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THE

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

JANE FAIRFIELD;

EMBRACING

A FEW SELECT POEMS

SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD.

BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY BAZIN AND ELLSWORTH.
1860.

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
JANE FAIRFIELD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

STEREOTYPED AT THIS
BOSTON - STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.

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MY NOBLE AND ENDEARED COUNTRYMEN,

WHO HAVE SO LONG AND SO GENEROUSLY SUSTAINED ME,—
FOB WHOSE SYMPATHY, CHEERFUL ENCOURAGE-
MENT, AND UNFAILING KINDNESS,
I AM EVER GRATEFUL,—

THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY

DEDICATED,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

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New Yokk, April 5, 1857.

To Mrs. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield.

Dear Madam .• Marked as your life has been by events and circumstances
of no common order, an intimate acquaintance with the varied phases of
society, — the little and deceitful, the highborn, the generous and the good,
— basking, at times, in the sunshine of prosperity 5 at others sinking, from
untoward circumstances, into the depths of despondency ; again rising from
its descent by an innate and irresistible energy, breasting the storm, and
riding securely through the whirlwind, your forthcoming volume cannot but
be properly appreciated by good taste, fellowship, and generous and kindred
feeling.

That this souvenir to your country may, as I am sure it will, long outlive
the ephemeral productions which dance their hour upon the stage, then pass
to the land of neglect and oblivion— that it may form in the future a recom-
pense for the past, — is the sincere desire of yours,

Very truly,

JNO. BAKBER.

PREFACE.

Justice to myself, and compliance with a long established
and very proper custom, require that I should introduce my
book to the public by a Preface.

I style my work an " Autobiography,'' as it is written by
its subject ; though the plan was complete, its execution is
but partial, for reasons that will suggest themselves to the
reader.

The record of the life of an individual, and that too of a
woman ! how pitiful the subject ! how insignificant the space
of a lifetime, in comparison with that eternity to which we
are all hastening ! and how slight the probability that the
events of threescore years, or even of fourscore, in the passage
of a soul across the stage of time, can interest or instruct
the mass of readers ! With all the multitudinous events of
childhood, maturity, and decline, — of love, marriage, and
maternity, — of joy and sorrow, disease and death, — how
few will dare to unveil to the eye of the world the complete
record of a life ? Indeed, the lives of many, perhaps of most,
of my sex, in the middling and upper ranks of society, con-
sist of little but childish pleasures, transitory sorrows, flirta-
tions, with their accompaniments of fashionable frivolity,
envy, jealousy, and petty scheming, ending in disappointed
single-blessedness, or a business-like, thoughtless marriage,
with the monotonous routine of ordinary wedded life, and the
closing of an eventless career in the family tomb. Even in

PREFACE.

the rare instances where the union of hands is also one of
souls, the joys of true love and the scenes of a happy home
are not the proper objects for the public gaze.

The course of my life, at all events, is not open to the re-
proach of being tame, spiritless, or void of incident. My
life ! in these two little words, what a gulf of misery have I
to look back upon ! the pain of the retrospect is almost as
acute as that at the time of the actual suffering.

Crushed in spirits and failing in health, — with a sick,
mind-clouded, and perishing family dependent on me for sup-
port, — with a sad and weary heart, I had reconciled myself
to the idea of laying bare my very soul to the world's inspec-
tion, as a last resource against the ruin which stared me in
the face. The struggles of mind and the torturing anxiety
through which I came to this desperate decision, will be ap-
preciated by every noble and sensitive reader. I addressed
myself zealously to the task of recording my varied expe-
riences, and had written, in my anguish, an account, alas ! too
complete ; it reflected severely, but justly, upon the principal
authors of my life's bitterness, who have now passed beyond
the boundaries of time to the eternal unknown ; but more
mature reflection and the advice of friends induced me to
blot out many a dark page of suffering and indignity, that the
world might have no occasion to pass harsh judgment upon
those whom even I, their victim, am forbidden to judge. For
this partial disclosure, this fragmentary record, I may perhaps
be censured ; but considerations of family ties, and an un-
willingness to wound the feelings of innocent living kindred,
forbid the moral wrong I should commit by rehearsing the
whole story of my wrongs.

" I could unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontent,
Could read you matter deep and dangerous, — "

but I refrain, not desirous of reopening wounds which, though

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PREFACE.

Vii

never healed, at least have lost some of their sensitiveness.
Suffering has been so long the normal condition of my life,
that griefs which would wear out one accustomed to the hap-
piness of this world rest kindly and even cheerfully upon me —
the patient, scarred sufferer of more than twenty years. In-
deed, were I to write all the interesting events of my life, I
should fill volumes, whose sad and strange truths would ap-
pear fabulous ; I should positively be accused of speaking
untruths, were I to unfold my life in all its cruel disappoint-
ments and wrongs ; and should render myself liable to the
charge of attempting to excite, unworthily, the pity of my
readers. Such, therefore, of my history as is here omitted, is
better concealed in the most secret chambers of my heart,
known only to the All-seeing Eye, which alone can read our
thoughts, and pity and console.

The great happiness of my life has been to provide for the
wants of my unfortunate children, to whose still more unfor-
tunate father I devoted the flower of my days and all the
energies of my mind. Though anguish and injustice, poverty
and affliction, have been my constant companions, I have
hitherto been enabled to w r ear a smiling face, and to extract
pleasure even from gall and bitterness, under the guiding star
of Hope and the sustaining encouragement of my children's
love. My eventful history, though it has modified, has never
extinguished the naturally buoyant and cheerful element in
my character ; • and it is my prayer that I may drain to the
very dregs, if need be, my bitter cup with a smiling counte-
nance, as long as any of my loved ones look up to it for solace
and support.

Of course, a work written amid such anxieties and inter-
ruptions as was this, cannot be expected to present a uni-
formly smooth current of narrative ; like my life, it is irregu-
lar, startling, at times rambling and digressive, but never, I
trust, dull or inanimate ; like my thoughts and acts, rendered

viii

PREFACE.

mercurial by necessity, my pen cannot move within the nar-
row lines of conventionalism, and may often have transgressed
the limits of classical English style. Elegance of language
and polished periods I have not aimed at ; but clearness and
conciseness I have endeavored always to preserve. The cir-
cumstances under which this work has been written, I am
sure, will protect me from the keen shafts of learned criti-
cism ; and will induce my readers to pardon much for the in-
experience and natural emotion of the writer.

Such as it is — with all its faults — I present this my life-
picture, sombre though its colors be, to my generous coun-
trymen. If it afford them even transitory amusement — and
especially if it enable any of my countrywomen to avoid the
rock upon which my happiness was wrecked — an ill-judged
and thoughtless marriage, — I shall feel amply repaid for all
the pain of its preparation.

In obedience to a wish expressed by many kind friends,
I add to my work some of the most popular pieces of my
husband's composition, that strangers, while they read the
record of my sufferings, may recognize and do justice to the
genius which I claim for him.

Adieu, kind reader.

" Weave we the woof — the weh is spun —
The web is wove — the work is done."

Jane Fairfield.

Boston, November, 1860.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

PAGH

My Parents. — Their Ancestry. — Political Principles of my Father.

— Childish Impressions. — My Sister. — Difference in our Natures.

— Piety of my Mother. — Home Influences. 7

CHAPTER II.

Our House and Garden. — Fortune-telling. — Changes hegin. — A
Lady Stranger. — First awakening of Romance. — Meeting with
the Stranger, and Yisit to her House. — Books borrowed, and read
to my Parents. — Village Gossips. — Severe Illness. — Taken from
School. — Somnambulism. — My Sister. — Marie. — Failure of my
Father. — A Change. — The Sorrow of my Mother, and her Conso-
lation 11

CHAPTER III.

Farewell Consolations of Friendship amid the Scenes of Childhood. —
My Mother's Sorrow at leaving the Home of her Youth. — The last
sad Look at old familiar Faces and Places 22

CHAPTER IV.

The new Home. — Resolve to begin the Work of Life for myself. —
Early literary Longings. — Residence with my Uncle, John Frazee,
Esq., in New York. — His Fame as a Sculptor. — Anecdotes of Dr.
Bowditch and Daniel "Webster, whose Busts he was commissioned
to make. — Extracts from his Journal in Relation to distinguished

(1)

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CONTENTS.

Men in Washington, New York, and Boston. — His "Works in the
Boston Athenseum. — Gay Life in New York, — Malibran. — Revisit
Home after an Absence of four Years 26

CHAPTER V.

Insanity of my Sister. — Music "Worship. — Contrast between Christ
and his Apostles and their Successors in the Priesthood. — My Re-
ligious Sentiments. — Dangerous Illness . . 37

CHAPTER. VI.

Return to New York. — First Meeting with the Poet Fairfield. — His
Appearance and Conversation. — Offer of Marriage. — Opposition
of my Father and Uncle. — Preparation for my Marriage. — Sad
Thoughts. — The Ceremony and its Festivities. — Bid Adieu to my
Parents. — A Father's Prophecy and a Mother's Tears. — Arrival
at Elizabethtown. — Unceremonious Visitors, and a new Phase of
the " Honey Moon." — Sheriff's Sale. — Return to New York, and
kind Reception by literary Friends. — Visit of my Uncle. — Genius
a fatal Gift. — Preparation of my Husband for the Stage. — Appear-
ance in Boston in the Character of "Norval." — The Tragedy ends
in a Farce. — Mortification 42

CHAPTER VII.

Back to New York. — Accept the Hospitality of Mr. Bryan, of Alex-
andria. — Attempt to establish a School in Charlestown, Va. — My
Husband's Letter to my Uncle. — Another Financial Disaster. —
Arrival at Philadelphia, where my Husband publishes " The Cities
of the Plain." — "Willis Gaylord Clarke. — College Classmate. . . 57

CHAPTER VIII.

My first-born Boy. — Mean Attempts to injure my Husband's Reputa-
tion, and their Effect on his Spirits. — Defence by George D. Pren-
tice, Esq. — Mr. F. takes Charge of the Academy at Newtown, Penn.
— Consolation in my darling Angelo. — Visit Mr. Prentice at Hart-
ford, Conn. — Misfortunes of literary Marriages, as exemplified in
Byron, Bulwer, and Dickens. — Death of one of his Pupils by
drowning, and narrow Escape of my Husband. — The Rest of Death.
—-My Husband reproaches himself, and gives up his School.—
Again return to New York, where he obtains a fine Situation as a

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CONTENTS.

Teacher. — The insane Poet, McDonald Clarke. — Signor Maron-
celli. — The unfortunate Daughter of the Artist Stuart. — Lines to
my sleeping Boy. — Anecdote of Rev. Mr. Dye. — False Position of
the Clergy. — Introduction to Aaron Burr, and Anecdote of him. —
My Husband's moody Temper. — His Suffering from Rheumatism.
— Birth of my second Child, Genevieve. — Assistance from Dr.
Francis and other Friends. — My Proposal to seek Subscriptions in
Boston. — Kindness of the Agent of the Coach Line 63

CHAPTER IX.

Arrival in Boston. — Very cold "Weather. — Visit to Rev. Dr. Chan-
ning, and truly Christian Reception by him. — Noble Response of
Boston Merchants to my Appeal. — Kindness of Editors. — Return
to New York by Coach, and Overturn in the Snow. — Joyful Meet-
ing with my Children. — Noble Act of Col. Burr. — Publication of
the "Last Night of Pompeii," in 1830. — Bulwer's Plagiarism. —
My Husband's fitful Temper 84

CHAPTER X.

Night Musings. — Lovely Nature of my Son Angelo. — My Husband's
Visit to Washington with his Prospectus of a Quarterly Magazine. —
Illness and Death of our little Angelo. — Agony of his Father. —
Return to Philadelphia. — My Determination to carry out the Plan
of the Magazine. — Unexpected Success, and Issue of the first
Number 92

CHAPTER XI.

My Success only among Gentlemen. —Women rarely Sympathize with
their own Sex. — Unladylike Conduct of the Wife of a generous
Husband. — Visit to James Gordon Bennett. — The Poet Halleck.
— Great Success in New York 99

CHAPTER XII.

Debut of Fanny Kemble in Philadelphia. — Triumph over adverse
Circumstances. — Visit Canandaigua. — Floral Compliment from
Mr. Wood. — Return to Philadelphia. — Visit to Ex-Minister James
Brown. — His kind Reception suddenly changed to icy Coldness. —
His Promise of Relief, and generous Performance of it. — Expense
of the Magazine. — Long Illness. 103

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CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XIII.

Visit to the South. — The President and his Cabinet. — Hon. Mr. For-
syth. — Eloquence at the Capitol. — Gen. Jackson's Reception, and
Characteristic Anecdote. — Gen. Coffee. — Agreeable Reception at
Savannah. — Courtesy and Kindness of Southern Manners. — Ball
at Tallahassee, Florida. — Beautiful Ladies. — The Princess Murat. 110

Arrival at New Orleans. — Flattering Notices from the Picayune, and
the Press every where. — Agreeable Reception and remarkable Suc-
cess. — Interview with Capt. M z. — His alarming Inquisitiveness.

— Note from the Captain. — A Dilemma. — A Duel in Prospect. —
Arduous Labors of my Husband. — Happiness in my Daughters. —
Their Physical and Mental Characteristics. — Home Education. —
My Husband smitten with Epilepsy. — His despondent Nature. —
His fine Poem of the " Idealist." 117

The Poet's Decline. — My Determination to collect and publish his
Poems. — Visit, for this Purpose, Canada and the British Provinces.
— Flattering Reception in Montreal. — Quebec, the Plains of Abra-
ham, and the Falls of Montmorenci. — Canadian Traits. — Arrival
at Halifax, and kind Reception by Mr. Bennet. — Judge Uniacke
and Col. Starr. — Excitement at Fredericton, N. B., on Account of
my Name. — Sir John Harvey and his Family. — His Friendship for
Gen. "Winneld Scott. — Col. Maxwell. — Review of his Regiment in
my Honor. — Judge Haliburton 130

Return to Boston. — Visit to Longfellow, the Poet, at Cambridge. —
Reception from my Children at their Philadelphia Home. — Publica-
tion of my Husband's "Works in 1841. — Embark for England for
the Purpose of there republishing my Husband's Poems. — Arrival
at Liverpool with my Daughter Genevieve. — The Solitude of busy
London. — Obstacles. — The impersonal Editor of the " Times." —
Letter from Lady Blessington. — Visit to the Poet Rogers, and
kind Reception by him. — Interview with Hallam, the Historian. —
The solitary Life of a great Intellect 145

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Tower of London. — Westminster Abbey. —Lines on Queens
Elizabeth and Mary. — The Royal Family. — Birth of the Prince
of Wales. — Luxury and Poverty of London. — Contrast in Amer-
ica. — Madame Tussaud's Exhibition. — Return Voyage to America.

— Delay and visiting in the Channel. — Capt. Fitz-Clarence. — Cruel
Treatment of Mrs. Jordan by William IV. — Genevieve and the Sail-
ors. — Terrific Storm. — Illness from being thrown from my Berth.

— Gratitude for my safe Return 158

Illness at my Father's house in New Brunswick. — Departure for Cuba
with Genevieve. — Pleasures of Cuba. — Love and Insanity. — Un-
pleasant Night Drive for the Want of a little Spanish. — Consump-
tives. — • A Week in the Town of Trinidad. — Fete of Queen Isabella.
— St. Jago de Cuba. — Sail for Jamaica in a Spanish Man-of-war. —
Wreck of the Vessel, and narrow Escape with our Lives. — A Boat
Sail under a Tropical Sun. — Kindness of Mr. Armstrong. — Ar-
rival at Kingston. — Decline of the Place, and evil Effects of Negro
Emancipation. — Sail for New Orleans in an old Coal Vessel. —
Amusement on Board. — Singular Way in which a young Man inher-
ited an immense Fortune » . 168

On Arrival first learn of the Death of my Husband and one of my Sons.
— Happy Meeting with my Children. — My Husband's last Poem to
me. — Return to New York. — Write my Husband's Biography, by
the Sale of which to support and educate my Children. — Forebod-
ings in regard to Genevieve. — Death of my Father and Insanity
of my Sister. — Removal to Washington. — Genevieve's strange
Nature. — Her Art Studies with Charles King. — Her Novel, " Genev-
ra." — Letter from Eugene Sue. — Letters from the Historian Pres-
cott and the Poet Longfellow in Praise of the Work. — Letters from
W. B. Phillips in friendly Criticism. — Letters from Anna Cora
Mowatt, Fitz Greene Halleck, and Rev. S. K. Lothrop 181

Admiration of Genevieve. — Her Misanthropy and Sarcasm. — Fash-
ionable and frivolous old Women. — " Irene," by my Daughter Ger-
trude. — Increasing mental Disease of Genevieve. — Lines from her

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CONTENTS.

Father to her, an Infant.— Pass the Winter with her in New Orleans.
— Leave for Boston, storing my Furniture and Paintings. — Their
Destruction by Fire. — Flattering Reception of " Irene." — Visit to
Nahant. — Hopeless and lonely Thoughts suggested by its distorted
Shore. — Kindness and Characteristics of Bostonians. — Return to
New York. — Letters from Hon. Alfred Iverson, Mr. S. D. Ander-
son, and King the Artist. — Threatened Insanity of my youngest
Son. — My Sorrows and hopeless Toil. — Marriage of Gertrude.-—
Lines to " Hope," by my Husband. —Ill Luck attending the Acquain-
tance of Poets. — The Poet North. — His Love for Genevieve. — His
Suicide. — The " Slave of the Lamp." — " Odin " and the " Spirit's
Comrade," by North. — Poetry and Fiction, and the dark Shades
of Life 201

Genevieve's State of Mind. — Thoughts of placing her in an Asylum.
— Her Illness in Chicago on our Return from a Journey to Wiscon-
sin. — Genevieve consigned to the Philadelphia Insane Asylum. —
My Hopes for her Celebrity dashed to the Ground. — Submission un-
der my heavy Bereavements. — Visit her after a Separation of sev-
eral Months. — Apparent Amelioration, and her Return with me to
my Home. — Hopes of her Recovery. — Relapse into still more violent
Insanity, and her Return to the Asylum. — Marked Passages from
Miss Landon, selected by and applicable to herself. — Melancholy
and painful Nature of the Work now finished. — Evening Twilight
of the Heart, and calm awaiting of the Time when I shall cast off
the heavy Burden of my Cares and Sorrows 224

CHAPTER XXI.

POEMS.

Olympiads. — Married Love and Marred Love.

Sonnet.

Pere La Chaise

The Dirge

The Hour of Death

Grave Watching

Sonnet

The Poet's Night Solitude

Sonnet.

The Father's Legacy

An Evening Song of Piedmont

231
237
238
241
244
247
249
250
254
255
259

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

JANE FAIRFIELD.

CHAPTER I.

I was born in Rahway, New Jersey, of poor but
industrious parents, noble by all the ennobling quali-
ties of the heart, personal worth, and individual merit.
Under Heaven, their home, their life, their lot, were
all of their own making. They made for themselves a
place in the new world. They began life together at a
period when living, in its best sense, was rough and
practical. My mother's name was Grummond, of
French extraction : she was a native of South Orange,
New Jersey, and the daughter of a farmer. My maid-
den name was Frazee.

My father was of Scotch origin ; he possessed equal-
ly the philosophy, capacity, and genius of that noble
and unswerving people. He believed that the super-
structure of life for enjoyment must be a foundation
for solid work. Thus, with my beloved mother, they
set themselves together steadily to seek out and fulfill
the universal law of life, which is labor, life's natural

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

and indispensaole necessity. The better to assist them,
love came ; not that wild passion or fancy miscalled
love, but the fervent, the deep and hallowed worship
of the heart, that finds its happiness, only, in kindness,
unselfishness, and sympathy.

My father was a true patriot ; and though he never
cherished a thirst for war or military glory, he always
possessed a warm and unwavering spirit of patriotism,
which he inherited from his ancestors on both sides,
who were all whigs during the American revolution,
and who fought bravely and suffered much to wrest
their beloved country from the iron grasp of intoler-
ance and oppression.

As time wore on, my parents found themselves
quietly happy, surrounded by loving little ones, among
whom I was the second daughter.

My first impressions were of the diverse tastes and
dispositions of the family. My sister being the eldest,
I observed th& most her nature, which was pensive
and sad.

I was an impulsive and energetic child. It was
this difference in our characters that made us com-
petitors in affection for each other ; though this could
hardly be otherwise, with the example set us by our
beautiful and affectionate mother, whose sweet smiles
acted as a charm upon our childish hearts, and made
home the very nucleus of cheerfulness and happiness.
Bitter or sweet as was her lot, no murmurs ever
escaped her: no restless longings after what Heaven
had denied her, of the superfluities of wealth, ever
troubled her. Her life was a chronicle, the "title

JANE FAIRFIELD.

page " of which could be read upon her charming and
benign countenance ; her manner gentle, cheerful, and
at ease ; her unfailing interest in every thing around
her, and in all people. Religion sat upon her soul,
and her profession of it was neither hollow nor false.
Single-hearted and pure-minded she walked through
life, suffering as all must, but never defenseless, recog-
nizing solely and above all her dependence upon God.

In those days of frugality and self-reliance, people
were sensible, and ignored extravagance ; they were not
lavish on their dwellings, dress, and entertainments,
but used their means in the cultivation of their rural
homes and the education of their children.

The household of my mother was conducted on
quite a different plan from those of the present time.
Quick and attentive in her simple home, making all
matters straight, she was one of those whom the wise
man delighted to praise.

" She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands
hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the
poor ; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.''

Idleness was never known in my mother's dwelling.
The taxation on all imported articles was so great after
the war, that none except the most wealthy could fur-
nish them. Industry, therefore, and prudence, were
the words most in use in our little home. All articles
of clothing for the male portion of the family, as well
as bed and table linen, from the flax and wool to
the material ready for use, were prepared by the inces-
sant and individual energy of my mother.. This noble
economy lessened the personal wants of many families

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

in those days, and left the people free from the ridicu-
lous and contemptible tyranny into which fashion and
extravagance would otherwise have plunged them.

The village of Rahway, at the time of my birth, was
small. It contained a few wooden houses, distant
neighbors, a physician, and a church. In this church
I was baptized when a child. My mother had adopted
its creed : it was orthodox; of course, her children,
while young and under her control, bowed at its altar.
The catechism was learned at an early age, and recited
to the good old pastor ; but it had little effect upon my
childish understanding.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

CHAPTEE II.

" I remember, I remember the house where I was born,
The little window where the sun came peeping in at morn."

Attached to the small two-story frame house was a
finely cultivated garden, of fruit and flowers of every
hue. Here my sister and myself, when we had finished
our lessons and duties, repaired together ; and if there
had been any thing to mar our happiness, here we
would come to sympathize and encourage each other.
She inherited a nature so pure and so innocent that she
seemed incapable of a fault.

Our garden was our paradise. My father had an
aged gardener, a very old, faithful, and honest negro,
who had lived in our family for years ; his name was
Gray ; he derived his name from his age and his very
gray hair. This old man was fond of children ; he had
arrived at second childhood, and their prattle and sim-
plicity suited him.

It was his habit to get a number of us near him and
tell our fortunes by palmistry. I well remember the
delight he would manifest at our credulity. When it
came to my turn, he would always repeat the same
thing ; for he had told it many times. " Your path
lies across the stormy waters, little missus ; great trav-
eler — danger, and work, and trouble for you, little

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

missus. 0, x can't tell you all I see — so much trouble;
but faint not on the journey it is appointed for you to
go." This man was nearly ninety years old, and had
passed his life in the village, respected alike for his
industry and honesty.

We had now attained the ages of nine and seven.
During those few years since our birth, there had been
changes in our family ; human existence brings little
else. My father had experienced losses — the same
that every man meets who begins life with nothing but
labor and luck to sustain him. As our family in-
creased, perplexities, toils, and anxieties increased with
it. These things change sometimes the most patient
and lovely natures, and bring antagonisms of which we
little dream. I pass over here many recollections of
incidents so commonly known by all in the dawning
of life. Childhood is a torturing and most bitter por-
tion of our existence, from which all suffer nearly
alike. Eeproof, inflicted mortifications, unanswered
questions, heartaches and tears, are its guerdon. A
few incidents, only, of my earlier life I shall note here,
but pass on to years which brought their melancholy
hues of experience and vicissitude.

Though young, my mind had already caught a tone
of romance.

There had been living for some years near us a lady
of great personal beauty and talent, whose beautiful,
cultivated mind, gave something of romance and

poetry to her appearance — a Mrs. N n, from

Rhode Island. There was a mystery attached to her
history, which caused her to leave her native homo

JANE FAIRFIELD.

and seek refuge among strangers. She had been liv-
ing for several years in the neighborhood, unsought,
and unseeking society. Silent and lonely, she was
never seen except at church, where she had furnished
herself with a pew, and sat quite alone. Her walks
for exercise were through an avenue which led from
her dwelling and back again. I had, though a child,
strange and vague thoughts of this lady, and longed
for nothing so much as to attract her attention. One
day, late in the afternoon, in company with my sister,
we took it into our heads to stroll near the avenue, so
as to be seen by her. She at once spoke to us, with
a very sweet and gentle tone, with a subdued and tran-
quil air and manner, but her voice had something in
it of sadness which affected me almost to tears. She
said, " My dear children, will you come in with me ?
I live alone with Annette, my adopted child ; perhaps
you will join us in a cup of tea." I replied by thank-
ing her, and said, " We shall be happy to do so, but
must return hastily, as our mother may feel anxious
concerning us."

Her apartments, though plain and simple, were hal-
lowed with the memories of other and happier years —
books, music, paintings, and statues, the relics of the
past.

Born in a country town, among a people who had
neither knowledge nor taste for the beautiful, this acci-
dental and delightful visit was the opening of a new
life, new influences ; and to this charming woman and
this visit, in connection with my social intercourse with
her in after years, I am indebted for the early sym-

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

pathy I felt for literature, poetry, and genius. Her
reverence for the good and her perception of the gen
erous were exalted and strong from nature's sympathy
with her high-toned and ideal mind ; she was eminently
calculated to win one of my excitable imagination.
She loaded us with books, authors of whom I had
never heard, of history, biography, and poetry : for
these enchanting and soul-absorbing works I neglected
my school lessons ; for these I was often punished,
which caused me sadness and embarrassment.

Among the works this lady wished me to read were
Madame Oottin's beautiful work, "Elizabeth, or the
Exile of Siberia," 44 Paul and Virginia," 44 Rasselas, or
the Happy Yalley," and 44 Young's Night Thoughts."
" These," she said, 44 will animate and stimulate your
mind to self-dependence — to heroic and noble deeds."

One cold and stormy night, after the toils and fret-
tings of the day were over, I prevailed on my parents
to allow me to read to them one of the books I had
borrowed of the stranger. Though I had that morn
ing wept bitterly over the sorrows of poor Elizabeth,
to read it again would be a sweet task. Evening came ;
the fire burned brightly, the old fashioned fire in the
open chimney place, giving an air of cheerfulness and
comfort to all around. Our little family drew near
the hearth, around the little work table ; my father
sat smoking his pipe, my mother with her knitting-
work, — her favorite evening employment, — eagerly
waiting the commencement of the story. I read on.
When I came to the departure of Elizabeth with the
old missionary, the farewell with her parents for her

JANE FAIRFIELD.

lonely pilgrimage through the cold snows of Siberia
to obtain their release and pardon, we wept the sweet
tears of sympathy. My father, especially, was deeply
moved. 0, how I wished that future years might
bring the trial of my affections in some such sacrifice !
Poor child as I was, I little dreamed these wishes,
made in helplessness, would, in after life, become sadly
fulfilled.

In our village there lived the envious and the ill-
natured ; they exist every where — people who are
happy at the sorrows and misfortunes of others ; it
gives them something to talk about. My charming

friend Mrs. N- n was a subject for speculation :

who she was, and where she came from, and why she
came there, greatly interested the gossips and the scan-
dal-mongers. Stories were circulated, and the gossips
were busy ; for there, as every where, were not want-
ing tongues to babble of the dead and wrong the liv-
ing. Human nature revenges itself by suspicion.

I think Byron says, or quotes, " Many people have
the reputation of being wicked with whom we should
be too happy to pass our lives ; " and so I felt toward
this lovely woman.

I was a fitful child, full of changes, passions, and
sympathies. Eeading now became almost my only oc-
cupation. I had been suffering with severe attacks of
chills and fever, which lasted for two long years. This
terrible illness had so broken my constitution as to
render me unfit for study ; consequently I was taken
from school. Half my time, during the long summer
months, was spent in my little favorite grotto in the

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garden, reading to my sister and my friend Mary
Marsh. She was the daughter of a sea captain. Our
parents were near neighbors ; we were inseparable for
years; she was the only girl I ever loved: we read
together many volumes ; from these I contracted early
in life an existence of my own. These works inspired
me with love, courage, energy, and fidelity ; many were
highly picturesque, and highly false. It was well,
however, I could do so, for the true and the real
came, alas ! too soon.

The illness from which I had been suffering rendered
my appearance shadowy, and greatly impaired my
nervous system. These severe chills brought on that
strange and mysterious affection of somnambulism,
from which I suffered, and which often endangered my
life. In those nocturnal seasons, although I was very
feeble, I was stronger, and manifested my natural dis-
position more than when awake ; I laughed, and sang,
and danced, and was always merry, to the great dis-
comfort of my parents. It was not so pleasant a thing
to be kept awake night after night by such antics as I
was accustomed to perform ; I was placed for safety
in a small room from which there was no egress except
through my parents' apartments, and generally per-
formed my exploits in their presence ; my father's
patience often became worn out ; he could not be per-
suaded but that I knew what. I did.

I had a horror of darkness, from having heard ghost
stories repeated to me by a negress, a slave, who be-
longed to the family of my young friend Mary, so that
on no account could I be persuaded to enter a room at

JANE FAIRFIELD.

night, alone, even though I had a light. My eyes, my
mother said, appeared of uncommon size, as though
encased in glass, and never winked. To me there
was always a mystery about one thing : unconscious
entirely as I was of what I did, if my mother, on my
going to bed, would remember to warn me against
rising in my sleep, I never failed to have a quiet night ;
but if she forgot to do so, I invariably arose. I recol-
lect on one occasion of being awakened and forcibly
dragged from off my sister's head, she screaming
witli fright, I shouting and dancing. On another and
last occasion of these night perambulations, I sprang
from my bed, ran through the room to the top of a
flight of winding stairs, crying fire at the top of my
lungs. Before my mother could reach me I fell head-
long to the bottom. I was taken up apparently life-
less. This had the decided effect of curing me of
this strange malady. I never more walked in my
sleep.

My father never made companions of his children;
his impressions were, that they must be kept at a dis-
tance ; there were six of us ; three noisy, mischievous
boys, who were the youngest, did little else than pester
and persecute their sisters, as boys usually do. My
sister was shy and sensitive, and therefore not amusing ;
a word of reproof or unkindness would chill her heart.
When alone with her in our garden, among the fruit,
the birds, and the green foliage, my heart beaming
with joyousness, she would look into my face and won-
der what could make me so happy; then a sudden grief
would come over me at seeing her tears fall on the

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bright and shining leaves. I could not understand
the difference in our natures. I received the same
reproof and underwent the same corrections with her-
self. It is true, I would suffer for a moment, then
brush the tears away and turn a minuet, and off I
would run, as happy as ever. How well I remember
her sweet face, with her large black eyes, though
always pensive, always sad. My first real sorrow was
of my sister.

The restraint we felt in our father's presence made
us glad in his absence ; his business often called him
from home, which always added to our delight, for then
we could have a good time ; we were free to romp,
laugh, sing, and tell stories, in all of which I was the
happy ringleader. My parents were both musical ; my
mother's voice had the sweetest melody in it, the very
echo of the pensive airs she taught us ; my father's
songs were more spirited and impassioned ; I admired
his choice in all that pertained to cleverness ; his Scotch
nature made him passionately fond of Burns. A
thousand times have I sung sweet " Bonnie Doon,"
feeling all the helplessness and sadness its sentiments
inspire.

My uncle, my father's brother, possessed great genius
for music and art ; he discovered my early taste for the
beautiful, and when he had a leisure hour, would de-
vote it cheerfully to my instruction. He had the finest
tenor voice I ever heard ; joined to this was an impas-
sioned, noble, and soul-stirring nature, which, when he
sang, affected the heart to tears. My fondness was for
the sentimental. Gay as was my nature, I could not

JANE FAIRFIELD.

bear the comic in music ; I loved the sad and plaintive.
Tom Moore's songs enchanted me ; among these my
favorite one was " The Meeting of the Waters."

I have a thousand times blessed the opportunities I
had in my youth to cultivate this divine — this soul-
absorbing gift. It has whiled away many a wretched,
many a desolate and sad hour. Dr. Watts inspired me
with a love for sacred music — " not through his tame
versions of King David, for in these he has abused the
sacred Psalmist, by neutralizing, with his conventional
metres and silly rhymings, the sublimity and poetic
beauty of those divine compositions." It was his lyric
poems that touched my heart for poetry ; there is in
some of these pieces a sweet and touching truthfulness
that I loved, and often, when strolling along by the
streams and solitary places, I have sat down upon
the green grass, or some rough stone, and sang them
to the scenery around me.

" The history of childhood images forth our after
life ; " even such has been mine ; it has only repeated
what it learned from the first, — sorrow and disap-
pointment. Alas ! the familiar objects which surround
poverty did not wait for me, but greeted me early with
all its honors.

I was called the sunny-eyed brunette ; the soft tinge
of my complexion was the color of the rose-leaf; my
dark-brown hair floated unbound in long, soft tresses,
the eyes of those who loved me dwelt upon me with
mingled pride and tenderness, for there was mind in
the lofty brow, and heart in the warm, flushed cheek ;
but what are beauty, mind, and heart to a poor girl

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

but sad gifts, that in after life involve her in an infini-
tude of trials ? That future lay before me like a vast
desert.

A change had come upon my father's fortunes, and
we were about to leave the home of our birth and child-
hood for new scenes and new associations. My father
had for some time been preparing himself to reveal the
unexpected news of his failure to my mother, who had
already observed a change in him ; he grew petulant,
abstracted, and nervous.

September has always been a fatal month to me. I
was born in it. Early one September morning, while
my parents were seated at breakfast, I sat looking
over my lessons, when on a sudden I heard my mother
sigh. I looked up, and saw the big tears falling from
her eyes. I never saw her weep, though ignorant of
the cause, that I did not also weep with her. I would
have flown to her and kissed them away, as often
I had done before ; but my father, whose manner was
stern toward us, and who always checked these sympa-
thies by terming them weaknesses, prevented. 0, how,
at that moment, every tear I had seen her shed, every
sorrow of the past, seemed to rise up as a recollection
of her sufferings, each of which, in my childish affec-
tion, seemed an omen of what was before her.

A fearful discontent had for some time been gnawing
at my father's heart; he informed my mother that
morning that all was lost ; he had failed in business ;
that our home and lands together, all, had the day
before been attached — that, in short, we must pre-
pare as soon as possible to remove from the place, —

JANE FAIRFIELD.

as soon, at all events, as he could decide where to
choose.

We had, all of us, become heart and soul in love
with our little home, — with its garden, grounds, and
flowers. We had never seen any thing of life, or been
farther from home than its environs.

It was the dearest privilege of my mother to soothe
the sorrowing, to renovate exhausted nature, by awak-
ening it with hope and elevating it with the spiritual.
Her faith in God was too strong ever to give way to
emotions of despair. She sought her chamber, pecu-
liarly appropriated to her own use. There, in my
grief and heart ache, I found her seated by the win-
dow, sunk into a state of sad and listless reverie.

Hosted by G00gk

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CHAPTER III.

Early the next day, as soon as I had breakfasted, I
hastened to the house of my friend Mary, with a cloud
upon my brow and heart, to inform her of our family
misfortunes. I asked my mother's permission to pass
the day with her. We immediately prepared to pass
it in our accustomed rambles. We set off. We had
not gone far on our way, when our attention was sud-
denly arrested by a cat in the act of charming a bird.
She sat crouching with a most strange and eager look,
with ears erect, her eyes fixed upon those of the poor
little trembling thing, quivering and coming nearer
and nearer. In a moment more, but for our acci-
dental interference, the little songster must have per-
ished. So, like this little bird, my pathway, during
helpless childhood, had been beset by dangers from
which I had been saved by the kind interference of a
watchful and overruling Providence.

Proceeding in our walk, we passed through the or-
chards and fields, where often our occupation had
been to pluck the fruit and gather the luxuriant straw-
berry, then onward beyond, a short distance, till we
had gained the running brook. There, many a bright
and clear morning, Mary, my sister, and myself had
bathed in its stream with gladness and merriment in

JANE FAIRFIELD.

our young hearts. When we came here, we sat down
upon the green earth, entwined our arms around each
other, and wept the sincere and poignant tears of child-
hood. Returning, we made our way home through a
beautiful wood cleared of underbrush. Here Mary
and myself had often come attired in simple white, re-
clining on the green grass, reading some enchanting
story. We were the happiest of the happy. How I
realized the descriptions of romance, as we sat in the
foreground, with our crooks by our side, fancying our-
selves the shepherdesses we had read of! The sheep,
however, could never be seen. They were somewhere
in the background. We thought ourselves images of
loveliness.

We returned to our homes after having spent a sad
but tranquil day amid the dear familiar scenes of child-
hood.

On entering the tea room, I found the family seated
at table. My mother's eyelids were swollen and red ;
they had evidently been talking over matters. " And
yet," continued my father, after a pause, u it matters
not in what shape our trials come to us. I am con-
vinced that in this life there is no such thing as hap-
piness. So, my dear wife, let us be as philosophical
as we can for the sake of our children." I kissed them
both good night. Weary and fatigued, I went to my
room, feeling, for the first time in my life, that vague
presentiment of evil which is its certain forerunner.
The time drew rapidly near when we were to remove.
My father had returned from New Brunswick, about
twelve miles distant, where he had hired a house, and

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a building suitable to resume his business. I remember
well the cloud of sadness that settled on my mother's
face on his return, when she said, " Must we leave all
to make our home among strangers ? Must we leave
the home which smiled on us on our wedding day, and
the dear friends and neighbors with whom 'we have so
long exchanged kindnesses ? — the church, too, where,
with our children, we have worshiped ; the graves of
loved ones, never more to enjoy their sweet conso-
lation and influences ? "

My mother was not what is termed a " strong-
minded woman," who, when shut out from the natural
sphere of her affections, could resort for enjoyment to
her consciousness of power ; her happiness was in the
affections. It was a bitter trial to leave forever the
home of her youth. To my young heart it was sadder
than death to leave the paths that had been haunted
by my childish dreams — to quit the green fields and
the pleasant garden and grounds in which from infancy
my heart delighted. It is true, in our home there had
been sorrows. What cottage or palace is without
them ? Long vigils, sickness, prayers, and tears had
been there. My beloved mother, whose best affections
were with the child most unhappy, most afflicted, —
now perceived that the dejection of my sister had be-
come a settled melancholy ; that the life-springs of
life and thought of her dearest first-born had been
crushed. Alas ! " the body and the soul are not
friends, but enemies." The one curbs and confines;
the other wears and shatters. Yet for all these asso-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

ciations, we loved our abode, for here we had shared
its joys and sorrows together.

I passed my time, for the few days we had left us, in
visiting the old familiar faces and places. I lingered
for hours in the old churchyard, amidst the graves of
departed loved ones, and in the church where my
ancestors had prayed and worshiped. My visit to
their graves awakened all my childish memories — the
closing scenes in the lives of my grandparents, my
cousins, and many of my schoolmates. They had gone
beyond the scenes of that calm and quiet morning ;
the breathing of a holy stillness rested upon their
graves, where the green grass and the wild flowers, as
they slept in repose, bloomed so sweetly above them.

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CHAPTER IV.

Arrived in our new home, it was the happiness of
each to assist in arranging the affairs for a comfortable,
if not a luxurious one. It was not long before all
matters were adjusted, and we were again, each, pur-
suing our avocations.

New Brunswick contained at that time about seven
thousand inhabitants, chiefly of a Dutch population,
though mixed with others.

After we had become settled, I rather liked the
change. I had then just entered my teens.

My father, who was a manufacturer, began business
with a new zeal, determined not to retrace or think of
the past. Novelty sometimes pushes us on. Obstacles
increase the ardor of some natures. For myself, young
as I was, I saw plainly that my parents were too poor
for me to think of remaining as a burden to them, and
I determined soon to begin the work of life for my-
self. My education was very imperfect. The best,
advantages in those days were bad enough. The
teachers themselves knew but little, especially in those
small places.

In this interval of time, I occupied myself industri-
ously by getting all the information I could from books.
History, travel, and poetry, and biographies of great

JANE FAIRFIELD.

men and women were my delight. I loved antiquity,
and always sought the oldest authors. The lives of
poets enchanted me. The works of Petrarch, and
Yirgil, and Torquato Tasso, and Alfieri, and Lady
Mary Wortley Montagu's Letters, I read with inex-
pressible happiness. With the English poets, also, I
had become quite familiar, so that my character was
formed more from reading than any other opportunity
I had had of improvement.

I was, by nature, ambitious, and began thus early
to feel an inexhaustible desire for the society of the
great and intellectual. I loved my family, but I
longed for intercourse and congeniality. The only
persons I had ever met at that time who had inter-
ested me, were my uncle, who was then living in New
York, and Mrs. N n, who had evidently discov-
ered in my young heart a strong desire for knowledge.
My uncle, John Prazee, Esq., was fast gaining both
wealth and fame as a sculptor. I had been long
enough in New Brunswick to discover that it had no
interest for me. Restless and impatient, feeling a cer-
tainty that my path in life lay far apart from the dull
monotony of the unambitious people that surrounded
me, I proposed to my parents that they should per-
mit me to reside with my uncle. Once there, I should
be introduced into the society of his friends. I should
find myself in an element better suited to my wishes
and future success.

There is nothing a firm and resolute mind can not
accomplish. The moment for my departure was at
hand. I embraced my dear sister and brothers, while

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we wept the bitter tears of parting for the first time in
our lives. I then kissed my dear mother in silence,
for words could not express the deep suffering I felt at
parting with her.

My father, according to my wishes, made ample prep-
arations for my departure, and accompanied me to
New York. Our journey thither was by the old turn-
pike road, by stage coach, to Jersey City. At that
time there were no steam conveyances. My uncle
and his family received me with as much kindness as
though I had been their daughter. This was, indeed,
a change for me, in which my heart took intense de-
light. My uncle was engaged in an extensive marble
business, independent of his art. I took infinite de-
light in going into his studio to watch the slow prog-
ress of the busts on which he was at work.

I now began to cultivate a taste for art, as I had for
literature. • I was introduced to several celebrities in
painting ; among them were Mr. Inman and Colonel
Trumbull, both highly distinguished as artists. Colonel
Trumbull was advanced in life, and did but little at
that time. Among his finest productions is the Battle
of Yorktown, and the surrender of Lord Cornwallis to
General Washington at Saratoga. These paintings
ornament the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington.

The art of sculpture at that time was in its infancy
in this country. My uncle was the first native Amer-
ican artist in that line. Crawford, the sculptor, was a
pupil of my uncle's.

During the perils and misfortunes of my early life,
he did so much' to relieve me, that I feel it obli-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

gatory on me, since I have it in my power, to show
some mark of my gratitude. I therefore extract here
a few passages from a Journal kept by him.

" At the instance of my friend, Mr. G. C. Verplanck,
Congress, in 1831, appropriated five hundred dollars
for a bust of Chief Justice Jay. In 1833, Messrs.
Prime, Ward, and King gave me an order to execute
the bust of Mr. Nathaniel Prime. This opened my
way to Boston ; it having been seen while in progress
by Mr. Thomas W. Ward, of that city, while on a
visit here. Immediately on his return to Boston, he
proposed to his friends to have the busts of Daniel
Webster and Dr. Bowditch executed by me for the
Athenaeum. I was sent for immediately, to proceed
thither and take the models. Away I went, and soon
found myself in the society of great and distinguished
men. This was in October, 1833. When I arrived at
Boston, and found Mr. Ward, he straightway took me
to the house of Dr. Bowditch, where I was soon intro-
duced to this great astronomer and mathematician. I
found the doctor in fine health and spirits. He had
not before, it seems, been apprised that I was a native
artist ; but, from the orthography and sound of my
name, he had believed that I was a sculptor of some con-
siderable celebrity, from either France or Italy ; and
when we came to converse upon the object of my mis-
sion, and I was revealed to him as a native and self-
taught artist, who had never trod a foreign soil, he
began to show symptoms of uneasiness ; and the many
interrogatories he put to me, concerning what works I
had done, and with what success, clearly betrayed the

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anxiety of his mind. I saw plainly that he was fearful
of being caught in the hands of a charlatan, whose
unworthy chisel never sought integrity, and whose
marble would be an enduring libel upon his finely
formed head and features. Misgivings like these were
not calculated to cheer the mind of an artist — a
stranger, too, after being called a distance of two hun-
dred and fifty miles from his home, upon an engage-
ment like mine. Still, I could not say that the doctor's
inquiries were by any means improper ; he made
them, I am sure, with feelings of delicacy and reserve.
But it wounded my pride to be obliged to speak for
myself, or of my own works and their merits ; and, in-
deed, I said little in reply to his questions, except
to state the leading facts as to the number of busts I
had made, leaving their merits to be discussed by my
employer, Mr. Ward, who assured the doctor, that
those of my works he had seen and examined gave
him the fullest confidence in my ability and compe-
tency as a sculptor. This seemed to reconcile the old
gentleman, and brighten up his countenance with a
more cheering and confiding aspect. In less than a
week from this time, I had modelled the doctor's head
in clay, to the entire satisfaction of himself and friends.

" The Hon. Daniel Webster was now called upon to
sit for his bust, which was completed with equal success
and approbation. In commencing with Mr. Webster,
I found him extremely solicitous in regard to his like-
ness. He said, he hoped I might succeed in obtaining
a good likeness, which had never been accomplished yet,
in his own opinion, either by painters or sculptors;

JANE FAIRFIELD.

all that had hitherto been taken of him, he said, except
the one by Stuart, were complete caricatures,, and the
model of him in wax, by Hughes, was of the same
stamp. He added, 6 1 am the more anxious that you
should succeed, because this is the last time I ever in-
tend to sit for my portrait to any one.' I replied that
I had no fears of being able to do ample justice to the
work ; and on we went very cheerfully together, until
the third sitting, when he made use of a few expres-
sions that did not please me. The truth is, his face is
a peculiar one, and remarkably different when the
muscles are in repose, from what it is when under the
influence of inward emotion. To give myself full time,
therefore, to study the best expressions which played
around his mouth and changeable muscles of his face,
I did not, in the first sittings, hasten to bring out these
parts, but kept them back, while I worked up the cra-
nium and less flexible parts of the head. This course
gave nothing very promising as to the portrait of the
face, even to the third sitting. Mr. Webster entered
my room this morning with his usual salutations, and
walked up to where the model stood, while I was pre-
paring some clay at the other end of the room.
6 Well,' said he, in a low tone, as if talking to himself,
6 I can see no likeness there. I am afraid it is going
to follow in the track of all the rest.' He then took
his seat for the work, as usual. I distinctly heard
every word, and felt somewhat touched that he should
have expressed his opinion so prematurely, and, as I
thought, invidiously.

" I walked up to my work, and as I began to model,

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thus addressed him: 6 Now, sir, there is one thing
about this work, which, to insure success, requires our
mutual good faith and exercise ; that is, we must en-
deavor to keep cool. If, sir, we but keep cool, there
will be no sort of difficulty in this business, and suc-
cess is sure.'

"While uttering these words, I could discover by the
flashing of his great dark eyes and the play of his
lips, that he understood me, that we might pass re-
ceipts ; and the moment I paused, he broke out very
good humoredly in reply, thus :' 6 0, I'll keep cool,
I'll keep cool, if that will do it ; I'll be as cool as a
cucumber, sir.' And the joke passed off with a hearty
laugh between us. I had no further trouble. The last
sitting he gave was, at my request, by candlelight. He
had been seated a while, when I observed to him how
much I regretted my misfortune in never having seen
him in public debate ; that could I have once seen him
delivering a speech in the Senate Chamber upon some
important topic, it would have enabled me to delineate
with greater force the higher mental qualities. To
this he quickly replied, < If that, Mr. Prazee, will be
of any service to you, I can go through the business
for you here right off ; I can show you how we do
business down yonder' * I said it would oblige me
very much ; when he at once arose and began, first,
by stating the preliminaries by the clerk, on the open-
ing of the Senate, and then the services of the chap-
lain, personating himself as he usually stands during
prayer.

* Meaning at the Capitol.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

" 6 Now,' said he, 4 it is my turn to speak.' He
then put himself in a most grave and dignified atti-
tude, looking as if he really saw the president of the
Senate before him ; then, compressing his keen lips a
moment, he began, ' Mr. President,' and went on in
a very animated and impressive speech for a quarter
of an hour, I working with my might the while in the
clay, to catch, flying as it were, the vivid and noble
traits as they flashed upon his strong features. It was
well done ; and the inspiration of that hour lives, and
may it long live, in the marble of Daniel Webster.

