Chapter IV: Part 4

“Why it was just afore nine o’clock, and I heard old Tabby miaow terribly at the kitchen-door. I opened it, and in she flew, looking as if she was skeared to pieces! her tail was as big as that,” (doubling up her fist.) “So I looks out to see what it was as frightened her so, when, a standing inside the barn-door, I see’d—as true as you stand there—I see’d a woman, all in white, without n’ary head! it had a handkercher in its hand, and it kept a waving it back’ards and for’ards—”

“I should ha’ swounded away dead,” said Dinah.

“So would anybody but me; but I kept up my courage, for my temper ris; I thought Nanny was at the bottom of it all along, though I know’d it was a sperit—for I’ve see’d enough on ’em,” she continued, her imagination kindling with the subject; “and it rolled its eyes, and—and—”

“But, Aunt Vi’let,” observed Dinah, submissively, “I thought you said it hadn’t n’ary head.”

“Hold your tongue, you fool! what do you keep ’terrupting me for? Where was I? Well, then, it fetched a sithe—sich a sithe!—I couldn’t stand it no longer; so I called master out. ‘There, sir,’ says I, ‘now I hope you’ll believe your own eyes’—for he always laughs and ri-dicules at witches and ghosts, and all them sort o’ things. So I tell’d him—and out he goes. I see all the time he was skeared enough, only he was ’shamed to show it afore me; but when he got to the barn-door, he set up sich a laugh—you might a hearn him into your house. I ’clare it made my hair stand on eend to hear him. ‘Here,’ says he, ‘Vi’let, your woman without a head is changed into a cow’s hind legs and tail!’ and sure enough, it was the beast then, but I know’d well enough what it was afore. Howsomenever, it wan’t no use a telling him; so I takes a skillet of biling water, that was on the fire, to bile some eggs—for our folks must always have some mess o’nother hot for supper, to keep me at it slaving from morning to night; not but I likes a little bit o’ suthen comfortable myself afore I goes to bed, and the most part on it comes into the kitchen. So I was going to fling it on to her, to see what she’d turn into next; but master tell’d me to let her alone, for the barn wouldn’t miss a little hay. Did you ever hear any thing so ’diclous! I tell’d him—”

“Aunt Vi’let! Aunt Vi’let!” was now heard from the kitchen-door; “the cakes is burning, and mistress wants to know if breakfast wont be ready soon.”

“And why don’t Flora take the cakes out of the oven, then! Can’t nothing be done without me?” cried Vi’let. “For the laud’s sake, give me my frying-pan, and let me go, or I shall have the whole house arter me.” She went into the kitchen in a hurry, took up her cakes, and fried her flap-jacks.

After their morning devotions, the Fayerweather family, in high spirits, gathered round the breakfast-table. This was laid in the western room, before an open glass-door, which looked into the garden. The cool morning breeze, after frolicking among the flowers, found its way in at the door, and mingling its stolen perfumes with those of the coffee and chocolate, played antics with the table-cloth.

I might here describe the breakfast; but as there was nothing appertaining to it which greatly differed from a modern one, I will just ask the reader to imagine his or her own family circle—which is, doubtless, the most agreeable in the world—in the best possible humor, and with excellent appetites, before a repast exactly suited to the taste of each individual of said family, seasoned by all the wit and liveliness possessed by each, in a peculiar degree, and my task will be accomplished in the best possible manner.

From this memorable period, all George’s accustomed avocations became tedious and disagreeable to him. Greek and Latin, in both of which he had made an unwilling progress, under Master Goodwin, of the grammar school, to prepare him for college, he now actually loathed; and his father found he must give up the hope nearest his heart, of ever seeing his eldest son distinguished in one of the learned professions.

“Well, my boy,” he said at last, “if, as you say, you are convinced you can never make a scholar, as it is not my way to drive a nail that will not go, I consent to your giving up Greek and Latin; though I _did_ hope to see you in one of the professions which your grandfathers followed so creditably. As to your going to sea, remember, it is wholly against my inclination. I shall expect you to continue at school two years; then, if you make such progress in general learning, and in studies connected with navigation, as to give me reason to hope seeing you something above the mate of a Marblehead skipper, I will then consent, though I should much prefer your going into a counting-house in London.”

The youth, satisfied with the hope of obtaining his father’s consent to his following the sea on any terms, promised faithfully to do all that was required of him; and, moreover, possessing some common sense, a quality not usually abounding in characters of his stamp, he set his mind to applying itself with energy and perseverance to the studies dictated by his father and Master Goodwin.

During the two years specified, two events of note occurred in the Fayerweather family; one was Amy’s marriage. This was conducted with all the state due to so important an occasion. The time for Amy’s “_walking bride_,” as it was termed, for the three Sundays succeeding the wedding, happened to be unfortunately in the early spring, the first Sunday falling on Easter, near the beginning of April. The bridal procession, consisting of the happy pair walking arm-in-arm, four bridemaids and as many groomsmen, set off from Mr. Fayerweather’s and paraded the whole length of Essex street to the end of St. Peter’s, where stood the church of wood dedicated to the same saint, lately replaced by a handsome gothic edifice of stone.

