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hYcVox Library 


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ClaTtoa k Van Norden, Printers. . 


' 3 „ . S 

*--, 3 • i «* 

• :-. 

Swthem DisMct of New-York, sh 

BE IT REMEMBERED, That on tlie eleventh day of December, rn the 
for^-eighth year of the Independence of the United states of America, E. 
Bliss and E. White, of the said district, have deposited in this ofiBce the 
title of a Ijook, the right i;v hereof they claim as proprietors, in the words 
following, to wit: 

(* A Winter in Washington ; or, Memoirs of the Seymour Family. lu 
two volumes." 

In conformity to the act of Congress of the United States, entitled, " Aa 
act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps^ 
charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during 
the time therein mentioned." And also to an act, entitled, ** An act sup- 
plementary to an act, entitled, an act for the encouragement of learning, by 
securing the copies of maps, charts, and iMoks, to the authors and proprie- 
tors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned, and extending the 
benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching histori-< 
dl and other prints*" 

crerk of the Southern District oj[ Xiew-Tork. 



Uf heart too fondly trusted, fondly gare 
Itself to all its tenderness a slave ; 

I had no wish but thee, and only thee; 
I saw no joy, no hope, beyond thy smile ; 
I knew no happiness, but only while 

Thy love-lit eyes were kindly tura'd on me* 


What a crowd of reflections thronged m 
Louisa's mind, as she reviewed the incidents of 
the day. The dignified and patient endurance 
of Mrs. Bertrand, deeply interested her for suck 
uncomplaining and modest worth ; and she pro- 
mised herself much pleasure from taking charge 
of the little Fanny. In forming plans for the 
instruction and future establishment of her pro^ 
Ugey she lost the sense of her own sorrows ; in* 
deed, when she compared her situation with that 
of the destitute Mrs. Bertrand, the vulgar and 
rude woman in the shed, the low and degraded 
Jenny, or the vicious and abandoned girl she had 
seen at Joseph's, she felt as if she had no sorrows 
to lament. The benevolence and kind-hearted- 


ness of that poor yellow man, acted as a stimu- 
Iqs to her ovrn kind and generous feelings, and 
she fell into a sweet sleep, planning various 
schemes for the relief oi the poor and afflicted of 
every description. 

The pext morning, taking Emily with her, 
to whom she had given some account of Mrs. 
Bertrand's family, she went out to make purcha- 
ses for their use. Emily was delighted with the 
idea of having Fanny as a fellow-scholar and 
companion, and, with her mother's leave, made 
up a bundle of her plainest clothes, to take with 
her in the carriage, and was all eagerness and 
impatience to see the little girl dressed In them. 

The day being remarkably pleasant, Mrs. Sey- 
mour told Louisa, that, for the sake of the ride, 
she would accompany her and Emily on their 
visit ; and, as soon as the carriage was ready, 
they proceeded together to Mrs. Bertrand's. But 
how great was their surprise, when, on entering 
the room, Mrs. Bertrand exclaimed, '' oh ! dear 
ladies, the little bird has fiiown, and you are 
spared the trouble of taking charge of her; 
though from what I know of your goodness, I 
am sure you think it more a pleasure than a 
trouble to take care of the poor and destitute. 
Little Fanny is in good hands, I assure you, la- 
dies, and she went away with her heart full of 
gratitude for your kind offer to take her, and she 
begged me to tell you so. I really believe she 
would rather have gone with you, ladies, because 
then, she said, she would have been able to call 
and'see us. all here once in a while ; but now she 
is gone too far off for that ; — poor thing, I told 

"For goodness sake," said Mrs. Seymour, 
'* do pray tell us, who has taken the poor child 


away. Surely, you have not ^ven her up to a 
stranger ?" 

^' Ob ! by no means, ma'am ; I hope you don't 
think me capable of that. It was the good lady 
Abbess, 1 think they call her, that keeps the nun- 
nery at Emmetsburg. I have heard several of 
the poor Irish speak of her ; they say she has a 
good many orphans under her care, and that 
whenever she hears of any such, she sends one of 
the nuns, and sometimes comes herself, and offers 
to take them." 

'^ And are you sure it was she f" said Mrs. 

" Oh ! yes, madam, certain of that ; for there 
was a young lady with her, Miss W., that used to 
live in Baltimore : — I got acquainted with her in 
New- York, where she often came to visit her 
married sister, who lived there. When she drew 
aside her veil, I knew her directly, and she said 
she remembered me, and told me it was the good 

Mrs. Bertrand then proceeded to give such a 
correct description of the Abbess, that Mrs. Sey- 
mour, who had once seen and conversed with 
her at the convent, entertained not the least 
doubt, that it was she who had anticipated them 
in this deed of charity. 

^' Pray, did you ask the Abbess if she knew 
the parents of little Fanny ?" 

'< No," replied Mrs. Bertrand ; ^^ but when I 
mentioned to her the manner in which she had 
been brought here, the Abbess said, it was of no 
consequence now ; and that Fanny's father would 
now be satisfied; but she did not name him, and 
I did not like to ask her too many questions. 
Perhaps, thought I, he is some relation of the 
Abbess ; or, may bCi the young lady is acquaint- 

VOL. II. 2 


ed with him ; and who knows but ^hat she is the 
one that Anny says was in the coach with the 
gentleman that brought Fanny here that night. 
But, whether she is or not, she is the same dear 
good creature I always thought she was ; for she 
paid me, for the board of the little girl, a hand- 
somer sum than I ever expected to get." 

To Mrs. Seymour and Louisa, the circum- 
stances relative to this little girl appeared to be 
very strange and mysterious ; but, as they felt 
confident that she was now in good hands, they 
gave themselves no further concern on the sub- 
ject. To compensate, however, for Louisa's dis- 
appointment, Mrs. Seymour proposed to Mrs. 
Bertrand, that Anny should be substituted for the 
little stranger, promising, that she should return 
whenever she wished. This was readily agreed to ; 
and the delighted Anny was soon equipped for 
her happy transition. Mrs. Seymour and Louisa 
had, from the beginning, agreed between them- 
selves, not to mention the very singular circum- 
stances relating to the little stranger ; and they 
now intimated their wishes to Emily and Anny, 
that nothing for the present should be said on 
that subject ; for Mrs. Seymour imagined, that 
it might, otherwise, lead to some troublesome, 
and, perhaps, unnecessary investigation. 

When they returned home with their little 
charge, and her dress had received some addi- 
tions and improvements, Mrs. Seymour was 
struck with the extreme delicacy and beauty of 
her face and figure ; and thought, that nature, 
in giving her such a prepossessing exterior, had 
amply compensated for the deficiencies of fortune. 
She sincerely rejoiced, that this charming little 
being had been sent to them, as it were by Provi- 
dence, at a moment when some powerful interest 


Jioight be so beneficial to Louisa. She left her 
solely to her daughter's care, that in having the 
whole responsibility, she might feel a deeper and 
livelier concern ; from the same motive, she left 
to her the arrangement and disposal of the clo- 
thing, and other articles, that had been purchased 
for Mrs. Bertrand's family. Louisa, seated be- 
tween the little girls, giving them their lessons, 
and, afterwards, cutting out and making up 
clothes for Anny, in which both of the children 
eagerly assisted her, passed the day not only 
cheerfully but happily. She found that Anny 
read fluently, though not very correctly; was 
very intelligent ; had a frank, caressing disposi- 
tion ; was docile and gentle, and soon became 
fondly attached to her. Days passed rapidly by, 
so completely occupied, that Louisa had little 
time for melancholy reflections. Her mother 
yielded to her earnest solicitations, not to take 
her to gay evening parties, at the very thought 
of which her heart sickened. 

Every evening found Mr. Seymour's fireside 
surrounded with a circle of agreeable and well 
informed society, chiefly members of Congress, 
and strangers, who were transient residents in 
Washington, and who were delighted to find a 
family where they could enjoy, at the same time, 
domestic pleasures, and the charms of cultivated 
taste and refinement of manners. Mrs. Mortimer 
was not so often with them as she had been be- 
fore the admonitory visit Mrs. Seymour had paid 
her ; but when she did come, Louisa felt relieved 
by her gayety and sprightly conversation ; for it 
was in the evening that she most felt her spirits 
sink. The idea of Wilmot would then force it- 
self on her mind. Every chair, every table, the 
piano, the harp, every spot, and every article in 


the drawing room, had some fond or interesting 
idea associated with it. On that sofa she had sat 
tiie evening the fatal explanation had taken 
place ; then she would recollect the agitation in 
which he walked the room ; the agony expressed 
in his face and manner, as he leaned against the 
window frame. If she sat with the family round 
the table, it seemed as if he were at her side; she 
could see him playing with her work-box as he 
sat gayly talking to them — could hear that deep 
toned voice in which he read with so much em- 
phasis and enthusiasm. But when she sat down 
to her harp or piano, it was then he was most 
present to her imagination. She saw, she felt, 
that large dark eye, from whence such soul beam- 
ed forth, resting on her face, as it had so often 
and often done, catching from her countenance 
all the thoughts that were passing in her mind ; 
she felt 

<< The electric flash) that from the speaking eye 
Dacts the fond question and the kind reply. 

When she sang, she would sometimes start, as if 
she still heard his deep, full tones, mingling with 
hers, and could almost fancy she felt his breath 
upon her cheek, as he leaned over her chair to 
read the music that lay before her : she enjoyed 
a sweet and melancholy, but a dangerous pleasure, 
in singing the same songs that they had sung to- 
gether, and in dwelling on the words which he 
had uttered with peculiar expression. This was an 
indulgence which she never voluntarily allowed 
herself, but she was, in spite of her good resolu- 
tions and good sense, pleased when any acquain- 
tance or friend requested her to sing them. "The 
banks and braes of bonny Doon," was the only 
one she ever herself selected, and then it was at 


the twilight hour, when no one could see the tears 
which accompanied these sad and tender words. 
Sometimes she was almost tempted to confess to 
her mother the powerful association of ideas that 
connected Wilmot with every object in this room ; 
to herself, she excused her not making this con- 
fession by the fear of any inconvenience she 
might put her mother to ; for she was certain her 
mother would, if she knew it, occupy the other 
parlour in the evening, and there was something 
so painful to her in the idea of this total separa- 
tion from even the thought of him she had so 
tenderly loved, that she kept her secret, though 
conscious, in so doing, of a culpable weakness. 
She now passed her mornings in her own cham- 
ber with the children ; though, had she yielded 
to the suggestions of her feelings, she would have 
resumed her seat by the parlour fireside, by that 
little work table, beside which he used every 
morning to sit and read to her. The favourite 
volumes from which he had read were marked 
by his pencil in almost every page, and so forci- 
bly recalled him to her mind, that one morning 
she had most heroically carried them Into the 
dressing room of her mother, who took care to 
put them out of sight. He had written three 
letters to her, entreating permission to renew his 
visits, and assuring her that the vow he had made 
in her presence -was irrevocable. But Louisa 
positively declined all such solicitations, and told 
him, in her answer to his last letter, she could 
look on him in no other light than as a married 
man, and that if he wished to entitle himself to 
iier friendship and esteem, he could do it only 
by honourably fulfilling a sacred engagement. 
To this she encouraged him, by assuring him» 
that in the discbarge of duty, the possession of 



self-esteem, and the consciousness of making a 
virtuous and amiable woman happy, he would 
find that peace he never could otherwise enjoy. 
As long as she knew he was still so near her, she 
found it impossible to prevent her thoughts recur- 
ring to his image, and she was kept in that rest- 
less and anxious state, which is felt when every 
moment expecting the arrival of some one, we 
are impatient, yet afraid to meet. In fact this 
was the case, for she could not persuade herself 
that he would leave Washington without calling 
to take a last farewell ; and the idea of such a 
meeting, and such a parting, was continually in- 
truding on her mind, and kept up a degree of 
agitation she would not otherwise have felt. Con- 
stantly as she endeavoured to fix her attention on 
other objects, and assiduously as she employed 
every moment in some benevolent or useful pur- 
pose, yet the idea of Wilmot, though not allowed 
to stand foremost, lay concealed, as it were, in a 
corner of her heart, ever ready to start forward, 
when the least incident, a knock at the door, a 
quick approaching step, or a strange voice, met 
her ear. Then she would tremble, her heart 
would beat, and in almost breathless agitation 
she would await the explanation of the sound. 
She hardly knew what she feared ; but a vague, 
indistinct apprehension of evil disturbed her tran- 
quillity, and wore away her health and peace. 
But she never breathed a sigh, or uttered a com- 
plaint, before her anxiously observant mother ; 
the name of Wilmot never passed her lips, and, 
bad it not been for her pale cheek and sunken 
eyCf her mother would never have suspected that 
any painful feelings yet struggled in her bosom. 
She would have conversed with, she would have 
tfoothed her child, did she not know, that in such 


a case sympathy softens and enervates the mindi 
and keeps alive ideas, that might otherwise gra- 
dually fade from the memory. The most effec- 
tual remedy was forgetfulness ; and this could be 
attained only by the avoidance of the subject* 
This, though the most painful, she knew to be 
the best way to assist her daughter in gaining a 
victory over herself. 

Mrs. Seymour did violence to her own feelingg 
by refusing her child the consolations of sympa- 
thy. It would have been sweet to her to have 
drawn that aching head on her bosom, and to have 
kissed away the tears from those faded cheeks; 
but she knew such tenderness would open all the 
sources of her grief, and that the tears of fond 
regret cherish and revive even an expiring senti- 
ment. Besides, left to itself, her mind would 
gather more strength than when leaning on ano- 
ther for support. In silent anxiety she watched 
all Louisa did or said, and felt proud of a daugh- 
ter, who, at so early an age, showed such admira- 
ble self-command. From morning to evening 
she saw her constantly occupied in promoting the 
comfort or welfare of others — of herself she ne- 
ver seemed to think. She had even relinquished 
reading many of her favourite authors, particu- 
larly poetry, or any work of fancy calculated to 
awaken her imagination, or to soften her heart. 
Religious and moral works, and history, took place 
of the works of taste in which she had been used 
to take such delight ; and her mother distinctly 
saw the salutary influence of sorrow, as she 
watched her daughter's character developing its 
purity and strength beneath the moral discipline 
of adversity. 

Mrs. Seymour silently aided her daughter's 
endeavours, and supplied many an interesting ob- 


jcct or motive of employment, without her agency 
being discovered by Louisa. On various pre- 
tences, she now gave up to her daughter the ex- 
clusive care of the poor, sick, and afflicted fami- 
lies she had been in the habit of visiting and as- 
sisting. Many a whole winter's day, Louisa, ac- 
companied by her two little girls, spent in explo- 
ring the haunts of poverty, administering to the 
sick, and in soothing the sorrows which she could 
not relieve. Emily and Anny were each furnish- 
ed with a small covered basket, in which they 
carried little articles of medicine or food. To 
them these rambles had the charm of n6velty ; 
and they eagerly performed their tasks, that they 
might have the more time to look for poor peo- 
ple, as they said. What volumes could Louisa 
have filled, had she written down all the long and 
sad stories she now listened to ; and these annalg 
of the poor would have displayed a height of 
virtue, a depth of vice, a singularity of adven- 
ture, a spirit of enterprise, and afiecting and ten- 
der incidents, in all the variety of shade and colour 
that is found in the shifting scenes of life. 

The population of Washington is made up of 
people from every nation. Artisans and adven- 
turers, attracted bynhe high prices given for la- 
bour, and by the new field opened for enter- 
prise and industry, flocked to it. On the rising 
ground north of Pennsylvania Avenue, is a collec- 
tion of small houses, each with its enclosure, its 
cow-shed and poultry yard, where a little colony 
of the persecuted Irish find shelter and comfort. 
Grateful and affectionate people ; how eager W£ls 
your welcome, how glad your greetings, to the 
amiable Louisa and her little companions ! When 
they entered these humble dwellings, with what 
siniUog coontenaiices and simple courtesy would 



the women meet them at the door, smooth down 
their aprons, set aside their spinning h heels, and 
place chairs ftear their blazing fires ! How delight- 
edly would the chubby-faced children stand round, 
gazing on, and admiring the dress of the young 
ladies, and how ardent were the mothers in their 
expressions of gratitude ! Nor would they let 
Emily and Anny go empty handed away ; for 
who love to give so well as the open-hearted, 
generous Irish ! tbey would always find a new 
laid egg^ or a pretty pullet, to give the little girls, 
in return for the nice things they had brought 
them ; and even Louisa would be obliged to ac- 
cept the ball of fine homespun thread, which they 
excelled in making, or some such trifle, as a testi- 
mony of their gratitude. Their communication! 
were often carried on solely by signs, as few of 
the old folks could speak English. In no way 
could Louisa so greatly oblige them, as by get- 
ting their boys admitted into the free schools, 
which, as her father was one of the most active 
trustees, she easily accomplished. This people 
are remarkable for the quickness and sprightli- 
ness of their minds, and, to use an expression 
common among the poor, '' take wonderfully to 
learning ;" and many a poor boy, who, through 
her means, was placed at school, has since turned 
his learning to good account, and risen to respec- 
tability and usefulness. The boys she supplied 
with books ; and how proud and delighted would 
the little urchins be, if, when she afterwards visit- 
ed them, they could read her a lesson in good 
English, while their fond mothers, with glistening 
eyes and open mouths, would gaze on them as 
on prodigies. But all Louisa's exhortations to 
neatness were vain and useless ; and though she 
would send them brooms, plates, spoons, be. she 


would Still And the floors dirty, and see them 
empty their kettles of potatoes on a table or 
bench, and sometimes even on the floor, round 
which the dirty children would gather like so 
many little pigs. 

Their pipes, and their whiskey, too, were sadly 
offensive to Louisa'^ delicate habits. These were 
Irish ways, brought with th(?m from their bogs 
and cabins, and which, as her fadier told her, 
the old folks could not relinquish ; though the 
young people, as they grew up, were gradually 
acquiring our habits of neatness, temperance, and 
comfort. But their warm-heartedness made up 
to Louisa for these disagreeable traits ; and she 
was drawn oftener to them by the lively interest 
their ardent characters excited, than to the more 
cleanly and well ordered habitations of our own 
countrymen, whose cold and careless manner of 
receiving kindness, left benevolence to the dic- 
tates of duty, instead of stimulating it by excited 
feeling. The Spaniard, with his dark complexion 
and serious manner — tbe Italian, with his spark- 
ling eyes, gay countenance, and courteous de- 
meanour — the Frenchman, gay, though poor, civil 
almost to servility, bowing ^nd scraping, till poor 
Emily would be obliged to stop her mouth with 
a handkerchief to avoid laughing ; and yet, so 
pleasant, good natured, and talkative, that it was 
her delight to go to see them — the German, the 
Dutchman, English and Scotchman — all by turns 
were discovered in their scattered and humble 
dwellings ; and, while they received little kind- 
nesses from Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, to whom 
Louisa used to make them known, more than re- 
paid them, by the benefit Louisa received from 
* the novelty and variety these scenes and charac- 
ters exhibited. Dr. Irvin's benevolence was often 


pfit in requisition ; for he had long before made 
an offer of his professional services, gratis, for 
*^Mrs. Seymour^s poor^'*^ as he called them ; and 
Louisa, as he said, was determined he should have 
no idle time to throw away. It is surprising how 
much one individual can do, even though that in- 
dividual be a young lady, in relieving the wants 
of the poorer classes of societj' ; and that, too, 
at little expense, besides her time. A few of the 
hours thrown away in morning visits, or lounged 
away in the galleries of Congress, might rescue 
many a widow, orphan, or poor family, from dis- 
tress. Society abounds in kind and benevolent 
feelings, that only want direction, to flow out in 
good deeds. A pdor milliner, mantua-maker, or 
seamstress, needed only to be known to be em- 
ployed. Many a poor child, through Louisa's 
recommendation, was placed in some good family, 
who, in turn, was obliged to her for a good ser- 
vant. These, and many other means, she adopted, 
for giving essential relief to the poor, while she 
served the rich, and afforded opportunity to the 
indolent, fashionable and gay, to indulge their 
kind feelings, without trouble or inconvenience. 

It is no wonder, then, that Mrs. Seymour, when 
she saw her daughter returning from these excur- 
sions, with the colour of her cheek restored by 
exercise^ her mind warmed and animated by be- 
nevolence, should exclaim to herself, ^' surely this 
trial of my Louisa's is ' a blessing in disguise.' 
Withdrawn from the bustling, and thoughtless 
joys, the idle parade and vain ceremonies of life, 

< liCnves lis leisure to be good ;' 

*^ and, truly as beautifully has M. de Chateau- 


briand said, ^ the human heart is like that tree, 
which yields not its balsam to heal the wounds of 
of others, until itself is wounded.' Continual 
prosperity hardens the heart, as continual sun- 
shine does the earth ; but when the one is soften* 
ed by the tears of sorrow, and the other by ge- 
nial showers, they yield those fruits which the 
necessities of man require. Goodness is twice 
blessed ; in what it gives, and in what it receives. 
The peace or comfort we impart to others is re- 
stored to our own bosoms, by the satisfaction of 
an approving conscience ; as the vapours wliich 
ascend through the day, fall back at night in re- 
freshing dews upon the earth. Shall I then re- 
gret an event, which, by thus softening and 
expanding, likewise improves, my daughter's 
heart ?" 

Such reflections reconciled Mrs. Seymour to 
the too evident sadness which Louisa felt, not- 
withstanding all her efforts to repress and con- 
quer an unavailing sorrow. There were mo- 
ments when her courage failed ; and she would 
weep, without control, over the disappointed 
hopes, and high raised expectations, in which she 
had indulged. In the silent watches of the night, 
the pictures which her fancy had drawn of future 
felicity ; the virtues in which that fancy had ar- 
rayed the object of her love, would mingle with 
the sweet and tender recollections of the happy 
hours that she had so lately passed. These hopes 
of futurity, these recollections of the past, would 
blend in one dark and heavy cloud, and oppress 
her bosom with a weight she could scarcely en- 
dure. So deep was the impression which Wilmot 
had made, that she felt as if it were impossible 
that either time or absence could erase it from 
her memory. She could more easily realize that 


her heart would cease to beat, than cease to love ; 
and she felt as if it would be easier to die^ than 
to forget. 

Experience only can teach us that the most ar- 
dent sentiments are not the most durable; that the 
deepest are not indelible. The first are worn out 
by their own activity, the latter by the lapse of 
years, which, like the waves of the ocean, wear 
even rocks away. Be patient, then, thou youth- 
ful sufferer ; for thy sufferings shall not, cannot 
always last. The fields, which have lost their 
verdure, and the landscape, robbed of its beauty 
by the ravages of the winter, again shall revive, 
and be clothed in all their pristine loveliness ; and 
the heart which now mourns shall again rejoice. 

VOL. f I. 8 


L'amour, &8a naissaiice, n'est jamais bienvif; ilnWd'abord 
qu'un simple mouyement de pr^fSrenee, dont il est facile d'ar- 
r^tar les progres en cessant de voir I'objet qui Tinspire ; c'est 
le moyen le plus sur, et bientdt le souvenir se perd, et s'efface 
vans beaucoup de peine. 

^dtU et Theodore, 

After an absence of some weeks, spent by 
Louisa in virtuous efforts to conquer an attach* 
ment opposed by duty and prudence, and by 
Wilmot in the alternations of hope and fear, anx- 
iety and uncertainty, be at last summoned reso- 
lution to go to Mrs. Seymour's ; and he chose 
the close of day, as the time when he would be 
most exempt from interruption. 

He found Louisa alone in the parlour, and ea- 
gerly embraced the opportunity of urging his re- 
quest of being once more allowed to visit her, 
and to endeavour to deserve her affection ; at the 
same time assuring her, he had relinquished his 
fcrmer engagement, and felt free to offer his 
hand and heart to her acceptance. 

His arguments, his solicitations, were in vain ; 
Louisa persisted in her resolution, never to accept 
a man of a disposition so versatile, a temper so 
nngoverned, and whose honour was pledged to 

" But, if it will be any consolation, Mr. Wil- 
mot," said she, much affected by the violence of 



§ > 

his grief, <' to know that 1 feel neither anger nor 
displeasure at your late conduct, let that conso* 
lation be yours. .1 have thought much on this 
subject since we parted. I then made nse of the 
terms base— dishonourable — as applicable to your 
behaviour to me ; but, on retracing the past, if 
not my reason, at least my heart, excuses you. 
I do not reproach you with designedly trying to 
win my anections, or intentionally cherishing 
your own. Alas, no ! there was no plan, no de- 
sign in the case. You were invited, as a friend, 
to the house ; accident, afterwards, threw yoa 
among us in the endearing character of a deli- 
verer — of a friend. You were a favourite with 
all the family, and received those affectionate at- 
tentions, that could not fail to excite your ten* 
derest feelings. Passing every day, every hour 
together— oh, it was all natural ; I blame myself 
more than I blame you!** and, as she spoke, 
Louisa covered her face with her hands, and her 
tears trickled through her fingers. 

" Generous, candid, indulgent Miss Sey- 
mour !" exclaimed Wilmot, much affected ; '' eve- 
ry word you say, sinks your image deeper and 
deeper into my heart ; never can it be erased — 
never can I leave you !" 

" Mr. Wilmot," resumed Louisa, « as yet we 
have only been unfortunate — let us not be guilty ! 
never could I reconcile myself to happiness pur- 
chased by the misery of another. The unfortu- 
nate Mary Hastings has loved you from her in- 
fancy. This early affection has grown with her 
growth, and strengthened with her strength ; it is 
entwined with every fibre of her heart, and, in 
breaking the tie which binds you to her, life itself 
would break. See,'* said she, drawing a letter 
from a drawer in her writing-desk, " see, it is 


your mother herself* who says so. This letter 
was written to me ; it is to me this fond parent 
makes an appeal no heart can withstand. She 
begs me to use my influence over you, to induce 
you to return and fulfil the engagement which 
binds you to the daughter of her heart, assuring 
me, that not only the happiness and life of this 
adopted child depends on your fidelity, but that 
all her own peace of mind must likewise depend 
on it ; since, as she says, ' it was I who cherish- 
ed this sentiment — it was I who formed this tie.' 
You will learn from this letter, that she has not 
communicated to Mary the change in your senti- 
ments, nor will she do so, persuaded, as she is, 
that such intelligence would be fatal to one al- 
ready sufiering from long protracted suspense 
and anxiety. Nay, listen to me, Mr. Wilraot," 
continued Louisa, perceiving bis impatience, and 
bis attempt to speak ; '^ listen to me, for, oh ! 
Mr. Wilmot, I have not only thought, but I have 
felt deeply on this subject ; nor think that feeling 
and reason are incompatible. Scarcely three 
months ago, we were strangers to each other ; 
yet we were happy. Does not this prove, that 
we are not necessary to each other's happiness f 
and, as my dear mother says, the afiection which 
so suddenly sprung up is the ofispring of fancy, 
rather than of a knowledge and love of merit ; 
and absence, by removing the object of this 
fancy, will soon destroy this sentiment. This 
seems hard to believe, but she speaks from ob- 
servation and experience ; and I must- believe 
her. The undecaying and unconquerable nature 
of a first attachment, she has fully demonstrated 
to me, is not founded in nature ; but that, on the 
contrary, those early attachments, which are not 
the ofispring of merit, or knowledge of charac- 



ter, are, generally, evanescent ; and that it is bat 
seldom in real life, they lead to that union on 
which happiness so entirely depends. 

<* The ardent heart is susceptible of other, and 
as strong sentiments of preference ; which, when 
sanctioned by jadgment, are more durable, and 
quite as fervent, as those that are the mere crea- 
tures of fancy. If all this is true — and it is im- 
possible for me to doubt what this best of mo- 
thers has assured rae is the truth — shall we,- in 
the indulgence of an evanescent sentiment, on 
which our future happiness does not depend, 
shall we sacrifice the Ufe of an amiable woman, 
the happiness of your mother — and your honour? 
J, at least, have not the courage to be so unjust — 
so cruel. And had I no other motive, I would 
sacrifice my hopes of happiness to my sense of 
duty. But, I have other motives: my reason 
tells me, that your character, or rather temper, 
such as it has been developed, is not suited to 
mine. The accounts you yourself have given 
us, from time to time, of your habits and pur- 
suits, have been confirmed by a letter from my 
aunt. My mother wrote to make such inquiries 
as her afiection and anxiety for me prompted. 
The result is such, that even had no previous en* 
gageraent existed, I should, indeed, Mr. Wilmot, 
I should have sacrificed — should have conquered 

the partiality — the" She could not finish. 

After a moment's pause, she continued — "Go, 
then, Mr. Wilmot, and if my good opinion, if 
my friendship, is valued by you, gain it by show- 
ing yourself capable of conquering a mere fancy, 
and of performing an absolute duty. Go, and 
be assured, that in making Mary happy, yon 
yourself will be so." 


In vain did Wilmot try to controvert her argu- 
ments ; in vain did he protest his love for her 
was not the progeny of fancy, but would endure 
through life ; she remained unshaken, and with 
undisguised tenderness, but with firmness and 
dignity, she bade him leave her, without ever 
again thinking of her in any other light than 
that of a friend. So pathetic were her pleadings 
in favour of the devoted Mary ; so strong the 
views of duty she presented, and, above all, so 
powerful was his desire for her esteem and friend- 
ship, that Wilmot, before he left her, was almost 
brought to promise that he would implicitly fol- 
low her advice. 

Had Louisa concealed the feelings with which 
he had inspired her, Wilmot would have been 
slightly impressed by her arguments; but the 
tender and amiable sensibility she manifested, 
convinced him she was acting on the same heroic 
ideas of duty which she recommended to him ; 
that she did not require a greater sacrifice from 
him, than she herself made. Hers was not 
the easy virtue of advising others to the prac- 
tice of duty ; it was the more difficult task of 
enforcing precept by example ; and her tears 
carried stronger conviction than her words. 
Yet, the more lovely, the more excellent she 
appeared, the more dreadful was it to forego 
all his fond hopes ; and the tenderness she 
evinced only aggravated his loss, and increased 
his agony. At other moments it soothed, it con- 
soled, it encouraged, and afterwards it confirmed 
him in his resolution to be guided by her advice, 
which he never could have done, bad he supposed 
her advice to be prompted by indifierence. 

He at last left her — himself a prey to the most 


bitter regret, and his heart torn by the struggles 
between duty and love. 

It is hard to say which would have prevailed, 
if the sweet idea of Louisa's tenderness had not, 
by nourishing every principle of virtue, given 
him strength to combat the force of inclination. 
The consciousness of being beloved by her, ele- 
vated him in his own estimation, and made him 
resolve to deserve that love. To ensure her es- 
teem^ seemed more necessary to his happiness, 
than the possession of her person. ^^ Since duty 
divides us, let Louisa still esteem me^ and I can 
still be happy !" thought Wilmot. And this idea 
gleamed on liis gloomy and desolate bosom, like 
sunshine on the dark and troubled ocean. How 
powerful is the influence of woman ! what an ir- 
resistible influence does nature give her over the 
passions of man ! what a pity that that influence 
is not always used in the cause of virtue ! 

Wilmot left Washington ; he left it in com- 
pliance with the injunctions of Louisa, and the 
idea of her approbation gave him courage and 
consolation. When he reached Philadelphia, he 
was received with undisguised joy and tenderness 
by his mother — with a timid and blushing wel- 
come by Mary. His long absence, his silence, 
excited in her gentle bosom an anxiety and sad- 
ness which gave an interesting softness to her 
manners. Her health was delicate, her spirits 
depressed, and her manners characterized by a 
reserve and diffidence, which her suspicions of his 
afiection naturally produced. Had she met him 
with uudoubting confidence, with undisguised 
tenderness, his feelings would have been chilled, 
disgusted. But now they were excited, and the 
more she withdrew from his attentions, the more 
attentive did he become. 



It is easier to confer an obligation, than to per- 
form a duty — to give, than to pay. The kind- 
oedses which were not demanded as a debt, he 
now willingly bestowed. 

Still, the idea of Louisa was ever uppermost 
in his thoughts, and often was he tempted to open 
his whole heart to Mary, and to throw himself on 
her generosity. Had his engagement to her been 
the only motive for Louisa's rejection, it is more 
than probable he would have made the experi* 
ment; but the thought, that such a confession 
would make Mary nfiiserable, without ensuring 
his own happiness, enabled him to check the im- 
pulse ; and though not a fond lover, he acted to- 
wards Miss Hastings as a kind, affectionate bro- 
ther, and spoke of their future union as a thing 
that was fixed. In this line of conduct he was 
confirmed, by the influence of a mother whom he 
loved and respected; and after a few weeks passed 
with her, he was himself astonished at the calm 
that had succeeded the tempest in which his soul 
had been tossed by violent and contending emo- 

The performance of duty diffuses a compla- 
cency, a self-satisfaction, a tranquillity, which 
can never be enjoyed in the indulgence of plea- 
sures contrary to its dictates. The sacrifices of 
inclination to duty, however difficult and painful 
they may be at the time, carry with them their 
own reward — the reward of an approving con- 
science. The esteem of the whole world cannot 
make us happy, if secretly tormented by self- 
condemnation. But, supported by our own es- 
teem, we can serenely smile on the condemnation 
of the world. Oh ! prefer, then, the path of duty, 
however rugged it may appear, and time will 
soon render it the path of peace. 


Wilmot wrote to Louisa, describing his feel- 
ings, and acknowledging the justness of all she 
had said. He told her he was resolved to cor- 
rect those frailties in his character which she had 
condemned ; to reform his habits ; to give up 
the dissipated company in which hfs youth had 
been passed ; to cultivate those higher pleasures, 
which in Mr. Seymour's family he first learned 
duly to appreciate ; and, since an imperious duty 
required him no longer to aspire to her love, to 
endeavour to deserve her friendship. '' And I 
will acknowledge," he added, ^' that even with 
you, dear Miss Seymour, my happiness would 
have been imperfect, if purchased by the misery 
of another, or by the neglect of duty." 

Suspense was now at an end, and Louisa daily 
found the task of self-conquest become easier and 
easier. She could not, indeed, forget the amia- 
ble and interesting Wilmot, but the nature of her 
feelings was changing. To her he was still an 
object of deep and lively interest, and instead of 
banishing him from her recollection, she endea- 
voured to think of him as a friend, and as the 
husband of another woman. In time she suc- 
ceeded ; and, however contrary to the doctrines 
of romance, she experienced the truth of what 
her mother had so often assured her, that time 
and absence would wear away the strength of an 
impression which she had believed to be indeli* 
ble. Her ardent feelings were mellowed into a 
tender interest, and in the progress of time, she 
could think of Wilmot as Mary's husband, with- 
out pain or bitterness ; while the idea, that the 
happiness of that young lady would be her work, 
compensated for what she had sufiered in making 
the sacrifice duty required. 

More than a year elapsed, before Louisa's 


image was so completely eradicated from Wil- 
mot's heart as to permit him to ratify his engage- 
ment with Miss Hastings. But that image was 
to him a guardian angel, leading and preserving 
him in the jiaths of virtue, stimulating him to 
exertion, supporting him under temptation. 


Bit life may Juitly be ityied, Philoflopby, teachiag bgr cnmple. 

Sinee Uring Tirtne it wHh envy curst, 
And the best mea «re libelkd u tbe wont. 

One day, when Mr. Seymour returned to a 
late dinner, he entered with an air so perturbed, 
and with so melancholy a countenance, that Mrs. 
Seymour felt seriously alarmed ; and begged him 
instantly to tell her what affected him, as she was 
sure he had some ill tidings to communicate. 

" Your conjecture is but too true," he replied ; 
'^ but, like me, you will at first scarcely credit my 

Mrs. Seymour, still more alarmed, urged him 
inunediately to remove her suspense, however 
painful his communication might be. 

" Our friend Desmond," said he — 

^' Is dead !" exclaimed Louisa. 

" Alas, that would have been a less evil ; no, 
he is not dead, but is committed to prison this 
morning, on an accusation of having murdered 
St. Julien, the young stranger, who has, as yoa 
know, been for some months past staying at his 

"Impossible! impossible!" exclaimed Mrs* 
Seymour and all tbe family. 


^^ I fear it is but too possible ; such a man would 
not have been arrested on slight grounds of sus- 

^' But, how did it happen f what proof is ther6 
of the charge ?" 

*^ I can give you no particulars, except, that 
the Swiss servant of the Chevalier St. Julien last 
night called up a magistrate, before whom he de- 
posed, that his master was murdered, and by his 
host. Upon which Desmond was instantly ar- 
rested, and conducted to prison. The court is 
now sitting, and he will be brought to trial as 
soon as the grand jury can prefer an indictment. 
I should have instantly gone to my unhappy 
friend, had I not feared to alarm you by my ab- 
sence ; but 1 shall go the moment I have dined ; 
and do not be uneasy, if I should not return to- 
night. I shall remain in the prison, if he will 
allow me ; nay, stay with him until Theodore 

" This is dreadful, indeed !" said Mrs. Sey- 
mour. '^ I would go to Mrs. Desmond, if, judg- 
ing by own feelings, I did not suppose, at such a 
crisis, she would rather be left to herself. But» 
where is Theodore f" 

" It is two or three weeks since he returned to 
College ; poor fellow, it will be an overpower- 
ing shock for him. I shall instantly send the 
faithful old Donald for him." 

When Mr. Seymour left them, Louisa and the 
other children gathered round their mother, to 
cpnverse about this unhappy affair ; and to con- 
jecture what possible motive could have impelled 
so good a man as Mr. Desmond to perpetrate 
such a dreadful crime ; — to inquire what punish- 
ment would be inflicted, what proof would be re- 
quired, and many other similar topics. Edward 


^ODght it would be unjust to punish a man for 
^ crime no one saw him commit ; and recount- 
^4 many stories where the presumptive proof 
^as of the most striking and decisive kind, and 
yet, where the accused person had been afterwards 
found innocent. Mrs. Seymour gave many in- 
stances, similar to those recounted by Edward, 
together with a detail of the affecting circum- 
stances with which they w^re attended, until her 
young auditors were drowned in tears ; and they 
declared with one voice, that it was cruel and un- 
just to take the life of any one, without positive 
proof. They were in a warm argument on this 

point, when the door opened, and M. de , 

the traveller before mentioned, was shown in. 
He had become a frequent and welcome visiter 
at Mr. Seymour's, where his entertaining descrip- 
tions of the country, and interesting account of 
the natives of South America, and his own ad- 
ventures, afforded unwearied delight to every one, 
but most especially to the diildren. 

Being personally acquainted with the author 
of the Colurobiad, they had read that poem with 
a thousand times more interest than they had the 
Iliad or iEneid, or even the entertaining Odyssey. 
It had incited them diligently to read the history 
of South America ; they had wept over the sto- 
ries of Peru and Mexico, told with such force and 
simplicity by Robertson ; and Castell6*s account 
of the conquest of the latter kingdom, where he 
himself had served under Cortez, had for them 
all the charm of romance. And to see a person 
who had been where Montezuma had reigned — 
Cortez triumphed — and Guatamazin suffered ; 
who had been in Peru, where the Incas had 
dwelt — where Pizarro and Alonzo had fought; 
and to have seen the place where the good old 

VOL. II. 4 


Las Casas found a peacefoL retreat in the wilder* 
nes&-7-thiSy indeed, was wonderful, and to their 
young and ardent minds seemed like enchant- 
ment. They forgot that near four hundred years 
had passed since these events had taken place, and 
would question him of Cora andRoUa, and Alonzo, 
of whom they had read in Marmontel's interest- 
ing tale, as if they had recently lived* The amia- 
ble traveller, as distinguished for the amenity of 
his manners, and the warmth and kindness of his 
disposition, as by his enterprising temper and ar- 
dour in scientific pursuits, would enter into long 
narrations ; and, on a map^ trace his route, and 
point out every spot remarkable for its natural or 
civil history, or any interesting incident which 
bad occurred to himself, while all who heard hung 
with delighted attention on his eloquent recitals. 

The tea-table was set for the evening meal, 
and Mrs. Seymour, smiling, said, ^^ they should 
treat him quite en famille, and ask him to join 
their circle round the table." 

" I am charmed," he replied, " that you will 
admit me sans ceremonie; you are the only one, 
who are so kind as to forget that I am a titled 
foreigner, and to allow me the privileges of a 
friend. It is impossible," he continued, " for tra- 
vellers to form a just idea of the manners and 
habits of a country, if always treated with cere- 
mony ; and for my part, I would gladly forego all 
such flattering attentions, for the sake of study- 
ing men and manners as they are in domestic 

" If all strangers brought with them sucli let- 
ters of introduction as you do, M. de , written 

by the hand of Nature herself, and so legibly, that 
no one can see and hear vou, and doubt their au- 


thenticity, they would, believe me, be as cordially 

^^But how comes it then, madam," replied he, 
smiling and bowing to her compliment, '^ that no 
one but yourself understands the language in 
which they are written ?" 

^' It must be your own fault; give to others the 
opportunities with which you have favoured us^ 

and every where will M. de be received as a 


^'Do not imagine I complain of want of hos- 
pitality — so far from it, in no country have I 
received more ; but it is too much your custom to 
show your kindness to strangers, by giving them 
large parties and formal dinners. Now these eiL-* 
hibit men, in ' all civilized countries, under the 
same aspect ; in a gala dress, as it were, or rather 
masquerade, where the manners as well as the 
dress are assumed for the occasion. No cor- 
rect estimate can be formed of the degrees of 
wealth, or habits of living, of dilfTerent individu- 
als and classes of society ; for you ladies are such 
magicians, that I see no difference in the enter- 
tainments of your wealthiest citizens, and of those 
who have been pointed out to me as in narrow 
and embarrassed circumstances. Now, if these 
kind and polite people could but realize that not 
only myself, but all men of taste, sentiment or 
science, enjoy such a social meal as this, more 
than the grandest entertainment they can prepare, 
how much trouble and vexation and expense 
might be spared." 

"Exactly so," said Mrs. Seymour ; "and I 
have benefitted so far by remarks I have heard 
from foreigners on our eating parties, as they call 
our evening assemblies, that instead of the rich 
variety and perpetual succession of refreshments 


given at our parties, I have retained little besides 
a cup of tea." 

" So much the better, so much the better," re- 
plied M. de ; "I wish all your fellow citi- 
zens would follow your example; there would 
then be more intellectual feasting ; the company 
could then converse; whereas now, constantly 
eating and drinking, servants pressing through 
the crowded rooms, the tinkling of glasses, 
spoons, forks, &c., totally interrupts conversa- 

^^ Your good President understands the art of 
living, better than any one I have met with. To 
one who has been disgusted with the cumbersome 
pomp, and pageantry of courts, the restraints of 
ceremony and etiquette, there is something de- 
lightful, nay, even sublime, in the simplicity of 
your republican Magistrate. What a contrast 
between the glitter and splendour of the court of 
the Viceroy of Peru, for instance; the palace 
surrounded with guards; the halls and anti- 
chambers filled with soldiers and servants, through 
which you are most solemnly ushered — to see 
whom } — an insignificant being, whose name 
even is not known beyond the district that he 
governs ; — and the dwelling of, your president ; 
guarded only by the love and respect of the na- 
tion; attended only by his own virtues. The 
solitude of the President's house, to the eye of 
the philosopher, is a far more sublime spectacle 
than the thronged and guarded palaces of empe- 
rors and kings. It speaks to the heart, to the 
mind; and proclaims that true safety and true 
greatness are found only in virtue. 

<< When a distinguished French citizen, who had 
resided some time in this country, returned to 
France, he went to court, and one of the first 


questions the First Consal asked him, was, ' what 
kind of a government is that of the United 
States f ' It is one, sir,' he replied, * which yoa 
neither yeel nor ste.^ The First Consal asked no 
more questions ; feeling that such a panegyric on 
yonr government was a satire on his." 

" How I love to hear you talk of my dear coun- 
try, and our venerable and beloved President," 
exclaimed Mrs. Seymoar, with simplicity and 

** Not more than I love to expatiate on them," 

said M. de ; " to me, my visit to your happy 

land is an intellectual banquet ; and never shall I 
forget the affecting scene 1 witnessed last even- 
ing, nor the happiness I enjoyed to-day, in the 
national palace." 

" Oh, do tell us," said Edward, who, eagerly 
listening, never lost a word spoken by M. de • 

He smiled at the boy's earnestness, and, patting 
his head, said, " You, perhaps, will be President 
some day, my fine little fellow, so study well the 
model you now have, and try to be as good and 
great a man." 

" Indeed," said Edward, " I mean to try hard ; 
for, if I live long enough, I am determined to be 
President before I die." 

They all laughed ; but M. de said, " that's 

a noble and just ambition, my boy ; the consti- 
tution of your country opens the path to that ho- 
nour to the poorest citizen : therefore, it cannot be 
wrong to aim at it. Were you a simple citizen in 
Europe, to determine to be a king, you would do 
wrong, because you could not be so without com- 
mitting crimes, and overturning the government." 

"But I could, even in Europe, be a ertal 
man^^^ exclaimed Edward ; " you know I could be 



a hero, or a great genera], and that would be 
next besf 

^^ Aim rather at being a good man,^^ said M. 
de 9 '* and then you may obtain the first men- 
tioned object of your ambition." 

" But pray tell us, sir, if you please, what you- 
saw at the President's house." 

<< I called,'' replied he, <^ in the dusk of the 
evening ; the servant showed me silently into the 
drawing-room, and I had reason to rejoice, that 
among other European customs which you disre- 
gard, is- that of announcing a visiter ; for, by not 
being announced, my entrance was not perceived 
for some minutes, and I had the delight of wit- 
nessing one of the most charming scenes I ever 

" In the midst of the room, seated on the floor, 
was the good President : this affectionate father, 
surrounded by half a dozen or more of the most 
lovely, Hebe-like children, I ever saw. They were 
laughing, talking^ singing, round their venerable 
grandfather, while first one, and then another, 
would steal a kiss, or encircle him in their arms. 
They had been, it seems, puzzling him with enig- 
mas, and he amusing them with stories. I did 
not stir, for fear of disturbing this sweet family 
scene ; but, at last, one of the little ones discover- 
ed me, and gave the alarm : all started up, and 
surrounded me, with inquiries how I had got in, 
bow long I had been there, &ic. The President 
shook hands with me, saying, ' I will make no 
other apology than the good Henry the Fourth 
did, when he was caught by an ambassador play- 
ing horse, and riding one of his children on his 
back, by asking, are you a father ? — ^if you are 
no apology is necessary.' ' I am not so happy, 


I replied, < bat still I can sympathise in tbe plea- 
sure I have witnessed.' " 

*< Well," said Edward, '^ this is what you saw 
last etreaing ; now, pray tell us what made you 
so happy to day." 

** Your mamma will best appreciate this part of 
my story," replied M. de — . " I dined en fa' 
fistSe, almost tete-a-tete with this great man, and 
enjoyed in perfection the simplicity and absence 
of ceremony, which I so much admire. 

*< I told you no. one understood so well the art of 
living ; this is perceptible in all his arrangements 
and occupations, in his cabinet, bis drawing 
and his dining room ; into the mysteries of all 
which he has had the goodness to initiate me, 

'' To day, for instance, we had a striking proof 
of this. Nothing is a greater restraint on the 
freedom of conversation, which, to me, is the chief 
pleasure of the social board, than the attendance 
of a number of servants. To day, no servant was 
present : a small table, or dumb waiter, was pla- 
ced at each corner of the table, on which was 
eyery thing requisite for the service of the table, 
and to which we helped ourselves. He adopts 
this plan, he tells me, when he has friends with 
him, whose conversation he values, or with whom 
his intercourse is confidential ; and surely, I was 
more gratified by this compliment, than I would 
have been by the most costly and splendid ban- 

" You were born to be a citizen of a republic." 

said Mrs. Seymour; " how unkind has fortune 

been in making you the subject of a monarchy !" 

" I am a citizen of the world," replied M. 

de , " or, rather, a traveller by profession ; 

but I hope to end my travels and my life in your 
happy country. When my young friend here," 


siud he, laying bis hand on Edward's head, 
^^ is President ; will you then give me an asy- 
hnn under your peaceful administration f" 

" If. it depended on me," said Edward, " your 
travels should end now, and you should never 
leave us." 

** 1 suspect," said Mrs. Seymour, " Edward's 
vocation is rather to scenes of warfare, than 
peace ; what say you, my son, which would you 
rather do, shoulder a musket, or navigate a ves- 
sel f " 

^* Which ever is most difficult, and would ac- 
quire most glory," replied he. 

" Spoken like a hero," said M. de ; 

" where did you imbibe such ambitious no- 
tions r 

" From Homer and Virgil, I suspect," said 

" The Grecian and Roman classics have so 

much of that tendency," observed M. de , 

^* that I do not know whether it would not be the 
policy of your government to prohibit them in 
the schools. It would be a lamentable thing if 
the only pacific nation in the world should im- 
bibe a passion for war and conquest." 

" You would think we were fast tending to it," 
said Mrs. Seymour, ' if you knew all the re- 
proaches heaped on the President (or purchasings 
instead of conquering Louisiana ; it was deemed 
a mean and degrading mode of acquiring terri- 
tory, by some of our hot-brained politicians." 

" We should form a very unjust estimate of 
your public men, or public measures," said M. 
de — , " if we formed our judgments from the 
ebullitions of party spirit, or the fulminations of 
party journals. 1 own I am shocked and dis- 
gusted with the licentiousness of your public 


prints ; the advantage of a free press can 
scarcely counterbalance the evil." 

*^ Our philosophic Preisident will not agree 
with you in that opinion ; although no individual 
has suffered more from its excesses than he has," 
said Mrs. Seymour. 

" True," replied M. de — , " he considers a 
free press as the paladium of liberty. I went to- 
day an hour before his time of dining, and was 
received in his cabinet while he was finishing a 
letter ; I took up one of your public journals 
which lay upon his table, and was astonished and 
shocked to find its columns filled with the lowest 
abuse, and vilest of calumnies of the President. 
1 threw it down with indignation, exclaiming, 
why do you not have the fellow hung who dares 
to write these abominable lies ! He smiled at 
my warmth, and replied, * hang the guardian of 
public morals ? no, sir 4 rather would I protect the 
spirit of freedom which dictates even that abuse. 
Put that paper into your pocket, my good friend, 
and when you hear any one doubt the reality of 
American liberty, show them that paper, and tell 
them where you found it ; you cannot have a bet- 
ter proof of its existence. Sir, the country 
where public men are amenable to public opinion ; 
where not only their official measures, but their 
private morals, are open to the scrutiny and ani- 
madversion of every citizen, is more secure from 
despotism and corruption, than it could be ren- 
dered by the wisest code of laws, or best formed 
constitution. Party spirit may sometimes black- 
en, and its erroneous opinions may sometimes in- 
jure ; but, in general, it will prove the best guar- 
dian of a pure and wise administration ; it will 
detect and expose vice and corruption, check 
the encroachments of power, and resist op- 


pression ; sir, it is an abler protector of the peo- 
ple's rights, than arms or laws,* 

/' ' But is it not shocking that virtuous charac- 
ters should be defamed ?' 

'^ ' Let their actions refute such libels. Believe 
me, virtue is not long darkened by the clouds of 
calumny. In its course, it will shine forth like the 
sun at noon-day, and with its brightness disperse 
the fogs and vapours which obscured its rising 
light. When a man assumes a public trust, he 
should consider himself as public property, and 
jus^tly liable to the inspection and vigilance of 
public opinion ; and the more sensibly he is made 
to feel his dependence, the less danger will there 
be of his abuse of power— TAe abuse of power^ 
that rock on which good governments, and the 
people's rights, have been so often wrecked.' 

" * Such doctrines would never be recognised in 
the old world,' I observed. 

" ' Our example,' he replied, ' may enforce 
these doctrines, which your philosophers have so 
long preached in vain ; example, you know, far 
outweighs precept.' " 

" My dear sir," said Mrs. Seymour, " if you 
repeat all these things when you return to Eu- 
rope, not even those philosophers will believe you, 
but will ask you if you have been travelling in 

M; de , smiled, and said " what then 

will they think of the following story," taking 
his tablets out, ^^ which 1 had from authority I 
cannot doubt." 

" Pray let us have it," said Mrs. Seymour. 

" A very poor black man had hung his Sun- 
day coat (the only one he possessed) on the fence 
before his door to sun and air it. A man who 
was in the President's service seized the coat, and 


iDsUted on carrying it off, as he alleged it be- 
longed to one of the servants. It was in Vain 
the poor negro remonstrated ; the man would not 
return the coat. 

^^ He went to the President's house, and asked for 
the ' steward, to whom he told the story. The 
steward gave him no satisfaction, and sent him 
about his business. As it was a thing of great 
consequence to the poor man, he resolved to go 
to the President himself: the porter readily ad« 
mitted him, and a servant conducted him to the 
President, who patiently and attentively listened 
to the story. When it was done, he rang for a 
servant, whom he ordered to bring the coat in 
question. When it came, he examined it, and 
said, ^ the cloth is of the same colour, but the 
servants' coats have livery trimmings, and there 
has never been any trimming on this; nor is 
the make the same. The coat does not belong 
to any of my household. Take it, my good fel- 
low ; it is certainly yours.'* 

" In ancient story we have read of governors 
and kings who dispensed justice themselves, but 
it Is only in novels and romances now-a-days we 
hear of such adventures." 

** If we had such an office as a national his- 
toriographer, I should certainly wish you to be 
appointed, my dear sir," said Mrs. Seymour ; 
*^ you will have a fine collection of anecdotes, if 
you go on at this rate." 

" You would say so, were you to see my jour- 
nal. I spend some hours every day with the 
President, and when I go to my lodgings, I note 
down the principal part of his conversation ; be- 

* This last incident is inserted, to give an idra of the simpli- 
city of our manners, and facility of access to our first Magis- 
uates ; but in fact it occurred to Mr. Monroe, not Mr. Jefferson. 


sides which, I converse with rich and poor re- 
specting him, the government, the public and 
private institutions, &;c. &lc." 

'^How delightful it would be to read your 
journal," said Louisa. 

*' It would soon weary you ; it contains de- 
tails only interesting to such a microscopic inves- 
tigator as myself. 

" Would you not think it paradoxical, if I 
were to tell you, I heard this good President to- 
day, wish for absolute power ; yes, wish that he 
was a despot !" 

*^ It would, indeed, be inconsistent with the de- 
mocratical sentiments you told us of," said Mrs. 
Seymour ; ^' what could have induced such a 
wish ?» 

" I was admiring," said Mr. de , " the 

beauty and variety of the scenery of the city 
of Washington ; its hills, its plains, its valleys, 
springs, rivulets and rivers, but more than all, the 
noble forest trees which cover the Capitol Hill, 
extend over the low ground at its foot, and along 
the banks of the Tiber, and shores of the Poto- 
mac. I had found, on inquiry, that these beauti- 
ful and venerable trees were on ground reserved 
for public walks and gardens, and observed to the 
President, that I had seen, with surprise and re- 
gret, oaks, sycamores, and tulip trees, the growth 
of ages, cut down ; a loss, I observed, which could 
never be restored. 

" * The loss is irreparable,' said he ; * nor can 
the evil be prevented. When I have seen such 
depredation, I have wished for a moment to be 
a despot, and that in the possession of absolute 
power, I could enforce the preservation of these 
venerable groves.'. 


** * But have not you sufficient authority V I 

" * No/ said he, " not to preserve a single 
tree. Only regular military guards could do it, 
as you do in Europe. The trees are cut down 
by the poor for fuel ; often at night. Some, in- 
deed, belong to the former proprietors of the 
ground, who, when they parted with the land, 
reserved to themselves the trees ; which they 
now fell, and sell at the common price of fuel. 
In one night, /or/y wide spreading and lofty tulip 
trees, that bordered the Tiber, were girdled, that 
is, a ring of bark stripped off, by which, of 
course, they were killed, and left to be cut down 
at the leisure of these midnight depredators. It 
was in vain I tried to discover them ; the poor 
were too much interested, to hope that they would 
betray the offenders. In a few years, not a tree 
will remain, and when it is too late, the Legisla- 
ture will regret that measures were not taken for 
their preservation. Washington might have 
boasted one of the noblest parks, and most beau- 
tiful malls, attached to any city in the world. 
Being the seat of government, it is under the ju- 
risdiction of the national legislature, and it is 
requiring too much to expect our Senators and 
Representatives to occupy their time in making 
police laws and regulations. I had it much at 
heart to have improved the public grounds, and 
laid out gardens and walks. There are several 
hundred acres in the city belonging to the go- 
vernment, besides building-lots, and public 
squares. Let out to enterprising individuals, this 
land might at least be put in a state of cultiva- 
tion, which would add not only to the beauty, 
but salubrity of the city. But a large public 
body occupied with legislating for such a wide 

VOL. II. 5 


txtended empire, has no time to bestow on soch 
minor objects. 