" These were finished in last July. Previous to their
completion, however, in the month of May, I received
a letter from Colonel Perkins, of Boston, requesting me
to repair to Richmond, and model the bust of Chief
Justice Marshall. 6 We intend it,' said he, ' for our
Boston Athenaeum.' I started immediately for Old
Virginia, and reached Richmond on the 21st of May.
I found Judge Marshall at his residence, where I met
with a frank and friendly reception from him. The
next day he commenced sitting for his bust. On the
26th it was finished, packed up, and put on board a
packet for New York, and I packed in the stage for
home. I had some business to transact in Washing-
ton for another person, which obliged me to remain
there for a week ; and as much of that time was likely
to be frittered away, I concluded to employ my leisure
hours in taking the bust of President Jackson. I
am certain of my complete success with the likeness.
Shortly after my return home, I was called upon by
Miss Ann Jay, who commissioned me to execute in

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marble a copy of the bust of her father, the late
Chief Justice. It is now nearly finished. Having
completed the busts of Webster and Bowditch, I
started with them for Boston on the 26th of July ;
and in a few days they were delivered safely at the
Athenaeum. As an evidence of the approbation they
received, I had not been in Boston a week before I
was engaged to model and execute in marble four
more busts, for the Athenaeum, of distinguished indi-
viduals, namely, Judge Story, of the United States
Court, Judge Prescott, Colonel Thomas H. Perkins,
and Mr. John Lowell. Of all these gentlemen I have
undoubted likenesses, acknowledged to be so by their
friends, their families, and themselves. Thus, reckon-
ing the head of C. D. Colden, Esq., I have, within the
space of one year, modeled nine busts, — seven of
which are for the Boston Athenaeum, — and have ex-
ecuted four of them in marble."

Thus much have I narrated of the life, of the indus-
try and the success of my kind uncle, at whose house
and with whose family I found much happiness and
consolation during the few fleeting years of my girl-
hood.

The home of my uncle was always gay during the
time of his prosperity. Conversational parties, sup-
pers, musical soirees, — of which he was fond, — mirth,
and jests, were his delight. His pleasantry, wit, and
gayety were contagious. His nature was generous
and free. He received his friends with the greatest
empressement, and was always in excellent humor;
added to this he never failed, when occasion required,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

to feel deeply and with sympathy the sorrows of oth-
ers, and was ever ready to assist when in his power.

I occupied my time in study, and in rendering to
my good aunt the assistance she needed in sewing and
needlework, in which I was quite perfect. My uncle
often improved on the patterns I had with his beauti-
ful taste. If I were embroidering a rose, he would dis-
cover some defect in the want of a bud or a leaf. "We
were fond of the drama. Large parties of us often at-
tended the Park, the Old Drury, as it was called. It was
there I first saw the young, the beautiful Malibran, —
that immortal songstress, — make her first appearance.
I had never witnessed an opera before. She could not
have been more than sixteen years old. The streets
were lined with carriages, and a gay and fashionable
crowd filled the house. I saw her years afterward,
when she had been racked by mental agony and sor-
row, which, with her genius, added, no doubt, greatly
to her success. Her large, gleaming eyes, so passion-
ate and so wild, the soft tones of her lute-like voice,
have haunted me long after I have heard them. My
impression is, that none who ever saw her forget her
to their dying day.

It was now the opening of the spring of 1826. Four
years of my youth had passed since I had parted with
my parents and family. I had written and received
letters over which I had wept the scalding tears of
sorrow. Early youth has a degree of acute anguish
that after years can not know. A sweet instinct told
me that I was beloved, that anxious and loving hearts
were open to receive me.

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I had been long enough in New York already, and
had seen enough of society, even thus early, to change
my impressions of what I had fancied so truthful and
so fascinating.

I hastily made preparations to leave. I provided
myself with sufficient wardrobe to remain with my
mother during the summer. I left my uncle and
family with regret, to return the following winter.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

CHAPTER V.

Arreted at New Brunswick, with a beating heart
and with feelings no words can describe, I found
myself once more beside my mother's hearth. Tears
plentifully were shed at our first meeting. She had
changed. Her sweet, lovely face bore the expression of
heartache ; deep and bitter anguish sat upon it. She
had avoided in her letters speaking of my sister ; she
did not wish to give me pain. But the truth must
come, and I was not unprepared to meet it. My sis-
ter had lost her reason. " You would scarcely know
her again," said my mother, "she is so altered. Some-
times she raves, then she will sit and not speak for
hours." She was placed in a room that had been ar-
ranged for her, and seldom came out of it.

My parents now found me a grown woman, altered
in mind and manner, perhaps improved. My father
questioned me as to my happiness and my liking for
city life. He too seemed changed, but more contented
than when I left him. He was again hopeful from busi-
ness prosperity.

My brothers had grown, and gone from home. In
this dull, monotonous town there was nothing to vary
the scene except church-going. Opposite our residence
stood the old Episcopal church in which the Reverend

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Bishop Croise had long officiated. In this church my
cousin, William Brookfield, Esq., held a pew; he
kindly invited me to occupy a place in it whenever I
felt disposed. "While in New York I had visited alter-
nately churches of all denominations, after the Catho-
lic Cathedral. If I had any preference for any, it was
for these two, on account, chiefly, of the music. Like
King David of old, the truest worship seemed to
me that of " singing unto the Lord " — to praise him
with the psaltery and harp. What worship is there so
inspiring, so elevating, as music? It is intellectual,
and therefore the heart and mind are in it. My mother
had enforced upon me, from a child, much Bible read-
ing. I was, therefore, thoroughly acquainted with its
wonderful and inspired contents. Born with an inde-
pendent nature, I was inclined, early, to think and
seek out for myself — not to rely upon what others
thought, said, or had done.

The principles of Christianity my mother taught me
were all good. To creeds, however, I could not sub-
scribe. When I came to an age to think and reflect
for myself, how changed I became ! One Sabbath
morning, while listening to a sermon by the bishop,
the life of Christ came to my mind in all its purity
and simplicity ; all passed before me like a beautiful
vision. The poverty of his birth, the manger in which
he was laid — how different, thought I, from the birth-
place of his successors in the priesthood ! — his after
life, when he taught his pure and holy precepts to the
poor people ! The temple in which he worshiped was
not a costly edifice, but the holy temple of nature ; the

JANE FAIRFIELD.

mountains and hills echoed forth his divine teachings
to the houseless poor, Alas ! thought I, the successors
of poor fishermen have forgotten their origin. They
march, covered with gold and with purple, proud of
the spoils of the poor. Instead of the little boats in
which those gained their living on the Lake of Genes-
are th, these inhabit superb palaces. To the most simple
repasts have succeeded the most sumptuous feasts ;
and where the apostles went on foot, priests are now
seen driving in ornamented carriages.

I could never profess to be any thing. It is the
same in friendship as religion ; although I knew my
heart sincere, the moment I began to assert it I would
doubt my sincerity. If I attended church or joined in
church service, the moment I heard my voice repeating
after the clergyman I doubted my sincerity, simply be-
cause I was making a show of what ought to be done
in my closet, in secret, before God. There was always
an enthusiastic love which I felt for the Inexhaustible
Goodness, — for the Supreme Being, — before whom, in
my heart, I ever prostrated myself. When my thoughts
take the highest flight of which they are capable, in
gratitude they raise themselves in a sort of invocation
with these words : Thy name, God, is wisdom.
" Thy name is love." Have pity upon thy poor, de-
pendent child. This is not precisely prayer, but rather
homage.

During the early spring of that year I did all I could
to console my family, especially my poor, afflicted sister.
She seemed to have thought me dead. She grieved
and grew worse after I had left home. I could fill a

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volume with the intense sufferings I underwent during
my short stay, from spring to the ensuing autumn ;
there is enough before me without lingering long on
the sorrows of the past.

The July of that summer was an intensely hot
month. I had taken a severe cold from walking out
with my acquaintances during evenings, which, in a
short time, laid me on a bed of illness ; a severe attack
of bilious fever set in, which terminated in the dan-
gerous type of typhoid. My father's family physician
was called in, who informed my parents that my illness
was a dangerous one.

My dear mother's vigils and prayers for me were
unremitting, as nightly she sat by my bed watching
the short breathing occasioned by the burning fever
that had prostrated me. In a few days I had become
entirely insensible, and lay as one dying. So low was
I, that my death had been circulated through the town.
My physician, Dr. Jacob Dunham, to whose devoted
attention and care (under Providence) I owe my life,
when the crisis arrived, which, during the day, would
decide my fate, came in the morning, and remained
the entire day. He sat by my bedside with his watch
in his hand, faithfully administering the medicine.
My father and mother had retired to another room ;
there, in hopelessness and grief, to await the will of
Heaven toward their child.

The doctor sat holding my hand, with his finger on
my pulse, listening most intently to my breathing,
when suddenly I opened my eyes ; consciousness was
returning ; a perspiration was perceptible. I spoke

JANE FAIRFIELD.

for the first time for several days. I asked for my
mother. My kind and endeared physician hastily arose
and joined my parents, with the happy assurance that,
with care and prudence, I should get well.

My strength, with convalescence, gradually returned,
so that in a few days the doctor thought I might ven-
ture to walk with my mother a half a square. I took
her arm, for I was too feeble to sustain myself. Nature
never looked so lovely as it did at that moment ; the
earth, the sky, — all things seemed so joyous ; the air
that fanned my cheek seemed purer than I had ever
felt it. The singing of the wind, like a natural lute,
plaining through the leaves of some fine old trees
we passed, — all combined to carry me out of myself.
I felt grateful and subdued, as all do, coming out of a
dangerous illness ; a thousand vague and sweet emo-
tions came over me, and I was happier and better for
this affliction.

A few days in August had flown by, when I received
an affectionate letter from my uncle, inviting my
return. I again bade adieu to home and parents, but
with less acute feelings than when I first left them.

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CHAPTEE VI.

4< The maiden leaves her childhood and her home,
All that the past has known of happy hours, —
Perhaps. her happiest ones: well may there be
A faint van color on those orange flowers."

My aunt and uncle received me with caresses and
open arms, for I had by some means won their sin-
cere affections. Many inquiries had been made about
me, and cards and notes had been left. Some months
before I left my uncle's to visit my parents, I had been
introduced to a Colonel S., a gentleman of talent and
position as a lawyer. During our short acquaintance
he had often spoken to me of a young friend of his,
then traveling in Europe. This friend was the poet
Fairfield. He had also presented me with the copies
of a literary paper, which contained his letters of travel
in England and France, which I had read with much
interest. The periodical containing these letters was
edited by the poet James G-. Brooks, Esq. Mr. Fair-
field had arrived in New York, from Paris, during the
month of July. The following August I was introduced
to him at the house of a young friend I then had resid-
ing at Jersey City. It was on the occasion of a small
party given by the beautiful Miss Bucknor, who, at my
request, had extended an invitation to the poet, through
ColonelS.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

A few moments only had passed after the introduc-
tions were given, when the poet seated himself by me,
at an open window, greatly to the chagrin of many of
the young ladies present, who, like myself, had a pen-
chant for poets. Our conversation was upon his travels.
His eloquence and powers of description were so graphic
as to enchant me ; his appearance I thought remark-
able ; his complexion was dark, with strongly-marked
features. It was one of those faces one might term
great, without being fascinating. There was something
wanting of softness in his countenance, as well as
manner. I was captivated by his intelligence and
genius. At eleven o'clock our party dispersed. We
took the last ferry-boat for that night which crossed
to the city. It was too late to find a carriage ; so we
walked to my uncle's. As the gentleman left me,
Mr. F. asked my permission to visit me the following
morning, to which request I politely consented.

The next morning the poet made his appearance,
with a huge portfolio under his arm. Seating himself,
he immediately presented me with a sonnet he had
written the previous night after leaving me, addressed
" to a lady's eyes." I thanked him, blushing, but did
not read it in his presence. He appeared confused, as
all do who are about to make a proposal on a grave
subject, on doubtful grounds of acceptance. With a
woman's instinct I saw it all.

He sat a half hour without saying much, and left.
I received a letter the next morning early, by post. I
opened and read it. It was a proposal. I had not the
slightest idea at that moment of accepting his or any

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other offer of marriage. I was young, and had thus
early begun to prize my liberty too well to part with
it so soon.

I answered his letter, and told him so. So far from
chilling, it only renewed his ardor. The day following
he came again. We had a long conversation, in which
I told him frankly my position and situation — that I
was the daughter of poor but respectable parentage ;
so that if he had entertained any thoughts of a pecu-
niary advantage, he was at once undeceived. He then
related to me his own prospects, which were chiefly
dependent on his future literary career.

I immediately informed my uncle of this strange
offer of marriage. He seemed surprised, and did not,
of course, on account of its suddenness, encourage me ;
bade me ponder well before embarking on a voyage
which, as he said, at best was rough enough.

I then wrote to my father, stating the matter pre-
cisely. His answer came as a veto to any such sud-
den arrangement ; beside, he said, " the gentleman is
too poor to support a wife, and can never do it by
poetry."

Human nature is so strange and unaccountable ! I
had felt no fervent attachment for Mr. Fairfield ; the
acquaintance had been too short, and most likely, if I
had not met with opposition, I should have ceased
thinking of him.

My father wished me to marry a business man. Like
all fathers, he felt anxious for the future of his child.
I cared not for wealth. Money was a thing I never
thought of. I lived in ethereal creations of love, hope,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

and happiness ; these appeared to me actual existences.
I felt that the future owed me happiness, and thought
I was in a fair way to find it. I was an imaginative,
romantic girl. Sweet dreams of life had I then.
Health had returned ; once more my heart was light
and gay.

It was during September, the anniversary of my
birth. The poet's visits were constant, beside the love
epistles that I daily received.

My mind was fully made up. In my infatuation, I
said no more to my uncle or parents, but wrote a long
letter to my cousin, at New Brunswick, William
Brookfield, Esq., to which he at once replied, assuring
me that his house was at my disposal ; that he would
himself be most happy to supply all things for my
wedding ; that all preparations should be made in any
way that I might be pleased to suggest. All, so far as
the wedding was concerned, was tastefully arranged,
thanks to my cousin.

The twentieth day of September was the day set
for the ceremony. One hundred guests had been in-
vited, few of whom I had ever seen.

It was now the fifteenth of the month. I had five
days left in which to prepare. All the fortune I had
in the world was embraced in a few hundred dollars.
This amount I had deposited in the hands of Mrs.
Fairfield, the poet's mother, to furnish a small house
he had taken in Elizabethtown, New Jersey.

He had hastily chosen this place to establish an
academy for young men. I had intrusted to his moth-
er the purchase and arrangement of the furniture,

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so as to be able to enter our new home immediately
after our marriage.

The morning of the 20th dawned with that golden
sunshine so usual in September ; happy voices greeted
me on all sides ; but those who should have been the
happiest — my loving parents — were lonely and anx-
ious. This thought cast a shadow over my heart, which,
with all my efforts at gayety, I could not well conceal.
My spirits were forced. I requested to be left alone in
my room. There, in the solitude of my heart, I sat
down and wept bitterly.

Late in the afternoon I heard a carriage stop before
the door. I stepped hastily to the window of my room,
and saw Mr. F. and his mother alight. I turned
quickly away, and sat down. In that moment a sick-
ness of the soul came over me ; my heart foretold
me its doom. In a moment more they were at my
side.

The evening drew rapidly on. The noise and stir
of the crowd below, the gathering of the people, re-
minded me of the approaching hour. With the assist-
ance of my cousin's wife I made my toilet. I had no
bridemaids. I wished for none. My dress was simply
white tulle, over white satin, looped with flowers, with-
out a single ornament ; a small bouquet of orange blos-
soms fastened in front of the low bodice, a wreath of
the same in my hair, white kid gloves, and satin slip-
pers completed my toilet. When all was finished, I
turned from the mirror as I had from the window,
with a deep feeling of desolation.

At the hour of eight we were summoned to the

JANE FAIRFIELD.

drawing room ; the bishop was waiting ; all was ready.
I took the arm of the groom. In company with a few
dear friends, I walked slowly down the stairs with a
beating heart. No one who had ever known me in my
gay and happy moods could have believed me the
same being.

I will not stop here to describe what all have seen —
a marriage. Suffice it to say, the ring had been placed
on my finger, the ceremony over, many congratula-
tions given, and many kind wishes for my future hap-
piness. The good old bishop took my hand with emo-
tion ; he kissed my brow, and said, with a tenderness I
shall never forget, " God bless and keep you, my
dear child ; look to him as your Guide and Coun-
selor ; you will have need of such support." These
words sank deep into my heart.

Supper was now announced. I was seated between
the groom and the bishop ; the guests followed and
took their seats ; all seemed gayety and mirth, which
were greatly increased after the wine had passed plenti-
fully around ; many sparkling cups were drank to the
health of the poet and myself. The supper was a
sumptuous one, and all gave good evidence of their
liking for the pleasures of the table. After this scene
was over, the good bishop took his leave of the com-
pany, at which time the gayeties of the night began in
music, dancing, and conversation. It was to the guests
a gay festival.

Early the next morning our carriage was got ready
for our departure for Elizabethtown, the place that I
supposed would be my future home. We breakfasted

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with my cousin's family. Before taking my leave I
had a duty to perform — to visit my parents and bid
them adieu. In company with my cousin I set off for
that most painful purpose, a distance of a quarter of a
mile. I passed into the house trembling, though with
a buoyant step, forcing a smile. I met my mother at
the door. She kissed me with that same kindness of
heart, that sweet, affectionate disposition, which noth-
ing could change. My father's manner and look were
so cold and stern that I did not approach nearer him,
but sat by.my mother, feigning cheerfulness, when my
inmost heart was ready to burst. My sister sat eating
her breakfast, gazing at me with that vacant smile
so painful to behold in one whose mind is extin-
guished.

I could bear it no longer ; tears and sobs burst forth.
My mother wept with me, but there was no time for
melancholy meditation. I arose to bid them adieu,
when my father, who had not spoken before, said, " So,
Jane, you have settled the business for yourself ; but
mark my words : the day will come when, instead of
despising your poor father's house, you will be glad to
return to it, and will do so with broken hopes and
heart." This, though a cruel prophecy, was spoken
in. such a tone and manner, and with such an appeal
to my feelings, my own sad heart secretly assenting to
what he had said, that I turned mournfully away,
deeply impressed with what I myself feared might be
the result. I shall never forget the yearning, yet
trusting and hopeful expression, of my mother's sweet
face, when she impressed a kiss on my cheek, and said,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

with that earnestness none but a mother can feel,
" God' bless you, my dear child ; trust in Heaven."
Volumes could not express all that was intended in
that blessing.

Returning, I found my party ready and waiting to
leave. My kind cousin had witnessed all my sadness,
and as if he wished to say something to create a smile
at parting, (he had a jovial and happy nature,) said,
" Coz, life is like a fairy tale, and it don't become
a fairy to look sad ; so cheer up and laugh before you
go." So drolly he said this that we all burst into a
laugh together, and so drove off.

The morning was beautiful. We chatted and
amused ourselves with the scenery of country life.
We passed through Rahway. I pointed out to my
husband the house where I was born, and told him
much of my early life. The distance to Elizabeth-
town was only twenty miles ; we arrived early in the
afternoon. I found the house a very comfortable one,
two stories high, of brick, adjacent to the Episcopal
church, on the main street; all things within were
neatly adjusted ; to say the least, it was comfortable.
I now decided in my own mind to make matters pleas-
ant, and to be as happy as possible. My husband's
mother hastened to prepare tea. I seated myself by an
open window in the front parlor. I was admiring some
sweet brier that stood within reach of the window, im-
paled by a low fence, to secure its safety. I had not sat
long, before a loud and repeated knocking came at the
door — so loud that it startled me. Just at that instant
I recollected the injunction that Mrs. Fairfield had given

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me before leaving the room, " not to go to the door if any
one came," adding, " it would not seem well for a bride
to be seen opening the door." There was no servant.
The knocking by this time became alarming. Neither
my husband nor his mother made their appearance, and
I sat petrified with terror. In a moment more, I saw
two rough banditti-looking men come rapidly to the
window, and before I had power to move from it, each,
in succession, planted his feet on the little paling,
and in an instant swept past me, through the window,
landing in the center of the room. In their loud and
rough voices, they demanded of me where Mr. Pair-
field was. Almost fainting with fright, I could not
speak. At that moment my husband and his mother
made their appearance. In this bedlam let loose, I
heard, amid the uproar, many violent expressions. By
this time I saw how it was. The officers declared they
would not leave the house without the money or secu-
rity. At that moment I began to feel certain that Mr.
Fairfield had not even the sum demanded, for that
single debt, in the world. 0, how my romance of
poetry, poets, and " love in a cottage," at that moment
faded out ! To have a truce, and before I could know
the cause of this sudden outbreak, my husband permit-
ted these outrageous desperadoes to take an inventory
of all in the house. If I had possessed a million I would
have laid it quietly at the feet of these terrorists, to
have been saved the shame and mortification I knew it
would bring on us. This, thought I, is a new phase
of " honey moon." I still think there never was an
incident in any life precisely like it.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

We were now in the midst of a dilemma. My hus-
band begged -my forgiveness; he explained to me, as
soon as his feelings would allow him, the cause of this
scene. It was for a debt contracted after he had ar-
rived in New York, from Europe, which, no doubt,
would have been paid, had he been allowed sufficient
time to have established the school he had in contem-
plation. 'What I most blamed him for was, that, ex-
pecting this trouble, or fearing it, — as evidently he
did, — he should so thoughtlessly have taken all I had
for the furnishing of a house, when the money would
have made us comfortable for some time.

The next thing to be considered was the debt, and
the money with which it was to be paid. There was
none, any where, at least within our reach. One
trouble never comes alone ; the landlord, having heard
of this affair, became alarmed for himself. The money
could not be obtained, so that at the end of a fort-
night, the time allowed by the officers, the furniture
was sold under the sheriff's hammer. Feeling assured
that this would be the result, we had made prepara-
tions to give up all ; to go, we knew not where.

The news flew swiftly, as bad news does. My par-
ents and my uncle had heard of my misfortunes, but
offered me no assistance, and I was too proud to ask it ;
beside, I had no right to expect any favors after taking
the independent course I had. I decided to bear si-
lently all my trials, come what might.

Homeless and penniless we arrived in New York ;
we repaired to miserable lodgings, where, Mr. Fair-
field said, we would remain until he could hear of

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something that might better our condition. So at the
present -we lived upon

"Nothing a week, and that uncertain — very."

The hue and cry now was, that I had married impru-
dently, and that I deserved all I got. Be it so ; it was
myself who suffered. I never asked any favors of these
croakers about imprudence. I believe that, taking
life as a whole, it consists not in the abundance we
have, but in the capacity of enjoying a little. There
are nobler things, and dearer, than ease or wealth, or
freedom from care. " How much of cowardly selfish-
ness," says a writer, "weakness and falsehood are,
in both sexes, under the names of ' prudence, honorable
feeling, or obedience to parents" There is many an
act petted under the name of virtue, which is a blacker
crime before God, and of far more fatal results to soci-
ety at large, than the worst of the so-called improvi-
dent marriages.

Never lived there a being who felt more deeply her
situation than I at that moment.

I caught an omen of what must be my ultimate
wretchedness from what I had already suffered.
Even so soon, my spirits began to sink, and hope only
appeared a more gentle word for fear.

Mr. Fairfield was greeted cordially by his literary
acquaintances, among whom were General Morris,
editor of the " New York Mirror," James G. Brooks,
Esq., Dr. Bartlett, of the " Albion," and Major Noah.
For these gentlemen he sometimes wrote articles and
poetry. The remuneration, however, was very slight.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

We occupied small and dreary-looking apartments in
one of the retired streets, where all was quiet as if it
had not been in the center of that busy metropolis.
Here, one evening, as we sat talking over matters,
what were best to be done, we were startled at a visit
from my aunt and uncle, who had heard we were in
the city, and sought out our lodgings. We passed a
pleasant evening, had an animated conversation on
those topics of art and literature, which delighted both
parties.

My uncle evidently was highly pleased with his visit,
and charmed with the intelligence of my husband —
so much pleased, that he ceased to be astonished at
my preference. We were cordially invited to visit
them, and my uncle nobly offered to do any thing in
his power to serve us.

If it were true that poets were actually what their
genius, conversation, and writings seem to represent
them, what irresistibly fascinating beings they might
be ! In spite of all I could do to encourage Mr. F.,
he felt despondent, for he saw no cause for hope, from
his pecuniary situation. The weeks passed like ghosts
flitting by, till at length, and on a sudden, he deter-
mined to make a change, and decided to go to Boston.

I was for the first time impressed with the instability
of genius — that a creative and poetical mind was a
fatal gift.

In one of the most original and thoughtful works of
our day, it is said, —

" It is a fatal gift ; for, when possessed in its highest
quality and strength, what has it ever done for its vo-

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taries ? What were all those great poets of whom we
talk so much ; what were they in their lifetime ?
The most miserable of their species — depressed,
doubtful, obscure — or involved in petty quarrels and
petty persecutions ; often unappreciated — utterly un-
influential ; beggars ; flatterers of men unworthy of
their recognition. What a train of disgustful inci-
dents, what a record of degrading circumstances, is
the life of a great poet ! "

A few weeks had passed. My husband began to
think earnestly, and to hasten preparations to make
his appearance, during that winter, on the Boston
stage.

I knew him to be unfitted, entirely, for the pro-
fession. With his young and enthusiastic views, he
only saw the bright spots of the picture. He had a
passion for histrionic fame, but he little dreamed of
the days and nights of painful toil, mortifications, and
insults that awaited him, perhaps before he might at-
tain even a moderate estimation. His nature was
haughty, unbending, and reserved ; he could not
brook personal or newspaper attacks. I have seen him
writhe under mental pain even upon a criticism of a
poem. How, then, with his quick sensibility, could he
sustain the jeers and scoffs of public caprice ? Any
little reputation he might gain in the profession, in an
instant, with his uncontrolled temper, might be de-
stroyed by even the slightest and most unintentional
offense. These things I mildly suggested to him.

The people now began to feel a sympathy for the
poet. Frederic S. Hill, Esq., the actor, became his

JANE FAIRFIELD.

warm advocate and friend. The principal motive, it
must be confessed, that induced him to try the stage,
was his really melancholy pecuniary situation. He
found literature a miserable dependence, and he was
utterly without business faculties, or a profession of
any kind.

A list of characters was given to him, from which
he chose " Norval," in the play of " Douglas," in
which to make his appearance. Nathaniel Green, Esq.,
kindly presented him with his dress for the character.

The night came. I was sick at heart, and would
not have gone to witness the performance on any ac-
count. I found a friend, who was kind enough to
return from the theater at the end of each act, to in-
form me of the events of the night.

A large and elegant assemblage greeted the poet's
appearance. The liberal and indulgent kindness of
the people had enabled him to proceed well through
this first effort, which would have been encouraging
but for one of those blunders so common and so morti-
fying to novices. In the closing scene, after Norval
is dead, the curtain falls. Norval had died in the
wrong place, and the heavy drop-curtain was falling
across his body. Thump, thump, rap, rap, went the
house. " Run, run," cried one. " He'll be killed,"
cried another. The curtain had now nearly reached
him, before he discovered what all this noise was about.
Then, with the agility of a deer, he was not long get-
ting from under. For minutes after the shouting was
vociferous. During the few moments they were enjoy-
ing the death scene, my husband had rapidly changed

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

his dress, and while they were calling him out, he was
making a speedy exit to his lodgings from these unfor-
tunate scenes.

The gentleman whom I had commissioned to bear
the news of the night to me had preceded him a few
minutes. It is my nature to enjoy any thing so ridic-
ulous, even though it be at my own expense ; and
while my friend was relating to me, what I have nar-
rated here, I was enjoying this rich scene hugely.

In a moment more my husband opened the parlor
door. Such had been the tragic scenes that had been
enacted during the few months of my married life,
that he had never heard me laugh, or seen me joyous.
He stood a moment, looking at me in amazement,
then, pointing to the door, requested me to leave for
my room. He had no relish for farce occasioned by
his own mistakes, either on or off the stage. He could
not laugh over these things ; could he have done so,
how different would have been his fate in life !

" So," said he, " you can rejoice over the ruin of
your husband." He suffered so much under this mor-
tification, — he seemed to take it so much to heart, —
that I grew grave, and assured him that I was sorry to
have been amused, since he felt so unhappy. I tried
to console him by saying that such mstakes were com-
mon to the stage, and begged him to think nothing of
it. He wept the tears of mortification, and declared
he would leave Boston, never to step a foot upon the
stage again.

Hosted by G00gk

JANE FAIRFIELD,

CHAPTER VII,

It was a cold and inclement winter. We took the
route to New York by land, in the stage coach. We
came to Providence. Here my husband's purse gave
out, and he was obliged to leave me behind, and pro-
ceed alone. I was to remain until he could remit the
sum requisite to take me thither. He had a friend in
Providence, to whom he was to send the money to de-
fray my expenses. A few weeks passed lonely enough,
when I received, through this gentleman, a letter from
Mr. P., containing the funds to continue my journey*
I was placed under the care of one of his acquaintances,
and onward I journeyed to join my husband.

During the interval of our separation, Mr. P. had
advertised for a situation as preceptor, to go south.
He soon received an answer from Mr. Bryan, post-
master of Alexandria, Virginia. This gentleman
stated that there was an opening of this kind in
Charlestown, of that state, and invited us to leave New
York, and' to accept his hospitality, until further
knowledge could be obtained regarding the place and
the school.

It was now the beautiful summer. We had been
joined in the holy bonds of wedlock nearly a year when
we set out on this new expedition. Arrived at Alex-

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andria, we were kindly received by Mr. Bryan and
his wife. I was pleased with her gentle Virginian air
and manner, and for the short time we remained. I found
in her a congenial and sympathizing friend. This
lady was a sister to Governor Barbour, of Virginia.

We had not been long at the house of Mr. Bryan
before the two poets quarreled. Mr. B., I believe,
prided himself as a poet, and member of that immortal
fraternity ; they parted, however, apparently friends.

We arrived in Charlestown, and were invited to
remain at the house of a Mr. Gallagher, editor of a
small village paper. The place was small and obscure,
and the village poor. The spot Mr. F. had chosen
to locate his school was five miles distant from the
village, among the farmers, whose children had little
opportunity of cultivation. Here he found a vacant
log cabin, which he had fitted up for the purpose, about
a half mile distant from the farm house where we
boarded. So fatigued and disgusted had I become
with the succession of trials I had had, that I longed
for nothing so much as peace and quiet — for

" Peace, O virtue, peace is all thine own."

I verily believe I could have felt happy to have been at
peace on an island lonely as that of Robinson Crusoe.

The following is a letter from my husband to my
uncle, in New York, written soon after our arrival in
Charlestown : —

Charlestown, July 23, 1827.
My Dear Sir : Nearly a fortnight has elapsed since we left
Alexandria. It was then my intention to proceed immediately to

Hosted by G00gk

JANE FAIRFIELD.

Frederick ; but a very violent attack of erysipelas confined me at the
house of my friend Mr. Barry, of Georgetown, for several days of
extreme suffering. The attack, however, was ordered in wisdom,
not the less* consummate because inscrutable, for it saved me from
a bilious fever, which, in this climate, is almost always either pres-
ently or ultimately fatal. Copious bleeding relieved me, but left me
in a state of debility from which I have not yet recovered. On our
arrival at Frederick, it soon became apparent to me that the trus-
tees w r ould consult much less the credentials submitted to them
than the caprices of favoritism and the interests of party. There-
fore, after a delay of two days in that place, we came hither, and
have been very busy collecting scholars, making friends, and pur-
chasing furniture for the house we shall rent at Bellefontaine. Mr.
Bryan, of Alexandria, is a man of much merit in some respects, but
by no means such a high-hearted fellow as Mr. Gallagher, who was
the first to discover this situation, and has been the agent in all that
has been done in relation to it. From all, however, with whom we
have been associated since our arrival at the south, we were uni-
formly met with a generous welcome. The utmost kindness has
been extended toward us, and the greatest interest manifested in
our success. The path, which has thus been opened, we shall now
steadily pursue ; and I fervently hope that all things will advance
according to the ardor of our industry, and the hopes we can not but
consider well founded on rational plans. My school is situated in
a beautiful country, and the plain people who will patronize it, if
not much cultivated, are purely honest.

The country is singularly luxuriant, the inhabitants warm-hearted
and hospitable, and the means of living abundant and economical.
Congratulate me, therefore, that the darkness of my fortune is dis-
solving away, and that brighter prospects are unfolding before us.

Your letter gratified and amused me. I regret that this search-
ing weather has made me thoroughly prosaic, and that I can not
return your song in kind. When the Muses favor me with their
smiles again, however, I will endeavor to send you a few loose rhymes,
which may repay the toil of perusal. All I can do now is to thank
you for your affectionate prognostications of good, while I rationally
hope that they may not, be falsified by any untoward events.

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We are going into the country this afternoon. I shall commence
business on Monday next. Let us hear frequently from you,
(direct as before ;) present our respects to Mrs. Frazee, our remem-
brance to Anson ; and believe me,

A few children were obtained, who knew nothing
even of the rudiments.

This was a trying situation for a poet and a scholar,
to come down to an assemblage of stupid children ; his
pride was wounded, and were it not that the place was
far distant from his literary friends, he would have
felt much mortification. His most flattering prospect
did not exceed six hundred dollars a year ; then we
found no domestic purpose in the arrangement of
boarding. I had become, heart and soul, sick with
this bond of union among boarding-house lodgers.

I proposed housekeeping. Mr. F. seemed delighted
at the idea of having a home of his own. He went at
once to Charlestown, and purchased, on credit, articles
to the amount of nearly a hundred dollars, with Mr.
Gallagher's name as security. With this pittance we
were about to commence housekeeping. We had been
some weeks in the place. Our board bill had amounted
already to more than we could command, and we were
called upon to pay it. People took advantage of my
husband's ignorance to do business ; human nature he
could not comprehend. Instead of arranging with the
farmer to pay his bill at the end of six months, giving
himself time, he said nothing about it. This want of
judgment brought on another disaster, and the articles

Very affectionately yours,

John Frazee, Esq.

S. L. Fairfield.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

we had purchased for housekeeping were taken for
board.

Thus it ever was with the poet. If unsuccessful in
the execution of any plan he attempted, he would be-
come disgusted, give up all, and leave. But dwelling
on these trials was of no use. My heart was strong;
my path was onward.

" And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now
I shrink from what is suffered : let him speak
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak :
But in this page a record will I seek"

I began to feel that human life had in reserve for
me its darkest cup — that fate had predestined for me
a path to weariness and sorrow.

Arrived safely in Philadelphia, I begged Mr. F. to
allow me to rest there, at least for a time ; he was as
anxious as myself for repose. He set himself at work
to prepare for the press a volume of his poems, —
" The Cities of the Plain," — with a few fugitive pieces-
He soon got the work under way, through the kind
printer and publisher, Mr. Maxwell, then residing in
that city. It was not long after his poems appeared,
when several editors and well-known literary gentle-
men found their way into our society ; among them
was the talented poet, Robert Morris, Esq., the able
editor of the " Pennsylvania Inquirer." About that
time, there came a young poet here from New England,
Willis Gaylord Clarke, Esq. This young man sub-
mitted many of his earliest effusions to the inspection
of my husband, before committing them to the public.

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It can not be denied that Mr. Fairfield's genius
was of a high and imaginative order, which was often
a benefit to others — even his worst enemies admitted
this truth. His knowledge of the literature and the
history of all nations, and of all ages, was perfect. It
was only the intellectual that enjoyed his society.
Young and rising talent especially gained his sympathy
and encouragement.

His nature was generous toward his compeers. He
loved all that was good of talent among all people,
though always severe toward rhymesters and poet-
asters.

Our stay in Philadelphia lasted some months. The
poems were out, and sold well, and brought us the
comforts of life. Our acquaintances and friends in-
creased. We had not long been in the city, when, one
day, Mr, P. accidentally met with William Badger^
Esq., one of his college classmates. This was a pleasant
reunion. An hour spent occasionally by this gentleman
at our house was very agreeable. The two friends enter-
tained each other with many recollections and incidents
of college life. The tricks, fun, and frolic played upon
each other were really immensely amusing. Humor
and wit were my delight; and these were the first
pleasant days I had passed since my marriage.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

CHAPTER VIII.

December had come. Nothing had occurred to
mar, so far, our tranquillity. I was now a mother. A
floo'd of happiness poured down upon my heart. I
forgot the terrors and tumults of life, as I gazed into
the face of my first-born boy.

" A woman's character is developed by the affec-
tions ; when once they come into action, how rapidly
are the latent qualities called forth, and in how brief
a time what a wonderful change is wrought ! "

One morning, after I had become convalescent, I sat
with my infant, looking from the window of my cham-
ber, when I saw, on a lamp-post opposite, a large pla-
card, and on it the name of my husband, in huge
letters. I could not make out the smaller type. I
informed Mr. F.'s motherland requested her to hasten
and bring it to me, lest he should see it. It was a
shameless, cowardly, and wicked attempt to ruin the
poet. A more dark and demoniacal act was never
perpetrated, than the circulation of this placard
throughout the country.

A few weeks before this placard appeared, my hus-
band had met with a volume of poems, written by
Daniel Bryan, Esq., the gentleman I have mentioned
heretofore, at whose house we visited in Alexandria.

Hosted by G00gk

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

These poems he reviewed— the review was a sar-
casm. It were better it had never been written. My
husband was in the habit of using his pen in epigrams
and satire for retaliation. To say the least, it was
unwise and impolitic to make enemies, especially in
his unfortunate situation. I had not dreamed these
placards had been so extensively circulated in the city.
I thought the one I saw had been placed there for the
especial benefit of my husband.

On his return home that day, he came into my
room, holding one of them before me, and in a state
of frantic despair, asked me to read it. I had hoped
he might not see it, and so escape, the torture I knew
he would feel.

Mr. Gallagher, of Oharlestown, and Mr. Bryan, were
friends. Mr. Bryan's vanity was piqued by the re-
view, and Mr. Gallagher's purse had suffered by his
friendly act of being security for the debt contracted
by Mr. F. while we were in Oharlestown. Both
these gentlemen sought revenge in the way I have
mentioned. Alas, how poor a thing is retaliation !
It is but a wretched victory to those who suffer from
wrong and persecution. I have no doubt that all par-
ties, in their more dispassionate moments of reflec-
tion, regretted these foolish and miserable proceedings.

This persecution did not stop here.. The effects
were felt long, long years. Attacks from all parts of
the country were poured forth., until, by their effect
on the mind of the poet, they had nearly destroyed
him. It was at this crisis, broken in spirit, and lost
to hope, that George D. Prentice, Esq., came out in

JANE FAIRFIELD.

the poet's behalf, in a paper he then edited at Hart-
ford, Connecticut.

Never was there written a more consummate de-
fensQ, The greatness and eloquence of these letters
were proverbial. They had the effect to relieve the
public mind from the painful impressions that had
been made upon it by these wanton attacks, which had
been so recklessly poured forth upon the poet.

Mr. Prentice, whom at that time I had never seen,
was a firm and warm friend of my husband. They
had been boys together, and classmates in college.
They had from early youth been endeared to each
other by an ardent and affectionate friendship.

Young as I was, my heart had become exhausted
with life's absurdities and incongruities ; but I had
one happiness left me ; my heart, with its affections,
had become centered on my lovely boy.

Sorrow and joy are strangely blended on this
earth ; and though, according to the course of nature,
the tie of parent and child is doomed to be severed, for-
tunate and happy are those who have such ties.

The mortifications my husband had endured from
persecutions and trials, induced him to wish for a
change.

On the opening of the coming spring, there was
found a vacancy in the Newtown Academy, Bucks
County, Pennsylvania. Mr. F. visited the place, and
found a warm welcome by the trustees, returned, and
secured his credentials from several of the most prom-
inent men in Philadelphia. Among them were Peter
A. Browne, Esq., and David* Paul Brown, Esq. He

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soon took possession of the Academy. Already a num-
ber of scholars had been secured. Two young gen-
tlemen from Philadelphia, by the name of Straw-
bridge, were to remain with us to complete their ed-
ucation. They were nephews of one of the trustees,
Dr. Gordon, who lived about a mile distant from the
town. The Academy was a beautiful building. We
lived in it. It stood on an eminence, in front , of which
was a green lawn. In its rear were 'a fine garden, and
a running brook, and foliage, and flowers. The poet
had had no position equal, or in any way to be com-
pared, to this. The building was furnished and made
ready for our reception. The school opened prosper-
ously. I had never passed so calm and happy a
summer. The inhabitants of the village were plain,
honest, and good people. My husband and myself,
with our little son, in company with the young Straw-
bridges, after school hours, amused ourselves by pleas-
ant walks around the village. We congratulated each
other upon what we believed and felt would be a per-
manent support, and a safe retreat from the trials that
had heretofore beset our path. Our visits were fre-
quent to the beautiful and romantic dwelling of
Dr. Gordon. In this family we found much that
was congenial. The doctor had a fine library. His
mind was highly cultivated. He had a sympathizing,
noble, and generous heart. With the hospitality of
the doctor and his excellent and lovely wife we were
consoled.

My little Angelo, my beloved boy, was an attraction
to all. At least, my mother's heart thought so. Some

JANE FAIRFIELD.

declared he was the image of his father, but with his
mother's eyes — a perfect picture! My own vanity
and love of admiration, I think, increased after I be-
came a mother. Perhaps vanity, after all, is the true
source of the sublime, and, in many respects, it may be
of the ridiculous. » Still it is our admiration of each
other that has caused the accomplishment of many
great events in this world. The possession of it
doubtless produces emulation in talent and genius,
"by it great deeds have been accomplished — great
books have been written. It has congregated multi-
tudes," and organized what we call society.

The season for vacation had now come. Mr. Pren-
tice had written to request my husband to bring me
with him, and come on a visit to Hartford. I was
delighted at the idea of seeing my husband's endeared
friend. I longed, beside, to become acquainted with
one who had written me so many beautiful sonnets and
flattering poems. We made ready, and set out on
our journey. Our visit was a flying one. I could
not remain long from my child, nor Mr. P. from his
scholars.

It was like parting with my own identity to leave
my child a day. On our arrival we hastily sent our
cards to Mr. Prentice. It truly exhilarated my heart
to see the meeting of these two poets. The spontane-
ous joy felt by each was really quite overwhelming.
Our visit extended to a few days. In that time, how
much of conversation, of visits, and introductions, had
been gone through with ! It was requested by many
of my husband's friends, and insisted on by Mr.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

Prentice, that he should have the benefit of a poetical
reading. Mr. Prentice made choice for that purpose
of my husband's poem, entitled "The Cities of the
Plain." This poem had gained him a reputation
among the clergy while in England. It drew a crowded
audience of the intelligent and elite of Hartford.

The day after, Mr. Prentice called for us to pay a
visit to Mrs. Sigourney, who, at that time, was the
mistress of a beautiful residence a short distance from
the town.

Whenever I visit an author, I am more than ever
convinced that such have no right to the marriage tie ;
and I wholly believe this of authors of both sexes. No
one has any right to involve another.

The life of authors is one of suffering, and if they
prefer that life, they should have it alone. We need
to suffer to understand the language of suffering. And
who, that ever married an author, has found his or her
lot to have fallen in pleasant places ? Aiithors are
wedded, heart and soul, to their productions. The so-
ciety which delights others becomes wearisome to them ;
even their wives, husbands, and children. They blend
their existence with fame and the future. Let those
who love Dreamland dream on, but let them dream by
themselves.

How many melancholy instances can I call up within
my recollection of unfortunate literary marriages ! Per-
haps Byron is one of the most prominent in my mind ;
but there are many others. " You talk of marriage,"
said Byron, in a letter to Murray ; "ever since my own
funeral, the word makes me giddy, and throws me

Hosted by G00gk

JANE FAIRFIELD.

into a cold sweat." When was there any thing" so
absurd, in this respect, as the conduct of Bulwer and
Dickens ? I might trace many such, to prove that my
assertions are true.

After a pleasant visit among the charming people of
Hartford, which I shall long remember, we made haste
to return.

On reaching home, my heart bounded with joy to
find all was right with my little boy. His infant
smiles cheered my heart, and made me forget all my
sorrows.

Our two amiable young boarders, the brothers Straw-
bridge, were glad to see us returned. The eldest was
nineteen years old, and quite a favorite and companion
with his preceptor.

It was about a week after our return, when, on a
very fine afternoon, they all three started off for a
bathing amusement, of which Mr. Fairfield, as well as
the young men, was very fond. They had often, dur-
ing the heat of the summer, repaired to the same spot,
about a mile distant from the academy, for that enjoy-
ment.

Evening came on. We had been waiting tea an
hour. We vainly looked to see them descending the
hill which led to the academy. It was not long, how-
ever, before we heard the rapid tramp of a horse. I
ran quickly to the door, feeling a presentiment of evil.
The man on horseback had reached the academy gate.
He informed me that one of the young gentlemen was
drowned, and that my husband was taken out of
the water, and lay on the shore, where he had left

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him. In a few minutes almost the entire village had
assembled.

It was not long before my husband was brought
home, insensible and almost lifeless. They had not
been long in the water when young Strawbridge was
seized with the cramp. My husband hastened to assist
him, while his poor brother stood on the shore, so
frightened as to be unable to render the least assist-
ance. The cramp was so violent that, with all the
efforts of Mr. Fairfield, he could not be saved ; the poor
fellow sank at last.

It was with much difficulty they got my husband to
shore. He remained insensible during the night.
The next day he awoke to his own wretched and
melancholy reflections.

The body of the young man was recovered about
twelve o'clock the same night, and taken to the house
of his uncle, Dr. Gordon, for interment. As the car-
riage passed with his remains, it stopped before the
academy, for us to take the last look of our young
friend. The moonlight was clear, and fell gently upon
the face as they uncovered it. The countenance was
one of sleep instead of death, calm and mild as in life.
The lateness of the hour, the quiet of the place, the
stillness unbroken by a sound — all seemed to whisper
to my heart — he is at rest. So wearied and worn had
I become with these interminable changes, that a long-
ing for death seemed at that moment to take hold
of me ; for in this life I felt that I was the mere play-
thing of fate — of subtle and malignant chance.

I never was morbid. My nature was as joyous as a

JANE FAIRFIELD.

bird's, and hopeful; nor did I sigh for splendor or
wealth. I took no delight in what generally com-
prises the happiness of women. Idle and useless visits,
and small talk about little nothings, had no fascina-
tions for me. My mind had been trained and tried lof
suffering. My heart craved sympathy, peace, and rest ;
above all, it yearned for what it now found too late to
dream of — true affection, which is the highest, the
noblest, and holiest part of our nature ; for some, I
really believe, life is destined to be an unfinished ex-
istence. Such I believe to be mine. But enough of
this melancholy for the present.

As soon as my husband had recovered from the severe
shock he had suffered, he began to talk about giving
up the academy. The scholars were waiting to return
to their places ; they were all of them delighted with
their teacher. Their parents, many of them, used
every effort to induce Mr. Fairfield to continue, assur-
ing him of their support and friendship, but all to no
purpose. He loved young Strawbridge, and blamed
himself for what he deemed a want of decision in so
often gratifying his requests to visit this fatal spot. I
made use of every argument in my power, reminding
him of the scenes of want and suffering we had gone
through, and that by remaining where we were we
might at least be comfortable. He sallied forth into
the garden, then the school room. Every spot seemed
to haunt him with the loss of his young pupil. He
could not bear the aspect that told of trial and death.
He had not the mind which can bear trouble. He was
always trying to rush from it, and therefore rushed in

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the face of it. He could not meet real affliction
steadily, nor struggle with it patiently until the storm
swept over, looking to that source on high which is
never long invisible to the hopeful and trusting heart.

It was useless for me to urge or insist. His feelings
once ruffled, from any cause, he would not rest satisfied
until he had left the scenes where the unpleasantness
occurred. Alas for the poor poet, he could not
escape from himself!

New York, at this time, seemed, in his mind, to have
more attractions than any other place. He thought of
his early literary friends there. Thither we went.
With what means he had, he hired a small house, and
we soon became settled. I had a disposition to be
content any where, provided I could live comfortably,
without mortification. The rapid change of scenes
which had heretofore affected me so sadly and tragi-
cally, now began to assume the shape of comedy.
Sometimes I would laugh at them, at ourselves, and
at all the world.

Mr. Fairfield had been for some time forming in his
mind the plot for a new poem, entitled 6 6 The Last
Night of Pompeii." He had now begun its composition.
He also obtained, with his reputation as a teacher, a
fine situation in a school, which had at its head a very
charming and intelligent lady, a Mrs. Dunderdale.
This lady, whose talents and manner had made her
very popular, continued her school successfully for a
number of years in New York.

Again returned to the city, after an absence of
nearly two years, we were greeted by old acquaintances

JANE FAIRFIELD.

with warmth and kindness. Fortune for a time treated
us a little more favorably. Mr. Fairfield worked with
ardor at his poem, expecting little pecuniary reward.
For my part, I believe that true glory — I know it well
— is the reward of virtue alone. To me the noble traits
of a noble heart are of far more value than all the
honors that can be bestowed by either birth, talent, or
genius without them.

It is somewhat singular, that through life it has
been my fortune to attract and draw after me the
most melancholy and unhappy.

Our house soon became the receptacle of broken-
down authors and persecuted clergy. Among them was
the poor poet, McDonald Clarke, with whose homeless
career the New Yorkers had been long familiar. This
unfortunate poet came often, during the cold, bitter
nights of winter, to share our fireside and partake of
our comfortable cheer. How often I have been made
sad by the recital of his sufferings and woes ! He was
a most inoffensive person ; though insane, he was al-
ways mild, always happy. He was very fond of my
little Angelo ; he would seat him on his knee and
talk for hours in broken sentences of the " ills which
flesh is heir to." He had often, he said, when he had
not a shilling in the world, sought a bed between two
graves in Trinity churchyard, and when hungry made
his meal of a cracker and a cup of milk. Just after
the site for Greenwood Cemetery was selected, he came
to see me one day, assuring me he had chosen his
grave. He had in his hand a small placard on a board,
containing the following line: " The poet's grave."

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This placard he placed on a tree in the cemetery, to
mark the spot for his final repose. The trustees had
kindly presented him with this foot of earth, where, in
a few years after, he was peacefully laid. His death,
it will long be remembered, was occasioned by the wan-
ton sport of a few thoughtless young men.

" There is a little lonely grave
Which no one comes to see ;
The foxglove and red flowers wave

Their welcome t6 the bee.
There never falls the morning sun ;

It lies beneath the wall :
But there, when weary day is done,
The lights of sunset fall,
Hushing the warm and crimson air,
As life and hope were present there."