The bride was attired in a rich white satin; her fair neck shaded by a tucker of costly Brussels’ lace, a ruffle of the same falling over her dimpled elbow. Her sharp-pointed shoes, with heels three inches high, were of white brocade, with a silver flower in the toe, and brilliant paste buckles, nearly covering the instep. Any thing in the shape of hat, bonnet, cloak or scarf would have been altogether _outré_ on such an occasion. The large fan which it was customary for the bride to carry, and to hold up gracefully to shade her face, was mounted with white leather on which was painted, in lively colors, the wedding train of Isaac and Rebecca; Rebecca in a sacque, with triple ruffled cuffs, and Isaac in a full-bottomed periwig; walking side by side, through arches festooned with flowers, followed by six pairs of young nymphs holding the Jewish bride’s train; whilst a winged Cupid, with bow and arrows, and a Hymen, with his torch pointing to the church in the distance, marshaled the procession. A pair of turtle-doves, imagined to be cooing, sat on the arch directly over the heads of the happy couple. This fan was the wonder and admiration of the _élite_ of Salem.

Mr. Wendell was in a coat of milk-white broad-cloth, with nether garments of white satin, and paste knee-buckles; and a white satin waistcoat flowered with silver, in the button-hole of which was placed a large bouquet of hyacinths, which Amy had coaxed to bloom for the occasion. A chapeau-bras held under his arm completed his equipments.

It was a raw and disagreeable day in this least pleasant of the seasons in New England; with an east wind—which sourest and most ill-tempered of the children of Eolus usually blows on the seacoast from the beginning of April until the end of May, and oftentimes encroaching far into June. By a miracle the bride did not catch a cold. On the second Sunday she wore her second suit, a rose-colored damask, and on the third a straw-colored paduasoy; each week “sitting up for company” every day, with her attendants, in the afternoon for ladies, and in the evening for gentlemen, drest in the habiliments she wore on the Sunday beginning the week. These indispensable ceremonies were usually performed under the roof of the bride’s parent or guardian; after which the new-married pair took possession of their own house. That of Mr. and Mrs. Wendell, as will be seen presently, was situated at a very short distance from Mr. Fayerweather’s, where Amy still spent the greater part of her time.

The other event of importance that took place during George’s two years of probation was the obtaining of a quit-claim by Mr. Fayerweather from Jemmy and Nanny Boynton. This he had obtained through the assistance of his new nephew, Mr. Wendell, and without paying more than one third more than it was worth. After securing this deed or quit-claim the kind uncle converted Boynton’s house and his old ware-house, which stood near it, into a pretty residence for the young married couple, in order, as he said, to have Cousin Amy still under his own wing. As soon as the important negotiation with the Boyntons was concluded, Mr. Fayerweather came with all possible haste to make the joyful communication to the family. As he laid the document in triumph on the table he said,

“There, my dear, I have got the quit-claim at last from the Boyntons. The land is all our own now.”

On hearing these words, madam aroused herself from a deep reverie and exclaimed,

“La! Mr. Fayerweather, you don’t say so; how thankful I am. How did you prevail on them?”

“Oh, Wendell and I were too strong for them; though Nanny, I believe, would still have held on if I had not offered a good deal more than I had intended; and she was not satisfied after all; but I don’t care, I have the deed, and now we shall be rid of them.”

The two lads, who were laying their heads together at the window, and planning, it is to be feared, some mischief, started up in a transport—

“Then we’ll have a bonfire out in the field to-night, as high as the house, in spite of them,” cried John, “to-night’s Gunpowder Treason.”

“Yes,” added George, “and we’ll burn Jemmy for Pope; I know a capital way to get his old wig.”

“You’ll do no such thing, boys,” interrupted their father; “you may make your bonfire up to the moon if you will, but let Jemmy Boynton alone—we are quit of him now, and you shall give no occasion for any more brawls with him or Nanny either.”

“With Nanny! no indeed!” and madam, clasping her hands, cast her eyes upward, rolling them in a very remarkable manner.

The youths went out, and their father was following them, when a “Mr. Fayerweather, my dear,” stopped him short, and he turned round to his better half, who, he saw, was dying to make some very momentous communication.

“Well, my dear, what is it? What have you to tell me?”

“Oh, my dear, I meant to have told you before, but you were so full of business this morning that I had not a chance; but I think you ought to know.” Madam looked awful and mysterious.

“Why, what was it? Did Nanny’s red cloak take another flight?”

“La! no, my dear—you’ll never forget that, I believe—but this is what took place in our own kitchen, and I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Well, what was it then? I am all impatience to know?”