*^ * In our climate, trees are peculiarly desira- 
ble,' continued the President ; * as far as the 
Uroited means placed in my hands will allow, I 
have endeavoured to secure this advantage, by 
planting the Avenue with a young growth ; from 
which, however, the present generation will obtain 
little benefit.' 

"You see," added M. de , •* I have a reten- 
tive memory .'' 

" So good a one," said Mrs. Seymour, " you 
scarcely need your tablets." 

" Mamma," said Edward, '^ the other day I saw 
the Presidenrstanding on his horse, on his sad- 
dl<^ I mean, gathering acorns off a willow-oak—- 
I Wonder he was not afraid ; and what could he 
want with acorns?" 

" I wonder, too," said Mrs. Seymour, "he was 
not afraid ; had the horse started, or even moved 
a few steps, he must have fallen off. But Vir- 
ginians feel as secure on horse back, as in a chair. 
Do you remember, Emily, the description of a 
Virginian in your little book of natural history ?" 

" Yes, mamma ; it says a Virginian is born on 
borse back, with a pipe in his mouth ; it made 
us all laugh heartily." 

" One might almost fancy it true," said Mrs. 
Seymour ; " a Virginian on his plantation never 
thinks of walking a dozen yards, but mounts his 
horse when he goes over his fields as regularly 
as any one would put on a hat. — As for acorns, 
Edward, the willow-oak is one of the President's 
favourite trees; perhaps he means to plant a nurse- 
ry of them ; for I heard him say he intended to 
plant an avenue of these trees, and only designed 


tbe Lombardy poplars to grow, until the oakfi 
were large enough to give shade." 

*^ He rides out frequently alone on horse back, 

I believe," said M. de . 

. " Regularly every day," replied Mrs. Sey- 
mour, *^ during all seasons ; the heats of summer, 
or rigours of winter, never prevent him. He 
takes long rides in every direction around the 
city, and I never see him return without some 
branch of tree, or shrub, or bunch of (lowers in 
his hand. .He is acquainted with every tree and 
plant, from the oak of our forests, to the meanest 
flower of our valleys." 

*^ We are engaged in an inexhaustible subject," 
observed M. de , *' but it grows too late for 

me to intrude any longer. Believe me, madam, 
this evening will be treasured in my memory. I 
have read of the cheering and socializing effects 
of the iea-tabh^ and have now experienced the 
truth of the poet's description ; and if I cou)d, 
should certainly introduce it among my fair coun- 

^^ Before you could do that, the caprice of 
fashion will, I fear, have banished it from onr 
fire sides," said Mrs. Seymour ; '^ I am almost the 
only one I know, so old-fashiqned as to intro^iuce 
it into the parlour. Louisa already has declared 
war against it." 

** What a pity will it be," said M. de • 

" The cup of tea handed round a circle, has not 
half such a social and exhilarating effect, as 
encircling a table. If ever I get a wife," and he 
sighed as he said so, ^' I will certainly describe 
this charming evening to her, and explain the 
magic powers of the tea-table in promoting con» 
versation. Pray, Mrs. Sieymour, retain your 


good old fashion, till I bring my cara-sposa t# 
take lessons from yon." 

" You had better come, when your travelling 
mania is over, and choose one already Versed in 
the rites and ceremonies of this altar of socia- 

'^ Good night, good night,'* said he, " I will go 
and dream of your advice, and of my future — " 

As it was late when M. de left them, Mrs. 

Seymour advised the children to go to rest, aU 
though the anxiety they felt to hear a further ac« 
count of Mr. Desmond's situation, prompted them 
to wish to sit up until their father's return. 

Mrs. Seymour and Louisa sat up to a later 
hour, but at last concluding that Mr. Seymoiur 
would remain all night with their unhappy friend, 
they went to bed, though not to sleep. 

The next morning brought a confirmation of 
their worst fears. Appearances were so strongly 
indicative of Mr. Desmond's guilt, that, however 
inexplicable the event seemed, however irrecon- 
cilable to his character and conduct, even Mr. 
Seymour felt more fear than hope, of the result 
of the impending trial. He now devoted all his 
time to his unfortunate friend, and not only passed 
whole days, but o(len nights, with the unhappy 
Mr. Desmond. 

Mrs. Seymour participated in her husband's 
anxiety. She called on Mrs. Desmond ; but that 
lady, shut up in the solitude of her own chamber, 
declined seeing her, or any other friend. Several 
days were passed by Mrs. Seymour's family in 
anxious suspense, in which they secluded them- 
selves from society, tenderly sympathizing in, 
though they could not alleviate, the sufierings of 
these interesting and unfortunate friends. 


€11 kavt lito Upstke ffnteAd trltet* brMthV, 
Frma sirt lo wii, whh pknis tnX beqneaUi'd. 

W« oa hit tale witb mute attentioB dwelt 

*' My dear Louisa,'' said Mrs. Seymour, one 
evening when she had been expecting Mr. Sej- 
mour with unusual anxiety, ^' the carriage has 
returned without your father ; pray ring the bell, 
that we may learn what has detained him." 

^' Joseph,*' said Mrs. Seymour, when the ser- 
vant entered, ^* I wish to speak to the coachman ; 
bid him come to me directly." Then, turning to 
her daughter, she continued, '^ your father will 
really be ill before this sad trial is over ; he 
spares himself neither night nor day." 

The door opened ; an old gray-headed black 
man, of a fine portly appearance, an intelligent 
and good-humoured countenance, entered, and 
bowing low, said, *^ How is mistress to-day f " 

*' Pretty well, Stephen, but very anxious about 
your master ; he is not very well, and the day is 
dreadfully cold and stormy. Why did he not 
return with you ?" 

^' Why, mistress, he would not let me stay out 
in the weather ; he came to the door himself, God 
bless him, and says, ' Stephen,' says he, * it is 



raining very fast, and it is so excessively cold, I 
do not wish you to wsdt for me. The court will 
not rise fpr several hours ; beg your mistress not 
to wait dinner, and tell her I will return in a 
hack ; and do not come out in such weather ano- 
ther time, Stephen, but send one of the boys ?' ^ 

" That is so like papa," said Louisa. 

" Yes, indeed, Miss Louisa, he thinks of every 
one more than of himself. — And so, mistress, I come 
home, but I has'nt put up the horses yet, think- 
ing, as soon as I had thaw'd my fingers a bit, to 
go to fetch the young masters from school." 

" Your master would say, we are spoiling the 
boys, Stephen ; but the storm is increasing, and it 
it a long walk for the poor little fellows.'' 

'^ Yes, indeed, mistress, and I would far rather 
go for them." 

'^ No, no, Stephen, you must not go ; send 
Thomas ; see, it is snowing, sleeting and rsuning, 
and so cold your old hands would freeze." 

" Indeed, mistress, I can^ trust them precious 
children to our Tom ; why. likely as not, master 
Edward would be for getting up on the box and 
driving himself, as he did once before when I 
trusted Tom ; you know, mistress, there's no hin- 
dering him if he takes a thing in his head ; ah, 
he's a fine spirit of his own, just as master, bless 
his soul, had afore him. Why, mistress, there 
was'nt one on the whole plantation could say nay 
to him, and many's the day he was near breaking 
his neck on old master^s race horses. It's more 
than I would do now-a-days by sweet little mas- 
ters ; old heads make tim'rous hearts, mistress ; 
so, seeing its so desperate slipp'ry for the horses, 
I would far rather go myself." 

" Well, Stephen, you have made me afraid too, 
90 I must let you go ; but make haste before it is 


^ V 

darky and when yoa come backy send for a warm 

*' Tbank you, mistress ; yoa shall see them be- 
fore an hour's over;" andj bowing, he left the room. 

** I love cUiddy Steevy,^^ said Emily, '' he is so 
good; and I love t(> sit on his knee, and hear him 
tell about grandmamma and grandpapa, and all 
about the^reat house^ and about dear papa — when 
he was born, and what grand doings there were 
when he was christened ; how all the servants had 
new clothes, and all the slaves had such a frolic, 
and the bells in the old church were rung, and all 
about it, mamma." 

'^ indeed, mamma," said Louisa, '^ I think 
you would like to hear him tell of old times too, 
paiticularly about what a sweet, good boy, papa 
was, and how all the house servants, and. field- 
negroes, and the poor people, loved him. When 
any one had done wrong, and was going to be 
whipped, he would go beg and cry, till their old 
master would forgive them." 

^^ And once," continued Emily, when her sis- 
ter stopped ; *^ and once, mamma, once upon a 
time, there was one very careless, mischievous 
boy, that was always galloping the horses so fast 
that he almost killed them, and he would climb 
over the garden wall and steal the fruit, and 
would leave open the gates, and let all the cattle 
get into the corn fields, and would set the dogs 
on the cOMTs to see them run, just for play ; and 
grandpapa said he must be sold, he was so bad ; 
but papa cried, and begged grandpapa not to sell 
him ; and so, mamma, one day when he had 
done something very bad, the overseer had him 
tied up to whip him ; and so mamma, his mother 
ran to the house and told papa, who was a little 


boy only eight years old ; and he ran as fast ai 
he could, though his tutor called to hiro to come 
back ; but he ran till he came to the place where 
JV*ecf was tied up ; and his back was all bare^ anct 
the overseer was standing over him with a 

S*eat whip, and was whipping him ; and so little 
dward, that is, papa,. I mean, ran and jumped 
right up on ^JVec/'s back, and caught him round 
the neck, and the overseer, before he knew who 
it was, gave him a lash too." 

Emily's tears now choked her, and she had to 
stop and wipe her eyes with her apron, while 
Mrs. Seymour and Louisa could scarcely restrain 

" Well, Emily," said her mother. 

** Well, mamma," continued she, still wiping 
her eyes, '' the other slaves that were standing 
by, ran up, and daddy Stephen caught the over- 
seer's arm, and cried, ' stop, stop ; don't you see it 
is master Edward .^' ' Take him away, take him 
away then,' said the overseer; and he was in such 
a passion, mamma, he did not know what he was 
doing ; * take him away, I tell you, JVed shall 
have his thirty-nine lashes — why, that child will 
ruin all the negroes on the plantation.' Sister 
Louisa, do you tell," said she, sobbing, and lay- 
ing her head on her mother's lap, as she sat on a 
little stool beside her. 

*' I don't remember it as well as you, Emily, 
80 wipe your eyes, dear, and. tell us all about it." 

** I remember every word," said the sweet child^ 
^' for daddy has told ine a hundred times." 

" Let us hear, then, love." 

'* Mamma," said she, " little Edward, papa, I 
mean, wonld'nt let go his bold, but clasp'd his 
arms so tight round Ned's neck, that the over* 
seer could'nt pull him away, and none of the peo- 


file would so much as touch him — and then the 
overseer was so furious tliat he began whipping 
again^ but struck JVe</ on the legs ; and then Ned's 
mother, and daddy Stephen, ran to the house, 
calling as loud as they could, master, master, come 
down to the quarters ! And master came, I mean 
grand-papa, came, and when he heard what was 
the matter, he walked very fast, and saw with his 
own eyes the overseer whipping away as hard as 
be could — and sometimes, though he did'nt mean 
it, he struck little Edward. Then grand-papa ran 
and snatch'd the whip out of the overseer's hand, 
and threw it on the ground, and caught little Ed- 
ward in his arms, and hugg'd him and kiss'd him, 
and he hugg'd and kiss'd grand-papa ;*and then 
he jnmp'd down, and ran and tried to untie JVecf; 
but it was such a big rope he could'nt ; and then 
be ask'd daddy Stephen, but he did'ut dare to, but 
look'd at his master. Then grand-papa turn'd to 
tbe overseer and said, ' unloose that boy, sir.' 
But the overseer wonld'nt, but look'd so sullen 
and so proud, and said, ' no, sir, I cannot unloose 
bim ; . I was only doing my duty.' So then grand- 
papa said, * that's true — Stephen, untie that rope/ 
And then papa ran and help'd him, and took a 
knife out of daddy Stephen's hand, and cut the 
rope right in two. And, mamma, I have seen 
that very knife," 

"You have seen it !" exclaimed her mother. 

" Yes, indeed, mamma ; daddy Stephen has it 
yet, and says he will never part with it as long as 
be lives : shall I^et it and show it to you, mam- 

*• Yes, darling, that knife will be precious to 
me, too," said she, wiping the tears that- started 
to her eyes ; "but what was next done?" 



"Why, mamma, Ned turned round and kneeVd 
down before grand-papa, without speaking a 
word: and old master, grand-papa, I mean, stood 
considering, and every one was as still, as still as 
could be. Then old master said, at last — * Well, 
Edward, we must sell this boy after all !' *Oh, no, 
no, no, dear papa,' little Edward said, and hugg'd 
his papa, and kiss'd him, ^ don't sell him, dear 
papa!' *What, then, shall I do with him, for he 
is a wicked, worthless boy ?' * Give him to me, 
give him to me, papa, and I will make him good*' 
'That will be a difficult matter, my child,' said 
old master — mamma, I can't help saying old mat" 
ter and little Edward^ because daddy Stephen 
tells me It is so." 

" No matter, darling, tell it like Stephen ; it 
will do very well." 

*' Oh, I remember all he said ; he was so par- 
ticular, and would tell just how grand-papa 
looked ; and sometimes, mamma, he almost acts 
it, and makes brother Edward do like papa, and 
makes Joe do like Ned." 

'* Indeed ! and do the boys love to listen to 
the old man's stories ?" 

•* Oh, yes, dearly, mamma ; but they like best 
to hear about the war, and about the battles, and 
General Washington, and" 

"But, Emily, love, finish this^story first; I 
really wish to know what became of poor JVerf. 
Your father never told any stories about himself; 
but I wonder you never told me of them before." 

Emily hung down her head,%;oloured up to her 
eyes, and looked very constious. 

" Why, now, my Emily, what ails you ? I only 
inquired why yon Iiad not told all this before." 

Emily burst into tears, and said, " oh, mam- 
ma, I was very naughty ; I did what you forbade 
me — dear, dear mother, pray, pray forgive me." 


^* Can yovL tell what all this means, Louisa f 
for I really cannot,-' said Mrs. Seymonr, while 
she held her little girl in her arms, whose face 
was hid in her bosom. 

Louisa looked much concerned, but replied, 
** £inily will tell, mamma.'' 

'* Cume, my dear," said Mrs. Seymour, '* yon 
never, in your whole life, have told me an un- 
trath; therefore, whatever you now tell me, I 
shall believe it, and, I am sure, forgive yon too." 

'^ You are so good, mamma ! — why, then, 
mamma, I did not tell you, because I used to go 
into the kitchen, and make daddy Stephen tell 
me all about old times, as he calls it, — when you 
were out a visiting, mamma, and while sister was 
in New-York." 

" Why, that is a year ago." 

^* Yes, mamma, almost two years, when I was 
9Lvery little girl, mamma. But I never went after 
sister came hoiiiej because she told me I must 
not do any thing contrary to your orders. But 
when I told her about old times, and papa, she 
wanted to hear too, aud she asked the house- 
keeper to let daddy Stt^phen come into her room, 
to tell us st(^ries about old times ; and so, mam- 
ma, Flora let him come ; and of evenings last 
winter, when you sent us all to play, because you 
liked to be alone at tu ilight, then we used to 
get daddy Stephen to come into the house-keep* 
er's room, and there Louisa and the boys used to 
sit and listen to him, till you rang the bell for 

" I will forgive you, my dear Emily, for two 
reasons; because you were so young, and be- 
cause the stories were about your father. But 
now you are a big girl, or rather a little lady, I 



am sure you will never go into the kitchen any 
more, and never talk with the servants, except 
old mammy norse, old daddy Stephen, and our 
good old Flora. I scarcely deem them servants; 
they seem more like near relatives, and tender 
friends. They were the faithful servants of your 
grand-parents, and nursed and attended on your 
father from the moment of his birth to the pre- 
sent day, and, I am sure, love his children as 
fondly as if they were their own." 

" Oh, mamma, my heart," laying her hand on 
her bosom, ^* my heart feels so light now, — I am 
so glad I have told you." 

" But now, my Emily, for our story ; I forget 
where you left off." 

" Just where papa asked grand-papa to give 
JVee{ to him," said Louisa. 

" So it was, sister — well, mamma, little Ed- 
ward begged his papa to give him Ned^ and said 
he would make him good, and grand-papa said, 
that would he a difficult matter. And then Ned^ 
who had been kneeling on the ground, without 
saying a word, or looking up, then Ntd cned, 
« oh, master, pray, pray give me to master Ed** 
ward, and I will never be wicked again ; indeed, 
I will be a good boy !' . Old master shook his 
head, as much as to say, I fear not. Then ffed 
said, ' don't be afraid, master, I iwear by my 
Master in heaven, and by the God who made me, 
yes, I swear J I will, all my life, be a faithful, and 
dutiful, and bounden slave to my young master ; 
yea, 1 will go between him and death, and will 
give my life to save his life, as he has done this 
day for me !^ Poor JVed's hands were held up ; 
the big tears rolled down his cheeks, and little 
master, sweet soul, held his father's hand between 
his, and looked, oh, how pitiful be looked in his 


&ce ! Old master couldnh stand this ; he snatch- 
ed little Edward up in his arms, and, hugging 
him close — ' give me a hundred kisses, my dar- 
ling, and you shall have him ; he shall be your 
own, now, and for all his life.' Master Edward 
began giving his father the hundred kisses, while 
AW jumped up, and danced, and capered, and 
clapped his hands, as if he was out of his senses. 
All this while, Mr. Duncan had stood a little way 
off, looking mighty serious, but never saying a 
word ; but now he came up to old master^ and, 
bowing, ^ I have your permission^ 1 suppose, sir, 
to give up my place ; my authority is at an end, 
and, of course, 1 can no longer be of any ser- 
vice.* * You have my permission, sir,' said old 
master; and Mr. Duncan was going, but that 
darling boy jumped down out of his father's 
arms, and catching hold of Mr. Duncan's hand, 
' no, Mr. Duncan,' said he, ' don't go, for I heard 
papa say, you were an excellent overseer.' And 
then, mamma — I forget all the rest about HSr. 
Duncan ; but the end of it was, all was made up ; 
he staid, and he and master Edward were better 
friends than ever." 

" But what was done with Ned ? Come, my 
little story-teller, I must have an end to your long 
story ; you always want me to have a good end- 
ing to my stories, so, pray tell me, what became 
of poor Ned?" 

** Why, mamma, papa took him to the house 
with him, and wouldn't let him live in the quar- 
ters any more, and grand-mamma gave him a 
livery-suit, and let him wait on his young master 
and ride with him. And at night, JVed, before 
he went to bed, sent to ask little Edward to come 
out in the entry to him, and, when he went, he 
handed him the rope he had been tied with, and 

VOL. II. 6 


said, now, young master, this rope ties me t<^ 
you, as fast as it tied me to the whipping-post.^. 
So, mamma, there is the end ; for Ned has livecK 
with papa ever since." 

" But, where is he now ?" 

" Why, mamma, don't you know he is Eddy ?'^ 

" Eddy, your father's body-servant ! the JVecf 
you have been telling me of!" 
f " Yes, mamma, the very same." 

" Well, this is very strange ; but one thing is 
"^rtain, he loves mischief still ; and I recollect 
^hen I was once urging your father to send him 
to the plantation, he said he could never part 
with him ; for although heedless and careless, 
he' was a most attached and faithful slave, and 
devoted to him from a principle of gratitude, 
ever since he once saved him from a severe whip- 
ping. Your story, my little darling, has beguiled 
an anxious hour. It is a long time since the car- 
riage went ; the boys will be home presently. 
Ring, Emily, and order up dinner ; they will be 
hungry and cold," 

When Mrs. Seymour and her children return- 
ed to the parlour, the sofa was drawn close to the 
blazing fire ; but this affectionate wife was too 
anxious to read, as she usually did at this hour ; 
she walked the room, going frequently to the 
window, looking often at her watch, and listening 
to the wheels of every carriage as it rolled by. 
The storm was still increasing ; shet and rain 
beat against the window ; the wind roared round 
the house ; and, as she stood gazing on the cheer- 
less scene before her, she shuddered at the blast, 
which bent the tallest poplars almost to the 
ground ; sighed for the shivering figures, who, 
gliding along the now deserted Avenue, were 
breasting the wintry wind and pelting storm ; 


«ooked anxiously towards the Capitol, which the 
S'athering darkness almost hid from her view ; 
sind then, turning to the gay group, who were seat- 
ed round the fire, consoled herself with thinking of 
Xlie comfort her husband would enjoy on his re- 
turn home, after a weary day, passed in a close 
^nd crowded court room. 

" The contrast will add to his enjoyment,'* 
thought she, as she turned to take her accustomed 
seat in the corner of the sofa. Edward and Louisa 
were deeply engaged in a game of chess ; and 
Emily and her cousin Henry, were looking on 
with almost equal interest as if playing them- 

Mrs. Seymour leaned on the arm of the sofa, 
and watched the various emotions of hope and 
fear, as they were alternately expressed on the 
faces of the children. 

" Check-mate ! next move," cried Henry ; 
" take care, Edward ! What, give your queen ?" 
'* In some cases,'' said Edward, '* I would give 
my life to conquer." 

"Yes, truly, cousin, I believe you ; for you 
would risk it even for a little fun /" 

" You have conquered at an easier rate," said 

Louisa ; '^ I cannot move, nor can I take your 

queen. I am no match for you, my dear brother." 

" But, Henry, what do you mean by your 

cousin's risking his life f " 

" Why," said Henry, " only think, aunt, he 
wanted to drive to-night." 

" That is just what Stephen feared," said 

" Feared !" said Edward ; " ladies and old 
men may fear, but surely men ought never to 
fear ! and how am I to learn what men ought to 
learn, if I never brave danger ?" 


" When you are a man^ my son, fear would il 
become you 5 but, I own, while a Utile boy, 
have no objection to a little timidity." 

" Why, mamma, Alexander was only a littl 
boy, when he rode a horse, which not one of bia 
father's officers could manage." 

" But, my child, you are not Alexander." 

" No, mamma ; but if you would let me, T 
would try to be like him." 

" If I would let you ; does it depend on me, 
then, my son .'*" 

" Indeed, mamma, it does. You will not let 
me swim, for fear I may be drowned ; you will 
not let me climb high trees, for fear I should fall 
and break my bones ; you will not let me go out 
in very hot weather, for fear I should get a fever ; 
nor in cold, stormy weather, for fear I should get 
a cold ; you will not let me drive, nor ride a 
spirited horse, for fear I should be run away 
with ; so, my dear mother, I think you had best 
put on me some of Louisa's clothes, give me a 
needle and thimble, and keep roe by you all day 
long ; I may then make an awkward woman, but 
indeed, mother, I shall never make a man !" 

They all laughed heartily at this idea, and 
Henry said — 

'' I guess, cousin, if a pedlar was to bring in his 
pack, and he happened to have a sword or dirk 
among his wares, you would discover yourself, as 
quickly as Achilles did." 

'^ How did Achilles discover himself, cousin .^" 
said Emily, who was sitting on her stool, close 
by her mother, whose hand she held, and every 
now and then kissed ; " did Achilles, mamma, 
dress himself in girl's clothes .^" 

<< He was a fine young man," said Edward, 
^^ and all the princes of Greece could not con- 


906r tbe Trojans without him. Jlis mother Thetis 
^as as anxious about him, as my dear mamma is 
^bout me ; and, when he was a baby, she dipped 
^im in a river, which, they told her, would har- 
den his body all over, so that no sword could 
Cut, and no arrow pierce his skin ; and, in order 
to prevent his going to the war, she dressed him 
in women's clothes ; but he betrayed himself, by 
eagerly seizing a sword, which, with other arti- 
"cles, were offered for sale by Ulysses, in the dis- 
guise of a pedlar. But all her care was vain ; 
men must die ; and even the tenderest mother 
can't hinder that." 

*' But how did he die, brother ?'' 

*' Why, dear, he was killed by an arrow." 

" But you said the water in the river hardened 
his body all over." 

^^ Yes ; but when his mother dipped him in the 
river, she held him by one foot, and the water 
did not wet his heel, which was covered by her 
hand, and the arrow struck him there." 

"Poor little Achilles," said Emily, "it is a 
pity his mother did not think of that !" 

" But no one can think of every thing, and 
one must die, some way or other ; and so, my 
sweety dear^ good mamma Thetis," said be, stro- 
king her cheeks and kissing her, " it's not worth 
while to take so much care of your boy." 

" You speak too truly, my darling," said Mrs. 
Seymour, sighing ; " the 'most anxious care of 
the fondest mother ^ cannot avert the stroke of 
death !" 

** Then, mother, you will let me ride Marmionf 
won't you ?" 

" Dear child, how can a boy of twelve years 
old manage such a wild, fiery horse, and so 
small and delicate as you are f " 



*^ SmaU I. am, and so was Alexander, and hiie 
was not older either, when he first mounted hi^ 
Bucephalus. Here, mamma," running to hica 
book-shelf, which hung in a comer of the par- 
lour, " here is my Plutarch ; now only let mc5 
read you how Alexander did." 

" Oh, do, brother, I love to hear pretty sto- 
ries ; may he not read it, mamma ?" 

" Certainly, love." 

<< Stir the fire up to a bright blaze, Henry, if 
you please," said Edward; "I can see rery 
well, sitting down on a low bench.'' 

'^ But first order the table to be set for tea, 
Louisa," said her mother ; " your father will be 
home, I hope, soon, and will be very much fa- 
tigued ; it is six o'clock," looking at her watch ; 
" what can keep him so long ?" 

" Joseph," said Louisa, when the servant en» 
tered, '' set the table, and bring up the tea-ket- 

^' And, as your master has eat no dinner, put 
a cloth on, and tell Hannah to have her cofiTee 
very strong, and to prepare something nicely for 
your master," added Mrs. Seymour. 

" And bring in more dry wood, and make a 
hlazing fire," added Edward. 

" Shall I light the candles, mistress ?" 

" Don't let candles be lit till tea, mamma," 
said Emily ; " you know our dear papa loves 
fire-light, and we'll have the room as bright as 

<* But your brother, my dear." 

" Oh, I can see very well, mother ; the print 
is large ; besides, I know the life of Alexander 
almost by heart." 

All prepared to listen, and Edward read the 
following passage from his constant companion, 
Plutarch : 


^'WfaenPhilonicus, the Tbessalian, offered the 
horse, named BacephaluSi in sale to Philip, at the 
price of thirteen talents, the king, with the prince 
and many others, went into the field to see some 
trial made of him. The horse appeared extreme- 
ly vicious and unmanageable, and was so far 
from suffering himself to be mounted, that he 
Would not bear to be spoken to, but turned fierce- 
ly upon all the grooms. Philip was displeased 
^t their bringing him so wild and ungovernable 
St horse, and bade them take him away. But 
Alexander, who had observed him well, said, 
'what ahorse are they losing for want of skill 
and spirit to manage him !' Philip, at first, took 
DO notice of this ; but, upon the prince's often 
repeating the same expression, and showing great 
uneasiness, he said, ^ young man, you find fault 
with your elders, as if you knew more than they, 
or could manage the horse better.' < And I cer- 
tainly could,' answered the prince. ' If you 
should not be able to ride him, what forfeiture 
will you submit to for your rashness V * I will 
pay the price of the horse.' 

'* Upon this all the company laughed ; but the 
king and prince agreeing as to the forfeiturei 
Alexander ran to the horse, and laying bold on 
the bridle, turned him to the sun ; for he had ob- 
served, it seems, that the shadow which fell be- 
fore the horse, and continually moved as he 
moved, greatly disturbed him. While his fierce- 
ness and fury lasted, be kept speaking to him 
sofdy and stroking him ; after which he gently 
let fall his mantle, leaped lightly upon his back, 
and got his seat very safe. Then, without pull- 
ing the reins too hard, or using either whip or 
spur, he set him a going. As soon as he per- 
ceived his uneasiness abated, and that he wanted 


only to run, he put him on a full gallop; aoK ^ 
pushed him on both with the voice and the spiir'^-> 

*' Philip and all his court were in great distres-^ 
for him at first, and a profound silence took plac^. 
But when the prince had turned him and brought 
faim straight back, they all received him witli 
loud acclamations ; except his father) who wept 
for joy, and kissing him, said, ' Seek another 
kingdom, my son, that may be worthy of thy 
abilities ; for Macedonia is too small for thee.' " 

^^ Now, mamma, you see," said Edward, as he 
closed the book, '^ that though he was an only 
son^ as well as myself, and was besides heir to a 
throne^ Philip let him ride that fiery horse." 

*< Suppose now, Edward, I should consent to 
your riding Marmion, would you promise to imi- 
tate Alexander in other respects f Would you 
study as diligently ? You see in what you have 
read, how fond he was of Homer; so fond, that 
he slept with it under his pillow. Now, if you 
would resemble him in this, how gratified I should 
be; — but instead of this, you are often out of hu- 
mour with your Homer, and throw it aside, in- 
stead of carrying it every where with you as he 

" Yes, mamma ; but pray consider, Greek was 
as easy for him, as English is for me." 

'< Indeed, aunt, that makes all the difference in 

the world ; if Mr. M*C would give me an 

English Homer, 1 am sure I would love it too ; 
for I guess if Aristotle had given Alexander an 
English Homer, he would have grumbled as 
much as cousin Edward does about his Greek." 

Mrs. Seymour smiled, and said, " the merit of 
Alexander was in conquering difficulties, u spe- 
cies of conquest neither of you, boys, seem very 
ambitious of. 


" Bat now, my dear, it is growing late, and I 
feel very uneasy about your father. It is so un- 
QSQal for him to be absent at this hour, I cannot 
butfear.some accident has happened." 

" I dare to say, mamma, he has gone home 
with one of the lawyers to dine." 

^' No, I feel certain he has not ; his mind is too 
anxiously engaged in Mr. Desmond's cause ; he 
has scarcely slept these three nights ; the trial has 
been postponed from day to day, waiting for a 
witness ; if be arrives, it will come on to-mor- 

*^ I never saw papa," said Louisa, '' so dis- 
turbed as he has lately been." 

" No wonder, my love, when the life of this 
amiable and excellent man is at stake. His 
wretched wife, top, is so ill, that there is little 
hope of her recovery ; should sentence be passed 
against him, I am sure it will be her death." 

" Every body seems concerned," said Edward; 
<< even the boys at school, for they all used to 
love poor Theodore." 

" I do not wonder at that," said Louisa ; " be 
is the most amiable, and generous, and kind 
hearted being 1 ever knew in my life. Oh ! Ed- 
ward, you would hardly know him now. So 
healthy, and cheerful, and beautiful-^-and now he 
is thin, and pale, and wretched. He was here the 
other morning on business with papa ; I only saw 
him as he passed through the entry, for mamma 
could not persuade him to come into the par- 

" Poor Theodore !" said Emily ; " while 
mamma held his hand and talked to him, how he 
did tremble, and though his long black eye-lashes 
covered his eyes, I saw the tears through them ; 


he seemed so weak, and looked so sick, it inai 
iqe cry." 

" Truly, my child, I could have kept y 
company f seldom have I been more affecte 
Your father tells me he divides his time betwei 
his mother and father ; all day watching besi 
her sick bed, and comforting and supporting he 
and every night he shares his father's cell, wher 
instead of comforting, he is comforted, by thi. s 
admirable and heroic parent." 

" No one believes Mr. Desmond guilty," said 
Edward, " and surely he cannot be condemned 
to die !" 

" Alas," said Mrs. Seymour, " every circum- 
stance makes against him ; and unless some un- 
looked, and unhoped for proof of his innocence, 
should be brought to light, the laws require his 
death !" 

" Then Mrs. Desmond and Theodore will die 
too, I know they will," said Louisa. 

^' That would not be a misfortune, Louisa ; to 
survive such a father, such a husband, doomed to 
such a fate — oh, Louisa, believe me, it would be 
a far greater misfortune than to die with him." 

All were silent ; the pause was that of feelings 
too tender to be expressed. Emily laid her head 
in her mother's lap, and wet with her tears the 
band she kept pressed to her lips. Louisa look- 
ed mournfully at her mother, who, leaning her 
head on the sofa, seemed lost in thought, and 
was about to speak some cheering word, when 
the ringing of the door bell made them all start. 

" It is papa — but I heard no carriage — yet it 
must be him." 

The boys eagerly ran to open the door, while 
Louisa stirred the fire to a brighter blaze, and 
swept up the hearth. Mrs. Seymour went to- 



'^^ds the door ;— yes, it was her husband ; the 

'^oys were helping him off with his great coat, 

*^hicfa was soaking wet ; Emily took his hat that 

^as dripping with rain, and Mrs. Seymour his 

i^and, exclaiming — 

" How dreadfully cold you are, my love ; come, 
Come to the fire. Why did you walk such a 
^ight as this f and what can have detained you 
50 long.?'* 

'^ One question at a time, my dear, and when 
I get breath I will answer all," said he, with a 
smile, as he took the af m chair Henry had placed 
close by the fire for him, and putting his feet on 
the fender, " ring for slippers, Emily ; your fa- 
ther's shoes are soaked through." 

^' Indeed, my love, I am afraid you will take 

" Here is a glass of wine, papa," said Louisa, 
bringing him one. 

" No wine, my child, my head aches sadly," 
said he, rubbing his forehead, '' and a cup of 
strong coffee is all I wish." 

Have you eat dinner, then ?" 
No, my dear, not a mouthful has passed my 
lips since breakfast." 


But I am lost ! a criminal adjudged I 

.■ Yet whales disgrace with man ? or all the stiag? 

Of pointed scorn f what the tumultaoos voice 

Of erring multitudes f or what the shafts of l^eenest malice 

L^vellM from the bow of human inquisition ? iftheOod 

Who knows the heart, looks with complacence down. 

DodtPs ThoughtinPriaen. 

Louisa immediately left the room to order 
supper ; and Mrs. Seymour, placing her chair by 
her husband, said — 

" How faint you must feel, my dear ; it is al- 
most nine o'clock — twelve hours since you have 
taken any refreshment." 

" When the mind is deeply engaged, the body 
is very insensible to mere animal wants." 

" True ; but what has kept you .'^" 

" The court sat very late. Every effort was 
made to have the trial of Mr. Desmond closed to- 
day ; but, still hoping some proof could be ob- 
tained of his innocence, some light thrown on 
this dark and mysterious affair, I have, by every 
means in my power, kept off the trial ; have sum- 
moned witnesses from Boston, and other remote 
places, whose testimony as to his character and 
past life, and his connexion with St. Julien, may 
possibly be turned to account ; though, in callinj^ 


tbem, I own I expected little advantage, save ki;^ 
delaying the trial, still hoping, from day to day, 
some discovery might take place as to the real 
author of this horrid murder ; for never, for one 
moment, have I believed Desmond guilty; it is a 
moral impossibility. When the court adjourned, 
I called a hackney coach, in which I accompanied 
this unhappy man to his prison. Uncertain how 
long 1 should remain, I dismissed the coach, and 
preferred walking home, as the night is impene- 
trably dark, and the road so slippery as to be 
dangerous in a carriage. 

" Oh, my wife ! oh, my children !" exclaimed 
Mr. Seymour, throwing his eyes around the warm 
and cheerful room, and on the dear objects who 
sat near him ; ^' what a contrast between this 
scene, and the dark, and damp, and cold dungeon 
I have just left ; between these rosy cheeks, spark- 
ling eyes, and cheering smiles, (looking at his 
children,) and the pallid cheek, the swollen eye, 
and wasted form of poor Theodore, or the deep, 
though dignified affliction of his father." 

" And does poor Theodore stay in that cold 
dungeon, papa," said Emily, almost sobbing, 
" and sleep there ?" 

" He Slays, but not to sleep, my dear. The 
narrow bed has been seldom pressed even by the 
father. All night Theodore sits or kneels by 
bim, bathing his hands with his ever-streaming 
tears, often pressing them to his lips, in silent as- 
sent to the advice or injuncti<ms of his revered 
parent ; while this fond father, with a composure 
almost incredible, converses with him on every 
subject connected with the welfare of his family, 
or on the rules of conduct for his future life ; and 
when all reasoning fails to tranquillize his son, 
he will open the sacred pages of scripture, and 

ViOL. !!• 7 


i::;>int out to him passages calculated to consol 
the human heart in all its snfferings, and to ele — 
vate the soul above this transitory scene of exist — 
ence. But often, all his father can say, proves 
Ineffectual in soothing his distress, and he yields 
to anguish, that almost breaks his father's heart* 

'* When I was about to leave them, this even-* 
ing, Theodore started up, and throwing his arms 
round my neck, exclaimed, ' oh, Mr. Seymour, 
my father must not, must not die ! Dear Mr. 
Seymour, save, save my father, or let me die in 
bis place !' I was so overcome, I had to sit down, 
to compose myself; Theodore sank down on his 
knees beside me, and, clasping my hand in his, 
and pressing it against his head, gazed on me in 
speechless agony. 

" Mr. Desmond, who was sitting by the little 
table, leaning his elbow on it, and supporting his 
head on his hand, fixed on us his tearful and 
hollow eyes ; a slight shuddering passed through 
his emaciated, but still majestic form. The fee- 
ble rays of a lamp, hanging from the roof, fell 
on Theodore, and discovered all his anguish to 
his father. For some moments, he gazed in so- 
lemn silence, unable to articulate a word ; no 
sound broke the dreary silence, but the suppress- 
ed sobs of Theodore, whose head now rested 
on my bosom, while my arm supported his shi- 
vering frame. 

" At last, Mr. Desmond rose and came slowly 
forward ; he looked tenderly on his agonized son, 
and, bending forwards, kissed the tears from his 
eyes, and wiped the cold sweat from his pallid 

" * My dear Seymour,' said he, impressively^ 
' when this poor boy (laying his hand on his 
head) shall have travelled as far on the journey 


of life as we bave, he will then believe, what I 
cannot now convince him of, that death is not an 
evil. In' my own case, 1 invoke it as ray best 
friend ; for to mc, life would be misery. Oh, 
Mr; Seymour, a deadly poison has been infused 
into my cup, which no antidote can expel, ho 
future time can mitigate. You have known me, 
Seymour, one of the most fortunate, but you 
now see me one of the most wretched of men ! 
Long has the poison been preying on my inmos 
heart ; death, yes, death, is the only cure.' 

" Theodore started, and, gazing on his father's 
haggard face, exclaimed, ^ you wretched, my 
father? long and secretly wretched? oh, who, 
then, in this deceitful world, is happy ?" 

" ' Few, if any, my precious boy. Life is a 
masquerade, where each appears in some fantas- 
tic form, with a face masked in smiles, while an- 
guish corrodes the heart — profusely or splendidly 
ornamented without, while all within is squalid 
poverty ; the cheeks glowing with artificial bloomi 
the eye sparkling with borrowed brightness, 
while disease and care are concealed within ! — 
Trust not, love not, this world, my Theodore ; 
* virtue alone, is happiness below ;' and, even in 
adversity and suffering, the virtuous man is hap- 
pier than the prosperous villain. Consider life 
as a scene of duty, not of enjoyment. You do 
not go to school, my son, to play, but to labour. 
This is but the threshold of being, the infancy 
of existence, a state of preparation for eternity. 
Oh, my son, bear this in ipind — a state of prepa-* 
ration for eternity ! According to the seed you 
now sow, shall you reap hereafter. Poor, indeed, 
would this life be, even to the richest in its en- 
joyments, if it was not connected with the life to 
come ! The seed which the husbandman scat- 


ters from bis band, is small in quantity, and of 
little value ; but, if well cultivated, what a rich 
harvest may he not reap ! Thus, the circumstan- 
ces of this life, in themselves, are but of little 
moment ; but, on the use we make of them de- 
pends the happiness or misery of the future. If 
the husbandman patiently braves the rigours of 
winter, and the ardours of the summer, in order 
to obtain his scanty and perishable harvest, shall 
we not constantly toil, and faithfully discharge 
the duties of life, in order to inherit an immor- 
tality of happiness i Oh, my boy, not until you 
are weary and heavy laden as your father is, will 
you rejoice, as he now rejoices, to go to him, 
who will give us rest. I would ask you, Sey- 
mour, to be a father to my boy, had I not, in 
full faith, given him up to him, who has promi- 
sed to be a father to the fatherless ! Rise, my 
boy, and kneel to that Heavenly Father ; seek 
from him for that consolation, thy earthly father 
cannot give.' 

^' I too, rose, and pressing their cold hands ia 
mine, left the cell, for my heart was too full to 

Louisa, who had returned unperceived, and 
was standing behind Mr. Seymour's chair, wiped 
the tears from her eyes, and taking his hand, 
said, '* come, dear papa, and take your tea; you 
seem weary and exhausted.'^ 

She placed his chair nearest to the fire, and 
her mother's next, and sat down to pour out tea, 
while the younger children silently took their 

" Another cup, Louisa," said her father, " one 
of your most potent cups, for I shall need its 
awakening power ; I have much to do to-night. 

" To-night ! papa ?" 



** Yes, love ; to-morrow is fixed for the decision 
of this important trial ; to-morrow I mast make 
my last efforts to save the unhappy Desmond, 
and this night I shall devote ta research and 

Mrs. Seymour called Edward, and, whispering, 
bade him to see if the fire in bis father's office 
burnt well, and to sit by and keep it up until he 
came — '' and do not touch a single book or paper, 
my child." Edward nodded assent, and calling 
Eddy to go with him, who kindled a brighter fire, 
drew the curtains, arranged the lights, and placed 
his master's table and chair close by the hearth. 

Mr. Seymour often leaned his head on his 
hand, and seemed lost in thought; gay, and 
sometimes noisy as the^ children were, tbey now 
did not, even by a whisper, interrupt the unusual 
stillness of this social meal. They had been so- 
lemnly afiected by the description their father 
had given of the prison scene, and their tenderest 
sympathy was excited for their friend. Theodore. 
Mrs. Seymour called Matty to attend Emily and 
little Anny to bed, and whispered to Henry to go 
likewise with his cousin Edward, as she wished the 
remainder of the evening to be quiet. 

" Leave the tea," said Mrs. Seymour ; " your 
master may want more by and by. But I wish, 
Mr. Seymour, you would eat something ; you 
have not tasted these oysters yet, though our 
Louisa dressed them with her own hands for 

'^ Then I must certainly eat, or try to eat some ; 
they must be good, since seasoned by afiection.^ 

'^ I rejoice that any thing I can do, will make 
you take care of yourself; for, indeed, papa, you 
neglect yourself sadly ; I wonder you are not 



" Ob/' said he, smiling, ^^ your roother takes* 
•o muchi that care for myself would be quite su- 
perfluous. You look so comfortable, so cheerful 
here," said he, '* I know not bow to leave you for 
my solitary oflice.'* 

'^Then do. not go; stay with us/' said Mrs, 

'^ If you will, papa, I will promise not to speak 
a word, and every hour or two I will hand you a 
strong cup of tea." 

'^ Strong inducements, indeed ; but my big 
books, and my papers, and my" — 

" Oh, we will arrange all of them ; Eddy shall 
bring in every thing you want." 

^^ He may misplace or confuse my papers." 

" I will go with him, only tell me all you want." 

'* Well, then, my child, I must have the books 
piled on my table, besides which, bring me all 
the volumes of Les Causes CelebreSj which you 
will find among the French books ; and take this 
key ; it unlocks the middle drawer of my writing 
table ; let Eddy bring the drawer ; it contains 
the papers, 1 shall want." 

" I am glad you consent to stay with us ; you 
do not look well to-night." 

" Nor do I feel well, otherwise I should scarcely 
have yielded to such self-indulgence. I feel a 
gloomy depression which 1 cannot shake off. The 
fate of this interesting man is not only sad, but 
•awful !" 

Louisa entered, followed by the servant, who 
placed the books and papers on the table, and 
then withdrew. She sat down by her father, 
and took his hand, listening in silence as he con- 
tinued : 

*^ Yes, awful ! not, indeed, for him, but for 
those who pronounce his sentence. With all the 


pride of reasoHi of intellect, how impotent, how 
blind is man P The most clear-sighted, and pe- 
ii^tiog mind, can draw its conclusions only 
fiooi estemal appearances^ and how often these 
deceive and mislead, is proved by every day's 
^' f ezperieoce. Guilt often triumphs, and innocence 
oAeosiiflers! Not only circumstances^ but even 
nuqrei here misleads the judgment of weaki 
ibort sighted man. The blush of insulted purity 
11 often mistaken for the burning glow of con- 
icious guilt ; the tremours of wounded sensibility 
for the agitations of shame or fear ; the down- 
casteye of timiditv and delicacy, for the conscious- 
ness of detected crime ; and often, the intrepid 
and daring front of hardened villainy, for the 
dignified and upright deportment of virtue ! How, 
then, is man, erring man, to judge f Alas, with 
the most ardent desire to administer justice, how 
often must the most upright judge feel the horri- 
ble uncertainty of the innocence or guilt of the 
victim whom he sentences to death !" 

" And is the present case thus awfully doubt- 
ful ? Yon have never told me all the circumstan- 
ces ; and your own convictions of Mr. Desmond's 
innocence, induced ni^ to imagine there were some 
extenuating facts, which might, at least, mitigate 
the punishment." 

" This is not the case ; every circumstance tends 
to criminate him. I wish to re-consider this un- 
happy affair ; and can do it more impressively, 
perhaps, by relatiujsc it to you." 

" Do, my dear papa," said Louisa, " for never 
for any human being have my feelings been so 

Mr. Seymour took from his pocket the case, 
as he had drawn it up, with notes of the testimo- 


ny that had been given in the course of the trial 
that day. 

" You, who know Mr. Desmond well, my dear,** 
said he to Mrs. Seymour, '^ must acknowledge, 
that his appearance, his manners, and habits of 
life, are all manifestations of not only an amiable 
and good, but of a noble minded and generous 
man. His high and open forehead — his large, ez« 
pressive and intelligent eye, denote superiority of 
mind ; while the unchanging placidity of Ids 
countenance, the softness of his voice, the mild- 
ness and tranquillity of his manners, are equally 
indicative of the equanimity of his temper. No 
strong emotion, no vestige of passion, can be 
traced on that smooth brow, and serene countfr- 
nance He is never gay, but always cheerful; 
never gloomy, but always serious ; — severe to 
himself, but indulgent to others. In such a man, 
what motives can we imagine sufficiently power- 
ful to instigate to murder ! It is inexplicable ! 
Strong passions, even in the most noble and ge- 
nerous natures, have led to violence and excess ! 
Bdt in a calm, cool, and reflective disposition, like 
Mr. Desmond's, such an act must have been the 
result of premeditated design, not of sudden im- 
pulse. And for me, knowing him as I know him, 
to suspect him of premeditated murder, is a mo- 
ral impossibility. 

'' But, pardon me, 1 am yielding to my own re« 
flections, instead of giving you the promised nar- 

" You must both recollect the pleasing and in- 
teresting young Frenchman, whom we have late- 
ly met at his house." 

" Oh, one cannot easily forget him," said Loui- 
sa; ^' he is at the same tiine the most elegant and 
interesting man I ever saw ; you know, mamma, 


I told yoa he was the first person I ever saw, that 
«ame up to my ideas of manly beauty ; and that 
he would do for the hero of a novel." 

**Ye$, ray dear, and I thought his manners 
were not less attractive than his figure. Every 
motion was grace ; and there was a softness, an 
amiability, a tendeniess about him, that I had al- 
ways believed incompatible with the French cha- 
racter ; and which, as I told Louisa, might make 
him a more dangerous companion for a young 
woman, than all the wit and gayety so common 
to that nation." 

** And his eyes, mamma ; did you ever see such 
eyes ? surely, it would be no great misfortune for 
Um to be dumb, for I never saw such speaking 

''It is welljrou did not often see him, Louisa," 
said her father, patting her cheek. 

'' And still better, that I did not often hear him ; 
for a voice so sweet, so tender, so pathetic, I 
never heard; Truly, papa, I had to hide my 
tears, while he was singing the Italian air, though 
I did not understand a word ! I do not think he 
can be a Frenchman ; he must be an Italian, and 
an Italian nobleman, so graceful and polished 
are his form and manners." 

" My dear child," exclaimed her father, " you 
really alarm me ; I had no idea he had made such 
an impression on you." 

" Do not be alarmed, papa ; if he had made a 
dangerous impression, I could not describe it so 

" That is trne," said her mother, smiling ; 
''you. know more of the human heart than one 
could expects" 

Louisa blushed, but made no reply. 

'' I am, however, well pleased, that I did not 


yield to my inclioation, and invite him to visit at 
our house," said Mr. Seymour. "I have hither- 
to avoided, as you kuovir, my dear, bringing fo- 
reigners into the bosom of my family ; I saw so 
many sad effects flowing from the too great hos- 
pitality to the emigrants, with whom our cities 
were crowded, during the early part of the French 
revolution, that I would fain avoid the same con- 
sequences. Alas, the peace of many and many 
an amiable family was destroyed, by the domes- 
tication of these polished, dangerous, arid too 
often unprincipled foreigners. 

" But to return to the Chevalier St. Julien; 
there was such a noble simplicity and amiable 
frankness about him, that I felt much tempted to 
break my resolution, and invite him to our house; 
and I was not surprised at the unusual degree of 
interest Desmond felt towards him. He even 
treated him with the kindness of a father, and the 
frankness of a brother ; especially, taking into 
consideration the manner in which he became 
known to him." 

" How was that, papa .'*" 

" Quite in a novel way, Louisa. It was on a 
very cold and blustering evening, that Mr. Des- 
mond was returning home, attended by Donald^ 
an old and faithful servant, who had come over 
with his father from Ireland, and had served him 
from his boyhood. It was very dark, and Donald, 
running before to open the door for his master, 
stumbled over something on the pavement: his 
exrlamation hastened Mr. Desmond, when, stoop- 
ing down, on examination they found it to be a 
man, wrapped in a thick cloak. Donald opened 
the door, and with his master's assistance, lifted 
the person into the entry, for they found his heart 
still feebly beating. 


^' *Do not make any noise, do not call any otie,' 
said Mr. Desmond, ^ you may alarm your mis- 
tress ; she is not well : let us carry faim into the 
dining-room*; no on^ will be there at this hour.' 

*^ This they did, and lighting one of the lamps 
that stood on the chimney, by the one that hung 
in the entry, Donald held it over the unfortunate 
man, whilst Mr. Desmond raised his head with 
one of the pillows of the sofa, took off his hat, * 
which was drawn over his face, and discovered 
one of the most interesting figures he had ever 
seen. Auburn hair, curled over a forehead, fair 
as any maiden's brow ; his features were cast in 
nature's finest mould ; his eyes were closed as if 
in death, but his beautifully arched eyebrows, and 
his long dark lashes, gave an inimitable finish, 
to a head which might have served as a model for 
an Apollo. Mr. Desmond stopped a moment to 
gaze, ere he drew aside the large cloak with 
which he was enveloped. It was lined with fur, 
and the collar richly embroidered ; he then untied 
bis neckcloth, and unbuttoned his coat, and 
started, on seeing his waistcoat stained with 
blood. Donald assisted, and, on further exami- 
nation, they discovered a wound in his side, still 
bleeding, and imperfectly stanched with his tiand- 
kerchief and gloves, which had been hastily ap- 
plied. It was evident, he must have bled pro- 
fbsely, and his fainting, most probably, was cau- 
sed by loss of blood. 

<^ * Call one of the servants instantly, Donald, 
and send off for a surgeon !' 

*^ ^ My dear master,' said Donald, ' all is not 
right here ; this sweet youth has had foul play.' 

** * More probably,' said Mr. Desmond, * he 
has been fighting a duel ; for a robber or assassin 
would not have stanched the wound.' 


*^ * True, true ; well, master, then his life may 
be in danger, should he be discovered ; and that 
would be a world of pities, such a sweet youth 
as he is. So, let me, master, run for Ur. Irvin, 
and let's keep the matter to ourselves, till he can 
tell us more about it.' 

*' ' With all my heart, Donald ; you are a kind 
creature, and 1 would not be less considerate; 
'vun, then, run quickly.' 

'* Meanwhile, Mr. Desmond put some wine in his 
lips, chafed his forehead and hands with spirits, 
and raised his head on his bosom. As he put his 
warm hand into the stranger's bosom, and press- 
ed it on his heart, he felt its pulses quicken ; be 
applied his ear dose to his mouth — he could hear 
him faintly breathe. He continued the restora- 
tives, and perceived him to be gradually revi- 
ving. At last, the eyes half opened, hut closed 
again, through weakness. Mr. Desmond held 
up the stranger's cloak, to shield them from the 
light, and, when he again opened his eyes, they 
bad some expression, but too faint to be called 

" ' Do you feel better, sir ?* gently asked Mr. 

" He was answered only by a sigh. 

^' Donald now returned, bringing Dr. Irvin, 
who, with Donald's assistance, undressed the 
patient, and laid him on the sofa, and then pro- 
ceeded to examine the wound. 

'* ' Half an inch higher, and this bullet would 
have done its work more effectually !' said the 

"^ Is it a bullet wound then.^' said Mr. Des- 

'^ ' Yes, and a very dangerous one, and difficult 
will it be to extract the bail } but the sooner the 


better ; it mast not be delayed till fever comes on; 
so, my good fellow, if you will go with me^ we 
will get all that's wanting.' 

*' Mr. Desmond, again left with his almost lifeless 
companion, gazed on him with unfeigned com- 

*^ * Some affair of honour,' thought he ; ^ some 
mistaken word, some hasty act, some sudden im- 
pulse, may have led thee, unhappy young man, to 
the very brink of death ! Where are now thy pa- 
rents f where a father who in thee may love an 
only son? where the fond and doting mother, 
who must have most tenderly reared a plant so 
lovely, so delicate, as thou art f Perhaps afar off, 
separated by the wide Atlantic, they will long 
look, long watch for one, who shall return, to 
them no more ! And thou, luckless stranger, for 
snch thou seeraest to be, who will mourn for thee 
in a strange land! how hast thou provoked thy 
fate f who has given this deadly wound f Un- 
happy young man, who and what art thou? — 
Thou canst not * hear, and perhaps may never 
again speak ; and a father, or mother, may mourn, 
and hope, and fear — but never know thy fate. 

** ' This portrait,' continued Mr. Desmond, ga- 
zing on a miniature set in pearls, which hung 
round his neck, '^ cannot be a mistress or a sister^ 
for although still beautiful, it is past the bloom 
of youth. May it not be his mother's? * Do un- 
to others as you would others should do unto 
you,' says my Saviour, thought Mr. Desmond, 
after settling the matter in his mind. ' My dear 
Theodore, what would I desire should be done to 
thee, if thou hadst fallen among strangers ? 
Would I not wish that some kind being, like the 
good Samaritan, should give thee sbelteri pour 
. voi*. II. 8 


wine and oil into thy wound, and kindly watcii 

'^ While thus thinking and thus feeling, he from 
time to time poured a little Vine into his mouthy 
continued to bathe bis hands and temples and 
breast with spirits, and often bending over him, 
pressed him against his bosom, as if to impart 
some of his own warmth to his chill frame. 
He began to be very impatient for the return of 
the physician, fearing the spark of life might be 
quite extinguished. ' 

" At length the door softly opened, and Dr. Ir- 
vin, followed by Donald with a case of instru- 
ments and dressings, came in. 

"The pain of extracting the ball, for a while 
revived the patient, but he afterward sunk back 
exhausted, and it was not for some hours they 
ventured to remove him to a chamber. 