It often so happened that several of our friends
would meet accidentally of an evening. It was amus-
ing to mark their various characters. It had been our
good fortune to have become acquainted with Signor
Pietro Maroncelli, the friend and companion of Sil-
vio Pellico. This interesting and accomplished gen-
tleman and exile came to New York, and there taught
school many years. He was a just man and a liber-
alise My husband was always delighted with his
society. His conversation was often on the bondage
and suffering of his beloved country. I would listen
to him as an oracle. He disputed on subjects with an
inexhaustible storehouse of arguments.

This good man was for a long time imprisoned, for
his noble and generous sentiments, with Silvio Pellico,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

at Spielberg, Germany. " I have engaged," said he,
"in a war that will descend to my family after my
death; an inheritance of hatreds, quarrels, and dan-
gers, with which my country will always be agitated.
The fates have ordained that order should be over-
thrown, and the reign one of confusion in our beauti-
ful Italy." I should never end my eulogies, were I to
speak of his fidelity, loyalty, and eloquence.

How true it is that distress softens the heart, and
ties close bonds of affection between those who suffer !
Among our visitors was Mrs. Stebbins, the gifted but
unfortunate daughter of the great artist Gilbert Stu-
art. This lady had married unwisely, and, finding
her sorrows too great to bear, parted from her hus-
band, and devoted her attention to the composition of
school books for a support. She did not long continue
submissive to her trials. Her fortitude and health for-
sook her, and the irregular life she led in a short time
reduced her to a most pitiable state of want. In this
melancholy situation, she was taken to the hospital,
and treated in the character of a menial. She grew
infirm before she had reached the middle age of life.
One day she was ordered to perform the work of a
servant — to scour a flight of stairs, from which she fell.
She sustained an injury by this fall which caused her
instant death. How often, in the bitterness of anguish,
I have seen her weep! When referring to her gifted
father, she would say, " What would my dear father
say, were he now living, to behold the wrongs and
grievances of his once favorite daughter ? "

Thus suffered and died the child of a great artist.

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For years she lived utterly isolated. The ties of blood
or of early affections were all severed. The one to
whose love she had a right had forsaken her. She
was too delicate to appeal for charity. Often had she
talked with me on the subject of asking for assistance,
but her heart would fail her. She knew the cold re-
pulses she must meet, and felt she could not brook
them. There were many gentlemen of standing and
wealth, at that time, who knew of her case, who might
have saved her.

" Ah, countrymen ! if, when you make your prayers,
God should be so obdurate as yourselves,
How would it fare with your departed souls ? "

But I find myself wandering from my subject, which,
unfortunately, is myself.

What a change a little prosperity creates ! What
an influence appearances have on the minds of those
we call our friends !

I always dreaded these intervals of peace and quiet.
With us they were sure indications of a coming sor-
row — heralds of darker trials.

One beautiful moonlight night I sat alone in my
chamber, looking on the lovely and calm face of my
sweet boy, who lay sleeping beside me, feeling those
strange forebodings of sorrow so common to the heart
of mothers. I wrote the following lines : —

Sleep on, my babe, till the morning breaks,
And thy spirit shall dream of bliss ;

For my yearning heart a rapture takes
From thy lovely smile and kiss.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

Would I could know thy infant dreams,

As thou ly'st by thy mother's side ;
Mind o'er thy face like a sunbow gleams,

Without its scorn or pride.
Thy spirit in joy hath gone to roam

With angels in yonder star :
O, better and brighter would be thy home,

Wert thou a dweller there.
0, the tears of thy mother fall fast and free,

As the rays of yon moon on thy face ;
And the wish and the prayer of my heart for thee

Are poured in a deep embrace.
Sleep on, my boy, for thou can'st not know

How my heart doth thrill for thee,
As it looks on life and its frequent woe,

The ills that shadow the days to be.

James G. Brooks, Esq., the poet, and Mr. Losson,
bis most intimate friend, were often visitors at our
house. They were like the Siamese twins — always
together. If you saw one you were sure to see the
other. Mr. Brooks married a poetess, and, with their
united efforts at authorship, gained little else than a
life of misfortune.- Mr. Losson, being of the canny
Scotch, left the literary for a more available business,
and ensconced himself in Wall Street as a real estate
broker. Surely a sensible man was this.

The Rev. Richard Yarick Dye, the eloquent suc-
cessor to Dr. Hooper Cummings, in the Vandewater
Street Church, was another of my husband's devoted
admirers. His rhetorical and classic discourses will
lon&* be remembered. We uniformly attended his
church, which was an independent one. Mr. Dye
often returned with us, after evening service, to our

7 *

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home. Then would commence the long train of
anecdotes and witticisms of clerical life, than which
nothing could be more amusing.

I remember, on one occasion, of a Saturday night,
he came, breathless, into our house, it being quite late,
to implore Mr. 4 Fairfield to help him out with some-
thing for his sermon the next morning. He had, he
said, nothing prepared. It was too late to undertake
a long, serious paragraph ; so, said he, " Dye, I have a
couplet which I will give you, but which I think, with
all your gravity in the pulpit, you will not be able to
introduce." This was a challenge to his eloquence.
He at once, and without knowing the character of the
lines, consented. The next morning, on our way to
church, we queried if it were possible for him to in-
troduce these lines. His sermon was on the " Vanities
of Life." It was near the close of the discourse, and
they had, so far, been omitted, when, of a sudden,
he came to a pause ; after having uttered a sublime
thought, he continued, —

" For why should we foam, and fret, and fume, and fidget;
Earth and its glories are not worth a digit."

I held my head down and shook with laughter,
while Mr. Fairfield nearly pinched a piece of flesh from
my arm, so fearful was he that I would disgrace myself.
The gravity and eloquence with which he recited these
lines made them appear sublime, and no one in the
congregation could have thought else. This gener-
ous and noble-hearted gentleman was not without his
trials. He was often attacked, and called to an ac-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

count, by those whose religion consisted in long faces,
sermons, and hypocritical cant — whose hearts, be-
fore high Heaven, could not bear the scrutiny with his
own. It is but justice to him to note that he was
" more sinned against than sinning." His nature was
honest. If he had a fault, the world knew it.

There is no tyranny, affectation, or cant in true re-
ligion. When will the world learn to be just ? to know
that there is no such thing as piety without its essence,
which is charity ? that benevolence which suffereth long,
and is kind and forgiving, is that which covereth a
multitude of sins ? The fact is, I have often commis-
erated the situation of some of the clergy. They are
often forced into an unnatural and constrained man-
ner, from false and erroneous impressions the world has
formed of what they should be, how act, and how bear
themselves. They are men tempted in all things like
unto others. The same faults and worse, that we are
willing- to watch for in them, can be found in our own
hearts and deeds.

The next event that had interested me was an in-
troduction to Colonel Burr, the most extraordinary
man, perhaps, of his time. At the poet's introduction
of him, I was struck, old as he was, with his fine ad-
dress. He took both my hands in his, and assured
me that no tiling could render him more happy than
that presentation, adding that, in the future, I must
be entitled to the honor of being made the tenth muse.
I had read his history, and was acquainted with all
the events of his life. His visit to Blennerhasset's
Island, its fatal results and consequences, were inci-

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dents I always thought of when in his presence. I
could not help my admiration of his genius. His con-
versation was fascinating and eloquent. He used to
interest me greatly by his description of the beauties
at the Court of St. James, during the time he was our
minister to England. His admiration for beauty, as is
the case with most men, exceeded that for mind. I
never could see why it is that men should prefer the
simpering of pretty silly women to the conversation
of the intelligent and intellectual — for, really, it
seems to me it would be a wiser plan to endeavor to
raise the emulation (if possible) of the vain and igno-
rant by giving the preference to the best informed.

I was invited by Colonel Burr to visit a fair, which
took place in the old Masonic Hall in Broadway. It
was attended by the gay and fashionable of the city.
As we were promenading around the hall, I saw
nothing that attracted me so much as a painting of the
head of Christ, said to have been done by one of the
old masters. This, however, was doubtful. The pain-
ful and agonized expression, the tears that fell
trickling down his sorrowful face, impressed me so
mournfully, that I stopped before it, and directed the
colonel's attention to it ; to which he replied, " It is a
fable, my child ; there never was such a being." This
expression had such an effect upon me, that I was
quite silent the balance of our visit.

I always managed to keep in a state of content, as
long as there was peace, though I can with truth
assert, that I never awoke in the morning with the
thought of what I had to enjoy, but of what, for the

JANE FAIRFIELD.

day, I had to do and to suffer. With my husband's
salary we had been living for a time in tolerable com-
fort. Though I had had my "own griefs and fears, I had
suffered them uncomplainingly ; things wore so much
better an aspect than they had at the first, that I hoped
time would work wonders. I consoled myself, though
I knew there was an habitual animosity toward me in
the heart of my husband's mother. With this, and his
strange nature to contend with, none knew what I had
to endure. In his temper he was fitful and moody.
Sometimes, sunk in melancholy, he would seek the
lonely attic, and lock himself in, seat himself by a
window, and remain the greater part of the night
gazing at the heavens. If I interrupted him by any
inquiries, he would command me to depart. If I took
no notice of these attacks or words, he would accuse
me of indifference, and a want of affection. These
were scenes to which I was forced to accustom myself.

In the month of May, after having exposed him-
self by walking some distance in a drizzling rain
one evening, he took a violent cold, which gave him a
long and severe attack of rheumatism, and which
entirely incapacitated him for attending to the duties
of his school.

This painful suffering continued during summer and
autumn, and part of the winter. Having now no re-
source whatever for means to sustain us, we were
again in a state of helplessness and need.

In the midst of this dilemma I was ill from the
birth of my second child.

We were obliged to give up the house we had occu-

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pied, to remove to cheap apartments, and sell part
of our furniture to obtain the comforts we needed.

Dr. John W. Francis was my husband's friend. He
was kind to the poet. He admired his works, which
gave him sympathy for his sufferings. It was difficult
to know how to feel for one of his temperament. Un-
der keen -sufferings, his patience and mildness would
make one forget the wrongs and injustice he may
have suffered.

It was now by the assistance of friends that we were
sustained. This was very galling to my pride. My
nature was independent. I began to consider what it
was possible for me to do. to effect a change, so sad
had our condition become.

The fatal months flew on. They had nearly reached
the holidays. Fortunately, Mr. Fairfield had com-
pleted his poem. I proposed to him that, if he felt
able to travel, I should accompany him to Boston, to
obtain the subscribers requisite to print the poem, and
sustain us through the winter. This proposal aston-
ished him. He could not believe me sincere — much
less did he think me heroic enough to undertake with
him, sick as he was, such a journey. The snow was
very deep, the weather intensely cold. " Beside,"
said he, "the journey to Boston must be by stage
coach, — a very expensive one, — and' we have no
means ; then, if all could be arranged, how can we
leave our little Genevieve, who would suffer without
her mother's care ? Impossible," said he ; " we can
not go."

I had thought of all these obstacles ; but some-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

thing — it was imperative — must be done. Death was
preferable to the state of life we daily endured. I
said no more. The next day I arose early, made my
arrangements, and went forth to visit the agent of the
line which left for Boston.

A mother is always eloquent when pleading for her
children.

I found the agent, told him my story, and made my
appeal for a free journey. He looked at me intently
for some minutes without speaking a word. I be-
lieve, for the time I was talking to him, he doubted my
sanity. He asked me for my address, saying that he
would visit my husband. I was not to be put off in
this way. I begged him to accompany me. I feared,
if I left him, the impression, if I had made any, for
success might pass away.

Forth we hastened. My husband looked amazed at
seeing us march in together. He had given up the
project as one impossible to be accomplished.

The agent saw at a glance the situation of my fam-
ily, and the ill health of my husband. He at once
granted my request. The heart of my poor unhappy
husband melted at this unexpected kindness.

Some writer has said, " Our destiny is our will, and
our will is our nature." Words fail to trace the lot
of that future, of which this was the fatal beginning.

On the third morning after the decision was made
we got ready. The good agent sent a buffalo robe, by
which to make us comfortable. I left my little ones
in the care of my husband's mother, and off we
started.

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CHAPTER IX.

My husband rapidly gained strength after we left.
The change of air and the excitement of travel was
quite beneficial. He began to feel more cheerful at
the prospect of restoration to health. Arrived safely,
we were set down at a comfortable hotel, and shown
to a delightful room, in which blazed a cheerful wood
fire. All was as it should be. Now for the trial of
my courage. A prospectus had been drawn up before
we left home, and placed in a little book, in which I
was to take the names of my patrons, if I got any.
We came in town about ten in the morning. We
took our breakfast in our room over a hot cup of
coffee, and if ever I realized the comforts of an inn, I
did that morning.

My first thought was now, how to begin. To
succeed well, I must begin right. So I called for the
Directory, to cull out the most prominent names.
The Rev. Dr. Ohanning I placed at the head. With
this preparation I started to make my debut on the
world's stage. The cold was piercing, the snow
deep. The doctor's residence was on a hill, about
half a mile from the city. The path that led to it
had only the print of a few feet upon it, — the snow
scarcely trodden. As I turned the bleak corner in

JANE FAIRFIELD.

the direction which led to the doctor's house, the raw,
cutting wind blew full in my face. I was thinly clad,
without overshoes. At every step I sank a foot deep
in the snow. I had worried half my way through,
when I fell, and had some difficulty to regain my feet.
After falling several times, I managed to get on, but
was nearly frozen. On reaching the doctor's gate, I
saw some one looking from the window. It was him-
self. He turned away in a state of apparent aston-
ishment. In a moment a servant was at the gate, and
assisted me in. The warm hall, as I entered, made
me faint ; the reaction produced by the warm at-
mosphere created intense suffering. It was some
minutes before I was able to utter any thing but
groans. As soon, however, as I was relieved, this
good man invited me into his library, and on learning
who I was, and my errand, he seemed intensely
pained. He said, " You are young, indeed, to begin
life's lessons; but you will have this consolation —
the more you lose, in this life, of happiness, the less
you will have to lose hereafter." After a visit of an
hour, and a conversation I shall never forget, with his
name on my book and a subscription for ten copies of
my work, I was prepared to leave. He expressed the
warmest sympathy for myself and my children, and
with his blessing and wishes for my safety and success,
we parted ; he insisted, in the mean time, that I should
accept of a pair of his India rubber overshoes. The
doctor had a tiny foot, and the shoes fitted me very
well. On going out, I found a sleigh and servant
waiting to take me back to town. Instead of returning

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to the hotel, I hastened to Long Wharf ; over the door of
the first warehouse I came to, I saw the name of John
Fairfield ; in I walked, and found the gentleman in his
counting room. I quickly introduced myself and my
business. He seemed surprised and pleased. He
added his name, and kindly offered to accompany and
introduce me to the gentlemen through the wharf.
My success was complete. I .returned to the hotel
with such a bounding heart and step, a queen might
have envied me my happiness, strength of soul, and
purpose. I had been out nearly the entire day. On
entering my room I found my husband pacing the
floor in a terrible state of agitation, fearing I had per-
ished, or that some evil had befallen me. I placed
in his hands my roll of bills, which was ninety-five
dollars, the reward of my day's labor. The gratitude
and tender emotions he manifested at my willingness
to serve him were enough of reward.

"We had left our little ones with scarcely the means
to sustain them three days. Our first anxiety was to
hasten a remittance by the first maiL That done, I
had nothing to think of but the accomplishment of
my object- — to gain the means to publish my husband's
poem, and as much beyond that as possible, to make
my family comfortable and independent until the work
was out.

We remained two weeks in Boston ; each day
brought me equal success with the first. Friends
gathered around us. To the editors — God bless
them — I am deeply indebted. My success from this
visit amounted to twelve hundred dollars. With grate-

Hosted by Google

JANE FAIRFIELD.

ful hearts to the noble Bostonians, and with many and
deep regrets, at parting with kind friends, we hastened
our return by the same route we had come.

The stage coach was crowded ; the route a danger-
ous one. The snow was so deep, that it was impossi-
ble to discover, even for our experienced driver, the
undulations of the road. Among our passengers
there was one so immense that it was impossible to
place even an ordinary sized man on the seat with him.
As there were six of us to go, it was proposed that I
should share the back seat with him. I did not like
the arrangement, but it seemed one of those things
which impel us to make a virtue of necessity. I had
taken such a dislike to this person, that I regretted
not having waited another day for our journey. I
said to him, on taking my seat, "I hope, if we
should have the misfortune to upset, that the stage
may go over on your side." He grumbled out some-
thing in answer ; he seemed too fat and indolent to be
able to enunciate distinctly. We had got on very
well until night came, and we were somewhere in the
vicinity of New Haven. I had become exhausted, and
fell asleep — when over went the coach on my side.
We were all injured, except this fat man, who came
very near crushing me to death.

This accident occurred near a small house, the occu-
pant of which was a shoemaker, who, with his men,
sat late at work. We were assisted into this place.
The injury I had sustained was a severe one on my
head; the shock was so great as to destroy for the
time my memory. In the midst of the groans of the

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passengers, I was wondering at the appearance of every-
thing near me. On looking round I saw my husband
bent over, suffering from an injury he had received on
his arm. I asked him to tell me where we were ; at
my question he seemed annoyed. I insisted upon know-
ing ; he petulantly answered, " We have been to Bos-
ton, going to New York." Not being able to make it
out, and fearing to say any thing more, I repeated in
a whisper several times what he said, still puzzled to
comprehend any thing. In this state of anxiety I was
placed in the coach, but at this time by the side of
my husband, who was suffering much with his arm,
but who sustained me as well as he could upon his
shoulder. After getting on our way I soon recovered
myself.

The day dawned. We stopped to breakfast, and had
a merry time of it. The fat man sat opposite me.
We all joined in merriment over the accident of the
night, and congratulated ourselves that it was no
worse. The' fat man laughed immoderately, and apol-
ogized, certainly for what he could not help.

One thought alone interested me, and by its en-
grossing influence sustained me under all sufferings
— the love I felt for my children ; their helplessness,
and the conviction that fate had little of good »in
store for them, redoubled my vigor, and added fresh
inspiration to my energy.

With the blessing of Heaven my first efforts had
been crowned, and I was now returned safe to my
little ones, whose gentle caresses and sweet smiles
would a thousand times repay me for all I had suf-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

fered. They flew into my arms. 0, how their sweet
prattle rejoiced my heart !

After the excitement of meeting was over, my first
inquiry of my husband's mother was, how my children
had fared before the remittance reached them. She
replied, " Not very well ; the fuel gave out, and they
suffered for fire." She could, she said, think of no
one who, she believed, had a kinder heart toward the
family than Colonel Burr. The cold was intense, and
she feared to trust the children in any one's care.
She wrapped them as warmly as possible, and started
with them for the residence of Colonel Burr, in Reade
Street. She found him at home. On being told we
had gone to Boston, and of the situation in which she
was left, the old gentleman wept, and replied, " Though
I am poor, and have not a dollar, the children of such
a mother shall never suffer while I have a watch."
He hastened on this godlike errand, and quickly re-
turned, having pawned the article for twenty dollars,
which he gave to make comfortable my precious babes.
This noble and Christian-like act is recorded above.

" Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least
of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me," said
the immaculate Saviour. I never have thought of
this pious act without the tears of gratitude gushing
into my eyes. Peace and repose be to his spirit !

My husband hastened to prepare his new work.
The difficulty attending his own publications was the
impossibility (owing to the expense) of having them
stereotyped. An edition of a few hundred copies
was soon exhausted, and always left him in the same

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

emergency. His great poem, " The Last Night of
Pompeii," was finished in eighteen hundred and thirty,
and soon after its publication my husband sent copies
to England, to Bulwer. He also wrote him a very
long letter, but never received either an acknowl-
edgment of the poem or the letter.

Bulwer's novel of a similar title appeared about two
years afterward, and, it is only justice to the poet to
say, was in every respect an entire and most flagrant
plagiarism. The Argument, the Introduction of the
Two Lovers, Converted Christians, Forebodings of the
Destruction, the Picture of Pompeii in Ruins, the
Forum of Pompeii, the Manners and Morals of Cam-
pania Portrayed, Diomede, the Praetor, the Night
Storm, Vesuvius Threatening, Dialogue of the Chris-
tians, — the scenes of the whole plot, even the names
of characters, were all taken from this most grand and
sublime poem* To steal a purse is to steal trash,
but to rob one of his thoughts, genius, and fame, is a
greater injustice.

It is unnecessary to say that the edition was soon
exhausted, and that the profits served to make our
family comfortable for several months.

The love with which my husband became inspired,
as a father, seemed to change his nature. I have
often thought, had it not been for his temper, living

, * In Bulwer's reply to the charge of plagiarism that had been made
against him, he says, that " the names of persons and scenes in the novel
were taken from history." But is it not very strange that in so extensive
a history as the destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum, containing, as
it does, so many names and such a variety of scenes, that the two authors
should have chosen precisely the same scenes, plot, and names?

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JANE FAIRFIELD.

with him might, at least, have been made endurable.
His heart was benevolent, and susceptible of the most
lively impressions ; but his temper was easily wrought
upon. Fitful by nature, he was often led to commit
acts of sudden violence, which were followed with
bitter repentance. With the world he was always at
variance. It did not comprehend him, nor he it. He
was often deceived, and mistook his friends for his
enemies, and vice versa. His soul floated in per-
petual uncertainties, and knew not where to fix. It
was deplorable to observe the instability of his mind
and conduct.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

CHAPTER X.

It was one of those soft summer nights in July.
We sat with our little ones upon the porch, talking
over the past, and wondering if the future had any
thing of happiness in store for us. All things around
seemed to assume a calm repose. The full-orbed
moon in pearly beauty walked the heavens. It was
one of those hours of thoughtful loneliness which
sometimes steal over the heart, and bear us back, on
darkened wings, to earlier passages of grief and sor-
row. I held in my arms my little Genevieve. My
son Angelo, who was chatting with his father, sud-
denly turned to me, and said, " Mamma, do you see
that beautiful planet yonder, just over our heads ?
That planet is my home. There, mamma, I shall
live in my beautiful Orion" His father had taught
him the names of the constellations and planets. He
would often point them out to me in the heavens, and
while directing my attention to them, he would elo-
quently repeat Addison's most celebrated "Para-
phrase on the Nineteenth Psalm " —

This dear child had a seraph's spirit. He had en-
tered his fifth year, with one of those lovely natures

The spacious firmament on high."

JANE FAIRFIELD.

born of heaven to return thither. His mind, natu-
rally matured and thoughtful, by being too early
forced, had produced that insidious disease in the
brain so common to such children, but which we
had not suspected. His memory was so remarkable
that in his recitations he never blundered. At five
years old he had read the Bible and many story
books. The sufferings and crucifixion of the Saviour
so affected him as to cause him such excess of weeping
that we were often alarmed, and kept the volume
from his presence. The last year of his life, on seeing
the unhappy scenes that so often occurred in our fam-
ily, he would take my hand and lead me aside, kiss
me, and say, " Dear mamma, you shed so many tears,
and papa is so unhappy, that I wish to go and live
with the dear Saviour. Mamma, the dear Saviour
says, 6 Suffer little children to come unto me.' I
wish to go and sit in his arms, where there will be no
more trouble." He would plead with me to tell him
what it was that made us so unhappy. With his
sweet temper he could not understand why all were
not happy ; for he loved all. He would plead with
me for the poor beggar. Often on his way to school
he would drop my hand, and run in advance of me, at
the- sight of any unhappy child, man, or woman, and
give them his pennies or his lunch, — to which, if I
objected, he would, as he always did on such occasions,
weep to excess. He would offer as an excuse for his
charities, that he was not hungry — that he would wait
until he got home.

Again we began to feel anxioxis. For myself, I

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

could never adopt the advice given, to " take no
thought for the morrow," but was ever haunted by
fears for the future. I advised my husband to fix his
mind upon something permanent, that would give him
stability, and insure us a support. I suggested the
establishing a periodical — a quarterly work. At that
time there was needed a work of this kind. He
thought the idea a good one, embraced it at once,
and issued his prospectus.

The better to succeed in this enterprise, I proposed
to him to visit Washington.

Our president, General Jackson, had that year been
inaugurated, with a new cabinet. To obtain promi-
nent names at the beginning, I thought, would insure
him success. For this purpose, he started in company
with our little son, who began to show signs of ill
health. A change of air, and the amusement of
travel, I believed, might restore him. The following
day after their arrival, my husband, with our little son,
visited the president, who warmly urged the project
of the work, and kindly introduced the poet to his
friends. This outset, so cheering to his heart, gave
him sanguine hopes of ultimate success. He returned
to the hotel in fine spirits, to inform his mother of his
prospects. An hour after dinner, our darling Angelo
was suddenly seized with violent sickness and vom-
iting. Severe spasms quickly followed, with short
intervals of consciousness.

On the fourth day after his illness, I received my
husband's letter, breaking the news to me of his despair
of the recovery of our idol.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

Unaccompanied and alone, except with my little
Genevieve, I set off. I reached Washington just in
time to behold the dying agony of my child. He
seemed to know me, and made an effort to speak to
me. He lay in spasms until the closing of the day ;
then, with the evening twilight, his angel spirit took
its flight to the home it had so much longed for.

With an agony too great for description, over the
lifeless form of our child stood his poor father. He
had not left his bedside day or night during his illness.
He allowed no one to administer to his wants but him-
self. He had not slept for several nights ; his reason
seemed almost tottering. He would not allow the as-
sistance of any one, but laid him in his shroud, and
sat by him the livelong night, talking and sobbing to
his lifeless form.

A well of grief had opened in my heart, and nothing
could stop its deep, still waters. I had little now to
turn to for consolation.

We began to make preparations to depart with the
remains of our son to New York. All the kindness
that could be manifested by mortals to mortals under
deep affliction was shown toward us. This calamity
took place at Brown's Hotel. By its noble and hospi-
table keeper, Mr. Brown, nothing was omitted that
could by any possible means contribute to our comfort.

It was the last of July. The weather was very
warm. We started for Baltimore in a carriage that

And he found with the dead the only rest
That o'er his heart could creep."

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

had been provided for us. We reached Philadelphia
the next day, in the afternoon. Finding it impossible
to proceed to New York, owing to the illness of my
husband, we stopped here at a boarding house. A
post mortem examination was hastily made by Dr.
Horner, after which the dear form I had so much
loved was laid in its dark and silent sanctuary. Dr.
Horner came to me in his kind and sympathizing man-
ner, and said, " My dear madam, be grateful that your
son has gone to rest : had he lived, such was the forma-
tion and quantity of his brain, the overaction which
had already begun must have continued, and probably
at twelve years of age your son would have fallen into
fatuity. Don't mourn ; it is all right." Surely, thought
I, this information ought to console me, and I tried to
be resigned ; not so with my husband.

We decided to remain in Philadelphia. We sent
for our furniture, and hired a very small house, into
which we betook ourselves. Mr. Fairfield, not caring
apparently for any earthly object, entirely relinquished
his project of getting up the work he had projected.
He did nothing but grieve and visit St. Stephen's
churchyard. He would there seat himself on the slab
of marble which*lay on the grave of Angelo, and weep
for hours.

Want again stared us in the face. Our house rent
became due, with a prospect of being ejected, and
losing what we had. With these dismal trials, I again,
more than ever, saw the finger of fate pointing to me
as the only deliverer. One day, while taking a scanty
meal with our only little one, — each was silent, and

JANE FAIRFIELD.

seemed to have lost courage to speak, so desperate
seemed our case, that a secret determination entered
my mind. I looked upon my little one, and I vowed
upon the altar of courage and energy, that she should
never suffer while there remained within me the strength
of a noble purpose. From that hour have I felt that
the necessity which forced me to begin my exertions
made it a still greater necessity to continue them.

The next morning I arose strengthened in my decis-
ion. I said not a word about my plans, opened my
drawer, and took from it my prospectus, on which were
the names of the president and cabinet at Washington.
I bent my way into Market Street. 0, how little I felt
like encountering new faces, or forcing my urgent
appeal ! But it must be done, cost me what it might.
I had vowed to be faithful to my impulse — to sacri-
fice all for my family.

The ancients have said that "impulse comes from
the gods." In this emergency I felt that I was
engaged in a good cause, which gave me confidence
and courage. All were kind and exceedingly polite.
I returned to my home after having obtained the num-
ber of eight signatures, amounting to forty dollars.
My husband took little notice of my success for a time.
I paid the house rent, and secured the comforts of a
home. Each day I set apart for my visits five or six
hours. In this way I soon laid aside the means suffi-
cient to issue the first number of the " North American
Quarterly Magazine." When I had accumulated the
sum of seven hundred dollars, I gave it into the hands
of Mr. Fairfield. He seemed amazed at my success.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

He left home for the first day, on business, since the
burial of Angelo, awakened to a sense of duty, to
look for an office to begin business immediately. He
found a dwelling to rent on Tenth, near Chestnut
Street. To this pleasant abode we immediately re-
paired. The change was of service to us all. In a
very short time the work was out, and once more my
heart rejoiced.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

CHAPTER XI.

The prospect of success, and the consciousness of
the terrible destiny that awaited a failure, demanded
of me all my energies. I lost not a moment. I began
to feel certain of success, at least among gentlemen ;
with women it was a failure. The sympathies can
only be called into play by the opposite sex. I had
made a few attempts, but always found their curiosity
paramount to their sympathy — that, so far from a
desire to assist me, they were always ready with their
limited empire to prevent, if possible, their husbands
from doing so. I remember on one occasion having
called several times at the residence of a very wealthy
gentleman in the city, without being able to find him
at home ; feeling a certainty of his subscription, I was
inclined not to give it up. Again I called. I discov-
ered by the questions put to me by the girl who at-
tended the door, that the lady of the house had felt
unhappy at the anxiety I manifested to see her husband,
and, refusing to see herself, I asked the girl at what
hour they dined. At three, was her answer. I called
precisely at that hour. I was invited in the parlor
to be seated. In a moment the gentleman made his
appearance through the folding doors which connected
the drawing rooms, and closed them after him. I

100

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

introduced myself, and the object of my visit, at which
he expressed himself happy and honored. During the
few moments of conversation that passed, I observed
the folding doors move, and open a little. While the
husband was placing his name on my list, the wife
flung aside the doors with the velocity of lightning.
The husband, nothing daunted, opened his purse, and
took from it the five dollars, saying, 6i Madam, this I
believe *is the amount. I shall be most happy to con-
tinue a patron to the work as long as you shall have
such labor to perform."

"You will — eh?" said the partner of his bosom,
looking a fit subject for a lunatic asylum, instead of
the home circle. " Our house is already flooded with
books; beside, it's no charity to give to this woman,
whose dress (the first object of a woman's attention)
is more expensive than you can afford your wife. Her
work shall not come here ; if it does I'll throw it in the
street."

This woman, no doubt, had a plenty of every thing
she could possibly desire to make her happy ; yet, like
thousands of her sex, she withered in an atmosphere of
unhappiness, of wretchedness, from her own irritable
temper. There are many such, who, having no real
trials, are not long in manufacturing them.

This may be taken as a specimen of my reception,
whenever, in my business, I have met a woman — but,
for the honor of my sex, there have been some noble
exceptions.

I had been taught self-dependence from suffering
more than from choice. How often have I felt a dis-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

101

gust for those of my sex, who, surrounded with every
thing that can and ought to make them grateful and
happy, instead of being cheerful, mild, and kind, fret
and fume over every little contemptible nothing, tak-
ing pleasure in making their homes and those who
labor to sustain them ivr etched !

These are the women who boast of their affections !
who would go into hysterics were you to doubt their
love for their husbands and families. love ! " how
many crimes are committed in thy name ! "

Our new work was fast gaining celebrity, as well as
the most gifted contributors in the country. My hus-
band's labors became intense. Mental labor is the most
wearing of all. I was the sole financier, and it was as-
tonishing to see how we got on for a time. After hav-
ing obtained many patrons among the noble people of
Philadelphia, my next effort was in the gay metropolis
of New York.

On reaching the city, my first visit was to James
Gordon Bennett, Esq., the gifted editor of the New
York Herald. This gentleman received me with cour-
tesy, and gave me, I will not say a flattering, but a
just notice of my courage in projecting and carrying
out , unaided, so herculean a task.

This notice created a desire in the minds of the
people to serve me. We had not been long in the
city before we were visited by many of the most dis-
tinguished and talented. The poet Halleck, our early,
tried friend, came often to see us ; we always found in
him a convivial and delightful visitor. I admired his
good sense in remaining single. He was a happy

102

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

poet — a rare thing to be met with. He had a con-
tempt for such as are always groaning over " the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." He be-
lieved in the propriety of laughing at mishaps. It was
truly refreshing to meet with one so gifted, who could
turn tragedy into comedy with so much grace, wit,
and abandon.

After paying my visits and respects to the noble and
princely merchants of New York, I next bent my
steps into Wall Street, among the bankers and brokers.
It seemed a carnival week, so delighted was I with
the stir and excitement. Escorts gathered round to
introduce me. I felt grateful for such wishes to serve
me, though I much preferred to introduce myself. It
was a delightful thing to get away from stilts and cere-
mony. I liked to feel that every man was my friend.
My business was a carte blanche every where.

During my stay of > three weeks, though I was
abundantly successful, I had left much undone. I
felt anxious to return to my little girls, Genevieve and
Gertrude. I left New York with regret. I had been
greeted by all with feelings of interest and kindness ;
it had been a continued ovation. My path, indeed,
seemed strewed with flowers, in contrast with what it
had been.

Hosted by G00gk

JANE FAIRFIELD.

108

CHAPTER XII.

Winter had come. We returned from New York
just in time to witness the debut of Fanny Kemble and
her father. Mr. Fairfield, as an editor, had free ac-
cess to the theatre. A portion of our Magazine was
devoted to the criticism of the drama. Mr. Maywood,
who was then manager of the Chestnut Street Theatre,
kindly tendered to me a carte blanche for the season.

I was present to witness the entire range of charac-
ters performed by this great and beautiful actress.
She was a radiant and gifted being. It was a delight-
ful relief to repair for forgetfulness to witness these
great performances.

It is the adverse circumstances that give the tri-
umph. Toil, exertions, and obstacles had now become
utterly mine — obstacles which grew out of the very
nature of my energies and exertions. My business
was calculated to create public sympathy in my behalf,
which often became the source of domestic suffering
and tyranny ; so that, in my despair I often appealed
to Heaven for assistance to guide my steps, and to
know which way I should turn for consolation ; but the
world was before me, and I never could understand
sinking under any shape adversity could take. I be-
gan to enjoy the struggle, in my strong belief of sue-

104

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

cess. They who suffer, as has been my lot to suffer,
have a right to speak of themselves. And if I have
cause for pride or boasting, it is merely on account of
my power of endurance.

Bidding adieu to our little ones, and taking letters
of introduction along our route of travel through the
State of New York, thence into beautiful Canada, our
visits to Geneva and Canandaigua were most gratifying.
It is by no means wonderful that men of eminence
should seek retirement in that lovely spot. As soon
as we had made ourselves comfortable at Blossom's
Hotel, I started off in pursuit of patrons, having pre-
viously sent our letters of introduction to Mr. Greig
and Mr. Granger. From these opulent and agreeable
gentlemen I received a hearty welcome and encour-
agement.

The society in Canandaigua is excellent. Many in-
vitations were sent to us, which, on account of my ex-
cessive labor and the fatigue I suffered, I was obliged
to decline. This village is luxuriant with shrubbe-
ries, and beautiful foliage, and lofty trees. One inci-
dent connected with my visit I can not forget. Adjoin-
ing the hotel there lived a Scotch gentleman, a Mr.
Wood, who was a bachelor, whose chief delight and
happiness were in the cultivation of his flower garden.
Mine host gave me some very curious anecdotes about
this gentleman, and added, " He pays court to all fine
women who visit this hotel, and you must not be sur-
prised if in some way you receive a compliment from

The next morning, when it was scarcely light, the

him."

JANE FAIRFIELD.

106

chamber-maid knocked at our door with a message
from Mr. Blossom. It being so early, I was startled.
I opened the door in haste, fearing bad news from my
family, instead of which she handed me, smiling, one
of the most fragrant and beautiful bouquets I had ever
seen. The dew was yet upon the flowers. A note
was placed among its leaves. I opened it, and read, —

" These flowers, which represent grace, beauty, love,
devotion, and suffering, are sent from a Wood, by a
Blossom, to a Fairfield." I was enchanted with the
gift, and my husband delighted with this chaste and
beautiful compliment.

We hastened on our journey to Buffalo, a point to
which we had ordered our letters ; on arriving there
we found a letter had awaited us for several days with
the information of the illness of one of our little daugh-
ters. We rapidly retraced our journey home, and my
visit to Canada was made alone in after years.

Returned to Philadelphia, we found all right ; our
little one had recovered from what had been thought
a dangerous illness.

This incident had made me nervous, and I feared
to leave home again during that summer, and proposed
to Mr. Fairfield to visit the environs of our city, and
the " gentlemen of leisure " who had not yet seen our
work.

One day, in my rambles, I accidentally called at the
residence of Mr. James Brown, our Hon. Ex-Minister
to Prance. This gentleman had been suffering from
an attack of apoplexy, the effects of which confined
him to his room. I informed the servant who was

106

THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF

sent to me for my name, that I had called on business;
that if Mr. Brown was too ill to see me, I would call
at some future time. After delivering my message, he
returned with an answer, desiring me to walk up stairs
into his room. On entering, I saw a fine, intelligent-
looking gentleman, his age about sixty-five ; he seemed
bending toward "that bourn whence no traveler re-
turns." His manner was noble and dignified, and
his conversation charmed me for a few moments,
which, as I had called for patronage to a periodical
work, turned upon literature.

He expressed himself surprised at my arduous un-
dertaking; but on his discovery that the work was
edited by Mr. Fairfield, his affability of manner changed
so suddenly that I felt that I was transplanted to the
frigid zone, somewhere in the vicinity of an iceberg.
His face changed with his expressions, which were sar-
castic and severe toward my husband. This vitupera-
tion had been occasioned by some misunderstanding
with Mr. Fairfield during his visit to France, at the
period when Mr. Brown was our minister to that
nation.

I bade the gentleman good morning and left. Be-
fore I had reached the door which led to the street,
the servant came running to me, saying Mr. Brown had
sent him to request my return. On reentering his
apartment, he said, in a subdued tone and manner,
" Madam, you had not left my presence a moment,
before a feeling of regret came upon me at having ven-
tured my opinion to you in regard to your relatives.
I have been rude and harsh in my speech to a wife,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

107

for which I pray your forgiveness. Young as you are,
the imprints of sorrow and suffering are already on
your brow, and, Heaven knows, I would not add to
these. I see how it is. Rough indeed are the chances
from poverty and suffering for you, and though I can
not consent to receive your work, remember that in
me, if the future brings you calamities, you will find
a friend. Promise me that, in any emergency that
may befall you in the future, you will call on me, and»
this will give me some relief for the pain which I feel
I have inflicted upon you during this visit." Touched
by his obvious sympathy, as well as reassured by his
gentle manner, I could not help weeping, and on taking
my leave, promised to adhere to his request.

During that summer and autumn, I had walked
many a weary mile to sustain, by my labors, our
family and our work. Such had become the state of
fermentation and disorder in our dwelling, that though
I often faltered in strength, I preferred the out-door
labor to the in-door disquiet.

Several months had passed away, and I had been
barely able to keep down expenses.

The cost to sustain the Magazine amounted to about
seven hundred dollars per quarter. This sum, together
with our household expenses, required on my part
great labor and travel ; and though I began to think
I had mastered my destiny, that the work had become
so well established that my husband could get on with-

There's nothing like the weary foot
That betrays the weary heart."

108

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

out further aid of mine, in this, as in every thing, I
was disappointed.

I forbear expatiating, but pass over five fearful
months of illness and pain, to my convalescence.

I had been ill so long that our work became in-
volved. Indeed, during my long suffering I myself
had needed many of life's comforts. One morning,
while making an effort to amuse my children, I heard
a loud, uproarious noise in the hall below, and though
I had not since my illness left my room, I walked to
the head of the stairs. My husband was loudly talking
with two men, who were officers, sent by our landlord
to fulfill their duty, which was to remove the furniture
on account of unpaid rent. Trembling with debility
and nervousness, I begged these men to come to me,
for I could not reach them, so faint with fright had I
become. I informed them that I was Mrs. Fairfield,
the lady of the house ; that, though I was ill, if they
would promise me to cease their unpleasant bickerings,
and wait a sufficient time for me to walk as far as
"Washington Square and return, I would pay them the
amount of rent they required.

To this request they kindly consented. They walked
away, and seated themselves in their vehicles at the
door. I made as hasty a toilet as my strength would
permit, and walked slowly to thp house of Mr. James
Brown, then living in Washington Square. A thou-
sand vague fears crossed my mind on the way. I knew
in part the world. The offer this gentleman had made
me, thought I, may be forgotten ; if not, it was not likely
that he believed I would ever, under any trial, have

JANE FAIRFIELD.

109

the presumption to call on him for any such favor as
he had offered.

With these fears agitating my heart, I arrived at the
door of Mr. Brown. I rang the bell. The same ser-
vant attended the door as before when I called. He
asked me to be seated in the drawing room while he
carried my message.

Mr. Brown came hurriedly in the parlor. He saw
at a glance that I was ill and grieved. My feebleness
of health made me hysterical, and I could not speak for
weeping. As soon as I could do so I told him my
errand. " Great God ! " was his reply, " what suffer-
ing ! " He then ordered John, the servant, to bring
his portfolio, and filled a draft for the amount I needed.
Language failed to express my gratitude, nor did I
attempt to express any.

On my way to my dwelling I could not help saying
to myself, ' Fool that I am, to toil, hour after hour, in
giving others what they will take thanklessly and even
reproachfully, full of their own petty cavilings and
jealousies.' I never cared for money half as much as
" golden opinions." Yet gold is better, perhaps, in
reality; for what can make life endurable in this
world but wealth ?

Thus early had life become a burden to me almost
intolerable. I paid the men and dismissed them. I
then returned exhausted to my chamber.

110

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

CHAPTER XIII.

Doomed always to a cosmopolitan life, as soon as my
health was restored my husband and myself set out
together to make the tour of the south. We came to
Washington, where we remained a few days. We then
pursued our route through South Carolina and Georgia,
to New Orleans.

It had been my good fortune to secure letters from
several gentlemen of Philadelphia to our eminent
statesmen at Washington, Mr. Forsyth, Daniel Web-
ster, and Henry Clay. By these honorable gentlemen
I was received with marked cordiality. They each in
their turn introduced my husband's work, and were
the means of greatly increasing my success. Mr. For-
syth was at that time secretary of state, under Gen-
eral Jackson's administration. His manners were
delightful. His countenance was mild, pale, pene-
trating, and intellectual. The abundance of curly
white hair around his expansive forehead gave it a
peculiar expression* He accompanied me to each of
the departments, and presented me to the gentlemen
comprising the cabinet. One proof of a great man is
fitness for the circumstances in which he is placed.
Mr. Forsyth possessed the genius of representation,
and no one could be more suited to the high stations

JANE FAIRFIELD.

Ill

he filled in his country's service. His was a genius
especially requisite among a people who require to be
both excited and impressed. His character was brave,
ehivalric, and high-minded ; above all he was sincere
and faithful in his political principles and friend-
ships.

Life's high places have many paths ; and what bril-
liant dreams these great men had of their own and
their country's future. Webster and Clay— these were
names to which homage came from every quarter, and
adulation from every lip.

I went for the first time to visit the Capitol. I lis-
tened, entranced, to the eloquence of each of these
great statesmen. Ah, these were men who by their
loyalty and genius could reunite discordant spirits, re-
lieve their country from calamities, repair its ruins,
and extinguish tyranny. How necessary: were the lives
of these illustrious men to our nation ! They were, as
all know, models and guides in political greatness ; in
a word, they were the senators of senators, who now*-
sleep in their graves ; who rest from their labors, but
whose names are immortal. Their successors can do
nothing better than to tread in their steps.

It will be remembered that General Jackson and his
friends were the first who subscribed to our work ;
the general was in arrears in the sum of fifteen dol-
lars. This afforded me an opportunity to visit him
and pay my respects. I had been told that he was a
very gallant admirer of ladies, and I longed for noth-
ing more than to see the hero of the battle of New
Orleans, and the man who had the courage to veto the

112

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

United States Bank. Before starting I made out my
bill. It was cabinet day, wbieh I did not know until I
reached the White House. Intent, however, upon my
object, I sent in my card ; I was at once ushered into
the presence of the president and cabinet.

The general met me at the door. He took both
my hands in his, and presented me to the party, then
led and seated me in his chair. Nothing could be
more gentle or graceful than his manner. We chatted
and passed compliments. I then presented my bill.
There was a pause, and all business suspended. The
general glanced at it; then straightening up his tall
figure, he said, " Madam, I am sorry to speak harshly
to a lady ; but before this bill can be paid, your hus-
band must recant a most foul calumny which I find in
the last number of his Magazine against General Cof-
fee — my friend, and one of the noblest specimens of
God's works. Madam, I say, by the Eternal, that
wrong shall be redressed ; and unless your husband
makes an apology to me through the work in which ap-
peared his unjust and savage attack, not one dollar of
my debt shall ever be paid." This, thought I, is con-
clusive. I replied that, though I knew nothing of
the article to which he referred, I presumed that Mr.
Fairfield had written what he believed to be just, and
without prejudice ; and that I doubted the propriety
of an apology, unless he were convinced of an error.
General Coffee had recently died, and in a paper then
edited by Mr. Blair, of Washington, there appeared a
eulogy, which Mr. Fairfield thought unmerited, on his
life and character. General Coffee acted under Gen-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

113

eral Jackson in command in the war with the In-
dians. Mr. Fairfield, to substantiate what he had
assumed, obtained a history of the war, and, to prove
his assertions, copied therefrom letters from General
Coffee to General Jackson ; these letters gave the in-
formation that he (General Coffee) had obeyed strictly
his commands — had burned the wigwams of the In-
dians and exterminated their women and children.

Mr. Fairfield was a warm friend to the Indians ; he
believed that they were defrauded and unjustly treated
by the white people.

It was the cruelty of murdering the women and
children which gave him an unfavorable impression of
the character of General Coffee. And to this day the
fifteen dollars remains unpaid.

We left "Washington delighted with our visit, and
hastened our journey to Savannah, stopping at Rich-
mond and the smaller places on our way. A pilgrim
who is in search of hospitality and noble hearts may
find them here. Even so soon on my southern jour-
ney had I fallen in love with southern manners and
kindness.

It would cost me much patience to sum up and set
down all my adventures, discoveries, opinions, and
speculations in the new school of experience I had
entered ; many of which were no less farcical than
those of " Gil Bias."

We hastened our journey to Savannah. On arriving

there I at once called on Mr. T 1, a banker, to

whom I had a letter of introduction. On my entering
the bank he came 1 ctstily to me, blushing, and taking

114

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

my hand he gave it a hearty shake. His face had not
the celestial rosy-red, but a good positive scarlet.
He most warmly said, " How glad I am to see you !
When did you arrive ? " He called me so familiarly
by my first name that I began to wonder if I had not
seen the gentleman before. " I believe, sir," said I,
"that we are strangers," at the same time handing
him my letter. At this information he dropped my
hand, looking like a startled fawn.

The conversation turned on my business, each try-
ing to be very grave ; but it would not do. To relieve
the embarrassment he seemed to feel, I said, " Never
mind, sir ; these accidents will sometimes happen ; "
at which we both enjoyed a hearty laugh. He then
frankly acknowledged that he thought me an old flame
of his, the resemblance was so striking.

What was most remarkable, the flame and myself
both possessed the name of Jane.

My husband and myself were invited to dine at the
house of this gentleman. The grace, ease, and good
feeling with which his charming wife and himself per-
formed the honors of the table, made us feel quite at
home. We talked over the adventure of the morning,
which made a gay scene. Indeed, I have not often met
with a more agreeable family, or any who better un-
derstood the art of pleasing conversation.

I can not, nor, if I could, have I time or space to
enumerate one half of the agreeable people or the
happy incidents of my journey to the south ; but all
seemed anxious to make my stay with them as pleas-
ant as possible ; all expressed the warmest regard for
me, and a desire for my success.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

115

I can truly say, that during this journey not one
unpleasant occurrence took place to mar my happi-
ness.

Arrived at Columbus, Georgia, we took it in our
heads, being so near Florida, to extend our visit to
that beautiful country. We found a steamer sailing
direct to Tallahassee. We immediately took passage,
and found ourselves in excellent company as we glided
down on this beautiful river. There happened to be
on board a large party of ladies and gentlemen who
were en route to a ball, to be given the next night at
the mansion of Governor Call.

We arrived in Tallahassee early in the morning ; after
breakfasting we took a stroll to view the town.

In this work it is not my purpose to go into ecstasies
over scenery; mine is the record of suffering and ex-
perience. All who travel, if they have sense enough
to understand and admire the beautiful, can do so in
the still worship of their own hearts. There is a great
deal of cant by travelers and authors on this subject.
The Supreme Being has told us to be still, and admire,
and know that he is God.

We returned from our walk pleased with what we
saw. On entering our parlor we found that Governor
Call had left a note for us, with an invitation to the
ball to be given at his house that night. I have sel-
dom been present at a more elegant or delightful party.
There was dancing until a late hour, in which I joined.
It was a recreation in which I greatly delighted.

My husband never danced. This was an amuse-
ment, he said, belonging to women and children.

116

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

During the evening, my vis-a-vis was the accomplished
Princess Murat. I was presented to her by the gov-
ernor, and was charmed by her unaffected and lady-
like demeanor. The ladies of Florida rank in beauty
among the belles of our country. I have not often met
with more charming women.

In the early part of my history I had forgotten to
mention the fact of my friendship for Madame Murat.
I allude to the wife of Prince Achille Murat, brother
to the husband of the lady I met at the ball. They
are sons of the Ex-King of Naples. We were about
of an age, and were married nearly together.