Madam cleared her voice—“Why, I happened to be in the kitchen yesterday, just before tea-time, when Dinah came over to borrow half a pint of meal to make some porridge for Nanny, so I asked Dinah what was the matter with her? for you know that nobody takes porridge but when they are sick, and not then, if they can afford a little posset, or even oatmeal gruel with raisins in it. Dinah said, she was sure she did not know what ailed her, but she was so nervous and cross there was no living in the house with her. I reproved Dinah for talking so of her mistress, and after she was gone I told Vi’let to make some nice sack-posset, and carry it over to Nanny; you know, with all their money, they scarcely afford themselves the necessaries of life. Vi’let grumbled enough, and said ‘water porridge was good enough for witches, and too good, too;’ however, she went to get the skillet to boil the milk in, and when she came back with it in her hand, what should slip in between her feet but a monstrous great black cat. Old Tabby always fights all strange cats, but when she saw this, she slunk away, and hid herself behind the settle. Vi’let was going to strike the strange cat over with the skillet, but I would not let her—not bethinking myself that it was any thing more than a common cat—though it was the biggest one I ever saw—but it seemed to be nothing more than skin and bone, and it rubbed up against me and mewed so pitifully, that I told Vi’let not to hurt the creature, but to give it something to eat. Vi’let said she wasn’t going to do no such thing; and if I wanted to give Christian folks’ vittles to evil sperits I might get it myself. Then she tried to strike it again; when the creature, or whatever it was, hunched up its back and spit at her; and then it set up an awful yowl and disappeared. I thought I saw it go out after Dinah; but Vi’let said it banished up chimney; and she was sure Nanny sent it to bewitch us all. And this morning she says she was pinched black-and-blue all night, so that she couldn’t sleep a wink, and took three crooked pins out of her sleeve, which she was sure she never put there, for she has only two, and one of them hasn’t any head. She showed me her arm that was pinched so; it was certainly very much swollen, though I couldn’t see any black-and-blue marks for the color of her skin. I am pretty sure _I_ felt some twitches, too, in my right arm; and this morning I had the strangest cramp in my foot. I wet my finger and crossed the place, and the cramp went off; but I feel all the time as if it was coming on again. Now what do you think of all this, Mr. Fayerweather? Don’t you think it high time Nanny was seen to?”

Mr. F. looked comical.

“Now what are you laughing at?” said madam, in an unwonted pet; “I’ll never tell you any thing again, if Nanny bewitches us all together, which it’s likely enough she’ll do, now we have the land against her will.”

“Don’t be offended, my love,” said her husband; “I was only pleased to have my mind made easy on one score—you’ll never be hanged for a witch, I am sure; and as to Nanny, why, I think you may safely leave her to Vi’let—I’ll match her with any witch in the Bay Province.”

Madam was appeased, though not wholly satisfied, but, as in duty bound, said no more, not being quite sure as to the twitches; and having, moreover, a vague suspicion that Vi’let’s swollen arm might be occasioned by the rheumatism, though she would have scarcely ventured such a surmise to Vi’let herself. The matter of the strange cat she dismissed from her mind.

George’s two years of probation passed rather slowly to him; but at last they came to a close. He had improved his time to the entire satisfaction of his father, having made such progress in his studies as to reflect great credit on Master Goodwin, and also prove his own industrious application. His predilection for a sea-faring life had rather strengthened than abated, and his father could no longer withhold his consent. A favorable opportunity was all George waited for, which soon presented itself. Captain Brayton was going on a voyage up the Mediterranean, and was to proceed to London, and touch at several European ports in coming home. He had a good crew, and Captain Seaward made interest with his old friend to take his son and George as light hands, and to keep them under his especial protection, lamenting at the same time that the Two Pollys, which was lying in the dock, undergoing some repairs, could not be made ready for the voyage.

Before Captain Brayton sails, we beg leave to introduce to the reader another one of young Fayerweather’s acquaintance Down-in-town.

He, also, bore the title of captain, which was accorded to all who, like himself, had ever been a ship-master—old Captain Bob Stimpson—a short, thick-set man, with legs like a mill-post, the upper parts encased in leather breeches, the lower parts in blue worsted stockings, with smart shoes fastened with huge silver buckles of great brilliancy. His wig, which had once been black, was rendered nearly red by age, and formed a setting to his redder face, which matched well with his huge bottle-nose of the same fiery hue. But do not mistake, gentle reader; Captain Bob Stimpson was a temperate man. He usually wore a brown coat and waistcoat, out of which latter appeared ostentatiously the ruffle of his shirt, broader than usual for the fashion of the day. He was a man of substance, and owner of a rope-walk, at the door of which he was usually found seated, pipe in mouth.

What could a youth of seventeen find in the society of such an old codger of fifty-two? Can you guess, my fair reader? He had a daughter—the Down-in-town beauty, she was called; a girl of whom any father might have been proud.

She was his only child; her beauty was a rare specimen of the blonde, with a high polished forehead, and exquisite features. A slight drooping of the lid at the outer corner of her clear blue eyes, sometimes gave a shade of sadness to her lovely countenance; but when animated, these eyes became bright and merry, and her face was radiant with dimpled smiles.

Captain Stimpson’s house was considered a fine one for the time in which he lived. It was a large square building, situated in the midst of a spacious terrace, of which the under part was improved for shops, for the sale of ready-made seaman’s clothing; and the lawn in front of his house was directly over their roofs. The ascent to the terrace was by a long flight of stone-steps, situated between two shops. The lawn was covered with fine grass, bordered with rose-bushes and lilac-trees, and a broad gravel-walk through the centre led to the house. This was of three stories, with a cupola on the top, which cupola the two captains used for a look-out, when vessels were coming in or going out; it commanded a view of the harbor; the house being situated in that part of the town now called Neptune street, or as they used to say, “down on the wharves.” There was nothing further remarkable about the house, excepting the cap of the front-door, which was ornamented by a figure of Neptune, with his trident—the wonder and admiration of all the young mermen of the vicinity.

