Boston Common
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ]BOSTON COMMON: TALE OF OUR OWN TIMES. BY A LADY. "I wish that fate had left me free To wander these quiet haunts with thee, Till the eating cares of earth should depart, And the peace of the scene pass into my heart." BRYANT. BOSTON: JAMES. FRENCH & COMPANY, 78 WASHNGTON ST. 1856 - page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by JAMES FRENCH & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts., Stereotyped by HOBART & ROBBINS, New England Type and Stereotype Foundery, BOSTON. WHO WAS MY ADVISER AND GUIDE IN PERPLEXITY, MY FRIEND AND CONSOLER IN HOURS -OF SORROW AND AFFLICTION AND M'JOY AMD THE SUNSHNE OF PROSPERITY IS GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHORESS. page: 0[View Page 0] BOSTON COMMON CHAPTER I. "Fancy pours Afresh her beauties on his busy thought, Her first endearmaents twining round the soul, With all the witchcraft of ensnaring love." B0STON COMMON! What memories does this beloved name awaken in my heart! what associations recall from the recesses of the long-buried past Now, while these memories and associations are fresh in my mind, 'wilt come with me, dear reader, to this sweet spot? wilt recline 'neath. the sheltering branches of these A oble trees?, wilt place thy hand cordially in mine, and lent" 'me thy sympathy and thy heart? and, While the birds are' war, bling their love-songs- over -thy, ie'ad, and -the rainbow-tinted fountain dashtes its adeicate and cooling spray about:-6ty Peet, --while the fleecy -Clouds rest lightly in the southern heavens, :, and the distant hum of' the busy city, together with the far : off murmuring of' waters, lull thy senses to orgetfulheisS,f, care, -wilt, listen to my simple tale page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] 6 BOSTON COMMON. I was born in a little country village, not many hundred miles from the city of Boston. It is due to my parents to say something of them in this place. My father was an Englishman, of a proud old stock, who came from the county of Kent, England, to this country, many years before my birth. His father sent him to college, when quite young, to acquire a thorough classical education. He was destined for the bar; but, happening to meet with a pretty young lady soon after his entrance, he became unfortunately enamored of her. I say unfortunately; for she had, in the eyes of the world, the great fault of being very poor in purse, although exceedingly beautiful in person. The young gentleman wrote to his papa in due time, en. treating his permission to wed the fair Helen, and thereby make two loving hearts one. This tender epistle brought the old gentleman down very quickly to ascertain whom his darling Willie intended for the high honor of his hand; but when he found that the lady in question was a little nobody, who cut and made dresses for the, proud dames of the village whenever they chose to pa- trize her, his rage knew no bounds. He anathematized her ; at+M; called her a " saucy young baggage," a " presuming upstart," &c.; and, shaking his gold-headed cane in the very face of Master William, bade him attend to his studies im- mediately, and to beware-hW he fell in love or troubled his e father with such fooleries again. My grandfather then departed, in high good humor with himself, thinking he had nipped a glorious rebellion in the bud, and conquered a- young madcap of a son, who he for. got had the same unconquerable blood in his veins that flowed , , -. BOSTON COMMON. 7 through his own, and only waiting an occasion like the pres- ent to boil over. Young William was highly incensed at the insult, as he i called it, that his father had put upon him and his ladye-love, and, with the fury and impetuosity of eighteen, flew to Helen's humble dwelling, and informed her, in glowing terms, of his father's language and resolution. "Helen," said he, " you are dearer to me than ever. I love you a hundred times more for this opposition, and noth- ing on earth shall separate us more. This very night, my love, shall you be mine, if you will. I will bear you to some far-distant land, where I shall take a sacred delight in labor- ing for you, my sweet Helen; and we will be the carvers of our own destinies, and together undertake life's burdens, which will be all the easier if shared with each other. Come, what say you? Dces my dear girl agree to this?" "But, Willie, you are too hasty. I have not thought suf- ficiently of the matter. If I were only sure of not being a burden to you, I would consent." "Say no more, dearest Helen," cried my father, clasping- her to his bosom. "You are now mine, and forever. I now, leave you to obtain a clergyman, whose services I Jave already secured, in the person of a young friend of min( J will be with you in an hour." . . ..^ Thus did my father woo and win his first wife. They were young, ardent, and dearly loved each other; and, when it is taken into consideration that it was William's first love, and that he had made up his mind that he should always be wretched if he did not obtain this object, also that Helen was poor, had no parents or home, and no one to offend or page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 BOSTON COMMON. ask consent of, it is not to be wondered at so much, if they did lay aside prudence, and almost take a leap in the dark, as it were. Well, they were married, and on that very night, too. My poor old grandfather had just arrived at home and taken off his overcoat and boots, and was recounting his success in high glee to his family, and striving to impress upon their minds an idea of his importance- and of the readiness of all things to yield to him, when, in another town, not tyenty miles off, William and Helen were kneeling at the altar, and vowing eternal love and fidelity to each other. My father purchased, the next day, from his spending- money, a fine new horse and sleigh, and, wrapping his lovely bride in the well-lined buffaloes, started for an unknown home. They travelled three days, and, at the end of the third, arrived at a small village, pleasantly situated between two hills, on the banks of a winding stream. In this beautiful vale did I first open my eyes upon a world strange to me as fairyland; and here was I reared and educated in quietness and peace, until I had arrived at wom. anhood. Sweet Linden! home of my happy infancy, of, my joyous childhood and careless girlhood, can I ever forget thee? Thou .art intimately interwoven with every thought that passes through my mind, with e'ery joy that quickens my pulse. Thy soft blue skies, thy leafy bowers, and the noisy:brawling of thy Black Water, will be remembered to the latest moment of existence. To return to my father and his bride. They were much struck with the beauty of sweet Linden, and decided to stop S B O ,BOSTON COMMON. 9 here for the present, and, if it still pleased them upon further acquaintance, to make it their permanent home. My poor father had another and a sadder reason for com- ing to a focus just now. Can you guess it, reader? He had exhausted his last dollar, and was beginning to think of a little reality, as well as romance. Yes, when he drove up to the little village inn, he had but one ninepence in his pocket. And what think you he did with that? Why, purchased his hungry wife a dozen crackers for her supper; for young brides, although lovely as houris, do get hungry sometimes, and must eat like other people. I have often been told this story of the ninepence, and have as often wondered what could have been my poor sire's feelings when letting go from his well-used wallet this last solitary bit of silver. Young, warm-hearted, and inexperi- enced in the ways of the world, with a delicate and beautiful wife depending solely upon him for support, what was he to do? He was in a strange place also, with not a friend to help him out of his dilemmna, or a person whom he had ever seen before to vouch tfor him. But he had a strong, brave heart, that would not let him droop for a moment, but kept i \him buoyed upon the wings of Hope, and a kind Father in heaven to watch over and guide him. In Him he resolved to put his trust; and, with Helen by his side to cheer and en. courage him with her smiles, he could not despair. page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] sof CHAPTER IIl "O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, eoy, and hard to please,- When pain and anguish wring the brow, * If A ministering angel thou." SIR WALTER SCOTT. WITH all these thoughts in his mind, my dear parent left the hotel, and sauntered down the pretty little street, until he came to a shop that looked rather inviting, by the goodly rows of cakes and buns displayed in the window. He entered the shop and walked up to the counter, ner- vously clutching the poor little ninepence that lay so securely in his pocket, apparently well content with itr situation, as being sole monarch of all it surveyed., The shopkeeper, a pleasant-looking man, came briskly up, smiling, for he thought- within himself, "Here is a fine-looking young fellow, prob. ably come to buy a large amount." Well, sir," said he, addressing my father, " what shall I have the pleasure of showing you, this morning?" My father bit his lip, and, choking back a strong feeling of pride that was swelling up in his bosom, for he understood the thoughts of the shopkeeper in a moment, with head erect, and a rather louder tone than usual, said: BOSTON COMMON. " "I wish to purchase some crackers,-a ninepence worth, if you please."- The man bowed, and set about doing them up for him. William went to the door o get his money, and probably to bid farewell to it, for no doubt he had a real affection for the little piece, and hated to part with it. He drew it slowly from his pocket, and, looking upon it a moment, walked up to the counter, and, placing it carefully in the shopkeeper's hand, as if afraid of hurting it, received in return the neat little package, and, bowing to the polite shopkeeper, hastily pursued his way home. Helen had just taken off her wrappings, and was warming and resting herself after her long journey, when her husband entered. She saw that he looked sad, and a foreboding- of something ill came suddenly over her heart, like a wing from the shadow of death. She feared all was not right with him, and, determining to know the worst at once, she slipped softly to his side, and inquired, in gentle tones, the cause of his depression. "Nothing, Helen," said he, "that you can remedy." "(Tell me what it is, and see if I do not console you at once," said she, coaxingly, twining her arms around his neck, and putting on one of her own May-day smiles. : William considered for a moment, and then, more from impulse than any other reason, said, abruptly: , Mrs. Helen Clifton, you have married a man who pos. sesses nothing in the wide world but you. Yes, Helen, I am poor, very poor. I am in a strange land, without a single cent in my pocket, and we have no right even to be boarding here, without an equivalent. Now, what, in Heaven's ' ' "I page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 BOSTON COMMON. name, arc we to do? If you can find a balm for this sickness, you will be a valuable physician indeed." Helen burst into tears at this announcement, although it was more on account of her husband's feelings than her own,- but suddenly a smile broke through her tears, like a gleam of sunshine over an April cloud, and she said, "You forget the horse and sleigh, Willie." My father started, smiled, and clasped her to his bosom, "Dearest Helen," said he, " you have, indeed, relieved me of a burden. I never thought of that. We will sell them in the morning. I will try my hand at some business, and we will yet be happy." "Yes, yes, dear Willie, and, meantime, we will not par- take of this man's food until we have wherewith to pay for it. I have one dollar, one solitary dollar, which will pay for a few nights' lodgings, at least." "So it will," replied Willie, "and here are some crackers I purchased of a man down street. Let's eat them, and hope for better days." I Helen untied the bundle, and was much surprised at find- ing on the top of the crackers a little note, which had the appearance of having been written and folded Very hastily. She presented it to her husband, who seemed quite overjoyed that its contents. His wife, who had a deal of curiosity con- cerning it, seized it afterwards playfully, and read as follows: "SIR: I perceive that you are in trouble. You are a stranger, therefore pardon me if I have been too hasty in addressing you; but, if there is anything I can assist you in, command me, and I am ready. Yours, &c., "JOHN BILLINGS." BOSTON COMMON. . 13 Is not this fortunate, Helen?" said my father. "I will consult him in the morning about disposing of my horse and sleigh, and other matters. He is a kind man, this dealer in bread and cakes, and I know his crackers must taste good; so let us taste them." Perhaps that meal, bought with the last ninepence, was the sweetest the young couple had ever tasted; for they smiled and looked quite happy while eating it, and, with hope in their hearts and confidence in a kind Providence, they retired to rest. 2 i51 ; . . , .; page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] CHAPTER III. "At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down-the trembling youth to raise, And his low, faltering accents whispered praise." GOLDSMITH. "In struggling with misfortunes, lies the proof of virtue." SHAKSPEARE. MY dear father was up and dressed, early in the morning, I assure you, and once more on his way to the little bread- ebhop. Mr. Billings was alone, and the two gentlemen were soon in deep converse. A bystander would have been puzzled to have known what all their-jargon meant; for only a few words came now and then upon the ear, such as horse, shoes, cattle, sleigh, &c. About two hours afterward Mr. Clifton -was seen walking very briskly in the direction of home, which he soon reached, and immediately sought his wife's chamber. 'There he took off his cap, and swung it three times around in the air, saying, "Joy, joy, dear Helen!- When I have a large store you can afford to dress, and live in a fine house; bu pwo when I am only a poor leather-merchant, you will consent to dress and live economically, will you not?" BOSTON COMMON. 15 "Dress, merchant, store, economy," said the bewildered Helen,- "what mean you, dear Willie? Please explain yourself." "Well, Helen, I will tell you what I mean to say. I have become a man of business, and this very day, too. Farewell to books, professors, college robes, and all! I am going to be rich, and I will tell you how it was brought about." Helen drew her chair close to her husband's, and, leaning affectionately upon his shoulder, prepared to listen. it Well, dearest Nellie," said he, " when I first arrived at Linden, I was sad enough, I assure you; but I cast all my care and sorrow upon the Lord, - upon that good and gracious Being, ? ' Who doth the ravens feed,- Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, not doubting but that all would be right in the end. He, I believe, sent me almost immediately to this kind Mr. Bil- lings, this Man of Ross, and he has raised me from despair to hope once more. I have been talking with him this morning, and-he has suggested a plan whereby I can obtain an honest living at present, and by and by become a rich man, if I will but follow his injunctions, and attend closely to the business." , But how- what do you intend doing, Willie?" "Why, Helen, I am going to sell our horse and sIeigh,' which are much more valuable here than I imagined, and take nearly all the pay in cattle. Mr. Billings says that if' he will lease me a piece of land very cheap, and I can pay. him for the use of it at the end of the year. This land I am page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 BOSTON COMMON. going to make into a tan-yard, with the assistance of two or three strong, experienced hands. .My cattle will feed in the woods at present, which' are free to everybody who chooses to use them. By and by, when my yard is completed, I shall kill these cattle, tan their hides, and build a small shop where I can manufacture shoes for the public. Then, in time, I shall have a store full of goods, and at one end of it a meat market. There is neither tannery, shoe-shop, or market, in this little primitive town, and Mr. Billings says that I am just the boy for the business. So, look out sharply, Helen, for you will yet see me a rich man. I am well aware that my stock will be small at first; but I shall gradually increase it, and ' slow, but steady,'is my motto." Helen looked-at the handsome face of her husband, beam- ing with smiles, and full of hardy resolutions, and in her heart she determined to cooperate with (him, and to assist himall in her power. -ty father hired two small rooms that day, which Mr. Billings assisted him in furnishing in a neat, plain manner. Into these he removed his fair wife, and together they shared the labor of the day. Helen cut and made dresses anld bonnets for the- ladies in the neighborhood, and thus added her mite to the general fund. William soon disposed of his horse and sleigh, and his new friend Billings assisted him in putting his plans into execu- tion. He leased him a small piece of land, and advised him how to lay down a good, substantial tan-yard. He helped him buy his cattle, hired men for him, and in a short time, and with very little capital, my father was doing a slow but sure business. BOSTON COMMON. 17 For some time, the young couple lived in the plainest, most economical manner. I have often heard my mother tell of those times; - for, although she was not my father's Helen, she had heard him recount them again and again, for he took an honest pride in looking back upon those days of self-denials, and strugglings for independence. He' loved to tell my mother how he did this thing, or conquered that, and little by little added to his fortune and respectability. Dear father! He was truly one of Nature's noblemen. He was not ashamed, although highly born and bred, of hon- est, manly labor, especially when a beloved object was depending upon him for support. I honor his memory, and feel prouder of the heritage he has left me of his good name and deeds, than of the thousands he so carefully hoarded for his only child. I will ever reverence his mem- ory, and my children shall be daily taught from his example, and learn, in their turns, should occasion call, to stand boldly up, and meet their -difficulties, gravely, but firmly, in the face. I say I have often heard of those dark days of my dear father and his wife. An old lady told me, only a short time since, that my father's first wife had but one small dipper of any kind to use in the house, for a long time; and that this had' to answer the purposes of bringing water from the spring, washing potatoes, dishes, &c., and for many other things; and that she had heard her tell her husband, one day, that she wished, with all his other business, he had thought of slipping a tin-shop into some little corner, for it would have been of the greatest possible convenience to her. However, they page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] -18 BOSTON COMMON. managed, by keeping a sharp look-out ahead, to increase their worldly stock; and they had the satisfaction of knowing that, although they went very slowly forward, they never went back, for a moment. I x ' CHAPTER IV. "Go down beside thy native rills, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurels whisper sweet, About the ledges of the hills." IN MEMORIAM. MY father's business talent increased, and with it his run of customers. In due time he built him a small cottage, with two' good rooms in it, and a little shop. To this house, in ten years, he built a large addition, and embellished it with trees and flowers of every description. In this house I was born, and it has been known, for many years, as the old "Clifton Homestead." It is a beautiful place. Behind it, at the north, rises a huge granite ledge, some hundred feet above the level of the sea. This old mass is associated withsall my childish recollections, and intimately interwoven with every phase of my imagination. When young, my mother did not dare let me go near this ledge alone, for fear of danger; but I have sat-and watched it for hours, and imagined I could see all sorts of beings moving to and fro, about its huge precincts. Now I would fancy that I saw a bandit leading his'outlawed tribe into some dark hollow. Then I would fancy an army were wind- page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] :20 BOSTON COMMON. ingD their way through some dim ravine. I could see the flashing of their armor, and half catch the strains of their wild martial music. But my favorite vision of old "s Granite Bluff" (for so was it called) was of a beautiful fairy, who resided in the heart of the rock, as I supposed, and had become the kind patron- izing genius of the whole town around. I could see her at times weeping over the little hamnlet; and then I knew some person would die, and I would half fancy I heard the old church-bell tolling its requiem for the departed soul. Again, on bright, clear mornings, I would catch a glimpse of her silver wings, as she flitted gayly about from flower to flower, now resting on a mossy seat, now verging fromn the very tip of the old bluff; and then I knew the lovely Spring was comiig, and that I should soon hear the murmur of the little brooks, as they broke their fetters, and bounded away, in joyous gladness, to meet the warm, bright sun; and see the sweet snow-drops and violets, as they ventured their lovely heads above the tender grass. But then I was a strange child, and could see or imagine almost- everything I chose. Behind this ledge was a dark, dim forest of evergreens, composed of spruce, pine, and fir. This forest had long been known as "Old Markham's woods," and was, to my youth- ful fancy, a wild, weird place, wherein I could see phantoms of all shapes and sizes, in every possible guise, with wan faces, ghastly eyes, bloody hands, &c. The very name of Old Markhamn's woods was-enough to send a shiver through my frame at any moment. In these woods, somewhere, -I never could find the place, BOSTON COMMON.- 21 -were a half-dozen old graves. No one, not even the oldest inhabitant, knew aught of the tenants -slumbering below, or how long, or for what purpose, they were 0ri in so remote a place. The head-stones were half broken and moss-grown, and only now and then could a word or two of the inserip- tions be discovered. These gaves, together with the mystery attached to them, gave the place a Oft of terror to my child- ish fancy, that I could never conquer; and, to this day, I would not willingly walk those woods alone. At the west of our cottage did I see the sun set for years. I used to fancy that hle was passing through golden gates, to some brighter region beyond. When hle was obscured by clouds, I imagined he was weary, and would rest for that night, with his snowy bed-clothes tucked softly about his magnificent head ;and would cheer myself with the thought that his eyes would be all the brighter for a good night's rest. Our parlor windows, which were southern, commanded a fine view of the ,Black Water" (for so was our river named), as it wound slowly and softly by, in its onward course to the ocean. But I must leave the cottage, and go back to its first occupants. ily father continued to thrive, and in process of time fur- K nished his house with every necessary, and needful luxury. He then added to his stock of cattle, enlarged his tannery, and filled his store with all sorts of goods. In due time he began to entertain company, and soon drew around him all the wealthiest and most respectable people in town and in this refined and intellectual society passed many happy as well as profitable hours. "E page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 BOSTON COMMON. As my father increased in wealth and prosperity, remem- bering his own dark days, he became very kind and charita- ble to the pHif and the neighbors used to say that Mr. Clifton kept one garden on purpose for the poor people to come and get their dinners from. ",'Well," he would say, "I tave plenty of land and help -why should I not "ote a certain portion of it to this purpose? These people are hungry, and I dearly love to see them filling their baskets at my expense." CHAPTERy "Who is the heir of all these fair domains?" ANON. WHEN my father had resided about five years in Linden, there came a company of Freemasons to the town, and estab- lished a society of this ancient brotherhood in the place. Mr. Clifton and his firm friend, now John Billings, Esq., were some of the first to join this little society; and they never regretted it, for it was the cause of sowing much love and harmony in the little village. My father rose from grade to grade in his new profession, and at the time of his death was Royal Master of the Lodge. He next purchased a large portion of land in the village, which could be bought at that time for comparatively a trifle. He had an idea that at some future day, when he was mould- ering to dust, perhaps, this land would be very valuable, and become a source of riches to his children, if God gave him any; and his conjectures were right, for the land has since increased an hundred-fold. Thus his forethought secured to his descendants, if rightly improved, a lasting source of inde- pendence and wealth. I must hasten to the time when my father had amassed a page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 BOSTON COMMO-N. large property, and had become the possessor of every comn. fort and luxury desirable. About t 'od he began to look around him and see what else w nting to render him completely happy. He soon discovered that he had no heir to his possessions but a wife, whose health was too delicate to admit of hope from that source. He as imself, "For whom am I amassing all this wealth? Who will possess it after me, and will they make as good a use of it as I 1have done?" The idea of his having no child to inherit his wealth, and cheer his declining age, preyed sadly upon his mind. He would sit and think for hours upon this one thing, and envy every parent whom he met. He became absolutely unhappy on this account, and allowed his mind to dwell so much upon this subject that his health seemed to be failing. He sud- denly became very fond of children, and would sit and play for hours with a little boy, belonging to one of his 'servants, and that had been born in his house. The story of this young couple is romantic, and deserves to be related. They were Irish, and dearly loved each other, but, on account of some family feud, were forbidden to marry. As they had made up their minds they should be perfectly mist erable without each other, they decided to pack up their few clothes, and run away in the night. This they accomplished, and when only a few hours at sea were united in wedlock, by a chaplain who happened to be on board. In due time they arrived in America, wearied with their long voyage, and with scarcely a pound in their pockets, but still as firmly devoted to each other as ever. Resolving to seek for employment, they travelled on foot about one hundred : BOSTON COMMON. 25 miles, but without success. At length they arrived "at the town 'of Linden, and as poor Elsie was unah to proceed any further, they decided to stop here for days, and rest themselves. In the course of the next day Patrick met one of my father's men, who was an Irishman ::? and asked him if he knew of any work he could get t(o n the village. The man directed him to his master at once, as being in want of a person to saw and split wood, and do the work about the house and garden. Mr. Clifton was eating his dinner when he called, but he kindly desired him to make known his wishes, and he would grant them if possible. Patrick then related his short story, and ended by saying that he was in search of employment. Mr. Clifton listened attentively, and was so much pleased with the honest, good- natured face of this son of Erin, that he engaged him at once. "And tell your wife, my good fellow," said he, as Patrick was leaving, " that Mrs. Clifton needs a good, industrious, faithful servant; and, if she can be all that, we shall be glad to have her come too, for it would be a sad pity to have such tender hearts separated." The dear gentleman was probably thinking of his own love passages. Patrick bowed, and, after a "God bless your honor, we will do our best," departed to bring Elsie. They were soon installed at the homestead, where they lived for many years, and ever proved themselves to be honest, faithful servants. Four of their offspring were born in the house; and Mr. 3 , page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 BOSTON COMMON. Clifton, from his great love for children, soon became fondly attached to these. At lengt eir fiamily increased, he built Patrick and Elsie a smal ,mfortable cottage, on the banks of the Black Water, in a corner lot of his own farm. Thither they removed, and for my years lived there very happily. They always honore/ d loved my father very much, and, when he died, there. were no sincerer mourners that followed him to his last resting-place than this poor, humble Irish couple, who had for so many years enjoyed his kindness and bounty. As time went on, and my father despaired of ever having a child to inherit his wealth, he began to think of a dear, beautiful old home in Massachusetts. I should have men- tioned, ere this, that, some years before, my grandfather, get- ting over his pet at William's marriage, had sent for him and his wife to' come and visit them; but that they had declined the invitation for the present, at least, and the old people had to content themselves with sending them a few presents, and writing to them occasionally. But now, when in the noontide of his prosperity, when everything smiled upgn him, and all his wishes, save one, were gratified, yearn- ings for his old childhood's home and kindred camo over him so powerfully, that he resolved on paying his parents a visit. Soon after this determination Msi. Clifton was taken ill, and as her health remained in a precarious state during the winter, he was obliged to postpone his visit for an indefinite time. In the spring, however, he one day received tidings BOSTON COMMON. 27 that his father was dangerously ill, and required his presence immediately. As Mrs. Clifton was now quite well, she oposed going with him. He assented, and they set out upon a journey which they once never expected to take; but-sickness and death are great levellers, and everything, even pride, has to stoop its lofty head at their stern mandates. page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] ,- -^ * CHAPTER VI. ' Death ends our woes. And the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene." DRYDEN. As they approached the old paternal mansion, from which they had been so long excluded, a great many sad thoughts oppressed my father's heart, and filled his eyes with tears of regret and sorrow for the past; and although he had been so very happy with his Helen, yet he sorrowed that so many years had flown by unblessed with the presence and affection of his kindred. At length they reached the walk that led up to the main entrance of the paternal mansion. The long rows of beauti- ful trees waved sadly as they passed, and seemed to greet them with a sigh from every leaf. The door was opened by an old servant, whom Mr. Clifton recognized in a moment, and who, in his turn, welcomed "Master William" with as much joy as he could feel upon so sad an occasion. "How is my father, Cato?" said he. "Hush, massa," replied Cato, " and follow me; he has just asked for you and missis, here." William followed Cato, with his wgfe trembling upon his arm, to a large, lofty chamber. Here were the family asseme IF BOSTON COMMON. 29 bled to witness the last moments of its head. Wife, brothers, sisters, children, all were around the old patriarch, striving to soothe his passage to the grave, and render the dark valley easy of descent. At William's entrance a general sob per- vaded the room. The old man, in the bed, half raised his head at this, and faintly asked if William and Helen had come yet. "Here I am, my father," cried his repentant son, rushing up to the bedside, and kneeling before his parent,- " for- give, O, forgive me before you depart! and bless me, O my father, andlpoor Helen also!" "Where are you, my children?" said the dying man, reaching out his arms. They went close to the bedside, and embraced the old man, who?said, "Bless you, bless you, my children!" Then clasping his hands together, he continued: ,Lord- now lettest -thou thy servant- depart- in peace." A moment more, and there come over the face a mortal pale" ness. The eyes closed, the; lower jaw fell, the head sunk back, and all was over. William threw himself by the side of his father, and wept long and bitterly. Never had he known, until that moment, what sorrow was. He would not leave his father all night, but sat by the bedside, until daylight began to streak the eastern horizon with, a few silvery lines. He then kissed the beloved features mournfully, folded the pale hands reverently upon the breast, and after one long, affectionate look, sought his chamber. On the fourth day from his decease, my aged grandfather was committed to the tomb. He was followed thither by all 3* ! l s i, .. page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 80 BBOSTON COMMON. his relatives, and a large number of friends, who had knowni and respected him while living, None suffered so deeply as poor William. He alone had failed to watch the declining age of his father. All had been there, ministering to his wants, soothing his sufferings, save him, the recreant son. Thus are we ever called upon to grieve for the faults of our youth, and every pain that we cause a parent or friend is sure to wring the heart with anguish after they are gone. William and his wife remained a fortnight in Lansdowne, and then, bidding adieu to the paternal mansion, started once more for their own dear home, now grown ten times dearer by absence. Once more, and in a few months, was my father called upon to mourn; and this time we see him bending over the couch of his dying Helen,- of that wife who had followed him through weal and woe, who had been his all, his only com- fort, for fifteen years. And now, when they together had ob- tained enough of this world's goods to live peacefully and without a care for the remainder of their days, to think that she, the fairest and best of women, his guide and counsellor, must leave him to go down to the dark grave, must be for- ever torn from his protecting arms!- it was too much; he could not bear it. After laying his treasured wife in the grave, after hearing the cold clods rattle upon her dear breast, he returned home, with a heart unstrung and unfit for use. What could he do? what should he do?-where look for comfort? He raved, and, in the delirium of his anguish, reproached his Maker for taking her from him, and prayed to be laid by her side. It would be all he asked for, all he desired. His prayers BOSTON COMMON. ' 81 were not granted, at that time, at least. My dear father was spared for other and happier days than the present. For three long years he mourned his Helen. Hie loved to visit her grave at the sweet hour of evening, when all nature was sinking to repose, and the air was too gentle to disturb even the leaves of the aspen-tree. He would throw himself upon the soft turf, and lie there for hours, bathing it with tears, and conversing, as he called it, with his lost saint. Time, however, laid its healing hand upon his brow, and bade him rouse himself to life and action once more. There were a lady and gentleman by the name of Hunting- don, who resided a short distance from my father at this period. This couple had but one child, a daughter, about five years of age, X sweet, interesting --little girl, who called my father "Uncle Tlifton," and who cheered, by her innocent prattle, many of his sad hours, and beguiled them of half their loneliness. The little girl invited himrn inkne day, to see her mamma; and he, more to please her than for any other reason, con- sented to go. - He found Mr. and 'Mrs. Huntingdon at home, and just eating their supper. They greeted him courteously, and invited him to take tea with them. He was charmed with the intelligence of the gentleman, and no less pleased with the beauty and grace of the wife; and, when he arose to return home, declared that he had not been so happy for years. "Then," said Mrs. Huntingdon, , since you have enjoyed your visit so well this time, we should be happy to have you repeat it, and often too." Little Leonora joined her entreat- : a page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 BOSTON COMMON. ies to those of her parents; and, after thanking them for their kindness, he consented to drop in occasionally. The friendship thus accidentally commenced increased, and soon became a source of real happiness to Mr. Clifton, who now found that a little society was. all he wanted to chase his dark moments away. He was very fond of little Leonora, and loved to partake of the hospitality of her parents. One day he said, in a laughing way, to Mrs. Huntingdon, I am so much in love with you, and your delicious tea- cakes, that, if I were sure of your mother's having another girl like you, I would start this very day and secure her for a wife." "Then you may go right away," rejoined the lady, "for I have a little sister at home, just like me precisely, only many years younger.^ My father laughed, and said something about being half a mind to keep his promise. These words, said in a jesting manner, made more impression upon both than either-liked to acknowledge. Mrs. Huntingdon said to herself, 4 What a nice match he would make, with his fine estate and money, for either of my unmarried sisters! for mother is poor, and not able to do for them as she would like;" and then a half resolution was formed of writing to her mother about it. My father, on his part, - although the memory of .his lost Helen was yet fresh in his mind, - thought of his lonely condition, of his home without a mistress, his fireside with- out a companion- and new scenes and hopes began to rise upon his fancy. In imagination, he beheld a beautiful young wife presiding I'fehis table, and cheering, with her smiles and endearments, BOSTON COMMON. 33 his lonely hours. And then a vision of fair-haired children came slowly into view. This last was enough; and he deter mined that very night that his dreams should become reali- ties, if possible. In a week or two, he suddenly discovered that he wanted a new horse and carriage; and as they could not be obtained anywhere short of Boston, he decided that he must take a trip there. Before starting, however, he mentioned to Mrs. Huntingdon that he was going to her native city, and that if she had any commands to her family, he should be very happy to execute them. This was a fine opportunity for the lady, who wrote imme- diately to her mother. But, somehow, her letter was filled with the praises of Mr. Clifton, whom she begged her mother and sisters to treat with the greatest respect, as being a gen- tleman of wealth and consideration. And then she bewailed her lonely lot, of being so far from home, without a mother or sister to cheer her solitude. She ended by entreating her parent to send down one of the girls with Mr. Clifton, or she should dip of clear loneliness. Well, my father started to buy his hors6 and carriage; but, owing to his preoccupied thoughts, he forgot to transact this part of his business until after he had visited the pretty white cottage of the Widow Graham, Mrs. Huntingdon's mother. The old lady was at home, but the girls were out. She re- ceived himn kindly, and was made quite happy by the letter. The ingenious contents set her to dreaming also; and she began to think, ,' What a nice gentleman! and what a fine home would his be for either of my poor girls after I am, gone! Yes, yes, dear Louisa is right. She must be lonely iy page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] 34 BOSTON COMMON. enough, poor thing! in that wild, out-of-the-way place. It is my duty to let Frances or Hettie visit her; and they can go in company with this gentleman, if he will take the trou- pe to escort them." The good lady then asked Mr. Clifton to call again, saying that she should be happy to have him make her house his home while he remained in the city, adding that she had two young ladies, who would gladly assist her in making every- thing agreeable to him. Mr. Clifton was charmed with so much politeness, but de- clined availing himself of her kind invitation, on plea of business. He softened his refusal, however, by saying that he would call often, and expressed the pleasure he should have in becoming acquainted with the daughters of so hos- pitable a lady; and thus they parted, both highly delighted with each other, CHAPTER lVII. " The faultless form, Shaped by the hand of Harmony; the cheek, Where the live crimson, through the native white Soft shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, And every nameless grace; the parted lip, Like the red rosebud moist with morning dew, Breathing delight; and under sunny ringlets, The neck slight shaded, and the swelling breast; The look resistless, piercing to the soul, And by the soul informed." THOMSON'S SEASONS. Now, the Widow Graham, although what is called a good Christian, was very ready and willing to see her children well established in life (as what parent is not?); and so she determined to sound her daughters at once upon the mat- ter, when they returned. They soon came in; and, as they are here, I will take the liberty of describing them. Frances, the eldest, was rather a plain girl, but considered herself extremely good-looking. She was tall, and well formed, with blue eyes and brown hair; but there was a rest- less look in the eyes, that were ever roving about in quest of something, she scarcely knew what. She had had two or three admirers, but had turned away -from them all, saying o page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] -36 BOSTON COMMON. "they were not good or rich enough for her." When her mother told her of Mr. Clifton, however, she decided upon him at once as the man for her, and told her mother as much. ' "Well, well, my darlings," said the good widow, "you may decide'lt between you; only be sure to be in, and look- ing your prettiest, to-morrow, when he calls." But I have almost forgotten the youngest sister. Step forward, dear Hettie Graham, in all your loveliness, and let me introduce you to the reader, as my own dear mother! Yes, here she is, and the secret is out. Hettie Graham was just seventeen,-of that happy age when the eyes behold everything through 4" rose-colored spec- tacles." A lovely creature was my mother at that period, as all her friends have declared to me time and time again; with her soft, bright hair, flowing in unconstrained ringlets, and her eyes, of heaven's own blue, now dancing in joyous gladness, now cast down in pensive reflection. Her form - seeed to have been cast when Nature was in one of her happiest moods; for she looked, moved, and breathed, only grace. On this fair creature Mr. Clifton and his money made not the slightest impression. She could scarcely listen., to the description of him, so entirely pre6ccupied was she with her own happy thoughts and fancies. However, she promised her mother that she would dress and look her very best, for the reception of the expected guest. Both the girls now retired, but lettie soon returned to the parlor, with her ringlets combed out as straight as she could get them, and with an old dress op, torn and disfigured, that sh Ae had romped in, the day before, with a young gentleman cousin of hers. BOSTON COMMON. 87 "There, mother," said she, laughing, " this is the style in which I am going to dress to-morrow, when Mr. Clifton calls; for I am determined that he shall not fall in love with me. Fan wants him sadly, and I am sure I care not if I never * behold him." Her mother laughed, but shook her head reprovingly at the "young minx," as she called her, and bade her remember her promise. As she spoke, the door opened softly, and the servant announced Mr. Clifton, who had, strangely enough, forgotten his business, and called again. He had just dropped in, he said, to see if the daughters of so hospitable a lady had yet returned; adding, that he was extremely desirous of telling them of their good sister at the east, who had been so very kind to him in his affliction. At his sudden entrance, all Hettie's resolutions about appearing before him in her present .garb were put to flight, and she vanished into a closet, directly behind his back, so quickly that he did not perceive her. My poor grandmother was electrified; but, after seating her guest with a deal of ' politeness, said that she would call Miss Frances, who:-was at home, adding that she believed Miss Hettie ha !yet returned. '/: As the good lady wenel:-by the closet-door, 'li'ned sh 'h ra tier, -and -she was r yvexed; that she heard a suppress titter,-and she was really-vexed, but, trusting that Hettie would have the good sense to remain secreted until after the stranger's departure, she sought Fanny's room, and, telling her of Hettie's dilemma, requested :G her, as she was dressed, to go down immediately and enter- - tain the stranger. A gleam of triumph shof into Miss Fanny's face, at what ' '* 4 '} . i , * X t page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38g BOSTON COMMON. her mother had said respecting Hettie, and she- prepared to descend to the parlor. "Mind, Fanny, and look your very prettiest," said my grandmother. She had no time to say anything more, for just then they reached the parlor-door, which was open. "Mr. Clifton--Miss Graham," said my grandmamma, addressing the parties. The gentleman bowed low, and raised the lady's hand to his lips; but he could not suppress a slight feeling of disappointment as he did so, for this girl did not resemble Mrs. Huntingdon in the least. However, he seated himself by her side, and entered into conversation immedi- ately. Mrs. Graham, good soul, of course had the dinner to attend to, so, bidding them enjoy themselves, left the room. In the course of the conversation, Fanny asked Mr. Clifton if he had yet seen her sister. "I have not had that pleasure," was his reply, "as yet; --. but hope soon to" "Then you shall see her," said Fanny, " and immediately." She arose, as she spoke, and, opening the closet-door, dis- coverdoor Hettie, in her ragged dress and dishevelled ring- , lets :P ng as red as a peony. said Miss Fanny, drawing her forth, with a smile, "is if:" y. She always does;.as she pleases. with us at home ;-and so, when mother told tier that we were going to have the honor of a visit from you, she decked herself out in this style to receive you; but when she caught a glimpse of you at the door, her resolution gave way, and she fled." Mr. Clifton arose, and politely bowed to the poor young creature, whom he sincerely pitied. He was very much. surprised, on raising his eyes to hers, to find so-mh 4ur-pr* -o , - si 39" BOSTON COMMON. 39 beauty shining evn through her uncouth garb, and his heart told him at once that he had at last discovered the one he had been in pursuit of. Here was Mrs. Huntingdon's very facsimile, save that Hettie was a deal the fairer. He was charmed at once, and scarcely noticed Fanny afterwards, who, when she found her plan for lowering Hettie had been futile, left the room in chagrin and'mortification. Thus it is ever. Our schemes for disgracing others generally lead to our own downfall. Mr. Clifton, with the true politeness' of a well-bred gentle- man, took not the slightest notice of Hettie's dress, but con- versed a few moments upon light and general topics, and then left, saying he would call again in the evening. All the way home the sweet face of Hettie haunted him like a dream. He could think of nothing but her; and when he arrived at the inn, he called the waiter Hettie, and kept repeating the sweet little name until he reached his own room. It was quite evident that the strong man was conquered again, and this time by a little witch of a girl, who cared not a fig whether he died that day, or lived a century. In the evening he called again at the cottage. Fanny and her mother had gone out, but Hettie was there; and this time, in all the glory of white muslin and ringlets, lookeqd perfectly lovely. Mr. Clifton thought that he had never seen but one face or form that at all compared with the one now before him, and he gave a sigh to past and happier days. "You are sad to-night," said the silver voice of Hettie. "I wish mamma and Fanny were at home, for I don't know what to say when people are sad." page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 BOSTON COMMON. "Are you never sad, my fair young hostess?" said Mr. Clifton. ! "Why, not exactly," replied Hettie. ,' Manmma is very kind to me, and so is Fanny, - only she vexed me sadly this morning,-and so I have nothing in particular to grieve about. But tell me what makes you thus unhappy, sir, and I can assure you that I will sympathize with you." Mr. Clifton, drawn insensibly by the tones of the young girl, found himself relating, scarcely before he was aware of it, how in early life he had wooed and wed a fair young girl, like herself; how dearly they had loved each other, and how, after living with him for fifteen years, and sharing and lightening all his cares, she was suddenly snatched from his arms, and borne down to the cold grave, in the very bloom and ripeness of womanhood. He also told her how lonely his house was after her decease, and that it resembled a living tomb more than anything else; for everything he touched looked like her who was dead, and felt cold and lifeless in his grasp. Hettie looked sad at his recital, but she had no time to say much, for just then Mrs. and Miss Graham entered, and the conversation became general. Time went on, and a fortnight had elapsed before my father thought of his business. At length he said that he must return to Linden, and requested an interview with Mrs. Gra- ham. This lasted about an hour, and Mr. Clifton then left the house, telling the young ladies he would be with them, for the purpose of bidding them good-by, in the evening. Mrs. Graham then summoned her youngest daughter to her room, saying she had some business of a private' nature with her. Hettie followed her mother up stairs, wondering, all the whI/e ! , .r ' ' ^ ' BOSTON COMMON. 41 " of what nature the private business could be. Mrs. Graham closed the door carefully, and, bidding Itettie take a seat at her feet, commenced thus: "Hettie, dear, how should you like to go away down east, and live with or near your sister Louisa?" O mother," answered Hettie, "I should like it, of all things, the best.' Do let me go. I love Louisa so dearly! and Leonora too, little darling, how I do long to see them But, dear mamma, I must not think of leaving you Who would do your caps and ruffles for you, or place fresh flowers in your room every morning? O no, dear mother, I cannot leave you, even to see sister Louisa and her little girl." "3y dear child," said Mrs. Graham, ,I am quite de. lighted with so much affection, but listen to me for a moment. You know that I am quite old, and shall not probably live many more years. 1My dearest, fondest wish is to see my poor girls well married and settled, before I depart from this world, I hope for a better." Here the old lady put her hand- kerchief to her eyes , and Hettie sat wondering what would comae next. Her mother continued.-- You know, my dear, that I am very poor; that is, I am not able to give you and' PranceS fortunes; so, at my death, you will be left alone, and unpro- vided for, unless you are advantageously married. - Now , m y :S love, I will tell you what I am comingat. The rich Mr. I Clifton loves you very much, and has just asked your hand i of m e in marriage. I have thought well of it and have come to the conclusion that, as I am getting old and m ay die, soon, it will be the best thing in the world for 'you. He is' rich , respetable. and loves you. Besides all this, you will live - 4* - * s ' * page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 ' BOSTON COMMON. near poor Louisa, who is very lonely without her friends. Now, what says my darling child?" "Why, mamma," said Hettie, opening her large blue eyes to their utmost extent, "I have never thought of such a thing as being married in all my life. I should not know how to act, or what to say. I had much rather live here and take care of you, than to go away, even to be near Louisa. Let Fanny marry Mr. Clifton, -I don't want him." ":But, my dear Hettie," answered her mother, "Mr. Clifton does not want Fanny. It is you he loves; it is you he wishes to wed; it is you whom he will make the rich and happy Mrs. Clifton. I think," added my good grand- mamma, "that I should die in peace could I see you thus pleasantly situated. Now, do say yes, my-dear, and malke your poor mother happy." Hettie wept, but, seeing her mother so much in earnest, considered a moment, and then said: ," Well, well, mamma, since you wishit so much, I will con- sent to marry him. I suppose I can, if I try; and I will, to please you. Besides," she added, mournfully, "it does not matter, much whom I marry. I never have loved any one yet, and probably never shall; and by marrying Mr. Clifton I shall :have the pleasure of living near my favorite sister. There is some consolation in that." "But, my dear," persisted Mrs. Graham, "you must try and love your husband, for he is-worthy of all your affec- tion." "Well, mamma," replied her daughter, "I will even try to love him, if you desire it." Mr. Clifton called in the evening, but Hettie did not see ! * t i.' BOSTON COMMON. 43 him. She had, requested to be left in her chamber undis- turbed. A change had come over the young girl, --she had suddenly expanded into a woman. Her light, happy feelings were gone in a measure, and she was preparing to enter her * new state without a sigh. Mr. Clifton departed, thanking my grandmother for her kindness, and sending a thousand loving messages to Hettie. He told Mrs. Graham that he should come back in eight weeks to claim his young bride, and she assured him that all should be ready by that time. And how were those eight weeks passed by Hettie? Why, I can scarcely tell. Sometimes she laughed, and some- times she cried. Once or twice she told her mother that she was going to write to Mr. Clifton not to come, for she could not marry him if he did; but her mother persuaded her not to be too hasty, but to too1k well to the advantages which would spring from such a union. , Advantages!" sighed Hettie; "once I never supposed that I could marry for anything so low as advantages." Hettie was a young and tender child, and knew nothing of the responsible situation-she was so soon to assume. The new and beautiful dresses which her mother was preparing for her, and the idea of the journey would sometimes please her fancy. But her principal source-of consolation was the pros- pect she had of soon being near her favorite sister. At length every article of the trousseau was in readiness, and Mr. Clifton was expected daily. One evening, Hettie, after trying on all her new dresses, was just going to supper, when Frances came running up stairs. "Come, Hettie," said she, 4 Clifton has come, and is call- page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " BOSTON COMMON. ing impatiently for you. Dress yourself quickly, and come with me." Hettie trembled all over, and burst into ters. What can I do, Fanny?" said she. "Do?" -answered Fanny; "why, what any sensible gir would do if they were in your place, - dress yourself, drj your eyes, and away to meet the bridegroom." Hettie saw the immediate necessity of doing something; so ariing, she dried her eyes, and was soon, with her sister's help; dressed, and in the presence of her intended husband. "My dearest Miss Graham," said the gentleman, coming forward to meet her, and leading her to a seat, it how very happy I am to see you looking so well! I trembled, all the way, for fear you might be ill, or something." He then, in low and thrilling language, poured into her ear the tale of his love, and ended by saying that -she ,should be a second Helen to him, and that he would cherish and love her as fondly as ever man loved woman. Hettie was fascinated by the tones of the gentleman. His language, the first of the kind she had ever listened to, seemed like some beautiful music welling up from his heart; and, pleased as a child with toys at the novelty of her situation, she. yielded a willing consent. : The morrow's sun ushered in as bright and beautiful a day as one would wish to see. At ten o'clock precisely, the bride elect, dressed in her rich robes and looking charmingly beau. ftiful, was handed into the carriage by her enamored lover, Acgcompanied by her sister and a young gentleman acquaint- ance, they rode out to a little country village and were mar- ried.& They returned, as soon as the ceemony was over, to a J . ^BOSTON COMMON. 45 large dinners, which the good mother had assembled while they were absent. The din, as excellent, but my poor mother could scarcely taste it. The rest of the company, however, did ample justice to it. After dinner her friends gathered around her in groups, some kissing, some crying, and all wishing her happiness and prosperity. Poor Hettie was soon ready, and with tearful eyes and quivering lips, kissed her mother and sister, and, after one sad farewell look at the weeping group was lifted half fainting into the carriage, and borne away from her mother's dear though humble roof. My-parents stopped a week at Clifton Hall, Lansdowne on their way home. It was evening when they arrived at Linden, but everything was in readiness for them. M1y aunt Huntingdon had been indefatigable in her exertions to have all look bright and smiling for the reception of the beloved sister, for she feared all was not quite right in that quarter. But when Hettie arrived looking so blooming and cheerful, she felt quite relieved, and was the first to welcome her to her new home. The next day my father gave a large dinner-party. Of course everybody was there, and of course everybody was de- lghted with the pretty, childlike bride; and she, in turn, pleased with the novelty around her, and with the attentions she everywhere received, soon recovered her spirits, and ap- peared as happy and gay as any of her guests. I will not stop to enumerate all the balls, parties, and social gatherings, they attended; suffice it to say, their time for the-first three months was constantly ocupied, and would have been n0 much longer but for my father's checking it. He page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " BOSTON COMMWON. wished to have his Hettie to himself for a while; and she, quite weary of dissipation, acceded to his wil:th pleasure. My parents now settled down in peace and ity, in their new home. My father was well content to pass the remain- der of his days in that quiet spot; and my mother, surrounded with love and affection, enjoyed a calm sort of happiness, which, to a person of her serenity of mind, was far from being unpleasing. To add to their happiness, my mother soon gave promise of an heir to her husband. This was joy- ful news, indeed, and my father's cup was now full. In his approaching happiness, he, seemed to have forgotten the sor- row of the past, and to live only in the future. CHAPTER VIII. Is this a birth, and this a death? What little words, and yet how full of meaning! Strange that such opposites should tread so closely Upon the footsteps of each other. - They seem to us like two dear brothers, One light, one dark-one stern, one soft one that we love and pet, One that we shiver to approach, .- And yet we see them sleeping in each other's arms. ON one fine, bright New-Year's morning, dear reader, did I first make my appearance into this breathing world. My arrival had long been expected, and was duly provided for. This event was the harbinger of joy to every one who knew and respected my father. As for him, he was almost beside himself with happiness. When he pressed his first kiss of affection upon my unconscious brow, and breathed a deep, fer. vent blessing over his first-born, his emotions were almost too great for utterance. He was now happy, -every wish was gratified, and he only desired strength and wisdom from on high, to direct and guide him aright, in bringing up his child for usefulness and virtue.' i Dear father, couldst thou then but have known the many trials, temptations, and sorrows, that would cluster around thy child's path, thy prayer would have been, , Lord, take this child even now to thyself again. Let her never live to page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 B OSTON COMMON. lament the day she was born, or, in the anguish of her heart, tipray for death." Happily for him, thesed :k forebodings were not experienced, and he kissed me agaidiid again, and placed me in the nurse's arms. The first day my -mother was able to go to the dining-room, my father gave a feast tt all employed in his service; and as those were the days of good cheer, my health and prosperity was drank in a great many bumpers of wine, and no doubt many considered it -their bounden duty to get tipsy at my expense. My mother used to tell a good story of old Robert Glynne, my father's shoemaker. About an hour after dinner, my father, happening to pass by the dining-room, thought that he perceived a man lying under the table. He went in, thinking that he might be ill or faint,' te soon discovered that itwas Robert, in a state of intoxication. He endeavored to e arouse him, but, finding it in vain; was preparing to leave the room for assistance, when old "Robert rolled over, half opened- his eyes, and muttered, "Go- it, boys! Mr. Clifton dc'i ve a baby every year." :: Time passed. I grew, slept, andh!eat, like ttetS babies, &I suppose. My father was the happiest of me, that-winter. He used to say to my mother, while she sat holding me in her arms, "I fear I am too happy -too blest, and that me- thing will occur to mar my joy." He began to' trea st he might never live to see the child grow up, whom f'o long prayed for, and his fears were too prophetic. : . 5 One day in the -spring, my father was suddenly called out o0ftown on business. -Bare starting, he complained of" a evere headache and pain about the region of the temples; r ' 9\ BOSTON COMMON. 49 but as my mother advised him to postpone his journey, he smiled, and said that the ride in the open air might be of ser . vice to him, a:nd he would go. He kissed her, and, bidding her take good care of "Bub," departed. A few hours afterwards, as my mother was sitting quietly in her nursery, she heardt a slight bustle outside the front door. She arose and went into the parlor, for the purpose of looking out of the window, in order to ascertain from whence the noise proceeded, when she saw, as she opened the door, Patrick and Robert in the act of laying their master upon the sofa. She stepped hastily across the room, and, taking her husband's hand, inquired, in a 'right, what was the mat- ter. He answered, as he placed his hand across his brow, while an expression of pain flitted over his features, that his head ached very badly indeed. My mother, much alarmed, desired Robert to go imme- diately for a physician, while Patrick related, in a doleful tone, that his master had come back to the yard very ill, about an hour ago; and that they had just prevailed upon him to be carried home, as he was unable to walk. The doctor soon arrived, and, as mr father now began to show symtmsof fever, he was conveyed to his room and laid upon his bed, -that bed from which he was never more . to arise. The doctor prescribed a soothing drink, ordered his head b ::: head bound up, and then left, saying he would call again in the evening. Soon after his departure, my father called his wife to his bedside, and ordered every on else to leave the room. "Shut t he door, Hettie," said he, -'and come sit by m e. I . have something. very sad to tell you ." i *' page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 BOSTON COMMON . ly mother obeyed, weeping, for her heart foreboded some evil. She seated herself by the dear patient, and took his hand. , Hettie, love," said he, solemnly "I am going to leave you. Weep not, dearest wife, for you have been an gel of comfort to me, during the little while I have been blest by your presence. I could have wished to have lived to see, our dear child a woman, but God has ordered it otherwise. I have been too happy with you and our little Helen, and I might grow selfish and forget my Maker if I were to live longer; and He, in mercy, is about to remove me to a purer, happier abode, even while my heart is glowing with love and gratitude towards Him. I 'I Hettie, take good care of our child. Give her a good education. Bring her up in the love and fear of God. Teach her to subdue her passions, and not to yield to temptation; in short, make her useful and happy. Do all and be all to her that 1 would have been had I lived. Promise me this, dear Hettie, and I shali die in peace." My mother, in a broken voice, sobbed out her promises. "Now leave me, Hettie?' he continued. "I was desirous of saying thus much to you, for I fear I shall soon be deliri- ous. But, Hettie dear, do, not weep, for I shall be happy, and released from all suffering, soon.- I have long felt that I might suddenly be called upon to leave this earth, and 'have held myself in readiness'for the great change. Hettie, you have never loved me as you can love; it was not possible, my poor child. You will love after I am gone; and if you --do, and wish to marry, remember it is with my approbation. Now go, darling, for a while. I am weary, and would sleep." X B OBOSTON COMMON. 51 My poor mother was overcome with grief, and sought her own room, where she yielded to a violent fit of weeping. My father continued to grow worse for three or four days, being delirious nearly all the time. On the fifth day he awoke from a refreshing sleep, very weak, but perfectly sane. He sent for Patrick, and when he came requested him to go and bring Mr. Meredith, his- lawyer, without delay. Poor Patrick obeyed, for his master's will was a sacred law to him. Lawyer Meredith soon entered, and was closeted with my father for more than an hour. After his departure, Mr. Billings called. He was my father's first friend in Lindens and had ever remained the saute. He was very much affected at his approaching dissolution, but promised to be a friend to his family, even as he had ever been to him. Many other per- sons called, but, as He was growing weak very fast, he desired them all to retire, after bidding them farewell, and inquired for his wife and child. IMy mother took me from my little cradle, where I lay all unconsciously sleeping, and carriedtme in her arms to my father's bedside. He was lying; half raised by pillows, in - bed, looking very pale and wan ;' but when he saw my mother 1 approaching with her infant, he smiled, and said, "Hettie, give me my child for the last time." My mother placed me gently in his arms, and knelt by us both. Miy father again entreated her to bring me up aright, to spare no pains in my -education, and to guide me into the paths of wisdom and virtue. My poor mother pressed his hand, and sobbed out a promise of entire obedience to his i page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 6 52 BOSTON COMMON. wishes. He then bent his head over mine, kissed me tenderly, and said: , God forever bless you, my dear little one, and be a kind father to you. Now go," he added, faintly, " to your mother's arms; it is the last time you will ever be in your father's." My mother took me, and, laying me quietly upon her lap, seated herself so that the dying man could look at us both without an effort. Long and tender were the glances the dear invalid cast upon us. The sun was just setting when he breathed his last. Quietly, and without a groan, he departed, and his last words were, "Hettie, love, I am going- going to see my lost Helen. Farewell, dearest wife and child. Jesus, receive my spirit." * Thus died my ever-to-be-lamented father, at the age of thirty-seven. The doctor, my mother, and uncle and aunt Huntingdon, were untiring in their efforts to preserve him; but all to no purpose. He died as he had lived, in peace with God and with all the world. Dear father, thy life was a short' but useful one. Thou wert ripe for heaven when the reaper found thee. Peace be to thy ashes! i My mother was at firs onsolable. She sought her room, and would see no one. She had need to weep, not for him, the beloved saint, but for the loss of a kind? indulgent husband, who had loved her so affectionately, and for her infant child, who, at the tender age of four months, had met witii irre- trievable a loss. And yet she did not really love binr;:But she respected and looked up to him as an affectionate daughter would to a tender parent. There was a young gentleman boarding Xlth my uncle, at the time of my father's death, by the name of Frank Weston. , , . * . - . . , .. . . . , , ,'. J BOSTON COMMON.- 53 This young man kindly volunteered to assist my uncle in his preparations for {he funeral. His offer was accepted, and he called immediately. He was a warm-hearted youth, and, on learning the sad story of the young widow and fatherless babe, appeared very much interested. On coming out of the parlor, after his first visit at the homestead, he chanced to see me laughing and crowing in nurse Betty's arms. -He was very fond of children, and, after bowing to Betty, -offered his hands to me. I almost sprang from her arms to his, and laid my cheek so confidingly upon his shoulder, that he felt his heart throb at once with love and pity for the unconscious babe. Turning to give me back to Betty, he encountered the eyes of a very beautiful young lady, in deep mourning, resting upon him. His admiration immediately seemed evident from the manner in which he regarded her; but he quickly remembered him- self, and said, bowing, "Madam, I believe I have the honor of speaking to Mrs. Clifton." The lady bowed, while he continued "I presume you know my sad errand in your house?" My mother put her handkerchief -to her eyes, "I did not wish to wound your feelings, Mrs. Clifton," he went on to say; " I only wished to explain the cause of my intrusion." Mrs. Clifton wiped her eyes, and said: "The explanation was quite unnecessary, sir; Any attention shown to my dear departed husband will be gratefully received, and the one who bestows it will be considered 'anything but an intruder." The gentleman bowed, and, kissing me once more, departed. Whence cam I that soft and delicious tremor that per- vaded my mother's whole frame, causing her heart to beat, and 5 page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 BO STON COMMON. sending the warm blood bounding to her cheek? The young widow was in love, and for the first time. She knew not, at first what her feelings meant. She only knew that, while she still mourned her husband, yet that her intense grief had sub- sided, and that a glad, joyous sensation was filling her heart, and this, too, whenever she thought of the graceful, pleasant Frank Weston. To do her justice, she strove to put him as far out of her mind as possible; but in vain. The dear image would come again and again, gently forcing its way to the very portals of her heart, where it would stand knocking softly for an entrance. This was-indeed love; and the fair widow at last knew it, felt it, but determined to think as little of it as possible .. And now the day came that was to see my dear father committed to the tomb. He was to be buried under Masonic honors, and the funeral services were intended to be peculiarly solemn and impressive. The house was filled to overflowing, and a great many stood in the yard. All my father's friends, and all i who had ever seen or heard of him, seemed to be there. , The servants were provided, by the thoughtfulness of m riy ncle Huntingdon, with nheat, plain suits of mourning, and stood; around in sad groups. My mother had clothed the poor little orphan in spotless white, and she lay laughing and playing in the nurse's arms. Every one who came near was attracted by the smiles of the delicate babe, who seemed the only happy feature in the group, although the one who had sustained the greatest loss. The funeral prayer was very beautiful and solemn. My father looked calm and smiling, even in death, and seemed, to those who went to take the last look, as if he were enjoying X- C BBOSTON COMMON. . 55 a sweet sleep, and dreaming of the angels. The young wife was very much affected when she found herself bending over !I the form of her kind protector for the last time. As she silently wept over the coffin, she suddenly felt a soft hand touch her own. Looking hastily up, she beheld the good- natured, pleasant countenance of Frank Weston, bending a pitying glance upon her. In his arms he held the poor little babe, who, young as-she was; seemed almost to comprehend the meaning of the scene, and was gazing earnestly at the face of her dear father, ere the'earth should hide him forever from her view. My mother was deeply affected at. this scene, and, bending her lips to the cold brow of her husband, wrapped her veil about her head and retired. In a few moments afterward the procession was ready to move. First came a fine band of music playing a solemn march. Theo drums were muffled with black crape, and sounded like distant wailing. Next came the brotherhood of Masons, whom my father had so often mingled with in his lifetime. These were all dressed in their uniforms, which were very simple and beautiful. One aged man carried the Bible, another a prayer-book. Next to the brotherhood came the coffin, with its heavy pall and bearers, containing all that was mortal of my dear father. On the coffin were placed his uniform, sword, and the insignia of his high office in the Lodge. ]Behind the coffin were the mourners, and then came a long procession of friends, servants, etc.; and in this order they walked to the church, where a discourse was delivered by the village pastor. -After this the choir sang a response, com- mencing thus: "So fades the lovely blooming flower." The procession then moved slowly to the grave, the-band all the page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 B OSTON COMMRON. while playing a low, solemn reqiem for the departed. The remains were then lowered into the grave, a prayer breathed over them, each Mason came forward and cast his sprig of evergreen upon the coffin, and the procession moved slowly out of the church-yard. When my mother returned from the funeral, she was entirely overcome at the desolate appearance everything wore, without its master and head. So long as the loved remains were. in the house, she had felt as though all were not gone; but now, when they were entirely shut out from her view, such a sense 'of loneliness came over her, that she determined that very night upon making immediate preparations to visit her mother. This plan she put in execution in about a week, and when she found herself once more in the home of her infancy, with all her friends about her, she began to regain a little of her old cheerfulness. She took great pleasure in exhibiting her babe. to all her friends, and they made a pet plaything of the little Helen. She had another source of pleasure, also. At times a sensation of pure joy would steal into her heart, causing her pulse to quicken, and her cheek to flush; but this happened only when the handsome face of Frank Weston rose before her in imagination. To do her justice, however, she always strove to banish such thoughts, as being highly improper so soon after her husband's death. At length, after a visit of three months, my late father's administrator, lawyer Meredith, sent for her to return to Linden, as it was necessary she should be there to look a little after her business. My mother hastened to fulfil his request. Until this moment she had never: thought of her X BOSTON COMiM'O N. 57 property, or of what disposition her late husband might have- made of it. When she arrived at home, Mr. Meredith was ready to receive her, and to consult with her relative to her husbands affairs; and first it was necessary to attend to the reading of the will. This read as usual. My father gave to his only child three fourths of all his property by deed; and the other fourth as a legacy, to be used during her lifetime, and dis- posed- of at her death as she pleased, to his wife. I was to be brought up directly under my mother's eye, until I had reached the age of fifteen; after that, my guardian was to have the charge of my education, until I was either of age or married. My, late father had two- sisters, older than himself, who were married, and settled in Boston. Isabella, the eldest, had married a gentleman in good circumstances, and high standing, by the name of Richmond. Three children, all older than myself, had been the fruits of this union. Ger- trude, the second sister, had married a statesman, whose name was Glenmore. Four years previous to my father's death, Mr. Glenmore had visited Linden, and, being de. lighted with the beauty of the place, had purchased a fine old country-seat, about five miles from the town, for a summer residence. One child, a boy two years my senior, had blessed this union. My uncle Glenmore was appointed my guardian, and it -was to his charge I was to be committed, when of a proper age. My mother, being very lonely after her return, persuaded her brother Huntingdon and his wife to move into her house. They consented, and in their company, together with a few page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] BOSTON C OMMON. ! select friends, among which was Mr. Weston, her time passed very agreeably. When I was about a year old, my uncle Huntingdon, being offered some lucrative business in a southern city, decided to remove there immediately. My mother was thus left alone and unprotected, in a distant state, far from all her friends. This fact, together with Mr. Weston's earnest solicitations, induced her to put a period to her widowhood much sooner than she would have done under any other circumstances. This she did, however, with the full approbation of her heart; for she knew that her late husband would approve her deci- sion, could he see her lonely, unprotected condition. The young couple were married, and went immediately to board with a Mr. May, Mr. Weston's partner in business. Mr. May was, and ever proved to be, a kind friend to my parents. His lady was a fine, sensible woman, who soon formed an attachment for my mother, which has lasted for more than a quarter of a century. What seemed to endear her more to my parents, was the fact of her being so kind to me, during a long, severe illness, which attacked me soon after their marriage. I was sick with a variety of complaints for more than a year. Many a time was my life despaired of,-and physicians and watchers were in constant attendance. During this long, sad period, Mrs. May was untiring in her kindnesses and attentions, and proved the strength of her friendship for. my parents, which many long years have but confirmed. At length, after the utmost care and watchfulness had been expended, I was pronounced out of danger, and in a fair way of recovery. About this time my parents removed BOSTON COMMON. 59 into the Clifton Homestead, where theyhave ever since lived. My step-father was doing a small business of his own, and would, it was thought, in time, be a rich man, should nothing occur to prevent. My mother was- now content. She had married the object of her warmest affections, her child had recovered from a dangerous illness, and she had nothing further to wish for. Happy mother!-secure in the arms of conjugal love, which years only strengthened and increased, her lot was truly a blessed one. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] CHAPTER IX. "We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, field and flower, Is shadowed by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. "A life-long tract of time revealed, The fruitful hours of still increase, Days ordered in a wealthy peace, And those fair years its richest field." TENNYSON. MY step-father, although one of the best, kindest men in the world, was not possessed- of that energy an'd decision of mind which characterized my own father. He was very apt to leave his business to other hands, while he remained at home, enjoying himself with his family. In consequence of this oversight, he met with a great many losses; and, with an increasing family, and considerable sickness, he became in a few years somewhat reduced in circumstances. I, however, was never made to feel the poverty of my dear parents. They shielded me with the tenderest care, and bestowed upon me all the advantages of education which could be obtained in Linden. I was kept at school year after year, and had books and clothes in abundance, even when the other children g BOSTON COMMON. 61 were deficient. My mother's motive in doing this was her strong desire to fulfil the dying injunction of my departed father; and her present husband loved both her and myself too sincerely to oppose, even by a word or look, whatever she did for my benefit or happiness. Time went on. My happy childhood, dimmed by scarcely a tear, was rapidly passing, amid birds, flowers, and all the charms of nature. I was surrounded by young companions, who,all dearly loved me, and with whom I was very happy. I cannot pass this period of my life without slightly glanc- ing at a few of the dear friends of my youth. Close by our homestead stood the large yellow house of Mr. May, my step-father's friend. This gentleman had several daughters, three of whom were so near my own age that they became my companions at a- very early period,- and have always continued my friends throughout all the changing vicissitudes of my life. Florence, the oldest, was my especial favorite, and a sweet little creature she was. She had beau- tiful blue eyes, and golden hair,e and one of the tiniest little forms in the world. Harriet and Rose were younger and less fair than Florence. Their eldest brother was just three months my senior. He and Here rocked in the same cra- dle. He was my first littlei lover, and once, I remember, we were married in a very formal manner, by my eldest brother, and had cake passed around to the company, upon bits of birch-bark for plates. He grew to manhood; was a fine, talented youth, and bid fair to be an honor to himself and family; but, alas for earthly hopes! just at the time when we were all looking for his return from college with laurels, he was carried to a lunatic asylum. He had studied hard, 6 page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 BOSTON COMMON. and taxed his powers to their utmost; and the light of reason had grown dimmer and dimmer, and at last went out entirely. Dear Arthur, how sad was thy fate! "* Well do I remember the anguished, tearful faces that met mine, when I visited his father's the first time after this ter. rible news had reached them. Poor Florence wept as though her heart would break. Harriet and Rose vented their grief in sad and tearful exclamations. The mother sat perfectly still, and-once or twice I saw her raise her eyes to heaven, with such an expression of woe as made me shudder. And then I remember of beguiling the girls out upon one of our own beautiful walks; but every step was painful, for we had ,strolled there so many times with Arthur, that we were fain to return to the house, and weep, - weep for the beautiful, the gifted one, who languished so far from us. O, there is nd grief like thatcaused by insanity. . To look upon him we loved and cherished so fondly, to behold his glorious intellect that we so ardently worshipped lying in ruins at-our feet, as it were, will snap all the chords of happiness, and fill our hearts with a double anguish.' Happily for us, however, "in a few years our beloved Arthur was completely restored to reason, and returned once more,'to the heart of that family of which he was the light, the centre, and the joy. My, step-father had an only brother,-Mr. Edgar Weston, who lived very near us also. This gentleman had - two daughters, whom I have ever remembered among my earliest and dearest friends. Marion and Jessie Weston were two very lovely girls, and many is the good romp I have had with them. .We have strolled- over every part- of sweet Linden together, and trimmed every rock in its fields with - BOSTON COM-MON. - 63 blossoms. O, the memory of those sweet days is like the odor of a fragrant flower! It comes again and again, long after its petals have drooped and died. I shall speak of but one other playmate; but she was the chosen one of my heart. Dear, stately Katherine Merton! step forward; for you are destined to play quite a part in this humble narrative. I was eight years of age before I guessed that I had an. other self, a kindred spirit, somewhere waiting to-meet me. I was going to church, one bright Sabbath day, when I en- countered one of the prettiest little faces in the world. She looked at me, and smiled so pleasantly, that my heart was won at once, and I stepped cautiously to her side, and com- menced the process of getting acquainted. I told my mother, when I returned home, that I had met a dear little girl, who- had told me that her name was Katie Merton, aid had invited me to come and visit hei the next week. My mother in- formed me that Mr. Merton, the father of Kate, had moved into the village only a few days before, and that, if I liked the little girl, I might visit her, some time. I could not get Kate's image from my mind, but thought of her during the. evening and dreamed of her all night. Something always prevented me from going to see Kate, all that summer; but I did not forget her, or the few pleasant words she had said to me at our first meeting. . At length, after a long vacation, the autumn term of our school commenced, and I was duly installed a member. It was to be kept, I learned, by a liss Dormer, an aunt of, Katherine Merton's. Of course she would be there, and I should have the pleasure of a further acquaintance with my: ' " page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " BOSTON CO MMON, sweet little friend; and what dear, good friends we would be! I would lend her all my books, bring her the prettiest flowers from my garden, give her half my sweetmeats and toys,- O, I would be so very kind to her! These were the thoughts that filled my mind, as I walked to the school-house the first day of the term. On entering, Miss Dormer gave me a seat; and what was my -surprise and- delight on finding it to be the next one to Katie Merton's! She recognized me at once, and sent me:: one of, her own glad, happy smiles. Dear Kate! How-many, many times, since then, hast thou cheered me with that same cherished smile of thine! and sometimes, my Kate, thou hast wept with me also, when my heart was too sad to bear even the weight of thy smiles. :From that moment we were the best of friends. We shared together the same seat and books for many years at school, ciphered from the same slate, hunted geographical mysteries from the same map, - in short, were one, as far as the most perfect union of ideas and feelings went. Our friendship soon became proverbial throughout the school, and no one would have thought of speaking of Katherine Merton, and Helen Clifton separately. We were ever together, ever happy when in each other's. society, and all seemed to look upon it as perfectly right, and a matter of course. I remember the severest trial I ever knew, when a child, resulted from a little circumstance which, although- it may seem trifing enough now, was productive then of a bitter pain. We had exhausted Miss Dormer's patience, one day, by whispering, and she separated us. We suffered so much from it, however, that she permitted us to take our seats together again the next day. She saw that we were suffit BOSTON COMMON. 65 ciently punished, and would not be likely to offend -again. What bright, happy days were those! As I look back upon them now, they seem like the faint remembrance of some beautiful music, that has passed away and lost itself in its own deliciousness. I pass hastily over my school-days, and come at once to the time when I was nearly fifteen years of age. I had had five brothers; but -one, a sweet little golden-haired cherub, had died in early infancy, when I was too young to realize my loss, and too careless and happy to remember or grieve over it long. I was very proud and glad to, have my four brothers, but always regretted that I did not have a sister. I thought it would be so nice to have one to make dresses for, when I was tired of making doll's clothes, and also to show to Kat&E She had five sisters; and I thought it so hard for her to htve so many, and me none. How glad and happy was I,'therefore, to awaken one morning and find my wish realized.! I had become the owner of a sister. I could scarcely walk to the nursery, but rather flew, and waited not until I had hugged the tiny thing in my arms, and almost strangled it with my kisses. I promised it every beautiful thing that could possibly be procured, and begged hard to be allowed to. name it myself. My mother consented, and I im- mediately baptized it with a kiss, and called it by the sweet name of Constance. I was so happy that I half forgot even Kate for a while. But I soon wearied of my delicate new toy, and, leaving it to the care of the nurse, contented-myself with visiting and fondly caressing it every day before I went to school. I must now speak of a person who figured somewhat largely 6* page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " BOSTON COMMON. at this period of my life. For some months past, I had noticed a tall, singular-looking being at church, who, instead of, listening to the sermon, used to sit staring at me all ser- vice-time.; I was too young and inexperienced at the time to even guess what were his motives for quizzing me so ear- nestly. Others had noticed, also, that there was some sort of an attraction in Mr. Weston's pew for Eben Stackpole. I could hear the suppressed laughing, and see the merry looks with which poor Eben was regarded. Thanks to the immo- bility of his nature, however, he did not even notice it; but, true as the needle to the pole, his eyes ever pointed towards their magnet. At length this intolerable staring became unbearable; and, one Sunday afternoon, I resolved to stare at him in return, and see what -effect it would have. I turned suddenly, there- fore, and fixed my eyes upon him. It was enough, however. The poor young man looked so pitifully in love, and dropped his eyes so bashfully as they. encountered mine, that I could not forbear laughing aloud, and many of the congregation followed my example. The scene was too ridiculous to be repeated, however. I was deeply mortified. and indignant, and resolved that I would not go to church again so long as Eben Stackpole occupied that,seat. So it happened, for the next three Sabbaths, I was very-ill, although I cannot remember what were my symptoms now. [But my non-appearance had driven poor Eben half frantic, and he resolved upon desperate measures. The third Monday, I eceived a neat little letter, delivered to me in quite a mysterious manner, by a friend of Eben's. I imme- diately shut myself in my room, and opened the letter in a R BOSTON COMMON. 67 very delicate manner, wondering, all the while, what Eben Stackpole could find to write to me about. The letter was short, but most respectful; breathing the fondest, purest love for me, and asking, nay, beseeching me to unite my destiny to his by marriage. I was quite sur- prised, and half pleased also - as what girl of fifteen is not? - with the idea of a real flesh-and-blood lover, to replace the shadowy knights and heroes she has been dreaming of all her life. But the next thought was, "I can never marry this Eben Stackpole I do not love him, and never can. I would n't if I could. He is too tall, too ghost-like, too Ichabod Craneish, for me. O no! he does not in the least resemble my ideal, and I will never marry him." I was -in a sad dilem- ma; but, instead of applying to my mother, who would have set me right at once, I resolved to tell Kate Merton all about the mighty affair. So I sent a mysterious little note to her, hinting that something awful had taken place, and requesting her presence immediately. She soon came, her face all aglow with curiosity. I took her to my room, and opened my whole heart to her at once in this manner: "Forgive me, Kate, if I have had a secret from you. It is the first and only one I ever had, and I should have 0told you at once of it, had I not been ashamed to. Kate was all surprise. I went on in a strain of importance. "Katherine, I have a lover - a real lover!" "A lover!" almost screamed Kate. "Yes, ma chere, a lover; and, to convince ,you, behold," continued I, presentingwer triumphantly with the letter. She seized it eagerly, and read the whole through to the page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] BOSTON COMMON. end; but, when she came to the name at the bottom of the page, she burst into a laugh, and exclaimed, No, Helen, I will never give my consent for you to marry that man. Such a clown!- such a clodhopper! No, my sweet Nell, you cannot think of such a thing." "That is just what I want of you," answered I,- "to advise me what to do in this affair." "I will assist you all in my power," said Kate. So to work we went, and, with the blindness and ignorance of fif- teen, composed such an epistle to regale poor Eben with, as must have astonished the world and upset empires, could it have been duly appreciated. This I sent by the same bearer who had brought me the first one.- I learned afterwards how Eben received that silly little missive. He turned pale on reading its contents, and took to his room immediately, where he remained three days in total abstinence, and then emerged from his solitude with his love undimmed and unshaken, but a sadder and a wiser man. C H APTER X. "I did hear you talk, Far above singing -after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, And searched what stirred it so- Alas! I found it Love." HYERION. AT the commencement of my fifteenth year, by my father's will I should have been placed under my guardian's care, for the purpose of finishing my education; but, as he was in Con- gress at this time, it was deferred for a while. About this period my health began to fail in a measure, and I was sent from home for a few weeks, to visit some friends who lived in a little country village, not many miles from Linden. This visit was of the utmost benefit to me. The cheerful company, rides, walks, and sails, soon brought the roses back to my cheek, and at the expiration of the time allotted for the ,visit I prepared with regret to return home, and leave my kind friends. The day before I started was remarkable for its fineness and beauty, and, being the Sabbath, it was proposed that e should all go to church in the morning. Our walk lay- through the most beautiful piece of woods, vocal with the page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 BOSTON COMMON. song of birds, and through whose denseness no ray of the sun could pierce. I was walking with a young lady friend of mine, and talking very fast upon all sorts of wild things, when she suddenly pulled my sleeve, and said, in a whisper, "Look, Helen, there is the Apollo of our village, just on your right. Is he not a love of a man?" I looked up quickly at this strange speech, but had no time to answer, for my eyes encountered those of a very young man, scarcely twenty-one, I should think., The glance was so sudden, so unexpected,'that I was obliged to drop my eyes ere they had half analyzed the look he gave me. A strnge, wild feeling pervaded my heart at this sudden encounter; the blood rushed to my cheek, my pulse beat quickly, and a sensation of strong interest for the youthful stranger took possession of my heart. In another moment, he had come close beside us, and my friend lhad introduced us to each other as "Miss Clifton - -Mr. Hastings," before I had time to hide my confusion. The young stranger seemed in a moment to comprehend my feelings for him, but, with the courtesy of a well-bred gentleman, began to talk upon indifferent subjects.' ! -How long do you intend remaining'at Bardville, Miss Clifton?"' staid he, with one of:the most seducing .voices in the world. "I return to Linden to-morrow," I answered. "So soon?" said he; "how unfortunate that - you should have been here so long, and I notfhave met you until almost ats the moment of youri departure:!" --"HEow knew.; your"I aaced, that; I was here?" "O," replied he, -'I learned of your arrival long ago, but eogag, BOSTON COMMON. 