" In one of the wings of the house, was an 
apartment used only for strangers, communicating 
with a summer drawing room, and occupied only ifi 
that season, when it was shaded by trees and flow- 
ers; it had windows level with the floor, open- 
ing to the garden, into which this wing of the 
house projected. To this chamber it was deter- 
mined he should be carried, and as soon as the 
dressings were applied, and Donald could be 
spared, he went to the house-keeper, and telling 
her that his master had brought a sick friend 
home with him, desired that the garden chamber 
(as it was called) might be instantly prepared, a 
good fire made up, and every precaution taken 
to guard against cold; but, by no means to dis- 
turb his mistress, who he knew was indisposed. 

"When he returned, it was agreed that the man- 
ner in which they had discovered this youiit^ man, 
and all particulars, should be concealed, until they 


had learned from him, in case he should recover, 
what bis real situation was. That meanwhile, 
Mrs* Desmond and the family should be told, that 
Mr. Desmond had brought home with him a 
young friend, just arrived in Washington, and 
who was too ill to travel any farther. 

<^ It was likewise agreed, that only Donald and 
Theodore should be admitted to his apartment. 
At last, the room was thought sufficiently aired, 
and the patient sufficiently revived to be carried 
to his bed. Dr. Irvin remained til] daylight, 
administering all the assistance in his power, nor 
would the kind Donald leave him, though urged 
to do so by bis master. 

*^ 'No, no master, it is you must go; if you do 
not, mistress will be uneasy." 

'* Dr. Irvin seconded the advice, and Mr. Des- 
mond retired to his apartment ; he entered very 
softly, and found his lovely Adeline in a calm 
and sweet sleep, which be was careful no| to dis- 



Toung innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild, 

The parted ringlet shone in simplest goite} 

An inmate in the house of Abert smil'd, 

Or blest his noon-day walk—- she was his only child. 

CoMptcir* Gertrude ^ ITyonmig. 

" Next morning, when Mr. DesmoncI retnmed 
to„the Jbedside of the stranger, he found him in a 
high delirium ; his broken exclamations, and wild 
ravings, afforded no clue to the discovery of the 
cause of his present deplorable condition. For 
many successive nights and days, he, with Theo- 
dore and Donald, watched beside him ; Dr. Irvin 
often assisted in this pious duty, with a kindness 
and devotedness peculiar to his character, when- 
ever a strong interest was excited. Thus, this 
unknown stranger was attended with as much 
fidelity and tenderness as if in his own land, and 
amidst his own kindred. Mr. Desmond made no 
inquiries abroad, fearful of discovering and com- 
promising the stranger's safety. Nor did he hear 
any rumours of circumstances that could eluci- 
date the mystery in which he was enveloped. 
Inuring his illness and convalescence, he seldom 
received or paid any visits; but, with Mrs. Des- 
mond and Theodore, devoted himself to this in- 


leresting invalid, who every day gained upon 
their afiection. 

" When the patient's deliriam subsided, and he 
had sufficiently recovered to converse, one of his 
first requests was to have his servant sent for, 
whom he had left in Baltimore. Daring his 
convalescence, he gave Mr. Desmond some detail 
of the circumstances which had brought him to 
this country, and of his family and friends, but 
positively declined accounting for the situation in 
which he had been found, assuming as a reason 
for his silence, a solemn oath by which he was 
bound. These details heightened the interest he 
at first inspired, and by degrees he so grew on 
their affections, that he was treated with all the 
confidence and tenderness of a son by Mr. Des* 
inond, and of a brother by Adeline and Theo* 

^' Most truly so," said Louisa ; " and well 
did he seem to deserve all the tenderness lavished 
on him. I have not been often at Mrs. Desmond's 
lately, but whenever I was there, I could almost 
have taken him for her brother. There was a 
much greater similarity between her character 
and the Chevalier's, than between her's and Mr. 
Desmond's, or even Theodore's; who is, although 
soVyoungy almost as reserved and serious as his 

'* Mrs. Desmond, on the contrary, has the 
gayety of a l^rench woman, and the artlessness 
and ingenuousness of a child," remarked Mrs. 

^^ You must recollect, mamma, my having de* 
scribed to you the frankness and simplicity of her 
manners to the Chevalier } they used to amuse 
themselves like children ; and a stranger would 



certainly have taken them for brother and sis- 

'* I remember your observations, my dear, on 
the striking contrast of Mr. Desmond's dignified 
and paternal, and Theodore's cold and distant 
manner, to the Chevalier's fascinating vivacity and 
warmth .'' 

'^ Mr. Desmond is so much older than his wife, 
that the affection which unites them to each other 
is more like that which links father and daughter, 
than that which binds husband and wife," ob- 
served Mr. Seymour. 

^' At the age of five and thirty, he had lost the 
loved,* the esteemed partner of his heart, the ob- 
ject of his youthful choice. One only child was 
left to console him for this loss, and to attach hin 
to life. With his darling little Theodore, the 
image of that lovely and excellent wife, he re- 
moved from the city of New-York, where he had 
been engaged in extensive and successful com- 
merce, which he now abandoned to the exclusive 
care of his brother, and sought, in a village on 
' the Hudson, Just above the Highlands, for that 
solitude which best suited his blasted hopes and 
wounded heart. Here he tranquilly, if not hap- 
pily, passed two years ; his little Theodore was 
his constant companion at home, and often too in 
his rambles among the wooded mountains of the 
Hudson, followed by his faithful Donald with a 
basket of provisions, and who would often carry 
in his arms the wearied boy. Desmond, with his 
book, his dog, and his gun, would pass whole 
days among the wild glens and mountain streams* 
When sorrow preys on the heart, and we are 
mourning over the disappointments of life, no so- 
ciety is so soothing as the presence of the sublime 
and beautiful objects of nature ; when, dwelling 


aunidst the works of Deity,' the soul rises < from 
natare, to nature's God," and in the contempla« 
tion of the immensity of the universe, and the 
eternity of its existence, the sorrows of this life 
shrink into insignificance, and lose the power to 
afflict. Time, too, with its lenient hand, gradu- 
ally heals the deepest wounds ; and hearts that 
have been torn with agony, are restored to peace! 

" There were but two or three families whose 
hospitality had allured Desmond from his soli- 
tude, and only one where he really found pleasure 
in visiting. This was at the house of an old 
Fraich gentleman, wh6 had escaped from the 
horrible massacres of St. Domingo, and had 
found a peaceful asylum in this happy country. 
With his life, he had likewise saved a little hoard- 
ed treasure, consisting of old family jewels, which, 
on his arrival in New- York, he had converted into 
money, and invested in bank stock. He had 
been hospitably received by an^ American mer- 
chant, in whose family he bad passed six months, 
and then married his only daughter, with whom 
he received the little farm on which he now re- 
sided, and a, sum of money, which, added to his 
own, yielded an income adequate to their mode- 
rate desires and simple mode of living. 

*^ In this quiet spot he had enjoyed many happy 
years, until death had snatched from him bis 
wife, and several promising children, and now his 
little Adele, or, as her mother called her, Adeline, 
was all he had saved from the wreck of his hap- 

" Totally secluded from even the simple society 
of the village, his family consisted only of him- 
self and daughter, an honest Dutch farmer, and 
bis good natured and industrious wife. 



^' Adeline grew ap as lovely, but as ancultivated, 
as the mountain flower, ' which wastes its swee^ 
ness on the desert air.' The amiable, but indo- 
lent West-Indian, still thought of her only as a 
child 'y she was his delight and comfort, liis sok 
companion; and his instructions had never gone 
beyond reading, writing, and chess, with which 
he used to beguile the long days of summer, and 
the long nights of winter. 

^' Accident had introduced Desmond to him, and 
an awakened taste for society drew them ofiei 
together. Adeline was delighted with the gay, 
playful, beautiful Theodore; and Theodore, in the 
sportiveness and tenderness of Adeline, found 
pleasures he had never known before, and far more 
congenial to his age, than any he eajoyed at 

^* Unconsciously, the afternoon walks of Des- 
mond and his boy always terminated at the farm-* 
house of Dumont ; and while Adeline, sealed oo 
the grass-plot before the door, would tie up nose- 
gays, plait wreaths, weave little baskets, for 
Theodore, or holding him in her lap, whUe his 
arms were clasped round her neck, and his little 
eyes fixed intently on hers, would tell bim long 
stories, of ghosts and giants, and witches, whicb 
she had heard from her old nurse; Desmond 
and Dumont, sitting in the little porch, wouU 
smoke their cigars, play chess, and look at their 
beloved and only treasures. Thus passed the 
summer and autumn ; but when winter, with all its 
storms and rigours, set in, these happy hours were 

^' ' And I felt,' said Desmond, as he d« tailed to me 
these scenes of his past life, during the many gloomy 
hours I have passed with bim since his confinement, 

WINTER IN Washington. 85 

^ felt more desolate, more forlorn, than when 
I first sought the mountain sol'tode: poor Theo- 
dore too, was restless, uneasy, and pined himself 
almost sick for his sweet playmate and tender 
friend. When we walked over to the farm pf a 
fine rooming, I could not persuade him to return 
borne ; and if, as was often the case, I remained 
till dark, he fell asleep in Adeline's arms, while 
she sung some mournful ballad, or told some long 
story ; neither the old housekeeper, Adeline, or 
Dnmont, woald allow of his being carried home. 
He was the pet of the whole house, and the old 
gentleman was delighted with telling him of 
tilings and incidents which carried him back to 
his native island, and his own boyish days. Hit 
daughter was often tired with playing so long at 
ehess, aiM Dnmont found greater interest in play- 
ing with a more skilful antagonist. 

^ < In trnth,' continued Desmond, * we became 
necessary to each other's existence. Nature, it is 
said, abhors a vacuum, and a vacuum of the heart 
b of all things most intolerable. When death has 
made a void in our afiections, by robbing us of 
some beloved object, never can happiness be 
restored, until that void is filled. My bosom 
naturally expanded to the influences of kindness 
mod afiecuon ; the lovely Adeline and her good 
father, soon filled the space my beloved wife had 
occupied ; and an interest in, and enjoyment of 
life, once more returned. 

^'< The difficulties and inconveniences of our long 
#alk, the interruptions of this social intercourse 
by storms and heavy falls of snow, soon induced 
me to yield to the often repeated solicitations of 
taking up our abode with them for the rest of the 
winter. Theodore and Adeline were transported 
with this arrangement, and the old man was com- 


pletely renovated. When he would release nie 
from the chess-board, I would of an evening 
tead aloud some work of mingled instruction and 
amusement^ and make some attempt to enlarge the 
ideas of the lovely rustic. This sweet child of 
nature, though naturally timid, soon treated me 
with the frankness and fondness she did her &- 
ther, and indeed generally called me her young 

^* ^ Thus passed a long and stormy winter, — ^bot 
oh, how unheeded were its storms, while all wai 
sunshine within ! — the sunshine of the heart !— 
Pardon me, Seymour, Tor dwelling on scenes so 
remote from your inquiries; you asked for a 
history of my life, and it is on this period of traan. 
quillity and love, that memory loves to linger.' 

" I urged him," said Mr. Seymour ^ to con- 
tinue his details, as they served to develope his 
character, disposition and habits, which were the 
objects of my study. But it grows late, and I 
have much to ponder on ere morning ; I must be 
more brief, in repeating the long and interesting 
history I drew «from my unhappy client. Give 
me another cup of tea, my Louisa, and ring for 
more wood ; our fire is burning low. 

'^ I know not if these ponderous volumes could 
have more excited or invigorated my mind, than 
the repetition of these details. 1 was so exhaust- 
ed, that my faculties were benumbed ; but your 
tea, and still more, your tender sympathy, has re- 
stored warmth and activity to my half frozen souK 
One more cup, and I will finish my mournful 
story, as related by himself. 

" *The spring now approached,' resumed Mr. 
Desmond, ^ but as nature revived, my poor old 
friend evidently drooped. The disease, which had 
long been preying on his constitution, now rapidly 


batereaied. He was aware that bis end was draw«- 
in^near; and the idea of leaving his darling child, 
filled him with anguish. ^ Oh ! Desmond/ he 
would exclaim, as 1 sat by his couch, ^ what will 
become of my little one, when I am gone ? Sweet 
and tender blossom, thou hast been reared in the 
bosom of thy father, who suffered not the winds 
of heaven to breathe too rudely on thee. Never 
hast thou felt the restraint of authority— ^never 
felt the chill of unkindness, nor seen the frown of 
displeasure. What will become of my tender 
blossom, when exposed to the pitiless blasts of 
this stormy life, — when left in the wilderness of 
an unfeeling world ! Oh, Desmond ! not one near 
relative, one natural friend, is left to guard her 
helpless age. All, all were swept away in the 
destructive torrent of massacre and blood !' 

" 'What could I do ? what could I say to con- 
sole the agonized father, but, that I would shelter 
his tender blossom in my bosom ; that I ^would 
guard and protect her from the storms and dan- 
gers of life ? 

" * With* what gratitude did he hear me ; with 
what transport assent to give me his daughter* 
He called her to his bed-side — ' soon, my child,' 
said he, ' thy father will be taken from thee ; 
but thou shalt not be left alone ; this dear friend 
will be to you a father and a husband !' He joined 
our hands, and pressed them to his breast. ^ Now,' 
said he, ' [ die content.' 

" * Poor Adeline wept bitterly, and threw her- 
self on his bosom. ' Go,' said he, gently pushing 
her towards me, * go ; it is on his bosom you must 
now fest.' I clasped the sweet innocent to my 
heart, who, throwing her arms round my neck^ 
wept Ijke an infant on my bosom ; and, like an in- 
fant, her tears relieved her surcharged heart, and 


restored its serenity. A clergyman was sent for; 
and when the anxious father saw her indissolubly 
mine, he was resigned, nay, cheerful. And now, 
my Theodore, s»id I, putting him into Adeline'i 
arms, I give you to her ; she is your mother, and 
never more shall you be ^parted. He dung round 
her neck, kissed her a hundred times, repeating, 
' never, never go away from you !' 

'^ * It is totally impossible, Seymour, to give 
you an idea of the simplicity, the tenderness, and 
innocence of this being. She had never read, 
and had never conversed with any one, but her 
lather and the domestics ; and the purity of her 
mind was as unsullied as the snow on the moun* 
tain's top. When she called me her young papa^ 
she meant to express all that was most tender. 
To her the epithet of father^ conveyed no idea 
but of love, indulgence, and caresses. She had 
been reared in bis bosom ; she was his all ; and on 
her was expended all the warmth of a heart, kin* 
died under a tropical sun. She was like a deli- 
cate exotic, accustomed to the unvarying warmth 
of a hot-house — never exposed to the vicissitudes 
of the external atmosphere ; whose leaves were 
never agitated by too rude a j^ind, and whose 
stem was never bent by the wintry blast. When 
they walked forth, or rambled amidst the woods, 
in her early youth, her fathec had always carried 
her in his arms ; and after he became too enfee- 
bled, the old housekeeper always accompanied 
them, to carry her over rough or wet places. Af- 
ter I becRme their companion, this charming task 
was conferred on me ; and whenever we came to 
a rivulet, or rocky path, she as naturally looked 
to me for assistance, as a child to its nurse, and 
putting her arms round my neck, would throw her 
head on my shoulder. And often, if the afternoo|i 


iraS hot, or the evening advanced, she would fall 
asleep; and when I felt tired, I would sit down on 
die grass, supporting my back against a tree, and 
liold my lovely burthen in my arms, until she 

" * A few weeks after our marriage, the good 
old gentleman sunk into his grave as gently as if 
failing asleep on a bed of down. Youthful spi- 
rits are not long depressed by sorrow; they possess 
an elasticity which quickly rebounds when the 
pressure is withdrawn. At that age, the mind 
rests not on the present, nor does it often revert to 
the past ; but, led by hope, it expatiates in a fu- 
ture, decked with all the glowing hues of fancy, 
and unclouded by fear or anxiety. Adeline 
would have more poignantly felt the loss of her 
father, had not I, as it were, supplied his place. 
Like the careful gardener, who, knowing that a 
favourite vine, which has entwined itself round a 
tree, must fall to the ground and perish when that 
tree decays, gently loosens its hold, and leads it 
to some other support, so had Dumont tenderly 
disengaged his Adeline from her dependance on 
him, and guided her affections to me, to whom 
they now clung as her only earthly stay. But 
never was her father forgotten; every day she 
wept for him — but it was on my bosom she wept, 
and it was my kisses which dried the tears from 
her warm cheek. She was just fifteen ; an age 
v^hen nature expands every faculty to enjoyment, 
as freely as she does the rose of summer to the 
ardours of the sun, and to the dews of the night. 
The new ideas and feelings that were developed 
in the bosom of Adeline, naturally weaned her 
from gloomy thoughts ; and when inclined to sor- 
row, the playful and sportive Theodore would 

VOL. IX. 9 


not leave her to the indulgence of it. He wai 
now five years old, and robust and active as the 
child of a mountaineer. She was still his play** 
mate, and he was not at all pleased with her being 
so much with me; and sometimes when she wasrit^ 
ting on my knee, he would come, and pulling ber 
by the hand, exclaim, ' do not stay so much with 
papa ; come play with me.' 

*' ' With a gentle resistance she would reply^ 
' but he is my papa too, and I cannot leave hifli| 
can I, papa f 

** * Then he must come too,' would Theodore 
say, and away he would drag us to the garden, 
or some woodland spot, to fly his kite, or shoot 
his arrows. But, Seymour, I must check myself^ 
these sweet retrospections, though they cheer the 
gloom of my prison, cannot interest you. To 
be brief. After six months given to her father's 
memory, I resolved to transplant my mountain 
flower to the more cultivated soil of society, 
where I meant to commence that education which 
had been totally neglected, and to put Theodore 
to school ; besides, I had now the prospect of an 
increasing family, and found it necessary to pro- 
vide more ample means for the future. 

" ' But on reaching New- York, what a shock 
awaited me ; the brother, the friend I most loved 
and trusted, and to whom, in full confidence, I 
had left the whole management of our commercial 
aflairs ; that brother, after a long course of dissi- 
pation and debauchery, and after committing acts 
of fraud and villany, had been discharged from 
prison, and had gone away, no one knew whither, 
and left me to poverty and disgrace ; for a bro- 
ther's villany I felt to be such. I should have 
returned to our solitude, had not the education of 
my Adeline and Theodore required a residence in 


a city. At the end of the first year of onr mar* 
riage, she gave birth to a feeble infant, who lived 
bet a few weeks, and left the young: mother in a 
ftate of debility and sufiering. My Adeline's 
constitution was so injured, that I had little hopes 
<if preserving her precious life. Secluded by ill 
liealth from society, I sought to give her those 
powers that might serve to beguile the tedium of 
confinement. Her natural taste for music ena- 
bled her rapidly to acquire this charming art, 
which has since proved a source of great pleasure 
to her. 

*' * Unable to devise any means of acquiring a 
sufficient income, (for the war had commenced, 
and all business was at a stand,) I, at last, though 
reluctantly, resolved to make my situation known 
to an ancle, who lived in Baltimore, and whom 
I had not seen since my boyhood. 1 knew he 
was in very affluent circumstances ; that hetwas 
still a bachelor, and that I and my brother were 
his intended heirs, being his only relations in 

" His answer was cordial and affectionate ; in- 
forming me, 'that he was ip a very declining state 
of health ; that he should have before written for 
me to come and receive his last breath, had he 
not learned, on inquiry, that I was married, and 
settled in the Highlands ; that he had then thought 
of sending for my brother, but had been inform- 
ed by his correspondent in New-York, of bis ex- 
travagant and vicious course of life ; that he 
thanked the Providence that should send him a 
friend and relative to cheer the lingering rem- 
nant of life. 

" « We went to Baltimore, and were received with 
every demonstration of kindness. After a few 
months residence with my uncle, and afterhe had 


not leave her to the indulgence of it. He wai 
now five years old, and robust and active as the 
child of a mountaineer. She was still his play- 
mate, and he was not at all pleased with her being 
so much with me; and sometimes when she wassi^^ 
ting on my knee, he would come, and pulling b€f 
by the hand, excJaim, ' do not stay so much witb 
papa ; come play with me.' 

*' ' With a gentle resistance she would reply^ 
^ but he is my papa too, and I cannot leave him, 
can I, papa f 

" * Then he must come too,' would Theodore 
say, and away he would drag us to the garden, 
or some woodland spot, to fly his kite, or shoot 
his arrows. But, Seymour, I must check myself; 
these sweet retrospections, though they cheer thi 
gloom of my prison, cannot interest you. To 
be brief. After six months given to her father's 
memory, I resolved to transplant my mountaitt 
flower to the more cultivated soil of society, 
where I meant to commence that education which 
had been totally neglected, and to put Theodore 
to school ; besides, I had now the prospect of an 
increasing family, and found it necessary to pro- 
vide more ample means for the future. 

*' ' But on reaching New- York, what a shock 
awaited me ; the brother, the friend I most loved 
and trusted, and to whom, in full confidence, I 
had left the whole management of our commercial 
aflairs ; that brother, after a long course of dissi- 
pation and debauchery, and after committing acts 
of fraud and villany, had been discharged from 
prison, and had gone away, no one knew whither, 
and left me to poverty and disgrace ; for a bro- 
ther's villany I felt to be such. I should have 
rettinied to our solitude, had not the education of 
my Adeline and Theodore required a residence in 


9l city. At the end of the first year of oiir mar- 
riage, she gave birth to a feeble infant, who lived 
biit a few weeks, and left the young mother in a 
iftate of debility and sufiering. My Adeline's 
constitntion was so injnred, that I had little hopes 
of preserving her precious life. Secluded by ill 
health from society, I sought to give her those 
powers that might serve to beguile the tedium of 
confinement. Her natural taste for music ena- 
bled her rapidly to acquire this charming art, 
which has since proved a source of great pleasure 
Co her. 

*' * Unable to devise any means of acquiring a 
sufficient income, (for the war had commenced, 
and all business was at a stand,) I, at last, though 
reluctantly, resolved to make my situation known 
to an ancle, who lived in Baltimore, and whom 
I had not seen since my boyhood. 1 knew he 
was in very affluent circumstances; that heiwas 
still a bachelor, and that I and my brother were 
his intended heirs, being his only relations in 

^' His answer was cordial and affectionate ; in- 
forming roe, 'that he was ip a very declining state 
of health ; that he should have before written for 
me to come and receive his last breath, had he 
not learned, on inquiry, that I was married, and 
settled in the Highlands ; that he had then thought 
of sending for my brother, but had been inform- 
ed by his correspondent in New- York, of his ex- 
travagant and vicious course of life ; that he 
thanked the Providence that should send him a 
friend and relative to cheer the lingering rem* 
nantof. life. 

" * We went to Baltimore, and were received with 
every demonstration of kindness. After a few 
months residence with my uncle, and afterhe had 



made what he deemed the necessary scrutiny m\$ 
my habits and character, he one day called me to 
bis compting house, and, opening to me the whole 
of his affairs, said, ' my life is near its close, let 
my concerns w ith the world be so too ; this bouse, 
my fortune, are all yours ; here are the deeds I 
have executed, for securing you in your rights. 
If ever your brother should be restored to virttu, 
I need not enjoin you to restore him to compe- 

" ' I will pass over his farther advice, and my ex- 
pressions of gratitude. As he left the room, 
locked the door, and gave me the key, * here is 
for ever closed,' said he, ' my accounts with 
this world ! I must now endeavour to look into 
those of the world to come.' 

*' ^ Soon afterwards, his disease increased to 
such a degree, as to confine him entirely to bis 
owi^room. Adeline's health, inclination, and hti- 
bits, all concurred in rendering the retirement ia 
which we lived, most agreeable to her. She be- 
came the constant companion, the tender nurse of 
our amiable relation. Theodore was placed in ! 
one of the best schools in the city, and I was 
much occupied in settling the affairs of my 

^' ' Every hour Theodore could steal from 
school, he passed in the chamber of the invalid, 
either reading to him, or talking to and caress* 
ing his ' dear little mamma.' Death soon assert- 
ed his claims, and this worthy man died with the 
composure of a christian,^ and the firmness of a 

" ' He had invested a large portion of ^is for- 
tune in lots and houses in the city of Washing- 
ton. My children, for so I still called Adeline 
and Theodore, would not be left behind^^ wbeflrl 


found it necessary to visit this place. It was in 
the montli of Jane. The country was beautiful, 
and this metropolis was so much more pleasant 
and qiiiet than Baltimore, that, with one accord, 
we determined here to transfer our residence. 
You know the rest ; for you were one of the first, 
and are still, the most esteemed of its inhabitants. 
Here I have passed many years, in a:- tranquillity 
as undisturbed, as I could do in the seclusion of 
the country. 

" * Theodore is all a father's heart can desire. 
You know Adeline, dnd I need say nothing. 
Her health has been perfectly restored by your 
southern climate, although she is fragile and de- 
licate. Too fragile, alas, to endure the storm 
which has now laid her \owJ 

" Such, but much more minute and circum- 
stantial," said Mr. Seymour, '' are the details I 
have, at various times, drawn from the unfortunate 
Desmond. It was done with hopes of discover- 
ing some cii^cumstance which could be an ade- 
quate cause for the melancholy and abstraction 
that had marked his conduct for some time pre- 
vious to the dreadful even^ which has torn him 
from his family — from life ; but no snrh circum- 
stance was alluded to ; the conduct and fate of 
his brother, was the most afflictive one he men- 
tioned ; and, though the flash of indignation suf- 
fused his face, whenever that brother was men- 
tioned, yet it was not accompanied with any of 
that gloominess of spirit, or anguish of heart, 
which his late conduct has exhibited." 



Why dost tbou bend thine eyes upon the earl^ 

And start so often, when thou art alone i 

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy chedcf 


" I KNOW not," after a long pause, " I know 
not," sai(f Mr. Seymour, "what to think. The 
Scripture saith, ' the heart is deceitful above all 
things, and who can know it V Deceitful indeed 
must Desmond's be, if any passion lurked there, 
capable of instigiating him to such a deed : — the 
murder of a guest, whom for three months he 
had treated with the kindness of a father y one 
whose life he had stived ! one whom be often 
said his heart had adopted as a son ! — It is indeed 
past finding out." 

"But, my dear Mr. Seymour," said his wife, 
" is it not possible that the unhappy youth died 
by his own hand .^" 

"That is what Desmond declares to be the 
fact; — but how can we believe this possible.^ — Is 
it probable, that if St. Julien had a design on his 
owq life, he would have attempted it in the pre-- 
sence of such a kind and paternal friend ^ or is 
it possible that Desmond would have permitted 
it ? — no, no — it is not possible ; besides, the >oung 
man was of a lively and happy disposition ; be 


was in affluent circumstances ; his family is one 
of the first in France, and though he was thrown 
out of service by late political events, his mother 
is still a favourite with the Princess of——, 
with whom she is living in affluence and splendour 
in Italy. Besides, the Chevalier had a young and 
lovely wife,^oV^>»ilh his mother ; and he was only 
waiting until his health was sufficiently re-estab- 
lished, to return to his family. The servants, 
whom I have minutely interrogated, all say they 
never saw him otherwise than cheerful, all, ex- 
cept his own servant, an old Swiss, who has lived 
with liim from infancy, and for whom he sent as 
soon as^ he was sufficiently recovered from the 
situation in which Mr. Desmond had found him. 
This servant he had left sick in Baltimore, when 
he came to Washington." 

**And what account," said Louisa, '^ does he 
give, papa ?" 

" He said, when I examined him, that he had 
long suspected that there was some misunder- 
standing between his master and Mr. Desmond; 
that he had never seen any positive act of unkind- 
ness, nor ever heard any harsh expressions ; but 
that, for many weeks before the shocking event, 
he had observed that his master had rather avoid- 
ed meeting Mr. Desmond, although it had been 
bis custom to seek every opportunity of being 
with him ; that previous to these few last weeks, 
be had often walked or rode out with him, and 
almost every day passed many hours with Mr. 
Desmond in his library ; that when they walked 
in the garden, he had always leaned for support 
on his arm, but of late, he had always walked 
with, and supported himself on master Theodore; 
that he had never been in the library, and that 
when Mr. Desmond was in the parlour, Ae, the 


Chevalier, had generally withdrawn to his own 
apartment. ' And here/ said the old Swiss, « in- 
stead of reading, or writing, or playing on his 
flute or guitar, as he was used to do, he would sit 
whole hours with his head resting on the table; 
or would start suddenly up and walk the room 
with hasty and disturbed steps ; would often call 
out in anguish of spirit, ' Mon Dieu, Mon Diea! 
ayez pi tie de moi !' ' Once,' said the Swiss, * as 1 
was arranging his room, and he had been walk- 
ing about in a strange, wild way, he suddenly 
stopped, and laying his hand on my shoulder^ 
said, look at me, Jaques — do I look like t. vil- 
lain — like the vilest of villains ? And then turn- 
ing from me, he clenched his hand, exclaiming 
wretch ! wretch that thou art V " 

"Who did Jaques suppose he meant?" said 

" He could not tell," but thought some one, 
may be Mr. Desmond, had called him villain^ and 
that he in return called whoever he was, wretch*; 
but it is all a mystery." 

"And how, during this tinre, did Mr. Desmond 
behave to St. Julien ?" 

"That has been most minutely inquired into; 
tliese voluminous notes," said Mr. Seymour, turn- 
ing over the papers lying on the table, " these 
contain the examinations of old Donald, of each 
of his servants separately, and of such persons, 
including Dr. Irvin, as had visited at his house, 
from the period that St. Julien first became its 

" And can no conclusion be drawn from their 
testimony .?" said Mrs. Seymour. 

" Much that increases the mystery and uncer- 
tainty, but nothing that throws light on the case." 


" What does Dr. Trvin say ?" said Louisa ; "I 
should suppose he would be an imparlial witness, 
and be was a daily visitant. Physicians, you 
know, are admitted into all the privacies of a fa* 


" His testimony goes to clear Desmond of mo- 
tive for violence, but cannot bear on the fact 
itself. Dr. Irvin says, that from the very night 
when this young man was brought into the house, 
the heart as well as arms of Desmond opened to 
receive him ; that the tenderness one always feels 
for what we succour and save, was added to the 
deep and lively interest which the situation and 
personal merits of St. Julien excited ; that du- 
ring six weeks confinement to his chamber, Des- 
mond watched with a father's fondness over him, 
and when he was obliged to be absent, always 
begged Theodore and Adeline to remain with 
bim, and never to trust him to the care of ser- 
vants. As soon as St. Julien recovered his 
senses, which the delirium of fever long prevent- 
ed, he gave a direction to his servant, whom he 
had left sick in Baltimore, and begged he might 
be sent for. When he came, he brought the bag- 
gage his master had left, and had « bed made up 
for the servant in a light closet, which opened 
from his master's chamber, and communicated 
with the garden ; that it was not until after the ar- 
rival of the servant, that Desmond ever left him 
at night. That when St. Julien had become 
convalescent, the drawing room, into which his 
chamber opened, had been prepared for him ; a 
couch placed there for him ; books, music, the 
chess board, drawing materials, vases of flowers, 
and every thing that the fondest aflection could 
devise, had been put into this apartment for his 
comfort and amusement. That here Desmond 


passed some hours of every day ; and that Ade- 
line and Theodore seldom left him. « When abk 
to leave the house, Desmond was daily proposing 
agreeable rides, and had carried him with his h^ 
roily to a beautiful cottage he had on the shores 
of the Potomac, where he, Dr. Irvin, went once 
or twice, and where they had passed two weeks, 
as it seemed to him, in as great felicity as earth 
could afford. He had left them in this little Pa- I 
radise, happy as he described, and that it was not 
until their return, he had witnessed any change ia 
Desmond's manner. He did not go often, he 
•aid, to the house, as the country air had com- 
pletely restored the Chevalier's health ; but when 
now and then he did call as a friend, he selddn 
met Desmond at home ; when he did, his cheer^ 
fulness seemed forced, and when not noticed, be 
sunk into a gloomy abstraction, and was often so 
absent that be did not seem to know any one was 

** Such was Dr. Irviu's testimony, conclading 
with an asseveration, that he had never seen any 
marked displeasure to St. JuHen, and that Des- 
mond's manner was not more changed to him, 
than to his wife, son, and friends ?" 

" How very, very strange !" said Mrs. Sey- 
mour ; — ^' but the old faithful Donald, what tes- 
timony did he give ?" 

'^ He was so fearful of criminating his master, 
that his answers were few and short. He said be 
was seldom in the family apartments ; after St. 
Julien's servant had arrived, his business called 
him elsewhere ; but he could as easily believe thai 
his master would murder his own son, as murder 
the young Chevalier, whom he had saved from 
death, and concealed from the scrutiny of the 
curious, and whom he seemed to love so dearly !'* 


** But when I conversed alone with him, he 
woald acknowledge and lament over the sad 
change whi(h had taken place in his master, but 
said he was sure it cogld have nothing to do with 
tbe Chevalier, for he showed bis gloomy mood to 
all alike ; ' even to me,' said the old man, sob- 
bing, ^ even to me, who carried him in my arms 
when a child, and who love him as his own father 
loved him. Oh, he was the best and kindest of 
masters, till this sad melancholy came over him ; 
and even then, he was never unkind to any one 
but himself. Oh, Mr. Seymour,' he continued, 
* my old heart will break — and 1 hope it will 
break soon — ^I cannot iiutlive my blessed master ! 
Ob, Mr. Seymour, had you seen him as I have 
seen him for some weeks past, 3'ou would not be- 
lieve him to be the same mild spoken, kind, 
quiet gentleman you know; his voice so soft, 
bis countenance always shining like a clear moon- 
light sky, with never a dark cloud passhig over 
it ; and then to see all this mild light covered 
with darkness — to see that fair open brow knit in 
gloomy thought — to hear him speak so sorrow- 
fully, when every word used to be so cheerful ; 
and instead of delighting to read, which was 
truly his greatest delight, to see him sit hours 
and hours, I might say days, leaning his head on 
his band, and never looking in the book that lay 
open before him, but fixing bis eyes on the floor 
as if be was reading something there ! and to 
see him walk about the room «o disconsolate! — 
and to hear him sigh so deeply ; and, what broke 
my heart worst of all, to see the big tears 
rolling down his cheeks, without his seeming to 
know It. Oh, Mr. Seymour, it would have melt- 
ed the hardest heart I and at night too ! — yes, all 
Dight long — for after he grew so bad and restless, 


he left my mistress' room for fear of distarbin|f 
her ; but, poor dear soul, he rested on no other 
bed, but would pass the livelong niiiht in the 
library. And poor mistress, she looked ready to 
die, and was sadly grieved, for she had been used 
to more love than ever man showed woman be- 
fore ! poor little soul, she grew so pale ; and Mrs, 
Bi'inden, who tends on her, says as how she sleeps 
as little as master, though in the day time she 
tried to be cheerful, not wishing the Chevalier, or 
master Theodore, should suspect how desfilate 
she was left. Ah, it has been a sad house ; and 
now, now it will be the grave of us all!' '^ 

'* Oh, my dear husband," said Mrs. Seymour, 
taking his hand, and wiping away her tears with 
her handkerchief, " 1 now do not wonder at the 
anxiety and solicitude you have felt. It is a piti- 
able tale." 

" One," said Mr. Seymour, " more pitiable 
and more distressmg than I ever met with during 
all my practice. Would to Heaven he would open 
all his heart to me ; for, as he said to-night, it is 
priyed upon by some deadly poison, some dread- 
ful evil, but not by guiU — no, not by guilt ! I 
feel as assured of his innocence of this deed, as 
of my own." 

" Dearest father,'^ said Louisa, " do not be 
so much distressed ; cheer up," said she, stirring 
the fire, as if that would dispel his gloom; 
" surely, if he is innocent, God will save him ; He 
will bring all to light." 

" Aftd even," said Mrs. Seymour, " if the law 
should condemn him, the President will pardon 
such a man." 

Mr. Seymour shook his head. " I fear not,** 
said he ; " to let the rich and the powerful escape, 
u4ien so many lately of the humbler class of our 


cMnens have saffered for less crimes, would, not 
be just. No, he cannot, he will not. — ^But it is 
very late ; you had better retire." 

** Pray, pray," said Mrs. Seymour and Louisa, 
** pray let us remain with you. We cannot sleep, 
and it will be less distressing to us if you will let 
Qs stay by you. 

*' Well, my dear wife, be it so ; for my soul is 
heavy within me, and your presence is a comfort ; 
and, perhaps," said he, taking up some letters 
and papers, " perhaps you may discover some- 
thing in these letters and testimonies, which may 
prove exculpatory, and which I may have oveE| 
looked ; for it has often been said, that women^ 
perceptions, as well as sensations, are quicker 
than those of men. 

** I will then read them aloud. Tdese," said he, 
assorting them, *^ are letters from various persons 
in New- York, who have known Desmond from 
hit childhood." 

He then proceeded to read over the depositions 
of a number of witnesses in the state ^of New- 
York, and in Baltimore. - 

All testified, that the character of Desmond 
was unstained by even the suspicion of fault ; 
that he had ever kept aloof from politics, and 
retired from general society ; that his habits of 
life were quiet and domestic ; his occupations, af- 
ter he withdrew from commerce, altogether 
literary : he bad been the kindest of masters, 
and no one had ever seen him under the influence 
of pasnon ; the fondest and most indulgent of 
husbands and fathers; liberal and generous to all ; 
never profuse. In liVashington he had formed 
few acquaintances; had lived in affluence and 
elegance, but without ostentation; was a kind 

V9U n.. 10 


neighbopr, and charitable to the poor: tfa&t 
many hsid experienced his assistance in the hour 
of need ; that to the poor slave, the distressed 
mechanic, nor even the wandering beggar^ he had 
never turned a deaf ear. 1 

*' And such a man a murderer ! it is imposik 
ble," exclaimed Mrs. Seymour and. Louimu 

" But, papa, you have not told us how the dis- 
covery took place." 

" We have heard only the reports of cohuimb 

rumour; for you have been so constantly at coortf 

or in the prison, or so engaged in your office^ 

'^at we could never find an opportunity td iih 

quire," said Mrs. Seymour. 

<^ I told you," said Mr. Seymour, << tbat St 
Jnlien occupied apartments in a wing of tbe 
house, and connected with it by a covered pas- 
sage, and that his Swiss slept in a little rooB 
opening from his master's chamber. Jmcqyua 
states, that, being anxious about his master, he waf 
in the habit of listening and watching during tbe 
night, lest he might be ill or disturbed ; that 
the night on which the fatal deed was done, he 
had remarked, whilst undressing his master, that 
he was more gloomy and sorrowful than be bad 
ever seen him ; that when he had put on his night 
gown, he bade him leave him, and not to take 
away the light, as he wished to read and write. 
Being very uneasy about the Chevalier, he 1^ 
made an excuse to go in about an hour afierwardii 
and had seen him writing so calmly, that he went 
to bed more easy in his mind, and put out bis 
candle ; but that for a long time he could not 
sleep ; that he heard his master rise, and walk 
the room, and then all was so quiet, he -supposed 
that he too was gone to bed. That, as near as 
he could tell, it must have been about two o'clock 


when he heard some one knock at his master's 
door, and beard some person enter ; that then 
he heard him exclaim, ' Mr. Desmond, is it you, 
mDd at this time of night f 

•* * Yes, young man, it is I !" returned Mr. 
Desmond, with a loud and stern voice. 

** After that they spoke in lower voices, and, 
he supposes, stood or sat at the farthest end of 
the room ; for although he could distinguish the 
tones of tlieir voices, he could only now and then 
catch a word. 

^ That they spoke sharply, and as if in earnest ; 
but he could not venture to say, that either 
was angry, or in a passion. Once, he heard Mr. 
Desmond exclaim, < wretch,' to which his master 
aaswered in a raised voice, ' loretch /-—yes, but 
too true — the veriest wretch on earth*' 

^ And then he heard them both push their 
chairs, and walk in the room ; then, after a short 
interval of sUence, he heard the report of a pis- 
tol ! 

" That he started out of his bed, but in his 
haste, got his foot entangled in the bed clothes, 
and fell with such violence on his head, that he 
was stunned ; and how long before he recovered 
himself, he cannot tell. 

V But as soon as he came to himself, he found 
the door, and in his confusion opened it with 
difficulty ; when he got it open, he ran into the 
chamber, and saw his master lying on the floor 
covered with blood, and Mr. Desmond kneeling 
beside him, looking at him with a vacant stare, as 
it were, and holding a pistol in his clasped hands. 

" He raised his master in his arms ; his night- 
gown and shirt were covered with blood, which 
was still Sowing, and, on examination, found he 



was shot right through the heart. That he Wtfi 
not quite dead, but still breathed. 

" Jacques jumped op, and ran out, with the in- 
tention of calling assistance ; but while burryiBg ^ 
on bis clothes, the idea of Mr. Desmond's es- f 
cape had induced him to loch the door, and pit f 
the key into his pocket, but in his haste he had m* 
gotten the door which opened into the drawing 
room, through which Mr. Desmond had entered* 
That he ran to the next neighbour's, and, knocking 
loudly at the door, had wakened the man, wbo 
was a shoemaker, and told him what had happen* 
ed, begging him to show him where he eonld tni 
a surgeon and a magistrate. The man had has- 
tened down to him, followed by bis wife, wbe 
heard what he said. * Pbo, pho,^ said she, * the 
fellow's crazy, ta come and tell us such a Ue, it 
that Mr. Desmond has killed a gentleman, and 
that in his own bouse too ! I kould'nt believe it 
if an angel from Heaven told me such a Ihingi' 
said she. 

« « Yon may go and see for yourself then, mis- 

" * And so I will,' replied the woman. 

" * For my part,' said the shoemaker, ' VH 
show him where he can get a doctor, at any rate*' 

" * Yes, and by my soul,' said Jacques, * and 111 
find an officer of justice too ; mon Dieu, that I 

<^ Whilst they ran one way, the woman, on her 
examination, told us, she hurried to the bouse, 
thinking she would get his honour out of the 
way, before the ouuandish man should come 
back. She knocked loudly at Desmond's door, 
and Donald, wbo slept on the lower floor, hearing 
her, opened the door. 

<< < Uod a mercy,' said the woman, ^ make haste 


and save your master, before a whole gang of 
constables shall be here to carry him to prison.' 

'* It was long before Donald could be made to 
comprehend ; when he did^ he ran for a light, 
Whicn in his perturbation he was some time in 
procuring; then hastened through the drawing 
room to the Chevalier's room; and just as he 
entered at one door, the Swiss, accompanied by 
Dr. Iryin, a magistrate, several constables, and 
other persons, came in by the other. 

'* Donald hastened to his master, who, in a corner 
most remote from the lifeless body, was standing 
kaning against a window frame, his head bowed 
'down, and his hands clasped over his eyes, as if 
to shut out the dreadful sight. 

'* All was confusion and noise around him ; but 
he seemed insensible alike to the exclamations of 
his faithful Donald, and the lamentations of the 
poor Swiss, who was holding the lifeless body of 
nis master in his arms, and the rest gathered 
round him. 

" ^ It is too late,' said Dr. Irvin, examining the 
body, ' it is too late ; he is quite dead. Poor 
youth, I restored you once to life, but now it is 
beyond my power.' 

" On this the Swiss broke out into mingled exe- 
crations against the murderer, and waitings over 
lus master. 

" * Oh, my mistress, my mistress,' exclaimed he, 
in broken English, ' what an account have I to 
give thee, of the dear child you committed to my 
care ! you bade me bring him safely back to you; 
safely ! — ^yes, I can now carry him safely ; no one 
will take him prisoner now ; nor French nor En- 
glish ; poor child, your wars are over. Mistress, 
mistress ! a cold and bloody corpse, is now all I 
can bring you ! — Wretch, damnable wretch/ he 



exclaimed, starting up and holding his raised am 
towards Desmond; "wretch! yon shall suAr 
for this ; cruel butcher that you are. Take hinii 
take him, Mr. officer, take him out of my ngh^ 
lest I kill him; take him to prison^" 

" Dr. Irvin had joined Donald, and was stand- 
ing by Desmond ; each held a hand ; the old ser- 
▼ant wept over it in agony, exclaiming—. 

*^ * My master, my dear master, will yoa not 
look at me f do you not know your faithfid 

" In the mean time^ Dr. Irvin was calmly expos* 
tulating with, and urging Mr. Desmond to speak, 
if it was but one word. 

" But he uttered not a sound ; he stood cold 
and motionless as a statue, looking at vacanoy. 

" At this moment, a struggle was heard in the \ 
entry, and the words, ^ stop her ! stop her f 
The next moment, Adeline, pale, wild, distracted, 
ran into the room. The first object her eyes fell 
on was the bloody corpse of St. Julien ; she 
uttered one shriek, and fell across the body, as if 
struck with lightning. 

" Desmond heard the shriek, started, and, 
ing who it was, flew across the room, and kneel- 
ing beside his Adeline, extended his arms to raise 
her ; but, as he put forth his hand, he saw it co- 
vered with blood ; he shuddered, turned away his 
bead, and slowly rising, stood with averted looks. 

" The women, who had followed their mistress, 
BOW raised her lifeless form, and were about car- 
rying her away, when Desmond cried, ^ stop!' 

" The hollow and awful sound compelled obe- 

" He approached, and looking mournfully and 
steadily, but silently, on her, for a few moments, 
iiature gave way, and he burst into tears. With^ 


ont toaching her with bis hand, he stooped down, 
and kissing her icy brow, her cheeks, her lips— ^ 
^iarewell, farewell forever! beloved one, fare- 
well T 

** Then, after another pause, the big tears roll- 
kig off his blanched cheeks, on the still lovely 
&ce of Adeline — 

**^ Peace ! peace !' said he. * The thunder- 
bolt has laid thee low ! the blast has destroyed 
thee, sweet flower ! Oh ! that I too were at 
peace !' turning from his wife, and walking to a 
distant part of the room. 

** The women carried their mistress away, fol- 
lowed by Dr. Irvin, who bled her. She revived, 
but fell from one fainting fit into another ; and is 
not yet able to bold up her feeble head. She 
lives — but only lives ; and to-moMrow's sentence 
will be as fatal to her, as to hei^iusband. 

^' Meanwhile, the magistrate, a respectable and 
feeling man, approached Mr. Desmond, and re- 
minding him of his^painfnl duty, Mr. Desmond 
bowed his head, and motioned to follow him. At 
this instant, the faithful Donald rushed forward, 
throwing himself before his master, and seizing 
his hand- — 

" * Where are they taking you — where are you 
going f^ exclaimed he, wildly, and trying to de- 
tain Mr. Desmond. 

** His master pressed his hand affectionately, 
and replied, ' Going, Donald ! to the grave, I 
trust P 

" • No, no, no !' cried the poor fellow, * you 
shall not go— >but, wherever you go, I follow you,' 
said he, seeing his master pressed forward. 

" By this time, Dr. Irvin (from whom most of 
this account was gathered) returned. ^And must 
this be V said be, looking at Desmond. His only 


reply was, a quiet, but solemn look, and a strong 
pressure of Dr. Irvin's band. 

" Tbey now all silently moved forward* A 
slight shuddering was observed to pass over Des- 
mond, as he heard the clanking of the chain, and 
the creaking of the Vusty hinges, of the door of ' 
the cell ; otherwise he was tranquil, and spoke 
not a word. Donald remained with bis master. 
Dr. Irvin returned to the house of mourning; 
while the coroner, who had been sent for by the 
magistrate, summoned a jury of inquest ; who, 
upon viewing the body, and taking the testimony 
of St. Julien's servant, corroborated by some cir- 
cumstantial evidence, soon signed an inquiutioD, 
charging Frederick Desmond with having killed 
and murdered the deceased. 

" Poor The|>dore was in the country. It was 
my cruel task, a^ you know, to reveal tq him this 
dreadful story. 

^* And now," said Mr. Seymour, looking over 
the papers, and, arranging % them, '* you have 
the whole case before you — does any hope re- 
main .'^" 

'' Alas, no," said Louisa ; '^ improbable as it 
is, that so good a man could commit such an act, 
does it not seem, mamma, still more improbable 
that a young, rich, happy man, should take his 
own life, or that his best friend should allow him, 
even had he attempted it .^" 

Mrs. Seymour hesitated to reply ; she seemed 
lost in thought. 

" What is it you are thinking of, my dear .^" 
said Mr. Seymour. 

" An idea has struck me, which would explain 
away all mystery," said she ; " but — " 

" But, what ?" 

.- : 



" It woald not clear Mr. Desmond of the crime; 
it would only offer a motive*" 
Speak out." 

No, my dear husband, it can be of no avail ; 
it could be of no benefit to the guilty, but might 
criminate the innocent." 

After a long silence, in which all seemed bu- 
ried in thought, Mr. Seymour, thoughtfully turn- 
ing over his papers, said — 

<* To-morrow, the examination of the witness, 
who arrived yesterday from Boston, and who 
was a clerk of Mr. Desmond's, at the time he 
was in business, will close the evidence. I shall 
then make a last effort to show the impossibility 
of such a crime's being committed by a man of 
so cool anct dispassionate a character ; whose life 
and conduct, as is shown by these ample vouch- 
ers, was so strictly virtuous and upright. In a 
case like this, such evidence ought to have great 
weight* The unhappy prisoner will be brought, 
for the last time, 'to the bar. Poor, unhappy 
Theodore, what a night will this be to him ! 

*^ Hand me those books, Louisa ; I would faia 
be doing something." 

*' And cannot I do any thing to assist you, fa- ' 
ther .?" 

^^ There are some extracts to be made from 
these volumes, if you choose, my dear, to copy 

** Gladly, father," said she, sitting down to the 

Mrs. Se;^mour moved to the sofa, where she 
reclined, full of painful reflections. Mr. Seymour 
gave himself up to deep and profound thought ; 
sometimes referring to the books and papers be- 
fore him. The day began to dawn before they 
separated, and retired to seek a little repose. 


reply was, a quiet, but solemn look, and a stroof 
pressure of Dr. Irvin's band. 

'^ Tbey now all silently moved forward* A 
slight sbuddering was observed to pass over Des- 
mond, as he heard the clanking of the chaiii, and 
the creaking of the Vusty hinges, of the door of 
the cell ; otherwise he was tranquil, and spoke 
not a word. Donald remained with bis master. 
Dr. Irvin returned to the house of mourning; 
while the coroner, who had been sent for by the 
magistrate, summoned a jury of inquest ; who, 
upon viewing the body, and taking the testimony 
of St. Julien's servant, corroborated by some cir- 
cumstantial evidence, soon signed an iDquisidoD, 
charging Frederick Desmond with having killed 
and murdered the deceased. 

'^Poor The|>dore was in the country. It was 
my cruel task, a^ you know, to reveal tq him this 
dreadful story. 

" And now," said Mr. Seymour, looking over 
the papers, and, arranging % them, ''you have 
the whole case before you — does any hope re- 
main ?" 

'' Alas, no," said Louisa ; '' improbable as it 
is, that so good a man could commit such an act, 
does it not seem, mamma, still more improbable 
that a young, rich, happy man, should take his 
own life, or that his best friend should allow himi 
even had he attempted it ?" 

Mrs. Seymour hesitated to reply ; she seemed 
lost in thought. 

" What is it you are thinking of, my dear .^" 
said Mr. Seymour. 

'' An idea has struck me, which would explain 
away all mystery," said she ; " but — " 

" But, what ?" 

.-^ : 


"It woald not clear Mr. Desmond of the crime; 
ii wonld only offer a motive.'' 

« Speak out." 

''No, my dear husband, it can be of no avail; 
H could be of no benefit to the guilty, but might 
criminate the innocent." 

After a long silence, in which all seemed bu- 
ried in thought, Mr. Seymour, tlioughtfully turn- 
ing over his papers, said — 

** To-morrow, the examination of the witness, 
who arrived yesterday from Boston, and who 
was a clerk of Mr. Desmond's, at the time he 
was in business, will close the evidence. I shall 
then make a last effort to show the impossibility 
of such a crime's being committed by a man of 
so cool and dispassionate a character ; whose life 
and conduct, as is shown by these ample vouch- 
ers, was so strictly virtuous and upright. In a 
case like this, such evidence ought to have great 
weight. The unhappy prisoner will be brought, 
for the last time,* to the bar. Poor, unhappy 
Theodore, what a night will this be to him ! 

'* Hand me those books, Louisa ; I would faifi 
be doing something." 

^* And cannot I do any thing to assist you, fa- 
ther .?" 

^' There are some extracts to be made from 
these volumes, if you choose, my dear, to copy 

*' Gladly, father," said she, sitting down to the 

Mrs. Seymour moved to the sofa, where she 
reclined, full of painful reflections. Mr. Seymour 
gave himself up to deep and profound thought; 
sometimes referring to the books and papers be- 
fore him. The day began to dawn before they 
separated, and retired to seek a little repose. 


Tell me what blessings I have here alive, 
That I should fear to die— No ! life, 
I prise it not a straw— but, for mine honour, 
(Which I would free,) if I shall be condemned 
Upon surmises. 

Winter't Tmlt. 

The next morning, after Mr.. Seymoar left 
them to go to court, the carriage was ordered ; 
and, leaving Louisa engaged with her little scho- 
lars, Mrs. Seymour went to Mr. Desmond's 
house, wishing, as far as sympathy and tender- 
ness could do it, to alleviate the agonizing situa- 
tion of the unhappy Adeline, and to endeavour 
to support her under the impending stroke, wbkh 
she much feared would prove fatal in her present 
feeble condition. 

On inquiring for Mrs. Brinden, that lady came 
to Mrs. Seymour, and gave her a most mournfol 
account of Mrs. Desmond and Theodore. 

" She has scarcely swallowed a mouthful, or 
spoken a single word, since the fatal event which 
consigned her husband tu prison. For some 
time after the dreadful shock, we could scarcely 
keep life in her ; she fell from one fainting fit to 
another, and the next day was so feeble, that sbe 
lay unconscious of existence. After she revived 
3ufficiently to look about her and speak, her lao* 




goage was incoherent — her looks wild, and ex- 
pressive of horror ; then, again, she sank into 
lileoce and apparent insensibility, from which 
sbe was not aroused till Mr. Theodore arrived. 
» " Oh, madam, it would be a vain attempt to 
describe what then followed — to paint the agony 
of the half-distracted son. Since then, Mrs. Des- 
mond has been more sensible of her situation ; 
and good father M has passed whole hours 

t9ery day by her bed-side, and has prepared her 
br that death for which she hopes and prays. 
Her only consolation b, to think she shall not 
survive her husband. Mr. Theodore seldom 
leaves her through the day, though she often en- 
treats him to go to his father ; he answers, that 
be is obeying his father's positive command by 
remaining with her. But at night he leaves her 
to my care, while he goes to his father. Dear 
madam, you would scarcely know this excellent 
youBg man; he neither eats nor sleeps; and 
watching and sorrow have reduced him to a mere 
skeleton. He and Mrs. Desmond both know 
that this is the decisive day. I left him sitting 
like a statue by her almost lifeless body. Her 
eyes are never opened ; and, were it not for her 
deep-drawn sighs, and the motion of her clasped 
batuls, sometimes raised in supplication^ some- 
times pressing the holy cross to her bosom, you 
might imagine her gentle soul had already taken 
its departure. Sbe admits no one to enter her 
chamber, but the priest, the physician, Mr. The- 
odore, and myself." 

Mrs. Seymour listened, without interrnption, to 
these affecting details; and, finding she could 
render no service to the afflicted Adeline, she re- 
turned home, depressed and melancholy. 



Doriog ber absence, Mrs. Mortimer, accom|M- 
nied by Mr. O., and several other ladies and geo- 
demen, had called to ask Louisa to go with them 
to court, which, they told her, would be throngd 
^jrith all her acquaintance. Louisa declined the, 
invitation, and felt surprised and shocked, tint 
any one, wbo knew Mr. Desmond or his family, 
could think of going on such an occasion. She 
sat with her mother the rest of the morning, con- 
versing about their unhappy friends, and talking 
over the affecting narrative Mr. Seymour had 
given them the night before. 