George first saw Judith Stimpson—conceive of a beauty with such a name!—as he went with Dick, one summer afternoon, on some errand from the father of the latter to Captain Stimpson. She was with a little troop of companions who were on an afternoon’s visit to her, having finished all the tasks of sewing and knitting which their prudent mothers had set them. As yet pianos were scarcely invented, and there was but one spinnet in the place, and this was viewed by some with distrust, as having a secret connection with witchcraft. Judith and her companions issued from the house for a game of romps on the terrace. It was not in those days considered as infringing on decorum for girls of thirteen to play at “blindman’s-buff,” “old Tickleder,” or “hide-and-seek” in the open air. The little girls had just formed the magic circle around the beautiful Judith, who, dressed in a yellow grogram, with elbow-sleeves and ruffles of worked cat-gut over her round, white arms, was dancing with great glee, and singing in a voice rather loud for a young lady of her years, “Ring around the maiden in Uncle Johnny’s garden,” her light, silken curls flying in every direction round her glowing and innocent face, when who should appear on the terrace but the two young men! Away scampered the girls, vainly endeavoring to reach the house before their tormentors could catch them.

Judith was caught by Dick, who pretended to insist strongly on taking the forfeit she had incurred, while she blushed and struggled to free herself from his grasp. George, seeing the pain and confusion she evidently felt at being thus surprised, insisted on Dick’s releasing her without the forfeited kiss; and it was then he first observed her great beauty and modesty. While his friend went into the house to do his errand, he so improved his acquaintance with the little girls that he soon became foremost in their plays. At “hide-and-seek” and “old Tickleder,” he was found incomparable. They were just forming a circle in “Ring around the maiden,” round Betty Brayton, a little black-eyed girl, the intimate friend of Judith, the hand of the latter of whom George had taken care to secure, when Dick came out. He, after teazing the girls and rallying his friend a little, drew him, rather reluctantly, away; not, however, before George had gathered a rose, and flinging it at Judith, said slyly, in a rather low tone, “Keep that for my sake.” From this time he seized every opportunity of improving his acquaintance with Judith; and several keepsakes passed between them. Those from Judith being extorted rather than given, and those from George received with a merry laugh.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

LUCY’S DIRGE.[1]

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth.
Byron.

May is here with golden tresses,
Tresses wreathed, with flowers—
Tresses starred with dew-drops gleaming
In the pleasant south-wind streaming,
Giving many-colored dresses
To the fields and bowers—
May is here with golden tresses—
Tresses wreathed with flowers,

May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden, passing fair!
Maiden, like a seraph gifted,
Ever high in thought uplifted
Earth above, with sorrow laden,
Darkness and despair—
May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden, passing fair!

Hark! a voice replieth sadly—
Sadly, like a dirge—
Sadly, like some childless mourner,
“To the church-yard they have borne her,
And torn hearts are throbbing madly,
Washed by Sorrow’s surge”—
Hark! a voice replieth sadly—
Sadly, like a dirge.

“Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honied kiss—
Greet her where bright eyes were glancing,
And the forms of sylphs were dancing
In the sunny lawns to meet her
With the boon of bliss—
Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honied kiss.

“Ah! the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep—
Sailing with a face unclouded,
But sweet Lucy, pale and shrouded,
Heareth not the voice of wailing
In her dreamless sleep—
Though the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep.”

Like the wondrous flower she faded,
That unfolds at night—
Faded, but in fields Elysian
She rejoiceth angel vision,
While a wreath for her is braided
That will know no blight—
Like the wondrous flower she faded,
That unfolds at night.

Oh! too oft the ghastly reaper
Moweth down the young—
Reaper, of the scythe unsparing,
For the stricken little caring,
Though they bend above the sleeper
With their hearts unstrung—
Oh! too oft the ghastly reaper
Moweth down the young.

Fare thee well! bright child of Heaven,
Heavenly dreams were thine—
Heavenly beauty gave forewarning
Of departure in life’s morning,
And to thee a soul was given
Filled with thoughts divine—
Fare thee well! bright child of Heaven,
Heavenly peace is thine!

-----

[1] The subject of the foregoing tribute was chosen May-Queen by her mates. When the day of festivity arrived she lay wrapped in her little shroud.

* * * * *

SONNET.—LAKE SUPERIOR.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Superior! wondrous lake! compared with thee,
What tiny lakelets doth earth’s face disclose!
Thy bright blue waters never know repose,
But, sea-like, fret, foam, rage continually—
High “pictured rocks” still battlement thy shore,
Around thee woods their sombre shadows cast,
Where Red-man pitched his wigwam in time past,
Or danced his war-dance to the music of thy roar—
Now on thy surface no canoe is seen,
For ’mid the wild-flowers which anigh thee bloom,
Sleeps the bold Indian, death-cold in his tomb;
Remembered as the things that once had been,
While wild-birds o’er him do his requiem sing,
Or flying o’er thee dip their sparkling wing.

* * * * *

EMMA LA VELLETTE.

BY P.