71 was prevented, by illness, from paying my court to you. I I regret it exceedingly," added he, " but trust you have found the pleasure of our little village sufficient to lure you back again, at no very"distant period." Ah!" thought I, had I but met thee before, how com- plete would have been my happiness!" In this pleasant converse we reached the church. Hast- ings attended us-to our pew-doo?, and- then, bowing gracefully, left for his own. I must confess that-I did not pay much heed to good Parson Marvine's sermon that day. My mind was wholly preoccupied with' the image of the handsome young stranger whom I had- met so unexpectedly.., When I arrived at home, my young friends bantered me upon my absence of- mind, as they called it; but in the midst of it I broke from them all, and fled into my own room, where I could dream over my beautiful new thoughts alone, and weave a sunny web for the future from our morning's en- counter. . Roland Hastings! why wert thou sent, at that time, to be a dark blight to all 'my young life's happiness? Why was I destined so wildly, so madly, to love thee? Why was thy face invested with almost an angel's beauty, thy for-h so graceful, thy language so insinuating, thy tones so- bewitch- ing? Alas the day that ever I saw thee! Destiny surely owed me some cruel spite, when she suffered thee to cross my path in'such an evil hour. Yes, Roland Hastings was beau- tiful. It was not, the eyes, so glorious in their dark, wild beauty; not the. fair brow, shaded by clustering curls; not the mouth, where a thousand smiles did lurk'; but a mingling of the whole, in one grand centre, that :caught and arrested page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 BOSTON COMMON. my youthful fancy. Let me describe him a little more accu- rately. Roland Hastings was a little above the middle height,- slightly yet firmly made. His complexion was peculiarly fair and delicate, owing, probably, to his recent illness. His high, noble brow was shaded by long chestnut curls, that floated nearly to his shoulders, and the eyebrows were so heavy and arching, that they nearly concealed a pair of the finest blue eyes in the world. But his mouth was his chief attraction. In its delicate chiselling you read his character at a glance. ' You saw therekkindness, generosity, and frank- ness, mingled with such a love of ease and pleasure as almost made you shudder. The short upper lip was full- of pride and sarcasm, of which a lurking smile betrayed that he always had a fund ready, and might select you for the next victim. Beautiful as- I then thought him, I should hardly call him so at present. His face lacked energy and expression, and had too much sensuality in it, to charm me now. Had I met Roland Hastings five or six years later, I should, perhaps, never have thought of loving him. After dreaming of him all night, I arose at an early hour, an*dpacked my trunk, preparatory to returning home. I waited anxiously all the moring, in the hope of seeing Hast- ings, ,for surely," thought I, ("he seenmed to feel so badly about my going away, he will not fail to call and bid me good-by." My hopes were doomed to be blasted, however. He had probably forgotten my very existence, and with this humiliating thought I bade adieu to my kind friends, and entered the carriage my parents had sent to convey me home., I thought of Roland all the way, and scarcely heeded the B OSTON CO MM31ON. 73 greetings of my parents and brothers, but, pretending to be greatly fatigued, sought my own room, and, throwing myself upon the little bed I had so often slept peacefully in, gave I vent to a paroxysm of tears. And yet I could scarcely ana- lyze my feelings. I only knew there was a sad weight of loneliness at my heart, and that I felt a yearning to go back again to Bardville, for that was the home of one whom I had seen but for a moment, yet had seen but to' love. "Helen," said my mother, one morning, soon after my return home, "4 what is the matter with you since you came back? Are you still sick, or do you wish to return, and see some one whom you left in Bardville? Come, cheer up, child, or I shall think you are in love; and I should feel sad enough to see you pining away on that account." These words - said half in earnest, half in jest-set me to thinking, and I did not wonder that my mother spoke of my appearance. I knew that I felt listless and unhappy, and muett appear so* Even Kate Merton had noticed the change in me, without being able to account for it, for I guarded my half-fledged love even from her friendly eyes. I therefore determined to conceal my feelings hereafter, and to assume- my accustomed cheerfulness, and be as gay as possi- ble. So I schooled my heart to obedience, dressed my face in smiles, and with my-old appearance of happiness, soon put- all suspicions at rest. About a fortnight after my return home, I one day re. ceived a letter from my lady friend in Bardville. How eagerly did I grasp Kthe little missive, and how dear did it seem to me, for it had come from the home of Roland!' I broke the seal hastily, and ran my eyes carelessly over the page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 BOSTON COMMON. contents; then, half dissatisfied, threw it down, exclaim- ing, "Not a word about Roland? She might just have writ- ten his name, so that I could see how it looks upon paper." As I spoke, my eyes fell upon the bottom part of the rejected letter, and I read the name "Roland Hastings." Igrasped the paper, and, my eyes almost burning into the sheet, read, ( Roland Hastings was here, a few evenings since, and inquired for you. He desires to be remembered to you." What simple words! - and yet, simple and unimportant as they were, I valued them more than choice gold, and was never weary of reading them. I laid the letter under my pil- low, that I might read the loved name by the first morning's light. I stole to my room twenty times a day and looked at the name written so fairly on the white sheet, and would think what a beautiful name it was, and wonder if I should ever see the owner again. ' I heard no more of Roland, all through the summer, I- although I mentioned his name in a careless way to my corres- pondent two or three times. But, as she did not dream of the interest I felt in that quarter, she entirely overlooked my hints; and the one interview I had had with Hastings, and the few words written of him, were all I had to live upon during the summer. But I did not forget him in the: least;- no, his image was indelibly engraven upon my heart, and although I tried to be as cheerful as ever, a sadness would creep over me at times, that I found it impossible to resist. Autumn came at last, with its gorgeous scenery, ripened harvests, and mellow fruits. I had been ill for a few weeks BOSTON COMMON. 75 but, as I had now recovered, my mother proposed, one fine Sabbath towards the close of September, that I should go to church. I was deeply interested in the sermon, as I had not listened to one for some weeks, and had eyes for none, but the minister. After the service was over, as we were coming out of the church, I saw a face that sept the blood rushing quickly through my veins, and caused a warm blush to overspread my cheeks. -But could it be? I looked again - I was not mistaken - it was surely he- my half-hour acquaintance of Bardville, looking ten times handsomer and more interesting than ever. I gazed at him without the wish or power of withdrawing my eyes, until I attracted the attention of a young friend of mine, who bantered me upon my star-gazing, as she called it, but added that .she did not wonder at my looking at that young gentleman, for she had been doing the same thing, all the morning. "s ISi not a perfect prince?" continued she. "I. am de- termined to fall desperately in love with hinm, for papa says that he has come here to live, and there will be plenty of time for me to do it it." Her words conveyed both pleasure and pain to me; pleas- ure, that he, my heart's idol,.had indeed come to live with us, and pain, that another should couple her name with his in that manner. I left her at her door, and pursued my way home, wondering what could have induced Hastings to come to Linden, and what could be his business here. I passed an almost sleepless night, and arose the next morning filled with happiness; for the thought that he was going to live in Lie- page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 BOSTON COMMON. den because it was my home, had taken entire possession of my mind, and was far too pleasing to be lightly rejected. As soon as breakfast was over, I sought Mary Listen, my friend of the day before, in the hope of gaining more infor- mation from her concerning Hastings. She soon began to speak of him, and, after expatiating a while upon his (" won- drous beauty," his 4( floating hair, soul-subduing eyes," &c., told me that he had come to Linden for the purpose of going into business with a gentleman. I saw that Mary was very much interested in the young man, but it did not cause me much trouble, for I felt quite willing to match my advan- tages with hers, any day. Poor Mary, how sad a fate was thine! Thy memory comes to me through the long vista of years that have passed sipe thy death, and a sadness at thy untimely end creeps lover my heart, and fills my eyes with tears of regret. Mary loved, and, not meeting with a return of love from the beloved object, faded away, and died broken- hearted.. ' Time passed. I had seen -Roland. at church, and in the streets once or twice, but he had evidently forgotten me, and passed me as a perfect stranger. How mortifying, that I, Helen Clifton, the greatest match in the village, should be neglected and forgotten for almost anybody else! It set my blood on fire to think of it. I did not' then know that this was a part of his plan. Roland Hastings had a deep purpose in view, in treating me with coldness and neglect. I was rich, and he poor, and a, deal too proud to woo and win inme asian honest-man should, but he was determined that most of the wooing should be on my side, so that none could say it was my money he was seeking. He knew that I had loved BOSTON COMMON. 7 him from the first moment we had met; he had read my heart aright, and, as he felt quite sure of me at any time, he resolved to let things take their own course. A few weeks after his arrival at Linden, I met him at a ball, and, as I supposed from his non-recognition that he had forgotten me, I sought and obtained an introduction to this lion of the evening. My happiness was almost too great when I found myself dancing, opposite him, and received his polite attentions as a partner. How much I loved him, and how handsome I thought him! No wonder half the girls in the room were envying me; but they did not have occasion to envy me long, for as soon as the dance was finished he left me, and never by word or look noticed me for the remainder of the evening. I cannot describe his conduct to me for the rest of the sea- son. He would sometimes be all smiles and joy to see me, and at others would scarcely notice me by a look. He would venture once in a while to walk by my side from a singing- school or lecture, but he never would offer his arm, or appear in the least like a lover. In December my uncle Glenmore arrived, and brought with him his son, whom I had not seen since he was a little boy. He carried him directly to the Glen, or "St. Thomas' Glen," as his country-seat was called, for the purpose of hav- ing him fitted for college. Some years previous to this, my guardian had instituted a school for boys upon his farm; and, as. he resided for the most part of his time- at Washington, the Glen came in time to be considered more of a school than a country-seat, and its proprietor had long ago devoted it en- tirely to that purpose. After placing Henry at the school, 7* page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 BosToN cOMMON. it suddenly came into his head that it would be a nice place for me to study in, until he was ready to carry me to Boston; and he accordingly made known this proposition to my pa- rents. They gladly consented to my going to the Glen for the winter, as it would give them the opportunity of seeing me whenever they chose, and preparations were accordingly made for my departure. I remember well the evening before I left my dear home for the first time, to go among strangers. My mother was busied in packing my trunk, and in seeing that everything was in it that could add to my comfort when away from home. I was talking with my father and caressing little Con- stance, who could but just lisp my name, and pat my cheek with her little dimpled fingers. Suddenly the door-bell rang, and a visitor entered, who, to my great delight, proved to-be Roland Hastings. This young man certainly possessed great influence over every person with whom he came in contact; for my parents, although un- willing to leave me alone with any other man, seemed, on this occasion, to to a certain sort of fascination which he p ossessed, and, after a few moments' conversation, left the room, taking my little sister with them. How very happy was I to be left alone with my new ac- quaintance; and how my heart fluttered: with'pleasure as he approached my chair, and leaned over it with the familiarity of an old friend! I ventured to look up. - He was gazing at me with his dark eyes as though he would read my very soul; and truly he might do so with ease, for I had neither the means or in- clination to conceal this first great feeling of my heart. He #:,8, D OS T O N C 1 O N. 79 took my hand ;- ah! how the fingers trembled and thrilled at the touch! I can feel it even yet. ,' You are then really going to leave us, Miss Clifton," said he, in a soft, persuasive tone. "How much we shall miss you I do not dare to say; but I trust you will favor us now and then with your presence, without which our circle will indeed be deprived of its sunshine." How happy did those few words of mere courtesy make me! My heart mistook them for the accents of love; and per- haps they were so, for Hastings never looked half so much in earnest as at that moment; his beautiful hair floating dreamily over the high, broad brow, and the dark eyes, always so expressive, now beaming with the emotions of a heart, as it then seemed, overflowing with love. I was too happy to reply; I only blushed, and played nervously with the tassel of the chair. At length we heard some one coming. Roland hastily bent over me, and, parting the hair from my forehead, pressed his first kiss upon my brow, and, with a 4 God bless you, my dear little Nellie!" retired at the opposite door, just as my mother entered. I waited not, but sought my room hastily, my heart- beating, and my whole frame quivering with delight. ",He loves me, he loves me," I said; " he called me his dear little Nellie, and, O, he kissed me!"That first kiss- can I ever forget it? No; it comes to me even now, although many years have flown since it was pressed upon my brow, and brings in its train all the long, delicious poetry of the past. - And he had probably bestowed it out of pity to my love for him, and had perhaps forgotten it the next moment! I did not close my eyes till long after midnight. I was too page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] ( t ; -80 BOSTON COM'MON. happy to think of so dull a thing as sleep, andoso I lay upon my little bed, weaving a long, bright web of future happiness, where Roland's face and form were of course conspicuous. "And I shall be rich," thought I, "and he is poor. How very happy shall I be to give it all to him! and he is so noble and good that it will be sure to increase under'his care, and he will not have' to be confined to the dull routine of business, day after day, and we will ride together, travel in distant countries together, and do so much good with our money, dear Roland and I!" and, repeating the loved name, I fell asleep about two hours before day. Ah, Roland! could I then but have foreseen what would occur in that future which I painted so brightly with Love's own brush, methinks my heart would have drooped and with: ered in my bosom, ere I should have yielded it, with allolts rich treasures of love, to one like thee. 7 CHAPTER XI. ,I Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul ; dear and divine annihilations, A thousand unknown rites, Of joys, and rarefied delights." "ONGFELLOW. -Tim morning dawned bright and pleasant, and after break- fast my guardian, the Hon. Thomas Glenmore, drove up to the door' with bhis' horse and sleigh, to take me to the Glen. It was the last of December, and a very cold, bitter day; but I heeded it not, and could scarcely stand still long enough for my mother to place about me all the wrappings with which her kind care had provided me. ,You seem very happy this morning, Helen," said my I father, who was holding the horse while we were getting ready to start. I hope you are n ot so very glad toleave us?" , No indeed, dear father," I replied; "but it is the first time I have been away, save for the purpose of visiting, and I am quite, impatient 'to begin my new duties. I shall be back again on Saturday, you know." I kissed them all, and hugged little Constance very hard, - for I felt strong this morning,- and the next moment the horse had started, and we were -fairly on our way. !buIheddinoadcudsaclstnstl ogeog io yMte opaeaot ealtewapnswt hc page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 B O S T O N C 0o M M0 N. - When girls leave home the first time for school, the begin- ning of their journey is generally spent in weeping, and regret- ting thecdear,'ones left behind. Then, as their emotion sub- sides, thoughts of the new home they are going to will creep in, and the remainder of the journey will generally be spent in conjecturing what sort of associates they are about to encounter, -whether they will find friends among them or no, and whether their duties will be heavy or light. It was not so in my case. My whole thoughts were bent upon Roland. I wondered when I should be so happy as to see him again, and whether or not he would tell me how much he loved me, at our next meeting. My guardian noticed my silence, and, attributing it to sor- row at leaving home, strove, in the kindness of his heart, to cheer me. He little guessed the deep fountain of happiness which I already had within my breast. He talked with me about the old place I was going to, and gave me a description of the characters whom I should meet there. I was so very happy that I knew I should love them all, and longed to show them how kind and obliging I could be. At length our horse began to ascend a long, steep hill, and, after making a bend in the road, the "Glen " came suddenly in sight. It was a fine, large place, consisting of the main building, and a half-dozen smaller ones, which served as store- houses, barns, etc. There was a large garden near the house, and as we approached I noticed about a dozen boys, from the ages often to seventeen, playing in -it. My guardian sud- denly stopped his horse near the door, and called loudly to one of the boys to come and hold him while we alighted. At his voice the whole troop came rushing up, en masse, : B O 8 T BOSTN CM MON . 83 ; : and he who was so fortunate as to be foremost fastened the horse's bridle to a post, while we stepped from the sleigh. My guardian greeted them kindly, and, saying, a"Well, boys, I have brought a young lady to study with you," entered the house, bidding me follow. He led me directly into a large room, and placed a chair for me near a nice fire, for I was extremely cold. An old lady, the mother of the gentleman who taught the school, now entered th!e room; and my guard- ian, taking my hand, presented me to her, and commended me to her care. What a dear old lady was that! How nice and prim did the clear muslin cap sit upon her brow, and what a dignified air did that neat black dress give to her person! Ah! dear "aunt Mary," I shall never see thy like again. The earth has long since shut that serene face and noble form from my - view, but' the remembrance of the many lessons and liindnesses 'il I received while under thy jurisdiction will never be effaced from my mind. She received me with a smile, kissed my cheek, and bade !me welcome a thousand times to .the Glen. At this moment I heard a door open in the further part of the room, and, look- ing up, I saw a young lady about my own age, but much larger, crossing the room quickly. Mrs. Marsden called to her, and at the call she came slowly forward, with a sadly-solemn air, which her rosy cheeks and laughing blue eyes seemed to declare was all a pretence. " My dear Letitia," said the old lady, " let me present to you your new future companion, Miss Helen Clifton, a ward of the Hon. Thomas Glenmore's. She has come to live a ! page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 BOSTON C O M MON. while with us here, and you must use your best endeavors to make her happy and contented." The young lady smiled, then, suddenly recollecting herself, cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and sighed. The next, moment she had condescended to fix them upon poor little me, and, muttering something about the " happiness it would give her," etc., walked to the window with much dignity, and began to contemplate the clouds. Presently my guardian and Mrs. Marsden left the room together, and I was left alone with my new companion. I sat, unmindful of her presence, gazing directly into the fire, endeavoring, I suppose, to discover the face of Roland among the bright coals. I was lost in my own thoughts, when I heard a deep sigh near me. I looked up. My new acquaint- ance stood with her arms folded, gazing at me, and almost ready to cry, as I supposed. I looked at her inquiringly; she advanced just three quarters of an inch towards me, and said, with solemnity enough in her words for the prayer at a funeral, ", Miss Clifton, listen to me!" I gazed at her in wonder. "I Miss Clifton," she contindued, , arise and follow me." She pointed mysteriously towards a-little door that had hitherto escaped my notice, and marched boldly through it. I saw her hand beckoning me, and, more from curiosity than any other motive, determined to' ascertain wl: she ,wanted. She never spoke until she had reached a litom at the top of a staircase, into which she ushered me, wthkthe air of a princess, and placed a chair for me to sit upon "Miss Helen Clifton," she began in the next moment, "' behold the place where you must lie' while under 'this roof." She pointed towards the bed. , I shall be with you," BBO STON CO M M iON . 85 she continued, "so do not fear. This table is yours, and this smaller one mine. This' closet we will share together; it is probably large enough for all our'dresses, for I have but two. This writing-desk is at your service, as are, the books; indeed, I feel' that we shall be the closest of friends, and I long to share everything with you." I attempted to thank her, but she went on. "O, how have I longed for this hour to arrive! I have thought of you every moment since I heard your sweet name mentioned. I have dreamed of you at night, when all was hushed and quiet, and nothing could be heard save the faint croaking of the frogs, or the lulling music of the little brooks, as they glided softly by. (It was the beginning of winter, dear reader.) Then has your face come to me in all its loveliness, and I have half fancied I saw an angel in my dreams. , I knew, when I first heard of your coming to the Glen, that I should dearly love you, --that we should be kindred spirits; and if you but knew how I have longed for a companion of that sort,-- one to whom I could unbosom all my thoughts, and into whose friendly ear I could pour all the griefs that oppress my heart, - you would not wonder. You smile, but, sweet Helen (allow me thus to designate you), young as I am,- I have had trouble, and of the severest kind, too. .Trouble that has caused the roses to pale upon my cheek, and the lustre to jade from my eyes. But you shall know all about it, by and by. I long-to tell you all. "I know that I shall love you dearly-I do already. I admire your little graceful figure, enveloped in that neat blac dress. I admire your hair, of golden brown, just such as a poet would fancy he saw in his dreams; and then your 8 page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 BOStON COMMON. eyes, - large, clear, and intellectually gray,-how I dote upon gray eyes! Mine, alas! are blue, blue as the heavens, and I cannot change them it I would; and then your mouth, set together so firmly. O, yes! I both admire and love you. We will read, study, draw, sew, and talk, together, and have such dear good times!" She then went to the head of the stairs, and called to a servant to bring up Miss Clifton's trunk. "Old Ruthyr," as they called her, soon entered with the trunk, and, placing it in a corner, and saying , God bless the pretty new lady," vanished. "Now, my dear," said Letitia, "I have some letters to write, and you may as well arrange your wardrobe; for to- morrow the holidays are over,'and we shall have to com- mence study." She seated herself at the little desk, while I prepared to unpack my trunk. I took my dresses, one by one, and laid them upon'the bed, before hanging them up in the closet, and covered my table with books. These last were too much for Miss Letitia. She arose from the desk, and, clasping her hands together in ecsta4sy, exclaimed, "O, -what a variety of beautiful books ybu have! What delightful hours we will spend .reading them together, - that is, if my sweet friend will be so verylkind as to let me share: them with her,'?' " : I assured her that every book I had was entirely at her ,service, and anything else she chose, that: I possessed. She thanked me benignly, and turned to her writing once mor*e. . "How selfish- I am," she at length exclaimed, , to sit here a s OSTOS C O so ar OL 87 and see you at work so hard! Let me see; what can I do? O, I will hang up these dresses," She took them carefully, one by one, and put them in their places; and presently we had all neatly arranged in our little domicile, and I began to feel very much at home. I - Our one window commanded a fine view of the country around, and of the boys' play-ground, I looked from it, and as my eyes ran far over the distant hills, I thought, (4 Behind those hills are my father, mother, brothers, and little sister; and Roland, too, is there. I wonder what he is doing, and if he is thinking of me." Letitia approached'me softly. ( You are sad, Helen," said she, i( or you are homesick, perhaps. Are you thinking of the dear ones left to mourn your absence, at home? or is there still a nearer, and a deater, to whom you have yielded up the tribute of your young heart, and is it of him you are thinking?" I blushed, and half turned away. -"Ah!" she continued, "I have truly divined the cause of your sadness. If you love, jny sweet Helen, beware! Give not your heart, teeming with all its rich affections, to a man. He will surely deride you for your love, trample upon your affections, and fling back your heart, all torn and bleed- ing, to you." I shuddered involuntarily. - Look at me," qhe continued; " am I not a living proof of what I say?" I gaze;l!half wondering, into her face. It was a fair, good-natured countenance, with large, sweet blue eyes, and an open brow, shaded-by long chestnut curls. ("My dear Miss Milford," said I, "you look ias though you were perfectly happy. Your eyes are bright, your cheeks the color of the rose, and you are not pale and emaciated, like r page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 f BOSTON CO MM ON, one who has seen deep grief. Pray tell me, why do you im- agine yourself such a devotee?" "Child,ehild!" she replied, putting her hand upon hei heart, " here, here is my grief, and it lies too deep for mortal eyes to ken!" At this moment the dinner-bell rang, and my companion, taking my arm, led me to the dining-room, in a very formal manner. Around a large table, well covered with plain though substantial food, were seated the boys of the school. They were about twenty in number, I should think. Mr. and Mrs. Marsden sat at the head and foot of the table, and aunt Mary near her son.' Miss Milford led me, blushing like a peony, to the further end of the table, and seated me near a gentleman, whom' rshe introduced to me as Mr. Moore. "This is my teacher in French, Helen," whispered she, "and will be yours also, I presume." The gentleman made room for me at his side, and helped me to everything there was upon the table, at once. He seemed to be a little, nervous man, who liked to be always in motion,. He would move the different articles around the table with the greatest rapidity, and shift his chair in every direction, for fear that he might be treading upon- your toes, or dress, or too near for your cornfort; and so fearfill was he of interfering with you in some way, that he would be sure to deprive you of all pleasure which you might otherwise enjoy in his society, by his quick, nervous motiops. --And yet he was a very kind man, and ,showed me ma Biaforse while I was at the Glen. 'He was about the middled:height, and rather symmetrically made. His Barge, broad brow was BOSTON COMMO N. 89 marked with deep lines of care and thought. His light-blue eyes had a wild, restless look in them, and seemed to be in every direction at the same time; but hhe was finely and thoroughly educated, and deeply imbued with piety. He was :i [also of rather a cheerful disposition, and liked a pleasant chat with a young lady, now and then ;- but, as he always had a fund of wit and sarcasm ready, which he levelled about him' unsparingly, he could seldom induce one to listen long to his repartees, for fear of getting a shot themselves from his cut- ting tongue. At the foot of the table, near Mr. -Marsden, sat a youth of some eighteen years, who at once attracted- my attention. His exceeding beauty of face and form, and a certain air of deep melancholy there was about him, interested me exceed- ingly. I thought of W erter and his sorrows, Keats, Thad- deus of Warsaw, and a dozen others of that stamp; but, after stealing a glance at him every opportunity I could get, I de- cided that he was a perfect Kirke White. I was very much surprised and delighted afterwards to learn that he was my own dear cousin, Harry Glenmore, whom I had not seen for many years, and who had thereby escaped my memory altogether. He was one of those frail, beautiful, highly-gifted beings, who seem sent for a short time upon earth, but to wind themselves closely about our hearts, and to gild everything earthly they touch with a hue of their own bright spirit. Such was the being who now, attracted my attention. He sat-a little apart from the others, and seemed to be in a deep :revery most- of the time, for he took no notice of my en- trance, or of the conveition that followed. I longed to see 8: page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] BOSTON COMMON. -his eyes; and after a while he raised them. What glorious ones they were! Large, soft, and dreamy, -why, you could almost fancy you saw one of God's own beautiful angels gazing at flu from their liquid depths. He was of a thought- ful mood, rather inclined to melancholy, seldom smiled, and never joined in the sports of the other boys at the school. Dear Harry! He seemed to me only a stray spirit, wander- ing from his blest abode for a short time, in search of the scattered gems of goodness and virtue that might yet linger upon this dull earth. Our dinner was at length concluded, and the boys betook themselves once more to their play-ground, determined to make the most of this, their last half-holiday.- I was invited into the young Mrs. Marsden's room, and introduced to her husband and baby, "little Tommy," who was named after my uncle, Thomas G-lenmore. The old gentleman sat asleep in an easy-chair, at which Miss- Letitia seemed horrified, and drew me away to lament the stupidity of the family. "How can people indulge in that stupid thing called sleep," said she, "when so many cares and duties press upon them, and time is so short - far too short to be wasted in this manner!" -"But, mny dear Letty," replied I, ( uncle Thomas is get- :s ting old, and has long been accustomed to indulge in a nap after dinner. Nearly all old people do that." :My companion suddenly grasped the window-sill, and such an expression of woe came over her countenance, that I began to be alarmed, for I feared that she. was about, to faint. "Letty, Letty dear," exclaimed I, " you are ill, 'are you "not? Shall I ring for assistance?"ai, BOSTON COMMON. 91 "There it is again, and twice!" said she. "O, Helen! what have you called me? That dreadfully vulgar cognomen!" "Why, isn't that your name?"I inquired, very much surprised at her emotion. ," Hush!" said she. "Some old maiden aunt did call me that, to be sure; but I have long since changed it." "'And pray, may I ask, what name do you now rejoice in?" ", Letise," she replied. "It is the French for Letitia, and very pretty, - do you not think so?" " Why, yes, I suppose it is pretty enough, - but how you frightened me! I really thought you were going to faint, or die." "O, that is my nerves," she replied, with her eyes east down, and one hand pressed upon her heart, as if she were laboring under some great pain; "4 it is my nerves, -they are very delicate, very bad, since my trouble,- it has sadly in- jured my constitution. O, Helen!" he isuddenly exclaimed, , may you never know what it is to mourn the loss of a lover, or feel that the whole treasure of your affections has been lavished where it has been scorned!" She 'drew me to the window, and, while the tears were streaming from her really fine eyes, pointed to the distant blue sky. --"Helen," she continued, solemnly, " dost see yonder sky, how calmly it smiles upon me, as though my heart were not breaking?" "I do indeed," said I, half trembling with emotion. , Well, Helen, I feel that this is not my home. I know that yonder sky is waiting to receive its sinful though repent- ant child to its bosom. Helen," and her voice became' almost inaudible, "I sometimes think that before the eartdl F - A page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 BOSTON COMMON. :has again put forth its green, and before -the seasons have gone their round, I shall be- sleeping beneath the clods of the valley. Yes, I can almost see the daisies growing over my grave. But I shall die with the blessed consciousness that there is one here who will mourn for me sincerely, who will grieve deeply for the broken-hearted, --for her who fell like the untimely flower before the frosts of autumn. Yes, my sweet Helen, in your friendship and love I already feel a peace which the world cannot take away." She cast her eyes to the ceiling, and seemed, from the rapt attention with which she regarded it, and from the manner in which her lips moved, to be holding communion with some in. visible being there. I looked in wonder at the spot, but could see nothing, save a huge, many-legged spider, that had got apoor little simple fly in his power, and was torturing it to death. I thought, as I again glanced at my companion, "What a splendid actress she would make! - but I do not like her; she pains me. How different she is from Katherine Merton, with her strong good sense, and well-balanced mind! But, poor thing, if she has suffered from unrequited love, I do not wonder at her dejection." At this instant saie :one called I( Letty! Letty!" from the sitting-room. My companion started; I sprang forward to render my assistance, but she gently waved me off. "No, dearest," said she, " it is of no consequence. While :here, a denizen of earth, and mingling with common people, who cannot understand my finer spirit, as you do, my Helen, I must, as a natural consequence, be subjected to many such -things, - but. I will try and bear it all cheerfully, if you, the Chosen friend of my bosom, will, id our private a d con. BOSTON CO'MMOK. 93 fidential moments, call me by the sweet, the endearing epithet of Letise.- Say, my own Helen, will you do this for your poor friend?" "I certainly will," answered I, " for I like it very much." - Letty, Letty Milford!" came again from the adjoining room. She cast her eyes to the chimney of an opposite building, as if imploring its pity and protection, and, placing her hand upon her heart, rushed from the room, as I thought, in strong hysterics. I gained my breath, however, as I heard her, the next moment, talking to the baby, in a sweet, natural voice. I stood gazing from the window after her departure, long- ing for one glimpse of the dear home I had left, when I sud- denly felt a light touch upon my shoulder. Looking up, I encountered the mild eyes of my guardian. , Fie, Nellie, in tears already?" said he. "I am ashamed of you. Come with me; I wish to show you a nice room, that I am going to devote to your little ladyship's service, while you are a resident at the Glen." I followed'himn to a large parlor, filled with old-fashioned furniture, and'whose walls were adorned with fine paintings from some of the old masters. We stopped not to gaze, however, but proceeded at once to a small room beyond the parlor. Three sides of the room consisted of shelves filled with books of all sizes and bindings. The other side of the room was occupied by a large window, near which stood a. table, covered with writing materials, a globe, and several newspapers. A large chair, looking as if ease and comfort had fallen asleep among its soft cushions, completed the fur,' niture of the apartment. My guardian playfully seated me page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " BOSTON COMMON. in the chair, and told me that these books were all mine while I remained at the Glen, - that I could read and enjoy my- self with them as much as I pleased, only on one condition. s "What is that condition, uncle?"I asked. "There, child," he replied, pointing to a number of little light-colored volumes, - -, on that shelf are a series of works which you must never touch, I ad, or even think about. Can my little Helen do this?" "O, yes, uncle Thomas," I replied, I will never touch them -I will not even look at them if I can help it; and surely I need not wish for those, when there are a plenty of other books here, enough to last me a very long time. I ought to be satisfied with them. But what sort of books are those, and who is their author?" i "They are the works of Voltaire, Hume, Rousseau, and a host- of others," he replied, " and the reading of them might- lead your young mind into all sorts of errors; therefore, please to remember, they are forbidden. Now, my dear, we will talk of something else. I want youIto study, and learn a great deal, this winter; for in the spring I shall take you to a large seminary in Boston, and I expect that you will, be duly prepared for it by-that time. You must write, too,-here are all the necessary materials.-"I want you to rwrite often, and well. You must try and acquire a fine, cor. reet style in writing - that is everything." I thanked my uncle for his'-kindness, and at this moment we heard a step approaching. The door opened, and the youth whom I had seen at the dinnertable entered. "Ah! Harry," said my uncle, "come here, and let me present you to your little cousin Helen, your dear uncle William's daughter. Helen, this is my son." ,. BOSTON COMMON. a? Harry approached, and, taking my hand, raised it tenderly to his lips. "We will be the best of friends, little Helen, will we not?" he asked. I was quite delighted to find that this beautiful, interest- ing youth was so nearly related to me, and already began to think that I should not be quite so lonely at the Glen as I had imagined. - Harry had come for a book. -He soon found it, and, telling me he would be with me again in the evening, bowed, and withdrew. "Now, Helen," said my uncle, "I want you and Harry to be as happy as possible together. You will find him a kind and cheerful companion, as well as a useful one. I should much rather you would be with him than with Letitia Milford. She is a wild, extravagant, romantic thing, and her doings and sayings might have a bad effect upon your unformed charac- ter. However, I trust your strong good sense will defend 'd you, and make you see at once how very ridiculous such notions and ideas are." He then kissed me affectionately, and, leading me back to the sitting-room, soon after bade 'HMarry and myself a kind adieu, and departed. Supper-time soon came,;and after that we had a pleasant, merry game of blind-man's-buff, and separated for the night. Thus ended my first day at this place, - a place endeared to me by many pleasant recollections, and hallowed by the memory of many who are now sleeping in the tomb; among whom are Mrs. Marsden, and a noble yoiXh of scarcely seventeen years. . . The next morning we were up betimes, and, after meeting ?X r.- . page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 BOSTON COMMON. around the pleasant breakfast-table, and exchanging the morning salutations, the boys betook themselves to their long- neglected school-room, and Miss Milford and myself to a little corner in Mrs. Marsden's parlor, where we 'could study as, much as we pleased. A portion of the day was devoted to drawing, and our teacher was Professor Marsden. He had a curious way of teaching, however. He would give us a pattern, say a word or two concerning it, and bid us fall to work, while he would fall asleep in a corner of the room, to the utmost horror of Miss-Letitia, or Letise, as she persisted in making me call her. She would cast her eyes up to the clouds in an agony, almost, and silently point to our good teacher, who set us so easy an example. "O Helen, dear!" said she, one day, "friend of my heart, how can any one be ,so lost to themselves, and to all thefiner feelings of their nature, as to drag out their exist. ence in such a manner? O, when I look upon him, and the rest of his race, I am almost tempted to give up trying to accustom myself to theirways., I fear that Ican, never find a person of just the tender susceptibility that suits me. I cannot find one who feels with me upon all points exactly, excepting yourself, dear ITlen , and you are too young, too inexperienced yet, to be all that I ask. Even you, my cher- ished friend, do not quite come up to my ideas. You are too commonplace - too matter-of-fact." I was quite distressed at her words for I wished her to "think well of me. "I commonplace?," said 1, s I -matter-of- fact, dear Letitia?- Letise, I mean. O, I am so sorry that you think so!" BPSTON C-OMMON. 97 "No, child, that is not exactly my meaning," said she:. t*- 4 You never get excited over anything,-you never soar away upon the wings of imagination,- as I do. O, if you would sometimes go with me, and behold those untold regions : that I see more than half the time, what a mine of happiness it would be to you, and your poor friend also! for, Helen, I am languishing, dying, for a kindred spirit, and you must be that one. Yes, with a little careful pruning and training, you will be fitted to be the chosen one of even my inner heart; and what delicious moments will we spend! O, I long to see you as free from commonplace affairs --from earthness--as myself!" A prolonged -snore from Mr. Marsden here interrupted the fair speaker, who looked at him with the utmost contempt, silently wrung her hands, and resumed her drawing. It was hot strange that this singular girl began to make quite an impression upon my young and unformed mind. I half loved her, and almost envied her the happy use she had 1 of language, and the graceful attitudes she could as'sume at her pleasure. I was just young and silly enough to admire her romantic talk; and, I am sorry to say, foolish enough to try and be like her as much as lay in my power. So I curled my hair, wore my simplest frocks, and strove to aban- don myself as much as possible to grief, in order to meet with her approbation. She often declared herself in ecstasies with my improvement, and congratulated herself upon having been accessory to my resuscitation from the dul-- land of Reality to the tinted, fleeti. tlrgions of Romance. "Helen," said she, one day, to me, " do you know what you lack to make you, in my estimation, almost perfect?" * 9 o . page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] .y; 98 BOSTON COMMON. "No, indeed, Letise," I answered,-- what is it? ' "Why, my dear," she replied, ,' you were never in love, and deserted by the false one, as I have been, or you would be so interesting! How sweetly a sad, pensive look would sit upon your brow! How delightful it would be if you could only get up a love-scene, between yourself and /Harry Glenmore, for instance! He would not reciprocate, of course; for he thinks of nothing but study; and you would be so melancholy and troubled in consequence, and then I could have the ex- treme pleasure of sympathizing with you, and showing my deep friendship for you." "Thank you, Letise," said I; (" but I do not feel particularly anxious to have any more trouble than I already possess, even to appear in your eyes more interesting. Besides, I would not, for worlds, devote my dear, noble cousin to so base a purpose." How little did I think then of her foolish words; but how soon- did I have occasion to remember' them, and to mourn over real trouble and anguish, without going so far as she desired to seek it! Letitia had long since told me of her unfortunate attach- ment for Mr. Moore, our French teacher;-- how she had loved him, and listened for his coming footsteps with trem- bling joy, and hung upon the accents of his tongue, as though her very soul depended upon it; and how he had rejected her love, and turned coldly away from her lacerated heart, &c. All this she had rehearsed to me, with many tears and ges- ticulations, which would become almost frantic, as she plunged into the most pathetic parts. . :-How I pitied and wept with her in'this deep affliction, as v BOSTON CO MM ON. 99 Ithen thought it, and how sweetly she thanked me for -my precious sympathy, and how patientlyshe resigned herself to all the miseries of a broken heart! I was quite happy, of course, that I could be of any service to so interesting a per- son; and so I redoubled my sighs and tears on her account, and took great delight in making myself as miserable as possible. I thought of her hopeless love with a shudder ; for I felt how dreadful it would be, were Roland - my Roland- to turn from me in that cruel, heartless manner. It would kill me, I was sure. Between Letitia's grief and my own tears, I did really manage to get up a sad, pensive look, which she pronounced perfectly charming, and prophesied for me entire success in the new accomplishments I had undertaken to learn. What the good people of the house thought of our pensive looks and everlasting sighs, did not trouble us much; for,- so that we learned our morning lessons perfectly, and behaved with propriety at the table, we were not'much troubled with reproofs of any kind, and so we had perfect liberty to weep, sigh, and lament, to our hearts' content. page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] CHAPTER XII. '"A horse! a horse! 2My kingdom for a horse!" RICHARD III. Oru afternoons were spent, as I said before, in drawing and talking over our loves; for our sleepy teacher dozed comfortably in his chair, and left us mostly to ourselves. Twice a week I was allowed to go to Linden with Mr. Moore, in his sleigh, for the purpose of attending singing-school. After this was over, I generally contrived to see my mother and the children for a few moments. Roland did not attend the schools anrid, on'that account, it soon lost its interest for me, and I begged to be allowed to remain at home and talk to the stars with my dear Ltetise, who thanked me, with an abundance of fine words, for the exceeding great sacrifice I had made upon her account, as she persisted in calling it. Before I leave this part of my subject, I will- relate a little circumstance that occurred through my thoughtlessness. I learned, one evening, at the school, that the lady with whom Hastings boarded had a dancing-party. The same person who told me invited me to go with him a few moments, and look at the dancers. How my heart beat! for I thought I BOSTON COMMON. 101. should again see Roland, whom I had not seen since the evening before I left the Glen. I accordingly accompanied the gentleman to Mrs. Beresford's, and was presented to that lady, and politely welcomed to her circle. , I was, of course, invited to dance, and accepted. While going through the beautiful evolutions of the waltz, I sud. denly perceived a familiar face gazing anxiously at me. How the blood rushed to my cheek at this encounter, and how angry I felt with myself for displaying so much emo- tion! The dance concluded; my partner led me to a seat, and I was left a while to myself. In a few moments I ventured to look up again. Hastings was standing in the same place, with folded arms and knitted brow, gazing at me. How beautiful, nay, princely, he looked in this position! I could almost have knelt at his feet in adoration, but feared to move, lest I should lose sight of him in some mysterious way. He evidently read my thoughts, and, softening a little in his manner, approached my chair. "Have I the extreme pleasure of seeing Miss Clifton once more? he asked, in a gentle tone. "Have you, then, missed me from your circle," I replied, "that you regard my advent here with so much pleasure?" ("Miised you!" he answered; "6 can any one, who has ever had the honor of knowing Miss Clifton, forget her sweet face, or the sunshine- which her presence always diffuses around her?" How blest did those few wdrds make me! I felt, for a moment, as though I was lifted from earth to heaven. He evidently saw and understood my emotion; for he smiled, page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 BOSTON COMMON. to himself, and turned away. I mistook this smile for love, and gave him one in return. He then asked me if I would do him the extreme honor of dancing with him. I was only too happy to comply; and after the dance he led me to a seat retired from the others, and talked for a long while with, me concerning my companions, studies, etc. At length I suddenly remembered home, and arose in the greatest haste to seek for Mr. Moore, whom I had left at the singing-school. "Why do you leave me so soon?" asked Hastings. "'O," I replied, ( I had quite forgotten poor little Mr. Moore, and he perhaps thinks I am lost, and will, in conse quence, fidget himself to death on account of it." Hastings understood my reasons immediately for leaving him, and, taking my arm, we proceeded to the school-house together. When we came in sight of the building, I was quite frightened to see the blinds all closed, the lights out, and poor Mr. Moore looking eagerly for me in every direction. I went hastily up to him, and touched his arm. He turned. quickly around, very much as a kernel of corn will turn itself in the pan while parching, andasked me the important question if this were really myself:/.; assured himn of my identity, and was just proceeding to get into the sleigh, when the horse--out of all manner of patience, I suppose, at my tardiness- started for home without us. Mr. Moore tried to catch the reins, but the horse eluded his grasp, and "set off upon a brisk trot, followed by his master. : Roland now joined in the pursuit, while I stood laughing very heartily to see the horse, with his head high in the air, and poor little Mr. Moore striving in vain to catch him, while BOSTON COMMON.- 108- ,' Do stop, Jo!" "There's a good Jo, stop!" "I cannot let you go, Joey!" burst from his lips, in distressed tones. Roland soon came back to me, and was just saying that it would be impossible to catch the horse that night, when Mr. Moore joined us. "Miss Helen," said he, in a doleful tone, while his counte- nance wore a most distressed look, " you will have to go up to your mother's to-night, and I will send for you early in the morning." i"But what can you-do, sir?" said I. "Will you not go with me, and remain there also?" "O no," he replied; "I must hurry home and tell Mr. Marsden of this unforeseen calamity, and we will try ad nd the horse together." I felt very sorry that my thoughtlessness hat-caused thegood man so much trouble, and told him so; but he kindly assured mn that it was of no manner of consequence, and that a walk of five or six miles in the open air, on such a beautiful night, would do him no harm. He then committed me to Roland's - care, and, giving me strict injunctions to come back to school as soon as sent for, turned, and commenced his long walk. How happy was I, that calm, sweet evening, with Roland by my side, whispering his honeyed words in my ear, while the cold moon bathed our brows with its soft, pure light, and every tree hung with frosted jewels, as lif dressed out for a magnificent fete! We soon reached home,-far too soon for me, for here I must part with Roland. We lingered a moment upon the door-step, ere our adieus were exchanged, looking upon thie beautiful scene spread before us. page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 RBOSTON COMviMON. "Poor Mr. Moore!" said I, at length, it how selfish am I to enjoy myself so very much, while he is plodding home in the cold, on foot,- and all my fault too!" "Pshaw, Helen!" replied my companion; " you are far too sensitive. Had it not been for this unlucky, or rather lucky accident, I should have been deprived of your charm- ing society to-night; so that I regard it as atery fortunate circumstance. It will not hurt him, a brisk walk in this pure air." Dearly as I loved Roland, I could not help thinking that he was at fault here, and that his heart was not quite the thing which I, in my absorbing love, had imagined it to be. My countenance betrayed as much, I suppose, for the next moment he took my hand, with a winning smile, and said, softly. "Forgive me, Helen, if my selfishness has pained you; but the pleasure of your society has so entranced me, that I can- not even wish poor little Moore was riding safely by your These words, mixed as they were with the honey of love, reassured me, and I extended my hand to him, and smiled: He turned and pulled the bell. "Farewell, my sweet Helen!" said he; "we slall meet again, ere long, I trust." "I hope so, Roland," I replied. , Good-night." He turned and departed, just as my mother, attractel by our voices outside, herself answered the door-bell. "Why, my dear child," said she, , how came you here at so late an hour?" I followed her to the little sitting-room, and told her the BOTON COMMON. 105 circumstances that led to this visit. She deplored my care- lessness, but was quite glad to have me at home for a night with her. After a pleasant chat with my parents, I retired to my little chamber. Here, as on a previous occasion, my dreams were all of Roland, and my waking thoughts were given to him also. , "I know that he loves me," thought I; "it is very evident that such is the case. He spoke so tenderly, and -looked -so affectionately in my face with his large blue eyes. O yes, it must be so,--my heart has not deceived me this time." It was very singular- that during my long acquaintance with Roland I had never so much as lisped his name to any human being save Mary Listen. I had guarded my love as a miser guards his gold, - had placed it in the inner temple of my heart, and closed the door, so that no intruder could get so mnuch as a peep at the precious treasure. Even my mother knew- nothing of my feelings. She had seen Roland a few times, had noticed that he called upon me; but, engrossed as she was with the care of her little flock, she had supposed him but a mere acquaintance, and had scarcely given him a passing thought. As I sat by the window the next day, watching for Mr. Moore to carry me back to the Glen, I resolved that I would tell all to Letise this very night. " Yes," said I to myself, "it is no more than I ought 'to do. She has told me all her history, and I will do-her the same favor." I had another motive in- revealing mny mighty secret, and to Letise above all others. She too had been in love, and I wished to relate all:,Roland's words, looks, and -deportment towards me, and then hear her comments; in short, I wished page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 106 B OBOSTON COMMON. tto ascertain fronm her, by my account of him, whether there was anything for me to hope for; and, although I dreaded her extravagant language and gestures upon the occasion, yet I determined that she should know all. CHAPTER XIII. I did love thee well, And gave thee all I had to give, - my heart. MR. Moore'did not come for me until nearly night. I felt quite anxious concerning him, and was therefore delighted to jee him safe, and looking so well and happy. "Ah, Mr. Moore," said I, when I met him at the door; "I trust you didtnot experience any bad effects from your long walk last evening, did you?" "O no, miss,", he replied; "' on the contrary, I enjoyed it exceedingly. ThWe air was bracing, and the exercise- did me good." ,' And the horse," I inquired; " is he safe?" "Old Joey," he replied, " was at home an hour before myself. He knew his way as well as I could show him." Letise was delighted to see me, as she, said, after so very long a separation, and fervently embraced me. I scarcely waited for supper, so anxious was I to unfold my heart to Letise. I hinted to her that I had something of the greatest importance to reveal to her, and we accordingly hastened to our little domicile, and seated ourselves at the window, when I commenced as follows: - *^ page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 .BOSTON COMMON. "Ah, dear Letise, I have something to tell you, and it is of vital importance to me; moreover, I have .never breathed it to mortal ear before, -so consider yourself highly compli- mented, my dear, by this confidence." -Here Letise fell into a violent fit of weeping. So over- come was she, that in attempting to embrace me she slipped from her chair, and fell to the floor. Here she lay, sobbing -so pitifully that I was obliged to interfere. "In Heaven's name, Letise," I exclaimed, "what is the matter with you?" "O, Helen," she replied, "friend of my heart, beloved of my soul,--can I believe my ears? Is it possible that that--"' "That what?" 'I exclaimed, impatiently. "What do you mean?" " "Why, why," she continued, still sobbing, "that you should have lived here so long, and have communled so many hours with me, and yet should have withheld any part of your confidence from me, especially a secret of importance O, Helen!" ' " Pshaw! Letise," I exclaimed, ," have done with this non- sense, and sit up and listen to me. Come, shake off your high-flown rhapsodies, and be your own true self for a short time. I have something to tell you;. if you desire to hear it, please give me your attention." My earnestness had the desired effect. Letise arose from her recumbent posture, bathed her eyes at the little wash. stand, and seated herself opposite me withquite a natural air. Having gained her attention, I commenced relating my little episode as follows, iot, however, without several inter. V BOST ON COMMON. 109 ruptions from my companion, who could scarcely contain her- self. , About a year ago, LetisepI was considered to be a little out of health, and my parents sent me to a neighboring vil- lage to recruit my wasted powers. It was a sweet little rural retreat, on the banks of a silver stream, that danced and rip- pled all day in the sunshine, with a low, gurgling sound, which was to me the finest music I had ever listened to. Here, with friends, books, birds, flowers, and everything that could charm-the senses, I soon recovered my health, and was just upon the point -of returning home, when, upon a lovely Sabbath morning, as I was walking through a charming piece of woods with a lady friend, I encountered a vision of beauty and manliness in the form of a young gentleman, who was immediately introduced to me, and walked by my side to church. ' His manner, his voice, his language, quite won my heart; and, Letise, would you believe it, I returned home full of the image of the young man whom I had seen. "Well, Letise, I dreamed of him that night, and waited anxiously all the next morning in the hope of seeing him; but in vain.- he did not come, and I was obliged to return home without seeing him. But I did not forget him, Letise, or the few words he had said to me; no, his image was indelibly -stamped upon my heart, and nothing could erase it therefrom. In short, Letise, I was in love, and f6r the first time in all my life. "The days seemed long to me. I was always weary, always listless; never ready to enter into any-new plan or employment, but wished forever to be alone,gthat, I might ponder: over this new feeling, and wait in pice for my 10 page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "U BOSTON COMMO1. idol to make his appearance again. I felt convinced that I should see him, if- but once more; and my presentitnent was realized, for upon another Sabbath morning, lovely and bright as the first, I again beheld liim. He was in church, and in my own-native village also; and as the sunshine streamed over his beautiful head, I compared him to an angel; and surely he proved to be an angel of peace to me, for mr patient wait. ing for him was now fully i'epaid, and I felt almost sure that he would speak, and let me hear once more the tones of that voice I had so longed for. But, alas for my hopes, he passed me asa perfect stranger! "We metf'again, not in the wild old woods, or in the temrn. ple of God, but in a crowded ball-room, where my old ac- quaintance. was the observed of all .observers. I was once more introduced- to him, and had the extreme happiness of dancing with hilm. But, Letise, he has ever since behaved very strangely to mre. Sometimes he notices me when we meet, and sometimnes he does not. I have comforted myself with the thought that he .may not always be in a speakin mood,. But I have been in an agony of doubt and fear for a Ion/gm ::I sometimes think he does not return my love; and O, Letise, if he should not, what -should I do?" "Alas! alas!" interrupted Letise, wringing her hands. "But, my dear friend," I gayly Continued, " hope has. once more sprung up in my breast, for the last few times we have net he has gien me the most undeniable tokens of his affec- ion. He has never said in so many words that he loves me; Mut I feel convinced that he does, and he may tell me of his ove at our very next meeting. How happy shall be to Lear him, a el en, I love you, and only you!' his will O U i'U L. V L V t L LYU V It .LA. r6pay me for the long hours I have spent in thinking of him, and in the sweet hope that I shall yet hear those words I will rest content." I ceased, and, lost in thought, fixed my eyes upon a distant mountain, whose top, always ragged and bluff, could be seen from our little window. Letise sat partially transfixed in her chair, at first weeping violently, and at. length quite silently. Attracted, at last, by her sobs, I glanced at her, in pity. A. full sense of her ridiculous attitude forced itself upon me, and I burst into a fit of laughter. She raised her head in surprise, and gave me a reproachful look. it What, in the name of all that is gobd, are--you crying about?" exclaimed I. " Not at my story, are you? because if that makes you weep, I 'll tell you no more of it." "O no, dearest Helen," said she, in a wo-begone tone, and with the most lachrymose countenance imaginable; "notLat; that, not at that, for that bids fair to end -well, and God grant that it may, for your sake, my sweet friend! But your story reminds me so much of my own - your patient waitings and watchings for the loved- object, your hopes and fears - ah! my case is an exact parallel to yours, but how unlike the ending! You will be a happy bride, while I, alas, will have to mourn all my days for my lost heart, my wasted affections, my misused energies. "il my days, did I say? Alas! I shall not live out half f them. I feel that my time is short here; but I shall die with the blessed consciousness that you are happy, my own one, and that I preserved my love pure to the last." I looked at her as she concluded. She sat before me the ver*' impersonation of grief-a perfect Niobe. Her- eyes page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 BOSTON COMMON. were suffused with tears, her lips quivering with emotion, and her cheeks bloodless. "(Can she be in earnest?" thought I. "Is it possible that she loves little Mr. Moors with such ardor, and that he has had the cruelty to fling back her heart to her, torn and bleeding, as she says? The base little man! If he has dared use my poor friend in this shocking manner, he shall rue it. I, yes, I will speak to him concerning Letise; and he shall love her, if my tongue can make him." "There, Letise," I exclaimed aloud, " dry up your tears, and shake off this grief that is, as you say, killing you. All will yet come out well; I feel assured that it will. Mr. Moore will love you in time. He is so kind, so generous, so pious,-he will not let you die for him." ":Ah! my Helen," she replied, " your voice, breathing such wlds of comfort in my ear, is like balm to my wounded heart; you' are the emblem of hope to me, my dear, and as such I will try and consider you; but there is nothing for me in this world but woe. Elwyn Moore (ah, the blessed name!) would scorn my love,- would throw it fropm him, as he has already done,-and leave me once more a prey to the vul- ture, despair!" "Elwyn Moore," I replied, " is a man who loves his God, and who lives daily in obedience to his commands. He would suffer acutely did he know of your grief, and would strive to love you in return, and in, time you too would be a happy wife, Letise." She shook her head despairingly. "Come," continued I, " let's go into the large hall and * ', BOSTON COMMON. 113 have a game of grace-hoops, or do something to shake off this sadness; we may yet be very happy." Letise brightened up at my proposal, and shook off her melancholy so suddenly that I half believed she had affected a part of it. We descended to the hall, and in our merry" sports quite forgot our tears. We played cheerfully for half an hour, and then Mrs. Marsden called me to her room to learn a lesson for the morrow. I felt quite comfortable concerning Letise, and resolved, whenever she was sad or unhappy thereafter, to resort to some pleasant game, trusting that it might have the same happy effect that it had had this evening. 10 . - * ,:, J page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] CHAPTER XIV. , "I could a tale unfold Whose lightest word- would harrow up thy soul!" HAMLET. "Thou comest to me in such a questionable shape, S:;(:'1.i:t- I will speak to thee." IBID. ipON retiring to bed that night, I found poor Letise again bathed in tears, and sighing so piteously that my very heart ached for her. I sat a few moments upon a low stool, mus- ing; at length I arose and approached the bed. "Letise, darling," said I. "Helen," was all she could reply. "I have just thought of a delightful plan, Letise." "What is it, Helen?" she gasped. "Why," I replied, , you know that my uncle Thomas has given me the use of his library this winter. It contains, in addition to almost everything else, all the British poets, - Addison, Gray, Pope, Spenser, Dryden, Milton, and a dozen others. Many of these we have never read. Supposing we were to read them together-what say you?" "O, beautiful, enchanting, divine!" exclaimed my enthu. siastio listener. BOSTO N COMMON. 115 , Pshaw; Letise!"I replied; " have done with such expres. sions; they are beyond my comprehension, and, besides, they ( do not apply to us at all. We should enjoy it, and very much, no doubt; but, as for going into rapttres, I shall do no such thing."- - "Ah, Helen," she exclaimed, "you are always so calm, so methodical!" "Well,- then, Letise," I continued, " we will begin this very evening, if you please, with Paradise Lost. I will go to the library and find the book. We will get into bed, cover our shoulders with your big shawl, and commence. We will each read a page aloud, in turn, while the other holds the candle; what say you?" "Just the thing, Helen," answered -my cmwho had again quite forgotten her tears. I slipped on my dressing-gown, and, taking the light, was preparing to depart. I was suddenly stopped, however, by an exclamation of horror from Letise. I looked towards her in surprise. She was sitting up in bed, her eyes dilated, and with extended hand trying to beckon me towards her. "Well," said I, " what rlow? What new fancy has struck your ladyship?" "O, UH elen," she exclaimed, in the most pathetic of tones, "do not, for the sake of Heaven, venture into that library alone, and at this hour of the night, too! You will encounter some horrible vision, as I have done. Let a servant bring you the book." I set down- my light, almost angrily,iand approached the bed. "Letitia Milford," said I, " what a strange creature you UFILI 8III U page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 BOSTON COMMON. are becoming! What mean you, by visions, and such fool. e s? There are no such things as ghosts in the world, and least of all in this dear old place. Don't talk of such things to me.' Your words. would infect me with fear, did I not have reason to suppose that your brain was slightly turned." "O, Helen," replied Letise, Rdio0 not use such hard language to your poor friend who so loves you, but listen one moment while I repeat something horrible to you-something that will blanch your cheek to a deathly whiteness, and cause the blood to curdle in your veins. Hear my story, and' then go, if you will, to the Haunted room!" She clung to me in wild affright, as I half turned from her with I contemptuous , Pho!" and in her earnestness fbr^edme? :)n a seat, and placed herself at my feet. I lood a-l hlr, and, regarding myself as a victim, and uttering the words "Be brief," gave myself up to my tormentor, as I had begun to regard Letise. H ' elen," she solemnly commencedt ' last Saturday even- ing, the twenty-eighth of January, one week ago, I had occasion to go to the library for some paper, which I wanted to write upon. I left your side (youw were sleeping, my dear) - at eleven o'clock, and stole on tip-toe to the parlor. When near the door, I thought I heard a groan, but, concluding it to r he'i w4ind, I walked on . I crossed the room, went thriou"githe little entry, and gained the library-door. I placed my hand upon the knob-to open it; it did not at first yield to my touch, but, as I again tried it, there seemed to be ai hand within the room trying to turn the. knob with me. I was too much frightened to retreat, and so, my hair standing on end, almost, I waited a second, when: the-door alowly BOSTON COMMON. 117 opened, The room was dark, but, Helen, as true as there is a heaven above, I saw- " -^ , What," interrupted I, impatiently, "' what did you see?" "A tall figure, clothed in-- c; White, I suppose," said I; "ghosts generally prefer that color, I believe." , No, Helen," rejoined Letise, "not in white, but a tall figure, clothed in the deepest black. His eyes were wild and glassy, and as he fixed them upon, me, with a stony expres- sion, his shadowy mouth opened, and. there came forth two words from it." "What were they, pray?"I asked. "I did not stop to listen," replied Letise, "for I was so terrified that I dropped the candle immediae!ly, :and fled, but they sounded like' Look back! look back!' .V" I laughed as she concluded this marvellous story. "I am not afraid of anything of that sort," said I. "Give me the light, and I will explore the library, and hunt out this ghost, if there be one." Letise shuddered, and crept back to bed, with a ,*Heaven protect you, my poor Helen!" while I grasped the light, and walked fearlessly down stairs. The family were all in bed, and so I stepped softly across the dining-room, for -fear of disturbing them, and, opening- a little door to the right, gained the large entrance-hall. Ad- vancing down the hall, I presently came to the parlor-door, which I opened, and closed behind me. In spite of my ridi- cule of the poor, shivering girl, whom I had left behind me, I now, when I found myself alone, began to partake of her fears. However, blaming, myself for foolishness, as I called page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 BOSTON COMMON. it, and determined to obtain the book if possible, I crossed the large, gloomy-looking room, and gained the-library-door. I paused a moment before it, as if to examine the wood-work of it. I had looked at it a hundred times, but now it inter- ested me exceedingly. -While pausing here, I heard, or thought I heard, a faint sigh, as if coming from the bosom of some human being! The light almost fell from my hand, in my agitation; but I soon gained my courage, and, whispering to myself that it was nothing but the wind, fearlessly turned the door-knob, and entered the room. Imagine my horror, when, in looking towards the little table, I saw the same figure, clothed in black, that poor Le. tise had justold meof! One look was sufficient for me. I turned, and quickly departed, closing the door behind me. As I gained the hall-door from the parlor, I know not what spirit of evil tempted me, but I looked back for a moment. The figure was standing in the centre of the parlor, and seemed to be gazing earnestly after me. As I fled across the hall, I heard itCspeak my name, in a low, soft-tone. I waited not another moment, but quick!y entered the dining-room, and retreated to my chamber. Letise, overcome by her emotions, I suppose, had dropped asleep,; and, locking the door,: and slipping off my dressing. gown, I laid myself noiselessly by her side. To sleep, how- ever, was impbssible. The vision that I had just seen in my uncle's library still haunted my imagination. Whichever way I turned my eyes, I still imagined that-I could see' :-"Who and what can it be?" thought I. "Strange that Wh g BOSTON Co0MMON. 119 Letise and myself .should both have seen it, and at the same hour of night too. But I must unravel this mystery. I will, when the morning light comes, explore the library, and see if it has left any traces there of the past night." Towards morning I fell into an uneasy and broken slum- ber, and at day-dawn, weary and dispirited, I arose. My bed-fellow was still sleeping; and, dressing myself as noise- lessly as possible, I once more sought the library-door. All my terrors were now dispelled by the morning light, - that enemy to ghosts and goblins, -and I fearlessly entered the room. I looked around. Everything was in its place. : The:books were undisturbed; the table, with its globes, writ- ? ing and drawing materials, remained as usual. A beautiful picture of the Madonna, which hung near the door, :was look- ing at me with its calm, pure eyes; and, much -relieved, I seated mhyself by the window, which looked upon the garden. All this calmness and reality could not dispel the vision of i the past night, however. "I did see it," said I, " a tall figure, clothed ih black. Who or what'it was, I cannot tell; but I am certain that I saw it, and in this very room, too. I also heard it distinctly speak my name; and I must, if possible, i find out who it was, and what it wanted of me." A Aroused at length from my meditations, by the ringing of ad the fitst bell, I found the "Paradise Lost," and returned; to . - :: my chamber. In a few moments after my entrance, Letise awakened, and arose. I scarcely knew what to say to her, but determined; to conceal from: her the adventure of the past night, for the present, at leasd. Putting on a smile, there- fore, I thus addressed her:; - "Well, Letise, aren't you a nice one to keep awake? I page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 ] OBOSTON COMMON. thought you disliked sleepy people. Could you not keep awake long enough for me to go to and return from the - ..library? , Letise smiled. -(I was very weary, I suppose," she re, plied; "but, good heavens, Helen! what makes you look so pale and woebegone? Have you, too, seen the-, "Hush, Letise!', I answered; , say no more of that cir- cumstance. ifere is thfe ' Paradise Lost,' and we will com- mence reading it to-night, if you please." Every one noticed my paleness at the breakfast table, and commented upon it, It being the Sabbath, I was released from study for the day, and advised to take a quieting dose, and lie down. I contented myself, however, by taking a little nap in aunt. Mary's easy-chair; and tried to wait patiently until evening came; fobr I determined that, at the same hour ason the preceding -night, I would again seek the library, nd:discover, if possible, who or what it was that had so fear- 'i 1ly alarmed both Let1ise and myself. Night came at last, and, refreshed by the siesta I had taken, I was enabled to go through the hour's reading with Letise. She was highly delighted with my plan, and en- joyed the beautiful, sublime poem, with the truest relish for Letlse, with all her'nonsense, was really intellectual, and i hoped;in this way to draw her mind into a better train of thought than that to which she had hitherto accuse At eleven o'clockl we extinguished our light, and lay down - Letise full of the beautiful thoughts which the poem had in spired, and I thinking of nothing but the adventure o the past night . BOSTON COMMON. 121 "I must fathom this mystery," thought I, "or I shall never have another moment's peace." As soon as Letise's heavy breathing assured me that she was asleep, I arose, -and, lighting my candle, dressed myself hastily, and descended to the dining-room once -more. Cross- ing the hall, and entering the parlor, I again found myself opposite the dreaded library-door. After waiting here a few momenlts, to- gain courage, I suppose, I at length slowly opened the door. I glanced hastily around the room. In one corner kneeled, or rather lay, the object of my terror the preceding night. I know not how I did it, but I suddenly crossed the threshold, and advanced towards the person, who slowly arose from his recumbent posture, and confronted me. This was too much for even my courage, and I turned, and, dropping the candle, was about to fly, when the object, whatever it was,.seized my hand, and againl pronounced my name! I was about to scream, when he laid his hand caressingly upon my arm, and said, "Hush, Helen! what do you fear? 'T is -I, your cousin, Harry Glenmorej!" , , I looked at him in surprise., Just then the moon came out bright from behind a cloud, and revealed Harry's features, sure enough; but he looked so pale and ghastly in the moon- light, that I was alarmed. "O, Harry!"I exclaimed, i how you look, and how you frightened me! What are you doing here, at this hour of the night? You appear to be really sick, and should be in bed." - Harry was seeking for a match, with which to relight my a page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] l . BBOSTON C OMMON. broken candle. He soon found one. "Now' may I ask," said he, placing the candle upon the table, "what are you doing, at this late hour? You were here last night also, and Miss Milford was here a week ago,' I laughingly related to him the whole adventure, at which he smiled. O, Htarry! I said I, in conclusion, "I am so "'glad that it is only you, after all!" - "And so, Helen," said he, 4 you thought that I was a real ghost? Well, I supposed as much, and on that -account did not anticipate a second visit from you." ,'Now, Harry," said I, coaxingly, please tell me what you do come here nights for. You will' catch the consump. tion, or some other disease, if you persist in it." - ".I-wiUl tell. you with pleasure,". he replied. "From my 4, earliest childhood,-I have been accustomed to spend one hour daily in devotion; and, in order to accomplish this purpose, I, every night, at eleven o'clock, seek this remote part- of the house, where-I can. prostrate myself before myMaker, and tell him how full my heart is" of love towards him.- I cannot do:this in my own room, as there 'are two or. three, others there, and my heart is so full of -love for Gad at, this hour, that I must .be entirely alone with him. ' At -such times, I feel drarwn very near to him, and enjoy this communion more 'I , than I can describe, or you imagine," "' Dear Harry!" exclaimed I, admiringly, ."'how good you are --so' full of piety - so devotional! I wish I were like ybu!" * . . - -"And you ban be so, little Nellie," he replied, ,' only try in the right way. Give yourself up wholly, for one hour out:' of ithe twentyfoutr, to fyour Maker. - He- surely deserves las -j 123- B STON CO .ON. I ' . mu h -as this from you'-and you will find yourself drawing nearer. andnearer to- him, every hourthat you thus devote to him. S y,will you do this?" ,' I fear," answered I, much affected by his earnestness, , that I am not fit for such a holy purpose. I am Proud, self-willed, obstinate, and all this. I dare not hid such close communion with my Maker. Harry, if I were only good, like you--" , Hush, Nell ie," interrupted my Cousin, "I am not good; very far from being so; but I do love to draw near t God, to pour out all my complaints to him, to earnestly :beseech him to pardon nmy many sins; and. then I feel so happy after:i nto my very heart, and can feel that he is breathing accents "I call. this library my paradise," he continued, "my heaven; for it is here that I enjoy happiness akin:to thei angels'.. O, .Nellie'. " he wenton, his spiritual facei glowing with. the enthusiasm of his soul, "' there: is, there can be;:no. happiness equal to mine in this respect. I would not barte : this sweet hour :for all the treasures of earth,; it isto' me the' ' very essence of existence, the all that my soul knows of true happiness. All that it dreams of bliss is experienced in this, my hour .of devotion, when I enjoy the society of ,the Higlest, when I am honored with a visit from the Al- He ceased, and, bowing his head upon his hands, remained n-deep thought. I lookedat him as he sat thus before me, wjtW, the enthu a I D of hi soul page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 124 -BOSTON COMMON. the very impersonation of devotion, and, supposing that he had quite forgotten my presence, resolved to retire from the library. I softly arose, therefore, and glided away. I had scarcely reached the parlor-door, when I felt a gentle touch upon my shoulder. Looking up, I met the deep, spiritual eyes of my cousin, fixed intently upon my face. "Nellie, my little Nell,'? said he, " will you think of all I have said to you this night?" i"- will, indeed," I replied. "And will you try to do as I have urged?" "s will think of it, and try to do as you wish. But, 0 Harry, pr y for me, that I may be fitted, by the Spirit of God, for this new duty, this-pleasure, as you term it." "I will, ndeed," he replied; and now, dear Nellie, good- night, and God bless you." , I - walked slowly towards my chamber, much impressed Lith' the scene I had just witnessed, and very glad to find hat ^myrble ghost had turned out to be no worse than [ear Harry Glenmore.- Upon returning to my chamber, I immediately awakened ietise, and related to her the adventure of the ,preceding ight, as well as this also. She was quite as-much astonished 3I- wished her to be, but was, happily for my nerves, which ere getting very sensitive, far too sleepy to subside into her tual raptures. -' \ CHAPTER XV. "He fondly sued, and warmly pressed, To win her to his mind." THE next evening being cold and stormy, Mr. Moore pro- posed that Letitia and myself should go to his room and X write a difficult French exercise, that had long been left un- finished. At the conclusion of this task, Letitia arose and left the room. I was about to follow her example, when Mr. Modre called me back. Miss Helen," said he, sI would be most happy to have you remain a few momefits longer; I have something to say ] to you." I looked at him in wonder. He was standing with one foot - upon the round of a chair, and trying to balance an elbow upon the back of it. "Well sir," I replied, "what do you wish to say?" - - '"Take a chair and sit down," he replied. "I scarcely - know how to commence my subject, Miss Helen; but, trusting that you will pardon my abruptness, and pity my feelings, ? I will intrust a secret to your ears, that I have hitherto kept buried in my own bosom." I was very well pleased to hear him thus broach a subject :i that I had longed to mention to him for some time; 'and, page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 BOSTON COMMON. assuring him that it needed no apology, desired him to pro. ceed. "Well, then, Miss Helen," said he, blushing up to the temples, " to make a long story short, I have become exceed- ing attached to a young lady in this house, all unknown to herself; and now I tell you of it, that you mayintercede, and induce her to favor my suit. Will you promise to do this for me?" I looked up in his face quickly, and, rising, laid my hand upon his arm. "O dear Mr. Moore," I replied, , I am so glad, so happy, to hear you thus introduce a subject that has ong- lain' next to my heart! You know not how much I have thought of you in connection with that lady, and how I have longed to speak to you concerning her." "Have you?" he exclaimed; "' then you bid me hope? "I do indeed, sir," I replied. "There is hope for you -- nd: more than hope, a certainty; for I can assure you that the lady deeply and truly loves you; nay, more, that her very existence is bound up with yours; --and, O, I am so glad!" I continued; "I had thought you cruel, cold, heartless, and "that; but you are only too good, too kind, in my eyes, nd we shall all be so happy!" I paused, for Mr. Moore-had risen, and was gazing ear- estly:into my face. He took my hand. ^, O Helen, dear (elen! -:said he, , is it possible that you can thus, and by few blessed words, con: rt my doubt and fear into such tense bliss? Can I believe my own ears? '? ,You can, you can," I replied; 4 I speak in earnest.". HeIbent a look upon- me, as I supposed of gratitude, and, BOSTON COMMON. 127 f rising, placed an arm about my waist, and attempted to kiss my cheek! . sI Mr. Moore," said I, attributing his emotions still to grat- itude, " you are welcome to my share in this business; but please to remember, sir, that I am very young, and your pupil also, and preserve your testimonials of gratitude for their rightful owner- for Letitia." "For Letitia?" he gasped; (" and why for her? What have I to do with her, when I love, when I adore, but you, dear- est Helen?" - I started, and-looked in the direction of the door. Mr. Moore still grasped my hand. ( O0, Helen," he exclaimed, "have you, then, been making a jest of your poor teacher?" ,' No, indeed, sir," I replied; "I thought, sir, - I supposed, sir, that you were speaking of Letitia. I had no idea, sir--" I codld say no more, but, covering my face with my hands,. burst into tears. I ( O, Helen," said Mr. Moore," speak to me! - tell me you love me! - say you did not think that I could place my affec- tions upon that brainless, love-sick girl?" ] "Sir," I replied, 6" I do not love you, and never shall do more than ( respect' you; and as for your calling my dear - Letitia brainless, and all that, let me tell you, sir, that she is .i very far from being brainless; and, if she is love-sick, sir, ? who has made her Iso but yourself? I am astonished, sir, that, knowing, as you must do, her preference for you, you : / can thus declare your love for another, and that other her intimate friend!" : Elwyn Moore turned, and gave me such a reproachful look as made my heart grow sick. (I thank you, Miss Clifton," :I, q page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] BOSTON COIMMON. said he, "for your attention thus far. How much I regret your decision, I will not, dare not, say. Time alone will tell how much I suffer. I'll not trouble yourwith it; but, my dear young lady, as for Letitia Milford, you need give your- self no uneasiness concerning her. She will outlive a dozen such ones as you or myself; and, after falling in love with every one who crosses her path, will at last settle down into a commonplace, sensible woman, with one, perhaps, whom she really loves."? "Ah, Mr. Moore," I replied, " you do not know Letitia, or you could not talk thus. She weeps half her time, and is always talking of you in terms the most endearing and ex- travagant which her dictionary can produce." "Let me set your innocent little heart at rest," said he, "with regard. to BMiss Milford. She has been in this semi- nary one year and three months, and has, in that short space of time,- fallen in love, as she terms it, with a half-dozen others, all -better than myself I came here five months before you. My predecessor in her affections had just left, and since that time she has been all devotion to my humble self. I have never noticed her attentions much, however, and she has imagined me to be a desperate case, and has, in conse- quence, put forth all her arts to win my love; but I have ever kept aloof from all her enticements, having, until you came to the ' Glen,' dear Miss Clifton, too much to occupy my time to think of love." "'But, sir," I persisted, i let me still plead for Letitia. She is, she must be, in earnest, this'time. If you do not love her, sir, at least respect her feelings, and try to think as well of her as you can." BOsTON COMMON. 129 Elwyn Moore leaned his head upon his hand, and mused., , Perhaps, Miss Clifton," he said, at length, "you may be right; and I ought, as you very justly remark, to respect her feelings. I will do so. I will try and think well of her, whether she deserves it or not. And now good-by, dear little Miss Helen, for the present, and may God forever bless you!" I bade him farewell, and sought my chamber in a shower of tears. I wept for the good, the honest heart, I had left solitary in his chamber, mourning, perhaps, over his blighted affections. I wept also for poor Letitia. If I could but have brought them together in this interview, how very happy I should have been! "Poor, dear Letise!" thought I; " she will die for Mr. Moore, and I shall be the cause of it. Had I never come to this lonesome old Glen, Mr. Moore would perhaps have loved her, and they might have been so very happy! O, what can I do to give back to my poor friend the heart I have robbed her of so unconsciously? -I will be very kind to her, and have one more talk with Elwyn Moore. Who knows but he may love her yet?" Full of these sad thoughts, I undressed, and lay down be- side Letitia, who was sleeping so soundly, and looking so rosy and happy, that the thought crossed my mind involun- tarily, 4( Can she be so wretched as she pretends, with that sweet look upon her face, and that calm, unclouded brow?" I leaned over her, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, and, murmuring,." A strange being you are, Letise!" lay -myself by her side, and was soon in the land of dreams. a j 4 page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] CHAPTER XVI. "Passion is destiny,-- The heart is its own fate." iFESTUS. "All things to me Show their dark sides. Somewhere there must be light." IBID. ONE bright, pleasant morning, about a week after my inter- view with Elwyn Moore, I was leaning pensively from my window, and looking far over the hills, where my home lay. My mind was, as usual, fixed upon Roland. , I wonder what he is doing!" thought I; " perhaps he is thinking of me at this moment. O, if I could but see him,-what happi- ness!" At this moment I caught the distant sound of sleigh-bells and, leaning still further from my-window, I could Just discern the head of a white horse, approaching in the distance. Perhaps it comes from- home," thought I. I waited a few moments longer, and then my eyes discerned a fornl that made the blood rush to face and brow; and wondering and half conjecturing what Roland could want of me thus early, I resblutely drew my curtain, and seated myself at the table. BOSTON COMMON. 131 With what trembling patience did I await the arrival of the sleigh, and how eagerly did I listen to catch the familiar voice from below! The sleigh came on, with a quick, merry jingle from the bells, and in a few moments had stopped at the door. I heard the voice of Roland inquiring for Miss Clifton, and, placing my hand upon my heart, I tried to still its joyful beatings. Old Ruthy-entered. "O, Miss Nellie!" said she, "there's sich a beautiful young man below, waiting for yees!--he has just asked to see ye. Go right away,-there 's a darlint,- don't kape the likes of him waitin' for ye. Bless his swate eyes, how they do shine, to be sure!" I arose, and, arranging my hair slightly at the little glass, descended to the sitting-room. I looked around for Roland. He was'standing in one corner of the room, opposite a large picture, attentively scanning it, when I entered, but turned around immediately. ', "My dear Miss Clifton," said he, advancing, and taking both my unresisting hands within his, " how very happy I am to see you looking so charmingly this morning!" And I, too," I replied, " am equally happy in finding you well." - We' sat down and conversed gayly together a few moments. At length Roland arose. ;-tHelen," said he, , I must abridge my visit, this morning. I came to invite you to attend' a large ball, which is td take place this evening, at Linden Hall. Shall I have the pleasure of your company thither?" I was quite delighted. " I will ask Mr. Marsden if I may l go," I replied. page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 182 BOSTON COMMON. "Do so," he answered. ' I trust you may be allowed to go..- My feet scarcely touched the floor, as I hurriedly sough: the school-room. Walking straight up to Mr. Marsden, ] proffered my request. He looked at me a moment. 'iIt is against our rules, Heien," said he, , to allow oul pupils to attend balls; but no one could refuse you with that face. Yes, you may go -but you must not presume upon my kindness to ask again. Let this time suffice." "O, thank you, sir, thank you, you are very good," I ex- claimed. I sought Roland, and, telling him the success of my mission, he prepared to depart. "Be ready at seven," said he, as he turned his horse's head. "I depend a deal upon to-night, for I have much to tell you. Good-by, Nellie." He departed, and, with my head and heart full of the most delightful anticipations, I sought my room and Letise, to tell her the joyful news, and to consult with her about my dress. ' "'I depend a deal upon to-night--I have much to tell you! '-What could he possibly mean by that, Letise?" "Why," she replied, "he wishes to tell you how fondly he loves, how ardently he- adores, and how wildly he worships you." "I thought," said I, it that it was something like this. O, yes, he has long wished to tell me .the story of his love, and what an opportunity will to-night be! -a fine, long ride in the .moonlight; O, dear Letise, T amn; wild with joy!" Letise smiled.- "And when I see you thus joyful," said she, , I half forget my own sorrows, and feel happy, too. Go, dearest Helen, and may to-night be a night that will be long . .'* ** BOSTON COMMON. 133 remembered as the happiest in your life. I ardently wish it may be so." , Thank you, my kind Letise; and now what shall I wear? I must look as well as-possible, you know, so that T may not disgrace my partner." "Dress simply," replied my companion; i that style suits your age and beauty the best; and you have charms enough in his eyes, without the aid of ornament to enhance them." "Well, then, Letise, I will wear white, with rose-colored flowers and ribbons." "Beautiful, beautiful," exclaimed Letise, "for a young maiden, and especially for a young maiden who is in love. It is an emblem of your bridal, dear Helen, that, I pray, may soon take-place." I blushed as I laid the pure white muslin on the bed, and placed the flowers beside it. Letise insisted upon curling my hair; and managing it all her own way, and I, -of course, con- sented. We seated ourselves by the window, and conversed long and earnestly, as only school-girls can converse. i "And you will tell me, Nell," said Letise, " every woard that Roland says to you, and howhe looked, and acted, and all that; for I shall so long to hear it!" "Dear Letise,' I replied, " you are so kind, so affectionate! You shall see my hero to-night, when he comes for me. Please be happy when I am away, for I shall think of you; and you will not weep for my absence, nor your own sorrows, dearest Letise? "No," she answered, "I will be as calm as possible, and, in the sweet assurance that you are happy, will try and be so myself." - page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 BOSTON COMMON. How full of joyful anticipations was I this day! How fleetly did the hours glide by! I scarcely heeded theirprog. ress, but, somehow, the lessons were not learned very readily, -I could not impress the words upon my memory. That faculty was, for once, unfaithful, and the image of Hastings reP :param ount in my mind. 'At length the long-expected hour arrived, and, full of joy, which sparkled from my eyes, and illuminated my whole countenance, I descended to the sitting-room, to await the arrival of my lover. When I look back upon this day, it seems strange that I should have felt such pure, such un- mixed happiness, without a shadow of the coming evil. Well might I enjoy its fleeting, happy hours, for they were the last I experienced for many a long day. While, I sat musing by the fire, Letise entered and gave me the welcome tidings that Roland was in sight. In a few moments he had drawn up to the door, alighted, and entered. Coming up to me, he took my hand within his. "Dear Helen, how sweetly you look to-night!" he ex- claimed, fixing his spft, dark eyes, upon myi agitated counte- nance. : I glanced at him a moment, and thought I perceived a gleam of triumph in those eyes. It was only for a moment, however-; it died away as I replied to his greeting in an unaffected manner, and ended by introducing him to my friend Letise, who placed her hand upon her heart, and bowed nearly tt, ground. By the aid of mny friend, I was soon robed for my ride, and handed by Roland into :the sleigh. How vividly is every little circumstance of that evening impressed upon my mind, even to this late day! How faithfully does memory -BOSTON COMMON. 185 carry me back to that too happy period, when love, pure love, gilded every object with its own rosy hues, and threw a veil of dazzling brightness over the future! -Our ride in the moonlight was delightful. We conversed upon every subject but love, and I began to wonder to my. self why Roland did not say samething to me concerning his feelings; but, supposing that he intended to keep the sweet revealment until our journey back, tried to satisfy my impa- tience, and entered gayly into the conversation. We soon arrived at the ball-room, which was glittering with light and beauty. When -I enteredg the gay throng gathered around me, and greeted me so warmly, that I was assured my temporary absence had not at all obliterated me from their minds. *' Who did you come with, Nell??' said Florence May. "Why, who do you suppose," replied Lucy Bell, "but the hero of the day, the ' cynosure of all eyes,' I the glass of fashion, and the mould of form,' Roland Hastings? He has been so dull without you, this winter," she continued,!' so moody and abstracted, that we have hardly dared speak to him. You must have frowned upon his love,. Helen, al- though I cannot conceive how that is possible, blest as he is with all the beauties and fascinations of manhood. Why, if he were'only in love with me, now, I should receive him at once, with the utmost satisfaction, if all the riches of the world were at my feet." Conceiving that there was something ill-natured in her remarks, I turned away, without deigning to reply, and sought Mary Liston and Katherine Merton, who were seated in one corner of the drawing-room. The latter saluted page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 186 BOSTON COMMON. me very affectionately, and seated me between h er and her companion. Soon the gay music struck up, and in the mazes of the dance, and with- Roland by my side, I experienced a few hours of such unalloyed happiness as seldom falls to the lot of mortals in this world. Time glided quickly by. -Coland was all kindness and attention, but at length the hour of our enjoyment drew to a close. "My sleigh is ready," said Hastings, at one o'clock, "and we must hasten, for we have a long ride before us." ,6 Dear Roland," thought I, "how very impatient he is to have me all to himself once more!"I sought -the dressing- room, and was busily engaged in putting on my cloak and furs, when I suddenly felt a soft arm about my waist. Turn- ing around, I beheld the sweet countenance of Katherine Merton regarding me with much affection. "Helen, dear- est," said she, "I have something to say to you; come this way." We seated ourselves upon a bundle of cloaks, in a corner of the dressing-room, and Kate began: "Dear Helen," she said," and so you have a lover once more, have you?" I blushed. "Ah!" she continued, " that pretty color at once proclaims the truth; but your refusing him has given me great joy, and I am rejoiced to think that your strong good sense has predominated over your love; for that young man, Helen, with all his beauty, grace, and blandishments, is not worthy of you." "A lover, Katie!"I exclaimed. "I have refused him? not worthy of me - what mean you?" "Why, have you not refused him, and ,lately, too?" * i \ BOSTON COMMON. 