** It explains,'* said Mrs. Seymour, *^ what has 
hitherto seemed to me an anomaly in Mr. Des- 
mond's character ; I mean his marriage with a 
woman, young enough to be his daughter, apd of 
a disposition so diametrically opposite to his. 
This should teach us, Louisa, never to judge of 
any one's conduct, without being well informed 
as to the motives of action. What I deemed an 
act of folly, is, we find, one of benevolence and 

It was thus, by observations on the pasdng 
events of life, that Mrs. Seymour endeavoured to 
form the judgment of her daughters ; and few 
persons who have net tried the experiment, are 
aware how much useful knowledge may be con- 
veyed through the medium of familiar conversa- 
^n, nor how much deeper an impression it makes 
on the youthful mind, than knowledge derived 
from books. Every day furnishes some lesson 
in religion and morality, which an attentive and 
intelligent parent ean imperceptibly, but effectu- 
ally, instil into the mind of youth. Instructions 
in natural as well as moral science, may be con- 
veyed trough the same medium with similar ad- 
vantage ;, and it was Mrs. Seymour's constant 


fBdeavour thus to improve and apply every inci* 
4eot on object tbey met frith. 

When Mr. Seymoar reached the coart-rooni, 
he foond it already so crowded, that he could 
•carcely make his way to his place. The plat- 
ferm, on each side of the bench on which the 
jadges sat, was filled with the yonth, beauty and 
fiahion of Washington. Few or any of these la-> 
dies were acquainted with Mr. Desmond or his 
fiunily, being generally strangers, who only pass 
llieir winters in the metropolis, and who seize, 
with avidity, any opportunity of hearing the elo- 
quence of the orators, either in the legislature or 
courts of justice. The venerable Chief Justice, 
grave as he always is, seemed now more than 
usually solemn. Indeed, a most unusual solem- 
nity and silence pervaded the whole court, and 
surrounding throng. Every countenance ex- 
pressed anxiety, and every eye was fixed with an ' 
expression of sadness on the prisoner. After the 
examination of one or two additional witnesses, 
on the part of the prisoner, Mr. Seymour rose, 
and addressed the court and jury as follows : 

** May it please the Court; — Gentlemen of the 
Jury — 

*' Before I proceed to the discharge of that task 
which my professional duty requires of me, on 
this very serious and interesting occasion, I beg 
permission, both as the friend and counsel of the 
prisoner, to return his, as well as my own thanks 
to the court and its officers, for the liberality, in- 
dulgence, and humane feeling, eyinced by them in 
the course of this momentous trial ; and also to 
you, gentlemen, for the very patient, attentive, 
and unprejudiced manner in which you have ap- 
peared to listen to the testimony that has been 

VOL. II. 11 


produced, as well on the part of the prisoner, us 
on that of the prosecution. I am authorized to 
say, gentlemen, that the prisoner is fully sensible, 
that in the ability and impressive eloquence al« 
ready displayed by the Attorney General in his 
opening of the case, and in arguing the various 
legal questions which have arisen in the course <tf 
the evidence ; and in that more powerful eSoti 
of his oratory which will, no doubt, be exhibited 
in his closing speech ; he has, and will be ac- 
tuated solely and exclusively, and even to the 
sacrifice of his sympathies as a man, by a consci- 
entious discharge of the high, and often painful 
duties of his office. Yes, gentlemen, the prisoner 
feels persuaded, that, should this trial eventuate in 
his condemnation, however conscious be will be 
of his innocence, he will, nevertheless, sincerely 
and gratefully acknowledge, that this fatal result, 
will not be imputable to the prevalence of any 
feelings incompatible with the impartial adminis- 
tration of justice, or with the sentiments of hu- 
manity ; nor, gentlemen, will he ascribe his con- 
viction to the imperfection of law, nor to the 
malice and prejudice of man, but solely to the 
limited perceptions of our nstture, which confine 
our views to the mere surface of actions, withoat 
. enabling us to penetrate into the hidden recesses 
.of thought, and bring to light the motives which 
impel to action. Man cannot enter into the heart 
of man, nor discover that which is known only 
to the Searcher of hearts, to the great Omniscient. 
And now, gentlemen, to my argument: which 1 
shall begin, by laying it down as an incontrovertible 
position, and one which the court by-and-bye will 
tell you is undoubtedly so, that before the crime of 
murder can be found by you, you must be fully 
and clearly satisfied in your minds, that the 




Crime of murder has actually, and in fact, been 
committed. As a very learned .and eloquent Bri- 
tish lawyer has expressed it, * before you can 
adjudge a fact, you must believe it ; not suspect 
it, not imagine it, not fancy it, but believe it. And 
it 18 impossible,' says he, ' to impress the human 
mind with such a reasonable and certain belief, 
as is necessary to be impressed, before a christian 
man can adjudge his neighbour to the smallest 
penalty, much less to the pains of death, without 
baving such evidence as a reasonable Mind will 
atccept of, as the infallible test of truth. And what 
IS that evidence ? neither Inore nor less than tha^ 
which the constitution has established in the 
courts ; namely, that the evidence convinces the 
jury) beyond all reasonable doubt, that the cri- 
minal intention, constituting the crime, existed in 
the mind of the prisoner, and was the main spring 
of his conduct. These rules of evidence are 
founded in the charities of religion, in the phi- 
losophy of nature, in the truths of history, and 
in the experience of common life.' 

" Now, gentlemen, to apply these rules to the 
present case. Are you convinced, beyond all rea- 
sonable doubt, that this criminal intention, which 
constitutes the crime, did exist in the mind of the 
prisoner, and was the main spring of the action 
which is imputed to him ? Can you believe this of 
a man, whose whole life, whose whole character 
and conduct, by the mass of testimony now be- 
fore you, and by your own personal knowledge^ 
are proved to have been uniformly virtuoui^ Hp^ , 
right, generous and benevolent? Can yoa Uh^ 
lieve this of a man, who has been clearly promF 
bj' all those who have known biro from infancy to 
manhood, to be a man of a cool and dispassion- 
ate temper-«-of an affectionate and tender heart-— 




'•ne from whose lips an angry or harsh expresr 
sioQ has never been known to escape f one from 
whose charities and benevolence, the stranger 
and the afflicted, the poor and the oppressed, have 
ever found the most tender and most Kberal re- 
lief? Can you believe, that the man who shel- 
tered beneath his hospitable roof the unfortunate 
individual^ of whose violent death he now stands 
accused, Jy^ho poured oil and wine into his wounds, 
and whom*' he took to his house, his arms, his 
heart, 01^^* circumstances which might have led 
ti less benevolent, and more selfish man, to have 
«^eliviaS^d him up to the scrutiny of public justice— 
can you beHfve that this man could, after sa- 
ving the straiiger's life, and, for three months, 
. cherishing him' in his bosom ;— ^an you believe 
that, whilst under the protection of his own rool^he 
could steal, liket^e midnight assassin, to his roomi 
and destrpy thdt iife he had saved ! Gentlemen, 
you cannot believe this ; you can scarcely even 
suspect, or imagine the possibility of an act, so 
contradictory to, so incompatible with, all the 
other circumstances which have been made 
known to you. 

" The unfortunate stranger was found dead, 
' and the prisoner by his side, with the instrument 
of d^th in his hands ! But may not what the 
priioner asserts to be the fact, be really true ? 
ibay not the young man, under the influence of 
some sudden and violent emotion, have taken his 
^i^^ife ? 3'outh is hasty, rash and violent ; and 
^obability of this young man's being subject 

jAong emotion, and to rash, impetuous, and vio- 

^flRit conduct, may be rationally inferred from the 
condition in which he was found in the street by 
the prisoner and his servant, as has been related 
in the course of the trial. A stranger! a fo- 
reigner ! alone ! wounded and bleeding, in the 

[ . 


public Streets at midnight! Must we not pre- 
.same some violence produced this situation ? 
From his obstinate silence when interrogated, 
kindly interrogated, by his preserver, must we not 
presume that tne aggression must have been on 
Us part, and that he must have provoked the at- 
tack which had nearly occasioned his death f 
These are probabilities from whence we may 
reason as conclusively against him^ as from the 
life and character of the prisoner we- pay infer 
the impossibility of such an attrocious murdec 
being committed by a man of his known virtues 
But what, gentlemen, are the facts, as stated by 
the faithful servant of the deceased ? He heard 
the prisoner exclaim, wretch ! to which his mas- 
ter answered in a raised voice, yes^ 'tis too true ; 
the veriest wretch on earth ! That then, in a few 
minutes, he heard them push their chairs, and 
walk in the room ; and not long after, he heard 
the report of the pistol. Gentlemen, is there 
not ground here for a rational conjecture f You 
hear from the prisoner the stern and strong lan- 
guage of rebuke. Did he charge him with 
base ingratitude f with cruel perfidy f with a dis- 
honourable violation of the sacred laws of hospi- 
tality ? such expressions were not, indeed, heard ; 
but are they not implied in the bitter epithet that 
was uttered in the hearing of the witness f and 
how was it answered ? not in the firni and lofty 
language of innocence and honest indignation, 
but in the language, and in the tone of guil^ ac;^ 
quiescence. There is an interval of silence; ft>r «K 
short space of time the witness heard no inte^ 
clrange of words ; then followed the report of 
the pistol. Now, gentlemen of the jury, is there 
any thing improbable in the circumstances, as 
stated by tlie prisoner, when interrogated by the 




magistrate on his arrest f he does not deny that 
he was in St. Jnlien's room previous to the report 
of the pistol^ though the subject of their comvcr* 
sation he has declined to disclose ; but he posK 
tively avers, that he was not present when the 
pbtol was discharged, and that he ran back into 
the room when he heard the report, and found St, 
Julien in the agonies of death. This assertion 
of the prisoner cannot, it is true, be received by 
you as logal evidence ; but when it is considered^ 
that the proof of the prisoner's agency in this 
bloody deed, is merely circumstantial and pre- 
sumptive, may not his own declaration to the 
contrary, the declaration of a man of hitherto 
undoubted veracity, probity and humanity, have 
some effect in diminishing the force of that pre* 
sumption; especially when that declaration b 
strengthened by probable circumstances? And 
what are these probable circumstances? Why, 
gentlemen, that the unhappy young man, stung 
by remorse for some ungrateful and dishonoura^ 
ble conduct, affecting, perhaps, the domestie 
peace of his friend and preserver, was suddenly 
impelled, by feelings of self-condemnaiion and aln 
borrence, to rid himself of an existence that was 
at once his shame and his torment, and at the 
same time to atone for his ingratitude, and make 
the greatest sacrifice in his power to the insulted 
honour of his benefactor. Mr. Desmond had 
withdrawn ; had left him to himself, and to the 
compunctious visitings of ^his conscience; and it 
was at this horrible moment, that the fatal deed 
was done. When I speak, gentlemen, of the inr 
suited honour of the prisoner, I wish it to be un- 
derstood, that I am using merely the language of 
conjecture, and that I am not justified by any dis- 
dosure on bis part» in i^ssuming any such groand« 

W1NT£E m WASHmOTON. 119 

That he apptied to the deceased the harsh Ian* 
guage of reproach, is a 'fact in evidence before 
you ; but Che cause, the cause, i say, for these vio* 
lent expressions, is a secret which the prisoner 
has. not divulged f that they were not nnjustlj 
applied, is fully proved by the emphatic answer 
of the deceased — 'twas the voice of his own con- 
fcience ; and he sealed the dreadful testimony 
with his blood. . 

" Gentlemen, almost any thing may more 
readily, more reasonably be believed, than that a 
man, who, during a life of more than forty years, 
has been uniformly just, benevolent, generous, 
and charitable ; a man of a mild, placid, contem- 
plative disposition ; of an equable, cool, dispas- 
sionate temperament, could in one moment change 
bis nature, and become unjust, cruel, treacherous, 
violent, and inhospitable ; that he could barba- 
rously destroy that life which he had so recently 
and so tenderly preserved ! — no, gentlemen ; to 
believe this, would be setting at defiance the dic- 
tates of reason, the lessons of experience, and 
the voice of humanity ; and it would be disclaim- 
ed by that religion, which bids us believe the best, 
hope the besu 

. " If from a concurrence of accidental and un- 
happy circumstances ; if from the misrepresenta- 
tion and calumny of others; if from incidents of 
a dark and mysterious nature ; if from suspicious 
situations and appearances indicative of guilt, a 
long life of virtue cannot form a shield against 
the imputation of crime ; or, when imputed, if it 
can have no weight, when balanced against that 
imputation ; ah, what avails the acquisition of 
repotation, of the esteem, of the respect of man- 
kind ! are forty years passed in the performance 
of all the duties of society, of ail- the charities of 


our most holy religion, to count for nothing? 
The scales of justice must be held with a steady 
hand ; and you, gentlemen, are to weigh the evi- 
dence for and against the prisoner now standing 
at the bar. Eternal and God-like Justice, thoa 
attribute of divinity ; it is thine to weigh, to com- 
pare, to decide ! The balance . is suspended — 
bring then the imputed crime ! dreadful and 
heavy as it is — but bring, too, the life of well tried 
virtue ; a character unsullied and unirapeached ; 
the love of friends, the gratitude of the podr^ the 
esteem of mankfnd ; and shall these not outweigh 
the mere semblance of guilt, the suspicion of 
crime? who, then, shall say, that in the balance the 
prisoner is found wanting ? 

^^ Gentlemen, does a doubt still remain ? Doubt 
must remain ! — In the name, then, of jtistice, in 
the name of humanity, condemn not the unhappy 
prisoner. The most absolute certainty, the deep- 
est conviction, the most unhesitating belief, can 
alone justify you to your own consciences, and in 
the opinion of mankind, for such a verdict. 

" Weigh well the indications of innocence 
against the indications of guilt ; and 'ere the finad 
decision is made, deeply impress on your minds, 
what will be your regret and self reproach, should 
proofs of that innocence be brought to light, 
when it is too late to correct your error, and when 
an innocent man shall have suffered that death 
which should be adjudged only to the guilty ! 
Have not our laws adopted the humane princif^le, 
that it is better many gpilty should escape, than 
that one innocent man should suffer?" 

Mr. Seymour paused, overcome with his own 
strong emotions, which were not a little increased 
by the univer»*al sympathy, by the profouryd feeling, 
evinced by the whole court, and all who were pre- 


$eiit« The prisoner alone stood unmoved ; pale 
and emaciated, but tranquil and sedate, he stood 
with his arms folded on his bosom, and his eyef 
east down. Not a whisper, not a sound waf 
heard ; and the universal stillness, indicated the 
hope, the wish, that his counsel should still add 
something to what he had already said. 

At last, recovering from his emotion, and 
twinkling away the tear that started to his eye, 
" Grentlemen," he proceeded, ** if, in the ardour 
of my feelings, any thing should have indicated 
m doubt of your impartiality and justice, pardon 
a warmth which has been excited only by excest 
of solicitude; and be assured, that not only my- 
self, but the prisoner, feels the most implicit con- 
fidence in the purity and ilprightness of those 
principles and motives, which wiU govern yon in 
deliberating on the evidence, and in making up 
yoor eventful decision. 

" Would to Heaven I could transfuse into yoot 
iiiinds that clear conviction, that intimate persua- 
sion, that absolute certainty, of the innocence of 
this unfortunate gentleman, which I feel^in my 
own. But you have not seen him, as I have seen 
him ; you hav6 not known him, as I have known 
him, during the dark and lonely liours of impri- 
sonment. You have not witnessed that humble 
resignation, that unbroken tranquillity, that fer« 
vent piety, those quiet slumbers, that charity to 
men, that love for God, that equanimity of tem- 
per, that peace of mind, ' which the world cannot 
give, and cannot take away ;' and which can be 
derived only from a conscience void of offence, 
and an undoubting trust in the goodness of that 
God, to whom ever^ secret of the heart is better 
known, than are the actions of man to man ! 
If ay 4he Supreme Judge of heaven and e^ir^b--^ 


may the Source of all Wisdom, so direct and enr 
lighten your understandings, that you may be 
enabled to discern the truth, and to decide ac- 
cording to the truth." 

The Attorney (Jeneral then addressed the Jury, 
in a short, but eloquent, speech. 

When he sat down, the Chief Justice arose, and^ 
in a few and impressive words, recapitulated the 
evidence, and concluded his charge to the Jury, 
in substance as follows : 

" After the brief, but I believe correct statement 
of the evidence, which 1 have given you, in order 
that you maybe able to see how far it goes to estab- 
lish what is charged in the indictment, I must re- 
mind you that, on the other hand, you are to at- 
tend carefully to the arguments urged, and the 
evidence broug))t forward, in favour of the pri- 
soner ; and to weigh well whatever makes for the 
defence. The evidence, on the part of the prison- 
er, when taken together, is calculated to make' an 
impression in his favour. It is an affectionate 
and warm evidence of character, given by per- 
sons whose testimony deserves the greatest weight 
and deference. However painful the task, and 
awful the responsibility, it is your duty, gentle- 
men of the jury, not to shrink from the perform- 
ance ; and may the All-wise God give you wis- 
dom to discern, and strength to perform, what- 
ever you may be convinced is required by the laws, 
and due to society. Gentlemen, you will now 
withdraw, and make up your verdict of guilty or 
not guilty." 


Tarry a little — ^there Is something else. 

Merchant of Venue* 

Cette lettre sincere, 
D'un malheureux amour, contient tout le mysf^re^ 


An awful silence pervaded the whole court, 
and it was so compactly crowded, that it was 
with difficulty the jury could move ; and so so- 
lemnly were they affected, that they seemed as if 
reluctant to rise. At this moment, a little bustle 
look place, Mr. Seymour, who was leaning 
down his head on the table before him, heard, in 
low whispers,/' it is his son ! it is his son !" He 
started up, aqd looking round, saw that the crowd 
was pushing back, and opening a passage for 
Dr. Irvin and Theodore, wiio was hanging, ra- 
ther than leaning, on his arm ; but so shrunk, so 
paIid,so attenuated, was his frame, that you might 
almost have believed it was a body just risen 
from its grave ; his hollow eyes sent out an eager 
gaze in search of his beloved father. Dr. Irvin, 
perceiving the jury struggling to make their way, 
called out, *< stop ! I entreat the jury to stop for 
a few moments !" then hurrying poor Theodore 
along, they gained the platform on which the 


Judges sat ; he rejiched out his band with a pa- 
per, exGlaiming, " my father is innocent — my fii- 
tber is innocent !'' and, in attempting to kneel| 
'teW fainting on the steps. Mr. Desmond, who 
had sat down, and bad covered his face with his 
hand, now wildly started, exclaiming, *^ my sooi 
my son, you kill me!" then sank backwards, 
overpowered with the violence of his emotion. 
All now was a scene of confusion. The jury 
returned to their box, but it was a long time be- 
fore silence could be obtained. '' He is innocent! 
he is innocent !" resounded from all parts. 

Dr. Irvin and several gentlemen went to the 
assistance of Theodore, while Mr. Seymour ran 
to Mr. Desmond, and, supporting him in hu 
arms, -endeavoured to revive him. The sudden 
revulsion of blood upon his heart ; the suffoca- 
tion, occasioned by violent emotion, had sus- 
pended animation. When he had taken a glass 
of water, and was somewhat recovered, he press- 
ed the hand of Mr. Seymour, saying, *' take me, 
take me away, Seymour ; I shall die were I to 
bear that letter ! — too well I know its contents f 
take me away, my dear friend." With some dif- 
ficulty, leaning on Mr. Seymour, a passage was 
opened for him, every one respectfully making way, 
and repeating as he passed, '*be is innocent!'* 
^' 1 was sure be was innocent ; such a sweet 
looking man," said one. '^ Lord bless his heart,*^ 
said another ; '* he does not look as if he could 
hurt a worm !" '^ No, to be sure," said another; 
** a kinder or a better man is not to be found ift 
Washington." '' It would have been a thousand 
pities," said another, ^' if he'd been done away 
with ; the poor would have lost their best friend.*^ 
Such were the observations that reached his ear, 
and would have cheered, if any thing on earth* 



coald have cheered his broken spirit. Mr. Sev- 
flioar led him into one of the clerk's rooms — h^ 
looked round for Theodore. ** Will they not 
bring my poor boy here .^'* said he ; " poor fellow, 
this will be a harder stroke than he has yet felt. 
Oh, Adeline, generous, but yet unkind Adeline ! 
^why have you done this? Would to Heaven you 
had let roe die, and then all would have been bu- 
ried in my 'grave. Cruel generosity ! oh, it is 
worse than death!'* After a long pause—" Sey- 
monr," said he, solemnly, '* to me, death would 
have been no evil ; but life" — again he paused ; 
his friend could ouly press his hand ; " to /iW," 
he continued, " loaded with dishonour, with 

shame ; to hear that dear name coupled with 

oh, this is more than I can bear !" Then, again^ 
be sunk into a mournful silence. 
i Mr. Seymour stepped out, and found Dr. Irvin 
I in another room with the unfortunate Theodore, 
f supporting his head on his bosom, and, from time 
I to lime, wiping the trickling tears from his cold 
I face. " My father ! cannot I see my father? but 
f DO, I cannot see him ; I cannot break to him the 
cmel news." 

Mr. Seymour looked at Dr. Irvin for an ex- 
planation. " Tell him, tell him all," said Theo- 
1^ dore ; " I can bear it ; tell him, and he can break' 
F it to my father, for I cannot." Dr. Irvin then^ 
K in a low voice, informed him, that Mrs. Desmond 
wa« no more. " She was very low, you know, 
this morning," said he. '* 1 was sitting by her, 
an hoor ago, endeavouring to revive and support 
her, when, Mrs. Brinden being called out of the 
room, immediately returned, and whispered some- 
thing in Mrs. Desmond's ear. ^ Give it tne, give 
it me,' said she, feebly, but eagerly. Mrs. Brin- 
den handed her a sealed letter ; she motioned 

[ YOLf II. 1^ 


Theodore and me to leave the room. We with* 
drew, and, a moment afterwards, hearing a loud 
shriek, we ran in. 

" * Fly, Theodore,' said she, * fly and save your 
father/ She could say no more, but fell into fits. 

*' It was long before she recovered ; — ^ go, go,' 
said she, when she could articulate — ^ go |' 

<<When she saw that he did not move, she 
turned to me, and asked for some drops ; when 
she had taken them, she seemed to struggle with 
some violent emotion ; and desiring Mrs. Brinden 
to raise her, with difficulty and at broken inter- 
vals she said — 

<^^Tbis letter explains the dreadful mystery. 
This letter will save my husband — the best of 
husbands. I am dying, Theodore,' said she, 
* and it is my last command that you carry this 
letter to the court. Ere now, the sentence, the 
fatal sentence, which brands the noblest of men 

as a ' she could not pronounce the horrid 

word; she gasped for breath — * Take it from my 
dying hands in yours; let no one touch — no one 
see it ; put it yourself into the hands of the judge. 
Theodore, trust it to no one ; promise rae yea 
will not.' 

" Theodore promised. 

" * It will save him ; now let me die — and tell 
him, Theodore, his Adeline dies innocent. Trem- 
bling on the verge of eternity, I would not dare 
to deceive him ; I am innocent !' She could say 
no more ; the exertion she had made overpow- 
ered her ; she sunk exhausted on her pillow, her 
eyes closed — and we believed her spirit had fled. 
Theodore kneeled by her side, and clasped her 
hand in speechless agony. After a little time 
she revived, opened her eyes, tried to speak; 
but could only articulate, 'go, go;' she pressed 




feebly his haod, and closed her eyes, never to 
open them again. We tried various restoratives^ 
but all in vain ; life was gone. You see our . 
poor boy here ; when he could stand and speak, 
he insisted on my bringing him without losing 
another moment. I ordered a carriage ; his task 
is fulfilled." 

<' Yes," said Theodore, her last command is 
obeyed ! /Go,' was the last word ; and had I died 
on the way I would have come. And now, dear 
Mr. Seymour, go and tell all this to my poor fa- 
ther ; I cannot, I dare not touch on the contents 
of that letter. Oh ! Mr. Seymour, my father 
would rather have died — ^but go to him ; when 
he is recovered from his first shock, we will 
return home. They will let him go home, will 
they not f hasten, Mr. Seymour." 

When Mr. Seymour returned, he found Mr. 
Desmond in the same spot he had left him ; he 
perceived he was weeping ; and he was rejoiced 
to see those tears, the first he had ever seen him 
shed, as he knew they would relieve his surchar- 
ged and bursting heart. He sat down by hiip 
and taking his hand — 

" I have seen our dear Theodore," 

" Does he not come to me ?" 

" Not yet." 

^* Then there is still something for me to 
learn ; you are silent, Seymour." 

Mr. Seymour continued silent. 

« You need not speak," said Mr. Desmond-— 
<^ I know all. 

<< After such a disclosure, Adeline could not 
live. Poor victim ! Oh, that I had died in thy 
place. But I wish not that thou shouldst suf- 
fer — thou hast escaped from misery.' But what a 
load hast thou left for me — unhappy boy, and 
for thee.*' 


In broken sentences, with many pauses, with 
deep drawn sighs, he gave vent to his feelings. 
Mr. Seymour did not interrupt the silent flow of 
sorrow, although extremely anxious to know 
what could be the contents of a letter, of which 
Mr*. Desmond seemed well informed ; but from 
time to time, silently pressed his friend's hand 
in his : he offered no consolation to a heart so 
wrung with anguish. ^^ Let nature do her own 
work," thought he ; " time and religion must do 
the rest." 

After some time, Desmond rose, but so feeble, 
so exhausted, he could scarcely stand. 

''Must we not return," said he, ''to the court 
room .'*" 

<' Wait a moment," replied his friend, » till I 
learn the orders of the court." 

He then spoke to the Marshal, who informed 
him that the Chief Justice, after reading the. letteTi 
had told the jury, that it completely cleared the 
prisoner of the crime laid to his charge ; bat, as 
It was very late, and the prisoner not in a condi- 
tion to appear at the bar, and as some witnesses 
must be called to prove the h^nd-writing, and 
some other /acts, he had adjourned the court and 
the jury to the next day. Th^ Marshal added, 
that be was directed by the court to conduct the 
prisoner back to the jail, but hoped it would be 
the last day of his confinement there, 

Mr. Seymour requested the marshal to order a 
carriage as close to the door as possible, for the 
prisoner ; for crowds were still lingering to catch 
a glance of him as he passed. He then stopped 
to let Theodore know whither his father was 

''i will go with him," said he; ''never will I 
leave him again." 



When his father and Mr. Seymour were in the 
carriage, Dr. Irvin accompanied Theodore to it, 
and got in with his unhappy friends. The pub- 
lic sympathy could not be repressed, and many 
gaculations were heard as Mr. Desmond was get- 
ting in. 

" God bless you, sir," " long life to you, sir," 

-and such like expressions, conveyed their kind 

feelings. — ^They were unnoticed by the sufferers. 

Bat not so was a deep and hollow groan, which 
seemed to burst from the innermost recesses of a 
broken heart. Desmond started at the sound, 
but hurried forward, as if unable to encounter any 
siglit of wo. Dr. Irvin turned at th^ sound, and 
beheld, leaning against the wall near the door- 
way, a tall and striking figure, in a dark cloak ; 
his head was sunk upon his breast, and his up- 
raised hands clasped, as if in the agony of suppli- 
cation. He had not time for inquiry — he was 
supporting Mr. Desmond ; and the next moment 
the carriage drove off. 

When Theodore entered the carriage, he fell on 
his knees by his father, who clasped him in bis 
arms : their tears and their sighs were mingled, 
but not one word could either articulate. 

" One would suppose," thought Dr. Irvin, "that 
the fatal sentence was pronounced, instead of a 
promised acquittal ; — how many avenues to mise- 
ry ! — how few to happiness !" 

Aftfr they had seen their afflicted friends set- 
tled for the night, and had forced on them some 
refreshment. Dr. Irvin and Mr. Seymour left them 
tp themselves, rightly deeming that the presence 
of any third person would be a painful restraint| 
instead of a relief, to their present feelings. 

Mr. Seymour took Dr. Irvin home with him to 
a late dinner. Mrs. Seymour, liouisa, £mily— - 



all ran eagerly out to bear the result of this long, 
and anxious day's proceedings. 

'< Acquitted-— our good friend is acquitted," 
said Dr. Irvin, while Mr. Seymour, too deeply 
affected by conflicting emotions, could not spealL 
The girls ran back into the parlour, repeating, 
<< acquitted ! oh, hovr happy, oh, bow delighted 
I am !" 

But Mrs. Seymour, who saw by her husband's 
countenance that all was not right, anxiously de- 
tained him, while Dr. Irvin followed the girls. 

'^ Do not ask me now," said he, ^< I am much 
exhausted ; after dinner, if we are alone, you shall 
hear all." 

When Mr. Seymour withdrew after dinner to 
his office, Mrs. Seymour followed him, where he 
gave her an account of all that had passed in court, 
and told her it was proved by a letter of the Che- 
valier, which had been found, that he had put an 
end to his own life. 

" Your suspicion, my dear, wa? right ; I told 
you, women could penetrate farther than men." 

" Alas ! poor young creature," said Mrs. Sey- 
mour, " she was so much exposed — her very sim- 
plicity and innocence betrayed her. She loved 
and reverenced Desmond as a father — ^Theodore 
as a brother : but the tender heart of woman, Mr. 
Seymour, cannot, cannot remain dead to love !" 

" I am surprised the danger never occurred to 
Desmond. She was ignorant of life — but he knew 
the world." 

"Not much, my dear," said Mrs. Seymour; 
" his was a contemplative and recluse life. He 
has no passions himself; how can he realize their 
omnipotence in the breast of another .^" 

** He was a tender, devoted husband," observed 
Mr. 'Seymour. 


'^ Tes ; but all the love he was capable of was 
expended on his first wife and his son : and for 
Adeline, I do not think be ever felt other than as 
a father." 

Mr. Seymour shook his head as he replied-— 
" You are mistaken ; Desmond's sensibility is 
deep, is strong ; his love is not general and in- 
discriminate, it lies at the bottom of his heart, and 
floats not on the surface of action. But he should 
have been more cautions : philosopher as he is, 
he should have known more of human nature !^' 

" My dear," said Mrs. Seymour, " philoso- 
phers study only the mind ; I am afraid if they 
studied the heart, the passions, they would soon 
lose their philosophy." 

** Desmond knew more of books than men, to 
be sur^" said Mr. Seymour; '^ he should have 
known enough, however, not to invite a young 
man, so ricli in every charm of nature, of every 
talent, and ^of every grace, and a Frenchman too, 
to be an inmate of his house.'' ^ 

^^ He knew St. Julien was a married man," 
observed Mrs. Seymour. 

** But did he not know," said Mr. Seymour, 
t< that French honour, dind French gallantry, are 
not bound by marriage oaths .?" 

" Fye, Mr. Seymour; should you or I say so, 
who know so many faithful and honourable cou- 
ples .?" 

" There are virtuous and vicious of all nations ; 
but beware, let woman beware, of that dangerous 
nation, whose morals, as regards the sexes, are so 
depraved. For the slightest imputation of their 
honour, they would take the life of friend or bro- 
ther ; as most likely this young man had done, 
when he was found wounded and bleeding at Des- 
mond's door. And yet — oh, heaven ! he thought 



it no breach of that high honour, to violate all 
the rights of hospitality ; to sedace the affections 
of the lovely young creature ; to blast the happi- 
ness of his preserver; to introduce misery and 
despair into the kind family which had nursed, 
and watched, and restored his life ! — and in re- 
turn, wretch that he was, what was his grati- 
tude !" 

" Alas, poor youth !" said Mrs. Seymour, " from 
what you say his letter contained, it is evident 
he was not so insensible as you describe him to 
be 'y for most poignant must have been the re- 
morse which impelled him to take his own life. 
He made the only reparation the laws of honour 
could require. Perhaps he was a deluded victim 
of passion, and was hurried on, beyond all 
thought or design. He appeared so truly modest 
and amiable, I cannot think he was a designing 
villain ; no— he, too, must have been a victim to 
headlong passion. I cannot believe he was the 
wretch you suppose. Besides, you tell me that, 
with her dying breath, Mrs. Desmond asserted 
her innocence. May we not, then, hope that 
these unfortunate young creatures were the vie*: 
Yims to a fatal passion, but are guiltless in their 
^ conduct?" 

'^ In a moment of such distraction, this unhap- 
py young woman could scarcely know what she 
said. Desmond's condiict is more conclusive; 
his gloomy and perturbed temper, so long in- 
dulged ; his anguish at the moment of his acquit- 
tal ; his indifference to life, na}', even his anxiety 
to die, all prove bis conviction of irremediable 

*' He may have been deceived by a concurrence 
of circumstances. Could any situation be more 
itrongly indicative of crime, than the one in which 


he himself was found ? yet, he is innocent. Let 
as, then, hope for the best." 

'^ But,' consider, if St. Julien is guiltless, what 
could have led to the violept and fatal act which 
terminated his life ?" 

*^Oh, Mr. Seymour, is this the first instance 
you have known, of an ardent and hopeless pas- 
sion leading to such ^ a catastrophe? Do you 
forget our poor friend ?" 

''It is an unhappy business," said Mr. Sey- 

'' But I must go," continued he, looking at his 
watch ; '^ Dr. Irvin, and myself, are requested to 
call on the Chief Justice .this evening. Will you 
not go up to De.smond'8 ? your advice may be ne- 
cessary. We had best," said Mr. Seymour, turn- 
ing back, '' we had best conceal, if possible, the 
misfortune of Mrs. Desmond, as far as it is in 
our power." 

Mrs. SeymouF called Louisa to walk with her ; 
and when Emily heard where she was going, she 
entreated to go along. Her mother liesitated. 

'* Mamma," said Louisa, '' 1 .have heard you 
say you wish Emily to see a corpse^ and one 
which is not disgusting through age or infirmity. 
Poor Mrs. Desmond was so young and so beau- 

" True," said Mrs. Seymour ; " the occasion 
is a favourable one, my Emily, and ^ou shall ae« 
company as." 


Iter eyet are cloied ! 

But all her tovelinets Is not jret flown* 

8be uniPd in death, and still her fac« 

Retains tliat smile ; as when a waveless lake. 

In which the wint*ry stars all bright appear, 

Is sheeted by a nightly frost with lee } 

Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged ; 

Vnruffled by the breeze, or sweeping blast 



It was late in the afternoon, the air was mild,. 
the sky was clear, and all nature, clothed in the 
reviving verdure of spring, rejoicing in renovated 
life. Mrs. Seymour, leaning on the arm of Louisa, 
and holding Emily by the hand, pursued her way 
through the most sequestered paths that led 
through the woods, which covered the sides of 
Capitol hill, whose expanding foliage, with the 
general gayety of the vernal scene, presented a 
mournful contrast with the gloom and desolation 
of the scene she was about to witness. The son 
was just setting, as they reached Mr. Desmond's 
house. The servant, who came to the door, 
asked them to be seated in the parlour, until he 
informed Mrs. Brinden they were there. She met 
them at the head of the stairs, and silently and 
mournfully courtesying, led them to the cham- 
ber in which lay the remains of the unfortunate 

Winter in Washington. 1S5 

Ifrs. Desmond. The last ra^s of the sun darted 
throagb the window blinds, and fell on the fair 
and lifeless form, which was extended before 

Emily timidly approached, prepared for some- 
thing awfiil ; but when she saw the beaatiful Ade- 
line, who seemed as if in a calm sleep, she casta 
look of pleased astonishment at her mother, and 
involnntarily exclaimed, '' how beeutifal she 
looks, mamma." Mrs. Brinden, who held back 
the muslin curtain, shook her head mournfully^ 
as she said, 

''^ She was beautiful, and good, too, as an an- 

After gazing ^awhile, Mrs. Seymour turned to 
a young woman, who was leaning against the 
bedstead, and wiping away, with her apron, the 
tears which trickled down her cheeks — 

" Are you here, my child ?" said Mrs. Seymour^ 
kindly taking Mary's hand. 

" Yes, ma'am," replied she, " I came to watch 
with Mrs. Brinden ; and I would feign see the 
dear lady as long as I can." 

'^ She was a kind friend to you, Mary." 

*^ Truly, yes, ma'am ; and I have lost a great 
Jielp and comfort, in losing her ; for many years, 
she was all in all to our family ; and mother, with 
her dying breath, bid me look up to her and mind 

" Oh ! she was good to every one," said Mrs. 
Brinden, sobbing; ^'she was never eager to go 
out to visit gay people, or gay places ; but she 
used' to be always going to see the poor and dis- 

• " Sure enough," said Mary ; " and she hardly 
Hussed a day, all last winter, . coming to see 
mammy* And she always had something nice 


Ibr her ; and when poor mother was loath to eat, 
she would coax her, and take the spoon herself 
and say, * now do taste some of this jelly, Mrs. 
King, do now ; I Have brought it myself for you f 
and then mother would be forced to eiat. OfteOi 
as sheM be going away, mother would look after 
her, and say, ' the God in heaven bless you, dear, 
for I cannot.' And, most all mammy's clothes she 
sent her. And she would sing such sweet hyittng 
to her, that mammy would oftentimes fall to sleep, 
and say she thought the angels in heaven were 
plaving their harps for her. Oh ! ma'am, it's more 
than I have words for, to tell you half of her good- 
ness to me and mine." 

Mrs. Seymour and her girls now wept in com- 
pany with Mary and Mrs. Brinden, as they stood 
round the bed. The light of day was now with- 
drawn, and the glare of the wax candles which 
were burning round the bed, threw a more fune- 
real and ghastly light on the object before them. 
"EmWyfett the difference, and shrunk close to her 
mother, who had taken a seat at the head. 

A gentle knock at the door disturbed the so- 
lemn silence into which they had all fallen; 
Mary opened it, and the venerable Mr. M s, 
and several other priests, entered. They all fa) 
turn gave Mrs. Seymour their hand, and their 
henedicke, ^ 

" This was one of the dearest lambs of my 
flock," said the good old man ; " but God has 
been pleased to take her to his fold ; and his will 
be done !" 

*' It is an awful sight," said another holy bro> 
ther, '* to see one so young, cut off in the mids\ 
of her days ; let us pray for her departed spi- 


All knelt around the body, and in pious and 
tfad strains chanted the requiem for the dead. 
A long silence ensued, which was interrupted by 
^e sound of several voices below. Louisa start- 
edy thinking it was'Theodore ; but when Mary, 
who went to inquire, returned, she said — 

*^ It is only some of our poor Irish, who beg to 
be let>in to take a last look ; what do you say, 
father M s ?" 

*^ If they will be quiet, and make no distur- 
bance, I do not object," said he. 

" Oh, they'll behave quite respectful," said 
Mary. ^ 

" Admit them then, niy child," said he. 

Four or five elderly women, in their dark blue 
ieloaks and white caps, now came in, and kneeling 
down,cfossed themselves, and said an ^ve Marie; 
then coming slowly forward, looked on their life- 
less benefactress. 

" Och ! and is it you, dear," said a very aged 
woman, who was so very poor that she had not 
even a cap on, but had covered her gray locks 
with the hood of her cloak, and now as she extend- 
ed her hands towards the body, it slipped off, and 
her snow white locks fell in disorder ^ver her pale 
and wrinkled face. '* Och ! is it you, my darling, 
that is cut down afore these old and blasted limbs ! 
has the sithe then passed over ye, sweet flower, 
before the noonday had come ? but isn't the 
blossom sweeter then for the bosom of Jasus 9 
yes, sure, an^ ye shall live, darling, for ever and 
ever, shan't yef where niver a cauld wind blaws 
ony more." 

*K* Ah-a-day," said another, " the leddy was a 
good leddy to me, by my troth she was ; many's 
the lang pund o' yarn I has spin'd for her ; but 

VOL. II. 13 


now, the swate cratur, I'll no be for spinning a 
more, seeing her hank is aw rin out, and her thrid 
is cut." 

*^ Och, then, what's that ye wad be saying ? a 
good leddy to ye ! the blessed God knows, riieo, 
she was a saint in Heaven to the^old Janet. 'Wba 
put the bit o' shelter o'er these gray hairs, which 
else had aw been laid on the Cauld grand ? wba was 
it when the boy Patrick was a riv'nt from my 
side, ^and I was sore distress'd and distrait like, 
wha was it then counted tear for tear with Janet ? 
and is'nt it now the old cratur shuld cry tears 
over her? ah, and bitter tears, for whare's the 
frint is left for the poor old Janet f " 

** Come, now, Janet, go to the chapel then, 
and say over your beads for her ; come, my good 
women, it grows late, and all must beqaiet,^^aid 
one of the priests. 

They reluctantly left the room, after turning 
round and mournfully shaking their heads. " It 
is time for us to go too" said Mrs. Seymour ; '* I 
thiiik I heard the carriage." She and the girls 
took one more look at the body, and sighed 
deeply as they closed the door. 

" How melancholy and unnatural it seemed, 
mamma, to see any one surrounded only by stran- 
gers ; no father, no mother, no sisters," said Louisa. 

*' The absence of Mr. Desmond and Theodore 
IS certainly to be deplored ; but the tears of gra- 
titude, are they not as acceptable a tribute as the 
tears of affection .?" * 

^' But, mamma, she was good to all the poor, 
what was the reason only those Irish womep were 
there ?" 

" The Americans, my dear, do not feel a be- 
nefit so deeply ; do not feel so warmly ; and what 
they do feel, they seldom show. Our own poor peo- 


pie claim as a right, and receive as their due, the 
assistance we give them ; but these poor outcasts 
from their own unhappy country, receive the 
commonest acts of good will as the greatest be- 
nefit ; they are a people of strong passions, ar- 
dent feelings, and lively imaginations ; and 
among the poor and ignorant, these are not re- 
pressed by any sense of decorum. Observe the 
difference between Mary King and her countrywo- 
men ; Mary has been born and brought up here ; 
she did not give vent to violent exclamation 
and feeling, because she has lived in a more culti- 
vated state of society." 

'^ Mary," said Emily, ^^ is a sweet, mild look- 
ing girl ; she looks so sick, and so good, mamma, 
I love Mary." 

'^ She is, inde^, a very good girl ; her mother, 
the last of the family, died this spring ; father, 
brothers, sisters, all fell one after the other by 
the same disea^. When 1 first knew them, they 
were one of the happiest and most comfortable 
fiu»ilies in the whole Irish settlement. Mrs. King 
had several cows, and used to supply me, and 
many other families, with butter. I remember, 
Louisa, when you were a little girl, I could not 
please you better, than to take you to Mrs. King's 
to get buttermilk; her cabin was on the com- 
mons, apart from the others ; one old oak tree 
stood beside it; there was no enclosure; htr 
cows wandered at large, with hundreds more, 
and pastured on the richest commons I ever saw 
round any city ; her geese would march off in 
the morning, to the verdant banks of the Tiber, 
and her ducks and chickens keep' round the 
house ; a rude shed, in winter, was the only shelter 
or enclosure she had for them all. 


" Of a summer's evening, how often hav^ ^ 
with my little Louisa, gone to drink the ftesb 
buttermilk of the good old woman. Metbinks f 
see her now, seated at her spinning wheel under 
the great oak; her fowls of every descriptioR 
feeding round her ; the earth covered with ver- 
dure, the air perfumed with the scent of the 
white clover. When she saw me, she would set 
aside her wheel ; pin her cap under her chin, 
which she had loosened on account of heat, 
stroke down her white apron, which had been 
turned up, and hasten forward with a smile so 
sweet, so cordial, a smile peculiar to the small 
features and mild countenance of this good wo- 
man; never has any greeting been more pleasant 
to my heart, than her smile of welcome. As I 
would sit on her chair, she (with a respect our 
own country people would never dream of) 
would bring a low wooden stool, and sit »l a 
humble distance from * me, talk of her spibning'^ 
whilst you, Louisa, would play with the little Mary. 
How pleasant it was, as the sun was setting, and the 
long shadows stretched across the wide commoog, 
to witness the quiet comfort of the scene ; what 
a change from the noise and dust of Pennsylvar 
nia avenue! Instead of crowds of dirty, and 
often drunken labourers, returning from the pub- 
lic buildings, and swearing and cursing as they 
went along, here all was still and cheerful. The 
tinkling of the distant cow-bell, the voice of boys 
driving them home; the long train of cows, 
coming slowly and soberly along, the calves clum- 
sily gambolling by their sides ; the faithful dog, 
who brought up the train; then the long line of 
geese, extending over the common, like our In- 
dian warriors in a file, with their leader proudly 
marching at their head, who looked stately 


eaoogh to have been placed as g^uards round our 
Capitol, which their vigilance might, perhaps, 
save, as it had once done the capitol of Rome* 
These, and other animals, afforded yon, Louisa, 
the greatest delight* Then, after taking our nice 
bowl of buttermilk, we would quit the peaceful 
scene ; now, alas, desolate and abandoned." 

** How did Mrs. King get iicquainted with 
Mrs. Desmond, mamma f^' , 

^^ In the same way as with me, by carrying 
her butter. Mr. Desmond, you know, my dear, 
is the son of an Irish gentleman, and a catholic ; 
two circumstances which induced all the Irish 
people in the city, and there are a very great 
number, to go to him on all occasions, either for 
advice or relief. But it is probable, so serious 
and retired are his habits, that he never would 
have been so known and so popular had it not 
been for Donalds He, born and bred in Ireland, 
retained ail his natural warmth of heart ; and as 
be marketed and transacted all of Mr. Desmond's 
household business, be was soon well known to 
every Irishman, rich or poor, and I may add, 
every Irishwoman too. At market you would 
see him, with a dozen or twenty at a time 
round him, telling their grievances, or making 
merry with the old jantilmarij as they called him, 
by taking a glass of spirits. When there was 
any law in the business, he always went to his 
mjBLSter : ^ but when the wimin or childers were 
sick or ailing, it was to his dear young leddy he 
would go,' as he once told me. This has excited 
the warmest enthusiasm among these grateful, 
people, and Mrs. Desmond being likewise a 
catholic, they looked on her too, as one'of their 
own people." 



^* How dijSerently the women dress from the 
Americans," said Emily ; ^' they look so droU, go> 
ing along the avenue, sometimes eight or ten to< 
gether, withont bonnets — with their white capa- 
their blue clpaks, their dark blue wgollen stocICo^ 
ings, and linsey-woolsey striped petticoats. 
Can always tell an Irishwoman, mamma.^ 

" Can you, love?" said Mrs. Seymour, smilia 
" the old ones, perhaps, but not the young gir J^^ 
because they dress like our people." " 

*' But I can tell them too, fnamma." 

"How so, Emily?" 

" Oh, mamma, they speak so soft, and ioc^^k 

so affectionate, and seem so humble, or respec (- 

ful rather ; they always stand up, when they co i r i <* 
to talk to you, mamma ; but our women and oi 
girls, sit right down, and speak just as if th( 
thought themselves as good as you ; and rou( 
too, mamma, our poor people almost all spei 
rough, and never courtesy, and thank you, ai 
bless you, and say lady, like the poor Irish pe« 
pie. I love to give them any thing, they look 
pleased, look so fond on one, and they — ^yes, ev^ 
the old women, mamma — will courtesy to me, acia 
say, * the Lord bless the little lady,* or * Lo^bt 
love the sweet darling,' or, ^ precious babe, Je&u 
love ye.' Indeed, mamma, it always makes nci~ 
want to give them things." 

" You are a nice discriminator, my Emily, - 
said Mrs. Seymour ; " but you must not let yon j 
charity be governed by such feelings ; you mos 
give, even where you are not thanked. Alas 
my child, what would be our condition, if tbt 
goodness of our Creator was proportioned tooui 
merits, or our gratitude ?" 

Mrs. Seymour, though her own inclihatioi 
would have induced to silent reflection, converse(^= 



With Xlmily on indifferent subjects, to prevent the 
solemKi scene they had left making too awful an 
impression on her young mind. The boys were 
^xioasly awaiting her return ; and, after satisfy- 
^g their inquiries, and taking tea with them, she 
retired to her own apartment. 




-Hold, rash man I 

Though life feem one uueomfortablo Toid, 
Nor left one }of to gild the erenlbg of thy dajf, 

^Think-oh, think ! 

And ere thou plunge into the vast abyst, 
Pause on the verge awhile: look down, and Me 
Thy future mansioD«^Why that itart of horror f 

Dr, PwHam. 

The next morning, when Mr. Seymour went 
to court, he told the family, that at the desire of 
Mr. Desmond, the funeral would be deferred un- 
til evening. 

When the prisoner was put to the bar, he no 
longer exhibited the firm, composed, and digni- 
fied manner, which, during his trial, bad carried 
the conviction of his innocence home to every 
mind ; he was so feeble, that he was obliged to 
support himself on the shoulder of Dr. Irvin, and 
trembled to such a degree, that the judge re- 
quested him to sit down — a permission he gladly 
accepted, and, burying his face in his hands, en- 
deavoured to conceal from the sympathising mul- 
titudes around him, the agitation which shook 
his frame. 

*' Who would not think,'' said one of the spec- 
tators, '^ that he expected to hear his own con- 
demnation! strange, that whilst expecting the 


Sentence of death, he was csJm ; and now, when 
sissured of life, he is so mpved !" 

Jacques Bernard, the Swiss servant, was first 
called, and asked, how he came in possession of the 
letter before him f He said^ that after the remo- 
val of his master's body, which had been embaIm-> 
ed, and was deposited in a vault at St. Patrick's 
church, he had removed to lodgings, and all the 
articles belonging to his late roaster had been 
put under his care, to be carried with the -body 
to France ; that at the time of removal, he had 
hastily, and without examination, thrown all the 
books and papers, lying on the writing-table, into 
a trunk ; that on the preceding day, he had been 
arranging these efiects, and, amongst other things, 
this trunk ; that on examining the papers, one 
by one, as he packed them up, he had discovered 
a letter directed to Mrs. Desmond ; thinking it 
might be of importance, he had immediately car- 
ried it to the bouse, and given it into the hands 
of Mrs. Brinden ; and that this was all he knew 
ef the letter. 

Mrs. Brinden was then sworn, and stated, that 
she had taken the letter to Mrs. Desmond, and 
delivered it to her in the presence of Dr. Irvin 
and Mr. Theodore. 

Dr. Irvin then testified to the letter in question ; 
and, being asked, if he could swear to the hand- 
writing, stated, that he knew the hand-writing of 
the deceased, by having received several notes 
from him during his, the Doctor's, attendance on 
him ; that when convalescent, he had once seen 
St. Julien write his name in a French book, 
which Jacques had just been purchasing for him ; 
and that he, the Doctor, had afterwards borrow-r 
ed the book of the Chevalier, and had it then in 
his possession ; by which means, he felt himself 


competent to testify to the hand-writiDg of the 
deceased ; and that he fully believed, and enter- 
tained not the least doubt, that the whole of the 
letter, and also the signature, were in the hand- 
writing of the deceased Chevalier. 

The effect this letter had on Mrs. Desmond, 
and her death which immediately followed, though 
communicated with the greatest delicacy and ten- 
derness, wholly overcame th9 prisoner, and he 
was carried by his friends out of the court room. 
The spectators seemed greatly affected, and lis- 
tened with breathless attention to the letter, which 
was read aloud as follows : 

*^ Adeline, life is intolerable ! I can no longer 
endure the misery I suffer, or that which I inflict. 
When I was received beneath this hospitable 
roof, all was peace, and harmony, and love. Vir* 
tne and wisdom, youth, beauty and affloence, 
combined to lavish all the felicity they could be- 
stow on this happy family — a little paradise on 
earth. My fatal passion has withered the bloom 
of this lovely Eden, and in the wreck of my own 
happii\ess, has destroyed the peace of those who 
had restored me to life. Joy, gayety and peace 
hs^ve flown ; and despair, jealousy and anguish 
have succeeded. I have offended past foi^ve- 
ness. Your angelic purity, though tt disappoints, 
cannot forgive my ungovernable passion. Yon 
command me to leave yon, Adeline ; you exile 
me from all I hold dear in life ; then why should 
I longer preserve life itself! shall I live, thus ba- 
nished and miserable ? no, it is easier to die. 
Would to Heaven that I were the only sufferer; 
but, alas ! the same fatal arrow which wounds 
me to madness, has pierced the bosom of the 
adorable and virtuous Adeline. Yoii pine, yon 
fade. Heroic woman! the sensibility which is 


destroying yoar life, cannot conquer your virtue. 
May Heaven restore your peace when I am ao 
more. You bade me no longer delay my depar* 
tore, bat to leave you for ever ; Adeline, I obey ; 
never again will the wretched St. Jidien offend 
you by his presence ; but in quitting you, 1 quit 

*' AU is ready ; the fatal instrument is loaded 
too deeply to fail in its deadly purpose. In a 
few moments, the heart which now so tumultu^ 
ously beats, shall beat no longer ! the stormy 
passions which have raged in this torn bosom 
shall be at peace ! and even Adeliile shall be for* 
gotten ! never again will I meet the gloomy and 
reproachful glance of Desmond, nor witness his 
feeble step, nor hear his broken voice, which, 
even wretch that I am, has never been heard but 
in tones of kindness and compassion. Never 
again will /, can /, gaze on that wo-worn face, 
that hollow eye. that heart-breaking look of si- 
lent anguish. Such misery cannot be borne ; 
this pistol will release me. Oh ! Adeline, I yet 
linger ; I yet protract the power of thinking of 
thee. The clock strikes ! another hour has 
flown, and still your loved idea retains me — but 
no^ there is no hope ; Adeline bids me depart 
for ever. It must be done— farewell — the fatal 
instrument shall send its deadly load into that 
heart, which, while it throbbed, throbbed with 
agony for having wounded thine. Again it 
strikes— -another hour has still found me shud- 
dering on the awful verge of eternity. Coward 
that I am !— I must close this last, long, lingering 
farewell ; I must forget you for a moment — and 
then for ever. 

St. Julien." 


In the whole court not a dry eye was to be 
seen; and thje sobs of the faithful Swiss alone inter- 
rupted the silence which prevailed after the read- 
ing of this most affecting letter. Mrs. Brinden 
had been suffered to depart immediately on giv- 
ing her testimony. 

After a solemn pause of feeling, the Chief 
Justice arose, and^ recapitulating the evidence 
just given, and that which had before been offer- 
ed, the jury withdrew, and in a few moments 
returned with a verdict " not guilty,^^ 

A loud burst of feeling showed how deep a 
sympathy this case had excited. 

Desmond, who bad been supported to the bar 
to hear the verdict, sunk on his seat, Joo much 
overcome, to leave the court for some time. Dr. 
Irvin administered a reviving draught, and Mr. 
Seymour whispered comfort and consolation. 

" Your son, your dear Theodore," said he, "re- 
mains to bless you." 

Desmond mournfully shook his head, and sigh- 
ed as if his heart would burst. When the court- 
room and adjacent passages were cleared, and 
the crowd dispersed from the doors, supported by 
his friendl^and physician, Desmond slowly left the 
hall of justice, more like an overpowered, sinking, 
condemned criminal, than like one exulting in 
the triumph of his innocence ! * 

To what a sad hoiQe wa^ he to be conducted ! 
No fond wife to welcome the released captive } 
no exulting son, to rejoice in his father's unsullied 
character and transcendent virtue. All was dark 
and silent : the closed shutters excluded the light 
of day ; the sorrow for a lost mistress silenced 
every inmate of this gloomy mansion. The love- 
ly wife of iiis bosom was a clay-cold corpse ; the 



scNd of his brokeir hearty scarcely more alive, was 
kneeling by the coffin, cold and lifeless as a statue. 

Dr. Irvin and Mr. Seymour were leading Mr. 
Desmond to his chamber, but he motioned to- 
wards the apartment where lay the remains of his 
Adeline. When the door slowly opened, He wa- 
ved his hand, without speaking, for his friends to 
leave him ; and locking the door within, gave way 
to the long suppressed agony of his soul. 

No one dared to disturb his sacred seclusion ; 
and it was not till the house was crowded with the 
numerous friends and citizens, who wished to 
manifest their respect and sympathy — ^till the 
throng in the street, collected by affection, grati- 
tude, curiosity, and the unusual circumstances of 
the case, had grown somewhat impatient — that 
Dr. Irvin and Mr. Seymour dared to intreat ad- 
mittance. Then, with a gentle force, they led the 
wretched husband, and scarce less wretched son, 
to their chamber ; and the attendants entered, to 
bear the unfortunate Adeline to her last home. 