About twenty years ago, there lived near the pretty town of Launceston, in Cornwall, an elderly maiden lady named La Vellette. She was of French origin, and had emigrated to England about the commencement of the first French Revolution. She was remarkable for the simplicity of her manner, and the amiability of her character. Exhibiting but little of that vivacity which usually characterizes her fair countrywomen, she nevertheless displayed a subdued cheerfulness, which, while it did not stimulate mirth, never tended to arrest a merry laugh or an innocent joke. In person she was small, and her features, though marked by age, and saddened by care, still bore the lingering traces of beauty. Her neat, retired, and snug little cottage, which, in summer, used to peep forth beneath a forest of honeysuckle and ivy, and her prim and Quaker-like simplicity of dress, were in happy harmony with her disposition. Living in my youthful days within a few yards of her residence, I was frequently invited with my playmates to visit her garden. Gradually I became an especial favorite; and I used to feel so much at home in her company, that I needed no invitation to pay her frequent visits. She seemed to take a high degree of interest in my amusements, and that of my companions; and when any conflicts arose from the mysteries of a game at marbles, or from the strategy in hide-and-seek, she would be the first to heal up the difficulty, and restore amicability. Another valuable trait, which, boy as I was, I could not help observing, was the unwavering resignation which she always exhibited; while on the other hand, I was remarkable for my impatience, and a somewhat irritable disposition. And when, as often I did, I laid my complaints before her, when I grieved about the loss of a favorite top, or the death of a favorite pigeon, I was always met with her sympathy, and gently chid for my discontentment. Soothing me with her mild but sorrowful smile, she would draw me to her bosom, and strive to show me the folly of grieving for an unavoidable loss, and the duty of submitting manfully to misfortune.

To her neighbors her early history was involved in some degree of obscurity. They knew she was a French _emigré_, that many years ago a favorite sister had died, and that she had been deprived of her parents at an early age. They had heard it rumored that she had suffered from severe misfortunes—that her connections had been people of rank, and while they all knew she enjoyed a competence, some conjectured she was even wealthy. Other stories of a romantic character were sometimes circulated, but unsupported by any degree of certainty.

My esteem for her grew with my growth, and I have reason to believe that it was reciprocated; but as I advanced in years, my visits became less frequent, from unavoidable circumstances. At length the period arrived when I was called upon to leave home for a situation in a foreign land, and as I had often felt a strong desire to become acquainted with her history, I called upon her on the day previous to my departure to take my farewell, and to see if I could have my curiosity gratified. After I had expressed this wish with all the delicacy my confusion enabled me, and had excused the request by intimating the possibility that we might never meet again, she consented to leave me a brief account after her death. And that event, she added, is not far hence. Something tells me that my pulse will soon cease to beat, and my heart to throb. I have long waited for Heaven’s messenger; I have long panted for that land “where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.” She then gave me a few words of advice, she pressed her lips upon my cheek, placed a small parcel, containing a gold watch and ring, into my hand, and then, in a broken voice, bade me farewell.

Her anticipation of death was speedily realized. I was told that, about eleven months after my departure, while reading her Bible in an arm-chair, she suddenly and silently vanished, like one of heaven’s stars, into the other world. Among her papers was a packet directed to me, in which was the following brief sketch of her early life.

I was born in the year 1770, at the village of St. Marc, near Lyons, in France. I was the youngest of three children, having had a brother and sister. My parents were connected with families of rank, and, though well-off, were not wealthy. My mother was a woman of delicate constitution, and of a most amiable disposition. She looked upon her husband as the beau-ideal of perfection, and with a mother’s partiality, she thought her children were paragons of beauty. My father was certainly a kind, handsome, and an intellectual-looking man. In after life I had opportunities for observing many families, and I do not remember any father who was fonder of his home, more devoted to his wife, or more affectionate to his children. Many years have passed, and many strange scenes have racked my mind, since I last saw his dear face; yet the recollection of his features are still as fresh upon my memory as if I had seen him to-day. He loved study and his books; and, though an aristocrat by birth, and a gentleman by fortune, he was a sincere friend of the people, and an enemy to the profligacy and oppression of the court. He was not, that I am aware of, a believer in the republicanism then advocated. He thought France was then unfit for a democratic government. He maintained that all institutions, to be permanent, must be gradual in their growth. The strong and stately oak, flourishing through centuries, slowly acquired its vigor and dimension; the animalculæ springing into life, in a moment of time, becomes as suddenly extinguished. “What my country needs,” said he, “is not a universal suffrage, but freer institutions; not a republic, but opportunities and experience to fit her for it.” He no less decried the irreligious doctrines by which liberal opinions were then so frequently accompanied. “France,” he would say, in his clear, manly voice, “will never be really free until she is religious. The reign of virtue and order must always accompany the reign of freedom. Without these requisites she may conquer, but only to be defeated; she may establish a republic, but it will be only a despotism in disguise.”

These opinions did not seem to please many of his auditors, and he would frequently leave a political club with feelings of grief and despair. He saw no hope for his country so long as her shackles remained—and he mistrusted the wisdom of the reforms which the people desired to introduce.

My sister was about two years older than myself. She was fairer and prettier than I was, and bore a strong resemblance to my mother. She had light hair, large, clear blue eyes, and a tall and graceful figure.