137 "No, indeed, Katherine, nor has he ever said one word to me concerning love." "But he has been very kind and attentive to you, has he not?" "He has; and O, Katie, I only pray that he may be in earnest; for I do love him, and havefdone so for many months." Kate bent her eyes upon the carpet a moment, in deep thought; then raising them, placed them upon my face. "O, Helen," she said, "do not love that man; cast him entirely from your mind' He is not good, not pure enough, for you. I cannot yield you, my cherished friend, to him, - indeed, I cannot." A cloud came before my eyes, and a moisture filled them, as they met Kate's. "Dear Katie," I exclaimed, " what has he done? He is, he must be, all that is good and noble. How has he been so unfortunate as to incur your disapproba- tion, my sweet friend?" "He has done nothing to offend me," replied Kate, " but it is of his mind I speak. He lacks stability and firmness. Flattery has turned his weak brain, and he thinks himself almost a young demi-god. I fear, should he remain in the society where he is at present, and have your fortune at his copmmand, ruin would track his footsteps, and that he would drag both you and himself to misery and poverty in a few short years." "What a horrible picture, Kate!"I exclaimed. "What could have put -such ideas into your head concerning poor Roland?" "As horrible as is the picture," replied Kate, " it is noth- 12* page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 188 BOSTON COSMMON. ing compared to the reality. That poor Roland, as you ball him, is a man of strong, deep inclinations and passions, which, by his poverty, lie buried in his bosom, and- are only waiting time and opportunity to arise and assert their undivided authority over the man. I have, I think, read him aright, and :.I pray you, my sweet, darling Helen, to cast his image entirely from your heart." ")I cannot, Kate," I replied, "' I cannot! - I should be so utterly wretched, so miserable!" "Alas!" replied Kate, it has it, then, come to, this? Is it inevitable-? Must you, then, continue to regard him as pure and good?" "Why, he is so, Kate,-is he not?' May I again ask, what has he done?" ;"Nothing, at present, Nellie; but I cannot tell how long he may remain innocent." "Pshaw, Katie! you surely would not condemn a man because you suppose him to be prone to evil, would you? We are all, more or less, inclined that way." ":Yes," replied Kate, seriously, "we are, indeed, my poor Helen; and our prayers, as Christians, should be, .not to resist temptation, but to be kept entirely from it. Tlink of this, my Helen, and pray for it, and you will yet be happy, although you do love so:earnestly at present." "But what mean you, Kate, by my refusing him? Is there such a rumor?" "There is, indeed, Helen," she replied. "People say that Hastings has loved- and been rejected by Miss Clifton, because he was not rich enough for her." "People are very much : mistaken, then," I replied. BOSTON COMMON. 139 "There has, as I said before, not a word of love passed between us." "He comes," whispered Kate, as the elegant form of Hastings darkened the door; "be careful, and remember all I have said to you." "I will think of it, Kate. Write me soon, - good-night." Kissing Kate, I took Roland's arm, and stepped into the sleigh, which the next moment 'glided away from the merry scene. Katherine's warning words sounded like the knell of hope in my ears; but, as I stole a Alance at Roland's fair, handsome features, my heart smote me for listening a moment to any one who could speak of him in a depreciatory manner. I was silent for some ten minutes, and my thoughts were very much like these: "If Rbland is to be my future husband, and always with me, what a delight it will be -for me to strive and keep him in the right way! What a noble task! And then he will love me so much, that it will be a pleasure for him to do as I wish, especially when those wishes tend only to the right).; and I am determined, with God's blessing, that they shall ever do so, O yes, what an inriestimable privilege, to become the guardian angel of abeing so beautiful, so noble! I would marry dear Roland, if only / for that." My heart was full of love and joy, -so full that it kept quite still, and waited for Roland to speak. He sat silent; for some time, but at lefngth he turned to, me, and said : "Helen,. I have something to say to you, and if you regard me with that affection which I have always supposed you did, will you please give me yours undivided attention, for a few moments?" \ page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O BOSTON COMMON. My heart beat with a sensation of pleasure. '"Certainly, dear Roland," I replied. It was the first time I had ever called him dear Roland; and he appreciated the favor, and gave me a kind smile in return. "Yes, Helen," he went on to tay, "I have always looked upon you as a very dear friend, - are you not so?" "Indeed, Roland," I replied, s"I have ever felt the greatest interest in you. You can rely wholly upon my friendship." A "Thank you, thank you," he continued. "I fully appre- ciate your kindness, and will proceed. Know, then, Miss Clifton, that this subject is of the greatest importance to me, for it is connected with the good or ill being of my whole existence,--it concerns my marriage!" My heart beat wildly as Roland took my unresisting hand in both his, and pressed it fondly. "Yes, dear Helen," he continued, "I love a young lady of your acquaintance, have loved her for a long while, and am about to be married. I have thought long and well of the subject, and have at length come to the conclusion that it will be better for us to be united. What say you to this, Miss Nellie?" "I must know the lady's name," I replied, , before I give my opinion. I am not going to yield up my friend Roland to everybody, I can tell you." "O, it is a goodly name,';" lie replied, "and you shall know it. I have decided, but must have your approbation before going any further. I have, I cannot tell why, a strong preference, love, or whatever you please to call *it, for you, 5 BOSTON COMMON. 141 Helen, which I have always felt, but never before dared- to avow." "And wherefore?"I tremblingly inquired. "Because of the difference in our positions, Miss Clifton," he replied. "You are rich; I am poor, and proud into the bargain." "That need make no difference, Roland," I answered. ,6 Have I ever so considered it?" "O no," he replied, "you have ever been all attention, all kindness, to me, and I have sometimes fancied that you felt an interest somewhat stronger than mere friendship for the poor stranger; but that is past," he continued, sighing, " and I am now engaged to one whom you very well know, - to my equal in rank, fortune, &c.; in short, to your friend Mary Liston." He paused, while I sat like one petrified. My heart lay still and cold in my bosom, and seemed turning to stone. I fixed my eyes vacantly upon the long hill that led to the Glen, and which we'had just begun to ascend. My companion was silently contemplating-the stars. "Well, Miss Clifton," said he, at length, "you have not yet expressed your approbation of my choice. I am waiting anxiously to hear you speak.",' I attempted to reply, but the words -were lost, and my heart seemed bursting. At length my position aroused me. "I must not," thought I, ' let him perceive my emotion. He and Mary shall not have my ill-requited love to comment upon." Once more I attempted to speak, and this time pride came to my aid. X "Mary is a good girl, Mr. Hastings," said I, , and--and quite worthy of you. May you both be happy!" page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 J BOSTON COMMON, "And will Miss Clifton," he softly asked, "honor our humble nuptials with her presence, which always diffuses a charm wherever she lends it?" "I cannot," I replied. "I may be away, or engaged with my studies. Rol - Mr. Hastings, I mean, - I am going to be a great scholar, you know. I shall read and study now, all the time - if I do not die!"I added, sinking my voice into a whisper, and feeling a strange choking sensation in my throat. "You die, Miss Clifton!" said Roland; " that is a foolish idea. The world cannot spare you. You will yet live to bless some happy man with your hand, and make him to be, the envied one of his whole sex." "I shall never marry, Mr. Hastings," I replied, " never!" "Yes, yes, you will, and soon, too," answered my com- panion. "I never shall," I almost screamed. "O, Roland!"I continued,';"I am so unhappy, so utterly wretched, -forgive me, and do not hate me!" "Why, Helen," he replied, " how strangely you appear and talk toight! Is this the calm, straight-forward Helen Clifton, whom every one so much admires? What can be the matter with you? --are you ill?" "Here we are, sir,.at the Glen," interrupted I. "Excuse my ebullition of feeling,- it was of no consequence, and meant nothing. I feel quite well." He stopped the horse, and carefully lifted me from the sleigh. "Shall I ever have the pleasure of attending Migs Clifton to another ball?" he asked, attempting to kbis my "'i' '. 5 BOSTON COMUMON*. :143 "No, sir!"I replied, sharply, and striking his hand vio- lently from me. "I am astonished that you should ask me t6 go to a ball with you, when you are engaged to another. I am quite angry about it." , "I am so distressed," he replied; "but I can only hope for time and reflection to be my advocates. Good-night, and farewell, Helen." I rushed past him, and entered the house, while he stepped into the sleigh, and drove quickly away. The room I en- tered was vacant; all had long since sought their beds, and I sank down, completely exhausted by my emotions, upon the carpet. I listened for the sound of the bells, striving to catch even their echo, as they died away in the distance. (4 The last sound I shall ever hear of Roland!" sobbed I, tearing off the faded roses, and casting them to the floor. , O0, what Shall I do? How am I to live through so many long, long years without him? Ah, poor Letitia! I know now what it is to love in vain." The whole world, as I lay there upon the floor, prostrated ,by my intense grief, seemed one vast and boundless blank to me, wherein was no spot whatever to rest upon. My studies - they would be nothing without Roland's approbation. My money - it was as dirt in my eyes; it was worse than nothing, for, had it not stood in my way, I should, ere now, have been rejoicing in Roland's affection. How long I lay in this. position I know not, but I was at lengtht roused to consciousness by a door being opened, and some one coming forward with a light. It was Letitia, who bent over me, with the utmost concern depicted in her face. "Why, Helen," she exclaime , " how came you here, and *, " ' ' " page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 .BOSTON COMMON. what is the matter with you? I have been awake and X watching for you this hour. Do arise, please! How dread. fully you look! Your dress is torn and disfigured, your hair damp and clinging,and your face and hands cold as marble." I could not reply, but silently pressed her hand. "O heavens!" sobbed Letitia, " grief has, I fear, deprived her of reason. Do arise, Helen, pray do.' Compelled, at length, by her entreaties, I arose from my humble posture, and, leaning heavily upon her arm, ascended to our little chamber. Letitia was very kind. She assisted me in taking off my ball-room gear, and, wrapping my night- robeabout me, laid me down, as tenderly as a mother would her infant, to rest. She then seated herself by the couch, and sang to me, in a low, sweet strain. I now wept silently, and did not try to check my grief. Letitia said nothing, but kept on singing her low, plaintive melody. It fell upon my chafed, irritated spirit, like balm, and at length, overcome with grief and fatigue, I sunk into a gentle slumber. 7 It was morning when I awoke. My head felt strangely Ay, and my heart seemed to have a dead weight lying upon it.,: In a few moments my eyes had fallen upon the muslin dress as it lay over a chair, and a full remembrance of the joy which had filled my heart when I put that dress on the evening before, and of the dreadful agony I had since en- dured, came over me with an overpowering force, and my eyeballs seemed on fire. I started wildly from the couch, and, without a moment's consideration, seized the dress and flowers, and, rolling them hastily together, threw them into- the fire, which was burning cheerily upon the grate.- I smiled a sickly smile as I saw , f - * - BOSTON COMMON. 145 the element slowly consuming the precious dress. I next bent my steps towards the closet. Here, in a little box, were a few articles that I had cherished, only the day before, as a miser cherishes his gold. I had concealed them from every eye --had looked at them every day, and had kissed and wept over them many times. They were a few trifling gifts from Roland. A little book containing his name, a couple of papers that he had sent me by a friend, and a faded bouquet,--faded and withered, like my own hopes. I opened the box which con- tained these once precious gifts, and scattered them, one by one, into the blazing embers. I watched them as they slowly consumed from my sight, and naught was left but the ashes. ,' Thus perish," said I, " every memento of the false, the cruel Roland! - thus do I tear him from his long-cherished resting-place, my poor heart; and thus," continued I, scattering the ashes over the hearth, " do I destroy every vestige of my past love." I arose from my low, crouching attitude, and, shaking back the wild, tangled masses of hair that lay heavily over my brow, gazed at my face in the opposite glass. Horror-stricken at my altered looks, I wept wild, bitter tears. O, the agony of that hour! The past seemed all a dream, a something - - blissful, from which I had awakened; and torture - even the rack-would have been preferable to the vague, sickening sensation that now crept over me. Letitia entered. "( O, Helen! dearest Helen!" she ex- claimed, soothingly, "why have you arisen T and 'what can have occurred to occasion you such intense grief? 'How badly you look! Let me comb out these beautiful, disordered -13 . , page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6- BOSTON C o MON. curls, and bathe your poor aching brow with cool water; it will do you good." I submitted, and, sinking into an easy-chair, she kindly soothed and caressed me, until a better feeling crept over my poor heart, and I began to feel calmer. "Letise," said I, at length, catching her hand, ",I am un- happy, wretched, and shall always be so. Rol - he --you know who I mean-has deceived me,-has sported with my feelings, and, after bringing me to the very door of hap- piness, has turned around and ejected, spurned me cruelly therefrom,- has told me that he loved another!" "O heavens!" sobbed my companion. "And now, Letise," I continued, "' never mention his name again; never even think of him in my presence." "But you, my, poor Helen, - you will die," said Letise. "No, I shall not!"I exclaimed, fiercely. "After teach- ing me so severe a lesson of distrust and suspicion, he shall not have my death to gloat over. I will .live, yes, live to pay him back his cruelty," continued I, rising from the chair, and gazing into the glass. . "These eyes, now so dim with weeping, will, in a day or two, resume their former lustre; this brow, now so heavy and contracted, will again be smooth and unclouded; and this cheek, which now bears the impress of pale death upon its surface, will again beam with the rosy hues of health." "O, I sincerely hope so!" sobbed poor Letise. "And," continued I, pacing to and fro the floor, "I 'will live, and, if I cannot be happy, I will at least be calm." "O, I am so glad that you feel better!" said my compan- ion. "I was nearly frightened to death at your appearance;" BOSTON COMMON,. 147 "Notra word of this, Letise, to the family," said I. ( Tell them I' am fatigued with the ride and ball last-night, and must rest." "I will I will. And, now please lie down, darling, and I will read or sing to you." I complied, and once more laid my aching brow -upon the pillow. "How does your head feel now?" satid' Letise, with an anxious expression depicted upon her face. "As if it were lying upon a crown of thorns," I replied, with a withering smile. ("But read to me, Letise. I shall be better; yes, I will be better - well- in a day or two." That night, at eleven o'clock, wheu all were asleep, Ileft my bed, and, stealing softly to the library, opened the door, and looked in. Harry G-lenmore was there, and, upon his knees, looked, in the pure moonlight, with his expressive face upturned, like some beatified spirit. The calmness depicted upon his brow soothed and tranquillized my heart, and, inspired with reverence and admiration forlhis noble being, I involun. tarily sunk upon my knees at his side, and laid my aching brow upon the chair. He bent his eyes upon me wonder- ingly. "Forgive me, Harry," I exclaimed for thus intruding upoh your hour of devotion; but I am so wretched, so utterly miserable, that I am ready to die, and. I felt as though I must seek consolation somewhere," "You wretched -you miserable, Helen! And where. fore?" he asked; ,( what harm has befallen you since yester morn, when you seemed so bright and happy, that it was a pleasure to look at you, even?" - page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 BOSTON COMMON. "I cannot tell you, Harry," I answered. "Suffice it to say that, since yesterday morning, a deep; a withering grief has laid hold upon me, and is gnawing, with its vulture teeth, my very heart-strings away; and that since that time I have lived years, and that I must have relief; and I come to you -4 to give it me, or to direct me where I may obtain it." - Harry mused a moment; then, looking at my pale and weary face, an expression of pain flitted over his own feat- ures. "Have you been at your devotions lately, Helen?" he asked. "No, Harry," answered I, blushing. "Since you talked with me, I have been absorbed in my own selfish feelings, and am still, afthough ashamed to own it." He looked down a moment, as if musing. "6If I only knew, your sorrow, Helen," he said, "4 I would strive to ame- liorate it." "My grief admits of no amelioration," I replied. "It lies too deep for mortal aid to reach; but consolation I must have,- and immediately, or I will die." "Say not so, Helen," answered my cousin. "Do not talk of dying, unless by God's holy will. Remember that He placed you here, and for his own purpose; and if he afflicts you, it is that you may be brought nearer to him, and that you may seek comfort firom him. Is it not so?" O, I know not, Harry. I only wish I might be good, like you- as free from passion, froom earthness." "I good! - I free from passion!" said Harry. "No, in- deed, dear Nellie; I am far from being good. I have a fear- ful malady-to contend with, that is beating me down to the dark grave, slowly, but surely. Think, with my pr spects BOSTON COMMON' 149 of life,-- friends, fortune, and means of education before me,z- how very hard it must be to die and leave them all. I have struggled, Helen, for hours, with this painful malady, and have said, when Death has almost stared me in the face, that I could not die. But I have at length conquered my desire to live, even could I help my Father's kingdom upon earth. I know my days are limited, that pain and disease will mark the rest of them, and that I shall not depart with- out a struggle. All this earthness, all this unsubmission, I have had to contend with; but I am now made perfectly reconciled. I am willing, nay, glad to bear pain and anguish, since I know the hand that inflicts it. I can lie all day at his feet; and, with the most intense anguish wringing my brow, and clutching, with its viper-like fangs, my heart- strings, can smile and say, 'Thy will be done.' "And how has this been brought about, Helen? By struggling daily, almost hourly, low at the throne of grace, for submission, for freedom from selfishness, for God's bless- ing; and, blessed be his holy name, I have obtained it. I can now give up all, - friends, fortune, rank, health, life it- self, --and be willing to embrace the dark, cold grave, as my 'dearest friend, so that I might be allowed to do his will.- I can, I trust, bend in entire submission before him, and gladly enter the portals of the tomb, where all is so gloomy, so dread; for I know that he has trod it before me, and that it is his will. Therefore I submit, and think it my greatest privilege to be able to have an opportunity of doing somew thing for my Maker." He ceased; but the sublime words were yet ringing in my ears, and my own troubles seemed sinking into insignificance 13* page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 BOSTON COMMON. in presence of such a lofty spirit. A calm was diffusing it- self over my heart, and peace seemed once more about to enter the portals, from which she had so lately been driven in affright. "Dear Harry," said I, "I feel better in hearing you talk. I was so sad, so full of grief, when I entered this little room! but there seems to be something akin to heaven where you are. Surely the angels must be about you." He smiled. "It is the angel of submission in your own heart, dear Nellie,": he replied. "I can say nothing, do no- thing. You must seek for higher aid than my weak arm can bring; you must learn' to live near to God, to cast all your cares upon him, to suffer and submit to whatever he im- poses upon you; and not only to submit, but do it cheerfully, and with pleasure too." "It is so hard, Harry," said I, "to give up all one's hap- piness here; to have all desire of living taken away; to feel a deep, burning revenge in one's heart, - a desire to live only to accomplish some wicked deed!" "Cast all thoughts of this kind entirely from your mind, Helen," said Harry, almost sternly. "They are unworthy of you, and you must not think of them for a moment. You have," he continued, "a strong, powerful will to contend with, but this very power will enable you to accomplish al- most anything you choose. Fix it, then, upon doing the will of your God, of obeying his commands, of living daily in his presence, and you will once more be happy; peace will enter your breast, and reign there; and, with your prospects of health, riches, and long life, before you,.aided by your A. " BOSTON COMMON. 151 strong and independent will and -energy of character, you will become a bright and shining light in the world." He knelt, and, placing his hands before his face, poured out his whole soul in a tribute of love and praise to God; then, assuming an humble tone, he breathed forth a petition for the erring one at his side, - that she might be brought by love to acknowledge the right of God over her -existence, and that her energies and will might be devoted entirely to v his cause. At the conclusion, we arose; and, as a partial happiness seemed to beam once more with its cheery smiles before me, I thanked my dear consoler, and, bidding him good-night, departed. When I arrived in my own room, I kneeled down and prayedfor myself. It was my first heartfelt petition, and I poured forth my whole soul and its sorrows low at the foot of the cross. I prayed for pardon for my many sins, for strength to overcome them, and for the will to do God's holy commands. Feeling much relieved by my petition, I arose; and, resolving to live nearer to God, and to seek him daily by prayer, I sought my couch. A calm had -now taken the place of the sorrow which had come upon me so suddenly, and, but for the consolations of religion, would have crushed me. In the practice of my new duties, I had begun to realize a little of the happiness that Harry Glenmore -had dwelt upon so often. A change had indeed come over me. In place of the wild, careless child of sixteen, I had suddenly expanded into a woman, with all a woman's deep, earnest feelings. I was, or endeav- ored to be, cheerful; but a deep, thoughtful expression, tinged with melancholy,--which Letitia called "divinely- page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] - 152 - BOSTON COMMON. interesting,"-had settled upon my brow, and gave a mature expression+ to my whole countenance. I often indulged in a train of thought, from which I would arouse to find myself bathed in tears. The memory of the loved one, whom I had so sacredly cherished for many months, I still fondly dwelt upon, but the bitter feeling was softened. I no longer wished to injure or die for him, but resolved to live, that I might do all the work my heavenly Father had set for me, and that I might carry out his designs concerning me. So strongly had I bent my mind to this purpose, that no one noticed the change in me, save my friend Letitia and cousin Harry. He was entirely absorbed in his studies, however, and scarcely ever left them -even to converse with me, unless he observed a deeper shade of sadness than usual resting upon my brow. Letitia complained that I played no longer with her at gracehoops or battledoor; but she was, or seemed to be, far too affectionate to press my attention upon my troubles very often. She was the same extravagant creature as ever, and as much in love with Elwyn Moore, wh6 had grown moody and abstracted, and scarcely noticed us, except at lesson-time. She still used the same language and gestures, although some- times checked by a sarcastic ;expression from myself, who really loved her, and wished her to abandon her foolish habits and- ideas. I thought I had- perceived germs of sense and goodness in her nature, and would often spend hours in talk- ing to her of her romance, and striving to cure her of it. I' CHAPTER XVII. "The most unkindest cut of all!" SHAKSPEARE. ONE morning, after breakfast, as I was standing near the window, examining with much interest a beautiful canary bird that had just been sent to the Glen, Harry Glenmore joined me. He appeared so pale and exhausted, and his eyes wore such a painful look of sickness and suffering, that my own instantly filled with tears. "Dear Harry!"I exclaimed, " you look so ill, and suffer so much! Oj I wish I had the power to soothe your pain. I would that I might do something for you. I fear you will /: die, my poor Harry." A sweet, spiritual smile rested upon his features, as he f replied': ' Wherever I go, dear Nellie, whatever I suffer, or when ever I die, I am entirely resigned to my Maker's will. With his blessed face always in view, I am content. Look, Nellie," he continued, at this beautiful bird. It is at present chained to the narrow bars of its cage, confined and hemmed in by strong wires, and feeling, no doubt, anging, almost beyond endurance, for the power of soaring far away into yon blue - - 1 page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 BOSTON CO MM ON. sky. Even so do I feel. I am at present beating about the bars of my earthly temple, and my suffering, struggling spirit would fain soar away, and be at liberty to "rove at its own will. The bars of my cage are my pains and sufferings. This beautiful bird is like my spirit, struggling and beating its poor head to get out, and suffering, in return, for its efforts for liberty. "' But soon, Nellie, a mighty hand will open the door of my habitation. Then, with a glad burst of joyous music well- ing i p from my soul, and entrancing my whole being, I shall leave my cage of. suffering, and soar away upon the wings of happiness, to yonder sky. There, in a glorious world of lib- erty and light, I shall enjoy such -an excess of bliss as will well repay me for all the pains and ills I have endured here in my prison of bars and,bolts." He ceased, but the expression of his face waoso calm, so heavenly, that I wished for nothing but to keep silent, that I might not lose the faintest echoes of that voice, whose tones had breathed into my lacerated heart such consolation and peace. Het-said no more, however; but, sinking into an easy-chair, closed his eyes, and seemed to be, deeply absorbed in thought. At this moment, my guardian, the Hon. Thomas Glenmore, drove up to the door, and, alighting from liis carriage, entered the room where we were sitting. "Good-morning, Harry," said he; "good morning, Nell. I have come. to carry you off with me. "I am going to Bos- ton in two weeks, and you must be ready to accompany me by that time." ? BOSTON COMMON. 155 I turned pale, and sunk into a chair. "So soon, dear uncle?"I asked. "Why, yes," replied he. 4( You are not sorry to leave, are you? hMost young ladies would be delighted with the pros- pect of residing in a large city for a couple of years. But come, child, bustle about. I am going right away,-so hasten." I arose, and in a shower of tears fled to my chamber. Letitia was alone. I stepped softly to her side, and placed. my arms about her neck. "( O, Letise," said I, "I am about to leave you, and for- ever, I fear!" * "To leave me!" almost shrieked Letise, starting wildly from her chair, and gazing into my face; " and wherefore; may I ask?" "My guardian has just come for me," I replied, "( and I must away and leave you, dear Letise. Please assist me in packing my trunk, will you?" "O, beloved of my soul!" exclaimed she, l" my darling, cherished Helen, what shall I, what can I do without you? I cannot exist a nmomnent.- You-will not ask or expect me to do so unnatural a thing, will you?" "O, yes, dear Letise," I replied. "You must live and be as cheerful as possible. I have been very happy with you, Letise, for you- have been- kind and affectionate to me, and have sympathized- with me in my troubles; and now I must bid you adieu. But you will write me often, Letise, and let me know how things are going on here, at the old place;- and, Letise, be sure and tell me all about dear cousin Harry. I , page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 BOST ON C O Mo N . must hear often of him, for: I am fearful that he will soon leave this world." Poor Letise stood before me the very impersonation of grief, while I talked so rapidly that she' hardly had time to catch my meaning. ' "O, Helen," said she, at length, " you love me not, or-you could never leave me thus suddenly, and when I am in afflic. tion too!" . : "I must leave you, Letise. Do not suffer your thoughts to dwell upon Elwyn Moore; he is unworthy of so much affection -the insensible man! Study when I am gone, and endeavor to be a good scholar-- perhaps a great one. Write me often, and, above all, pray every day, dear Letise. Doe not neglect that; for, in my dark hour of trouble, I should have sunk beneath the burden, had it not been for the sweet, the heavenly consolation of prayer." Letise, still weeping, assisted me in packing my trunk, and we soon had all ready. I gave her some of my books and clothes, and desired her to keep them as tokens of remem- brance from me, and promised that Hnever would forget her. - I shall see you in a year, at most, Letise," -said I'; ', for, wherever you are, I shall certainly visit you;-and I expect to find you, at our next meeting, a' sensible, well-educated woman, with everything about you to make you happy." We- embraced fervently, and, still -clasping each others' waists, descended to the sitting-room, I then went into the nursery to bid Mrs. Marsden adieu, and a:to -kiss- the baby, and then sought the school-room. Elwyn' Moore was much affected with the news of my departure, but calmer than I expected to find him. He too had long since found consola- BOSTON COMMON. 157 tion in religion, and had, under her divine guidance, schooled his heart to meet disappointments with resignation. He took my hand, and, pressing it affectionately, gave me some good. i advice concerning my studies, and wished me much happi-. ness. The boy 'all crowded around me. I kissed the little ones, shook hands with the larger ones, and bade them all a tearful adieu. The library was the last place I visited. Harry was there, and alone. "I knew you would come here, dear Nellie," said he, "before you left the Glen, and I preceded you. Shall we in this, our last meeting, perhaps forever, kneel and implore, God's blessing?" I knelt beside my dear cousin, who poured out his heart in i petition to the Almighty. He thanked Him for the peace We had hitherto brought me, and besought Him that I might till be kept in the paths of wisdom and virtue, and that in J1 my troubles I might learn to cast myself upon Him, and 3 submit cheerfully to whatever his divine will imposed upon ie. We arose, and, taking Harry's hand, I gazed affectionately to his face. "Harry," said I, "you have been my spiritual iviser; but for you, I should still have been struggling in ie dark, bewildering paths of temptation and sin. I cannot ficiently thank you for your timely aid, but I shall always 1 ink of you with affection; and if ever we meet again, I trust at I shall not have occasion to mourn-.that I have strayed )m the path your kind arm has guided me into." "Do not thank me, 'Nellie," he replied, ,s but thank your avenly Father for guiding you aright. Now, may Heaven's ,singsg rest upon you, and may you never meet with a tempt- " * i , , page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 BOSTON COblON. ation that you will be unable to overcome! Pray daily, and read your Bible often. Now good-by, my sweet little cousin t He kissed my cheek affectionately, and turned away to hide a few tears with which he was struggling. I east one look at the beautiful brow, breathed one hboe that we migt meet again, and softly closed the library-door. My guardin ans impatiently pacing the floor, and looking jny guardian was within nero. eagerly for me. 4 Come, come, Nell," said he, i hasten--do not keep me waiting for you. I shall give you no time to weep, -it is the best way; so, dry up your eyes, and prepare for an entire change of scenes and characters." Letitia stood uponthe threshold, and, with extended arms, slowly, and with many ejaculations and sobs, embraced me. I whispered a hasty but affectionate good-by, entered the carriage, and was soon rapidlywhiing away from a place where I had learned, suffered, and enjoyed, so much. I felt very sad at parting with the dear old place I dreaded ah encounter again withtheworld. Ifearedthat I might meet Roland; and to see him, or even hear of him, would, I feared; cause my partially-healed wounds to break out afresh. I would have been content to have lived forever at the Glen, rather than to come again within the sphere of my troubles. - Full of these sad thoughts, I sat silently weeping, and unmindful of the presence of my guardian. At length he spoke. , Come, come, Nell," he said, "dryupyour tears- have done with your sighs, and listen to me." I hastily wiped my eyes, for entire obediene to guard BOSTON COMMON. 159 ian had always been a strong ruling principle of my J nature. ( How old are you, Nell?" he asked. "Sixteen, last January, sir,"' I replied. "a So you are, so you are," said- he. "Well, you are get- ting to be a young lady very fast, and are no longer a child, are you?" ( I have felt very differently from what I did as a- child, sir," I replied, " for a long time." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed my guardian. ( I suppose you think yourself quite aged; - well, so be it. You do look mature, sure enough," he continued, as I looked up in sur- prise in his face; "byes, there seems to be a change in your appearance, lately, and for the better too, Nell. Well, my dear, I am now about to tell you something of importance. You are going home to your mother's, to have your wardrobe . -r :! put in perfect trim, and then we shall depart for Boston. - 1X Your aunt Gertrude goes with us, and we shall board at a O hotel for a couple of years, or thereabouts, where you will constantly attend one of the first schools in the city. Hex- pect you to learn a great deal in that time, and to be well -i accomplished in music, drawing, French, &c. You have only laid the ground-work for it this winter, but I expect something morpe'from you now. You must strive and labor ;o be a good scholar, and all will be as I wish. . . . "Your cousin, Gerald Richmond, who has been visiting Linden, returns with us to Boston. He is a fine youth, but loways conmparabto his brother Ernest, who resides with is parentsin Bostfin, and whom you have never seen. You wYill be thrown a deal in this cousin's society; and I wish it - , " . ' -' page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 - BOSTON COMMO-N, may be so,--you cannot be too much with him. He is seven years your senior, and -one of the finest specimens of God's works that I ever beheld. Handsome, intellectual, noble; in short, all that a young lady could ask or wish for in a husband. He possesses firmness, decision of charac- ter, in a remarkable degree, and all the traits of mind that ennoble and distinguish a fine man. And now, dear Helen, to the point. This noble cousin has been designed, from your earliest infancy, by your family and friends, as your husband! It is the first wish of my heart, also, Helen, and I shall use my utmost endeavors to have you educated and fitted to be the wife of so noble a man." I looked in perfect wonder at my guardian, as he thus rattled on. At his last words, I exclaimed, "A husband! I do not want a husband, uncle Thomas. I am but a child, and as such I wish to remain." My guardian laughed. ', You may think so now," he re plied; u but wait a bit, for a year or two - oronly wait until you have seen the handsome, the noble Ernest Richmond! But, uncle Thomas," I continued, "Ernest surely does not know'of the high honor you all intend him, does he? Because, if he does, I will never see him in the world, never!" , Will' and- won't' are improper words for you to make useof, Helen," answered he; " but I can inform you that, as far as I know, he is entirely ignorant of this proposed marriage, and I intend that he shall remain so until after he has seen ' and become attached to you. He is poopoor'i a church- mouse; for his father is a'parsimonlou I and keeps all his gold pretty strongly locked in his coffers; but Ernest, e '5: BOSTON COMMON. 161 with, a true nobleness of heart, and a decision which has characterized all his race, and which is the glory and boast of our New England youth, went boldly to the work, and, without flinching or looking back, has already, at his tender years, won a reputation and fame that not many in like cir- cumstances can boast of. I think that Ernest, with his principles and habits, deserves just such. a fortune as you f possess, and also a nice little body like yourself for a wife." , ' \ "I am not a nice little body, uncle Thomas," exclaimed I, petulantly; " and if my cousin Ernest wishes for my fortune, he can have it, and welcome, but not myself with it." Uncle Thomas looked at me in surprise. "You are more of a child, Nell, after all, than I took you to be," said he. "I suppose a large paper of sweetmeats would please you much more than a fine young husband. However, I will not press the matter now, but will wait a while. I wish you to think well of this marriage, and to regard it as a fixed thing, for that it is so you may rest assured." I did not reply, but, turning away my head, mused a while over what my uncle had just said to me. I was astonished that a marriage with my cousin Ernest, of whom I had :'. always heard ar great deal, should have been projected so long by my family; and still more astonished that I should have remained in ignorance.-of it thus far. But to marry himB was out of the question. The time, I thought, for that, had gone by, and my heart had scarcely closed over the grave of my first affection.' I could not think of receiving another into its hallored recesses. What my guardian had said to me concerning my cousin did not trouble me much, for I rea- oned thus: my cousin Ernest is of that noble character1 page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 sBOSTON COMMON. attributed to him, he will refuse to accept me unwillingly; therefore I have nothing to fear." I did not think or trouble myself concerning the disappointment my resolution would occasion my family, for I did not even guess how much they had set their hearts upon -my marrying Ernest Richmond. We soon arrived at home, and I was joyfully received by my family. During the two weeks of my sojourn with them, they vied with each other in doing me all the kindness in their power. There was but one thing that troubled me. I noticed that they were always talking of Ernest whenever I was present, aanu,uch a catalogue of virtues I never heard attributed to mortal Than before. I became quite weary of hearing his praises echoed from morning till night, and said, one day, to my parents, in a pet, "( Do have done talking of Ernest! I know all about him now, and I also know that you all wish -me to marry him, when I am of a proper age; but, if you talk of him so con- stantly, I shall expect wonderful things of him, and shall be qqite disappointed when I see him, for he cannot possibly be "so very perfect as represented." This little speech, which I got off with some spirit, had the effect of silencing my family, and Ernest's name was scarcely mentioned from that time until I left home, which was soon afterwards. I had visited Katherine Merton several times since my return from the Glen, and we had once more renewed the affectionate intercourse of our early days. By tacit agree- :- Cment, the name of Roland Hastings was ne mentioned between us. Kate noticed that "a change I ideome o!er the spirit of myearm," and, attributing it to lthe ri --ccause, * v*--, BOSTON COMMON. 163 never spoke of it to me. I told her, one day, of the projected alliance between my cousin and myself, and she replied, rather seriously, thus: "As a general thing, I think, early matches, made by families, and without the consent of the parties, wrong, and even wicked transactions; but, if Ernest Richmond is what I have always heard him to be, you could not possibly do better than to marry him." On the last day of my remaining at home, Kate proposed that, as it was a fine afternoon, we should visit some of our old haunts together. Accordingly, we donned our sun-bonnets, and sauntered forth. We bent our steps immediately to old , Granite Bluff," which we hastily ascended, -for we were anxious to seat ourselves once more upon this weather-beaten cliff. The air was fine and soft, the sky blue, and the trees -were just robing themselves in their summer mantles. The sides of the old rock were covered with moss, through which many a tender and delicate blossom was endeavoring to find its way. Kate and myself sought our favorite seat, which was in the highest part of the rock. It was a little aperture, lined with moss, just large enough to admit two, and overhanging the dizzy precipice. Here we could behold the whole village; with its spires, chimneys, and masts, and a part of the coun- try, for several miles around. Many a happy hour had we spent together in this airy seat; and now it was with sad hearts that we sat, with arms twined about each other's waists, gatming thoughtfully -down the dizzy height. "How much I shall miss you, Helen!" said Kate. "I - . -\ page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 BOSTON COMMON. shall, not venture to come here without you; for, in your absence, this cliff, with all its beauty, will have lost its charms for me." "And I, dearest Katherine," I replied, "I shall be lost without you. No other -person has such power over me as yourself. You can guide, teach, and direct me; and, without your good counsel, I fear that I shall' always be getting into all sorts of trouble." "I trust not, dear Helen," replied my friend. "You have a pretty-good share of mind yourself, and, with the Bible for your guide, and the blessing of God, which you daily seek, I shall not be afraid to trust you in the great world. But you must -guard your heart well, and see that no wickedness enters therein, and keep your conscience void of offence. All will then be right with you." "I shall write you every week," said I; " and mind that your answers are long ones; be sure that you put plenty of affection in them for your absent friend. Remember that I expect and exact a deal of love from you, Katie." "I will remember all you have said," answered Kate, " and everything shall be as you wish." -." Hark!" said I, a few moments afterwards, I I hear voices, and they seem to be beneath us." We listened a moment, and then, as a well-known tone fell upon my ear, I started and turned pale. Casting my eyes down the cliff, I beheld a sight that set all my long-buried wounds bleeding afresh, and almost defied even religion her- selkto console me. The light, elegant figure of Roland Hastings stood near a BOSTON CO MMON. 165 tree, at whose foot reclined Mary Listen! tBis head was bare, and the rich curls were floating dreamily over the broad, white brow. His large dark eyes were attentively viewing as little chaplet of moss and vines which he had woven, and was just about to throw over the rich black tresses of his companion. She was gazing at him so tenderly, with her expressive eyes, that you could read love, adoration, almost worship, in- the glance. He spoke, and the words, in that well-known voice, thrilled through my heart. "Permit me, dearest Mary, to place this little coronal upon your fair-brow, as an emblem of our nuptial wreath." I heard no more. The figures disappeared,--the whole mountain seemed sinking into one black abyss, as I buried my face in Katherine's bosom, and wept aloud. "Let us away, my Helen," she!whispered, i from this spot. I will,take care of you; lean upon me, dearest. There, you are better, are you not?" she continued, as she untied my bonnet, and fanned me with it. "O, yes, Katie," I replied, c"I am better. I thought- I hoped that I was entirely cured; but my heavenly Father has other trials yet in store for me." "Submit to them cheerfully," she replied;/" and all will yet be well. I anticipate great things for you, my sweet Helen, in the next two years, should your life be spared. You are very young yet, and these youthful sorrows will e vanish, as you grow older, H trust. But we will return home, for you are not well, I fear. You have a long journey before you to-morrow, and need rest." We slowly descended the mountain, and by a little wind- 3 page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 BOSTON COMMON. ing path reached the "Homestead," just as the family were eating supper. I immediately retired to my cham. ber, and endeavored to school my heart into entire sub- mission to my Maker's will; for I had experienced its rebellious emotions, and wished them entirely subdued. -m r.^E CHAPTER XVIII. t'" Of fresh and stainless youth, In voices well divulged; free, learned, and valiant, And in the shape of nature a gracious person." I SHALL passt over the parting with my friends; amy long journey with my uncle, aunt, and cousin,- Gerald Richmond; also, my delight when we had really arrived in the great city,- which I had not visited since a child, and but dimly remem- bered. - My guardian immediately took lodgings at a -fashionable hotel, and ensconsing me in a nice little room, well furnished with every article for comfort and use, bade me dress as soon as possible for dinner. I opened my trunks, pulled over my dresses, and at length selected a light blue :thibet, as it ; was yet quite early in April. After I was dressed, I descended to the parlor, and, seating myself upon a sofa, took up a paper. Presently Gerald Richmond entered. I "Cousin Nell," said he, " my brother Ernest is below, and desires to see you. Shall I tell him to come up?" I looked up, and, in spite of my indifference, the blood . rushed to my neck and brow; but I stammered out, . - ^ '? page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] * 168 BOSTON COMMON. "Certainly, Gerald, I shall be quite happy to see your brother," He departed, and I waited in trembling, but with an ap. pearance of the utmost nonchalance, for the arrival of this prodigy, this eighth wonder of the world. "I mean to appear," thought I, " to as much disadvantage as possible; for I am determined that he shall not fall in love with me, and there is no danger on my part. Ha! he comes-" I again took up the paper, and was apparently lost in its columns, when the gentlemen entered. I only half looked up, as I heard Gerald say, "Here, Ernest, is our little cousin Helen; of whom you have heard me so often speak." "Cousin Helen is well, I trust," said a deep, richly-keyed voice, in a tone that needed not to be repeated. I glanced at this paragon of perfection. He was standing about ten, feet from me, in a graceful attitude. The first thing I encountered -was a pair of large dark-gray eyes, very much like my own, but far more expressive.- There was a coldness in them, however, that half shocked my tender heart, and I dropped my own instantly, as I replied, in a low: tone, that I was well, quite well, and placed a chair' for him near my sofa. He took it with a quiet grace, and commenced a conversa- tion about my journey, studies, &c., that did not interest-me much. He did not allow my attention to flag for a moment, however, but made me talk, whether I would or no. "Helen," said he, at length, " they ha;ve always said that "there was a striking resemblance between you and my un. BOSTON COMMON. 169 worthy self. Let 's look into the mirror together, and judge for ourselves." "That can hardly be, cousin Ernest," faid I; " for I have always been told that you were exceedingly handsome, while I am, as you see, quite plain." He smiled, and replied, as we stood looking into the mirror together, "Not so plain, Helen, as you imagine, though still quite plain. You have a very interesting face, although it needs a few more years to give it light- and shade." I stood attentively regarding his face, - one of the most interesting I had ever beheld. A broad, lofty brow, with intellect stamped plainly upon its surface; a pair of very ex- pressive dark-gray eyes, as I said before, shaded by long lashes, and over-arched by heavy eyebrows. Upon the classically- shaped head, and around the temples, clustered thick golden- brown curls, of the same shade as my own floating locks. A mouth, indicating a proud, domineering will, with-so much of firmness within its closed portals that I almost trembled as I gazed, for I saw " tyrant" written there, plain enough to - read. Glancing from his face to his figure, I beheld a tall, y elegantly-made man, with symmetry and strength in every limb and motion. " Well, Helen," said he, at length, " are we much alike?" "A very little," I replied. "The eyes are like mine, with a shade or two of variation, and the hair is th6 tsname color; but the mouth-" - '. "Is precisely like your own, Helen," he interrupted. ' . "I trust not," I replied. "You are complimentary, Helen," he answered; " but it 15 i page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170Q BOSTON COMMON. is so, nevertheless. Have you never been told that you have a strong, ungovernable will and temper, of your own?" "'I have, indeed, been told of it a hundred times," I re- plied. - "It It is plainly written upon your mouth," he continued; "therefore, as I rejoice ,xtthe same inestimable gifts, we can- not fail of resembling each other. Please look again, and tell me if you are not of my opinion." I did as requested,' and this time was much struck with the resemblance. He was larger, darker, fiercer-looking, but still we iere exceedingly alike. "You are- satisfied, now,"' he asked, in a low, quiet tone, that expected andadmitted of no contradiction. - "I am," I replied, ( and perfectly." He gave me a singular look, and in the smile which accom- panied it I read power, triumph, or something of the sort. I did not like him, however, or his smile either; but just then we were summoned to dinner,' and my uncle took occasion to ask me how I liked Ernest. "I don't like him at all, uncle," I replied. "He seems cold, ,selfish, and proud.' "You never were more in the wrong, Helen," he replied. "Under that exterior he carries as warm a heart as ever beat in man's breast. Try and cultivate his love, and all will be as it should be between you. He likes you already, exceedingly; and you must be cold-hearted, indeed, to regard him in any other light than that of a very warm friend." In the evening, as I was standing by the large parlor win- dow, musing, I suddenly heard-i"a step approaching me. BOSTON COMMON. 171 Looking up, I again beheld my cousin Ernest. Hle smiled, as he took my hand, and conveyed it to his lips. di You are sad, to-night, Helen," said he, softly. "Can it be that you are homesick already?" 4 Not exactly," I replied. "tam apt to be pensive, at times." (t A young girl of sixteen," he rejoined, " has no right to be either sad or pensive. It is considered, by older and graver heads than ours, to be the happiest, most careless period in life, when the heart beholds nothing but joy in the future. You must be cheerful, or we shall be led to suppose that you have left some favored swain in your native hamlet, : and that you are pining for love of him-." I blushed, and cast my eyes upon the carpet, while he ; paused for a reply. Not getting one, however, he took my A unresisting hand, and led me to the sofa. , (' Listen, Helen," said he; "while I inform you of some- I thing that you are probably not aware of. Do you know that the good people, our parents, have decided upon marry- ing us twio together?" : X I blushed'still deeper, and hung my head bashfully down. ? "Yes, Ernest, I do know it," I replied. "I was informed of -? it the week that I left St. Thomas' Glen." - He smiled. "And what think you of such a match, my little Helen?" I looked at him a second; then, encouraged by the smile I saw playing around that strange mouth, laughed aloud. "Preposterous!" said he. "So I think;, and the more they : try to marry us together, the more we won't let them, will we,? - Nellie?" " -{ * , page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] ,172 BOSTON COMMON. "O, Ernest;" said I, "I am so glad, so happy, to hear you speak in that manner! I feel as if a heavy restraint was taken from me. I can now speak and act with freedom, for you think just as I do." He smiled a cold, desolate smile, as he glanced at my ear- nest face. "And so, Helen," said he, " you can give up the ' handsome intellectual cousin' you have heard so much about, without a pang, can you?" "Yes," I answered, "I can very easily give him up as a husband, but I should be quite happy to retain him as a friend and cousin." He bowed. ",Well, Helen, so be it," he answered. "I will be your friend- cousin I am already; and as our uncle Glenmore has decided that we are to be constantly thrown together, you will not object to my attentions, I suppose?" "Of course not, Ernest," I replied. "I will not walk or talk with any other young gentleman, while I am here, but yourself." "I will be a most devoted cousin," he replied. ", I will do a11 and everything for your happiness. Your wishes will only have to be expressed, in order to be obeyed; but at some future time, - perhaps, if we live, in one year from this night,--I shall walk in here, and claim my reward. Say, shall it be mine?" "What reward, cousin Ernest?"I asked, feeling very much as Faust did at the expected visit of Mephistophiles. "A reward that I will then tell you of," he replied. "Shall I receive it?" "Certainly," I answered. "It would be a species of x \ BOSTON COMMON. 173 fraud, to cheat so devoted a cousin out of his pay. What shall it be?" He looked at me a moment, while a singular light played in his expressive-gray eyes. Then, taking a slip of paper from his pocket-book, he wrote a few words upon it, and handed it to me. It read as follows: '"'On Thursday evening, April the 10th, 18-,I promised to pay Ernest Richmond whatever reward he chose to de- mand for the faithful performance of sundry duties. The reward to be glven at the same month, day, and hour, next year, on which this is written." I looked at the paper a moment, and then at Ernest's face. It was calm, perfectly so, and a smile played about the closed mouth. "What-am I to do with this?" said I. "Sign your name at the bottom, if you please," he re- plied. ' Must I?- am I obliged to do this?"I asked. i "Certainly not, if you do not wish to," he replied. "I rather like the idea," said I. "It is a novel one, and I will sign the paper." I took my pencil, and, wrote "Heleni Clifton," in a bold, plain hand, at the bottom of the writing. I then pushed the paper into Ernest's hand. He grasped it eagerly, read the name through several times, and then, with a look of com- plete triumph, placed it in his pocket-book. I! haIve not signed my death-warrant, have I, Ernest?" I asked. t( I hope not quite so bad as that," he replied, ,( although you may so consider it. You will see this paper again next 15" * page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 BOSTON COMMON. year, Helen; and, remember, if I have been faithful, I shall claim the promised reward. Now, Nellie,l' said he, rising soon after, 4" please grant me a cousin's privilege, - a kiss." "No, Ernest," I replied, ",I don't wish you to kiss me; I don't like to be kissed." "Very well," he replied, regarding me attentively for a moment; ':I admire your candor, and will not dispute your wishes., Good-night." "Good-night," I replied, as I watched his elegant figure out of the room; and then flung myself upon the sofa, and wept. "I do not like Ernest," I thought. "He is cold, deep, and plotting. I feel, when with him, as though he were Lucifer, trying to make a contract for my soul. I wonder what uncle Glenmore can mean by bringing us together in this manner. I shall take very little notice of him, however, and in my daily studies may forget him entirely." Full of these thoughts, I sought my aunt Gertrude, to bid her good-night; and then, weary with the events of the day, retired early to my own couch. CHAPTER XIX. {"To one who looked from upper air, O'er all th' enchanted region there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling, from below!" THOMAS MOORE. ONE week was spent by my guardian in showing me:-the wonders of a city life. I was, of course, highly delighted with everything I saw, for novelty always possesses a charm for the youthful mind. At the end of -the week my school duties commenced; and in the new acquaintances I found, and in my daily studies, I half forgot Ernest, and the singular influence he had begun to exert over me. Time went on. My life was an unvarying routine of-study, drawing, music, &c. My days passed in the usual manner. I was never allowed to enter a theatre, museum, or ball-, room. My mornings, until two o'clock, were devoted to study; then came dinner, and several hours of practice. The evenings were spent in aunt Glenmore's room, where Ernest generally contrived to make one of the party, We played chess, games at Shakspeare, or solved problems in history and astronomy. Occasionally I would assist my aunt in sewing, while Ernest played backgammon with uncle Thomas. " page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] 176 - BOSTON COMMON. I was much surprised at the change in Ernest. He was always agreeable, always cheerful,--never troubled me with his commands or comments, but was ever ready to assist me in an intricate sum or difficult exercise. He would sit pa- tiently by my side, and carefully unwind the greatest enigma; tell me everything I wanted to know, and was ever attentive and obliging to my wishes. I had become exceedingly at- tached to Ernest, and loved him like a dear brother. I was very happy in his society, and often wondered if this intelli- gent, good-natured, gentle being, who humored my caprices, gratified my wishes, and puzzled out my sums, was the cold, unbending tyrant I had at first imagined him to be. Every pleasant evening, during the summer, I was allowed ' to walk with Ernest. We generally bent our steps towards Boston Common. Here, in this great temple of nature and art, I have sat for hours with Ernest by my side, or stood with him upon the borders of the beautiful pond, beneath the, shadows of the trees, listening to the deep, -rich music of his voice, as it poured forth the- emotions of his soul. I had begun to love these walks very dearly, and to long for their coming. They pleased Ernest, also, and I could not but per- ceive that he was always calm and happy when in my com- pany. The reader must not suppose that I had forgotten Roland, all thistime. No; his image had taken toofirm a hold of my heart to be loosened thus easily. Often did t sit in my lonely room and dream of him for hours together. O0ien did I leave Ernest's arm, when walking with him upon- the borders of the little pond, and, gazing down into its clear depths, drop a tear over my past love. I never breathed his , , . BOSTON C0aMMON. 1" name, however, even to myself; but prayed my God daily and hourly to root his image entirely from my heart,and to make me submissive to His will. My feelings, and the circumstances in which I was placed, cannot be better described than by reading the following letter, which I indited -to my friend Katherine Merton, two or three months after my arrival in this city of notions. "Boston, July 6th, 18-. , DEAREST KATE : "I can never have done describing to you all the wonders of a city life. - I wish I could express to you my emotions regarding it, and the pleasure I find in everything here. All is so new, so delightful! So many pleasant acquaintances,- such beautiful places to visit,-.such grand houses,--such churches,-such delightful gardens and parks! O, I can never do justice to all these fine places, and will not, there- fore, attempt a description of them. "I have often promised that I would tell you of all the places of interest here; but they are so many, and so much could be said of them, that my poor pen would fail in giving you the smallest idea. I -will wait until I see you, Kitty, and then I will talk to you all day about Boston. Mean- time, I will just speak of a few of the principal spots that I have visited. - "You know, Kate, how much you and I have read, talked, and dreamed, of dear old Boston. It was always connected, in our simple minds, with all that was noble, grand, or mag- nificent. . It was the home of many of our great forefathers, : and, consequently, the scene of many historical events con- page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 BOS TO CO IMM ON. nected with our liberty and independence. Here can be seen Dorchester Heights, whose turf has been hallowed by the footsteps of our Washington; and the glorious Bunker Hill Monument, that forever points its finger towards' the great acity. "But I might go on all day enumerating the places of interest about me. I will forbear, however, and leave you to judge what must have been my emotions when standing upon the very spots we have so often read of, and longed to see so much. To say that I was pleased, would be a very feeble description of my sensations. I was delighted, satisfied, and proud, that our glorious Union could boast of such a place,- such a city, --where the arts and sciences flourish in so high a degree,. and where education takes each and every one, rich and poor, high and low, learned and ignorant, by the hand, and leads them, if they will, to the temple of fame. "Boston abounds in many noble specimens of architecture. Here, at every turn, magnificent churches, halls, and public buildings of every kind, meet your eye; and to myself, who never beheld anything better than the spire of our dear old church at Linden, all these things would, of course, appear to be on a very grand scale. "The first place of interest that I visited- here was that gray old building, venerable with age, and hallowed with many sacred memories, the 'Cradle of Liberty,'--Faneuil Hall. There was a grand fair here in April, and I was, of course, allowed to go. I can give you no idea of the beautiful arti- cles that everywhere met my view. There were tables all over the hall, covered with embroidery, pincushions, work- boxes, images in ivory, silver, and gold, with marble statues, BOSTON COMMON. 179 large- as life, to guard them. Then there were all kinds of medicines, soaps, perfumery, and paints, neatly enveloped in silver and gilt enamelled paper; and silks, muslins, prints, de- laintes, &c., were placed, in- tempting array, upon counters built for that purpose. "Around the hall ran a long balcony, which had been draped with bed-quilts and hearth-rugs, from the ingenious hands of some of our fair countrywomen. From the ceilings were suspended chandeliers, candelabras, and lamps, all light- ed, and presenting a most brilliant appearance. The arti- cles which interested me most, however, were a number of large, elegantly-framed pictures, worked with a needle, in worsted. There was a full-length portrait of Gen. Warren, looking almost as natural as life. On the opposite side of the room the venerable head of Washington smiled benignly upon you, while a pair of Cupids embraced each other in the centre. Beneath these pictures was a large table covered with shell-work. Here were baskets, beautifully wrought, and filled with the most delicate flowers, perfectly shaped, and of various colors. Then, in the upper compartment, were all kinds of rich furniture of every description. Bedsteads, chairs, sofas, cradles, mirrors, &c.,--in short, everything use- ful and beautiful seemed here combined., A fine band of music completed the enchantment of this fairy spot. They were seated far above all the dazzling show; and as my guardian was acquainted with the leader, I was introduced to him also, and he immediately installed me in a seat near the band, where I could sit and gaze as long as I pleased upon they ever-varying panorama below. To add, if, possible, to the interest of the scene, a vast crowd of human page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] 180 BO'STON COMMON. beings filled the house, and kept passing and re-passing each other with such rapidity that I had scarcely time to distin. guish one face before it had given place to another, and was lost to view. "A delicate collation of ices and lemonade finished this delightful evening, and we returned home highly gratified with our interesting entertainment. ("Then, Katie, I have visited the Athenaeum, and gazed for hours upon the wonderful paintings and noble pieces of sculp. ture that adorn its niches and walls. The Quincy Market is also a place of considerable attraction. I walked through it, one Saturday evening, with my 'uncle, and was quite aston- ished at the immense quantities of food of all descriptions that abounded here. The building has a centre dome, and two long wings. It is built of granite, and supported at each end by immense stone pillars. It is quite narrow, and so long that you can scarcely see the end of it from one entrance to another. "I was much interested to see people of all nations, ages, and sexes, filling their baskets from this huge repository, for their Sunday dinners. They all- looked intent upon their business, and seemed to enjoy themselves almost as much as if they were already eating the contents of their baskets. "But time would fail me were I to describe all the places of interest I have seen since my residence here. I have sat in Tremont Temple, and listened to speeches from the lips of genius, that almost made my heart burn within me. I have visited the concert-room, and sat almost with suspended breath, lest I should lose one tone of the heavenly music that was welling up from harmonious instruments; and have listened, spell-bound, to the warblings of angels, as I called them, for BOSTON COMMON. 181 they seemed to me to be no\ earth-born mortals who were singing, but stray spirits from heaven, giving us a foretaste of their own delightful symphonies. ,( I have been in the State House, have ascended its lofty cupola, and viewed with delight the beauty of the scene beneath me. Here can be seen the whole city of Boston, looking like one dense mass of brick, slate-stones, and steeples. East Boston, Roxbury, Cambridge, Charlestown, and the glo- rious bay, with its islands, lying like so many emeralds thrown upon its bosom, all strike the eye of the beholder from this lofty place, and fill the breast with emotions of pride and pleasure. "( Then there are noble rows of buildings, built of brick, granite, &c., in which all sorts of articles are deposited, or being constantly manufactured. Washington-street, on a sunshiny day, presents a most magnificent spectacle. Silks, prints, embroidery, and millinery, interspersed with sparkling plate and jewellery, flash upon the beholder at every turn. The streets are filled with people, all hurrying to and fro, in pursuit of something, - perhaps they scarcely know what. 4"You may laugh at my enthusiasm, Kate, about dear old Boston; but you know that I have never seen anything like it before; that I have always lived in the country, and that, as a natural consequence, everything new would strike me as being rather wonderful. "But, Katherine, in the midst of this beautiful city, whose many spires point towards heaven, - in the midst of education, refinement, and wealth,--may be seen misery, poverty, and crime, of every description. This is sad to think of; but it is true, nevertheless, and seems to change the scene somewhat. 16 , , . . page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 BOSTON COMM ON Every picture must have its shades, however, or it loses, in its sameness, all interest for the beholder. Would that dear old Boston were a little more delicately touched! Would that its shadows were not composed of crime, misery, and poverty! ( Boston is beautiful at all times of the day, but peculiarly interesting to me in the early morning. There is to me some- thing altnost affecting, to arise early in the morning, and see, in the midst of life, an almost breathless silence. Here are more than a hundred thousand beings, all buried in deep slumber, knowing nothing, caring for nothing that has occurred, and unconscious of what is before them at present. ("The first morning that I arose thus early was in May. It was about five o'clock, and calm and still as a summer's eve in the country. I bent. my steps to the water's edge. What a prospbct lay on all sides of me! Clouds of amber, purple, and gold, arose from their gorgeous drapery, and were brightened by the emerging of the coming god of day. The sparkling crests of the waves rose and fell under his beams, while, far above, the upcurling mists cleared away from the blue concave, and the full magnificence of sky and atmosphere contrasted richly with the green luxuriance of earth, yet fresh with the dewy coolness of the past night. "And now, from a hundred steeples and domes, all glitter. ing in the sun, went up a glad ringing of bells, and, reaching far over the sea, mingled a murmur of melody, sweet -and melodious in the distance, and betokenin'g life, happiness, and joy, in the great city. Fifty thousand chimneys are now sending up their graceful columns of smoke into the blue heavens, and forming light masses of drapery, with which to envelop the city. Life, in its every form and shape, is be- BOSTON COMMONI 183 ginning to awaken and revivify under the glorious beams of day; and a busy hum greets the ear in the far-off distance, like the murmuring of bees. "Carts, wagons, and vehicles of every description, now come lumbering through the thoroughfares, already beginning to fill with men, women, and children, hurryingto and fro, as if in pursuit of some hidden unknown treasure. EIre come's the nilk-man, fresh from the fields, with his bright tin cans redolent of daisies and clover. His keen eyes are fixed upon the distant city, as the goal of all his hopes. Here, in a by- way, is the busy butcher, with his high-covered cart, trun- dling lazily over the rough stones of the pavement. ," And now the whole air is teeming with life - busy, stirring life, mingled with crime, love, hope, joy, and wretchedness. Here and there may be seen the sweepers, all busied with broomis and carts. Here goes the miser, with his bent figure, and keen black eye, fixed eagerly upon the ground, as if in search of some lost valuable which the unlucky owner has accidentally parted with the evening before. Here may be seen the old rag-picker, with long, bony hand, reaching for the scraps that go fluttering by, as the sweepers fling them into the cart, and now and then uttering an imprecation as they elude her grasp. Again, the bent form of an aged man meets your gaze, as he stoops to gather bits of broken glass, iron, &c., that have collected in the streets the day before. And so on, and so-on. How sad to think that here, in the midst of riches, refinement, and education, - here, in the heart and precincts of oul beloved, our church-going, our puritanical city,- so much poverty, misery, and crime, should lurk! Would, that we could all root pride and evil passions from our own page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] 184 BOSTON COMMON. hearts! Then would misery and crime gradually disappear, and our fair and lovely city would arise from the gloom which now envelops her, and again blossom like the rose. "But I have pursued my walks and moralizing until I have reached a beautiful spot, the pride and joy of the whole city, the haunt of the old and young, the rich and poor, the learned ad ignorant. "The good man meets here with the wicked one., The criminal and church-member, the friend and enemy, the bond and free, have all one interest in this sweet place. Here the lover woos his mistress beneath the shades of the lofty trees, and whispers into her listening ear sweet words of future hope and joy. All here equally participate in the beauties spread before them. The rich man cannot deprive his poor brother of one jot or tittle of the calm pleasures of this sweet place. No, the breezes blow as softly for him as for the aristocrat; the trees are as shady, the bowers as green, the waters as bright and sparkling, the flowers as fragrant, the sky as blue;- al - is as free to one as to another, in this sweet spot, in this forest in the midst of a city, in this sylvan nook of nooks, in this glory and boast of our New England metropolis, - beautiful Boston Common! "I can give you no idea, Katherine, of the delight with which my heart was filled when this enchanting spot, dressed in all the rich garniture of spring, first burst upon my admir- ing gaze. Have you ever read of the cool streams and green fields of Paradise, - the shady bowers and fragrant walks? Your ideas of poetry and song would here be more than realized. Your most vivid imagination could paint no fairer spot. Here, in the labyrinthine windings, or under the shade BOSTON COMMON. 185 of the lofty trees, do I revel in the purest delight. Here, while the foliage gently rustled over my head, and the limpid water flowed softly at my feet, could I sit anrd dream forever. "But there, dearest Kate! I shall, I fear, exhaust your patience by giving you so long a letter. I will just tell you a little how I am situated, and then close for the present. "I am boarding at a large, fashionable hotel, vepnmear to the Common, where I can sit at my window, and seelhe tall, waving branches of the trees, nodding and beckoning me to come and visit them, - an invitation I can scarcely ever refuse to accept. I go to school every day, and am almost con. stantly engaged in study. I must say a word or two of cousin Ernest in this place. He is so very kind to me, that surely he deserves some attention. "Ernest is handsome, noble, and intellectual, and is constant- ly attentive to my every wish and want. He is never weary, never impatient, with me,--although I sometimes think that he half conceals Lis real nature from me, for I have seen his darkeye flash, so suddenly that you would almost imagine some lurking spirit of evil was about to spring upon you. He is so calm, however, the next moment, that it is very readily forgotten. He graduated at Harvard College nearly a year ago, and is now studying for the ministry. He is a splendid scholar, and often spends hours in teaching me some beauti- ful,'instructive thing. I really like cousin Ernest, not as a lover, not as a husband, but as a dear, kind brother, who studies and attends-to my-every wish. "Ernest loves the Common equally as well as I do. We often' spend hours there together, wandering through its sylvan shades, and talking of all sorts of wild, beautiful 16* page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 BOSTON COMMON . things. It seems so strange,--Ernest loves to be with me, loves to hear me talk, never for a moment wearies of my society; and yet he regards mne only as a brother does a dear sister, and himself called the-idea of our contemplated mar. riage preposterous and absurd, and said that we must both strive against it. '4 I he said that Ernest was handsome. He is so; and yet helid I very closely resemble each other. Indeed, the resemblance is so very striking, that every one speaks of it with astonishment. Ernest says that we are alike in many other points, also. I am sure I feel highly complimented by this comparison; for could I resemble him in mind or qualifi- cations, as- I do in person, I should feel very proud. "Ernest's hair is a light, golden brown, nearly the color of my own, and curls over a high, magnificent brow, teeming with thought and intellect. His eyes are dark gray, and so deep that you can scarcely fathom them. His form is glori. ous, - tall, straight, and athletic; he is the very impersona- tion of strength, manliness, and beauty. "I often visit at his mother's. They live in a fine old mansion, on Summer-street, shaded by magnificent trees, and nearly covered by the creeping-woodbine and fragrant honey- suckle. My uncle Richmond is a stern old man, with white hair, and a very forbidding face. I never feel at ease in his society, and so I seek it as little as possible. My aunt. Isa- bella is a tall, straight, and- very majestic woman." She is quite affectionate, but keeps you in your own place; for she goes upon the principle that 'familiarity breeds contempt.' They are both in ill health, and will not live long, I fear. Gerald Richmond, whom you have seen, has lately married, *v . . BOSTON COMMON. - 187 and taken his bride to the far West, to carve out a fortune for himself. , Ernest has one sister,-a lovely girl, just my cousin Har- ry's age. She is a merry, good-natured creature, and seems the only bright thing in the whole house. She and myself are the best of friends, and both attend the same school. She has a perfect reverence for her brother Ernest, whom she considers a paragon, and looks up to him as a daughter would to a father. ,' But, Katie, I will now bid you adieu. At present I am enjoying everything here with a perfect relish. The novelty has not yet gone. I cannot tell how long it may last, how- ever. Please write me soon, and tell me every particular of dear old Linden, and the good people there. "Yours, affectionately, page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] CHAPTER XX. 0 had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give." IRISH MELODIES. A FEW months later, I indited the following: "Boston, October the 20th, 18-. "DEAR KATY: "I am so lonely to-day, so sad,--everything has gone wrong with me! Uncle Glenmore, to whom I always apply in my troubles, is out of town; and aunt Gertrude has the sick-headache, and has sent me from her. It rains, and the whole city looks dark and gloomy. A heavy cloud seems to rest upon everything to-day, and adds its own leaden hue to my mind." -"I am weary of the noise and din of this great city. I would that I were far away from the confusion everywhere * BOSTON COMMON. 189 around me, and near you, my Kate. Would that you were a man, and I your little wife! How happy might we be, did we possess a sweet little cottage of our own, where discord and strife were never allowed to enter, but where all was peace and sunshine! While you were busied during the day in a contest with the world, striving with might aif main to see who should have the better bargain, your little wife would be at home, the sweet place, making all bright and: pleasant for the coming of the welcome guest. Whatever storms you- might have to encounter without, all would be calm within. Let me see; how would we pass our time? ( In the winter we would hie away to the gay, life-stirring city, where we would sing and dance the bright hours away; would listen to beautiful, soul-stirring music, till our very souls would be borne away, filled with harmony, upon the wings of sound. Then would come the pleasant sleigh-ride, with' a few chosen friends. The bells would jingle merrily, and we would skim over the frozen ice, swift as birds upon the wing. Our evenings would be enlivened by a ball, opera, tea-party, or some pleasant amusement, and we could be con- tent, should the evening prove stormy, 'to remain by our own bright fireside. We would draw down the thick curtains to shut out the blast, wheel our easy-chairs close to the coal- grate, and you should- read to me, in your deep, manly voice, while I hemmed handkerchiefs for you, or arranged some part of my own wardrobe, perhaps. ,iThen would come the sweet hour of conversation. You would ask :your little wife if she had any wishes that you could supply, or troubles that you could alleviate; and she, in turn, would soothe and smooth away the furrows which busi- page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 BOSTON C0 MM O N. ness and care had left upon, your brow. - Thus, in perfect confidence reposing in each, other, would we sink to rest, to await the dawning of another day. A"When the birds began to sing, and the sun to warm and revivify,Athe earth, we would betake ourselves to our sweet woodlanhome, where, amid green fields, shady trees, singing birds, and blooming flowers, we would while the too happy hours away. "We would choose our cot upon the borders of some silver lake, where lofty mountains vied with the clouds in grandeur, and dark shady forests invited us to enter and ramble among their cool recesses. "How delightful would be a picnic upon the fairy lake, some soft twilight hour! I see it all now,-the beautiful sheet of water, spread out like a mirror, and innocently re- flecting the serene blue heavens; the dark willow-trees dip- ping their branches in'to the edge of the lake, with a sweet, gurgling sound, and our tiny boat gliding along under- these trees, now almost touching the banks, now swiftly skimming the surface. Would not this be happiness, think you? Our appetites would be so keen, too, after a long mountain ramble, and our sleep so sweet, with a murmuring brook for our lul- laby, and the frogs and crickets for our serenaders. ("Then would come the long, bright summer days, when we would strew our paths with flowers, and weave bright wreaths of happiness, colored with the tints of the rainbow. We would sit by 'old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,' and listen in awe- to the booming thunder, as it rolled over our heads, or watch the beauty of the flashing lightning, that BOSTON COMMON. 191 seems to write the name of the awful Jehovah, in its own light, upon his skies. it When the days grew long and hot, we would hie away to some healthy watering-place, where we would meet with our city friends, and the charms of social intercourse Dild be renewed. Reading, conversation, -riding, and walking, would help to pass away the time; and in a few weeks we would return to our sylvan dell, happy to get back once more to our own sweet home. c( Now come the charms of autumn, dear Kate. The woods are clothed in their gorgeous many-colored robes, and green, red, orange, and yellow, strike the eye in an agreeable confu- sion. , Our fruits are now all -ripe, and we must be busy in gathering them for the winter. The apple-trees bend beneath their mellow burden; the pears are placing their delicious: yellow sides to the sun, and the peaches look so ripe and soft, that we are tempted to give them a kiss as we pass. The grapes are hanging in rich clusters of purple and green over our heads, and the melons are ripening at our feet. "( How calm and quiet is our ramble now through the dim forest! The walks are carpeted with brown oak-leaves, the tender twigs crackle beneath our feet, the brook is murmuring along in the distance, the birds are singing in low and plain- tive strains a'requiem to the departing year, and the distant axe of the woodmlan is heard, startling the very echoes to life, as it rings out loudly and clearly through the forest sanctua- ries. And now, as we approach home, our faithful dog gives us a loud and sonorous welcome, and the cheerful light from its windows beckons us to its peaceful shelter. "Thus would pass our time, dear Katie, provided no anger page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 BOSTON COMMON. or envy crept in to mar our paradise; but we know that in this world the trail of -the serpent is over every Eden, and we should probably be unhappy at times. But what a long sermon have I preached to you, Kate! Are you not tired of myjionsense, and almost asleep? I have been writing so longE d earnestly, that I half fancied what I wrote might be true; but, alas! 't is but a dream, like all my beautiful air-castles, and will, like them, fall for want of a founda. tion. But would, would that it might be realized! Life would be far too short to enjoy such a heaven; in and we should-so dread the dark, cold grave, which might yawn for us at any moment! "Death! what a fearful thought! It comes over me like the vision of some frightful dream, or the shadow of some dreadful nightmare, putting to flight all my sweet visions, glaring with its sunken eyes at-my darling lake and cottage, and scaring, with its long, bony fingers, all my singing birds away. It breathes, with its shivery breath, upon my mur- muring brook, and the brook changes instantly to an icile,-- a blast passes over my sweet flowers, and they shrink, and hurry to be gone! "But why do I so horribly reverse the picture, and'to you, also, to whom the idea of death is like a dark cloud, hovering over all your prospects? I know not why, unless it is that opposites are my nature. I go instanter from pleasure to pain, from sorrow to joy, from life to death; and the image of the one is but the shadow of the other. "But cheer up, dear Kate; for by thiA time you are sad enough, I know. I am sad also, to-day. The beautiful Com- mon is clothed in the gorgeous robes of autumn, and the BOSTON COMMON. 19 leaves every now and then fall, impelled by the sighing zephyr, to the ground. It reminds me of the winter that is fast approaching; alas! the winter .of my soul has already come. I have been quite happy during all the long, bright summer days,-everything was so new, so fresh ;"but the novelty has in a measure worn off. I grow weary of the everlasting piles of brick and granite, the tall steeples, the dry, dusty pavements, and the din and clatter of this large city, and begin to long once more for my own quiet chamber at Linden, or an affectionate chat with you, in our airy seat, upon' old Granite Bluff.' What happy times were those, dearest Kate! I shall never forget them. Childhood has passed; but the memory of its freshness and purity is like a cool, sparkling stream, or a green oasis in the desert. i"My cousin Ernest's conversation, however, and our ram- bles'upon the ever beautiful Common, never weary me by their sameness. Ernest is always so bright, so animated, that I cannot choose but be cheerful by his side; and although sorrow will creep in at times, yet the charm of his conversa- tion always has power to beguile me of half my grief; and as his tones linger upon my ears, and are lost in the echoes of the rustling trees over my head, I half forget myself, and am almost won to happiness. "But, Katie, I must bid you adieu. My aunt Gertrude has awakened, and called for me, and I see my cousin Ernest coming down the street. Answer this soon, and gratify your own T F ,17 page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] CHAPTER XXI. How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break?" "Know, then, that I have supported my pretensions to your hand in ! the way that best suited my character."-- IVANHOE. TTIME passed on. The winter came and went; and in my every-day duties I half forgot my melancholy, and became, as uncle Glenmore said, like my former self. I had received a great number of letters from Letitia, and one day, early in April, my uncle handed me the following elaborate and highly-scented epistle, written in a delicate hand, and upon gilt-edged note-paper. It was from Letitia, and read thus: "St. Thomas' Glen, April 7th. a MY DEAR AND EVER-TO-BE-LAMENTED HTELENA : "Time cannot alleviate the bitter anguish I endure in thy absence. I realize more and more, each day, how very dear and necessary you were, and ever will be, to my happiness. *To my happiness, did I say? To my very existence - to my soul; for are you not a part of that soul, my cherished one? and did I not dedicate it entirely to you, when you were with me? BOSTO N COMMON. 195 ,' Then, Helena, return, 1 pray you,- I plead with you,- and let me again feast upon the heaven of your eyes; let me again bask in the sunshine of your smiles; let me once-more lie upon your breast, and pour out all the sorrows of my own which have accumulated there since your departure. , Yes, Helena, -my other half, my soul,-- I have expe- rienced more anguish since your departure than my poor pen could portray, although gifted with the eloquence of a Demos- thenes. Was it not enough that I should be left solitary and X alone, mourning upon my perch, like a turtle-dove for her mate, but that I must again encounter falsehood and decep- tion from a man? Yes, my own one, I have once more (de- spairing of Elwyn Moore's love) ventured my frail bark upon the tempestuous ocean of love, and have again been cruelly repulsed. ' Helena, darling, I love once more! and this time no sniv- elling school-master, who cannot appreciate the rich treasure of a woman's love; but a tall, slender youth, of wild, glorious beauty; eyes -that took captive my silly maiden heart at once; and hair like the ambrosial locks of the gods,- golden, and floating in curls over an intellectual brow; and then, his name - why, it is so sweet, so musical, that I half lost my breath when I first heard it spoken! Listen, 'Helena, mine own, while I breathe it--Clarence Brooke! Didst ever hear anything half so beautiful? It'reminds me of the murmuring of brooks or the warbling of birds in summer time. It fell upon my enraptured ear like rich music, and vibrated among my heart-strings long after I had- heard it spoken'! "Clarence Brooke (I love to repeat the sweet name) is the page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 BOSTON COMMON. son of a wealthy gentleman, who has sent him here to com- plete his education, preparatory to entering college,--and such an addition as he is to our little cherished circle! But, O, sad to relate, my sweetest Helena! he scorns mny devoted love; he deigns not to cast one pitying glance upon my bleed- ing heart, -- bleeding but for him alone! But time will tell the tale. Should Clarence still continue cold, and regardless of my deep affection, I shall sink at his feet, and expire, breathing bout his name with my last respiration, "I am comforted, however, with the thought, that when he finds the sacrifice has been so fearful, he will be brought to realize the preciousness of the treasure he has lost. Again the cheering thought breaks in, like sunshine through an April cloud, that perhaps, disgusted with the world, and hor- rified at my untimely fate, he too will faint,- will expire! and then shall they lay us both in one grave, heap the same turf over our forms, and plant the same flowers at our heads. O, ecstasy! I cannot think of it! 'Twould be bliss, and bliss untold, to die in this manner! Who would be a deni- zen of earth, his garments clogged with clay, when he could die, and die for love? May this be my happy fate! ' " I must speak of your cousin, Harry Glenmore. He is ill, very ill at times; but manages to keep at his studies. He prays, reads, and muses, as much as ever. To tell you the truth, Helena, I never fancied Harry much. How he can afford to die, so young, so beautiful, is more than I can fathom. Poor Harry! I pity him for possessing such a senseless soul! "I suppose you have learned, ere this, that your old, false flame, Roland Hastings, has broken his engagement with i - ' ' * ' '; BOSTON COMMON. 197 Mary Listen. He'never seemed quite right after your de- parture, -so people said,- and, after going with Mary all summer, he left her abruptly. Everybody thinks that she will die in consequence of it. If she does, Helena, what mat- ters it? It will only be another instance of man's desertion and woman's love. ' "How I tremble, dearest one, when I think of that dark, that horrible time, when, but for your strong good sense, you might have died! Alas! had I then lost my idolized friend, this world would have had nothing further to please my aching fancy. I should have sunk, and perished also. i' Now, my kindred spirit, my beloved one, my heart of hearts, let me kiss thee in imagination; let me hold thee close to my bosom; let me twine my longing arms around thy be- loved form; let me invoke blessings upon thy head, as I bid thee farewell Thine all, thine own, "I TTSA." ^ The letter dropped from my trembling fingers; my head ' bowed upon the arm of the sofa, and I wept-wept, for joy had come back to my heart. A wild, vague hope that Roland '^. indeed loved me-had loved me all the while-flashed - over my heart like a stream of sunshine. I arose, and paced to and fro the floor. "I will--I must go back to Roland," thought I. "I will return to Linden; I will seek him; I will comfort his aching heart, and will never let him dream of my own past sorrow! But stop --! poor Mary Liston, - what right have I with her betrothed? Is he not hers in the sight of Heaven? and shall I, by one rashk 17* page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 :BOSTON COMMON. act, tear him from her side? No! I can never do this. - She may perish, she may die, but not by my means. I will be firm,- I will do my duty, and leave the issue to God." I flung myself back upon the -sofa-cushions, and, overcome by my emotions, sunk into a deep sleep. How long I re- mained thus sleeping I cannot tell,- but as I opened my eyes. they encountered those of Ernest Richmond. He was gaz- ing attentively at me, and I never saw such a look of interest in his face before. In his hand he held Letitia's letter, which I had unconsciously dropped. ;' Well, Ernest," said I, as I attempted to snatch it from him, (' have you read my letter?" "I have not, Miss Clifton," he answered; " even my cousin- ship admits of no such familiarity as that." This was said with a sneer, as he handed me back the document, and seated himself by my side. I was sorry for hurting his feelings, and apologized. "I did not, of course, thifk, for a moment, that you had read my letter, Ernest. I pray you pardon me." Ie smiled upon me, but so withering]y that I'suddenly burst into tears. He spoke, and his voice was stern and harsh. "Helen, have done with these foolish tears, and everlasting sighs! You are no longer a child, that you should weep for every trifling occurrence. You are seventeen years of age, and have been-at this place a year to day.' You ought urely to have improved since that time; so, dry your eyes, and weep no more." I looked at him, and wondered if this were my cousin ""' 199- BOSTO N COMMON. OM Ernest, who had always, heretofore, been so endearing in his language, so tender of my omfort, my happiness. Helen ," he ontinued , "hav e I been exactly what you wished, d uring the past yea r? Have I always obeyed you r commands, studied y our wishes, and ever been the kind , attentive cousin that I promised to b e? " , Ye u hare, indeed," I replie d. , Y ou have taught me to have helped me outof a love you very dearly, E rnest; you have h me ot thousand difficuties, and have been untiring in your efforts for y happiness." Then," continue Ernest, drawing a little paper carefully from his pooket-book, "if I have faithfully performed m y duty, I now ask and claim my reward, promised by your own han -writing, one year ago. Helen, this is the tenth of fo-r one yone year ago. Helen April!" *.I sprang f om Lmy seat, and, grasping the paper, read it through. MYshaw Ernest," I exclaimed, '"I was only in , It is too late to talk of jests now," he replied ; " I am in no humor for such conversation. I hired myself to you for one year; and now I4have come for my pay, which I must have ." I I ooked at him in surprise. Again did I feel as though he were Lucifer, and that he had come for my soul. I had only power to gasp out the words, Wh do you ask?- what do you want of me?" , at , My reward, Helen," he tepied; in marriag low, deep tone, hat admitted of no contradiction, is, your hand in marriage, which I am willing to wait another year for, only Onthi condition: I have served you faithfully for one year;for con*' tin I have serve/ page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] "vV BOSTON C OVIMON. the next, you must serve me, and do exactly mybidding: after that, we will serve each other." I I I started, in horror, from his side, and sunk, crouchingly, into a corner of the room. I did not dare to weep, for he had just forbidden it, and I was already in the power of the tyratlt. "Well, Helen," said he, at length, "I wait your sanction to my wishes. Keep me not long upon the rack." I glanced fearfully towards him; his mouth was drawn firmly together, and his gray eyes rested coldly upon me. It seemed to me that he must have had a heart of stone, to have stood there, and, in the face of all my anguish, demand of me a sacrifice so great. "O, Ernest," I tremblingly asked, " will nothing soften :: you? Will you doom me to the fulfilment of a promise made when I was in entire ignoranceof what it meant?" -"Arise, Helen," he answered, , and listen to me. I have much to say to you, and will tell you all when you are my promised wife. Arise, and do as I wish." , I arose, and looked him firmly in the face for a moment. "Ernest," I exclaimed, as he bent his lightning glance upon noe, I cannot-that is, I mean, I do not love you well nough to marry you. O, spare me, Ernest,-in pity, spare ne! I am so miserable, so unhappy, what can I do?" "Helen," said the voice of my tormentor, thrusting the ateful paper before my eyes again, , , remember your word, our written word, and do as I wish." ; "Why, Ernest," said I, "you told me that this marriage as repugnant to your feelings; that it was a contract made (I BOSTON COMMON. 201 by our parents, and that we would do all we could to prevent it." ,a Helen," said Ernest, his dark eyes kindling with sup- pressed ire, "i not another word, but tell me, yes or no. If yes, your word is sacred; if no, you have played false unto God and man, and are, in the eyes of the world, and your MIaker, a liar !" I shuddered,- a cold, sickly feeling crept over my whole frame, and I sank tremblingly into a chair. A mist came before "my eyes, and a dreadful sensation of guilt pervaded my breast, as I faintly pronounced the words that were to bind me forever to the stern, unflinching tyrant who seemed to hold my destiny in his hands. He bent his head low to catch my whisper, and when the words " I will be yours ! " were uttered, took me in his arms tenderly as a mother would her infant, pressed his first kiss upon my brow, and placed me gently upon the sofa. I sat like one petrified, - receiving his caresses as a mat- ter of course, and remaining perfectly quiet. " Helen," said Ernest, " or, my Helen, as I can now call you, you, no doubt, think- me very harsh, cruel, and dislike me exceedingly; but listen to me a few moments, before you condemn. When you were an infant, and I but seven years old, you were placed in my arms. They said that your hair was golden, and your eyes gray, like mine; that you had already pinched and scratched your nurse, as I had done; that we were alike in many other points, and that you were to be my little wife. I listened eagerly to their words, and, young as I was, understood them. I hugged the tiny thing to my page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 BOSTON CO1MON, heart, and, imprinting kiss after kiss upon its brow, be- trothed myself to it, in my own childish way. s Well, Helen, you grew up. Every one said that you were very like me in form, features, temper, &c., and that we were certainly made to go together. Our parents joined in the plan; and I determined, when but a youth of fifteen, to marry none but you. "When you were eleven years of age, I was presented with a painted portrait of you, which I examined with the most intense interest. I noted the hair, mouth, and eyes; they were exact prototypes of my own. I again determined' that you should be my wife; and so I placed the picture in my own chamber, and talked to it every day, as I would to a room-mate. Many an interesting conversation have I carried on with this little spirit-wife, as I called the picture, and of course the answers were all given to suit myself. "The time at length drew nigh when you were expected in Boston, with your guardian. I heard, every now and then, of your well-doing; and every letter I received from the east increased' my love for you. At length I learned of your preference for Mr. Hastings, and my heart was on fire for a while with the intelligence. I pictured to myself your lov- ing this man, and resolved, even at the very altar, that I would- interfere, and draw you, if possible, from your:-would- bed husband's side. ?"By and by, the rumor came that -you and Hastings had parted, -and forever, -that he was about to be married to -another, and that a change had taken place in you. I mused over this change, but gave it another name. ' She is, or has - . *' ' * * -a BOSTON COMMON. 