She was a Miss Frazer. Her early history was some-
thing like my own.

This lady, during the vicissitudes and exile of her
husband, was reduced to teaching a small school in
Bordentown, New Jersey, where for a long time she
resided, and where I sometimes visited her. She
needed no title to exalt her, for she was nature's
own princess and gentlewoman. I recollect on one
occasion I called on her for patronage to my hus-
band's work. I found her employed in her school.
" 0," said she, " this marrying princes and poets is
not exactly what it should be ; it does not secure hap-
piness."

She is now living at the court of Napoleon the
Third, in the enjoyment (if not of happiness) of the
full honor of her title as princess.

We passed a delightful week in Florida, then has-
tened our journey to Columbus, and from thence as
rapidly as possible to New Orleans.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

117

CHAPTER XIV.

We soon found ourselves in New Orleans, located at
the princely St. Charles. The time for our absence
had nearly expired. Mr. Fairfield's time was always
limited. He must be at home to issue his work at
the end of every three months.

I had but three weeks left me for business. Amuse-
ments I never thought of. Domestic uneasiness, and
anxiety for my children, filled all my thoughts.

My life was that of a wanderer, up and down in the
midst of toils and perils, always uncertain, never fixed,
having a residence, but no home. I began to find
that this manner of life procured me a great number
of acquaintances — of real friends perhaps but few.

" What greater happiness can we propose," says the
great Petrarch, " than to pass our lives with the one
we love, and with a few united friends, with whom
we think aloud, and who have but one will, one soul,
with faces always serene, minds always agreed, and
hearts always open ! " Alas ! this picture belongs to
but few.

The New Orleans "Picayune" gave a fine review
of our Magazine, and one of those notices to myself
which I so constantly received from our noble-hearted
and generous editors every ivhere, and which aided
me much in my arduous labors.

118

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

I do not wish to be thought egotistical, (autobi-
ographies are always more or less so,) or take any
undue merit to myself. I therefore exclude from my
work these notices, so full of praise and good wishes,
and simply mention the adulation I received from the
people, the invitations to parties, balls, dinners, and
the attentions with which I was every where over-
whelmed. Nor do I deny that I possessed the vanity,
so common to human weakness, of being enchanted by
all these ovations ; but I must confess, I take more
pleasure in describing the scenes of my adversities,
for in these there are experience and knowledge. A
Greek writer has said, " What does one know who has
not suffered ? "

In these my sad memoirs, I address myself more
to the wretched than to the gay or happy — those who
like myself have passed the ordeal of suffering.

In human existence there is an infinite variety, and
minds have as little resemblance as faces. To the'
beings who are puffed up with prosperity my life would
be an enigma they could not comprehend.

The hospitality with which I was received by the
citizens, natives as well as strangers from all nations,
is shown by my success, which in a little more than
three weeks amounted to the sum of three thousand
dollars, independent of our expenses.

We hastened our departure from the Crescent City,
from its charming scenes and people, by steamer, up
the Mississippi to Wheeling, thence to our abode in
the delightful, quiet, and happy city of Philadelphia.

On my return home, I found several letters from

JANE FAIRFIELD.

119

kind friends. Among them was one from Mr. James
Brown, our ex-ambassador, inclosing a letter of intro-
duction to Captain M z, from England, of her

majesty's navy.

I called with my letter, and sent the gentleman my
card. In a few moments he entered the drawing
room. His appearance was very distinguished — his
manner courtly.

" The circumstances," said I, " in which I am placed,
sir, have induced me to call on you, as I do on others,
with a work edited by my husband. Will you do me
the honor to give me your signature as a subscriber ? "
At this request he handed me his card, and added, —

" Madam, I shall be most happy to be of service to
you in any way you may mention. Perhaps I may be
permitted to ask what those circumstances are. "

I had by this time become accustomed to what is
called " dead sets." I was generally composed on
these occasions, and quite collected.

" They are, sir, pecuniary embarrassments," I said.

" Tour information," added he, " does not leave a
single obstacle in the way of a most perfect happiness.
May I claim the privilege of being told something
more of your history ? "

" This would occupy too much time," said I, " and
my life, such as it is, could little interest a foreigner
and a stranger."

He had a singularly encouraging manner, and talked
easily.

" There is nothing in marriage," he replied, " that
can supply the want of affection, and you surely can

120

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

not love the man who enforces on yon such exposure
and labor."

I inquired, " What better evidence could I give of
affection than my willingness to sacrifice my life for
my husband and children ? "

" A weakness, madam," said he, " a weakness ; but
you will allow me the pleasure of calling on you with
the names of some of my friends. At what hour shall
I have the happiness of finding you at home ? "

This was alarming. The idea of receiving a stran-
ger, a visitor, unknown to my husband, was something
I never dared to dream of. I informed the gentleman
that my avocations absorbed the most of my time, that
I had no moments set apart for visitors, but was ever
occupied with business, and my duties to my family.
Thanking him, I took my leave.

I could never relate any of these episodes to my hus-
band. " Take any shape but that," was what I al-
ways felt when tempted to deal in witticisms, or relate
an adventure.

My husband could not see that, though I felt keenly
the inequalities of human allotment, I had my
choice of every earthly advantage that fortune could
bestow, and that I preferred to waste the best years
of my life, and the deepest feelings of my heart, in
anxiety and toil. Alas ! how much was there of
bitter lessons of which he little dreamed — lessons
which come in the experience of but few !

The following day after this visit, late in the after-
noon, I was preparing a salad for dinner. My hus-
band stood near me, holding in his arms our little babe,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

121

when suddenly a carriage stopped at our door. The
bell rang. In a moment more the servant handed me
a note. As I was more intent on having a good din-
ner than on seeing the contents of the note, I handed
it to my husband, saying, " See what that is." He
opened it and read.

It was fearful to behold the expression of his face,
it was so full of despair, wrath, and revenge. During
these moments I stood horror-struck, not knowing
what were the contents of the note, or by whom it was
sent ; nor dared I ask. In a few moments his wild
frenzy turned into weeping, when he threw himself
into a chair. His agony seemed so intense, that I felt
the deepest sympathy and sorrow, though I remained
ignorant of the cause. He asked me if I would con-
sent to copy an answer to the note — one that he
should dictate, over my signature. I answered, " Cer-
tainly," at which reply he seemed relieved. He then
handed me the note, and went into his library, made
his toilet, and went out. The letter was from Captain
M z.

He soon returned, and wrote the note, which I copied,
the tenor of which demanded an apology, or a challenge
from my husband would be the result. There seemed
to be a pretty fair prospect of pistols and coffee.

The answer came with not one word in reference to
my husband, who could not, however, demur at its
contents. But I am dwelling too long on these trifles.

" Great sufferings have great strength ; there is a pride
In the bold energy that braves the worst,
And bears proud in the bearing."

122

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

I was philosophical by nature, and therefore had not
to become so, with my husband's keen feelings so in-
compatible with happiness. It were well I was so. Alas
for the child of genius ! — the very word poet is synon-
ymous with misfortune. Pew indeed there are who
comprehend such natures. In prosperity or adver-
sity, the poor poet finds nought but discontent. His
genius and ambition, the sorrows and disappoint-
ments which are his allotments, turn to poison, or to a
void. " Their empire is divided between bitterness
and exhaustion." If he has any happiness, it is only
when he luxuriates with the aspirations and efforts
which link his name to the future — the visionary of
sublimest dreams. •

My poor husband labored industriously with his pen.
Night after night I have known him to sit late, alone
and unaided, to perform the task of writing or correcting
articles for his Magazine. I have seen him often — how
often ! retire after taking some anodyne, perhaps laud-
anum, to calm his nerves and fevered mind, worn
by excitement and exhausting exertion. 0, is it not
a sad page in which the annals of the great are writ-
ten ? For such ought we not to exert the kindest
sympathies of our nature ?

During five successive years we labored together,
fondly dreaming of that future which should bring us
repose and independence. My husband had concen-
trated in his Magazine the genius and talent of the
country. The clouds of adversity that had hung over
us so long and so fearfully were rapidly dispersing,
and cheerful gratulations came to us from many lips.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

123

Our two lovely daughters grew in beauty and intellec-
tual loveliness by our side. 0, how entirely my every
hope was centered in my children ! though I looked
upon them, thus early, with a dread, which haunted me
with a perpetual shadow, that fate would some day ex-
act a terrible penalty for the happiness they afforded
me. Miss Landon has said, " The shadow flung from
the soul is an omen ; " and mine at that time must have
held some mysterious communion with the future.
My eldest daughter, my Genevieve, was a blonde, pale
and fair, with sculptured features, soft and large blue
eyes. There was an expression on her face too
thoughtful for one so young. Her smile was sweet,
but never glad.

My youngest daughter, Gertrude, was a brunette,
with features and expression which bore a striking
resemblance to her sister. They were equally intel-
lectual, and gave early evidence of genius. In many
things they partook largely of their father's nature —
such as an early fondness for study. They each pos-
sessed great memory, and an ardent desire for knowl-
edge. They were so unhappy when placed at school,
that we agreed between us to educate them at home.
Their father gave his time and attention, all that he
could spare, to this purpose. They preferred solitude,
apart from other children.

The first years of their childhood were passed in
study, in their father's library, which was composed
of choice selections of historical, philosophical, and
literary works. Thus situated, they early learned to
think, and to know the value of self-application.
They read and studied much.

124

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

At this period, just as I had begun to feel secure
and sheltered from actual misfortunes, those especially
•which spring from poverty, my husband was sud-
denly seized with the fearful malady of epilepsy. The
frequent occurrence of these convulsions in the course
of a short time so enfeebled his mind as to render him
unable to perform the duties required of him for his
Magazine.

An awful thing it is — the failing energies of a mas-
ter mind. The poor poet, who had placed implicit
confidence in his genius, now found himself utterly
defeated. Slow indeed are such minds to credit that
the never-failing resource can at last fail them. But
so it is. Like a dried-up fountain, the perennial and
bright fertility ceases, and ceases forever.

There are some natures which seem sent into this
world but for a brief and bitter trial : such a nature
was my husband's ; he had not strength for the strug-
gle. He had ever felt despondency steal over his
highest moods from his earliest youth. The weight of
an unfulfilled destiny was ever upon him, and he be-
came fully impressed that these feelings had long been
the unconscious omen of an early death. * His was a
hopelessly melancholy nature, and therefore much to
be commiserated. It is very easy to say, jfor such as
have no feeling, that such a state of misery as his
was morbid and mistaken. Let such remember that
before we can change our feelings we must change our
natures ; and a temperament of his sensitive and ex-
citable kind is of all others the most difficult to alter
and subdue. For such there is no peace until the

JANE FAIRFIELD.

125

fevered brain, be calmed, and the beating heart at
rest forever.

In his poem of the " Idealist," which I annex here,
may be found, expressed in the sweetest language of
poesy, the extreme sensitiveness and melancholy with
which during life he suffered.

When the last hues of sunset fade away,

And blend in magic wreaths of light and shade,
And stillness sleeps beside the closing day,
Drinking the music of the breezy glade,
'Tis joy to wander forth alone

Through, shadowy groves and solemn woods,
And muse of pleasures past and gone,
'Mid nature's holy solitudes :
For then my spirit to its God aspires,
And worships in the light of Love's ascending fires.

"Where rocks hang tottering from the mountain's side,

And ancient trees in hoary grandeur wave,
I love to sit, forgetting pomp and pride,
And all the passions that the soul enslave,
And yield my heart to the sweet charm

Of Nature in her loneliness,
While soft-voiced zephyrs, breathing balm,
The perfumed flowers and shrubs caress,
And the last songbird pours her parting lay
Of love and praise to bless the brightly-closing day.

There is a loveliness in Nature's smile

Which fills the heart with heaven's own holy gladness,
Though he, whose heaven is in her charms, the while,
Feels thoughts steal o'er him of surpassing sadness.
When 'mid the perfect works of God,

He muses on the sin and folly
That make man's heart their dark abode,
O, who would not be melancholy ?

11*

126

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

How sad the thought that this fair world should be
The dwelling place of guilt and helpless misery !

Yet if his woe be unallied to crime,

And suffering not from evil conscience spring,
To Nature's bosom let him come, what time
Flowers ope the bud and birds are on the wing,
And there the fretful world forget,

And search the world of his own breast,
Where thoughts, like suns, arise and set,
And whirlwind passions rage unblest ;
There let the son of song and sorrow lie,
And inspiration catch from Nature's speaking eye !

From earliest youth I loved alone to climb

The moss-wreathed rock, and from the mountain's brow
O'er sea and land, an amplitude sublime,
To gaze when sunk the sun in radiant glow,
And poured o'er quiet vales, and hills,

And groves, and meads, and gushing streams,
Such glory as creation fills,
His last full swell of golden beams.

ye, who would adore the Eternal Power,

Go forth alone and pray at twilight's hallowed hour!

The spirit then throws off the garb of clay,

Which in the warring world 'tis doomed to wear,
And robes itself in beautiful array,

And soars and sings amid the blooming air,
Where in aerial halls of light

Meet kindred spirits pure and good,
And parted souls again unite

Where grief and pain can not intrude,
And in the radiance of soul-mingling eyes
Beveal the mystic power of heaven's high harmonies.

1 ever was a melancholy child,

Unmirthful and unmingling with the crowd ;

Hosted by G00gk

JANE P AIRFIELD.

127

The loneliest solitude on me hath smiled

When lightning darted from the rifted cloud ;
And I have felt a strange delight

? Mid forests and the cavern's gloom,
And wandered forth at dead midnight
To muse beside the lonely tomb.
I always loved the light of that dread Eye
Which flashed upon me from eternity !

I knew not whence such unshared feelings came ;

I only knew my heart was full of deep
Emotions vivid — but without a name ;

Within my breast they would not, could not sleep,
But swayed me, in their giant power,
To passion's uncommuning mood,
And drove me from the festive bower
To ruined tower and lonely wood,
Where on my soul ideal glories came,
Fairies and Oreads bright, and coursers rapt in flame.

0, how I loved that solitary trance,

That deep upheaving of the bosom's sea,
O'er strewn with gems that dazzled on my glance^
Like eyes that gleam from out eternity !
Creatures of every form and hue,

Lords of the earth, and angels passed
In garbs of gold before my view,

Like lightnings on the hurrying blast,
And voices on my inward spirit broke,
And mysteries breathed and words prophetic spoke.

The child of reverie and the son of song,

A word could wound me or a look depress ;
I saw the world was full of ill, and wrong,
And sin, and treachery, and sad distress 5
And so, e'en in my boyhood's morn,
I fled the haunts that others love,

128

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

That I might think why I was born,
And what below and what above
Was due from one thus sent upon the earth
To sow and reap in tears, and mourn his mortal birth.

My birthplace was the airy mountain hight,

And childhood passed 'mid nature's grandeur wild,
And still I see, by memory's magic light,

How on my soul each Alpine mountain smiled !
Though years have passed since I was there,

And many a change hath o'er me come,
There's not a scene, or wild or fair,
Around my long-forsaken home,
But I could point in darkness out, and tell
The shape and form of things I loved so well.

Trees, birds, and flowers were my familiar friends

In boyhood's days, and every leaf that grew
Whispered soft oracles of love ; there blends
With budding thought a spirit from the dew,
That gems each quivering leaf and flower ;

And precious to the mind mature
Are memories of that guiltless hour,
When with a worship fond and pure
The soul beheld in every thing below
A God sublime, whom we in works alone can know.

Deep in the soul rest eaa-ly thoughts, and now

My spirit roams 'mid lonely hills, when Night
Her starry veil throws o'er her spotless brow,
And wraps her elfin form in fair moonlight ;
Then o'er me come those thoughts again,
Which were my heaven in other years,
And I forget my bosom's pain,

And cease to feel my trickling tears.
Weird sibyls ! cease of destiny to prate !
The boy creates for life, and ratifies his fate.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

129

Here let me rest, a wanderer tired and faint,
Dear Nature, on thy soft maternal breast,
And learn for others those fair scenes to paint,

"Which taught me wisdom and which made me blest !
Fashion and folly still may rove

And seek for pleasure in the throng,
But I will live in thy sweet love,

And blend thy praises with my song,
O holiest daughter of the Holy One,
Whose smile wafts spirits to the heavenly throne !

130

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

CHAPTER XV.

The best part of biography, that which would in-
terest the most, perhaps, is that which is generally
omitted. From this darkened period I must lock my
griefs deep within my inmost heart. How many
untold and buried memories lie hidden there ! aye,
of wasted affections, of faults as of sorrows, hopes, and
fears.

It was about a year after the poet's health began to
fail, that our magazine ceased its existence.

To save our home and household, for the future
provision for my family, depended solely on myself.
From this period commenced the decline of the poor
poet. I determined to get together the poems of my
husband, — his fugitive as well as his elaborate produc-
tions, — and compile them in one large volume. For
this purpose, I immediately engaged a printer to com-
mence the business, while I, with my eldest daughter,
Genevieve, began our preparations as compagnons en
voyage through Canada an$ the British Provinces.
It required great labor for so expensive an enterprise.

Youth, health, and energy are strong consolers.
With these I was abundantly blessed, so that I envied
no one. It was not long after we started before we
reached the charming city of Montreal. Taking our

JANE FAIRFIELD.

131

route by the Niagara, we glided down on the beautiful
St. Lawrence River, with its thousand isles.

Arrived safely, we were delighted with the old as-
pect of the town. I called for a cab, and was taken to
Rascoe's hotel — a fine house, which had just been
opened. Genevieve, my little daughter, was in ecstasy
with this her first journey. The day following we
drove through the city to the mountain. We were
delighted with the beautiful residences, and the free,
fresh, invigorating air. Though Montreal lacks some
of the agreeable superfluities with which some of our
cities of the States abound, it contains leisure, repose,
and solitude — three pleasant things, necessary to
one's happiness. But as my business is more with men
and manners, and books, (at least the sale of them,)
than with towns or a description of rivers, with the
endless variety of inlets, noble bridges, and causeways,
I shall not stop to count the number of the streets and
lanes, nor to describe the beauty of the public build-
ings, npr the numerous cottages that surround the
city and form its most beautiful interest, but proceed
to narrate my adventures.

The Canadian rebellion, together with the border
difficulties, which had their origin as far back as the
treaty of 1783, created the same state of affairs up
to 1839, and obliged the government of England to put
their frontier in a state of defence. For this purpose
they sent over to the Canadas and the Provinces many
of their bravest men. These gallant and accomplished
officers, with their regiments, which were quartered in
Montreal at that time, gave to the city an appearance

Hosted by G00gk

132

THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY OF

of gayety and animation. I witnessed several of their
sham battles. The discharges of their arms, and the
glittering of their swords gave to the scene the ap-
pearance of a well-contested battle field. However
great the glory mankind attach to war, to me, it
breathes of nothing but strife and carnage, of the de-
struction of families, of broken hopes and hearts ; so
that the sight of these regiments had only the effect to
make me melancholy.

In company with a friend, I often, at the close of
the day, after my toils were over, visited the barracks,
to listen to the tattoo and England's national air of
" God save the Queen." We had visited the place
several times, when one evening there came suddenly
through the crowd a servant, with a chair in one hand
and a silver tray in the other. On it was placed a cup
of porcelain with delicious coffee, with cream and
cakes, arranged in a style which would have done no
discredit to a queen. As I was the only one to whom
this delicate mark of attention was shown, I was very
anxious to know the officer to whom I was thus
indebted — for no woman thanks another for a com-
pliment addressed to the sex in general. My intro-
duction to the elite of Montreal, and their kind and
hospitable manner toward me, made me in love with
the people ; and though I intended a stay of only a
week, I extended it to three. I passed my days de-
lightfully. But all things that give happiness in this
ivorld pass rapidly away. Having succeeded beyond
all expectations, I bade adieu to friends, and departed
for other scenes of labor to Quebec.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

133

The order of the day with me was en avant. The
next morning, after a pleasant journey on board the
steamer, I saw the sun rise in all its majestic splendor
upon the city of Quebec. We breakfasted, myself and
daughter, in our own private apartments — there be-
ing no table d'hote at the hotel for ladies. I liked the
plan of private table much better. It gives one the
agreeable feeling of being at home with one's own fam-
ily. After this repast was over, we soon found our-
selves in a carriage, being driven to all the remarkable
places in and around the city. We visited the citadel.
We then drove to the Plains of Abraham, from which
we gazed upon the grand scene below, around, and
above us. As we had been out several hours, and had
nearly expended our stock of admiration and romance,
we returned to the hotel to dine ; after which we again
started off to take a view of the beautiful cottages
which dot the environs outside the walls. The moon,
when it arose, found us still unsatiated with the beau-
ties of the scene. My daughter Genevieve, whose mind
was alive, almost by intuition, to the slightest signal
of intelligence, was so far beyond her years that she
never seemed a child. She had become, in my lonely
wanderings, my solitary companion, my chief conso-
lation ; and whether, with her, this day had been well
or ill spent, I must leave to Him to determine who
reads all hearts.

" Accept, then, O supremely great ! Infinite ! God !

From this primeval altar — the green and virgin sod —

The humble homage that my soul in gratitude would pay

To thee, whose shield has guarded me through all my wandering way."

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The following morning I sent out my letters, which
I had brought from my noble friend and others at
Montreal. During the day and evening I had many
visitors ; among them were the noble and gifted edi-
tors. The next day I found myself kindly mentioned
and warmly received by each of these gentlemen in
their several papers. The Canadian men have a pe-
culiar, gentle manner ; they are not so stiff and formal
as the English. They have the chivalry and courage
which we look for in men, with the delicacy and ten-
derness of women. During my stay I had the hap-
piness to be introduced to Mr. Burroughs, the acting
prothonotary of the city, and his charming and polite
wife and daughters. We were invited to visit them at
their cottage, a little distance from town, where we met
several of the officers of her majesty's army, with
whose unaffected manner and easy conversation I was
much pleased. By this amiable family we were most
kindly and hospitably entertained.

I have traveled far and long, and I have never
met kinder hearts or nobler natures than in Can-
ada. Those who exult in beautiful scenery, rich
hills and fertile valleys, could not fail to enjoy
a visit to this enchanting country. I passed mucli
of my time, during my stay, in drives and pleasant
walks. The Falls of Montmorenci delighted me. The
distance, I think, is about ten miles from the city.
Our visit was in September. The falls are pleasantly
situated, with groves of trees around above them.
Their breadth is narrow, though their hight is stu-
pendous. The body of water is small, but the

JANE FAIRFIELD.

135

scene is majestic and inspiring ; they fail, however, of
the grandeur and awful sublimity of Niagara. The
autumnal tints of the oak and maple, showing both
scarlet and crimson, some yellow and red, with the
birds singing so lively among the foliage, made this a
most charming day's ramble. There are a few days,
and but a few, from among- the many of our lives,
which, from their happy associations, we never forget,
and this was one such to me.

Equally successful here as every where, I again took
leave of friends, and departed in the beautiful steamer
Unicorn for Halifax, Nova Scotia, a voyage of three
days.

On our arrival, the porters from the hotels were
already at the vessel, only to inform us, however, that
they were crowded with people — that not a room
could be had. Some new excitement had filled them
to overflowing. This information was quite terrifying
to me, alone as I was, in a strange land ; but in these
dilemmas I never lost presence of mind. Just at that
moment the captain came to me, bringing with him a
Mr. Bennett, a resident of Halifax, whom he politely
introduced. He had come in his carriage, expecting to
meet some friends. On being told by the captain that
a lady was on board, with her daughter, from the
United States, he came at once to offer me the hospi-
tality of his home, until I should be able to find hotel
accommodations. This invitation I gladly accepted;
nor shall I ever forget, or ever cease to feel grateful to,
this amiable and intelligent family, to whom I was so
much indebted. Kind acts should be communicated ;

136

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and I have felt chagrined at not having it in my power
heretofore to speak of this noble family. I fear with
us in the States you would scarcely find such an in-
stance on record ; for in these days the stranger is
eyed askance, and not received, as of old, with mag-
nanimous and irreproachable benevolence.

As soon as we were comfortably fixed at our lodg-
ings at the hotel, I sent out my credentials, which
were addressed to the Hon. Judge Uniacke and the
Hon. Leander Starr, including the editors. The fol-
lowing notice appeared of me the next morning : —

"Mrs. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield. — This intrepid
and accomplished lady arrived in our city in the
steamer Unicorn a few mornings since. She is a res-
ident of Philadelphia, in the United States. She
brings letters of introduction from eminent gentlemen,
in Canada, where, from our contemporaries, we learn
she has been highly appreciated, and amply rewarded
by her success in her arduous undertaking, in her holy
errand of love for her family. The work she proposes
to publish is the poems of her husband, who at pres-
ent is suffering from the loss of health, and whose
genius entitles him to patronage every where. We
ask for this lady what we feel quite sure she must ob-
tain — a kind and warm reception from the citizens of
Halifax."

Judge Uniacke, in company with his excellent wife,
came immediately to pay their respects, and to request
my attendance at a social party of friends, to be given
at their residence the next evening. I was introduced
to several fine-looking women ; but really it is impos-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

137

sible to see every thing and remember every body ;
and beside I must confess that I prefer to talk with
men than with women — simply, for the best reason in
the world, they are natural and unaffected. From
them one can generally derive solid information. My
attention was drawn to the judge ; his manner was
grave, his person was tall and stately, his conversation
remarkably intelligent.

I passed a pleasant evening, and left impressed that,
if the people were generally as agreeable, I should have
a delightful visit at Halifax.

At that period Colonel Starr filled a high place as
member of the House of Parliament. He was also aide-
de-camp to the governor, who at that time was his
excellency Sir Colin Campbell. Colonel Starr lived on
an equality with the governor. At his house all for-
eigners of distinction were nobly entertained. This
gentleman married a lady from the United States, a
Miss Throgmorton, a most lovely and graceful woman.
Several of our statesmen about that time visited Hal-
ifax, and were entertained by this charming family :
among them were Daniel Webster, and John Quincy
Adams. At their residence, during my stay, I had the
happiness to meet with many persons of distinction and
talent ; among them was Mr. Villiars of England, a
gentleman universally admired for his genius and
urbanity. I am deeply indebted to Colonel and Mrs.
Starr for the warm interest they felt in my success,
which was shown, not in idle compliments or good
wishes, but in actual noble acts and deeds.

Mrs. Uniacke kindly urged upon me her carriage,
12 *

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for the purpose of making my visits to the citizens.
With this -kindness extended to me, my labors were
exceedingly lightened.

During my stay, Mr. Howe, the accomplished editor
of one of the principal papers, called in his carriage
to take me to his country seat, where were gathered a
pleasant party to meet me. Among the guests were Mr.
McNab and family. I love the study of men and
manners, and I must say that the people in these Prov-
inces charmed and delighted me. Say what you will,
in England, Canada, and the Provinces, the aristocracy
of wealth is altogether subordinate to the aristocracy
of intellect — intellect always first. Even with the best
informed Americans, there is a mania to trace their
pedigree to families of the mother countries, which have
been famous for talent and genius.

I left Halifax with regret ; but I had this consolation
— that I should be making my way onward, and soon
find myself among the same class of people I had left.
On the morning of my departure, Colonel Starr brought
me a letter of introduction to his friend Sir John
Harvey, who was then the lieutenant governor of
New* Brunswick, residing at Fredericton. This letter
was a carte blanche into the best society. I hastened
my journey, stopping for a few days in the delightful
city of St. John. I began to feel anxious concern-
ing my family, and to hasten my journey, my sorrow
for them always preying heavily at my heart.

"We took a steamer at St. John, and arrived at
Fredericton. The good captain escorted us to the
best hotel, the name of which I have forgotten ; names

JANE FAIRFIELD.

139

I seldom remember. As soon as my name was entered
on the books there arose an excitement.. I was be-
lieved to be the wife of Governor Fairfield, of Maine,
and suspected to have come to Fredericton as a spy.
This excitement was kept up until the object of my
mission appeared in the newspapers. About that time
there existed a feeling of dislike toward Governor
Fairfield, owing to the stern attitude he had taken on
the subject of the agitated border question ; so that
had I really been his wife, I fear my reception might
not have been as agreeable.

On the second day after my arrival I sent my letter
to Sir John Harvey. Captain Try on, of the British
army, who married Sir John's only daughter, called
on me in his name, to express his regret at not being
able to pay his respects in person, owing to the deep
grief he had suffered at the loss of his eldest son. He
had been for several months confined to his house,
during which time he had received none, except his
personal friends. Captain Tryon assured me of Sir
John's desire to see me, and that in a few days I should
hear from him.

I began business at once, and occupied my time*very
advantageously; when one morning, about a week
after my arrival, I was agreeably surprised, on my
return from my morning's walk, to find Captain Tryon
awaiting me, with an invitation from Sir John to dine
with the family at six o'clock on that day ; with the
information also, that Colonel Shore and his wife
would call in their carriage for me at half past five.
Colonel Shore belonged to the army, and was on

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intimate terms of friendship with the governor. On
entering Government House, after unrobing ourselves,
we were met by Captain Try on, who offered me his
arm, led us into a spacious drawing room, and pre-
sented me to his excellency, who, placing my arm in
his, introduced me to Lady Harvey and their lovely
daughter, Mrs. Tryon, and the company present. We
had only a few moments for conversation, when dinner
was announced. Sir John and Mrs. Shore led the way ;
Lady Harvey and Colonel Shore followed ; myself and
Sir John's youngest son ; Mrs. Tryon in company with
an officer, and Captain Tryon. The fine appearance
of the party, and the remarkable and noble elegance of
his excellency, filled me with admiration. With Lady
Harvey's sweet smile, her mild, calm, and matronly
manner, I was enchanted. There was but little mer-
riment at table, in consequence of the late death of
their son, which had greatly afflicted both parents.
All things were tastefully arranged, with every luxury
that could be desired. A neatly-dressed servant stood
at the chair of each guest. Silver urns, with the most
beautiful and fragrant flowers, graced the table, with
theioest wines to cheer the best hearts. Dinner being
' over, the ladies left, as is the custom in English society.
The gentlemen remained to enjoy their cigars and
wine.

During the evening we had an animated conversa-
tion. Sir John's spirits seemed to rally, and I found
him possessed of much wit and naivete of manner.
He related several anecdotes, which referred to the
scenes of the war of eighteen hundred and twelve.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

141

In our last American war, Sir J ohn Harvey was the
commander-in-chief in opposition to our General Win-
field Scott. " Sir John's noble bearing and gallant
disregard of danger attracted the notice of his adver-
sary, and General Scott gave orders to his riflemen
not to draw a trigger against so fine a fellow."
From this circumstance commenced a warm and un-
broken attachment between these two gallant generals.
Of their friendship his excellency spoke to me in very
affectionate terms.

Before taking our leave, Sir John informed me that
there was stationed at the garrison, at that time, the
thirty-sixth regiment, commanded by the brave and
gallant Colonel Maxwell. He added, " I think, with
your Scotch natures, you will be mutually pleased.
With your permission I shall be happy to introduce
him."

The evening grew late, and we parted ; I in sad-
ness, with the impression that I had enjoyed, for a few
brief hours, the society and conversation of an illus-
trious and noble gentleman and family, whose voices
and faces I should hear and behold no more.

A day or two had elapsed, when, during the morn-
ing, Colonel Maxwell called, and sent me his card,
along with a letter from Sir John Harvey. We both
expressed ourselves grateful to his excellency for
the pleasure we derived from this introduction, and
commenced an animated tete d t$te, which lasted for
an hour. The colonel informed me that he was has-
tily making preparations for his departure to visit the
United States, and that, though his stay must be short,

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he expected to find a great deal of enjoyment in going
to a country of which he had heard so much. I gave
him a letter to our poet Halleck, who afterward told
me how fascinated he was with this valiant and noble
Scotch officer.

Before taking leave of me, the .colonel inquired at
what hour, the next day, I should be at leisure —
that he wished to bring out his regiment. I assured
him that nothing would delight me more than to see
him on parade with those brave men, over whom I
had heard Sir John so proudly exult. Three o'clock
was the hour set for this display. The next day, at
that hour, myself and daughter took possession of the
drawing room. We had not sat a moment before we
heard the beating of the drums and the marching on
of the regiment. A moment more, they halted in
front of the hotel. The sight of this graceful and
splendid regiment, with their long, black, waving
plumes, with the brave colonel at their head, re-
minded me of the golden days of the feudal ages and
of the crusades — when the traits of the heart were
of moral courage, and deathless deeds, and of self-
sacrificing chivalry. The gallant colonel gracefully
turned toward our window, then to the regiment, and
gave orders to proceed through the exercise. This
done, they presented arms ; they then marched a
little distance above the hotel, turned, and marched
to their quarters. For this honor paid me by one of
Scotia's bravest sons I felt happy and proud.

Many years have passed away since then ; and all
that is great, and brave, and noble in this world

JANE FAIRFIELD.

143

passes away. Sir John Harvey, and Lady Harvey, and
Colonel Archibald Montgomery Maxwell have long
since slept in their graves.

" We die with every friend that parts from earth,
But live again with every soul whose home

Is the blue ether. From our hour of birth
Lost loved ones are around us, and they come

Into our thoughts like moonlight, when we roam
In silvery silence 'neath the starlight sky ;

They charm in grief, irradiate in gloom,
Impart meek gladness to the brow and eye,
And teach our weary hearts that spirits never die."

Having completed my visit through the Provinces,
I hastened my journey to Windsor, Nova Scotia, to
meet the steamer which sailed from St. John to
Boston. On arriving there, I found several persons
already at the hotel waiting to leave. The tide had
been so low for several days that no steamer could
come near enough to take in passengers. Luckily
for me, I had brought a letter from Judge' Uniacke
to Judge Haliburton, the famous " Sam Slick."
His residence was beautifully picturesque ; his fam-
ily a very agreeable one. He had two fine, robust,
English-looking daughters growing up, very much re-
sembling their father. From the grave appearance
of the judge, one would never have suspected him
to have been the author of any thing so humorous as
the " Yankee Clock-maker." In appearance he was
very stout, with a fine head, with rather a dull and
heavy physiognomy. We enjoyed our stay, as re-

s. L. F.

144

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

gards the agreeable party at the hotel and the citi-
zens we met.

We visited the college, which is a fine, spacious
building. In these halls of learning many have been
educated who fill high places of rank in the Provinces
and in the Canadas.

The steamer was suddenly announced to have
arrived. Each one rushed for his luggage in great
confusion, and away we started. None ever left these
pleasant shores with deeper regret than myself.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

145

CHAPTER XVI.

Our voyage being rough, with much seasickness on
board, we had nothing to boast of on our journey.
On entering Boston, I was happy to find myself safely
arrived on terra firma, and among old and dear
friends. I stopped a day at the Tremont, only for
the purpose of paying my respects to the poet Long-
fellow, whom I had never seen. In company with
Genevieve, I took a carriage and drove to Cam-
bridge. I had long wished to see the poet, as well
as the venerable head quarters of the immortal "Wash-
ington. I was invited into his library, which occupied
a large front room in the second story. Nothing can
console a poet and a litterateur for the absence of his
books ; they are his friends and his society. With
his appearance, genius, and pleasant humor I was
highly pleased. The poet was young — he seemed
almost boyish ; being single and untrammeled, he was
quite happy. I envied him his retirement, leisure,
and liberty. My visit was late in the fall. How my
fancy kindled as the autumnal winds came sighing
through the lattices of the old mansion ! The win-
dows shook and trembled. I could almost figure to
myself, while conversing with the poet, the spirit of
Washington hovering over the place which was once

146

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his residence on earth — the meadows around where
he walked, the trees under which he sought the cool-
ing shade, the woods which were his asylum against
the heat, and the green banks on which he rested.

On taking my leave of the poet, I informed him
that my daughter was in the carriage at the gate.
She preferred to remain rather than alight. At this
information he expressed himself anxious to see her,
and walked with me to the carriage. Her sweet face
lighted up with joyousness, as it always did at making
the acquaintance of the great and intellectual. The
poet expressed himself charmed with her grace and
address, and congratulated me on having so lovely a
daughter.

Again on our journey, we did not stop until we had
reached our home in Philadelphia.

I wish that here I could lift the curtain on a beauti-
ful perspective, instead of the dark and dismal scenes
where the light is lost and memory can no longer look
on the form of hope. My husband had changed. The
frequent attacks of epilepsy he had suffered had so
shattered his nervous system that both mind and body
showed rapid symptoms of decay. He was deeply
affected at seeing me, and quite overwhelmed. My
daughter Gertrude ran to me, and, throwing herself
into my arms, wept bitterly. Child as she was, on
her tender and impassioned heart had been written
the pages of suffering, of grief and sorrow. She loved
her father. His sufferings, genius, and misfortunes
won from her her deepest sympathy and untiring
attentions. She was like him in some things ; she
possessed his genius in a remarkable degree.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

147

My youngest boy, my little Eugene, about three
years old, expressed his joy by running to nie, and
talking with' his large, expressive eyes. He could not
enunciate. From his birth he had inherited the same
convulsions his father had suffered, which deprived
him of speech until he had attained his seventh year.
I feared he had forgotten me ; whereas, on my return,
his infant memory kindled with as much joyousness
as any of them.

I found my home altered. Many of the little heir-
looms and ornaments I had treasured had gone, and
I looked at their vacant places with a deep sigh, with-
out uttering a word. I had sent hundreds of dollars
to my family in my absence, but it failed of the
amount my husband desired. What grieved me most
was the absence of my silver, and pictures, and many
of the most valuable volumes from the library. These
I wished preserved for the future benefit and instruc-
tion of my children. Some of the articles I found
and redeemed, only, however, to see them eventually
disappear.

My heart was sad, but I did not falter. I imme-
diately devoted all my time during the coming months
to the publication of the work then in press by Mr.
John H. Guion, of Philadelphia ; and I found the best
stimulus to its completion to be a round sum of money,
which I paid in advance. The work thrived, and in
the early part of the year 1841 was issued from the
press, and boxed up and sent to my patrons every
where. During this summer my mind was seriously
exercised about my children. I did all I could to
soothe their little hearts.

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I had been able to save a few thousand dollars,
which I invested in a small property in Baltimore, in
the names of my children. Through the* kind aid of
Judge Glenn the purchase was effected, and thereby
made safe, entirely out of the power or the reach of
any one.

It was about the beginning of June of that sum-
mer that I began to see that something new must be
attempted, some new enterprise, to sustain my chil-
dren, now five in number. While I queried to myself
what this should be, a sudden thought came to me of
going to England — to visit England for the purpose
of republishing my husband's works, and renewing
the copyright in that country. I laid large plans
for success. I felt so sanguine on this subject, and
talked so confidently of my ability to effect what I
had planned, that my parents, whom I visited at that
period, thought that I had lost my senses. I forgot
my losses and crosses in the belief that by carrying
out my project I should ship home a golden fortune.
I consulted many of my friends, some of whom ex-
pressed a belief in my success ; others doubted. But
I was not to be discouraged. I collected letters from
the poet Halleck and Mr. Wikoff to our consul in
London, to Sheridan Knowles, and to the poet Eogers.

With these letters, I made hasty preparations to
sail the following September. I chose the new and
splendid ship Stephen Whitney, which was to make
her second voyage on the 20th of that month. Past
misfortunes had instructed me, together with my
philosophical nature, to trust and hope. I provided

JANE FAIRFIELD.

149

every thing to leave my children comfortable, with
their father, and grandmother, and servant. On the
18th, in company with Genevieve*, I set* off on my
voyage.

On the morning of the 20th my kind brother ac-
companied us to the steamer at the Battery, which
was waiting to convey the passengers to the ship, that
lay out at the Narrows. I dislike leave-takings, for
they always make scenes ; I therefore waved a good
by to my brother, who did not come on board the
ship, but returned with the steamer. A stiff breeze
soon sent us off on our voyage. As our vessel was
careering in her onward course, I was filled with
enthusiasm at what I believed would be the result
of this journey. In these delightful dreams I had
already obtained my thousands, and fancied myself
sending heavy drafts to my family.

" Like the foam on the billow

As it heaves o'er the deep,
Like a tear on the pillow

When we sigh in our sleep,
Like the siren that sings,

We can not tell where,
Is the Hope that hath wings,

The phantom of air."

S. L. F.

I leave descriptions of scenery and sea voyages to
those who travel for that purpose. Sea voyages are
pretty much alike. Sometimes there is a calm, and
sometimes a storm. To me such subjects have but
little interest ; beside, they have become fatiguing

18*

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150

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and hackneyed. Suffice it to say, our Captain Thomp-
son was clever enough in his vocation, and performed
his duty ; he kept a good table, and carried us safe to
Liverpool. We had been out about four weeks when
we had the happiness to reach her docks in safety.

We arrived too late for the morning train for Lon-
don, and stopped for the day at the Adelphi. We
took the train at eight o'clock that evening, and
arrived about six in the morning. A cab was pro-
vided me ; my luggage was placed on it, and brought
to me as if by magic. I ordered the cabman to take
me to Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square, Charing
Cross. Here we found every comfort we desired.
We remained only a few days at Morley's, when we
sought lodgings in Regent Street, decidedly the most
cheerful (if the word may be applied here) part of
London for strangers. We occupied a very comfort-
able suit of apartments facing the street, which gave
us a never-failing source for observation and amuse-
ment ; for here the tide of life seemed like the ever-
rolling ocean, never at rest. It rained incessantly,
and with all the movement and stir of the crowd,
there seemed nothing like the stillness of London;
it is intense. The very wind has no voice here. There
is a depth of grayish hue in the sky, in winter, un-
broken by either sun or stars, and all sound seems
to mingle in one low, deep murmur. There is no sol-
itude like that one feels amid a wilderness of human
beings. This feeling took possession of me, and I saw
at a glance the great difficulty I must have in the
attempt to prosecute my plans. I saw that England

JANE FAIRFIELD.

151

was not America — that from the queen to the poor
beggar, the ensemble had no resemblance. The sight
of royalty, with all its pomp and parade, had no at-
tractions for me, for my heart was made sad at the
contrast of splendor with the numberless perishing
poor I daily met of the unfortunate people ; and for
the first time in my life I felt the moral rottenness of
aristocracy, and the greatness of our own glorious
republic. O America ! America ! how my heart bowed
in thankfulness when I reflected that I was a daughter
of thy land, liberty, and affections. I never could feel
elated at the paraphernalia of the queen, the trap-
pings of royalty, the gems that are set in diadems, or
worn in abundance by the nobles, when I reflected
there were starving thousands within sight of their
equipages.

The obstructions I saw in my path made me put off
the commencement of my enterprise ; in this way
days passed away, waiting for to-morrow.

" To-morrow ! 'tis the changing dream of hope,
The vision of the weary-hearted in the depth
Of solitary suffering, and the crown
Of many a proudly imaged enterprise,
That never was accomplished." s. L. F.

I did not immediately deliver my letters ; my anx-
iety rendered me unfit for society, and I concluded
to wait the decision of my success. Early one morn-
ing I took a cab for the purpose of calling on the
editors. I drove to the " Times " office, and inquired
if the editor was within, saying that I had called on
business, and desired to see him. I was surprised to

152

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find the editor incognito, but was informed that " any
communication I might wish to make, must be made
by letter, addressed to the editor of the 6 Times,' Times
office." I began to see how it was that in England there
was no such thing as favors by the press. I returned
to my lodgings dispirited, for I had no means to spare
for any exorbitant demands that might be made on
me from that source. Though I met with this diffi-
culty in the outset, I could not think of relinquishing
my efforts without further trial. I wrote a note to
the editor of the " Times/' to which the following is
a reply : —

To Mrs. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield,

The Editor of the Times presents his compliments to Mrs. Fair-
field, and regrets that his numerous avocations will prevent him
from having the pleasure of waiting personally upon her. Any
communication with which she will honor him, however, shall re-
ceive his best attention.

London, Nov. 29, 1841.

I gave up every hope of success, and decided to pass
the winter as happily as possible in visiting and sight
seeing. The following letter I received from Lady
Blessington : —

Mrs. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield,
165 Regent Street.
Lady Blessington presents her best compliments to Mrs. Fair-
field. She begs to express her warmest thanks for the very beau-
tiful volume of Poems Mrs. Fairfield has been so kind as to present
to her. In them she has found much to admire. The poems to
Clara, Westminster Abbey, Pere le Chaise, and the Last Night

165 Regent Street.

The Times Office.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

153

of Pompeii are sublime and lofty conceptions. She will read them
all with great interest.

Unfortunately, most unfortunately for Mrs. Fairfield, Lady Bles-
sington fears she may meet with many difficulties in the attempt to
republish the Poems of her husband at this time in England.

The friends of the late Mrs. Hemans have been making great
exertions to get a subscription for a volume of unpublished manu-
script, but have entirely failed.

Mrs. Fairfield will pray accept Lady Blessington's kindest wishes
for her success and happiness.

London, Gore House, Dec. 2, 1841.

My imagination bad been warmed by descriptions
of travelers and visitors to tbe residence of tbe poet
Sogers, whose poems I had so often read, and whose
" Italy " enchanted me.

On entering his dwelling in St. James Place, the ser-
vant led me up a flight of winding stairs, into a large,
square anteroom, where I stopped for a few moments
to admire the works of art in painting and statuary
that adorned the walls and recesses. After having sat-
isfied my eyes for some time witb those delightful
objects which, elevate the mind and inspire it with a
love for the beautiful, I was led into another large
room, whicb was adorned in the same manner. I
seated myself by the lattice window wliicb overlooked
St. James Park, to await the poet's entrance ; here
my eyes feasted. Every piece of art here seemed per-
fect, like the poet's own beautiful poems, almost too
perfect ; they always put me in mind of a clean culti-
vated garden, so precise that one longs for a little
careless spot on which to rest. The mind wearies with
too prolonged scenes of beauty, too much finish.

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

On the poet's entrance I found Mm to be almost en-
tirely the same in appearance and manner that I had
pictured to myself. Our conversation led, for a few
moments, to the subject of my enterprise, which seemed
to surprise him. " Even," said he, " were it possible
for such an object to be accomplished, the labor and
fatigue attending it would place it beyond your power."
I then handed him my husband's Poems, and begged
his acceptance of the volume. I told him that during
the fifteen years of my married life I had published,
by subscription, by individual labor, two editions of
those Poems, in detached parts, and lastly, during the
past year, I had brought out my husband's works
entire in the volume I presented him. Beside, during
that period, I had established and sustained a period-
ical work for five years. The poet looked at me, I
thought, with an expression as though he either
doubted my sanity or my words. " Impossible, im-
possible," he repeated. I informed him that my hus-
band's works had never been brought out by the pub-
lishers — that they had never been in the trade, and
that my noble countrymen had done much for me, but
that I had come to England expecting to make a
fortune. At this last information the poet laughed
heartily, and replied, " Such energy and devotion de-
serve every thing. I wish in my heart it might be
so. He asked many questions about America, its au-
thors and artists. I told him, what he must often
have heard before, that he was one among a few of
the poets on whom our country had placed its favor-
itism. He replied, "I am happy and proud to be a
favorite in America."

JANE FAIRFIELD.

155

The poet said it was a misfortune with authors that
they wrote too much ; that if all authors should lay-
aside their productions for six months, and review
them carefully at the end of that time, they would cut
them down at least one half before placing them in
print. He assured me that he never wrote more than
four lines a day during the period of his authorship.

In this method of writing I could only conceive taste
and judgment, for true genius is not slow and meas-
ured, but it is rapid and impulsive. We are rarely
wrong when we write, or even act, from impulse. (I
speak of good natures.) Genius must be allowed its
natural course, which is the first warm and generous
thought that springs up in the heart. Second thoughts
are almost always cold and calculating.

The poet informed me that at that time he was
eighty-four years of age. I might have thought him
seventy, but not beyond it. His complexion was fair,
with mild, soft blue eyes. His fair, broad forehead bore
little trace of care, and less of sorrow. I passed al-
most the entire afternoon with the poet, and left him,
charmed and delighted with my visit.

The following day I paid my respects to the great
Henry Hallam, the author of " Middle Ages." I had
long wished to see this great man. I made my way
alone to Orescent Row, his place of residence, with no
other introduction than my card. I was invited im-
mediately into his study, which was also his library.
It was a large, long room ; little, however, of the wall
was seen, for it was nearly hidden by the arched book-
cases, and the ponderous tomes, some bound in black,

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THE AUTOBIOGBAPHY OF

some in vellum, grown dingy with age. In the center
of the room stood a large oval table, with elaborately
carved lions' feet ; near it, in an antique arm chair,
sat this venerable author.

The classic and poetic seclusion in which he lived,
the grace and refinement which surrounded him, made
this a visit of no ordinary happiness to me. He had
that repose, and that superb self-reliance of manner,
which always characterize the truly great man or
woman. He talked of England, its character, its prej-
udices, its past greatness, which, he said, " shed its
own sanctity on the atmosphere." When I ventured
to speak of my motive for visiting England, he smiled,
and said, " I have spoken of her prejudices, of which
this is one. No work can succeed in England outside
the usual means of publication. "

I took my leave of this great man (whose genius I
had so often heard my husband admire) deeply im-
pressed with the force and greatness of intellect. He
invited me to visit him frequently during my stay in
London.

How often since, in my wanderings over earth, has
my mind reverted to those scenes, those pleasant
scenes, when with the sympathy of the good and great
I was consoled.

There is something awfully sublime in the solitary
life of a great intellect.

" Such spirits fill the universe they live
In the blue ether, and their dwelling place
Is the immensity above ; they sit
Upon the thrones of seraphs in the stars,

JANE FAIRFIELD.

157

And hold converse with them, when night with stars

Canopies earth, and holy Nature folds

Her moonlight drapery round her, and lies down

By bright Hyperion's side to bridal sleep.

This wox'ld of peril they in thought forget,

And all its crimes and woes, and they become

Associates with the blest in pure desires

And feelings holy ; and they love to tread

The verge of Paradise, though mortal yet,

Seeking to know the loves that blossom there,

The joys that never fade in those bright fields,

The thoughts of bliss expanding ever through

The pauseless ages of undying love.