My brother was five years my senior. He was in every respect, but in affection, unlike the rest of us. At an early age, I remember, he exhibited marks of a powerful frame, with an active, bold, and enthusiastic disposition. His mind, naturally good, was improved by an excellent education; and though carefully watched over by an attentive father, he could not prevent him from imbibing very extravagant notions about government, and very loose opinions upon religion.

The limits to which I purpose to confine myself, precludes the possibility of mentioning any of the incidents connected with my childhood. I shall therefore pass them by, and in the following pages, merely allude to those events which may be of interest, and I hope of profit.

Suitors made their appearance as my sister and myself approached womanhood. For some time I did not discover any one who attracted my attention. Having every comfort I desired, and parents upon whom I doated, I was in no hurry to divide my affection. But we are told that every woman must, sooner or later, fall in love—and my experience formed no exception. At a party given by a neighbor, I was introduced to a young man, who struck my attention, and who in a short time won my heart. His name was Alfred Pomiville. He was admitted on all hands to be very prepossessing; and I thought he was a model of manly beauty. My parents had formed the humane and sensible resolution of allowing their children the disposal of their own affections, reserving, of course, the right of approving or disapproving of their choice. When, therefore, my father became acquainted with my partiality for Alfred, he did not accuse me of disobedience, but endeavored to study his disposition and to ascertain his character. Measuring his feelings by mine own, I thought the more closely Alfred was studied the more he would be admired. I was therefore surprised when I found my father forming a somewhat undecided opinion of him, and entreating me to be cautious before I gave away a woman’s dearest treasure—her heart. I promised obedience to his advice; but with the characteristic weakness of most of our sex, when our affections are engaged, I speedily forgot my promise, and went on confiding and loving. In the course of a few months I observed with much pleasure that he gradually rose in my father’s estimation; with my mother he was from the first a favorite; and my brother and sister both considered him agreeable. To me he was kind and affectionate in the highest degree; he studied my smallest wish, and seemed devoted to my happiness. Within a year after our acquaintance he was recognized by my parents as my future husband, and then I saw naught but smiles and sunshine before me; then I thought, in the weakness of my heart, I had attained the summit of human happiness, and could defy misfortune.

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As time flew on, the dark clouds of the Revolution advanced. It was now evident to every observing eye that a fearful storm was at hand. The most hair-brained courtier, strutting through the balconies of Versailles, heard the distant rumblings of the coming thunder and stood aghast. Even the political agitators trembled for a moment at the prospect they had created. My father therefore became more anxious, more active, and less at home. At length the storm burst. The indignant voice of fifteen millions could no longer be controled. Then followed that unparalleled era of romance and crime, of heroism and pusillanimity. Then commenced the first of a series, not yet completed, of modern popular reaction against political oppression. We had, ere this, removed to Paris, and we saw what has been called the commencement of the Revolution. But I must pass over the dreadful scenes which subsequently passed before our eyes. They have now long enjoyed an unenviable notoriety, forming alike a warning to the oppressed and their oppressors. Strange to say, after a little while, we were able to hear the awful events around us with comparative composure, so easy does our nature become accustomed to circumstances. No doubt this was in a great measure owing to the confidence we entertained of the safety of our family. My brother was one of the popular favorites, and so seemed Alfred. My father, though conservative in his republicanism, and an uncompromising opponent of infidelity, was admired by all who held his opinions, and respected by those who differed with him. Our relatives, most of whom were aristocrats in sentiments as in rank, had ere this emigrated to Germany.

The Revolution gathered force as it rolled along, and my father’s disappointment increased as he observed the acts which accompanied its progress. We now felt it was unsafe for him to remain, and at our earnest wish, he appointed an old domestic to take care of his property, and consented to leave France with us for England. Alfred accompanied us to Paris, and my parents agreed that we should be immediately united, and that he should then accompany us in our exile. A priest, an old acquaintance, who had sought for shelter under our roof from the popular excitement, was appointed to perform the marriage ceremony. The gloom which had lately hung heavily upon me now disappeared. I was confident of a speedy release from further trouble and looked forward to our future residence in England with much anxiety.

The morning of the day fixed for my bridal at length arrived. I remember I slept very little on the preceding night. When I arose the day seemed delightfully fine, which I looked upon as a favorable omen. Habited in a plain white dress, I descended to our little parlor, where Alfred and all the family, except my father, were assembled at breakfast. The latter, I was told, was absent on business relative to our departure. The ceremony was not to take place until one, and we highly amused ourselves during the intermediate time, in projecting future schemes, and building pretty castles in the air. My sister drew a very charming picture of our English residence—Alfred gave us amusing and extravagant descriptions of the English—and I endeavored to estimate how much I should enjoy the English scenery, its picturesque cottages, its snug little gardens, and the luxury of peace and safety. And then Alfred drew me by his side, and whispered compliments in my ear, and assured me that stores of happiness awaited us. Thus pleasantly the time flew on until the clock struck one, when the priest reminded us that the hour for our wedding had arrived. At that moment a knock was heard at the door, which Annette declared was our father’s. The missal was then opened, and my sister placed the chairs in order. Then my heart began to palpitate, and a nervousness come over me which young ladies, I presume, are accustomed to experience upon such occasions. As I was advancing with Alfred toward the priest, I happened to turn my eyes to the window fronting the street, where I saw my dear father in the executioner’s cart, on its way to the guillotine!