20-3 been, in love,' thought I; 'but I will yet conquer that. She must and shall be mine.' "At length, Helen, you came to Boston. I was all eager- ness, all impatience, to behold one for whom I had waited, watched, and dreamed, so many years; and when Gerald told me that you had actually arrived, and were waiting to see me, my heart beat with a wild sensation of joy and uncer- tainty. I could scarcely wait until I had ascended-the stairs; but I schooled my heart, and by the force of a strong will subdued my desires at once. I entered, and fixed my eyes upon the being whom I had so long loved by proxy. I shall never forget my sensations, Helen, when I first beheld you.- You were half lying, half sitting, upon the sofa, reading, and apparently indifferent to all around you; but in this very indifference I read a strong interest for the cousin of whom you had heard so much. "How well I remember your dress, and everything about ' you'! You were attired in blue. I shall always love you in that color; and you must wear it often, by and by., 1I: spoke, and in your answer our eyes met for the first time. :!; What eyes! - how like, and yet how unlike, my own! Mine were deep, and cold, perhaps;-yours warm, expressive, and affectionate. In them I read that your nature was ardent, and that you possessed. a heart capable of deeply lov- ing the object upon whom you placed your affections. "From that moment I resolved that I would be that object; and that, in return for my long years of devotion to you, you should bestow all the strength of your love upon me, and that I would gain the entire control of your heart and will. :In view of this, I tried a little experiment at our first meeting, page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 O BOSTON COMMON. which, if it proved successful, I resolved to consider as an omen -in my favor. It was, as you perhaps recollect, per. fectly successful. I made you, by a few words, suddenly perceive a striking resemblance between us, where, a moment before, you saw none. You had yielded to me in this, and all I had to do was to follow my success. "In the evening I called again, and, full of impatience to ascertain your feelings with regard to me, I mentioned our proposed marriage. I saw in a moment that it was disagree. able, hateful, to you; and I resolved to try another experiment. I had heard of your piety, of your sacred regard for your word, &c., and I determined to test them both. "I did not much marvel at your not loving me, for I had heard a deal of your preference for -Hastings; but I was resolved that you should love me, and with all your power of loving, also. I felt a glory in being able to subdue this little, wild spirit to do my entire bidding. "Well, Helen, I determined to be kind to you, - so very kind, that you could not help feeling a strong interest in me, and a desire for my society; and, first of all, I bound you, all unknown to yourself, to me, by a written promise, which I carelessly asked you to sign. "After this, I abstained carefully from all caresses, from all appearance of loving, and treated you very much as a kind, affectionate brother would a little pet of a sister. I carried you to rides, walks, sailing-parties, picnics, &c.; played all sorts of games with you, answered your questions, and, in short, quite won your confidence by my untiring exer- 'tions'for your happiness and comfort. "But this is not all, Helen. I have suffered, like your. BOSTON COMMON. 205 self, in the year that has past. I have studied your nature, and have discovered a secret pain, a hidden grief, upon that brow, that all my art cannot heal. I have learned that, young as you are, you do really love another; but that you would willingly give up that other, and forget your love, if you considered him unworthy of you, or ceased to respect him. (4 What anguish I endured when the truth first broke upon me that you did really love another, I have no words to relate. All the world seemed a chaos of blackness and con- X] fusion before me; my interest in everything expired, and i in my grief I was ready to tear my heart from my bosom; but reason, governed by my powerful will, came once more to my aid, and I bent my whole soul to her stern purposes. So great a command did I obtain over myself, that no one, not bven you, Helen, ever dreamed of the vulture that was consuming me. "Many a time, my Helen, when walking by your side in ; that beautiful paradise, the Common, have I longed to fall at your feet, to confess my boundless love for you, and to im- plore you, with'all the eloquence which I possessed, to have .I pity upon my sufferings, to give me relief, if but for a mo- ment; -but I have, by the most powerful efforts, restrained -I myself, and have said that I would wait for the end of the year on which your promise was given. "One week ago, Helen, I received a letter from my cor- respondent in the east, wherein he stated to me that he whom you loved was entirely unworthy of you; that he was a compound of vanity and weakness; and that, if possi-I ble, the connection between you must be stopped. I had. 18 page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 206 BOSTON COMMON. heard the same story, Helen, a hundred times before, from your guardian and friends; but ndw, receiving confirmaltion from a person whose good judgment in the matter I could not doubt, I believed. The idea of my cherished Helen, her -for whom I would willingly have died, loving a silly, brain- less fop, who would make her miserable, was madness, was death, to me. I resolved to claim you at once for my own - to force you by/one-grand action to promise to be my wife, and then to urge and induce you to love me as I wished to be loved, My object thus far is accomplished. I have conquered;- you are, mine as far as your word goes, and I do not fear fort that. "Now, HEeleni to win your love. And, first, I shall as- sume no more softness with you, but come out boldly in my own true colors; shall show you just what I am,- a stern, uncompromising piece of humanity; cold and cruel where the object of my affection displeases me, or acts contrary to the rules of good sense, -warm-hearted, affectionate, and indul- gent, where she does as I wish,- and my wishes always tend towards her good. "I shall: endeavor to keep you, Helen, where I wish you to -be, now that you are mine. You are-quite young, and possess many- faults; little, perhaps, at present, but which may, by neglect, become enormous. These faults I shall take the utmost pains to eradicate from your naturej, even at the expense of your happiness for a time; and, in order to gain power over you sufficient for this purpose, I shall teach you to fear me at first, to tremble at my coming,: and to strive to be and do the thing which God and myself require of you. "( Now, dearest -elen, you knoW allt- iy tlove, my suffer- /S . BOSTON COMMON. 207 ings, trials, and success. Think of it as much as you please, but of one thing be assured, --for it is inevitable, fixed as the stars: mine you must and shall be, and mine willingly, and with your whole heart also, although years may, and proba- bly will, pass before it is accomplished; for, Helen, a strong trait of my character is this: when I fix my mind upon an object, and determine to attain that object, I persevere, even until death, before it is abandoned." . He ceased; but the words he had uttered had burnt each one deep into my heart and memory. I could no more forget what he had said to me than I could alter the position of the stars. I lay back, with my eyes fixed upon his, in: a sort of a trance; and, at the conclusion of his long speech, bowed my head upon my hand, and yielded to my fate with a, sort of resignation that I had no power or will to contend with. I felt that I had found my master, - that a strong man had got me into his power, had locked me in a cage of bars. and bolts, and that it was of no use for me to beat about, or try to release myself, for I should only show my own weakness and his power thereby. For a long time after Ernest had left me did I remain in that position, scarcely able to move a limb. My heart seemed to have grown old suddenly, and to have -withered upon its stem. I had a vague sensation, however, that I should yet . arise and break my bondage. But not now, not now; - it would, in my present state of mind, be too much for me. I was sick and weak, and thereby unable to contend with Ernest. Another feeling had also taken possession of my mind. In spite of his cruelty and tyranny, there was something in the page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] 208 BOSTON COMMON. stern, unbending nature of my cousin that just suited me; sbmething in my own composition that bounded forward to meet this bold spirit with joy; something that -greeted and hugged, even with transport, the hand that pained. A hun- dred times I asked of my heart the question, "Have I, then, been unfaithful to my first love? Have I the power of transferring my affections so suddenly?" I assured my- self, however, by considering that I was in the power of a nature far stronger than my own, and that there was not the least danger of my ever loving him. After many hours spent in a tumult of .bitter feelings, I arose and dragged my weary frame to my chamber, where I sought my couch, and endeavored to tranquillize my feelings by sleep. CHAPTER XXII. ,' Through the heart Should jealousy its venom once diffuse, ye fairy prospects, then, Ye beds of roses, and ye bowers of joy, Farewell; ye gleamings of departed peace, Shine out your last the yellow, tinging plague; Internal vision taints, and in a night Of livid gloom Imagination wraps."' THOMSON. I AWOKE in the morning with an aching brow, and a pain- ful sense of tightness about my chest, which increased to such a degree that a physician was called in before noon to administer relief. He shook his head, however, when he had examined my pulse, and, saying that my mind was troubled, left, without giving me any medicine. My uncle and aunt then sought my couch, and desired me to explain to them the cause of my illness. As their desires were commands with me, which I dared not disobey, I told them, in a choking voice, that I had the night before pledged myself to become the wife of Ernest Richmond; that I loved him not, but had been forced by him to make this promise. My kind friends were delighted! They embraced me very 18* page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 BOSTON COMMON, tenderly, and wished me all sorts of happiness, saying that I had fulfilled the darling wish of their hearts; that nothing could have given them greater pleasure; and that I was their own sensible child, after all! It seemed so strange to me that they, who had ever been so affectionate, so mindful of my comfort and peace of mind, should thus rejoice over my sufferings; and the question came involuntarily to my mind, c; Is it, then. true that they have no sympathy for me, and that my illness is rather a source of pleasure to them than otherwise? O, Ernest, Ernest! how completely have you enthralled every one about you! ) In the evening H was able to sit up in aunt Gertrude's easy-chair, and receive my intended husband, who was ex- pected every moment. He had not, in pity to his over-sen- sitive feelings, I suppose, been informed of my illness, and came forward with real concern depicted upon his countenance, which changed, however, to his usual expression, as he per- ceived that I noticed it. "Good-evening, Helen," said he, bending his eyes inquir- ingly upon me. "Are you ill?" "I have been so," I replied, "but am now better." "And the cause?" he demanded, still gazing earnestly in my face. I could not deny him the cause of my illness, or assign any other reason than the right one; and so, as if in obedi- ence to his look, I answered that our interview of last even. ing, and its consequences, coming, as they did, so unexpectedly upon me, had quite unnerved me, and I had been very much indisposed all day. JLD V b JL V 1* 1 W - Y" 1 ,This is foolishness, Helen," he answered. You must l never allow your nerves to get possession of your better judgment. You must leave off being so romantic as to faint and sicken at every wind that blows." I have suffered so much, Ernest," I replied, " that I am prone to grow weak and sick upon every occasion. You must learn to bear with me, and to excuse my weakness." , I shall not excuse your faults very readily," he replied. "You must strive to correct them yourself, nor seek for my indulgence towards them, and then you will be too happy to weep at every silly trifle." "But, Ernest, the occurrence of last evening was no trifle." "It was a disappointment," he replied, "which you no doubt keenly felt. You had made up your mind to love another, and had fixed the whole affection of your heart upon that other. When, therefore, your friends,who were older and wiser than yourself, decided that you must abandon your intentions, your high spirit rebelled at once. I own, Helen, that I was somewhat taken aback by your hesitation. That you, with your high-toned mind, devotional habits, and tender conscience, should have refused, for a, moment, to comply with your duty,--a duty which you owed to your Maker, your parents, and yourself, and also that you should refuse to fulfil your written promise, quite surprised and astonished me." I shuddered, as Ernest thus conversed to me, and was half tempted to exclaim, "How can you love, yet torture me so?" but, fearful of another lecture, I forbore. The next day, I was somewhat surprised at receiving a ', page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 BOSTON -COMMON. letter from Mary Liston. I opened it, and read, with eager- ness, :the following: c; Linden, April 9th, 18-. DEAR HELEN : YOU may think it strange that I thus, and for the first time, address you; but we have been friends from infancy, and I must, relying upon your goodness of heart, speak to you concerning a subject that has long troubled me. ASnd,- first, I will unfold a secret of my own, which is of vital importance to me. I allude to my predilection for Roland Hastings. Yes, Helen; from the first time that I beheld this young man, I loved him, and loved him so intensely that every feeling of my nature was entirely devoted to him. His face haunted me by day, and was ever beside my couch during the silent watches of the night. "With what anguish, then, did I notice that you loved him also, Helen! Your advantages of family, fortune, and education, were superior to mine; and with what jealous eyes did I watch the progress of this love! While I saw with pain that your interest for him increased, I also felt a secret delight that he took so little notice of-you, and seldom as much as of myself. "Time, passed, ahd you were, happily for my peace, sum- moned from home. I was thus left in quiet possession of my love; and then did I seek, by every means in my power, to draw from him his exact feelings with regard to you. After a long time, and by dint of continual- persuasion, he acknowl- edged, to my perfect horror, that he loved you, and was only waiting a favorable -opportunity to divulge his passion! "I was perfectly infuriated; and, in- the wildness of my anguish, whispered words into his ear that caused him to BOSTON COMMON. 213 experience a little of the misery that racked my own breast. I hinted to him, Helen, that you were not worthy of him; also that you had had a lover once, who, after going w ith you for a while, left you in disgust at your improper con- duct. "All this I hinted to him in a manner that he could not gainsay. Nor did I stop here. I also told him that I had always known- you; that your private conduct was not what' the world supposed, but that you were prone to evilof every kind. I bade him beware of you, for you were a finished coquette, and that it was your greatest pride to boast of your conquests; that I had even heard you say that you should consider it a great glory to conquer Roland Hastings;- and lastly, Helen, I told him that I had asked you if you would marry him, to which you had replied that you would not, for worlds, marry a man so inferior to you in wealth, station,-&c. "All this had the desired effect upon my listener. His eyes flashed with the indignation of his soul; and, in a mo- ment of frenzy, he took my hand, and, saying that I was the best friend he had in the world, offered himself for my ac- ceptance. "I need not tell you, Helen, how gladly I accepted the proffered hand, nor how soon after we were engaged. I was happy, - at least, as happy as my wicked heart would allow me to be; and when Roland proposed carrying you to that ball, in order, as he said, to punish you; for your presumption in supposing that he loved you, I entered into the cruel plot with the greatest relish,- and bade him go. Your appearance at the ball, however, looking so light-hearted, happy, and gay, smote upon my conscience, and I trembled lest some e. page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 214 BOSTON COMMON. terrible judgment should overtake me for plotting against ,your peace. I was informed, the next day, of your conversa- tion together. I feasted upon the words; but I understood too well the secret of your emotion, although Roland sup- posed it occasioned by your chagrin and disapp6intment, in not being able, after all your exertions, to conquer his heart. "After this, we were closer friends than ever. Roland' was all attention, all kindness; and, in spite of my dark sin, I was perfectly happy when with- him. "Time passed. I heard no more of you; but I had no- ticed, at times, that Roland was absent-minded and moody. I attributed this to anything but the right source, and tried to persuade myself that all was right. At length,to my dis- may, you returned from the Glen, and, as I supposed, to re- main permanently. One day, Roland and myself were seated beneath ,a tree. He was twining a wreath with which to deck my brow, and when it was finished he placed it there, with a few affectionate words. "At this moment I heard a groan, and, looking'up' the height, We both saw you, with your face pale as death, and eyes wild and glassy, gazing fearfully upon us. The next moment, you had buried your-head deep in Katherine Mer- ton's bosom, and she was endeavoring to bear your half-faint- ing form from the spot. "O, Helen! I shall never forget that moment. It was the knell to my happiness, I fear- for, from that time, Roland has never appeared to regard me as before. Your whole face and attitude indicated that you loved him, and I think he understood it perfectly. - ' You left, Helen; but you were-fearfully avenged, for I BOSTON COMMON. 215 have never known a moment's peace since, and Roland has seemed, for months, to my aching fancy, to be pondering over that mountain scene; and it is quite plain to me that he is at times very unhappy. "Now, Helen, comes the worst part of my story. Letitia Milford, your old poarding-school friend, has, during the past winter visited our village many times, accompanied by a youth of singular beauty and attractions. They have attended the balls and parties here, and have, in consequence, become well acquainted with both Roland and myself. "One evening, last week, I was startled by the sudden appearance of Roland in,-my room, as I sat at work. His hair was dishevelled, and his; eyes were wild and blood- shot. "Mary, exclaimed he, ' tell me, and tell me truly, have you any reason to suppose that Helen Clifton ever loved . me?,' ( I glanced at him in fear. ' The truth, Mary,' continued he, grasping my arm violently. : ;: "(' Well, Roland,' I replied, at length, with. I was far from feeling, 'you behave very st' hatWhat is Helen Clifton to you, or me, that you should thus go mad over her? ' ( "Mary,' he answered, speaking as calmly as possible, 'if you have deceived me in, regard to that young lady, you will suffer for it. Tellme, at once, did she love me?' "' Alas! Roland,' I sobbed,' I know not, I cannot tell. Who has said aught to you concerning this?' (' Letitia Milford,' he gloomily replied, ' has, from time to I time, hinted as much to me; and, only this evening, did she page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] i@216 BOSTON COMMON. give me a -long account of that accursed night at the ball, *shen, as she said, poor Helen came very near dying upon the floor. Helen -is a girl of too much mind to love lightly;' and, by heavens, Mary Listen, if you have harmed a hair of her head, you will rue it!' "' I was shocked, horrified, for a few moments. My powers of p rsuasion seemed to have deserted me, but I attempted to soothe the irritated man. How have I offended you, dear- est Roland?' I asked; 'andhowcan I again be reinstated in your favor?' : " ' There is but one way, Mary,'-he' replied. ( If you have :.. told the truth concerning Miss Clifton, all will be right. I have revealed to Letitia all you said to me about her, and she will soon hear of it. If you have wronged her, then- fare- W!el, Mary, for Helen shall be avenged!' - "I s k .like e one turned -lo stone. My cheek was blanched with terror, and a nervous excitement thrilled through my veins- like lava. Roland was, happily for me, too much absbrbed:i his own feelings to notice mine, and so we i-: -.parted.^t, O, Helen, the utmost misery, the utmost wretcli; 8ifi Shas since been mine. You know not, you can- not conceive, how I suffer. I have slandered you to one whom, you love; whose good opinion you would, perhaps, die to obtaini; and have, by winning words, bound the unwilling Hastings to my side. I have told many untruths, and I much fear that my wickedness is too great to be pardoned. But, Helen, listen to me a moment, and turn not away, in loathing, from one who already loathes herself. If you pos- sess, as they say you do, the spirit of religion,-- if you have the love and fear of God constantly before your egyes, - I be- BOSTON COMMON. 217 geech you to forgive the deadly wrong I have done you, and on my knees I entreat you to keep it entirely from Roland. Do not let him know one word of this letter, or of the one which you will receive from Miss Milford. In pity, expose not my weakness, my wickedness, to one whom I so madly love. t( O, Helen, consider! You are wealthy, and have a huh:-' dred friends about you. Rumor says you are engaged to one who has long loved and is every way worthy of you. O, then, with all these inestimable gifts about you, deprive me not- of my sole means of existence, my all! Dear Helen, let'me entreat of you to return good for evil! Do me not,'by a few words of yours, this irreparable injury; for, if I lose Roland, I shall assuredly die. By one word of yours Ro- land would be at your side, for he dearly loves you. But consider, Helen, he is my betrothed husband in the sight of God and man. Once more I beseech you to- spare my life, and forgive me, as you wish to be forgiven. ("From the unhappy MARY." The paper fell from my paralyzed hands. A wild ray of joy shot through my heart, as I thought of the words "Ro- land dearly loves you; " and a strong feeling of indignation pervaded my whole breast, as I determined upon retaliating, and severely too, upon the author of all my misery. "Yes," said I, pacing the floor, in a wild excitement, " she has caused me weeks and months of uptold anguish; all my bitter tears have been shed through her means. She has uttered base words in the ears of one whose good opinion I 19 - ** * page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 218 BOSTON COMMON. would, indeed, have died to obtain; and dearly shall she pay for it'! But stop!"I continued, as a fearful sense of my situ- ation rushed upon me;!"I am already engaged, and to one who will never release me. I cannot, alas! ever marry Roland. O, had this letter but come one week sooner! 'T is now too late, and that vile Mary Listen will yet marry my idol." I threw myself upon the sofa. My passion was fast get- ting the upper hand of my reason, and I was rapidly yielding to an unwarrantable burst of temper. Just then, aunt Glen- more entered the room. "Why, Helen, child," said she, '4 what is the matter now? you appear quite angry about something." I turned away my blushing face, and she continued: ," I am afraid you are not in a frame of mind to hear of a very pleasant surprise I have in store for you." "What is it, aunt Gertrude?"I asked, without evincing much curiosity, however. "Your cousin Harry," she replied, "has just arrived, and inquired for you. x Shall I tell him that you are in. dulging in a fit of temper, and cannot see him at present?" "No, no, dear aunt," I quickly replied; 4 tell him any- thing but that. How long is he to remain in Boston, and what is the state of his health?" "His healfh is exceedingly delicate," she answered, , and his physicians have advised him to leave his studies, and to travel a while. We are going with him soon to Niagara Falls, and of course my Helen wishes to be one of the party." BOSTON COMMON.- 219 ,i O,-delightful, aunt Gertrude!"I replied. "When do we start?" "In June; -but come away now and see Harry. He is very anxious to behold you once more." I followed my aunt quickly to her parlor, and had the happiness of seeing the same calm, spiritual face, and hearing once more the tones of that voice, that had brought such comfort to my heart in days gone by. - Dear Harry," and " dear Helen," was all we could say, as we warmly embraced. Harry looked much paler and thinner than when I last saw him; but the same holy light beamed in the eyes, the same calm smile lingered around the mouth. " O, Harry," said I, after a while, ' I have so much to tell you, so much to confess, so many wanderings to deplore, that I am half ashamed to commence." - "I trust you have committed no wilful- errors?"Harry mildly asked. "O, I hope not, Harry," I replied; "but I have such a temper, that is always rising when I least expect it, and so many crosses are clustering around my path!" "I trust you remember who sends afflictiqns, Helen, and also that it is our duty to try and bear these trials with as much fortitude as possible?" "O0 yes, Harry, I know all this; but it is so very hard to do right, always!" Harry made no reply, but appeared quite grave for a long time. That evening, upon retiring to my room, I sat down and indited the following epistle to Letitia. page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 BOSTON COMMON. "Boston, April 12th, 18-. "CDEAR LETISE: "And so, in spite of all your sacred promises, your unwa. veringfriendship, and your undying love, you have betrayed me, and to Roland! You have told him of my early pas- sion; you have descanted largely upon the unbounded love I once bore him, and have entered, with your eloquent tongue, into all the particulars of my chamber and carpet scene. A pretty friend are you, truly, and one to whom I shall be quite likely to reveal my secrets again in a hurry! You never supposed I should discover this, did you? and so, in this supposition, remained quite at your ease! "Well, Letise, for the sake of your love of talking, and also in consideration of a service you have unwittingly done me thereby, I forgive you; only be careful in future, and make no professions of love or friendship that \you cannot abide by. "Please consider me in a pet just now, and excuse me, for the sake of yours, as ever, -HTT!N." I despatched this the next morning, and then tried to pre- pare a suitable answer to Mary's letter. Before writing, however, I resolved to haye a talk with cousin Harry, and sought him, therefore, for that purpose. I found him in his mother's room alone, and reading. "Harry," said I, II I have come to talk a while with you. Are you at liberty to listen?" "Certainly," he replied, closing his book, and leaning back in the easy-chair; "I am always happy to converse with you, Nellie." L. BOSTON COMMON. 221 , Harry," I softly began, "I have been very unhappy since I saw you last, and my misery was all occasioned by one person, a young girl of my acquaintanice. She has deeply wronged me, and every bitter tear I ever shed was caused by her. Yes, Harry," I continued, in a louder tone, "I was a glad and happy child, until she poisoned my whole existence, put out the light of hope from my path, and rendered my life a burden, which, but for her, might have been so useful, so happy. And now, Harry, I am going to pay her back in her own coin. I have it in my power to stop all the fountains of her peace, to darken her whole existence, and, in short., to render her life as wretched as she has made mine; and I will do it. Yes, even now- " I stopped; for Harry had arisen from his chair, and was gazing earnestly in my face. "Is this my friend Helen," said he, " that was wont to be so mild and forgiving? Do that contracted brow, those flashing eyes, and that mouth, breathing out vengeance, be-- long to Helen Clifton, who has promised to live all her life in the love and fear of God? Do I really see and hear aright?" I was much abashed, but answered, in a somewhat subdued tone, "Why, Harry, she has cruelly slandered me, and to one whose good opinion I would have bartered life to obtain. What am I to do in this case? Sit down and bear all the wrongs she has heaped upon me in silence?" "No, certainly not," answered Harry; "but explain to me, Helen, and I will endeavor to advise you the best means to pursue." "Listen, Harry. I have, or had, a very dear friend, whom 19* page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 BOSTON COMMON. I sincerely loved, and with whom I wished to pass my life. Well; just when I was at the very acme of happiness, just when I supposed myself quite sure of my prize, it was rudely snatched from my grasp. - In my disappointment and agony, I sought you, dear Harry; and you breathed words of peace into my heart; you held out to me the consolations of reli- gion, and bade me live and be happy once more. ("Well, Harry, time went on, I was quiet and calm, and, in the exercise of my new duties, forgot, for a while, my misery. I came to this city, and entered into novel scenes and pleasures. Still, the memory of the loved one would creep in at times, and render me sick at heart. I was just beginning to be calm once more, when this letter came to me," I continued, as I placed it in his hand. "Read, and see how I have been wronged."' , Harry took the letter, and read it through to the end. "My poor Helen," said he, ,( you have suffered, and much more than I was aware of. I grieve for you sincerely. But now for the ,poor girl, upon whom you are so anxious to be avenged. What is it you wish to do to her? Is she not already suffering, even more than yourself? for, in addition to her other troubles, she bears the pangs of a wounded con- science. Are you not, as she says, already avenged? And can you, with all your means of happiness, with your innu- merable blessings, wish to wreak a few moments' passion upon a poor creature, who has come out and frankly confessed all; to you? Would this be acting the part of a kind, generous nature, think you? Would not you wrong your own heart? Could you so far forget yourself as to think, for a moment, of such a thing?" BOSTON COMMON. 223 , But, Harry, consider. She has deeply injured and re. viled me." , Who is it, Helen, that has said, ' When ye are reviled, revile not again '? Who has commanded us to forgive our brother until seventy times seven? And can I believe that you, Helen, whose sins have been washed in the blood of the Lamb,--can I believe, I say, that you could so far forget yourself and your divine Master as to seek for revenge upon a poor, erring mortal, who, unlike yourself, has probably never had any religious instruction, and who, in the bitter anguish of her heart, has, as a last hope, placed herself en- tirely in your power, and cried to you for mercy? No, Helen; I see that your whole nature revolts at the idea of such an action; you are shocked when -I place the subject thus boldly before you; you see plainly that it would be act- ing an ungenerous, as well as a wicked part." , I do, indeed," I replied; 4 "but must I sit down and write her that I have forgiven- her all, when I have not?" , Certainly not,"' he answered. "Write no such thing, unless you feel it. But why not forgive her, Helen? Has not God forgiven your sins, and those of far greater enormity than the one you are now called upon to forgive? Have you not sinned against him all your life? Are you not daily, I might say hourly, transgressing some law of his? Do you not nightly have cause to implore, with tears of contrition, the forgiveness of your heavenly father? And will you slight one such petition, breathed in bitter anguish, by a mortal as sinful and erring, and perhaps as penitent, as your- self?" "O, Harry I sobbed, "I will forgive her; I will pardon page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] BOSTO N COMMON. her freely; but the sacrifice is great, and leaves me without bhe power of reinstating myself in Roland's favor. Must I forever be the subject of his suspicions, when, by one little word, I could bring him to my feet? " Harry mused a. while. " Your own good sense must guide you in this," said he. You can forgive her, and say nothing about your own troubles. Should Roland question you, tell him the truth, of course; should he not, you may as well be silent, and thus, in the language of Scripture, heap coals of fire upon your enemy's head." "But I might be so happy, so blest," said I, " were it not for this cruel destiny!" "Helen," said Harry, " I now understand your situation exactly. You are placed ins a thorny path, my poor child, and need a strong guiding hand. But, remember, you are a betrothed wife, and as such your first duty is to your intend- ed husband. Mary Liston is also betrothed; and you have no more right to sever those ties, than she had to slander you to Roland. Try, Helen, and fulfil your duty in every point. There is much demanded of you, my dear cousin; but, if the sacrifice is great, the reward will be so likewise. You must earnestly entreat God, Nellie, to aid you in this difficulty. He will lend a listening ear to your cries, and grant you that peace that the world cannot take away." I thanked Harry for his kind advice, and, taking the let- ter, sought my own chamber. Here I examined my heart faithfully, and firmly determined to do as he had counselled. Feeling still some marks of my stubborn will, I knelt, and poured forth my whole heart in a prayer to God. I laid be- fore him my injuries, my sufferings, my temptations. I im. plored him to enable me to make a complete sacrifice of my own feelings, and to do all in my power to restore peace once more to the bosom of her who had acted so basely towards me. I arose, calm, strong, and refreshed and, sitting down to my desk, indited the following to Miss Listen : "Boston, April 13th, 18-. MY DEAR MARY: "I received your letter yesterday, and -was exceedingly surprised at the contents. I will own, Mary, that your con. duct has made me very unhappy in times past; for I did love Roland Hastings, and wished him to think well of me. However, that is past, and I am ready to forgive you, even as I hope to be forgiven by my heavenly Father. But, Mary, never be guilty of the like-again; do not such wickedness; seek not to wrong another. Such actions inevitably recoil upon our own heads. Pray to God every day for a better spirit, and ask him to forgive you. He will listen to the simplest petition, if breathed in the spirit of faith and peni- tence. Remember all I have said to you, and go and sin no more. Affectionately, HELEN." I laid this little letter humbly before my Maker, and asked him if I had done right, - if the sacrifice was complete. I thanked him for the power, lent me from on high, to enable me to accomplish such an action; and, full of peace such as I had not enjoyed for a long time, I despatched my letter by a servant to the office. But my trials were not destined to end here. A few days. afterwards, I received another letter, in the hand-writing of page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] 226 BOSTON COMMON. Roland himself. -- It was the first' one I had ever received * 'from that source, and I half raised it to my lips to kiss it; but just then the words "Ernest, I will be yours," rose in my mind, and, determining to be faithful, even in little things, I hastily unclosed and read the following: "Linden, April 14tl/, 18-. "MiSS H. CLIFTON: "I trust you will pardon me for the liberty I take in thus addressing you, and also the question I am about to propose. -It is due to certain feelings I have suffered on your account that you should give me a correct answer to a. rumor that is afloat in this vicinity. It is said that you are engaged to be married to your cousin, Ernest Richmond. May I dare ask you for the truth of this report? If so, I have nothing further to say than to again beg pardon for my seeming impertinence. Should it not be true, you will again hear from yours, respectfully, -ROLAND HASTINGS." For more than an hour after I received this missive did I pace my chamber to and fro, in the wild irresolution of grief. Sometimes"I resolved to defy Ernest, Mary, and the whole world, -and, flying to Roland, tell him that I would be his, and only his;, but duty would here step in, and, with a stern, for- bidding front, reprove me severely for my dereliction.. "Roland loves me," thought I, ( and must I give him up? ":Will it be acting the part of a Christian? Shall I not con- demn him to unhappiness, as well as myself?" Again did I have recourse to prayer. Again did I wres- tle with God for strength to carry me safely through this BOSTON COMMON. 227 dark, this thorny way; and again did I find peace in his blessed promises. It was plainly set before me what I must do. I sought Ernest, and, in a firm, unwavering tone, told him all. I commenced with the first time I had ever be- held Roland, until the last. I told him all my disappoint- ment and anguish, - dwelling but lightly upon the latter, how- ever, - and in conclusion showed him the two letters I had received from Roland and Mary. He listened eagerly to my statements, read the letters through minutely to the end, but made no comment, except- ing to rise, when he had concluded, and place-pen, ink, and paper, before me. ', What is this for, Ernest?"I asked. "I wish you to finish this business," he replied, "by answering Hastings' letter." "What shall I say, Ernest?"I inquired. "Just what you please," he replied, takinig uip a book; , only be quickl." I seized the pen, and, with an unfaltering hand, wrote the following: it ROLAND HASTINGS, ESQ. "SIR: I received your note with considerable surprise, and perused its contents with much more. If it will be any satisfaction to you to be assured of a certain matter, know, then, that I am the affianced wife of Ernest Richmond. "I am, sir, yours, &c., "HELEN CLIFTON." I placed the note in Ernest's hand, who glanced eagerly page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 BOSTON COMMON. over its contents. "My own noble Helen,"- he exclaimed, clasping me in his arms, " you are as brave a little spirit as I ever met with. God bless you!!" I thought him uncommonlyv- calm. I had expected he would be furious, but he had probably learned as much as I had told him from some other source, and it was, consequent- ly, nothing new to him. Was I happy, now that my task was accomplished, - now that I had, by one word, thrown Roland's love forever from me? I felt, it is true, a calm peace, in the knowledge that I had done my duty; my conscience wAs at rest; but I had to struggle daily at the foot of the Cross for strength to feel entirely submissive to God's will. What sweet!eurs did I now enjoy in Harry Glenmore's society! He was ever talking and encouraging me, in his mild, patient way, and striving to strengthen me, in the path I had chosen. Sometimes, when I sat thinking of my past life, and its one bitter trial, I would feel my heart rebel; and then would I seek Harry's side, and in his holy conversa- tion feel, indeed, that the sorrows of this life were as nothing compared with the joys of that bright world for which we were struggling. Harry was fast ripening for heaven. His cough had be- come fearful, and he was hastening down to the grave, in all the glory of his youth and beauty. As I sat by his side, listening to his sweet discourse, I felt as though every mo- ment which could be spared from my studies must be devoted to him; for I looked forward to the time when I should no longer listen to the tones of that voice, or be en- couraged by the cheering words of that bright spirit. BOSTON COMMON. 229 In consequence of Harry's fast-declining health, our visit to Niagara was postponed. Our hotel was situated near the Common, and Harry's room exactly opposite it, where he could lie daily with his face turned towards it, and breathe the refreshing breezes from that sweet place. It was one of his greatest pleasures to be allowed to walk slowly by my side in this place on fine mornings, and in this manner did we pass many hours of tranquil delight. Dear Harry! the earth has long since closed over thy bright form; the hand that so softly clasped mine, as we wound slowly through the paths of our favorite retreat, and the gentle, manly voice, are all hushed in the silent tomb; but the memory of those-days will never be effaced from my mind, -and the truths thou didst then engrave upon that mind will be as enduring as eternity. 20 "- - page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] CHAPTER XXIII. l -!s In her ears the sound Yet rung of lit/ persuasive words, impregned With reason to her seeming, and with truth." MLTON; FoR some time past Ernest, in consideration of my trouble, had forborne to torture me ; but as the weeks went on, and I appeared to feel so much calmer, he recommenced his assumed surveillance and guardianship of me, in good earnest. I had always, since the first night of my engagement, felt a slight fear of him, which he took care to increase, as he expected thereby to have a much easier task in correcting my faults. I did fear Ernest. I saw in him the seeds of a good and great nature,- a bold, free, independent spirit, which scorned to do a mean action, and a powerful will to control and resist temptation. It seemed as though hd spurned. weakness of all sorts from his path. Of course I esteemed and respected such a character, - one who had, or seemed to have, so per- feet a control over himself; for I loved, nay, reverenced, strength and goodness, in whatever form they presented themselves. l It is not at all strange that, valuing his good opinion so BOSTON COMMON. 231 * ; g i highly, I s6ou be very much pained when he reproved me for my faults :He was quite different from Harry. He never sought t2 correct an error in a mild, Christian-like way, but would present the worst side of the subject to me at once, and, with a stern, forbidding manner, reprove me severely for it, and command me to do differently. I respected Ernest, as I said before, but still I did not love him. - He was cold, or seemed to be; and, although he loved with perhaps more fervor than man ever loved before, he would inflict the greatest suffering upon me, wound me by the coldest language and conduct, and then leave me in tears. I could never compromise with Ernest. I could only win his approbation by a calm, dignified exterior, a lady-like de- meanor, and a constant watch over myself, to see that no word escaped me which might cause him to frown upon me. A want of all these little things in me was considered a fault in Ernest's eyes, which I was obliged to correct, or receive the utmost coldness and disapprobation from him. ' "Little things, my Helen," said he, one day, to me, ' make up the sum and happiness of life. The whole world is composed of atoms-the years of months, the months of days, and the days of minutes. 'When I first knew you, Helen, you were, or seemed to be, absorbed in some deep grief. I often found you in a revery, or in tears. The outward world seemed to possess no charms for you; you were ready to give up in despair. It was then that I noticed the faults of your character, which Isupposed had sprung up rapidly like weeds in your mind,- and grown almost to matu- rity without your being aware of it. You were very care. less as to your personal appearance; your dress was often page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 282 BOSTON COMMON. -soiled; your shoes untied; your hair, which, with proper atten. tion, might be made to curl and look so beautifully, was gen- erally left floating over your shoulders in the utmost disorder; and many a time, when we were going out in haste, did you make me wait, while you pulled over a dozen boxes or draw- ers to find a pair of gloves, or-a handkerchief; and when the gloves were found, they were generally in such a shocking condition that I was half ashamed to be seen walking with you. Again, your dress, although always made of beautiful material, was either dirty, torn, or out of order in some way, so that you generally presented a most forlorn appearance. "I noticed also, with pain, that you seemed not to have the least care or thought of these things. Although you always saw me neat and well dressed, it never seemed to occur to you that it was a duty which you owed both yourself and me to make such an appearance as would not disgrace the man with whom you walked; but, on the contrary, you ap- peared so absorbed in your reveries, that all thought of your dress was discarded from your mind. "I do not like to see a lady think too much of dress,-to make it her highest aim to dress, only for the sake of attract- ing attention from every one whom she meets; but, still, a proper regard for dress is necessary, and highly essential to our happiness, and certainly to our respect. You might apologize by saying that you did not care how you looked, that you had no time to attend to such things, &c..; but it is only necessary to be active, to be up and doing while the day lasts; and, in short, to leave no moment of time un- employed. ' Above all things, Helen, a strict regard to order is essen- BOSTON COMMON. 233 tial, and to possess this one must be imbued with principle - one must have a regular system to observe. A rule or two is of value here. Have a place for everything; and when done using that article, put it immediately in that place. As soon as an article is out of order, or needs repairing, stop all business at once, and mend or put in perfect order that arti- cle. You will, by a careful attention to these rules, soon ob- serve a striking change in your whole appearance. "Another fault of yours, my Helen, is this: You are very prone to overlook some difficulty in your studies. You are possessed of a quick, impatient disposition, which will not allow you calmly to unwind the thread of your difficulty; and so you quickly draw it into a tangle, and then throw it away as entirely useless. Many a fine idea have you thus lost for- ever, besides injuring and enervating your mind; for every time you omit an opportunity to solve an intricate sum or problem, you weaken your powers. "I am a strong advocate for stern, unremitting study. If would never leave a sum unciphered, or a puzzle unravelled; but would turn and shift it in every possible direction, in order to find out its whole meaning. In order for you to do this, you will have to struggle against that impatient temper of yours. You must endeavor to be calm and patient, and with striving and perseverance you will soon find the greatest difficulties vanish. "Another fault of yours is this: You are not always very choice in regard to the language you use. You are' sometimes rather commonplace in your expressions. A lady, to be and appear a lady, must always make use of the best words she can find; and in order to do this, if she is not fully 204- page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] 284 BOSTON COMMON. acquainted with her own language, she had best make her , dictionary her first study. I do not mean to say that in con. versing we should make use of high-flown terms, or exuberant expressions, like your friend Letitia, of whom you have -old me; but wherever we are, or with whoever we smay chance to be, use the language best adapted to their capacity. A few rules of conversation are these: never say more than is necessary, use the words best adapted to your subject, and if trying to convinceby an argument, make- use of the plainest terms, to render your subject clear and forcible, and then leave it for your antagonist to ponder upon. In order to do this correctly, you must read and study a great deal; ascertain your author's opinion, and form one of your own, based upon good common sense, and you will scarcely fail of being right,; or of convincing your auditor. "Another fault of yours, my Helen, and perhaps the great- est, is your quick, passionate temper. I amn sorry to be obliged to speak of this; but it has caused me far more pain than you can imagine, For a young lady to fly into a rage, if everything does not suit her wishes immediately, is totally inexcusable; and in you, Helen, - who should, in strict obe- dience to the holy faith which you -profess, be an advocate of better ,things, - wicked. Correct this, or it will be a source of the greatest unhappiness to you through life, and may lead you into serious evils. "You have tried, Helen, to overcome your faults, and I am pleased to find that you have made vast improvement. Your control over yotrself has already raised you high in my estimation, and shows that you possess a strong mind, and a desire;to do right, which I very much rejoice in. Try and "s , * BOSTON COMMiON. 235 follow the maxims I have laid down for you, and I shall yet have the pleasure of seeing you an elegant and finished woman." How many such lectures did I listen to from Ernest! and with such monitors as he and Harry ever at my side, it would have been strange indeed if I had not improved, and that very sensibly too. Ernest was kind while conversing with me; but if I failed to do anything he wished, he did not spare me at all, but contrived to rob me of some pleasure I had been anticipating. He was an excellent mathematical scholar, and as this branch was not taught in my school, I was, in the beginning of June, placed under his tuition. I did not much fancy him for a teacher, for I knew that I should experience but little mercy from him; but there was no gainsaying my guardian's will. He was inexorable, and I accordingly commenced my new duties with as good a grace as possible. Two mornings a week were devoted to this business. A few days before the first lesson, Ernest had promised me a visit to the Boston Museum. I had been in once, and had a glimpse of the curi- osities, and the delight I there experienced was unbounded. A longing to see a play or tragedy had ever since taken strong possession of my mind; and I was accordingly prom- ised this great treat in a week or two, provided I did nothing ia the meanwhile to displease Ernest. How very hard I strove to earn this long-wished-for pleas- ure, and how anxious was I that every word, and action should be such as even my stern judge would not object to! Just then my lessons in algebra commenced. I had always hated arithmetic; anything beyond the four fundamental y- a page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] 236 BOSTON COMMON. rules was to me a nuisance. Consequently, I had a mortal aversion to algebra, and resolved to convince Ernest that my brain was not large enough to contain anything concerning a "plus," "x," or "minus." I could not, however, with all my arguments, make him agree with me. He was incorrigi- ble, and to work I set. Ernest kindly assisted me; but, of course, the heaviest part of the work devolved upon me. I was obliged to set my wits at work, and -try, by real labor, to find out what all the hard, puzzling things in my algebra meant. *I hated those lessons, -and at times almost hated my teacher too, for impos- ing such tasks upon me. One day my head ached, and I felt as though I could not study. I went up to Ernest with my book and slate, and said, in a deprecating tone, "I do not want to study to-day, Ernest. I am weary of algebra, and wish you would do this sum for ite." "I have showed you about it, Helen," he replied, " and - now you must do the rest." I seated -myself without another word, and commenced. For nearly an hour did I patiently work, and investigate the matter, but to-no purpose whatever. It was a stubborn thing, and resisted all my efforts. At length, as I sat considering, an idea entered my brain, and I earnestly set about putting it in action. "I have found the weayr last," thought I; and so I worked a while longer. In about a quarter of an hour I had the answer, as I thought, and I triumphantly glanced at the book, to see how it stood the test. It was all wrong! and, in the iheight of my disappointment, I threw both book and slate, with much vio- BOSTON COMMON. '237 lence, to the other side of the room. Ernest looked up from his reading. "What is the matter now, Helen?" he asked. "I cannot do that sum," I replied, " and I will not! It is too difficult." ("Go and pick up your book and slate," said Ernest, calmly, "and try again." "( I shall do no such thing!"I answered. i"I hate alge- bra, and do not want to study it any more. You have no right to impose such tasks upon me, and I will submit to it no longer." Ernest looked at me in perfect amazement. "Go and pick up that book!" said he, firmly. "You must and shall finish that sum!" I did not relish his " must" and shall" very well just then; and so, without looking towards him, I arose and hastily walked out of the room. Throwing on my bonnet and shawl, I left the hotel, and bent my steps towards the Com- mon. As I wandered slowly through its beautiful paths, my mind reverted to Roland. "How different," thought I, " was he to this cold, hard task-master, with his everlasting 'pluses' and 'minuses'! Roland would never have thought of imposing such trials upon me. O, how hard is my fate, in being forever separated from him I loved so fondly, and compelled to be united to a man whom I so cordially dislike!" A thought of Ernest's anger at my conduct at length crossed my mind, but I did not much care. "I am old enough," said I, to myself, "to do a little as I please; and it is high time I commenced. He has no right ' t .*" ^ page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 238 BOSTON COMMON. to make such a child of me, and I will submit to it no -longer!" Filled with these thoughts, I left the Common and re- turned tothe house. I entered the parlor with a defiant air, which was, however, unnecessary. Ernest was still there, and reading. He looked up and smiled as I entered; and a few moments afterwards asked if I had had a pleasant walk. "O, beautiful!"I answered; "I enjoyed it so much!" He said nothing more, but resumed his reading; while I congratulated myself upon the success which had attended the first efforts I had made towards regaining my freedom. 'How very foolish I have been," thought I, " to submit so long to that( tyrant's whims! I will do so no more, but will let him know that I am free-born as well as himself." The next evening was the one which had been set apart for my long-anticipated visit to the Museum. I could scarcely attend to my practice or studies all day, for thinking of it. After tea I dressed myself as neatly as possible, and descend- ed to aunt Glenmore's room, determined to be pleasant and submissive, for this night, at least. I seated myself at the window, and waited a long time on the qui vive of expecta- tion for Ernest;- but he came not. At length I looked at aunt Glenmore, and said, tearfully, 4 Why does not Ernest come, aunt? It will soon be too late to go. I never knew him to be tardy before." "I cannot tell the reason, my dear child," replied my aunt, "' but patience; something may have detained him. He will soon be here, no doubt." At precisely half past seven a knock was heard--at my aunt's door. I ran hastily to open it, and was met by a ser- BOSTON COMMON. 239 vant, who handed me a package, enveloped in brown paper. I grasped it with a foreboding of evil; and, hastily untying the string that confined it, my despised algebra and slate fell to the floor. I looked at them in perfect dismay, and, picking up a little note that had escaped from the book, read, tremblingly, as follows: "As Miss Clifton refused yesterday to pick up her book and slate from the floor, when directed, will she excuse her unworthy cousin performing the office for her, and subscribing himself E. RICHMOND." A mist came before my eyes, and they instantly filled with- tears; for the cause of Ernest's absence was now fully explained. I had displeased him, and failed -to fulfil my contract, and he had doomed me to one of the severest disap- pointments I ever met with; and even to this late day I can scarcely refer to, or even think of that evening's .nhappiness, without a pang. t" page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] CHAPTER XXIV. "Iear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Iome art gone, and ta'en thy wages." SHAKSPEARE. JUNE, with its beautiful skies, its budding roses, and soft breezes, sped gently away, and was succeeded by the scorch- ing months of July and August. These two months were spent by us in the country. Our summer i lodgings were enlivened by the presence of my father, mother, and little sister. I was quite happy during this season; and nothing was wanting to make' our retreat a paradise, save the fast- waning health of dear Harry -Glenmore. He grew still paler and thinner each day, and seemed to be slowly but surely fading away.\ I received several letters from Katie Merton during the summer, breathing the fondest friendship for me, and congratulating me upon my hopes'of future hap- piness. How eagerly did I open my letters from the east, and how hastily peer through the closely-written columns, for some intelligence of Roland or Mary! I never found even the names, however, and was often surprised at myself for the BOSTON COMMON. 241 eagerness with which I still dwelt upon the memory of Roland. Towards the middle of September we returned to the city, and once more took up our residence in the large and fashion- able hotel, near the Common. I was quite glad at again beholding Ernest, and, for the first week or two, enjoyed his society very much. There was a newness,- a sparkling, an originality, about Ernest, that never failed to please me. He could enchain, for hours, all hearts by his conversation. I was, therefore, even happy to see Ernest again; and he, on his part, seemed to have lost for a while, all his coldness, and never appeared half so affec- tionate before. That evening, as we walked together upon the Common, he said, with much feeling: "How very happy am I, cousin Nellie, to have you again with me! How much I have suffered, these two long months, pent up in this close city, and without your- -dear face to cheer me, I cannot describe. I have visited this beautiful spot many, many times, and wandered up and down its walks, in utter loneliness of spirit. I have stood by the smooth sur- face of the little pond, and, gazing far down it. depths, have half imagined I saw your own sweet face reflected in its sparkling waters; and then have startedfom my reveries as if awakened by the music of your dear voice. I shudder, Helen, when I think what sort of a life I should lead without you by my side;- it would be lonely and dreary enough." Poor Ernest! I glanced at him. ' He looked pale and sad. For the first time in my life, I seemed to appreciate his strong, deep affection for me; and I pitied him, and felt -my 21 page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] BOSTON COMMON. heart glow with gratitude towards him, for such unchanging love. The next morning, I coaxed Harry out with me for a walk. He complied; and we sauntered slowly up and down the paths of our favorite nook. "How beautiful and fair are all things here !" said IIary. "Do you know, Helen, that I have fancied this sweet spot resembled heaven? These walks, so firm and smooth, are the paths of virtue, from which no deviations are passable; these trees, so green and overarching, and this water, so pure and lucid, remind me of the shady trees and cool rills of paradise, which we all picture so fondly to ourselves. Helen, I have a fancy that I should love to die, some pleasant even- ing, in this quiet spot, apart from the busy'hum of. the stir. ring city. I would repose my weary form under one of these lofty trees; I would fix my eyes upon yon glorious orb of day, as it gently declined in the brilliant west, and, with a calm stealing over the face of nature, would softly breathe my last. I wisr I might be permitted to die thus." " 0, Harry! " said I, mournfully, " I hope you may yet recover. You must not talk of dying; we cannot spare you. I am lost without you, Harry, dear; I am so sinful, so prone to wander, when away from your side !" "The will of God is mine," he softly replied. "I am ready, to live or die, just as it pleases him; it matters not to me.. I am sorry to leave you, dear Nellie, and my other friends, who are all so kind'towards me; but only a few years will pass, when I shall meet them in yonder heaven, I trust. With what happiness unspeakable shall I then greet them! How little and insignificant will our troubles here seem then, in .comparison with the joys and raptures ^of heaven! 0, Helen, when I think of that happy time and place, I am lost in wonder and happiness, and-almost long to burst my bonds and soar away! " Harry's sublime words always sunk deep into my heart, and left a serious impression there. He was my spiritual guide and adviser. I always felt that it was good to be near him; and many a fine long walk did I enjoy with him, the remainder of this month, and-many a beautiful sentiment, or holy admonition, did I then cherish and'note down to remem- ber him by. Dear Harry! That mouth, and those eyes, once so speaking, have been mouldering to clay for many long years; but thy beautiful spirit is with me still, admon- ishing me solemnly to eschew evil, and gently urging me to follow thy holy example. September, with its refreshing breezes, soft skies, and purple sunsets, was gently fading into October. IJow vividly do I remember the bright glory of this golden month! It was the celebrated Indian summer of 18-, when nature seemed enveloped with a mellow hue, when the fields were yellow with an uncommonly fine harvest, and summer seemed lulling itself asleep in the arms of luxury. One .bright evening, when the sky had worn a rich dress of golden blue all day, when not a leaf was stirred by the breeze, and not a zephyr troubled the waters, Harry, who had been lying in a dreamy state for hours, suddenly revived. "Helen," said he to me, as I sat holding his hand, "I feel much better, and have an instinctive longing, I know not why, to visit yon sweet spot with you this evening." page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244 BOSTON COMMON. "I fear the dight air will not be of much benefit to you, ;dear Hal," I answered. "It cannot harm me, this sweet breath of evening,?' he replied.!"I must go, if you please." Seeing that he really desired it, and only too willing to gratify his slightest wish, I sought Ernest, and together we sauntered forth. Harry walked with slow and feeble steps between us, and spoke but little. He bent his way towards the old cemetery on the Common; and, after reaching a little, verdant spot -near the fence, he lay down beneath a tree, looking so pale and fatigued, that we felt quite alarmed for him. Seeing our concern, he pleasantly assured us that he was perfectly free fromi pain, and that the air could not possibly harm him,-it was so soft and mild. "I wish," continued he, " to talk with you both before my departure; and as I feel so anxious for your united happi- ness, you will perhaps remember what I say to you. Ernest, my beloved cousin, you are a Christian, and as such strive to walk daily in the love and fear of your God. You have begged and found ipardon for a thousand wanderings at the foot of the Cross;, nd will ever, I trust, be a bright, shining light in the world to which you have devoted yourself a will- ing sacrifice. I have no fear for you, my Ernest; for your strong will, united with a stern sense of duty, and your almost perfect self-government, will enable you to tread life's thorny paths with scarcely a struggle; but, O Ernest! be careful of Helen! Be kind to her, and bear with her faults! Remember she has struggled with temptation and sorrow, and if she is weak, encourage her, and strive to increase * BOSTON COMMON. 245 her strength and faith by your own gentle admonitions and example. "I have not many fears for you, Helen," he continued. 9"Strive to subdue that quick, impatient temper of yours; watch and pray against it. You are both strong and active spirits. Spend your time and talents, not for your -own emolument, but for the glory of God. He has bestowed these gifts upon you to honor him thereby; and see that you do so. I have much more to say, but am too weak at present. I can only add, watch and pray, struggle for a blessing, and it will surely be yours." He leaned back upon the grass, and a ghastly paleness sud- denly spread itself over his features. I sprang quickly forward; but Ernest had already antic- ipated me, and was holding the head of Harry in his arms. "O, Harry!"I exclaimed, " what shall we do? You are very ill." . . He beamed a sweet smile upon us. "Dear cousins," said he, "I have just received a despatch from the messen- ger of death. It has come rather sooner than I anticipated, but none too soon for me. I am resigned. I can give up this frail body into the arms of my heavenly Father. He will bear me safely through the swelling waters." "O, Harry! can we not return to the hotel?"I trem- blingly asked. "No, Helen, let me remain here; it would disturb my last moments to remove me," he replied. I knelt over him and wept. He took a hand of each between his own, which had grown so cold that we were startled. t - 21* page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 BOSTON COMMON. 0 "Please remain perfectly quiet, and make no noise," he said. "My wish is granted me; I shall die in my favorite spot, with the calm blue sky over-arching my head, and the trees waving gracefully over me. What a glorious evening " he continued; "the air is like powdered gold, and thereis a soft mist creeping over the horizon, which is delicious. I hear a gentle rustling in the tree-tops,- it is the angels coming to bear me home to heaven. Helen, draw near to me," he continued, as his voice softened to a whisper; 't remember, I am waiting for you in heaven; do not disappoint me,-I must see you there. Ernest, dear Ernest, a long farewell! My beloved parents- comfort them for my sake. I am hastening- the angels are drawing near. I already feel the motion of their wings; and my own are pluming, and nearly ready for flight. How buoyant and elastic is my spirit!- what rapture thrills through my soul! The gates of heaven are opening for me; Jesus is coming forth to meet me. I-- bless-- him-"The next breath, and he, was indeed gone. The angels had taken his beatified spirit, and, bearing it far away with them, had left us with only the beautiful casket, that once contained the priceless gem. I looked mournfully at Ernest as he closed the eyes, and folded the wasted hands, that had but a moment before grasped our own-so fondly, upon the breast.' He was very pale, but firm. "This is, indeed, death," said he; "but how calmly he went to sleep! Softly as an infant he drew his last breath. Go, Helen, and without noise, but quietly, as our dear Harry died, bring assistance. Be as speedy as possible." I was weeping violently, but arose at his summons, and, * . - - * J BOSTON CO MMON. 247 making a vain effort at checking my grief, bent my steps to the hotel, and informed my uncle and aunt that their son had suddenly expired; then, without venturing to trust my- self to witness their sorrow, sought my own chamber, where I wept and mourned myself to sleep. Harry's death upon the Common caused the greatest ex- citement and sympathy; but we kept all as quiet as possi- ble, and one fine, lovely twilight hour, a few evenings after- wards, we slowly and mournfully bore him to rest, beneath one of the old trees, in the spot he loved so well upon earth. He sleeps in a green mound in that old cemetery, where the trees rustle softly over his grave all day, and- the distant hum of the busy city disturbs him not. He was a bright and active spirit while upon earth; and, young as he was, and ever suffering, he never omitted an opportunity of doing his Master's will. I can never forget him, or the example he left behind. I often mourn that he died so young; for had he lived I might have been spared innumer- able troubles. A gloom rested upon our once cheerful hearth. We all silently wept and mourned for the being who had left us. I resumed my studies; but it was with sorrow that I opened the books marked and commented upon by Harry. Ernest had grown colder and graver since his death. It had evi- dently made a deep impression upon his mind, which months did not eradicate. He was silent and abstracted much of the time during that long winter; but when spring came once more, with her lovely skies and opening blossoms, he sud- denly lost his moodiness, and, resuming once more his ani- mated and former self, became again the life and light of our cherished circle. page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] CHAPTER XXV. , I lovPto be free, And to feel the whole world Is open to me, When my wings are unfurled." HANNAH F. GOULD, ONE day, Ernest entered my room in great haste. i"Hel- en," said he, " t iis time to talk of our marriage. We have been together now nearly two years; your education has wonderfully improved, and my house is nearly ready. Say, dearest, when shall it be? i , I sunk back in my chair; a cold feeling crept around my heart, and I attempted to speak, but the words died upon my tongue. The idea of marrying Ernest, soon, had never before occurred to me. As long as it was a distant, talked-of pro- ject, I could bear to look upon it without shuddering; but now that he had so abruptly presented. the matter to me, my heart refused to reply, or sanction the request. "Well, Helen," he Continued, impatiently, it I await your reply. Why do you hesitate?" "Dear Ernest," I at length found strength to say, i I am so young, and so contented," I added, my voice sinking to a * *. i BOST ON C O M ON. 249 whisper, " please let me remain as I am. I do not wish to marry." Ernest's large gray eyes flashed a cold light upon me, as he drew near and took my trembling hand in his. "Helen," said he, c"I am not to be trifled with. I flndly and ardently love you, and am the only fit guide for your youth and inexpe- rience. Of one thing be assured. Our marriage must and shall take place; and, if you are not disposed to name the time, I shall. So be prepared, for it--is inevitable." "Recollect, Ernest," I answered, "that this marriage is not of my seeking. I was drawn into it unwillingly, and you , have no right to compel me to - to -" I stopped, and looked anxiously towards my companioq. He had arisen, and his- eyes were fixed intensely upon my face. Their cold, glittering light froze my very soul. "You are either a fool, Helen," he said, contemptuously, "or much more of a child than I supposed. My whole aim. and object, in this match, has been to make you happy, by making you good. Please so to consider it. Do not talk of your unwillingness; mine you must be, and very soon too. I will compel you, in spite of yourself, to strictly fulfil your duty." He dropped my hand, and left me, while I had recourse to my usual weakness, a shower of tears. While I sat weeping, and bemoaning my sad fate, I heard a voice, and steps rap- idly ascending the stairs. The words, "beautiful," "glo- rious," " divine," " ecstatic place," made me spring quickly to my feet, and the next moment I had clasped Letitia Mil- ford in my arms. She was de#Al'? out sol showily that I page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 BOSTON COMMON. scarcely knew her; but she was overjoyed to see me once ihore, looking so " superlatively lovely," as she said. We seated ourselves with twined arms upon the sofa, and looked into each other's eyes. "Now tell me,*dearest Nell,"said she, "all about your lovers here in Boston. You must have a score by this time, and I am dying to hear all about them." "I have no lovers, Letise, and shall not be able to gratify your curiosity in this particular," I replied. "'O, what a pity!" she exclaimed; " but tell me all about your stately cousin; him of the princely form and dark-gray e'en. What is he like? I am dying to behold him. I have compared-him to Paul Clifford, Ernest Maltravers, Sir Wil- liam Wallace, and' a dozen others, but cannot yet imagine how he looks. Does he resemble any of these heroes?" "I cannot tell," I replied, "' as I never beheld either of them, but should think him a little of the Eugene Aram order just now. But never mind me or my lovers; tell me of yourself, Letise. How- are all the dear ones at the Glen? Why:and when did you leave, and where are you stopping at present?" "O," she,replied, " the old maiden aunt for whom I was named has lately adopted me, and taken me under her espe- cial protection. She is going to cross the Alleghanies this summer, and I am to be her companion. Is n't that pleasant? It-would be delightful, but for her persisting in calling me Letty before everybody, as if she doted upon its very sound! How I hate that old-fashioned name! But I must bear this, and a thousand other'thiOig that daily and hourly shock my BOSTON COMMON. 251 delicate nerves, I suppose; for she is very rich, and I am to be her sole heiress." ,( But you will remain here for a while, will you not?"-I; asked. O, yes," she answered. "We have engaged rooms in this hotel for a couple of months, for aunt Peabody is going to bring me out, as she calls it. Only think, ma chere, I have finished my education, and now'I shall have nothing to do but dress and read novels all day, and dance all night. O, I shall be so happy!" she continued; " such fine dresses and jewelry such lots of beaux! I shall surely contrive to fall in love as often as once a week!" "But where is Clarence Brooke?"I archly asked; "he whom you were going to die for." "Pshaw!" she replied. "He was a simpleton - a blub- bering school-boy; and his soul too little to appreciate affec- tion, sentiment, or anything of that sort. I could not long - love so unimpressionable an animal." She rattled on for a long time with her- usual volubility, and then proposed introducing me to her aunt. We accord- ingly ascended to her room, and Letitia presented me to a fashionably-dressed middle-aged lady, who received me with the most studied politeness, and immediately entered into a conversation with me, in which Letitia was, of course, the principal feature. ' I have brought my niece Letty to Boston," she said, " in order to fit her for the distinguished station -she will occupy, as my heiress. I shall bring her out immediately, - intro- duce her to all my fashionable friends, and with her dress and beauty she cannot fail to attract a deal of attention. I intend page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 252 BOSTON COMMON. she shall be the reigning belle here next winter. I wonder, 'Miss Helen," she continued, " that, with your fortune and ac- complishments, your guardian should persist in keeping you pent up so long at your studies. Why, I suppose you are eighteen years of age by this time, and I dare say never saw the inside of a theatre?" I blushed, as I replied that my-guardian did not approve of theatres for young people when they were at their studies; and that I had not, indeed, been to a theatre. "O, nonsense!" exclaimed the amiable lady, ' you are to be pitied. I intend that Letty shall visit one just when she pleases; and I should be most happy, my dear, to have you accompany us as often as you like." "I am obliged to you, madam," I answered, "and only hope that I may be allowed'to accept your politeness." As I looked at Letitia standing before the mirror, arrang- ing her rich brown curls, I half envied her the freedom she enjoyed. She was not pent in by a tyrannical lover, who was constantly making her life a burden, but was blithe and free as a bird on the wing. She could go where she pleased, do what she pleased, and had no one to check her in the least. But just then she spoke; and as some silly expres- sion fell from her lips, and was responded to by a sillier one from her aunt, the images of my own tried 'and dignified friends rose before me, and I was content to remain as I was. Letitia and her aunt were soon installed in their sumptu- ous apartments, and deeply engaged in arranging their trav- elling costumes for the summer. I spent as much time with them as I could possibly allow from my studies, but was sur- prised to find how insipid and tiresome my beloved Letise had BOSTON COMMON. 253 grown, since we were at the Glen. Was the change in her, or in my own humble self? One evening, soon after their arrival, Miss Peabody entered my aunt's room, dressed in the height of fashion, and request- ed permission to carry Miss Helen to the theatre. As my aunt noted my -wishful countenance, she was some- what annoyed, and glanced at Ernest, who was reading. He raised his eyes from the page, and, bending them full upon the lady, said, "Madam, if we wished Helen to attend theatres, I am always at her service; but we do not wish her to go, and she therefore remains at home." Miss Peabody tossed her head, and, without deigning to notice Ernest, repeated her question to my aunt. "Helen," said my aunt, " is betrothed to yonder gentle,- man; and whenever she goes out it is with him, madam. She does not visit theatres." . Miss Peabody, muttering something about "close confine- ment," and "Methodist parsons," flounced indignantly out of the room, and my aunt quietly resumed her. needle, and Er- nest his reading. I sat fidgeting a while upon my chair, and then went and sat down near my cousin. He noticed my approach by taking my hand, but still continued his reading. "Ernest," said I, at length, " do let 's go to the theatre to-night. I want to, so- much!" He looked at me a few moments, and then, rising, desired me to get my bonnet for a walk. We bent our steps directly to our beloved retreat, and from thence to Harry's grave. I "Look, Helen," said Ernest, when we had reached the 22 page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] -,254 BOST(ON COMMON. spot, pointing to the little mound; '"do you remember the calm, sweet evening, when that blessed spirit departed in my arms?" ' I do,?"I replied, with much feeling, for I could never refer to it without a tear-; ' I do indeed." "And do you remember his last words to you, Helen?" ' Yes, Ernest, I can never forget them." "And what were those words?" "' Remember, I'am waiting for you in heaven. Do not disappoint me, for I must see you there. " "Do you intend to do as he wished you?" "O, I hope so, Ernest." ( And is this the, way you intend doing it,-- by going to theatres with a silly woman of the world, who would corrupt your youthful mind, and make it like her own?" "O, Ernest, I was very wrong-; indeed I was. I do not wish now to go, and will say no more about it. But did you not promise me a visit to the Museum once, Ernest?" "I did," he replied, "but am much changed since Harry's death. I have been thinking much of him-lately, Helen,- of his love for God, of his holy and blameless life,--and I am resolved to live so that I, too, may die as he did. As I love you very dearly, Helen, I wish you also to live in strict ac- cordance with our dear departed Harry's advice." I had never heard Ernest speak so plainly of his own feel- ings before, and I was quite interested. We walked on, in the calm evening, and talked long and earnestly of the beauti- ful spirit who had left us with the precious heritage of his example;'and when I returned home I was quite ready to give up balls and theatres forever. '-- I BOSTON- COMON'. 255 Time went on. Letitia and her aunt dressed and went out every night; and when I saw them they were always talking of the joys and pleasures of a gay city life. I never wished to accompany them, however. By the blessing of God, I had conquered that desire long ago. Two or three times I went with them, accompanied by Ernest, to parties. They pleased me somewhat, but I was quite as happy when allowed to remain at home with the family, and follow my accustomed pursuits. l . . . N ' X ; page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] - R - * CHAPTER -XXVI. "There are swift hours in life, --strong, rushing hours, That do the work of tempests in their might.". MRS. HEMANS. ONE evening, early in May, feeling fatigued with my stud- ies, I arose, and, taking my bonnet, sauntered forth alone for a walk. I bent my steps, as usual, to the Corhmon, and seated myself under the great elm-tree. I felt unhappy- I knew not why. A sudden lassitude had come over me. I was becomipg weary of the dull routine of my life, and a longing for old friends and scenes had taken entire possession of my heart. As I sat here thinking, the image of Roland Hastings sud- denly came into my mind. I wondered if he and Mary were yet married, and what could possibly be the meaning of the little note he had sent me, more than a year before. I had long-ago banished these thoughts from my mind; for I not only considered them sinful, but I could inever indulge in them, without a sad feeling creeping in, and destroying all my peace. Thoughts and emotions which I had long buried, however, now came with redoubled force to my memory, and I soon found myself weeping violently. While I sat here, unmindful of time, the shades of evening BOSTON COMMON. 257 crept slowly over the landscape, and I reluctantly arose to leave. Turning my head, I beheld a form sitting near me, and weeping also. Through the gathering darkness, I could see that he was attired in black, and had a mourning weed upon his hat. There was something in the outlines of the figure that made my very heart almost cease its beating; and I gazed upon it with fear and hope alternately filling my bosom. Just then he turned, and our eyes met! In an instant all my philosophy, all my regard to duty, religion, and Ernest, were forgotten, and I found myself in the stranger's arms, my head pillowed upon his bosom, and my heart beating against his own, in a rapture it had not experienced for years before. "C Roland! dear Roland!" was all I could say, as he bore me to a seat more retired than the former, and knelt at my feet. ( O, Helen!" exclaimed he; "I thought it would be so. I knew you loved me; and I also knew that if ever we met it would be in this manner! O, beloved of -my soul! look up, and let me tell you how long and hopelessly I have loved and mourned you! let me pour into your bosom all the anguish that has racked my own! Look up, my Helen, and bless me with but a word, a glance, and I will be conoent to die, if so be that word and glance are love!" ' I I lay weeping in his arms, too surprised, too happy, to change my position. How had I longed, months and years, for just such a meeting with this beloved one! How had I sighed and wept for looks and words of love from him! and, now that I was blessed with even more than I hoped for, I was ready to die, rather than resign my long-dreamed-of bliss!- For a few moments I lay thus weeping upon Roland's 22* 2 2 r page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 25S BOSTON COMMO-N. heart, unmindful of the place, my situation, or aught save t the delicious sensation that we had met, and that I was happy- too happy for words. At length, with a shivering sensation of wretchedness, the thoughts -of my engagement to another broke upon me, like lightning-from a thunder-cloud. I tore myself from his em- brace, and, rising, endeavored to move from the spot. My limbs refused to do their accustomed office, however, and I looked mournfully towards my companion, as if to invoke his aid, "O, Roland!"I sobbed, ( speak to me! Let me know why you have come to disturb my peace!" Roland, too, had arisen, and we stood gazing at each other in the cold moonlight. He was very pale, and his black dress set off his fine face and beautiful figure; and I half imagined an angel was looking at me from those soft, dark eyes. "And so I am to be disappointed once more!" he said. "Helen, -is this the manner in which you repay my years of dev ? --is this my reward? You ask me why I came to dis your peace! What , welcome!" ropped once more upon the seat, and "( O, Father, save megfrom this bitter trial!" burst from my agonized heart. I was silent for a few moments. At length Roland spoke, and his voice was soft and tremulous with the emotion of his soult "Helen," he said, "do you love meO?" "I do, indeed!"I replied; "have ever loved you, so fondly, so ardently-" I stopped, and blushed; for he was gazing at me so ear- nestly, that I feared I had said too much. BOSTON COMMON. :259 ,0O, blessed assurance!" answered Roland; "I am now happy. I could wish to die, rather than live without that knowledge! Then, my Helen," he continued, "as we both love so fondly, what prevents us from being united at once, and never 'more separating?" "Why, Roland," I answered, "I am, as you know, en- gaged to Ernest Richmond; and you, also, are bound by solemn ties to Mary- " "To Mary!" he interrupted, "to Mary! What mean you, Helen? Do you not, then, know that the grave has long since closed over poor Mary Listen?" I was too much shocked and surprised to reply. He went on: 'Mary died several months ago; and O, Helen, she died in consequence of my desertion!" "Of your desertion!"I exclaimed. "Roland, she should not thus have been sacrificed." "I could not help it, Helen," he replied.'- The idea that. you, whom I worshipped, had been lost to me through her means, had taken strong hold of my mind,; and as it was afterwards confirmed by your singular, although, as Ithink truthful friend, Letitia Milford, I was so disgustedf and in. censed at her conduct, that I left her at once, and Heft the town also. I came immediately to Boston, Helen, and took up my residence .near your own, where I could bet blessed with a sight of you daily. For nearly a year have I stealth- ily watched you, as you walked here, sometimes alone, some- times accompanied by your cousin Ernest. I have scanned every line of your countenance, and have long since discov- ered-that you loved him not. I have seen you At times turn aside and drop a tear; and have often beheld Yyou at your page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 BOSTON COMMON. window, with your eyes fixed upon the eastern horizon, and a look of such sadness upon your brow, that I have longed to fly to you, and ask you, nay, beseech of you, to put your trust henceforth in my arm and heart, which were ready and longing to receive you; but a fear of alarming you, and per- haps a dread of your too scrupulous regard to duty, has hitherto prevented me from speaking. "About six months ago," he continued, "I was suddenly summoned to Linden, to attend the death-bed of poor Mary Liston. She had, as you are aware, always been delicate; and this, united with the upbraidings of conscience, and her ardent love for my unworthy self, had hurried her into a consumption. "She received me with a calm smile, acknowledged the wrong she had-done you in times past, told me of her deep affection for me, and, begging my forgiveness, died, a few hours after my arrival, in these arms. Her death was a happy one, however, and she is better at rest. At her request I donned these weeds, and shall wear them a few months longer. "Assured as I now felt of your love, dearest Helen, a few daysfafter the funeral of Mary Liston, I departed from Lin- den to Boston, once more. I was now determined, in spite of your formidable cousin, to see you, and pour into your heart all the love of my own. I have done so, and now lie at your entire disposal. In mercy, Helen, deal n6t too harshy -with one who adores you! Speak, and tell me that, in pijy to my long sufferings, you will break all other engagements for me! Say you will be mine!" For a long time after he had ceased speaking I remained in deep thought. Mary's death surprised and pained me; but, BOSTON COMMON. 261 O, how happy, how blest, did I feel, that I had been enabled, by God's blessing, faithfully to perform my duty to her! Roland's secret surveillance of me surprised me much. That a person whom I so dearly loved should have been -near me for months, and I not cognizant of it, was a deep mystery to me; and I questioned Roland concerning it. His reply was, that he always contrived to walk in the shadow of the trees; and that, as I generally appeared to be thinking of something far away, and did not take much notice of the present, and that as Ernest had never seen him, he had hitherto escaped recognition. Be At length I arose, and, telling Roland I should be missed from home, prepared to depart. ( O, Helen!" said he, mournfully, " can you leave me thus?" ' I must, Roland," I replied; " my friends will be alarmed at my long absence, and will come in pursuit of me. It would not be well for us to be seen together." "And am I to have no confirmation of your love? 'I he ex- claimed. "Am I to be doomed forever to misery? O, Helen!!" I looked at him; he was very pale, and his face, always beautiful as a dream, bore the impress of deep sorrow. His hair was damp and tangled, and floated wildly over the broad, open brow. EHis eyes, dark, soft, and dreamy, were suffused in tears. I thought of Harry, and, invoking his sainted spirit to aid me, took Roland's hand in mine, and said: "I do indeed love you-have long done so. I look upon my present engagement as a false one. It was forced upon me in an unlawful manner, and, although my lips consented, page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] 262 BOS TON COMM ON. my whole nature revolted against it. I thus break the ties that were forced upon me, and God forgive me if I am doing wrong! ;but, Roland, here, in this calm, sweet retreat,-- here, in this sequestered bower, with the blue heavens smiling above me, and the holy influence of nature around me, --I promise to love only where my heart directs, - I promise to wed only with you." Roland had fallen on his knees by my side, and, as I spoke, he scarcely drew his breath, but listened eagerly to the words as they fell from my lips. At the -conclusion, he arose and wildly clasped me to his breast. "God bless you, Helen!" he said, "( mine own, my wife! Bless you for the words you have uttered! You have, in- deed, restored happiness to my aching heart once 'more. And now, Helen, when shall I have the bliss of seeing you- again? Will you come often to this sweet spot to meet me? Tell me the hour, the minute, that I may be here." "No, Roland," I replied, "I I cannot do that. I must have no secret meetings with a lover upon the Common. All shall be fairly and openly done on my part. I will own all in a little while. Until then, you must be content with what has passed this eveniig, and rest assured that the time mill soon come when all will be well." We had now reached the entrance of the hotel, and, bidding each other adieu, with many looks and assurances of love, we separated. With what a whirl of emotions did I seek my couch this night! I had seen Roland,-had leaned upon his breast, and wept away all the pent-up grief of years, in one sweet -shower of tears, -had told him of my long--cherished love, BOSTON COMMON. 263 had been assured by his looks and manners that his heart was ail my own, and had, more wonderful than all, yielded to the dictates of my heart, and pronounced words, in the pres- ence of my Maker, that bound me forever to him. Had I done right? Engrossed entirely with the delightful emotions of my new position, I scarcely asked this question, but satis- fied myself with thinking, "I have no right to condemn a- being who loves me to misery. I have no right to be miser- able myself, when I can, by following the dictates of my own heart, be supremely happy;- neither have I, a fiee-born, in- telligent creature, any right whatever to continue under this detestable servitude to my cousin, which my heart refuses to sanction.; All the world, even Harry himself, would not con- demn me for following my inclinations in this particular. Now, then,-to break my bonds, to open my prison-doors, and set myself indeed free." This, as the reader is already aware, would be no easy matter. My guardian, his wife, my parents and brothers, all my relations and friends, even Kate 1Merton herself, were on Ernest's side. There existed not a soul upon the face of the earth, save Letitia Milford, who- could assist me one jot or tittle in discarding him; and-aid from her could be of no possible use to me. Independent of my friends, I had Ernest'himself, the strongest party of all, to contend with; He, I knew, would never release me. No words or persuasions of mine could or would induce him to alter his determination one hair. - There was not a shadow of hope from that. quarter, or from any other that I knew of. Ernest had persuaded himself that he alone was the fit guide of my youth; that he alone was page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] 264 BOSTON coMMON. capable of keeping me in the paths of duty, and that if I were lost to him I should be lost to all the world. Time has proved, dear Ernest, that you were right in your suppositions. You were the only safe'iock for my feet here; Without you I should indeed have been lost. With all these thoughts in my heart, I half resolved to keep my guardian and Ernest in entire ignorance of my plan, and to induce them to let me spend the summer at home. I felt almost assured that I could persuade my mother to let me have my way; for, in seeing and hearing of my troubles the summer before- she had appeared very much softened and touched. Full of these resolutions, I arose the next morning, and descended to my uncle's room. He was busily engaged in writing, and Ernest stood at his side. I seated myself at a window, and, taking tip a book; which was upside down, awaited his leisure. In a few moments he looked up. 4' You have come in most opportunely, my dear little girl," he said. "Please sit down here and sign your name to 'that paper." I arose, and, approaching the table, hastily ran my eyes over the document. It was my marriage contract with my cousin! Horror-stricken, I dropped the pen and retreated. "Well," said my guardian, " what does this mean?" "And what does this mean, sir?" I exclaimed, snatching the paper from the table, and thrusting it under his eyes. "That," said I, quite calmly-" that is your marriage con- tract with- your cousin Ernest, and gives you and all your rich lands to him, the first day of June next. Is it a matter of so much surprise, after having been engaged to this gentle, BOSTON COMMON. 265 man so long,that he should now wish to claim his bride? Why do you ask, with such a face of wonder, ' what'does this mean? ' I sank into a seat, and, covering my face with both hands, silently asked God to direct me: in this trial. Ernest was standing at one of the windows, engaged in profound thought. IIow I hated him, at that moment, for thus coolly looking upon my sufferings and weakness, and taking- advantage of them! The time had now come for me to act, however, and, rising, with all my soul in my words, I commenced thus: "( Uncle Thomas, neither you nor my cousin there has. any right whatever to force me into a compliance with your wishes. This engagement was made under a false idea that I should be breaking my word if I did not promise to marry Ernest. I did lie, however, unto my own heart, when I told Ernest I would be his; God forgive me for that! I never disputed your will, uncle Thomas, when I thought that your commands were for my good; but now, when I see that you use tyranny in order to accomplish your wishes, I boldly burst my bonds, and proclaim my freedom! I have, like the rest of my family, a strong will, which I shall exercise. I cannot, will not, marry Ernest, although I love him as a dear brother, and respect and honor his noble character. I love another, and my heart refuses homage to all but that other!" For several moments after my long speech, my guardian and cousin stood looking at me in perfect amazement.} Could this be the little Helen whom they had so long held in subjection? They were evidently much surprised, and formed quite a different opinion of me very suddenly. At length my guardian, bursting into a loud laugh, and saying, ( Well, 23 page: 266-267[View Page 266-267] 266 BOSTON CO MMON. well, Ernest, I leave this little ineorrigible in your charge, - you can understand her much better than I," left the room. I sat down in my chair, and cast a trembling look towards Ernest. He was leaning against the window,s His face, although partly concealed from me, I could see was very pale, and convulsed with emotion. I pitied him; for, with, all his harshness, he had really been kind to me, and I truly and ardently admired his lofty character. After a few moments of profound silence, he slowly approached the table, -and- seated himself by my side. Every trace of emotion had dis- appeared. His face wore the same oalln look, his brow was unclouded as ever, but there played in those cold gray eyes a fearful light, which made my poor heart tremble. "Helen," said he, and his voice sounded like a deep-toned bell, "I love you fondly and sincerely,-.have done so ever since you were a child. Long ago I discovered your disposi- tion from your portrait, and in later years my close intimacy with you has confirmed in me the opinion that I was right. You have fine talents, and a large fortune. Both these I wish you to devote to-the cause of God. I do not want these precious gifts of his to be squandered in the idle pomps and vanities of the world. For this holy cause, united with- my love, have I labored long and earnestly. I have yielded to no selfish motives, notwithstanding my affection for you, but have sought your sole interest in my every action towards you. Helen, I am, as you very well know, to be a minister of the ever]'ting Gospel. -I am to- carry tidings of good news to sinners; but I need you with me; for, united, we ^ should be powerful laborers inithe vineyard. Besides, Helen, I am fearful lest you should go astray. I wish, in obedience to BOSTON COMMON. 