance of her resolution to sustain her strength and spirits by all human means, and we suspect befriended by an honest appetite; ate as heartily as if she had been at her uncle’s table – the best in ‘Providence Plantations.’ After she had finished her singular meal, she thanked Mantunno for the bed he had spread for her, bade him “good night,” in the sweetest tone of her sweet voice, and crept into her little bower, where, after commending herself to God, she fell asleep, pondering over the chances of reunion to Lovell Reeve, Oh, what lessons may be learned from those who act according to the dictates of wise nature! Mantunno laid himself down at a little distance from Amy’s bower, and long into the watches of the night Telula observed his wakeful eye fixed on it, as a miser watches the casket that contains his treasure. But when at last his sense were locked in sleep, Telula drew near the old man, who, as he sat leaning against the rock, looked like a portion of it, so rigid were his features, so sharp and immoveable the outline of his bony figure. “Father,” asked Telula, in her own language, “is this Yengee girl yours, or Mantunno’s captive?” “Mine.” “My father is wise! –” said Telula, in that tone which converts an affirmation into a negative. “And why am I not wise, Telula.” “Was I not wretched enough yesterday?” “And why more wretched now? “Did he ever pile the mosses for my head to rest upon? – Did he ever weave a curtain around my bed? – Did he ever watch my sleep as the eagle watches its nestling? Mantunno’s soul is as the pale-faces! He would fain mate with them.” “What mean you, Telula?” “This girl! – this girl! – why did ye bring her hither?” The vehement tones of Telula’s voice, and the flood of tears she poured out, seemed, rather than her words, to have conveyed her meaning to the old man. He fixed his eye on her and said, “Ye would not surely wed your mother’s sister’s son?” “I would.” “This is worse than all! – I charge ye, Telula, as you love your life, never to speak – never to think of this again.” “I cannot obey you.” Both reverted to silence; but the subject was for ever fixed in the minds of both. The marriage of cousins was regarded as an abomination by some, if not by all the Indian tribes, and their strict adherence to the Hebrew law in this particular is urged by some of our antiquaries as among the proofs of their descent from the ten lost tribes. Annowon had met with losses and miseries in every shape. His wives were dead – his children had gone like flowers from the hill-side – his people had vanished – his brother Philip had been slain in battle, and his body hacked in pieces by the sacrilegious knives of the Yengees – and some fifty followers, and this barren rock on which the sun shone, and the showers fell in vain, was all that was left of his tribe and their wide domain; and now this unlawful passion of the last of his race seemed to him to fill up the measure of his sorrows. He had seized Amy from an impulse of hostility to her race; he had learned from her high connexions, and he now purposed either to make her a victim of his vengeance, or an instrument in obtaining his own terms in the treaty that, in his moments of despair, he contemplated making with the English. In the mean time, if Amy could be made to subserve the purpose of extinguishing Telula’s hopes and affection, so much the better; – her hopes, she might; her affection, as it proved, could outlive hope. When Amy awoke, she felt, as every one does in coming out of a kind of oblivion of sleep, the full weight of her calamity. She seemed translated to a new world. Every object around her was savage, and the Indians themselves seemed, not creatures of her kind, but meet offspring of the rocks and tangled forest. But as the morning advanced her courage returned. As she felt the cheering influence of the sun, and heard the notes of familiar birds – the voices of old friends – her spirit revived, and she came forth from her bower so serene, bright, and beautiful, that Mantunno exclaimed, in his own language, “The morning star!” Telula’s jealous ear caught the words, and she darted a glance first at Amy, and then at him, that made her recoil. And filled him with alarm. He was aware of Telula’s strong passions, he was aware of her love for him, and that one look had revealed to him what she might feel towards a rival. Day after fay passed on, and he never left the rock save when he was sure that his grandfather’s presence secured Amy’s safety. Telula saw his distrust, and it sunk deep into her soul. When he was present, his eye continually rested on Amy; when he was absent, it was plain his heart still lingered with her. The brilliant feathers of birds, their curious eggs, wild flowers, and every pretty treasure of the forest, were laid at her feet, and Mantunno was sufficiently rewarded with a kindly beam of Amy’s blue eye, or a faint smile from her bright lip, when Telula felt that she would have given life for one such proof of his love. The miserable girl’s jealousy was inflamed in every way. The old man permitted and encouraged Mantunno’s devotion, and Amy, believing, from her own experience, love to be the most generous of all sentiments, cherished it by smiles and kindness. Telula