Many long and suffering days and weeks elap- 
sed, ere Mr. Seymour and the affection&te and 
faithful physician, could persuade the broken 
hearted mourners to quit the gloom of |||eir soli- 
tude. Weeping in each other's arms was the only 
relief their sorrows could find ; and the pious ex- 
hortations of the venerable father M , their 

best consolation. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Seymour consulted with his 
wife, on the plan best calculated to comfort and 
soothe their friends ; and it was resolved (though 
much earlier in the season than usual for them to 
do so) that they should remove into the country «^ 
and persuade Mr. Desmond and Theodore to quit 
their now desolate habitation, and to pass the 
summer with them at Seymour Cottage, 

VOL. II. 14 


tt SO falls out, 
That what we have, we prixe not to the worth 
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked, and lost, 
MThy then we rack the value } tlten we find 
The virtue, that possession would not show us 
Whiles it was ours. 

When he shall hear she died upon his wordsy 
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
Into his study of imagination } 
And every lovely organ of her life 
8iiaM come apparelled in more precious habit 
Than when she lived indeed.— 5Aalr«pe«r». 

Evert hour which Mr. Seymour could steal 
fl'om hi3 family and his business, he devoted to 
Mr. Desmond and Theodore. During the first 
days of Uieir affliction, they declined even his so- 
ciet}^; mk when they became more composed, 
Mr. Desmond found comfort and relief in the con- 
versation of hfs excellent friend. 

All retrospection was carefully avoided, and 
though constantly in his thoughts, even the name 
of Adeline never escaped the lipsof the silent, yet 
deeply sorrowing husband. 

One evening, when, as usual, Mr. Seymoar 
entered the little parlour in which Mr. Desmond 
^at, he found him earnestly engaged in examin- 
ing some letters which were lying on a table by 
him : he raised his head on the opening of the 
door, and showed a face bathed in tears. He 



ly wiped them away, and a tender, inelan- 
^ smile gleamed over his sad countenance, as 
[tended his hand to Mr. Seymour, and in a 
en voice begged him to be seated, 
iiere was a pause of a few moments, while Mr. 
Qond evidently struggled to control his emo- 

and to summon fortitude to speak. 
t last, '^ Mr. Seymour,'' said he, emphatical- 
lying his hand on the letters, " I have dis- 
red a treasure. A balm to heal my almost 
en heart. It was not until this day, I had the 
ution to open the escritoire of my poor Ade- 

oh, had I known its contents sooner, from 
: wretchedness might I have been saved ! 
>ng other articles, I discovered a little book, 
hich she was accustomed to transcribe tLe ef- 
ns of her heart ; her pious reflections ; the 
cises and aspirations of her devout soul. Oh, 
Seymour, it is the history of a saint! Here 
^rtrayed, with as much fidelity as to her con- 
r, the temptations, the struggles, the weak- 
^, of her pure and innocent heart. What 

contrition for an involuntary offence ! what 
int prayers for Divine assistance ! what self- 
ried penances ! what compassipi^k her fel- 
sufferer, the poor St. Julien ! ^Kt tender 
trophes to me ! what a noble resistance ! 
t courageous resolution ! How could I sus- 

such angelic purity ! And yet appearances 
>me degree authorized susjpicion. The blush 
onsciousness and emotion, which so often suf- 
I her lovely face when I would gaze upon it, 
stook for the glow of guilt : those downcast 
» which avoided the scrutiny of my inquiring 
ces: the tremour and agitation with which 
vas seized when, on several occasions, I en- 
I the apartment in which she was sitting with 


St. Julien ; the ardent and impassioned maaoer 
of that too interesting young man ; the evident 
pleasure they found in each other's society, and k 
thousand circumstances, too minute for me to 
describe, to me was ' confirmation strong.' 

'^ Her sadness — the tears in which I often sur- 
prised her; her perturbed and broken slumbers ; 
her watchings, and her prayers, I conceived to 
be so many proofs of a guilty conscience — so ma- 
ny effects of remorse; instead pf which they were 
the struggles of virtue. Poor child !— and I, who 
should have been thy guardian, 1 exposed thee 
to dsungers and temptations, over which the vir- 
tue of thy se^t so seldom triumphs— but where am 
I wandering? To return to the book. On looking 
over it, I found two of the leaves carefully sealed ; 
I trembled while I broke the seals, lest some dire 
confession should meet my ^e, which might in- 
stantly destroy that delightful conviction of her 
innocence which I had just received. But witfiin 
this enclosure I found a long letter address^ to ' 
myself. It contains a simple and affecting history 
of my Adeline's heart, and of every circumstance 
which had .occurred between her and St. Julien ; 
togetheijflkh two letters from him, and her an- 
swer. ilRis, he strongly pleads the ardour (rf* 
his passion, and intreats a return ; which, with 
baneful sophistry, he attempts to prove will be al- 
lowable and harmless. His specious arguments 
are enforced with all the eloquence of passion. 
But in her answer she refutes them, not with the 
arguments of reason, which she attempts not to 
wield, but with theholy precepts of that pure and 
divine Religion, which teaches, that in the eye of 
God, the heart-searching God, purity of thought is 
as essentially our duty, as purity of action. With 
what feeling, .with what force, does she reply to 
that part of his letter in which he would persuade 


her that the indulgence of our natural desires can* 
BOt be criminal. With what sublimity and beauty 
does she describe the felt presence of Deity in 
the innermost recesses of her heart. 

** During a long while, he submitted to all the 
restraints she imposed ; professed to have conquer- 
ed the sentiments which offended, and persuaded 
her not to betray him to me, which she had re- 
solved to do. Under the mask of friendship, the 
professions of only a brother's love, he insinuated 
himself into her guileless bosom. Confident in 
her own purity, totally ignorant of the power or 
tendency of the passions, she was a long time <)e- 
ceived as to the nature of her sentiments ; and 
when ^he did discover them, when her eyes were 
opened by her spiritual director, and she per- 
ceived the nature and tendency of her ardent feel- 
ings, she was seized with as deep a remorse as ac- 
tual guilt could produce. She shunned the dan- 
gerous St Julien, and would have flown to me 
for protection against herself, had I not by my 
gloomy and austere manners repulsed the timid 
and tender penitent. Adeline's newly assumed 
severity — her avoidance, her sadness, and, in 
spite of herself, her tenderness of voi<^^d man- 
ner, carried the Chevalier's passion ^^such an 
excess, that on one occasion he outraged her deli- 
cacy to such a degree, that she forbade him her 
presence, never saw him except at meals, and then 
said only what civility required. The rash and 
impetuous young man, thus driven to despair, 
terminated his Vife in the way you know." 

" But, my good friend," said Mr. Seymour, 
^* by what chance were you present at this fatal 
moment, and how happened it you could not pre^ 
vent the direful deed ?" 

*' Long had I been a prey to anxietv, to doubt| 

J4^ ' 


and to tuspicion. My peace had departed from 
me ; yet I was irresolote what to do, and unwil- 
ling to betray my fears to St. Julien, witboat de* 
manding from bim the satisfaction which the laws 
of honour required. Yet should I do so, would I 
not thereby publish to the world that wretched- 
ness and dishonour which I wished to hide from 
every ^ye i besides, I had no proof; it was but 
suspicion. On what pretence could I turn from 
my l^ouse the man I had so cordially and af- 
fectionately entertained ? and if the true reason 
was assigned, the consequences, as I said, must 
lead to that publicity, more dreadful to me than 
death. Strange inconsistency of the human 
heart ! now that I belifved Adeline's affections 
estranged, I valued them more than ever ; now 
when I believed her unworthy of esteem, I loved 
her with an ardour before unknown. To watch 
every look, to listen to every sigh, to study every 
thought, while I shielded her from the observa* 
tion of others, became the business of my life, 
though productive of daily increasing misery. 
The gloom of my mind gave coldness to my 
manners, and the distraction of my thoughts was 
such, thaML never trusted myself alone with her. 
Anger mm no part of my feelings ; I had phi- 
losophised too much on the passions, now to be 
their slave, and I had studied the human heart 
too deeply, or rather, had been too well ac- 
quainted in my youth with all the ardours of pas* 
sion, ever to hope my Adeline could love me, as 
I had once been loved. I knew too well that 
congeniality of disposition, and similarity of age, 
were necessary to the existence of that sentiment. 
Adeline loved me as a friend ; I loved her in the 
.same tranquil manner, until jealousy kindled it to 
a warmer flame. 


^ I {ritiedi more than I blamed either St. Joliea 
or Adeline. Placed in the tender and interesting 
jitaatioiis in which they bad been placed ; aliki 
IB years and characters ; adorned with grace and 
beauty; young and lovely; it would have been 
a miracle if the latent tenderness in my Adeline's 
heart had not been developed. In every heart a 
qpark exists, placed there by Heaven itself; and it 
was only wonderful that in one of her tend^ and 
ardent disposition, it had not before been kindled 
into a flame. But these reflections occurred not 
till i| was too late. My wretchedness kept pace 
with my Adeline's increasing ill health and sad- 
pess. The evil appeared to me irremediable; 
and all that now remained for me to do, was to 
conceal it from every eye. Her reputation was 
dearer to me than her life, and rather than com- 
promise it in the least degree, I resolved to sufier 
in silence. How long this would have continued, 
I cannot say; the Chevalier daily talked of 
leaving us ; yet still he lingered. At last the dark- 
ening gloom on his countenance, the increas- 
ing perturbation and illness of Adeline, made me 
take the resolution of coming to an explanation. 
Several daysvpassed, and found me still irresolute; 
as every day I hoped St. Julien wou|^ leave us. 
At last I resolved that, after the family nad retired, 
I would go into his apartment, and there as a fa- 
ther and a friend, rather than as an ofl*ended hus- 
band, I would advise his immediate departure. 
But it was not until long after midnight I could 
attain the necessary composure for a task so 
difficult and delicate. When I did go I found 
him still up, and so deeply buried in thought, 
that when he raised his head and saw me, he 
started as if he had seen a spectre, and his loud 
exclamation of surprise was such as alarmed his 



faithfai Swiss. He gave me no time to deliver 
the mild and affectionate advice on which I had 
deliberated, but poured forth a torrent of self-- 
accusation, which, though it confirmed my worst 
fears, such was the agony with which it was ac- 
companied, that it filled me with compassion, 
and I could have taken the wretched young man 
to my bosom, as a father would a prodigal and 
repentant son. With an energy and wildness 
for which I could not then account, he fell on his 
knees before me, seized my hands, which he ea- 
gerly pressed to his beating heart and burning 
forehead, and in treated me to leave him : telling 
me my sight was torture to him. 

" When I rose" to comply with his request, he 
wrung my hand, and while irrepressible tears 
forced themselves down his manly face, with a 
tenderness and solemnity that affected my very 
soul, he intreated me to forgive him ; called me 
his generous benefactor, his kindest of friends, 
and himself the most ungrateful of men. I left 
him overwhelmed with feelings almost as ^violent 
as those by which he was torn. But I had not 
gone through the passage which connected the 
wing of the house to the main building, when I 
heard the^'eport of a pistol. I hurried back, 
and found St. Julien weltering in his bloody and 
snatched the fatal instrument from his hand. Yon 
know the rest." 

" It is a dreadful story," said Mr. Seymour j 
*' but though it increases my regret and compas- 
sion for this unfortunate pair, I feel relieved from 
a most painful impression, by the conviction that 
Mrs. Desmond was as virtuous as she was lovely." 

" How much misery might I have been saved,'* 
said Mr. Desmond, " had I, when I discovered 
the state of Adeline's affections, treated her with 



more tenderness, and endeavoured to win her 
confidence, ipstead of gloomily avoiding her ; 
yet, with the suspicions which tortured my 
breast, this was impossible. Deav, lovely child, 
nurtured in the very bosom of tenderness; as 
the unfledged bird, warmed beneath its mother's 
plumage, shivers at the slightest breath of air, so 
my Adeline's tender heart was chilled by the least 
indifference ; destroyed by its own sensibility. 
Well may I exclaim with the poet, 

* How blessings brighien as they take their fliglM.' 

For, surely, until now, I never knew half the 
worth of my sweet and youthful companion. 
But she has gone, and has escaped firom suffer* 
lags inevitable to one in her situation. Unequal 
marriages infallibly lead 'to unhappiness, and too 
oAen to vice. I am thankful to Heaven, that 
dmugh she endured the first, she has escaped tht 
last consequence of our ill-assorted connexion* 
I Jiave for several years felt that I could not con* 
fidtute her happiness. A natural instinct led her 
to seek for a sentiment with which I could not in- 
s^e her. Had our child been spared^ the warm 
feelings of her fond heart would have found an 
object that would have absorbed all her sensibi* 
lity ; but Heaven ordained it ' otherwise, and we 
must submit." 

" Djd St. Julien never explain to you the occa- 
sion of the wound, and what produced the situa- 
tion in which vou found him t^ 

^' Never, though I often led to the subject. 
When the fever first subsided, and he was restored 
to his senses, he looked wildly round, and seeing 
me, hastily exclaimed, ' begone, villain.' Think- 
ing his delirium had not ceased, I gebtly ap- 


proached, but turning angrily from me, again be 
exclaimed, ^ leave me, leave me, sir.' I withdrew, 
fearing to irritate or disturb him. After his re- 
covery I mentioned the circumstance to him ; be 
said he perfectly recollected it, and that he bad 
mistaken me for the wretch — ^here he checked 
himself, and continued, ' for a man whom I know 
to be a villain ; pray excuse such a mistake, 
which I could not have made, had it not been for 
the dim and imperfect light in the room, which 
allowed me to see only your figure^ but not your 
countenance ; and your voice too,' he added, 
* still more resembles that of the wretch who'— 
again he stopped. But I always believed he 
meant to have said, ' the wretch who attempted 
my life.' That this person still lives, and re-> 
mains his enemy, other circumstances lead 
me to conjecture. The^first time that St. Julieo 
walked out, I accompanied him ; we went farther 
than his strength allowed ; he had to sit down 
and rest by the way, so that the sun had been set 
for some time, -and it was growing dark when we 
returned. As we passed a little cabin, a girl en- 
tered it with a bucket of water she had just 
brought from the spring ; St. Jtilien quitted my 
arm, and stept in to ask for a cup of the v^ater ; 
but in an instant, ere he could have drunk any, 
he darted out, seized my arm, and pushed me 
hastily forward ; he was pale and trembling. I 
entreated him to tell me what ailed him, but be 
only answered, ' he — he is there.' I turned 
round to look, and saw a tall figure wrapped in ft 
dark cloak, standing at the door, and looking 
eagerly after us. He leaned against the door- 
post, as if unable to stand without support. The 
rest of the evening the Chevalier was thoughtful 


and absent, and occasionally agitated by some 
internal conflict. 

*^ At another time he expressed a wish to view 
the Capitol, and to pay his devotions, as he said, to 
bis King and Queen. The pictures of the King and 
Queen of France, given by the King to our go- 
vernment, were hung up in a small room, remote 
firom the Hall of Representatives, and the orcn- 
pied part of the building. Theodore, believing 
himself well acquainted with all the apartments 
and passages, had undertaken to be their guide, 
for Adeline accompanied him. After visiting the 
Hall, the Senate Chamber, the Library, &c. they 
wandered about a long time, going from one un- 
finished room to another, through long vaulted 
passages, damp and dark, whose coldness struck a 
chill through their frames, till Theodore con- 
fessed he was as absolutely bewildered as if he 
was in a labyrinth. Adeline was quite delighted 
with so novel a situation, and said she could fan- 
cy herself in one of the old castles of Mrs. Rad- 
clifi*; and, instead of endeavouring to find her 
way out, tried still more to bewilder the party, 
opening every door she came to, and running 
down every dark passage faster than the Cheva- 
lier could pursue her. Thus were they amusing 
themselves, when all at once they heard her loud- 
ly shriek, and hastening down the passage they 
had seen her enter, they saw a man of a tall and 
noble figure, in a large dark cloak, who held her 
in his arms. Theodore darted forward to snatch 
her from the stranger's arms, while the Chevalier 
started back, exclaiming, ' you, you here !' 

" * Wherever you are, there will I be ; think not 
to escape,' replied the stranger, in solemn accents, 
and stern and angry voice. Then turning sud- 


denly into a room, the door of which stood haAf 
open, he shut it violently. 

( "On being interrogated, Adeline told them thai 
she had run down this passage, and seeing a doof 
partly open, had entered it ; and had seen this ter- 
rible looking man kneeling, with a pistol pointed 
to his forehead ; that she screamed, and, she sup- 
pdses, must have fallen ; but that her terror was so 
great, she could not tell what had happened, till she 
felt revived by a stream of cold air, and found 
herself supported in the horrible man's arms ; and 
she shuddered as she pronounced the word horri- 
ble. They were now all of them completely so- 
bered. Adeline still trembled so violently, that 
she had to take an arm of Theodore and the 
Chevalier as she walked between them ; though 
that of poor St. Julien afforded but little support, 
as he trembled almost as much as herself; whilst 
Theodore was scarcely less agitated, and looked 
often behind him, expecting every moment to see 
the horrible man, as Adeline had called him, fol- 
lowing them, to satisfy the revenge he had de- 
nounced. After some perplexity, they at last 
found their way to the vestibule." 

" This is very strange," said Mr. Seymour, 
" and seems to indicate that St. Julien must have 
been the aggressor in the affair, which so nearly 
cost him his life ; what explanation did he ^ve 
of this strange scene ?" 

" None ; to all our anxious inquiries, his only 
answer was, ' on this subject I am bound to per- 
petual silence, by the strongest motives ; but be- 
lieve me, notwithstanding the threats of this 
wretched man, believe me, I have never injured 

*' After that incident, the cold, wet weather, set 
in ; and the Chevalier's health^never permitted 


bim to go out on foot, and no further rencontre 
took place. But lately this mysterious personage 
has been the cause of a new alarm. You have 
often seen, I believe, the lady who for some years 
has lived with us, as a humble friend and com- 
panion. Although not a woman of polish or im- 
provement, she possesses an excellent understand- 
ing, a gentle temper, and a most feeling and tender 
heart ; and during her residence with us, has dai- 
ly gained on our confidence and esteem. She 
was deserted by a husband, to whom she was pas- 
sionately attached, though he proved iviworthy 
of her love. So poignant was the grief his con- 
duct inflicted, that for a long time she was be- 
reft of her senses ; and 1 have been almost tempt- 
ed, by her details, to think at times they are even 
now a little bewildered. The evening after the 
fatal event of St. Julien's death, my consequent 
confinement, and my poor Adeline's illness, she 
was sitting up during the night with her, and 
drawing the curtain aside, part of the time sat by 
the window, gazing, as she says, on the stars. All 
was profoundly silent ; and her eyes were fixed 
on the constellations, which she had contemplated 
the night she left her father's house, and was 
married to her still loved, through cruel husband. 
Her situation was in some respects similar ; it was 
past midnight ; then, she watched while her father 
slept — now, beside her friend ; it was at the same 
season of the year ; and while awaiting the hour 
when she was to meet her lover, she sat by 'a win- 
dow and gazed on the same constellation, on which 
her eyes were now fixed. The events of that night 
were brought strongly to her recollection ; and 
she was thinking of her lover, as with perturbed 
and hurried steps he had walked backwards and 

VOL. II. 15 ' 


forwards on the pavement below, waiting for het 
to join him. As the thought occurred, she cast 
her eyes on the pavement before our house, and 
there saw the.,self-saroe figure, tall, majestic, en- 
veloped in a dark cloak, his hat pulled over hil 
face, liis head bowed on his breast, and his arms 
folded, walking to and fro with perturbed anil 
hurried steps. She rose with horror, but sood 
recovering her self-possession, and firmly believ- 
ing it was her husband whom she had seen, sbe 
returned, and gently raising the window, in a low 
tone articulated, 'my husband!' — for particular 
reasons, she avoided calling him by name. The 
person, starting at the sound, cast a hurried glance 
upwards, and then fled with more than hiimao 
speed, and quickly vanished from her sight. Sucb 
is her account of an event, that has made a most 
gloomy and painful impression on her mind. S'^t 
believes the appearance to be supernatural, and 
that her husband is no more. We have related 
the two preceding rencontres with this mysterious 
personage, but she will not allow they can be the 
same person, and is sunk into a most melancholy 
mood, increased, certainly, by the late afflicting 
scenes through which she has passed ; and she is 
fully persuaded that her final hour is near." 

" This personage, who ever he may be," said 
Mr. Seymour, " has certainly some strong inte- 
rest in your family ; but from what passed in the 
court the other day, both Dr. Irvin and myself 
conjectured you to be the object of that interest" 

" To what do you allude ?" inquired Desmond ; 
" have you, too, seen this mysterious stranger ?" 

" During your trial, I have more than once 
seen him, though he always sedulously avoided 
notice, and generally would place himself in some . 
dark recess, or stand behind a pillar, wrapped 


closely ronndy as you have said, in a dark cloak ; 
it was a large horseman's cloak, with several 
deep capes, and a high collar, which half hid his 
free, the other half being almost concealed by 
his hat, which he wore drawn low over his fore* 
head. The silngularity of his appearance, for he 
k remarkably tall, and has a majestic, impoj^ing 
figure, excited curiosity ; and others, as well as 
myself, inquired who he was, and where he lived ; 
bnC no one knew. The. last day, his agitation. 
Dr. Irvin says, was exfrerae. I was ^too much en- 
gaged to notice him ; but as you left the court, 
you may recollect the deep groan, which, even 
absorbed as you were, made you start." 

*^ I recollect it well," answered Mr. Desmond. 

'^ That groan was uttered by the stranger ; and 
Dr. Irvin, who discovered him, said, never ifi his 
Hfe did be ^ec attitude and form more expressive 
of deep grief." 

" It is singular, very singular," said Mr. Des- 
mond, pressing his hand to his forehead, as he 
sat with his elbow resting on the table. He for 
some minutes seemed buried in thought, saying, 
ID a low voice, as if speaking rather to^ himself 
than to Mr. Seymour, ^^ should it be ?-^but no, 
no — it is impossible." 
' ^^ What is impossible f^^ asked Mr. Seymour. 

^^ Nothing," replied Mr. Desmond ; <4fi was only 
the passing thought pf the moment^^a conjecture 
without probability. But I wish, my friead, that 
you and Dr. Irvin would spare no pains to dis- 
cover where this unhappy man stays f it is evi- 
dent be is very wretched, probably he is vicious. 
By rescuing him from misery, we might restore 
him to society and rectitude ; I feel deeply inte- 
rested for him, and will adopt every possible 
means to discover bis retreat. I have a more 


than sufficientfortune for my beloved Theodore^ 
and consider the surplus as belonging to the un- 
fortunate. I had a brother, dear to me as Theo- 
dore himself, but he died some years ago ; the 
friend in whose arras be died sent me the account 
of his last sad moments. Poor fellow !'' said Mr. 
Desmond^ again sinking into a thoughtful pos- 

Mr. Seymour would again have drawn him into 
conversation, but he answered only by monosyl- 
lables, and seemed lost in mournful recollections. 
At last, rousing himself with an effort-^ 

" Mr. Seymour, you see in me,** said he, ** a 
man of many sorrows, but a man who can en- 
dure them without complaining. The world can- 
not believe, that under an exterior, cold, reserved 
and sedate as mine, there beats a heart so keenly, 
so acutely sensible to pleasure or to pain. The 
death of the wife of my youth, so long banished 
from it every sensation of pleasure, that it almost 
lost its sensibility to happiness. But to pain !•— 
only my Creator knows what it has suffered^ 
man shall never know ! Mr. Seymour, I can en- 
dure, but I cannot complain. Let the world then 
think roe a stoic — a stoic I — would to Heaven I 
were !" 

" My dear friend,'' said Mr. Seymour, " ex- 
cept me from the world, and be assured of my 
tenderest sympathy." 

Mr. Desmond wrung his hand, but said nothing* j 

" I came this evening," continued Mr. Sey- i 
mour, " with a request, in which my wife ear- 
nestly joins me, that you will accompany us into 
the country, and that you and Theodore will 
there pass some weeks with us." 

Mr. Desmond mournfully shook his head, say- 
ing, *' I mean to leave WashingtcKi. Recent 


events have drawn on roe a degree of publicity 
from which I shrink. The surmises and observa- 
tions to which they have given rise, are exceed- 
ingly painful to me. But I must go farther than 
you propose. I must quit this country for a 
time, and endeavour in my native land to lose the 
bitter remembrances associated with this. I shall 
leave Theodore* Let him remain to complete 
his education, and afterwards to travel through 
the United States, and make himself well ac- 
quainted with the happiest country on the face of 
the globe. After studying the resources, the 
manners and institutions of America, he shall 
travel through Europe ; I shall not then be afraid 
of his losing his attachment to. his own land. 
You, Mr. Seymour, will be his friend." 

" Truly so,** .replied Mr. Seymour; " but 
meanwhile, until you have made the necessary ar- 
rangements, let me entreat you to pass some 
weeks with us." 

** I am not stoic enough," said Mr. Desmond, 
with a melancholy smile, '* to deny myself the com- 
fort of your society ; tl>erefore, return ray grateful 
thanks to the kind Mrs. Seymour^ and tell her I 
will claim her hospitality for the little time I re- 
main in America." 

Mr. Seymour now bade him good night, and 
returned home, with increased esteem and sympa- 
thy Tor the unfortunate Desmond. 



Vow April fUurtt, and cftlls around 
Tbe f leeping fragrance iron the ground ; 
And lightly o'er the llTely wene ^ 

Scatten Its fretbesl, tcnderett green. 


It was now the last of April, and, though tBe 
evenings were chilly, during the day the wea- 
ther was warm and delightful ; tbe sky was cloud- 
less ; the air was balmy and elastic. Tbe wide- 
extending forests, which covered the adjacent 
country, were still leafless, but the swelling buds 
thickened the shade, and, seen from a distance, 
looked like vapouring clouds diffused through 
their naked branches. The lawn was covered 
with its first vivid verdure ; shrubbery and bor- 
ders were putting forth their fresh-blown flowers 
and budding-leaves ; the fruit-trees were in foil 
blossom, variegating the new-born year with 
glowing colours, and scenting the vernUl gale 
with delicious odours. The birds poured forth 
their melodious songs from every grove; the 
'* swallow twittered from its straw-built nest;" 
the little wren chirped cheerily, as it hopped from 
spray to spray, whilst the children were busied 
in preparing its house, which, on some high pole, 
or near some window, was placed for its recep- 


; the hen clucked aloud, and called her little 
id around her, to share the insect or worm 
rigilant mother had found, whilst the duck 
ler downy train to the neighbouring pond, 
ploughman was beard, singing some old AC- 
1 song, or negro tune, as he turned up the 
» furrows of the neighbouring field. The 
halloos, the jocund laugh, the noisy merri- 
t of the young slaves, as, following the older 
, they dropped and covered the corn, all 
lous of claiming the first finished row, and 
ig, in the animation of the contest, all sense 
weariness or labour. The tinkling of the 
p-bell, the bleating of the lambs, the lowing 
be cattle, and even the croaking of the frogs, 
i sounds which, as they marked the return 
pring, were dear to the lovers of nature ! 
weet were such sounds and sights to the amia- 
IVIrs. Seymour, who, kind and benevolent as 
scenes of nature where she loved to muse, 
left the noise and bustle, the insignificant 
«, the heartless amusements, of the gay and 
ionable world, for the tranquil and soothing 
isures, the cheerful and varied occupations, of 
»untry life. The charms of nature, the revi- 
of creation, which difiused joy and gladness 
•ugh every bosom, were, to her, replete with 
lerjoys and purer pleasures, than could ever 
gained through the medium of the senses, 
she '^ rose from nature, up to nature's God, 
walked amid the glad creation, musing 
se, and looking lively gratitude." She pos- 
ed ^' that concord of harmonious powers," 
ch form the soul of happiness. Her mind 
enlarged by knowledge, elevated by religion, 
warmed by enthusiasm. To her, the sights 
sounds of nature imparted a rapture which 


the ignoraDt aad uDtbinking can never know; 
inspired those sacred feelings, those high and 
boly thoughts, which lift the sonl to communion 
with its Creator, and give a charm to creation, 
beyond the witcheries of fancy, or discoveries of 
philosophy. To a mind thus refined, she united 
a disposition iSrank and cheerful, a heart warm 
and benevolent. She was the companion and 
friend of her children, and joined, without effort, 
in their pastimes and occupations, with such a 
lively interest and unaffected gayety, that they 
could never dispense with her judgment to plan, 
and her company to participate in i^ll thor 
schemes of enjoyment. - She was the friend and 
adviser of all her neighbours, rich or poor, 
She instructed the ignorant, assisted the needy, 
and consoled the afflicted ; her active search 
waited not the appeal* of the indigent, but sought 
out suffering and bidden worth, 


^* VUke silont-woiktng Heaven, surprising oft 
The longing heart with unexpected good.^ 

Far more congenial to her taste and feelings 
were the duties and pleasures, the quiet and tran- 
quillity, the scenes and occupations of rural life, 
than the bustle, the vanities and gayeties of the 

Her children, like her, always rejoiced in the 
return of that season, which released them from 
the confinement of streets and ceremonies, and 
restored them to the freedom of fields and woods; 
of rural sports, and unbounded rambles. 

" Dear mother I" exclaimed Emily, taking 
her mother's hand, " are you not rested f come, 
now, let us go and visit all.ourold acquaintances, 
and see how' they have passed the winter. Come, 



Loaisa, the boys have gone already ; they will 
lee all before us.'' • 

" Your old acquaintances, my dear ?" 

" Yes, manMna, all our ducks, and chickens, 
and flowers ; do come, it is a most delightful af- 
ternoon ;" and away she ran, pulling her mother, 
and followed by Louisa. 

^* It is, indeed, a delightful evening ; how pure 
the air is, how refreshing, how reviving, after the 
dusty and noisy streets." 

" I wonder, mamma," said Louisa, "that any 
one who can avoid it, will live in a city ; and, as 
for what is called gay life, it is only in the coun- 
try, I think, we can really find it. What has all 
the elegance of wealth and fashion to compare 
to -the splendour of such a glorious sunset as 
that ! these gold, and purple, and vermilion 
clouds; that clear blue sky, that rich glow 
spread over the landscape ; this fresh and vivid 
green ; these beautiful blossoms ; oh ! what has 
the most splendid drawing-room to compare to 
these ? and then, these pure breexes, these revi- 
ving gales, how different from the smoky and 
confined air of crowded rooms !" 

" I do wish," said Emily, "** that papa would 
live always in the country." 

** We all join in that wish, my child, and sin- 
cerely trust, you will never lose your present 

" Ah, mamma, here is my garden ; did you 
ever see any thing so beautiful ! the lilac leaves 
are out ; how sweet they smell ! and this double 
flowering almond, these hyacinths, these cowslips, 
these jonquils ; oh, my dear, dear flowers, how 
sweet you all smell, how beautiful you all are, 
and how glad I am we have come back to you !" 

Louisa was stooping over her favourite bed of 


violets, and selecting some for ber mother, and 
the* went to examine her moss- rose bosh. 

'* My rose bush — oh, Emily, my rose bush is 
broken off close to the ground; my poor rose 
bush that I loved so much." 

" What," said her sister, " the one Theodore 
brought you and planted here himself?^' 

^* The same ; the one Mrs. Desmond gave him 
for me." 

" How sorry poor Theodore will be ; he loved 
that bush so much, for his mamma Adeline^s sake, 
and for yonr's too, Louisa ; whenever he came 
here last summer, he would tend it, and take such 
care of it." ' 

" And where is Theodore ?^* said Mrs. Sey- 
mour; " he left the dining room immediately after 
dinner, and I have not seen him since." 

*^ I am afraid he was sick, mamma ; he looked 
very pale, and leaned on his father's arm as he 
went out." 

" He has gone," said Emily, ^" to his father's 
room ; I will run and coax him to come and walk 
with us." 

" You had better not, my dear. Leave him 
for a few days to the solitude he seems to wish 
for ; when the heart is heavy, the glare of sun- 
shine, and the noise of merriment, rather increase, 
than lessen its sadness." 

'^ He seems to be more distressed," said Emily, 
" than Mr. Desmond." 

" That is very natural, my child ; he has not 
yet learned to hide his ieellugs ; this, poor fel- 
low, is his first affliction." 

^^ That is the very reason, mamma, why he 
should bear it better ; his father has had so many 
sorrows, that I should think any added one 
would quite overpower him." 


^ Experience will soon correct tbart opiniou, 
and will show you the power of habit, in this, ss 
in all other cases. The mind learns to endnre 
pain with patience and resignation, and is, my 
d^ar children, much more improved by adversity 
and disappointment, than by unclouded prospe- 
rity and uninterrupted success. It has often been 
remarked, that those who are early afflicted, be- 
come early wise. The ardent feelings, the wan- 
dering fancies, the gay spirits, which in the first 
glow of youth are expended on frivolous or vi- 
cious objects, are restrained by adversity^ ^ that 
tamer of the human heart,' which, withdraw- 
ing us from the follies of life, ' leaves us leisure 
to be good.' Theodore, I doubt not, will be a 
proof of this assertion ; and the solitude to which 
he is now led by his sad and gloomy feelings, 
will be far more beneficial to him, than the resorts 
of gayety and pleasure." 

* ^' But Theodore, my dear mamma," said 
Louisa, " never loved these resorts; even when 
a little boy at school, instead of joining in the 
sports or pastimes of his school-fellows, he used 
to go home to his dear little mamma^ as he called 
Mrs. Desmond ; and to caress her, and to walk or 
ride with her, and read to her, were his only de- 
lights; and since he has been at college, during 
the vacations, instead of joining his companions 
in their various excursions, you know he never 
Wanted any company but hers; even when she was 
confined, as she often was, to a dark room and 
sicfc bed, every hour was devoted to watgh over, 
to amuse, to read to her. Oh, mamma, he loved 
ber with more than the usual tenderness of a son ; 
she was his familiar friend and companion ; poor 
Theodore, his heart is almost broken, and I feai* 
he will never be himself again." 
'' Look, Louisa, at your broken rose tree; it 



was a beautiful plant," said Mrs. Seymour; 
*< so luxuriant in its growth, that the strength 
of the root would have soon been exhausted ; 
that luxuriance is checked, and the root will be 
strengthened, and the new plant which shall soon 
rise, shall bloom with increased vigour and beau- 
ty ! Thus shall it be with our young friend. His 
mind will be strengthened by reflection— ^-his heart 
taught by its own sufi'erings to feel more trulj 
for the sufierings of others. But come, my dear 
girls, the sun has set, and although we have not 
visited half of fmily's old acquaintances ^ we must 
return home." 

As they came near the house, Edward, who 
bad just returned from a short ride, approached 
them suddenly, when his horse started as if fright- 
ened at some strange object, and immediately 
began to rear and plunge as if determined to 
throw his rider from the saddle. Louisa and 
Emily screamed with alarm at the dangerous si- 
tuation of their brother, and by so doing, increas- 
ed the danger ; while Mrs. Seymour, with admi- 
rable presence of mind, perceiving the cause of 
the horse's fright, with a rapid and well directed 
effort, removed the object, and the horse immedi- 
ately became quiet. 

When they were assembled round their evening 
meal, and were talking over the afternoon ad- 
venture — 

" Young ladies," said Mr. Desmond, " I would 
recommend to you more command of feelings 
and propose your mother as an example. *Ex- 
treme tenderness, unless under the control of 
reason, ma.y injure, instead of benefitting its ob- 
ject. Your alarm and your screams were the 
result of your love for your brother, but thiS 
proof of your love increased his peril, aud 
might have been fatal in its consequences, but for 


the self-command and presence of mind of your 
mother. She loved him, even more tenderly than 
you, and her alarm can be fully conceived only 
by a parent ; if she too had stood screaming, I 
know not what might have happened ; but she 
was silent and collected, and the danger was 
soon over.*' 

** What do you mean, Mr. Desmond, by pre- 
sence of mind f we cannot help screaming when 
we are frightened, can we .'^" said Emily. ' 

'^ I will answer your last question first, my 
dear, because it necessarily involves the first. 
* Cannot^^ is a word which should be seldom 
used, because there are few things which one 
cannot do; perseverance, patience, resolution, 
have accomplished wonders ; if you had accus- 
tomed yourself to self command^ you could have 
refrained from screaming. But let us make the 
case plainer ; if you were in extreme pain, and 
were cr^^ing violently, and your mother com- 
manded you not to cry, could you obey her f*^ 

** Oh yes, 1 did so yesterday, for mamma had 
told me to keep the room very still, as Theodore 
had just fallen asleep, and that it might make 
him ill, if he were suddenly awakened : so when 
I sat down by him to watch that no one should 
disturb him, just then I saw the hall door blowing 
to; 1 ran to prevent it, but it caught my hand ; 
look here, how. it bruised my fingers ; see how 
black and blue they are ; oh, it hurt dreadfiiUy ; 
but I did not scream, for fear of awakening 

*' Sweet child," said Mr. Desmond, drawing 
her to him, and kissing her forehead, '' this in- 
deed was self-command — more than self-com- 
mand, it was heroism !" 

Emily blushed at this unexpected praise, and 

V©L. 11. 16 


the more so, when Theodore, coming to ber,^ took 
her hand, pressed it in his, and kissed her little 
fingers over and over again, saying — 

<* Thank you, thank you, dear Emily ; how very 
good you were." 

Her mother's eyes were suffused with tears, 
and she too, longed to embrace and praise her 
\:hild ; but she checked the emotion, fearing to ex- 
cite vanity. , 

Some days after this, as Louisa was tying 
Emily's frock, the little girl turned to her, say- 

" Sister, I shall be very sorry when my fingers 
get well." 

" Sorry, that is very odd ; what pleasure can 
you have in a bruised hand ?" 

" Oh, sister, you would not wonder, if you 
knew how much better Theodore loves me than 
he used to ; you can't think how attentive, how 
kind he is." 

" But he was always attentive and kind." 

" Yes, but now he is more so than ever ; the 
morning after he knew that my fingers were hurt, 
he came to me while I sat in the library learning 
my lesson, and taking my hand, he looked at my 
fingers, and seeing them look very black, ^ poor 
little fingers,' said he, kissing them ; and then 
sitting down by me, he said he would help me 
do my lessons, and asked what I was about. I 
am translating my French fable, 1 replied ; and so 
he took my slate and pencil, and would write 
what I translated. Afterwards he wrote the verses 
I had learned by heart, and which I was to write 
from memory for mamma, and my geography 
and history, and he wrote th^ figures while I did 
my sum for him, and this he has done every mom<- 
ing since ; is he not very good f^^ 


«< Very good, indeed ; but^as he is uot well, I 
fear it must be troublesome to him." 

'' So I told him ; but he s£d, ^ even if it was 
troublesome, it would be but a poor return for the 
pain I had suffered so heroically for him,' and 
then he praised me much more than I deserved, 
for what he called my self-command. I told him 
I would do a great deal more than that, to make 
him well and happy. 

^' ' Sweet child,' he said, and pressed me to his 
bosom and kissed me ; ' sweet child, when every 
one is so kind, so very kind to me, I must soon 
be well.^ 

" ' And happy ^ too, Mr. Theodore ;' he shook 
his head and sighed so, and his eyes, as he lifted 
them up to Heaven, were so full of tears, that I 
could not help crying too. 

" * Dear little girl,' he kept saying, as he still 
held me in his arms, and wiped the tears from my 
eyes, * may such be the' only tears you ever 

^' Ever since that morning, when he goes to 
walk in the woods, he asks me to go with him, 
and so I do, and while I sit on the ground by him, 
learning my tasks, sometimes he reads, and some- 
times he writes with a pencil in his pocket book, 
or on pieces of paper." 

" What does he write, letters .?" 

** Oh no, he always writes verses ; and I begged 
him so hard to give me what he wrote the other 
day, that he gave it to me, saying, ' 1 can refuse 
my little friend nothing.' Yes, he calls me his 
little friend,'*^ 

" And have youHhe piece yet V^ 

" To be sure I have, and if you will wait here, 
I will run and bring it to you." 


She soon return^], and gave Louisa the ibi- 
loiving lines to reaa, written on the back of a let- 
ter : • 

<< Now spring returns, and with its cheerful ray, 

Revives and gladdens nature's wide domain ; 
Now spring returns, but not to me returns 

Those sportive joys my early days have known. 
Cold disappointment, like the wintVy blas^ 

Has nippM the blossom of each tender hope ; 
The cruel trial which I deemM my last. 

Is but the herald of new ills to come. 
Since now, from all I love, Vm doom'd to part. 

And leave these friends who cheered my sinking heait.^ 

" Poor Theodore,*' said Louisa, as she wiped 
a^tear from her eyes, and folded the paper, ^^ poor 
Theodore, it will, indeed, be a hard trial for him 
to part from his father, who you know sails for 
Ireland, and expects to be absent about a year, 
if not longer." 

'^ And then, sister, he grieves to leave us, you 
in particular, and to go back to college." 

'^ He has a most tender heart, and has been so 
accustomed to the endearments of affection, and 
of female affection too," said Louisa, " that it is 
a cruel trial to him to go to dwell among stran- 

" He does not want to go to college, I am 
sure," said Emily ; " and the other day when he 
was digging the ground round your broken rose 
bush, he said, ■ this will soon grow again, and 
look more beautiful than ever ; but when its roses 
are in bloom, 1 shall be far, far away ; but Lou- 
isa will see them. Emily, ask your sister to save 
me one of the roses. And I will plant this 
sweet pea close by it, and ^en I am gone, tell 
her I planted it for her, and ask her to let it run 
on the branch«*s of the rose tree, and mingle its 
breath with the breath of her roses." 

" Theodore is very romantic," said Louisa^ 


**" and his bead is quite turned with poetry; I really 
believe he reads nothing else.'' 

^' He writes a great deal, I know," said Emily ; 
^^ the other day, when it was stormy, and we could 
not sit under the trees, I went into his room for 
my French dictionary that I had left there ; he 
was sitting near the window, leaning his arm on 
the table, where he had been writing, and he was 
resting his head on his hand, and looking at the 
willow trees that were blown about by the storm, 
and the rain that was beating against the window, 
and he looked so mournful it made my heart 
ache ; so I went up to him and stood by him, as 
I often do, and parted the beautiful curls which 
hung over his eyes, and stroked them back, and 
1 saw he had been crying, and I told him he must 
not cry, and that I would bring him a pretty book 
and read him a story. But he said my artless 
prattle amused him more, and he took me on his 
knee, and said, ' when I was your age, Emily, I 
had a fond, fond mother, to love me, and she used to 
love to play with these curls, and part them, and 
twist them round her fingers, as you do ; but those 
fingers are now clay cold ! and she used to tell me 
pretty stories, Emily, and sing, oh, how sweetly 
sing, such beautiful ballads ; but that vQice is 
now silent for ever ! and she used to love to hold 
me on her lap, and hear me repeat verses, and 
sing the little songs she taught me ; but that ear 
that loved to listen to me, is closed in death ! and 
when 1 think of all these things, dear Emily, do 
your wonder that I cry f You have a mother to 
wipe away your tears ; but when the wide Atlan- 
tic separates me from my beloved father, who 
will be left to wipe away the tears of the poor 
Theodore ? not one, not one relative will your 
poor friend have left.' 



^* ^ But you will have friends/ who love yos 
dearly, Mr. Theodore.' 

" ' Will Louisa love me, Emily ?' 

" * Give me those verses you have been writing 
this morning, and then I will tell you.' 

" * They are sad verses, Emily,' said he, * writ- 
ten to ease a sad heart, and not worth your ta- 
king.' 1 

^^ ^ But I want them very much ; I will- keep 
them and read them when you are gone away, 
Mr. Theodore.' 

^' ' You will soon forget me, when I am gone 
away, Emily, and so will Louisa.' 

" * No, I promise you we will not ; for Louisa 
loves you as well as I love you ; and I will read 
all the verses you give me to her, and won't let 
her forget you.' 

" ' Won't you, my darling,' said he, kissing 
and hugging me so tight — and then he made me 
promise, by-and-bye, to pull some of the blossoms 
from the rose bush and sweet pea, and ask you 
to wear them in your bosom ; and then, said he, 
^ Do you think Louisa would be so kind as 
to give me one of her little geraniums ? you 
know I love geraniums '^ and I would keep it in 
my window, at college.' 

" * Oh, yes, 1 dare say she will ; though she 
does set so much store by all her flowers ; but if 
she wont,' said I, ' 1 am sure mamma will.' Then 
I told him I would run and ask you, Louisa. 

" ' No,' said he, * not now ; I will ask the day be- 
fore I go away, and then I am sure she will not 
refuse me so small a favour. Don't leave me, 
Emily ; your prattle puts me in good spirits. I 
felt very miserable when you first came in. What 
shall I ever do for my little friend, to return all 
the kindness she shows me .^' 


'^ ' Oh, write me yerses, and draw me pictures^ 

)me, now, Mr. Theodore, draw me a pretty 

:ture, and paint it, too.' 

" * Well, get your colours, and I will try.' 

" ' Then, while you are drawing, bwill sit by 

u and translate.' 

" * But, your fingers f 

" * Oh, my fingers are well enough.' 

'' And this is the way, sister, I always get him 

t of his gloomy fits, and make him quite cheer- 


^' But, Emily, where are the verses ? I should 

e to see them." 

*' I will run and get them for you, and the pic- 

'e, too ; he told roe not to show it to you, but 

lid not promise ; so I can show you." 

" Now you will certainly give him a geranium, 

II you not ?" 

" It is time enough to think about it, when he 

(s me ; but show me the verses " 

She then read the following careless and un- 

tmected, but tender Knes : 

** Now the blasts of the storm roar aloud, 

On the roof beats the hail and the rain, 
Bright lightnings bre^k from the cloud,-" 

Then all is in darkness again. 

<< The clouds and the storm pass away, 

All nature looks lovelf once more ; 
But the warmth, or the brightness of day, 

Can never my mother restore. 

*' For gloomy and silenOs the grave, 
VV^here slumberfi that dearly loved form ; 

She sees not the trees as they wave, 
And hears not the blasts of the storm ! 

" OVr the turf, which now covers her breast, 

The spring in its beauty shall bloom ; 
ni adorn the dear pU e of her rest, 

And roses shall grow round her tomb. 




<< But ne^er shall that love-beaming eye 

Behold the fond proofs of my care ; 
She hears not the heart bursting sigh, 

And sees not the warm trickling tear ! 

<< I gaze on the landscape so fair, 

I inhale the soft b^ezes that blow ; 
The warblings of nature I hear, 

And feel the warm evening^s glow ; 

<< But 6he, who such scenes used to love, 


The lines were here abruptly concluded. 

*' These are, indeed," said Louisa, "sad, very 
sad verses, and discover a heart deeply and ten- 
derly affected ; but as our dear mother says, time, 
which restores beauty to nature after the ravages 
of winter, will restore peace and cheerfulness td 
his bosom, after the glooms of affliction. Leave 
me these lines, Emily;* I am going to sit by mam- 
ma, and wish to read them to her." 

" Then I must not let Theodore know it, lest 
he should be angry, and never give me any more." 

" It is because I know they will increase the 
tender interest mamma already feels for him^ that 
I wish to show her these lines." 

" Oh, then, keep them, sister, for 1 want«you 
and mamma to love poor Mr. Theodore very, ve- 
ry much — and now I will run and do my lessons 
by him, and please to tell mamma, if she asks, that 
I am busy in the library." 

"My lessons are all done, Mr. Theodore," said 
the little Emily ; " get ready to walk by the time 
I return from mamma's room." 



Cbildbood** loved group, revbitt etery scene, 

The laogled wood-wttlk, and the taAed green. 


The grounds around Seymour Cottage were 
richly rariegated with hill and dale, woods, 
grain-fields, and meadows. So undulating was 
the sarface, that one might imagine that the 
ocean-ifrayes, in their highest swell, had been sud- 
denly converted into solid ground. Hill rose 
over hill, clothed with forests, tufted with trees 
and shrubs, or covered with grain ; while the lit- 
tle hollows and valleys between, afforded exqui- 
sitely beautiful spots, equally sheltered from the 
destructive storms of winter, and the consuming 
ardours of the summer's sun. Foot-paths wound 
among these bills and through these glens, which 
led to favourite and frequented retreats, where 
the children of Mrs. Seymour passed some of their 
happiest hours. 

Each lofty tree, or shady grove, or open glade, 
or dark recess, iiad its appropriate name, and pe- 
culiar purpose. 

" Come, now, Mr. Theodore," said Emily, as 
she led him along these devious paths, ''I will 
show you all our play-places. — Help me down 
this steep bank, but do not fall yourself; hold 
fast by the limbs of that tree; many a time I have 


' '' In the country, to be snre ^ stay with ns in the 
country, dear cousin, and I promise, thai you 
shall soon be as pretty as you were last summer !" 

"Then 1 am not so pretty now?" 

** Why — no," said Emily, looking at her, and 
stroking her cheeks, and passing her eyes; " thise 
poor cheeks look pale, very pale ; aod youi^<^6s 
look hollow." 

Mrs. Mortimer smiled — but she sighed too. 

" Truly," said Mrs. Seymour, " oar little girl 
gives you good advice, Harriet ; a winter in town 
makes sad havoe among red cheeks and bright 
eyes } and its dissipations are as fetal to the 
bloom of beauty, as its frosts are to flowers asd 

" When did Congress adjourn?" said Loaisa;' 
" we have not heard for some days from papa, 
and it was then uncertain." 

"Yesterday," replied Mrs* Mortimer ;.^^tke 
night before, I mean ; but yesterday, every men»- 
ber that could find a conveyance, left the city. 
It is to me the most dismal day in the year : such 
a breaking up ; such a scattering abroad ; such a 
bustle and hurry flurry, that I was glad to take 
my flight too, from the now desert city." 

"But the tranquillity which succeeds,^" said 
Mrs. Seymour, " was always delightful ta me." 

" Tranquillity ! — death-like stiUness rather ! — a 
frightful solitude ! — I declare, Washington is the 
most horrible place in the universe, after Con- 
gress has adjourned. I am sure I wish Mr. 
Mortimer's business was concluded, that I might 
fly ofi* too, like the other birds of passage, and 
seek a kinder sky." 

"Why not imitate our example, my dear 
Harriet," said Louisa, " and retreat with us to 
these hills and groves? believe me^ you would 

find b^re, g^f^r^ tts #iell as stdeetef* pleasul^s^ 
than ever a mnter in fVashington afforded 

<< As for hills' itdd groves, Loiiisal, I cannot daj 
I have any great fancy for them^'^^but to bk 
fieat* voti, and my dear aunt," takibg Mi*s. Sey- 
ftiour^s hand, "is tvbat I must devoutly v^ish, and I 
blive been teasing Mr. Mortimer to leave me 
With you, to pass this summeir; for that WildeN 
ness of a city, where he will be fbr some time 
detained, is my aversion. That Ibtig, wid6, dus- 
ty, i^xposed avenue^ where those tall, stiff, upstart 
]^plars rise, like so many barber's poles ; that 
abominable Canall that muddy Tiber, along 
Whose banks a few poor iniset'able figures glide, 
like ghosts along the Styx ; here and there, tviro 
or three shut up houses, half a mile apart; vast 
Gommoiis, covered with herds of cows, flocks of 
geese, and droves of swine; or^swamps exhaling 
disease and death — sometimes, to be sure, anima- 
ted by a spdrtsman, with his dog and gun, wher^ 
you are afraid of walking, lest among the bushes 
be might mistake you for a hare or a fox !-^fk 
fine ehy, to be sure !— a most splebdid metropolis 
for th^ ^rca^ republic /" 

" Its population would not very rapidly In- 
crease, Harriet," said Mrs. Seymour, " if it de- 
pended on you. You would as effectually scare 
away all settlers in our new city, as any English 
traveller, that ever described our country, fot 
the sole purpose of preventing emigration. You 
forget that a child must walk, before it can run, 
and that Rome was not built in a day." 

The servant now called them to dinner. 

*• Dinner !" exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, " why 
what antediluvians you are become! dinner at 



three o'clock, and I have not made my toilet 

^*We antediluvians will dispense with that 
ceremony ; so allons, allons, fair stranger," siud 
Louisa, taking her hand. 

Mrs. Seymour continued the conversation, which 
the call to dinner had interrupted ; and Mr. Des- 
mond, who met JVIrs. Mortimer,, with whom be 
was slightly acquainted, at the table, having 
made some remark as to the efficiency of a re- 
publican government — 

"-Heigh-ho," said Mrs. Mortimer, " what folly 
it is for women to talk of forms of government, 
when to them it can make no difference; they 
are slaves under all, and bound to obey the lords 
of creation, whether they be republican citizens^ 
or Asiatic despots." 

<< 1 cannot agree with you, in even that"hnmbfe 
acknowledgment!;" said Mr. Desinond, *^ for un- 
der all forms of government and in all ages, wo- 
men always have^ and always will rule. They 
are the main spring, the secret wheels of the 
great machine of society, which put all the other 
parts into motion. From mother Eve, to the 
present day, women have ruled the destinies of 
men. They are the real despots, and will bear 
no rival near the throne." 

" A most charming theory for us ladies ; very 
flattering — very gallant; but pardon me when 1 
say, very untrue. No — woman is the pretty 
bird, shut up in a cage, a golden cage, if you 
please, decked with flowers, and fed with honey ; 
but a captive still — a slave, though her chains are 
gilt. Or else, if not wanted for pleasure, she is 
subjected to his comforts, and like the mill horse, 
chained to one central spot, is forced eternally to 
move in the same dull unwearied round ; while 


man soars aloft like the aspiring eagle ; spurns 
all restraint like the impetuous courser, and 
dares, with unchecked ambition, to climb the sum* 
mit of power, to indulge with unrestricted li- 
cense in excess of pleasure." 

" How differently do the same objects appear, 
through a different medium,'' observed Mrs- Sey- 
mour, ^' or seen even with d^fferent optics. Now, 
if I were comparing the condition of the sexes, 
I should deem that of woman marked by the 
peculiar favour of heaven — ^not the slave, but 
the friend, the solace, the comfort of domestic 
life ; man, not the master, but the supporter, the 
director, and the guardian ; the seclusion of our 
sex, not as an imprisonment, but as a safe and 
peaceful haven, secure from danger, while the 
destiny of man was to brave the tempest, and 
be exposed to the shipwrecks of a stormy world." 

** And you, Miss Louisa," said Mr. Desmond, 
^ bow do you view the relative destiny of the 

*' I view it through the same medium as my 
dear mother," said Louisa, modestly ; *' only my 
fancy would have suggested, instead of a haven, 
a garden full of flowers and fruits, securely 
hedged in from all the dangers of life, where 
the cultivation of these flowers, and the preserva- 
tion of these fruits, would be equally the delight 
and occupation of my favoured sex ; while man 
would have to go fortli into the wilderness, to 
follow the chase, and procure the supplies neces- 
sary for life, exposed to perils and hardships." 

*^ But," exclaimed Theodore, '^ why separate 
their interests or their destinies f why not rather 
view them as treading the same path, together 
blessing, and together blessed ; their pleasures and 



their idtere^ts thifc stmt> th^ir fute ftnd h^ht 

** Well, Theodore, yoar vie# of the subject 
18 the best, the happiest, and^^thaukii to a be*- 
neficent Providence, the truest. The disdussioofi 
about the rights and privflege^ of the* setes are 
idle and perniciotts ; no, there wad never detigded 
any preferene€e--but in this, as throughout erea* 
tion, < all nature's difference, keepi all nature's 
peace.' " 


Xome of my youth ! with fond deligbty 
On thee does recollection dwell ; 

Home of my youth ! how gayly bright 
Sfteh fcene that childhood loT'd so well. 

The morning after Mrs. Mortimer's arrival, the 
weather proved unfavourable for the rural excur- 
sion that had been planned ; and after breakfast, 
when they wer6 eoUected in the parlour, the la- 
dies sat round the work-table, and called on 
Theodore to read to them. 

*' You have so often boasted of the social plea- 
sures of a rainy day, Louisa," said Mrs. Morti- 
mer, *^ I hope you will cake this occasion to ini- 
tiate me in the secret of enjoying such dismal 

" The whole secret, my dear cousin," replied 
Louisa, " consists in viewing external objects 
through the medium of a cheerful mind ; then, 
believe me, it makes little difference whether the 
sky is clear or cloudy." 

^' Your remark, Louisa, reminds me of an anec- 
dote 1 have h^ard Mr. J relate," said Mrs. 