267 our lostHarry's request; to endeavor, by God's blessing, to keep you, in the only safe and happy way. I wish you to devote yourself to your blessed Maker's cause. ("In pursuance of this plan, IHelen, I have hastened our marriage; for I amt anxious to begin my labors of love, and, therefore, if you would be a faithful follower of Christ, if you would be a laborer in his vineyard, if you would obey: the last injunction of Harry Glenmore, if you would not, in short, doom a strong, brave heart to disappointment, if you would not crush his energies forever, and render his life dark, gloomy, and misanthropic, say no more of your foolish fancy for the weak-minded, worldly being to whom you have alluded, but yield, my Helen, now, while' you are young and strong, now, while your fortune is at your disposal, now, while you can cast your talents, heart, and purse, into the treasury of the Lord, - and sign that paper " Every word that Ernest uttered sank deep into my heart. I saw and appreciated at once his lofty, self-denying spirit. I was spell-bound with admiration of the noble being, who stood, in all the beauty and glory-of his manly strength, and pleaded so earnestly for his God. The remembrance of Roland, however, and his pale sad face, also my solemn vow of the evening before, rose in startling colors before mne, and I found strength to reply. "Ernest," said I, "I cannot sign that paper; but I will sign one giving you my fortune, if you wish, for the purposes you have mentioned; but I cannot be your wife, for I am promised to. another!" " I stopped, for my companion had arisen, and was gazing upon me with surprise.* He made no comment, howeveri, upon my last words, but said, with coldness and asperity, -' ,' , n page: 268-269[View Page 268-269] 268 BOSTON COMMON. "Very well, Helen, you are at liberty to follow your own inclinations. I cannot bear to give you up, but, as you sin- cerely wish it, I release you for a while-- remember, only for a while. I give you, with all your wealth, youth, and talents, to Roland Hastings; but I foresee a bitter awakening for you. I foresee a time when God's vengeance will overtake you, for thus refusing to sacrifice yourself to Him. The '-Helen, when sick of the world, -when weary and disgusted with its idle vanities, when, with fortune spent, and perhaps strength also, when almost ready to expire with your burden, come back to me, - come to these arms, which will never fail to be open and ready to receive you; come, rest your weary head upon this bosom, which will never cease, through time and eternity, to beat with the fondest, sincerest affection for you;. and, above all, come to your God, who will not fail, although at the eleventh hour, to place his everlasting arms about you, and to bear you safely through the dark waters of affliction." He ceased, and I leaned back in my chair, and, in spite of his release of me, felt as though my heart were bursting. "And so, Ernest," I at length ventured to say, (you do really consent to my union with Roland?" "I do," he answered, "( since I have no other alternative." "And my fortune - Ernest, will you accept of that?" "Use your gold yourself Helen, - do just what you please with it. Unless I am to be your husband, I would not, for worlds, touchone farthing of it." "-But," said I, "whyilo you prophesy so dark a future for me? Why do you ask me to return to you when I am sick of life, and ready to die, &c.?" "Because, Helen," he replied, with much solemnity, "I ^ BOSTON COMMON. 269 have told you that you were sent here to fulfil a great duty. God designed you for his service.. Allured by the pleasures of the world, however, you chose your own path. You may be happy for a while, but the day of reckoning will come. God grant it come not too late for repentance! I almost see you, Helen, with a broken heart, wasted fortune and energies, lying low at my feet, and craving for one former smile of love. I see you- again reinstated in my heart, your whole affections mine. I see you seated at my side, as my wife; for my wife you- surely will be, some day, Helen, although you struggle now so hard against it. It is fixed and inevitable as the destiny of man. By my hastening matters at- present I only wished to spare you years of unnecessary trouble and anguish. I but wish to make you happy, by making you good and wise. I wished to spare you the misery which lost time, wasted fortune, and misapplied energies, always bring. But this is all past, and you are, as I said before, at liberty to follow the bent of your own inclinations." Was my cousin a prophet? I already fancied his words true, and glanced fearfully through my future. I asked myself, tremblingly, if it could be true that I should marry Roland and be ruined, as all my friends had prophesied time and again; and that I should lose him by death, and after- wards marry Ernest. I almost -feared it might'be so, and my heart smote me for bringing anguish upon such a noble being. Suddenly a thought struck me. "My friends, Ernest- I shall have them to contend with." "No, Helen," he answered, : I will arrange that for you also. Your parents, your guardian, and all, will surrender you freely to Roland. I myself will bear you their consent." 23D page: 270-271[View Page 270-271] 270 BOSTON COMMON. - Noble being," I sobbed, "you are indeed a friend to me! ^But, O, Ernest, do not, I pray you, suffer. on my account! I am unworthy of you - indeed I am. Forget me, and seek for' some other, some better-" "Hush, Helen," saidhe, calmly, "s not a word of that. My -feelings I will take care of-- please think of your own, Now for your, plans. You had best get ready as soon as possible, and pass the summer with your mother and lover, at Linden. Marry just whenever and wherever you please. I need not ask you-to be happy, -you will be so for a while, at least,--but, O, my dear Helen, never, in the temptations which may assail your path, never, in the troubles which will assuredly be yours, forget your God! Pray daily to Him. -Struggle for a blessing. Watch carefully your conduct. Be good; and God forever bless you!" He arose, and, without another word or look, left the room and house. I immediately sat down, not daring to trust my- self with reflection, and indited a little note to Roland, telling him that I was going home very soon, to remain with my mother through the summer; and that, if he chose to call that evening, he could do so with perfect safety, for everything was arranged for his reception. How happy was I all day -how blithe and light-hearted! I moved softly about 'the house, and sang, in a gayer voice than I had done for mlny months, snatches of old, long-for- gotten songs. The idea of my cousin's unhappiness would, however, creep in, and at times damp all my joy; but, as I met him at dinner, and he appeared perfectly calm and com- posed, I was quite reassured, and conversed with my usual ease, BOSTON COMMON. 271 The storm had broken upon Ernest's head in all its fury, but it had no power to harm, or even move him. It was like the waters dashing against a rock - they raged and foamed, but the rock still remained; and when the clouds rolled away, and the sunshine again streamed full upon it, no trace of the fury which had played over it could be seen.+ In the evening I was made still happier by the presence of my lover. My guardian, his wife, and- even Ernest, received him with the warmth of old friends, and-I was quite piqued that the latter betrayed no more emotion at the sight of thed destroyer of his peace. I glanced at him as' I presented the young men to each other. Not a word or sig betrayed that -and was anything more to him than any other person; bt "he conversed with him as sensibly as if they had been old friends, who had met after a lengthened separation. "The insensible being!" thought I. "I do not believe that he is so very wretched, after all, at my choice. He could not; surely, if he were miserable, appear so very calm." I did not then fully understand the depth and beauty of Ernest's character. I knew not how completely he could subdue his will, and make an entire sacrifice of his inclina- tions, for the happiness or good of another. But why stop to enumerate all the happy meetings with Roland? Why expatiate upon our walks, our rides, our sweet blissful hours of converse together, when seated upon the sofa, or wandering hand in hand through the labyrinths of the Common? Suffice it to say, that my cup was now full to the' brim. My heart expandedi grew larger and more benevolent; my sympathies were more easily excited in favor page: 272-273[View Page 272-273] 272 BOSTON COMMON. of the suffering, and a striking change was soon visible in my ,whole. appearance, to every one who saw me. My form sud- denly grew rounder and fuller; my eyes resumed their former laughing, happy expression, and a childish glee seemed to have taken the place of my late dignified reserve. I was once more the happy, merry girl of fifteen, and prepared to return home with my uncle, aunt, and affianced husband, with more cheerfulness and alacrity than I had experienced for years before. I had expected and dreaded a disagreeable interview with Ernest before my departure; but even this was foreseen, and carefully avoided by his thoughtfulness. We were to leave for the east in the afternoon train. Earlyjgn the morning I received a little note from him, accompanied with a package. I opened the note first. It read as follows: "DEAR COusIN: "You must pardon me for thus avoiding the disagreeable task of bidding you farewell personally : even my iron nerves are not proof against the misery we should both experience in a last encounter. Before you receive this I shall be many miles upon a journey I have long projected. I have decided upon going to Europe, -before taking charge, of my flock, and entering upon my ministerial duties at Boston. I shall visit England, France, Switzerland, and Italy, and may be absent three or four years. Should you at the altar, Helen, or at any time previous to that, see occasion to change your mind con. cerning your marriage, remember that I stilt love you, and am always ready to forget the past. I will arrange it so that you may know where to find me when you wish. , BOSTON COMMON. - 273 ( I shall always watch over you and yours with a prayer- ful interest. Be careful, Helen, of your husband's happiness and well-being. Avoid the- first inclinations towards strife between you. Keep a strict watch over his conduct, and your own also; and if he fall, O, my Helen! see that ;you fall not with him. Keep yourself pure and unspotted from the world; waste not your wealth and talents in vanity. ,' Will you please accept this little Bible, and read it care- fully every day? You cannot deviate far from virtue's paths, if you make this a rule of your conduct. (I. could write to you, Helen, for hours, my heart is so full; but let what I have said suffice. Now, may the Al- mighty Father- have you and yours ever in his holy care, and bless you always! "From your cousin, ' ERNEST RICHMOND." I shed a few tears over Ernest's note, and -breathed a prayer for his happiness. I then untied the package, and examined the Bible. It was plain and substantial, and evi- dently made for constant use. On the fly-leaf was written, in my cousin's hand, "From Ernest to Helen." Underneath was the text " watch and pray." The book was marked by him with passages for my daily study. I pressed it to my lips, and, resolving that it should be my constant companion, placed it in my travelling-bag. In the early part of the afternoon I formed a beautiful wreath of natural flowers, and, stealing a few moments from Roland's side, visited Harry's grave. I obtained permissi"n from the keeper of the cemetery to enter the gate, and, closing it behind me, proceeded to the spot. ', -. page: 274-275[View Page 274-275] 274 BOSTON 'COMMON. The grave was surrounded by trees, and half buried in the I foliage of early June; but, pushing it aside, I found my way through, and knelt upon the mound. '( O, Harry!" sobbed I, '"if I have done wrong, or contrary to what you would have advised, had you been living, forgive me, and may God for- give me also9! O, let me be happy in the new position I am about to assume; andj aboveo all, let me live so that I may fWMfil thy dying riquest, dear Harry!" W "What strange adventures I may go through before I again visit this spot!" thought I. "I have a half foreboding of evil, but must endeavor to shake it off; for it will, if cher- ished, destroy all my happiness. I'll think of it no more." I arose, and hung the wreath upon the head-stone; then, with my own hands, planted a little white rose-bush upon the grave. After dropping one- more farewell tear to the memory of the sainted Harry, I turned and left 'the cemetery. I passed by the spot where Harry had breathed his last, and bade it adieu'with a sigh. I then visited the bold elm- tree, .and the little hill beyond, where I had enjoyed, so many happy hours. I bade them a long and tearful farewell ; and, as the afternoon was now far advanced, hastily left the Common, and pursued my way home. As we were getting into the carriage which was to convey us to the dept, Letitiia Milford came rushing down stairs. hethait flying, her eyes bathed in tears, a l:r whole ap-- pearance indicative of the deepest distress. :: What is the matter, ndw?"I asked. "OO, Helen, dearest," she replied;, "I am about to undergo another separation from you, the beloved of my: soul, my early fond companion! How can I be otherwise than sad? ' ,' . . * , y .. ),j:-1 275 - BOSTON COMMON-. Alas! I shall scarcely expect-to survive your loss this time, my Helen!" " O yes, Letise," I replied, sarcastically, "you will live, and be consoled by some gay ball or party to-night." ," Ungrateful and cruel Helen!" she answered, weeping; "I how can you, in our moment of separation, treat me thus? How can you, after so many protestations of friendship on my part, speak of a trifling party, or a miserable ball, as being a means of consolation in your absence? Hear me, Helen," she continued, "while I invoke Heaven to witness, that so long as Tremont Temple, Faneuil Hall, or the State House stand, so long will my friendshi'ifor you endure; that not all the allurements of this vain world, not all the riches, nor the many, many friends which will cluster around my path, will drive you one moment from my heart. No! you will ever reign supreme there\; and I will never, never forget you, my own darling Helen!" " , Thank you, Letise," I replied, dryly; " but now-take care of yourself, and do not break your neck in crossing the moun- tains, this summer; and be careful, also, of hearts,- they, too, may be broken, you know." Letitia had, at the conclusion of her great speech, pressed her handkerchief convulsively to her eyes; but she quickly forgot her grief ;in anticipated future conquests; and en the carriage drove from the door she was smiling so: ly that one-would never have supposed her heart haWt been breaking but a few moments before. - ; to page: 276-277[View Page 276-277] CHAPTER XXVII. "Bride and bridegroom, pilgrims of life, henceforward to travel to- gether, In this, the beginning of your journey, neglect not the favor of Heaven: ' Marriage is a figure and an earnest of holier things unseen, And this is the sum of the matter : if ye will be happy in marriage, Confide, love, and be patient: be faithful, firm, and holy." PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY. -O one bright evening, dear reader, did I arrive at that home from which I had been absent for more thlan two years. My parents, brothers, and little sister, were overjoyed to see /me. Katherine Merton was not at home, but was expected O the next day. She arrived; and when I had held her once - more to my heart, my joy was indeed full. i . f Whys, ma, cheRe Katrine,' exclaimed I, " how very beau- :;;tiful you have grown!" ".::- ,tAid you too, dearest Helen," she replied. Love has - : I]een at work, with his rosy fingers, upon that cheek. : nuare no, longer the pale, drooping being of two years one, myNell. Your eyes have lohe pensive expression that once saddened them. Your chei r a pe ach, -. ['an your mouth constantly wreathed-w th :s. " (Now, my dear, credulous reader, you are not to suppose, BOSTON COMMON. 2" from my friend Katie's description, that I was beautiful, for I was not. You must judge of m-e as you have hitherto found me, and make allowances for her partiality. But Katie was really beautiful. She had large hazel eyes, full of speaking intelligence; a fair, open brow, over which the rich brown hair was combed with a smoothness very Ma- donna-like. A sweet smile played around her mouth, and somewhat relieved the otherwise serious expression of her lovely face. I talked a long while with Kate concerning my present prospects, my happiness, my lover, &c., and then told her of cousin Ernest. She seemed very much ;.nterested in him, and I said to her, jokingly, that she would be just the best wife in a the world for him. Katie shook her head, and then revealed to me the astounding n4ws that she was already engaged. "To whom?"I asked,' in surprise. "O, to nobody," she replied; " that is,-to somebody-- in- deed, I scarcely know who he is, Helen; for I care nothing about him. I was visiting, last summer, in a country village near this, and the eldest son of the richest mail in the place had the foolishness to fall desperately in love with' me. He said he should die if I did not marry bm; and so I con- sented -just to save his 'life, you know. His name is Hor- ace Wilds - a fine dame; ;iis n't, it, Helen??" "Why, Katie, don't you love him?"I asked, in surprise. "I do not know what you mean by talking so lightly of so serious a subject." ' Love him? i!lhe replied. "No, not I. I do not love any one but you, Helen." "Thank you, darling," I said; "I am quite happy in your page: 278-279[View Page 278-279] -- 278 BOSTON o COMMON. affection; but, Katie, you must not marry without loving , your husband. 'T would- bewful, you know." "O, would it?" replied she. ." Well, my parents are very anxious for then match; and I may as well obey them in this respect as in any other, I suppose." I had never heard Katherine speak so strangely before upon the subject of marriage; and I made up my mind that she was either a little crazy, or very unhappy about some- thing. The day was at length fixed upon thatwas to see Roland and myself married. It was to take place the last of Sep- tember. What One long rambles did we now have together! Every field, pasture, and piece of woods, was explored by us. We climbed -every hill and - descended every valley in old Linden together. I can never forget that happy summer. Every day and hour are indelibly fixed upon my memory. The hours flew swiftly by. Rosy June was succeeded by the rich, luxuriant months of July and August;, and Septem- ber, with its calm skies and gentle breezes, was ushered in by a fair and perfect day. 'Every possible preparation had been made for my wedding.- My mother had procured the finest dresses, the richest jewels, and the most delicate em- broidery, for me; and my marriage was to be-celebrated by a real old-fashioned wedding. It was not the custom of the day; but my father had been, known and loved by so many people in Linden, and was still so fondly remembered, othat it was judged best to let all his old friends see his child married., * ' At length the day dawned that was, ere its close, to see me a wife. The sky was blue, and the day uncommonly BOSTON COMMON. 279 warm. A few light, fleecy clouds floted gracefully in the far south, and relieved the de:lbue of the heavens. Our door-bell was besieged all day- y messages, bouquets, pres- ents, or something pleasant for the bride. The evening drew on fair and softly. The house was early filled with the merry wedding guests. I was attired in my rich robes of white satin and blonde; and, at the hour of seven, entered the parlor with my bridesmaids, their grooms, and my future husband. The room was large and lofty; but it was filled to over- flowing. Some had to stand upon the sofa, and others were closely packed upon the stairs, all striving to get a glimpse of the bride. For some singular reason of her own, probably, Kate Merton had refused to attend my wedding; and had, the day before I was married, left town to visit a distant relative. I was exceedingly surprised at this strange con- duct, and somewhat offended; but I afterwards learned- the cause. My bridesmaids were Jessie Weston and Miry Nevill, two very lovely girls. They were attired in flowing robes of white muslin, and looked exceedingly lovely. But the finest feature of the evening was Iastings. He stood by my side, dressedi in elegant black, relieved by the white vest and gloves, in all the, glory and pride of manly beauty. His hair, always so glossy, hung in rich, wavy curls over the- unclouded brow; his eyes sparkled and flashed with the emo- tions of a generous, happy heart, at peace with itself and all the world. A sweet expression lingered around that mouth, whose smile was my heaven, and an animIated grace was dis- played in every limb and motion. = . , . page: 280-281[View Page 280-281] - s0: BOSTON COMMON. "What a beautiful, noble creature is Roland Hastings, - and how interesting and lo the bride looks!" were excla- mations I heard everywhere around me. I saw nothing, knew nothing, however, but Roland and happiness, as I stood in the midst of that brilliant throng, and pronounced the vows that were to bind me forever to the glorious being at my side. The ceremony was over; the prayer had been breathed, the benediction pronounced, by the old, time-honored pastor. I had received kisses and congratulations from many an old friend, had heard myself greeted by the new and de- lightful title of "Mrs. Hastings," ere I had realized but that I was in a dream. It was a dream of bliss, however, from which I never hoped or wished to awaken. / About nine o'clock I was quite startled by hearing'some one observe that it rained. I ran immediately to a window. A large black cloud had arisen directly over our house, and threatened to envelop the whole heavens. As I bent my eyes anxiously from the window, a peal of thunder boomed from the cloud, and rattled the panes-against which I was leaning. This was instantly succeeded by an almost blinding flash of lightning, Which, in its red and forked passage, marked for anmoment the deep blackness of the heavens. There was an awful pause among the elements for a moment; and then the big drops of rain came dancing down to earth in such abundance, that it seemed as if the very windows of heaven were open, and pouring forth the accumulated substance of years. I stood gazing fearfully upon this sight. A gloom had come over me, I scarcely knew why, and I suddenly thought ,; t \, BOS TON COMMON. 281 of Ernest and his dark words of prophecy. An arm was the next moment thrown fondly a-ind my waist, and a voice whispered in my ear the words, "Come away, my Helen, from this fearful sight! You will -catch cold." "0, Roland!" I replied; " why did this occur, and on our wedding-night, too? I fear that some great evil will overtake us!" "Pshaw, Helen!" said he; "no evil that this arm can prevent shall ever cross your path." "O, Roland!"I continued, "I am thinking of Ernest. These clouds seem to be the wretchedness we have condemned him to, and that lightning may resemble his spirit struggling through the darkness around him." ' Do not allow your mind, my sweet one," replied Roland, "to dwell -upon any theme that will trouble or vex you in the least, or our wedding-night will indeed prove- an unfortu- nate one to me." * He half drew, half persuaded me from the window, and, leading me to a little closet, poured out a glass of wine, and offered it me to drink. I looked at it a moment, and then set it down. "I do not drink wine, Roland," said I; "'and I hope you do not." He laughed. "Can't I persuade you to try this?" he said, coaxingly. "Will you disobey the first command of your liege lord and husband?" "Nay, Roland," I replied, "I will obey you in every- thing that is right, but not in this. You never drink wine, do you? '" page: 282-283[View Page 282-283] 282 ...--. :BOSTON COMMON. M ; Only on great occasions, like the present," he answered, :taking up, the rejected gt"l and draining it to the bottom. "I am one of the kind, Helen, that can drink or not, just as :"I please," I said no more at present, as I saw that it was quite use- less. He, seeing my sadness,: strove to dissipate it. Of course: he succeeded; for there was a charm in his words and accents that had power to soothe my grief whenever he chose :to speak. ' The thunder continued to peal forth, the lightning to flash, and the rain to pour. Everybody seemed troubled and dis- satisfied. A gloom rested upon the whilom happy wedding- party. LThe dancing and sports were broken up, and the gentlemen despatched for carriages, umbrellas, and rubbers, gfort the ladies. At length the shower abated. The thunder rolled away, the lightning ceased its fearful playing, and the rain soon stopped altogether. The guests then bade me good-by and departed for their homes; and, thus ended my happy wedding. day. / ' For three weeks after my marriage we remained at- my mother's, who could not bring herself to part with me so soon, and then went to board at a fashionable hotel in town, as our house was not yet ready to receive us. What blissful months were those, and how swiftly did they speed away! I was now perfectly happy. My husband was so kind, so attentive! He scarcely ever left me for even an hour at a time, and 'our strong attachment for each other w3. the :talk of. the whole village. I had a: constant round of company, to whom I was- always proud to exhibit my BOSTo N Co M M ON. 283 beautiful husband. All were delighted with him. He was the principal object of attraction at all the parties around; and Hwas only too happy, too willing to find myself a second- ary object; for it was always my greatest delight to listen to his praises. 4( Helen," said my husband to me, one day, " during our early acquaintance I often saw you dance; how is it that you never do so now?" "Yes," I replied, " you did. When I was very young, my mother sent me to a dancing-school, where I learned and practised the steps. - But why do you ask?" "Because, my dear," he answered, '( there is to be a series of balls here this winter, which I am very anxious to attend. Of course I cannot go without you. What say you?" "It will hardly comport with my profession, Roland," I replied. "I am, you know, a church-member." 4"-Yes, yes, I am aware of it," he answered; " but there can be no possible harm in dancing a little, - it is nothing but an innocent amusement." "I acknowledge that, Roland. Dancing is, in itself, quite a harmless pastime; but it leads to many and serious evils, viihich I, as a Christian, am in duty bound to avoid." "But, my sweet Helen, pray what are the evils to which i you allude? If you will convince me of them, I will never step foot into a ball-room again." "-Why, Roland, in the first place, it is a waste of time, money, and-health; I might say a shameful waste. The hours spent in dancing should be devoted to sleep; the money, if not needed-as is often the case-for the necessary wants of life, to some charitable purpose. Then,- again, page: 284-285[View Page 284-285] 284 B OSTON COMMON. dancing is very excitable. Young people, particularly gen. tlemen, are often induced to drink thereby; play follows the intoxicating bowl, and profanity ensues. Then, Roland- you know the rest; the picture is too fearful to be pursued." "Your picture is highly colored, Helen," he laughingly re- plied. "And so you would discard dancing entirely, if you were ruler of the land?" "No, Roland," I answered, i"I would do nothing of the kind. Were I ruler of the land, and absolute ruler, as I wish I might be for a while, I will tell you what I would do. I would lay down certain rules, which should be strictly' obeyed." "Well, my little Lycurgus, let's hear your wonderful laws." "'Very well, Roland," I continued, , you shall hear them all. In the first place, I should require every man, woman, and child, under pain of imprisonment, unless sickness pre- vented, to be at home, and in bed, by ten o'clock. Once a week there should be a ball all over the land; but it should commence in the afternoon, and end at precisely nine o'clock. I would have the young and old, the rich and poor, the bond and free, attend these balls, and all who:were able dance aud enjoy themselves/ equally. A concert should, of course, talk place in the evening, as it would very probably be done early. 'i In order that these merry-makings might be as innocent as k possible, T would order every pack of cards, every dice-box and gammon-board, to be collected in heaps all over the, land and burned, and in this manner would I destroy gam- Tnbling. ,' Then for King Alcohol. I would summon him from his BOSTON CO MMON. - 285 lurking-places, - from his haunts of iniquity, from his dens of misery,- and burn him root and branch. All his fine appendages, his gilded palaces, his sparkling treasures, should suffer the same fate. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, I would go to the very foundation of the matter. I would raze every distillery in the land, and level it to the ground, and menace with death the man who laid the first stone towards building another. Then, when this was done, when every means of vice was out of the way, I would let all my dear people sing- and dance to their hearts' content." "Well done; Nellie! You are a Lycurgus indeed. You have laid down some excellent rules to live by; but there is another stronghold of evil which you have quite forgotten. What would you do with the human heart, Helen? That, surely, should be hunted out and cleansed. Everybody is so bad, so wicked, you know." "I am not inclined to agree with yoir, Roland, in this par- ticular. I think there is much less evil anid more good in the world than we are apt to imagine upon a hasty survey of the matter. We look abroad and see crime, envy, malice, and many other passions, blasting their votaries; but there is, in my opinion, no person living, not even the most abandoned crim- inal, who has not some germs of virtue sparkling in his breast. Some tender recollections of home, or -a mother's prayers, if touched upon properly, might be productive, perhaps, of the fruit of entire reformation." Roland smiled. "Well, Nell," he said, "I won't dispute you. It may, perhaps, be as you say; but now,for these balls. 'We will subdue our inclinations for cards and dice; will destroy our appetites for intoxicating liquors; will watch page: 286-287[View Page 286-287] 286 BOSTON COMMON. carefully to see that no word of profanity escapes our lips; and, fortified by all-these guards, will go, will we not?" "Ah! Roland, we may talk of subduing our inclinations; but the happy day for doing this effectually has not yet come. I fear temptation, -I dread it both for you and myself. I do not wish to tread even upon the borders of its fields. They are often scented- with a thousand sweets, which might lull our senses into forgetfulness of the dark, deep waters beyond; and, before we are aware of it, our feet may be sunk, beyond retrieve, far into the miry clay, and we may have lost even the power or inclination to return." Roland said no more at that time; but I saw that, with all my preaching, as he called it, he was not satisfied. His whole heart was set upon having me visit the balls; and, after withstanding his persuasions a'long. time, I at length, in an evil hour, consented to attend just one with him. His joy at my acquiescence quite overcame any further scruples I might have had; and I prepared for the ball with much more satisfaction than I had imagined it possible to feel upon such an occasion. Everybody was, of course, de- lighted to see Mrs. Hastings at a ball; and every attention which friendship or politeness could suggest was heaped upon her. Her hand was solicited by every gentleman in the roo'm, and her head almost bewildered by the many praises and! favors she received. Roland was, as usual, the centre of attraction, the observed v of all observers. He had scarcely a moment to speak a word to me, and, on my part, I had, no time to attend to him. He was constantly surrounded by a bevy of young ladies, who "all continued"to flatter him, and make him think, himself, as 287( BOSTON COMMON. usual, almost a divinity. Once or twice, while whirling in the giddy mazes of the waltz, the noble face of my cousin Ernest rose before me, looking so reproachful; once or twice. his words of warning rang in my ears; but I quickly banished both the face and words, and, with a smile of tri- umph, yielded to the new delights around me. Roland could talk of nothing but the ball for a week after- wards. It did not give me so much pleasure, however; but I humored his fancy, and strove to show him that I was as much delighted as himself. page: 288-289[View Page 288-289] CHAPTER XXVIII. "There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, And lamps from every casement shown, While voices blithe within are singing, That seem to say 'Come' in every tone. Ah! once how light, in life's young season, My heart had leaped at that sweet lay, Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason Should I the siren call obey!" THOMAS MOORE. HELEN my dear, such news for you! such an honor for us both!" said my husband to me, one day, codming into the room, and leaning over my chair. "What is it, Roland?"I asked.. "Why,"- he answered, " the good people of the little vil- lage where I was born, and where I first beheld you, my dear, have concluded that, on New-Year's eve, your nineteenth birthday, they will give us a grand ball and supper. I have just received a letter from the manager of the festival, who says that he has sent invitations to several towns, and that many ladies and gentlemen are to attend. A fine band of music is also provided for the occasion. You will dress in your bridal attire, Helen, veil and all; and we will have such a charming time! I am quite delighted with this plan." I looked at him. He seemed so happy, so animated, that BO S T ON COM MON. 289 I could not, of course, refuse him. It was entirely out of my power; and so, with a sigh, I consented -to go. Katherine Merton called in -soon after, and I told her of my anticipated pleasure. She informed me that her lover had just arrived, had insisted upon her going with him to the ball also, and that she had consented. "O, delightful!" said I. "What a pleasant time we will have together!--won't we, Kate?" "Yes, we may have, to be sure," she answered; "( but I do not enjoy such times very much, do you, Nellie?" "s Why, no, Kate," I replied; i" but,-then, Roland is so fond of them that I have not the heart -to refuse him. -I shall do so by and by; for I cannot say that I find the pleasure in those scenes that I used to." The New-Year's morning--my birthday--dawned. I kneeled and prayed, and read my Bible, as usual; but, for the first time in a long while, my devotions were hurried through, and I did not find the same enjoyment in them as 'was my wont. I arose from my knees, and hastily donned my travel- ling-dress; for we were to start very early. The ride was delightful; my companion, as usual, kind, affectionate, and attentive. When we arrived at Bardville, the whole village was in commotion, and the hotel literally alive with people. I will not stop to describe the ball. It was all that beauty, grace, and fine music, could make it. I received a deal of attention; and, dressed once more in my wedding-garments, looked and acted the bride toperfec- tion. We passed the latter part of the night at Roland's father's, and returned home the next day very much delighted with our visit. 25 page: 290-291[View Page 290-291] 290 BOS TON COMMOn,. I was quite disappointed in what I had imagined Horace Wilds, Kate Merton's lover, to be. He did not, as she had said, appear to be anybody in particular. He was neither tall or short, thick or thin, black or white; and I could not discover, with all my penetration, whether he knew anything or not. Sometimes he would give you the idea that he was a splendid dancer. He would commence a waltz or cotillon in such a graceful style that you would involuntarily exclaim, "What a magnificent dancer!" Before he had finished, however, he would lose the step, and, making some awkward blunder, reel to a seat with his partner, and declare that he would never dance again, it was such a bore. To give the reader some idea of this singular being, I will relate a little conver- sation that took place. between him and myself at the ball. In the course of the evening, he came forward and said, with a bow, " Mrs. Hastings, I believe?" I acknowledged that I was indeed that person, and made room for him by my side. "I should be most happy, madam, to have your hand for a dance," he said. "And I should be equally happy in conferring it," I re- plied. "Don't you think it very warm here, madam?" he asked. "Very," I answered. "Do you enjoy dancing, sir?" "Yes - no - that is, I am quite fond of it at times." "There appears to have been every provision made for our comfort to-night by-the kind manager, The ladies are beau- tiful, and the music excellent." "There are quite a number of handsome ladies present; BOSTON COMMON. - 291 but I do not much fancy a beauty; and as for music, I have no ear at all for that." "Our dear Katherine is very beautiful," I archly re- marked. "( Yes, I beli6ve Kate is fine-looking, but not a beauty, after all." "( You like her face surely, Mr. Wilds?" "Yes - no,- that is, I mean I am not quite sure that I ever had an opinion upon Kate or her face either. Indeed, Mrs. Hastings, I am in- a dream more than half my time. I do not pretend to know anything for certain." I looked at him in astonishment, and wondered what made my Katie ever think of choosing such a boor for a husband. I was not at all surprised that he did not come for me to dance; for he never seemed to make up his mind to do any- thing for certain. I was much alarmed, however, for fear that he would. forget or neglect to carry Kate home, the next day; but my fears 'were laid at rest on seeing him seated' with her in the sleigh, the next morning, at the hotel door, as we drove by. "Good-morning, Wilds," said Roland. "Ah! Hastings, good-morning to you. You are off, then, in good earnest?" "So are you, I see; but do not forget the way, will you, Wilds?" " O, no! I am n pretty sure that I shall get home, now that I have started; but I had a difficult time to find my horse, I assure you." "Indeed! What was the trouble? Had he got loose?" "O, no! but I forgot the color of him, and was some time page: 292-293[View Page 292-293] 292 .-BOSTON COMMON. deciding whether he was black, white, or gray. Katie, here, put me all right, however, by informing me of the exact color and make of him; and here I am at last, quite ready, as you see." "What a strange man!" thought I. "1I only trust he may get home safely, for Katie's sake. I should not much wonder, however, if he forgot, and harnessed himself into the sleigh, and put the horse in with Kate." After the fatigue of the ball was over, Roland proposed that we should take a trip to Boston, and spend a couple of months in our favorite city. I, of course, gladly assented; and, well provided with furs and wrappings, we started. Arrived in the city, we immediately took lodgings in the hotel where I had formerly boarded. How familiar did everything look around me! The rooms were the same. The servants, fur- niture, and all, wore a dear old look. The day after our arrival, we visited the beautiful Comrn. mon. The plats were covered with deep snow, and the walks were trodden hard, and the little pond was solid with ice. Boys and girls were skating and sliding here in every direc. tion, and the whole air rang with their merry shouts of laugh- ter. ' How I love children ' There is beauty to me, and mu- sic of the sweetest find, in their graceful movements, and glad, ringing merriment. We bent our steps to Harry's grave. It was buried deep beneath the snow, and I could discern nothing of it, save a few straggling branches of the white rose-bush I had planted' when last there. I looked sadly towards the spot where the beloved form lay, and sighed. O"Harry!"I sail to myself, , ,I am very happy, and o, BOSTON COMMON. 293 have scarcely felt a moment's pain since last I visited thy sacred resting-place." On the second morning of-our arrival Roland asked me if I would like to go to the Museum. My heart'beat quickly, but I replied, "I think not, Roland." "That means ' I think I will, Roland,' does it not?" he playfully asked. , You know, Helen," he continued, ( that the Museum is not exactly a theatre. Everybody goes there. I have seen ministers there, many a time." "4 I am well aware of that, Roland," I answered. "It is no harm, perhaps, in itself, to attend the Museum and witness exhibitions of histrionic art from talented performers; but I much fear it will take my mind from things of more import- ance, and it may lead you astray too, dear Roland." "Poh, Helen! he replied; ' there is no danger of me, and you are almost a saint now. You need to have your gar- ments touched with a little earthness, or you will grow too pure. There is to be a brilliant fairy spectacle to-night, which cannot fail to charm your scruples entirely away. You must go, darling." Of course, yielding to my blind love for my husband, I went, and of course I was highly delighted. The ice once broken, we visited the theatre many times, and I beheld what I had so long wished for, the splendid tragedies-of the immor- tal Shakspeare. I saw Forrest, Booth, Brooke, Mrs. Barrett, Mrs. Mowatt, and a half-dozen others, and each time with renewed pleasure. Not an evening elapsed but we attended some ball, theatre, or concert. My husband was always happy, always gay; and, loving him -'as I did, could I bear to mar his enjoyment by refusing to be as gay and happy as 25* page: 294-295[View Page 294-295] 294 BOSTON COMMON. himself? I attended the dear old Episcopal church, on Tre- mont-street, of which I was a member; but was, to my shame be it spoken, always absent on sacrament days. I could not partake of the Lord's Supper, for I felt unworthy to do so; and so I remained at home with Roland, and in listening to his conversation passed the hours of that season which were wont to be my highest enjoyment. After spending two months in an unvaried round of gayety, after attending every place of amusement, and seeing and hearing everything of any worth in the city, we started once more for our village home. This time I did not visit Harry's grave at parting, or pause to pray beside it. I had lost the power to do so, and the little mound would but have re- proached me for thus wickedly wasting my time and fortune, which should have been spent in the service of the Lord. As we drove from the hotel I glanced involuntarily towards the Common, and from thence to the cemetery. The words !"Helen, I am waiting for you," came into my mind at that moment, and I leaned back in the carriage and sighed. - Once during the ride, I thought thus: s"Had I married only in the Lord, as commanded by Divine Writ, I should not now have had cause to deplore my Mwanderings." A glance at Roland's beloved face dispelled my sad thoughts, however, and I men- tally exclaimed, "I am now bound to thee, and, come weal or come woe, I will strive, in obedience to my marriage vow, to render thy whole life a happy, blissful one!" Besides, I was always setting a time when I would leave off- attending balls and theatres, when I would resume my long-neglected hour of devotion, and endeavor to draw the dear partner of my bosom with me into the paths of virtue BOSTON COMMON. 295 and duty. I did not reflect that by delay I was sinking still deeper with him into the mire of which I had myself spoken, and rendering it still more difficult to extricate myself therefrom. We arrived once more at our pleasant home, and resumed our lodgings at the Linden House. We had much to relate of our visit, and of course everybody was delighted to hear all about it, and to welcome us back again. I resumed my hours of practising and reading with Roland; but the devo- tions and Ernest's Bible were neglected from time to time, and, after a while, altogether dropped. I had gone far out of -the way, and the grieved Spirit had left me blindly groping for light. This could not last long, however, for I was yet to learn that the way of transgressors is hard. page: 296-297[View Page 296-297] CHAPTER XXIX. "These are the matchless joys of virtuous love, And thus their moments fly." "All hope of succor but from thee is past."-- DRYbEN. AT length our beautiful new house was ready for our reception. It stood upon a site of my own estate, and com- manded a fine view of the whole village. Behind it frowned old ' "Granite Bluff," and the dark woods beyond, that had, by their gloomy appearance, so haunted my youthful fancy. Around us were the dwellings belonging to the estate, and inhabited by respectable tenants, who all rejoiced on the, day we entered our new house, and promised to be very good neighbors. Our house was fitted up and furnished with everything com- fortable and necessary. I had no useless article in my way; but light, elegant furniture, with my fine-toned piano in the sitting-room, and rich mahogany and brocade in the parlor. My chambers were tastefully fitted up, with beds and toilets in pyre white, and carpets of light green. And, then, there was such a dear little nursery adjoining the sittingroom where Roland and myself were to sleep, with everything com- fortable and pleasant in'it. BOS'TON COMMON. 297 A strong, honest-looking girl greeted us with a smile and a good supper, the night that we arrived at home. As we sat- down to that first meal, our -hearts overflowed With thankful- ness and love, and that first night spent in our new home was always remembered with emotions of pleasure. Our house was close by the old homestead where I was born and reared, and where my mother still resided with her family. This was exceedingly pleasant for me, and when I was quietly settled I had scarcely a wish ungratified. How vividly are the hours of that too happy summer engraven upon my memory! How does it rise before me now in imagination, invested with all the glory and happiness of the bygone time, and, standing out fresh and green from every other period of my life, claim, in its pureness, an affinity to heaven! Roland was always at my side.' He was never absent for a single evening. We would sit in those calm summer twi- lights, and, with hands locked together, talk long and earnestly of our love for each other and future prospects, and congrat- ulate ourselves upon enjoying as much bliss as usually falls to the lot of mortals in this world. To add, if possible, to our happiness, the pleasing hope had been granted us that a babe would soon be born to our household. Then, indeed, did I weep and pray that my life might be spared to train up my child aright. I promised it to God, long ere its birth, and requested him to do as he pleased with it, only to make it an heir of heaven. The child for whom I had so ardently prayed, that I had -:: consecrated to the Lord, that I had longed so earnestly to behold, was at length granted to me. It was born upon one page: 298-299[View Page 298-299] 298 B O BOSTON COMAMON. fine, bright October day; but what was my anguish, wen after the most'dreadful sufferingsafter lingering between life and death for h6urs, I at length gazed upon the form of my infant, and saw that its eyes were forever closed in death! I wept and mourned bitterly, for the disappointment seemed greater than I could bear. It was the first trial of my happy married life; and, forgetful that I had promised it to my Maker, my heart rose in rebellion against him that he had taken it to himself, I grieved that I had not been permitted to gaze into its eyes for one moment; that I had been denied even the sweet pleasure of a mother's caress; but, most of all, I'grieved for the disappointment of my husband. He had anticipated so much pleasure, had waited so anxiously for the time when a child should be granted to us, that when I thought of him I was sad indeed. My grief, however, in this respect, was laid at'est the evening that our babe was buried. ' ,0 Roland," said I to him, as he was leaning tenderly over my couch, ' how grieved I am for your disappointment! What shall I say to alleviate it?" "My dearest Helen," he replied, , I have scarcely cast a thought upon the child. .Iwas so very thankful that you lived, that I almost blessed God for taking our babe,--the blow was merciful, and I am happy once more." "But, then, Roland, our child would have been such a source of delight, such a pleasure to us!" and I wept afresh. "Helen," said Roland, with more seriousness than I had ver heard him use before, "you told me that, long ere this whild's birth, you had given him to the Lord, and that he was is entirely. Then of what do you complain? He belonged BOSTON COMMON. 299 to God, and he took him, ere sin and sorrow had had an op. portunity to mar the purity of our boy. He is better at rest. " "True," thought I, "I did promise him to God, and He was taken him when it pleased Him. I will weep no more, but submit cheerfully to His will." It was many long months ere I recovered from my illness; but Roland was so kind, so attentive,during that winter, that I only half felt my deprivation of health. Some time in the middle of February, I received the following letter, written to me in a well-known hand. I opened it, and read: ' Linden House, Saturday morn. "MY DEAREST MRS. HASTINGS: ( "You will, no doubt, be astonished and grieved to learn that your early friend, Letise Milford, has, after undergoing every trouble and sorrow which the could, possibly bear, arrived at the Linden House, and is waiting, with the greatest anxiety, to learn from you thatf you are the same dear, dar- ling Helen as of old. Let me, by a few brief words, recapitu- late my sufferings. "During our trip across the Alleghanies, the summer before last, we stopped at a little town, where a garrison was quartered. Here, among many others, we encountered a most delightful young officer. H e was very beautiful in form and features, but had the disadvantage of being exceedingly poor in purse. I liked, nay, loved him; and, as he reciprocated my affection, and pledged his love to me, I referred him at once to my aunt. She repulsed him severely, however, called him (beggar, upstart,' &c., and ended by driving my darling , -i page: 300-301[View Page 300-301] 300 BOSTON COMMON. Thaddeus from the house. She then sent for me, and ad- dressed me thus: "(Well, miss, a pretty fool you have made of yourself, this time, by sending a rascally young officer to me with such a message, haven't you? Was it for this that I took you when an infant, conferred the honor of my name upon you, adopted you as my own child, brought you up and edu- cated you as a lady; in short, did everything for you that the most affectionate parent could have done,--was it .for this, I say? Is this the manner in which you repay me for my innumerable favors, by falling in love, as you foolishy term it, with a miserable young officer, whose whole fortune consists of one suit of clothes, a gun and knapsack, and who was never guilty of having more than five dollars at a time in his life? No, no, Miss Letitia! let me hear no more of this. I have determined upon quite a different course of things for you. You are to marry one of the richest gentle- men in Boston; I have promised you to him immediately upon our return. He is no whipper-snapper of a fellow, too young and too foolish to know what he wants, but a grave, steady man, twenty-five years your senior, and as rich as Croesus! If you dare thwart my wishes in this respect, you may starve, beg, die, with your miserable husband, -I 'll not trouble myself with you any further!' My aunt here brought her long speech to a close, with a tremendous bang upon the table, which made it actually dance; but I was too much shocked, too -much horrified, to speak. The idea of marrying a man twenty-five years my senior, and grave and steady into the bargain, merely because he was rich, was death, and worse than death, to me. I flew BOSTON COMMON-. 30 to my adored Thaddeus, who was still writhing under the im- putation of beggar, upstart, &c., and endeavored to console him, by every endearing epithet which I could think of, but all to no purpose. He stamped, raved, swore, &c., and de- clared that my aunt was a 'wild-cat,' a ' she-vampire,' a tigress,' &c.; and that nothing on earth could pacify him in the least, but an immediate marriage! , How I admired him for these smart speeches! I do so love. to see a man excited! In a short time we had decided that an elopement would be the only thing to restore us to any degree of happiness. , I had always doted upon elopements, and had long since secretly determined that whenever I was married it should not be done in the. usual very commonplace way, but that I would celebrate it by a rope-ladder, break-neck experiment, or something of the sort. To my exceeding delight, here was just the opportunity. A cross old aunt,.--a fine young. officer for a lover,-- a moonlight meeting, - carniage,- escape, -a lonely old chapel, --priest with white hair and venerable beard,- marriage ceremony,-- return to the old aunt, and upon bended knees begging for forgiveness,-per- feet reconciliation, &c. &c. O, it was too delightful to be postponed a moment! I imparted all these thoughts to my beloved Thaddeus. He shook his head about the reconcilia- tion, but resolved to gratify me in everything else. , Well, the night came. I bade my aunt a tearful adieu, of which she took not the slightest notice, and ascended to my chamber to await the expected signal. It was to be a tap, with a long pole, upon my window. At the given hour I heard the signal, and, running to the window, 'beheld my 26 page: 302-303[View Page 302-303] 302 BOSTON COMMON. lover upon a tall ladder, which he had ascended. H sised me in his arms without a word, snatched my jewel-boy, from the table, and descended noiselessly to the ground. I neither shrieked nor wept, but remained perfectly quiet. When we had gained the foot of the ladder, we were much startled by hearing a slight noise near us. "(' They are coming, Thaddeus! 'said I; ' fly, dearest,- save your life, and leave me to perish alone,' "He stopped a second, drew his sword, and bravely waited the issue. In a few moments a couple of huge black cats rushed past us, and, with a -light laugh, we proceeded. The carriage was waiting, under solme trees, for us; we stepped into it, were driven away, and, in a couple of hours, married! "In a day or two after this event, we returned to my aunt, and, forcing our way to her presence, begged her for- giveness in the most melting of tones. She took no notice of us, however; but, rising, rang a bell, and, upon the appear- ance of a servant, ordered him to show us to the door. We left, of course, but where were now our high, hopes? Gone, 'blasted, withered, like an untimely flower before the frost! "I will not, stop, dearest Helen, to recount to you all the sufferings we endured-from that period. We lived upon I know not what, and travelled I know not how. My darling Thaddeus was all kindness, all affection, towards me; but, O! sad and heart-rending to relate, he was, in one short year from the time I had married him, brought home a stiffened corpse! ':Alas! Helen, until you become a widow, you will never know a widow's suffering. Thaddeus was accidentally killed in a hunting expedition, and left' me, his adored wife, and our BOSTON COMMON. 308 two months old child, in a strange land, without money, friends, or scarcely the means of burying him decently! (, Well, my sweet friend, I aroused from my painful situa- tion as soon as possible, and begged my way to my aunt. She was, however, as cold and implacable as ever. Neither my poverty and tears, nor my child's helplessness, could soften her stony old heart. She dismissed me with harsh names and words from her presence, and I was once more thrown upon my own resources. (, My next recourse was to you, Helen. I knew, from your formerfriendship, that you would not refuse to assist me; and so I sold my few remaining jewels, and started for Lin- den. I arrived here last evening, half sick and fatigued with my journey, but relying solely upon your kindness to give me a shelter. "And now I await your answer, Helen. Keep me not long in suspense, but write soon, and relieve the heart of your poor, afflicted LETISE ROSCOE." How my heart bled for poor Letitia's sufferings! She was that most dreadful of all things to me, a widow; with a help- less infant to care for, without money or friends, save myself. Although Letitia was not at all times an agreeable companion, and although I dreaded to have our quiet home invaded, yet I hesitated not a moment, but sat down and penned -the fol- lowing note to her: DEAR LuETISE : "(I was rendered quite unhappy by the sad account of your sufferings this morning. I truly sympathize with you; :, r/ page: 304-305[View Page 304-305] 304 BOSTOX COMM ON. but come at once to me. My heart, home, husband, and all, are waiting to receive you. I long to welcome your poor, wandering feet to my own happy home. So, come imme- diately. Yours, as ever, H. H." I despatched the note, and, seeking my husband, showed him Letitia's letter, and then told him of my answer. "You have done right, Helen,"' said he, " and I quite ap- prove of your plan for bringing Letitia here." I then tied on my bonnet, and, stepping into my carriage, myself went for Letitia. She had just finished- reading my note, and very fervently embraced me. Her black dress and widow's cap, together with the paleness of her face, touched my heart at once; and I wept. In a short time we were at my own door, and myself carried the babe into the house. It was a sweet little thing, about four months old; and, as I pressed it to my heart, I resolved that, as long as I lived, it should never want a mother. I immediately installed JLetitia in a nice little chaqmber, and furnished it with every comfort and convenience that both mother and child could need. In a short time Letitia was entirely restored. The roses of health came back to her cheek, her old animation returned in a measure, and both my new guests seemed to thrive and improve wonderfully in the atmosphere of peace and plenty, which now surrounded them. I was rejoiced to find that my friend had, in a measure, lost the habit of using extravagant language. She still pre- served a little of the -old manner; but not so much as for- merly. I found her quite companionable, and would now spend hours in listening to the sad story of her sorrows, and , ,' - BOSTON COMMON. 305 endeavoring, by every kindness, to obliterate them from her mind. One day, soon after her entrance into our house, my hus. band came in, looking sadly perplexed. , What is the matter, Roland?" said I. He looked at me a moment, as if in doubt, and then said, ,'I am in trouble, dear Helen, from which you alone can extricate me." , I, Roland?"I answered. "You have but to say how I can do it, and you know that I should only be too happy to afford you relief." '"-Then, Helen, since you are so kind, I will tell you about it. I am in immediate want of a large amount of money, which can only be obtained by your signing this paper." I glanced at the article. It was a mortgage for a consid- erable sum upon nearly one third of my property. ,'Is that all, Roland?"I asked. "Can I relieve your distresses by so trifling an act?'. Then, behold!"I snatched a pen, and wrote "Helen Hastings " at the bottom of the deed quickly, and handed it to my husband. He took the paper, thanked me kindly, and went immediately out. Of course I was very happy that I had relieved my husband; but, somehow, the words of Ernest, "Waste not your sub- stance in the idle pomps and vanities of the world," occurred again and again to my memory. I banished them, by a strong effort, from my mind; and, thinking that the paper I had signed was only a mortgage, and could be redeemed again, busied myself about my usual employments. "After all," thought I, " what is money, in comparison with happiness? I have taken a cloud from the brow, and a page: 306-307[View Page 306-307] 806 BOSTON COMMON. weight from the heart, of the being dearest to me upon earth; and this thought is enough, independent of anything else." When Roland came in to tea that night, he looked so light. hearted and happy that I reproached myself for a single regret; and, resolving henceforward to make it both my duty and pleasure to ease his burdens, if he had any, I spent the evening as; usual. Since Letitia's arrival, I had been left alone two or three evenings. The first one I remember particularly. It was damp and rainy, and I sat wondering what made Roland so long in eating his supper. Surprised, at length, by his con- tinued absence, I arose and went to the dining-room. He was not there. I stepped into the kitchen, and asked the servant where was Mr. Hastings; "He went out, marm, after supper," was her reply, ," and gave me. thissnote to give to y ta when you asked for him." "Gone out," said I,' "and without informingg me of it! What can have happened?" I opened the note, and read: "Will my darling wife excuse the absence of her husband from her side this evening? Business of importance calls me away ; but I leave my heart with you, which please preserve, for the sake of R. H. "Well," thought I, "this is very strange, but right, no doubt; and I must endeavor to make the best of it." I returned to the sitting-room, and attempted to practise. The piano sounded harsh-and discordant, however, and I soon wearied of the sounds I drew forth. I took up a book, and tried to read. It would riot do; all was a blaik without Ro- BOSTON COMMON. 307 land, and so I impatiently paced the room, expecting every, moment to hear the well-known sound of his footsteps. He did not return Until -ten o'clock. I flew to meet him, and exclaimed, O, Roland, how glad I am to see you once more! ; Time has seemed intolerably long in your absence! What -has kept you, pray?" i"Helen," said he, smiliing and returning my caresses, "I have been engaged all the evening in business. I may have occasion to be often absent, my dear, of an evening ; but you have your friend Mrs. Roscoe with you to divert your atten- tion; so you need not feel lonely." ( O, Roland!" said I; " what is my friend, any friend, without you? Nothing, worse than nothing, to me." ' Well, well, Nellie, I know all that," he replied; ,but please to remember that we have been married nearly a year and a half, and I have never, unless when out of town, left you, for a single evening, until the present, Perhaps a simi- lar case never before occurred., I shall now, however, be obliged to leave you on account of business; and you will not, my sweet wife, murmur at that, will you? It renders me quite unhappy." ("I will not, Roland," I answered; "but will endeavor to bear your absences with as good a grace as possible. The time is very long, however, without you." We retired to rest; but I lay awake a long time, wonder- ing what could be the business that was to cheat me of my husband's society so often. (' I suppose, if it was proper for me to know, he would tell me;" thought I. "I will try and be patient.", And, indeed, I had occasion to be; for Roland now left me two or three evenings a week; and when.'he page: 308-309[View Page 308-309] 808 BO-STON COMMON. remained at home we did not appear to enjoy each other's society so much as formerly. We had either-forgotten where -we had left off reading, and had to go back again and begin anew; or Roland, soon becoming weary of reading and talk- ing, would retire early; and by these means I soon lost alto- gether the society of my husband, excepting at meal-times. Besides this, I felt there was a barrier between us. I had often questioned him concerning his business, evenings; but he always contrived to, elude my inquiries by some playful remark or caress. I could not be satisfied with this, however. I imagined a thousand things that might take up his atten- tion. At times I thought he was contriving some beautiful affair, with which to surprise and delight me; and that my present unhappiness would, by and by, result in the most perfect satisfaction. Again, I would imagine that he was involved in some unexpected and unthought-of difficulty, from which he was striving to extricate himself; and, if so, I could appreciate the motives of his wishing to keep me in ignorance of it. Then I would puzzle myself to invent something which would prove quite satisfactory, with regard to Roland's ab- sence from home. I could, however, hit upon nothing that pleased me, or that I thought might be the truth; and tso, calling my strength of mind to my aid, I resolved to bear it as well as I could, without murmuring or repining; hoping that all would yet come out as I wished. OHAPTER XXX. "When thy loved sight shall bless my eyes again, Then will I own I ought not to complain, Since that sweet hour is worth whole: years of pain." For several days Roland had appeared moody and ab- stracted; had scarcely tasted food, and spoken as seldom as possible. One night he came home quite early to tea, and complained of a severe head-ache. "Dear Roland," said I, ,please remain at home with me to-night, and let me bathe your head in-cool water. You will feel much better than you will to go out; and, indeed, it cannot be necessary that you should be from home, if you are ill." \ He looked at me a moment, and said, as a slight expression of pain flitted over his features, "I must not go out, indeed, to-night, Nell, for I am not able." H6 lay down upon the sofa, while I went into the kitchen; and, procuring a bowl of water and a towel, bathed and combed his head for more than an hour. He dropped asleep at the end of that time; and, ceasing my ablutions, I seated myself upon a low stool, and took one of his hands within my own. How long and earnestly I gazed into that dear face! and, page: 310-311[View Page 310-311] -.310 BOSTON' COMMON. as I did so, I thought that I perceived a slight alteration in his features. He did not look so happy as he was wont to do. Care of some kind, I knew not what, had laid her ruth- less hand upon his fair brow,-and the sweet expression of peace had faded. I -leaned over him, and wept that it was so "What can be the secret grief that weighs upon my hus- band's mind," thought I, "and is extending itself even to his features? and why may not I, his wife, the partner of his heart, who only lives But for him, share his troubles? 'T would be far more conducive to my peace of mind to know of his sorrows, and bear them with him, than to be thus kept in ignorance." Wearied, at length, by my own-oppressive thoughts, I laid my head upon Roland's feet, and sunk into a light slumber. I was awakened, some time in the night, -by my husband's heavy breathing; and, starting suddenly from' my recumbent posture, I endeavored to arouse him also. "Come, Roland, awake and retire," said I. "The fire has expired, and you will catch cold." He opened his eyes, turned over, and groaned heavily. "Dear Roland," said I, "are you sick?" "Yes, Helen, I am," he replied. "I feel an uncommon weight upon my'hest, and a violent throbbing about the temples." I arose in alarm, and placed my hand upon his brow. It was hot as fire, and his pulse was beating frightfully. I im- mediately summoned the servant, who soon entered the parlor. "Here, Jenny," said I, 4( help me to get Mr. Hastings into bed. He is very ill." BOSTON COMMON. 3" The frightened girl complied with my request, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing Roland in bed, and asleep once more. He started and groaned all night, and as soon as the morning light appeared I sent for our'family physician. He was not at home, but arrived about nine o'clock. Roland was by this time in a high fever; and the doctor, after hav- ing examined his pulse, declared, to my grief, that he was taken with a malignant fever that was then prevailing in the neighborhood. He then drew me aside, and mysteriously hinted that this illness was brought on by himself. "How, doctor?"I inquired. "O, Mrs. Hastings, you know," answered he, nodding quite confidentially; "4 you understand." "No, indeed, doctor," said I; ' I neither know nor under- stand anything about it. Pray tell me how this fever has been induced." "Is not your husband often absent frorm home?" he asked. ("He is, indeed, sir," I replied. "Ah! I thought so, madam," said he. "Well, when he recovers, you must try and keep him at home with you even- ings, and he will soon be all right again." I was very much surprised at the physician's talk. "' How does he know," thought I, "of those evening visits? and what is there about them to drive my beloved husband into a fever? I must discover the cause, or I shall be perfectly miserable." Roland's fever continued to increase until the seventh day, when it reached its height, and the crisis might be expected. O, the agony of those few days! They seemed an eternity to - ! *' page: 312-313[View Page 312-313] 312 BOSTON COMMON. me. I never took off my dress, but sat day and night by his V pillow, bathing the hot head and hands, wetting the parched lips, or fanning the fevered brow, of the dear patient. What anguish to stand by the couch of Roland, and listen to the short, quick breathing, and then to mark the restless tossing from side to side! But how much greater the an- guish, to gaze into the glazed eyes with so much affection, so much tenderness, and meet no Answering glance, no token of recognition, in return! The dreadful thought that I was about to become that sad- dest, most cheerless of all beings, a widow, had taken com- plete possession of my mind; and, as I sat alone by my hus- band's couch, I reviewed my past conduct in every possible light. I asked myself, "HHad I been faithful to my great calling? Had I given up all to Christ? and, not ashamed of him, had I boldly taken up my cross, and followed him daily?. Had I been faithful to Harry's advice? Had I remembered his parting words? Had I attended to my hours of devotion, as formerly? Hlad I remembered Ernest's ex- hortations? and, lastly, had I been faithful to the'beloved one now lying prostrate before me?" Alas! I had done none of these things. I had forgotten Harry, and his deep, fervent piety- his parting injunction, and triumphant death. I had neglected my hours of devo- tion, my Bible, and my God; had scarcely thought of Er- nest, but had banished his words and admonitions from my mind, as something exceedingly unpleasant; and, O, worse than all, I had been unfaithful to my husband's eternal inter. a .ests; had suffered him that I would have died to save to go astray, to plunge into the sins and pleasures of the world, ,.\X , ' BOSTON' COMMON. 313 without a single effort on my part to rescue him therefrom! - had scarcely prayed for him; but, in'my blind adoration of his matchless form and features, had dwelt in ease and care- lessness. And now he was, as I thought, about to be snatched from me! He yras going down to the dark grave, without giving a sign that he was prepared to meet his fate! What were my feelings, in view of such an awful calamity! I was sud- denly awakened from my dream of pleasure; and, O, how little did the pomps and vanities of life now appear to me, in view of the grave that was yawning at the feet of my beloved husband, and how gladly would I now have given up all the treasures of the world, if I had them, or all my hopes of earthly happiness, to-have purchased back for him the few past weeks, that I might exhort, nay, beseech of him to turn from the fleeting pleasures of life. to the enduring ones of eternity! . In the secrecy and blackness of the night that Was now, gathering over me, I had no consolation, no ray of light, but from God. To him H prostrated myself, to him I confessed and deplored my wanderings, and to him I looked for relief. I prayed, and my prayer was, by his blessing,.devoid of self- ishness. I prayed for the life of Roland, it is true, but I wished it to be spared to me for a while, that I might urge him to repent. I implored. of God that he would spare him for a season, that I might not have the anguish of seeing him whom I adored go down to the dark grave with his sins ' unrepented of and unforgiven; and I also prayed that I might be the blessed instrument in my Maker's haii: of 'bringing back this lost sheep to tA fold. I pleaded my own 27 page: 314-315[View Page 314-315] 814 BOSTON C-OMMON. unworthiness, my own backslidings, but still craved earnestly this one boon;- and God, in his mercy, lent a listening ear to that heart-felt petition, and granted me my request. -In the silent watches of that awful night, when all was black as the grave around me, He bent from his mighty throne, and breathed peace and hope once more into my soul, and I received the blessed assurance that my idol would live, -live to bless me with his tongue, - live, perhaps, to bless me through the never-ending ages of eternity. The morning's dawn broke slowly into that sick room; its gentle light chased away the angel of death - that had been hovering all night by that couch. A breath of the Almighty, of the Powerful, had passed over that drooping brow, and sickness and death had lost their power to harm. Roland had been lying for hours upon his side, the pulse heavy and uncertain, now beating with a rapidity that de- prived one of the power of counting, and then ne 1ly ceasing altogether. The hands had been quite: motionles, the breath- ing heavy and unnatural, and there had evidently been a mighty struggle between life and death. But suddenly there was a change. The hands broke into a gentle perspiration; Athe breathing grew soft as an infant's; the pulse became more regular in its beating; and, with a long, deep sigh, like a person who had been toiling up a steep ascent, he turned, and unclosed his eyes. They were still heavy, it-is true; but the wildness had disappeared, and a little of the old light played in their orbs.- His brow was pale and wan, the lips weak and&-trembling; but health, blessed health, had once more tak ",up her abode in that attenuated form, and bidfair soon to reign- triumphant. - BOSTON 'COMMON. 315 Who, of all that sad group of friends and relatives gathered around that couch, so quick to notice the approach -of re- turning health as I, his fond, adoring wife, who had watched, for days and nights, in an agony of fear, scarcely daring to draw her own breath, lest she might forget to watch for his, -who had struggled in earnestness at-the throne of mercy, and had almost-borne-him by her prayers and tears from the dark valley of the shadow of death? He spoke, and the words I shall never forget. ("Helen! my wife!" I drew near, and, by a powerful effort, crushed back a sudden gush of tears. "What will you, dearest Roland? I am here," said I. "' Helen," he continued, it I have had a fearful dream. I imagined you were dying with some dreadful disease, Have you been ill?" "No, Roland," I answered, " but you have. I am quite well, and you are getting better fast. Do not talk much, for you are still quite weak." I could say no. more, but hastily left the room, and sought for retirement, where; I could kneel and render my thanks to whom they were due. How earnestly did I pray, how fervently thank God, for his gracious answer to my petition!"And now, O Father," I prayed, in conclusion, "let me never forget my vows to thee this night; permit me never to forget the creature in the Creator, but may I strive, with faithfulness, to bring that be- loved one into thy fold; and, O, let me never have the 'agony of seeing him whom I love going astray, but may he be brought, although even at the eleventh hour, to bend low at the foot of the cross, and to say, Father, forgive And- lead me to the -Rock that is higher than I.'?' !! . ? :: ,- *- d page: 316-317[View Page 316-317] 816 .BOSTON COMMON. Through all the long, bright June days did I sit by Roland's couch, and watch patiently for the roses to bloom once more upon that pale cheek; and I was rewarded in full for my care. Roland arose in a few weeks perfectly restored, 9fnd as well and strong as ever. Immediately upon his recovery, worn down with watching and anxiety, I myself took his place. I strove hard to ward off the approach of sickness; but it fastened itself upon my frame, and I yielded to a power stronger than myself. My illness was not a malignant fever, like Roland's, or any disease that placed me in immediate danger, but a sudden sinking of the powers, a prostration of the energies, and a general weariness of the whole system. -My friend Katherine Merton, who had been absent several months, now returned, and, upon hearing of my sickness, came immediately to my house, and, taking up her abode there, watched tenderly over my couch. Through her exer. 'tions and excelleht nuising, aided by the untiring affection of my husband, I was, in a short time, restored to health. As the summer was now waning, our friends proposed that the two invalids should visit Saratoga. We accordingly hastened our preparations, and were soon ready to' start. Kate was to go with us, and Letitia to take charge of the house during our absence. We started about the middle of August, had a most de- lightful journey, a pleasant sail up the Hudson river, and arrived at Saratoga just as the season was commencing, The- hotel was full. Every place was taken; but we were fortu- nate?having secured rooims before we left Linden. A brisk walk to the springs on a fine morning, a drink from their BOSTON COMMON*; 317 cooling depths, a ride or sail every day, together with plenty of cheerful company, and peace of mind, soon completely renovated us, and I was made quite happy by perceiving that Boland was as gay and light-hearted as of old. Care had cleared from his brow, his eyes had regained their former lustre and beauty, and his form was as buoyant and elastic as ever. I was once more delighted in beholding my husband the prin- cipal feature of our circle; the favored guest, who charmed all hearts by his light, graceful manners, and enthralled every listener by his conversational powers. Katie and myself, of course, never separated; we were, as of old, the closest friends. I often wondered if. she had any- thing to vex or trouble heri. Her brow was always unclouded; her face breathed perfect repose --the repose of conscious superiority and dignity; and a look always lingered about her mouth which seemed to say, "' I know very well what I am, and am consequently not at all troubled, concerning other people's opinion of me." I was often surprised to hear her speak of her marriage with Horace Wilds as a certain thing, and still more surprised to find that she cared so very little about him. I searched her face while she spoke of him, to see if I could not dis- cover some sign of discontent. Not a trace could I detect; and I had to be satisfied to remain in ignorance concerning the mystery. A fortnight of our visit had elapsed, and we were about thinking of returning home, when, one evening, Roland did not appear as usual in my chamber after tea. I sat waiting impatiently for him; but, as he came not, I sent for Kate, and informed her that Roland was absent. 27* or4 page: 318-319[View Page 318-319] 318 BOSTON COMMON. "Well," said she, "what is there strange about that? He has pwet some friends, probably, and they have detained him. I will remain with you until he returns." Hour after hour glided by, and still the truant came not. He had never, during all those fearful evening visits, exceeded the hour of ten; but now ten, eleven, twelve, passed without bringing him. I sat and listened as long as I could to the efforts my companion made to beguile me of my uneasiness; but at last, exclaiming that I could bear this suspense no longer, I arose and rang my bell. A sleepy waiter soon appeared. Where is Mr. Hastings?"I inquired. "I do not know, madam," he replied. "Is he not in his room?" "s He has not been here since tea," I replied. "Please make immediate inquiries as to his whereabouts." The waiter bowed and withdrew. In about a quarter of an hour he returned. (A I have made inquiries,- madam," he said, A" at the bofice, and have learned that several young gentlemen arrived from the east to-day, and that Mr. Hastings left the hotel in com- pany with them-, soon after tea. More than this, madam, I do" not know. He will doubtless soon return, and inform you himself." A terrible foreboding had taken possession of my mind. I fancied Roland was drowned, or had been killed in some way;. and my fear was evident, for the waiter added, 'You need not be alarmed, Mrs. Hastings, for your hus- band's safety. It' is not at all, strange for gentlemen like him to be absent from their rooms even all night. He is at a supper, no doubt, with his friends." BOSTON COMMON. The waiter departed, and I threw myself upon a sofa to await, as best I could, the return of my husband. I tried to persuade Kate to retire, but she would not leave me, and we waited a couple of long hours, listening to every sound, hoping it might be Roland. At length, when I was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement, we heard a distant footstep approaching. Just then the clock struck two, and I exclaimed, "He is coming, Kate!" I flew to the door, and opened it. There was my husband, true enough; but he looked so strangely, so wildly, at me, that I half forgot my joy at his return, and tremblingly asked him if he was ill. "Yes," he replied, coming into the room, "I do not feel quite well, Nellie." Kate glanced at me for a moment, and I noticed a singular expression flit over her features. She-.said nothing, how- ever, but, rising, nodded a good-night to me, and retired -to her room. Roland immediately threw himself, without a word or caress, upon the bed, and was in a few moments buried in a -profound slumber. Again did I bend over him with anxiety; again did I lis. ten to his breathing, and again did I examine his pulse to ascertain whether these symptoms were like- the former ones. The breathing was deep, but regular, the brow cool, and the pulse as usual. I was rejoiced to find that he was quite free from fever, but noticed with some surprise that there was a flush over his whole face. * Trusting that he would be quite recovered after some hours' page: 320-321[View Page 320-321] 320 BOSTON COMMON' quiet repose, I laid myself by his side, and fell into an uneasy slumber. I dreamed that my husband and myself were wan- dering together in a dark valley. The heavens were black and lowering, and from a cloud of ominous appearance broke every now and then a deep peal of thunder. At length our way was so impeded by trees and gnarled roots that we could scarcely proceed; and, in the darkness, I missed my husband from my side. I called loudly for him ; but he was beyond the reach of my voice, which only returned me a fearful echo. e I wandered on and on, through tangled wood and thicket, searching wildly, but in vain, for the lost one. Suddenly a faint light shone in the distance. Following eagerly its cheering rays, I came presently to a level piece of ground; but the place where I now was seemed to yawn at every step with deep, muddy sloughs of water. In one of these pools [ beheld my lost husband struggling. I immediately ran to his rescue, for I heard him faintly ,all '( Helen! Helen!" I reached forth my arms eagerly to ave him, but he was far down in the mire, and with anguish nexpressible I saw his expiring eyes turning towards me with l helpless look off agony in them. I seized one of his arms,and, with unwonted exertion,- br love gave me supernatural strength,--lifted him partly rom the slough; but I could do no more. Suddenly, rhile I stood there in suspense and agony, I beheld the arm of Ernest Richmond coming towards us. I trembled s I saw him nearing the pitfalls; but his eyes were teadily fixed upon the distant light, and he walked on with- ut swerving a single step, and came safely through them 1 U O D5 v LU V 2- M all, until he reached the spot where my husb and ad m yself were. With a calm smile, and with the strength of a lion, he lifted us both from the slough, placed uf in safety upon the bank, and then left us. "I was busily engaged in washing the mire and dirt from my husband's face, when, with a sudden start, I awoke. Roland's arm was lying heavily across my chest, and I felt weak and faint. , What a horrible dream !" thought I. "I wonder what made me think of such things!" ' I arose, as it was now morning, dressed myself hastily, and endeavored to arouse Roland also. I could not awaken him, however, and, full of fear lest he might be ill, I seated my- self by his bedside, and watched his slumbers. Breakfast was now ready, and Kate tapped at my door. , Come, Helen," said she, "Roland is quietly sleeping; let us go to breakfast." I am afraid to leave him," I replied. ";Do you not tlink he must be very ill, Katherine, not to aw aen at my call " "Noj Nellie," replied Kate; "he's well enough,--much better than you are, sitting here vexing yourself to death on his account. e ought to be ashamed of himself to treat your affectionate devotion with such ingratitude." , Hush,' Katie; " said I, softly; "do not be severe upon my poor Roland, because he sleeps so long this morning. I will go to breakfast with you." At the table I noticed several young gentlemen from Lin- den. They came forward: and bowed to me. -I acknowl- edged their salutations rather stiffly, however, for they were not the sort of people that I fancied. They were young men page: 322-323[View Page 322-323] 322 BOSTON COMMON. of the first families; -but rumor did not speak well of their reputation. It never occurred to me that these fashionable young men might have been the ones with whom Roland had spent the past night. I had often heard him speak in terms of disapprobation of their wild, reckless conduct, and I did not think, for a moment, that they had' aught to do with him. Roland did not awaken until twelve o'clock that day; but, supposing him to be weary with the wakefulness of the past night, I made no further attempts to arouse him. Kate and myself spent our morning in embroidery and conversation, and the time passed quite pleasantly. At length Roland awoke. "Well, girls, you are very indus- trious, are you not?" said he. I arose and ran eagerly to the bedside. (, And you, dear Roland," I replied, 'are you very ill?? Do you feel any as you did last spring, when you were taken with that dreadful fever?" i L "Me!" laughed Roland. 4"I am well, quite well,- never better in my life. What has put the idea into your little head that I was ill?" "Why, Roland," I replied, " it is now twelve o'clock, and you have slept all the morning. You never did the like before, and I thought of course that"you must be ill." "I am well enough," he replied; "only confoundedly thirsty. Hand me that tumbler, Helen; no, th'e pitcher." I reached him both tumbler and pitcher. He- raised the latter to his lips, and drank long and deep of its contents. Then, sitting down by Kate and myself, he appeared so gay and playful that I soon felt entirely at ease -concerning him. BOSTON COMMON. 32. To my questions as to his whereabouts the night before, he answered that he had been invited to a supper, and t hat he had accepted the invitation , and gone almost withou t a m oment's notice; consequently, that he had had no time to inform me of it. I told him, inglowing terms, of the agony I had endured at his prolonged absence, at w hich he only laughed,'and called me a dear little devotee. page: 324-325[View Page 324-325] C HAPTBR XXXI. "Insensible la vie, insensible i i, mort, 1 ne sait quard il veille, ii ne sait quand ii dort." "A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love... . A restng-place for innocence on earth; a link between angels and YetNoi t it eek ias ed tlB - of men01 1 d had eea left: Yet it is a tale o trus, a loan to be rendered back with t erest; 'A delight, but redolent of care; honey-sweet, but\ lacking not the bitter, ' And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the hours of infancy." PROVERBUL PILOSOPiy. AiOrTER week passed by, and we w ere once more on our journey h ome. The young men whom I had seen had left Saratoga in a day or two afterwards, and Roland had been again as kind and attentive as ever. I had half forgotten my unpleasant dream, and when we arrived in Boston was quite ready to enter into its pldasures with my husband and friend. We remained a week in this City, as Kate had never been here- before, and I longed to show her all the dear old familiar places I had so often described to her in my letters. We vis- ited the Athenaeum, and stood for hours examining the works 11 ok BOSTON COMMON. 825 of art, the paintings and sculpture, that adorned its walls and recesses. We also visited Faneuil Hall, Tremont Temple, the Market, and every other place of note. There happened to be a distinguished singer at this time in Boston, and I was iquite happy in witnessing Kate's delight- at the divine warblings of this celebrated artiste. But the spot I loved best on earth - the beautiful Common- we reserved for the last. We visited it one lovely summer's evening, and wandered together among its sequestered bowers. I pointed out to Kate the level walks, the limpid pond, and the over-arching trees, I had so often described to her; also the little hill where I had sat so many times with both Ernest and Harry. I showed her the great elm-tree, under whose protecting branches I had met Roland, and, in the sweet evening hour, had plighted my troth to him. And then I took her to the spot where the gentle Harry had breathed his last- where I had listened to his parting words and received his blessing; and, lastly, I pointed out to her the grave of him who had brought to me the bread of heaven, and urged me to accept the spiritual waters of life. Kate was delighted with the Common. She gazed with admiration at the lofty trees; and was never weary of wander- ing through the shady paths, or of watching the beautiful fountain, as it fell, with many graceful evolutions, to the basin of the pond, or dashed its cool, rainbow-colored spray about our feet. At length we found ourselves at home. once more, and, wearied with our long journey, were not sort y for the oppor- tunity of resting a while. Letitia was quite- overjoyed to 28 page: 326-327[View Page 326-327] 826 BOSTON COMMON. see us again, and went into some of her old raptures over us; which I overlooked on this occasion, and, kissing the little Helen, who had grown very finely, expresetd my pleasure in seeing them both looking so well and happy. O " yes, Helen," said Mrs. Roscoe, "I am perfectly con- tent, and shall be delighted to spend my life with you in this dear retreat; for I have found that peace and comfort here which it was impossible to obtain elsewhere." And so it seemed; for Letitia did not trouble herself much about anything beyond her chamber. She busied herself in taking care of her child, to whom she seemed exceedingly attached, and in reading a parcel of novels she had brought from the Alleghanies. I now resolved to fulfil my vows to God, by endeavoring to do his, iu. I resumed my hours of devotion, and read and refpied tipon a portion of Scripture, daily. I prayed for -andgdi -Roland whenever he could beW induced to be present, --and endeavored, by precept and example, to turn his mind away from the frivolous things of earth, and to fix it upon the lasting joys of eternity. I saw with pain, however, that the subject was utterly distasteful to him; that he was very impatient while listening to me, and that he did not ape pear to enjoy my society as much as formerly. His evening visits were again resumed, and I was left alone to amuse myself as best I could. I spent much of my time in: wrestling for Roland at the foot of the cross, and in entreating God that he would bring him to Himself; and I felt assured that He would do it all in His own good time. "Roland,"' said:I to him, one evening, after tea, "I wish you would, remain at home with me to-night." 827 BOSION0 COMMO1 , "I cannot, Helen," he a nswered. "I have-mu ch tha t calls me away,business, friends, &c." Ah! Roland, w hat friend s or business could o nce have lured you from my side? I muc h fear that you hav e I ost your pleasure in my society." No, indeed, Helen. I am only happy when w ith you ; but hom e is monotonous sometimes, and must have ex ite looked at him in surprise. ' O r beautiful omemono t- onous, Roland!" said I, -" where everything pleases the eye of taste and refinement; where every comfort meets your necessities; where your wife, whom you profes s so dearly to love, is always ready to receive you with kind words and affectionate caresses! I should suppose it would be just the place where the weary wanderer would gladly repose, after a sharp encounter with the world,--just the spot for happiness and content." . . My husband whistled, walked about the feor, and appeared quite uneasy while I was speaking. Once," i continue, you never wishe d to leave either me or your home; and now it seems that you invent excuses in order to get away, do you it seems that yon Vou , lshaw!" he replied. ,' How strangely you talk! The fact is, Nell, you and I differ in some points. You are con- tent to remain at home always, and your heart and happiness are there, It is quite different withme. I take a larger, more extended view of life. I want to mingle with the world. I wish to ascertain what is. going on ia opolitical and commercial point of view. M mind is large; it em- braces the whole, and I am not, I confess, content with the narrow sphere in which you move." page: 328-329[View Page 328-329] 328 BOSTON COMiMON. I smiled as he: got off this smart speech. "Why, Ro- land," said I, "I am not content with a narrow sphere, unless it is God's will to place me there. I too like to know what is going on in the world. Although I am a woman, I take a deep interest in all that concerns our beloved country; her welfare and prosperity are the first wishes of my heart; but we can surely learn all we wish to know from the society that frequents our house, and from reading. I do not see that your argument has anything to do with those mysterious evening visits, Roland." He made no reply, but, after taking a turn or two, left the room; and I saw him no more until eleven o'clock, when he came home, sick, as I thought, and went immediately to bed. The same appearance of languor and ill-health exhibited them- selves in his countenance as when at Saratoga, and the same deep sleep confined him to his couch until late the following day. I was really alarmed this time, and wondered what it could be that distressed him so much. "Roland must have some deep grief to contend with," thought I, " or he would not surely bear the marks of it so plainly in his face." What was I to 'do, however? I could only weep and pray for him, and hope that I might some day be-permitted to knoa the mystery that was riveting its chains around my heart. For a week past my husband had, to my great joy, re- mained at home every night; but I noticed with pain that some secret grief seemed to be preying upon fiin. In vain I searched every nook of my heart, to see if it had failed in any point of duty or affection towards him; and, after BOSTON I O COMMON. seeing him labor i nder depression as long as I could bea it, I went to him, and boldly broached the subject thus: , My dear Roland, why are you thus sad and dispirited? Is there anything I can possibly do to relieve you from the w eight of grief that seems to be pressing upon your mnd? If there is, you know you have but to speak, and I am wholly at your Service." He mused a few moments. At length he said, 'Helen, you can do it; yes, you alone can relieve my necessities." i , Your necessities, Roland?" said I, inquiringly . Yes, Helen," he answered . "I might as well tell you first as last, I suppose. I am once more in- pecuniary trouble. Business has gone wrong with me, Debts and creditors press me on every side, and I am unable to meet my payments." I mused a few moments. And can I assist you, Ro- land?"I asked. , You can, Helen," he replied. Yo i can, if you will,- extricate me, and see me once more freed entirely from a weight of care that is fast killing me." ,"you are aware how quickly it will be done," - Then, Helen," he answered, "I wil not fear to tell you; for your noble nature cannot be happy in seeing your hus- band suffer, when you can so easily relieve him." "Now," thought I, "4 it is coming." "Well, Nellie" resumed Roland, "I have become in- volved in businciss deeper than you can imagine. It might be my youth and want of experience, or my partner's fault, I know not which, but certain it isthat ruin stares me in the 28* page: 330-331[View Page 330-331] 330 o s BOSTON O M M ON, fa;ae. I have struggled against this evil until I have nearly died; and my only desire has been to spare you, my Helen, from this pain. But all my efforts have been useless. I shall be ruined in the eyes of the world, my reputation and credit gone forever, unless you, Helen, will step forward and lend me a helping hand." "But how, dear Roland, can I do this?" "Why, by raising a fund of money from your estate suf- ficient to defray-my debts. My character will thus be saved, and I shall be ready to begin the world with new hopes and energies." "fAnd is that all, dear Roland?"I asked. "You know that myself and my fortune are yours. I wish you to con- sider that this estate belongs to you as well as to myself. Use it as you please, - only bring peace to your mind, and let me see no more care shading that brow, where only sunshine should dwell." "Bless you, my wife!" he replied. "You' have indeed removed a weight from my mind. You have, as you always did, brought peace once more into my breast." O Roland'! how-could you deceive me so? The tempter had indeed taken strong hold of his victim, when he could thusinvent such plans to deprive his wife of happiness, home, and inheritance. The next day the papers were made out, and once more I affixed my name to a document that deprived me of another third of the estate I had inherited from my father. That I felt sad, gloomy, and dispirited, after this, is not to be won- dered at. I had imbibed the idea that some:evil was hang- ing over our house, and that I was blindly yielding to it, BOSTON. COMMON. - : : without the power to avert it. Roland laughed at my fears, and said that my gloomy feelings were induced by my situa- tion (I had again become enceinte), and that I should proba- bly soon recover my spirits. I tried, upon his advice, to shake off my depression; but it clung to me, and, in spite of the assurance that I was again about to become a mother, I could not rally. How could I be otherwise than sad, when I found that my sacrifice had been almost in vain? for Roland, although his gloom had van- ished, had again absented himself from home, and I was left alone, to conjecture, evening after evening, the cause of his absence. When questioned, he would reply that he was settling up the business of the firm; that it occupied him day and night, and that he had-not a moment to spare. His evening visits, however, became far more frequent, and his morning naps longer. "Would it not be preferable, Roland"- said I to him, one day, "for you to remain at home in the evening, and arise early in the morning? You would, by thus doing, find suffi- cient time to attend to your business, without turning your night into day." "It would, indeed, Helen," he replied; "but the men with whom I transact business can only attend to it in the even- ing." He spoke the truth. They could not, indeed. The constant anxiety of mind under which I labored at length brought on a low, nervous fever, which was considered, in my then situation, very dangerous. My illness seemed to arouse my husband. By some unknown effort he conquered his habits and desires, and never left me until our child was page: 332-333[View Page 332-333] 3882 BOSTON COMMONo born. He was constantly at my bedside. His band mixed and presented the cooling drink; his arm lent assistance to my weakened frame, and his lips ever breathed words of gffeo- tion to my drooping heart. Roland's sudden return to home and duty, his society, to- gether with an uncommonly fine constitution, carried me once more safely through this dangerous period. Another babe was given us; but with what unspeakable rapture did I gaze upon the face of this sweet child, and find that it breathed- that it lived! I was too happy for words, but in my feeble- ness pressed my first kiss upon its infant brow, and breathed over it a mother's blessing. ! Roland, too, was happy; and as he gazed upon the face of his boy, he was sensible of a transport hitherto unknown, and would spend hours in nursing and kindling the tiny thing. I was now, although ill and suffering, quite happy. My husband was, as I supposed, fully restored to me; and our child was a constant source of enjoyment to us both. Kath- erine Merton had, as usual when I was sick, again taken up her residence in the house; and once more, with her careful nursing, I was restored to health. My nursery now, to my delight, echoed with the -sound of children's happy voices; for Letitia would often bring her little Helen down to play with my Willie, and, as we sat together with our beautiful babes, no fairer, prettier sight could be seen. It was cold, bitter January when Wilhe was born, and I was not- allowed to leave tha house until spring had once more commenced her gentle reign. With what delight did I BOSTON COMMON. 