To describe the feelings which I experienced when this dreadful sight presented itself, would be impossible. Nearly forty years have passed since then, during which I have witnessed many never-to-be-forgotten scenes, and experienced many uncommon trials, yet that moment stands out in greater prominence than any other event of my life, and even now my hand trembles and my eyes become dim as the recollection of it returns to my memory.

Upon recovering from the insensibility which the shock produced, I was met with another catastrophe, no less appalling than its predecessor—the death of my mother! It seems she also had observed my father on his way to execution, and the sudden fright operating upon a diseased heart, produced a sudden and fatal attack. Thus the hour which I fancied was to make me happy became the commencement of a series of misfortunes; the day which was to have rescued us from danger carried my father to the scaffold and fitted my mother for the grave! Truly says an old French proverb—“_L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose._”

My marriage was of course postponed. So soon as we were able we made preparations for the burial of our deceased parents. On the day after that duty was accomplished, tidings reached us that our estates were confiscated, adding poverty to orphanage. Collecting our little stock of money and jewels, we nevertheless determined to leave France for England. It was agreed, for it was necessary, to make our escape by different routes, so as to avoid notice and lessen the possibility of detection. It was also agreed that we should meet at a friend’s house in London. Accompanied by my sister, we reached Toulon, which was then in the hands of the royalists, where we found an English ship which carried us safely to England.

But my troubles did not end here. My sister was naturally of a weak constitution, and the fatigues of our journey, and the excitement consequent upon our losses, had greatly increased her debility, so that upon our arrival in London I found it necessary to place her under medical treatment. The family where we agreed to rendezvous were royalists, and they had left for Germany, to join the invading army against France. We were therefore in a strange country, with an imperfect knowledge of its language, friendless and almost moneyless. Oh! how different was our condition to that which we a few weeks previous had anticipated! Some time, however, elapsed before I allowed these circumstances to depress me. My nerves seemed to strengthen with the increase of my difficulties—a faculty, which I think, is peculiar to our sex, and which, alas! they are often called upon to exercise. I also buoyed myself up with the hope of the speedy arrival of my brother and Alfred, and I used every means by which they might become acquainted with our address. At last my little resources were almost exhausted, my poor sister still lingered unimproved, and I had received no news of their arrival, nor intelligence of their whereabouts. I had tried, but in vain, to obtain employment, and I almost began to despair of any relief but death. The doctor told me that medicine was of no use to my sister, and recommended nutritious diet, which I had not the means of procuring. He, and the people with whom we boarded, also importuned me for money, and payment of what I owed deprived me of all I possessed. We therefore felt it necessary to remove to a small, ill-ventilated room, in the outskirts of the city. After this my poor sister became worse. The want of proper food, of pure air, and medical advice, aggravated her disease. I fortunately, after very great exertion, obtained employment in making fancy collars, which by hard labor enabled me to earn about one shilling a day. Deducting half of that sum for rent, we had only three shillings per week to board with. With this I used to purchase oatmeal, and we converted it into what the Scotch call porridge. Annette seemed at first to like it, but her partiality for it speedily changed, and the only food she subsequently cared for, which my means enabled me to procure, was milk and toast. Her illness was also aggravated by the disorderly persons who boarded in the house, and when I entreated the landlord to command silence, he roughly told me I was welcome to leave if I felt uncomfortable. She was now so weak that removal would have extinguished the faint spark of life which remained, and I was therefore compelled to submit to this annoyance. One or two of our fellow-lodgers did take compassion on our condition, and showed us a little kindness. An old woman, named Grassett, the wife of a pensioner, sometimes visited our room, and gave us a cup of nice tea, or would wait on my sister while I worked at my collars, or endeavored to snatch a little sleep. We had also occasional visits from a pious French priest, who, though he could not alleviate our sufferings, often cheered us with his sympathy. My sister lingered on for about ten months, sometimes worse and sometimes better. On the evening of a day in the month of December she seemed livelier than I had seen her for a long time before, which afforded me a hope of her ultimate recovery. She sat up in her bed, and with her sweet voice endeavored to convince me that there were happy days in store for us, and of the strong probability of the speedy arrival of Alfred and our brother. And then she would kiss my care-worn cheeks, and smilingly assure me that I had lost none of my beauty. I assumed an assent to all she said, because I knew it would afford her pleasure.

While conversing in this manner, the postman arrived and handed me a letter. Pointing to the address which was in French, and to the writing which resembled my brother’s, she exultingly declared it was his, and playfully demanded that I should never more doubt her predictions. For a moment I fancied it was his, and the bearer of good news, but the first words, “Dear Miss,” dashed away all these expectations. I however endeavored to hide my emotion, because I was intently watched and incessantly questioned about its contents. As I read on, the particulars of my brother’s adventures became gradually unfolded—at last the finale was reached, he had been arrested within a few miles of the frontier, and then met with the fate of his father. So wrote the friend who obtained a few hurried words from him previous to his execution, and who promised him to communicate this intelligence to us. But strange to say, when I reached this dreadful part of the letter, my stupefied brain felt my sister’s arms suddenly clasped around my neck, heard her sob, as she kissed me, “poor dear Emma,” and then remain silent. In a few minutes I felt somewhat restored, I ventured a glance upon her face, and she seemed to be asleep. I removed her arms, and as I gently tried to awake her, the awful truth revealed itself that she, too, had departed. Whether it was produced by reading my brother’s fate upon my countenance, or by any physical infirmity, is to me a mystery.