Seymour. " He was in the habit of visiting at a 
bouse in Paris, where, though the day mis^ht be 
obscure, the apartment had the appearance of be- 
ing lighted by clear sunshine. On inquiring into 




their idteretts tht §tmt> their fute ftnd btid| 

** Well, Theodore, yoar view of the subject 
18 the best, the happiest, and^^thauke to a be*- 
neficent Providence, the truest. The discussioofi 
about the rights and privileges of the'setesare 
idle and pernicious ; ao, there was never designed 
any preferenC€e--but in this, as throughout erea* 
tion, ^ all nature's difference, keep* all nature's 
peace.' " 


man soars aloft like the aspiring eagle ; spurns 
all restraint like the impetuous courser, and 
dares, with unchecked ambition, to climb the sum-* 
mit of power, to indulge with unrestricted li- 
cense in excess of pleasure." 

" How differently do the same objects appear, 
through a different medium," observed Mrs. Sey- 
mour, " or seen even with different optics. Now, 
if I were comparing the condition of the sexes, 
I should deem that of woman marked by the 
peculiar favour of heaven — ^not the slave, but 
the friend, the solace, the comfort of domestic 
life ; man, not the master, but the supporter, the 
director, and the guardian ; the seclusion of our 
sex, not as an imprisonment, but as a safe and 
peaceful haven, secure from danger, while the 
destiny of man was to brave the tempest, and 
be exposed to the shipwrecks of a stormy world." 

*^ And you, Miss Louisa," said Mr. Desmond, 
^' bow do you view the relative destiny of the 

*^ I view it through the same medium as my 
dear mother," said Louisa, modestly ; '' only my 
fancy would have suggested, instead of a haven, 
a garden full of flowers and fruits, securely 
hedged in from all the dangers of life, where 
the cultivation of these flowers, and the preserva- 
tion of these fruits, would be equally the delight 
and occupation of my favoured sex ; while man 
would have to go forth into the wilderness, to 
follow the chase^ and procure the supplies neces- 
sary for life, exposed to perils and hardships." 

" But," exclaimed Theodore, " why separate 
their interests or their destinies f why not rather 
view them as treading the same path, together 
blessing, and together blessed ; their pleasures and 



the cause of this singular and mysterious effect, 
the mistress of the house directed his attention to 
the window, which, on examination, he found to 
be made of yellow glass ; and the external light, 
passing through this medium, diffused, as it were, 
a perpetual sunshine. Now I think, Harriet, 
since you are so averse to cloudy, or, as you call 
it, ^/oomy weather, this would be an admirable 
contrivance for you." 

" Admirable, indeed," said Mrs. Mortimer, " if 
I never stirred from home ; but, as this is not the 
case, if you, or Lo^uisa, could help me to discover 
the secret of that perpetual cheerfulness you both 
seem to possess, it would be a thousand times 

'Mf I am not mistaken," said Mrs. Seymour, 
^'Louisa- has a receipt in her work-box, for the 
manufacturing of this sunshine of the mind." 

Louisa smiled, and opening her work^foox^ 
pointed to the motto written on the lid, saying; 
** I fear, cousin Harriet, it will not be to yow 
taste ; but read it." 

" ' Constant employment is coyistant enjoyments* 
Oh, yes, Louisa, it is all very pretty, and^ no 
doubt, very true ; but different dispositions re- 
quire different kinds of employment,, you know» 
Is it not Prior, the poet, who somewhere says, 

< While some, mere blessM, perpetual life employ, 

< In scenes of pleasure, and in sungs of juy.* 

Now, my dear cousin, I am one, or rather I wish 
to be one, of that blessed tribe ; but as to your 
work-box receipt, I would quite as lieve your ora- 
cle. Dr. Irvin, should give me a quotidian dose of 
bark pills and steel lozenges." 

**you have hit it exactly," said Mrs. Seymour^ 


ffmtMti^ IN WAafiiNOTOK. f8S 

^ employnieiit gives to the mind that vigour and 
tone, which bark andsteel give to the frame ; and 
surely, Harriet, ance you have found such bene- 
St from the one, you will be willing to try the 

'* Well^" said Mrs. Mortimer, *^ you shall nol 
upbraid me with, always neglecting your advice ; 
I shall have a fine opportunity^ during my rus- 
tication among you, to try your boasted receipts ; 
ao pray, aunt, begin your course><--what shall i do 
first ?" 

" Why," said Mrs. Seymour, " I recollect that 
one of Johnson's friends, though I forget which, 
said he never read the Rambler, without being a 
better and happier man ; and added, that those 
papers were bark and steel to his mind. Now, 
what if you try its efficacy on yourself." 

'*Oh, no, for Heaven's sakc^," exclaimed Mrs. 
Mortimer; '^ Johnson's Rambler, or any thing else 
he ever wrote, would give me the vapours in- 
stead of dispersing them. No, no, aunt ; if I 
must take bitter pills, in mercy let them be gilded. 
Think of something else. Does Seymour Cot** 
tage afford nothing new ? Those odious aid works 
have all the gloom of gothic walls and mouldy 
ruins. Novelty, dear novelty, has a charm worth 
all the strength, grandeur and sublimity of your 
old books or old buildings. Byron, the charm- 
ing Byron, for instance, is irresistible." 

" I am afraid," said Mrs. Seymour, " we can- 
not gratify you in this respect ; nor, to tell you 
the truth, would I, if 1 could ; for most of his 
pr,oductions are not bark and steely but poison, 
deadly poison, though so artfully gilded, as not 
to offend the taste. But if novelty will be a slif- 
ficient recommendation, 1 think I can^atisfy you. 
Emily, my dear, bring me down my port-folio." 


After looking over a variety of manusoripts— ^ 
" here," said Mrs. Seymour, " are several un- 
published pieces ; but first we will read this piece, 
of which we were talking last winder, * The Hasty 
Pudding.^ It is a great favourite of Mr. Sey- 
BDour's, who insists upon it, that the Georgics of 
Virgil have not greater beauty and simplicity." 

** *' Hasty Pudding /' what a shockingly vulgar 
title ! but it is homespun verse, and one can ex- 
pect nothing better. American writers b^ive as 
little brilliancy in their fancy, as American ma- 
nufacturers have in their colours." 

^' Surely, in an^every day garb, you would not 
require as fine a texture, or as splendid colouring, 
as in a court dress ; neither in a poem descriptive 
of rural labours and country life, would you ex- 
pect elegance and sublimity. Adaptation of 
dress to company, or of style to subject, shows 
correctness of taste; and you certainly would 
have been disgusted if Virgil had clothed his rus- 
tic and agricultural subjects with the same splen- 
did versification he has lavished on his heroic 

*' Why, to tell you the truth," answered Mrs. 
Mortimer, " I never fancied Virgil's Georgics, 
any more than I should a russet garment, or 
Louisa's cottage bonnet. But as adaptation is 
at all times highly commendable, let us by all 
means have the Hasty Puddings as it certainly is 
well adapted to us country folks. 

" Now, Mr. Theodore, give it to us in your 
best style ; and I pray you endeavour to compen- 
sate by the graces of elocution, for the deficien- 
cies of the poet." 

" You quite frighten me from the undertaking,** 
said Theodore^ '* especially as it is in mantt<$ 


^' This piece is not in manuscript," said Mrs. 
Seyropnr ; "it was pnblished many years ago, 
and is, I believe, scarcely now to be found ; this 
copy was given to Mr. Seymour some time 
, since, and is hoarded up among his * morceaux 
precieuses.^^ ' 

^' Hasty Pudding ! a precious morsel !" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Mortimer ; " if the man must write 
on such a vulgar topic, why could he not give it 
its Italian name, polanta ; that, now, would have 
a foreign, a poetical sound." 

" The feeling which inspired the subject, gave 
a charm to that vulgar name, as you deem it," 
said Mrs. Seymour ; '' the love of home. This 
was the feeling which warmed his genius ; and 
only those who have strongly felt this sentiment, 
can estimate its force, or know how inexpres- 
sibly dear is every object, however rude or sim- 
ple, which is associated with the idea of home." 

" That is, indeed, true," said Theodore ; « I 
know it from experience ; I can enter into this 
poet's feelings, and I am sure, if I were to meet 
with mush, as we call it, in some remote part of 
the world, (which I remember you said was the 
case with Mr. Barlow,) I should hail it as a 
friend, or exclaim as that foreigner did the other 
evening, when wafles were handed to him, * Oh ! 
the dear cakes of my dear country !' " 

" Ah, Theodore," said Louisa, ^' I see yoo 
will like our home-born poet, and his home- 
verse, and will join me in sajring — 

< To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
Are native charms, than all the glon of art.' " 

How did Theodore's cheeks glow, and his eyes 
sparkle, at this acknowledgment of sympathy 
VOL. n. 18 


between faim and Louisa ; he no longer hesitated, 
but catching up the poem, began to read it 'with 
all the humour, simplicity and feeling it required. 

<< Ye Alps audacious, thro' the Heav'ns that rise, 
To cramp the day, and hide me from the skies ; 
Ye Gallic flags, that o^er their heights unfurlM 
Bear death to kings, and freedom to the world — 
I sing not you. A softer theme 1 choose, 
A virgin theme, unconscious of the muse ; 
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire 
The purest frenzy of poetic fire. 

*< Despise it not, ye bards to terror steeled, 
Who hurl your thunders round the epic field ; 
Nor ye, who strain your midnight throats to sing 
Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring; . 
Or on some distant fair your notes employ, 
And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy. 
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel. 
My morning incense, and my evening meal, 
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl, 
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul. 
The milk beside thee, smoking fron) the kine. 
Its substance mingled, married in with thine, 
Shall cool and temper thy superior heat, 
And save the pains of blowing while. I eat. 

<< Oh ! could the smooth, the emblematic song, 
Tlow like thy genial juices o'er my tongue, 
Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime. 
And, as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme, 
No more thy aukward unpoetic name 
Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy fame ; 
Bui rising grateful to the accustomed ear, 
AH bards should catch it, and all realms revere ! 

<' Assist me first with pious toil to trace. 
Thro' wrecks of time, thy lineage and thy race ; 
Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore, 
(Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore,) 
First gave thee to the world ; her worjLS of fame 
Have lived indeed, but liv'd without a name. 
Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days. 
First learned with stones to crack the well dry'd maize, 
Thro' the rough sieve to shake the golden shower ; 
In boiling water stir the yellow flour : 
The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stir'd with haste. 
Swells in the flood, and thickens to a paste. 
Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim, 
Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim : 
The knobs at last^the busy ladle breaks, 
And the whole mass its true consistence takes. 

<* Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, 
Rise, like her labours, to the son of song. 



To her, to them, I'd consecrate ray lays, 

And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. 

if 'twas Oella, whom I sang before, 

I here ascribe her one great virtue more. 

Not thro' the rich Peruvian realms alone 

The fameof Sors rwc«t d»u^htpr should be known. 

But o'er the world's wide clime should live secure. 

Far as the rays extend, as long as they endure." 

Theodore here paused a moment, and asked 
Mrs. Mortimer how she liked it thus far. 

" A tolerable specimen," she answered, " of 
the mock heroic ; but the subject will not admit, 
I fancy, of any very romantic incidents, unless 
the poet undertakes to describe this Peruvian 
nymph as feeding and fattening her lover with 
this delicate hasty pudding of her own ingenious 
invention. I like her name very much ; and as it 
seems she was a lady of high descent, and pos- 
sessed, no doubt, of many shining qualities, her 
fame should be perpetuated, I think, by calling 
this favourite dish Oella.^^ 

They all agreed that this would be a more 
appropriate name than the one by which the 
poem is entitled, because, according to the autho- 
rity of the learned Doctor Johnson, hasty pud- 
ding may be made with wheat flour, or oat meal. 

" The latter material,'' observed Theodor^ 
" was not suited to the doctor's taste, because, in 
England, he says, horses are fed with it ; for the 
same wise reason, I suppose, some people have 
an antipathy to such a ' thin potation' as water, 
because horses will drink nothing else. But hear 
what .our poet says on that point. 

*' ' There are who strive to stamp with disrepute 
The luscious food, because it feeds the brute : 
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest. 
Nor fear to share thy bounties wfth the beast. 
What tho' the generous cow gives me to quaff 
The milk nutritious — am I then a calf? 


Or can the genius of the noisy swine, 
Tho'nursM on Pudding, thence lay claim to miuei' 
Sure the sweet song I fashion to thy praise, 
Runs more melodious than the notes they raise.' " 

Theodore then passed over the remainder of 
the first canto, and selected from the second the 
following description of the manner of cultiva- 
ting the maize. 

" But since, O man t thy life and health demand 
Not food alone, but labour from thy hand, 
First in the field, beneath the sun's Strang rays, 
As!k of thy mother earth the needful maize ; 
She loves the race that courts her yielding soil, 
And gives her bounties to the sons of toil. 

** When now the ox, obedient to thy call, 
Repays the loan that filPd the winter stall, 
Pursue bis traces o'er the furrowed plain, 
And plant in measured hills the golden grain 
But when the tender germ begins to shoot, 
And the green spire declares the sprouting root, 
Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe, 
The insidious worm, the all devouring crow. 
A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire. 
Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire. 
The feathered robber with his hungry maw. 
Swift flies the field before your man of straw ; 
A frightful image, such as schoolboys bring, 
When met to burn the Pope, or hang the King. 

_" Thrice in the season, through each verdant row 
Wield the strong ploughshare and the faithful hoe, 
The faithful hoe, a double task that takes. 
To till the summer corn, and roast the winter cakes. 

''Slow springs the blade, while checked by chilling rains. 
Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gain« ; 
But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land. 
Then start the juices, then the roots expand ; 
Then, like the column of Corinthian mould, 
The stalk struts upward, and the leaves unfold ; 
The bushy branches all the ridges fill. 
Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. 
Here cease to vex them, all your cares are done ; 
Leave the last labours to the parent sun ; — 
Beneath his genial smiles the well-drest field. 
When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield. 

« Now the strong foliage bears the standards high. 
And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; 
The suckling ears their silky fringes bend. 
And pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend ; 



The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows, 
Overhangs the space that runs between the rows ; 
High as a ho(>-field waves the silent grove, 
A safe retreat for little thefts of love, 
When thepledg'd roasting-ears invite the maid 
To meet her swain beneath the new-formM shade ; 
His generous hand unloads the cumbrousr hill, 
And the green spoils her ready basket fill ; 
Small compensation for the two-fold bliss, 
The promisM wedding, and the present kiss. 

<* Slight depredations these ; but now the moon 
Calls from his hollow tree the sly raccoon ; 
And while by night he bears his prize away. 
The bolder squirrel labours through the day. 
Both thieves alike, but provident of time, 
A virtue rare, that almost hides their crime. 
Then let them steal the little stores they can, 
And fill their granaries from the toils of man ; , 
We've one advantage where they take no part— 
With all their wiles they ne'er have found the art 
To boil the Hasty Pudding ; here we shine 
Superior far to tenants of the pine ; 
This envied boon to man shall still belong. 
Unshared by them iu substance or in song. 

<* At last the closing season browns the plain, 
And ripe October gathers in the grain ; 
Deep loaded carts the'^pacious corn-house fill. 
The sack distended marches to the mill ; 
The laboring mill beneath the burthen groans. 
And showers the future pudding from the stones ; 
Till the glad housewife greets the powdered gold, 
And the new crop exterminates the old." 

" Now," said Theodore, " I'll skip over a little 
more, and givq you the bard's description of the 
best fashioned spoon to be used in eating this 
Pasty Pudding, or Oella, as Mrs. Mortimer wishes 
it to be named." 

<' There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear 
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear. 
The deep bowlM Gallic spoon, contrivM to scoo^ 
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, 
Performs not well in those substantial things, 
WBose mass adhesive to the metal clings ; 
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace 
The gentle ciirve, and sweep the hollow space. 
With ease to enter and discharge the freight, 
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate, 



Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the sizp, 
A secret rests i/nknown to vulgar eyes. 
ExperiencM feeders can alone impart 
A rule so much above the lore of art. 
Thf se tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried^ 
With just precision could the point decide, 
Though not in song; the muse but poorly shines 
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines. 
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, 
Is that small section of a goose-egg-shell, 
Which in two equal portions shall divide 
The distance from the centre to the side. 

<< Fear not to slaver ; 'tis no deadly sin. 
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin 
Suspend the ready napkin ; or» like me. 
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee ; 
Just in the zenith your wise head project. 
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct. 
Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall, 
The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all." 

Various were the criticisms passed on this little 
piece of ludicrous composition ; it met with much 
commendation, and even Mrs. Mortimer acknow- 
ledged, that the poetry was too good for the sub- 

" If you wish for something more heroic," said 
Mrs. Seymour, smiling, " here is a piece which 
rises in some of its ideas, even to the terrible and 
sublime ; here is the ' Raven of Russia,^ It will 
prove, too, that Mr. Barlow was consistent in his 
politics, always a votary of liberty, and not a sa- 
tellite of power, nor a worshipper of the rising 
sun. As long as he believed that the French re- 
volutionists aimed at the establishment of liberty, 
and the rights of the people, so long he was their 
enthusiastic admirer and zealous advocate. But 
when these objects were abandoned, and power 
and conquest became the dominant principles^ he 
became as hostile as he had been friendly to the 
political measures and political men of that na- 

" What renders this piece peculiarly interest- 


ing to his friends, is, that it was bis last produc* 
tion, written a few days previous to the illness 
which terminated his life; it is the most violent 
denunciation of Bonaparte that has ever appear- 
ed. But it will be best, perhaps, to reserve it for 
another day." 



Yet aU Matilda couh), »he gave 
In pity to her gentle slav»— 
Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, 
And praise, the poet*s best reward; 
Yet loth to norse the fatal flame 
Of hopeless love, in friendship's name. 

WalUr Scott. 

One morniDg Louisa rose early, and, awa- 
kening the little girls, called them to go forth 
with her to inhale the morning breeze, to wander 
over the dew^ fields, and gather wild flowers 
along their favourite wood-walks. Emily and 
Ann obeyed the summons, and, as they bounded 
by her side, over hill and plain, in all the exube- 
rance of health and youth, they seemed .as inno- 
cently gay as the lambs who were sporting be- 
fore them on the velvet pasture-field, through 
which they walked. It was one of the loveliest 
mornings of May. The sun was shining bright- 
ly, the birds were singing, the zephyrs playing 
among the tree-tops, and the dew-drops glitter- 
ing on the grassr I'he breathing freshness of 
early day pervaded the whole scene, which, 
clothed with the bright verdure of the season, 
and the gay bloom of flowers, seemed like a new- 
creation, " full of life and vivifying soul," which 
inspired " every sense and every heart with joy/' 


While Louisa's little companions felt only the 
exhilarating influence of the pure and elastic air, 
her more reflective mind was raised to her Crea- 
tor, and a- softening power stole over her bosom, 
and melted her heart to tenderness and love ; and, 
while warmed with gratitude to God, her soul 
overflowed with benevolence to man. Oh, how 
diminutive is the most august temple, raised by 
the bands of man, compared to the majestic 
frame of the universe, or the sublime, canopy of 
the heavens ! How pure and ardent is the devo- 
tion, kindled by the contemplation of the glorious 
works of God ! 

<<By swift degrees the love of nature works, 
And warms the bosom ; till at last sublimed 
To rapture, and enthusiastic heat, 
We feel the present Deity, and taste 
The joy of God, to see a happy world." 

Delightful enthusiasm, which can give a charm 
to every scene, which animates the loneliest spots, 
and supplies the place of society, to the heart 
that can hold communion through the inanimate 
works of nature, with the Creator and Giver of 
all things. 

Wishing to indulge in lonely musing, Louisa 
strayed on,, while the children stopped to gather 
wild flowers. Seeing, at last, that she had left 
them far behind, she sat down on the twisted 
roots of an old oak ; and, while she waited for 
them, gazed, with increasing rapture, on the wi- 
dened prospect. She had climbed to the top of 
a breezy hill, which commanded an extensive 
view of the country, varied with woods, fields, 
pastures, and orchards, now in full bloom, and 
whose fragrance scented the air. From earth, 
she raised her enraptured view to the light and 
fle^V clouds, softly floating over the bright 


azure of heaven, and felt as if her bosom could 
not contain her swelling heart. 

She was roused from the delicious reverie iu 
which she had been lo^t, by the gay voices of the 
children, who, running to her, announced some 
great discovery — " flowers more beautiful than 
she had ever seen ;" and, each taking a hand, 
drew her down the wooded side of the hill, 
through winding paths that led into the thickest 
shades, where, in a little recess, sheltered from 
the wintery winds, was a perfect garden of wood- 
flowers, and all the lowly children of the shade 
seemed to have sought an asylum here from the 
severity of winter. Louisa was still enough of a 
child, to participate in their delight, and engaged 
as ardently as they did in culling the loveliest of 

The sun was now high ; and, as the children 
would not yet consent to return home, she told 
them to follow their own course, and play as long 
as they pleased, while she would go to her her- 
mitage, and await for them ; or, if they wander- 
ed far, would follow them. Away they scamper- 
ed, while, somewhat warmed and wearied with 
her long walk, Louisa turned to her favourite 
and solitary retreat. 

When she first entered, her eyes were so daz- 
zled with the glare of the sun, that she threw 
herself on her grassy seat, without perceiving 
any one was near her. She started, on hearing 
a sigh breathed close by her, and inquired, with 
some alarm, who it was ? She was answered in 
the soft and plaintive tones of Theodore, who 
begged her to forgive his intrusion. 

" And how came you ever to find out this se- 
questered spot .?" asked Louisa. 




'^ I have been a daily pilgrim to your hermi- 
tage, since Emily first showed it to me/' 

" I am sorry you choose such gloomy retreats, 
my dear Theodore ; I wish you would not thus 
yield to melancholy," said Louisa, tenderly. 

" They suit the temper of my soul and the co- 
lour of my fate ; for what now is left to your be- 
reaved friend?" 

" Talk not so, when you have still so many 
friends who dearly love you." 

"Oh, Louisa, the love of the whole world 
would avail nothing if — " and he checked him- 

" If what ? — rcome now, dear Theodore, open 
your sad heart, and pour out all your griefs into 
the bosom of friendship — ^yes, you have one 
friend that can sympathize in them all." 

" Sympathize in all, Louisa ! would to heaven 
that were possible !" 

" And why is it not possible ? what secret can 
you have that you cannot impart to me ?" 

^' Guess ity dear Louisa ; for it is impossible for 
me to speak it " 

Louisa paused — all that Emily had told her, 
and a hundred other little circumstances which 
she now recollected, rushed on her mind, and she 
felt a painful conviction of the truth. She loved 
Theodore almost as tenderly as she loved her 
brother Edwar^, and with as pure and tranquil 
an affection. She had deeply sympathized in his 
late afflictions; had anxiously watched his de- 
caying health and increasing melancholy, and 
felt grieved that she must add to his grief: but 
what could be done ? should she let him leave 
hei", under the delusions of hope, which her si- 
lence might create — let him go, in solitude and 
loneliness, to nurture a sentiment that might de- 


stroy her peace f or should she exert resolntioD, 
and speak with simplicity and truth, and endea- 
vour to extinguish this infant passion f 

While lost in these anxious musings, she heard 
his deep-drawn sighs, and at last his convulsive 
sobs. She could not endure this, and tenderly 
taking his hand, she said ii^ the softest voice— 
" Dear Theodore, I will not pretend to misunder- 
stand yon ; it would be cruel for me to do so— 
but what shall I say to you f look up, my friend-^ 
my brother — look up, and tell me that the most 
tender, sincere, and faithful friendship, has some 
value in your estimation." 

Theodore looked up a moment, and showed a 
face so sad and wo- begone, that the kind-hearted 
Louisajfi^as moved to kindred grief, and she burst 
into tears. 

" Oh, Louisa !" he exclaimed, " do you weep 
for me? then surely^ I may hope." Again he 

" Yes, indeed," she answered, " I do weep for 
you ; and were it possible for me to prevent it, 
you should weep no more." 

" You feel for me, then ?" 

" Too well I know, dear Theodore, what is the 
anguish of disappointed tenderness, not to feel 
for you." 

He again looked up, as if to inquire the mean- 
ing of so strange an avowal, and for a moment 
gazed ^n Louisa's averted face ; a pause ensued. 
At length Louisa summoned resolution to speak. 
She still held his hand in h^rs, and looked ex- 
pressively and mournfully at hirh, as he leaned 
his head on his other hand, and snppprted his 
elbow on the bench, against which he had been 
reclining as he lay on the mossy floor. After a 
moment's hesitation, she said — 


* -ST 

^^ Before I say any thing of myself, let me beg 
you, my dear Theodore, to look upon me as a 
sister ; and remember, too, an elder sister. The 
difference of our ages is such, that I feel as if I 
bad a right," said she, smiling, '^ to assume all 
the privileges of that relation ; so I command you 
henceforth to call me your sister Louisa, and to 
love me as such, and I will call you my brother; 
and I pray heaven, Theodore, that one day or 
other yqu may be so." 

He mournfully shook his head. 

'* Well, we will leave the future to itself," con- 
tinued Louisa, '* and we will talk of the past. I 
have had my griefs, my trials, too— and will not 
my brother sympathize in them ? Oh, yes ; from 
this day forward, let us resolve to conceal no 
thought from each other; let us^hare each other's 
joys and sorrows, and forgetting our mutual dis- 
appointments, let us seek in friendship, for conso- 
lation and support: for still more — for happi- 


Theodore sighed, and pressed Louisa's hand to 
bis bosom. 

*' I see," said she, playfully, drawing back her 
hand, '^ you do not know yet how to act a bro- 
ther's part : but as I am well versed in a sister's, 
I must give you lessons." 

She then, while she still retained bis hand, re- 
lated to him in a soft and suppressed voice, all 
that had passed between her and Wilmot ; nor 
did she conceal the struggles of her heart, or the 
sorrow she had at first suffered. No— secure of 
his tenderest sympathy, and excited by the most 
generous wishes for the restoration of his peace, 
she faithfully painted all she bad endured, and 
described the means she took to cooqver this un- 

VOL. II. 19 



fortunate partiality, and lastly expatiated on her 

'^ Thus you see, my dear brother," she said, 
'' that a sentiment that is founded rather on fancy 
than acquaintance and esteem, may be eradicated, 
may be subjected to reason. 1 often say to my- 
self, am I not now the sam^ as I was before I 
formed his acquaintance, when to me he was as 
if not in existence f I was then happy, why can- 
not I be happy again ? I have still the same indul- 
gent parents, the same kind friends, the same 
sources of enjoyment ; what change has an ac- 
quaintance of three months made f none — ^let 
me think of that penod as a dream ; it has passed 
^ away, and left as little trace behind. Of what 
use would it be to indulge unavailing regret f 
were I to weep my eyes out, and sigh my life 
away, it could not change existing circumstances. 
Well, then, I will forget." 

" Ah, there is the difficulty!" exclaimed Theo- 

'^ My dear brother, / thought it was an impos- 
sibility ;— not at all ; and I can give you a receipt 
for composing a Lethean draught that will not 
fail— -constant employment ; such as will banish 
retrospection, and chain down the fancy. Let 
your elder sister serve you as an example ; and 
when our hearts are full, very full — when in spite 
of all our endeavours they are sad and depressed, 
let us pour them out into each other's bosoms, 
and in sharing, lessen our sorrows ; not, however, 
self-absorbed; let us diligently seek to lessen the 
sorrows of others. You are spon going to col- 
lege, my brother ; turn all your thoughts to the 
great object of intellectual improvement, remem- 
bering that you hav^ a friend who will anxiously 
watch your progress, and exult in your success. 


We will write to each other, and while we root 
out every thought and feeling that would poison, 
we will carefully cultivate the sweet sentiments of 
confidence and friendship, which shall give a 
charm and value to life. 

" Here," said she, breaking off a sprig of ever- 
green, " here is a memento of our holy league, 
a fit emblem of that sentiment, which endures all 
the vicissitudes incident to life, like this plant, 
which preserves its freshness amid the heats of 
summer and storms of winter.'^ 

Theodore took it from her hand, and first 
pressing it to his lips, hid it in bis bosom. 

" Dear Louisa," he said, " I will try and be 
all you would have me ; and when I feel my cou- 
rage fail me, I will think of what my lovely sis- 
ter has suffered, and endeavour to emulate her 
example. Yon have lightened my heart of a 
heavy load ; yop have extracted the thorn that 
rankled there ; your sympathy, your friendship, 
are precious to my soul, and never will I volun- 
tarily forfeit them. My sister, my friend !" said 
he, pressing her hand ; ^' and have I, then, a sis- 
ter and friend, who will care for, and think of, and 
watch over the bereaved Theodore ? who will 
exult in my success ! oh, what a motive for exer- 
tion and improvement do you propose to me ! I 
can now leave you without feeling as if I was 
going into banishment; without feeling like a 
wretched exile from all I love. I shall not now 
be separated ; the sweet correspondence you pro- 
pose will unite our souls — oh, no, I shall n6t 
leave you ; I shall not be an isolated and wretch- 
e4 being for whom no one cares. My sister ! 
my friend ! dear, precious titles ! I who was so 
destitute, am now so rich ! I never indulged any 
presumptuous hopes of higher felicity; no, I only 


cherished despair ; ihiok, iheo, how blest I nev 


Louisa was delighted wiib the change she had 
wrought in the feelings of Theodore, and felt her 
own surcharged heart relieved by the communi- 
cation she had n>ade, of feelings she bad never 
before whispered to a human ear ; for not even 
to her mother had she confessed all she had suf- 
fered, and she now enjoyed for the first time the 
soothing influences of sympathy. 

As they returned honie with glowing hearts 
and lightened bosoms, creation seemed adorned 
with new charms ; and Louisa thought, as she 
watched the brightened expression of Theodore's 
fine countenance, from which all joy had been se 
long absent, that there was no happiness equal to 
that of making others happy. 

He now spoke of his departure without roelan- 
choly ; he almost felt impatient for it, since it 
would give him an opportunity of writing to 
Louisa, and what was far better, of receiving let- 
ters from her. Oh, those 'precious letters — how 
did he feast on them in anticipation ^ how did he 
press them to his lips, hide them in his bosom, 
sleep with them beneath his pillow ; steal forth in 
the evening to some lonely valley, or shaded 
wood-walk, where no human eye should see him; 
read over and over again the dear memorials of 
Louisa's friendship ; yes, he felt impatient to be- 
gone, that he might realize such transports. 

Happy period of innocent and guileless feel- 
ing ! when the passions first developing them- 
selves in the youthful bosom, are pure and UD- 
contaminated by communication with a vicious 

The softness and tenderness of Louisa's friend- 
ship, were more than his unfledged hopes dared 


to aspire to; and even surpassed his ideas of 

Go, Theodore ; you have over voar heart a 
more secure shield against the allurements of 
pleasure and the seductions of vice, than the 
iEgis of Minerva ; yes — all the precepts of wisdom 
could not so effectually guard thee from the de- 
basing pleasures of sense, as the pure passion 
which burns in thy youthful bosom. 

Louisa did not forget Theodore's desire to 
have one of her geraniums ; and in the evening 
abe called Emily, and bade her choose the one 
she liked the best, and give it to him. This was 
a task she joyfully fulfilled; she carried it to his 
room, and was delighted with the surprise and 
pleasure he evinced. He caught the sweet child 
in his arms, and lavished on her that.tenderness, 
with which his heart overflowed. 

Theodore, with a lightened heart, could now 
join in the family circle, which, since the arrival 
of Mrs. Mortimer, he had often avoided ; for her 
vivacity but ill accorded with his at all times 
serious, but now melancholy temper. Instead of 
passing his solitary hours in the loneliness of the 
woods, he would now join their riding and 
walking parties, and accompany them in their 
visits to the neighbours. Some weeks passed 
cheerfully away in these rural pleasures, when 
Mrs. Mortimer received notice from her husband 
that his business at the seat of government was 
concluded, and he ready to depart. 

She was not sorry for this intimation, as she 
began to grow weary of the country pleasures 
and country society of her cousin's family. 

She expected to pass the summer in travelling, 
and proposed, after visiting the falls of Niagara^ 
to spend the remainder of the season at Balls<p • 



town springs, which was the resort of the gay 
and fashionable from all parts of the United 
States. It is well, perhaps, we do not realize the 
uncertainty of life ; were we to do so, we should 
enjoy few of those pleasures which hope affords 
us — and what would the future be, if bereiUof 

When Mrs. Mortimer bade her friends fare* 
well, she spoke gayly of the next winter, when 
they should again meet, and when, as' she said, 
she would bring with her a new stock of health 
and spirits. How little did she or her friends 
imagine, that before that period arrived, before 
many months elapsed, all these gay projects 
would be buried in the tomb ! 

After viewing the falls of Niagara, Mrs. Mor- 
timer proposed a jaunt to Montreal. Having 
become acquainted with several British officers, 
who were stationed at Newark, and who were 
going on a visit to their friends at Kingston, she 
soon induced them to join her party, and they all 
embarked in a packet boat, on the wide waters of 
Lake Ontario. The first day's sail was very 
pleasant and rapid ; but, the next night, after se- 
veral hours of very light and irregular breezes, 
the vessel was struck by a sudden flaw, and 
thrown on her side, before the sail could be low- 
ered. The passengers, who had all just retired 
to rest, sprang from their births in dreadful con- 
sternation, and made their way to the deck, as 
the water was rushing into the cabin windows, 
and clung to the upper side of the vessel-^all, 
but Mrs. Mortimer and her two female compa- 
nions, who were in what is called the after ^ or 
ladies' cabin ; and, unfortunately for them, their 
births were on the lee-side. The mast was cut 
away as soon as it was possible, and the vessel 



imniediately righted. The cabin and hold were 
half filled with water, but the master of the 
packet, assisted by the crew, instantly waded 
through the main^ cabin to the stern, and in a 
moment returned, bearing in their arms three 
pale and lifeless bodies — Mrs. Mortimer, and her 
two youqg companions. Early in the morning, 
the wreck was discovered by a vessel boqnd 
down the lake, which immediately came to their 
relief, and towed them into Kingston. They 
were all three buried there in the same tomb. 

But now, this gay, volatile woman, left Sey- 
mour Cottage, elate with the prospects and anti- 
cipations of a long and joyous life, full of hope, 
and free from fear. 

Mr. Desmond's departure had been deferred 
jGrom time to time, on account of some business 
that must first be arranged, and Theodore knew 
not how to regret his protracted absence from 
his studies, when his detention secured to him the 
SMiety of bis father and friends. 


For him who, losf to everj hope of life, 
Has long with fortane held unequal strife, 
The frienrilen, homeless object of deqwir. 
For the poor Tagrant, feeL 


Mr. Seymour's family so truly participated in 
the sorrows of Mr. Desmond and his amiable 
son, that their party would have been very serious 
had it not been enlivened by the sprightly Mrs. 
Mortimer ; yet, when she left them, Emily was 
the only one that felt much regret ; for the dispo- 
sition both of Mrs. Seymour and Louisa was of 
so serious and quiet a cast, that the melancholy 
of their afflicted friends was more accordant to 
their taste than the volatility of their gay cousin. 

To Theodore's pensive and enthusiastic spirit| 
there had ever been something repulsive in the 
worldly minded and fashionable Mrs. Mortimer; 
and he felt as much relieved by her absence, as 
if released from an oppressive weight. He now 
seemed to breathe freer, and could again converse, 
unshackled b^' the fear of ridicule, or opposition 
of views ai>d feelings. Again he passed many 
hours of every day reading to the ladies wliile 
they worked, or wandering with Louisa amid the 
delightful shades of Seymour Cottage ; while 


the little girls ran beside them, too mach en- 
gaged in their own pursuits to interrupt the con* 
versation of the youthful friends. The increas- 
ing beat of the season now obliged them to re- 
linquish the fields and meadows, the hill sides and 
the lanes, and to seek for shadier paths amidst 
the woods and glensL 

The country around Washington is thinly set- 
tled ; the large plantation of a Maryland planter 
is seldom half under cultivation, but presents im- 
mense tracts of untamed woodland, or large 
and barren fields, which, after the exhaustion of 
long tillage, are turned out, in the appropriate 
term, to rest^ while new spots are cleared and 
cultivated. These abandoned, or, as the natives 
call them, turned out fields^ though barren, are 
not destitute of rural and picturesque beauty. 
Scattered fruit trees, that have resisted neglect 
and exposure, and long straggling hedges of fo- 
rest trees and shrubs which ihave sprung up and 
grown along fences that are now removed, give 
variety and beauty to these waste tracts of land^ 
while a soft and short grass clothes them with a 
robe of peculiar and tender green, far more beau- 
tiful than the deeper hues of cultivated herbage ; 
groves and clumps of sassafras mingle their tuft- 
ed foliage and yellow verdure with the more 
massive and darker shade of the persimmon, and 
in all these open pasture lands, of which they are 
the spontaneous growth, form the most striking 
and ornamental objects. The rich and graceful 
foliage of the sassafras, which makes so promi- 
nent a feature in these scenes, recalls to the fancy 
the glowing landscapes of Claude Lorrain, where 
the light and tufted foliage of the olive gives 
grace andbeaaty tohis pictures of Italian scenery. 


Thousands of acres thus belonging to one iiv- 
dividual, and but partially cleared and cuitivated, 
give to the southern states a wild and desert as- 
pect, which, though paiuful to the economist or 
philanthropist, possess a picturesqfie and roman- 
tic beauty, which bestows on them, in the paint- 
er's or the poet's eye, a charm far beyond the 
order and richness of cultivated lands. 

What increases the wild and desert appearance 
along the road«^ through these states, and which 
is so often remarked by travellers, is another pe- 
culiar habit of this country. The planters never 
build their mansions by the road side, but choose 
some central or remote part of their estates for 
their residence ; generally leaving, between the 
bouses and the highway, the forest, or uncleared 
land ; while the portion in cultivation lies imme- 
diately around the^dwelling, completely out of 
sight of travellersr^ Taste, as well as conve- 
nience, must sanction this custom, which thus se- 
cures to the southern planter all the charms of re- 
tirement; but foreigners, unacquainted with the 
fact, complain of the solitariness of their way, 
and can scarcely be persuaded that it lies through 
a fertile, cultivated, and thickly inhabited coun- 
try. Between the northern and southern states, 
what a • contrast is presented to the American 
tourist, travelling from Boston to Charleston. 
The small, but highly cultivated farms, which 
skirt the road, the large and handsome towns, 
the neat and pretty villages, the commodious and 
comfortable houses of the country gentleman and 
wealthy farmer, the smaller but equally comfort- 
able cottages of the peasanty which form the con- 
stant objects of his delighted view, vanish when 
be enters the southern and slave-holding states. 
He leaves, too, the fine stone bridges and smooth 


tiumfuke roads, and enters a CQantry which ap« 
pearsi in comparison, waste and wtld. A rogged 
road, miserably shattered bridges, lead him 
through uncleared woodland, open commons^ 
barren fields, and sandy plains. Now and then 
be meets with a di^ty, irregular village, or old 
ill built town ; or sees, straggling by the way 
side; here and there, a wretched log cabin, en- 
closed by some miserable fence, with an open 
shed for the cattle, a patch of tobacco, corn, cab- 
bages. Sec. ; while round the door are playing 
dirty, ragged children, black and white, with the 
pigs and other domestic animals. How is he to 
believe what he has been told, that the southern 
is the richest portion of the United States ? or 
imagine, that behind these woods, and remote 
from the highway, are the large and comfortable 
mansions of the wealthy planters, who live in an 
abundance and hospitality far exceeding the in- 
habitants of the northern states i^ and yet this is 
true; and when he penetrates to the master of 
th^se wide domains, his mind is animated, his 
heart is warmed, by the superior intelligence, the 
unbounded kindness, which characterize the 
southern planter. His mansion is the very tem- 
ple of hospitality, his estate the abode of pleuty I 
It is slavery constitutes the difference between the 
states. In the slave states, '^ where one sole mas- 
ter grasps the wide domain," and peoples it with 
slaves, the peasantry are left comparatively des- 
titute and degraded. They rent small portions 
of land by the year, on which they erect tempo- 
rary log cabins, but which they feel no interest 
in improving and enclosing. ' The heat of the 
climate combines with poverty to render them in- 
dolent and spiritless. By degrees these evils are 
yielding to more enlightened views of interest .^ 



the great landholders are dividing their estates/ 
which, since the revolution, can no longer be en- 
tailed, but are shared between the children, which 
will eventually produce that equal distribution of 
property which constitutes' the happiness and 
comfort of the northern and eastern states. In 
the vicinity of the metropolis, other causes will 
accelerate this revolution of manners; and the 
land round the city, instead of being waste and 
uncuUivated as it now is, will soou be divided 
into small farms, and adorned with gentlemen's 
seats, and comfortable farm houses. 

The increased consumption which the location 
of ft large city will occasion, together with the 
increased demand for labour, will soon cover the 
surrounding country with fertility and plenty. 

But then will vanish those shady forests, those 
romantic wilds, those solitary retreats, where the 
fond enthusiast now delights to wander; where 
the fancy of the piiet is kindled, and where the 
eye of the painter dwells with delight. Like the 
romantic Theodore, he will exclaim, ^' what a 
pity that this beautiful ground should be chan- ' 
ged into corn-fields — that this delightful wood 
should be cut down." 

'^ So I tell papa," replied Louisa ; ^ and I 
have been most earnestly begging him to spare 
these beautiful clumps of persimmon trees, and 
these charming groves of sassafras ; but I fear 
that they must all go, even these noble tolip 
trees, to make room for corn-fields and orchards." 

" What a pity," said little Emily, who had 
jbst then joined them ; '^ we shall then have to 
gi> a great way to find pretty shady play-places; 
do you not remember, sister, how much that 
S^nglish gentleman admited this old field 9^ 



" Yes, I remember,"^ replied Louisa, ." that he 
said an English nobleman woqld think such 
gronhd invaluable. Its gentle swells and sloping 
hollows; the scattered trees, therein such pret* 
tj groups, here in long lines, like hedge-rows ; 
there rising singly, or encompassed with shrubs, 
and the sweet-briars, and hawthorns, and elders, 
and hazel copses, and grape vines, which diver- 
sify this pasture-ground, would, he said, be pur- 
chased at any price, xby some of his wealthy 

" Yes," continued Emily, '^ and even that great 
deep guUey, that plagues papa so much, he said 
would be considered as a great beauty, and 
would be a fine place to throw a Chinese or rus- 
tic bridge over ; it seemed so droll to put a 
bridge where there was no water, didnH it, 

Thus prattling, they reached their favourite 
summer-walk. It was a road, made by the wood- 
men, who supplied the family with fuel. The 
wagon tracks were scarcely visible, and the peb- 
bly soil almost covered with moss, which felt like 
velvet beneath the feet. The road, being only 
made for a single wagon, did not make a wide 
separation between the trees on either side, whose 
intermingled branches formed a verdant arch 
over their beads, that excluded the broad beain$ 
of the sun, and admitted only scattered rays, 
which checkered with light and shade this ro- 
mantic path. The dogwood, honeysuckle, and 
other flowering shrubs, which enlivened and scent- • 
ed this charming solitude, were now out of 
bloom ; but the various tints of the variety of 
trees that grew in the wood, and the perfume of 
their newly expanded foliage, compensated for 
the loss of the gayer bloom of flowers. 

VOL. I.T, 20 


The path, after winding along the top of the 
bill, suddenly descended, and led to a lone and 
unfrequented spot, where the hills rose on all 
sides, and shut out any view beyond. It was 
gloomy and solitary, and never visited, except 
by such romantic wanderers as Theodore and 
Louisa ; even Emily shunned it, because it was 
so dark and lonely ; and, as Louisa wished to 
rest a while, on the roots of an old tree, which 
there formed a comfortable seat, she ran off with 
Ann, to play, as she said, in a prettier. place. 
Louisa threw off her bonnet, and leaned against 
the tree, quite tired with her long walk. Theo- 
dore threw himself on the ground beside her, and 
the stillness of the scene disposed them equally to 
silence. The thick branches over their heads 
excluded the light, and scarcely was the evening 
breeze heard among the boughs. In a few days 
Theodore was to depart ; and his heart was sad- 
dened by the thought. The recollection of some 
verses, descriptive of this spot, which she had 
given to Wilmot, recurred to the mind of Louisa, 
and irresistibly led it back to the hours she had 
passed with him. Thus pre-occupied, thus lost 
in musing, they noted not the passage of time, 
nor observed the darkness gathering round them. 
Suddenly, they were startled by the sound of 
footsteps, rustling among the dry leaves that co- 
vered the ground. They looked around, bat 
could discern no object. They still listened. 
The steps that had seemed to approach, were 
now evidently retreating. Theodore arose, and 
went forward to examine ; he called, and was 
answered by a deep sigh, or, rather, groan ; he 
hastened on, but the path was so narrow and 
winding, so obstructed with roots, that he coakl 
not make much way ; but, as he turned round 


the foot of one of the hills, he saw, through the 
narronr passage which lay between them, sc tall 
figure hastily retreating. He again called, but 
received no answer ; and, afraid to leave Louisa 
any longer, he turned back. In the hill side 
was a hollow, or recess, and, as he was carefully 
examining every nook and corner, he saw in 
this, some object on the ground ; he stooped to 
examine it, found it to be a coat torn in pieces, 
and bundled up together; a broken staff \ay 
near, and on the ground was scattered fragments 
of paper. These he carefully picked up, and 
put them into his pocket, resolving not to show 
them to Louisa, nor to tell her what he had dis- 
covered, for fear of creating alarm. 

He found her waiting quietly for him, and free 
from the agitation he supposed she would feel. 

" You are not frightened, then ?" said he. 

" Not much, if indeed at afl," she replied ; "I 
have never in my life heard of robbers in the 
country, still less of murderers ; so of what," she 
added with a smile, ^^ should I be afraid .'^" 

When they had wound their way out of the 
dark woods, and reached the summit of the hill, 
they found the sun had just set, but the landscape 
which spread before them was bright, from the 
crimson glow which still illuminated the western 
sky. They saw the children gathering strawber- 
ries at the foot of the hill, and called to them to 

How delicious are the evenings of June ! how 
soft, how warm, and yet how fresh ! The mel- 
low light which is diffused through ether — the 
glow which is spread over all creation, is milder 
thao that emitted from the setting sun, and warmer 
thao that shed by the pale, cold moon. Oh, 
it is a delicious light, which softens and entenders 


the very soul ! Summer twilight ! — ^who has ever 
enjoyed the summer twilight in the solitude of the 
country, and has not felt the heart dissolved in 
tenderness ? 

For, as the coy, nocturnal flower 
No more at eve its sweets withholds, 
So, the meek heart, ^t twilight hour, 
Its sensibility uufolds! 

It would have been profanation to speak, and 
to interrupt the stillness of such a moment! Even 
the birds had ceased their warblings — all, but the 
sweet-toned mocking-bird, who, from the topmost 
bough of some high tree, poured forth its clear 
smd various strains, imitating in rapid succession 
all the other choristers of the woods. 

Louisa found her mocher somewhat anxious at 
her protracted stay. When seated round their 
social tea-table, Theodore told of their adventure. 
The greatest curiosity was excited, and a thousand 
conjectures formed. The children were delight- 
ed, much more than alarmed, by a circumstance 
that was strange and inexplicable. Nothing has 
such a charm for childhood as novelty, unless it 
is the terrible. 

The next morning, after breakfast, was the 
time fixed on for Mr. Desmond's departure. At 
Theodore's request he arose early, and accom- 
panied him to the narrow glen, where they had 
been alarmed the previous evening by the intru- 
sion of some one evidently desirous of conceal- 
ment, and rendered more suspicious by the ac- 
companying circumstances. As they passed 
through the narrow and tangled paths that wound 
between the hills, and where the dried leaves, 
drifted by high winds, had accumulated in heaps, 
they plainly distinguished the tracks of recent 



footsteps; and in one spot, near the hollow where 
the bundle bad been discovered, the grass and 
leaves were much trodden, and suggested by its 
appearance the idea of its being thus trodden in 
a struggle or contest. 

Though yet early, the coat and broken staff 
had been taken away, and' no other circumstance 
remained to increase suspicion, except that of a 
heap of dried leaves that choaked the narrow path- 
way, as it led up between two perpendicular 
banks, was broken and scattered as if by violence 
and haste. 

They repeatedly called, but received no an* 
swer; and their conjectures settled into a belief, 
that the disturber must have been a run-away 
negro, perhaps discovered and taken in the hol- 
low, where his coat might have been left. This 
conjecture might have accounted for all the ap- 
pearances, except the scattiered fragments of a let- 
ter, which seemed by design to have been torn in- 
to very small pieces, and which Theodore deter- 
mined, when at leisure, to paste together. 

When they reached home, the family were 
waiting breakfast, and they gave an account of 
their unsuccessful search ; and Mr. Desmond ad- 
vised the ladies not to walk in those solitary 
woods alone, until the intruder had been disco- 

" But if it is a poor slave, run away from some 
bad master, I should like to meet him and give 
him some victuals, poor soul," said Emily. 

Mr. Desmond patted her head, and looked kind- 
ly CD her, but advised her not to go so far from 
home, until they had found out who the person 

Theodore, after receiving his father's farewell, 
shut himself up in his own room, and did not . 



open fais door even to bis litde friend Emily, who 
woaljd fain have mingled her tears with his. 
But there is a violence of agony, an overpow- 
ering and subduing grief, which we would- con- 
ceal from every eye but that of our heavenly 
Father ; in which the sympathy of the tenderest 
friei^dship cannot participate ; which will not be 
shared, and which God only can control ; bid- 
dbg the troubled soul, as he did the tempestuous 
sea, << be still." 

When the family collected in the evening, Ed- 
ward was missing, and on inquiry, no one had 
seen him since morning, or knew where he was. 
The too anxious Mrs. Seymour could scarcely 
command her feelings sufficiently to join them at 
table ; yet her reason told her, his absence might 
be owing to sport or pleasure, more probably 
than to danger or injury. She sent for Eddy, 
who generally accompanied him on his shootipg 
or riding excursions, and was the promoter of 
his fr,oIics and pastimes ; but on inquiry, he as- 
sured his mistress he knew nothing of his yoiiing 
master, more than he had seen him in the after- 
noon crossing the field with bis gun on his shoul- 
der, and a basket in his hand. Eddy was just 
turning to leave the room, when Edward entered. 
His cheeks were flushed with a higher colour than 
usual: the beautiful black curls that clustered 
round his sweet expressive face, were pushed aside 
to cool himself, and showed his high and flushed 
forehead; his countenance betrayed repressed emo- 
tion, and though heated and out of breath, he took 
his seat as composedly as usual, and, without say- 
ing any thing about his detention, or observing 
the inquiring and anxious looks of his mother, be- 
gan his supper. Mrs. Seymour could not refrsun 



from ioquiring wheh he had been^ and what bad 
detained him so late. 

'^ I will tell you all about it, mamma, when I 
have eat something, and drunk my tea, for I feel 
hungry and thirsty, not having tasted any thing 
since early this morning." 

** Why, did not you take your dinner with yoil 
to school, as usual ?" 

'^ Tes, ma'am, but I did not eat it, as what Emi- 
ly said last night came into my head, and I 
thought if it should be a poor run-away, hiding 
in the woods, he might perish if no one gave him 
any victuals, and so I thought I would go and 

" My dear Edward, that was very rash ; what 
could such a boy as you do, if it should be a per- 
son with ill designs f " 

" Why, mother, what could he do ? If he was 
a robber, he would not think of robbing such a 
little fellow as I am ; and even if it was a mur- 
derer, it would do him no good to murder me; 
I could not do a man any harm, so why should a 
man do me any harm f but though I am too little 
to do any harm, I am not too little to do a man 
good. So, mother, as I wanted to do good to 
whoever it was that might be hiding there, I don't 
see how any harm could come to me." 

*< And so, then, you went in search of this dis- 
turber of the peace." 

*< Oh, pray tell us all about it, brother Ed- 
ward," said Emily; "tell us every thing you saw 
or heard } don't forget a single thing." 

"Well, then," said Edward, "to begin — ^I 
thought it best to have my gun ; so after school I 
came home for it, and with that on my shoulder, 
and my dog at my heels, I was .afraid of no- 
thing. I went to the glen, and looked all about* 



and searched the hollow in ihe hill-side, and in 
among the bushes, and down in the gulleys; but 
coiAd hear and see no one, though I saw plain 
enough, in many places, the tracks of a man's feet^ 
which Hector traced, following them as they 
wound all about the woods ; and I was just re- 
solved to leave the victuals in the hollow, and re- 
turn home, when, as I came back, not far from 
your seat, sister Louisa, Hector began to bark, 
that short, quick bark, when he finds any thing ; I 
went up to see what he had found, and saw hira 
smelling at a man's shoe, which lay at the foot of 
that very tall chestnut oak, near your seat, 
Louisa ! 

" Hector would not go from it, but with his nose 
to the ground went round and round it, and then 
he growled low; so I was sure something extra- 
ordinary must be the matter ; and he pawed and 
scratched up the ground, not like when he is 
earthing a ground squirrel, for then he does not 
growl ; so, I stooped to look near, and felt with 
my hand, thinking money or something was hid- 
den there, but though I dug about with my hand, 
J could not feel any thing. I hesitated a moment^ 
whether I should help Hector scratch up the 
earth and see if any thing was buried there ; but 
it was growing darkish, and I thought if the rob- 
ber should find me there, he would kill me too, 
to keep me from telling of him. Just then I 
heard a rustling up among the boughs ; Hector 
barked loud and quick, and I snatched up my 
gun, and on looking up I was frightened on see- 
ing a tall, ugly looking man. He jumped down^ 
and before I could run awa}', as I was going to 
do, he caught me by the arm ; I did not scream, 
for I tried not to let him see 1 was afraid ; and he 
said, ' what do you want here, boy f Oh, mo- 


tlier, I never heard such a strange hollow voice ; 
and he looked so angry ; he was as white as a 
sheet, and his beard was so long it made him 
look qaite grim, and his eyes seemed sunk in his 
head, and he looked so wild and fiery, and his 
black hair appeared as if it had never been 
combed ; and he was monstrous taU, and his shirt 
sleeves, for he had no coat on, were all hanging 
in tatters, and his bosom all open— oh, he was a 
terrible looking man ! and I trembled so I could 
not speak a word to him ; then he said again, 
but not so angrily, ' what do you want here, little 
boy ? are they coming to murder me — to take 
me and put me into a dungeon f but I will never 
be taken alive.' I could not speak, for I knew 
not what answer to make to such strange ques- 
tions ; then he looked so stern, but so sad at mei 
as he raised his arm up to Heaven, and said— - 

" ' By that Heaven which is my only covering,' 
and pointing to the earth, ' by that earth that is 
my only bed — by that tree which is my only 
dwelling, I swear — ^yes, I swear, I will never be 
taken alive. Leave me, then, good boy, the 
liberty which birds and beasts, and even the very 
reptiles enjoy ; go thy ways, and tell my pursuers 
I have built my nest high as the eagle's, where 
they shall not reach me ; my bed is in a fox's 
hole, where they cannot find me ! tell them the 
beasts in the woods are kinder to me than my fel- 
low man. Go, my little boy ; but do not live 
among men ; come back and live with me in liber- 
ty, where no one shall chain you, and beat you, 
and shut you up in dark dungeons ; you look so 
innocent, stay not with wicked men.' His 
mournful speech took away all my fear, and 
made me cry. When he saw my tears, he said, 
* weep on, innocedt ; tears are sweet — sweet ! — oh, 


that I could weep too ! but' — and he rubbed his 
eyes—* there are no tears in my eyes ; they are 
so burning hot, they have dried up all my tears.' 
His speaking so made me cry still more, and I 
took his hand and squeezed it, which seemed to 
please him, and he looked so mild and kind on me. 
Then all at once I thought about the victuals, and 
I picked up my basket, which I had put down on 
the ground, and taking out the victuals, I offered 
them to him. He snatched them from me, and 
threw them among the bushes, and looked an- 
gry, saying, * did I not tell you I would eat no- 
thing that men eat; that I will not live with them, 
nor like them ; am I not a bird, or a beast, and 
cannot these woods afford me nourishment f ' 

** Then I took his hand again, seeing that it pa- 
cified him, and shaking it, said, ' I must go home ;' 
and bade him good night. He held my hand^ast, 
and said, ' do not leave me; you are not a man; 
you will not hurt me, so do stay with me,' But 
I pulled my hand gently away, and told him I 
must go, but I would come to see him to-mor- 
row. Then he said he would go with me ; and he 
walked alongside of me, but kept starting and 
looking, now behind, now aside of him ; and when 
we came to the brow of the hill, where we could 
see the open fields, and our house, he said, 'do 
you live there ?' I answered ' yes.' Then he said, 
'does a tall, venerable looking man live there?' 
I made him describe him, and then I knew he 
meant Mr. Desmond, and I told him he had gone 
away that morning. ' Gone !' he said, ' gone ! 
then let me die — he could have saved me — he was 
an angel among men — I have been following him 
from place to place; for where he was I was 
safe — gone! then let me die !' and he threw him- 



self on the ground. He would not move, nor 
speak, but lay as if he was indeed dead. So then, 
as it was getting quite dark, I came home as fast 
as I could." 