383 now hail her return! How bright looked the blue sky, and how fair the opening buds and flowers! I was never weary of wandering abroad in the green fields, with my babe in my arms, or of gathering for him the bright blossoms. My happy childhood seemed once more to have returned to me. I was again as merry and blithe as ever. I was too much engrossed with my child to notice, at first, that my husband had resumed his former practice of absent- ing himself from home. I soon perceived it, however, and ventured to remonstrate with him for it. ," Helen," said he, with some asperity, "I have been con- stantly at your side for months. I have watched unremit- tingly at your sick couch, and have been happy only with you. I have, by so doing, neglected my business; and now I must break away from the sweet endearments of home, and give my attention strictly where it is most demanded. So, do not bore me any more with your ill-timed questions or advice." I turned away my head, and burst into tears. These were the first unkind words I had ever heard my husband utter, and they affected me painfully. They had the power of silencing me, however. I said no more to him, but waited in trembling to see what would come next. page: 334-335[View Page 334-335] CHAPTER XXXI1. "Wild, hurrying thoughts Start every way from my distracted soul, To find out hope, and only meet despair." SOUTH's FATAL MARRIAGE. ONE day, early in June, my mother came in to see me. I noticed, with pain, that she looked pale and anxious about something. "Helen," said she, " are you quite well? Have you recov- ered entirely from your illness?" "O, yes, dear mother," I replied, "-I am well enough now; but why do you ask?" "Because, my dear," she answered, "I have a disagreea ble duty to perform, and which must not, unless you are still suffering from indisposition, be delayed any longer. I wish, my dear child, to urge upon you the necessity there is of endeavoring to restrain your husband in his expenses and excesses." "What mean you, dearest mother," I wildly asked, "by his excesses? He has none, that I know of." My mother looked at me in astonishment. , , Is it possible, then, my child," said she, ', that you do not know, that you are ignorant of- " BOSTON O0MMON. 335 &' What, dearest mother, that I do not know? What am I ignorant of?" i"sIt cannot be," continued my mother, as if speaking to herself; " of course it cannot be." "What cannot be, mother? I am on the rack to know to what you allude. Pray, tell me." "Why," replied my mother, "you are surely aware that Roland is often absent from home, are you not?" "I am," I answered, blushing; for no person had ever before breathed aught to me against the name of my hus- band. "And that, surely," said my mother, " was confirmation strong enough to lead you to suppose- " !"To suppose what, mother?" i"Why, that your husband is, what all the world, it seems, but yourself, know him to be, a common drunkard and gam- bler!" I raised my hand to my forehead, gave a cry of unuttera- ble anguish, and fainted. How long I remained in this situa- tion I know not; but when I revived my poor mother was sitting weeping by my bedside. The dreadful words she had last uttered were yet ringing in my ears, and, starting wildly from my couch, I cast myself at her feet. "O, mother, dear mother!" sobbed I, "tell me, in mercy tell-me, that those cruel words you have uttered were false! I ask you, mother, if you love me, if ever you have loved me, if you wish not to crush, to kill me, unsay that dreadful sen- tence -take back what you have blasted my ears by say- ing!" I clasped my mother's dress, and looked imploringly into page: 336-337[View Page 336-337] 836 BOSTON COMMON. her face, as she knelt, and, kissing me, wiped the damp dew from my forehead, and laid me gently upon the sofa. is My child, my Helen," said she, mournfully, " now is the time to test the strength of your religion; now is the time to put your trust in the Father of Mercies. He still stands by your side, and will lead you, with smiles, from the thorniest, roughest path. Alas! my beloved girl, I cannot take back what I have said, for it is indeed too true; and I supposed that you had long ago been aware of a fact that is generally known." I know not how I survived this confirmation of her words. I lay for some moments perfectly still; but the misery of years was endured in that one little space of time. My Ro- land, my husband, the beloved partner of my joys and sor- rows, the father of my child, was a drunkard and' gambler! Think of this, ye rum-sellers! for I am relating facts, and stern facts. Think of the misery ye entail upon the innocent! Ye dress your faces in smiles, and pour out the poison in sparkling glasses, which ye distil into the veins of your wretched victims, and which carries sorrow and devastation into many a fair heart and happy home of this, our peaceful country! How I survived, I say, how I lived, I know not; but I did live, and lived to suffer. When I grew a little calmer, my mother informed me that Roland had long had the habit of drinking, but that it had not been generally known until lately; that he had not failed in business, as he had repre- sented to me, but that he had, under pretence of trouble and embarrassments, coaxed and induced me to deed away two thirds of my property. This money, she informed me, he had BOSTON COMMON. 337 spent in drinking and gambling with a certain set of rowdies, who called themselves gentlemen, but who had, under pre- tence of friendship, deluded him away from his home, and made a complete victim of him. "I was many times upon the point of mentioning this to you, my dear child," continued my mother, s" with the inten- tion of urging you to take better care of your property; but your situation was a hindrance, and I resolved, until you were perfectly restored to. health, to keep silent concern- ing it. But, now that you know all, be sure and let him have no more of your property. Keep it for yourself and Willie. God knows you will need it soon enough, for your own neoes- sities." For a long time after my mother had done speaking I lay in a perfect stupor. My grief, coming as it did so suddenly I upon me, and without a ray of hope, almost crushed me; but i I slowly revived, and realized fully my misery. ,All Roland's I strange behavior was n6w fully accounted for. His Midnight visits, his morning slumbers, his changed appearance, his thirst, - all was now clear as day. And how blind had I been, -how stupid I had watched him for hours in the great- est anxiety; had noticed again and again the flush upon his : cheek, and prayed that it might not proceed from fever; had knelt and prayed many a time beside his couch; and all the while Ihad been watching the sleep of a drunkard! And how cruelly had he deceived me, and, under false pretences, wasted two thirds of my fine estate at the gaming-table! Ah, Ernest! your dark prophecy was nearly fulfilled - you were already fearfully avenged! That night, when my husband came home, I still lay upon "29 page: 338-339[View Page 338-339] 338 BOSTON COMMON. the sofa, without the power or inclination to speak; but I gazed at him in a kind of dream. I noticed his countenance, and was surprised to find there the traces of a recklessness and dissipation which I had never before beheld. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, his face fushed with the wine-cup, his gait unsteady, and, as he reeled rather than walked to the bed, I turned away my head and shuddered. "Can that be," thought I, "my beautiful and idolized Roland, whose very name had power to bring a flush of joy to my cheek ? Is that the man whom I have so blindly wor- shipped for many a long year? Ah! where is the gem I so highly valued? Gone, alas ! gone, never more to return." He staggered towards-the sofa where I lay. "Nell, I say, -arise and come to bed, will you ?" said he. His voice was thick and unnatural, and his eyes were half closed. "Will you come, Nellie?" he entreated. " No," said I, in a decided tone; "no, I will not come!" He looked ad me for a moment with a vacant stare, then laughing, as if, something witty had been said, reeled off to bed, and was in a few -moments sound asleep. But 0 for the wretched watcher that kept vigil in that room all night, and listened to the breathings of the drunk- ard; that wept over the fair babe, born to such a base heritage; that prayed, in bitter anguish of spirit, for just one spark of hope, one- ray of consolation ! None but God knew the feel- ings of that heart, as she poured from the depths of her anguished spirit her whole soul into-his listening car. I mourned that I had forever lost all respect for him who should have commanded, next to God, my highest reverence. I mourned that I had wasted so much love, so much affection, BOSTON COMMON. 339 upon nothing; that I had ventured my all into a fraili-ark, and that it had foundered and left me alone upon the -dark waters, without rudder or pilot. I was now floating about, with scarcely the chance of a straw to save me from drown- ing. I had expected too much,- had looked for perfection,: and found only disappointment and degradation. I had come to my tree, expecting to see fruit thereon; but had found only ashes,- the apples were fair to look upon, but rotten at the core. My whole life was a complete failure. I had been living and striving for happiness, had labored hard to attain it, had rejected my friends' counsel, had chosen for myself, had gone blindly on in my own way, had embraced what I supposed to be enduring, and now shame, disgrace, and- per- hapg poverty, stared me in the face. My affections were blighted; my young, beautiful ideas forever dispelled; my fresh, pure feelings crushed; my heart filled with a suspicion of all the world, and a gloomy, misanthropic spirit was slowly but surely taking possession of me. I had lost all hope. I could never reclaim Roland. I scarcely wished to db it; for, should- he ever be free from the slavery of his vices, I could never again enjoy his society; could never experience the same sweet confidence as of old;: could neyver sit by his side, and, with hands fondly locked within his, pour into his ears all the outgushings of a heart warm, pure, and overflowing with love for him alone. No; he was forever lost to me)-- - forever, forever!" and I repeated the sad words with a low, mournful accent. From my earliest youth I -had been brought up-in the strictest habits of temperance. My mother had inculcated it daily into our young minds, both by precept and example. page: 340-341[View Page 340-341] 1f 340 BOSTON COMMON. She -hid taught us to Abe temperate in the use of our food, ou3 drink, our language, and even in our pleasures. She had told us that the world was fair; that fruits, flowers, and sweel objects, were meeting us at every turn; that everything-which could charm the senses, please the -'fancy, or gratify the appe. tite, was spread out in rich abundance before us; but thai there was a restriction laid upon all these beautiful things and that in order to enjoy them to the utmost we must use them in moderation; that we must not violate the laws of nature, or we should be punished. She taught us also the evils of the wine-cup. She placed before us its temptations, its brilliancy, its power to charm, to lull the senses into forgetfulness, to soothe the heart o'erbur- dened with anguish, to erase the sting of remorse from the conscience, and to fill the mind with the wild joys of dream- land. And then she taught us of the bitter awakening, when we should start from these dreams and find our minds more keenly alive to their sorrows, our hearts groaning under still heavier burdens, our consciences seared with -still deeper remorse, our visions of pleasure changed into bitter realities, our sense of enjoyment totally vanished. She told, us also of the evil, the ruin, that rum had the power to bring upon a land. It could cause desolation and destruction to alight upon the sweetest, fairest home; cauld fill with anguish the fondest, truest heart of the wife and mother; could blanch the cheek of the fair daughter with shame, could- blast forever 'the prospects of the rising son; that it was cold, pitiless, and cruel, in its devastations; and that it was, in short, the chief root andd ground-work of all the misery, crime, and poverty, in the land. BOSTON COMMON. 341 With all these lessons, it is not strange that 1 grew up per- fectly temperate in my desires and actions. My home was simple, quiet, and comfortable. No gaudy, obscene pictures adorned the walls; nothing was there that could induce or provoke intemperance. My table was always covered with food, good, wholesome, and abundant, but plain. No spirit- uous liquors were ever allowed to come within my husband's or my own reach, as far as my influence extended; and it was only in cases of sickness that I could be prevailed upon to allow it to be brought into the house at allk I had also a perfect horror of a drunkard, or even of a moderate drinker. I could not think, with any degree of patience, of a person who imbibed intoxicating liquors, who wilfully poured down the poison, who filled his veins with its fiery waters, and who carried misery and destruction to home and hearts, merely because he loved to gratify his taste, his palate! What a miserable object, and what an unworthy gratification! Airefrmed drunkard, even, was an object of contempt in my eyes. I could never forget the time when he had made a beast of himself- when he had, as it were, laid down to his wine-cupa; and, as my confidence in him had expired, I never could or wished to have it again renewed. Brought up as I had been by a pious mother, disliking rum and its votaries so heartily, it is no wonder that I should have lost all hope of anything further'from Roland. I had lived, and- enjoyed to the utmost, a few years of happiness; had revelled in peace, comfort, and plenty; had loved my husband with all the power of my soul ; had waited, watched, and longed for the coming of his footsteps; had prayed for him, and with him; had given him a beautiful home, with page: 342-343[View Page 342-343] 342 BOSTON COMMON. wealth, station, and honor in the eyes of the world; had, even without a murmur, yielded up to- him two thirds of my property, merely to save his credit and happiness, as I fondly supposed;- and how had he repaid all my untiring love and devotion? He had wronged, deceived, and trampled on' my love; played with my credulity; invented base lies to wrest large sums of money from me, to devote to the purposes of drink. ing and gambling. He had left that calm, sweet home, and a wife who adoredmhim, and who would willingly have endured poverty, hardship, scorn, or anything with him, to meet with those vile companions, whose very names he dared not mention at home, lest they should shock her purity; bad brought that wife by his conduct upon a bed of suffering and anguish; had exposed her to all the miseries i harassed mind; tortured her with the idea that he was:sick and suffer- ing; condemned her to watch weary nights foi his coming, and l then to hang over his couch for hours, ::ading the time he should awaken, lest her fears of a mortal illness might be confirmed. -How had he hung over the child she had borne him, in so much sorrow, with untold! delight! and yet how soon had he left that child for the vile haunts of his base associates, and stamped forever upon its innocent brow the brind of the " drunkard's child "! All this he had done, and all these sad refiections occupied my mind as I lay upon the sofa that night. Weary,:at length, of my thoughts, I aroused myself from my recumbent position, and paced 'the floor with hurried and uneven steps. The morning at length dawned, after an eternity of night; but,- O, how changed were my feelings, my prospects, from its I, . / 343 U'OSTON COMMON . dawn the preedeing day! T hat terrible night of agony told a bitter tale for thee and me, Roland! With a mighty effort I threw off the chain that had bound m e for years to a man every way my inferior. My trust, my reverence, were gone; an& henceforth I vowed that no words of affection, no false sense of delicacy, should debar me from performing my duty to my husband, my child, and myself. , Now, my babe," said I, kissing its brow, "now for thee. One ray of-hope, one beam of onsolation, is still left m e;- thee, my little one, whom I will guard as a treasure, whom I will keep pure and unsullied from the world. No guil shl lurk around thy footsteps, my innocent one, no temptation, that thy mother can avert, shall place its dazzling form in thy was changed, and fearfully, too. I felt it in every limb and motion, in every pulsation of my heart. A sternness had usurped the place of my softness. My blood felt chilled, my breath unsteady. I surveyed my features in the glass, --was it my cousin Ernest's face that I gazed upon? I was singularly like him at this moment! There played in the gray eyes the same cold light, glistening and frosting every- thing they gazed upon. An expression of. painful thought rested upon the brow, ana a smile of torture lingered about the mouth,. An unnatural and singular paleness had spread itself over my whole, countenance. Alas! it was a paleness * that reigned in that face for many a long day! Long ere the morning dawned, I had resolved upon what course to take. I would go out and look into my affairs my- self; -see just how the estate was situated; put what re- mained in proper shape, that myself and child might reap the page: 344-345[View Page 344-345] 344 BOSTON COMMON. benefit of it; and then I would seek Katherine Merton, a ascertain from her how far my husband had erred, and h. his character stood in the eyes of the world, and among o associates. I felt assured, from her unfailing friendship, th she would tell me all; and it was my first and earnest desi to know at once the full extent of my misery. I (HAPTER XXXIII. ' But in the matter of a bargain, I tell thee, I'll cavil onthe ninth part of a hair." SHAKSPEARIB. "GooD heavens! dearest Helen, wnat can be the matter with you thisg morning?" exclaimed Mrs. Roscoe, at break- fast. "Are you ill? Did Willie keep you awake, or has anything horrible happened? You look so white and un- natural, -just, for all the world, as poor Ernest Richmond looked, the morning^aft0icy jilted him!" I smiled. ( Nothing, that need alarn you, dear Letis," I replied; "I shall be better by and by, I trust." "O, I am so glad!" continued she. "But, speaking of that sober, princified cousin of yours, excuse me, Helen, but I sometimes think that you would have been admirably fitted for each other; your tastes and habits assimilated so well to- gether, -you were both religious, benevolent, fond of doing good, and all that. Forgive me, Helen, but I do think, although it's none of my business, that you did not treat him exactly right. I cannot help thinking that you would have been far happier, in the end, to have married Ernest." Every word that this giddy woman uttered sunk deep into my heart, and almost found'an echo there. I well remerm- page: 346-347[View Page 346-347] 346 OSo co o. bered how I had, in blindness and passion, wrung the heart of this noble being; how he had yielded me, for the sake of my happiness, to another; and how he had warned me of this very time which had now come. It had, as yet, but just commenced. Heaven only knows," hougoht I, "what fur- ther sufferings are yet in store for me-; but I must bear them as patiently as I can." - As soon as breakfast was over, I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out. I bent my steps directly to the offtice of 3ir. Simpson, the man to whom my husband had mortgaged so much of our estate. He was there, and appeared quite surprised upon seeing me. "Good-morning, Mr. Simpson," said I. "I have come in for the express, purpose of having a little talk with you, if you are at leisure, relative to some business transactions Which my husband had with yo ther more than a year ago, and , eoern o ,-I think it w hbuta right that I should look into., - I:e seemed quite surprised, and, I thought, a little uneasy; but placed achair for me, and, in a bland tone, desired me to honor him with my commands. M "ell, then, Sirr cmmenced (C ' Well, the n, s ir,' I Commenced, "you probably remember the business to which I allude. I wish to know exactly how it stands, and whether there is a chance of redemption or - aI:. m sorry to inform you, madam,' he replied, that the mortgage, ras given- for onlya year, and that the time when it should have been paid has expired. Your husband wanted :hmo....:ey, and it was impossible to extend the pay-day be- yond that time. I therefore took the land, at his request, r hi -rqet BOSTON COMMON. 347 and let him have the money. I did not careY much about doing it, for I feared you might be unwilling to yield up so much of your estate, but he informed me Athat it was at your request; and, as I was happy to be honored with your wishes, I took the land, and let him have the money." "And can this be redeemed?'"I asked. "The mortgage expired, madam," he answered, "just three months ago. The money agreed upon was not paid me; and, after waiting a proper time for your husband to make his appearance, I took possession of it." ' "And is there not a longer time allowed by law for redemp- tion than that specified in the mortgage?"I asked. He smiled as he replied, '"That is not the way I do my business, madam. I could not possibly wait so long for the return of my money; and so I do not take an exact mortgage, but a deed, which amounto the same thing, with this excep- tion: it gives me the: +- right, title, and interest, in the land specified, without anyi"provision for the'redemption,--- a singular, but very profitable, way of doing business, madam." , I should think so!"I replied, smiling sarcastically. "And - pray what interest do you charge in your friendly proceedings, sir?" , M oney is hard to be obtained, Mrs. Hastings," he answered, " and so I always charge from fifteen to twenty per cent." "You are moderate, sir! but six per cent only is allowa- ble by law. How do you usurers manage to evade the law in this respect?" "Nothing is easier done, madam". We merely reckon up ' the whole year's interest, and add it all, wit; i the exceptioni page: 348-349[View Page 348-349] 348 BOSTON COM ON. Of zix. e et ofsi per cent.,to the sum to be p - . ang op grand Ium of f -- s ai,thus sm r grand lump oi,.anthisW saves the trouble o reckonin up the interest on pay-day., "An exceeding clever practice, s/r, and one which doe redit to the inventor! And so this o YOUrs, without the "retract o-f land j' y power ofredemption?, ' It is so, ad , Im rieed to say; bt you can plainly eet at o to be blamed in this aair, it was no of my seeking.), afi,'-twa oe "And now, sir, for the other third of a trifling interest in that also, I believe my estate; you ha-e "II have, madam, a ery trifling interests MMr. HaStings sold it to another gentleman, who afterward s small part of it to Be.' conveyed a You Inform me,'lqr. -ip "Will yon inform me, r. Simpson, hat par o he e state is old, and what sill re ns to us, ifou p ease I madrn, with pleasur,e .0 " He arose, and, takn 'e arose, an', taking su oo:rgo:; from his shelf, seated hzmself by my side, and turned to a certain page. "etere, //rs. //Iasting s , said he, "is the plan of y ur estate, before I purchased 'any par of i I had it drn long ago. tiere are the lots on Iain-street, consiting f &ur,which, together withl O ) consistin A g of foulr,.hich, together wilh your house, are valued at - Here is the 'Clifton omestead, 'where rmotheri Thi i s v ery aluable d Ishould adise you never to part with it. Then here is anew street, containing ten houses and lots, in which Your tenants reside. There are three Otherstreets,eacconi'. -"6 rat*e other streets, each ontaining twenty lots, and bu one house upon the preme, givn by elen Clifton to her old ne, Betp 1trwni:)::Itere is the orchard lot, and lumber wharf, ! ^ BOSTON COMMON. 849 E and, lastly, here is the old tannery, formerly occupied and carried on by the late William Clifton, Esq. A truly val- uable property, Mrs. Hastings,* and one that is increasing daily." 4 Thank you, sir," I said. "Now please-extend your kind- ness, and tell me how much of this property I still possess." "Ah! madam," he replied, " there have been fearful inno- vations made by your husband upon this estate; but, of course, that is none of my concern. I will tell you, as far as I recollect, what part you may still call yours, although.1 am very much surprised that you have not informed -yourself of this before. The old homestead, with its grounds, is still yours, as is the house you reside in. The back streets, coin- taining oqd Betty's house, and fifty other lots, are yours also." He stopped. "Well, sir," said I, anxiously. ,' Well, Mrs. Hastin -:he resumed, ( that is all. You have disposed of the reust;BU know." ' . My surprise and emotion cannot be expressed, as this man of dollars and cents looked me so calmly in the face, and told me "( this was all." Had, then, my fine, long street, with all its houses and tenements, been sold? Where now were the rents which were to support us? The lumber-wharf, also, and the dear old tannery, where my sainted father had labored so long and honorably,-had all these gone, like. 'wise? What were we now to do? how endure our altered fortunes? I remembered, in a few moments, that the cold eye of Mr. Simpson was upon me, and, calling all mypride to my aid, said, , , 30 if page: 350-351[View Page 350-351] 60 B0STON COMVO N , "Fifty lots, the homestead, and my own house, are then left me, sir, you say?" "Yes, madam, they are yours if you choose to keep-them. They are in your own power, certainly." "What mean you, sir?" said I, tremblingly; , is there anything further that I do not know of?" "Yes, madam," continued this smooth;tongued gentleman; "you surely know-you-are aware of- " aI am aware of nothing, I know nothing, sir, of what you can mean. Pray, procoed."t , W"ell, then, VMrs. Hastinge you surely know that you married before you were of age, and that, for some reason ,unknown to me, your mother's legacy, which your honored father, William Clifton, Esq., bequeathed to her, was neder divided,but left with your own, for safe keeping; and, as your mother supposed that-you d ealhonestly and trul with her, and not particularl y it, the division was deferred, from time to time. d !property is now more than two thirds gone, why, it will take more than half the remaining third to pay her." What an awakening was this, for one who so-ardently loved. her mother! and what a load of misery did that mn's cruel words, although smoothed with the oil of politeness, convey my heart I sat quite silent for a few moments, and the thought arose to, my mind that it would be better for me to hte than to live under such eircumstances. Poverty, indeed, vith all its horrors, now stared me in theface. . own Rrilliant fortune was gone, and myhusband, child, and myself, were beggars" -a' "Well, sir," aid I, at length, looking into the face of the. a . BOSTON COMMON. 351 usurer with anguish untold, "and how much will be left me, after paying my mother her part?" "I was thinking, my dear madam," he replied, "of another plan for you. In consideration of your youth, and ignorance concerning business matters, I will consent to withdraw my foreclosure for another year; and if you will pay me fifteen per cent., will take a mortgage of the dwelling-house in which you live, for security. This I will make light, so that if you fail to pay the former mortgage you will surely be able: to pay this, by disposing to customers of some of the back street-lots, which I will assist you to do. What say you to this, madam? Does this plan meet with your approba- tion?" I started, as if from a dream. Was this man, then, a con- summate scoundrel, or a human demon, sent to rob me of the little I had? I understood his meaning at once; and, tell- ing him coldly that I h i enough of mortgages and loans, desired him to answer , question. - He was evidently disconcerted, and felt himself defeated where he had least expected it. His eyes glittered with rage for a moment, and he was upon the point of forgetting him- self, by using an angry exclamation, when he recollected him- self just in time, and said, in his blandest tones, ( I am sorry to inform you, Mrs. Hastings, that if you were -strictly to follow the dictates of your conscience, -that is, give right where right is due,-it would take nearly all you possess in tho world to pay your mother's debt, and a few others of the same kind." "What mean you, sir, by a few others of the same kind?" said fI. : ,'- :- - - page: 352-353[View Page 352-353] 352 , BOSTON COMMON. "Your husband's debts, madam, whch- you, as an honora- ble woman, are in duty bound to pay." "And pray, sir, may I ask, what right have I to cancel my hubband's debts?" I have always supposed, Mrs. Hastings, that you and your- husband were one; indeed, your devotion to him has been the talk of the whole neighborhood around. It was very rare, as well as refreshing, to look upon the devotion, that could deprive itself of house and home, could encounter pov- erty and affliction, could endure drunkenness and dissipation, for-love- all for love; and now, madam, is it to be won- dered at, if you should step forward,- and wipe out all debts against your husband's fair name?" Indignation at the man's audacity kept me silent for a few moments. Seeing this, he continued. "If you are still tenacious, Mrs. Hastings, of keeping your property in your own hands, y satisfy your' mother with a little- of hers. She wou distress you, perhaps never mention it to you, and then you could satisfy your heart by doing all in your power for your husband. You can pay his debts, restore him to peace and happiness once more, keep a snug little property for yourself and children, and still have. it in your power to give your husband- as much spending- money as he wishes." -( Sir," said I,: ( enough of this! I did not come'here for advice. I only came for information, and also to ascertain how far your love of gain Would carry, you. I have discov- ered what I desired, sir, and now I beg leave to wish you a a very good morning." ( Stay, madam," said he, again disconcerted; " your hus- BOSTON COMMON. 353 band owes me one hundred dollars, which he borrowed of me nearly three weeks ago. I should not have lent it to him, had he not promised that you w uld pay it me again. Will you make his word null and void? Will you cover your hus- band's name with disgrace, merely for the sake of a paltry hundred dollars?" I looked him sternly in the face for a moment, anI was even glad to find that he had the grace to quail beneath that look. "Know, sir," -said I, " that I would starve, beg, die, rather than wrong my dear mother out of a single dollar of her legacy; that my first duty shall be to see her reinstated in her rights, if it ruins me, and takes the last morsel from my mouth. But as for you, and your money, which you lent my husband to draw him still further into ruin and disgrace, and which he promised I should pay, seek it where you can, get it if you can, and use itfsas you please. I will never pay one cent of it. You ha ord for that, which you may always regard to be as Gl d! o ld!" I paused not to hear his re ; but, shutting the door, de- scended the stairs. I passed quickly up Main-street, and soon came in sight of the beautiful white cottage of Mr. Merton, Kate's father. I entered the little gate, passed up the walk bordered by roses on each side, and was met by an affection- ate embrace from Katie herself, who stood on the door-step to receive me. page: 354-355[View Page 354-355] 4 CHAPTER X'XXIV. . "Mournful is the tale, Which ye so fain would know." HERMT OF IVARKWORTH. "GOOD-MORNING, dear Nell*i" said she; " come with me.' She led me to the cool parlor, took no notice of my palenes, and evident grief, seated- me in a soft easy-chair, and begaI chatting pleasantly about some little thing that had occurred "Katherine," said I, earnestl "I have something to saj to you this morning.? "I know it, my Sear," sh/, blushing, but never mind now; let's speak of King else. Do you know Nellie, that I think. you exactly resemble, this morning, thai portrait of Ernest Richmond-which hangs in your mother', parlor? The eyes are precisely the same; the mouth anC brow -" o ll??:r "Never mind the mouth and brow, Katie, but listen t( '? a: ^ me, said. I have come to, have a, long talk with you and I wish you to tell me a great many things, which I d( "+ . not perfectly understand." She looked at me with a troubled expression. "I allude Katherine," I continued, " to my husband!" She started, and an expression of pain flitted over her feat ures. BOSTON COMMON. 355 "Well, Helen," said she, "your husband, I think you said. What of him?" "Yes, Katherine, my husband. I have never before spoken one word of my husband's habits, save to my mother. I am calm, as you perceive, dear Kate; and I trust it is not a forced calmness that I feel." "O; I am so glad to hear you speak thus, dearest Helen!" said Kate. "I was afraid his conduct would kill you; but I am now relieved." "Well, Katherine," I went on to say, "I never knew one word of this until yesterday afternoon. I was then informed by my mother that I was li"'.g under the same- roof with a drunkard and gambler! that I had given my heart, hand, fortune, and all, to a man who had scorned my love, deserted me for base associates, and, by deep deception, had defrauded me out of nearly all! operty. Now, Katherine, you perceive that I am e calm, and I wish you to tell me all you know of his ns from duty,-:of his drink- ing and gambling, &c., W it commenced, and how far it has-proceeded. Keep nothing back from me, but tell me the worst. I can bear anything now." "My poor Helen," said Kate, sobbing, "I will tell you what I know; but I always supposed that you were aware of it all. Living, as you have done, under the same roof with him, I do not see how it was possible for you^to rema h in ignorance of what was so very visible to every one else," "I own, Katherine, to my blindness; but you must remem- ber that my whole heart was wrapped up in my lisband; that I -loved, honored, and revered him; and that the idea of his dissipated habits never for a moment crossed my mind. I page: 356-357[View Page 356-357] 356 BOSTON COM M:ON. should probably never have known it, had not my mother informed me of it." "Helen," said Kate, "I should most certainly have told you of this long ago, had I supposed you were in ignorance of it; for no false sense of delicacy would have prevented me from opening your eyes to your danger, I assure you. I will tell you what I know of your husband. "Long before he -married you, I had read and judged his character, and I determined that I would step in and save my friend, if possibly. I saw that he was very beautiful and fascinating, and that in consequence of this he had many admirers and flatterers. Heo pssessed a weak, vascillating mind, and a proneness to yiel to whatever his companions said was right, without judging for himself. By flattery he could be beguiled into almost any evil, and thus become a fitting mark for the artful andwa4ry. (This man,' thought I, is not the one for Helen Ai with her large fortune and singular disposition, to! T he must be united to a man whom she can esteem - rence, and love will be sure to follow; to a man who will understand perfectly how to govern both her and her large fortune, and who will not spend or waste it in any manner which will injure either her or himself.' "Full of these thoughts, dear Helen, I sought a few mo- ments' private conversation with you, if you recollect, at a public ball you attended with Roland, while you were at St. Thomas' Glen. I saw, however, with pain, that I made but little impression upon you; that your mind was evidently fixed!upon him, and that it was anguish to you to-hear him ill-spoken of. You departed with him, and I returned home, e i/ BOSTON COMMON. 857 expecting and fearing that the next news I heard you would be engaged. Imagine; then, my joy, when I learned that Roland and Mary Liston had resolved to become one. I' pitied your love, but contented myself with thinking that you had seen at last through Roland's shallow character, and had judged it best to give him up. "You returned from the 'Glen,' Helen, and, in looking upon your pensive features, I sadly pitied and admired you, --pitied you for loving an unworthy object, and admired you for having the strength of mind to abandon that object. "That little mountain scene, which you no doubt remem. ber, increased my love for you, and sorrow for your grief. I was vexed that it occurred, and, in view of this, was really glad that you were about to leave home, even for so long a time; for I could not endure to see you pining and- suffering over the unfortunate attachment you had formed for Roland, and I hoped that newq s and characters, together with your extreme youth, woC. te obliterate hiia from your mind. "Well, Helen, you departed, and, from your letters, I dis- cerned that you were calm, and- sometimes I even fancied happy. Still I could perceive a vein of sadness running through your compositions, although you strove to make them appear as cheerful as possible. I soon learned that you w;ere engaged to be married to your cousin Ernest. I was now happy; for I felt sure, from his character, habits, &c., that you had secured just-the man, and that in his love and protection your happiness and fortune would be safe. "4 Suddenly it was rumored that the engagement between Roland and- Mary was broken off, and that it was in page: 358-359[View Page 358-359] :358 BOSTON COMMON. onsequence of a quarrel concerning you. I was sorry - enough to hear this, for I longed to have them married quietly out of harm's way. Well, time went on, and Ro- - latd left the town. I knew not where he was, but feared he had gone in search of you. , You never mentioned him, how- ever, but continued to dwell upon Ernest with respect and affection; and I, of course, said nothing to you concerning Mary and her whilom lover.- The former grew sick, however, and pined herself to death for Roland, so people said. While she was on her dying bed, he-was hunted from his retreat, and arrived just in time to pardon her, and to close her eyes. He behaved very well upon the occasion, and everybody said that, he acted quite the gentleman. I should have thought him a strange being,-indeed, if, after killing poor Mary, he could not have been decent at her burial. "After-the funeral, Roland departed once more, and things went on quietly as before; bua aipne my surprise and re- gret, when it-was suddenly al d that Roland Hastings and Helen Clifton were-co or le to Linden to be mar- ried, and that Ernest Richmond had departed for Europe! -eirs. Weston, your mother, told me of this, and requested that I would not say a word to you against Roland. (Poor Nellie, said she, ' has suffered a deal from Ernest's tyranny and coldness, and he himself has written us a letter saying that he has given her up, and that we must all treat Roland kindly.' ^ Well, Nellie, I pass over my own feelings, and hasten to the time when you returned. I saw that you were happy, perfectly so; and I only prayed that this happiness might be endttring. I, however, resolved that this unlooked-for mar- BOSTON COMMON. 859 riage should never receive a sanctioning word from me. So I said nothing in Roland's favor, and even absented myself from you in your bridal hour. I could not endre to see my darling friend throwing herself away in such a manner. "I went out of town, and when I returned all Linden were going mad over Mr. and Mrs. Hastings. I could hear of nothing but the noble grace and manly beauty of the bridegroom, the loveliness of the bride, the wedding dresses, presents, &c. I called upon you, Helen, and found you per- fectly happy, perfectly blest, as you said. You could. think of nothing, speak of nothing, but Roland; and when I "went away I had imbibed some of your own cheerful spirit, and hoped that he might yet be won to be a man. He was- all affection, all kindness, for a while; scarcely ever left your side for an hour at a time, and your devotion to each other was proverbial. You were called- the happy couple where- ever you went; and Rolau from his extreme beauty, and a certain charm in his con n, which even I nyself iave felt and acknowledged, sho:/ became the idol of his circle. Moving, as he now did, in quite a different sphere from- that to which he had been accustomed, he of course had many expenses to meet which he had not provided for. "A certain set of genteel villains in the' village soon fast- ened their greedy eyes upon him, and, as he was considered an easy prey, they did not despair, notwithstanding his new connections, of soon making him their complete tool. They accordingly praised his beauty, told-him that it had procured for him the wealthiest wife in Linden, and that he was a man of great importance, and occupied, by his fine estate'and page: 360-361[View Page 360-361] 860 BOSTON COMMON. connections, an exceedingly high position in the -fshionable world, &c.- "Had BReind possessed any strength-of mind, Helen, he would have resisted their wiles, for Hthink, at that time, he really loved you; but he was not proof against their tempta- tions, and he fell, He was first induced to drink, then to play lightly, and attend the suppers which his new friends prepared for him. Of course he always had to foot the bills; for how could he endure to have it said to him, 'Hastings, you are the biggest man of us all; we are as nothing com- pared to you, -you always have the ready, and a plenty of it'?? And so he invariably paid the bills. "He soon began to lose all interest for his wife and home; began to love the intoxicating cup; began to be more fre- quently absent from home, and to play for money. He knew nothing about play, and of course he lost; and as they told him never to despair, . to try again, excited by his losses, mixed now and the a little gain, he did try again, and again lost. "Not finding the resources which you so bountifully lavished; upon him sufficient to meet these heavy losses, he hit upon an expedient, which was nothing more nor less than to deprive you of .a third part of your estate, which he devoted to the purposes of gambling. Soon after this, he paid his debts, and contracted another much heavier than the former, for which his kind friends threatened to imprison him, if not paid immediately. The fear of this, together with exposure and late hours, threw him into a malignant fever. Then, dearest Helen, did you -show the beauty and strength of your devotion for him. You sat, watched, and BOSTON COMMON. 361 prayed, by his couch, for days and weeks together, and almost kissed him back to life and health once more! "He lived; but his illness nearly deprived you of existence; for, worn down by mental anxiety and suffering, you yourself were laid upon that bed from which your unwavering devotion and love had raised him. "I was in the house much at this time, and myself wit-. nessed the effects of spirituous liquors upon Roland. He- was attentive and kind to you, it is true; but I was quite certain that he drank, and drank constantly. He would often seat himself by your bedside and watch you for hours, - that was because he was unable to walk. You, Helen, mistook this for devotion; 'and, rejoicing in this proof of -Roland's restoration to your affection, you arose once more from your sick bed. "A journey to Saratoga was now proposed, and I consented to accompany you, more to take care of you than for any other purpose; for I had li4t all trust in Roland, and feared that he might do or say something during the journey which might shock your tender feelings. "I well remember the night he was absent. I was quite surprised to witness your emotions, for I supposed that you were used to his ramblings, and need not mind this; and when at last he entered the room intoxicated, I felt so badly on your account, that I immediately left for my own chamber, where I vented my indignation towards him, and sorrow for you, in a violent shower of tears. "I was surprised to see you watching so patiently, the next morning, by that drunken man's couch; and provoked that you looked at me and asked so innocently if I suppose&- he 31 * page: 362-363[View Page 362-363] 362 . BoSTON COMMON. was ill. I thought you might have had more confidence in an Old friend than that; but, always ready to excuse you, for the love Il!re you, I did so on this occasion. "'Well, Nellie, we returned home; and I was still more surprised to see you so-cheerful, so happy, all the way. You looked and acted like sweet sixteen; and I wondered if I should be so content, with a drunken husband at my side, were I in your place. After we returned, Roland continued to drink, gamble, and to spend his evenings abroad, in the society of his vile companions. ' "Time went on, and with his old quietness; but the whole town was suddenly aroused by the astounding news that Helen Hastings had again parted with a large portion of her estate, and that this time it was no mortgage, but a real sale! "' What can Helen want with so much money?' said this one; and 4 What could induce her to part with her street . of houses, and her father's place o-- business?' said that one. Some conjectured one thing, some another; but at length the real --facts came to be known, and circulated freely. Peo- ple now said that it was on your husband's account, -- that he had pleaded trouble and embarrassments, and that you had signed away nearly all your heritage, to bring back peace to his mind. "' What a sacrifice to love and devotion!' said one; and ' Was the like ever known?' said another. ' What a simple. ton!' said I, , and what a piece of wilful wickedness for Helen' thus by every means in her power to urge-her hus- band on' in his career of ruin and wickedness, and likewise to impoverish herself by the same act!' I now determined BOSTON COMMON. 863 to talk with you, Helen, concerning your folly, and made up my mind to have a real quarrel about it. It would have been the first one, however, Nell; but I thought the occasion justi- fied the means. I was again stopped by-your mother. She called upon me soon after, and we had a long conversation concerning you. She deplored your misfortunes, with :ears; and we both came to the conclusion that, as you werein rather a critical situation, and had but recently recovered from a dangerous illness, it would be better not to mention this at present. Your mother said that you already suffered, from your husband's conduct, all. that you could possibly endure; and that it might, perhaps, be fatal to have a third person interfere. "'Your mother was quite right, Nellie; for you were soon after brought down again, by sickness, to your bed; and, after many weeks of mental and bodily suffering, our darling little Wilhe was born. How very sad I felt when I gazed upon that sweet child's face, and remembered what his father was! I was again much surprised that you felt so happy over the birth of this child, and talked so hopefully concern- ing it. I oftei heard you talking to Roland, and telling him how you would both educate and bring him up; how you would both teach him to be wise, temperate, &c.; and I came to the conclusion that you were either a little out of your mind, or that in your exceeding love for your husband his conduct was excused. "Well, dear Nellie, my sad tale is nearly done. Roland, after confining himself to your chamber for several weeks, again left your side, and plunged into all sorts of excesses. He now drank and gambled quite openly. People talked of page: 364-365[View Page 364-365] 364 BOSTON COMMON. his intemperance, and some pitied while others blamed you for thus looking so unconcernedly upon your husband's ruin. "A change had now taken place in Roland's appearance. The eyes had grown dim and blood-shot, the brow contracted, and the face red and bloated. Every one noticed his loss of beauty, and commented upon it; but it did no good. You were as happy as a bird, with your babe, and your husband pursued his own inclinations at will. He has spent the large sum of money you last lavished upon him, besides contracting a number of debts, under pretext of your paying them. He does not stand so high as formerly in his companions' favor, not having quite as much money to spend with them. They sometimes pass him with scarcely a recognition; and will probably soon hand him over to a second class of drunkards, who, although not quite so expensive, will tend to degrade him still more." Katherine ceased; and, leaning her head against the chair in which I sat, looked kindly into my eyes, as if seeking to throw some amelioration upon my grief. Alas! what ame- lioration could she bring to my poor, breaking heart? "O, Katherine! what can I, what shall I do?" was my only remark, as I stretched out my hand imploringly towards her; "( can you devise no means to soften this evil?" "I know not, Helen," replied Kate; "you must return home, treat your husband kindly as your disgust at his conduct will allow, and save the wreck of your property, if you can. Do your duty faithfully, and leave the rest to God. ,He will! yet bring it out aright; and, if you trust' in him, he willy certainly care for you. Although he has sent you this heavy affliction, he means it for your good. He wishes BOSTON COMMON. 365 to draw you more closely to him; to rivet the bands of love and devotion you feel for him more firmly around your heart, -which might otherwise grow cold, lifeless, and forget its duty as a Christian. ( You are disappointed in your husband, Helen. He, who should have been your crown of rejoicing, is now become your greatest curse and disgrace! You are in a dark and thorny way; but you still have your child to provide for, to educate, and bring up. See that you fail not in this, for he will probably be your greatest earthly consolation. You will, if faithful in this respect, find that peace of mind which the world can neither give nor take away." I arose. ( Now, Katie," said I, "I must go. Kiss me, dear, and come and see me soon. I believe Willie knows you already; for, when I tell him of' aunt Katie,' he laughs and holds out his little hands." "I have no doubt that he does," replied she. "I will come soon and often. Now, good-by, Helen, and may Heaveq bless and console you." 31' I* page: 366-367[View Page 366-367] CHAPTER XXXV. "The time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely, were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour." f KING HENRY IV. WHEN I reached home my husband had not yet awakened from his slumbers. I seated myself by the bed, and looked earnestly into his face. The curtains were drawn, and a softened light rested in the room. He lay there s'o calmly sleeping, and looking so'fair in the dim light, that I fancied it was as in the olden time with us. I reviewed my past life. I recalled those happy days we had spent upon the beautiful Common; when, hand in hand, we had wandered beneath the shady trees, and linked our future with golden fancies; when the sky, the earth, the trees, and flowers, were viewed by us as only so many fresh delights to minister to our happiness, and to bind 'us more closely to each other. I thought of the time when we returned to Linden; when our summer passed so swiftly away; when each moment im- printed its fairy footsteps upon some sweet flower, and pressed the cup of joy still nearer to our -lips. And then came the merry wedding-day, and the honey- BOSTON COMMON. 367 moon. We were too joyous for words; and so we would sit for hours, Drinking in our happiness in silence, and dreaming of sweeter days to come. How vividly did the first evening which we spent together in our own house now arise in my mind! How brightly glowed the fire; how soft and velvety looked the carpet; how dreamy was the light reflected from our lamp; how did all things, even the steaming urn, seem to welcome us, with- its lulling music, to our own happy home! I remembered what I had then said. " 0, Roland! we will be so very joyous here, in this beau- tiful place, that we shall never wish to stray therefrom, Content shall lurk in every nook and corner of our sweet dwelling; love shall forever dream among the roses, and all shall be bright and blooming as now." And he had answered, by looking into my eyes, - "Helen, never did I know or dream what happiness was, until I saw and loved you, and was beloved- by you in re- turn." And the sweet memory of that too blessed summer, - the golden mornings, when, awaking from slumber, I would seek for the sunshine of Roland's smile; and the live-long day, when the birds would come and build their nests in the boughs, while the bees and insects hummed their drowsy notes, and the flowers blossomed and glowed in our sunshine. And then our first boy, - our disappointment in its death, and Roland's fearful sickness. Months passed away; and, although sorrow crept into my heart, yet he laid his wither- ing hand but lightly there. It was but a soft shower of rain upon the ripe grass, or the sun hiding his head behind a page: 368-369[View Page 368-369] 368- BOSTON COMMON. cloud; it passed over, and I was still happy, still blest, in Roland's affection. ' And so I continued to live and dream of my idol, to pour the wealth of my heart's love upon him, until our darling Wilhe was born. My cup of joy was 'now full- my happi- ness complete. Wilhe had the same blue eyes, the same fair brow; his mouth had the same delicate chiselling, and the soft curls that floated around the temples had the same bright hue. A few happy days were mine, and then came the blow. The bolt descended, and smote my defenceless head; but, O, how unprepared was I to receive it! My idol was crushed, - had fallen, never more to rise. I now had no hope or wish but to die; but I could not die. I must live, and live to see him groping his way in this dark world of sin and crime. O, what could I, what should I do? I clasped my hands in utter prostration of spirit, and kneeled beside that bed, "6,- Father!' prayed I, ."in mercy afflict me not so heavily; take thy chastening hand from me; I can bear no more; I must die." Roland awaked, and gazed at me. He must have noticed that a change had taken place, for he looked long and ear- nestly into my eyes. I spoke not, but gazed sadly at him in return. . "Well, Nellie, have you no kiss for me to-day?" he asked. I shook my head., a None, Roland, none," I replied. t"Whew! what is the matter now?" said he. i"This is the first time, in all our married life, that you have refused to kiss me. What has come over you? - are you sad, or ill?" BOSTON COMMON. 369 i"Yes, Roland," I replied, (' I am sick; but come, arise; your breakfast is ready, I think." Jenny had become accustomed to her master's tardiness, and always contrived to have the coffee hot for him. We proceeded to the dining-room, and I myself gave him his breakfast. That over, he followed me to the nursery, where he played with Willie a while; then, seating him upon the carpet, he prepared to go out. "Roland," said I,'" please sit down by me. I wish to talk with you." He looked at me a moment, as if considering. "' Will not some other time do, Helen?" said he. "I -have an engage- ment, - business calls me away." "That excuse will not now answer with me, Roland," I replied. "Business does not call you away, and no other time will do but the present." "Well," he replied, "be br;ief; it is getting late. But what mean you by your singular looks and w6rds&? This is not the manner in which you were wont to address your hus-- band,-- hey, Nell?" "A change has come over me, Roland, -a change that I would barter all the riches of the world to win back; but I may not." "A change! What mean you, Helen?" "I mean, Roland, that all my hopes of happiness have forever fled; that I have put my trust in man rather than in God, where I should have placed it; and that He has at length shown me the folly of it." "Poh! Nell, you are always talking of religion, or some such thing, enough to drive a man either out of his senses page: 370-371[View Page 370-371] 370 BOSTON COMMON. or out of the house. Is this all you have to say? Because, if it is, I must go." "No, Roland, no; you must stay and listen to what I have to say. I have always blindly obeyed your!will in all things; now please obey me in this. Roland, I have learned all, know all. - You need not try to deceive or keep me in ignorance -any longer. I know with whom you associate; I know how you fill your veins with intoxicating poison; that you drink long and deep-at the wine-cup; and that you have squandered away, in idleness and dissipation,'more than two thirds of the beautiful estate we once owned. I can scarcely believe it possible that you could accomplish this in so short a space of time; jlut it is true, nevertheless. And now, Ro- land, all I have to say is this: you have disgraced your name and character, blighted nearly all my hopes of happiness, and broken my heart." I did not look at Roland while I spoke; but I could see that he started several times, and appeared -very much sur- prised. He did not speak for several moments after I had ceased, but at length he said, S ' Some persons have been inventing lies about me, Helen, which I should have supposed your love for me would hare prevented you from believing." Add not to. y our guilt, Roland," said I, "by denying what all the world knows,- what I myself have, in part, - witnessed. It is, alas! too true. Would to God it were not so!" "And so, Mrs. Helen Hastings," said he, s this is the end of all your fine love, is it? You are ready to believe every trifling thing you may chance to hear against him whom you have sworn to love; honor, and obey." BOSTON COMMON. 371 ft Hush, Roland! profane not the holy, truthful love I once bore for the person you were by ever giving it a title to changeableness! You know very well what Helen Clifton loved, and what she supposed she married." ' Well, I suppose I do; but here you are makinng a great time about nothing,-a mere trifle, - because, forsooth, a man wants to enjoy himself a little! ' t A trifle, Roland! Do you call sin a trifle?- a trans- gression of God's holy laws a trifle? Do you call that a trifle which can wring the heart of a loving wife, and change the object of her adoration, of her reverence, into an insen- sible drunkard? Do you call a large fortune, purchased with the sweat of honest labor, and spent at the gambling- table, a trifle? O Roland! my husband, I would gladly en. dure poverty and suffering; I would, with my infant, wander from door to door, and beg humbly for the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table; I would give up all my hopes of happiness in this life; I would smile at misery, and welcomne the grave,-to have you innocent and pure once more, to have you living in the love and fear of God, to see you shun the gambling-table and bar-room as pestilen- tial dens." He was somewhat affected by my earnestness, but rallied in a few moments, and said, "Well, Nellie, you are right, I suppose. I sometimes think that my life is all a sad mistake, - that I have been living in a foolish, wicked way, as you would call it; but I have gone too far to repent. It is now too late." "No, my husband," I answered, " it is never too late to repent - never too late to return to the paths of duty. O, * i page: 372-373[View Page 372-373] 372 BOSTON COMMO'N. Roland! dear Roland! for my sake, for the sake of our sweet Willie, for the sake of the blessed Saviour, whose cause you have wounded, whose name you have reproached, leave your evil ways at once, and come. He is ready and willing -stands, even now, with outstretched arms, to receive you. O, if you will but leave your vile associates; if you will but eschew the dark ways of sin and iniquity, in which you have so long been wandering; if you will but repent, and turn, in heart and soul, to your heavenly Father, - we will go forth and together brave poverty, the world's scorn, and all, and will yet be happy. O, Roland! .what say you?" I had arisen, and was gazing him earnestly ir the face; my eyes were suffused with tears, and my cheek pale with grief. He looked at me affectionately. "God bless you, my noble Helen!" he said; " you have conquered. I will try and do as you wish. I will leave my companions, and never drink another glass. I will work and do everything for or with you, my own blessed wife, and henceforth you may regard me as erring, but not lost." I sank into a chair; joy filled my poor heart; a sensation of pure happiness once more thrilled through my veins, and I reached forth my hand to Roland, who pressed it to his lips, and went immediately out, That night he remained at home with- me, and the next day also, and for two or three succeeding days and nights. \ CHAPTER XXXVI. cu Not the last sounding could surprise me more, That summons drowsy mortals to their doom." DRYDEN. I NOW felt almost happy. I hung over my husband with joy. I combed his beautiful hair. I seated myself at his feet, and, laying my head in his lap, talked to him of the blessings we still possessed in our beautiful home, our noble boy, and in our love for each other. I was afraid of say- ing a word which might cause him to repent the new step he had taken, and so I never reverted to the past. I told him stories of men who had conquered themselves, who had learned to rule itheir own spirits, who had struggled with mighty temptations and come out victorious. And then our conversations would revert to Willie, and we would resolve to set an example of purity and goodness before our child, to guard him from evil, and to inculcate lessons of vir- tue into his heart. He listened to all these stories, and agreed with me con- cerning the child. I could not have believed that I should have felt so much consolation. I was surprised to find my burden so much lighter, and blessed God for his kindness to me. 82 page: 374-375[View Page 374-375] 374 BOSTON COMMON. On the fourth evening, as we were sitting cosily together, the door-bell suddenly rung. I started, for I had an instinct- ive warning that it was rung by a person who was in some way connected with my husband. I therefore determined to answer it myself. On going to the door, I found there, sure enough, Albert Douglas, one of my husband's companions, and, indeed, the ringleader in the whole affair, as I had been lately told. X t( Good-evening, Mrs. Hastings," said he. "Is your hus- band at home?" "He is, sir," I answered, coldly. "Will you please tell him to step to the door a moment?" "No, sir," said I; "my husband has no business with you, or any of your kind. He does not wish to have any fur- ther transactions with you or your friiends; and so you need not expect to see him again." The man looked at me in surprise. I gazed at him in return, and thought, as I did so, that I was gazing at my enemy, - at one who had wronged me out of my fortune, my husband's society, and my happiness, -and I felt brave. A moment we stood thus, gazing at each other in mute defiance; then, turning scornfully away, I shut the door in his face, and returned to the parlor. Roland inquired anxiously who the visitor was. I recounted to him every particular of the interview. He laughed and called it a capital joke; but I could see that he felt a little uneasy about it, nevertheless. Before I retired -to rest, that night,;- sought my closet, and thanked God upon my knees that he Uhad already eased my heavy burden; that he had turned my husband's steps BOSTON C M1 ON . 375 into the right path, and shown to him the error of his ways. , And now, O Father!"I prayed, in conclusion, "I ask not for riches, happiness, or a long life; but, O, give me the sweet, the heavenly joy, of knowing that my husband is saved, --that he is an heir of eternal life! Take everything of worldly good from me, if thou wilt, but in mercy deny me not this precious boon!" And, reader, that prayer, breathed so earnestly in the holy hour of evening, found its way to the throne of the Almighty; and, blessed be His name, it was granted me, - but not then, -not then. I was not yet to see the travail of my soul and be satisfied. A few more months of sorrow were yet in reserve for me, and then - but I will not anticipate. Another happy day was spent with Roland; and now, almost assured of his firmness, I rejoiced over-him exceed- ingly. Towards night a man came to paper our fronts entry. He brought several rolls with him, and Roland and myself watched him forda long time with considerable interest. "Ah!" exclaimed he, suddenly, "I shall not have paper enough, after all; and I must finish this entry to-night, for I have other jobs on hand. How provoking!" t"Let me have a bit of the paper," said Roland, " and I will run over to the shop and obtain another roll. You need not be delayed." He went, and we waited hour after hour for his return; and, full of anxiety both for the paper-hanger and myself, I sent Jenny to the shop. In a few moments she returned with the paper, and in ,.,) page: 376-377[View Page 376-377] BOSTON COMMON. half an hour the entry was finished, and the man had de- parted. But where this while was Roland ? I summoned Jenny. "Did you see anything of Mr. Hastings," said I, " when you were out ?" " No, ma'am," she answered; "but I think he is not far off. Most likely he has had some business to attend to, which has kept him, ma'am." "Yes, perhaps he had, Jenny," said L II contented my- self with this thought, and, after prolonging our supper for three quarters of an hour, we were obliged to sit down with- out him. Mrs. Roscoe, as was her custom, retired immediately to her room with her babe, as soon as tea1 was over, and I was left alone to await my husband's return. I undressed little Wil- liam, and rocked him to sleep. Breathing a blessing over him, I placed him in his cradle and took my sewing. I was making a shirt for my husband, and as I plied my needle, my thoughts constantly reverted to him. At length the clock struck ten. I threw my work aside, and, running to the window, peered anxiously through the panes to see if I could gain a glimpse of the truant. The street was silent and deserted. No person was to be seen, and, pulling down the curtain, I again seated myself, and took up a book to read. I found something interesting, and I con- tinued to read for more than an hour. Willie then awaked, and; taking him from his cradle, I placed him in the bed, andt lay down beside him without undressing. Weary with the duties of the day, I sank into a slumber, and dreamed that Roland had returned"; that he had smiled I upon me, called me his guardian spirit, and that he was lying by my side. At length I awoke; shivering with the cold. I had been lying outside the bed-clothes, and had, in consequence, felt the cold more keenly. Just then the clo& struck two. I started from my recumbent position, and looked eagerly around for Roland. lHe had not yet returned. A cold sensation of fear, and a certainty almost that he had again forgotten his prom- ises, that all was lost, took entire possession of me, and my heart sank within my bosom. Creeping noiselessly from the bed, for fear of awaking Wil- lie, I approached the window, and, throwing it up, gazed long and earnestly down the street. All was still and silent. The moon was looking with a cold, unpitying eye upon my grief, and the shadow of the trees lay sleeping in the Black Water, unstirred by a single zephyr. Suddenly a dog barked. " He is coming," 'thought I; "( and his footsteps have disturbed some neighboring dog." Five, ten, twenty minutes longer did I sit shivering in the cold; but all remained quiet, I again closed the window and retreated. " Where can he be? What- can have happened to detain him?" thought I. "He has never before been absent all night." I was fearful lest some harm had befallen him. The clock struck three. Wearied, cold, and suffering, fearing also some momentary evil, I leaned my head upon the' sofa-cushions, and burst into a violent fit of weeping. 32* page: 378-379[View Page 378-379] 378 BOSTON COMMON. Nearly a quarter of an hour I remained in this position; and, suddenly thinking I heard footsteps, I arose, and, running -to the window, hastily threw it up, and once more strained my eyes anxiously down the street. All was still as the grave. The moon had gone far behind the house, and I could see that her shadow was lying half-way across the water and the little bridge. Suddenly my eyes sought the pier of that bridge, for a dark object arrested their attention. "Is that the figure of a man?" thought I. I looked again, and then, scarcely knowing what I did, rushed to the fibnt door and opened it. "Yes, surely," said I, " that is a man, and I must ascertain who it is. O, if it should be my poor Roland!" I ran down the yard, and opened the little gate. There is always something fearful in venturing out of doors alone in the night, and I stopped a moment, when near the gate, and half determined to return to the house again ; but a glance at the objection the pier, which could now be seen much plainer than from the window, impelled me forward. I ran quickly down the hill, and approached the bridge. I could now see that it was really a man who lay upon the pier. The tide was coming up rapidly, and bid fair to sweep him off in an hour longer! I climbed over the railing of the bridge, and, half dreading, half expecting some evil, I stepped upon the pieri and knelt beside the object. - O God! what was my horror to discover, by the moon shining full upon him, the countVtnce of my husband! "O, he is dead, he is dead "'eaxclainmed I,--" what shall I do?" I recollect' no more. My head swam around, my ,- ... BOSTON COM M ON. 379 eyes closed, a sickening feeling of horror came over me, and I fell insensible across the body of my husband! When I came to myself, I found that I was at home, and in my own bed. My mother, father, and the doctor, were all in the room, and the former was weeping bitterly. Suddenly, as if by an electric shock, the events of the past dreadful night came back to my memory. I arose in bed, and gazed wildly around. "' My husband!" exclaimed I,--" is he drowned? O, in mercy tell me where he is!" (I Roland is safe and well,". said my-father. '"Look, dear Helen." He pointed, as he spoke, to the sofa. There lay Roland, in a calm, deep sleep. A flush was upon his cheek, and I groaned as I recognized it to be the brand of intoxication. "O, father," said I, I( tell me how we were saved." My father seated himself by my bedside, and told me, in a few words, that Roland and myself had been discovered upon the pier of the bridge, about an hour before, by an early riser; that the tide was rushing over us; and that, had we not been rescued immediately, we should in a few moments have been beyond the reach of human aid. , I shuddered when I thought of our narrow escape from- death, and related to. my father the circumstances. "( Never be so rash again, my dear Helen," said he. "Think of your child, and consider that you owe a duty to that, as well as to your husband." ' 'About eleven o'clock Roland awaked, and asked for me. I had recovered somewhat from my fright, and was by his side in a moment. He turned away his face, with a blush of shame, , f . page: 380-381[View Page 380-381] 8380 BOSTON COMMON., as I leaned over him. O that he should ever have had occa- sion to blush in-the presence of his wife! -"' Helen,'" said he, feebly, "I have again sinned against you,- - I have once more transgressed God's law." "I know it, Roland," I replied, and have for hours been lamenting your folly. But how happened it?" "Why," answered he,!"I went after that paper, intending to return immediately; but was met by Albert Douglas on the way, who-coaxed me to go with him for a short time, as he said. Helen, I have no firmness, as you very well know, and was not proof against his inducements. I went, and drank one glass after another; then played, lost, won, and played again. HRow dreadfully did I suffer all the while, when I thought of you, Helen, at home, waiting, perhaps weeping, that I'did not retiurn! "At length I arose to return; but, as I was very much in- toxicated, Douglas would not suffer me to go alone, and we left together. When near the bridge, he proposed that we should climb over the railing, and:seat ourselves upon the pier Tfor a while, as he said, to Watch the beauty of the moon re- flecting upon the water. ':! : " Too weak to resist, I accepted of his assistance, and. we seated ourselves upon the pier. I have a faint recollection, after this, of his telling me something concerning you, Helen, and the affront you had put upon him the evening before. He also said that ere the dawn of another morning he should be revenged upon-you. After this,; al is dim before me. I be- lieve, however, he left me, and I called after him to save me; but that, not meeting the required aid, and trusting all would terminate well, I sunk down, overcome with weakness and the BOSTON COMMON. 381 drink I had taken, and was soon insensible to everything around me." I was horror-stricken at this story. The wAkedness of Douglas was almost incredible; and I wept, and prayed of Roland never to'be persuaded to go with him again. "Helen," said he, with much solemnity, "I sacredly promise never to be in Douglas' society again; but I will not promise to abstain from drinking. I have not firmness sufficient. I only wish I had." "Oyes, Roland, you have," said I, " if you will only try. I will assist you in keeping your vow, - will aid you in every possible way, - only trust ime." Roland shook his head despairingly, and we sat a long time, talking over the events of the past night, and rejoicing over our wonderful escape from- a watery grave. * , page: 382-383[View Page 382-383] CHAPTER XXXVII. "Mortal, they softly say, Peace to thy heart! We, too, O mortal, Have been as thou art; Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, Seeing in part, Tried, troubled, tempted, Sustained, as thou art." "O, HrELEN dearest," said Mrs. Roscoe, coming into my room, the morning after the escape, ,' what think, you? My cross old aunt, whose name I bear so ungraciously, has just sent- me a letter, so kind, so affectionate, in which she makes not the slightest allusion to my former mesalliance, but entreats me to return to her immediately, and bring that interesting cherub,' my babe, with me; that she is ready to receive me' with open arms, and to bestow all her fortune upon me, pro- viding I will come back and marry my former rich suitor, John Smith, Esq., who has again renewed his proposal, through my venerated and amiable relative! What must I do, Helen?" "Indeed, I scarcely know, dear Letise," I replied. - If you do not love the man, I should advise you, by all means, to keep a good distance from him; for the idea of marrying a man on account of his wealth would be out of the question for BOSTON COMMON. 383 me, and no doubt would be quite as repugnant'to your feel- ings." ' "Well, Helen, the idea of being settled in a fine establish- ment of your own, after having been so long dependent-upon your friends, is not bad, is it?" "That is a consideration, Letise, but-need not govern you. You came to me poor, and in affliction; and, so long as I have a roof and a table; you are welcome to its shelter, and a place by its side." "Thank you, dear Helen. You are, and always were, the best, the kindest friend I ever knew. I think, however, that I shall go and find my aunt, and make some arrangements with her. Perhaps she will let me off from marrying this man. Only think, Helen, he is a Smith, and one of the ever- lasting John Smiths, too! - What a name! - so entirely dif. ferent from the soft, beautiful one of Thaddeus Roscoe, is it not?" ' Yes, Letise, but ' what's in a name?' You should not think so much of that as of the disparity in your ages. And, then, you are not acquainted with him - have scarcely seen him. I think, on the whole, dear Letise, that you had better remain where you are. Something else may present itself," Letise retired, and considered. The result was that she would go to her aunt, and try to soften her old heart, if she had one, about the marriage. She haing doubt but she couldzdo it in time. -- I was not so sanguine, however, but, at her request, assisted her in her preparations for departure. I really felt very badly about her leaving. She had been with me for more than a year and a half. I had been ac. , - page: 384-385[View Page 384-385] AR. -384 BOSTON COMMON. customed to seeing her pleasant face at my table for a long I time, and was besides so ardently attached to hoer babe that it was a great grief to me to part with them. The day for her departure at last arrived, and I stood by -the carriage windows, with tears in my eyes, to bid her adieu. I pressed the little Helen to my bosom, imprinted kiss after kiss upon its cheeks, and then embraced the mother. "I hope you will prosper and be very happy, dearest "Utise," said I. "Should you ever find yourself in trouble and distress again, you know-where to apply - come back to me. God knows how long I shall have a home; but, so long as I have one, you are welcome to it. Now, adieu, Letise, and Heaven bless you!" I pressed a purse containing twenty dollars into her hand. "You will perhaps need it for your travelling expenses," said I. "O, Helen," sobbed Letise, you have been so kind, so good, to me! When I had no home, you took me in, gave me food and clothing, and succored my fatherless babe. What shall I do to reward you? I shall never forget your kindness, never; and the time .may come when I shall have an opportunity of doing something for you in return. Should you ever be in trouble or want, Helen, and I in plenty, come at once to me, that I may have the pleasure of paying back some small part of the heavy debt I owe you." We embraced ogle more, parted, and the carriage drove off. Iheard no more of Mrs. Roscoe for a month, and then I received a long letter from her, containing an account of her journey, the kind reception of her aunt, and also of her marriage with the redoubtable John Smith, Esq. She had BOSTON COMMON. 385 at last merged the name of Roscoe in that of Smith, and was now in the possession of riches, station, happiness, &c. The remainder of the letter contained an account of her estab- lishment in town, - her carriage, dresses, furniture, silver, parties, &c. Accompanying the letter was a beautiful silver cup for Willie, with "Helen Roscoe to William Hastings" engraved in delicate characters upon it. I heard no more of Letitia for a long time; for she shortly after departed for Europe, and when she returned I had become too obscure for her to visit. After her departure I set myself at work to restore to my mother her rights. My husband, with a magnanimity for which I had always given him credit, assisted me cheer- fully in this business. With the aid of an experienced lawyer, we soon had all arranged, and my mother was put in possession of the legacy which my dear father bequeathed to her upon his dying bed. When the business was concluded, I found myself owner of the house and land only which I then occupied. All, save this, of my large fortune, had gone. Of course Roland grieved and mourned over it; but what could we do? We could not recall it, and I told him that it was of no manner of use for us to sit down and pine ourselves to death on ac- count of it. The only thing to be done was to try and find some business that would obtain for u a good living, and then go about it cheerfully, blessing (8a for the health and strength which we still possessed, and striving to overcome our hard fortune. My mother was not informed of this affair until it was over, and she in possession of the land. She was much sur- 3 3 page: 386-387[View Page 386-387] 386 BOSTON COMMON. prised, and urged me to take back a part of it; but I refused, s-aying that neither she nor -her family should suffer for my husband's faults. - I had now, from our adversity, strong hopes of Roland's entire emancipation from intemperance, and already felt that I might yet have reason to bless God for poverty, if it should be the means of restoring my husband to me once more. I dismissed poor, faithful Jenny, who had been with me- so long, and myself ministered to the wants of our little house- hold. Roland, seeing me so much in earnest, went into his long-neglected place of business, and for a few weeks was really --industrious and temperate. I was just beginning, to experience a little- of my former happiness, when he was called out of town to attend a meeting of gentlemen. He was absent a week; and when he returned he was so mruch intoxicated that he did not know me! The men who brought him home placed him upon the sofa, and glanced at me with pity in their looks. . I stood, with my infant upon my arm, looking upon Roland, whom I had expected to welcome- home with so much joy, in almost stupefaction. Poverty for my child and myself seemed to stare me in the face; and he who should have warded off its approach, who should have been our protection and support, lay before me a helpless inebriate, his health and strength, that were the-gifts of an Almighty Father, and-which should have been expended*i labors of love, prostrated to the pleas- ures of a vile, an inexorable tyrant. After this, Roland gave entirely up.- His business failed for want of a master; his workmen cheated him out of his property; all went wrong, while the master lay at home t .1' BOSTON COMMON. 387 intoxicated more than half his time. No entreaties, no per. suasions of mine, could induce him to relinquish the bottle. He drank, and drank constantly. Night after night have I remained in that house with only my infant near me; and hour after hour have I laid with my eyes open, and my nerves in fearful expectation of his arrival. Sometimes he would come home and stagger to bed as best he could; at others, my wakefulness and fear would be re- warded by hearing two or three men bringing him through the yard. The bell would ring; I would arise and open the door for them; they would place my insensible husband upon the sofa, and leave me alone with my sorrow and him. To add, if possible, to my grief, Roland had begun to use profane language; and that tongue, which I longed so ear- nestly to hear sounding forth the praises of God, had now learned to take His holy name in vain. What long weeks of anguish did I now pass! Roland was absent every night, and always slept until late the ensiuing day. When he awoke, he was sick, sullen, and ill-tempered. He had no appetite, and, instead of eating with me, would take his bowl of coffee, and sit shivering over the kitchen fire for hours. He very seldom conversed with me, and I as seldom provoked it; for his conversation was so interspersed with ,oaths that I was too much shocked to listen to it. Ah! what gloomy, wretched weeks were those! I grew sick and lean. My eyes, always large now looked staring, and were sad with grief. Had it not been for my precious child, I should have prayed most earnestly for death. In this sad and almost hopeless condition, to whom could I look but to my heavenly Father, who was thus grievously -i page: 388-389[View Page 388-389] 388 BOSTON COMMON. afflicting me?- to whom apply for aid but to Him who was carrying me through the dark -waters of affliction? I prayed; and, as I prayed, I seemed to hear whispering angels begging me to eschew my melancholy, and to keep my eye steadfastly fixed upon the reward; for that my dark, gloomy season would by and by shine with perfect lustre, and that I should yet arise and sing for joy. $.\ C HAPTER XXXVIII . t We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have, with our needles, created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key, As if our hands, sides, voices, and minds Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, And yet an union in partition." MIDSUUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. ONE morning, early in September, as I was sitting sadly brooding over my sorrows, Katherine Merton entered the room. She looked so bright and cheerful, and her face wore such a happy smile, that my heart bounded to meet her. "' Come, dearest Helen," said she, "get your bonnet, and let's take a walk together this beautiful morning. The air is soft and pure, and just what you want to make you feel strong. Give me Willie. I will put on his hat and cloak." , ' I do not feel like going out, Katie," said I,gfeeby. "I am too wretched to enjoy the scenes of Nature now." , Poh, Helen!" answered Kate. "Not enjoy God's beautiful works, spread out with such variety and profusion before you? They were made to make you happy. If you 33* page: 390-391[View Page 390-391] 890 BOSTON -COMMON. are ill, however, we will not go, but will sit down and talk. Ihave such a deal to tell you, -so now prepare to listen." I looked languidly towards the speaker. "You know, Nell," continued she, is that I am to be married in the spring, -at least, so papa, mamma, and all the rest of the world, say. Well, Helen, as I cannot be much with you after- that blissful period, for I do not expect to reside in Linden, I am coming to live with you now! I am not going to leave you, my poor little friend, this autumn and winter, to sit and listen to the wind howling gloomily around the house;-no, I shall be constantly with you, my darling, and we will be so happy "I am to get up first in the morning, and make the coffee; --mind, I am to make the coffee, for your coffee is not a cir- oumstance to mine. Then we will eat breakfast together, with precious little Willie between us. This over, we will wash all up nice, sweep and dust; then take a fine mountain walk to- gether, stop on our return at your mother's, have a good chat with her and Constance, and get a drink of her fresh milk. "After dinner, Helen, you shall play me some of yqour own beautiful music. You need not shake your head, and look so dolefully, as if the very sound of music was painful to you; for I mean to make you practise, in spite of yourself. Then we will sew, or read, or play with the baby, until after supper, when we -will take another walk, or sit together for hours, talking and singing. - O, we shall have such fine times! You must shake off your moodiness, your dulness. I am not going :to have any gloomypeople around me, I can tell you; so, if You-perist in your melancholy, I shall give you warning to lee at-oncoe, -. remember" ! , ' Dear Kate! how very good of her to be willing to give up BOSTON COMMO ON. 391 all the pleasures of home, and come and share with me my sorrow! God bless thee, Kate! Thy presence, and cheerful spirit, saved me from many a long, weary hour, which would otherwise have been spent in weeping. Kate was as good as her word. She came, the next day, with her trunks, books, &c., and,- taking Letitia's chamber, soon had everything arranged to suit her convenience and taste. But precious little time did she spend there, -my room was the place where all our love, our happiness, centred. Dost thou remember it still, my Kate, -that little room? As I look back upon the time that has flown since thou and I last met together there, I ask myself if there ever was a place where, in spite of all my trouble, I have enjoyed more heart- felt pleasure. I can shut my eyes now and recall every article in that cherished room. The figures in the carpet, the rug, the beautiful, soft-toned piano, from which we have both drawn such sweet sounds; the table, with its solar lamp, and books of taste andlmerit, which had delighted us so many times by their high and lofty senti- ments, or cheering pictures of life; the two large easy-chairs, in which Kate and myself rocked and talked away so many hours; the cradle between us; conta;ining the fair babe, ia which both Kate and myself felt a mother's interest, and which we both rocked alternately; and last, but not least, the little broken pitcher, standing upon the table, beside our luncheon. What though the nose had gone? We would drink from it in preference to a golden one, for it was a dear old pitcher, and connected with a -thousand sweet memories. Katie and myself had drank from its brim many times, for years, and surely we would not discard it now that it had grown old and page: 392-393[View Page 392-393] 392 BOS TON COMMON. broken in our service. Besides, water never tasted from any other pitcher as it did from that; and often, while sewing and chatting together-so merrily, we would glance affectionately at the little pitcher, as if to say, We will never part from you! My own Kate! I would give worlds for just one glance into that little room, with its appendages, once more; or for one hour spent with you there, where, for that little hour, I could have you all to myself, as in the olden time. And, while the fine weather lasted, what long rambles would we have upon our favorite "Granite Bluff," w;here we could sit and view the whole village from our airy height; or we would roam through the woods, and gather the wild-flowers, to press and anze; or we would wander towards the water's edge, and, sitting upon the rocks, watch with delight the spray, as it dashed softly against their huge old sides. O, those were sweet times, and never to be forgotten; and Katie, darling, made them just as happy as possible, and kept me constantly employed, so that I had no time to brood over my sorrows. We made clothes for ourselves, and for Willie,; we sewed for the poor; and we each made a patchwork quilt for ourselves, just alike. The pattern from which we made them was called "Job's patience," but we christened it "Job's impatience," for ours was sadly exhausted before we had finished them. But where was Roland, all this while, and what was he doing? I can make but one answer, and it will be the old one. Drink- ing, drinking, or gambling, with his miserable associates. He would often be absent from home for two or three days to. gether, but I had learned to regard this as a common thing; and, as he was a quiet, gentlemanly drunkard, and never BOSTON COMMON. sought occasion to quarrel with any one, I had schooled my heart to feeling easy on his account; and I was not wrong, for he always came home safe. Sometimes, when alone with R oland, I would take his hand, look earnestly into his face, and implbre him to try and leave off his bad habits; to remain at home, with Katie, Willie, and myself, and we would do so much to make him happy. And then I would talk earnestly of the love of God to him, ---how, in spite of his rebellion, his constant transgressions, ie was still waiting, ready to forgive, ready to blot out all the sins of the past. affete Sometimes--Roland would be much an ete ; at others he would break away from me with an oath; or some gross expression of impatiene. What could I do then? Why, only pra y for him, that God would yet bring back this lost sheep to his fold; and, someh ow, when I had finished my prayer, a sweet peace would steal into my soul, and an as- surance would seem granted me that all would yet be as I wished. My love, my pure, young, earnes love for Roland , had gone. I was not unfaithful; but could I love and esteem the drunkrd, the gambler, the profaner of God's holy name? No; when I beheld my husband grovelling at my feet in all his manly beauty, when I heard him blaspheming the name I so much revered; struggle as I would against it,my love expired; but a feeling of pity, of strong, deep interest for his well-being, for his eternal happiness, took possession of m hear, and never flagged for a moment. ,What is the matter, Kate,'!said I to her, one morning. ,4 You look uneasy. 'Has anything occurred to vex you. " , OF page: 394-395[View Page 394-395] a4* BOSTON COMMON. "Yes," she answered, pettishy. "'That singular piece of mechanism, that ingeniously-made man, Horace Wilds, has been here all the morning." IIlooked wonderingly at my friend. She was pacing the floor in an excited manner, her hazel eyes sparkling, and her "- brown hair floating loosely upon her shoulders. "Why, Kate, you call your future husband hard names; don't you love him?" "I tell you, Nellie, I don't love anybody but you. I don't know what love is; neither did I ever wish to know until I came here to live with you. I have heard you talk so much of love, of its sweetness, of its power, that I begin to think I should like to experience its delights some time; and I am resolved to, if ever I can find a man who is worthy of being loved." ' "Why, Katherine, how strangely you talk! What will you do with your betrothed husband?" "I do not' know, I 'm sure. I only wish he was at the antipodes. He is so fond of opposites that I should think he would take a trip there, some fine day. It would be so delight- ful to be walking feet to feet with him, and thousands of miles between us!" '4-Well, Kate, you are -he strangest girl! Why, in the name of everything good, are you engaged to him, if you dis- like- him so much? , - "4Why, indeed? I am sure I don't know, and I scarcely think, that he'-is, .Everybody made this match. I had nothing whatg do with it but to consent." "And why ' you consent so readily?" i, Oieannot tell./ I supposed that I must be married some o . ! to BOS T N O O, M N . 395 time; and, as I loved all men alike, I thought Horace Wilds as good as any. But I think quite differently now, and am surprised at my former blindness. I look upon the marriage tie as a great and solemn duty, which it concerns us all to regard, and provide for in such a manner that we shall not have to regret and repent it all our lives." ,' I quite agree with you, Katherine; but what will you do with Wild Horace?" "Why, " she answered, half smiling, "I do not know; but there is one thing I am quite confident of, -I shall never believe in Shakspeare again, never! He says that' (the course of true love never did run smooth.' Hee is at fault there; for it has run smooth, perfectly so, in this instance. There is nothng to separate us; no unwilling parents, no rich old relatives to beg consent of, no jarring discords, or angry words between the parties themselves; - how very provoking! But I must endeavor to dispose of him right away; must tell him that some day I shall certainly love, and that I do not wish to be loving one man and living with another." ("And what effect do you think this smart speech will have upon the airy gentleman?" "( O, not much. He will soon forget- it, and it will be better for us both; for I should never know when he was in earnest or when in jest, and the consequences resulting from wrong, impressions given by him might be fatal. Do you think, the,- other day, Helen, after putting a nice new, pen into a -handle,\ as he was talking very busily with me, he dipped the latter:: into the ink, and wrote half a dozen lines with it ere he discoV: ered his mistake." "Indeed! the letters. must have been amazingly delicate*" page: 396-397[View Page 396-397] 396 BOSTON COMMON. "O, they were large enough, I assure you! two or three words filled a line. He is always doing some such foolish thing. I should expect, if we were to be married, that he might, through absent-mindedness, stand his groomsman in his place, and notediscover the mistake until it was too late. Or, providing we should be safely married, he might forget that he ought to live any longer, and commit suicide the next day, or even hang me, his beloved wife, upon a nail, some morning, with his coat and hat." I laughed, and so did Kate. "Well, Nellie," she con- tinued, 1" we will not trouble our heads any longer about this Horace Wilds. I will tell him my sentiments the very next time we meet." And she was as good as her word. 'Horace and Kate dis- solved copartnership soon after, and he married another girl in just a week, " to spite Kate," as he said; but here he lost his reckoning, for, after this little flurry was over, she was just as calm, just as cheerful as ever, and Horace and Mrs. Mag- gie. Wilds loved, lived, and faded from our memories. Thus passed our happy autumn and winter in the dear old place. What-though the winds did howl-around the house, and strive to force an entrance? What though the snow fell in big drifts, and covered all the beautiful' shrubs and flow- ers? . And what though neither .sun nor blue sky were to be seen for many days at a time, in that bleak-wihter? We iheeded it not,- we were happy. The wind in that comfort- \l. e.-parlor could not disturb a curl upon our brows; th;i "bw could not chill our frames; and when -old Sol hid his head, we looked at each other, and the sunshine in our own -faces sufficed for us. \.. BOSTON COMMON. 397 I never loved a woman half so much as Kate; but, then, there never was a Kate like mine. Entre nous, reader, she was the real, genuine Katie Darling, although you may not believe it. She was not "Katy did n't," but "' Katy did; " for she was always doing some kind action, and she never spoke or looked at you but you felt better. Even Roland seemed at times to feel- the influence of her- cheering presence; and once, when he had been absent from home for two or three days, he brought her, when he returned, a beautiful little Bible, upon the clasp of which her name was engraven in fine,. delicate characters. I told Katie it was her goodness that lad inspired the gift; but she stoutly denied the charge, and said she was quite sure a reformation had begun in Roland. ]But, alas for human hopes and human joys! The mark of decay and desolation is stamped upon them all. With the middle of February ended my new dream of happiness. Mrs. Merton, Kate's mother, was taken ill; and, wlien she recovered, was advised by her physicians to go to the South. Katherine was her favorite daughter, and she must travel with her. How like a thunderbolt did this news fall upon me! I wept, and almost wished I might die, -then listened calmly to the gentle, affectionate words Kate was saying to me. ' "I must go, my Nellie. No other duty than that a daughter owes to a beloved parent would call me from your,. side. I shall miss you so much, dear, and think of you every moment. Do the best you can, Nellie, and never despair, never give up, but pray to God constantly for help. He will give it you; he will, as you have already experienced, vouchsafe assistance and comfort." 