Some hours must have elapsed before I returned to consciousness. I awoke as from some horrible dream, but the dreadful reality quickly returned. And as I heard the thunder roaring and the rain pouring without, and observed the gloom within, the fatal letter on the door, and my dead sister by my side, I became reckless with despair. Grief refused to pay her tribute to misfortune, my heart seemed to harden, my head seemed to burn. I fancied Heaven and earth had conspired to injure me.

A raging fever followed, accompanied with delirium, and I was told, that as I lay under its influence I would call upon my parents, my sister and my brother, and entreat them to send for me. At other times I upbraided Alfred for his absence, and then expressed a confidence in his arrival, and framed excuses for his delay. Anon I would promise to be good to him, to wait upon and watch over him, to make him happy and deserve his love.

At the moment the first gleam of reason returned, I observed persons carrying my sister’s corpse from the room, in a coffin composed of a few rough boards, which seemed to be clumsily nailed together. I recognized their object at once, and entreated that I might be allowed to give her one last kiss before they consigned her to the grave. With a little grumbling they removed the lid, and as I pressed my lips upon her cheek I truly envied her condition. I then asked for a ringlet of her hair, but I was told that they had all been cut off and sold to a hair-dresser to meet the expenses of her funeral. A choking sensation now seized me, I fell back and buried my face in the bed-clothes, and my dead sister was removed.

In a little while I felt somewhat relieved. My eyes—those safety-valves to a sorrow-stricken heart—became suffused with tears for the first time since my illness. I also now experienced that a some thing was wanting; my conscience troubled me, but I could not tell why or wherefore. I also startled myself by conjecturing that my misfortunes were intended for some wise purpose, and that that purpose had some reference to myself. I reviewed my past life, but I could not then remember any act of mine which deserved punishment; indeed, I felt a degree of complacency, because I fancied I was so much better than many whom I remembered, and had done my duty as a daughter, a sister, and as a friend. But the feelings which produced these inquiries wore off with my recovery; it was reserved for a future period to make a deeper impression.

Some of the people of the house extended a rough kind of sympathy to me, and Mrs. Grassett continued a constant attendant. One day she mentioned the death of the kind old French priest who used to visit us, and added that an English clergyman, who visited the poor in the neighborhood, had made inquiries and expressed a desire to see me. I may here mention that my father descended from a Huguenot family, and though they felt themselves obliged to conceal their opinions after the edict of Nantes, yet they continued to disseminate them privately among their household. I felt, therefore, little compunction in accepting this gentleman’s offer, particularly at that moment, when I very much needed some one with whom I could converse. On the day after I consented to see him he called upon me. His name was Bonner. In appearance he was about fifty, with a pale, expressive and benevolent face. He spoke French fluently, and alluded to my recent loss with much delicacy and feeling. Although I was then unable to comprehend all he said upon religion, I soon felt at home with his manner, and desired him to visit me as often as possible.

As soon as I regained a little strength, he recommended me to seek the situation of governess, and offered me a letter of introduction to a family with whom he had a slight acquaintance, who, he believed, were in want of one. I gladly accepted his offer. The name of the family was Curtis. The father had been a soap and candle manufacturer, but had amassed wealth by successful speculations. He was little more than forty in age—he had a stout figure, a long, narrow face, a hooked nose, sharp, deep-set eyes, and a broad mouth. His wife was a daughter of a man of family, who had become poor by extravagance, and who silenced his unmarried creditors (so Mr. Curtis once told me) by presenting them with his daughters. This occasioned him to remark, in a moment of anger, that he had purchased his wife for six hundred pounds. She had been educated as a lady—that is, she could speak French slightly, dance, sing, play on the piano, and read novels. Her daughters were three in number. The eldest, Jemima, when I first came, was sixteen; the second, Dorothea, was fourteen; and the third, Angelica, about twelve. I think they bore a greater resemblance to their father than to their mother. I will not particularize their features, because I fear I might betray ill-feeling, which I fear has already exhibited itself. I will merely observe, that though not prepossessing, they were not ugly. They had very great dislike to poverty, and much reverence for wealth and rank.

These young ladies, Mr. Curtis informed me, (for Mrs. C. rarely troubled herself about such matters,) were to be educated in music and drawing, French and Italian, from ten to four each day, and during the remainder I would be expected to occupy myself in writing for him, or in needle-work for the family. For these duties, if performed in a satisfactory manner, I should receive at the end of the year ten pounds. I thought the salary was rather small, and I feared the labor would be too laborious, but I dared not refuse to accept the offer, because I doubted my ability to obtain a better situation, and I dreaded a renewal of the privations I had undergone. I therefore consented to enter upon these duties on the following morning.