neither ate nor slept. Her form wasted, and her face became so haggard, that Amy shrink from her as from some blinding demon. One evening, just at twilight, Mantunno and Amy were alone together. It was a rare chance, and Amy eagerly seized it to urge a suit she had long mediated. She entreated the young Indian, by all his love of his own people and kindred – by all his friendship for her, to guide her back to her home. “But,” he tenderly remonstrated, “you have neither father nor mother, sister nor brother – they make home.” Amy wept bitterly. “Oh!” he continued, in the universal language of loving nature, “let my home by thy home, and my people thy people!” Amy was rather stunned by this proposition. She soon recovered her self-possession, and replied courageously, “Mantunno, I have not, it is true, father nor mother, sister nor brother, but there is one dearer to me than all these, and I am his promised bride.” The Indian threw himself on the ground and wished he were dead. At this moment Telula, returning from a half-frenzied wandering, had led herself down the rocks, her eyes fixed on them, but unseen and unheard them. She heard Amy say, as she approached near them, “Oh rise, my good friend, I shall always love you for your kindness”— Telula did not wait to hear her out. One word only, love, of which she felt the full import, penetrated to her brain. She instantly resolved on a project, to which, though most abhorrent to her national feelings, she was stimulated by her resentment towards Annowon, and by the maddening passions of love and jealousy. She sprang towards Amy, tore apart a ribbon, by which was suspended the glove, Lovell’s precious gift, and thrusting it into her own bosom, mounted the rock like a wild-car, and went forth brooding on her purpose, in her better mind dismissing it, and then again goaded on by her insane passion, seeking the means of its execution. Old Annowon was afflicted and soured by Telula’s protracted absence. He became sullen and crabbed, and wreaked his bitter feelings on poor Amy. He imposed domestic offices on her, compelled her to bring water, and feed the fire. Mantunno saw her fragile form bending under burdens; he felt, like the liver in the play, that “such baseness ne’er had like executor,” and fain would he have given the strongest proof of love a savage could give, by performing these ignoble, womanly offices himself; but the old man harshly forbade him, and asked him “when it was he served Telula?” Poor Amy’s heart sink as her hopes abates. She was yet far from despairing, but each day seemed an age to her. Mantunno’s kindness was undiminished, but now her soul revoled from itl even the crabbedness of the old man was more tolerable to her. Still, save in the tears that would unbidden now and then steal from her eyes, she did not betray the sadness of her heart. Two weeks had elapsed, and nothing was yet heard of Telula, though Annowon had sought her in all the forest hunts of his dispersed and hunted tribe. He retuned one night, wearied, and more sad than sullen, threw himself on his mat. Amy heard him groading, and at intervals repeating the same words, “What says he?” she asked of Mantunno. “He repeats, “my people! my children! Telula! all gone!” With the instinct of her sex, Amy tried to comfort him. She offered him his favorite drink, unbidden prepared his evening meal, and, with earnest words, prated him to take it. He declined her kindness, but he seemed touched by it, and drawing her towards him, he said, “Ah, child, bright days are written on they smooth brow, and the promise of friends and lovers stamped on thy beautiful face.” “Oh, then,” said Amy, eagerly availing herself of the first auspicious moment, “restore me to my friends – do not make me wear out my life in bondage and doing strange tasks. I shall soon die if I hear not the voices of my kindred! – Oh, think how hard it must be not to hear the language of your own people! not sit to eat with those of your own color! to live on without a smile, and die without one to mourn you.” “Amy! Amy!” exclaimed Mantunno involuntarily. The exclamation seemed to dry the fountain of pity that Amy had opened in the old man’s bosom. “Ye are the child of my enemies,” he said, “and like all the pale-faces, ye have misery and ruin in your track – go to your bed, child – go to your bed.” Amy crept into her little bower, and in the anguish of her heart she mentally reproached her lover. “Ah!” she thought, “had I been Lovell, and he been me, I would not have rested till every white man in the colonies was on foot, till every den in the forest was searched; but alas! alas! men do not love as we love!’ Far into the night she resolved these bitter thoughts, but finally, true to herself and true to Lovell, she fell asleep, alleging very good reasons why Lovell could not have found her. While all around him slept, Annowon was awake, gloomily pondering the past, more gloomily the future. The evening fire had gone out. The moon looked down smilingly, just as she had looked in his happiest days, on the stern home of the old warrior. Her silvery beams fell on the branches as they waved in the light breeze; shone on the flowers that, projecting from the crevices, hung over the rocks; penetrated even the recess where Annowon’s trusty followers were sleeping; defined Mantunno’s graceful figure as he lay near Amy’s bower, dreaming of the lovely form within it; fell on that form modestly wrapped in a cloak, and played over her fair cheek and bright hair – the fairest and brightest that ever rested on a leafy pillow in the wild world. Annowon was suddenly startled from his abstraction, and looking up, he saw Telula creeping slowly and cautiously down the rocks. Annowon, as soon as he had recovered from his first joyous sensation of surprise, perceived the shadow of some person following her cast back upon the rock, and then another, and another, but these shadows were so confounded with that of a large basket that Telula carried, and constantly shifted from arm to arm. That they conveyed no definite information to Annowon; and he, as little expecting treachery from Telula as from his own soul, was not alarmed, till an Indian, instantly followed by others, grasped the branch of a tree, swung down the last descent, and round an angle of the rock, and darting into the recess where Annowon’s followers were sleeping, butchered them. At the same moment the old chief himself was seized. Telula rushed past him, rent open the bower as if it were a spider’s web, drew a hatchet from beneath her blanket and raised it over Amy; Mantunno sprang forward and interposed his person in time to save Amy – by the sacrifice of his own life! As his body fell at her feet, Telula recoiled, then again raising her arm and flourishing the hatched in the air, she purposed surer aim at the “Yengee girl,” but Amy was already far up the rock, in the arms of Lovell Reeve! Telula gazed after her, she felt Mantunno’s warm blood dripping from her hatchet on her arm, and sunk senseless beside his body. It had all passed like a flash of lightning, that uproots and tears asunder that which was fast rooted and bound together. Annowon turned his eye from the bloody tragedy, and saw himself in the hands of Captain Church, the famous vanquisher of King Philip. He then, as history records, took from his bosom two most curious bits of wampum, and some other consecrated trifles, that had been a portion of Philip’s royal insignia, and kneeling, surrendered them to Church, with the ceremony and feeling with which a faithful follower yields the banner of his chieftain. He then sunk down, and covered his face with his hands, saying, “I have done – I am the last of my people!” We have not space to relate Annowon’s fate. It fills one of those pages that we could wish expunged from the history of christians. It is not necessary to detail the particulars that led to the catastrophe we have described. We have faintly intimated them. The curious reader will find them at large in the contemporaneous histories. We have added some circumstances not there recorded, and we have learned from the veracious source, “the best authority,” that Telula was afterwards seen on the shores of the blue Ontario, where, among the wild people who confounded inspiration with insanity, she was reverenced and cherished. Lovell Reeve, with his rescued betrothed, proceeded forthwith to Governor Cranstoun’s, and no one thenceforth opposing his right to her, it was soon confirmed by the solemn ceremonial of marriage. The only exception to the general kindness lavished on Amy, was a remark from one of her discreet cousins, – on whom a wedding seems not to have had its usual benign influence, – “that young ladies must expect to pay dearly for evening assignations with clandestine lovers.” Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Amy Cranstoun Subject The topic of the resource Love, Religion, Native Americans, Abduction, Tragedy Description An account of the resource Amy Cranstoun, an orphan, lives with her religious aunt and uncle in a Providence community. Her aunt attempts to convince Amy to reject her frivolous behavior and settle down to marry. Unbeknownst to her aunt, Amy is having an affair with Lovell Reeve, a controversial figure in the religious community. One night, when Amy is secretly meeting with Reeve, she is abducted by Native Americans. Amy grows close with a Native American, Matunno, who is falling in love with her. Lovell Reeve's desperate search for Amy allows her family to accept him. However, a Native American woman, Telula, is spiteful towards Amy, because she loves Mantunno. Telula's actions lead to tragedy. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catherine M., the author of "Redwood" and "Hope Leslie." Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived "Amy Cranstoun." By the author of "Redwood" and "Hope Leslie." In The Magnolia, edited by Henry W. Herbert, 145-76. New York, 1836 [pub. 1835]. Volume reissued as The Snow Flake, 145-76. New York, 1853 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Magnolia (1836), The Snow Flake (1853) Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1835 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource S. Riggins Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document Annowon Benjamin Church captivity conscience Historical fiction King Philip Mount Hope Native Americans orphans Providence Puritans Quakers Romance sacrifice Satan The Magnolia