Such spirits find no thoughts reciprocal

In earthly beings. Few can estimate

Their greatness rightly ; few can feel the same

Dissolving and absorption of all powers

In soft Elysian visionry. TJiey live

Alone, starb earns round the sun-throne of God!

The sovereign eagle ever dwells alone

In solitary majesty, and waves

His mighty wings in air unbreathed by things

Of lowlier nature ; and the lion walks

His monarch path untended and alone ;

So the proud spirit lives in loneliness,

All uncommuning, and its solitude *

Becomes its empire, where it reigns fore'er

In might and majesty."

S. L. F.

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

CHAPTER XVII.

I had not been long in London before I had the
happiness of meeting with several Americans. Among
them was a gentleman of fortune and leisure I had
long known, who had left his home for a travel of two
years on the continent. This was a fortunate circum-
stance for me ; for without an escort, Genevieve and
myself must have failed of seeing many of the most
interesting scenes in England — scenes in which, when
once entered, is found much to subdue the troubled
present with the mighty past.

We sailed on the Thames, with its shores haunted
by a thousand fearful events. Passing the dark old
Tower, the whole history of England, with its bright
and glorious deeds, and its dark and fiendish acts, is
called up at a glance.

We next went to the Abbey — this magnificent world
of tombs and mausoleums. In this vast abode where
Death sits enthroned over kings, amid its lonely pas-
sages and aisles, its antique shrines, we gaze and gaze,
until the mind becomes overpowered and confused
amid its wonders and cenotaphs. I found no spot in
England that interested me as much as a visit to the
Abbey, " this great assembly of the dead — the pride
and glory of the earth, of almost countless genera-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

159

tions — of kings and qneens ? bards and warriors, and
statesmen and orators." They lie here " who once
shook thrones and sundered monarchies." Next to
the Poets' Corner, I was interested at beholding the
tombs of the haughty Elizabeth, and her rival, the
lovely and beautiful Queen Mary, whose effigy in cold
marble brought to my mind the cruel suspicions and
wrongs she endured, and her long and painful cap-
tivity and execution.

« Why burns thine eye with such triumphant light,
O proud Elizabeth ? Lo ! there the shrine
Where worship now the people of the earth
Scotia's lost Mary, — beauty's loveliest queen, —
A sacrifice, if innocent, and thrice
A sacrifice if guilt confirmed her doom.
Leman of Essex ! Tyrant Henry's child,
Meet daughter of thy sire ! bend that proud head,
And look beneath thy foot, O haughty Bess !
Thy broken sceptre lies by Mary's tomb ! *
Grandeur, thou hadst thy crown. Misfortune now
Hath her reward — the tears of half the world."

Scenes of pomp around the dead always impressed
me with deep melancholy. Par happier were the
dying thought that I should lay my weary head to
rest on earth's green bosom, beneath the smile of
heaven, where the sunlight and storms, the stars and
the gentle light of the moon, and showers and dews
would come, — where birds would sing and flowers

* During Cromwell's time, the mob broke into the Abbey and defaced
many of its monuments. The hand of Elizabeth containing the sceptre
was broken off, which fell at the foot of Queen Mary's tomb.

S. L. F.

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

bloom, — than that my form should molder in melan-
choly vaults or sepulqjiers of grandeur.

I left the Abbey sadly impressed. Byron's beauti-
ful lines came forcibly to my mind : —

" The pictured forms of other times,
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes,
Save vague tradition and the gloomy vaults
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults."

Walks and drives in the magnificent parks occupied
much of our time, which we divided, from breakfast,
usually at ten, into three parts for the day. All
writing. and business were attended to from eleven to
two ; walking or driving, from three to five ; dining
at six ; and the evening spent at the opera or theater,
otherwise at our cheerful fireside in reading or con-
versation. I often saw the queen, and Prince Albert,
the Duchess of Kent, and the Duchess of Sutherland,
with many of the distinguished English nobles. The
queen I thought a very good woman. She was very
young, without the regal appearance, however, we
look for in a queen. The prince I thought handsome,
stately, and amiable. Neither the queen nor prince
possessed those remarkable lineaments we look for in
the intellectual.

During the winter of 1841 the Prince of Wales was
born, which created an intense hubbub. The whole
city was in a state of commotion at this event ; even
the poor beggar was shouting lustily, " God save the
queen!" For the soul of me, I could get up no
other feeling than that of indifference upon this occa-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

161

sion. As I have said, royalty has no other attraction
for me than as a moral. It is a subject for sad re-
flection. The extreme contrasts it brings of luxury,
pomp, and poverty admit of no feelings of happiness.
"When we look upon the numberless poor, unfortunate
people who throng the streets, the alleys, and the
lanes of London, we know and feel that, there must
be an injustice in the formation and existence of a
government that affords all the power and wealth of
the earth to one portion ; to the other, penury, house-
lessness, and starvation.

Some writer has said, " America is the child of
the earth's old age," on whose youth Heaven has
bestowed a double portion of its blessings. In our
cities and towns there is labor enough and a home
for all. Our wharves closely swarm with multitudes
busy in all the various toils of daily subsistence, min-
istering to a commerce whose home is the world.
In our noble America none need starve, none need
suffer.

We next visited the British Museum, and Madame
Tussaud's rooms in Portland Square, where, after
having viewed the exquisite grouping of kings and
queens, emperors, and statesmen, and nobles, we
were led into the room of horrors. Here we saw
the shirt worn by Henry IV. of Prance, when stabbed
by Ravaillac, with the blood-stains still distinct —
a relic for which Charles X. offered two hundred
guineas ; the imperial carriage of Napoleon I., taken
from the field of Waterloo, and the carriage used by
the emperor at St. Helena ; the original guillotine

14*

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blade used in the decapitation of the beautiful Marie
Antoinette and her. husband, Louis XVI., the Duke
of Orleans, and Robespierre ; the coat worn by Nel-
son at the battle of the Nile, and a piece of the Cloth
of Gold from the field of that name.

On entering these magnificently lighted rooms the
effect is startling. You feel really in the presence
of living, breathing beings, so perfect are the charac-
ters and the groupings. Queen Victoria and Prince
Albert are there in their marriage attire. What
struck me most was Queen Mary Stuart, sitting on
an elevation, a sort of throne, attired in black velvet.
Standing near her is the inveterate reformer, John
Knox, exerting his influence with the queen, and
urging the relinquishment of her faith in Catholi-
cism. A little distance from the entrance stands the
immortal Malibran ; nothing can be more striking
than this figure, with her large, dark, impassioned
eyes, as I had seen her in life.

February had come. I began to feel those long-
ings for home that a child suffers when it perceives
on a sudden that it has overstaid its time. I began to
make preparations to sail in the ship Quebec, which
left for New York on the 22d of that month. I had
one regret at leaving — that I was obliged to return
to America without seeing the continent.

Many of my friends tried to dissuade me from my
voyage, and offered as an impediment the stormy
season I had chosen. Genevieve was in love with
London. She could not bear to leave the parks, and
the beautiful Serpentine, where she had daily amused

JANE FAIRFIELD.

163

herself with her loaf of bread feeding the swans, which
came sweeping over the bright lake at her approach ;
for she was loved by every thing beautiful, fair, and
pure.

The 22d had come, and, late that night, we were
hurried on board the ship Quebec, which was to leave
at four in the morning. The sails were unfurled,
and we were off, once more wending our way toward
dear America. The captain had gone by railroad
in advance of the ship, which was taken around
by the mate to Portsmouth. Unfortunately, on our
arrival we found no prospect for sailing, owing to the
strong head winds, which lasted for a week.

The weather was fine, however, and we concluded
we would make the best of our delay ; and as there
were a number of vessels in the Channel in the same
predicament with ourselves, we would pass our time in
exchanging visits. After breakfasting, our party set
off. We met several parties, who, like ourselves, were
in search of something for pastime. Captain Paget,
an officer of rank in her majesty's navy, who was
sailing alone with the oarsmen, left his boat, and
joined us on a visit to the Queen's yacht. This grace-
ful vessel was built by one of the G eorges ; though it
was old, it was still beautiful. Captain Paget intro-
duced us to Captain Fitz-Clarence, of the,, yacht, who
was the son of William IV. and Mrs. Jordan ; a most
charming and courteous gentleman, who gave me
a history of the vessel, with many anecdotes con-
nected with the royal personages of its time, but
which I now forget. He showed me the state room,

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where the king was dangerously ill from seasick-
ness, on a voyage he was making to Germany. It
was a most comfortable room, with a richly bound
library ; the bed was such as crowned heads usually
lie on.

After viewing the vessel throughout, the captain
invited us to lunch with him. We had a delightful
conversation during this pleasant repast ; and, after
drinking a glass of the best wine, we took our leave,
much delighted with our visit. But how true it is
that in this world there is always a bitter mixed with
the sweet ! While on board the yacht, my mind, in-
stead of being present with the scenes around me,
was carried back, far back, to the scenes in the life of
that noble, self-sacrificing woman, the mother of Cap-
tain Fitz-Olarence, Mrs. Jordan, in whose life, and
wrongs, and sorrows I had felt so deep an interest.
Her exile in France, and the prohibition, by the king,
of all communication with her children during her
last hours, is a deep and everlasting stain upon his
memory. This great and distinguished woman died
of outraged affections and a broken heart.

0, is it not a painful thing to think how the
purest and dearest ties that can exist, that bind heart
to heart, and parent to child, are doomed to be sev-
ered ! And yet so inextricably blended are happiness
and sorrow on our earth.

Once more on our voyage, with fair wind and pros-
pects of a speedy return, our spirits revived. Myself
and" daughter were the only ladies on board ; there
were two unfortunate females, who were steerage pas-

JANE FAIRFIELD*

165

sengers, an aged mother, with her daughter, who had
left England to seek their home in our new world.
The Quebec was a fine vessel, small, compact, and
well built. For two weeks we passed our time on
deck, looking out on the broad expanse of the ocean,
charmed with the speed of our little ship. Genevieve
amused herself, often, with talking to the sailors., and
asking questions. She would often take them something
nice to eat — fruit or cakes,- which they seldom saw.
Her kind nature sympathized when she saw them
partaking of their coarse meat and bread; and in
her sweet manner she would often beg the captain
to share with them the good things of the table.
They named her the little flower, and at her ap-
proach their hard and worn features would always
lighten up.

Just as our hopes were at the highest, the wind
changed, and we found ourselves suddenly overtaken
by a fearful storm, which lasted during three weeks.
So terrific were these gales, that during that time not
a sail was unfurled. The poor sailors, with their arms
folded, crouched in the forecastle, almost in despair of
making further headway. During this period we were
left at the mercy of the waves ; the ship at every
lurch creaked as if its heavy planks were about to
separate ; the noise was deafening. We could not
keep our hold any where ; the safest place seemed our
berths ; even there it did not prove very safe to me. I
placed my daughter in the lower berth, while I took
the upper one. The door of our state room was fae-
tened back, and opened into the outer saloon. About

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midnight I was thrown violently from my berth, my
head striking the hard floor of the saloon. The stew-
ardess, whose room was opposite, heard me fall, and
came to me. Near where I lay was a sofa, on which
she managed to place me. I was seriously injured,
and for a time almost lifeless. This blow produced
congestion of the brain, and for two weeks rendered
my case almost a hopeless one. The kind captain and
stewardess were unremitting in their attentions to me.
During this period the aged mother, of whom I have
spoken as a steerage passenger in company with her
daughter, was taken suddenly ill, and died of lockjaw.
She was too old and feeble to bear so rough a voyage,
and sank under it. The pitiful wailings of her poor
solitary child were enough to rend the heart, as they
lowered the corpse of her mother into its watery
grave. I prevailed upon the captain, who was natu-
rally kind-hearted, to take her in our part of the
vessel.

At the end of the third week, the elements were
merciful to us, and it was indeed cheering to hear the
sailors once more at work aloft, unfurling the sails to
the breeze. The ship was soon making her way in a
steady course.

Nothing occurred to mar our progress for the bal-
ance of the voyage. I was too ill, however, to take
any interest in any thing, and remained in my berth
until the ship neared New York.

After having passed seven long, painful weeks at
sea, we arrived safely.

If ever the heart has cause for gratitude, it is when

JANE FAIRFIELD.

167

Providence has granted to us a safe return from an
ocean voyage. Let him praise the Lord who goeth
down to the sea in ships, for there we learn the
awful majesty and power of the Supreme. " He lay-
eth the beams of his chambers in the waters ; he
maketh the clouds his chariot ; he walketh upon the
wings of the wind."

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CHAPTER XVIII.

I took a hack, and soon found myself at the home
of my brother, where I remained a few days. I then
left New York for my father's residence in New
Brunswick.

My health continued broken, which gave my parents
and friends much anxiety — too much broken to per-
mit of a return to my family — to former scenes. I
remained with my parents, who did all they could to
console me for the loss of health and happiness. I
grew attenuated and lost strength daily. I remained
in New Jersey during that summer and the autumn
without any apparent change. Before winter set in,
it was thought advisable that I should go to Cuba.
My home was no longer home to me. That home
for which I had toiled with the might of my energy,
had gone like a sweet vain dream, which it is
useless to remember; yet, 0, yet there are some
offenses which it is an unworthy weakness to forget.
Hush, my heart, and let thy sorrows lie hid in the
charnel house of happiness, amid the secrets of life's
sufferings.

Again alone, save with my darling Genevieve, my
solitary companion, and sharer and soother of my sor-
rows, I set off for Cuba. It was the last of October

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169

when we landed at Havana. We were taken to de-
lightful and comfortable lodgings kept by Mr. Pulton.
Perhaps there is no part of the world that, on first
entering, produces the same magic effect upon an
invalid, as the climate of Cuba. Beside, the novelty is
greater than even that of Europe, to a stranger.

My dear Genevieve left nothing undone her heart
could suggest to make me comfortable and happy.

Far away from the scenes of wretchedness I had
suffered, I felt better. It is better to forget one's mis-
fortunes than to talk of them — to escape is a woman's
only refuge. The climate, the scenery, and the fruit
of Cuba were delightful to me. The Pas£o is like an
Eden to the invalid as you glide along in the
noiseless volante, passing the long rows of beautiful
palms, with flowers springing up on all sides, and
vehicles filled with fairy-like looking women in their
gossamer attire, radiant with many colors. The grace
and ease with which they move along adds to the
enchantment of the scene. The women of Cuba are
amiable and kind. They have sweet smiles and soft
words, and no doubt many of them are by nature
gifted ; but the usages and customs of their country
have hitherto rendered them almost strangers to cul-
tivation, especially as regards social life and the
sacred family ties. In these there is an unnatural
separation and want of confidence, which have exposed
to the world the barbarous and immoral state in which
they have lived — bound by none of those sweet affec-
tions which grow up unconsciously, swayed by no
early sacred remembrances which bind the brother

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and the sister together far more than the fancied force
of blood. But these things are gradually changing,
and Cuba now is not what it was at that time. The
Cubans themselves, — those of them who travel, and
who are educated abroad, — when they mix with other
nations, perceive this at once, and I have often heard
them express their regret at the mistake they have
made in their ideas of right and wrong.

No ladies are seen walking the streets of Cuba ; the in-
tense heat would prevent, if nothing else. Opposite our
hotel there lived a family whose daughter had become
insane in consequence of being debarred the sight of
her lover, who from his appearance seemed an es-
timable young man. He was in the habit of visiting
our hotel, and remaining there for hours, to obtain
through the half-closed shutters a sight of his unfor-
tunate lady love. He sought every opportunity he
could to escape with her, which, with the constant sur-
veillance in that country, and iron bars and bolts, was
impossible. I had often seen him weep, while listening
to her cries, and her incoherent singing and playing
on the piano. It was really touching to witness these
scenes of despair on one side, and the mind's distrac-
tion on the other. The parents of this young girl
were relentless, and would not allow their marriage.
The young man kept a very beautiful volante, and a
fine horse, which he politely offered to myself and
Genevieve whenever we felt disposed to take a drive.
It generally stood ready in the court-yard of the hotel.
One day, as we were anxious to see the city, we took
the volante, and after a drive on the Pas6o, we re-

JANE FAIRFIELD.

171

turned within the walls, and began our visit of explo-
ration. It was about six o'clock. Our desire was
mostly to see the churches and nunneries. Neither
myself nor child understood one word of Spanish.
But Mr. Pulton, on our starting from the hotel, gave
me the words a casa, which, interpreted, mean " go
home." He also informed the calesinero, that when
we wished to return, we would repeat that word. He
added, one stamp of the foot signified to the right ;
two to the left ; three to turn a corner. We had been
out some time, and were delighted with the novelty and
the lighted city. We drove around and around, pass-
ing the captain general's palace, and the same scenes
several times. It grew quite late, but I had forgotten
the words a casa, and I attempted to call the negro's
attention by stamping my feet, and telling him to go
home ; at which he spurred the poor animal, and turn-
ing corner after corner, to the right and to the left,
for at least two hours, until my head grew dizzy, and
Genevieve became alarmed and wept, and wrung her
hands in despair, when suddenly she recollected the
name of the street and of our hotel, which she shouted
out to the poor negro, promising him a chastisement
on our arrival. We ceased stamping, or I believe we
should not have got home that night, and the calesi-
nero made haste to our quarters. I will venture to
say the race of "John Gilpin" was nothing to this.

It was ten o'clock when we arrived. Our evening's
adventure was a subject of amusement to the people
in the hotel for at least a week.

Every way one turns in Cuba one meets with vie-

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tims of disease and death ; but really death loses
much of its gloom in sunny climes, such as Cuba. I
saw a number of poor consumptives fall, one after the
other, like autumn leaves — just at the moment, too,
when they were most sanguine of recovery. It is a
misfortune that these poor people resort to that coun-
try too late. In this case the climate enervates them,
and they die almost as soon as they reach its shores.

We remained on the island, visiting different parts
of it, until February, when I took it in my head I
should like to see Jamaica.

We took a steamer to Trinidad, where we staid
for a week. I brought letters here to Count Brunet
and Dr. Cantero. Both were gentlemen of great
wealth and position in Cuba. We happened to reach
Trinidad just in time to attend the balls that were
given during the fete days of Queen Isabella. The
splendid theater, which at that time was the property
of Count Brunet, was thrown open and illuminated.
In this place the grand balls were given. The pit
and stage, being thrown into one, formed a magnifi-
cent ball room. Around the tiers of boxes was hung
scarlet cloth festooned with flowers, the floor covered
with scarlet ; and the many thousand lights that
gleamed upon the beautiful faces and diamonds made
a gay and brilliant scene. One week passed pleas-
antly enough. Had my health been established, and
my heart free from sadness, I might have enjoyed
these bright scenes.

From Trinidad we again took a steamer to St. Jago
de Cuba. On our arrival we were taken to dismal

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173

lodgings, though they were the best to be found. St.
Jago is so far distant that few strangers visit it, and it
is seldom one hears the English language spoken there.
We, however, had the good fortune to meet with a
Mr. Armstrong, an Englishman, whom we had met
at Mr. Fulton's, in Havana. He was a merchant
living at Kingston. He had been waiting a week for
a conveyance thither. There were no regular lines
of travel on that route to Jamaica. We waited as
patiently as possible another week, when, hopeless of
a conveyance, we decided to retrace our journey to
Havana, and were actually packing up for that pur-
pose, when Mr. Armstrong came to us with a polite
invitation from the commodore of a Spanish man-of-
war to accept a passage in his ship. This vessel was
the Creolia. The government of Cuba had ordered
her (for the first time) to get ready to convey the
mails to Kingston. We gladly accepted the oppor-
tunity, and immediately set sail.

The heavens were bright and clear, the wind was
fair, and for three days every thing seemed auspicious.
On the third night the commodore lay at anchor, fear-
ful of encountering the reefs at Morant Bay, extending
far out from the shore. These reefs in former years
had t occasioned many wrecks and great loss of life.

About one o'clock that night I was awakened by
the noise of the ship rocking to and fro, striking
violently the rocks on each side. Then I heard the
loud language of the officers to the sailors, which I
could not understand. I arose quickly, and awakened
Genevieve. We hastened to dress ourselves, and went

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174

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on deck. Here was a fearful but a grand scene.
Above us all was serene and calm ; the moon shone
in all its beauty ; there was not a cloud in the sky.
Around and beneath us the sea was dashing against
the ship ; the waves were making over us.

The minute guns — the signal of distress — shook
the little ship to its foundation. They were pulling
at the ropes for the purpose of righting her, but all
in vain. The noise was deafening. Hope was lost ;
all was confusion and despair. We were closed in
by an immense mountain that rose before us, forming
a sort of crescent, in which the ship lay. A lantern
was hoisted mast-high, which the mountain entirely
concealed.

Mr. Armstrong assured us that the morning would
bring us relief, as soon, he said, as the pilots came
out. Alas ! the poor pilots were out during the night,
and heard and saw all ; but negroes are always timid.
They came near enough to hear a strange language,
and in their fright retreated. They could not sup-
pose a wreck on so clear a night, and believed an
enemy had come to besiege them. As soon, in the
morning, as they heard the English language spoken
by Mr. Armstrong, who hallooed to them to come
near, they used their oars with great velocity, and
came to our rescue. Our luggage was placed in the
hold of the ship, which we gave up for lost. Mr.
Armstrong said " he was glad to get off with his life ;
he did not think of his luggage." I might have felt
so too, had I not been going among strangers, with
neither money, nor letters, nor clothing, save what I

JANE FAIRFIELD.

175

had in my trunks. Losing these, I thought, I might
as well remain and share the fate of the ship. Upon
this thought, I offered the negroes a guinea if they
would bring up the trunks. At this offer they rushed
and entered the hold, and in a minute or two they
brought out our trunks, which had been immersed
in water, and threw them over the side of the ship
into their boat. The unfortunate commodore came
to me, looking sad enough at the fate he knew awaited
him. He threw a mattress into the boat to make it
less dangerous for us. The vessel lay very high on
the rocks, and there was no way but to leap into the
boat. This done, we took leave of our unfortunate
party, — the kind commodore and officers, — selfish,
like all the world, and glad to find ourselves rescued,
though we had left them behind us in trouble.

The sun rose in its usual burning heat in the
tropics. We left the ship about five in the morning,
and we reached the landing at nine o'clock. The
wharfinger's family resided near — the only house
within several miles of the landing. This, indeed,
was providential, for we were exhausted with the
scenes of the night, and with the boat sail in the burn-
ing sun that morning. During all these scenes and
dangers not one word of complaint was heard from
my dear Genevieve. She looked like a sweet angel
amidst the wreck, so submissive she seemed to the
will of Heaven.

We remained with the wharfinger's family for sev-
eral days. They were plain, good people, honest,
upright, and sincere. They lived in a simple and

176

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

comfortable way, and they were happy. The climate
I found more conducive to health than even Cuba,
especially in that mountainous part of it. Here Gen-
evieve for the first time attempted riding on horse-
back. In this way we amused ourselves riding over
the beautiful hills, through the rich palm-groves and
the enchanting scenery. We passed a few pleasant
days.

Mr. Armstrong hastened his journey on horseback,
— there being no other conveyance, — through a
rough route to Kingston. In the mean time, I took
a private conveyance to Port Morant, a small town,
distant only a few miles from Morant Bay. In this
place we were to remain until I* should hear from the
governor-general at Kingston, who at that time was
the accomplished Lord Elgin. Mr. Armstrong com-
municated our misfortune to this kind nobleman, who
immediately ordered a coaster manned for our con-
venience. In this little vessel we were comfortably
taken to the long-wished-for city of Kingston. We
soon learned by the newspapers the sequel to this mis-
fortune. The commodore and officers were summoned-
to Havana, to appear before the captain-general, to
await the decision of the law. The commodore was
tried and cashiered, and sent to Spain. The beauti-
ful little craft, the Oreolia, was a total loss — shattered
to pieces on the rocks.

They honored me by taking rooms for my accom-
modation at Date Tree Hall^t the West End — places
for which I care but little ; they belong to the small,
the petty, and the present.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

177

The city of Kingston compared badly with the lux-
uriant, picturesque scenery I had left. Since the
emancipation of the negroes it has declined — gone
among the things that were. The negro race, collec-
tively or individually, when manumitted, are like
swine who " return to their wallowing in the mire."
Ladies or gentlemen can no longer dwell in comfort in
Jamaica. There are among them at this time but
few pure white people; the African stamp prevails.
The place abounds with poverty, indolence, and filth.
For the sacrifice of this once beautiful garden spot of
the world, we are indebted to fanaticism and a WiU
berforce. Let the abolitionists of our day take but the
history of this once beautiful island, and its decline,
and it ought to satisfy them (even the most ultra
among them) that they are misled and mistaken.

Much as we deplore the system of slavery as it there
existed, — deprived of all rights to humanity, shut out
from every Christian influence and family tie, which
are in general strictly regarded in our own country, —
let the blackened cloud surrounding this once beauti-
ful island reflect its own darkened shadow, and as a
watchful monitor, remind philanthropists of the pres-
ent day, that to be free is something more than to
sever the bonds of servant and master.

Our stay was short. The detention we had suffered
by the wreck brought us into April. The weather
was intensely hot, and the fever had already broken
out among the shipping. I found little here to interest
me, save a few friends, travelers who, like myself, were
in search of health ; beside, the wretchedness of the

178

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

place made me anxious to leave almost as soon as I
came. I never could endure an existence where ex-
clusive authority and power are given to negroes. I
found this to be a little too much for my nerves. The
lady that kept the house where I stopped was a colored
one, and talked of her majesty the queen as if they
were on familiar terms. Her children, she said, were
in England, being educated. Really the airs put on
by these blacks were most impudent. I always
thought myself to be philosophical until now. To have
remained long here, I believe, would have fretted me
to death.

I examined the papers daily to find a vessel sailing
to any part of the United States, but in vain ; when on
a Sunday afternoon, two gentlemen called to pay their
respects to me. One of them was a Mr. Hawthorne,
from New Orleans, the other a Mr. Williams, from
England, compagnons en voyage. They informed me
they were to leave that evening for New Orleans ; that
the vessel lay out, and was to sail at ten o'clock. I
caught at this opportunity with as much eagerness as a
drowning man at a straw. I begged them to hasten
to bring the captain to me, that I might secure my
passage. They did not encourage me, on account of
the wretched absence of every comfort, it being only a
coal vessel, which, as they said, had been sent over
from England to convey coals along the coast. The
ship had come to Jamaica to get freight, but failed of
doing so, and the captain, who was a rough Irishman,
had decided to go to New Orleans, to try his luck
there. So determined was I to go, that the gentlemen

JANE FAIRFIELD.

1T9

started in search of the captain, whom they brought to
me. He frankly told me the situation of his ship,
which he said was so old and inferior, that he felt
ashamed to take a lady passenger on board, but assured
me he would do all he could to make us comfortable.
This was enough. I got ready, and in less than an
hour from my decision, we found ourselves safely
on board, and were off on our voyage at ten that
evening.

We found it comfortless enough, but I determined
to make the best of it. My philosophy returned, which
I found had only been obscured by the presence of the
negroes.

The old, worn-out ship was top-heavy. She had no
ballast, and with every breeze that came, I expected
to see her upset.

Genevieve amused herself by reading some books
that were loaned her by Mr. Williams, and playing
with a little pet lamb that belonged to the cook. We
got on very well. We amused ourselves telling stories
and anecdotes, in all of which I joined with a hearty
goodwill — "the ruling passion strong in death." I
pity the poor mortal that is incapable of rallying under
a racy anecdote or a good joke. I love to laugh, and
amid the worst of life's evils — and few have had
greater — I am glad to find an opportunity of doing so.

Mr. Hawthorne related to me a singular adventure
connected with the fortune of his young friend, which
occurred a short time before he left England. He
was the son of poor but respectable parentage ; he was
educated for the law ; but ill health had interfered to

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

prevent his success. His home was at Windsor. One
day, while walking in the park, his attention was attract-
ed by the appearance of a very old man, bent over
with age, accompanied by his dog. "Walking slowly,
leaning on his staff, which he accidentally let fall, he
seemed too infirm to take it up ; at seeing which, the
young man hastened to replace it. This little inci-
dent led to a conversation, which, with the kind atten-
tive manner of the youth, so pleased the aged man,
that he invited him home to dine. He lived seques-
tered and solitary, without a being near him but an
old servant and his dog. Dinner was waiting. The
fare was frugal and plain.

The youth was pleased with his visit, for he too was
a misanthrope, and they became mutually attracted.
A few days passed and they met again. The old gen-
tleman invited him, as before, to dine with him. He
questioned him about his business and prospects, and
added, that he was lonely and ol$, and had but a short
time to live — that if he would remain with him as
his friend and companion during the remainder of his
life, and would take his name, he would make him
heir to all he had. The young man gladly accepted
the offer, though he could hardly suppose the old gen-
tleman to be wealthy.

In less than a year he died. In his will he be-
queathed to his adopted son a fortune of ten millions
of dollars. Williams was his adopted name.

After an absence of nearly six months' travel and
mishaps, with health unrestored and heart unblest, we
arrived safely in New Orleans.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

181

CHAPTER XIX.

The morning after my arrival, I took up a news-
paper. The first notice on which my eyes rested was
the following : " The widow and daughter of the
late poet Fairfield arrived here last night in the ship
Ambassador, from Jamaica." I sent immediately for
the proprietor of the hotel. He informed me that my
husband had died in New Orleans on the 6th of
March, and that the papers had reported myself and
daughter to have been lost on the wreck of the Creolia.
He informed me also, that my children were at the same
place where their father had died. I hastened with
Genevieve to meet them. On our approach they heard
our voices, and ran into our arms. Their tears, and
grief, and joy were overwhelming. After having be-
lieved us dead, to find us returned and safely restored
to them, was a happiness they had not expected. But
there was an absent one, whom I no more found.
One of my beautiful boys, a child about seven years
old, had gone lo his last peaceful rest. This bereave-
ment, and the circumstances of his sufferings and
death, rent my heart. He was a beautiful, promising
child. But I tried to check my grief for the sake of
those that remained, and to console and heal, as best
I could, their young, afflicted hearts.

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

Thus, at scarcely the middle age of life, ended the
days of the poor poet.

Whatever of thought, of feeling, or of faculties we
may possess, we must look to the tomb as to an altar ;
from whence let us hope they will arise purified and
exalted into the presence of the Creator.

The following pathetic and beautiful poem, by my
husband, was addressed to me a few days before he
died, and was the last breathings of his poetic spirit
before it took its flight.

" Dove of the Deluge ! wearied are thy wings,

Winnowing the void air on thy flight with me j
Yet every sunbow o'er thy beauty flings

The heart's bloom, born of God's infinity.
Lone, faint, o'ercast by huddled worlds of gloom,

Wronged by the heartless, wrecked in reach of bliss,
O'er life's Sahara, on to unknown tomb,

Alone I wander — hopeless but for this —
This beauty of the blossom, breathing heaven

O'er earth's dark, withering woes — o'er tempest Time —
Stumbling on Doubt's wild mountains ! yet 'tis given

Despair to know Love makes its own sweet clime.
O'er crashing wreck and smoldering ruin flies,

Its cherub pinions flashing glory back,
The holy smile of Eden in its eyes,

And angel hosts triumphing in its track.

" 0, but for this — for thee — . divinest child

Of sorrowing, sinning Earth! Time had not now
Hurled howling tempests o'er my spirit wild,

And left its lightnings on my blasted brow.
Supremest Good bequeathed thee to impart,

E'en to dim Earth, the blooming light of Love,
And, though the footsteps falter, still the heart

Seeks thee, its ark, lone wandering, deluge dove I

JANE FAIRFIELD.

183

u Through fleckered clouds the molten moonlight streams,

As o'er my spirit floats thy smile of youth ;
Visions of Arcady and Argolic dreams

Wear, to my yearning gaze, the garb of Truth ;
And all that Nature, through its myriad spheres,

Could frame, in thy sweet bosom hath its home j
Yet o'er the Past swirls a dark sea of tears,

And sighing Sorrow dims the days to come.

" What but blest knowledge of thy sweetest spirit

Hath Time vouchsafed through all its years of woe ?
What its sad eras given me to inherit ?

Bereavement, want, and malady, that grow
By needing nutriment ; 'mid vivid flame

Doomed e'er to dwell, yet destined ne'er to die,
The martyr mind, through lingering years the same,

Still from the burning bush glares on the blackened sky,
And finds no fellowship in any world ;

Or avalanche, or earthquake, maelstrom, ocean,
In the dread wrath of Ruin — each hath hurled

Its maniac vengeance, 'mid the mad commotion
Of anarch Woe — Time's tyrant reigns alone !

With giant strides he treads the voiceless waste ;
Without a smile mounts empire's gory throne ;

Onward looks hopeless — darkly on the Past !

" Bride of my bosom ! though denied on earth,

Blend thy blest spirit with my saddened thought,
And breathe the blessing of love's holiest birth

Around life's pathways ; what deep skill hath wrought,
Refine thou and exalt ; be with me, Love !

In trial, toil, temptation — guide and guard
My erring steps — and O, my prophet dove,

Hail to heaven's shore thine own lamenting bard ! "

My husband had often appealed to me, if I sur-
vived him, to defend his reputation. The follow-

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ing little poem I have treasured, and will now add,
as corresponding with the remarks I have made. It
was written in an hour of deep domestic suffering.

" Wilt thou espouse my memory, love,
When I no more can brand the base,
And true in thy devotion prove,

'Mid scorned despair and shunned disgrace ?

" Speak to my heart while thus it pants,
While thus it yearns o'er future hours,
Ere, dead to all its woes and wants,
It slumbers in oblivion's bowers.

" O, for a name, when I am dead,

To live till life doth cease on earth ;
For deeply hath my bosom bled
Since the quick peril of my birth !

" Turn not away with that wrought brow,
As I had craved a lawless boon,
But let thine eyes of beauty now

Beam like sweet stars at night's still noon !

" And tell me that thy smile shall be
The sun of fame's undying flowers,
And Life's will henceforth be to me
Far happier, brighter, better hours."

In a few days, after having provided all things for
the comfort of my children, I left New Orleans with
them for New York. Arrived there in safety, it was
not long before I found and leased a small, comfortable
house for the space of four years, into which, with
grateful hearts, we at once betook ourselves.

My dear Genevieve, who was the oldest, and was but a

JANE FAIRFIELD.

185

child in years, felt the bitter cares of life coming upon
her thus early. She had acquired the experience
within a few weeks.

Brought up only to the exercise of graceful accom-
plishments — accustomed to attendance and indul-
gence — occupied with her books and studies— she
had suddenly found the necessity of care and exertion.
The two sisters, however, found much happiness in as-
sisting each other in their studies and daily avoca-
tions.

My whole heart became absorbed in the future of
my children — their education and happiness. Alone
with them, I began to feel more repose and content-
ment, with all my care upon me, than I had felt be-
fore, during the sixteen years of my married life.

The year following the poet's demise, I wrote
a short biography of his life ; the sale of which, with
what I had, was sufficient to sustain my family, and
continue to my daughters the opportunities they had
of education. They were never sent to school.

No mother was ever blessed with two more lovely or
gifted daughters. But for these, Heaven only knows
the desolation I must have felt. My great hope was
their happiness. Here, in my little box, I lived isolated,
as I wished, and would have felt happy ; but the trials
and sufferings I had endured had so destroyed my
health, that I no longer delighted in employment for
the mere pleasure of it. Where can one be found
whose heart and energies would not have faltered
sometimes under such misfortunes ? How vain seemed
much that I had passionately desired! And yet I

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186

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

could not help looking forward with an enduring be-
lief that my ardent nature and energies had not
poured themselves forth wholly in vain.

But the melancholy records of life belong to many
of us. There is also a charm in suffering when it
idealizes our natures; this it is which gives the in-
terest to the poet's page, and sorrow is made mu-
sical.

Four years had passed away. Genevieve had grown
a woman. The time of my lease had expired, and I
concluded to remove further south, for two reasons :
first, my health ; then, I had observed a nervousness
at times in my eldest daughter's manner, which I at-
tributed to too much mental labor. She was ever at
work, with no desire for recreation. She was now in
her sixteenth year. She had read hundreds of volumes.
There was nothing in history or literature with which
she was not familiar. To remove to Washington, to
introduce her into gay scenes, I believed would create
a healthful change — would draw her mind from the
monotony of study in which she had so long indulged.

On the eve of my leaving with my family for Wash-
ington, the news reached me of the death of my father.
I hastened to New Brunswick, to perform the last
solemn duty to my parent, and to look for the last
time upon his face, now pale and set in the rigidity of
death — the eyes were closed forever that had so often
wept over the sorrows of an unfortunate child.

" It is the past that maketh my despair — ■
The dark, the sad, the irrevocable past ! "

JANE FAIRFIELD.

187

Shortly after the death of my father the old home-
stead was sold. My mother found a home with my
youngest brother, whose opulence afforded her every
comfort. My poor afflicted sister, Caroline, whose
mind had long since gone into fatuity, was removed to
the new asylum at Trenton, which had been built by
the instrumentality of that genuine, noble, and phil-
anthropic woman, Miss Dix. The family gone, the
home of my parents was closed forever.

I returned to New York, and was sadly impressed
with the wise man's words, "Man dieth and goeth to
his long home, and the mourners go about the streets."

What strange, inconsistent beings we become, even
after we know the world ! Society was a thing I
loathed. Its baseness I despised ; yet, like most moth-
ers, I wished to introduce into it my two daughters.
I was convinced that nothing in it is really what it ap-
pears to be — that it begets mean envyings and jeal-
ousies. In it we never know what we may trust,
and are often misled by that which only seems from
that which really is.

After we became settled in Washington, I began to
make preparations for the gay scenes of the coming
winter. It was during Mr. Polk's administration.
The season opened gayly — more so than usual. In
Washington one is always sure to meet acquaintances,
if one has any. Our house we kept open for our
friends, which rapidly increased in number. My
daughters were both musical, as well as conversa-
tionists. These are gifts which always attract. Ger-
trude differed from her sister. She was more hopeful.

188

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

She united with her genius an acute knowledge of
character, and withal was very philosophical. Her
manner was fascinating, kind, and gentle. Her benev-
olence was too great to admit of wounding, by sar-
casm, the feelings of another. We had not been long
in Washington before Genevieve's reputation for
beauty, wit, and fashion was firmly established. Even
her caprices were pronounced charming. But with all
these, there was a perpetual fever of her mind, which
broke out sometimes in sarcasm, and often it was
painful to witness her really misanthropic nature. I
have often seen her return from a ball, or a levee,
where she had been the bright particular star, so sad,
that she would declare to me it should be the last
night she would ever pass so vainly and foolishly.
All these things added to my secret sorrow, for I early
saw that hers was not a mind fitted for the cold and
glittering life of society. On a New Year's night
there was a large assemblage met at a grand ball at
Carusi's saloon, where she with her sister had gone.
On her return I had retired for the night. She hur-
ried into my chamber^ and in a state of nervous ex-
citement, she said, " Mamma, during the dance
to-night, I could not help the strange feeling that
came over me, from which, with all my efforts, I could
not rid myself — that I was a corpse dancing with
corpses." More than once she spoke of these feelings,
which came often upon her, even while surrounded
with gayety and festivity. Though unnoticed by others,
these were sealed-up sorrows that lay heavily at my
heart. I saw and felt the dark future that awaited

JANE FAIRFIELD.

189

her. She was very fond of art, and had made some
progress in painting before we left New York. She often
found amusement in visiting the studio of Mr. Charles
King, who had known her from a child. He discov-
ered in her mind great genius for the art, and was
often surprised at her judgment and criticisms. She
anxiously desired me to allow her to continue her les-
sons in painting, to which I acceded. I thought it
would be better than so much study, reading, and
writing. She continued assiduously for a year with
Mr. King, daily working from eight in the morning
until sunset. During that year she copied several
paintings, large and small, from the gallery, — two
very elaborate ones, — copies from the great Claude.
These she disposed of for the sums of fifty and
eighty dollars. In every thing she did she aimed to
excel.

During the year she remained with the artist, she
formed in her mind a plot for a novel. The following
year she excluded herself entirely from all her friends,
to write her book. Day and night she toiled ; nothing
of amusement could for a moment draw her mind from
this object. She often assured me that she was wedded
to authorship. " I shall never marry," she would say,
"but live with you, mamma, and become famous,
which is enough of happiness for me." Her desire
was for a name — to be known as great, and not as
fashionable. She longed for wealth, not for the pur-
pose of display, or outrivaling others in grandeur,
but as she often said, " to build houses of refuge for
poor, unfortunate children, to educate them, and ele-

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

vate their neglected minds, and to make them com-
fortable."

In little less than a year she completed her novel,
entitled " Genevra, or the History of a Portrait."
The difficulty with authors is to get their first work
accepted. Her patience had become nearly exhausted
with the effort when it was accepted by T. B. Peter-
son, Esq., of Philadelphia. She gave to the novel her
own name. She had both the following, Genevieve
Genevra. She preferred Genevra, on account of its
easy pronunciation.

" Genevra" had not been out long before letters
of eulogy came to her from high sources. She con-
tinued to write and paint alternately. Her next pro-
ductions were several stories of length. Her last were
"The Vice-President's Daughter," and "The Wife
of Two Husbands." After the completion of these
works she wrote a letter to Eugene Sue, and sent him
a copy of " Genevra." She admired his genius, and
to him she dedicated her last works.

The following letter is his reply : —

Mademoiselle :

Je serais tres heureux et tres flatte d'accepter la dedicace du
livre que vous me faites l'honneur de me proposer ; ce sera, croyez
le bien, une des plus precieuses recompenses de mes travaux qui
ont eu le bonheur de meriter votre interet et celui de vos honora-
bles compatriotes des Etats-Unis.

Veuillez agreer, mademoiselle, l'assurance de
Mon respectueux devouement,

Eugene Sue.

Paris, 27 Juillet, 1851.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

191

The annexed letters are from our friends.

Boston, December 12, 1855.

I owe you many apologies, my dear Miss Fairfield, for having
so long delayed to thank you for the pretty volume, entitled
" Genevra," which you were so kind as to send me last week. But
to thank the writer for a book before one has read it is no great
compliment, and I have waited, therefore, until I could tell you
how much I was pleased with it.

I have listened to it with great pleasure. The style is elegant
and unaffected ; and the story, which increases in interest as we
advance, has many striking scenes in it to arrest the attention.
Altogether, it is a remarkable production for the first effort of a
young authoress. And though one may criticise some details in
the structure of the plot and in the delineations of character, yet
these blemishes will be cured by greater familiarity with the art of
composition, while the original power shown in the book will be
more fully developed by practice.

With my best wishes that you may have all the success to which
your genius and industry entitle you,

I remain, my dear Miss Fairfield,

Very truly yours,

William H. Prescott.

Nahant, July 18.

Dear Mrs. Fairfield :

Absence from Cambridge prevented me from receiving your note
and your daughter's novel till last evening, which will account for
my not thanking you sooner.

I well remember your beautiful daughter, though she was but a
child when I saw her last. It seems to me almost impossible that
she should be already eighteen, and an authoress.

I have not yet had time to cut the leaves of " Genevra," but have
peeped between them, and see that it is written with great spirit
and very easy flow of style. May success attend it, and happiness

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its author. I beg you to thank her for me, and to say that I shall
read her book with great interest, and hail her success with much
sympathy.

Yours, very truly,

Henry W. Longfellow.
U. S. Hotel, "Washington, July 2.

My dear Miss Fairfield :

When I was informed you were the author of " Genevra," I felt
deeply interested ; and though I read but few novels, and hardly
any of the novels of the day, I resolved to read it, and say a word
in its favor for the sake of the writer.

After reading it, I published in last Monday's "Intelligencer,"
which I send you, a brief notice, not a review or critique, of its
merits. I shall feel much gratified should this trifling perform-
ance contribute in the least to your interest.

Though I have not the honor to be acquainted with you, which
I feel a misfortune, I know you are too sensible to deem me obtru-
sive. You will neither misunderstand my feelings nor misinterpret
my motives. I have frequently seen you in Washington, and once
had the pleasure of speaking with you at your door. I admired
you. There is something so uncommon, so distingue, in your ex-
quisitely formed features and figure, and in your tout ensemble,
that I was anxious to know and anxious to be acquainted with you.
To my regret I heard you had left the city.

And now will you permit me to speak freely of your work — to
give you a word of* advice ? I shall do so, however, under some
apprehension that I may merit the fate of Gil Bias, who criticised
the Archbishop's sermon ; only there will be this difference against
me — that his advice was solicited, while mine is gratuitous. You
have more poetry than invention ; more philosophy than expe-
rience. Your style is superior to the plot. But, with such a
poetic nature and philosophic mind, and such a pure, natural, and
concise style, what can not you do with experience and application ?
Write, write, write, — let this be your motto. The subject of the
age — the mighty problem to solve — is the social composition of
society j and this subject absorbs all the literature of the day, not

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only in politics and theology, but in novels. The most successful
works are those — as " Alton Locke," or the works of George Sand
(Madame Dudevant), of Sue, and others — which are imbued with
the spirit of the times. It is not the age of counts and countesses ;
it is essentially the age of the people. Subjects within the reach
of every one, — at our very doors, — matters of every-day life,
which all feel, — should* occupy your pen. That which is the
most familiar, faithfully and graphically described, forms the most
striking and engaging picture.

Pardon me, and permit me to say how happy I shall be to hear
of your success, and assuredly

I am, my dear Miss Fairfield,

Yours always,

W. B. Phillips.

U. S. Hotel, Washington, July 26.

My dear Miss Fairfield :

I have just received your letter of the 11th, acknowledging the
receipt of mine and the newspaper. The amiable manner in which
you are pleased to express your gratification at what you kindly
call my " compliment," and the gratifying expression, mutually with
myself, of regret at not having had an opportunity of becoming
better acquainted, and the hope that such an opportunity may here-
after present itself, are so flattering, afford me so much pleasure,
that I cannot resist the temptation of expressing my feelings.

You have, my dear lady, the full flow of my sympathy. So
young, so lovely ; with a mind to perceive and appreciate the
beautiful in art and nature ; with an ardent disposition to acquire
knowledge, and a thirst for literary honor ; and with the application
and perseverance necessary to secure success, — who would not
admire and sympathize with you ? Would to God I were rich !
With what pride and pleasure I would foster your young genius !
Be not, however, discouraged ; difficulties may develop your facul-
ties. The noblest tree of the forest attains its highest excellence in
a severe climate. I wish I was near you, to give you the benefit
of my experience. 1 have sounded the depths of misfortune and
misery, I have soared the hights of luxury and refinements, —

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from the association with savages and cannibals in the far islands
of Southern Polynesia, to the gay life of the most elegant Parisian
society, — more romantic than romance, and more varied and as-
tonishing than fiction. I could mark the shoals and the hidden
rocks on the chart by which you should navigate on your literary
voyage.

There is one thing I would point out to you. Be rather afraid,
at first, of writing too much than too little. Go through your pro-
ductions with the severest and most critical examinations. Read
none but the best authors ; hold communion with none but the
greatest minds. Read the reviews and best magazines from the
old world, (our periodical literature is very poor,) and so perfect
yourself in a good style, elevate your mind to great thoughts and
arguments, and you will soon perceive that, with wings, it is as
easy to fly in the air as to walk or crawl on the earth. How much
more I could say to you !

Do not think I would assume to be your Mentor. They are
but the observations of a friend, who is

My dear Miss Fairfield :

I had the pleasure to receive your note of the 10th. The very
gentle reproof you have administered for my presumption in dic-
tating to you, who are so superior, is at once a cause of pain and
gratification. To say any thing which might induce the inference
that I thought you were not well read or sufficiently intellectual to
appreciate the best authors, was furthest from my thoughts. On
the contrary, I know, from your work, that you are both well read
and highly intellectual. It has given me pain to know that I have
written in a manner to be misunderstood ; but I am gratified at the
opportunity it gives me of corresponding with you. The pleasure
of confessing and being reconciled to one in whom we feel inter-
ested is almost worth producing the cause. Our differences, when
not real, but which arise from some misconception, make the ex-
planation quite agreeable. This is my case.

Certainly I never meant to recommend you to imitate any

Yours always,

W. B. Phillips.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

195

writers, French, English, or any other, either in their style or
subjects ; for originality is the first characteristic of a great author.
But I wished to draw your attention to the fact, that as every age
has its literature, — a literature which is the faithful exponent of
its ideas and habits, — so whoever has the faculty to perceive and
express this must succeed. To illustrate this I instanced George
Sand and others. I did not express my approval or disapproval of
the moral quality and tendency of their works, but I said they were
the mirror of the age. If George Sand be sensual and have social-
ist tendencies, does she not represent Paris, or even France ? And
if we deem her extravagant and unnatural, it is because the habits
and dispositions of foreign society are so different from ours — are
not familiar to us. The same observation will apply more or less
to the writers of other countries. I hope to have, some day, the
extreme pleasure of discussing the relative merits of the authors
you speak of, and of your preferences of the English school, which,
with some exceptions, I approve. But at present, in the limits of
this letter, I must confine myself to my first position, and I will
take George Sand again as an illustration, not only because you
have spoken more freely of her than of others, but because she is
a writer of the first order. Chateaubriand (I translate from his
Memoirs) says, " She is a woman of omnipotent intellect ; her
descriptions have the truth of those of Rousseau and of Bernardin de
St. Pierre, and her works are born of the age." Beyond all ques-
tion, her language is the most elegant, her composition the best of
any of the present French writers. Though we may be disgusted
with her unfeminine manners, we must admire her masculine mind.
Her success is great, for she unveils the present. There are few
who can revivify the past ; besides, the spirit of the age is direct-
ness. Facts, living facts, such as come home to the hearts and
experience of all, are the subjects for popularity. You want no
better evidence than that which Dickens's career presents.