Mrs. Seymour was lost in thought ; so deep 
was the interest this narrative hstd excited, no one 
thought of interrupting Edward; and when he 
stopped, Emily and Henry spoke so fast, and 
asked so many questions, it was some minutes 
before Mrs. Seymour spoke; she then said, there 
was no doubt that this unhappy man was a ma- 
niac, who had escaped from confinement ; and, 
probably — "but no," said she, checking herself, 
'Het us not surmise the cause of his dreadful 
condition: God has punished — has afflicted, I 

" It would seem," said Theodore, " that he 
must have some knowledge of my father. It is 
probable he must have seen us this morning ; I 
wonder he did not speak to my father?" 

" He seems to avoid men," observed Edward, 
" and came down to me because I was a child, so 
little that I could not harm him; so I can go 
and see him again, and try and coax him to come 

Mrs. Seymour knew not how to consent to Ed- 
ward's going again : though her humanity strong- 
ly impelled her to assist the poor unfortunate. 
Theodore offered to go along, and Eddy, who 
had remained in the parlour listeninp^ to Ed- 
ward's narrative, begged permission that he too 
might go, and said he ivould die rather than a 
hair of master Edward's should be hurt. 

She begged Edward to postpone his visit until 
the afternoon, as his father was to come out the 
next morning, and would decide on what was 
most proper. It was so settled; and, until bed- 


time, they could talk of nothing but this stranj 

adventure ; and while all were praising Edwa^Erd 
for his courage, his mother toldbim she was mc^ ^^ 
pleased with the humanity which prompted hi *° 
to seek the relief of a fellow creature, and tl:'^^ 
self-denial he had practised in giving up his foo^^^ 
to relieve another. 


Once I went forth, and foand, till then unknown, 
A cottage — whither oft we since repair ; 
'Tis perched upon the green bill top, but close 
Environed with a ring of branching elms 
That overhang the tliatch ; itself unseen, 
Peeps at the vale below. 
I called the low roofed lodge, the peasant's nest. 


The next day Mr, Seymour arrived soon after 
K^eakfast, and when the first salutations were 
^er, he was informed of the affecting incident 
iiich had occurred. He listened attentively to 
I] the circumstances, inquired particularly con- 
- rning the size and appearance of the unfortu- 
^te being who had excited their solicitude; then, 
^er some moments thought, related the facts 
(^ T. Desmond had told him of the mysterious 
t*anger, and asked Theodore if it was not pro- 
^ble they were one and the same person, and in- 
^ired whether^ at the time he had met him in 
'^ Capitol, he had then the appearance of de- 
^tigement. Theodore described his wild and 
^rn aspect, his abrupt and threatening manner, 
hen he discovered St. Julien ; but the situation 
^ v^hich he had been discovered in a lonely, dark, 
^vihed room, in the very act of destroying him- 

VOL, 11. 21 


8elf, was, if not a proof of insanity, at least in- 
dicative of feelings which might naturally lead to 
such a condition. The family eagerly listened to 
these strange but interesting details, which 
greatly increased the anxiety and concern they 
already felt for this poor wanderer. 

It was, therefore, determined, that Edward 
should seek another interview, but should be ac- 
companied by his father and Theodore, who would 
keep out of sight, though near enough to secure 
Edward from danger, should any occur. 

Provided with a basket of victuals, they set 
forth on their benevolent errand ; but it proved 
fruitless. Edward went to the foot of the tree 
and called repeatedly, yet received no answer. 
They then deposited the basket in the lower 
branches of the tree, and continued their search 
through the wood. Hector was their guide, and 
led them a most devious course through all the 
most obstructed and obscure parts of this unfre- 
quented solitude. Towards evening they return- 
ed, wearied and disappointed ; Mr. Seymour con- 
jectured, that the poor maniac had seen them at 
a distance, from his high observatory, and had 
hidden himself in order to avoid them ; but Ed- 
ward said, he was certain, that if in the wood, 
Hector would have discovered his retreat, and 
rather imagined he had set off to seek Mr. Des- 
mond, whom, by his own account, he had been 
following for some time. The next day Mr. 
Seymour and his son again visited the tall -tree, 
and found the basket of victuals had been taken 
away, which proved to them, that this wretched 
man was still an inhabitant of the woods. 

A few days after this, Donald returned. He 
had seen his beloved master embark, and would 
fain have returned with him to dear Ireland, had 



not Mr. Desmond earnestly desired him to remain 
with Theodore. He came, then, to devote him- 
self to this child of his affection, whom he had 
so often carried in his arms, and whom he had 
loved from his birth. In Emily's presence, he 
described to Theodore the lonely and melancholy 
situation of Mrs. Brinden, and said she had pined 
herself really sick. 

When Emily repeated this to her mother, Mrs. 
Seymour, compassionating the solitary and friend- 
less situation in which that worthy woman was 
left, now that Mr. Desmond had gone, wrote to 
her, and advised her to shut up the house (which 
4iad been left in her charge) for a month or two, 
and to come and pass some time with her in the 

Mrs. Brinden, deeply depressed by the afilict- 
ing scenes through which she had recently passed, 
but still more so, by the nocturnal appearance 
she had witnessed, gladly accepted of Mrs. Sey- 
mour's kind invitation, and arrived the evening 
before Theodore left Seymour Cottage. 

The parting was a melancholy one ; for this 
amiable young man had rendered himself dear 
to every individual in the family, btit they were 
somewhat cheered by Mr. Seymour's consenting 
that Edward should accompany him, and enter the 
preparatory school, where he could continue his 
academical studies. Theodore felt, that the so- 
ciety of Louisa's brother would be a tie to unite 
him the closer to her. The parental affection 
Mr. and Mrs. Seymour evinced for him, the kind- 
ness, the tenderness of Louisa, the fondness of 
the sweet little Emily, warmed and cheered his 
heart, and he left Seymour Cottage with the feel- 
ings with which he would have left a dear and 
cherished hoine. 


In the solitude in which Mrs. Seymour and her 
family were now left, books became their chief 
resource ; Mr. Seymour, who remained in the 
city, only spending one c;r two days a week with 
them, sent them the newest publications^ and took 
care to supply Louisa with music. But books 
and music sometimes failed to interest feelings 
which had been awakened to a sense jof deeper 
and tenderer emotions. Anxious to conceal from 
her mother a sadness she could not always con- 
quer, Louisa became more engaged than ever in 
her benevolent endeavours to improve the condi- 
tion of the neighbouring cottagers. Under her 
mother's direction she collected a small number 
of children, whom she employed a poor widow 
to teach, and accompanied by Emily and Ann^ 
and often by her mother and Mrs. Brinden, she 
would visit this little school, and assist in the 
instruction of the scholars ; at other times, she 
would visit those neighbours who were old, infirm, 
or sick, and pass whole afternoons in reading ta 

There was one family, for whom she felt more 
deeply interested than any other. It was that of 
a young widow with five small children, who had 
no possible means of support, but such as she 
gained by her own industry, or the benevolence 
of strangers. From the last she shrank with a 
delicacy of feeling, which is generally supposed 
to be inseparable from refinement of eduQation; 
but this is a mistake, which those conversant with 
the characters of the poor will soon discover ; 
and often will they find a truer and deeper sensi- 
bility among the uneducated, than among the 
better instructed classes of society. But Mrs. 
Williams could not be classed among the unedu- 
cated, although one of the poorest among the 


poor. Her parents were natives of Scotland, 
and when they emigrated to this country, brought 
with them not only the h^its, but the fortune 
which entitlied them to genteel society. A variety 
of adverse circemstances had exhausted the 
wealth, but had not debased the manners and 
sentiments of these respectable people. Of eight 
children, that were born to them in America, 
Esther was the only one who^ had been spared to 
their old age ; but she was, in herself, a treasure, 
and on her tbev lavished all their affection and 
instruction. She was their pride as well as com- 
fort, and was brought up with a tenderness and 
indulgence that ill fitted her to struggle with the 
hardships of poverty. They died at an advan- 
ced age, leaving their daughter a friendless or* 
pban, in a strange land. After the death of her 
parents, she hired herself as a seamstress, in the 
farmily of a widow lady, who resided near Mont- 
gomery court-house, with whom she had becofhe 
acquainted in Georgetown. This lady had a|i 
only son. Spoiled and indulged by his mother^ 
he never dreamed of subjecting his conduct or 
his wishes to her control ; but, although he knew 
he wSt* entirely dependant on her, he felt as se- 
cure of inheriting her large fortune, as if it was 
already settled on him, and followed the bent of 
his inclinations whithersoever they led. He was 
handsome, young, and agreeable; and, in the 
eyes of affection, faultless. Such, at least, he 
appeared to Esther; and she seemed to him 
more lovely than any woman he had before seen. 
The lady with whom she lived had soon disco- 
vered her superior attainments, and was so plea- 
sed with her mild and genteel deportment, that 
she made her her companion. In such a situa* 
tion, it is not wonderful these young people be- 



came attached to each other. / Esther was per- 
suaded by her lover to coosent to a secret mar- 
riage, which could vitii be long concealed. When 
it was discovered, the enraged mother turned her 
son and his wife from her house, and soon aAer 
married a roan, who had been long attentive to 
her, and who now took care that no reconcilia- 
Uon should be effected between the young man 
and his offended mother. 

After the first evidence of her displeasure was 
over, she consented to give her son a small tract 
of land and two slaves, with whatever more was 
absolutely necessary. Unaccustomed- to employ- 
ment, he must have starved on this little farm, 
had it not been for Esther's industry. They 
struggled on for many years, supported only by 
their tender affection for each other ; but her 
husband died, the farm and all he owned was 
sold for debt, and this unfortunate young woipan 
was left with five children, and no support but 
such as her hands could earn. A good fisirmer, 
in the neighbourhood, took compassion on her 
forlorn condition. In one corner of his farm he 
built a log cabin, and enclosed a little garden, 
which be let her have on very moderate terms; 
requiring only some assistance in the spring and 
autumn, in making up the clothes of his family. 

This little spot was three miles from Seymour 
Cottage, and in so secluded a situation, that 
Louisa would never have discovered it, had she 
not been led to it by chance. Louisa rode a 
great deal on horseback, often attended only by a 
servant, and it was her delight to trace every 
winding road she met with ; the more shady and 
lonely it was, the better was she pleased to follow 
its windings. xOne day, she had entered on one 
of these unfrequented roads, and found that it 


wound through such romaotic grounds, that she 
determined to see to what spot it led ; but the 
further she went, the more ^obscure it grew ; the 
thicker the wood and deeper the shade. At last, 
all tracks of wheels became imperceptible ; the 
road seemed long unused, and was overgrown 
with grass. Eddy, who attended her, assured 
her it did not lead to any house, but had been 
only used for carting wood, and that this being 
the place where the wood was cut, the road went 
no farther. She resolved, however, as she could 
still perceive in the high grass the faint track of a 
foot, or horse-path, that she would persevere; the 
i^opd, she observed, could not be very extensive, 
a£ she could see through the trees the brightness 
of ti^e setting sun. At last, the path became so 
narrow, that she could not safely make her way 
through the trees, and, giving her horse to Eddy, 
she pursued the path on foot. She now soon 
reached the other side of the wood, when a syl- 
van scene broke upon her sight, which well re- 
paid her for the difficulties she had encountered. 
Opposite to her was a hill that gently sloped to 
the valley beneath ; through this narrow valley 
ran a little stream, bordered by alders, magno- 
lias, roses, and other flowering shrubs. A small 
spiace of ground, not exceeding eight or ten 
acres, had been cleared, and was now covered 
with grass of the most vivid verdure. Except 
the narrow valley, which the eye could trace 
winding its M'ay between two distant hills, this 
little spot had no opening whatsoever, but seem- 
ed shut out from the world, by the high and 
thick woods in which it was embosomed. From 
a little grove of trees on the hill side, Louisa saw 
the white smoke curling up to the blue sky. 
Certain now of being near some dwelling, she de- 


scendcd the hill on which she stood, and, when in 
the Talley^ she could discern the white-washed 
walls of a small cabin. A well-trodden path led 
firom the rivulet to this sequesitred abode, to 
which Louisa, in her own mind, instantly gave 
the name of the Peasants JM'est. After looking 
for some time, she discovered a passage across 
the stream, by means of an old tree, which ser* 
ved as a bridge. As she approached^ two or 
three little children, who were sitting under a 
great chestnut tree, playing, ran in to announce 
that somebody was coming, and betrayed as 
much surprise and alarm as if they had never 
before seen any one. A beautiful little spaniel 
ran frisking out, and, instead of barking, was so 
insensible to fear, that be leaped on Lonisa, and 
played round her as if pleased with the sight of 
company, and then ran before to show her the 
way. The ground before the door was worn 
bare, but was swept as nicely as a floor. On 
one side of the cabin was a little garden, enclosed 
with post and rail fence, but which, being white- 
washed, had a very neat appearance. On the 
other side was a small shed, not much larger than 
a closet, under a cluster of locust (or acacia) 
trees, with a bench before it, on which were ar- 
ranged the milk pail, churn, paus, &c. &c., in 
the neatest order. Under another tree was a 
benrb, on which stood two bee-hives. Hens, 
with their broods of chickens, were feeding 
round, and the whole scene had such a neat, com- 
fortable appearance, that before she entered it, 
Louisa stopped to look around her. Opposite 
the door she entered, was another opening into a 
back yard, where she saw the children, and a 
most pleasing looking young woman^ approach- 



The inside of this lonely cabin surprised and 
pleased her even more than the outside : the walls 
.were whitewashed ; the floor rubbed as nicely as 
a table ; the chimney filled with boughs of mag- 
nolias, and a variety of flowers adorned the man- 
tle-piece ; a white aotton curtain was drawn across 
the only wfndow ; a few pine chairs and a table, 
aiid a large chest in one corner, with an open 
cupboard, in which, as is usual, the cups and sau- 
cers, and other crockery ware, was displayed to the 
best advantage, were all the furniture, except a 
shelf which ran along one side of the wall, which 
was filled with books, neatly bound and regular- 
ly placed. The wholt had an appearance of sin- 
gular comfort, even of taste and ornament, al- 
though there was not an article which is not found 
in the most miserable cabin. Neatness and order 
bestowed the charm which so struck on Louisa's 
fancy. When the mistress of the little dwelling 
entered, she was still more surprised. She was 
extremely fair, and although dressed in home- 
spun cotton, had an air of delicacy and gen- 
tility, that induced Louisa to believe she must be 
a lady in disguise. Her manners and conversa- 
tion confirmed the suspicion, and she felt embar- 
rassed at the idea of intruding on the seclusion of 
some one, who, perhaps, desired concealment. 
She apologized, and expressed something like the 
sentiments she felt. But Mrs. Williams quickly 
relieved her from such fears, and gave her a short 
and simple explanation of her circumstances. 

From that time, the cottage of Mrs. Williams 
became a favourite place of resort, not only for 
Louisa, but Emily : they found out a shorter way 
through the woods, by which they could walk, 
and while they staid in the country, few weeks 
passed, in which they did not pay a visit to the 


Peasani*S'JSrest; where, as {^mily said, " far in 
the windings of a woody vale," it stood conceal 
ed. Mrs. Williams now no longer wanted work, 
books, and many little comforts, nay, luxuries, 
of which she had long been destitute. Mrs. Sey* 
mour sent the two eldest children to school ; the 
others were taught at home by their mother, and 
when Emily went, it was her delight to get them 
under the great chestnut-tree, and hear them say 
their lessons. 

For some weeks, the fear of meeting the poor 
maniac had prevented Louisa from taking this 
long and solitary walk ; but these fears had sub- 
sided ; the unfortunate man, if he still inhabited 
their woods, kept himself quiet and concealed, 
and she determined to visit her favourite Mrs. 
Williams. Mrs. Brinden offered to accompany 
her; £mily and Ann, each furnished with a lit- 
tle basket, containing some articles fur their bum- 
ble friend, were likewise of the party. It was a 
delightful afternoon, and in high spirits tbey set 
off on their expedition. 

. When they reached this sequestered spot, Mrs. 
Brinden, though prepared to admire its beauties, 
was surprised, as much as Emily could wish her 
to be, with the romantic view that presented itself 
to her eyes. The landscape lay in deep repose ; 
no moving object, no sound disturbed its quie- 
tude. The children ran down the hill, and reach- 
ed- the cottage long before Mrs. Brinden and 

Mrs. Williams had her little pine-table placed 
before the door, under the shade of the trees, and 
was sitting at work, and had been listening to her 
children saying their lessons. But books were 
thrown aside, and they had run with Emily and 
Ann to their favourite chestnut tree, under which 



they had tbeir baby-house, and were already «&« 
gaged in play. Loaisa would have preferred a 
seat under the trees, but wishing Mrs. Brinden 
to see the inside of the cott^e, she accepted Mrs. 
Williams' invitation to go in. 

After various inquiries and common-place ob- 
servations, Louisa rose to look at a large neW 
book that was lying on the table. It was a reli- 
gious work, and Mrs. Williams, perceiving it had 
attracted her attention, told her, it had been lent 
to ber by one of the very best and kindest of hu- 
Bian beings. 

*^ That is saying a great deal," said Mfs. Brin- 

"Not too much," replied Mrs. Williams; "nay, 
I know of HO words that could express my opi- 
nion of him." 

" And who can this best of human beings be?" 
aslied Louisa. 

" Oh, Miss Seymour," she replied, " he is your 
very counterpart, and if, as they say, souls are 
paired in heaven, he is the match of yours. Sure- 
ly God designed you for each other." 

".But who is he, and where did he come from ? 
1 don't suppose he has just dropped down from 
heaven on purpose for me." 

" Indeed, I sometimes imagine he belongs there, 
for except your dear kind self, I never met any 
one so apt to excite that idea." 

« But who is he .?" 

" Indeed, I cannot tell you his name." 

" Not tell me the name of a person who you 
seem to know so well !" 

" Indeed, I cannot, though he has often been 
here ; all I know, is, that he is a young clergy- 
man, vt^bo at present is staying at George Town, 


• -^ 


where he preaches occasionally, bat he is not yet 
settled there, though I hope he will be. 

** You must know, Miss Seymour, that being 
informed that the poo> people round Washington 
and George Town were very ignorant, and not 
able to support the Gospel, he volunteered his ser- 
vices, and has been going about from house to 
bouse, carrying instruction and comfort wbere- 
ever he went. 

^' If you were to see him, ladies, you would 
scarcely believe that one so young and handsomCi 
with an appearance and manners calculated to 
shine in \he great world, and possessing such a 
fine genius and great learning — you would scarce- 
ly believe, 1 say, that he could be so lowly 
minded, so devoted to such obscure and humble 
duties. He is a blessing to all the country round, 
and we know him by no other name than the 
good Minister, or the kind young gentleman. ^ 
My dear Miss Seymour, you must see, you miist 
know him, and then you cannot help loving him ; 
and I am sure it will be the same, if he sees you." 

" if, as you think," said Mrs. Brinden, " the 
match is made in Heaven, they will certainly 

*' Oh ! but sometimes, as Doctor Watts says, 
these souls that were made for each other, lose 
their way coming to earth, and are separated.^' 

" Would you have me, then," said Louisd, smi- 
ling, " to go in search of him .?" 

"Not exactly so," replied Mrs. Williams; " but 
if you would come to our church, you might then 
hear him, and he would see you." 

" I think I had best wait," said Louisa, <^ until 
he comes to ours." 

" Well," said Mrs. Williams, " I care not how 
it is brougiit about, so it does, but come to pass ; • 



for it is a thing 1 have set my heart on, and I . 
really think you look very much alike ; only you 
are very fair, and he is 'very brown ; and he has 
black eyes, and you have blue." 

^' There must be a striking resemblance, 
truly," said Mrs. Brinden, smiling. 

" You may laugh," replied Mrs. Williams, 
** yet, notwithstanding these differences, they 
really are very much alike ; but it is in the ex* 
pression of their countenances, in that peculiar 
manner belonging to both, which is so free and easy, 
kind and affectionate, and yet so dignified, so 
something entirely different from common peo- 
ple, that were they dressed in the coarsest garb, 
you would know both to be of the highest quali- 
ty. It must be your souls that are alike, which, 
shining through your sweet countenances, and 
speaking through your kind ways, makes you 
look so •alike ; I know not how otherwise to ac- 
count for the striking resemblance that exists. 
Several of the neighbours have observed it ; and 
even my little ones said, the other evening when 
he went away, '^n't that good minister just like 
Miss Seymour?' " 

" You have made us quite forget how time 
goes," said Mrs. Brinden, looking out of the door ; 
^^ the sun has sunk behind yon hill." 

" It is still high for all that," said Mrs. Wil- 
liams ; '' but were you to stay all night, I should 
not say all I have to say of this angel-like man.'' 

" Then we may as.well go now," said Louisa,- 
^^ and come another time and hear the rest." 

They now arose, and calling the children, bade 
Mrs. Williams good evening. They found it 
much later than they imagined ; and before they 
reached the open ground around Seymour Cot- 
tage, it was quite dark. 

VOL. 11. 29 


But I— my youth was rash and Tain, 
And blood and rage my manhood stainM } 
And my gray hairs mmt now descend 
To my cold grave without a friend* 

■ Thou wilt disown 
Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known. 

ff^alter Scott. 

The moon had just risen, and gave a faint and 
indistinct light, and as they emerged from the 
woods, they saw, leaning against a tree that stood 
by itself on the top of the hill, which rose at 
some distance from beliind the house, a tall and 
slender figure ; his back was towards them, bis 
hands were clasped and raised to Heaven, and 
his 6yes seemed fixed in steadfast gaze upon the 
stars. Not doubting but it was the unfortunate 
object for whom they had so long sought, and 
unwilling to meet him at such an hour, they stole 
down the path as silently as they could. He was 
so absorbed he did not hear them, though one 
part of their way led close by him. As they 
passed, they heard him speak ; they involuntarily 
paused, and heard some indistinct sentences ; but 
at last he exclaimed, '' Oh, my brother, where 
are you ?" and, afterwards, " Fanny, my dear 
Fanny, look down upon me." Mrs. Brinden ut- 


tered a shriek, and fell senseless on the ground; 
,the children screamed, and ran towards home, 
while Louisa, kneeling by her side, raised her 
head, saying, '^ Mrs. Brinden, my dear Mrs. 
Brinden, do not be alarmed ; he has gone, the 
man has gone." It was a long time before she 
recovered, for Louisa had nothing to aid in her 
recovery but chafing her hands and fanning 
her with her hat. .At last she moved, she sighed^ 
and in a few more minutes faintly articulated, 
** where is he? — where is my husband?" - 

" Your husband ?" exclaimed Louisa, thinking 
her senses were still bewildered ; " what do yon 
mean ?" 

" It was my husband," she faintly articulated. 

" The person you saw," said Louisa, " on hear- 
ing your shriek, started and fle'd Into the woods;" 

" Strange !" said Mrs. Brinden ; " very 
strange!" She tried to rise, but was so. feeble she 
sunk again on the ground ; she trembled convul- 
sively, and could scarcely breathe. Louisa knew 
not what to do ; she could not leave her to go for 
assistance, and yet feared to remain, lest the un- 
happy man should return. She endeavoured to 
soothe and calm the violent perturbation of Mrs. 
Brinden, and keep her own spirits composed, lest 
some new and strange call on her fortitude should 
be made. 

After a little while, to her great joy, she heard 
some of the family approaching, who had been 
brought by the children,^ and soon afterwards, 
her mother, followed by several servants, reached 
the spot, where she sat supporting Mrs. Brindea 
in her arms. With this additional assistance, she 
reached the house, and was put immediately to 
bed, as she seedied quite ill. ^ Mrs. Seymour and 
Louisa sat till late in the night by her bed side. 


and then Louisa persuaded her mother to retire, 
and leave her and the housekeeper to stay by her 
the remainder of the night. The composing 
draught Mrs. Seymour administered at last took 
effect, and she fell into a disturbed slumber. In 
the morning when she awoke, she intreated Mrs. 
Seymour to send in search of the person she had 
seen. '* It is my husband, my lost husband; that 
is, if he is alive." 

Mrs. Seymour perceived the superstitious ideas 
that still disturbed her mind, and resolved to 
spare no pains in giving her the only relief in her 
power. She had heard some part of her story, 
and thought it possible this person might indeed 
be her husband. ^ 

Although it was raining very violently, she 
sent several of H^r servants in search of the poor 
wanderer, but they returned without any tidings 
of him. For three days it rained without inter- 
mission ; Ibut every day the search was renewed, 
and every day a basket of provision was deposi- 
ted in the tree : but not as before, was it taken 
away. " It is useless," said Mrs. Brinden, " he 
is not alive." Some days now passed heavily 
and gloomily. The wretched state of mind into 
which this accident had plunged Mrs. Brinden, 
deeply affected Mrs. Seymour and Louisa, who 
did all they could to soothe and cheer her. 

They were rejoiced when the storm cleared 
away, and the time fpr Mr. Seymour's weekly 
visit arrived. When that gentleman was inform- 
ed of the strange occurrence which had taken 
place, he determined to go forth, and not to leave 
a single spot in the woods unexplored. 

It was not until near the close of day, when 
returning home, quite despairing of snccess, 
that he thought of a stone quarry, which had b«eii 


worked some years before. It was in the side of 
the wood most remote from the house, and where 
the servants never went for fuel. At this season 
of the year, the light remains long after the sun 
has set, and he would still be able to explore that 
deserted spot. Calling two of his men, who were 
searching in different parts of the wood, he bent 
his way thither. The stone had been quarried in 
such a way as to make a deep excavation in the 
tide of the hill. When they reached the place, 
they found this excavation in one place considera- 
bly deepened, while branches of trees were pla- 
ced 'in a way to conceal it. These they removed, 
and on entering, with astonishment and horror, 
discovered the lifeless body of the person they 
sought. When they were a little recovered from 
the first impressions of horror, they replaced the 
branches, and hurried home. It was too late that 
evening to remove the body, as the place was dif- 
ficult of access. But early the next morning, 
Mr. Seymour, taking with him the necessary as- 
sistance, had it brought to his house. 

The body was immediately recognised by Mrs. 
Brinden ; it was that of her long lost, wretched 

A packet, enveloped in thick leather, had been 
found fastened round his waist. She eagerly open- 
ed it, in hopes of discovering some information, 
some explanation. 

It contained a letter, addressed to Mr. Des- 
mond, a small and elegant lady's watch, and the 
miniature picture of a beautiful girl. The letter 
Was not sealed, and when opened, the following 
lines, written in an almost illegible hand, were 
with difficulty read — 

" My Brother — how shall — how dare the lost 
and undone Charles address you f — Oh, best of 



brothers to the most ungrateful of wretches-*-hovr 
shall I describe to you the temptations which led 
me to ruin ? the story would be too long. The 
love of a profligate woman first seduced me — ga- 
ming followed, and completed my guilt and wretch- 
edness ! Let me, in pity to you, draw a veil over 
the blackness of my offences. Thank God! who 
spared me the horror of adding murder or self- 
destruction to the black catalogue ! — ^Yes, he did 
not die, although I saw him fall ! He tore from 
me the poor luckless maiden whom I had sedu- 
ced from innocence, but whom still I loved. — Yes, 
he tore her from me, and robbed me at the same 
time of my darling child, the only treasure that 
remained. I vowed vengeance — ^I thought I had 
secured it — but though he fell, he afterwards re- 
vived and escaped. I traced him — I found him t 
and in discovering him, I discovered my brother. 
Yes, it was under your roof he had found refuge, 
and no doubt to you he betrayed me ; for he knew 
my real name. I haunted the precincts of your 
dwelling, and watched for him, as my destined 
prey. To you, I dared not reveal myself. At last, 
defeated in my purposed vengeance, I loitered 
until no means of support were left- — death or a 
prison, was the only alternative. Chance led me 
to the lonely spot, where an angel, in a woman's 
form, arrested the hand just raised to terminate my 
wretched existence. I could not live, and live 
without revenge : the sight of the man, who, to 
the other injuries, added that of betray ii>g me to 
you, by-again kindling my slumbering passions, 
gave me energy to live. You know the dreadful 
scenes that followed. Oh, how often when I baw 
you loaded with distress and ignominy, have I 
longed to fall at your feet! — had you been con- 
demned to death, 1 had resolved to die with yoo« 



Tou left the city — I followed you. Here I am, 
best of men — here I am, haunting your footsteps : 
when shall I get eoucage to show myself? never! 
life is almost exhausted — when you find my life- 
less body, you will find this. My wife, where 
is she f in her grave ? yes, it must be so. I 
did not stab her, but I broke her heart! — 
The sole pledge of the only virtuous passion I 
ever indulged, she at least I intended to have 
saved from my wreck of fortune, fame and hap* 
piness. The good Abbess who presides over the 
nunnery in Emmetsburg, agreed to receive her. 
In that sacred retreat I intended to have ptaced 
her, in the hope of securing her from a guilty 
world ; but, alas ! my plan was cruelly frustrated 
by St. Julien. When I returned to my place of 
abode, I found that my child was gone, as well as 
the deluded object of my guilty love ; whuher 
he had conveyed them 1 never could ascertain. I 
had another short interview with the Abbess ; I 
told her of my loss, and she promised to employ 
persons to make search for my hapless child. If 
she is ever found, oh, be a father to my poor lit- 
tle Fanny when I am gone. Farewell — pity and 
forgive the most miserable of human beings. 

Charles Fknton Desmond." 

The distress inflicted by such a letter on a 
wife, who, in spite of neglect and abandonment, 
still cherished the husband of her youth, may be 
more easily conceived than described; but the 
hope of recovering her child, supported Mrs. 
Brinden^ and roused her to efi()rt and activity. 

Mrs. Seymour and Louisa then related to Mrs. 
]Brinden their adventure at Mrs. Bertrand's. 

^' It must be my child," exclaimed Mrs. Brid- 


den, bursting into tears ; ^* it is, it must be, ny 
dear little Fanny," 

The carriage was immedisitely got ready, and 
tbey hurried off to Mrs. Bertrand's. She re- 
peated to the astonished and agitated mother, all 
the particulars which she had before mentioned 
to Mrs. Seymour and Louisa, and described the 
fittle girl with so much minuteness, that not a 
doubt could remain as to the identity. 

Upon their return home, it was determined by 
her friends, that the contents of this letter should 
be concealed from every one, except the four in- 
dividuals to whom it was already known ; think- 
ing it cruel to inflict unnecessary pain on his 
brother or nephew. Mr. Seymour undertook to 
write an account of the affair to Mr. Desmond, 
and Louisa to Theodore. 

Preparations were immediately made for Mrs. 
Brinden's proceeding to Erametsburg, with 
vouchers, and other evidence of her being the 
mother of the little girl confided to the care of 
the Abbess. Mrs. Seymour, unwilling that she 
should travel alone, proposed Louisa's accompa- 
nying her; a proposal gladly accepted, and agree- 
able to her young friend. The road passed 
through a beautiful country, lying along the 
borders of Pennsylvania, the example of whose 
industry and good farming was apparent in this 
part of Maryland. The little village of Era- 
metsburg lies near the foot of Carrick, one of 
the highest mountains of the south-rid^e. A 
clear, broad, but shallow stream, wound its ro- 
mantic way through the fields and meadows 
which lay at the base of the mountain, covered 
with golden harvests, high grass, or corn-fields 
and o chards. The banks of this beautiful 
stream were fringed with willows, alders, and 



various other under-growtb ; while the weeping 
birch dipped its flexile branches into the passing 
water, and mingled i|s glistening leaves with the 
darker verdure of the various forest trees that 
shaded the banks, among which the towering and 
wide spreading sugar-maple, with its deep fo-^ 
liage, rose prominent on the sight. Near the 
banks of this stream, from which it was separa- 
ted only by some fields, was the village of Em- 
metsburg, consisting of one street, and a few 
scattered houses^ surrounded by the fertile farms 
of rich substantial farmers. Here som^ pious 
Catholics had established an asylum for women, 
distinguished by the ordinary rules of conventual 
institutions, except that instead of a perpetual 
vow, it was here an annual one. 

It served, too, as a seminary for the education 
ef children, and was held in much esteem. The 
pious and excellent lady who now presided over 
the institution, was one who had been led by mis- 
fortune to seek an asylum in this peaceful re- 
treat. Charles Desmond had known her in early 
life ; it was to her care he had intended to com- 
mit his child to be educated in the faith of^ his 
ancestors; for, notwithstanding his own profliga- 
cy, he wished to secure the virtue of his daughter. 

Upon their arrival at the convent early in the 
afternoon, Louisa sent in her name, and in a few 
moments they were invited to enter by the Abbess 
in person, who recognised Louisa as the dauc^h- 
ter of Mrs. Seymour, and received them with the 
greatest politeness and cordiality. Mrs. Brin- 
den was too anxious, and too impatient, to delay 
for a single instant her inquiries for her little 

" I am her mother, dear madam," said she, 
the tears streaming from .her eyes^ *^ oh, tell me^ 


is my rhrld here ? — the child of the unfortntiate 
Charles Desmond — my poor husband that was." 

The kind Abbess, with ipuch feeling aad ten- 
derness, assured her that the child she alluded to 
was safe and well, and that in a little while she 
would have an opportunity of recognising and 
claiming her long lost daughter. That one of 
the ladies of the convent had gone out on an er- 
rand of charity a few miles off, and taken little 
Fanny with her in the carriage, but that they 
would return before sunset. 

Aftgr takiuju^ some refreshment, Louisa, pre- 
suming that Mrs. Brinden would wish to converse 
privately with the Abbess, relative to her child, 
and deceased husband, invited a little girl who 
appeared to be a favourite of the Abbess, to be 
her guide in a short walk, to take a view of the 
surrounding scenery, in itself so beautiful, and to 
her so new. 

Never before had she been in the vicinity of a 
mountain ; and, as sheicontemplated its towering 
top, its wood covered sides, on which the light 
clouds hung like floating drapery, she longed to 
pierce its deep recesses, and to wander in its si- 
lent solitudes. But this, prudence forbade, and 
she contented herself with wandering along the 
romantic banks of the transparent stream. Luxu- 
riant grape vines climbed the trees, and stretch- 
ing from one to another, hung in festoons of ver- 
dure along the shady banks. So fascinated , was 
Louisa with the scene around her, that as she sat 
on the bank which projected over the stream, 
watching its rippling waves, and listening to its 
soft murmuring, she was not aware of the passage 
of time, till she noticed the level beams of the 
sun, which gleamed through the underwood, and 
fell in a stream of light on the surface of the 


civd*. She still lingered, till the vesper bell of 
the convent called her back. As she approached, 
she heard the voices of the nuns miugliiig in a 
stream of melody, which, as it fell on her de- 
lighted ear, raised her soul to Heaven. In tlie 
parlour she found Mrs. Desmond and the Abbess, 
with the little Fanny encircled in her mother's 
arms. Louisa was much struck with the appear- 
ance of the Abbess. Dignity, sweetness, and 
sadness, were so blended in her manner, that sen- 
timents of respect, love, and sympathy, were si- 
multaneously excited. She invited the strangers 
to remain all night ; and she had excited hi them 
an interest so lively and so tender, that they were 
pleased with the opportunity of becoming better 
licquainted with a character distinguished equally 
by genius; piety, and misfortune. 

In the morning they left this quiet and holy 
retreat, in which innocence, weakness and youth, 
or age with all its infirmities, can find a shelter 
from the dangers and hardships of the world. 
Here was none of the gloom Louisa had attached 
to the idea of a convent. It seemed the very 
abode of cheerfulness, activity and industry, go- 
verned by neatness and order. 

On their return home, Mrs. Seymour begged 
Mrs. Desmond to remain during the summer with 
them, and not to determine on her future plans 
until she should hear from the brother of her un- 
fortunate husband. A letter was not long after- 
wards received, accompanied with documents 
which settled on her and her child the half of his 
ample fortune, and she was requested to take im- 
mediate possession of his house in Washington, 
which she did the ensuing winter. 

Louisa, meanwhile, when the flurry and ex- 
citement of these events subsided, resumed her 


usual avocations, and her daily visits to her poor 
neighbours. Every where she heard of the zeal 
and benevolence of the good young minister; 
and his image, thus constantly presented, under 
a form so pleasing, soon occupied her mind to 
the exclusion of the object who had first awaken- 
ed her sensibility. She experienced increased 
ardour and animation in the performance of her 
charitable and religious duties, and felt a secret 
charm in emulating the example of the interest- 
ing being whose praise was in every mouth, and 
who literally went about doing good. All sad- 
ness passed away before this renovating principle, 
like clouds which are dispersed by the rising of 
the sun. With her spirits, her health returned, 
and her delighted mother saw, in the animated 
countenance, the brightened eye, the elastic step, 
and cheerful activity of her Louisa, that the hap- 
piness of her child was restorecf. Ye, who mourn 
over blasted hopes, whose warm affections are 
chilled, and whose youthful spirits droop beneath 
the blight of misfortune, seek not for restoratives 
in the vain pleiasures of a seducing world, which, 
like baneful opiates, may dull the sense of pain, 
or like still more dangerous stimulants, may ex- 
hilarate for a moment, but which can never re- 
store the sick, or heal the broken heart ; go 
rather to the fountain of life and happiness, and 
at its pureisource receive the ojily remedy, for the 
pains and sorrows incident to human life. 


It was a hill plac't in a noble plaine, 
That round aboat was bordered with a wood 

Of matchless height, that seemed th* earth to diidaine, 
In which all trees of honour stately stood ; 

And, at the foot thereof, a gentle flood 

His silver waves did softly' tumble down ; 

And, on the top thereof, a spatious plaine 

Did vpread itself, to serve to all delight. 


l^E fourth of July, the epoch of American 
independence, is a day when the heart of every 
American must glow with pride and gratitude. 
No village, however sequestered, no citizen, 
however obscure, forgets the celebration of the 
. anniversary of his country's liberty ! Through 
all the land, from the shores of the Atlantic to 
our mountain-tops, the sounds of gratulation $ire 
heard ; the roar of cannon, and the peal of bells, 
announce the auspicious morn, an^ people of 
every rank hasten with their festive offerings 
round the altar of liberty. 

In the metropolis of our infant empire, the ci- 
tizens, though yet few and scattered, collect in 
joyous parties to celebrate the happy day. The 
inhabitants of the surrounding district throng its 
avenues, and cover its plains; but it is at the 
President's house, as at the commoa centre, that 

VOL. If. 23 


they first meet to pay the tribute of respect to tlie 
Chief Magistrate of the nation. 

On the present occasion, Mr. Seymour, attend- 
ed by his family, went among the other citizens 
of the district to wait on the venerable President. 
All the doors of the national palace are thrown 
open for the reception of guests, who crowd the 
halls and apartments, where refreshments are 
profusely distributed, and a band of music sounds 
their welcome, and animates their spirits with 
national and martial strains. Civil and military 
officers, ladies and gentlemen, and even children, 
mingle in the throng. 

The wide plain, extending before the Presi- 
dent's house, was covered with temporary booths 
and awnings, which sheltered the gay groups 
collected on the occasion. The different corps of 
militia from the city and its environs, passed in 
review, and paraded on this extensive common, 
before their civic Commander-in-Chief. 

Informed of their approach, the President, at- 
tended by the Cabinet Ministers, diplomatic corps, 
and some of the most distinguished citizens, took 
his stand on the wide steps that lead to the front 
entrance of the house, while the ladies and rest 
of the company stood at the open windows. A 
loud huzza from the people and the citizen sol- 
diers, greeted his appearance. He stood without 
his hat, and his white locks waved in the breeze. 
How simple, how august and venerable, was the 
appearance of this good and great man ! Dressed 
in the plain garb of republican simplicity, in the 
midst of a free and happy people, he stood in no 
need of the regalia of kings, or the pomp of 
courts, or the guards of despots, to secure either 
respect or safety. 



When the review was over,4he President bow- 
ed to the assembled populace^ and retired to his 
own apartments, while the crowd gradually dis- 
persed, and, in separate and select parties, went 
to different places to continue the rites of this fes- 
tival of liberty. Mr. Seymour joined a large 
company of gentlemen at a public dinner, and 
Mrs. Seymour, with a chosen party of female 
friends, returned to the country to pass the re- 
mainder of the day. At night, splendid fire- 
w6rks in front of the President's house, at the 
arsenal, and navy-yard, concluded the festivities 
of the day. 

Soon after the fourth of July, the President 
usually lett Washington, and retired to his own 
estate. Most of the citizens follow his example, 
and quit the city to retire into the country, or 
travel into the adjacent states, and visit the pub- 
lic springs, and other fashionable watering places. 

During the hot months of July, August, and 
September, there is a kind of interregnum in 
society, when pleasure and happiness are equally 

Mr. Seymour and his family generally passed 
this leisure season at Ballston Springs, or the 
sea-shore ; but this year, wishing to vary the 
scene, they availed themselves of an invitation 
from the President, and determined to visit Mon- 
ticello. Mr. Seymour wished to see this great 
man in the privacy of retirement, and the free- 
dom of domestic life. He could have proposed 
no plan that could have more pleased Mrs. Sey- 
mour and Louisa ; and even the little Emily had 
caught from him a portion of his enthusiastic 
esteem and veneration for their good President. 



It was on the ewning of the third day of their 
journey, that they reached the foot of the isola* 
ted mountain, on the top of which was' the dwell- 
ing of the Sage of Monticello. 

But, like the Temple of Fame, in which he had 
secured himself a place, his mansion was of most 
difficult access ; a steep and rugged road, wound 
up this rocky and wooded mountain, where na- 
ture was left, untamed and unadorned by art. 
The whole party alighted, • preferring an easy 
walk up the mountain-side, to the jolting of the 
carriage. Emily seemed to think they would 
never reach the top, and kept exclaiming, '^ but 
where is the house, where are the gardens ? why 
mamma, it looks as if nobody lived here." 

While Mrs. Seymour smiled at the child's as- 
tonishment, she herself would have wondered at 
the wildness and solitude, of the scene, had she 
not recollected, that during the last forty years of 
his life, the master of this uncultivated domain 
had devoted his whole time to the service of his 
country, at a distance from his home ; and that, 
absorbed in these patriotic labours, he had total- 
ly neglected his private interest. She explained 
this to her children, and taught them to admire, 
as she did, this entire sacrifice of domestic im- 
provement to the public welfare. At last they 
reached the summit, and exclamations of sur- 
prise, delight, and admiration, burst from every 

On the levelled top of the mountain, arose a 
noble pile of buildings, crowned with a lofty 
dome; around extended a wide and verdant lawn, 
over which were scattered trees of various kinds 
and growths. 

The horizon was bounded by distant moun- 
tains, and the intervening country diversified with 


cultivated fields, forests, bouses and villages. 
^They paused to contemplate this magnificent 
view, before they entered the noble portico, 
which opened into the hall. Here they were 
met by the hospitable master, surrounded by a 
group of charming children. 

Tkey found the house already crowded with 
guests— fi*iends and relations, who had hastened 
immediately on his arrival to welcome him home. 
As he only visited this retreat once in the year, 
and then remained but a short period, he was sel- 
dom left alone a single day. 

It would require a volume, to describe all the 
intellectual pleasures they enjoyed, the afiecting 
and interesting scenes they witnessed, during the 
delightful week Mr. Seymour and his family 
passed at Monti cello. In contemplating this ve- 
nerable patriarch in the midst of his children and 
grandchildren, they forgot the statesman in the 
father, the philosopher in the friend. 

The house was in an unfinished state, and 
when Mr. Seymour observed it, Mr. Jefierson 
replied, ^^ and I hope it will remain so during my 
life, as architecture is my delight, and putting up, 
and pulling down, one of my favourite amuse- 

Louisa frequently stole from the company, and 
retired to her own room, to write to Theodore, to 
whom she had promised a minute description 
of Monticello and its interesting inhabitants; 
but her enthusiasm carried her far beyond the 
limits of a letter, and on her return to Seymour 
cottage, she sent the following brief account to 
her young friend : 

^' In compliance, my dear Theodore, with my 
promise, and £rom a wish that you should parti<» 
cipate in every pleasure which I enjoy, I send yon 



the description you requested of MonticeHo. Yon 
have before this received my letter, giving yott 
an account of our journey, and of the time we 
passed under the roof of our venerable President, 

^^I shall now, therefore^ confine myself (if it is 
possible so to do) to the immediate objects, which,, 
though they may amuse the mind^ cannot affect 
the feelings, like the incidents and conversation^^ 
I have already detailed to you. You begged me 
to he very minute in my account, and to give you' 
the height, length, breadth, and number, of every 
object which surrounds the inhabitants of Monti* 
cello. This would require a volume ; but 1 will 
do what I can, and you will perceive, without my 
pointing it out to you, the correcting and restrain-* 
ing hand of my dear father, who has been so gbod 
as to look over my imperfect description, and to 
prune some of its romantic and enthusiastic di« 

^^Monticello is a small mountain, rising six hun- 
dred feet above the surrounding country, on the 
summit of which is a large edifice, built in the 
modern style. The base of this small and isolated 
mountain, which is washed by the Revanna, ex- 
ceeds a mile in diameter. It is encompassed by 
four parallel roads, that at equal distances sweep 
round it, and are so connected with each other 
by easy descents, as to afibrd, when completed^ 
a level carriage-way of almost seven miles. * 

" At present, the whole, with the exception of the 
summit, is in wood ; but it is the intention of the 
proprietor to blend cultivation and forest, in such 
a manner, as to present that variety most grate- 
ful to the eye of taste. 

^' On the top, is a nearly level plain, of about 
ten acres, formed by art, in the shape of an ellip- 



sisf with its longest diameter ninning east and 
west, corresponding to the two main fronts'of the 

*^ The mansion is a structure presenting a front 
in every direction of a hundred feet in length,- 
and above sixty in depth, 

** The principal front looks to the east, on atl 
Open coufitry, and is adorned with a noble por- 
tico, with a corresponding one on the west. A 
lofty dome, of twenty-eight feet in diameter, rises 
from the centre of the building. 'The north and 
south fronts present arcades, under which are 
cool recesses, thatjopen in both cases on a floor-* 
ed terrace, projecting a hundred feet in a straight 
line, and then another hundred feet at right an- 
gles, until terminated by pavilions. 

" Under the whole length of these terraces, are 
the various offices requisite for domestic pur* 
poses, and the lodgings of the household servants. 

" The basement story is raised five or six feet 
above the ground, from which springs the princi- 
pal story, above. twenty feet in height, and that 
supports an attic of about eight feet. 

" The level, on which the hoilise stands, is laid 
out in an extensive lawn, only broken by lofty 
weeping willows, poplars, acacias, catalpas, and 
other trees of foreign growth, distributed at such 
a distance from the house, as neither to obstruct 
its prospect, nor that of the surrounding country 
of which it commands the view. From this lawn 
you contemplate, without the obstruction of any 
intervening enclosure, the mountains above, and 
the country below, with frequent glimpses of the 
Revanna. This elevated spot commands a view 
of more than sixty miles, limited only by the 
horizon on one side^ and the distant mountains 
on the otbw, 


'' On the declivities of the mountain are iaurranged 
the dwellings of the artificers and mechanics of 
every kind : it being the study ofMr. Jefferson to 
make himself perfectly independent. Of his suc- 
cess, some idea may be formed, by the circum- 
stance of his workmen having made his carnage, 
and many articles of his furniture. 

" The internal arrangement of the house is so 
peculiar, as to render a precise description diffi- 
cult, though its general effect is imposing. You 
enter the hall through wide folding doors, which 
we never saw closed, and whose ever-open por- 
tals seemed indicative of the disposition of the 
master. Here a variety and multiplicity of ob- 
jects offered themselves to our view, and so im- 
posingly arranged as to excite surprise and ad- 
miration. After a momentary pause, we passed 
into the drawing-room, through doors so wide as 
scarcely to separate it from the hall, where, being 
seated, we had an opportunity more distinctly to 
notice the pervading elegance and singularity of 
these apartments, in which ornamental, instructive, 
and interesting objects were blended with furni- 
ture suitable to the dwelling and simple taste of 
the owner. Among these various articles, were 
statues, paintings, engravings, and a profusion of 
natural curiosities, the latter so blended with 
the others as to produce an ornamental effect, 
though if taken separately, they were by no 
means handsome in themselves, yet the arrange- 
ment was so admirable, as to produce (he gene- 
ral impression of elegance and harmony. 
Among others, we particularly noticed a perfect 
model of the great pyramid of Egypt ; the up- 
per and lower jaw-bones and tusks of the mam- 
moth, whose magnitude is advantageously exhi- 
bited by contrast with those of an elephant along- 


side of them ; several maps, particularly one of 
the Missouri country, painted on bufialo bides 
by the American Indians ; rough hewn stone ima- 
ges, or statues, likewise of their workmanship, 
which are supposed to be the idols they worship- 
ped, and many other of tlie curiosities of oui* 

*-* Here, too, we saw the busts of Alexander, and 
Napoleon, placed on pedestals, each side of the 
door of entrance; and here, and in the other 
rooms, are portraits of Newton, Bacon, Locke ; 
of Columbus, Vespucius, Cortez, Magellan, Ra- 
leigh; of Franklin, Washington, Adams, and 
Madison, Rittenhouse, Paine, Turgot, Voltaire, 
and many other distinguished persons. 

"The whole of the southern wing is occupied by 
the library, and the cabinet and chamber of Mr. 
Jefferson. The library is divided into three 
rooms, opening into each other, the walls of 
which are covered with books slnd maps. This 
large collection of books is rendered more valu- 
able, as containing many very scarce and ancient 
works, besides splendid editions of all those of 
the greatest merit, particularly whatever he 
could collect in Europe relative to America. 

" They were not in the best order, for which he 
apologized, as arising from his long absence on 
public service. In one of the rooins, we remark- 
ed a carpenter's work-bench, with a vast assort- 
ment of tools, of every kind and description. 
This, as being characteristic, is worthy of notice ; 
the fabrication with his own hands of curious im- 
plements and models, being a favourite amuse- 

" In his cabinet, he is surrounded by several 
hundred of his favourite authors, lying near at 
hand, and every luxury and accommodation a 


Student could require. This apartment opens 
into a green-house, and he is seldom without 
some geranium or other plant beside him. 

'^ This dwelling, and the whole surrounding 
scene, is eminently fitted to raise an interest be- 
yond that which such objects ordinarily excite in 
the mind. Every thing, moral and physical, 
conspires to excite and sustain this sentiment. 
You stand on the summit of a mountain on the 
east, affording a view of an open country^ pre- 
senting a most extensive and variegated pros- 
pect ; on the west, north and south, by the Alle- 
gany itself, which, rising from beyond the south 
mountain, rears its majestic head in awful gran- 
deur. Here, in this wild and sequestered retire- 
ment, the eye dwells with delight on the triumph 
of art over nature, rendered the more impressive 
by the unreclaimed condition of all around. 

^^Here it contemplates a spacious and splendid 
structure, commensurate, in some degree, with 
the mountain on which it stands ; but, above all, 
it beholds its architect and its owner ! On this 
spot, one, the most illustrious citiien of the only 
free country on earth — one of the founders of its 
independence, the advocate of its rights — full of 
years and of glory, respected for his talents, ve- 
nerated for his services, beloved for his virtues, 
withdrawing from accumulating, honours, seeks 
repose in the bosom of his family. On this ele- 
vated spot, you behold him reaping the harvest 
of his virtues, contented, happy ; as immoveable 
as thQ. mountain on which he dwells, and serene 
as the atmosphere around its brow, while the 
storm rages at its foot. 

" But I check my pen, for were I totranscribe 
all the objects which awakened interest and curi- 
osity, my letter would have no end. Adieu, then^ 


my dear brother, and as yon tread the up-hill 
path to fame, keep your eyes fixed on this model 
of a great and good citizen, and remember that 
he attained his elevation by taking virtue and 
wisdom as his guidesu May I one day see my 
Theodore, if not as greatj at least as good a man. 
Again, farewell." 

Neither pain nor pleasure retarded the flight of 
time, and six more happy and interesting days 
passed with such rapidity, that Mrs. Seymour 
could scarcely convince Louisa they had been 
at Monticello half that time. 

As they returned homewards, they stopped at 
Montpelier, the residence of the Secretary of 
State, the fellow labourer and beloved friend of 
the President. Under his roof were realized all 
their ideas of the comfort, abundance and hospi- 
tality of a Virginia planter, united to the ele- 
gance of fashion, and the polish of city life 
Devoted to agricultural pursuits, he divides the 
time he passes at home between rural and scien- 
tific objects, and the social pleasures of good 
neighbourhood and hospitality. 


There stands the messenffer of truth^there stands 
The legate of the skies*, his theme divine, 
His o£Bce sacred, his credentials clear. 
. Bj him, in strains as sweet 

As angels use, the gospel whispers peace j ^ 
He Btablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart. 


Soon after Louisa's return from Virginia, she 
went to pass an afternoon with Mrs. Williams, 
and carry her the usual supply of little comforts 
she was in the habit of bestowing. 

The kind woman could still talk of nothing 
but their good young minister, and had many 
new istories to tell of his benevolence and zeal. 
She informed Louisa, that on the approaching 
Sabbath he was to preach in their neighbourhood 
at the schoolhouse. She so earnestly entreated 
her to come and hear him in the afternoon, that 
Louisa promised, if her mother would go, she 
would accompany her. 

The next Sunday, Mrs. Seymour's family at- 
tended the morning service in their own church. 
The clergyman was a good man, but read the 
prayers, and his sermon, in such a drawling and 
monotonous tone, that he put many of his con- 



gregation to sleep, and fixed the attention of no 
4)ne. 'This gentleoian had been settled many 
years in the neighbourhood, and the effect of bis 
manner, and want of fervour in the discharge of 
msmy of his duties, was such, that a general hike- 
warmness and carelessness respecting reli^on 
had taken place throughout the settlement. 

The afternoon being pleasant, Mrs. Seymour 
agreed to accompany Louisa and the little girls 
loJieartbe new minister in the neighbouring pa- 
rish. The place of meeting was four miles dis- 
tant, and the service had commenced before they 
arrived. On an extensive common, skirting the 
high road, stood the country schoolhouse ; it 
was a small log cabin, standing under tlie shade 
of a clump of sassafras trees ; the ground before 
the door was neatly swept, and some benches 
placed under the shade, where, in very warm 
weather, the boys were allowed to sit. The un- 
dulating surface of the common, over which were 
scattered a variety of trees, afforded the children 
a fine place for play, and yielded them wild fruit, 
flowers and nuts in abundance. A large chestnut 
tree seemed to preside over the spot ; its thick and 
wide spread branches thre^ an extensive shade, 
afiSording shelter from rain and sun. In its hollow 
tronk^ and among its twisted roots, the children 
found hiding places ; and the nuts were an annual 
treasury which they considered as belonging to 
the school. As the lowly cabin was too small 
to accommodate the crowd which had thronged 
to hear their favourite preacher, the benches had 
been brought out and placed in a semicircle 
round the chestnut tree, at the foot of which a 
small table was placed, where stood the clergy- 
man with his bible and hymn book before him- 

VOL. II. 24 


On the benches were seated the women and elder 
men; the younger part of the audience were 
seated on stones, or roots of trees scattered round, 
and many on the grass. When Mrs. Williams 
8.W Mrs. Seymour and her family, she resigned 
her own seat, and made room on a bench for 
them^ next to the little table in front of the 
preacher. The congregation were, at the time, 
singing, and Louisa thought she never beard 
sounds more impressive. Their united and fall 
toned voices, confined within walls, might have 
been harsh and discordant ; bdt diffused through 
the air, the strain was soft and solemn. While 
they sang, the youthful pastor was kneeluag be- 
fore the table, his face was concealed by . his 
clasped hands, and he seemed absorbed in deep 
devotion. When the hymn was finished, he 
slowly rose, and after reading in* a clear and em- 
phatic manner a portion of the scriptures, and 
the appointed service of the day, he commenced 
his discourse. There was a fulness and richness 
in his voice, which seemed to give new meaning, 
and added force to the simplest expressions. Now 
soft and low, it penetrated the inmost recesses of 
the heart ; now commanding and energetic, it 
roused, nay, almost startled his hearers ; then, 
again, sinking into mournful and pathetic tones, 
melted the audience into tears. So sweet and 
various were its modulations, that uttering even 
an unknown language, it would have kindled and 
softened the most insensible heart, and thrilled 
the feelings like the vibrations of sound upon 
the chords of a harp. What, then, must have 
been the effect of such a voice, when it conveyed 
the most pathetic exhortations and momentous 
truths ? 