34 page: 398-399[View Page 398-399] 398 BOSTON COMMON. How sadly did the time now roll by! Kate was to remain but a week longer with us; and how tenacious were we of every moment! We hugged these golden treasures, and never before realized how precious wap time. But day after day came and passed, and, in the swiftness of their flight, seemed but to mock our grief. At length the last day arrived. Kate was to remain with me all day, and we were to sleep together that night. Early in the morning her mother was to call for her, upon her way to the steamboat. How vividly is every moment of that precious day engraven upon my heart! Let me see: what did we do this day? First, prepared our breakfast, as usual; but the toast was untasted, and the coffee, although of Katie's own excellent make, left cold in our cups.. We walked sadly around until dinner-time, and visited all the rooms in the house. Every nook and cranny was examined. We even went into the wood-shed; fed the chickens together; talked to the old, time-honored cat, - stroked her venerable fur, and then re- turned to the sitting-room. In the afternoon we sat down for one good, old-fashioned chat, which we said should be the last ,one. After this I must sit and play all our dear old tunes over and over again to Katie, for she said she wished them to remain fresh in her memory for a long time. Then we seated ourselves once more in our, easy-chairs, rocked the cradle together, and looked in each other's faces wifth a sad, mournful expression. "I shall never forget this little room," said Kate. ' Each object will live Forever in my memory. No circumstances of time or place can ever erase them therefrom. And that little , pitcher,- what fond associations cluster around that! Helen, BOSTON COMMON. 399 my darling, be sure you take very good care of it; for' if ever I am married And have a house of my own, I must and will have that pitcher, if I have to commit burglary for it." ,' Look, Katherine," said I; "I am going to place it upon this top shelf ,-far above the sugar-bowl and jar of sweet- meats, so that Willie cannot reach it in his peregrinations." We drank from its little rim for the last time, and- then placed it, with tearful eyes, in its future resting-place. Do what we would to arrest the progress of time, nine, ten, eleven, twelve o'clock sounded; and, taking Willie, we pro- ceeded together to Katherine's chamber. Our last chapter was read, our last prayer breathed, and we sank to sleep in each other's arms. The sun was shining brightly when we arose the next morning. Breakfast was prepared and eaten. Wonder of wonders!-just as we were ready to sit down, Roland en. tered! Was he ever there to breakfast with us before? Never; and we were so surprised and pleased that wee half forgot our grief. "Roland is surely reforming, Helen!" said Kate to me. "I trust he will continue to rise early, for I should feel so sadly if I thought you and dear little Willie were eating alone!" At length, true to our expectations, the carriage drove to the door. Kate was bundled up with my own hands, which, now that the parting moment had really come, were firm and unshaken. She had blessed and embraced me, almost smoth- ered Willie with kisses, shaken hands with Roland, who handed her into the carriage, and driven off, ere I scarcely realized that she was indeed gone. 1 page: 400-401[View Page 400-401] 400 BOSTON COMM ON. I stood sadly gazing after the carriage which conveyed awlay my early and dear friend, and a weight of loneliness, such as I had not felt for many a long day before, fell upon my heart. But, thinking of my duties, and resolving to fulfil them strictly, and to 'bear my sorrows patiently, I returned to my almost desolate room. Roland was very kind that day. He actually remained at home and assisted me in taking care of Willie, and inputting things to rights; for he said now that Katherine was gone I ought to have assistance. The day passed much calmer than I had imagined it would. I shed many tears, it is true, for my friend's departure; but they were not hopeless ones, for I knew that she still loved , me, and that one day we should meet again. f*' CHAPTER XXXIX. "I do ar mmyself, To weleome the time, which cannot look more hideously Than I have drawn it in my fantasy." SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. CONTRARY to our hopes, Roland did not reform. He was just the same, and worse, if possible. I was obliged to break. fast alone; but my dinners I would invariably eat at my mother's. Either she or my little sister would spend the afternoon and take tea with me. Thus I managed to get through with the day; but the nights were-the worst. O, the long, weary hours that I spent alone with my child in that house! ' I had grown nervous since Kate's departure, and half afraid to be alone. I would fancy every noise I heard to be something that would harm me; and would lie trembling upon my couch for hours, and imagining that all sorts of beings were peopling the vacant rooms. My usual strong-minded- ness and ridicule of such things seemed to hake- quite for- saken me; and, in the loneliness in which I lived, I was fast yielding to a morbidness and weakness of mind that was gradually creeping over me, and which-I found it impossible to resist. 34* page: 402-403[View Page 402-403] 402 BOSTON COMMON. One night, in particular, I remember that I fell asleep, and dreamed of Roland. I thought that I heard voices in the street, which, as they neared my door, were hushed to suppressed whispers. If there is anything frightful to me, it is to hear an unknown whisper near me. The voices grew softer and softer, then ceased altogether, and then I could ; hear a heavy tread, as of a number of men; and, rising, I - went to the window for the purpose of looking out; but they had entered the hall, and were now bringing up something heavy. I fancied that a wild fear had taken possession of my heart; my hair was on end, a cold perspiration stood upon my forehead, and I sank shivering back to my couch; but on and on came that heavy tread, and fainter and fainter grew the whispers! At last they had reached my door; had entered and de- posited their burden upon the carpet in front of my bed. I looked, and the sight froze mny blood and stilled the beating of my heart! There, on a long green lwindow-shutter, lay mry husband! But the limbs were cold and stiff, and the face white and ghastly as the sheets which partly enveloped him. A wound, which had caused his death, was cut deep into the forehead, and the purple blood had settled darkly around it. Spots of blood were upon the sheet also; and the eyes, cold and stony, were fixed upon me with an expression I shall never forget to my dying day. With a start and scream of horror I awoke, and gazed r wildly around the room. Everything was in its place, but I could not divest myself of the idea that the corpse and green shutter -were, somewhere :in existence, and that I should yet behold them. BOSTON COMMON. 403 I arose and opened the window. It was a wild, stormy night in the middle of March, and I hastily closed it again; but, as I did so, I fancied I heard a breathing near me.. A cold fear of something, I knew not what, took possession of me, but expired the next moment, as I thought of my child. , But" no," said I, " he breathes not so heavily. What is it? Where can it come from?" ' . I grasped the light, -and peered wildly under the bed and sofa. There was nothing there to confirm my suspicion; how- ever, and, with fear still quaking at my heart, I bent my steps to the dining-room and kitchen. All seemed as I had left it. The clock was ticking pleasantly in a corner, and lonesome old puss, glad to see me, yawned, and came rub- bing her sides softly against my night-robe. I went back to the nursery again; and, as all seemed still, lay down, thinking it must be merely imagination. In a few moments, however, I heard a long-drawn breath and sigh quite near me! I'started from the bed once-more, and went into the sitting-room. I looked around anxiously; and, as a thought darted into my mind, I suddenly stooped and laid my ear to the floor. I could now hear the breathing quite plainly, and it evi- dently came from the room below. I descended the stairs, and softly opened the parlor door. There lay Roland, sure enough, upon the carpet asleep, and with his clothes and boots wet through! I immediately set about taking off his wet boots. I tugged a long time at them, and at last one of them yielded to my efforts; but the other was refractory. The water had swollen the leather, and it: clung to his foot like a vampire to the dead. page: 404-405[View Page 404-405] 404 BOSTON COM'MON. I then -drew off his wet coat, and, getting a pillow and some blankets, wrapped him up and left him to sleep as long as he Chose. But, I did not forget my dream, or the subsequent fright, for a long time. A drunkard's wife is never safe, never at rest. By day and by night she is constantly disturbed, constantly in fear. I have lain for hours upon my bed, expecting and dreading that my husband might either be committing a crime, or be brought home killed in some horrible manner. ,S CHAPTER XL. "O'er the wrung heart, from midnight's breathless sky, Lone looks the pity of the Eternal eye." NEW TIMON. "Within that dwelling lonely, Where want and darkness reign, Her precious child, her only, Lay moaning in his pain." MRS. S. J. HALE. "I had a dream, which was not all a dream." BYRON. AT the close of March we were visited 'by one of those - long, dreary snow-storms which are common to the New Eng- land States. Wilhe had been ailing for some days; and now, as the night drew on, he seemed to be in a high fever. It was his first sickness, and I, of course, was very much alarmed. I could not possibly get out, for the snow was three feet high all around the house, and it was still snowing very fast. Wilhe was moaning and crying; and when I took him from his cradle after supper, his head and hands were so hot, and his eyes so heavy, that in alarm I turned to his father. " , Roland!" said I, " do you see our dear child? He is very ill indeed. His hands are hot, his eyes dull, and his page: 406-407[View Page 406-407] 406 BOSSTON CO MMON .. mouth parched and burning with fever. Roland, go at Ecse and bring a physician; do not delay a moment. And, Ro- land," continued , "( if ever there was one spark of love in your -heart for your poor wife and suffering child, do not drink, lose your senses, and forget your duty. In mercy for- bear this one night! O, Roland! will you remember? Can I trust you?" "Do you take me for a fool, Mrs. Hastings?" said he. "Is not that child as much mine as yours, and ought it not to be supposed that I have as great an interest in him as you?" "Well, then, IRoland, I will trust you; but hasten, for Willie is growing worse very fast." He departed; and- reader, I am writing facts -six hours elapsed ere he returned! What my sufferings were -during that long, weary vigil, I can never describe. My child grew worse; his fever in- creased, and I sat holding him in my arms and weeping over him. O, the agony of that night! I knew not what to do for Willie; and I thought that here, in a large town, with a plenty of physicians and medicines around me, what a shock- ing thing'-it would be for him to perish for the want of assist- ance. I thought of his dear little caresses, of the:sweet words he had just begun to lisp; my eyes then fell upon a tiny shoe that lay near the cradle, and next wandered to the' face of my babe. -A dark cirle had gathered under the eyes, and a wild sen- sation of fear ldarted' through my mind that iy child was to perishohere, alone with me. And then a vision of the little. robe, of the aimpled hand clasping the broken loe,; of;t:ie Of, , BOSTON COM-M ON . 407 satin-lined coffin, and grave beside his little brother's, came suddenly into my mind. Then I thought of my black dress, and return from that grave to my lonely home, where I should hear no more the voice of my child, or respond with tender- ness to his infantile caresses. I dispelled these thoughts, however, as quickly as they came, for they were too harrow- ing to be entertained for a moment, and forced myself to think of pleasanter things. I imagined my Willie a beautiful, noble boy; then a high- toned, lofty-minded man; and then, as I gazed at his fevered cheeks, and marked his heavy breathing, deep sobs burst from my --bosom, and " O Willie, my heart is breaking!" broke from my tongue. Eleven o'clock, and still the father comes not. O, what a power has the tyrant rum over its victims, that it will not hasten to obey such a call as that! To know that an only, a darling child is sick, perhaps dying, for the want of aid, and to refuse to come! Still a little more of the poison is poured into the cup; still a few more senseless jokes are being spoken; still a little more of God's patience is put to the test by the wretched creatures' profanity; still the snow sweeps on, and the blast Cuts and whistles; still the mother sits at home, with her agonized, almost expiring child; and every moment, as it passes, lacerates her heart as with a lash. But what matters all this? 'Tis only a- few more wounds to torture, or to help kill. W hat cares the rumseller. for that? A sixpence more is wanted to make up the dollar already expended, andd, although -both mother and child were to perish by a thousand tortures, the rumseller must have that coveted sixpence! , ' page: 408-409[View Page 408-409] 408 BOSTON COMMON. Twelve o'clock! Every stroke sounded deep into my heart; for I had, by the increasing illness of my babe, come to the conclusion that it had but a few more hours to live. Hark! the door opens,--a blast of wind enters with my husband, who tugs and works his way slowly up stairs. He enters the nursery. Alas! what a sickening sight for a wife and mother!-he is too much intoxicated to recognize the sufferers before him. He stares vacantly around the room, and then falls heavily upon a chair. I laid my babe into the cradle, and approached my husband. There must have been something frightful in my eyes, for his own dilated with fear as he raised them towards me. "Ernest!" said he, " have you come at last for Helen? Take her, but do not kill me!" "Where is the doctor?" said I. "I - don't know anything about the doctor," he answered. "The doctor, Roland, for our dying child!" almost screamed I. "Where is the doctor I sent you for, some hours since?" "I don't-don't know," he slowly articulated, "-anything about the doe -doctor; but here is the bot-bottle." He pulled t small vial from his pocket, that he-had taken with him to get some medicine in. I seized it eagerly. Alas! it had been broken in one of his drunken falls, and his pockets were already fragrant with its contents. I left him, and, rushing to the window, threw it up. The wind was blowing keenly from the north-east, and the snow cutting its way through the air in haste and abundance. "I must, yes, I must go out," said I, " and find aid for my suffering child, if I perish in the attempt.'l BOSTON COMMON. .409 I glanced at the babe. It lay still in the cradle, and seemed to be in a gentle sleep, induced, probably, by weariness and exhaustion. "I must not," thought I, " leave that drunken man with my babe. He will, perhaps, fall upon it, during my absence, and kill it. What shall I do? O, I have it,--I will try and sober him, if the thing is possible." I coaxed Roland to go with me to the kitchen. He was very much opposed to moving; but at last I laid my hand upon his shoulder, looked him sternly in the face, and said, "t If you do not come now, I will kill you!" He arose, and, by-almost superhuman strength, I forced him to the kitchen. From utter exhaustion, he sunk immedi. ately to the floor ; while I rushed to the pump, drew a pail of water, and dashed it quickly over him. The same experiment was again repeated. Then, snatching my bonnet and cloak, and glancing at the cradle, I ran quickly down stairs, and opened the hall-door. - - The sleet met me with a smothering shower of kisses; but I waded on, although the snow was nearly up to my waist, and I 'had to move the whole power of my body against it. Two or three times I was half inclined to turn back and die with my child; but the thoughts of his sufferings urged me forward. Beyond the yard, the snow was not more than half as deep; but it was so very dark that I could discern nothing but a feeble light in the distance. I poached it in as much haste as possible, for I remembered that life and death de- pended upon my mission. I reached it at last, and, leaning heavily against the door, fell in, nearly out of breath. 35 page: 410-411[View Page 410-411] "O BOSTOlN COMMON. A man suddenly sprang forward to my relief. It was a: old acquaintance, and, although a devotee to the shrine of Bacchus, one whom I had regarded for years as a friend. "Good Heavens! Mrs. Hastings! Is it possible?-" said he. "What brings you here, on such a fearful night? Are you out of your senses?" He raised me to my feet. I looked at him a moment. " O, Mr. Merriman," said I, in a voice of agony, ; my child is very ill, perhaps dying! --go at once, and without a question, for the doctor. Tell him to come, and to come instantly. Do not delay; but go, in Heaven's name! "And you?" he said, anxiously/ "Never mind me, but go immediately," said I. jMr. Merriman had a kind heart; and, turning to a large, red-faced man, he said, "Mr. Douglas, take care of this lady until I return ; and do not let her venture out of doors alone, by any means, for she will surely perish. I will see her safely home, when I come from the doctor's." "Mr. Douglas!"thought I; " then where am I? O, I see, --in the miserable den where my 'husband spends his time and money!" The man approached me. "My friend," said he, "s will you have a chair, and something warm to take?" His words-were kind, but a suddden gush of. feeling came over me at the word ( friend; " - calling me, whom he had caused so much suffering, by such an endearing title! I turned slowly towards him. A deep sense of the injuries which he had inflicted upon me filled my bosom almost to bursting. I felt my quick, passionate temper,which Ernest; B O STON CO MMO N. 4" my mother, Harry, and myself, had striven all our, lives to govern,-that I had struggled and- prayed, so often, to b'l kept from indulging, - rising; and all the fiercer because of its long subjection. The blood was coursing through my veins, and almost scorching my limbs with its heat; my eyes were glittering with ,rage, and a long-accumulated list of sufferings. - I thought of the time when I was a happy wife; when my husband, who now lay at home in a state more fit for a beast " than a man, was happy, affectionate, and loved me fondly. I thought of that fearful night when, but for the interposition of Divine Providence, we both should have been swept into eter.- nity. And, lastly, I thought of my beautiful boy, from whose side this wretch had kept the father, this very night, for so many hours, and who might, even now, be dying or dead through his leans - and in another moment I forgot my child, forgot Hlarry, forgot God, and the faith which I professed; and, seizing an immense club of wood, with one blow, from an arm made powerful by desperation, felled Douglas to the ground! He fell, groaning heavily, and I saw the blood settle in a purple current around the wound, exactly as I had seen it in my dream of Roland. The men gathered around, with horror depicted in their countenances. "( Have you killed him?" said they, in suppressed tones of fear. ( I hope so!"I replied. "I would that I could root every rumseller from the earth, by the same means! - You have made me suffer," I continued, gazing vacantly at my victim, "more anguish than tongue can tell'; you have robbed me . -. page: 412-413[View Page 412-413] "2 BOSTON CO1MMON. of fortune, love, and all *I held most dear; and now lie there, base scoundrel that you are, and welter in your own blood:1 The bystanders were too much amazed to make many com- ments, but stood around in sad groups, scarcely knowing what to do. A few moments of perfect silence ensued, and then came a revulsion of feeling. The idea that I was a murderer fell with a deadening weight upon, my heart, and with one bound I reached the side of my victim. He had unclosed his eyes, being only stunned a few mo. ments by the blow, and was gazing fearfully around him. Seeing that he still lived, and was scarcely injured by my feeble hand, the image of my sick child arose before me, and I prepared to depart. Before doing so, however, I fixed my dark-gray eyes full upon his face, and said "You have robbed me of all I held dear in this world,- of fortune, husband, happiness; and, not content with your cruel work, you sought his life. Yes, base murderer that you are, you beguiled him into your infamous den with soft :wnords, you poured the distilled poison into his veins until you made him a senseless idiot, then led him to the pier of the bridge, where you left him to perish alone, in the se- crecy and'darkness of night. But God defeated your satanic plan, and appointed him a savior, else we had both per- ished, and by your hand, too. And now, sir, I have been avenged. I have given you a sear that you will carry to your grave. Whenever you look upon it, consider it the brand of rumseller and murderer. Now, dare, sir, ever again to assail my husband, or dare to sell your poison again in this town, and I will publicly brand you as felon; I will pursue and impoverish you, even as you have me." BOSTON COMMQN. 418 With these words I turned, and, leaving the shop, pre- pared once more to face the cutting blast. The men followed, and one of them asked me, respectfully, if I would take his arm. I accepted of his kindness, and in a few moments arrived at tie gate of' my own yard. He did not leave me here, but, lifting me in his arms, carried me safely through those huge drifts, and placed me within my own door. As I thanked him, and turned to go up stairs, he said: ( Pardon me, Mrs. Hastings, but your prompt, energetic action to-night has made a sober man of me. I see now, as in a glass, all the misery of which rum is the cause; and I Y will never touch another drop while I live, so help me Heaven!" "I trust that God will-preserve you in that resolution," said I, as I ran hastily up stairs to the nursery. I entered, and the first object I beheld was Roland, seated in his dress- ing-gown, with little Willie in his arms. He looked eagerly at me. "O, Helen!" said he, " where, in Heaven's name, have you been, this fearful night?" He was perfectly sober. My experiment had been a suc- cessful one. The doctor soon entered, accompanied by Mr. Merriman. He felt the child's pulse and hands, and seemed not much alarmed. I looked anxiously in his face to read his opinion. "Mrs. Hastings," said he, " your child has considerable fever; but I think it can be easily subdued, as it has been brought on by teething principally."' He remained the rest of the night; and so effectual were the measures we resorted to, that the next morning the child , 85 page: 414-415[View Page 414-415] "4 BOSTON COMMON. fell into a refreshing slumber, and was pronounced quite out of danger. I In a few more-days my darling Wilhe was entirely well, and playing about the floor as merrily as ever. Singular and uncommon as was the affair at the rumseller's 4shop, it was, on account of my trouble and sufferings, hushed up almost immediately. Every one seemed rejoiced 4hat that den of iniquity had been broken up; for it had stood there a long time, and had beguiled many a man from his home and family. It had taken the bread from many a starving child's mouth, and caused the poor mother hours of untold misery. But it was now broken up, and forever. Douglas was confined to his house for a few days with his wound, and then left for parts unknown. He was ashamed and afraid to remain longer in the town where he had been braved- by a woman, and branded as a murderer. Before leaving, however, he called upon me, and, begging my par- don for the many ills he had caused me, said that I had made a better man of him, and that he should never sell rum again. He had an ugly scar upon his forehead, which bid fair to keep him company for a while. I was never sorry that I had broken up that detestable rum-shop; for I had been the means, by that prompt action, of turning many whose feet had been long going down the dark road of death to the light, and a better state of things was soon visible in my beloved birth-place. Even Roland himself was much affected, and appeared to drink less than formerly. ., C HAPTER XLI. "Dissimulation Screened her dark thoughts, and set to public view A specious face of innocence and beauty."' ROWE. ONE morning, in the beginning of April, my husband came into the house, and with such a cheerful, happy face as I had not seen for a long time. "My dear Helen," said he, "4 who, think you, has arrived at the Linden House?" "I don't know, indeed - who, Roland?"' "Why, my dear old friend you have so often heard me speak of--Mrs. Grace Warrington. She has lost her hus. band, and has come to pass the summer in our delightful little village. She is exceedingly anxious to spend a short time here with us. Couldn't we contrive to have her, my dear?" "I have no objections, Roland; but I should be very much ashamed to -have a lady in the house, and you not able to sit at breakfast with us. You understand me, my dear?" ( 0O, Helen! only let her come, ,and I will act the gentle. man. I will eschew' drinking, gaimbling, profane language, page: 416-417[View Page 416-417] "6 BOSTON COMMON. - anything you wish; and, Helen, you should have a girl to assist you-- you look weary. Let me see, - O, I will help you, and we will be so snug! This Mrs. Warrington is one of the dearest friends I ever had. Her sudden advent among us has caused me to feel happier than I have done for many a long day." "Well, Roland, I am very glad there is anything that can reform you. I will prepare her room immediately, and you can go and fetch her."' Who was this Mrs. Grace Warrington, whom my hus- band seemed to think so very .much of, and who had power to almost make the leopard change his spots? We shall see. In the afternoon she arrived in a carriage with my hus- band. He'almost lifted her from it; and I noticed that she leaned very affectionately upon his arm as they came up the walk together. Roland presented Mrs. Grace, to me. I looked at her, and almost started in surprise at her wondrous beauty. I had often heard Roland speak of her in strong terms of admiration; but never until now had I beheld anything so beautiful. She was slightly above the middle height, and symmetrically made. Her arms and hands were faultless in their shape and make; her finely-shaped head was covered with a profusion of long :golden curls, that hung over her shoulders in wavy softness; her complexion had the dazzling fairness of alabaster, and her eyes were blue as the heavens; her mouth was small,4nd always had a-sweet smile playing about it, which gave her the appearance of possessing an affeotionate heart. ^ I { BOSTON CO0MMON. 417 As beautiful as I at first slight thought her, I soon wearied of the monotony of her ever-smiling face. There was no light and shade, no expression. She was forever languid, forever drooping, and seemed to be always wearied and want- ing to rest. " Is she not beautiful," said Roland,-- beautiful as a dream?" (T Very beautiful, Roland;. but her face lacks expression and energy. She is too soft in her manners for this cold world." (t O, I do not like too much expression in a woman. I dis- like to see a lady so fiery, so energetic." "Poor thing!" thought I; "I know not what would have become of you, if you had had this languid beauty about you all the while." Mrs. Grace Warrington was surely a very helpless person. She could never walk from the parlor to the dining-room without assistance; could not stir the fire, shut the door, or even pick up her, handkerchief, if she dropped it. She was very affectionate towards both Willie and. myself, but never seemed quite happy unless Roland was by her side. He would sit for hours with her upon the sofa, turning the leaves of her book, fanning, or conversing with her in a low, sub- dued voice. She could scarcely drag her delicate frame from the sofa to the window, and of course never without Roland's assistance. But- he was constantly, at her com- mand,-sometimes conversing, and sometimes gazing long and earnestly into the beauty's face. At these moments she would always pretend to be asleep; for, assuming a graceful attitude, she would lay her head' upon Athe sofa-pillow, page: 418-419[View Page 418-419] "8 BOSTON COMX MON. arrange the long golden tresses so that they would float around her in waves, and softly close her eyes beneath their heavy fringes. O, yes she was wondrously beautiful, as Roland had said; and there was such a change in him for the better, that I was very glad she had come, and used every exertion to make her visit agreeable. Roland was always at home now, always sober, and always -cheerful; but I did not get the promised assistance. He never strayed so far as the kitchen; for how could he possi- bly leave our guest, when his presence gave her so much pleasure? I was very well content to let the old friends remain together; for my husband was fast regaining his former good looks, and when Mrs. Grace had been there a month;, I shouid scarcely have known him. . Now was the time for him to commence the garden. Mrs. CGrace was in ecstasies whben he put on his straw hat, and declared that she must have one immediately, to keep her own plain features from the scorching sun, while she accompanied him in his gardening toils. A straw hat was accordingly obtained, with a broad blue ribbon to decorate the crown. But Mrs. Grace could not conceive the right way it should be worn. She therefore placed it awry upon her head; but she looked so sweetly arch and girlish, that Roland advised her to wear it so always; but she insisted, with such melting tones, that he should show her how to wear it properly, that, in a sudden fit of generosity, he set it aright, and himself arranged the luxuriant tresses. It took him a long time, however, to tie the ribbon and arrange the curls, but he exercised patiee', BOSTON C O M MO N. 419' and, when he bad at length concluded the task, she thanked him with so much sweetness and naivete, that he no doubt felt well repaid for his trouble. - - Then how prettily did she look, as she carried the little packages of seed, while Roland sowed them into the beds he had neatly arranged; and when she looked up into his face and asked him if that paper marked 4' beet-seeds " were very beautiful flowers, or if those (" onion-tops i" at all resembled geraniums, she was perfectly irresistible! Well, they planted the garden, an-d roamed through the fields and pastures, day after day, although- Mrs. Grace was obliged, from sheer weariness, to lean her whole weight upon her companion. He bore all this very cheerfully, however; and you would have thought, from his beaming countenance as he supported her trembling, delicate form, the task was rather agreeable than otherwise. Mrs. Grace had an exceedingly delicate appetite. She 'wanted hot toast, dry toast, and cracker to"ast, -made in the morning, that she might test them all, and take her choice therefirom. Then her coffee was too strong, or too weak; or she would prefer a cup of cocoa, or a glass of milk. Then the tiniest bit of beef-steak, only warmed through, or an egg softly boiled, she would fancy. And when I had procured all these for my guest, she would look up, with- those sweet eyes half suffused in tears, and ask, in the most piteous of tones, if she was any trouble; for, if she Iwas the least in the world, she should be so inconsolable, so miserable! Then Roland would fly around to her, and exclaim,- : "Dear Grace, it is a pleasure and .delight for both Helen and myself to be of the smallest possible service to you;' page: 420-421[View Page 420-421] 420 BOSTON COMMON, and once, in the excitement of the moment, he called her "angel." She apologized to me, however, instantly, by say- ing that he was probably -thinking of their dear old school- days, when all her playmates, for some unaccountable reason, gave her this pretty title. "Dear Roland," said she, tenderly, "I should have sup- posed you would have forgotten that, long ago." "Forgotten!" said Roland; "I might as well " What " he might as well " was never known; for, just- at that unlucky moment, Willie upset his cup of milk and water into Mrs, Grace's lap. She shrieked in wild affright, and refused for a long time to be comforted. Wilhe was very sorry for the accident, however; at least, he looked so, and we were all sorry; and so, with the most amiable of dispositions, she forgave him, and called him a " dear, little, careless wretch!" a "( sweet, little, wicked child!" and many other endearing epithets. Nothing was half good enough for her, in Roland's opinion. He would search the brooks around, in every direction, for the most delicate fish for her dinner, because her stomach was too weak to take meat. And then we must cook them in just such a manner, or she could not eat them, after all. If she wanted a nice lunch in the fore- noon, the whole neighborhood around must be searched for some tit-bit with Nwhich to regale her palate. Grace once asked for a certain novel, and Roland walked miles over a broken, dusty road, to obtain it for her.- The book was found, at last, at an old farm-house, after an incredible amount of trouble; and Roland re. warded by a sweet smile, an outstretched, lily-white hand, BOSTON COMMON. 421 and the epithets of a "nice boy!" "a dear, foolish old friend!" What a reward! What man is there in the wide world who would not risk his life, his all, to be the recipient of such sweet smiles, of -such endearing words? 86 page: 422-423[View Page 422-423] CHAPTER XLII. "She had been taught The art of courts ; to gild a face with smiles, And lure a man to ruin." MRS. GRACE at length grew weary of her dull life, and so got up a little excitement, by way of variety. She was suddenly taken ill-very ill, indeed! She fell back upon the sofa, closed her-eyes, and drew a long, shiv- ering breath. Roland sprang instantly to her relief, while I ran for cold water, camphor, salts, etc. She soon revived under a powerful administration of these remedies, but wag still very weak. She could eat nothing, drink nothing, and in the evening seemed to be slightly de- ranged. She would clutch her beautiful 'hair nervously, and threaten to tear it from her head. Then, as Roland would seem so distressed, and take her hands gently down, she would look up so tenderly in his face, and sigh so piteously, that she nearly broke the poor fellow's heart. And- then came three long days when she Could not rise, from the sofa, but lay like a sweet flower, looking so pale and drooping, so pensively interesting,-that it gave one the heart-ache to see her. BOSTON COMMON. 423 And how patiently did Roland sit by her side all day! He-itever left her for a moment. His hand alone arranged the pillow, and presented the soothing draught; for, with the wilfulness of an invalid, she would reject everything, however simple, from me. And when she was convalescing, how beautifully did she look in that darkened room! The golden tresses, floating in wild disorder about the fair temples, and displaying the snowy forehead, with its delicate tracery of vein-work; the eyes, soft, sweet, dreamy, and with so much of a subdued mourn- fulness in them as to fill the beholder With love and pity! While Roland was hanging over her couch, I was in the kitchen, employed in preparing all sorts of nice things, in order to tempt the invalid's appetite. A little gruel was first tried. She tasted it, - declared it was horrible,- that the meal had not been sifted, &c., --and turned away her face from it in disgust. Roland was surprised that I could so far forget myself as to treat their distinguished guest in such a manner. I departed, and made some blanc-mange. This was done jus- tice to by the lady; she was persuaded, by dint of coaxing, to i eat a little of it. Then she must have some beef-tea, rice- water, and barley-soup. At a deal of trouble I procured all these for our guest, and was rewarded by seeing her eat heartily of them. At length, after the greatest care and trouble had been expended, Mrs. Grace arose from her couch, and was able ; to sit in the easy-chair; but her nerves were so very much unstrung, and her head so tender, that the slightest noise disturbed her. Roland must never come into the room with page: 424-425[View Page 424-425] 424 BOSTON COMMON. his boots on; indeed,-he must not wear them in any part of thet[ house, for she could hear them ever so far. The piano muat be closed, the windows shut to exclude the noise from the street, and all must move around her as softly as possible. If, by any mistake, I chanced to come quickly into the room, she would shrink into the smallest dimensions, and receive me with a suffering"O!" , Do what we could to keep quiet, however, there was one thing we could not possibly subdue, and that was Willie. He was a fine, healthy child, and loved to run all about the house, and make a great noise. He would chase the kittens from attic to cellar, and drum on every tin-pan he came to. Everything had to jingle that he approached; and sometimes he would get the dinner-bell, and ring it all over the house. Mrs. Grace bore all this as long as she could, poor thing, and then complained grievously of it to Roland. - He tried 'to still the child by every means in his power; but it was likes trying to still the wind--all to no purpose. He then threatened to whip him; but Wilhe was so young he scarcely knew what that meant, and played and jumped about as hard' as ever. '1 Roland, at length out of all manner of patience with Willie,;came to me. "Helen," said he, with considerable asperity, ,( cannot you keep that child still?" "No," I replied, "I cannot, and I do not wish to." "Don't wish to, when our poor Grace is so very ill that his continual clatter almost kills her?" "No : I do't want my child to sit down and keep dull and sober. I should think he was sick, or unhappy." "Well, then, Willie must be sent out of the house until BOSTON COMMON. 425 Mrs. Warrington recovers; for to have him scampering about, and that dear girl so ill, is out of the question." A little of my temper now rose in my face. The idea of my darling child being sent away from his home, and from me, his mother, for the sake of a stranger, and nobody knew who, was rather more than I could bear patiently. I turned to my husband and said: "Willie will remain just where he is. If Mrs. Warring- ton's nerves are too finely strung to bear- his infant's play, she can go to a hotel, where she can be better a'ccommo- dated." Roland was surprised. "How very coarse you are, Helen!" said he, - " so entirely different from the elegant and refined Mrs. Warrington. I should suppose you might keep Willie quiet by candy, or something." "My child," I replied, " is not going to eat candy all day to please Mrs. Warrington; neither shall I check him in his natural play. I wish him to be merry and .happy, not dull and moping." Roland left me, very much dissatisfied, and scarcely hon- ored me by either a word or look for a week afterwards. Time went on, and the middle of June arrived. I had by this time become thoroughly acquainted with my guest, and disliked her heartily. I tolerated her nonsense, -endured her sarcasms, and humored her whims, however, for the sake of Roland. He was so changed - so very much like his former self; but at length, although the whole town knew it before I did, the truth began to dawn upon me. I saw that he was forever with her; that he was always talking of her wondrous beauty, and' that he seldom spoke 36* , "*,-"H page: 426-427[View Page 426-427] 426 BOSTON COMMON. ' to me, unless to reprove me for failing in some point towards her. I saw, with pain, that Roland, my husband, was deeply, madly in love with Mrs. Warrington. It was a long time ere I could bring myself to believe him guilty of the crime of loving another; but at length I became assured of-it, and in a most painful manner. They would seem to regard my presence as a barrier to their hap- piness, and would, upon my arrival into the room, imme- diately suspend all conversation. - Of course, I kept aloof as much as possible; but it was not very pleasant to sit in the nursery or kitchen all the while, and have a stranger occupy. ing your place. I was now seriously at a loss what course to pursue. '; Must I sit here tamely," thought I, " and bear all this? No, I ought not - it is wrong. God' is not pleased that I should allow such wickedness to proceed under my own roof.'; One day, towards the last of June, feeling very lonely, I strolled into the garden. There was an arbor, covered with grape-vines, in one corner; and, as I walked softly around it, I heard voices within. The tones arrested my attention, and. for the life of me I could not move from the spot. "O, Grace!" said the voice of my husband, ,( can it be possible that-I do not dream- that you do indeed love me?" "Yes,". answered the soft voice of Gracei "I do indeed love and fondly adore you." " "My beautiful one, I am now happy." "' But your wife, Roland?" "Name her not,-my charmer! She is not worthy of being mentioned with your fair self. She will never know of our .-, BOSTON COMMON. 427 loves, for she is entirely unsuspicious of such things, and we will-keep her in the kitchen at work for us, while we will- O, my Grace, I am lost in happiness!" "But Helen!" persisted Grace; "6 do you know, dearest Roland, when I see her dark, keen eye fixed upon me, that I am half afraid of her?" And she clung to him. "She is a fiery little thing," said my sweet husband, - " as quick-tempered as a high-mettled horse; but, should she ever dare to harm a hair of your sweet head -no, my Grace, she will never do that." ,c But, O, dear Roland. if we could only be married!" whined Grace. "And so we will, some time, my dear. Do not think that 1 am going to pen myself up here forever, with that religious wife of mine, who thinks herself a saint, and all the world sinpers. No, my Grace; besides, there is another hope." "What is it, pray?" ,( Why, Gracey, Helen is, as I said before, a fiery little. spirit,-always restless, always on the alert. Well, such- people as she do not generally live long. They almost invari- ably fret or pine themselves to death. With a little of our assistance, Grace, Helen may, and must, in the common course of things, do this; and then for marriage, heaven, and you. But, meantime, my adored-" He clasped her in his arms, and imprinted kiss after kiss upon her cheeks, while she lay passive as an infant. Horror for a while froze me to the spot. My husband's infidelity had crossed my mind; but to see him sit here now, and so calmly plan my death, .that he might make that create ure the mother of my darling Willie, was too much. L z Ad z . page: 428-429[View Page 428-429] 428 . . BOStON COMMON. I stepped, as well as my trembling limbs would carry me, ' before them. My eyes were fixed upon my husband, and my 'face was pale as death. Grace gave a scream, and fell back, while Roland arose suddenly to his feet. "Helen here?" he asked, in confusion. "Yes, Roland, I am here," I answered, with perfect calm- ness. "I have heard all that you said, and am come to tell you that you are free -free from all ties to me- free for- ever. You can take that thing," pointing to her, " and go with her wherever and whenever you please, only as far out -of my sight as possible. I will never trouble either of you more." Roland was pale as death. - A little of his old feeling came back. "Dearest Helen," said he, A" do not talk of parting, --I cannot bear it. I cannot live without you." I calmly smiled. "Roland," said I, , I have just heard you repeat vows to that creature which you shall-never break for me. I give you back your troth, your faith; and, tearing from my heart every vestige of fealty it once owed you, go forth once more into the world, heart-whole and fancy-free." "O, say not so!" implored Roland, olasping my- robe. "Helen, think; would you leave the father of your child to die of grief? Would you bring anguish and desolation upon our home. and hearth?" "I'would leave the father of my child," I replied, " when that father is a base villain, - when to, the sins of drunken- ness, gambling, and profanity, he adds the one of infidelity to that child's- mother. I cannot bring my child up where he will breathe the air of vice-where he will learn every bad thing from his father. You-talk- of my bringing desolation BOSTON COMMON. 429 upon my home, and ask if I will leave it. The ashes in that once happy spot are cold; the fire has long ago gone out. It is you who have brought desolation and ruin into our peaceful dwelling. It is you who have filled my heart with untold misery. And now, Roland, farewell! I will never enter that house again -with you.; you cannot move me-my resolution is fixed and firm." Roland sank back, and I saw him weep - the first time in many a long day. Grace endeavored to comfort him; but I left them before I ascertained whether she had succeeded or not. I returned to the house, packed up all my clothes, and Willie's, with as much calmness as if I had been going a jour- ney, and, taking my child in my arms, crossed that threshold over whose boundary I had suffered and enjoyed so much;-- and, when I had left it, I never crossed it again! I proceeded immediately to my mother's, who received me kindly, and inquired the cause of my sad looks. I informed her in as few words as possible, while she Wept over my. sufferings. - And now, dear Helen," said she, " you and little Willie will remain here always - will you not?" "No, mother," I replied. "Linden is no place for me now. I have suffered too much to remain here. The familiar, places and scenes would but remind me of my past happiness, and present wretchedness. I must go far away from my birth-place; but I will come often and visit you, dearest mother." page: 430-431[View Page 430-431] CHAPTER XLIII. "But, when black Melancholy sits within our souls, She round us throws a death-like silence, and a dread repose; Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades every flower, and darkens every green; Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, - And breathes a browner hue o'er all the woods." POPE. IN one week fron the events related in the last chapter, I had arranged everything, and found myself settled, with my child, in a large, comfortable boarding-house, in Boston. Mr room was small, but neat, and contained everything I needed to make us comfortable. And now, when all was arranged, I had time to look -back upon my past life, and review its many scenes and sorrows. Here was I, young, healthy, with a warm heart, and talents which, if directed aright, might prove a blessing to me. But, young as I was, and as free from sickness, I felt as if a great change had passed over me. I had-loved warmly, earnestly, and been betrayed. The ideal of my dreams had fled; and I now yearned for something spiritual, something that might be as lasting as eternity. It was the last of June when I arrived in Boston. All na. ture was clothed in her-gorgeoussummer dress. Everything BOSTON COMMON. . 481 was smiling, everything happy, but me. I, alone, seemed like a blot upon the fair landscape I, alone, was sad, moody, and pining., I had taken lodgings in a part of the city where I was not lknown; for I did not wish to see a person whom I had ever seen before, or have them know of my poverty and misery. It was just four years since I had parted fron my cousin Ernest; four years since I last walked with him upon the Com- mon; four years since we had, prayed together by HaIry's grave; four years since I had listened to his words of piety and advice, and four years since he had stood by my side, and poured into my ear all those deep words of love, and yet, with a coal upon his tongue, had, at my request, given me up to another. But it had not been done without an answering pang. Dark words had then been whispered in my ear, which had since been fulfilled; and yet Ernest was no prophet, --he was no soothsayer; but, with a clear eye, he had looked into Roland's heart, and seen the man. He had discovered that, with the temptation of riches and bad associates around him,- he would surely fall, and bring both himself and family to ruin. Four years had passed, and I had suffered, O, how keenly! I had watchel the progress of the drunkard, as he advanced step by step on his downward career. I had heard him bias-. pheme the name of his Maker, -had seen him with his arms twined-about another, and had heard him whisper unholy vows of love into her willing ears. I had heard and seen all this, and yet I lived! Four years before, would I have thought it possible that I could have endured so much, and still lived? I had plenty of leisure now to think of all these things, and page: 432-433[View Page 432-433] 4382 BOSTON COMMON , long and seriously did I ponder upon them. My love, my wild, youthful passion, was dead, and buried-deep in my heart. ' I never wished to exhume it again from its resting-place; and so I commanded it to sleep, and sleep forever. Ernest, of whom, in my happiness, I had scarcely thought, now recurred repeatedly to my memory. I thought of his grief the morning I left him forever. I had seen emotion shaking that strong frame; and I now fully felt and understood the cause and power of all this sorrow. c; And, O," thought I, "I have condemned him to a life of sorrow! He is, and for my sake, a wanderer. He said that I should make him a gloomy mis- anthrope ;-- that can hardly be, for Ernest is a Christian, and, as such, is doing his Master's will." "I wonder where he-is!" thought I, the first time for many years. , I never have heard his name or whereabouts mentioned since he departed for Europe. Poor Ernest! per- haps he has perished long ago, somewhere, alone, and without the aid of friends. If he has, I am the cause of it. A bright and shining light has been lost to the world, through my fool- ish wilfalness!" It was very strange that I should now think so much of Ernest. His image was continually in my mind, and the rec- ollections of his-noble, truthful character filled my soul with admiration. From dwelling so much upon Ernest, from mourning over my past misfortunes of affection, time and money misspent, I grew very sad and gloony.. I scarcely tasted food, read nothing, seldom went out; but sat, hour after hour, with my head leaning upon:-y hand, in a deep revery. A quiet stupor had taken possession of me, which all my' BOSTON COMMON 433 efforts to avert were unavailing. Even the playfulness of little Willie was unheeded. I paid but little attention to him, ex- cepting to dress and give him his food. The people in the house noticed my grief, and whispered to each other that I would soon be at rest; and sometimes the thought would cross mny own mind that I was fading away,- that I was dying! The only places I ever visited were the Common and Harry's grave. Once or twice a week, Willie and myself would spend an hour or two .in this sweet spot. The child was always delighted; but it had lost its charm for me. I no longer enjoyed a bright blue sky, a smiling landscape, or a moonlight evening. A dark, rainy day was now my delight. I loved to see the heavy clouds piling themselves one above another, and vieing with each other which should be blackest. I loved to see the rain pouring in big drops-upon the earth, and would listen eagerly for the booming thunder. I watched the clouds with deep interest, as they parted-and showed the vivid lightning beyond, and laughed when I heard the rain pattering with a slow and mournful sound upon my window. When the heavens were black with clouds, and everything looked drooping and pensive, I would wander out upon the Common. I loved it best at this time, for I was alone. No noisy boys and girls, shouting in tones that would bring re- membered joys to my heart; no lovers dreaming beneath the shady trees, and whispering vows to each other that might prove false; none of the busy throng that usually frequented this place, to stare at the poor, heart-stricken one; not a soul, far and wide, save- my solitary self. And then I would eagerly watch the clouds, and wait anxiously for the rain; 37 page: 434-435[View Page 434-435] 434 BOSTON COMMOMN e and when it came, at first so softly that you could hardly feel it, and gradually increased in strength and quantity, I would wander up and down the malls, with my garments wet and dripping, and eyes sadly filled with tears. I would watch the little pond as it filled so fast, and wonder if there was, or soon would be, water enough in it to drown me. I would creep softly along its edge, peer anxiously down into its depths, and start on beholding the care-worn face, with the humble dress and bonnet, that met mine. I would then ask myself the question; "Is that the once rich and happy H-elen Clifton, - Nellief -' little Nell,' - as cousin Ernest, and hundreds of other affectionate friends, were wont to call her?"Do that white face, these sad eyes, and that drooping figure, belong to the once happy and honored Mrs. Hastings?"And then I would shudder, and think it might be all a dream, and that I might yet awake and find it so. When very sad, I would stand by the old cemetery fence, and watch the rain as it washed the dust from the head-stones, and made thgem white and clean. Iy rose-bush had grown very large and luxuriant. It now completely covered Harry's grave-stone, so .that I could scarcely discern the inscription upon it. I have stood and watched its long branches as the wind swayed them backwards and forwards, and asked myself who would plant roses over my grave, and in how long a time it would be. I can remember well the time when the leaves of the rose. bush fell. I saw them drop one by one upon the ground, and I turned away and wept. "All things fade," thought I, "' and why should I be ex- BOSTON COMMON. 435 empt from the general rule? The brightest flowers wither, the fairest hopes decay; and nothing here is sure - nothing worth striving for." Thus passed five months of -my wretched existence - passed in gloomy reveries and harassing thoughts. I had, in this time, faded to a mere skeleton. My face bore the index of my mind, -it was sad, solemn, and inspired the beholder with feelings of pity. I had learned in September that Ro- land and Grace lived together in my- once dear, happy home; that he hadl renewed his dissipated habits, and that he was selling piece after piece of my furniture. The news inspired me with s;sarcely any feeling. I thought, as I read the letter containing it, "Nothing he can do now will have any power to harn me; I care not for it." One gloomy day in December, as I was listlessly looking over my trunks, it suddenly came into my mind, the first time for many weeks, to examine my purse, and ascertain A whether I had money enough to meet the -demands of the winter. I opened it, and poured the contents into my lap. Six dollars alone remained! Six dollars! what was I now to do? As I asked myself this question, a sudden change seemed to pass over me. My apathy fled from me, and my eyes opened to a new sensation - the sensation of poverty and want! Six dollars,! And where was I to get the next six dollars from? Where, indeed! I had no rents now coming to me, and no place where I might rest my weary head during. the winter. For myself I cared not, but for my child--.my darling Willie. For his sake I must rise, and shake off the sloth which had encumbered me for so many months. page: 436-437[View Page 436-437] 436 BOSTON COMMON. I had been living in a dream - in a vague, uncertain state, in which I had blindly nourished, fostered, and yielded myself to an overwhelming grief--the grief of a betrayed trust and disappointed affection; and what was I now to do? I-knew nobody, and there were none to whom I could ap- ply, save a few friends who knew me when I was rich, but who would probably not be willing to recognize me now; and as for my relations, whom I had so displeased by my unfor- tunate marriage, I would sooner starve than let them know of my poverty and wretchedness. In my moodiness and unsociableness, I had failed to secure the friendship, or acquaintance even, of any person in the house. I was entirely ignorant of any means of obtaining a living in the city; and as for going home and becoming dependent upon my father and mother for a support, it was entirely out of the question. Well, then, what was I to do? I must try something, and that immediately. My six dollars would not last long, and I should soon be without even the means of paying for my own and child's board. I lay awake nearly all night, pondering over this new per- plexity; but, 'nevertheless, my heart felt already lighter. The load of stupidity which grief had imposed was gone, and I began to feel as though my energy and activity had not quite deserted me. "I wil- go," thought I, " in the morn- ing, and see if I cannot procure some music-schlars. There are a great mahy children in this city; and I feel almost con- fident that I shall be successful, if I try." I arose, feeling far better in mind and body than I had done for many months. I ate my breakfast with a relish, BOSTON COMMON. 437 and looked upon Willie with more interest and affection than usual. I thought he had grown very large, and looked a deal like his father. I felt half sorry for this, but kissed him over and over again, to- his evident delight; for he had not had so merry a time with mamma for ever so long before. I theH searched my wardrobe for a dress to wear upon my excursion, and. was very much surprised to fnd them all looking so old and shabby. My black silk dress looked ragged and rusty, as did all my other silks. My thibet was nearly gone; and all my clothes wore such an old-fashioned, wo-begone air, that I wept when I beheld them. "Dear cousin Ernest!" thought I, " what if he could see these wretched things now, torn and disfigured so badly? Where could I have been to get so very ridiculous? O, I remember. I have been out in all sorts of weather, and worn these clothes, I suppose. But what could I have been thinking of, to have spoiled all my dresses in this manner? Heaven alone can tell where I am to obtain the next from. I will put on this black dress, I think. It will correspond- best with my sad face, and its wo-begone expression." I donned the dress, and sallied forth.' The day was very pleasant; and I was glad it was so, for I determined to spoil no more dresses in the rain. I wandered around all day, and returned at night dispirited and sad enough. All had looked with coldness upon me, and some with suspicion. A number had told me that they did not wish their daughters to? take lessons of a woman. One lady said that her daughters did not like strangers; and another told me that I must bring 37 ' * 2 page: 438-439[View Page 438-439] 438 BOSTON COMMON. reference from a first rate gentleman-teacher, or she could not engage me. In vain I pleaded my entire inability to obtain what was impossible. I could find no pupils this day, and I sat down and wondered what I should do next. One, two, three days passed, and I had, as yet, come to no satisfactory conclusion. At length I thought that I would sit down and mend up all my clothes. "Perhaps," thought I, "my appearance was not smart enough to suit my pa- tronls." Accordingly I fell to work. Every dress was ripped up, turned, pressed, and made over. The ladies in the house, delighted with my returning spirits, cheerfully assisted me. They told-me the last new fashions, gave me sleeve-patterns, &c.; and, in a fortnight, I had been so industrious that I was able to look upon my wardrobe with much satisfaction and' pleasure. I now had ten good dresses, all in perfect order, besides those I had cut up and made over for Willie. My cloak and visite, that the rain had nearly spoiled, were turned and remodelled, and my gloves all neatly repaired. But my shawl, -I could do nothing with it; it was literally spoiled with-the rain. One of the ladies told me that she would-try and exchange it for a winter bonnet. I agreed; and as the material was of the richest kind, she obtained for me a cheap shawl, a nice bonnet, and Willie-a pretty little cloak and hat. It-was strange what a vast limprovement my new employ-- ment had made upon my mind. I had now a motive, and that motive was my cousin Ernest. As I looked at my faded dresses, torn gloves,- and worn-out boots, I thought of him; X .- * 439 BOSTON COMMON. h e us ,eaoweM ooncernin y and all the long lectures he ued to give m e conerning m y clothes cahne to my mind with such f orce, that I sat down immediately, and did exactly as he would hav e advised m e to do were he with me. So much for the force of a good ex- ample. Years ha passed since Ernest had said to me, , Helen, you cannot be a lady unless you areperfectly neat, an p y proper attention to your dress," and I had had trouble enoug h since to have forever extinguished all hope trrIlble eene ne o of anything better. Ern est m ight be dead, but still I remembered his words; and here I was, scarcely knowing it, but triving, although poverty stared me in the fae, to do his bidding exactly. , Now," thought I, as I looked at'my clothes all in perfect ord er, my embroidery nice and clean, my cloak and visite as good and fashionable as new, and my pretty little winter hat, together with Willie's things, so nice, "How Ernest would be satisfied; now he would say that I had achieved a conquest over myself." And truly I had; for once I should not Lave supposed it possible that I could cut out and make a dress, still less alter over a cloak. But poverty and adversity are good teachers, and had done wonderful things for me. Although I loved them not yet Iwas rapidly improving under their bitter but. salutary influences. i, page: 440-441[View Page 440-441] CHAPTER XLIV. "With equal mind, what happens let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care, Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend,- The world's an inn, and Death's the journey's end." DRYDEN. BUT my money had now all disappeared save one dollar. Reader! I was the owner of one solitary dollar! What was I now to do? Where look for assistance? Troubles never come singly; and that night, when all were soundly sleeping, a great and terrible tyrant entered our dwelling. He came and poured his wrath in every part of that devoted- house. lie sent his troops in every direction; and it was strange to see how easily, in the dark night, Then al were sleeping so fearlessly, he eould go through he stoutest- walls, how quickly level the firmest partitions, ow soon make all that large dwelling one entire ruin. But he had not half finished his work of destruction, when, approaching one of the sleepers rather unguardedly, he rouses, awakes, and in wild terror starts from his pillow. The tyrant's troops have nearly surrounded him; but he ishes through them all madly to the window! and throws it meekly up. And now his voice is ringing out loudly and BOSTON COMMON. 441 clearly upon the night air, startling the drowsy watchmen, and soon the name of the terrible tyrant is heard echoing up and down the long street. All the sleepers are now awakened, and, with horror de- picted upon their countenances, are wildly struggling for their lives and property. A little is saved; but most are glad to escape with their lives. And now the whole city is in confusion. A hundred voices are crying and echoing "fire, fire!" The great bell of Brattle-street Church is booming out " one, two, three, one, two, three;" and every sound strikes deep into the heart of the listener. Many a warm, comfortable sleeper in that large city turns and shivers with fear, - then thanks God that he is safe, - then sinks again to sleep. The streets are now filled with the firemen. They have come with their heavy artillery, and are levelling it' unmer- cifully upon the enemy; but it comes too late. The tyrant has accomplished his object,-his work is finished, and the. destruction complete. The watchmen have ceased their cries, the firemen have departed with their engines, the crowd dispersed to their homes and beds once more, and none are left but the victims. A few of these have friends, and have gone to them. The remainder stand around in sad groups, not knowing what to do, or whither to go. Among these are myself and little Willie, who is clinging to my neck in sad affright. I had been awakened by the shouting of men, and the ringing of bells. Smelling the fire, and seeing the light, I in a moment comprehended all; and, starting from the bed, I slipped on my clothes in the greatest haste, but-with as much calmness as possible. t ' , page: 442-443[View Page 442-443] "2 rBOSTON CO MMON. I first dressed Willie, and, putting on his cloak and hat, seated him upon the bed and told him to keep quite still, for there was a big fire outside. I then took all mny clothes and Willie's, threw them pell-mell into my trunks, and locked them. Grasping my frightened chilM with one hand, and dragging my trunks successively to the door with the other, I persuaded a couple of bystanders to carry them into the street for me, while I followed with my child to a place of safety. The whole transaction occupied but five minutes; but I often wonder at my coolness in this affair. I was calm and collected, thinking that a few moments might not effect much ; that I was too poor now to lose my clothes, and, that I must make an exertion to save them. No surprise or sudden dis- aster shocked me now. I had had too many of them, and they had lost their power to harm. I stood among that group of half-naked, terrified beings well dressed, and the .calmest of all. I showed them my trunks, and told them that,'if they went back and used ex. pedition, theirs too might be rescued. Some heeded my advice, others looked at me in stupid wonder, and others " wrung their hands and cried ,4 O dear!" several times. But ,all the ," O dears!" in the world are of no avail, unless we have constant presence of mind, and use exertion. I seated myself upon one of my trunks, with my babe in my arms. and waited for the dawn of morning. It came at itast, and smiled, and greeted us as if nothing had happened. :Such a set of wo-begone faces were seldom to be seen-; but, with the morning's light, they dispersed. Some went one way, some another; and, at last, I was left alone in front of that ruin, with my child and trunks. k BOSTON COMMON., 443 A shopkeeper now came to his place of business, took down the shutters, and unfastened the door. While doing so, how- ever, he glanced first at the ruin, and then at Willie and my- self. There was pity in his eye as he looked towards us, and I felt that he had a heart. He approached me. "Well, Miss," said he, (' you had a great fire last night.' "Yes, sir." "Were you one of the boarders?" "Yes, sir." "Is that your babe?" "Yes, sir.," "You look rather young to have a child so large as that, do you not?" "No, sir." "Did you escape without injury?" "Yes, sir." "Can I assist you in any way?" "Yes, if you will." ' . "How, if you please? "' Let me leave my trunks in your shop until I can obtain a place to put them." "Willingly, Miss; leave them there as long as you please, and welcome. Here, John, Tom, take the lady's trunks abnd carry them into the shop. Was your husband saved also, Miss??" I made no answer. He repeated his question. I looked at him; he apologized, and, bowing, went into the shop. I now remembered my dresses that I had lately ironed out so smoothly, and, judging what Ernest would do were he in my place, I went into the shop, folded all my clothfes and Willie's very nicely, and laid them with exact precision into my trunks. page: 444-445[View Page 444-445] "4 BOSTON COMMON. 4 There," thought I, ', cousin Ernest Would be pleased to see everything arranged so nicely; and there is, indeed, a deal of satisfaction in having everything in its place." "You have some very nice dresses there, Miss," said the polite shopkeeper, who, with all his kindness, had a Yankee's curiosity. "Perhaps, Miss, you might be induced to come in, some day, and examine my goods. I have some of the finest quality, Miss." ",I have no objections to your goods, sir; but I have to the title you so constantly confer upon me. I am not a Miss, sir, but a Mrs." "O,-I beg your pardon, Mrs. I might have known as much." "Good-morning, sir." "Good-morning, Mrs." CHAPTER XLV. "Blow, blow, thou wintry wind! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude!. Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude." SHAKSPEARE. "I fancy I 'm now turned wild, A commoner of Nature ; of all forsaken." DRYDEN. I LFT the shop with Willie, and wended my way into Washington-street. My child was now crying for his break- fast, and, going into an eating-house, I procured both him and myself some bread and milk. For this I paid a quarter of the precious dollar, and, with three quarters in my pocket, once more, betook myself to the street. I do not know exactly what were my feelings this day as I wandered up and down the streets; but they would doubt- less have been very sad ones to most persons situated like myself. I was not very sad, however. I had both' borne and suffered so much that I now- resolved to put my trust en-. tirely in God, feeling sure that all would, in some inexplicable manner, be unravelled and made right in his own good time. 38 page: 446-447[View Page 446-447] ' BOSTON COXoMON. I did not sit down idly, however, but resolutely sought for a place in which to remain for the night. I was not success ful. Some were full; others did not like to take a lady with a child. -One was vely unwilling to tale a woman w ithout a husband, and who had a babe also. "It looked suspicious," she said I could have annihilated her, with a good will, for her insolence; but only looked at her with quiet scorn, and walked away. - I have good oeeasion to remember some of the boarding- mistresses of Boston. They have certain peculiarities about them, which they carefully conceal fi'om the world, and reveal only to the single perasons of their own sex. A young girl, with her heart almost in her mouth, treal- bling, and blushing to her fingers' ends, goes up to the door of a boardinghouse, and pulls the bell. A servant answers her ring, and the girl inquires for the mistress of the house. She comes simpering forward, but her countenance undergoes a change instantly, as her caller timidly inquires if she has room for another boarder. She glances at her clothes, - looks her through and through, and, after the poor girl has under- gone this scrutiny, answers her as she thinks proper. Sometimes she tells her that she is quite full. That I know to be'false; for you can stow as many girls as you can CoUat in a: .ay, in an attic, while they, poor things, are only too glad of such an opportunity. . Sometuines she will .tell her that shemust bring a , refer- ace; " or she will say, in a squeaking voice, that she does not ike single ladies, that girls in a house are very disagreeable; r, that if she were a man, she would take her, &c. &c. The poor Sgirl, t ted, turns away with asick heat, dt e Kt , -s oBOSTON CMo xN. 447 to seek another house, and, most probably, to meet with the same repulse. Now, what was the reason the landlady did not take her, and why did her countenance change so suddenly at the girl's gentle request? Because she will get but two or two and a half dollars per week, for packing her in a musty old room, with I don't knlow how many others. If aeenitleman had ap- plied, how benevolent would have been the lady's face, how smooth and glib her tongue! He will pay a little more; and why should he not, when he has a nice, airy room to sleep in, and is always greeted with smiles from the landlady's face? Should a lady apply for herself and husband, the answer would be, " O, yes, indeed! walk in, madam. I have a beau- tiful room. You can have all sorts of privileges,-a lun- cheon, plenty of hot water, a girl to tend the baby while you are eating, &c.; " and she dismisses her with an affectionate squeeze of the hand, and an injunction to come early on the mnorrow . ... Now, my dear Mrs. married lady, you depart highly de- lighted with the mistress of the house,-she is so polite, so amiable, &c. But, had there not been a man in the case, you would very quickly have been told quite a different story. i All boarding-mistresses, however, are not alike; or elise Heaven help the poor girls! No, I have met a few /jht spirits, in my wanderings, who' possess such kind, sympathizing : hearts, and love their own sex so unaffectedly, that they will be found, in the great day that is to judge all, worthy to walk in white. .:* : I only wish I might keep a large boarding-house for a while. I would soon fill it with g"ey should have the Usfl" * * A , - . ' '. Y ". ' ,'d q page: 448-449[View Page 448-449] "8 BOSTON COMMON. best rooms in the house, the best food, the best attentions, and the best of everything. I would teach them what a heaven a kind heart could make even of a boarding-house. And if any were inclined to stray from virtue's paths, I would talk to them so kindly, and pray with them so earnestly, that they could not help being good,--they must surely reform. God bless the dear girls, say I! I love them all, good and bad together. Americans talk of their politeness to females! Let them give them higher wages for their hard-earned labor, and not take all the nice, cool, well-furnished rooms, and-,-giving them to gentlemen, stow the girls up six or seven flights of stairs, where the sun beats upon their heads with no mitiga- tion through the day, and the air, from so many breaths, is almost pestilential by night, and we will believe'them. But I have strayed from my story. Where was I? O, turning away from the boarding-houses. I found that my ap- plications were in vain. I could discover no spot for my weary feet to rest upon; and, full of grief, I ventured into a large store, and sat down to think. I:had not been here many minutes, when I thought I heard familiar voice. I rushed to the door, and, sure enough, it was Letise! Mrs. John Smith, in all the pride and :gl f:;a rich merchant's wife, sailing by. She was dressed in the richest of clothing, and, as her heavy garments swept the side-walk, all seemed to feel her consequence, and stepped aside to" let her pass. Two other ladies, dressed very much- like herself, were her companions; and she was looking at them with such a Contented, happy expression, that, although she had grown so ro recognized er at the first glance. BOSTON COMM'ON. 449 A wild ray of joy darted into my mind at this unexpected rencounter, for the thought that I was now safe brought with it its own happiness. I hastened after her, and called, "Letise, Letise!" She did not hear me, as my voice was lost in the crowd. I returned to the shop for little Willie. He was very sleepy, and, taking him in my arms, I carried him down to the place where my trunks were. The shopkeeper bowed, when I entered, and desired to be honored with my commands. ', I have not been able to procure a boarding-place yet, sir," / said I; a and, as my child is quite sleepy, may I take the liberty of laying, him upon my trunks, to sleep?" "Certainly, Miss, - that is, Mrs.;," he replied. , "Do what you please in this shop, --everything is at your service. -But let me make the little fellow a bed of these blankets." He-very kindly made him a nice bed, and Wilhe was soon asleep. Turning to the shopkeeper, I asked permission to write a note. He instantly handed me the .materials, and, with a heart beating with hope and joy, I wrote the following: "MY DEAR LETISE : "( I suppose the -handwriting, and name at the bott this little note, will very much surprise you, will Letise, your poor old friend, Helen, is in trouble,-h afflicted deeply since you left her. I have been in the city. several months, and am now without a home, or- a dollar! Strange, that both of us should have been situated so exactly alike, is it not? "Well, dear Letise, I ask the shelterd 'your roof, for a short time, for myself and Willie, :iia n obtain relief 38* page: 450-451[View Page 450-451] 450 BOSTON COMMON. from home. Please answer this immediately, and direct to the post-office, where I shall be in waiting.- "Your poor, afflicted "HELEN." I sealed my note, and, kissing the sleeping Willie, myself prepared to take it to Mrs. Smith's residence. I was too poor to hire a boy for the purpose; and, as I remembergd the street and number, I immediately started for the place. I soon arrived, and, ringing the bell, a servant came to the door. "Is your mistress at home?"I asked. "She is, madam," replied the girl. "Will you please hand her this note, and immediately?" "I will," she answered. The girl- took the note, and, as I turned away, closed the door. I stood a moment before the house. It was a lofty struc- ture of brick, with a -broad silver-plate upon the door, upon which "John Smith "-was engraved, -in large, pompous char- acters. ":C aring I might be observed, I again bent my steps down ington-street. On my way, I spent another quarter of l]ar for our dinner, and encountered a poor, ragged ho was crying with hunger. I could not'resist its touching appeal, and so gave it another quarter, to buy food -with.. I could not help it. I should have done the same thing had it taken my last cent, - and it did, very nearly. I found Willie awake, and waiting for his dinner. After we had eaten, I :ok my way to the post-office, expecting that Letitia had: arrived. There was, however, no BOSTON COMMON. 451 Letitia, no note; and I waited hour after hour, but no answer came. Full of surprise, I asked for writing materials at the ladies' window, and once more wrote a few words to my friend. "D DEAR LETISE2: "Your poor Helen is waiting anxiously, at the post-office, to hear from you. Send or come soon. Both she and Willie are without money or shelter." The note was taken to Letise's door, and I asked the servant who answered my ring if she gave the former one to her mistress. She replied that she did. (And what did she say?"I asked. - "She read it through, ma'am," the girl replied; " and, say- ing that it required no answer, threw it into the fire."' Had a bolt of thunder fallen at my feet, I could -not have felt more shocked. I turned, without handing the servant my other note, and once more resumed my way to the post-office, thinking that the servant might have mistaken my note for some other one, which her mistress had thrown into th fil and having a faint hope, still, that my false friend mi x t in pity to my sufferings, come to my relief. Here I waited hour after hour, and eagerly scanned every face that entered the door; but still no signs of Letise. The servant was right, -I never received an' answer to that little, heart-rending appeal; and, sick at heart, I wended my way to the Common. Willie being hungry, I bought him some cakes and fruit, page: 452-453[View Page 452-453] 452 BOSTON COMMON, for which I spent a ninepence. I ate none myself, for I thought that I must save as much as possible for my poor child; and indeed, I did not,--in my then state of mind, think that I should ever-feel like eating again. We reached the Common, and I seated myself under one of the trees. They were now quite leafless and bare, as it was the last-of December, although the weather was still pleasant. No snow had yet fallen; and it was quite mild. My heart had received a cruel shock, from which it would not recover in a long time; and while Willie played at my feet I had leisure to think of it. :r "',Was it possible," thought I, ' that this girl, this Letitia i Milford, who had professed such unbounded friendship for me :': in times past; who had received a home from me for more than ? a year and a half; who had eaten at my table, with such a i fre, generous welcome; who had reposed pon mybedso many, - many nights; who owed me almost her lifer and her child's blso:,./i;s it possible that she had known that Willie land my. ibel-Jd been exposed to all the dangers of a large city, with- -:ut-a- cent -of money to buy --food, or a shelter for the, night, .- .. t nhave com e instantly to our relief? Could she bear j:. a .poor, uflfering mother and her babe in the cold, and '\^'r:t! keep 'aloof ' ! verye different had been my course of conduct, on a --ithlar occasion:! I had instantly written; "Come, dearest ^.ime,is come. -;:My home, house, heart, and husband, are all ireyan-d waitingo rbeeive-you;" and, in the place of mak- ig her wait, I'had taken my carriage, and gone immediately :" ' r -arrig,',hers , I - r:Nf I hnagtned- maiiyuses for this strange, and, -cpuld not BOSTON a o MO N. 458 refrain from calling it, wicked and ungrateful conduct. Perhaps her husband might not have been willing; - but could she not have told him of that dark, sad period in her life, when all forsook her, all but Helen Hastings? And would it have been in the nature of man to have resisted such a recital as that? And, in any case, if he would not consent, could she not have sent me a note, instructing me as to where I could. have found a shelter for one night, at least? But what really was the cause why Letitia did not answer my note, by even a single word? Ah! the truth is soon and easily told. Letitia had become the rich and fashionable Mrs. John Smith, whose parties were the wonder of the whole city; whose- dinners were the best, whose plate- the costhest, and l whose equipage was the most superb. She was, of course,? one of the 4' upper ten," one of the 6lite, whose company was ]i so select, so r6cherchW, that it would have been entirely out of character for her to have deviated an inch from the beaten Could she, whose reputation for fashion and splendo d- so high, take into her house a poor, miserable woman and child, who were ill-dressed, and who would make such a sad, old-fashioned appearance'among her wealthy friends? 00ould she, the rich merchant's wife, introduce the sad-faced ll to her proud and fashionable acquaintances, as one,:- e dearest friends she ever had? Could she take the sad, broken heart, that so affectingly sought her protection, and admit it into all the comforts and elegances of her magnificent home and -circle? Preposterous ideas, and not to be thought of for a moment! What business had Helen Hastings to become poor, and page: 454-455[View Page 454-455] - 454 BOSTON COMMON. come begging around her? She had no time to listen to any such appeals, and no money to throw away in such an unprof- itable manner. True, this same Helen had given her a home once, when she had none; but it was a miserable place, compared with the One she now sought in return. She had introduced her as her dear friend to all her circle; but, then, what was Helen's circle, in a little country village, compared with Mrs. John Smith's five hundred friends, many of whom were millionaires, or members of some lofty station? Helen had loved-and cher- ished her fatherless child; but, then, she had lost her own babe about that time, so that it was rather a pleasure than otherwise. The two cases were altogether different in comparison, and "not to be weighed-together a moment. And so the poor mother and her babe were left without : . money or shelter, exposed to danger, cold, and hunger, with nothing but the heavens above for a covering, and mother earth for a bed. AM all these gad thoughts revolved themselves through my mind, I felt so grieved that there was so much ingratitude and want of feeling in the world, that J burst into a fit of weeping. They were the bitterest tears I had ever shed, and relieved USing heart. But I soon recovered, and,- although my nC:B!had received a cruel shock, resolved to look upon this new phase of my adversity with calmness and resignation. "I will weep no morei" said I, indignantly, " for the per- fidious, the ungrateful Letitia. Her professions of friendship were false, her heart hollow. She is not worthy of my honest tears." But what was I now to do? If I could possibly obtain a BOSTON COMMON. 455 place for the night, I had notthe means of paying for it; and, weak and exhausted as I was, I could not drag my weary frame to look for one. I sat quite still, and, with a sad pensiveness, wondered what would become of Willie and myself before morning. I half hoped that we both might be found dead together. We should be far better at rest than toiling on-in a world that offered so little of pleasure and so much sorrow for us. How many, many times had I sat before in this beautiful spot, with not a thought or care to trouble me! Yonder was my former splendid home in Boston, the "( House." I could see its windows now, lighted with gas, and sparkling . like so many stars. There was no moon that night, and the man soon came around to light the lamps. I was half tempted to ask him : if he could tell me where I could stay for the night; but my pride forbade it. I dreaded his opinion of me, when I should inform him that I was without a home or a-place of shelter. Presently the lamps were all lighted, and now encircled the Common' like a belt of burnished diamonds, or a wall of stars. People came and went; some looked at me, while others passed me by without a glance. "All," thout I, "have homes - have a place to rest in to-night,--even the merest beggar. How very strange that I, who once pos. sessed a home, and was so willing to bestow it -upon the needy, should be thus situated!" By and by, all was still. The voices ceased, the footsteps died away, the children had sought their homes and beds, and no noise was to be heard save in the city. It was a winter's page: 456-457[View Page 456-457] 456 BOSTON COMMON. night, and all were anxious for the shelter of their own roofs. Willie now grew weary, and I covered him with my shawl, and hushed him to sleep upon my breast. Suddenly the thought came into my head that I should be safer for the night by Harry's grave than where I was at present. It wagsa strange thought, and a wild one; but I knew Harry loved me on earth, that he was "( waiting for me in heaven,'- and why should not his beautiful spirit watch over me? And -perhaps, some time in the night, it would be commissioned to bear Willie and myself far away with it into heaven. Perhaps he was even now waiting at the grave for me. I arose, with my sleeping child still in my arms, and ap- proached the spot. I could scarcely drag my weary frame thus far; but at last I reached the fence, and stood a moment looking ove-r. i"All seems fair and pleasant beyond," thought I. "Noth- ing will harm me, and I shall be secure in this sweet place." I climbed over the fence as best I could, and approached the grave.- I soon reached it, and seated myself upon the hallowed turf. A singular feeling of horror, that- I was sit. ting in a grave-yard by night, came over me; but I strove to banish it, and, clasping the headstone, prayeda Harry's sweet spirit to preserve us in safety. * '-V , . * t *;4 ,CHAPTER XLVI. u Pale mourner, arise! no longer despond; Back, back from the seas thy beloved has come." ANON. Thee have I loved, thou gentlest, from a child, And borne thine image with me o'er the see,s Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak! O, yet live for me!" MRS. HEMANS. NINE o'clock sounded from Park-street Church. It was much earlier than I had expected; but the evenings in winter are long, especially when one is sad. As I sat upon that lonelygrave, -long-banished thoughts of Harry and Ernest came into my mind, which, force them back as I would, seemed now like so many solemn voices speaking to me, whose tones I could not silence. I remembered the evening that Harry had died. He had said, in that parting hour, that Ernest must take care of me; that he' must keep me in the right path,. and never let-in wander from it. He had also said that Ernest and myself were to be united;- that we must strive to do each other, and those around us, all the good that lay in our power; and now, as I remembered Ernest, his features came one by one- slowly into view, - the broad, intellectual brow, the rich brown hair, the expressive eyes, and firm mouth. 39 page: 458-459[View Page 458-459] 458 BOSTON COMMON. I thought also of his noble character, so free from weak. ness, so great and lofty, so earnest and truthful. I thought of his piety, so deep-and unaffected; of his devotion, so fer- vent; and then of his firmness and decision, his energy and calm presence of mind, his knowledge and attainments. I believe cousin Ernest knew almost everything; for I never asked him a question that he did not answer, and to my com- plete satisfaction. And, lastly, I thought of his love for me-strong and deep as the ocean. I was his joy, his life, his guiding star; and had it been possible that I, in my blind folly, had given up a man like that for the weak creature whom I had mar- ried? Could I have thrown away love, mind, talent, almost perfection, to embrace vice? Instinctively my heart bowed before this mighty shrine of strength and virtue; my soul longed to pay reverence to so much goodness; longed to rest its weary-laden form upon this rook longed- to pour forth all its sorrows into this ear of boundless love; longed to lay down its burden of sighs and tears at his feet, a6d-die, A change had suddenly come over me. - I was not the being of a few hours since. I loved again, and this time with all the force of a heart born for this purpose. My whole soul was--filled with that image; my heart bowed insensibly before it, asto a deity. I had found a man of just the character I loved; and I bent, almost in adoration, before his spirit. But suddenly a wild, vague sense of suffering mingled with my new and- delightful sensations. Ernest was not here. i. e d been gone long years from my side; he had, perhaps, (i'i s? long ago upon the burning sands of Arabia, or frozen /??up -the plains of Siberia. J should never see him again. .'c * -*- BOSTON COMMON. 459 He had been driven forth, a gloomy misanthrope; had gone out into the world without a friend to cheer his lonely lot; had buried all his strong, burning love for me deep in his heart; had rolled the heavy stone, of forgetfulness over its grave; had arisen with a mighty effort, and, by the force of his powerful will, had commanded his passions to be still, and rage no more. O,-yes! he had done all this,- had been wandering, un- happy, wretched, - and I had been the sole cause of it. My silly love for another had brought grief, perhaps death, to the noblest of his race. I had been rightly punished, then, and my sufferings had been no more than I deserved. Ernest had not been alone. I too had borne him company in suffer- ing - had wept as many tears, perhaps, as himself; and I rejoiced at my misfortunes, for they had forever cured me of my folly. And now I only wished to die, that I might meet my Ernest in a better land, and tell him how I had learned at last to love and appreciate his goodness. And I prayed a silent prayer to the God of the universe that- he would cause me, some day, all in his own good time, to meet with Ernest; that, if he were still living, we might yet be brought together again. I concluded by thanking him for his many blessings, and im- ploring him to keep both Willie and myself safely through the silent watches of the night. Tired out, and wearied with the trying scenes of the day, I laid my head at length upon the turf, and softly closed my eyes. All was so quiet and still around me, that I fell, for a few moments, into a light slumber. I was suddenly startled, however, by hearing a slight noise near me. page: 460-461[View Page 460-461] "O BOSTON COMMON. I aroused, and, laying my child upon the ground, looked eagerly about me. The noise increased, and, glancing tow. ards the fence, I beheld, with affright, the figure of a man attempting to get over. He soon succeeded, and, when over, fixed his eyes atten- tively upon me. After a few moments' scrutiny, he ventured to come forward, as if to take a nearer survey. I neither screamed nor fainted, but sat still and awaited the intruder. He slowly approached me, and I saw that he was a tall, dark-browed man, with a heavy cloak wrapped about him. * , Something in hisgait and air, although seen by gas-light, made my heart stand still. But he is coming, and every sec- ond brings him nearer and nearer. Shall I seize my child and fly? No; I could only elude hini for a few moments. He is large and strong; I, weary and weak. And, besides, it is too late to move an inch now; for he -has come so close to me that I can almost feel his breath upon my cheek. He has kneeled before me upon the ground; he has gazed with a light- ning glance into my eyes; he has wound a strong, muscular arm around my waist; has thrown my bonnet to the ground, and-bent my head- back so that the light may shine full into my--face; has tossed -the &damp hair from off my brow, and exclaimed,' "Nellie! God of infinite mercy! It is my own little Nellie!" A sudden rush of -blood comes bounding through my veins like an electric shock; a dazzling light seems, in my heated imagination, to dart from those eyes; a wild sense of love, peace, joy, and rest, fills my over-charged heart; and, with a faint cry-, and the, name "Ernest " upon my tongue, I close my eyes in unconsciousness. BOSTON COMMON. 461 A few moments, and I awoke. The fit was over, the, dream dispelled, and once more I was alone,--alonewith my child. It had been a dream, then! Ernest had not been there. My heated imagination had conjured it all up, but to add, if possible, to my grief. But no; it must h; 3 been so. I could not have been thus mistaken. He had blessed me one moment with his presence, and then torn it forever from my sight. O, cruel Ernest! how could you treat me thus? How lacer- ate still deeper my bleeding heart? I had, then, seen Ernest again. He had come, either in bodily'or spiritual shape, I knew not which; had clasped me in his arms, had gazed into my tearful eyes with his own burning orbs, and had called me the endearing name of ,Nellie," his own little "Nellie." And then, when joy had paralyzed my senses, he had left me. Was there,-then, any further comfort for me? No. I arose from my recumbent position, and paced that lonely ground with hasty and uneven steps.- Ibent my eyes in every direction, as if to find the form of him I loved. I raised them to heaven, and besought it to kill me, or give me Ernest. I called aloud the name, and listened to the echo of my voice as it died away, with a sickening sensation of lone- liness I had never felt before. All my philosophy had gone. Nothing now could satisfy me but Ernest., At length the image of his bright and beautiful character dawned upon me. I remembered his firmness, his calmness, even when passion and grief racked his breast. ,Not a nerve was convulsed, not a muscle disturbed. Then I contrasted my own fiery, impatient spirit with his; and, in a moment, so great was the power of his example over me, I was calm, 39* page: 462-463[View Page 462-463] "2 - BOS TON COMMON. was subdued. The pulsation of my heart almost ceased, my muscles were Stilled, and every outward trace of emotion had subsided. I smiled at the wonderful transformation. " O, yes," said I, in a low, soft tone, undisturbed by a single trace of the passion raging in my breast, " we are very much alike, cousin Ernest and I! I will go and lie down again upon Harry's grave. I will close my eyes, just as'I did before, and perhaps he will come again. O, yes! I know he will come again." I lay down by the side of Willie. I closed my eyes, and dreamed once more of Ernest, -yea, dreamed of Ernest! He came again to the fence, leaped its iron bars, and ap- proached me; not this time with a slow and stealthy step, but as if in haste to meet me. I could neither move nor speak, but a deep delight filled my whole heart, and I lay quite still and watched his movements. He approaches. Yes; it is really Ernest, although the face has bronzed, and the beautiful brown hair is sprinkled with silver. He looks at us both a moment, and, heavens! tears are in his eyes--yes, tears! I never before saw tears in those haughty eyes-never! What can have occurred to make the strong man weep so? But I care not, -I am near him, and I am happy. ; He stoops and raises us both, mother and child, in those strong arms, and bears us away, --away from Harry's grave, away from that lonely spot, away from that singular bed- chamber, and away from those strange, unnatural companions. He leaps lightly with us over the fence, and bends his way to a carriage that stands near -the sidewalk. o BOSTON COMMON. 463 Another moment, and we are safely inside, the driver has shut the door and mounted his box. I never moved, - Wil- lie still slept, - and there sat Ernest, calm and steadfast as a rock; and Willie and myself were folded close, close to that big heart, that is beating, beating with wonder, pity, love, and joy. The carriage rolls on; still, all is silent save the beating of that heart. But now we have reached a brilliantly-lighted house. The carriage stops; the driver dismounts, and Ernest, still clasping his burden in his arms, enters that house, walks slowly but firmly up stairs into a large and beautiful drawing- room, and deposits his burden upon a soft and downy couch. He rises, and gazes tenderly upon us for a moment, then turns to leave. This movement brings me at once to life and sense. I have seen Ernest,- have rested upon his heart, and now I cannot lose him again. I start from the couch. "Ernest," I say, in low and piteous tones, "' do not leave me! I shali die with- out you, my own dear Ernest!" He turns and bends once more that look of-unutterable love upon me. He speaks; and his voice, always deep and melodious, now vibrates like sweet, low-toned music upon my ear. "Nellie, dearest Nellie! my Nellie! God be thanked for this blessed moment, that restores you once more to my arms and heart! Nellie, am I, then, dear to you? Do you love me, at last?" "O, Ernest!"I exclaimed; "better, far better than I ever dreamed of loving another. You are my rock, my refuge, my all, in this world! And now that I have seen you, let me die!" page: 464-465[View Page 464-465] "4 BOSTON COMMON. "Die - No, my Nellie; you must not die, but live and repay me for all I have suffered." , ' O, Ernest! I have caused those sufferings. I have sent many a pang into that 'noble heart, and now, unworthy as I am, let me die!" Ernest stooped and raised the beautiful babe in his arms. He untied the little hat, and tossed the -soft, bright curls over the fair brow, and then placed the babe between us. "Look, Helen," said he, "at this child,-, this beautiful little being whom you brought into life. Would you die, and leave it in its helpless infancy, its cheerless boyhood, and its dreary manhood, to the mercies of a cold and heartless world-? No, my Helen, live; and begin from this night to live anew; but, whatever you do, live as long as God pleases." " , Ernest!"I answered, "I will try and do as you re- quire; but I have so much to tell you, so many sufferings to rehearse, so many wanderings to deplore, you will hate and cast me from you when I have told you all." "Never, Helen, never! You need not tell me anything. I know all; all your husband's errors, your loss of property, and abandonment of home. And in it, and through it all, dearest Helen, I heard of your devotion to that husband, of your gentle patience in the, midst of unparalleled sufferings and, better than all, mW Helen, of your lowly piety, of your trust in God,- and love for His name and cause. Helen, you have done right, and will have- your reward. And now the happy, thrice-blessed hour that I have so long looked for, so long prayed for, is at last arrived. You love me; and, hence- forth, through time and eternity, we are one, my own, my tinto' MY wffe^ BOSTON COMMONS. 