This was the purport of my observations in my last letter, and it
is my advice in this ; for you have an analytical and philosophic
mind, with great powers of description, to study every-day life and
make your pictures as familiar as those of Hogarth, for they always
please.

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Be assured, my dear lady, that whatever I have said, or may say,
from which by any possibility an inference might be made contrary
to the high regard I have for your character and talents, is a fault
in the language, and not my real sentiments.

I shall be very happy to hear from you as often as you will do
me the honor to write ; and if it be in my power to serve you, I
beg you will command me ; and I am, my dear lady,

U. S. Hotel, "Washington, August 22.

Mrs. Carvallo presents her compliments to Miss Fairfield.
She feels grateful and honored by her intention of dedicating a
novel to her. She congratulates Miss* Fairfield on the variety and
brilliancy of her talents, which she hopes will be properly appre-
ciated and encouraged, and anticipates the pleasure of one day
seeing her name enrolled among those of the most distinguished
authors and artists of her country.

"Washington, Saturday, January 2.

My dear Madam:

I beg to acknowledge your note of January 4, and to offer you
my thanks for the accompanying volumes. The mother of two
daughters, and both of them so gifted ! You are indeed blessed.
I could not have believed that " Genevra " was the production of a
girl of eighteen, without your assurance. It gives evidence of very
decided talents. I am equally surprised that "Irene/' by your
second daughter, was produced at eighteen ; ncr is its promise less
rich than that manifested in " Genevra."

You ask my opinion concerning the amount of dramatic interest
which " Genevra " possesses. I hardly know how to give one, for
the manner in which a story is thrown into dramatic form has often
more to do with its stage success than the incidents themselves.
The plot of " Genevra " is certainly sufficient for a drama ; but
how it should be dealt with — there is the question, and there the

Yours always,

W. B. Phillips.

Kavenswood, N. Y., January 16.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

197

difficulty. For the numberless failures made by persons-of great
talent who succeeded in all other kinds of writing, when they
attempted to write for the stage, proves that a peculiar turn of
mind is required for the dramatist.

Wishing you continued prosperity, and much happiness through
your gifted children,

I am, dear madam,

Yours sincerely,

Anna Cora Mowatt.

Mrs. Jane Fairfield.

New York, May 8.

My dear Mrs. Fairfield :

Please accept my best thanks for your kind courtesy in sending
me a copy of your daughter's imperishable memorial of genius and
talent. We have all derived the highest pleasure from its perusal,
and shall ever cherish it as an invaluable keepsake.

Very sincerely, your friend,

S. S. Randall.

Mobile, August 5,
I have delayed answering, my dear Miss Fairfield, your note,
more from a press of business than any thing else. I had com-
menced several times my letter to you, and as often was forced to
leave it unfinished. I got the picture a week after you advised me
of having sent it. Mrs. Levert was greatly pleased with it, as well
as several lady friends who know you through your reputation as a
writer. One young gentleman, a kinsman of my sister's husband,
declared it " the most dreamy, intellectual, heavenly face " he had
almost ever seen.

I heard, a few days since, from your mother, dated Girard
House, Philadelphia. In two months she thinks she will be
south again. Her letter was a very charming and spirituelle one,
and repaid amply many times being re-read. What think you of
Thackeray's "Esmond"? I have read a fourth of it, and find it
very quaint and purely written as to style. His occasional philo-
sophical touchings are very fine and very true.

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If you will permit me, I will keep the picture until I see your
mother, as there are several friends to whom I would like to show
it ; but, should you desire it, will return it immediately when know-
ing your wishes. Have you ever been in Cuba ? A lady told me
she was almost certain of having seen the original of the picture
there. Eugene Sue begged Colonel Starr to thank you very much
for your book, and to express to you his admiration. Colonel
Starr requested Mme. Levert to say this to you.

In haste,

Very truly yours,

A. Waugh.

To Miss Fairfield, New Orleans.

Boston, June 8, 1855.

To Mrs. S. L. Fairfield:

I need not assure you, my dear friend, that your letter dated the
Prescott House, June 4, gave me much pleasure. I was glad to
hear from you once more, though grieved to find you still unhappy,
longing for that which is not to be found on earth — perfect sat-
• isfaction.

Two classes of persons are sure to find themselves in sharp
antagonism with the world — the obstinate and self-willed, the
shrinking and delicate. The one is like the porcupine, bristling
all over with sharp-pointed quills ; the other is like the sensitive
plant, which shrinks when touched. I need not say to which class
you belong; yet, with all your sensitiveness, what energy, what
perseverance has your mother heart enabled you to make! God
grant that these may ultimately be repaid, and your declining
years made bright and cheerful, relieved from care and anxiety
by the assiduity of your children.

Truly,

S. K. Lothrop.
Guilford, Ct., February 1, 1856.

My dear Miss Fairfield :

I have received a package addressed to me, containing a beau-
tifully draperied volume, as becomes one of your writings, and I
have flattered myself into the belief that it is indirectly a pres-

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JANE FAIRFIELD.

199

ent from you. I hope that when you do me the honor to ac-
knowledge the receipt of this, you will not disappoint me by any
explanation. Pray do me the kindness to present my best com-
pliments to your good mother and your family, and believe me, my
dear Miss Fairfield,

Most respectfully yours,

Fitz-Greene Halleck.

Cambridge, September 8.

Dear Mrs. Fairfield :

Absence from town has prevented me from replying sooner to
your friendly note. We have just returned from Nahant, where
we have been passing the summer.

As soon as I can, — probably on Saturday, — I shall do myself
the pleasure of calling on you and your daughter, whose acquaint-
ance I shall be very happy to make. Be so kind as to present her
my regards, and believe me

Yours truly,

Henry W. Longfellow.

Tkenton, August 18, 1844.

Dear Madam:

I acknowledge the receipt of " The Life of Fairfield," your beau-
tiful little volume. It is beautifully written, and a perfect gem of
biography.

Yours truly,

Stacy G. Potts.

Mrs. Fairfield.

The following letter refers to an unfortunate event
alluded to in the next chapter : —

Boston, Court Street, )
Friday Morning, January 24. >

I am grieved, my dear Mrs. Fairfield, to hear of your severe loss
by the fire in New Orleans. How misfortunes accumulate upon
you ! What a life of trial ! God give you strength to bear your

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heavy burden ! Perhaps you may hear that some of your property
was saved. I trust it may prove so.

"With sincere sympathy in this new trouble,

I am truly yours,

S. K. Lothrop.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

201

CHAPTEE XX.

Eyen thus early, Genevieve, after having acquired
what she had fondly desired, celebrity and appreciation,
no longer cared for them. Her frank heart would
never permit her to dissemble, or even to smile
on those she disliked. She was a reader of faces and
character, and would never seek to say the agreeable
instead of the true. She was gentle, but she was cold.

Her soul was filled with the love of art and litera-
ture. In music, she would often say, she found a
record of all the lively and sad emotions of her heart.
Her voice had a tender melancholy, unearthly and
beautiful. She sang portions from all the operas.
Her touch on the piano had something so mystic, and
so sad, it seemed to vibrate the melody and melan-
choly of her own sweet spiritual nature. Her ad-
mirers were among all classes. Mrs. Polk, who was
then our charming Presidentess, and Madame Carvallo,
the wife of the Chilian Minister, were among the ladies
in Washington who were her warm admirers. Among
the gentlemen were the Hon. Sam Houston, the pres-
ent Judge James Thompson of Philadelphia, and the
Hon. Alfred Iverson and Alexander Bullett, the Hon.
Henry Clay, and the Hon. Thomas Corwin. To those
of her friends who suxwive, her misfortune will come

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in sadness, like the tones of her own sweet voice,
and the notes of her music, they have so often
heard.

One evening while promenading with her at a ball,
she was attracted and amused at the sight of two
elderly ladies, to whose dress, airs, and graces she
directed my attention. "These ladies," said she,
" somewhere in the vicinity of seventy, of whatever
else they may doubt, seem convinced of their own
irresistibility, and fondly fancy themselves the crown-
ing glory of the evening." At this satire, the gen-
tlemen accompanying us were highly amused, and
could not restrain their laughter. For myself, though
the ridicule was just, I feared she might have been
overheard, and her expressions repeated. Sad enough
that age should, by its frivolity, beget disgust in youth,
instead of, by its gravity, calling forth veneration and
honor. Age is not graceful, but it is grave, or ought to
be so. It is foolish in a woman to wish to seem young
when the blood is sluggish, and can no more rush to
the heart; when feeling is gone, and all is gone but
the breath, to simper, put on airs, and lisp love ; to
dress low, with bare scrawny neck and arms : a ja-
ponica fastened in front of the low bodice, resting on a
withered bosom, to my mind greatly resembles a sheep
in lamb's attire. Juvenal, in his famous satire relating
to the laws and customs of the Greeks -and Romans,
has the following, which may be as appropriately ap-
plied in these times as then : —

" There are some faults in a wife of no great
account, but yet insupportable to a husband ; for

JANE FAIRFIELD.

203

what is more fulscpie than for a woman to think that
no one can pretend to beauty unless she has renounced
her native language, and from a Tuscan prattles
Greek ! — from a plain Fulmonite becomes a mere
Athenian ! — every thing must be lisped out in Greek :
whereas it is a trifling sort of ignorance with such to
know nothing of their mother tongue. In this dialect
they expressed their fears, their anger, their joys, their
cares, and all the secrets of their very souls. What
would you have more ? You may pardon these fool-
eries in girls ; but for you, whose pulse beats eighty-
six, to be still mumbling of Greek ! This way of
speaking is impudent in an old woman. When she is
languishing with these words in her mouth, 4 My life,
my soul,' they must be delivered in Greek. Though
you lisp your fond words with a softer air than
iEmus or Oarpophorus, the famous players, you make
no impression — still your age is written in your fore-

My beloved daughter Gertrude, who was three years
the junior of her sister, applied herself with great as-
siduity to her studies. She had beauty, ambition, and
genius. During the last year of our stay in Wash-
ington, she produced her first novel, entitled " Irene."
This work I concluded to publish myself in connection
with Genevieve's two last, " The Vice President's
Daughter," and "The Wife of Two Husbands." It
became actually imperative to take some step for the
mental health of my child. I gladly availed myself of
the labor to get out the work, since it afforded me the
only means I had of travel. She loved the south.

head."

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The climate and the people suited her, and my heart
yearned to make any sacrifice for her happiness. A
dark shadow was thrown over her future. The heav-
iest deprivation to which humanity is liable had come
upon her.

My eldest son I placed in a law office in New York.
Gertrude accompanied her brother, and remained with
a friend I had in that city, where, during my absence,
she continued her studies in music and Spanish.

From this time I set off to journey. I dreaded the
breaking up and separation of my family. My health
continued wretched. Heaven only knows how I was
sustained. All I had heretofore suffered, I counted as
nothing to the trials I felt sure awaited me.

As the malady of my daughter increased, she suf-
fered from dangerous attacks of congestion on the
brain. During the intervals of relief, she would de-
scribe minutely to me all the phases of the disease.
But I can not dwell on this subject ; it is too painful.
During my travels I often became exhausted with the
efforts I made to conceal the state of her mind from
others. At intervals she would appear so well that I
could not be persuaded that she would again relapse.
For years I was kept alternately hoping and despairing.
She was compelled to relinquish • all her pursuits, and
resign herself to her unhappy lot. Words fail to ex-
press either her sufferings or my grief. Poets are
prophets. Her father wrote the following poem when
she was an infant one year old.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

205

TO MY DAUGHTER GENEVIEVE.

" Star of my being's early night !

Tender but most triumphant flower !
Frail form of dust and heavenly light !

Rainbow of storms that round me lower !
Of tested love the pledge renewed,

The milder luminary given
To guide me through earth's solitude,

To Love's own home of bliss in heaven.

" Heiress of Fate ! thy soft blue eye

Throws o'er the earth its brightness now,
As sunlight gushes from the sky

In glory o'er the far hill's brow ;
And light from thine ethereal home

On every sinless moment lingers,
As hope, o'er happier days to come,

Thrills the heart's harp with viewless fingers.

" For, from the fount of Godhead, thou,

A ray 'midst myriads wandering down,
Still wear'st upon that stainless brow

The seraph's pure and glorious crown j
Still, from thy Maker's bosom taken

To bear thy trial time below,
Like sunlight flowers, by winds unshaken,

The dews of heaven around thee glow.

" Hours o'er thy placid spirit pass

Like forest streams l^hat glide and sing,
As through the fresh and fragrant grass

Breathes the immortal soul of spring ;
And through the realms of thy blest dreams,

Thy high mysterious thoughts of time,
Heaven's watchers roam by Eden streams,

And hail thee, Love ! in hymns sublime.

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" But these bright days will vanish, Love !

And thou wilt learn to weep o'er truth,
And with a saddened spirit prove

That bliss abides alone with youth.
Cares may corrode that lovely cheek

And fears convulse that gentle heart,
And agonies thou dar'st not speak

Deepen as childhood's hours depart.

" And thou, fair child ! as years descend

In darkness on thy desert track,
Mayst tread thy path without a friend,

Gaze on through tears, through shadows back,
And sigh unheard by all who stood

Around thee on a happier day,
And struggle with the torrent flood,

That sweeps thy last pale hope away.

" O'er the soft light of that blue eye

Clouds of wild gloom may quickly gather,
As, ere the sunburst of his sky,

The tempest fell around thy father ;
And 'mid the cold world's wealth and pride,

The chill of crowds, life's restless stir,
Thou mayst unknown with grief abide,

Lone as the sea of Anadir.

" And thou wilt grow in beauty, Love !

While I am moldering in the gloom,
And like the summer rill and grove,

Sigh a brief sorrow o'er my tomb ;
And thou wilt tread the same wild path

Of mirth and madness all have trod
Since time gave birth to sin and wrath —

Till from the dust thou soar to God !

" Doubt may assail thy soul, and woes
Gather into a burning chain,

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207

And round thy darkened spirit close,
'Mid loneliness, disease, and pain,

"When I no more can watch and guard
Thy daily steps, thy nightly rest,

Nor, with the strength of sorrow, ward
Earth's evil from thy spotless breast.

" Fed by the dust that gave thee breath,

Wild flowers may bloom above my grave,
And sigh in every night breeze, Death,

When thou shalt shriek for me to save !
The bosom, from whose fount thy lips

The nectar drew of bliss below,
May molder in the soul's eclipse,

And leave thee to thy friendless woe.

" E'en in the dawn of time, thy heart

Hath felt bereavement's chill and blight ;
For thou hast seen the soul depart

That would have clothed thy path with light 5
And now, my beautiful — my blest !

Where on earth's desert wilt thou find
A guide — a friend — a home of rest

For the bruised heart and troubled mind ?

" Dark wiles, and snares, and sorceries

Will spread beneath thy feet, and stain
Thy spirit with their glittering lies,

Till phantom bliss doth end in pain ;
And thou must feel, and fear, and hide

The doubts that gloom, the pangs that gnaw,
And o'er a wrecked heart wear the pride

That by its gloom doth guilt o'erawe.

" Yet dread not thou, my Genevieve,
The ills, allowed, allotted here,
Nor waste thy soul in thoughts that grieve —
The trembling sigh, the burning tear !

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Mind builds its empire on the waste,
And virtue triumphs in despair —
The guiltless woe of being past
Is future glory's deathless heir.

" Beware the soil of thoughts profane,

The fluent speech of skilled design,
Passion that ends in nameless pain,

And fiction drawn from fashion's mine !
He, who so wildly shadows out

The darkest passions of our sin,
Draws the dark bane, he strews about,

From the deep fount of guilt within,

" The Anointed keep thee, sinless child !

Be on thy path the Paraclete !
Through dreary wold and desert wild

The Giver guide thy little feet!
Like buds that bloom as blown flowers fall,

New hopes wave o'er thee angel pinions,
Till thou with them who loved thee — all —

Blend round the smile of God in glory's high dominions."

Our journey extended west to New Orleans. It
was in the fall of the year, as late as October, when we
arrived. At Genevieve's desire, I rented a small cot-
tage, and newly furnished it. Taking with me her
beautiful paintings, with some family portraits, our
little home was quite ornamented. Here we dwelt
alone, with a servant during the winter. I rented a
piano for her. To sing and play was her only conso-
lation.

What time I had, apart from business, I devoted to
her. To walk, and talk, and commune with her was
my greatest happiness. Her intellect, at intervals,

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JANE FAIRFIELD.

209

seemed to brighten up more than ever. She loved to
dwell on the history of great and distinguished
women — women of the past. She constantly re-
gretted the weakness and inability of her sex — their
useless and miserable lives. No woman had any at-
tractions for her merely on account of wealth, beauty,
or position. The intellectual and sterner qualities
could only interest her. Neither Laura, nor Heloise,
nor Cleopatra, nor Sappho, nor Aspasia, was a woman
of her heart. Such women as J oan of Arc, Margaret of
Anjou, Isabella of Castile, Madame Roland, Madame de
Stael — these were the types of women who were her
models — the stern, the brave, and the useful.

The winter passed anxiously enough with me, in
toil and care. The weather became exceedingly hot
by April, and I found it was time for me to repair to
Boston, to make arrangements for the printing of my
daughters' joint works. I promised Genevieve I would
return south with her the following winter. She
loved New Orleans, and left reluctantly. I stored my
furniture, together with her paintings and my por-
traits, in the warehouse belonging to Mr. Bergen,
from whom I had purchased it. I believed all would
be safe, and thought I would save myself the expense
of the insurance. I left feeling little anxiety concern-
ing their safety.

We had scarcely reached Boston when the fever
broke out in New Orleans, and raged during that sum-
mer and autumn, carrying off its victims by hundreds.
My business detained me in Boston. " Irene " was in
press, which could not be published before the coming

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spring, and required my presence. One evening during
the winter, in looking over the " New York Herald,"
I saw a notice of the loss by fire of Mr. Bergen's ware-
house in New Orleans. By that notice I learned that
all I had on earth had gone to ashes. Genevieve
had gone that evening with a friend to hear Sontag.
It was her last singing in Boston before leaving for
Mexico.

I cared for nothing so much as the loss of the pic-
tures. How should I inform her of this ruin? It
recalled to me all her former labor in painting them ;
there were about twenty beautiful landscapes ; how
bitterly she would suffer at their loss ! For myself, I
regretted my portraits. A woman takes pleasure in
pointing to her picture, even after she has faded. To
say, " This picture was myself in my palmy days," is a
pleasure to most women. One of my portraits was
painted by Conarroe of Philadelphia; the other by
Charles King of Washington. They were losses to me
I could never replace.

The following spring " Irene " was published, after
which myself and daughter visited New York.

The papers in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia
were unanimous in their praise of " Irene," and we
were all of us, myself and daughters, compensated for
our labors by the great success of the work.

The following is from the pen of the editor of the
" Philadelphia Press : " —

u A very beautifully printed volume of prose fiction,
written by the daughters of the gifted and ill-fated
poet, S. Lincoln Fairfield, has so greatly interested us

JANE FAIRFIELD.

211

that we have great satisfaction in earnestly and warmly
recommending it to our readers — more particularly
as we have reason to believe that its sale will confer a
benefit upon the family of Mr. Fairfield. This volume
contains three stories : 6 Irene — the Autobiography
of an Artist's Daughter,' written by Gertrude F. Fair-
field, and ' The Vice President's Daughter,' and 6 Wife
of Two Husbands,' by Genevieve Genevra Fairfield,
who has previously published a popular volume enti-
tled 6 Genevra, or the History of a Portrait.'

" This last-named authoress unhappily suffers under
the heaviest deprivation to which humanity is liable,
and therefore we should write tenderly of her, even
if she had not written well. But, indeed, her writings
show great knowledge of the human heart, familiar
intimacy with refined society, and no small skill in
composition. ' Irene' almost painfully interested us,
so touching are many of its scenes. They have evi-
dently been drawn from life, and relate, we believe,
sorrows and trials which the writer herself has sadly
suffered."

Before leaving Boston, in company with Genevieve,
we paid a visit to Nahant. My daughter had long
wished to see the place. I can no better describe it
than to introduce the following beautiful and truthful
paragraph : —

" I never saw a ' coast before that suggested more
thoroughly an eternal despair than this coast of Na-
hant. The cliffs are not lofty ; the surfs are not so
grand as some that I have seen ; but there is an inde-
finable expression of loneliness and sorrow in the

212

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

lineaments of the rocks. Nature here seems to have
lost all hope. The coast is furrowed and distorted,
like a human face torn by some immemorial misery.
Black and shattered crags shelve out into the ocean,
bearing with the heedlessness of ruin the ceaseless
buffets of the waves. It is this lost aspect that has
made Nahant more interesting to me than any sea
coast I have ever visited. Vaguely it seems to tell
some story of immortal woe. When walking through
the streets of cities we pass, unnoting, a thousand happy
faces, wreathed in commonplace smiles, and ruddy
with inexpressive health. But sometimes in our path
we behold a countenance pale, and haggard, and wild,
that causes us to stop, and turn, and look after it, —
for it tells ns an tmsyllabled story of passion, and
struggle, and ruin, that interests beyond all the chubby
cheeks and white teeth that ever bloomed and glis-
tened. So with Nahant. I have a sympathy with
its melancholy shores that all the laughing slopes of
French vineyards or English hill-sides could not
awaken."

I passed a few " good by's " to my Boston friends, to
save me the trouble of what I dislike, — personal
partings, — not, however, without regret. Through
the rough paths of my life, my busy and excita-
ble pilgrimage, nowhere have I met with kinder
hearts or deeper sympathy than among Bostonians.
They very much resemble their English ancestors.
They are distant and cold until their hearts are warmed
up and interested. They have no petty caprices.
Their friendships once formed are faithful and reliable.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

213

On bur arrival in New York, we found the following
letters awaited us : —

Senate Chamber, "Washington, April 5, 1855.

Dear Madam:

I owe you an apology for not responding sooner to your letter
accompanying the beautiful and interesting books of your two
gifted daughters. I have been so much occupied that I have
scarcely had time to devote any thing to correspondence. I now
1 acknowledge the personal favor of your kind remembrance of me,
and beg to assure you of my regret that I am not able to respond
in a manner suitable to this distinguished favor, and the high re-
gards which I entertain for the authoress of " Genevra." You will
be pleased, madam, to assure her, as well as Gertrude, of my con-
tinued admiration for the brilliant talents and personal charms
which so much attracted me in former days. I wish each of them,
as well as yourself, many happy days, and a most successful career
in whatever path they may select for themselves.
I am, dear madam,

Your obedient servant,

Alfred Iverson.

Office Daily Argus, March 24, 1855.
My dear Miss Fairfield: '

I dispatched a few copies of the Argus, containing the " notice,"
to Boston, but I suppose they went astray. If I can lay my hands
upon an extra copy or so, you shall have them. If not, when our
file of papers is bound, I will have it copied — that will be in a few
weeks.

I am truly delighted that you are on journey near the city. The
next remove will, I trust, see you in the Quaker City. Dull as it
is, there are still those within its borders who will be glad to apply
the spur to old Father Time, and make him gallop when you are
once here. When shall that be?

I am about tempted to take a run over to New York to see you.
Another such a letter as your last, — so full of poetry, all gems, —

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214

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

and you may regret it. The music, the theaters, the gay sights,
the gaudy things, all have their attractions for those who can look
at them rightly ; but they are doubly enchanting when we have
those by us with whom we can sympathize, with whose natures
ours beat in time and Unison. There are but few golden spirits
in the world, and these we seldom meet, whence they seem like
birds astray from Paradise. No wonder our feelings are tuned and
our hearts enchanted.

I should like to see you and give you a description of my last
interview with poor Lippard. Dressed in your imagery it would
make a most touching chapter for one of your choicest stories.
He was ever wild and excitable ; all that wit did not leave him. I
have the last autograph he ever penned. It is valuable.

Let me hear from you at all times ; your letters are like a stray
sunbeam in an editor's sanctum. I am about well enough to say I
will ever be — but of that definitely in my next. With kind re-
gards to your mother,

I am truly yours,

S. D. Anderson.

"Washington, August 11.

Dear Mrs. Fairfield :

On the 3d of July I heard that you and daughter had left "Wash-
ington. I did think your daughter would have called ; but all
things change. I write without knowing your address, because I
am so anxious about my pupil. I hope you have left New Orleans.
X think of her constantly. She has so much courage, that I think
she may be tempted to remain in spite of the fever.

If this comes to hand, write me at once. I do not know the
name of Gertrude's husband, or I would write to him.

Your friend,

C. B. King.

It was with a mournful happiness that I was
once more returned to greet my three children, the
youngest of whom I had not seen for some time.

Hosted by G00gk

JANE FAIRFIELD.

215

His sufferings in childhood gave me the tenderest
feelings toward him. The convulsions he had suf-
fered had left him, and he had grown so tall and
handsome I scarcely knew him. But, in the place of
his former illness, a greater had succeeded : he, too,
ivas rapidly hastening into the distemper of a fevered
brain. The hand of God seemed to lie heavily upon
me. The heart of his sister Gertrude, who tenderly
loved him, was broken at this new sorrow. She was
constantly with him ; his grandmother, too, who, it
must be confessed, was unswerving in her attach-
ment, was devoted to this child. " Our feelings are
as little in our power as the bodily structure they
animate." Thus it is with our love and our hate ;
neither is born of our own will. It is an error to
suppose that we shall be loved by those to whom we
are not attached, and an injustice to exact from them
more than we can give. Nothing is freer than the
heart. It will bear no yoke ; it knows no master but
love. And, although their grandmother, from the
first, was my enemy, she had her favorites among my
children, and Eugene was one.

"We suffer or enjoy according to our capacity cf
feeling ; and none ever had a tenderer heart or a
nobler and more sympathizing nature than my daugh-
ter Gertrude. Her grief was overwhelming at the
misfortunes of her family. What sadder or deeper
sufferings could come upon humanity than had come
upon me ? Death has its sting and its bitterness,
which the hope of a hereafter may soothe ; but for
sorrows, living sorrows, like mine, there is no hope.

216

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

Still it was mine to grapple for bread and life ; for,
if I faltered, I should sink, and where could I turn
for aid ? In the midday summer's heat and the win-
ter's cold there was no end to toil, for me. Added to
this, my dear Genevieve grew thin and attenuated,
and required my constant care. The physician's aid
seemed to be useless. Night, which brings rest to the
weary and solace to the sad, brought nothing to me
but wretchedness, and watching, and despair.

During the year I remained in New York my
daughter Gertrude was affianced and married to a
Cuban gentleman of learning, worth, and distinction.
He was the Spanish professor in the New York Uni-
versity — Senor Francesco Xavier de Vingut. What
a strange, inconsistent life is this, that we should urge
upon our children a contract the same which brings to
many of us all our sorrows ! Yet so it is ; and hap-
piness is ever remote, and we must look forward to
it and hope. " 'Tis a dark labyrinth — the human
heart."

" O Hope ! creator of a fairy heaven !
Manna of angels ! rainbow of the heart,
That, throned in heaven, doth ever rest on earth !
From our first sigh unto our latest groan,
From the first throb until the heart is cold,
Thou art a gladness and a mockery,
A glory and a vision — thou sweet child
Of the immortal spirit ! In our days
Of sorrow, with thy bland hypocrisies
Thou dost delude us, and we love and trust
Thy beautiful illusions, though the soil
Of disappointment yet is on our souls.
Thou El Dorado of the poor man's dream !

JANE FAIRFIELD.

217

Sire of repentance ! child of vain desires !

The bleeding heart clings to thee when all hope

Is madness ; o'er our thoughts thou ever hold'st

Eternal empire ; and thou dost console

The felon in his cell, the galley slave,

The exile and the wanderer o'er the earth,

And pour'st the balm of transitory peace

E'en on the heart that sighs o'er kindred guilt."

My daughter Gertrude was married and gone, and
I was left alone with my dear Genevieve.

As I have said, it has always been my misfortune
to draw after me the most unhappy and unfortunate.
I am reminded of an incident which occurred some
years ago in New York. I was walking, in company
with the poet Halleck, down Broadway ; we were
hastily going to see a painting of Fanny Elssler done
by Inman. On the way we met with an editor, an
acquaintance. He came to us laughing, and said,
" I never meet you but you are with a poet. Of all
the women I have ever known, you are the most ex-
traordinary. Your monomania for poets is extreme.
Your ill luck will never cease until you cut their
acquaintance." This remark seemed amusing and
ridiculously true.

The poet William North arrived, during our stay in
New York, from London. He had not been long in
this country before fate threw myself and daughter
in the way of his acquaintance. He was one of the
most unhappy and unfortunate of the fraternity of
poets. He was educated at Bonn, in Germany. His
family misfortunes drove him to our shores in search

s. L. F.

218

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

of prosperity and happiness. His nature and genius
were very similar to my husband's. I never saw two
beings resemble each other as much in their misan-
thropy. He came often to see us. Genevieve sympa-
thized with him, as she always did with genius when
suffering under misfortune. But love, with her, was
out of the question ; so that when he declared his
affection for her, she dismissed him from her pres-
ence. She liked his conversation, for it was truly
fascinating ; but when he ventured on the subject of
love he forfeited what little he had gained in her
esteem. Packages of letters were sent, none of which
she ever opened. He then sought to unburden his
mind to me. He pleaded with me to use my influence
in his behalf. Sorry indeed would I have been to
have aided in so forlorn a hope.

" It matters not its history — Love has wings,
Like lightning, swift and fatal ; and it springs,
Like a wild flower, where it is least expected ;
Existing, whether cherished or rejected."

This unfriended poet often talked to me of suicide.
He had frequently set the time for this act, and bade
adieu to his friends. None of them, however, believed
him sincere. He formed as an excuse for the post-
ponement of the act, the coolness of the weather.
" Death," he said, " is chilly enough to afford us a
warm day for its journey."

It was only the day before the dreadful deed I
saw him on the opposite corner of our hotel, looking
intently toward the window of our room. He seemed

JANE FAIRFIELD.

219

the picture df wretchedness and woe. He stood like
a statue fixed to the spot, until he saw me approach
the window ; he then turned and walked slowly away.
The next day, the news of his suicide was brought me
by a friend. It was about ten o'clock in the morning
that he committed the fatal act. He made his .toilet
in black summer cloth — a suit, it appears, he had
had made for the purpose. He was found with his feet
resting on the floor, his head thrown back on the bed ;
the vial that had contained the poison was lying on
the floor with the cork in it.

The following is taken from the " New York Times."
The editor of the " Times " was a warm friend to the
poet North.

The Slave of the Lamp. By William North. New York:
Long & Brothers.

The publication of this volume is attended with more than ordi-
nary interest, from the circumstances, yet fresh in the public mind,
of the author's sad death. The last pages of the manuscript of
this work were found in his chamber beside the corpse of the un-
fortunate author. His work and his life were finished with equal
deliberation. When the work-worn fingers could lay aside the
pen, the willing hand of the suicide closed on death. It was horri-
ble, it was sad, that a young man of so much genius, of such genial
susceptibility, of such keen perceptions of the true and beautiful,
should plunge thus despairingly into an untimely grave ! But it
was not remarkable. It has been, and always will be, a condition
of certain melancholy, impressible temperaments to contemplate
death as a desirable solution of all worldly troubles. The per-
plexities of life, conflicting with poetic meditations on human des-
tiny, are calculated to produce this effect, even where common
sense, or worldly wisdom, has some foothold.

Mr. North possessed very little worldly wisdom. He lived

220

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

within himself thoroughly, and looked at things not as they are,
but as they should be. Acutely sensitive to praise, — and it was
his honest ambition to deserve it, — he was morbidly affected by
indifference. Every thing that life failed to afford him was per-
verted to the world's indifference, and to brood on this theme in
chilly isolation was at once his solitary and maddening consolation.
Throughout all his writings there is a gloomy indifference to life,
and a bitter contempt for a world of which he knew nothing ; yet
Mr. North was capable of lasting, genuine friendship. A little
genial appreciation was all he asked ; he felt he deserved it, for he
had worked hard for the boon. It was when this was disputed —
and in his forays among strangers who had never heard his name
it was apt to be — that he became most gloomy, and retired bit-
terly within himself to fresh contemplation of human destiny and
woe. Pecuniary embarrassments and family difficulties of no ordi-
nary kind filled the cup to overflowing. Life became a question of
endurance. He bore it as long as he could, finished what work
he had in hand, wrote to his friends tenderly and affectionately,
and died.

" The Slave of the Lamp " is a remarkable work. It is bril-
liant, original, well devised, and powerfully written. A dozen
essays might be extracted from it evidencing these facts. But the
philosophy of the book is erroneous, and the advanced social doc-
trines all moonshine. The author is to a great extent the hero.
An autobiography in the latter portion of the volume, founded on
fact, will account for all his eccentricities, all his heart-wretchedness.
It unfolds a sad tale of family wrong and misspent energy. The
literary merits of the novel are unusually attractive in this section
of the work. The story is one of passionate love, unfortunate and
unrequited. The heroine is a beautiful blue-eyed blonde, a type
which at all times fascinated Mr. North. Every thing he did was
under the inspiration of beauty. How much might he have done
had he been domestically happy !

In the summer of last year Mr. North wrote an exceedingly
clever tragedy, founded on the Scandinavian mythology, and'called
" Odin." This was also written under the inspiration of beauty,
and dedicated to the lady who is, we believe, the original of Colum-

JANE PAIBFIELD.

221

bia in the " Slave of the Lamp." The following note addressed to
the lady, and the two poems which accompany it, have never been
published.

"My dear Miss :

" Read ' Odin.' You will find that you have helped to write it.
You will also find my soul in its pages. Were * Odin ' a failurej
I should have no wish left but to die speedily.

Yours sadly, ever devotedly,

W. North.

" P. S. — This copy I shall require to show some people to-
morrow. I have therefore left the name in the dedication a blank,
for obvious reasons. N."

ODIN.

Completed June 17, 1854.
Dedication.
To thee, Genevra, my eternal queen,

I dedicate a work at length complete,
Since well thou knowest that in every scene

Thy beauty's mirrored shape each eye will meet !
To me, alas ! denied is Odin's sword,
But Freya's graces all to thee accord.

It may be that some skald of future times

Will speak of him who sought thy priceless love,

As one who had accomplished more than rhymes
Against dark, selfish vice our race to move.

It must be that the coming bard will tell

Whose genius and whose beauty wove the spell !

Be this a dream or prophecy, I ask

But one reward, though fleeting be my fame ;

'Tis that whoever nobly scans my task,

Soul of my soul ! may link it with thy name,

That all may say — whate'er they say beside —

He loved Genevra — and her lover died !

19*

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222

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

THE SPIRIT'S COMRADE.

A Fantasy written after Midnight, June 7, 1854.

Alone ? — O, no, I am not now alone ;

Forever with me is a shape divine,
Which my fierce soul pursued from zone to zone,
Till knowledge of its living truth were mine ;
Till of my heart
Its image formed a part,
Immortal as yon stars, which silent shine !

Silent they are, and yet to me they tell

A thousand stories of the mystic past —
Of life's eternal contest, heaven to hell

Opposed forever ! " Hope," they say, " at last
Hope, and be brave ;
Thy knightly banner wave,
And stake the future on one battle's cast ! "

And, to my fancy, the fair comrade smiles,

And sweetly whispers dreams of coming bliss,
Whilst dimly-visioned fame my thought beguiles,
And on the pearl-like brow I breathe one kiss,
Love's viewless crown,
Before which shall bow down
The world that shall be, and the race that is !

O beauteous comrade ! shadow, which I call

From thy more beauteous substance, at my will !
Brief is the spell, and yet to me 'tis all

That gives me strength stern duties to fulfill !
Herself in vain
My worship would disdain ;
Her charm is mine, although her scorn might kill !

Dear comrade ! by an honor yet unstained !
Sweet comrade ! by a poet's prophet-sight !

JANE FAIRFIELD.

223

By all that has thy gentle nature pained,
Or given to thy noble heart delight !
Thou art to me,
On life's tempestuous sea,
The long-sought star that pierces sorrow's night !

W. North.

The name of a great poet is as rare as it is splendid.
The ancients called poets holy ; and no doubt they
are, in some sort, inspired with a divine spirit, for
which reason they were crowned, as were the CaBsars
and heroes who triumphed in ancient Rome. Both
are immortalized by heroism ; one by their actions,
the other by their verse. I pity the mind which has
no respect for the Muses. Poetry as well as novel-
writing is called fiction ; but what is termed fiction is,
in fact, reality. Novels, like poetry, contain truths,
the experience of the darker shades of life, which
many of us suffer, but to which few of us have the
moral courage to attach our names ; hence it is that
novel-writers in all ages have been the most success-
ful. To censure a work that shows up vice, as the
strongest incentive to the commission of crime, be-
trays an ignorance and narrowness of mind which I
think deserves no answer.

224

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

CHAPTER XXI.

My daughter's state of mind demanded of me a con-
stant change of scene. We left New York and jour-
neyed west. Any where, it mattered not where I went,
all places were alike to me. Such was the state of
Genevieve's mind, that no sooner were we arrived at a
hotel, than her question would be, " Why stop here ?
I do not like this place." I was often impressed with
the necessity of placing her for a time in one of our
institutions, but failed of courage to do so. I often
asked her what she thought of these places. " She
had no doubt," she said, " they were necessary institu-
tions." But when I questioned her in regard to herself
— how she would like to be placed in one of them, as
a trial of her health, she would always object, and
seemed to shudder at the thought. She was conscious
of her state of mind, and talked to me much about it.
Wherever she was known, she elicited from all the
kindest attentions. Often — how often have I seen the
tear of sympathy fall from stranger eyes, at hearing
her sing and play her pensive songs !

With her sufferings she became more and more mis-
anthropic. After a long and weary journey to Wis-
consin, we returned and passed some time in Chicago,
Illinois. Here she became dangerously ill from an

JANE FAIRFIELD,

225

attack of congestion on the brain, which lasted for sev-
eral long, painful weeks. This detention brought us
into April. We returned from oUr journey as hopeless
of her health and happiness as when we left. To go
through with the painful details year after year, for
the last four years, and of the incidents of travel alone
with her during that time, would cause me too much
pain, and would fill volumes. During the winter of
1859, her illness had^ become so severe as to oblige
me to remove her to an asylum. This was the crown-
ing point of sorrow. She was taken to the West Phil-
adelphia Asylum, under the care of Dr. Kirkbridge.
I was left alone — parted at last from this earnest
child of thought, genius, and meditation. So have
they perished, the aims to which I have aspired — one
and all, the dreams in which I have indulged.

" O heart, hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way."

0, how I missed her! She had never since her
birth been absent from me. I had been for years ac-
customed to hear her talk, often through the livelong
watches of the night, sometimes to herself, sometimes
to the heavens, the moon and stars, and wonder at the
sublimity of those glorious orbs she could not compre-
hend. She would often say, 44 1 have no doubt,
mamma, that they are peopled by the beings we dream
of in youth — the children of our brain with whom we
people earth, but which in reality we never find."

Moonlight, unto her, had often been her sole com-
panion, when, with watching and fatigue, I had fallen

226

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP

asleep, and her tossing thoughts, like stormy waters,
rolled through the darkened boundlessness of her
mind.

There was nothing for me, it seemed, either in
heaven or on earth. " Great God ! " I cried, in my
loneliness and sorrow, " thou hast willed all my be-
reavements. Father of mercies, forgive the sorrow
that questions thy righteous pleasure. Forgive the
human and sinful nature that murmurs. Pardon the
prayer that asks — how humbly, how fervently — for
her, for my child's happiness and restoration."

Months passed away before I could form any res-
olution to visit her. I knew my strength of purpose
in all except what appertained to her.

Accompanied by some of my friends one pleasant
day, I went over to see her. She seemed better, and
overjoyed to see me. She walked with me over the
grounds. She spoke kindly of the people, and of the
institution ; but she said, " I am lonely here, and beg
you to take me with you to town." She seemed so
mild, and so much better, that I at once acceded to
her wishes, as I knew I should before I left to visit her.

It was our dinner hour when we came to the door
of. our lodgings. " Now," said she, " mamma, don't
wait dinner for me. I must take a walk to view the
town. I have been shut up so long that all things
look so joyous. I will return soon." She returned
delighted, and appeared quite well.

Weeks passed away and left her so much better that
I began to hope that happiness had returned once
more to bless me.

JANE FAIRFIELD.

227

She often amused me by the descriptions she gave
of the antics of the poor patients in the hospital, many
of which were very ludicrous, ov§r which she herself
would heartily laugh. A few months only had passed
when she relapsed, and the disorder returned with
more violence than ever. This interval of happiness
seemed to have been given me only to plunge me into
irremediable despair. Thus do the lights and shadows
of human existence mingle together.

Again, through the aid of friends, I replaced her in
the institution from whence I had taken her.

On the evening of the day she left me, I sat down
alone in my room, only to gaze at her vacant chair
and bed, feeling she had now left me for the last time.
Her books lay open upon the table. I took up one of
her favorite authors. It was Miss Landon. Before
going to my bed I ran over its pages, on which I
found many of her pencil marks.

In "Francesca Carrara" were the following pas-
sages, with penciled hands pointing to them.

" I returned to my lodgings — all was dreary, all
was void — was emblematic of that change and bar-
renness which passes away from nature, but never
from the heart."

"I went back broken in health and spirits, and
vainly seeking relief in change of place. Alas, I was
myself my own world. Nothing without availed to
alter that within."

" weary heart that must within itself close all its
deepest leaves."

" Over how many things now does my regret take

228 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JANE FAIRFIELD.

its last and deepest tone — despondency ! I regret not
the pleasures that have passed, but that I have no longer
any relish for them. The society which once excited
is now wearisome. The book which would have been
a fairy gift to my solitude, T can scarcely read."

"I neither ordered my own mind, nor made my
own fate."

" My world is in the far off, and the hereafter."

" 'Tis written in thy large blue eyes,
Filled with unbidden tears ;
The passionate paleness on thy cheek,

Belying thy few years.
A child, yet not the less thou art
One of the gifted hand and heart,
Whose deepest hopes and fears
Are omen-like ; the poet's dower
Is even as the prophet's power."

0, how my tears fell over these passages of grief so
applicable to her wasted heart !

Thus, after twenty years of toil, and of perils by
land and sea, have I returned to Philadelphia, to the
scenes of former years.

To retrace what I have written has been of melan-
choly remembrance, mixed with bitterness and tears.
Since the strongest cord of my life has been broken,
and the years have drawn nigh when I feel that I have
no pleasure in them — by the grace of God, I shall
easily renounce a world where my cares have been de-
ceitful, and my hopes vain and perishing.

" There is an evening twilight of the heart,

When its wild passion-waves are sunk to rest,
And the eye sees life's brightest dreams depart
As fades the sunbeams in the rosy west."

POEMS.

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OLYMPIADS.

MARRIED LOVE AND MARRED LOVE.

I wedded the Beloved — the Beautiful !
She had an eye like Spring's first flowers, or stars
At summer twilight, and a high, pale brow
Of tender beauty, where the wandering veins,
Like hidden rivulets, revealed the gift
Of Mind ; while Thought upon her Grecian face
Sat like a Seraph on his throne when all
The angelic princedoms bow before their God.
Pure as the May-morn breeze, or beaded dews
That diadem the rose — in every thought
The creature of a blest humanity
And purified affection — she became,
E'en to my earliest glance, the evening star,
(The holy light that hushes all to peace,)
Of a lone heart, that lingered o'er past hours,
And basked in vain though glorious imagery.
I looked and loved, and o'er my spirit came
The rush of solemn feelings (golden clouds,
Though dim and fading, on the wings of years)
And all the idol memories of life
Went by like music on a summer eve.

(231)

232

OLYMPIADS.

Love ! 'tis the dream of every young, pure heart,

A fairy vision of a better sphere,

A rainbow, resting on a world of woe,

But leading unto heaven ; a charm in hope

To all, though unto few the holiest bliss

Of earth — the earnest of eternal heaven.

Passion's young pilgrim, I had roamed afar
O'er foreign lands, where unfamiliar tongues
And aspects strange saluted me ; my ear
Had ceased to hear the tender voice of love,
And never trusted words that knew no heart.
I long had roamed the world in utter scorn
Of all man toils to gain and cast away ;
And lingering Time hung o'er me like a sky
Of deep, dull, chilling clouds, without or light
Or darkness, and all human things to me
Brought neither love nor hate, but one dead waste
Of life and all its passions, hopes and fears.

I trod my Native Land again, unchanged
In the deep love my spirit bears to thee,
Divinest Liberty ! but hopeless else
Of all the common happiness of man.
Forecast not fate, nor to thyself appoint
Thy destiny ! for, over all supreme,
A Power directs our days and their events
Unseen, all prescient and inscrutable ;
And, in the world, full oft a single word,
Uttered unwarily, will more avail
Thy welfare, than long years of vain pursuit,

OLYMPIADS.

233

Passion and tempest, and unslackened toil.
I long had deemed that earth held many hearts
Deep, proud, and high like mine ; but what I sought
With martyr-like devotion — vainly sought —
Came in an hour when Hope had passed away,
And Chance assumed her empire o'er my fate.
Deep streams will mingle, though their fountains rise
A thousand leagues asunder : so will hearts,
Whose feelings ever blend, though far apart
Born, and in fancy for another fate.
We met, — we loved, — and she became to me
A solace and the hope of better days.

I had looked forward to this sacred hour
As look the weary mariners for land,
As captives for the day that sets them free,
As desert pilgrims for Zahara's wells,
As saints for paradise. Love was to me
My sainted father's only dying gift
Not clutched away from a young orphan's grasp ;
And the o'ergushing heart will spread o'er earth
A paradise of bloom, or on the waste
Of an unthankful world pour out its life.
Affections unbestowed, in the deep spring
Of o'erfraught bosoms dwelling, like pent streams,
Stagnant in their large affluence ; but unlocked,
Bear wealth and beauty in their silent flow.
To throw one's self upon a kindred heart ;
To love as angels do ; to know one's hopes
And fears are shared by a devoted bride ;
To cling through good and evil to the shrine

20*

234

OLYMPIADS.

Whence bridal vows ascended to the skies ;
This to my bosom had been paradise ; —
But ever had I felt 'twas to search
For what my spirit, in its lonely moods,
Had imaged out ; for, O, too well I knew
Such high revealings had no earthly type !

In other days, when earth, and air, and sea
Glowed with the glory of Ambition's dreams,
Passion awoke, and worshiped at the shrine
Of a pure heart with all the earnest love,
The wild adoring of a soul that cast
The world away to win a heaven below.
But evil came ; a blight was on my love ;
The storm rushed o'er the sunbeam ; and, amid
The darkness of a deep, unnatural night,
Rude hands bore off the idol of my youth !
— Ten years have died ! To linger on the days,
And mark their thoughts and deeds, long ages pass
Like endless shadows o'er me ; but to fly
To Housatonic's stream and Derby's hills,
And that old mansion, whose great balcony
Hung o'er the waters — brief as Hope appears
The Olympiad of my first unhappy love.
Through the dark night I saw the glimmering sail
Resting upon the wave ; I saw the bark,
And heard the dash of oars that bore away
My heart's best hope. Despair hath dreadful strength !
I saw the vessel glide away, and heard
Voices upon the deep until they came
O'er me like the far sounds of dreams ! And then —

OLYMPIADS.

235

Then I went forth, a man, 'mid other men,
Not to lament — the proselyte of fools —
Nor rail, like girls hysteric, nor arraign
The doom of evil ; but to feel and bear,
To think and keep deep silence, and to love
Too sacredly for earth to know my love.
I sought not dim forgetfulness, but nursed
Memory, and loved the blissful pangs she brought.

Years passed ; but I remembered her, and then
My heart grew milder than in other times ;
And when I thought of the loved one, 'twas not
With bitterness, but tender melancholy,
Shadowed and softened by the lapse of years
And many changes. Like the gushing forth
Of twilight waters, or the whispering stir
Of dewy leaves, or breath of fading flowers,
The memory of our young and blighted love
Came o'er me, and 'twas blessedness to think
How I had loved her ; — though my bosom bled
O'er my lone grief and her dark sacrifice.
O'er the wild surges of the ocean oft
My spirit wandered back when far away,
But with a settled grief serene ; none knew
From outward mildness, and smooth courtesy,
And mannerly respect of customs old,
That Passion's flood had left my heart a waste.
Lost to my arms, but not my love, I knew
Her days could not be blest in this wrong world,
And never would I, by remotest word,
"Waken a scorpion in her wedded heart.

236

OLYMPIADS.

She was a thing of holiness — high throned

As among cherubims, beheld far off,

And worshiped unapproached ; *and oft I wept

And prayed that she might calmly bear the task,

The bitter task, that was her portion here,

Without repining o'er the fatal hours

That fled like morning stars ; and 'twas my trust

That he — her unknown wedded lord — might prove

Gentle and faithful to the blighted flower !

And never — never would I see her more,

Though, sometimes, tidings of her lot would come,

Like desert blasts or storms at equinox,

To darken the bright stream of wandering thought.

So all my deep affections mellowed down

Into a sorrow gentle as the sigh

Of the low evening wind through autumn woods.

As I have said, I wedded the Beloved !
'Twas when the sweet autumnal days came on,
And earth was full of beauty, and the heavens
Of glory, and the heart of man of praise.
I gave her all the deep love of a heart
Long tried and faithful unto worse than death,
And she did love me more that I had loved
With a fidelity and strength alike
Unconquered by repulse, and woe, and time.
Her smiles went o'er my bosom like the air
O'er flowering shrubs and honeysuckle bowers,
And she, at times, was mirthful as the birds
In the sweet month of May ; and then again
Quietly sad as any nightingale.

SONNET.

237

Playful, yet full of feeling, innocent,
Without suspecting guile, in smiles and tears
Pleasant as stars when fancy images
The thrones of angels there, she gently taught
Forgetfulness of many an irking ill,
Lost in the beauty of her winsome smile,
And did become, first in herself, and then
In the blest offerings of love, a world
Where peril, calumny, and pain are lost
In this revealment of restoring Heaven.