It was irresistible — Louisa felt that it was irre- 


sistible. His counteoance and his manner were 
in harmony with his voice; his looks elucidated 
the meaning, and his manner enforced the truth 
of all he said. There was about him a charm 
which rivetted attention. He spoke from the 
heart, and to the heart ; he himself felt, and, 
therefore, made others feel, the importance of his 
subject. *^ Man goeth to his long home^^^ was 
the text from which he spoke. He pictured life 
as the journey of a day, which leads to our eter- 
nal home. He depicted the pleasures and the pains, 
the temptations and the dangers, which must be en- 
countered, and the various conduct and characters 
of the travellers, on the road of life : he described 
those who wasted the precious hours of early 
morning in gathering the flowers, and feasting on 
the fruits which grow by the way side, till, sa- 
tiated and exhausted by pleasure, they yielded in-> 
dolently to repose during the noon, and left to the 
shades of evening, or darkness of night, that part 
of the journey most replete with difficulties and 
dangers : others, who, seduced by distant ob- 
jects, expended their time and their strength 
in the pursuit, and wandered far from the only 
road which leads to eternal life. And others 
again, who stopped by the way to rear mighty 
fabrics, or accumulate immense heaps, which one 
moment might destroy, and which in their nature 
were transient and unsubstantial ; who were 
overtaken by night, ere their journey was accom- 

His illustrations were drawn from familiar and 
natural objects ; and his language, though beauti- 
ibl, and sometimes sQblime, was so simple that it 
was understood by the most ignorant of his rus- 
tic auditors. 




^^ In my father's house are many mansions^ ani 
1 go topr^are the tioay^^ said the friend of sid^ 
ners. " Who, then !" exclaimed the yoathfal 
preacher, '^ who, then, will refuse to follow soch a 
guide, to SQch a home ? Fear not, feeble and timid 
traveller, the dangers and the difficolties which 
beset the path ; He will prepare the way. 
Cold, dark, gloomy, and cheerless, is every other 
path which leads to the life to come ; bat follow 
the straight and narrow way, prepared by yoor 
heavenly Guide, and you shall reach in safety 
the mansions in your Father's house, your long 
and your eternal home.'* 

He then, with all the force of language, de- 
scribed the fate of those who should choose some 
other way; but abruptly stopping, he paused, 
threw his eyes over the ground, on which the 
shadows were lengthening, and to the western 
horizon, where the sun was setting, and pointing 
to the object, exclaimed, ^' I must conclude ; I 
see the day is drawing to its close ; the shadows 
of evening are gathering round us — and we are 
distant from our homes. Some of you, my 
friends, have a long way to go ; some are nearer 
to their homes ; but even to them the way might 
be dangerous, if overtaken by the darkness of 
night. Go, then^ my friends — tarry not — but 
hasten while it is yet day, to seek the shelter and 
the safety of your homes. Does any one hesi- 
tate f is any one unwilling to follow .this injunc- 
tion ? no — you all feel it to be wise and prudent, 
and are ready to depart. Oh ! my fellow travel- 
lers, my beloved hearers, why then do you hesi- 
tate i why are you. unwilling, when I bid you go, 
and tarry not, but to hasten while it is yet day, 
to that long home, to that eternal abode, whicli 
is prepared for you in the heavens? For some, 



the way may yet be long, and the joarney but 
just commenced ; bat to how many who now hear 
me, may it be near — ^yea, very near its close ? 
A few months, a few days, perhaps, oh, thought- 
less mortals, only a few more hoars, may remain 
between you and the termination of life — ^your 
joarney may be almost finished ; are you certain 
that you are in the right path, in the only way 
which leads to those mansions where dwells your 
Father and your God ! Examine whilst there is 
yet light — ^rise — rise, and tarry not, but hasten 
to find that straight and narrow way which con- 
ducts to eternal happiness. The sun of life is 
setting — the shadows of death are gathering 
around us ; hasten, then, my fellow travellers ; 
go, and tarry not till you reach your Father's 
bouse, where moth and rust do not corrupt, nor 
thieves break in and steal ; where every tear is 
wiped from every eye, and where there are joys 
which mind cannot conceive. Go — oh, go/' 
he exclaimed, fervently clasping his outstretched 
hands, as ifin earnest supplication to his hearers, 
^'go, I beseech you, ere the darkness of the 
grave closes in upon you ; and may He, who 
hath prepared the way, be your guard and 

When they returned home, Mr. Seymour in- 
quired if they had been rewarded for their long 

" Ask Louisa," said Mrs. Seymour ; " as her 
, attention was never diverted for a single instant, 
she can best answer your question." 

"Well, Louisa, what say you .'^" said her father. 

LfOuisa essayed to speak, bat her voice was 
lost in emotion, and she hastily left the room. 

•* Why, what is all this?" exclaimed Mr. Sey- 



mouFy '< has some methodist preacher been terri- 
fying the poor child ?" 

<< It was not a methodist, but an episcopalian 
clergyman, who preached for iis ; bnt united to 
the roost correct tiews; he had the zeal and fer- 
vonri which is seldom found, except among the 
first mentioned sect. He certainly is a most 

Eowerful preacher, for be not only reaches the 
eart, but convinces the understanding; and 
Louisa was not the only one deeply affected.'' 

^ But if he is really a man of such talents, 
how came he preaching here in the woods to 
the country people ?" 

^' He comes as a missionary, without money 
and without price, to distribute the bread of life 
among these poor people.'* 

^< What, then," said Mr. Seymour, '< does be 
take them for heathens ?" 

'< Not exactly so ; but as the missionary so- 
ciety have been reproached with carrying their 
instructions to distant nations, while the inhabi- 
tants of our most populous cities, in their suburbs 
and environs, were as ignorant of gospel truths 
as the Indian tribes ihey went so far to teach, 
they took it into consideration, and now send to 
places and districts where the people are too 
poor to support a settled clergyman, young men, 
who are not attached to any particular congre- 
gation. And you will allow, if ignorance and 
poverty are sufficient titles to such pious charity^ 
the people in the surrounding country have a just 
claim to it." 

'< And what is the na^me of this young apostle ?'' 

" Upon my word," said Mrs. Seymour, smi- 
ling, '^ I forgot to ask. There was such a bustle, 
and shaking of hands, and so on, by all our kind 



neighbours who gathered round us, that I really 
forgot to ask ; Emily, do you know f " 

*' Indeed, mamma, I was thinking so much of 
what he said, and how he looked, that I never 
thought any thing about his name." 

" And how did he look ?" said her father, smi* 
ling } '^ I presume, from his charming you all to 
such a degree, he must be very handsome ?" 

'< Yes, indeed, papa, I think he is very hand- 
some ; I couldn't take my eyes off his sweet 
face* Oh, papa, if he had not spoken a word, I 
should have understood him— -he looked so." 

'^ Indeed ! he must have had an expressive 
face, if it could preach, without the aid of 

'< But then his gestures, papa, and his voice—* 
oh, such a sweet, sweet voice, could only belong 
to such a sweet face." 

" Why, all your heads are turned," said Mr. 
Seymour, laughing ; " pray, Mrs. Desmond, 
what is your opinion ? first, is he handsome f 
for I consider that a main point in a case like 

'^ If you limit beauty to form, feature, or com-* 
plexion, this young missionary can have no pre- 
tensions whatever," said Mrs. Desmond ; " but 
if you will allow, that expression in every look, 
and grace in every motion, constitute beauty, he 
has its very essence— -its 4rery soul ; which, add- 
ed to the melody of his full-toned voice, form a 
combination far more attractive and prepossessing 
than what is commonly called beauty." 

" Well, well," exclaimed Mr. Seymour ; " if 
Mrs. >Desmond is so charmed, who can wonder 
at the all-subduing powers of our youthful mis* 
fiionary, over the hearts of girls and rustics !" 



" I most lake care, I most look about me, or 
who kDOw» what may happeo," cootinaed be, 
stroking Louisa's blushing chedu, who had jost 

** Indeed, my dear," said Mrs. Seymour, ^ I 

cannot think any harm can happen ; for even 

should our Louisa lose her heart, she cannot lose 

, it in a better cause ; such zeal and such eloquence 

as his, could only lead it to virtue and rdigion." 

^' Really," said Mr. Seymour, *^ this young di- 
vine must possess most fascinating powers, since 
you, my dear wife, are willing to risk the peace 
of your daughter." 

** What risk can there be in listening to the 
voice of truth ?" 

I* None, if it proceeded from the lips of some 
hoary-headed preacher ; much, I should imagine, 
with such accompaniments as you have descri- 

^' Oh, my dear papa, you would have no ap- 
prehension, if you did but know how much good 
lie has already done in this neighbourhood. He 
has reformed the vicious, instructed the ignorant, 
and comforted the afflicted. Oh, if you could 
but hear Mrs. Williams tell of how manv hearts 
he has won to religion, indeed you would think 
bis appearance here a most blessed event." 

*^ We shall see, my child ; meanwhile, take 
care he does not break, m well as bind up hearts; 
and so farewell," said he, as he kissed her and 
the rest of the family ; *' I am going a long cir- 
cuit, and shall not see you for several weeks ; let 
me find all safe when I come back." 

The weather became so oppressively hot, that 
Louisa bad to forego her accustomed walks, but 
passed her time in her own chamber, where, eve- 
fy morning, she instructed Emily, Ann, and her 


new scholar, the little Fanny ; the afternoons, in 
reading aloud, while her mother, Mrs. Desmond^ 
and the children, sat around with their work. 
When the sun set, they ventured out, to walk 
round the flower borders, or sit in the piazza and 
enjoy the cool breezes of evening, and inhale the 
fragrance of the flowers, while the children play- 
ed on the lawn. But soon ^en these pleasures 
were diminished by the increasing heats of Au- 
gust. . Not a cloud, or even floating vapour, ob- 
scured the brightness or lessened the ardour of 
the summer's sun. The shutters were closed, t0 
exclude the intolerable glare, and the burning 
atmosphere. It was impossible to resist the lan- 
guor and lassitude which it occasioned. Cvening 
brought but little respite, for the air was hot and 
dry. The leaves fell from the trees, and the grass 
was so parched beneath the feet, as to be reduced 
to powder, when it was trod on. The flowers 
were all withered, and the ground covered witb 
yellow leaves. The rivulets ceased to flow, and 
the springs became dry, and all the moisture of 
the earth was evaporated. 

<< Herds and flcMrks ^ 

Drop the dry sprigs, and, mute- imploring, eye 
The falling verdure." 

• I 

The burning sky, the arid earth, the scorching 
atmosphere, destroy all activity ; a mournful still- 
ness pervades' creation ; the birds cease to sing« 
the lambs to play, or man to labour, and thie long 
protracted drought is more dispiriting and op- 
pressive than the torpor and sterility of winter ; 
the unclouded brightness of the sun, than the 
darkness of the storm. 

Not only the flocks and herds, but man, looks 
to the heavens with mute-imploring eye. To 



their eager gase at last appears a floating va- 

<< At first a dusky wreath, scarce staioiog ether. 
But by swift degrees, in heaps on heaps 
The doubling vapour nails 
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, 
Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom : 
— — ^— » Gradual sinks the breeze 
Into a perfect calm, that not a breath 
Is heard to quivR through th<* closing woods, 
Or rust^iing turn the many twinkling leaves 
Of aspen tall. 

'Ti» silence all, and pleasing expectation ;** 

till distant thunder rolls on the delighted ear, and 
fills every bosom with the anticipated joys of re- 
vived and renovated life. The darkening clouds 
collect, and spread this welcome gloom over all 
the sky ; the winds rise, and the lightnings flash ; 
nearer and nearer comes rolling on the black and 
heavy thunder cloud, till at last it bursts, and 
pours its gladdening torrents on the thirsty earth. 
For a while the tempest rages, the forests bend 
beneath the blast, the rifted branches strew the 
ground, the rivulets swell to torrents, which carry 
desolation in their impetuous course. The thun- 
d^ peals along the sky, the lightning glares 
among the clouds, the wind roars through the 
wood^ and the elemental war seems to shake the 
earth, while the darkness of night shrouds every 

Suddenly the winds are hushed, the clouds roll 
away, the sun breaks forth, the rain-drops glitter 
on the freshened foliage, the birds pour forth their 
songs of gratulation, and all nature rejoices. 
The atmosphere is pure and elastic, and man 
breathes with quickened and invigorated life. 
Delightful change, which reKeves the bosom from 
an oppressive weight, and restores animation to 


the languid frame ! But transient as delightful, 
the summer sun soon exhales the reviving mois- 
ture, and, with little intermission, nature suffers 
from its consuming fervours, until the autumnal 
equinox brings relief. Then more copious and 
continued rains bring on a second spring; the 
earth is again covered with verdure, and the 
woods and hedges adorned with flowers. Bright 
and sunny, but cool and clear, the charming 
month of October succeeds, restores vigour and 
activity to labour, beauty and richness to the 
landscape, health and gayety to man. 

^^ When we have passed safely through August 
and September," said Louisa to her mother, ^^ I 
feel as if we had taken a new lease of life." 

'^ Such, indeed, should we consider a prolong- 
ation of existence," replied her mother, " at a 
season when disease is so prevalent." 

<' Itis a blessing I gratefully acknowledge; and, 
if possible, my dearest mother, I will gratefully 
employ it." 

And with renewed industry and revived spirits, 
Louisa resumed the various duties of her inno- 
cent and happy life. Mrs. Seymour and her 
daughter loved the country for its tranquillity and 
retirement, aiAl, therefore, kept up little inter- 
course with the society of the city. They en- 
joyed that of their country neighbours, which 
M^as characterized by its simplicity and sincerity* 


Oh, frett Poconwck! tli, yt Uaki^f ^Atiit^ 
Yemiifhty seenet ia sfMore^ nornlag nuide, 
While 8tin fai rich autpdfloriK* of iNrime, 
9bm povrM her wooden teviiUy-aiMtae^ 
Hot yet hed leemM to stoop wilh hoaiblor «m» 
From gnuid to mft, from woadcrfnl to fiidr— > 
aojT, were your towering hills, your booidless flood;, 
Your rich sofMymlis, and m^losdc woods, 
Whtre herds should meditate, and hemes rove, 
And woman charm, and man desenre her love. 

About this time, Louisa received a pressing 
invitation from Mrs. Fairfax, the wife of Colonel 
Fairfax, who, after serving his country through 
the most trying scenes of the revolutionary war, 
had been induced by his attachment to a Virginia 
gentleman, whose ardent friend8h|lbad stood the 
test of riyalship, both in love and fame, to leave 
New-York, his native state, and to settle in Vir- 
ginia. Having a large paternal fortune, the 
goodness or fertility of land made no part of his 
calculations in the intended purchase of an estate. 
He was of a romantic cast of temper, and deter- 
mined to be governed by his fancy in settling 
himself for life. Corn fields and meadows were 
not to him objects of admiration ; tliey spoke of 
the constant presence and vicinity of man ; and 
he best loved those places, where he could at times 


withdraw to the most profound solitude-— but it 
was only occasionally ; for, in general, he loved 
society, and was of an eminently social disposi- 
tion. Here, then, was the difficulty ; to find a 
situation where he could at his pleasure com- 
mand either solitude or society. There were two 
objects in nature which, though pleasing to every 
one, were to him objects of enthusiastic admira- 
tion — clouds and water. For hours — almost for 
days, would he gaze on their ever-changing hues 
and forms. " I hate monotony," he would say ; 
'^ paradise itself would weary me, where there is 
perpetual sunshine, and llowers, and peace ; an 
inland situation offers no changes but such as the 
seasons bring. But the water and the clouds are 
not a moment stationary, and the eye and the 
fancy can never weary, while watching their ever- 
shifting lights and shades." 

He resided during the first year or two after 
the peace, with his friend, and wandered with 
him along the shores of those bold, majestic, and 
romantic rivers, which diversify and fertilize Vir- 
ginia. But those who set out in seeking a wife, 
in whom is combined every virtue, beauty, and 
grace, or a residence which shall unite the charms 
of land and water, low-land and high-land, soli- 
tude and society, must, like Colonel Fairfax, seek 
in vain. There is no perfection in human naturCi 
and no paradise upon earth. Chance favoured 
him, more than it generally does the enthusias- 
tic visionary ; and he found both a wife and ren* 
dence that almost realized the beau-ideal of 
which he had been in search. Between Alexandria 
and George-Town — between the Maryland and 
Virginia shores, there is in the Potomac, a little 
fairy island, girt with high and rocky banks, alf* 
most hidden by the shade of the tall and majestic 

VOL. iji* 25 


trees which grow among the precipices, and co- 
ver a rich variety of native shrubs. This rocky 
and verdant wall encompassed a scene beyond 
description beautiful and romantic. The undu- 
lating surface now rose in gentle swells crowned 
with groves, or sunk in hollows and winding val- 
leys, where a perpetual verdure gladdened the 
eye, when every other spot was scorched by the 
summer's sun. 

Around this romantic and sequestered spot, 
rolled the blue waters of the Potomac; some- 
times lashed by the storm into waves and foam, it 
beat against the rocks, and sent high into the 
air its white and silvery spray : at others, it spread 
like a mirror its smooth and polished surface, re- 
flecting on its bosom the sylvan scene, and float- 
ing clouds. But oftener, it crept in gentle un- 
dulations to the shore, and softly murmured 
among the rocks. 

It was to this spot Colonel Fairfax retired, widi 
a lovely wife, who, if not perfection, was as near 
it, in his opinion, as woman could be ; she was the 
sister of his beloved friend, and formed a new 
link to a friendship which required no added 

A daughter crowned this happy union ; and 
every one looked upon the inhabitants of the 
island, as among the most favoured beings in the 

This daugliter, the pride and joy of their 
hearts, the loving and beloved of a numerous cir- 
cle of friends, was snatched from them, just as 
she had attained her fifteenth year. 

*< Like blossomed trees, overturned by vernal storms, 
Lovely in death, the beauteous ruin lay ;"' 

and left the fond parents as wretched as they bad 
before been blessed. But theirs was not that con- 
dlKitrated sorrow, which withdraws from consola- 




tiou, and seeks to nourish and prolong its suffer- 
ings. No — their open and affectionate hearts 
expanded to sympathy, and imbibed its healing 
influence, as the parched earth does the reviving 
dew. Accustomed to an object of tender care, 
they felt solitary and destitute without some one 
on whom to lavish the overflowing tenderness of 
their bosoms. Col. Fairfax had a favourite sis- 
ter living in New-York, a widow, with a large 
family ; he wrote to her, and begged her to per- 
mit one of her sons to come and reside with 
them. She hesitated not, in complying with a 
request, which, while it would console her bro- 
ther, would be so highly advantageous to her 
child. Her second son was the one for whom 
she had always felt the most solicitude. He was 
endowed by nature with genius, that rare, but 
dangerous gift, and with its accompaniments, 
ardent affections, and keen sensibility. The idea 
of what he must suffer, in struggling through life, 
against the hardships and mortifications of pover- 
ty, and with his aspiring mind, to be doomed, 
perhaps, to obscurity, were thoughts which often 
robbed her eyes of sleep. Her brother's gene- 
rosity had enabled her to give all her sons>a clas- 
sical education ; but the second was the only 
one who had reaped the fruit she hoped from this 
advantage. He had passed through college with 
honour, and had returned home with higher as- 
pirations after distinction, increased enthusiasm 
of temper, and keener sensibilities to pain and 
pleasure. Neither law nor medicine accorded 
with his views or feelings ; from childhood, he 
had evinced a devotional turn, and it was with 
delight his mother heard him declare his resolu- 
tion of devoting himself to the Church. In the 
bosom of religion, she hoped he would find that 
peace, which she knew he never could in -the 


thorny paths of ambition. In religion, his enthu- 
siasm might have boundless scope, and the ar- 
dour of liis fervent heart might burn without con- 
suming his virtue or his happiness. He had just 
gone through his theological studies, had been 
licensed, and sent out to labour in the vineyard. 

At first, he felt much reluctance at the thought 
of going to his uncle's ; but as he knew he must 
leave his almost idolized mother, that he must 
go from home, his affectionate heart felt consoled 
by the idea, that he was only going to another 
home, where he would still be an object of affec- 
tion ; for to love, and be beloved, was necessary 
to the very existence of Sidney Jones. 

Every day after his arrival, did Col. and Mrs. 
Fairfax congratulate themselves more and more 
on the acquisition of such a son, for so they call- 
ed him, and felt if any thing could compensate 
them for the loss of their daughter, it was such a 
child, such a companion. 

His disposition was so mild and tender, his 
manners so pure and gentle, his taste so refined, 
his habits so domestic, and his pursuits so separate 
from the bustle and gayeties of the world, that be 
was to them all that their daughter had been. 
His highly cultivated mind made him a charm- 
ing companion to the Colonel, while his fond 
and tender disposition, and his fervent piety, 
made him a consoling and invaluable friend to 
Mrs. Fairfax. 

This amiable old couple had long been in the 
habits of intimacy with Mr. Seymour's family; 
Mrs. Seymour, though younger than Mrs. Fair- 
fax, was of so serious a character, that she might 
have been taken for the senior, when with her 
cheerful, almost sprightly friend. Uniform pros- 
perity had nurtured in Mrs. Fairfax only gay 
and happy feelings, and the constant cheerfulness 


of her disposition was like unclouded sun-shine, 
gladdening and cheering all around. She would 
often say, '^ I have no merit in being cheerful and 
contented, for nature has given me such an inex- 
haustible store of animal spirits, that I could not 
be gloomy if I would.'' Another time^ she 
laughingly said to a friend, *' I know of no one 
who has such exquisite sensibility as myself; but 
it is a sensibility to pleasure, never to pain.'' 
And so she believed, until the fatal arrow pier- 
ced her bosom's core. Yet even then, this sorrow 
did not rankle long ; it was • acute, but not of 
long duration. In some minds, as well as some 
bodies, wounds are sooner healed than in others. 
Perhaps, however, the proportion of suffering is 
as great, as what is lost in duration is made up in 

Mrs. Seymour, on the contrary, was prone to 
sadness, and might have been less happy even in 
the midst of affluence and friends, had not her 
mind been serened and elevated by the most pure 
and fervent piety. 

Be that as it may, a cheerful, sanguine dispo- 
sition, is one of the kindest gifts of heaven ; and, 
as Hume says, '^ is worth more to its possessor, 
than an income of half a million." 

The very difference in the dispositions of these 
two friends had endeared them to each other. 
Louisa, from her childhood, had been a favourite 
at the island ; the youthful companion, the dear- 
est loved friend, of the lost and lamented daugh- 
ter of her mother's best friend. Both she and 
Mrs. Seymour had passed much of the previous 
summer there. Louisa had remained during the 
first two months after their loss, and been the chief 
consolation of these dear friends. She had been 
prevented from making her usual veroal visit, by 



die aflliction in Mr« Desmond's family, and the 
i)ther incidents that succeeded ; and during July, 
August and September, Colonel Fairfax had al- 
ways to abandon this island, beautiful as it was, and 
retreat to a farm he had in the mountains, where 
he found more health than in his favourite residence. 

But in October he returned, and his house used 
to be filled with friends during the delightful 
months of autumn ; now the circle was more 
circumscribed and select, and only one or two cho- 
sen friends were invited. Among these, the roost 
valued and welcome were Mr. and Mrs. Seymour. 

At this time, Louisa was sent alone, as Mrs. 
Seymour could not leave Mrs. Desmond, nor 
would she part Emily from the little Fanny. 
Mr. Seymour accompanied his daughter, and 
passed a few days. 

When Louisa arrived, she was received with 
the warmth and tenderness of a beloved child by 
the good old couple. They immediately began 
to converse about their son, as they called Sid- 
ney Jones ; described him with the partiality of 
affection, and spoke of the new source of happi- 
ness thus opened to them. Indeed, they could 
talk of nothing else. His fine talents, his ardent 
piety, his tenderness of heart, his devotion to his 
sacred duty, and his labours of love and charity, 
afforded inexhaustible subjects of discourse. 

<< We cannot keep him at home half as much as 
we desire," said Mrs. Fairfax ; '^ it would be in- 
excusably selfish in us to do so. He is ever en- 
gaged on some pilgrimage of charity, going 
about doing good. He is sometimes away from 
us for a week, and we know not where be is ; but 
we are never anxious, we know that he is carrying 
comfort to the sick, consolation to the afflicted, 
•and instruction to the ignorant." 

<VAnd carrying away not only our bearts, bat 


our riches too," added the old gentleman, smi- 
ling ; '' but they cannot be spent in a better 
cause, though he is the most extravagant young 
fellow living. Judging by the manner he gives 
them away, one would think he picked up dol- 
lars as easily as he could acorns." 

*' And so I am sure he does," said Mrs. Fair- 
fax, with an affectionate smile, " for you throw 
them as freely in his way as the oak does its fruit." 

" It would be a sin if I did not," replied the 
Colonel, " since he has brought us treasures 
which silver and gold could never buy. And, 
then," continued he, " the pride and pleasure one 
feels at being called the father of such a son ; that 
is worth more than I am rich enough to purchase. 
Why, Mr. Seymour, were you to see the crowds 
which fill the churches wherever he preaches ; to 
hear the eulogiums that are lavished on him, and 
to witness the fervour and zeal he has awakened 
among old and young, rich and poor, you would 
imagine it was another Whitfield that had appear- 
ed among ns." 

" You really make me impatient to see this 
new found son of yours. I suspect, Louisa, you 
have been more fortunate, since this must be the 
identical young man who is doing such wonders 
in your neighbourhood." 

Louisa's whole face was suffused with a glow, 
excited by mingled sensations of embarrassment 
and pleasure. She had of late thought so con- 
stantly of the young missionary, and there was 
such a mixture of admiration and tenderness in 
these meditations, that she could not hear without 
agitation, that he was no other than the adopted 
son of her kind and partial friends, and her bo- 
som thrilled with strange emotion at the idea of 
meeting him. 

As she tremuloiuly answered her fatheri the 


penetrating eye of Mrs. Fairfax was turned upon 
her; and she read, as by intuition, what was pass- 
ing in her youthful and ingenuous bosom ; for 
what is so quick as woman's perception f The idea 
which flashed like lightning through Mrs. Fairfax's 
mind, filled it with rapture. To her sanguine 
temper, all things she wished were possible, nay, 
half accomplished ; and while Mr. Seymour and 
Colonel Fairfax pursued the subject, her creative 
fancy was at work, and pictured scenes of more 
than earthly happiness. 

That Louisa already loved Sidney, there could 
be no doubt ; her tremulous and blushing con- 
sciousness clearly settled that point; and that 
Sidney would love Louisa, the very moment he 
saw her, seemed equally certain. Here, then, 
ready prepared, was a scheme of felicity beyond 
her most sanguine hopes, and equal to her fond- 
est wishes. 

Every moment now seemed an hour, until Sid- 

. ney should return ; and she promised herself as 

much delight from his first interview with Louisa, 

as she had ever felt in meeting Colonel Fairfax, 

when he first won her youthful love. 

She had the prudence, however, to conceal 
these thoughts and feelings from Louisa, which 
she could not have done had she not been sensi- 
ble, that if acquainted with them, they might 
produce an awkwardness and embarrassment 
which might injure the cause she wished to pro- 

She, therefore, contented herself with talking 
the whole time of her Sidney, as she called htm ; 
and the next day she went purposely to George- 
Town and Washington, visiting every one whom 
she knew had heard him preach, in order that 
Louisa might hear the praises of her favourite. 
If the good old lady bad reflected on the danger 


of kindling a sentiment in Louisa's bosom, which 
might never be reciprocated, she certainly would 
not have thus exposed one whom she so tenderly 
loved ; but she did not reidect, and even had she 
done so, her reflections would have been modified 
by her wishes ; and she never allowed herself lo 
doubt of the certain accomplishment of any fa- 
vourite plan. 

These visitations were not without effect. 
Louisa returned with such exalted ideas of the 
talents of Sidney Jones, and her heart so softened 
by the gentle and christian virtues ascribed to 
him, that she felt, to know and love him must be 
the same thing All she had heard from Mrs. 
Williams, and that good woman's anxiety for 
their becoming acquainted, and her theory of 
matches being made in Heaven, and her certainty 
that his soul had been cast in the same mould as 
hers, and that they were destined to be united on 
earth — all these, and a thousand other fond and 
pleasing ideas, such as are apt to fill the youthful 
imagination, thronged her bosom ; and in the 
evening, when she accompanied her father and 
friends in a walk to the river side, with Mrs. 
Fairfax leaning on her arm, she was so absorbed, 
that she did not remark the singularity of that 
good lady's being silent and thoughtful ; and they 
walked arm and arm without speaking a word, 
leaving all the conversation to Mr. Seymour and 
Colonel Fairfax. 

The walk was a very long one; in fact, it wound 
round the whole island, and the good old lady, 
who seldom went half as far as she had come, 
was so completely lost in her delightful schemes, 
that her equally absent guide might have led her 
the whole circuit, had not Colonel Fairfax sud- 
denly checked himself in his eager discourse, oil 
perceiving they had reached the end of the isl* 


and, and were going towards the ferry, and ex^ 
claimed — 

" Truly, my dear, you and Louisa must have 
been conversing on some very interesting subject, 
to have wandered so far without perceiving it," 

" Conversing ! we have not spoken a word." 

" Well, that's more surprising yet," said 
Colonel Fairfax ; " why, my dear wife, if you 
were younger by a score of years, I should be 
half jealous, and think you were in love. What 
say you, Louisa, is not love blind, and apt to lead 
you out of your way ? Ah," continued the good 
old Colonel, '^ you need not answer, your blushes 
speak more eloquently, and more truly, than 
your tongue would do." 

'^ Now that I have found out how far I have 
walked," said Mrs. Fairfax, " I feel prodigiously 
tired, and must absolutely sit down and rest my- 
self, although the sun has almost set." 

Her husband laughed, and said her weariness 
was only imaginary, and he now found that her 
inability to walk was the same ; " and who knows," 
said he, "but all the other infirmities of age 
may be mere fancy, and my good woman be as 
brisk as ever." 

However, he consented to rest, and sat down 
on a bench near the gate. There was no room 
for Louisa, and she found a seat a little further 
on, at the foot of a tree. She was very warm, 
and threw off her hat and shawl, and shook back 
the long flaxen ringlets that had fallen over her 
face. Exercise and emotion had suffused that 
usually pale face with a blush, as bright and as 
warm as the vermilion that glowed in the western 
sky. The boatmen's voices, as they pulled a 
boat ashore, were not heard by any of the party, 
who were engaged in lively conversation, or by 
Louisa, who, leaning her head against the tree, 


was gazing on the sun, setting in all the Splen- 
dour of an autumnal sky, when the gate opened, 
and Sidney Jones entered. An exclamation of 
delight from Mrs. Fairfax, roused Louisa, and 
she started from her seat, on seeing who had en* 
tered, and on recognising him to be the same 
person as the young Missionary. A universal 
trembling seized her, and she was glad to lean 
against the tree, when Mrs. Fairfax impatiently 
pulling him away from the gentlemen, with whom 
he was shaking hands, led him to the agitated 
Louisa, saying, 

" My dear Sidney, let me introduce you to my 
dear Louisa," and her eyes darted from one face 
to another as she spoke. 

Every hope was realized ! She saw the ani- 
mated delight, the sweet surprise, which sparkled 
in the eyes of her adopted son, as he bowed, and 
said, in that sweet, full-toned voice, which had 
once before thrilled on Louisa's ear, 

" Miss Seymour, I presume?" 

JLiOuisa bowed, and blushed. 

The delighted old lady exclaimed, '' how do 
you know it is Miss Seymour ; I did not mention 
her name ?" 

'' But /have heard it mentioned, by many and 
many a grateful heart, which has been made hap- 
py by her goodness," he replied, with emotion. 

" Better and better," thought the happy Mrs. 
Fairfax. " Why, this is beyond all I hoped or ex- 
pected. Dear creatures, how pleased they both 
look ; and how beautiful Louisa looks when she 
blushes — I never saw her look so beautiful be- 
fore." Such were her thoughts, for she had the 
forbearance not to give vent to her extacy, though 
she was almost forced to bite her lips, in order to 
keep them closed. 

The first glance of Louisa's up-lifted eye, to 


and, and were going towards the ferry, and ex^ 
claimed — 

" Truly, my dear, you and Louisa must have 
been conversing on some very interesting subject, 
to have wandered so far without perceiving it." 

" Conversing ! we have not spoken a word." 

" Well, that's more surprising yet," said 
Colonel Fairfax ; " why, my dear wife, if you 
were younger by a score of years, I should be 
half jealous, and think you were in love. What 
say you, Louisa, is not love blind, and apt to lead 
you out of your way ? Ah," continued the good 
old Colonel, " you need not answer, your blushes 
speak more eloquently, and more truly, than 
your tongue would do." 

" Now that I have found out how far I have 
walked," said Mrs. Fairfax, *' I feel prodigiously 
tired, and must absolutely sit down and rest my- 
self, although the sun has almost set." 

Her husband laughed, and said her weariness 
was only imaginary, and he now found that her 
inability to walk was the same; '* and who knows/' 
said he, "but all the other infirmities of age 
may be mere fancy, and my good woman be as 
brisk as ever." 

However, he consented to rest, and sat down 
on a bench near the gate. There was no room 
for Louisa, and she found a seat a little further 
on, at the foot of a tree. She was very warm, 
and threw off her hat and shawl, and shook back 
the long flaxen ringlets that had fallen over her 
face. Exercise and emotion had suffused that 
usually pale face with a blush, as bright and as 
warm as the vermilion that glowed in the western 
sky. The boatmen's voices, as they pulled a 
boat ashore, were not heard by any of the party, 
who were engaged in lively conversation, or by 
Louisa, who, leaning her head against the tree, 


was gazing on the sun, setting in all the Splen- 
dour of an autumnal sky, when the gate opened, 
and Sidney Jones entered. An exclamation of 
delight from Mrs. Fairfax, roused Louisa, and 
she started from her seat, on seeing who had en* 
tered, and on recognising him to be the same 
person as the young Missionary. A universal 
trembling seized her, and she was glad to lean 
against the tree, when Mrs. Fairfax impatiently 
pulling him away from the gentlemen, with whom 
he was shaking hands, led him to the agitated 
Louisa, saying, 

" My dear Sidney, let me introduce you to my 
dear Louisa," and her eyes darted from one face 
to another as she spoke. 

Every hope was realized ! She saw the ani- 
mated delight, the sweet surprise, which sparkled 
in the eyes of her adopted son, as he bowed, and 
said, in that sweet, full-toned voice, which had 
once before thrilled on Louisa's ear, 

" Miss Seymour, I presume?" 

JLouisa bowed, and blushed. 

The delighted old lady exclaimed, '^ how do 
you know it is Miss Seymour ; I did not mention 
her name .'*" 

'^ But /have heard it mentioned, by many and 
many a grateful heart, which has been made hap- 
py by her goodness," he replied, with emotion. 

" Better and better," thought the happy Mrs. 
Fairfax. " Why, this is beyond all I hoped or ex- 
pected. Dear creatures, how pleased they both 
look ; and how beautiful Louisa looks when she 
blushes — I never saw her look so beautiful be- 
fore." Such were her thoughts, for she had the 
forbearance not to give vent to her extacy, though 
she was almost forced to bite her lips, in order to 
keep them closed. 

The first glance of Louisa's up-lifted eye, to 


the face that was turned on her in eager gaze, 
told her that they were not strangers. ** Yet, 
where have we known each other," thought she, 
'* that his countenance should be so familiar ; that 
I should feel as if it was a friend, a long absent 
friend, that I meet after a long absence. Ah, 
it must be as Mrs. Williams says; we roust 
have known each other in heaven, and we now 
meet on earth, as friends long separated." While 
thoughts like these were rapidly passing through 
Louisa's mind, did no similar recognition take 
place in that of Sidney ? Oh, yes — He too, felt 
as if some kindred soul had just been restored to 
him. She was no stranger to his thoughts. Mrs. 
Williams had taken good care that he should be 
well acquainted with the soul of Louisa ; with 
her kindness, her benevolence, her universal 
goodness. Often and often had the bright idea 
of her excellence accompanied him to his pillow, 
and illumined his dreams. He had not seen 
her face at the time she saw him. His whole 
soul had been engaged in the service he was 
performing, and no object had diverted his 
fixed attention. Yet how strange ! she was so 
like the form in which his fancy had embodied 
the benevolent soul which Mrs. Williams had 
made known to him. When his imagination had 
pictured youthful beauty, it had borrowed its 
ideas from seraphs and angels, and painted it 
pure, delicate and pale, with eyes of heaven's own 
colour, and with sunny locks, such as shine round 
seraph brows. And how wonderful ! that Louisa 
Seymour was all that his imagination had pictu- 
red of fair and beautiful ! 

He forgot at the moment, that Mrs. Williams 
had said she was pale as the snow-drop, and mo- 
dest as the violet, and that her eyes were like the 


^(ars in the dark blue firmament. He had been 
struck at the time with her poetical description ; 
but did not now recollect, that out of the snow- 
drop, and violet, and bright stars, and blue sky, he 
bad formed the serapli-like bein^ on which his fan- 
cy loved to dwell ; nor was he conscious that 
Mrs. Williams' exclamation of, " Oh, if ever 
there was an angel, she is one," had mingled his 
imaginings. No — all this was forgotten, and he 
thought it most a miraculous circumstance, that 
the real Louisa Seymour resembled the Louisa 
Seymour of his dreams. 

How long it takes to translate into language 
the swift glancing thoughts of the mind ! all 
these, and many more, had passed through the 
minds of these young people, in the few minutes 
it took Mrs. Fairfax to tie her bonnet and draw 
on her gloves, and while Louisa did the same. 

No one thought of the length of the way ; 
Sidney walked between Mrs. Fairfax and Loui- 
sa, and the old lady seemed inclined to verify 
her husband's assertion, that her inability to walk 
was all imaginary, and that she might be as brisk 
as ever. She had all the talk to herself, for Sid- 
ney and Louisa felt as if such a wonderful Pro- 
vidence had brought them together, that they 
were lost in silent meditation on the subject, 
while their warm-hearted friend was asking a 
hundred questions, of where he had been, what he 
bad been doing, and, without waiting for them 
to be answered, ran on with an account of Loui- 
sa's arrival, of their walks, of their visits, where 
she had heard a great deal about him, and asked 
him if his right cheek had not burned yesterday 

" 1 really cannot tell that," he answered, " liiu 
I know it burns now." 

VOL. II, 26 



"Well, that is very strange," said the old 
lady ; '' why, no one is praising you now." 

'' Are you sure of that ?" said Louisa, archly, 
looking round to the gentlemen, who were follow- 
ing close behind, and from whom she had heard 
some words of such an import; for the ear will 
hear the praise of an interesting object, when it is 
deaf to every other sound. 

<< Really," said Mrs. Fairfax, as she sat down 
on a sofa in the hall, " I am growing young 
again ; I do not feel the least tired, although I 
have walked almost two miles." 

<< 1 have alwaj^s found," said Mr. Seymour, 
'' that nothing gives either mind or body such 
activity and elasticity as happiness ; and yon 
seem so very happy this evening, that I do not 
wonder you are not fatigued." 

*' Happy!" said the Colonel, "why I have 
not seen the dear soul so young and happy this 
half century." A cloud stole across the counte- 
nances of both Colonel and Mrs. Fairfax, as he 
said this. With an effort, they cleared it away, 
as if resolved the sorrows of the past should not 
tlirow a gloom over the joys of the present. 

" It would be ingratitude to the kind Provi- 
dence," thought Mrs. Fairfax, " who has made 
up my loss by the gift of such a son ;" and she 
looked with tenderness on him, as the idea oc- 

In the course of the evening, Mr. Seymoar 
learned that Mr. Jones was the son of one of bis 
earliest and dearest friends. 

" We passed through college together, and stu- 
died law in tlic same office. Our tastes and pur- 
suits were similar, and some of the very happiest 
hours of my life were passed in his society. In 
3'outh, when the affections are warm, friendship , 
is a sentiment almost as tender and exclusive as ' 
love ; we found, at least, it was sufficient to oc* 


cupy our hearts, and keep them free from a more 
absorbing and dangerous passion ; and now, in 
advanced life, the memory of those peaceful and 
liappy days gleams on my mind, like moonlight 
upon the landscape. Days of enthusiasm and 
romance, how pure and simple were your plea- 
sures ! When the dull studies of the morning 
were over, after being shut up in a little dark 
office, in a narrow street, with what delight would 
we, of a fine afternoon in the spring, or of a sum- 
mer's evening, just as the sun was setting, leave 
the precincts of the crowded and dusty city, and 
roam over the fields and hills, and inhale the 
pure and refreshing air of the country. The ro- 
mantic grounds of the isladd afforded an endless 
variety of walks ; but those we best loved, were 
along the East River, or the shores of the Hud- 
son ; or, sometimes crossing that noble stream, 
we would go to Hoboken, and, among the soli- 
tudes of the Jersey shore, indulge the musings of 
high-wrought fancy, read some favourite poet, or, 
quite as often, tune our own reeds to some rural 
strain, for, I need not tell you, Mr. Jones, your 
. fat her. was a poet. To what scenes of past and 
unalloyed delight has memory transported me ; 
scenes and delights, I make no doubt, familiar to 
you ; for, with a similar taste, you must have si- 
milar pleasures and pursuits." 

" My dear father," said Louisa, " I never ima- 
gined you had so much romance in your disposi- 

^' And I had almost forgotten it, Louisa. After 
my return to my native state, I soon became a 
politician, as well as a lawyer — ^two vocations, 
the atmosphere of which is fatal to romance. 
But the recollections of youth have kindled the 
latent spark/' 


Ob, married love ! thy bard sfaall own, 

When two congenial aouls unite, 
Tby golden chain's inlaid witli down, 

Tby lamp's with heavenis own lustre bright 


Mrs. Fairfax's warm heart again found ob- 
jects for its most ardent affections. The interest 
excited by her young friends seemed like the resur- 
rection of those fond hopes which had been buried 
in her daughter's grave. The realities of life never 
sufficed her lively and creative fancy, which de- 
lighted to plan schemes of felicity beyond the 
common-place destiny of man. Her own course 
was finished, she had reached the haven, and was 
laid up for the rest of life. But the heart never 
grows old, and in some breasts, the fire of enthu- 
siasm is never extinguished: in her daughter, 
the good old lady had lived life over again ; but * 
the sweet hopes, and visionary schemes she had 
indulged for her, were extinguished by death, — 
and destitute of object, her heart and her ima- 
gination had preyed on her own peace, until 
Sidney and Louisa came to absorb this super- 
abundance of fancy and feeling, which at her age 
was more oppressive than invigorating. 

Together they trod the romantic and shady 
paths, which wound in every direction round 
this charming islet. At one end, there was a 
fishing-house, placed among the rocks, and 
shaded by weeping-willows, and other trees that 
love the water side. Here, the waters of the Po- 
tomac perpetually «murmured at their feet, and 


the winds of autumn sighed amid the branches 
that waved above their heads, making sweet and 
soothing music, which serened the mind and 
softened the heart. To this solitary spot, Louisa 
would carry her work, and Sidney his book, and 
linger till ^the sun set behind the high-wooded 
hills of Virginia, throwing a flood of radiance on 
the water, and tipping the tree tops with gold. 
The book and work were seldom thought of, but 
were thrown aside ; while, with their eyes turned 
on the various scenery, or fixed on the gliding 
river, they would converse on themes suggested 
by taste, fancy, or feeling ; and as twilight stole 
over the scene, and the glow of evening faded 
from the horizon, still would they linger, and 
leaning over the rocks, would watch the reflec- 
tion in the waves vanishing by degrees, till the 
stream rolled in darkness by them; even then 
would they linger still, to catch the soft sounds 
of the rippling waves, and to mark the stars one 
by one appearing on the face of heaven, and re- 
flected on the bosom of the waters. Their souls 
would hold high converse, and rising from earth, 
would commune of the joys ^ heaven. 

" What was the world to them ? 
Its pomps, its pleasures, aud its nonsense all? 
Who in each other find whatever fair 
High fancy forms, or lavish beans can wish'^' 

and who formed their ideas of the joys of 
heaven, from that'which filled their own pure and 
innocent bosoms. Oh ! what are the joys of sense 
compared to that sublimation of soul, which seems 
to etherealize the nature, and blends the purity of 
an angel's with the ardour of a seraph's love ! 
Such a sentiment needs not language. Where 
thought! meets thought, and sympathy mingles 
every feeling, silence is more eloquent than words. 



At such wrapt moments, these fond enthusiasts 
would almost lose the sense of present existence, 
and would expatiate in the eternity of their being. 
'' Oh !" exclaimed Louisa, as she gazed on the 
thickly spangled firmament of heaven, *' how I 
long to soar to those bright regions, and dwell 
among the stars!" Following her train of 
thought, Sidney answered her by apostrophising 
the constellations on which she gazed. 

<< Ye citadels of light! perhaps our future home, 

From whence the soul, revolving periods past, 

May oft look back with recollected tendernesSi on all 

The various scenes she left below. 

Its deep-laid projects and its strange events. 

As on some fond and doating tale, that soothed 

Her infant hours !" 

'' Or rather," said he, ^^look back with recollected 
tenderness, not on deep-laid projects and strange 
events, but on such an hour as this! Dear Miss 
Seymour, I feel as if even there, my happiness 
might be increased by the recollection." 

Days and weeks now glided most charmingly 
away, in the enjoyment of those soul-satisfying 
pleasures, which afiection, taste, and religion, on- 
ly can bestow. Without neglecting his sacred 
duties, Sidney Jones found many an hour to pass 
in the sweet society of the gentle Louisa and 
warm hearted Mrs. Fairfax. 

Dwelling beneath the same roof, united by con- 
geniality of minds, it did not require a long ac- 
quaintance, to mellow into a tenderer sentiment 
the admiration and esteem these young people 
had conceived for each other. This sentiment 
was not the offspring of youth, beauty, or fancy ; 
no— -it was the product of virtue, reason, taste ; 
it was the attraction of affinity. It would have 
been impossible for them to have known, and 
not to have loved each other ; as impossible a$ 
for two streams not to mingle when they meel^ 


though the sources from which they flow may be 
far distant. Surely the theory of the poet must 
be true; — souls are paired in heaven — cast in the 
same mould, and adapted for each other ; though 
so^ often separated in their descent to earth, that 
this theory can be seldom tested by experiment. 
But when these predestined souls do meet and 

"Oh happy then, the happiefst of their kind ! 
Whom gentler stars unite ; and in one fate 
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 
'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws 
That binds their peace ; but harmony itself, 
Attuning all their passions into love. 

And such were Sidney and Louisa, whom a 
kind Providence had brought together from dis- 
tant places, and combined every circumstance 
which could accelerate their union. 

Thus passed the time until Christmas, when 
Louisa returned home, accompanied by her 
friends. The city was very gay, but this family 
were too happy at home to be tempted abroad by 
what are called the gayeties of life. 

The term of Mr. Jefierson's administration 
drew to its close, and his successor would take his 
place as quietly as if he had it by the right of 
descent, instead of election ; so tranquil and una- 
nimous had been the public choice. The citizens 
endeavoured to testify in every way they could, 
their respect and love for the friend who was 
about to leave them ; for, in every sense of the 
word, had he been a friend to the city of Wash- 
ington, and to its citizens. These attentions he 
more than reciprocated ; and every one who had 
come within the sphere of his benevolence and 
hospitality, felt a tender and mournful regret steal 
over them, as the day approached that was to 
terminate a career which had difiused such hap- 
piness through his country. Few persons felt 



this regret more sensibly than the Seymour fa- 
mily, by whom he was enthusiastically loved and 
venerated. But the day at length arrived, and 
exhibited to an admiring nation, the simplicity 
and perfection of our form of government. 

Supreme power, that object of ambition in 
every age and country — that -object for which 
brother has imbrued his hands in a brother's 
blood, sous have murdered their fathers, fields 
been deluged with gore, countries desolated, and 
nations destroyed — ^This object is here attained, 
not only without bloodshed, but without conten- 
tion. A free people make a free choice. The 
power bestowed is limited to a short period, and 
when that has elapsed, it is transferred without 
violence to other hands. In the present instance, 
there was something more affecting than its secu- 
rity and simplicity ; it was the sight of the joy 
with which this great man transferred his honours 
and his authority to one whom he loved as a son, 
and esteemed as a friend. So similar were their 
views of government, and their political princi- 
ples, that it seemed like a continuation, and not a 
change in the administration. During the last 
year of Air. Jefferson's term, addresses upon ad- 
dresses had poured in from every part of the Uni- 
ted States, intreatiug him longer to serve his 
country, and to allow himself to be re-elected. 
But wearied with the burden he had so long borne, 
and sighing for the tranquillity of domestic life, 
nothing but a sense of duty could hjive retained 
him in office. With a modest opinion of his own 
powers, and the highest estimation of those of 
iiis friend, his uniform answer to the solicitations 
of his countrymen was, that at his advanced age 
he could render no services to his country equal 
to those of his intended successor. That the in- 
terest of his country was the first object of bis 


solicitude, and he believed he would best promote 
that interest by resigning to younger hands the 
reigns of government. 

On the fourth of March the new President was 
to take the oath of ofBce. This ceremony took 
place in the Capitol ; the Hall of Representatives 
was prepared for the occasion. On one side of 
the Speaker's chair were seats appropriated for 
the Cabinet Ministers, and diplomatic corps. Qn 
the other side, those arranged for the Judges of 
the Supreme Court, and officers of government. 
On the floor the members of the late Congress 
mixed with citizens and strangers of distinction. 
The raised seats around the Hall, usually appro-* 
priat^d to the Senators and foreign Ministers, 
were now assigned to the ladies, while the galleries 
were filled by the people at large. 

At an early hour, the avenue leading to the 
Capitol, and the surrounding grounds^ were 
thronged with a multitude, more eager to catch a 
last glimpse of their beloved and venerated Ex- 
President, than even a first view of his succes- 

About noon, the carriages began to move to- 
wards the Capitol ; no established etiquette pre-* 
scribed attendance on the President, but esteem 
and love drew many of his fellow-citizens around 
him on this occasion, and the militia of the dis- 
trict, marine corps, and other military companies, 
volunteered their services, and swelled the caval- 
cade which followed his carriage. He bad soli- 
cited his venerable friend to accompany him in 
the same carriage, which Mr. Jeflerson declined, 
as he would not divide the honours lavished on 
the President, ** I lay down my office, and re- 
turn to the body of citizens ; as one of them, it 
is my wish to pay my tribute of respect to the 
man of their choice." This he did, riding on 


horseback, attended only by his private secreta-^ 
ry, in the midst of the crowd of citizens who ac- 
companied the President to the Capitol. This 
was true republicanism, in all its simplicity — its 
sublimity ; for the sight of a great man, volun- 
tarily resigning power, is far more grand and im- 
pressive than that of the one who assumes it. 
Such a sight realizes the Platonic and Utopian 
visions of philosophers and philaniiiropists, and 
is the verification of that liberty and equality of 
which they only dreamed. 

The Hall of Representatives was early crowd- 
ed by ladies and others who preferred the specta- 
cle within, to that without the walls. At last, 
the folding doors were thrown open, the diQerent 
public bodies, and military and civil officers, en- 
tered, and took their seats. The whole building 
seemed alive ; every spot on which a foot could 
stand was occupied ; the windows, the walls, 
were filled, and many clung to the pillars, who 
COiiid not find a place to stand. 

Silence and expectation hushed the vast assem- 
bly. Every eye was turned to the door. At 
last, the newly-elected President entered, attend- 
ed by the Chief Justice, and his Cabinet Minis- 
ters ; the Ex-President also glided in, and placed 
himself among the citizens, while his successor, 
approaching a table on which the Bible lay, took 
the oath of office, as administered by the Chief 

He then ascended the Speaker's chair, and de- 
livered his inaugural address. All was respect- 
ful silence; when, after finishing it, he with- 
drew; and it was not until he left the Hall, that 
loud huzzas proclaimed the people's gladness. 
He was attended to his own house by a crowd of 
carriages, and multitude of people. The street 
in which he lived was so thronged, it was diffi- 
cult for carriages to make their way, or for the 


company to get access to his honse. Every pas*- 
sage and apartment was filled with the ladies and 
gentlemen, who hastened to ofier him their con- 
gratulations. He and his lady stood at the door 
of the drawing-room, to receive their friends and 
fellow-citizens, and foreign ministers. The levee 
was crowded by light hearts and happy faces ; 
but, among the crowd, no one looked so happy, 
so elated, as the venerable Ex-President, for he, 
too, was there, to do honour to his friend. One 
of the company, who was intimately acquainted, 
shaking hands with him, said, '^ you look so hap- 
py, sir, that I can wish you joy with more since- 
rity than I did this day eight years ago.'' " You 
may safely do so," he replied ; ^' I am much hap- 
pier at this moment than my friend." 

Wheif he left the room, the company followed 
him to his own house, there to offer to him their 
sincere regrets at losing him, and earnest wishes 
for his felicity in his retirement. 

As Mr. Seymour led the ladies of his family 
to him, he said, smiling, while he looked round 
on the crowded drawing-room, " you see, sir, 
the ladies will follow you." " That is right," 
said he, '^ since I am too old to follow them. I 
remember in France, when Dr. Franklin was ta- 
king his leave, the ladies smothered him with em- 
braces; on his introducing me to them as his 
successor, I told him, I wished, among his other 
privileges, he would transfer this to me; but 
he laughed, and replied, * you are yet too young 
a man.' " Some of the ladies who heard the an- 
ecdote, said, they could scarcely help reminding 
him, that that objection no longer existed. So 
much and so personally was he beloved, that 
many an eye ran over with tears, as his friends 
and fellow citizens received his farewell. 

At night, a splendid ball was givep to the Pre- 


sident To this Mrs. Seymour audher family could 
not decline going. The room was so crowded, 
that it was impossible for the company to dance, 
bnt this was immaterial, as all they desired was 
to catch a look or word from the two Presidents. 
Mr. Jefferson did not stay above two hours, and 
no one had ever before seen him in such high spi- 
rits; his countenance beamed with a benevolent 
joy. Certainly, father never loved son more than 

he loves Mr. M n ; and it was observed, that 

every demonstration of regard or respect shown 
to him, gave him more evident satbfaction than 
those paid to himself. Some one observing to 

him, that Mr. M n looked very serious, while 

he, Mr. Jefferson, looked very gay, '^ no won- 
der," said he, smiling, '< as I have got rid of a 
burden, and he has assumed it." Every one 
crowded round the Ex-President, wishing once 
more to see, once more to hear their loved fellow 
citizen. But desirous to escape from this public 
homage, he stole unperceived away, at an early 
hour, and retired to enjoy those calm and peace- 
ful slumbers, which only the good enjoy. 

From public life, this good and great man has 
withdrawn into the calm shades of retirement and 
domestic happiness — to a home endeared by the 
most ardent affection, the most devoted friend- 
ships where, surrounded by his childiren, his 
grand-children, and great grand-children, he 
enjoys those pleasures his mind and his heart 
most prize. He stands on his mountain, like one 
of the oaks of his forests, flourishing in a green 
old age. 

THE END. -- 



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