What are the Past and Future ? Shadows, lit
By the mind's twilight bloom, and all too dim
For clear perception ; far and faint they swim
Before the visionary's eye, and flit
Away in dusky folds, whose outskirts wear
A mellow glow a while, and then resume
Oblivion's sable tinges. In the gloom
Of the o'ershadowed Past, with pensive air,
Pale Memory sits beside a sculptured urn,
Chanting the requiem of joys long fled ;
And flickering tapers, for the parted dead,
Around her wasted form forever burn ;
But Hope, on sunlight pinions, soars on high,
And hath her throne and glory in the sky.

SOMET.

PERE LA CHAISE *

Beautiful City of the Dead ! thou stand'st
Ever amid the bloom of sunny skies
And blush of odors, and the stars of heaven
Look, with a mild and holy eloquence,
Upon thee, realm of Silence ! Diamond dew,
And vernal rain, and sunlight, and sweet airs
Forever visit thee ; and morn and eve
Dawn first, and linger longest on thy tombs
Crowned with their wreaths of love, and rendering back
From their wrought columns all the glorious beams
That herald morn, or bathe in trembling light
The calm and holy brow of shadowy eve.
Empire of pallid shades ! though thou art near
The noisy traffic and thronged intercourse
Of man, yet stillness sleeps, with drooping eyes
And meditative brow, forever round
Thy bright and sunny borders ; and the trees
That shadow thy fair monuments, are green,
Like Hope that watches o'er the dead, or love
That crowns their memories ; and lonely birds
Lift up their simple songs amid the boughs,
And with a gentle voice wail o'er the lost,
The gifted, and the beautiful, as they

* The Cemetery of Paris.

(238)

PERB LA CHAISE.

239

Were parted spirits hovering o'er dead forms
Till judgment summons earth to its account.

Here 'tis a bliss to wander when the clouds
Paint the pale azure, scattering o'er the scene
Sunlight and shadow, mingled, yet distinct,
And the broad olive leaves, like human sighs,
Answer the whispering zephyr, and soft buds
Unfold their hearts to the sweet west wind's kiss,
And Nature dwells in solitude, like all
Who sleep in silence here, their names and deeds
Living in Sorrow's verdant memory.
Let me forsake the cold and crushing world,
And hold communion with the dead ! then thought,
The silent angel language Heaven doth hear,
Pervades the universe of things, and gives
To earth the deathless hues of happier climes.

All, who repose undreaming here, were laid
In their last rest with many prayers and tears ;
The humblest as the proudest was bewailed,
Though few were near to give the burial pomp.
Lone watchings have been here, and sighs have risen
Oft o'er the grave of love, and many hearts
Gone forth to meet the world's smile desolate.

The saint, with scrip and staff, and scallop shell,
And crucifix, hath closed his wanderings here ;
The subtle schoolman, weighing thistle-down
In the great balance of the universe,
Sleeps in the oblivion which his folios earned ;
The sage, to whom the earth, the sea, and sky

240

PERE LA CHAISE.

Revealed their sacred secrets, in the dust,

Unknown unto himself, lies cold and still ;

The dark eyes and the rosy lips of love,

That basked in Passion's blaze till madness came,

Have moldered in the darkness of the ground ;

The lover, and the soldier, and the bard,

The brightness, and the beauty, and the pride

Have vanished, — and the Grave's great heart is still !

Alas ! that sculptured pyramid outlives
The name it should perpetuate ; alas !
That obelisk and temple should but mock
With effigies the form that breathes no more.
The cypress, the acacia, and the yew
Mourn with a deep, low sigh o'er buried power ;
And moldered loveliness, and soaring mind
Yet whisper, " Faith surmounts the storm of death."

Beautiful City of the Dead ! to sleep
Amid thy shadowed solitudes, thy flowers,
Thy greenness and thy beauty, where the voice,
Alone heard, whispers love, and greenwood choirs
Sing 'mid the stirring leaves, were very bliss
Unto the weary heart and wasted mind,
Broken in the world's warfare, yet still doomed
To bear a brow undaunted ! O, it were
A tranquil and a holy dwelling-place
To those who deeply love but love in vain —
To disappointed hopes, and baffled aims,
And persecuted youth. How sweet the sleep
Of such as dream not, wake not, feel not, here,
Beneath the starlight skies and flowery earth,
'Mid the green solitudes of Pere La Chaise!

THE DIRGE.

Weep not thou for the dead !
Sweet are their dreamless slumbers in the tomb —
Their eyelids move not in the morning's light,
No sun breaks on the solitary gloom,
No sound disturbs the silence of their night —

Soft seems their lowly bed !

Grieve not for them, whose days.
Of earthly durance have so quickly passed, —
"Who feel no more Affliction's iron chain !
Sigh not for them who long since sighed their last,
Never to taste of sin and woe again

In realms of joy and praise !

What they were once to thee
It nought avails to think, save thou canst draw
Pure thoughts of piety, and peace, and love,
And reverent faith in Heaven's eternal law,
From their soft teachings, ere they soared above,

Lost in Eternity !

When o'er the pallid brow
Death flings his shadow — and the pale, cold cheek
Quivers, and light forsakes the upturned eye,
And the voice fails ere faltering lips can speak
The last farewell — be not dismayed — to die

Is man's last lot below !

(241)

242

THE DIRGE.

Death o'er the world hath passed
Oft, and the charnel closed in silence o'er
Unnumbered generations — past and gone !
And he will reign till Earth can hold no more ;
Till Time shall sink beneath the Eternal Throne,

And Heaven receive its last.

Death enters at our birth
The molded form we idolize so much,
And hour by hour some subtle thread dissolves,
That links the web of life ; at his cold touch
Power after power decays as time revolves,

Til] earth is blent with earth.

The soul can not abide
In the dark dreariness of flesh and sin ;
Its powers are chained and trampled on by clay,
And paralyzed and crushed ; 'twould enter in
Its own pure Heaven, where Passion's disarray

Comes not, nor hate, nor pride.

Come, widowed one ! with me,
And we will wander through the shades of death !
Look now upon those sheeted forms that soar
Amid the still and rosy air ; their breath
Wafts the rich fragrance of Heaven's flowery shore,

Amid the light of Deity !

Wouldst thou wail o'er their flight,
Or curb their pinions with the chains of Time ?
Art thou or canst thou be so happy here,

THE DIRGE.

243

Thy spirit pants not for a fairer clime ?
O, sorrowing child of sin, and doubt, and fear !
Thy heart knows no delight.

Wouldst thou roll back the waves
Of the unfathomed ocean of the Past,
And from soft slumbers wake the undreaming Dead,
Again to shiver in the bleak, cold blast,
Again the desert of despair to tread,

And mourn their peaceful graves ?

Ah, no ! — forget them not !
Thoughts of the dead incite to worthy deeds,
Or from the paths of lawless ill deter ;
When the lone heart in silent sorrow bleeds,
Or sin entices — to the past recur —

Trust Heaven, thou wilt not be forgot !

Weep not for them who leave
In childhood's sinless hours the haunts of vice !
Mourn not She Lovely in their bloom restored
To the bright bowers of their own paradise !
Mourn not the Good who meet their honored Lord

Where they no more can grieve !

But rather weep and mourn
That thou art yet a sinning child of dust,
Changeful as April skies or Fortune's brow ;
And, while thy grief prevails, be wise, and just,
And kind, so thou shalt die like flowers that blow,

And into rose-air turn.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

When, wrapt in dreams that throng the twilight hour,
I roam alone o'er Nature's fair domain,
'Mid the hushed shadows of the wildwood bower,
Or o'er the shell-strewn margin of the main,
Or upland green, or lovely lawn,
Where dewdrops kiss the breathing flowers,
And Summer smiles, at rosy dawn,
Like Memory o'er un sinning hours,
I think that soon — how soon ! the Night will come
When I shall leave this bright world for the tomb.

I think — and frailty dims the drooping eye —
That Spring will perfume all the inspiring air,
And Summer's smile illume earth, sea, and sky,
And Autumn, Heaven's own robe of glory wear ;
That silvery voices, low and sweet,
Will breathe the heart's own music forth,
And plighted youth 'trothed maidens meet,
Where now I roam o'er darkening earth ;
But when all seasons with their treasures teem,
Where shall I wander ? victim of a dream !

Through thousand years the glorious sun shall rise,
And myriad song-birds thrilling anthems sing :

(244)

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

245

Soft shall the moonbeams fall from midnight skies,
And groves breathe music o'er the gushing spring ;
But where will be the lonely one
"Who swept his lyre in wayward mood,
And dreamed, sung, wept o'er charms unwon,
In holy Nature's solitude ?
In what far realm of shoreless space shall roam
The soul that e'en on earth made Heaven its home ?

The paths I wear the stranger's foot will tread ;
The trees I plant will yield no fruit to me ;
The flowers I cherish bloom not for the dead ;
The name I nourish — what is that to thee,

Fame, phantom of the wildered brain ?

Love's tears should hallow life's last hour.

For pomp, and praise, and crowns are vain —

Death is the spirit's only dower !
Alone, the hermit of a broken heart,
My Mind hath dwelt — even so let it depart.

To think — alas ! to feel and know that we,
Sons of the sun, the heirs of thought and light,
Must perish sooner than the wind-tossed tree
Our hands have planted, and unending night

Close o'er our buried memories !

Our sphere of starry thought, our sun

Of glory quenched in morning skies ;

Our sceptre broken, empire gone,
The voice, that bade creation spring to birth
Too weak to awe the worm from human earth !

21*

246

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

I know not where this heart will sigh its last,
I cannot tell what shaft will lay me low,
Nor, when the mortal agony hath passed,
Whither my spirit through the heavens will go.

It will not sleep, it can not die ;

It is too proud to grovel here ;

For even now it mounts the sky,

And leaves behind earth's hope and fear !
O, may it dwell, when cleansed from sin and blight,
Shrined in God's temple of eternal light !

Where'er the spirit roams, howe'er it lives,
I can not doubt it sometimes looks below,
And from the scenes of mortal love derives
Much to enhance its rapture or its woe ;

And when I muse on death and gloom,

And all that saints or sages tell,

I pause not at the midnight tomb,

Nor listen to the funeral knell ;
But think how dear the scenes I loved will be
When I gaze on them from eternity !

GRAVE WATCHING.

Bring flowers and strew them here,

The loveliest of the year,
Withered, yet fragrant as her virgin fame,

Who slumbers in this sunny spot,

Yet to Love's voice awaketh not,
Nor hears in dreams her lover sigh her name.

Where woods o'er waters wave

She hath her early grave,
And summer breathes lone music o'er the scene ;

It is a green and bloomy place,

And smiling like her living face,
Whom memory weeps o'er, sighing, " She hath been !

How sacred Silence lies,

With dreamy, heart-filled eyes,
Shedding its spirit o'er the wanderer's heart,

Beside the mound of dust,

Where, throned, sit Hope and Trust,
Serenely watching awful Death depart.

In sooth, 'twere bliss to rest

On Nature's rosy breast
'Mid all this sweetness, quiet, faith, and love,

While Heaven's soft airs flit round

The still and hallowed ground,
And the blue skies lift the pure soul above.

(247)

248

GRAVE WATCHING.

Albeit, I can but grieve

That thou, pale girl ! didst leave
Thy lover lone in such a world as this ;

Yet tender is my heart's regret

As the last beam of suns that set
To rise again, like thee, my love, in bliss !

Then let me linger here,

Where none of earth appear,
Save gentle spirits, kindred of the skies,

And muse beside the gushing spring,

Where wild birds carol on the wing,
And live as thou didst, love, on harmonies !

O'er this green bank of flowers

Hover the dew-eyed hours,
Blending the incense breath of earth and heaven ;

As thou didst hallow time

By thoughts and deeds sublime,
And seal eternal bliss by wrongs forgiven.

Inspire me with thy soul ;

And, while the seasons roll,
No evil passion shall corrode my spirit !

I can forgive my fiercest foes,

And think not o'er inflicted woes,
While I thy gentle soul, lost love, inherit !

What holy joy attends
Such commerce with lost friends —
Lost to our eyes but living in our minds !

SONNET.

249

Their memories breathe elysian bliss
Around e'en such a world as this,
Like Yemen's odors borne on genial winds,

Bring flowers and strew them here,

The loveliest of the year,
And I will watch their spirits as they part ;

For in a place so green and still,

'Mid wood and water, yale and hill,
My lost love dwells forever in my heart!

Welcome, Angelo, to a world of care !
Fair firstborn of my youth, thou'rt welcome here !
Thy smile can charm away the world's despair,
And light a rainbow in the heart's wild tear.
Thy quick intelligence, thy winning ways,
Thy deep affection in life's first hours shown,
Thy father's spirit, like a mantle, thrown
About thee, studded by the pearly rays
That float like music round the fairy soul
Of thy mild cheerful mother, with her smiles
Beaming like starlight o'er the ocean's isles,
That oft deep sorrow from my heart have stole —
These blend, my boy, in thy dark, ardent eyes,
Like zodiacs in the depth of heaven's blue skies !

SONNET.

THE POET'S NIGHT SOLITUDE.

Would that I were the spirit of yon star,
That seems a diamond on the throne of heaven !
Would that my holiest thought could ever dwell
'Mid the unsearchable vastness of the sky !
For 'tis deep midnight ; and bland stillness sleeps
On dewy grove and waveless stream, and airs,
Floating about like heavenly visitants,
Breathe o'er the slumbering flowers and leafy woods,
Such holy music as the tired heart loves —
Low, murmuring, melancholy strains — so soft
The ear scarce catches sound, though deeply feels
The hushed, communing heart the influence
Of their lone oracles ! Departed hours
Of mingled bane and bliss, of hope and fear,
Of faithless friendship, unrequited love,
Unshared misfortune, undeserved reproach,
And humble pride, and dark despondency,
Hours of high thought and silent intercourse
With the old seers and sages, when the soul
Walked solemnly beside departed bards
And lion-hearted martyrs ; and o'erveiled
Forest, and hill, and vale, and rivulet,
With the deep, glorious majesty of mind !

(250)

THE POET'S NIGHT SOLITUDE.

251

Shadowing, with a most dainty fantasy,
The cold and harsh realities of things,
With the divine undying dawn of heaven,
Whose beauty blossoms and whose glory burns !

At such a time of thoughtful loneliness
Ye come like seraph shades, and bear me back
On darkened wings, to earlier passages
Scarce less unblest than present years of grief
I grope through now ! But woes, once borne, become
Strange pleasures to our memory ; the Past
Hath its romance — its mellow lights and shades,
Soothing deep sadness like the brightest hope
That bursts upon the future. While we gaze
Down the dark vista, where in bitter pain,
And weariness, and solitude of soul,
We long have roamed forsaken — all the scene
Assumes a calm repose, a verdure mild
As midnight music, and our hearts o'ergush
With tearful tenderness. O, there is bliss
E'en in the darkest memory — a depth
Of passion that now slumbers, and of thought,
Though voiceless, eloquent and full of power,
Which leaves all common hope, in life's routine,
Dim and delusive as the fire-fly's light.

Full orbed in pearly beauty walks the moon,
Flinging on fleecy clouds soft gleams of light,
That silver every fair and floating fold
'Mid the blue ether, while her beams below,
On slumbering vale and cliff, and haunted wood,

252

THE POET'S NIGHT SOLITUDE.

And broad deep stream, an awful wilderness,

Fall at the outskirts of vast shadowings,

Like heaven's great light on wings of angels thrown.

And now the breeze, in Music's fitful gush,

Harps 'mid the osiers and wide harvest lakes

Of grass and grain, and then the voices rise

Of fays and fairies in the fir-wood near.

Now sleepless bard who never is alone —
May mingle with the harmony of Heaven,
Triumphant o'er the evil of the world ;
His heart may banquet on each gentle scene
Of loveliness, and shrink not back aghast
As from the mock and scoff malign of men.
To voices soft as sighs of sleeping flowers,
And tender as a fair young mother's kiss,
His spirit listens in its joy. On him
The beauty of the old Astrology,
The silent hymn of heaven, in starlight falls ;
And Alchemy bestows its choicest lore,
And Poetry, with all its holiness,
Sinks gently o'er him like the early dew
On the fair foliage of the Hesperides.

The cricket sings, the aspen twinkles quick
Beneath the moonbeam, and the waters purl
O'er shining pebbles and by wildwood banks,
As if blest life in every drop prevailed.
The deep enchanted forests seem to bend,
And make no sound through their vast solitudes,
As if they deeply listened to The Voice,

THE POET'S NIGHT SOLITUDE.

253

Whose whisper fills the universe. O'er all,
"Waters and woods, mountains and valleys deep,
A spirit reigns whose secret counsel heals
The goaded mind and wasted heart, and guides
Ill-fortuned dwellers of the earth to peace ;
And he is wise, who, in his budding youth,
Casting aside the paltry pride of praise,
In the night season leaveth strife, and care,
And vain ambition, to go forth and drink
The music and the blessedness of earth,
While man forgets the God he scorns by day.
Reclining on the moonlight rocks, he sees
The proud Orion, the soft Pleiades,
And every glorious constellation move

With light and hymn of worship, and his soul
O'erleaps the feuds and falsehoods of the world,
The trembling and the triumph of an hour,
And mingles with the universal Deity.
The warring passions of the human heart
Sink, then, to rest ; bright angel forms repose
By piny woods and shady waterfalls,
And seraph voices sing of heaven and love
In every leaf stirred by the vesper airs.
And this communion of upsoaring thought,
This conscious inspiration (holier far
Than Delphic oracles or hermit's dream)
Becomes our earthly paradise, when gleams
Of worlds inscrutable flash through the gloom
Of this our sinning nature, body-bowed,
And the accepted words of ancient men,
Gifted beyond their age and station here,

254

SONNET.

Become assured revealings of that life

All hope to gain, but few dare think upon.

As Wisdom thinks, who dwells not with the vain.

The greedy, and the proud, but hath her throne

In the pure heart, whose ever-living hope

Glows like a lone star in the depth of Heaven.

How like Divinity this soft, still eve !
The sun of Autumn, like a god, is setting,
And, O, the beauty tempts me to forgetting

Those giant ills that long have made me grieve.

Bright angels seem reposing on yon verge
Of billowy light, and from their airy wings,
Fanning infinity, a perfume springs,

Like cherub breathings. The low, lulling surge,

Breaking far o'er the shelly beach ; the deep,
Soft music of the groves ; the whirl and rush
Of dropping sear leaves, and the trickling gush

Of rivulets that from the brown cliffs leap, —
This dying loveliness melts all my woes,
And hallows sorrows Death alone can close !

SONNET.

THE FATHER'S LEGACY.

By Hudson's glorious stream, in death's cold rest,
Thy head lies low, my great and gallant sire !
Pillowed in peace on Earth's eternal breast,
No more thy bosom pants with Hope's desire.
Now, more than ever, doth thy name inspire,
For lingering years have wept above thy grave,
And shed their cold dews o'er my lonely lyre,
But to enhance the grief that could not save,
The settled woe that sighs o'er Hudson's midnight

In the first gush and glory of my years,
Ere Reason glowed, or Memory held her power,
Thy pale, proud brow was wet with infant tears,
And wild cries rose in thy deserted bower !
O, how the dim remembrance of that hour
Crowds on my brain like night's most shadowy
dream,

When winds wail loud, and o'erfr aught tempests
lower !

A glimpse of glory in a meteor's gleam,
Sunlight in storms, — a flower upon the rushing

wave.

stream.

(255)

256

THE FATHER'S LEGACY.

The budding boughs, the limpid light of spring,
The mirrored beauty of the brimming rills,
The greenness and the gentle airs that bring
Life's golden hours again, when heavenly hills
And vales bore witness to the soul that thrills
The heart of youth ere passion riots there —
Shed o'er me now the loveliness which fills,
At parted seasons, such as wed despair
When Being's day-spring breaks and all but life is

Yet from this scene of most surpassing love,
Not unrefreshed, I turn to happier years,
Quick in their flight, when through the highland
grove

I ran to meet thee with ecstatic tears,
And in thine arms forgot my deepest fears !
O, then thou wert to me what I am now *
To one blest boy — my sorrow's bliss — who wears
The very majesty of thy high brow,
The pride, the thought, the power, that in thine eye
did glow.

No proud sarcophagus thy corse enshrines,
No mausoleum mocks thy moldering dust,
But there the rose, amid its mazy vines,
Blooms like thy spirit with the pure and just ;
And — image of earth's high and holy trust —
Deep verdure smiles and wafts its breath to heaven,

fair.

* What, alas ! I ivas.

THE FATHER'S LEGACY.

257

And, holier far than antique print or bust,
Lives in my heart the portrait thou hast given, —
The worship of pure love, — the faith of Autumn's

Thy legacy was not the gold of men,
The slave of pomp, the vassal of the mine,
But an o'ermastering intellect, that, when
The world reviled and trampled, soared divine,
And stood o'erpanoplied on God's own shrine !
This didst thou leave me, Father ! and my mind
Hath been my realm of glory — as 'twas thine —
Though much it irks me to have cast behind
Thy godlike skill to quell the ills of human kind.

'Twas thine to grapple with the fiend of gain ;
'Twas thine to toil and triumph in the field ;
It can not be that I should faint in pain,
And like a craven, to the dastard yield.
On the starred mead, and in the o'erarching weald,
It hath been mine to think and to be blest ;
And oft on mountain pinnacles I've kneeled
To pray I might be gathered to my rest
With glory on my brow and virtue in my breast.

Though anguish throbs through all my bosom
now,

And wild tears gush whene'er I think of thee,
Yet like blue heaven upon Cordillera's brow,
Thy memory clothes me with divinity,
And lifts my soul beyond the things that be, —

even.

22*

258

THE FATHER'S LEGACY.

The strife of traffic, falsehood's common fear,
Friendship betrayed, unguerdoned vassalry,
And every ill, that reigns and riots here,
In this dark world, so far from thine immortal sphere.

My earliest smiles were thine, my earliest thought,
Like rosy light in morn's translucent sky,
First from thine eye, my spirit's sun, were caught;
And as it gleams on days that vanish by,
It turns to thee, my fountain shrined on high !
My Sister ! is she with thee ? where thou art
Thy children fain would be,! On starbeams fly
Spirits of Love ! and in my raptured heart
Make Heaven's own music till my soul in transport part,

And teach me with an awed delight to tread
The darksome vale that all must tread alone,
And gift me with the wisdom of the dead,
Justly to do, yet all unjustly done,
Freely to pardon ! Till the crown is won,
Be with me in the errings of my lot,
The many frailties of thine only son ;
And when brief records say that he is not,
Hail his wronged spirit home where sorrow is forgot.

AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT.

Ave Maria ! 'tis life's holiest hour,
The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven,
When music breathes its perfume from the flower,
And high revealings to the heart are given ;
Soft o'er the meadow steals the dewy air,
Like dreams of bliss the deep blue ether glows,
And the stream murmurs round its islets fair,
The tender night song of a charmed repose.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love,
The kiss of rapture and the linked embrace,
The hallowed converse in the dim still grove,
The elysium of a heart-revealing face,
When all is beautiful, for we are blest ;
When all is lovely, for we are beloved ;
When all is silent, for our passions rest ;
When all is faithful, for our hopes are proved.

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer,
Of hushed communion with ourselves and heaven,
When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare,
High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even ;

(259)

260

AN EVENING SONG OP PIEDMONT.

When hope becomes fruition, and we feel
The holy earnest of eternal peace,
That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel,
That bids our wild and warring passions cease.

Ave Maria ! soft the vesper hymn
Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile,
And 'mid the stillness of the nightwatch dim
Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile !
Hark ! hath it ceased ? The vestal seeks her cell,
And reads her heart — a melancholy tale !
A song of happier years, whose echoes swell
O'er her lost love 'mid pale bereavement's wail.

Ave Maria ! let our prayers ascend
For them whose holy offices afford
No joy in heaven — on earth without a friend —
That true though faded image of the Lord !
For them in vain the face of nature glows,
For them in vain the sun in glory burns,
The harrowed heart consumes in fiery woes,
And meets despair and death where'er it turns.

Ave Maria ! in the deep pine wood,
On the clear stream and o'er the azure sky
Bland twilight smiles, and starry solitude
Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by.
Ave Maria ! may our last hour come
As bright, as pure, as gentle, heaven, as this !
Let faith attend us smiling to the tomb,
And life and death are both the heirs of bliss !

THE

SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

'Tis the bridal of nature, the season of spring,
When Pleasure flits round on her diamond wing,
And the spirit plays brightly and softly and free,
Like gem-dropping beams on a boundless blue sea,
And the young heart is lit by the beams of love's eye,
Like an altar of perfume by fires of the sky.
'Tis the heart-blooming season of innocent love,
When the green growing mead and the whispering
grove,

And the musical stream, as it purls o'er the dale,
And the flowers whose lips zephyr woos in the vale,
Are seen with the spirit of thrilling delight
As visions of beauty too passingly bright,
And heard like the songs that come o'er us in dreams
When the soul's magic light through infinity gleams.
The gay Earth is vestured with verdure and flowers,
And hope sings away the sweet sunny hours,
While bathing in sunbeams, or over the sky
Her star-pinions waving through glories on high.

A TALE OF PORTUGAL.

CANTO I.

262

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

The citron groves throw on the wings of the breeze
Their balm-breathing flowers, and the green orange
trees

Harp sweetly in airs from tne hill and the sea,
Like lyres heard unseen singing joys yet to be.
O Eden of beauty ! Lusitania ! the sun
Loves to linger a while, when his journey is done,
On the lofty twin Pillars, whose brows in the sky
Gleam bright when the sun-god rides flashingly by,
Which stand in their might 'mid the waves of the sea —
Abyla and Calpe — unconquered and free.
And Cintra's dark forests look smilingly on
Apollo descending from his chariot throne,
While Estrella's lagoon, green Escura receives
Sheen tints of his rays from the wood's gilded leaves,
And Tajo's broad bay like a mirror reposes
'Tween a heaven of light and a garden of roses.

The sun's last beam of purple light
Blazons proud Calpe's castle height,
And over Lusitania's sea
Looks with a smile of melody.
The volcan fires of iEtna glow,
Brighter as sinks Hyperion low,
And, 'mid the gathering twilight high
Stromboli flames against the sky,
O'er dark-blue ocean's billowy foam,
To light the wandering sailor home.
Child of the sun, the dusky Moor
Watches the horizon, bright obscure,
And, while the proud muezzin calls
Devotion's hour from Ceuta's walls,

11.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Throws his keen eye's far-searching glance

O'er the dark billows as they dance

Along the Mauritanian shore,

And listens to their surging roar

Around Abyla's basement deep,

Lest in tired nature's twilight sleep

The foe upon his guard should steal,

And gain the pass ere trumpet peal.

Adverse, the gallant Briton's eye,

From Calpe's height gleams o'er the sky,

And marks with all a sailor's pride

The vast sail gleaming o'er the tide,

While every breeze that comes from far

Wafts music from red Trafalgar.

Evening's dim shadow o'er the close,

Fair Lusitania ! and the rose

Of morning blushes o'er thy plains

With the same rich and gorgeous light

As when his warlike, wild Alains,

O'er forest, flood, and vale, and height,

From Volga's banks Respedial led

To Tajo's darkly wooded shore,

Though where they warr'd or why they bled

None know or name forevermore.

And the sun rolls his last faint beam

O'er princely dome, rose-margined stream,

And almond grove and jasmine bower,

With the same smile as when the earth

Blushed in the beauty of her birth.

in.

The full-orbed moon is gleaming bright
On Cintra's dark and rocky height,

264

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

And on verandah, turret, tower,
Palace and fane at this still hour
Glows with a radiant smile of love,
And gilds the music-breathing grove
With those pure beams of light serene,
Which sanctify the peaceful scene.
From wave and dome and field and grove
Rise the soft notes of pleading love,
And many a strain is heard from far
Of wandering lover's sweet guitar,
And in the songs he fondly sings
His glowing heart finds rainbow wings,
Which bear his spirit's powers afar
Unto his being's guiding star.
Dian — the queen of sighs and tears,
Her richest robe of beauty wears,
And smiles to hear the vows that rise
Beyond her empire in the skies,
While still she weeps, in prescient pain.
That passioned love is worse than vain.

St. Clara's dark and massy pile,

Where sunbeams fall but never smile,

'Mid the dense cypress grove uprears

Its ivied turrets, gray with years,

And, where the shadowy moonlight falls,

Uplifts its blackened prison walls,

Within whose solitary cells

Tearless despair forever dwells,

And sin, beneath devotion's name,

Reposes in its sacred shame,

While deeds 'twould sear the tongue to tell

Are done in murder's fatal cell.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Within St. Clara's cloistered gloom,
A living grave, a vital tomb,
Two lovely vestals, young and fair,
In misery dwelt and dark despair.
Their loves and hopes and feelings chained,
Lone sorrow o'er their being reigned,
'Till hope arose upon their eye,
And love's ecstatic witchery
Woke the fond hearts that had been crushed,
And the soul's sunlight current gushed.
Like roses budding on one stem
Or blending hues of opal gem,
Lonely they sat within their cell,
Silent till expectation's swell
Burst o'er each thought and feeling high,
Like sunshowers from the azure sky.
Round them the full heart's stilness hung,
'Till Zulma's glowing feelings sprung
To words that flowed like morning's beam,
Or song from lips of seraphim.
" Sweet Inez ! fast. the fearful hour
" When we shall spurn monastic power,
" Doth hasten, and our spirits' might
" Must dare the ordeal of to-night.
" The church's power, or father's ire,
" And Heaven perchance, will all conspire
" To cloud young love's ascending sun ;
" Then, Inez, 'til the deed is done,
" And we have passed their power's extent,
" Let not thy dove-like heart relent
" Nor fancy picture punishment."
" Oh, lovely Zulma ! hope is light
" Within my trembling heart to-night,

266

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

And fain this bosom yet would prove
" The silent joys of blissful love.
" But, ah ! my path in life hath been
" So full of grief, and every scene
" Of joy so soon hath changed to woe,
" Life's common bliss I ne'er shall know
" Till my lone heart hath ceased to beat
" Within the snow-white winding-sheet."
On her pale cheek and blanching brow
Hope's feverish hectic ceased to glow
And o'er her bosom came the blight,
The darkness of perpetual night,
The gloom of days that long had vanished,
And thoughts, that never could be banished.

Zulma's high spirit at the view

Of peril more undaunted grew,

And glowed 'mid sorrow's gathering gloom

Like angel faith above the tomb.

In danger's hour she stood alone,

'Mid fearful things the fearless one,

And, as her sunlight spirit burned

O'er the deep darkness of despair,

The trembling fears of all she turned

To hopes, and left them smiling there.

Her broad high brow the throne of thought,

And features into spirit wrought ;

Her star-beam eye and face of light,

And moulded form that chained the sight,

And swan-like neck, and raven hair,

And swelling bosom, richly fair,

Which rose and sunk, like moonlight seas,

In its deep passion's ecstacies,

THE SISTERS 01 SAINT CLARA.

As if her mighty heart were swelling

In sun-waves for its heavenly dwelling ;

All spake a spirit proud and high,

A wandering seraph of the sky,

And such was Zulma ; sorrow's night

Might its dark shadows o'er her cast,

But the deep gloom her spirit's light

Changed into rose-beams as it past ;

She had one aim, and none beside

Could bend her lofty lightning pride,

And, ere she drooped, she would have died-

Vemeira knew his daughter well,

And chained her spirit in a cell

Ere she could know the desolate

And hopeless woe of such a fate,

And 'twas to bless an elder child

He crushed that soul, so proud and wild.

VI.

Timid and fearful as the fawn,
That searches ere it treads the glade,
Yet lovely as a spring-time dawn
In robes of rosy light arrayed;
Warm, feeling, soft and delicate
As the last blush of summer eve,
Yet trembling at the frown of Fate,
Lest, while her heart did sadly grieve,
Sin should assume the garb of woe,
And shroud in gloom devotion's glow 5
Inez, though fair as forms that rove
Round Fancy's fondest dream of love,
Was tender, gentle, fragile, frail,
And shrinking as the violet pale
Which blooms in solitary vale,

268

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

By zephyr fanned and breathed alone,
Unseen, unsought, unprized, unknown.
Peelings suppressed and thoughts untold
Flowed silently, like molten gold,
O'er her fond heart, while virtue's sun
Threw glory o'er them as they run.
Her smiles and tears alike were born
In purity of virgin love,
And, like bright Eos, child of morn,
She drank at streams that gush above :
For sweetness such to her was given,
Her faintest prayer was heard in heaven.

When Zulma heard her sister's plaint,

And saw her gentle spirit sink,

Her soul arose in power — " To faint

" While standing on dark ruin's brink

" Were madness worse than mirth in death

" When love and bliss our flight await

" To quail, to droop despair beneath

" Were folly that deserved the fate."

" But if we fail "— " It cannot be !

Love, like the mountain breeze, is free,
" And, amid peril, wrong and ill,
M Strong as the gale that sweeps the hill,
?< Or severing ocean in its might,
* Brings long lost treasures into light."

But will beholding heaven approve
'* Our broken vows for earthly love ?"
u St. Mary shrive thee ! would'st thou be
w A vestal in hypocrisy ?
" Oh, gentle Inez, guard thy love !
" Count Dion's daring quest would prove

VII.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

M But folly's dream in evil hour,

" If thou dost spurn the boy-god's power."

Inez arose, her blue eye flowed

In gushing tears of pearly light —

" Zulma ! my heart were ill-bestowed

" If Dion called me false to-night."

" Vemeira's daughter still ! — Heaven !

" Love's messenger his call hath given !

Inez ! that rose, by Dion thrown,
" Lay on thy heart — it is thine own —
" And haste thee, for we must be gone I"
The soft strain of a sweet guitar
Now mellowed came as if from far,
But, skillful in its measured fall,
It rose by dark St. Clara's wall,
And, mastered by Prince Julian's hand,
Its sweet notes flowed so richly bland,
They told unseen the minstrel lover,
And Zulma's soaring spirit over
Threw breathless rapture as she fled
From her lone cell with footstep light,
While Inez' heart, at every tread,
Spake like deep voices of the night.

VIII.

'Queen of the skies ! why should the beams
Of thy soft eye so richly glow
O'er scenes that darkest gloom beseems,
As fitting their soul-harrowing woe ?
Why should thy smile alike illume
Despair and Hope, and Love and Hate,
The bridal mansion and the tomb,
Hearts full of bliss and desolate ?

23*

270

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Empress of Heaven ! oh, thou wert made
For blooming hearts and tearless eyes,
To light the spirit's serenade,
And high-soul'd love's fond ecstacies ;
And, when young Time in Eden's bowers
Wore radiant crowns of fragrant flowers,
While innocence with him would rove
In soothing shade of fair-leaved grove,
And love was bliss and truth its own
Blest guerdon in the morning's sight,
When angels looked from Glory's throne
And threw around her robes of light ;
Ere woe was born of sin, and crime
Blotted from man's corrupted heart
The fairest name that youthful Time
Had written there with magic art ;
Ere the sad hour man's father fell,
And o'er his fall rose shouts from hell,
Thou, sky-throned Isis ! from above,
Saw'st nought but pure unconscious love
Beneath the azure sky — whose sun
Smiled on each deed by mortals done.
Alas ! thou now art doomed to gaze
Upon a world so dark and fell,
That thy most pure and lovely rays
Reveal man's heart a living hell !

On the young vestals' desperate flight
Thou didst look down with smile as gay
As it had been their bridal night,
And they were led in fair array
O'er bright saloons and marbled halls ;
And on St. Clara's prison walls

IX.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

2SU

Thy gleaming radiance shone as fair
As if delight were smiling there ;
And on the lovely Inez' eye
As she and Zulma fled in fear,
Thy rays were thrown from yon blue sky,
Unconscious that they lit a tear.
Crossing the cypressed cemetry,
They hurried on with unheard tread
'Till they had gained the boundary
Of the lone empire of the Dead,
When, ere the signal could be given
To those who watched beyond the wall,
Inez stretched forth her hands to Heaven,
Weeping as if the hour when all
Her hopes should die had come and spread
Its pall o'er life — and thus she said ; —
" Now, ere we part, sweet Zulma, say
* Thou Iov'st me as in childhood's day,
" When we together fondly strayed
" Through arboured groves and green- wood shade,
" Plucked roses on the mead to crown
" The hours we loved to call our own.
" And felt that heaven looked smiling down,
' When none beneath the laughing sky
" Were half so gay as thou and I.
" Tell me the bloom of life's young flowers
" Still lingers round thy changeless heart
"And that the joy of happier hours
" Will never from thy soul depart !"
" Now ere we part ! a strange prelude,
" Fair sister ! to the heart's high bliss ;
" Thy very spirit is imbued
" With doubts and fears — away with this !

272.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

" Thou art my sister ! droop not now,
" Remember thine and Dion's vow !
" They hear our rustling in the shade—
" Here is the cord-wove escalade —
" Now, Inez, fearless follow me,
" Doubt not, we must and shall be free."
Unfaltering Zulma scaled the height,
Cheering the lovely nun to speed,
And then flew down with footstep light
To Julian's arms, most blest indeed,
The solitary vestal stood
A moment ere she dared to climb,
And in that moment's solitude
Her stolen flight appeared like crime ;
She was so pure, so lovely, sin
Tinged not a thought her soul within.
But Dion hung upon the height,
And step by step she climbed above,
Her hand was stretched, in wild delight.
To grasp that of her only love,
When fancied guilt and dark despair
Came o'er her as she lingered there.
And her brain reeled in dizziness ;
She heeded not the cries below,
She could not see nor hear nor know
The insupportable distress
Of those who saw her form on high,
Delirium in her swimming eye !
One last shrill shriek of wild affright.
The falling form that met his sight,
The hollow groan, that rose and fell
Upon his heart like ruin's knell,

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

273

u Away — away ! Prince Julian, fly !

" The alarum bell is pealing high,

" And ruthless hordes of vestal fiends

" Are rushing hither !" — Who ascends

Again that dreadful wall, so late

Scaled with a look that smiled at Fate ?

'Tis Zulma — " Julian ! leave me now,

" For I must share the death I wrought,

" And consummate my vestal vow

" In pain and darkness as I ought."

She rose to give her purpose deed,

When Dion barred her path and cried —

" Prince Julian ! as thou would' st in need,

" And when despair hath humbled pride,

" Crave mercy of the Power on high,

" Seize Zulma quick, and fly, fly, fly !"

In passion wild and wildered fear

The Prince obeyed the wise behest,

And grasped the heroic maiden ere

Her deed had left him thrice unblest,

And, ere a moment more had flown,

The high-soul'd nun and Prince had gone.

Count Dion watched till they had fled,

Then sprung below among the dead,

Where headstones gleamed to mock the gloom,

The desolation of the tomb.

Gently he raised the unconscious nun,

And laid her bleeding on his breast,

Thus — even thus, a blessed one

To pillow such a form to rest ;

While, as he gazed in speechless woe

On her soft, lovely features graven

274

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

With death's dark lines, he saw below

Nor love nor joy, nor hope in heaven.

But scarce the space of lightning's glare

Was left to muse of his despair,

Or soothe the suffering Inez there,

The cloister horde by Olotilde led,

Exulting that their holy hate

Could now be poured on beauty's head

And virtue's bosom desolate,

Rushed like hyena troops upon

The gallant Dion — but, appalled

By his proud port, though all alone

He stood — they paused and shrilly called

The faggot priest, their alguazil,

To guard the holy cloister's weal.

Folding his bosom's dying bride

With one strong arm unto his breast,

And with the other waving wide

Iberia's sword that many a crest

Had cloven in the deadly fray,

He bade the throng yield ample way.

And sprung upon the ladder's height ;

Then came the alguazil, the light

Of hell was in his scowling eye,

Dashing the trembling host aside

Like war-ship rushing in its pride.

The lover there that moment stood,

Not like a warrior trained in blood,

But like that Spirit who on high

His four-edged sword flashed o'er the sky,

And bade the sinning mortal die.

" Yield thee, blasphemer ! Heaven commands."

" Chain, then, the bold blasphemer's hands,

THE SISTERS OP SAINT CLARA.

275

" And bind his madden'd spirit down

" Low as thy master's and thine own."

" Darest thou the monarch's alguazil ?"

" Bid ye the whelp-robbed lion kneel !"

" Dark ruffian ! thou wilt rue this hour."

" Ruffian ! — not while my sword hath power."

And with the word the unfailing blade

Low at his feet the opposer laid,

And Dion seized the escalade.

He springs with more than mortal might,

He rises — almost gains the height —

His hand is on the moss-grown wall —

This moment saves or ruins all !

A word, a thought, a look, a dream

May ratify the doom of years ;

One glance, one quick electric gleam

May lead unto an age of fears !

Oh ! Dion, nerve thy heart again,

One minute — spring — and thou art free,

O think — thy love — 'tis vain — 'tis vain,

Despair hath sealed thy destiny !

They tear away the cord- wove frame,

And thou art doomed to woe and shame !

Still Dion bears the double weight

With one torn, bleeding, numbing hand

Awhile — he falls — the scroll of Pate

Hath rolled its darkest record ! " Stand,

" Exulting demons, stand ye there,

" And o'er all earth your triumph yell,

" And laugh o'er death and life's despair,

" For than ye worse reign not in hell !"

# # # # # • # *

• * # # * # •

Hosted by G00gk

276

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

XI.

'Tis joy to gaze, from the tall ship s lee,
On the curling waves of the moonlight sea,
When the mellow airs of spring-time night
Come over the heart as it floats in light,
And the sleeping flowers exhale perfume,
Like a virgin's breath from lips of bloom,
And the dark-blue waters curl and gleam
In the diamond star-light's mirrored beam,
While the spirit burns o'er the glittering sea
'Till it longs a moonlight wave to be.
Oh, spirits that sail on the moonlight sea
Should have thoughts as vast as eternity,
And feelings as pure as the sleeping rose,
When its leaves in the dew of the sunset close.

O'er Lusitania's soft-blue moonlight bay
Swells the gay song of reckless gondolier,
While his bark dances, as the waters play,
On the shore waves that glitter bright and clear.

Dim in the distance, marked upon the sky,
Wave the blue pennon and the glimmering sail,
And oft is heard the master's anxious cry
While shoreward sea-boy answers to his hail.

Yet, save his song and their expectant cries,
The world is slumbering in a soft repose,
And spirits from their star-thrones in the skies
Breathe softly as a dew-lipped sleeping rose.

It is the hour when love's communion fills
Eye, lip and heart with rapture's magic light ;
When waning Dian, throned on shadowy hills,
Smiles o'er young transports from her azure height.

XII.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

277

Pomegranate, orange, lime and citron groves
Shadow gray turrets and time-honoured towers,
And heaven's pale queen amid their arbours roves,
And counts with tears the melancholy hours.

But hushed is song of happy gondolier,
And fast the shadowy sail ascends on high ; —
A step, a form, a voice — " Prince Julian's here !"
" Alfonso, haste ! this hour we 'scape or die !"

Before the rising, shrill-voiced gale
Plies the yard-stretching, mighty sail,
Swelling o'er broad Atlantic billow,
Like swan upon her wavy pillow,
Dashing aside from her high prow
The wave, whose hissing foam- wreaths glow
Like jewels thrown in floating snow,
And hurrying on her watery way,
Between two oceans, heaven and earth's,
Like war-horse through the battle fray,
Whose mighty heart would burst his girths
In its high swelling, should his lord
Or check his speed or sheathe his sword.
With a long sigh, as if from dream
Of pain and anguish slowly waking,
From Julian's breast, with sudden scream
Wild as her bleeding heart were breaking,
Zulma rose and gazed around
On ocean's sons, on wave and sky,
And then fell back and deeply groaned,
While gleamed through tears her eagle eye.
" Inez ! sweet Inez !" Shudderings came
Over her like the sansar's breath,

XIII.

278

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

As from her heart flowed that sweet name

Which now was linked with woe and death,

And, wrapt in silent suffering,

She saw nor wave nor sky nor lover,

Nor heard the light- winged breezes sing,

Like nymphs in sea-shells, ocean over ;

All — all to her was pain and gloom,

Her thoughts of what she left behind

And o'er her angel sister's tomb

She heard the lonely wailing wind,

With spirit voice of wild distress,

Denouncing Inez' murderess !

Darkly with phantoms of her brain

Communing, o'er the billowy main

Zulma was hurried rapidly,

And the low murmuring of the sea

Seemed, when she. heard the gulfing surge

Hymning the murdered vestal's dirge.

The virgin huntress of the skies

Witn Ocean's daughters flies afar,

And Eos and her nymphs arise

Above the sun-god's throne, each star,

Orion's blazing sword of light,

And the twin-martyrs' glory bright,

And sea-born Beauty's radiance dimming,

While blue -zoned Tethys weaves a crown

Of pearls and corals brightly swimming

Through her vast empire fathoms down,

To deck Aurora's rosy brow

As her white steeds o'er ether fly,

And proud Hyperion, bright and slow,

Rolls unto heaven his glorious eye.

XIV.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

279

The bird of Jove his mighty wings
Waves o'er the crimson vault above,
And from his eye a radiance flings
Bright as the brightest glance of love.
The white-plumed sea-gull skims the sea,
The curlew sports around the bark,
And nature sings of liberty
And love as when from ancient ark
The beasts of earth and birds of heaven
To their bright fields and skies were given.

The rushing ship is sailing now
O'er the bright wave of Trafalgar,
And morn is blushing o'er the brow
Of Algarve's dusky mountains far,
With the same smile of living bloom
As when to ocean's billowy tomb,
Amid the sea-fray's carnage red,
Their requiem shouts of victory,
Shrouded in glory, England's Dead
Sunk with unclosed, war-lightened eye,
Whose last, bright glance from gory wave
Saw England's banner proudly streaming
Victorious o'er their ocean grave,
And England's sword triumphal gleaming ;
And o'er his sons, with every surge,
Bright, billowy ocean sings their dirge.
And now the swelling sail is fanned
By zephyrs o'er that narrow sea,
O'er which on either margin stand
Those giant mountain twins which he,
Alcmena's son, with god-like power,
Severed and poured the sea between,

xv.

280

THE SISTERS OP SAINT CLARA*

And which, since that rock-sundering hour,

The deadliest foes have ever been.

Thence onward holds the bark her way

Through the blue wave in fair array,

While to the northern view arise

The Appenines 'neath bending skies,

O'er whose snow-mantled summits erst

The Mauritanian hero led

His warlike host, by fate accursed,

To glory, as the warrior said,

And the proud spoils of mighty Rome 5

In that soul-stirring hour of pride,

When his heart rolled in glory's tide,

Having dread Cannae in his view

No more than he whom Waterloo

Doom'd to the Rock-Isle's living tomb,

Had of that desolating fray

On Lodi's or Marengo's day.

Before the view, where sun-beams smile,

Rises that rocky mountain isle,

Where he was born, the mighty one,

Whose gory course of fame is run ;

And where, perchance, a guiltless boy,

His fellows' chief, his mother's joy,

He wandered oft, and played, and smiled

Amid the mountain's shrubbery wild,

An innocent and happy child ;

Undreaming of his pomp and power.

His crimes, disgrace and exile fate.

Ah ! few can tell in childhood's hour

What thoughts and deeds their manhood wait

Or who will bann or bless the name

That blazes on the scroll of Fame.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA

In him a mighty spirit burned,
But with a fierce volcano glare ,
Oh, had that soaring spirit turned
To heaven and drank in glory there,
Earth would have bowed in rapture's mood
And held his name in sanctitude.
The Man, who guides a nation's way
To bloodless glory, o'er his name
Throws fairer wreaths of light than they
Who deck Earth's highest shrine of Fame.
But ah ! he fell, and with him died
His empire, power, and pomp, and pride ;
And nought remains of all he won —
Quenched is Napoleon's zenith sun.

Still onward fleet the ship careers,
Like rapid lapse of hurrying years,
While fades the bright foam of its wake,
Like all the joys we give or take,
And bears, with sail expanding high,
Its course, beneath a glorious sky,
Toward soft Campania's fairy land,
Where zephyrs sport with breathings bland
O'er ruins erst of pride and fame,
And gorgeous domes of deathless shame.
And, 'mid the night that robes the skies,
Julian directs sad Zulma's view
Where ^Etna's fiery columns rise
In desolation's lurid hue,
Glaring between this world and heaven,
Like fiends to whom destruction's given.
The baleful light is flaring o'er
Trinacria's vine-clad, flowery shore,

24*

282

THE SISTEKS OF SAINT CLARA.

Where Arethusa once gush'd forth
In lucid streams for bards to drink,
And Alpheus 'neath the sea and earth
Met his fair fountain bride — the brink
Bloomed like a garden of sweet flowers,
And, near, Ortygia's sacred grove
Delayed the rosy-footed hours
Of pure delight and raptured Love.
A weedy marsh now stagnates there,
And taints the thick and sluggish air,
As all man's hopes close in despair.
The lovers' course is almost done,
The lovers' goal is nearly won,
And how hath Zulma borne the flight ?
Like one whose brighest day was night.
Like one whose heart hath caught a taint
Of crime, though fancied, dark and deep ;
"Whose dread remorse doth ever paint
Horrors, and ne'er is lulled to sleep
Since o'er a spirit proud and high
It reigns with three-fold energy.
Who backward looks and finds despair,
And forward, misery bars her there ;
Who hath no hope on earth and none
Beneath high heaven's offended throne.
The more she thinks, the darker grows
The volume of her sins and woes ;
N > change comes o'er her agony ;
Like ^Etna's fire, it burns within,
And, dark'ning o'er the spirit's sky,
Burns ever with the gathering sin.
It was not madness ; o'er her brain
Coherent thoughts ceased not to flow ;

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

283

But 'twas that dread, oppressive pain,

That mountain weight of crushing woe,

Which follows, in a sinless mind,

A deed that spirits too refined

Brood into guilt- — for priestcraft e'er

Riots in human woe and fear.

Reason was worse than vain, and speech

The dreadful mania could not reach,

That o'er her burning spirit shed

The baneful death-dew of despair,

The upas of a bosom dead

To all of beautiful and fair ;

For Zulma sought no sympathy,

No comfort faithless as 'tis free,

But leaned upon the penal rod

And bowed her burning heart to God.

The barque has passed the Tyrrhine sea

And anchored in the glorious bay

Of proud and base Parthenope,*

Where perfumed gales with sunlight play

O'er antique temple, giant tower,

And palace proud, whose mirrored dome,

Like a bright heaven, o'er many a tomb

Of many a mighty one laid low

Gleams with a rich, refulgent glow,

Like Freedom o'er lost Power.

The barque is moored — the lovers gone

Beyond the once fair Lucrine lake,

Where dark-browed Ruin reigns alone

O'er BaisB lost in marshy brake,

XVI.

* Neapolis, or Naples.

284

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

And all the fairy gardens, groves,
Meadows and dales erst loved so well
By him* (so reckless luxury proves
In one a nation's ruin fell)
Who shunning Glory's shrine when he
Had gained the fane, left mighty Rome
The victim of fierce anarchy,
Dreading yet hurrying on her doom.
Lucrine — the haunt of mirth is gone,
And there volcanoes glare alone !
Baiae hath sunk to dust, and she,
Earth's mistress stands, like ancestry,
Scowling o'er sons whose highest boast
Had been their fathers' deepest shame,
To pride, to truth, to glory lost,
To honest hearts and patriot fame.

Days, weeks and months have been and gone,

And lovely Zulma dwells alone

In solitary castle high

Between fair earth and fairer sky.

Julian had been, all lovers are,

Had knelt and sworn his deathless love,

And, like a sky -throned, radiant star,

Thrown light and beauty from above ;

He had been all that being is,

Whom kindoms wait — I dare not dwell

On man s intent to offer bliss

To one who had for him farewell

Bidden all thoughts of earth and heaven,

And sole to him her full heart given.

XVII.

* Lucullus

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

285

Prince Julian was Campania's heir,

And thus decreed his royal sire ;—

" Thou wed'st proud Austria's daughter fair,

" Or never com'st the sceptre nigher."

Julian was proud of pomp and fame —

The fair nun could nor trump his name

Nor plume his power — but she might be

The unseen queen of sovereignty,

The empress of his private hours —

The angel of his palace bowers.

So Julian thought, though he had tried

Her honest fame by speech oblique

And look lascivious, when his pride

And birth and state appeared most weak

Before wronged Zulma's Juno eye,

Whose glance spake pride and purity.

From day to day he talked of love,

While Zulma would not see his aim,

Save when the princely sophist strove

To prove all rites a needless name ;

Then flashed her eye and glowed her brow,

Like sunbeams o'er the mountain snow.

On love I will not moralize ;

It hath more wiles and snares than sighs ;

Sooth be the tale and fair I tell —

His deeds are man's true chronicle.

'Twas soft Campania's evening hour,
And earth and heaven were seas of light,
And Zulma in her rose-wove bower
Sate gazing on the horizon bright,
Where white clouds float and turn to gold
In many a bright and glorious fold,

XVIII.

286

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

And fancy pictures angel pinions
Far waving o'er those high dominions,
'Till, as she thought of pleasures gone,
And Inez, tortured, dying, dead,
And her own misery there alone,
Her hopes destroyed, her true loves fled,
Her bleeding heart left desolate,
And all the ills and woes of fate,
She seized her harp and mournfully
Sung of those joys no more to be.

The bright sun is sinking o'er Italy's sea,
And kissing Campania's fair gardens of flowers,
But, oh, his smile brings no pleasure to me,
For my heart ever grieveth o'er childhood's sweet
hours :

Sweetly gay rise the notes of the lover's guitar,
As he greets his heart's bride in the valley cot near,
But, ah, all my songs of delight are afar,
Like a spirit's voice heard on the banks of Zevere.

How oft have I sat with sweet Inez upon

Those rose-cushioned banks in our being's gay hours,

And fancied delights ever new to be won

In the great World of beauty and music and flowers !

How oft, O thou dear one ! I slumbered with thee

In our moon-lighted bower in the spring of the year

And heard the birds singing on our apricot-tree

When we woke to delight on the banks of Zevere !

How often when nature in vain bloomed around
I turned in my heart-stricken sorrow to thee,
And in vigil and penance and weariness found
Thy sweet love a solace and treasure to me i

THE BANKS OF ZEVERE.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

287

But, alas ! thou art dead* and I am alone,
Far from all that on earth or in heaven were dear ;
Fare thee well, lovely Inez ! dark shadows are thrown
O'er our bower on the banks of the lonely Zevere.

Julian had stood beside the bower,
And heard, unseen, the mournful song,
While every blushing, dewy flower
Reproached him with fair Zulma's wrong ;
But nature's voice, so soft, so still,
Fails to o'errule ambition's pride,
Or with atoning sorrow fill
A lordly heart unsanctified.
Julian drew near and greeted fair
The sad, forsaken, lovely maid,
And, eloquent in praise and prayer,
Rehearsing all he oft had said,
Implored compliance with his love,
Acceptance of his treasures — all —
And she should ever — ever prove
The queen of banquet, bower and hall,
And be his heart's eternal bride,
His life his sun, his hope, his heaven,
And, when he gained his throne of pride,
His royal name should soon be given.
But, while the Prince besought and prayed,
How sat and looked the insulted maid ?
Like her of Enna's rosy vale
When wooed by him of Acheron ;
Her marble brow, her cheek so pale,
Her tearful eye — -all brightly shone
With pride and shame, disdain and scorn,
And thus — " Why was I ever born

288

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

" So to be scoffed at ?" quick began

The nun, while fierce her hot blood ran,

And her small form, dilating, grew

Like towering angel on the view.

" Prince Julian, cease ! I charge thee, cease !

" Are these thy notes of love and peace ?

" Art thou to be a nation's king ?

" Thou — false, deluding, faithless thing !

" The thoughts that lightened spirits high

" In the old days of chivalry,

" Throw not a wandering gleam o'er thee,

" Thou craven night of loselry !

" Vemeira is a noble name,

" And it can never be that fame

" Should Zulma's memory link with shame,

" Shall I thy leman be ? O no !

" Never while I can wield a blow,

" While poison drops or waters flow.

" Rede thou a woman's spirit well

" Ere mock her thus with words from hell,

" And know that virtue is her heaven,

" To things like thee, oh, never given !

** O Julian, Julian ! love like mine

" Is quenchless, deathless, for 'tis pure ;

" E'en now it doth around thee twine

** Fondly, and cannot but endure

" The same as when thine eye first shone

" O'er the same mirror as my own.

" Hadst thou been what I thought thee erst

" As knightly as thou wert at first,

" Though doomed to groan in poverty,

" 'Mid malice, misery, wrong and ill,

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

289

" The slave of fear — a lord to me —

" I would have loved — obeyed thee still,

" And, with unsorrowing brow and eye,

" Forsaken not and unforsaking,

* When sleeping, kissed thy misery

" Away, and sung to thee when waking.

" But these are dreams of passion yet

" Surviving when its hope hath set ;

" Vain mockeries of my bosom's sun,

" Quenched ere his journey hath begun !

" I leave thee, Julian ! and be thou

" Thy own just judge — no worse ! and now —

" There are thy gifts !" — From neck of snow

Her carcanet — and then her zone

Of jewels and her chains and rings

She loosed and threw, disdainful, down ;

" There, Julian, take the gilded things,

" For which thou thought'st that I would sell

" My honour— and now fare thee well !"

Bewildered, lost in guilt and shame,
And torrent passions wildly warring ;
Defied, despised in deed and name,
Each wild-fire thought another marring ;
Prince Julian stood unmoving where,
In all the grandeur of despair,
Zulma, like empress throned in power
More than deserted nun, had left
Her lover in that sundering hour
When her proud heart of hope was reft.
Zulma had hurried from his view —
Her form of love, her voice, her smile,

XIX.

290

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA*

No more enchantment o'er him threw —
No more his sorrows could beguile ;
She had been his — and now was not —
He had been hers in grief and woe —
Now she had gone — to be forgot —
And he was left alone to — " No !
" By Heaven ! it cannot, shall not be i
" Crown, sceptre, kingdom — what are ye
" To love and love's true paradise ?
" The earth preferred unto the skies !
" Ambrose !" " My lord !"— " Caparison
" The fleetest steed in all my stalls,
" And bring the courser here anon —
" And guard thou well the castle walls !
" I will the maid regain or die,
" For Honour is man's majesty !"
He vaulted on his gallant steed,
And vanished in the forest dun,
Then rose the hill, and o'er the mead
Rushed 'neath the last beam of the suil

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

291

THE

SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

O land of my birth ! thou fair world of the West !
With freedom and glory and happiness blest '
Thou nation upspringing from forest and grove,
Like wisdom's armed queen from the brain of high
Jove !

Though thy winds are the coldest the North ever
blows,

And thy mountains the drearest when covered with
snows ;

Tho' the warm fount of feeling is chilled while it
gushes,

And pleasure's stream frozen as brightly it rushes ;
Tho' thy sons, like their clime, are oft chilling and rude
And rough as the oak in their own mountain wood ;
Yet I love thee, my country ! as fondly as Tell
Loved the Alpine Republic he rescued so well.
For thy yeomen can circle the winter-eve hearth,
Undreading oppression, and talk of the Earth,
Whose bosom yields nurture to father and son
Leaving hearts pure and gay when the glad work is
done :

While the paeans they shout over glories by-gone
Are echoed by virtues for ever their own.

CANT O II.

292

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

O thou home of the rover o'er ocean's rude wave,
Asylum of sorrow and fort of the brave !
Advance in thy glory o'er forest and sea,
Unrivalled, unconquered, heroic and free !
Though the rose bloom and fade in its holiday hour,
And the sun-god is palled in his glory of power
Tho' winter's cold breath blanch the blossoming rose,
Unlike the bright clime where the sky ever glows,
Yet thy virtues bend not to each soothing breeze,
Whose syren song lures through the soft shading trees
Like the gay, grovelling sons of the tropical clime,
Whose skies are all glory — whose earth is all crime.
None love thee so well as thy sons far away,
None bless thee more oft than the bard of this lay.

The sunniest rose that ever blowed

In velvet vale of soft Cashmere ;

The loveliest light that ever glowed

O'er heaven in spring-time of the year,

Ne'er blushed and beamed more purely bright

Than gentle Inez' sinless heart

Upon that dread unholy night

When doomed with all it loved to part.

No spirit, gazing from above,

With eyes impearled in pity's tears,

Cherished more heavenly thoughts of love

In glory's highest, brightest spheres,

Than that pure child of love and light,

Dragged, 'neath the covert of the night,

To the dim arch'd refectory ;

Where, telling fast their rosaries,

And lifting many a saint-like eye

To heaven with muttered groans and sighs,

ii.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

293

The demon conclave met to doom

To living grave, to breathing tomb,

The apostate, suffering, dying nun.

The word hath passed — the deed is done !

Ere morn gleams through the pictured glass

Of prison cell, or o'er the wall

Of dark St. Clara light doth pass,

Dimly and thick and sickening, all

Of that dark bigot band, save one,

Are kneeling at the tapered shrine,

Before the Omniscient's holy throne,

Where every thought should be divine,

To chant their impious prayers to Him,

In whose creation-searching eye

Not even the heavenliest seraphim

Are pure in their great piety !

Alas ! that Heaven's most blessed boon,

Religion, breathing peace and love,

In man's polluted heart so soon

The veriest creed of hell should prove !

Unseen, unfelt, .unknown, her fate

O'er the fair vestal's head had past,

And she was left all desolate —

The doom was sealed — the die was cast —

Ere, waking from her dreadful dream,

She faintly said — " I heard a scream

" Of death, methought, O Dion ! say

" Is Zulma safe ?" Then, as she lay

Leaning against the dungeon wall,

She turned — groaned — and fell back again ;

" Oh, Dion ! love ! oh, tell me all,

in.

294

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

" Where — where is Zulma ?" — Awful pain

Came o'er her then and dimmed the eye

Of yesternight's dread memory,

And through her spirit's drear opaque

She could not look — she could not take

Perception of her agony ;

She knew 'twas so — but how or why

It baffled her delirious brain

To tell ; — and then she thought again,

And more distinct her memory grew

Of what had passed — and chill the dew

Of death hung on her writhen brow,

Where love still shed its parting glow,

As dim she caught the past and gone ;

Yet she could not — the dying one,

Think why she thus was left alone.

She spake again, but faint and low —

" O Dion ! thou hast often said

" Thy love could master every woe,

" And o'er all griefs its radiance shed ;

" It cannot be that thou should' st now

" Forsake thy love, forget thy vow — •

" Now, when I feel — O Dion, come

" And bear me hence — I must go home !"

She listened then for some faint sound,

And strove to rise and look around ;

But all was midnight gloom, and she

Alone there in her agony.

Still memory gathered link by link —

And still life's current quickly bled —

With a death-thirst she longed to drink

What flowed around her dungeon bed ;

She scooped the fluid in her hand,

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

And bore it to her lips — 't was blood !
And then her spirit lost command
'Mid horror, gloom, and solitude,
While thought, no words of man can tell,
O'er all the past began to swell,
And well she saw her hopeless doom,
There buried in eternal gloom,
Whence shrillest shriek and wildest cry-
Could never reach the shuddering sky.
No missal there nor cross had she,
O'er which to breathe her parting breath ;
To cheer her in her misery,
And change to bliss the pangs of death ;
For they had banned the dying nun
And barred redeeming penitence !
Demons ! their hate her glory won —
Her amulet was innocence !
So malice works its own reward,
And weakest proves when most on guard,
For never yet hath hatred wrought
The deadly ruin which it sought,
Untended by a deadlier blow
Than that which laid its victim low.

IV.

A sound disturbed her solitude —
High chanting from the chapelry ;
Like wailings from a gloomy wood
When echoed by a stormy sky,
The distant swell of cloister strain
And matin hymn came o'er her brain,
And roused to life her slumbering pain ;
It was her dirge — that morning song,
And slowly rolled the notes along

296

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

The cypress groves — the vaults — the cells —

Like murder's midnight groan which tells

The fearful deed most fearfully ;

And there the lovely Inez lay

In suffering's last extremity,

While not a solitary ray

Of light relieved the heart-felt gloom

That palled her spirit in the tomb.

It was a mockery of her woe —

The mass of hell yelled out below — -

That pasan, like a death-doom sent

Through farthest vault — through deepest celL,

To agonize the punishment

Of the fair one Heaven loved so well.

But oh, no fiend with things can cope

Whom God hath left to their own will —

Giv'n o'er beyond all reach of hope,

At hate's hell-cup to drink their fill ;

The deadliest demon, banned the most,

May fill the archangel's holiest throne

Ere mortal once — forever lost,

Can for his damning deeds atone.

The light of heaven may beam o'er hell

Dimly and touch the apostate there ;

But man, abandoned, bids farewell

To hope, and weds his own despair.

Another sound the stillness broke,

And Inez' bleeding heart awoke.

It was the wailing of a dove,

The death-song of a simple bird

O'er her who died for heaven and love,

And gladly were the soft notes heard.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Perched on a cypress o'er her cell,

The bird hailed not the glorious sun,

But sadly sung the last farewell

Of the pure, sweet, expiring nun,

To earth and earthly sins and woes

And life so early in its close.

As Inez listened to the strain,

And longed to waft it back again,

The shade of death was in her eye,

The pulses of her being beat

Faintly, and death's last agony

Came o'er her like a shadowy bloom,

A soft voice stealing from the tomb,

A light to guide the parting spirit

Beyond the woes that all inherit.

Feebly she sunk — the crimson tide

Gushed forth no more — her heart was still ;

Yet her lips trembled as she died—

" Dion — forgive — my wrongs !" and 'till

Her features sunk collapsed in death

That name was breathed with every breath.

VI.

A taper gleams amid the gloom —

A white-robed form approaches near — .

It pauses by the dungeon tomb,

And listens tensely as in fear,

Or hope — and now it moves again

And lifts the iron-bolted grate,

And gazes o'er the cell of pain,

Doubting its lovely tenant's fate.

Demon ! go in — thy victim's gone !

Unseen, unheard, like guilt alone.

298

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA

Clotilde doth listen there awhile,

And then descends — and with a smile

Deadly and dark moves round the corse,

Whose features are an angel's still.

" Dead 1 — Ay, 'tis well — it had been worse

" Had justice half fulfilled my will

" Or hadst thou lived till now !" — She turned

The lovely vestal's body o'er,

And laughed aloud ; and then she spurned

The corse upon its gory floor,

And smiled as if she gave it pain ;

And then she raised the beauteous nun —

" Ay, 'tis a blessed fate, sweet one !

" That thou hast wrought thyself — again

" Thou would'st not do the deed !" She threw

The pale, cold corse in scorn away,

And yet more dark her features grew,

As death had robbed her of her prey ;

And still she stood, with fiend-like eye,

Revelling in hatred's demon feast,

And with low curse and muttered cry

Banning e'en Him who had released

The vestal from her deadly power

And raised the soul to Eden's bower,

When a loud crash rose high; — and far

The echo as of bolt and bar

Shooting, went forth ! — Where art thou now,

Proud abbess ? Ah ! thou soon wilt know !

The iron portal to the cell,

The lifted grate had fallen — how

Tt nought avails for me to tell ;

Perchance, the wind had laid it low,

Or death- winged angel might have thrown

The dreadful bars in anger down.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

299

Eternal justice to dispense

To suffering, murdered innocence.

Howe'er it was — proud Clotilde there

Was doomed to perish with the dead,

In silence, darkness and despair,

And meet the fate her sentence said.

There could be no relief — no, none —

She had gone forth, unseen, alone,

And from that subterranean cell

No cry arose to human ear ;

It was a dark monastic hell,

Beyond hope's sun-illumined sphere.

She shook the bars — but they were fast —

She shrieked — but echo mocked her pain ;

She gazed around — but shadows past

Like fiends, and she sunk down again.

And then remorse was leagued with fear.

And both like vipers gnawed her heart :

And horrid sounds were in her ear

That cried — " What dost thou here ? depart !

" Seek thou the hell of thy dark creed,

" Thine be the doom thou hast assigned,

" The unpitying bigot's bitter meed,

" The quenchless ruins of the mind !

" Depart ! depart !" how awful e'er

Is guilt when phrenzied by its fear!

Unshrived, she there must die in all
Her unforgiven guilt and woe ;
On either side a dungeon wall,
And wrath above and death below
Unsoothed, unpitied and alone,
Without a single orison,

VII.

300

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Without a tear to mourn her fate,

Or look of grief compassionate,

Or holy right or orris pall

Or requiem chanted forth by all

The holy vestal sisterhood,

Who round her erst admiring stood

As if St. Marie had been given

To them in other form from heaven.

But such be guilt's dark fate for e'er !

She there must perish dust to dust,

Unshriven in the dungeon drear,

Accursed below — among the just

All entrance barred eternally !

Now guilt forestalled redemption's hours,

And madness sprung from agony !

Darkly the storm of misery lowers,

And darker yet it soon shall be ;

For Sin uprears her giant form

And mad Remorse, her spectre, stands,

Gashed by the fangs of guilt's dark worm,

Lifting on high his gory hands

To warn too late — to tell at last

The victim that her day hath past,

And yet more awful thoughts arise

More fearful shadows blast her view,

And wilder are her echoed cries,

And colder is the dungeon-dew.

Time flies — strength fails — but madness grows
Stronger and darker in its mood,
And fevered Fear delirious throws,
O'er all the gloom a robe of blood ;

VIII.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

801

And now she sinks beside the nun,

There like a song-lulled angel sleeping,

And smiling as her woes were done,

And she in heaven were vigils keeping.

She starts as if an adder stung !

A demon voice of mirth had rung

Through all the chambers of her brain ;

She listens — now it comes again,

Blended with laughter wild and rude,

And echoes through the fatal cell,

And cries aloud — " Thy soul's imbued

* With blood of innocence ;— 'tis well

" That on thy victim's lifeless breast

" Thou should'st sink in eternal rest !"

Her maniac heart could bear no more,

The last extremity had come ;

She grovelled on the cold earth floor

In speechless anguish at her doom ;

Gazed with a madden'd eye, that told

What horrors o'er her bosom rolled,

Upon the nun who slept as still

As infant that has drank its fill ;

Then with a shriek that might appal

The fiend, against the dungeon wall

Dashed headlong — groaned and died ] — 'Tis past,

The more than mortal suffering.

Alas ! I would it were the last !

But earthly minstrel dare not sing

Of fates beyond the farthest ken

Of starry-eyed philosophy ;

Among the abodes of mortal men

He finds enough of misery

302

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

To break the heart and rack the brain
That feels or thinks of human pain.
Her fate hath past — her soul hath fled —
And peace attend the voiceless Dead !

Life scarce had parted and her fate

Passed o'er the haughty abbess there,

Ere steps approached the iron grate,

And voices, as in last despair.

Echoed above the fatal cell. —

The portal's raised and they descend,

The sisterhood. — Now note ye well,

Fair vestals ! ere ye ween to wend

In sin's broad path, sin's woful end !

The highest bliss of heaven may prove

The bitterest dreg in misery's cup,

And spirits born of heaven and love

By guilt be lost and given up

To state abhorring and abhorred —

And not adoring and adored !

Long was the anxious search and quest

Ere they could trace their abbess there,

And anguish searched full many a breast

As they stood gazing in despair

On murdered and on murderess.

I pause not now to paint the scene —

The natural ills of life suffice

To fill with tears the sternest eyes,

When thought retraces what hath been,

To gloom the heart and cloud the way

That shone so brightly yesterday.

IX.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

303

Together from the dungeon cell
The corses were in silence borne,
While lingering tolled the funeral knell,
And sullen echoes moaned forlorn ;
And shrouded in their vestments white,
They laid them side by side, and kept
Their vigils through the livelong night,
While breathlessly the dead ones slept,
As softly as two infants, born
Perchance, to be each other's scorn !
The wakeful sisters watched alone,
And many a holy rite was done
To foil the fiend and save the soul
Of her who once held high control
O'er penance stern and vow austere,
For many a long and sinful year.
The lovely innocent that there
Too holy was for grief or prayer,
Lay like a picture of the blest, —
'Twas her last hour and loveliest !

They watched — they prayed — night waned and morn,
Like holy hope in Eden born,
Blushed the stained glass and casement through,
And gave the gloomy scene to view.

To die — to feel the spirit fainting

In the mansions of the breast,

While yet the vivid eye is painting

Life and vigor unpossessed ;

To see the mortal frame decaying,

The temple's pillars breaking down,

And know the soul will soon be straying

304

THE SISTERS OF SAINT €LARA 9

Over climes and realms unknown ;
While warm affection hovers o'er
The couch of death, with wailing prayer
Imploring lengthened life once more
In all the anguish of despair ;
And we behold and feel and know
All that is felt for us and yet
Beside perceive the overthrow
Of hopes on which the heart is set.
And picture in our dying hour
Anguish unknown till we are dead,
And conscious, hopeless misery's power.
And tears from being's fountains shed-
On, 'tis a time, an hour of gloom
Worse than the midnight of the tomb '
But, ah, 'tis worse to think that we,
The proud, high, sentient lords of earth
Must moulder into dust and be
Or clay or nothing ! At our birth
[t was decreed that we should die,
But not that we should rotting lie
With every foul and loathsome thing
Blending our ashes. — Fling, oh, fling
My corse in ocean's booming wave,
Or burn it on the funeral pyre,
But lay it not in reeking grave
To glimmer with corruption's fire !
St. Clara's funeral bell is knelling
With the solemn voice of death,
And far the mournful notes are swelling
While from postern far beneath
Issue the white-robed virgin train,
Chanting low the requiem strain,

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Over the dark and dismal tomb

Of one in being's roseate bloom,

And one in sallow withered age,

Departed from life's tragic stage.

Where sorrow never wakes to weep,

And ill and wrong distract no more,

And homeless wanderers sweetly sleep,

And hate and pride and pain are o'er,

They lay the vestals finally.

Above them waves a cypress tree,

Intwined with briar and rosemary,

And round them sleep the mighty dead,

Who centuries since forever fled ;

A silent nation gone — alas !

Where living thought can never pass.

The ceremonial pomp is past —

The vestals vanish, one by one —

The holy father is the last,

And even he hath slowly gone.

And stillness reigns o'er all the scene,

That is so peaceful and serene ;

A stillness greatly eloquent

When pious spirits bow and feel

Delicious melancholy, sent

From heaven o'er all their being steal

With purifying breathings mild ;

And they become like little child

Gentle and docile, purely good,

In their communing solitude,

And look from earth to heaven with eye

Of sage reflecting piety,

Comparing man's allotment here

With glories of a brighter sphere.

26*

306

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

XI.

O Love ! the holiest name in heaven,
The purest, sweetest thing below !
Why are thy joys to torture given 1
Thy rapture's unto wailing woe ?
Why should thy fondest votaries prove
Faithful even unto death in vain ?
Or why, despite thy vows, O Love !
Should all thy blisses close in 'pain?

No voice was heard — no form was seen

Within the churchyard's lonely bound,

And Dion, from his weedy screen,

Rose mournfully and gazed around.

Long had he watched each lone — lone hour

For some faint note of joy or grief,

'Till destiny's most dreaded power

To him had almost been relief.

But nought allayed his dread suspense

'Till Inez and her murderess

Were borne to that lone mansion whence

No tenant ever found egress.

Then flashed the whole revealment dire

O'er Dion's burning heart and brain,

And death became a wild desire,

A refuge from his penal pain.

With rolling eye, and brow of gloom,

And pallid cheek and trembling tread,

Dion approached the robbing tomb

Where Inez slept among the dead\

And bowed his throbbing head upon

The dark funereal tablet stone

Despairingly, while forth his tears

Unbidden gushed. — " In youthful years

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

307

" 1 little recked of fate like this ;

" I thought the world was full of bliss

" And man most blessed in life — Alas !

" And nought remains for me to dare
" But misery, madness and despair ;
" The darkness of a breast that bleeds
" O'er the wild thought of damning deeds,
" The doom that never will depart
" From the dim mansions of the heart."
He drew his poniard, looked on high
For the last time with gleaming eye,
Then laid him down the grave beside
And clove his heart ! The purple tide
Gushed like a torrent and — he died !
The last glance of his spirit turning
To her for whom his heart was burning.

The autumnal sun's rich evening beams

Blush o'er Cantabria's billowy sea,

And Lusian fields and groves and streams,

Like angel smiles, celestially ;

And clustering vines hang purpling o'er

The shrubbery-mantled palisade,

And golden orange, cypress hoar,

And cork-tree rough, and yew, whose shade

The dead alone doth canopy,

And sunken glen and dim defile,

Alike in nature's bounties free,

Return the soul-inspiring smile

Of Autumn — queen-muse of the heart !

And as soft evening's hues depart,

I am not now the thing I was ;

XII.

308

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Like holy hopes that smile in death,
And twilight robes the fading sky
With beauty felt, not seen — beneath
The spreading palm, the lover's eye
Burns as he tunes his soft guitar,
And sees his own dear maid afar,
Approaching her rose-woven bower
To solemnize love's sacred hour.
And lordly prince and shepherd hind,
And lady proud and simple maid
Enjoy alike the season kind,
"When flowers grow lovelier as they fade.
Eve shadows dim the varied scene,
And the calm sunlight wanes away,
While one lone cloud of lustre sheen
Still wears the rays of parting day,
And hangs upon the zenith sky,
Like hope the sad heart lingering by.

Looming in shadowy twilight o'er

Tajo's broad bay afar is seen,

Scudding toward the Lusian shore,

A quick, unladen brigantine ;

And now it grows upon the eye,

White sail, dark hulk, and swan-like prow ;

And swells upon the evening sky

Like castle turreted with snow ;

And full the rushing wake is heard,

Blent with command's shrill-uttered word,

And many a heart throbs fondly now

To meet its loves and find its home,

As the light vessel crinckles slow

The waters w r hich no longer foam.

XIII.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA,

309

The brigantine is moored — the crew

Are busy, boisterous, glad and gay,

And jovial crowds are there ; — but who

Through the dense throng makes rapid way

With looks so proudly desolate ?

Tis Zulma, who hath borne her fate

And yet will bear 'till being's close,

All she hath lost and still can lose,

With an unshrinking spirit none

Can tame or crusji ; — she is alone

In desolation — but she bears

Her lofty brow unblanched, and throws

Around an eye undimned by tears,

And, as she hurries on, she grows

Stronger, as if her spirit stood

Prepared for woe of all degree,

And agony and solitude.

And horror, and deep misery.

With hurried step though tearless eye,

She came, where still the massy towers

Of her own convent rose before her

And cast time's deepened shadows o'er her*

From many a tongue too soon she heard

The fatal story of the past,

Told too with many a needless word,

That fell like Lybia's desert blast.

Zulma shrieked not, but fiercely rolled

O'er brain and heart the worst— the last

Wild storm of ruin ; hope fell dead,

And her high spirit 'neath its own

Intensity was crushed ; she said

Nothing responsive — sigh nor groan,

Nor scream nor cry was heard ; she threw

310

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Her bleeding eye to heaven and bowed

A moment as in prayer— then grew

Like desperation calm. — A crowd,

As toward St. Clara's towers she went,

Followed in mute astonishment

That she should thus defy despair

And her own certain ruin dare.

Soon ceased their marvel — Zulma came

Beneath the window of her cell,

And upward gazed — and sighed the name,

The memory of the victim nun

The loved, the lost, the lonely one,

Who shed o'er life the only spell

The true heart loves and prizes well.

And as she gazed with mournful eye

On dusky wall and cypress grove,

The soul whose pride could never die,

The spirit of immortal love

That never sheds a human tear,

Was journeying to a holier sphere.

*• Jesu Maria ! who art thou ?
" Christ and the Virgin shield us now !"
A war-steed dashes through the throng—
A horseman leaps upon the ground,
And rushes like a maniac strong
Toward dying Zulma, while around
Gather the crowd to mark the scene —
For one so mournful ne'er had been.
Zulma looked up — a faint smile passed,
Like silvery moon-beam on the wave,
O'er lip and eye and then it cast

XIV.

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

Behind the death hue of the grave.
Low bowed the horseman, Julian, there.
And fearful was his agony ;
He kneeled, like statue of despair,
In hopeless, speechless misery ;
But quivering lips and burning brow
Were worse than vain and idle now.
" Zulma " — he said at last, but wild
Came then the memory of his shame,
And Zulma's eye so proudly smiled
He trembled but to speak her name,
For she was calm as all must be
Who triumph o'er the demon — man,
And hold their pride and purity
Above corruption's blight and bann.
But life was ebbing fast away
From Zulma's broken heart and now,
While yet was left a conscious ray
Or never more his words must flow.
He spake at last — his words were few
But full of dark remorseful power,
The out-pourings of the soul's mildew,
That taints each love]y blooming flower.
Making all life a waste ! — The fire
Of being, that had sunk and waned
In Zulma's bosom, burned again
Brightly a moment and there reigned
A majesty 'mid all her pain
That daunted Julian, as she strove
To rise upon a maiden's breast ; —
" Prince Julian ! that thou had'st my love,
* And that in thine I was most blest,
'Tis bootless now to own ; my doom

312

THE HOUR AT WILL.

" Is sealed forever and the tomb
" Must be the resting-place of one
" Who once — who yet loves thee alone ;
" Thou hast my pardon while I live —
" Forgive thyself as I forgive /"
Backward she fell — faint grew her breath,
Life left her cheek, her brow, her eye ;
Slow o'er her heart came chilling death —
Zulma is in eternity !

Tis only when the heat and dust and toil
Of day have passed, my better heart can smile ;
'Tis only when in weariness and pain,
My task hath ceased to bind my dizzy brain,
That gentler thoughts and holier feelings come
Like angel visitants, and guide me home —
Home to the hallowed temple of the mind,
Where heaven's own music rolls upon the wind.
And, oh, while wandering 'mid the cold and low.
And mocking Mammon with a smile and bow,
While doomed to wear o'er deep contempt, applause,
And crush my nature 'neath the world's vain laws,
How, like a lost child, seeking home once more,
My bosom brightens, and my soul doth soar !
How, like the eagle of my native clime,
Genius aspires beyond the reach of Time !
Then for a moment, glad oblivion throws
Its deep veil o'er my trials and my woes,

THE HOUR AT WILL

PART I.

THE HOUR AT WILL.

313

And trickling touches of a kindlier mood,
Like summer evening o'er the ancient wood,
Soothe evil passions, lull the heart to rest,
And blend the spirit with the pure and blest ;
And I forget that Fortune is my foe,
And Man the fiend that reigns in human woe :
That lineal hatred o'er my childhood spread
The gloom, though not the slumber of the dead,
And yet prevails to sadden every scene
Where hope and love and loveliness have been.
All these pass from me in the hour of pride,
Like smouldering wrecks down ocean's billowy tide .
With downcast eyes and tiar'd head declin'd,
His gold- wrought purple floating in the wind,
Gazing on valley, forest, stream and flood,
Against a rock the Persian monarch stood ;
While, far below, his vassal millions lay
Like bristling tigers couchant for their prey,
Ardent as eagles, joyous as the lark
Whose music melts along the silvery dark,
Full of high hope of conquest, power and fame, —
That golden shroud for every mortal name !
And, as he gazed upon this pomp of power
One trump had summon'd to his palace bower, —
The haughty Despot wept that Time should cast
Their names, like ashes, on the fire-winged blast,
That, ere three-score of hurrying years went by,
His glorious millions, — each and all would die !
Each for himself, philosopher or bard,
Must toil uncheered and be his own reward
Through evils countless as the midnight dews —
The victim votary of the thriftless muse-
Till bursts the sun of Fame's rejoicing day,

314

THE HOUR AT WILL.

And the hours blossom like the buds of May,

And Youth's dim hope out-blazes like a star

High throned in heaven and gleaming from afar.

And flatterers crawl around the honoured one

Mocked when obscure and trampled when unknown !

What recks the world — stern, haughty and austere —

From whose swoln eye slow drops the undried tear ?

What recks the world if care and grief assail

The heart that suffers though it will not quail ?

If doubt and darkness gather round his way,

Whose spirit revels in the light of day ?

If, poor and friendless, Genius must submit

And panier'd dullness crush the choisest wit ?

If earth becomes, by man's inhuman guile,

A hell, the deeper that the sun-beams smile ?

And Mind, new lighted at the throne of God,

Darken and sink and mingle with the sod ?

What recks the world, ere wakes the son of Fame,

Who blights and execrates an unknown name ?

Or who bands forth a menial miscreant host

And triumphs o'er archangel spirits lost ?

— Dark are the shades that cloud thy mortal hours

Poor lonely wanderer from elysian bowers,

And few the joys, earth's silken sons possess,

Light the wild horrors of thy wilderness !

As sable clouds along the evening sky
Glow with the glories of the sun's bright eye,
So the dull toils of daily life assume,
When Genius smiles, the beauty and the bloom
Of unseen realms, where holiest spirits sing
'Mid the fair gardens of an endless spring.
Few and uncertain 'mid the cares of life,

THE HOUR AT WILL.

315

The sin, the sorrow, and the hate and strife,
Are the brief hours devoted to the shrine
Of Love, whose purest worship is divine,
But these quick moments gladden and uplift,
And bear us through the sublety and thrift,
The coldness, darkness, solitude and want,
The woes that wither though they cannot daunt,
Raise and refine the grovelling works of man,
And lead us back where Life in Love began.
Like summer showers, when wanes the burning day
These hours of pride, athwart our weary way,
Gleam with a mellow gladness and repose,
That strengthen bleeding hearts to bear their woes,
And through all wrong and evil guide us on,
Though poor yet proud, though friendless not alone.
Then fruit and blossom mingle on each tree,
The soul soars gladly and the heart is free ;
Soft airs float by with music on their wings,
And the lyre warbles from a thousand strings ;
The heart's best feelings — all the joys of youth,
Dreams in the green- wood — hope and love and truth,
Thoughts by lone fountains, in their freshest bloom,
And chastened sorrow o'er affection's tomb-
All — all come back and win the soul afar
From earth's dark galley toil and rankling war,
Gild the dense gloom of error, fraud and sin,
And crown the altar of the heart within.

Yet, like wild lightning lifting, fold on fold,
Such awful gloom as wrapt the world of old,
To show how green and beautiful beneath
The earth lies covered with the veil of death,
These high revealments mock the dazzled mind,

316

THE HOUR AT WILL.

Leave, as they vanish, deeper gloom behind,

Melt the touch'd heart that should be proud and stern,

And, like frankincense gushing from an urn,

O'erpower the vision, that should settle on

The thin cold ashes of the dead alone.

With feelings purified and sense refined

And the veil'd glories of a mighty mind,

The bard goes forth, from solitude sublime,

To meet and grapple with a world of crime,

Like a bright seraph in some distant star,

To feel his spirit with his fate at war,

To know his greatness and to bear the scorn

Of the miscreant menials on the dung-hill born,

To walk abroad, with radiant Genius crowned,

While crowded solitude hangs coldly round,

And seek, once more, the muse's lonely room,

And sigh to sink to slumber in the tomb !

Such is, hath been, will be the doom of minds

That cast their glories in the world's vain winds !

Stars of the heart ! immortal lights that glow
Along life's lone and weary way of wo,
That lengthens, lingers like a pilgrim vowed
To some far shrine he parts from in his shroud,
How soft and soothingly ye come and spread
A blooming veil around the changed and dead,
Like the faint mind, inspire each drooping though
And hymn the magic beauty ye have wrought !
There's not a desert on the Earth so drear,
But fountains sometimes gush and gurgle near;

PART II

THE HOUR AT WILL.

317

There's not a wilderness so sad and lone
Without its dweller and a kindred one ;
There's not an iceberg in the arctic sea,
But bears life, feeling, joy and liberty ;
And every heart, however worn and lost
To all it loved and idolized the most,
However pierced and manacled, and cast
A wreck and ruin on life's dewless waste —
Against the storm of grief may still bear up,
Though it hath drained affliction's poison cup,
And smile oft-times and blend its wonted powers
With minds unknown in childhood's leafy bowers,
Such Nature's best ; while life prevails, there's hope*
And strength still given with despair to cope—
Despair ! oft uttered in a reckless mood,
By earth's victims never understood,
The grim, gaunt tyrant of the fiends who fell,
Born of Remorse — the quenchless fires of hell !
From bosoms dark and rugged gushes forth
Full many a stream to fertilize the Earth,
As from the black rock of the desert poured
The clear cold waters while the host adored ;
And they, who walk in wisdom and in truth,
May oft, 'mid strangers, drink the joys of youth,
And find their sojourn gladdened by some voice,
That bids the fainting and sick heart rejoice.
Good, through victorious eviJ, oft appears,
Justice may mark the guiltless suppliant's tears,
Hope may rejoice in happier days to come,
And truth leave not the world in utter gloom.
Man clings to man through every wo and wrong,
And woman wins the daring and the strong.
To all, on whom the heartless world hath laid

27*

318

THE HOUR AT WILL.

Its ban — to all confiding and betrayed
By serpent lures, repulsed and cast aside
By the red Moloch hand of menial pride —
How bright, how cheermgly — the world forgot,
And all the evils of the poor man's lot —
Loved faces smile around their home of Love,
Loved voices breathe the gladness of the Dove,
And sooth the anguish of proud spirits stirred,
By the soft magic of a gentle word !
Passions as dire as winds in wildest wrath
And desolating as the lava's path,
Sink into slumber, broken and subdued
By the low voice of Love's sweet solitude.
Deep hate and wild revenge have oft foregone
Their fixed resolves while some belovod one,
With few kind words and one ambrosial kiss,
Filled a dark bosom with a seraph's bliss.
Laws, manners, morals and traditions old,
And customs antique as the banner's fold,
Fortune and faith — dominion, pride, and power,
And all that magnifies man's scepter'd hour,
Rose up, like spectres, when in secret spoke
Woman — and forth the Persian edict broke !
When War's deep trump awoke the world to arms,
Search out the cause in woman's fatal charms !
When peace flies smiling o'er the bloomy realm,
Lo ! angel love directs the monarch's helm !
When the fierce Bandit leaves the work of death,
His wrong'd heart melts beneath affection's breath ;
When the blest Sabbath o'er the city throws
A cheerful sanctity and hushed repose,
Gaze on the mother when her children kneel —
Few worship God — but every heart can feel !
When drops the dagger from the madman's grasp,

Hosted by G00gk

THE HOUR AT WILL.

319

Who folds his writhing form in love's own clasp,

And with prophetic vows and burning tears,

Leads mind to triumph in the coming years ?

Who on the Statesman, in his household bowers,

Bestows the tenderness of youthful hours,

And pillows on her breast the mighty mind

Revered, admired, and dreaded by mankind ?

Who shield the weakness, guide the scornful pride.

And sooths — deserted by the world beside —

The bitter sorrows of ambition thrown

On the dark desert of despair alone ?

"Who casts o'er ruined hope and glory passed

Verdure that breathes and blossoms o'er the waste ?

Who, like the sunset' of an autumn even,

Gives unto Earth the glorious light of heaven ?

Woman, devoted, cheerful and serene,

Lives in all laws and blends with every scene,

Pours proud ambition through each burning vein,

And tends the soldier on the battle plain ;

Gives to the poet all his might of mind,

And gilds the desert fancy leaves behind ;

Uplifts the feeble, quells the daring, throws

The hues of heaven o'er all desponding woes,

.Moves upon earth the pilgrim bound to love,

And mounts, a seraph, to her God above !

Oft, when forsaken, trampled and reviled
While on my solitude no eye hath smiled,
When left to breast and buffet, as I might,
The faithless billows of a stormy night, —
Oft have I found in one beside me now,
(Her of the starry eye and sunny brow)
A tender solace and a mild content
Earth could not give with all her blandishment.

320

THE HOUR AT WILL.

And she hath cheered me with a spirit free

To range the realms of high philosophy,

A heart imbued with such ethereal power

As wraps the saint in his sublimest hour,

While her fair features, soft as twilight's gush,

Lightened and flashed, and, with a solemn rush,

Her words of truth and hope and love came o'er

My heart, like moonlight on a rock-barr'd shore

And I have born the coward's dark attack,

Hate's dungeon ordeal, envy's midnight rack,

The scorn of fools, the sayings of the vile,

The branded felon's hypocritic smile,

The altered eye of friends, the sapient saws

Of dotard pedants, and the moral laws

Of convicts guiltier than the dungeon cell

E'er held in chains, or deepest vault in hell —

With a calm eye, a conscious brow that threw

The reptile back to feed on demon dew.

For still the angel of my pathway said

" 'Twere just— but oh, strike not the serpent dead i

" He bears a death — a living scorpion death

" In every pulse and vein and thought and breath,

" Leave him the doom thy righteous hand would end —

" Leave him on earth without a single friend 1"

Shall I not praise the wise and winning art

That drew the lightning from my burning heart ?

Shall I not feel as time leaves all my foes

In the oblivion of unblest repose,

And on our mingled tides of being run

In little channels glancing to the sun,

That wisdom dwells with loveliness and gives

A hallowed pleasure to our troubled lives,

A conscious trust of happier days in store,

For hearts undoubting, that in grief adore ?

THE DEATH SCENE.

321

Without a fear that truth will not prevail.
Without a glance at slander's thrice-forged tale,
Prizing heaven's gifts too high to boast or vaunt,
Feeling a heart that danger cannot daunt,
And, with contempt ineffable and strong,
Beholding rioters in human wrong,
With thee, my bride ! — and thee, my bright-eyed boy i
I share my sorrow — ye partake my joy.
Earth holds a home and coming time a name,
That may not vanish from the roll of Fame !

Glimmering amid the shadowy shapes that float

In sickly Fancy's vision o'er the walls

Of Death's lone room, the trembling taper burns

Dimly, and guides my fearful eye to trace

The wandering track of parting life upon

The burning brow and sallow cheek of him

Whose smile was paradise to me and mine.

The autumnal wind breathes pantingly and comes

With hollow sighs through yon high window o'er

Thy feverish couch, my love ! and seems to sob

Amid the waving curtains as't would tell

My heart how desolate it will become

When left in its lone widowhood to weep

And wail and agonize at Memory's tale.

The outward air is chill, but, oh, thy breast,

My dying love ! is scorching with the fires

That centre in thy heart, and thy hot breath

THE DEATH SCENE.

322

THE DEATH SCENE,

Heaves sobbingly, like the sirocco gale

That heralds death ; and thou art speechless now

Save what thy glaring eyes can tell, for life

Is parting from thy bosom silently.

Thy pulse is wild and wandering, and thy limbs

Are writhing in convulsive agony,

And, while thy spirit hovers o'er the verge

Of Fate, thou canst not speak to me nor bid

Thy chosen one a long farewell ! O Heaven I

Let thy sweet mercy wait upon his end

And life's last struggle close — 'tis vain to hope

For life — then take his soul on gentle wing

Away, and let the sufferer rest with Thee !

Alas ! hath He who rules the universe

Replied to my wild wish ? oh, give me back

The spirit of my love for one brief hour — 'tis o'er !

'Tis o'er ! my love, my happiness, my hope.

I sit beside a corse ! How deadly still

Is the lone chamber he hath left ! The moan

Of dying nature, and the bursting sigh

Of a heart breaking, and the murmuring voice

Of a delirious spirit — all are hushed !

The eye that kindled love in my young heart

And told me I was blessed, is lustreless —

And those dear lips, that oft illumed my soul,

Are stiffening now ; those features exquisite,

On which I often gazed as on a mirror

Beaming with beauty, genius, feeling — all

That love adores and honor sanctifies,

Collapse in their dread slumbers and assume

The ashen deadliness of soulless dust.

And must it be, my love ! that thou wilt sleep

Where I can never watch thy wants and glide

Around, thy gentle minister ? No more

THE DEATH SCENE.

323

Read voiceless wishes in thy pleading eye

And soothingly discharge them ? Art thou gone,

Or is it but a dream ? O thou dost dwell

Within my heart unchangeably as wont

And ever wilt ! — I sit beside the Dead

Alone, while round me the world is bent

On pleasure — on a shadow from the dust !

The bright blue wave of Hudson rolls below

My solitary view and sounds of joy

Fling music o'er its waters and the voice

Of gayety is rising on my ear, —

Like banquet mirth amid the pyramids.

O the full consciousness of utter loss !

The single wretchedness of cureless woe

While all around are gay ! The chaos wild

Of billowy thought, on whose tumultuous tides

Hopes, powers and passions — all the elements

Of heart and soul in foamy whirlpools toss

'Till whelmed in ruin ! — Lovely babe ! thou hast

No father now, and where, my orphan child !

Will close our wanderings ? I have no home

For thee, dove of the storm without an ark

To bear thee o'er the waters of the Waste !

Cold, voiceless mansion of my ruined love !

I'll close thine eyes and kiss thy pallid lips.

And watch beside thee for the livelong night —

The last, last night I shall behold thy form !

O agony, and they will bury thee !

Will snatch thee from the pillow of my heart,

And lay thee in the damp unbreathing tomb !

Sleep, my sweet child ! thou knowest not the pain

Of the sad bosom that thou slumberest on.

It is some joy that thou feel'st not the loss

Of him who would have worshipped his firstborn*

324

THE DEATH SCENE.

The world is silent round me ; pale the moon

Gleams on the clay-shut eyes of him who loved

Her gentle light in life, and o'er his cold,

Collapsed, unchanging, melancholy face

Plays her transparent beam of love. My heart !

Thy bleeding tears would drown my soul, if yet

One being lived not in my life to tell

How dear he was to me. Farewell, my love !

Our slumbers now will be no more as wont !

Yet e'en in paradise thou wilt behold

Thine earthly love and bend from heaven to shed

Immortal hopes o'er nature's funeral urn.

######

Days, weeks and months passed o'er me and were seen

Vanishing away with that pale, meek content

Which doth exist, against the spirit's will,

So glad was I to feel that burden, Time,

Dropping from my pierced heart ; for I did live

Among, but yet not with the living — tears

Suppressed within the fountains of the soul,

Congealed like waters in deep cavern-halls.

My being passed 'mid shadows, and the things

Familiar once assumed or unknown form

Or appendage unknown, and to my eye

The faces erst beloved appeared like those

Imagination images in dreams ;

And oft I feared to speak, lest I should be

Abandoned to my woe ; and, if I spake,

My voice re-echoed round me like the cries

Of shipwrecked mariners at night. My brain

Was fevered with my dreadful anguish, which

Grew by repression, like the Rebel Flower,*

* The Camomile

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THE DEATH SCENE.

825

Until it mastered reason, or whate'er

Name that observant faculty doth bear

Whose power is o'er the visible universe.

There was a dread unmeasured, in my thought,

A vague idea of something horrible,

And I lived on like one in broken sleep,

Forever searching for some lost companion,

And wandering in mazes dark as doom,

Where the heart faints and fails, and hope expires.

Yet amid all the estranging of my love

I still clung to my child ; a mother's heart

Retains its deep devotion to her dear

And pang-bought offspring, when the woman's mind

Is laid in ruins ; and her bosom burns

With love instinctive for an innocent

And lovely creature whom her spirit knows

Only as something worthy to be loved.

Folding the orphan to my heart, I went

Abroad the mansion witlessly, and searched

Its chambers desolate, and then returned

In wildered disappointment that the thing

I looked for could no where be found.— I sat

In the lone winter nights before the dim

And melancholy embers, and did hush

My breath while listening for the tread of him

Who ever spent his evenings with his love

In social converse ; — but he came not, so

I sighed and murmured to my prattling babe

That he would soon return ; but then I thought

That he had gone to a far land and left

His duties to my care and faithful watch.

And so I oped his escritoir and saw

His papers, pens and pencils and all things

Reposed e'en as he left them, and T felt
* 28

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Full text of "The autobiography of Jane Fairfield; embracing a few select poems by Sumner Lincoln Fairfield"

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