465 "Alas, Ernest!"I cried, i"you surely would not call me- wife, would you, after what has occurred? After causing you a world of trouble and anxiety; after marrying and giving another my youth, my first warm affections; after wasting my fine fortune in idleness and sin? Do you, can you love me still?" ,' Helen," said Ernest, solemnly, " my love for you is deep, strong, and firm- as a rock. It will outlive anything, every- thing. Your form would linger last in my memory, were I dying; your name be latest breathed from my lips. Helen, dearest Helen, we are now one, since you love me, and nothing but God's will shall ever part us more." "' But my husband, Ernest? . You forget I still have a husband?" "No, my child, I forget nothing; you have no husband, Helen. He whom you called husband has lost all right -to that title. He has ruined his character, broken his vows, trampled upon your love, and sworn faith to another. He has even had the effrontery to live with that' other for months, in direct disobedience to God's and man's law. Have you, then, a husband?" "But, Ernest, in the eyes of the world I still have a hus- band." ' "Yes, yes, my Helen; and Heaven forbid that I should ever forget it. But your friends are preparing something that will forever separate you from him. Do you consent to this? Then we will yet be happy. As long as Roland is degraded and sunken in vice, you have no right to taint the purity of your soul by mingling it with his. Should he repent and seek you, then, my Helen, we should have to separate; but ^ / i * page: 466-467[View Page 466-467] "6 BOSTON COMMON. only for a time. If not united on earth, we shall be one in heaven; for mine you have sworn to be, through time and eternity.. "And now, Helen, although I could sit and talk with you for hours, yet you need rest, and must seek it immediately Helen, you are in my house. My sister, your cousin Mabel, lives here with me; and, henceforth, it shall be your home, and ,your child's, for I am to be a father to you both, you know, Now God bless you, and good-night." R He pressed a kiss of deep tenderness upon my brow, and left me. A servant immediately entered the room with re- freshments. After I had eaten, she led the way to an elegant chamber., It seemed like magic, to be transplanted thus sud- denly from misery and a grave-yard, to happiness, and a quiet, beautiful home. , - - The girl, after undressing Willie, placed him gently in the bed, and left the room. But I could not yet retire. I sat, for hours, by that glowing grate, trying to realize the wonderful transformation my fortunes had undergone within a few hours. One, two, three, sounded from the city clock, and I was still sitting by the fire, buried deep in the cushions of that luxurious :clair. I was too happy to sleep, - too blest. I loved, and my love was returned ten-fold; I esteemed and reverenced, Sand theobject was;morn than worthy of it all; I hoped and trusted, and was sure that my trust was not in vain. - But I had not been false to Roland; for I loved what I supposed was good and noble in him, and when I found-that he did nodtpossess, and perhaps never had possessed'these qual. ities,where was my love? Gone, and gone as much as if it had never existed. My affections were warm and ardent; but B O S TON COM M ON. 467 only where virtue dwelt could they live. I could not love' vice; for I had learned, by fearful experience, to put my trust: only in what was good and noble. But here I sat, and sat for hours. I was spell-bound. The enchantment was complete. The magician Happiness had taken my soul, and lapped it in elysium. I no longer recog- nized sorrow. Joy, deep and fervent joy, thrilled through every vein. And now it is four o'clock, and I -must, indeed seek my pillow. Ernest, dear Ernest, would not approve of my sitting up so late, even to ponder over him. As soon as this thought came into my mind, as if he had commanded me, I arose, and prepared to retire. Before doing so, however, I breathed a deep and fervent thanksgiving -to the kind Father from whom all blessing come. I thanked:. him for bringing Ernest and myself together in so wonderful- a manner, and prayed. him that he would unite us, and make us worthy laborers in his vineyard. The angels, surely, must have kept watch, around my pillow; for never did sweeter dreams visit mortal before,-never balmier sleep. And then the awaking, so soft and gentle, with, at first, the faint remembrance of somel half-forgotten joy, like the dawning of day; then growing brighter and brighter, until the whole glorious sun bursts forth, and fills every nook and avenue with the beams of light and happiness! page: 468-469[View Page 468-469] CHAPTER XLVII. "Withlsuch unshaken temper of the soul, To bear the swelling tide of prosperous fortune, Is to deserve that fortune. In adversity The mind grows tough, by buffeting the tempest; But in success, dissolving, sinks to ease, And loses all her firmness." WAS there ever a happier party than that which met around that pleasant breakfast-table, the next morning? All seemed so bright and cheerful. The broad sunshine streamed into the windows, and glistened the silver-plate, the glowing fire upon the hearth, the elegant chairs, carpet, books, and every means of comfort. And, then, the happy party! There sat Ernest, with his noble, intellectual brow, large, dark eyes, and a calm, quiet indication of deep joy resting m upon each iineament. And there was cousin Mabel, in her neat morning-dress, and rich brown hair combed smoothly back, pouring out the steaming coffee, and doing the honors of the table with such a quiet grace. Next to Ernest sat the new guests, joy lighting up every feature;-and, altogether, we made such a happy party as is seldom seen in this dark world. "And now, Nellie," said Ernest, leading me to the parlor, after our meal was over, " all business must be suspended to- day, while I tell you what has befallen me since I left you. We will, I think, devote this day to retrospection." ,- BOSTON COMMON. 469 We seated ourselves upon the sofa, and Ernest began his adventures. Long and interesting were the tales, he told of distant lands. He described the noble castles, palaces, and bridges, of England; the pleasant fields and vines of France; the glowing landscapes of Spain; the bold, rugged scenery of the Apennines;, the soft purple skies of Italy, and the grandeur and sublimity of the Alps. "I arrived at home, Nellie," said he, in conclusion, "about three weeks ago. I found that my father and mother had both died during my absence, and left me this house and fur- niture, together with a considerable sum of money in the bank. The remainder of their property was equally divided between Gerald and Mabel. I had now a comfortable home; and, as I took immediate possession of my ministry, I shall always have enough, thank God, to live in ease and plenty. ,( Immediately upon my return, I wrote to my eastern cor- respondent, and desired him to give me every particular con-' cerning you. In a week, I received a long-letter, in answer to mine, stating all that had befallen you since my departure, even to the final catastrophe, and your flight from home. -My correspondent also added that you were living somewhere in Boston; he did not know of your address, but referred me to your mother. "I wrote to aunt Hettie, and she replied by saying that you were boarding in street, and No. -, and that, from your last letter, she feared you were in a bad state of health; that your troubles had severely preyed upon your mind, and that all hpr persuasions to induce you to return home had been unavailing. "I received the letter yesterday, Helen. Full of grief and 40 page: 470-471[View Page 470-471] 470 BOSTON COMMON. sympathy for you, I started immediately for your boarding. house. What was my surprise and regret to find it a black- ened ruin! I entered a shop near by, and inquired, in a trembling voice, if any of the inmates had perished. The shop. keeper told me that all had been saved, and also related hs rencounter with one of the unfortunates. He described her appearance so accurately that I felt assured it could be none other than you; and, after thanking the man, I returned home, determined to advertise for you, should I not succeed in as- certaining your whereabouts. "I searched several hours among the boarding-houses for you, but, not meeting with the success I hoped for, visited every hotel in the city. I found you not; and, as night was now coming on, I again returned home, resolving to prosecute my search on the morrow. "After tea, I had occasion to visit one of my parishioners, who lives near the head of Boylston-street. I returned through the Common, and, passing near the cemetery, stopped a mo- ment to look at Harry's grave. What was my astonishment on beholding a woman lying there, with an infant in her arms! Surprised, and scarcely knowing what course to take, I climbed slowly over the fence, and approached her softly, so as not to alarm her too suddenly. "When half-way between the fence and grave, a wild, in- definable feeling took possession of my heart, and the thought that it was, perhaps, Wiilie and you, almost overpowered me. "As I approached nearer, my suspicions were confirmed ; and the circumstance of your being there at that time of the night was so strange, so unaccountable, that I lost all presence of mind, and scarcely knew what I did. ]BOSTON COMMON. 471 I "(I discovered, -however, that it was indeed you, Nellie; and my sudden appearance and exclamation deprived you of ^ sense., I laid you tenderly upon the mound, and, fast as my is trembling limbs would carry-me, went after a carriage. "' About ten minutes after, we were rolling, towards Summer- street; and I was satisfied, was happy once more, for I held you and your babe close in these arms, and was half sorry when the carriage stopped, and we were at home." Ernest .then desired me to tell him what had befallen me I since I left Linden, and how I came to be wandering in a lonely grave-yard by night. I told him of that long, dark pe- riod, when all hope, all happiness, had departed; when, turn whichever way I would, all seemed a gloomy, barren wilder- ness, -where not a ray of hope penetrated the dark regions of my heart. I told him, also, how my poverty had first awakened me to a sense of my situation, -of my unavailing efforts to obtain music-scholars, and of the fire. Then came the events of that sad day, when, gloomy and dispirited, I had wandered around the city in search of a place to rest in. I related the meeting with Letitia, the little note; and then told him of the bitter disappointment, the cruel shock I received from the servant; and, also, of the long, tedious hours of suspense in which I waited for Letitia, hoping that she might yet arrive. I told him, also,- of that lonely evening I spent upon the Common, when I sat gloomily pondering upon my unhappy situation, while my unconscious child played at my feet. Then of the strange idea that the best place to pass the night would be by 'Harry's grave. I told him how I sought the lonely spot, and succeeded in clambering over the fence with my page: 472-473[View Page 472-473] 472 BOST ON CO:MMON. sleeping child; then how'I had seated myself upon the hal. lowed turf, and mused long and deeply upon the absent one. How that his image had filled my sad heart with love and joy, and invested it with new hopes, new life; and then of the agony I endured in supposing my love had come too late,- that he was far away, perhaps dead! and then of my prayer, and sinking to rest in a grave-yard. I also told him of the blessed vision I had seen, which seemed so startling and lifelike that I had believed it reality, until I awoke, and found it a dream. And, finally, I told him of the experiment I had tried, in order to win back the beloved form once more; and the result of my experiment,-- the blessed consummation of hope, love, and joy. Again did tears fill those large eyes, again did emotion shake that strong frame, as I related my sufferings, and, at the close, placed my hand confidingly in his, and thanked him earnestly for all his love and kindness to nme,.during so many, many years. "Helen," said Ernest, " how glad should I have been, long years ago, to have gathered you to my breast, and saved you from the least shadow of all these bitter sufferings! But you are now safe" and never, if I can prevent it, shall one ray of sadness darken that heart again. Never shall my Helen again be a wanderer, without food or shelter; never shall she know want, privation, or care, more. I bless the hand of Providence, that brought me to your side last evening. What would have been your fate, had you remained many hours longer in the cold night air, is more than I can tell. I think you would have been chilled to death, long before morning. I tremble to think what would have been my sensations, had I found you BOSTON COMMON. 473 both dead upon Harry's grave. I fear that even my strength of mind would not have survived so cruel a shock. Blessed be God that he averted the blow, and sent me to your rescue. ( And now, Helen, you are safe, and' you love me; what can I ask for more?" a' But you have changed, Ernest. You are larger, darker, and much older, than when last we met. Your eyes have a deeper, more thoughtful cast; your brow seems knitted with care, and your hair is sprinkled with silver." ( I am well aware of all these changes, Helen. Travel- ling and exposure in the sun have darkened my complexion. I have studied and thought a deal, and that is the cause of the care upon my brow. And the hair-' "And the hair, Ernest?" ( Never mind the hair, Nellie, -that is past. You are restored, and you love me; and, if my hair were all gray, I should rejoice in any change, any affliction, that brought you back, good and pure, to these arms. "But you, too, are changed, my Nellie. Your eyes tell a deep tale of sorrow; your brow i pensive, and there is a thoughtfulness and paleness in your once merry, sparkling face, that is painful to look upon. Your hair, that once played in sportive curls over your brow, is now combed smoothly back; and your whole air is different, quite different, from the happy, cheerful Nellie Clifton that I parted from years ago. "Helen, we are older than we were. A few years have passed, to be sure; but they have laid their fingers upon us rather roughly. We have grown older -have ripened. We were but in the blossom then -in the ppring-time; now it is 40* - page: 474-475[View Page 474-475] 474 BOSTON COMMON. sweet summer: with us. The change is rather agreeable than otherwise to me. We, have not the same freshness of feel- ing as then, Helen, but a deeper cast of thought. 'T is not the first blush of the half-opened bud, but the rich. color of the fragrant rose; not the faint dawning of morn, but the whole sunshine of the glorious day; not the half-finished painting, but the completed picture, with all its lights and shades, brought to perfection. "1 Helen, we are matured - are finished; and we can now sit down and calmly enjoy the remainder of this life, with- out experiencing the shocks incident to young minds, whom grief assails for the first time. Should sorrow again visit our path, we can better endure its sting; for we know and recog- nize the hand that sends it. "Had we known no sorrow, my Helen, we should not have known how to prize our blessings; had you never married Roland Hastings, and endured so much from associating with vice, you would never have; known how to prize virtue- would neve r have loved and appreciated so widely the differ- ence; had we sat down in peace and plenty, and taken God's gifts without laboring for them, we might have grown cold, selfish, and ungrateful, towards Him; and, when death had overtaken us, how anxiously should we still have clung to earth, how unwillingly drawn our parting breath, and how unprepared should we have been for eternity! "I, therefore, bless God for 1l our sorrows. He has brought us-especially you, my Helen - very low; but still can we see the mercy that dealt the blow - still behold the kind Father in all our trials; and now, with sufferings purified, minds matured and strengthened, and hearts filled with love BOSTON C O M M-O N. 475 to God and each other, we are ready to go forth once more, again to encounter'life's trials, to bear whatever he pleases to send, and to live as he directs." For hours we sat thus-conversing together in that quiet parlor; and so unmindful were we of time, that they were obliged to summon us twice to dinner ere we understood the signal. After dinner, Ernest went out to attend to some of his parochial duties, while I sought my chamber to unpack my trunks, that had been sent for in the morning. How happy was I, when I took all my pretty dresses and hung them up in the closet, that I had made them over so nicely! They were not very fashionable or gay, to be sure, but looked just the thing for that calm, sweet place - that minister's home. r arranged all my clothes; put my writing-desk, work-box, and books, in their proper places; then, dressing myself and Willie very neatly, descended to the parlor. Cousin Mabel was there, and entertained ne with a nice long chat concerning family Batters, &c. She told me how she had wept when her parents died; and how she had shut up the dear old house and gone away to live with Gerald, until Ernest came back; how she had hastened to the city and sought him upon his return, and how sad she felt at see- ing him appear so gloomy and dispirited,'and how she had undertaken to be his little housekeeper, to comfort his great heart, and make it grow warm and sunshiny. And then the remainder of the conversation fell altogether upon Ernest; and we were never weary of dwelling upon his goodness, his piety, and nobleness of heart. Mabel told me that Ernest occupiped a very high station in page: 476-477[View Page 476-477] 476 BOSTON COMMON. \ the ministry; that he had a large and wealthy congregation, and that his So suddenly entering upon his duties had caused a great excitement among his people; that the house had been filled to overflowing every Sabbath, and that his noble bear- ing, deep, unaffected piety, and zeal in the cause, had already had a great influence upon the people; also that they were willing to come to any terms, or make any sacrifice, rather than lose their new pastor. "But," added my cousin, " there is not the slightest danger of that. Ernest now considers himself settled for life. He is weary of travelling, and glad to repose after his pilgrim- age." We talked and played with Willie until Ernest returned. Then came the pleasant tea-table, with the dear circle gath- ered round its inviting board; then the calm evening hour, when we listened as Ernest read and talked with us; then the devotions, -the thanksgiving to God, - and, after, the quiet hour of repose. fo CHAPTER XLVIII. "Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired." EDMUND WALLER. " A HAPPY New-Year to you, cousin Ernest," said I, one morning, about a week after the events related in the last chapter; i' and I trust it will be a very happy one to you all through the year." .. ,' Thank you, dear Nellie; but do not be too' sanguine. Something may occur to vex and trouble us both before the- year is out; therefore we will endeavor to be prepared for whatever comes." "Now, Ernest," said I to him, after breakfast, "I have a great request to ask of you. Will you be very sure to grant it?" ,' That depends upon what it is," he replied, smiling. "If it will contribute to your good, I will certainly grant it." "' But what if it will only make me happy?"I asked. "Why, then,-we shall -see, we shall see," he replied. ,c What is your request, Helen?" 4 page: 478-479[View Page 478-479] 1 478 BOSTON COMM ON. "Why, you know, cousin Ernest, that I am very poor, and H-I want to try and do something for myself. If you will obtain for me a few music-scholars, or find some one who will do this in your place, I will be so much obliged! Will you?" "No." "Ernest! but I must have them; and. if you do not want to get them for me, may I try myself?" "No." "And why not, dear Ernest, if you please?" He took my hand, and led me to the glass. "Look, Helen," said he, " at that worn-down frame, those sunken eyes, and the whole sorrowful countenance. I want you," he continued, " to take very good care of yourself, -to grow happy, cheerful, and robust. I want your figure to resume its roundness, your eyes their brilliancy, and your step its lightness. In short, I wish you to be one of the most merry- hearted, cheerful little beings in the city; and, in order to do this, you must keep your mind free from care, your conscience from reproach, and your heart warm and kind. You will find plenty to do at home, without going abroad hunting up music-scholars. You can keep your wardrobe in perfect order, take care of and amuse Willie, assist Mabel in her housekeeping, if you choose, practise, draw, read, and do all sorts of things. Besides, I would like that you should assist me, once in a while, - will you do it?" "Readily, Ernest, only tell me how." "Well, then, as you write so very prettily, you may copy my sermons for me when I am in a hurry, or read'to me when I am weary, or sing and play to me after tea, or go BOSTON COMMON. 479 with me sometimes to visit my poor parishioners. O, there is plenty for you to do! You can stay right at home, comfort our hearts, and diffuse your own bright, happy spirit about the house. This is all you need do, Helen." Dear Ernest! -and that was all I did do, and my time was all occupied. I had not a moment to spare; and, indeed, the moments sped so quickly, that I was almost angry at their flight, and tried not to be quite so happy. I soon discovered that Ernest was greatly beloved by-his congregation; that they all honored him, and listened eagerly for the glowing words that fell from his lips. How noble he looked in the sacred desk, as he stood there in all the glory of his mighty intellect, And discoursed so eloquently of the sublime things that lie beyond the twilight of the tomb, or broke the bread of heaven to his waiting people I How did my whole soul warm and revivify under the cheering beams of Gospel light that were breathed from his tongue; and how closely drawn did I feel to God, as he talked and pondered of His boundless love and might! Ernest Richmond was one of those shepherds who labor for love; and, although receiving a bountiful salary from a grate- ful people, nearly half-of it was spent in charities, and in the service of God. He poured forth the doctrines of the Bible in simple, truthful language, and threw his whole soul into the cause. He was a bright and noble spirit, a faithful ser- vant, an unwearied laborer in the vineyard. Would to Heaven there were many more such! We had a deal of company at our house, consisting princi- pally of the church. How many noble, intellectual spirits did I meet here; and how many hours' have I sat gleaning words of truth and wisdom that fell from their lips! page: 480-481[View Page 480-481] 489 BOSTON COMMON. Among the visitors in our refined circle were two young gentlemen who particularly claimed my attention. Edward Dennison and Robert Everett were partners together in a mercantile firm in the city. They were blessed with all that this world holds good, and were highly cultivated and intel- lectual young men. They were constant visitors at our house, and I soon perceived that one of them had a more than com- mon interest there. He evidently admired my cousin, Mabel Richmond, exceedingly; and she was, indeed, a sweet girl. Not very handsome, - for beauty was not excessively lavish of her gifts in our family,- but she possessed those charms and graces bf mind that outshine all beauty's powers, and throw her quite into the shade. That Edward Dennison deeply loved Mabel Richmond was soon quite evident, and that she as sincerely returned his affection was-as true. I rejoiced to see these lovers together, and helped forward their passion all in my power; but I often pitied poor Robert, when I saw his friend forsaking his soci- ety, evening after evening, for that of my cousin Mabel. He was soon provided for, however, and in a manner as unex- pected to me as it was delightful. I have not mentioned my old friend Katherine Merton for a long time; but I have not forgotten her in the' least. Scarcely ia month had elapsed, since our separation, with- out my receiving a long, affectionate letter from her. I had written to her concerning my troubles as fast as they occurred, and, in return, had met with her unwearied sympathy and affection. Kate had been for many months residing at the South with her mother; but, as that mother's health was now nearly re, f * z BOSTON COMMON. 481 stored, they started for home, and arrived in Boston about the last of January. Mrs. Merton immediately pursued her journey home, as her family were anxiously awaiting her return; but Katherine was, by our earnest solicitations, prevailed upon to remain with us for the rest of the winter. In adding this cherished friend to our circle, my joy was now complete. Every link was there; all were most happily united. Kate soon admired Ernest as much as I had wished her to; and he, in return, was equally pleased with her. I had told her, in a jesting manner, soon after her arrival. that I was going to introduce her to a very fine gentleman. 4 Poor fellow!" said I, ",he is so very lonely, that you must try and fall in love with him immediately. Handsome, intellectual, and with other qualities suited to your taste, he is just the man for you." "Poh!" answered my invulnerable Katio, "I shall not fall in love to please you; so set your heart at rest, my little match-maker!" "O, yes, you will, Katherine! I am quite determined that this conquering hero shall take your heart by storm. So pre- pare yourself for a serious struggle." !" O, Nellie, how very strangely you talk! I shall never' love,--never! It is quite too late, at my time of life, to think of falling in love, as you term it." 'We shall see, we shall see, my venerable lady!"I replied. And we did see; for Robert Everett and Katherine Mert ton were. introduced to each other, and I heard no more " page: 482-483[View Page 482-483] 482' BOSTON COMM O . of his loneliness. He and my friend were forever together, and seemed quite unmindful that there were any other per. sons in the world but themselves who had a claim upon their attention. - ' CHAPTER XLIX. "Just then, young Love himself came by, And cast on Youth a smiling eye: Who could resist that glance's ray? In vain did Age his warning say, Repentance! Repentance! Youth, laughing, went with Love away." THOMAS MOORE. "WELL, Katie," said I, one morning, about a month after her arrival, " for whom are you marking those handkerchiefs, pray? One would suppose they were for the President, you take such pains with them." Katie looked up, and blushed. " O," she replied, ' they are for only Mr. Everett!" J "Only Mr. Everett! Indeed - but I heard him tell you last evening to call him only Robert, did I not?" Kate laughed. "Well, and if you did, where is- the harm, pray?" "None in the world. I think it a very good plan, I 'm sure. You call Ernest and Edward by their given names; why not call Robert by his? It seems quite strange, how- ever, that you had to be told to do it. I think Robert a very fine name, don't you, Kate?" page: 484-485[View Page 484-485] 484 BOSTON COMMON. "Why, no- not exactly. It sounds too much like , Rob. ert, the Black Pirate,' or I Roberto, the Bandit,' or something of that sort, to suit my taste." "No pirate or bandit, at all. It is a pretty name, and a musical name, and a fine, pleasant gentleman who bears it - hey, Kate?" ' "Why, yes; he's well enough, and pleasant enough." "And a delightful companion - handsome; agreeable, &c.?" "I do not know," answered Kate, as she made a very large "R," uncommonly black, I thought. "You do not know? I wonder who does, if you do not. You have tested his companionship by the hour together; and one would suppose you thought it the best in the world, for you seem to be entirely absorbed in what he is saying,- so'much so, that you have no time to attend even to my simple wants and requests." "O, Helen! how can you?" "It's a fact. For instance: last evening you sat in a corner of the sofa with him more than two hours. Ernest, Edward, and Mabel, had gone out; Wilhe was asleep; and there sat your cherished friend Helen, with not a soul to speak to, for those long, long hours. "Well, I bore it as long as I could, and then resolved, lover or no lover, boldly to stand up for my own rights. With all my bravery, however, my resolution failed me as I ap- proached the sofa. After considering a moment, as all wise people do, I plucked up the courage to speak. My dear Katherine,' said I, in the sweetest of voices, , will you lend me your Henriade a few moments?' My words were very soft, and my request quite modest; but I might as well have ] BOSTON C0MMON. 485 spoken- to the winds, for you paid not the slightest heed to me. I repeated my question; but still you heard me not. I then thought of some other plan; so I turned, suddenly, and tipped over a chair at the other corner of the room. Fearing for my rashness, however, I immediately darted behind the window-curtain. This experiment was as unlucky as the other. You only turned slightly around, and uttered the little word 'scat!' Voila chose d'extraordinaire, to think that you should say, scat' to your own Helen! I comforted myself, however, by thinking that none but a Robert Everett could be the cause of your using such language to your friend." "Helen," said Kate, with -much seriousness, "you are a saucy Helen, and a dear Helen, and a good, tormenting Helen; but I will-yes, I think I will tell you all about it, if you will leave jesting, and listen. Can you?" "De tout mon coeur, ma belle." / "Well, then, Robert and myself are engaged; and it was that that engaged us so very closely, in conversation, last evening." I embraced her. "Dearest Kate, you are'a noble pair, \ and quite worthy of each other. But do you love him?" "( He loves me, and - and I love him, too, Nell. But what are you smiling at, and in what channel of sarcasm are your thoughts running now?" - "I smiling, Kate!--I sarcastic! I am so very glad to hear of your happiness, that I will not even accuse you of incon- sistency." "Inconsistent, Nellie I what mean you?" "Nothing in particular; only that you have told me, time "* page: 486-487[View Page 486-487] 486 BOSTON COMMON. and time again, you never would, and never could, and never should love, you know." "O, nonsense, Nellie! But I did not know Robert then." "I am well aware of that; and, as there never was another Robert like yours,-- at least, in your estimation, - you are forgiven. And I hope you will be so very happy, my Kate, so very joyous!-0 , I wish you all the blessings in the world!" "Thank you, Helen." And so Kate really loved, at last, and was engaged; and a happy company were we, that winter. How quickly did the golden moments speed, and how very soon the days began to grow longer and warmer! and, at last, the bright April had come, with its sunshine and showers, its opening buds and tender blossoms; and the brooks had broken their icy fetters, and the birds were building their nests, and singing their love-songs to each other, ere our .little circle was broken up. Kate and myself were about to separate once more. She was going home, to spend her- last summer in sweet Linden, and to prepare for her bridal. Before her departure, Mrs. Everett, Robert's mother, was to have a large party, to which we were all invited. I wished to go, on Katie's account, and wanted very much to know whether Ernest would accompany us or not. I went into his study, determined to find out his mind upon the sub- ject without going to much trouble about it. He was writing, and only glanced at me with a smile as I entered, and again resumed his employment. Was there ever anything so x BOSTON COM MON . 487 provoking? "What can I do," thought I, "to arrest his at- tention? O, I know!" I turned about quickly, and upset two or three dozen sheets of written paper, which he had arranged very nicely together. "Helen, you little mischief!" said he, looking up. I stood calmly gazing at- the disaster. "It is not pretty for ministers to call names, Ernest," said I. He laughed. "Are n't you going to pick up those papers, and sort them together as they were before, Helen?" "No, certainly not, without your assistance." "I! I should look well lowering my dignity by stooping to the floor to assist you in picking up papers! No, no, ma chere; you were just made for that purpose--little, light, and active; the very one to do nice little jobs, like these." "I am not going to do nice little jobs, however, without pay, Master Ernest; so, if you do not come down pretty liberally, I shall give you warning." "Indeed! Well, then, how shall I pay you?- in kisses, or bonbons?" (Neither, cousin Ernest. How can you imagine me so childish? You must go with us all, to-morrow night, to Mrs. Everett's party. -'T is to be a very grand affair, and is Kath- erine's last night; but one, with us, you know." He considered a moment, nibbled the top of his pen, and then resumed his writing. How very provoking! "Ernest, I say, cousin Ernest-I 'll upset two inkstands all over your sermons, if you do not answer me. Will you go? Say yes or no," I continued, putting my hand upon the ink- stands very threateningly. "Say yes or no." page: 488-489[View Page 488-489] 488& BOSTON COMMON. "Yes." "No, you don't really mean it, Ernest, do you?" "r es," "Well, then, you are a nice, great darling; and I will set to rights everything I have disturbed. and then leave you." CHAPTER L. "Come to the banquet all, And revel out the night." "EE'S ALEXANDER. "-Mourn I may that from her features All the angel-light is gone; But I chide not. Human creatures Are not angels. She was none. Women have so many natures! I think she loved me well, with one."- OWEN MEREDITH. THE evening of the party arrived, and we dressed early, as Kate wished to be there among the first. I wasTeady before her, and descended to the drawing-room. Ernest was there, and alone. He smiled, as I entered, and, taking my hand, led me to the mirror. "Helen, dear," he said, 9" you are looking extremely well, to-night. See how a few months of quiet rest and happiness have changed your whole appearance! Your eyes beam with light and joy, your cheek is rosy with health, and a smile of happiness is playing around your mouth. You are very much changed, my little Nellie, -you are really pretty." I looked in the mirror: with Ernest, and was again much struck with the strong resemblanice we bore to each other. I glanced at him affectionately. page: 490-491[View Page 490-491] :ov - BOSTON COMMON. " We should have had the same mother, dear Ernest," said " We are wonderfully alike. Do you not think so ?" I do, Helen, - have ever thought so. We will continue to resemble each other, not only in features, but in our virtues." When we arrived at 1Mrs. Everett's, only a few were there They soon began to pour in, however; and, in a short time, her large and elegant parlors were filled with the elite -of the city. Among the guests I recognized several old friends, and once more renewed my acquaintance with them. I was sitting upon a sofa, conversing with my cousin Mabel, when lArs. John Smith was announced. I cast my eyes in. voluntarily towards the door, and, sure enough, there stood Letitia! She was dressed in a rich garnet-velvet robe, and her diamonds and feathers made the greatest display in the room. -I glanced at my simple attire, then at Mabel's, and even at Katherine's, the queen of the evening. We were all dressed alike, in plain whitesatin, with natural flowers. "Can it be possible," thought I, ,t that that fashionably. dressed lady is the poor, widowed Letitia Roscoe, who so im- ploringly sought my protection, a few years since ? But so sgoes the world ." ALetitia was much larger than when she parted from me. She had grown quite robust, and looked and acted the lady of consequence to perfection. In a few moments she had espied me, and was looking very pale. "Let 's go into the refreshment-room, whispered my ousin, and be away from her, or she may try to renew her acquaint. ance with you. I am very desirous of avoiding wh at must be to us all an extremely disagreeable rencounter." BO,STON COMMON. 491 We seated ourselves at one of the tables, and whiles here were surprised to hear the following conversation, which took place between a couple of persons who had entered, unobserved by us, and stood within the curtains of the win. dow. "And so," said the voice of Mrs. John Smith to her comrn- panion, "Robert Everett is really engaged to that rustic beauty, Miss Merton, is he?" 4"Yes, I learned it from the very best authority. She has been visiting all winter at Mr. Richmond's, and they say that the match was begun and consummated there. Our new minister seems, to be the raging star just now, and can per- form wonders, I suppose." "He is a great, solemn-looking individual. I do not think him such a divinity, do you?" "Mr. Richmond stands very high in this city, Mrs. Smith, -is in the best society here, and much beloved by his people. All the girls are dying after him -, but he is going to marry that cousin of his, Mrs. Hastings." "Indeed! you quite surprise me. But are you very sure of that?" "Yes; at least, everybody says so. She has been married, but her husband is either dead or divorced from her, and she and the minister are to be united. They say it will be a great time when they are married; for years ago, when Mrs. Has- tings was a girl, they were engaged." - ' ' O, I do, not believe he will ever marry her," said Mrs. Smith, amiably. "Indeed, I know he won't," she added, dropping her voice to a whisper, and speakin g some words I ould nodt-understand. - -.- . J * t]:i page: 492-493[View Page 492-493] "2 BOSTON COMMON. "You don't say so!" rejoined her auditor. ,' O, well, Ernest Richmond is not like any other man. He is very wilful and eccentric, and will marry her all the quicker, now that she has been unfortunate." "Well, perhaps it may be as you say," rejoined Mrs. Smith. "I used to be somewhat acquainted with Helen Hastings. I think I will go and speak to her; for, if she is to be our new minister's wife, I shall have to play the amiable to her, Ii suppose." Mabel and I looked at each other and laughed heartily, as the great lady and her informant swept from the room. We sought the parlor, and found Ernest standing among a circle of the talented of the city. They were all listening atten. tively to the words of wisdom that were flowing from his elo. quent tongue. We joined the group, and were soon as deeply interested as the others. Suddenly I felt my hand grasped, and the voice of Ernest whispered in my ear, "Helen, Mrs. John Smith is coming towards you; are you prepared to meet her?" "What shall I say to her, Ernest?" "What you please, my dear. Use your own discretion about it." Just then Mrs. Smith came sailing up to me. S"Why, my dearest Mrs. Hastings,"' said she, " how very delighted I am to see you! Are you well?" I looked her full in the face one'moment, as if to search her heart. She evidently read what was passing in mine, and her face was instantly covered with blushes. "I am very well," I replied, , and trust you are also." BOSTON COMMON. 493 She recovered somewhat from her confusion, and endeavored to appear calm. "I did not know of your arrival, dear Helen," said she. "How long have you been in the city, pray?" it Nearly a year," I replied. ( A year! and I not know of it? Naughty girl, why did you not inform me of your existence before?" "I did," I answered, still gazing her full in the face. She dropped her eyes upon the carpet, and said: "I never received one word of intelligence from you, Helen, and did not know of your being in the city until I saw your familiar face aere this evening." I looked at her quickly, and this time there was sternness i in my voice, as I replied: "We will suspend further conversation, Mrs. Smith, if you please; but the little note which you threw into the fire, one cold night last winter, was the one which would have informed you that both Willie and-myself were in the city." Letitia grew pale as death, and, without speaking or even looking at me again, turned quickly and left the room. A few moments afterwards, I heard a servant announce Mrs. John Smith's carriage. A rumor immediately spread through the rooms that Mrs. Smith had been suddenly taken ill and gone home. There were but few in those crowded rooms who understood the real cause of her sudden exit; but those few made no comments, and the party went on as gayly as before. At. eleven o'clock the company dispersed, and we returned once more to our quiet home. Katie left us the next day, and for a long time we were quite inconsolable for her de. 42 page: 494-495[View Page 494-495] "4 BOSTON COMMON. parture.. We comforted ourselves, however, by thinking that she would soon be back again to live always with us; and, resuming our former occupations, time went with us as merrily as ever. To C HA?T E R L I. ' Dissembled quiet sits upon my mind; My sorrows to my eyes no passage find, But sink within.'; ONE evening, about the last of April, Ernest was called to visit a sick person. "I may be gone later than usual, so do not sit up for me, Nellie," said he. - "O, I would rather, if you please, Ernest,"' I answered. You will be cold and hungry when you return, and I will be up to make tea for you." He departed, and I found an interesting book with which to beguile the hours until his return. Edward. and Mabel had gone out, Wilhe was asleep, and I was quite alone in the drawing-room. I sat quietly reading until the lovers came in. They were in high spirits, and recounted some laughable adventure which they had just witnessed. At length Edward arose,! and, bidding us good-night, returned home. Soon after, Mabel, complaining of fatigue, retired to her chamber, while : I sat still reading I When the clock struck eleven, I arose quickly and opened ax the window to look for Ernest.- HRe was nowhere in sight; 'and, wondering where he could be so late, I stole 'into the ] page: 496-497[View Page 496-497] "6 BOSTON COMMON. sitting-room, where we always kept a fire, and began to pre. pare his supper. I made some tea, toasted a few slices of bread, and, fixing it exactly as I knew he liked it, placed it in a covered dish by the fire to keep warm, I then put two cups and plates upondthe little table; for Ernest always liked to have me sit with him. I placed the sugar-bowl and milk-pitcher upon the table likewise; and, when all Was ready, seated myself upon a little cricket to wait for Ernest. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; for when I awoke Ernest had entered, and was gazing sadly upon me. I started, and, arising, took his hand in mine. It was cold as ice. "I am so glad you have come, dear coz!" said I. "I was afraid you had met with some disagreeable adventure; and, indeed, you have remained out too long, for your hand is quite cold. Let me take off your hat and cloak. Now, sit down in this easy-chair, and warm your feet. Don't that fire look nice?" Ernest submitted to my attentions very quietly,. and , watched me as I uncovered the toast and poured out the tea. "Now, cousin mine," said I, ,c just wheel that chair around, and see if I do not make the best toast in the world. I want you to eat it all; for I am not in the least hungry, and shall not help you to-night." I handed Ernest a cup of tea, and, as I did so, glanced a second at his face. It was pale as death. I set down the' cup, and arose. "Why, Ernest," said I, in a trembling voice, " what has come over you?-you look so pale, so unhappy!"' - BOSTON COMMON. 497 "Do I?" said he, half-smiling. It Well, I am a little sick to-night, and cannot eat your nice toast, cousin Nell. You will have to give it, in all its goodness, to the cat!" "Give my toast to the cat? I 'll not do it, even to please you, Ernest. But are you really ill?" ("I am not well, surely; "but it will soon pass off. Yes, it must pass off, or I shall die," he continued. 4"Give me my night-lamp, and good-by, my dear Nellie, - that is, good-night, I mean. Go right away to bed, Nellie, and, do you hear, go to sleep. Do not keep awake a moment." Ernest took- the lamp and left the sitting-room, while I remained behind a few moments to set all to-rights. "How strangely Ernest looked and spoke to-ni'ght!" thought I. ' I wonder what could have been the matter with him? Perhaps he has just witnessed a scene of suffering, or a death-bed, and it has affected him almost to illness. But what made him look at me so sadly, and speak so incoherently, as if he scarcely knew what he said? Poor Ernest! 'he must tell me all about it, to-morrow." I took the lamp, and sought my chamber. Little Willie was sleeping so calmly, and looking so happy, that it soothed my somewhat troubled thoughts to look upon him. A strange and undefinable feeling that all was not right had taken pos- session of me ; but I banished it, and, as it was now quite late, went to sleep. Ernest looked so pale, and ate so little breakfast, the next morning, that both Mabel and myself were quite alarmed. We said notaing to him, however, thinking that if it were necessary for us to know the cause of his depression he would tell us., 42* a, - page: 498-499[View Page 498-499] vuoxAN Cu OMM A ON. As soon as breakfast was over he arose, and, without a word, went into his study, and shut the door. I sat down on a low stool, and burst into tears. 'What is the matter between you and Ernest?" said Mabel; , you have not offended him, have You, Nellie?" O, O I know not! sobbed I. "Something dreadful must have happened. He has not spoken to me to-day, or noticed Willie in the least." Mabel tried to comfort me; but I felt a gloom upon my spirits, which all her kind words could not erase. I busied myself as usual; but nothing went right. In the absence of Ernest's smile I had lost my motive for exertion, and every. thing had acquired a dull, sluggish motion. When dinner was ready, Ernest sent word that we must eat without him, for he should not dine with us that day. Mabel and I looked inquiringly at each other, but said nothing, and our dinner was scarcely tasted. It was a rainy afternoon, and as I sat gazing from the. -win- dow, I felt a little of the old apathy which I had experienced some five monthsago creeping over me. An idea that some- thing was hanging over us, that something was about to mar our peace, had fastened itself upon my mind, and I found it impossible to shake it off. The afternoon passed in gloomy meditations, and in watching the big drops of rain, as they fell in abundance upon the earth. Ernest appeared at the tea-table, and seemed much calner than in the morning. The paleness had soimewhat abated, and his appetite had returned in a measure. He said but little, however, and when he did speak his voice seemed to take heart. After tea he put on his coat and hat, and said, turning to me: "I am going out a while; and, Helen,- you need not sit up for me to-night. I shall not return until quite late, and I do not wish to deprive you of your natural rest, child." "O, I would mnuch rather sit up!" said I. i It would be far preferable to going to bed and leaving you to come home without having your tea." "I shall not require any tea to-night; and, Nellie, be sure you go to bed. Mind I do not find you sitting up when I return." He departed; and, after passing a dreary evening, trying- -- in vain to conjecture the cause of Ernest's depression, Mabel . and myself retired, leaving a servant to attend to Ernest when he returned. Two or three days passed in this manner. Ernest said but little, ate less, and shut himself -closely in his study nearly all X day. Every evening, after leaving a message for Mabel and myself not to sit up for him, he went out; and every morn- ing, after these nocturnal visits, he would seem more and more depressed. A deep gloom hung over our once happy household. Mabel pursued her duties in silence, while I spent more than half my time in meditation and weeping. At length, from his continued coldness, I began to think that . I had in some way displeased him, and that he .had taken this : method of punishing me. But what could it be? I was con- sdeous of no wrong. I had said nothing; had attended to all my duties with unwearied promptitude; had watched every i word to see that it was right; had studied to please him in page: 500-501[View Page 500-501] vvv BOSTON COMM ON. every way. Then the thought struck me: "Perhaps my ward- robe is not in order. I may nothave appeared quite so nice lately as Ernest could wish. --But no; everything is right as far as that is concerned, and even if it were not, a trifling neglect in this respect would not cause Ernest to look pale, and lose his appetite." Saturday morning arrived, and I knew that, as Ernest was more engaged on this day than any other, he would' probably require my assistance. The morning passed, however, without my being summoned, as usual; and, fearing that Ernest might really need me, and yet, in his absence of mind, forget to call me, I determined to seek him myself, and ascertain, if possi, ble, what was the cause of his estrangement. I took my way to the study, but when opposite the door dared not venture in. I stood there a few moments, and, not hearing any noise, knocked lightly. No answer. A minute or two passed, and the knock was repeated. "Come in," said the voice of Ernest; and, tremblingly, I opened the door, and stood upon the threshold. Ernest raised his eyes to me. "Well, Helen," said he, , what do you want?" "'Well, Helen, what do you want?' Why, what a cold salutation! Ernest, you know that I always copy your ser- mons,- Saturdays; and I have come to write now, if you wish." "'I am obliged to you, Helen, but shall not require your services to-day. I have been quite diligent myself, this week." He turned towards the table, and, without another word or look, recommenced his writing. I retreated, and closed the door; but his coldness had smote upon my heart, and made it sick. 1 sought my room, and wept for hours over this strange coppuct. Supper-time came; but I determined not to go down, for my eyes would but betray my weeping to Ernest, and I wished to spare him even this annoyance. Mabel came up to my room. "Why, Nellie," said she, ,' bathed in tears! Are you ill?" "Yes, Mabel; I am sick- sick at heart." "Are n't you coming down to tea?" "Has Ernest asked for me?" "No; he said not a word, but, as soon as supper was over, went immediately out." "Mabel, Ernest's strange manner is killing me. I cannot live, and suffer another week as I have this. What can have occurred to make him forget my presence at the tea-table?" "I know not, indeed ; but time will tell, I hope. Something ;: ^ serious must have taken place; but I know Ernest's great and noble nature too well to think he will keep us long in suspense. ?/ We shall soon know all." The Sabbath came, and we all went, as usual, to church. For the first time I perceived that there was a something lack- ing in Ernest's sermon, - something of the spirit that always pervaded his other discourses, something of the fervor.: It had not the usual depth and pointedness; and, full of a new grief concerning the state of Ernest's mind, I applied to Mabel. ( Ernest is not losing his intellectual powers, is he, Mabel? He has studied so hard, I fear he will be insane." "No, indeed; that cannot be!" "( But did you not notice to-day that his sermon was not so deep and impressive as usual?" * I did not, indeed. It must have been imagination. I think his sermons always beautiful, always deep, and to the purpose." page: 502-503[View Page 502-503] --O STON COMON. -Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, passed in the same manner. Ernest sat alone all day in- his study, and, after taking a slight supper, went out, and would be gone for hours. He never spoke to Mabel and myself, seldom looked at us; and even the playfulness of his pet Willie seemed painfully to affect him ie - On Thursday afternoon, I was very much surprised and delighted by the arrival of my father, aother, and sister Con- stance. This event made me very happy; for anything was welcome now, especially a visit from my beloved parents, whom I had pt seen for nearly a year. My father a'nd mother both seemed so happy, that I en- deavored to shake off a little of the gloom that enshrouded my own heart, and sltrove to appear cheerful. My mother was quite delighted with my appearance. "You are looking finely, Helen," said she. "You have grown round and plump, and your eyes beam so brightly that I declare it is quite a pleasure to see you. But where is Ernest? I have not seen himn in many years, and I am very impatient to behold my new son-in-law, and your husband, "hat is to be, Nellie. 'Ah! how you blush! but we know all thout it. Do not be afraid to speak your mind before us. Cell us of Ernest; we shall never weary of the subject!" "Don't, dear mother, I pray you, don't speak of Ernest." "Why, what is the-matter now? O, I know, and no won- el, poor thing! But I have got some delilltful news for ou both. I ant not going to tell you, however, until I see ou both together; for I long to witness your pleasure." By and by Ernest came in from a walk. Mabel met him - the door, and informed him of the new arrival. Heen., J .V O J V N U\ U VR i1 V ALa . v tered, and greeted my parents so warmly, so affectionately, that I felt the hope once more springing up in my heart that all would yet be well. After tea, as we were all sitting together, my mother told Ernest that she had some pleasant news for us, and that, as we were now together, she would tell us of it. ( I should be most happy to hear it, aunt, if you please," said Ernest. "Well, then," said she, "( Helen is to be legally separated from her husband. The witnesses are obtained, the business concluded, and everything arranged. My daughter will, with- out the least shadow of doubt, be free in about a month; and ID then you and she, Ernest, can fulfil what has long been the wis of iny heart-you can marry." I stole a glance at Ernest, to ascertain what effect this news had upon him. He was actually livid with paleness; and such an expression of woe rested upon his features that I was half frightened to death, and begged my mother to say no more about it, for that the subject was'painful to us both. - "( No doubt, no doubt," she answered; "; but, then, Nellie, your troubles are nearly over, and the' remembrance of them - will soon be a source of happiness rather than pain." But little more was said, and mny parents, being fatigued i with their long journey, retired early. Ernest and myself were thus left alone; for Mabel conducted them to their chamber. As soon as he discovered this, he arose, and paced the room in the greatest agitation for a few moments. Recol- j lecting himself, however, he suddenly grew quite calm; and, - saying "Good-night, Htelen," and taking a lamp, he left the ! drawing-room, and sought his own-study. page: 504-505[View Page 504-505] CHAPTER LII. "Forgiveme, if I cannot better answer than weeping." Rown. "His bold, fair front, and eye sublime, -t Declared absolute rule." lMLTON. I SAT a few moments almost stupefied with grief, and then, rising, paced the floor with hasty and uneven steps. "This has gone on long enough!"I exclaimed. "I must and will have an explanation to-night, if it kills 'me. I will, yesJI will seek Ernest, and insist upon his telling me what terrible evil is hanging over our heads. There may yet be a means of averting it." I moved softly towards the door, and, looking in, beheld Ernest:.in the act of prayer. His back was turned, and I glided in, and, closing the door, walked towards him, and waited for him to notice me. In a few moments Ernest arose, and, with a deep sigh, seated himself in a chair. His eye now fell upon me, for the first time since my entrance. "Helen here!" exclaimed he. "Yes, Ernest," I answered, "I am here; and now, on my knees, I beseech, I implore you, to keep me no longer in this agony of suspense. I entreat you to tell me how I have BOSTON COMMON. 505 offended you, what I have done to incur your displeasure, and I will repair it, even with the sacrifice of life. O, Ernest, dear Ernest,-pity me, and refuse me not!" He stooped, and, raising me tenderly in his arms, seated me in a chair. u Nellie, my poor child," said he, "you have never, by word or deed, done aught to offend me. You need not fear." O( O, Ernest! you have indeed taken a weight from my heart. And now please tell me what can have occurred to make you so gloomy - so utterly miserable." He made no reply. I continued. "Ernest, you have grown weary-of my affection - of my deep devotion. Ernest, you are changed; you no longer love me." He started, and gazed eagerly in my face. - "d Helen," said he, " you wrong me. Heaven is my witness that, since the first time I -saw you, my love has never known diminu or change, but has grown stronger and stronger each da: ' Then you do still love me, Ernest?" ... "Such a love as mine, Nellie, knows no change - dreams not of such a thing. It will last as long as my life, j: But, Nellie, although I would die to save you an hour's grief, yet you must leave me." Leave you, Ernest, my own darling Ernest? Never!" ( Helen, you must again go forth into the world; must again brave its dangers; must - O, my God, that I should live to say it! -must again spend days, perhaps years, far from the heart that you'leave withering behind; must en. counter scorn, grief, and poverty, far from the one who would barter every hope of happiness here to be allowed to protect you; must never speak, or even think of me, again." 43 page: 506-507[View Page 506-507] 506 BOSTON COMMON. ' O, Ernest, alas! your fearful words are killing me! I can never leave you, whatever may have occurred. I will brave danger, poverty, suffering, the world's scorn, even crime itself, so that I may never leave you, my own dear Ernest!" "But, Helen, no danger lurks around my path; poverty dares not enter my home; scorn never directs its envenomed shaft towards me; crime never stained this heart; and yet, Helen, you must leave me." "Ernest, I cannot." "Helen, yog must,." "I will not." "Helen, you shall." I sank at his feet. ', In Heaven's name, Ernest," said I, "tell ite what you mean! Are you insane, or only ill? or do ^wish to be forever alone? -Because, if you have lost the fi e; glorious intellect which God gave you, I will watch over you so tenderly, talk with you so eloquently, and be vith you so constantly, that you will soon be restored; your powers of mind will come back, at my bidding, in all their former glory; and if they do not, dear Ernest, you shall have mine. I will breathe all my mind and soul into yours, and be con- tent to sit in midnight darkness, so that you are restored and I may'not leave you. Are you ill?-I will watch over you so carefully, sing, to you so softly, and guard you so affec- tionately, that you will soon feel sweet-health bounding once more through your veins. Or do you wish to be alone?--- Then, dear Ernest, let me but breathe the same air with you; let me live where I can minister to your comforts; let me watch for your coming footsteps; let me hear the sound of BOSTON COM MON. 507 that voice; let me hover around you with every little affec- tion: and I will be content to be invisible, - will never let you behold my face. I will arrange your study; keep the books in perfect order; copy your sermons when you are away; sing to you when you are at home, and yet conceal myself from your eyes; will, in short, be and do everything you wish, save this one thing-I can never, never leave you!" Ernest was gazing at'me tenderly while I spoke; and, when I had concluded, his head dropped upon his breast, and heavy sighs escaped from his heart. He looked me earnestly in the face, and love beamed from every lineament of his own. He spoke, and my heart stood still to catch the words. ("Helen, no words can express the deep love I bear, and ever have borne, for you; or the wild joy that bounds through this heart, as it listens to the words of tenderness and de- votion breathed from your lips. And yet Helen, it is my sincere wish, my earnest desire, -nay, more, my heartfelt prayer, that you leave me, and leave me at once! ' I arose, and wildly paced the room. "Then I must indeed go," I exclaimed, "( since Ernest desires it, since he prays for it. Yes, I must leave him; must again go forth into the world, moneyless and shelterless; must again encounter pov- erty and grief; must again live without love and sympathy; must die alone. O, ErnestU dear Ernest!" I went up to him. I kissed his forehead wildly; I twined my arms around him in frantic grief; I nestled close in his bosom, and played with the bright curls that lay upon his brow. "O, Ernest," I sobbed, ( say no more to me, but let me die" here, and now; for I cannot live away from you!" page: 508-509[View Page 508-509] 508 BOSTON COMMON. Again strong emotion shook that powerful frame, - again did hot, burning tears roll slowly from his eyes, and again did his strong will struggle with his grief for a mastery. In a few moments he had conquered. His emotion ceased; the tears died away, and his heart was still, save a dull, irreg- ular beating. He slowly unclosed my clinging arms; he separated me from his heart, and arose. I fell to the floor in despair. I saw that Ernest was resolute,- that a little of the,old tyranny had come back, - that I was in presence of a strong, gigantic spirit, and that, as on. similar occasions, I must yield. I lay still, and awaited my doom, as it fell from that stern man's lips. , Helen, dearest, I love you, as I said before, truly and devotedly. I would sacrifice my life to spare you an hour's anguish. I would be content to suffer every ill, every hard- ship, rather than part from you;--but, Helen, there is a bound even to my wild love. I can give you up for duty's sake. I can reject all your affection, and bid you go from my presence, if it be God's will;--and, Helen, it is! He has commanded ime to yield you up, -to forego every hope of anticipated happiness, - to wreck your heart and my own with grief: and, though it draws the life-blood from my veins, though it kills me, and you, too, my Helen, you must go, and go never to return,- unless-- unless -" I looked at him eagerly, as if to catch one word of hope. There was none for me, however, and I tearfully awaited the conclusion. . ( That can hardly be," he muttered; "( and God grant that I may root so vile, so selfish a wish from my heart!" BOSTON C0-MMON. 509 He paced the room to and fro, as if in deep thought; then approaching me, he raised me tenderly from the floor, and seated me in a chair. ," Helen," said he, " your husband is in the city --has been here for more than a month. Rather more than a week ago, I was sent for to visit a sick man. I entered a miserable old house, in a mean part of the city, and, on a rickety bedstead, with poverty indelibly stamped upon every article, I beheld your husband. I scarcely recognized him, he was so changed; but he soon convinced me of his identity. ,He told me a long tale of suffering and misery,-told me that his intemperate habits had ruined his health, and that he feared he was now dying;l but that, in view of so great and awful a change, he had truly and sincerely repented of his errors: that nothing could now tempt him to touch a drop of the poison that had so ruined him; that he would abandon all his habits,--swearing, gambling, infidelity, &c.,- and never think or dream of another, save his own wife; that you were innocent and pure; that you had sacrificed riches, happiness, almost life, for him; and that all he now lived or hoped for was that wife's forgiveness. "'Now,' continued the wretched man, ' I am groping in spiritual darkness,-I am seeking for light,--I am striving for eternal peace. Will you, Mr. Richmond,' he continued, be my adviser? Will you come here every night, and pray with me, and talk to me of the mercy of God? Will you strive, in obedience to your holy calling, to bring peace and pardon to my weary, sin-laden heart? O, Mr. Richmond, if you .will but consent to do this, my blessings throughout 43* page: 510-511[View Page 510-511] 510 B OSTON COMMON. eternity shall be yours! In pity, in mercy, refuse me not this precious boon!' "What was I to do, Helen? I returned to my home; but the scene I had witnessed almost paralyzed my senses. I was not myself. I scarcely knew what I said or did; but I retired to my room, and for several days pondered the sub- ject deeply. "If I struggle with and for this man, thought I, he will, perhaps, recover; and, in the enjoyment of health, happiness, and religion, will demand his wife. He would, should he re- pent of his misdeeds and become a true Christian, have an undoubted right to her; and thus, by my devotion to him, I shall throw away the solace of my life, my hopes of earthly happiness, and Helen's, also. Must I make this great sac- rifice? Shall I be Justified in refusing to restore this man to his wife - to his God? "Alas! Helen, what was my conclusion? It was this: that my happiness, or even- yours, which was dearer to me than my own, was as nothing, compared with an eternity of bliss to Roland,- which might be lost to him if I refused to perform my duty; that my allegiance to God would not per- mit me to throw away this soul; that I had vowed to win all the souls in my power to him, and that my sorrows or pleasures must not stand in the way of his glory. "To know and understand my duty, Helen, was to decide in favor-of that duty. I resolved that I would not fail to embrace the opportunity here presented; but that I would, without one particle of selfishness, devote all the energies of my soul to this man's eternal welfare. "I did so. Night after night I visited him, read to him, BOSTON COMMON. . 5" prayed with him, and endeavored to show him the light of the Gospel. I was enabled, by prayer and constant watchfulness, to be faithful. Roland Hastings is now a Christian! By the- blessing of God,-he has now repented, and forsaken his evil ways; and is as sincere and earnest a spirit as I have ever met with. "The deep peace which religion has brought to his mind has caused him partially to recover; and he now prays, he entreats for you, his wife. He longs for your presence once more. He earnestly desires to pour into your heart the joys and peace which fill his own. He wishes to beg forgiveness for past offences; and to repay your sacrifices, your suffer- ings, and your heart-felt petitions, by pouring into your ear the glorious news that he has been brought home, even at the eleventh hour, and that he is now ready to spend his life, his all, in the service of God! "Your prayers, my Helen, are answered. Years ago, you implored God to take away riches, honor, happiness, and all, but to give you the blessed assurance that your husband was saved. He, in his infinite merey, lent an ear to that earnest, that unselfish petition, and granted it. Bt he has demanded, in return for the boon, a great sacrifice of you. He has caused your heart to glow with love for another;: and now he takes away all your possessions, he leaves you in poverty and suffering, and even commands you to root from your heart every vestige of love it feels for that other, and to return to that husband who has so deeply wronged you,--to forgive him,- to watch and pray over him, as heretofore, --to en- courage and strengthen this newly-fledged spirit, and to never leave it until sure of its eternal happiness. page: 512-513[View Page 512-513] 512 BOSTON COMMON. -" :This seems hard, my Helen, but it s right; and although bittel disappointment and suffering is, and will be, yours, yet the cup is still tempered with mercy. Although your heart, your vows, and your allegiance, are another's, yet you return no more to the intemperate, the gambler, the unfaithful, but to the sincere Christian,--to the tender spirit, whose sins have been washed in the blood of the Lamb, and whom it is -your duty to perfect, if, possible, in the new and glorious faith he has--chosen. Now, my Helen, in view of your solemn duty, in view of God's holy will, can you still stretch forth your hands in helplessness, and entreat to be spared from this trial? No, Helen, let me see that noble strength of mind for which I always gave you credit, and, above all, that duty which you owe to God, conquering and obliterating every selfish emo-. tion. Let us arise, my Helen, and be as alike in mind, our sense of duty, and in obedience to its requirements, as we re in features. Let us reflect that, if we give up all our "arthly happiness, every blessing here, we shall only have [one hat -was required of us,-we shall not have paid aoek one tithe of the mighty debt we owe Him. Let us take the sacrifice, although it prostrates, kills us; let us ralk boldly on, and fulfil God's will to the utmost of our ower. 4 But we shall not die, my Helen; we shall live, and may t be united. At the present, however, cast all such oughts entirely from your mind, being comforted by the suranee that, in a few more months, or years at the longest, we have been faithful, we shalt indeed be united, never )re to part, in the heavens, where our souls, purified from BOSTON COMMON. 513 the dross of earthly passion, will be capable of enjoying their well-earned reward. And now, Helen, my beloved - " He arose, and, gathering my half-fainting form to his heart, gave me one long, farewell look; and then, kneeling, breathed a deep, earnest prayer to the Father of spirits. He, laid the sacrifice upon the altar, and only asked, only hoped, that it might be accepted in the spirit in which it was given. Strange, that, in themidst of this grief and misery, in the midst of this sundering of ties so tender, I should feel so calm; strange, that the deep, sublime spirit of Ernest had power at any time to quell the wild billows of passion and rebellion in my breast, and to soothe its deep, untold anguish. I spoke to him, and my voice was firm and unshaken. How could it be otherwise in his presence? : Ernest, I will do your bidding. I will make the sacri- fie, and endeavor to make it willingly; I will fulfil my duty, and do what God and right require of me; and, after that, will still live on, struggle on, waiting and hoping only for the glorious consummation." "My own noble Helen, we are indeed fitted for each other, and our reward is sure. Now, sit bywmy side a few moments, i while I relate to you what arrangements I have made for your, comfort. ( In view of the approaching reunion with your husband, I have hired and fitted up a small cottage near the Common you both love so well. I shall see that every want is sup-:' plied during Roland's convalescence, and even after that, should it be necessary. He will probably, however, feel more independence and satisfaction in providing for the wants of his family himself. page: 514-515[View Page 514-515] 514 BOSTON COMM ON. "Now, Helen, I have told Roland that I would restore him his wife; I have pitied his feelings as a parent, and promised him his child; and, although it wrings my heart to part with you and that sweet little cherub, whose infantine caresses -have twined themselves around my heart so closely, yet go, my Helen, go; and, when you are indeed gone, I shall con- sider that I have performed Harry's dying request towards you, - that I have, tried and succeeded in keeping you in the paths of duty. i"And, Helen, I must not see you again,- at least, not for the present. My heart is tender, and, I fear, not so strong as heretofore. I must absent myself from you; must not let the thoughts of your pure love unnerve me; must not subject myself to any more trials, but strive to fulfil my ministerial duties with as much faithfulness as though this bitter agony had not been, - as if the heart beating in my- breast had not been wounded." I understood him. "I will go at once, dear Ernest," said I. "I will, even though it be late, commence my work im- mediately." "You are quite right, Helen," he answered, in a firm tone; "that is the way; begin at once, and the bitterness will sooner be past." I retired to my chamber, and, seating myself at my writ- ing-desk, penned rapidly a few lines to my dear parents. Then, wrapping my shawl about me, and taking my sleeping child in my arms, I descended once more to the study. The carriage was, by Ernest's order, already in waiting. "i Your trunks shall be sent to-morrow, Helen," said he, taking the child in his arms. BOSTON C OMMO N 515 e w alked to the carriage, and, kissing Willie, and breath- ing a blessng over him , laid him softly upon the cushions. jH e then folded me in hi s arms,-and, saying "GCod forever bless you, m y own little Nllie " put me into the carriage and turned away. ', - As * 8 page: 516-517[View Page 516-517] CHAPTER LIII. : Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him ? till seven times ? "Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee until seven times, but until seventy times seven." MATTHEW 18: 21, 22. I saNK back, and, in spite of my resolution, my religion and Ernest's wish to the contrary, a cold, dismal feeling took possession of my heart, which I endeavored in vain to shake The idea of so soon meeting Roland nearly overcame me. I strove to still my aching heart, and make it obedient to my will, and a little calmness was the result before I arrived, A beautiful cottage was that provided by Ernas kindness and it was quite evident that poverty was not one of the evils I should have to encounter. The carriage stopped, and a neat-looking servant girl canoe to reeigve us. I gave her the babe, and, staggering from the carriage my heart beating with strange emotions, I gained the door. A pretty little parlor, with an inviting sofa, attracted my attention, and I immediately sough t it. I uned my bonne , and thre w it languidly u pon the table. The g irl entered . "Madam," said she, "Mr. Hastings desired me to ask you if you would see him now." Striving to subdue my emotion, I said, "( Certainly, cer- tainly. Tell him that I am -ready." a I stood with my back towards the door, bending over my sleeping child, and striving in vain to still my beating heart, which would tremble in spite of me, when I was conscious of .:] a slight noise in the neighborhood of the door. Still I did not turn; I seemed to be spell-bound to the spot. The per- son advanced, and, when near me, I heard- the words faintly pronounced, "Helen -my wife!" I turned slowly around, and beheld my husband, but so changed, so emaciated, that I scarcely recognized him. He was looking at me tenderly, but with a half-timid expression, I held out my hand. "Roland," said I, "I am glad to see you." "'Helen, dearest Helen," said he, kneeling, "you have come; you have forsaken friends and all, once more to sharel my humble destinies, to pour the balm of consolation into my sad heart, and to help me on in the rugged paths of -life.. Heaven bless you, my Helen! But my many sins against you - can you, will you forgive them, and look upon me with any degree of complacency again? O, my Helen!" He"wept. I looked upon him. Could I behold that one- !{ loved form kneeling at my feet, with pale cheeks and clasped hands? Could .I see that emaciated frame, and look into those sunken eyes,. withhold pity and forgiveness from him? No. I extended my hand, and, through my stream- ing tears, said: . ; 9IX "Roland, my husband, arise. My full and free forgiveness " .i page: 518-519[View Page 518-519] aLre BOSTON COMMMON. you have, and we will never again allude to these distressing subjects. Let the past be buried in oblivion, and let the future bear the record of brighter, happier days." "O, Helen, kind, forgiving Helen! ,now do I see the beauty of the Christian spirit. It i- full of kindness, full of charity, and ever denies itself blessings to, minister to the comfoits of others." He arose. And our boy, Helen, - our Willie?" I placed the babe in his arms. He bent over it in prayer, and for some moments spoke not. Then, kissing its brow, he laid it gently upon the sofa again, and sighed. "O, fool that I have been!" said he, , to barter these sweet blessings for the tempter--to give up wife, child, and home, for the haunts of sin and misery! And now, even now, when I might repent and do better, might' live many years with my family in happiness, I must die!" E "Die, Roland? O no! you are recovering, -at least, so Ernest told me." "No, Helen, 'tis but a delusion. I shall never be well again. My health and strength are gone, and, in the spring- time of manhood, I shall fall--shall leave my precious ones ust when I have begun to value them, just when I have at astlearned to appreciate them, to the mercies of a cold zorld." "Roland, you are sad and weary to-night. This sudden leeting has been too much for your strength. Please return : )your chamber now, and try and obl isome rest; you will el better in the morning." He arose, and, kissing Willie, and bidding me good night, w. 1 L B O T U O a I U . v . JNl I flung myself upon the sofa, and wept. Roland's altered appearance, and the idea of his death, had deeply affected aiid pained me, Ernest had said that he was recovering; but I could see no marks of health in those trembling hands, or in that pale, wasted cheek; and, for the first time, the proba- bility of my husband's death struck upon my heart with a cold and dreary weight. , But I must arise," thought 1, 'and seek my chamber; for to-morrow my new duties commence, and I am firmly resolved that nothing shall be wanting on my part to add to my husband's happiness and comfort. I have made the sacri- fice; and I will not, God helping me, fail in one jot or tittle of my duty towards him." Full of these resolutions, I arose in the morning and descended to Roland's room. He was awake, and I greeted him cheerfully. , Helen," said he, "how fresh and happy you look, this morning;- do you feel so?" i"I am always cheerful, dear Roland, when I am doing right. We can scarcely fail, whatever the circumstances, of being happy at such times, you know." " O, Helen, would to heaven I had understood this before! It would have saved you many suffering hours,--me many sins, and lengthened my life." "Come, come, Roland, no more of that! I am not going to have you continually referring to the past, now while you are so ill; try and et it, and think only of the present. You will be better soon; for I am one of the best nurses in the world, you know, and have brought you, with the blessing of God, through a much more dangerous period than this. You page: 520-521[View Page 520-521] 520 BOSTON COMMON. may yet recover, Roland. Now try and arise, while I get ready your breakfast." I-prepared a nice little repast for him. In eating it he did seem to feel better, and looked more cheerful than I had seen him since my arrival. "Now, Roland," said I, " every warm day we will ram. ble upon the Common. It looks beautifully now. Its shady bowers will soothe and tranquillize your mind; and its cool, healthy -breezes will renovate your frame, and fill it with new life and vigor." Roland sighed. "I have not been in that charming spot for a long time, Helen," said he, ,' and shall be so happy, if permitted to visit it with you once more!" I now left Roland, to explore my new domain. I found it a snug little place, stored with every necessary article for com- fort and use. In the soft couch, the luxurious arm-chair, and beautiful books, I read the hand of love; and; dropping a silent tear for the unhappy Ernest, resolved it should be the last, and again sought my husband. I strove by every convincing argument to make him feel at ease in my society; but he appeared to think that I had been sinned against too deeply ever to forget or forgive it. A little calmness, however, a little cheerfulness, was the result of the morning's conversation; and- I had the pleasure of seeing him smile once more as of old, and promise to be happy, for my sake. I was sitting in the little parlor, aft inner, with my hus- band and 'child, when- I was somewhat surprised by a visit from my father and mother. 'They entered and seated them. selves, without much ceremony. I never saw such grief and / s BOSTON COMMON. 521 disappointment depicted upon their countenances before. They looked sad and surprised, and glanced at me reproach- fully. ' Helen," said my mother,!" what is the meaning of this? Do you, in spite of-reason, friends, love, and all, throw away happiness, riches, respectability, and madly rush once more into the haunts of vice and degradatio, with your miserable partner?" Roland arose, and left the room in haste. " Ah!" said my father, ( I should think you would be ashamed to show your face, after what has happened!" I sat in silence, not daring to speak. For the first time in my life, I found myself involved in a-quarrel with my parents, and I scarcely knew how to extricate myself therefrom. "Mother, father!" said I, at length, imploringly, "do - not add to my affliction by your reproaches! I could not endure them, in my present state of mind. My heart is full-" ("Yes," interrupted my mother, "I should thirik -it might be; ay, full to overflowing! But what, in the world, could induce you to come back to your wretched husband, when everything wap arranged for a separation between you, and you might have been so happily settled, in a short time?" "Duty, mother, duty'!" C Duty!" exclaimed she, petulantly. "I have no patience e ' with the girl! What duty do you owe to a husband, who has lost, by his base conduct, all right, all title, to that sacred name? --who has, by his drunkenness and dissipation, brought you to poverty and disgrae? -What possible duty, I say, do you owe to a wretch like this?" "* . . page: 522-523[View Page 522-523] 522 " BOSTON COMMON. "None,--if he still persisted in these errors; neither would I permit myself or child to live in an atmosphere of vice; but, dearest mother, he has repented, he has abandoned his evil habits, and now hates such things as heartily as either you or myself." '4He repent! He leave off drinking and gambling!" said my father. "The idea of Roland Hastings reforming! Pshaw! it's absurd; and, even if he should refornm, why do you wish to live with him again? Why seek to encounter scorn, disgrace, and all the ills that poverty carries in its train.? Leave him at once, Helen. Take Willie and-return with us to Linden, where everything that kindness and affec- tion can suggest shall be done for your comfort." "I cannot, dear father! I have no right to reject Ro- land's penitence,--no right to turn away from him, when God is ready to forgive. .. I must do as my heart dictates, in spite of all." "Helen," said my mother, earnestly, , you know not what you say. By living with Roland again, you will bring the scorn of all your friends and acquaintances upon you. The whole world will accuse you of weakness andfolly, and the only reward you will obtain will' be to see Roland turning back and pursuing the same course as before. He will surely return to all his old habits, in a ten-fold degree, and will shorten your life, my poor child, by his wickedness. " We all know the weakness of Roland's mind. He is ;: vacillating, irresolute, possesses no firmnessb and it would take buta feather's weight to turn him, at any time. Do, my child, leave him now, while it is not too late, and come with us." -BOSTON COMMON. 523 u Mother, although I should encounter the scorn of the whole world, though poverty and disgrace await me, yet I would still do my duty. God will not scorn ne; and all those friends whose good opinion is worth having will understand my motives and respect them, instead of scorning me. Roland was once weak-minded, I know; but now the blessed Spirit of God has breathed upon him, and made him strong. His sins are washed in the blood of the Lamb, -and he As, I think, an altered'being. "s Can I, for a moment, forbear to assist this new subject of grace along the paths he has chosen? Can I refuse to lend him a helping hand? or can I see my husband, the father of my child, pining and dying alone, far from that wife and child? Can I leave hired hands to smooth his dying pillow, or strangers' ears to catch his last words? No, mother; in spite of the censure of the whole world, I will remain with him until the last moment, and will do everything in my power to lengthen that life, even by the sacrifice of my own." "Why, Helen! I am astonished to hear you talk in this manner, and after all your letters, this winter, concerning your love for Ernest. Have you forgotten him? "' No, indeed, mother," I answered, weeping. "I truly love Ernest still; but did he fail to set me aright in every point, even-where it involved my earthly happiness, I should no longer respect him, no longer feel for him that deep love and admiration which now fills my heart. But Ernest's noble nature, his deep and fervent piety, his total forgetfulness of self, and his great and strong heart, I love. Were he devoid of these, I might no longer love him. It would not be Ernest, mother, but some dark, powerful spirit, that had page: 524-525[View Page 524-525] S524 BOSTON COMMON. driven out his glorious mind, and taken up its abode in the fair temple. I should no -longer recognize Ernest, mother." "Then Ernest did, really, as he told us to-day, advise you to this business?" "He did, dear mother; and arranged everything for my comfort here, in the tenderest, most delicate manner pos- sible.' "I am astonished that Ernest, with his love for you, with his. pretended or real devotion to your happiness, could so easily give you up to another, - nay, more, provide, so coolly and calmly, a habitation for you to dwell in with that other; and advise, urge, command you, as he told us he did, to leave him for that other. I cannot understand it at all." But- few can, dearest mother. Few can understand the depth of that man's mind, the noble greatness of his nature. And yet, I doubt not but Ernest's struggles to overcome his stubborn, rebellious heart are even greater than ours; but, by the grace of God, by constant prayer at his footstool, he is enabled to conquer." "Well, Nellie," said my poor mother, weeping, "I do not know but you are right. It is very hard, however, to see you, once more, and voluntarily, seeking the same troubles yoiu were anxious to escape from a year ago; and I did hope, , before I died, to have seen you wedded to your cousin Ernest. It has long: been the darling wish of my heart." :"And. of mine, also," echoed my father. , God knows best, dear father- and- mother," I answered, "and will bring everything right, in time." After some further eonversation, my parents left, and my heart wAs rejoiced at seeing them feel so mqeh more recon- BOSTON -COIMON. 525- ciled to my new arrangement. I had anticipated a serious quarrel, when they came in; but was spared, wrat would have been, in my then state of mind, unendurable. They called several times at the cottage, before leaving the city; and I was rejoiced to see them conversing with Roland with a little of their old cordiality, which the poor fellow seemed truly grateful for. Before leaving Boston, they gave him some very good advice, which was somewhat superfluous, however, for Roland was truly an altered being. He was, in every sense pf the word, a Christian; and, as such, tried to live up to the doctrines of the holy Bible. Every, morning I read to him a portion of the Scriptures, and prayed with him. How my heart bounded with joy when I heard my husband, whom I had long ago given up for lost, praying! I was filled with praise and thanksgiving. "It was Ernest who brought the light of the Gospel into my gloomy heart," said he, one day. "He prayed for me, and exhorted me to turn from my evil ways. He opened to my darkened eyes a clear path. He showed me Jesus ex- piring upon the cross for me; and how quickly did I embrace him!--how gladly turn to rest my weary soul upon that Rock! And how kindly did He receive me! :?He buried my manifold transgressions in forgetfulness, and breathed peace, deep peace, into my soul." "Long ago, dear Roland, when we were at Saratoga, I dreamed, one night, I saw you expiring, in a deep, muddy slough., I tried to assist you, by every means in my power, to arise; but my strength was not equal to the task. ,' Suddenly, when all hope had expired, I saw Ernest ad- vancing towards us. His head was erect, and his step firm; page: 526-527[View Page 526-527] 426 BOSTON COMM ON. but. I fancied, in my dream, that I trembled, for fear he would sink and perish in one of the pitfalls that abounded in our darkened way. "But his eye was steadily fixed upon a light that gleamed in bthe distance. He came nearer and nearer; and, when he had reached us, with a calm, melancholy smile, and, the strength of a lion, he lifted us both from the slough, placed us in safety upon the bank, and then left us." "Helen, how significant was this dream! Ernest has assisted you in many emergencies, advised you in many difficulties; but me he has rescued from a spiritual death. I was groping in midnight darkness, benighted in the wilderness of sin, sinking indeed in the dark slough of despair,--when he came, and, with his earnest solicitations, prayerful entreaties, and cheering words of hope, brought light, peace, and joy, into my soul." I used to sit thus for hours, listening to Roland's conver. sation. I never realized before the power of God over the human heart. Here was a man of weak, vacillating mind, -one who had long indulged in every debasing habit, which had tended to weaken his powers still more,--here was this man, brought humbly at the foot of the Cross, even as a little child; willing, nay, rejoiced, to give up all the habits of his life, and humbly and earnestly seeking for the one thing needful. -. Every pleasant day, we sauntered out upon the Common, for--a walk. Wilhe was generally with us; and Roland never seemed happier' than when seated beneath the shady trees, watching the playfulness of his boy. We spent so much of our time here, that I had a large seat =( BOSTON COMMON. 527 made, with a back and arms. This I covered and stuffed, and had it conveyed each day to the Common. Many hours have I spent in this seat with Roland, who was never weary of gazing upon the beautiful scenes spread out before him. Often, however, we would wander about the paths, or stop to ponder over Harry's grave, and muse upon the shortness of life, and the certainty of death. ,( Helen," said Roland, oee day, with much seriousness in his manner, "I wish you would bury me in this sweet spot, when I die, - will you?" "O, Roland," I answered, ( why talk of dying? You may yet live to bury me." "No, Helen, that can hardly be. You are young, strong, and healthy, and your temperate habits will probably tend to lengthen your days to a great extent; while I have wasted my health, exhausted my energies, and thrown away my life. I must now pay the penalty of it. I must, while still young, die. I have trampled upon Nature'd laws; anid she- now de- mands a sacrifice - the sacrifice of my poor life. Helen, you will, if possible, bury me in this sweet spot, will you not? You will be happy when I am gone; and I know that this place will never be forgotten by you, -but you will often visit it, and sometimes stop, and look upon my lowly grave; perhaps, too, Fil drop a tear for him who died so young, and who then rests beneath the sod. "And, Helen, you- will never let Willie forget me; but you will take him here often, and talk to him of the father he lost so earl in life. Tell him of that father's faults, and, O, beseech him to avoid them. Tell him of his conver- sion and happiness, and entreat of him to seek for peace in the same way." page: 528-529[View Page 528-529] 528 nBOSTON COMMON. I was weeping bitterly while Roland spoke, but, when he had concluded, said, "I will do all you have asked, my husband. No request of yours, however simple, shall be disregarded." We met a great many people upon the Cormon; and numbers seemed to notice, with much interest, the slight, girlish figure that supported so carefully the trembling steps of the invalid. All looked at us with pity, and many offered us their assistance. Some conversed with Roland of his illness, and others advised him of remedies. Everything that could help to restore him to health was obtained; and, so fearful was I that he might want for med- icine or aid, that, a few weeks after I went to the little cottage to live, I sent to Linden, and had my only remaining piece of property sold. The money which I received for it- was deposited in the bank; and, as fast as I required it for Roland's necessities, I drew it therefrom. A part of it, also, was devoted to buying him a burying-place in the spot he loved so well. One day, as we were slowly sauntering up and down one of the paths of the Common, I heard a familiar voice ap- proaching me. Looking hastily up, I beheld once more the face of Mrs. John Smith, She was in company with another lady. Both were dressed in the height of fashion; and, as they swept by me, Letitia tossed her head, and passed without a word, while her companion honored me with a fashionable stare. I heard a'suppressed titter, as they passed, and was foolish enough to feel quite indignant about itfor a moment; but I soon felt only contempt and pity for them: contempt, that they shoud be so lost to the dictates of politeness and BOSTON CCOMMON. 529 humanity; and pity, that they should be so wicked as to sneer at a sick, perhaps dying, man. Roland, immersed in his own beautiful reveries, had not seen them; and, if he had, it would not have troubled him. i; He was fast leaving the vanities of earth, and cleaving to things spiritual. 45 5 ' , e " page: 530-531[View Page 530-531] CHAPTER LIV. "O thou sad spirit, whose prqposterous yoke The great deliverer, Death, at length has broke, Released from misery,-and escaped from care, Go, meet that mercy man denies thee here. If, then, thy troubled soul has learned to dread The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread, On Him who made thee what thou art depend: He who withholds thp means, accepts the end." MSS HANNAH MORE. IN our rambles, we had long noticed a forlorn, emaciated- looking being, who sold oranges and candy, under one of the trees, near the pond. She had often gazed after us with such earnest looks, that I paused one day before her table, and bought some oranges of her. She did not look at me as I purchased them, but appeared so grateful for the act, that I determined to buy fruit from her stand every day. Something in her air, although I could never see directly idi her face, reminded me of one whom I had seen before. -:oth -oland and myself noticed it, and tried, for a long while, to remember who it was she resembled; but, as we were not successful, we contented ourselves with buying her fruit, and paying her a good price for it. BOSTON COMMON. 531 I often noticed that she watched us very narrowly, and seemed to be quite interested in us. Supposing, however, that the feeble appearance of Roland attracted her atten- tion, I soon ceased to wonder upon it, but still purchased her fruit, and then, as the subjeqtpuzzled me, dismissed it from my mind. After a while, I missed her from her stand, and was quite disappointed in notfinding her there, day after day, as I liked her fruit, and felt somewhat interested in her. She had been troubled with a severe cough for some time, and I feared she might now be ill. I reflected that, deprived of her daily support, she might even now be suffering for the necessaries of life, and perhaps die for the want of assistance. Accordingly, one day, leaving Roland and Willie under a tree, I walked up to an old apple-woman, who always sat near her, and inquired where the person was who sold oranges to me, some time since. "O, ma'am," replied the woman, " she be very sick." "I supposed as much. What is the matter with her?" "O, she has had a great cough for a long time; and the doctor, who came there once, says that she be's so bad, and so fierce-like, that she will die." a Indeed! Has she any friends with her?" " O, no, ma'am! She be's a poor creature like. She has no friends, nor no money, as we knows of." . "Does she, then, suffer for medicine or food?" . "O, bless you, yes, indeed, ma'am! She has no medicines for we be a poor set down there, and can hardly get money enough to buy food, to feed' our childers with." "Will you show me where she lives? I will go and , page: 532-533[View Page 532-533] 582 BOSTON COMMON. see her, and endeavor to make her a little more comfort able." More comfort. "O, thank you, ma'am. Bless your pretty eyes; they shine liketwo buttons, to be sure! Yes, indeed, I will go and show you; but, perhaps, madam will be ashamed to walk with a poor body like me,-- hey?" O no, indeed! I should never think of such a thing." Well, then, Nance, come here." She called to a great, sunburnt girl, who was lying at full length upon the grass, enjoying the privileges of a free country with a natural relish. "Come here, Nance, and tend this here table, while I goes with the lady; and if you eats any of the stuBff while- I 'm gone, O, my! won't I wallop you, when I gets back!" "Never mind, now," said I. I will go after dinner, when 7 hill go after dinner, when my sick husband is asleep." "O, bless you, very well, ma'am! you be's so kind to the dear sick gentleman; and well you might be, for a prettier man yoa won't find in this here whole city." Without saying anything to Roland, who did not seem to miss the orange-seller, I went to the old apple-vendor in the afernoon, and claimed her promised escort. Nanoe was left in charge of the stand, and Ifollowed the old woman, as she hobbled along, through a number of streets, unti she reached one much shorter than the rest, and entered :itnarrow, filthy way. A number of riekety buildings stood on each side of the street; and about a dozen dirty, ragged children, of all ages and sizes, were playing about the doors; In an old, tumble-down house, and across a rotten door. BOSTON COMMON. 538 step, my guide now led the way. We climbed three pairs of stairs, and at length stopped before a low door in the attic. "s Here, ma'am, bless your patience," said the old woman, , here is Mistress Bessie's room. You can go in, if you like." Half frightened at the misery I saw on every side around me, I softly opened the door, and went in. I glanced around the room. Two or three panes of glass were broken, and the apertures stuffed with old rags, which added to the gloom of this miserable apartment. A chair or two, a three-legged table, which stood against the smoky wall, and a mean truckle-bed, completed the furniture of the room. I approached the bed. - A human form, or rather skeleton, lay stretched upon it; and the large sunken eyes, and pallid cheeks,told a tale of misery and suffering which I had never before witnessed. Once more my eyes were riveted upon that face, and this time with no common interest. "It is," I exclaimed, " yes, certainly it is, although so worn and wasted by suffering, that I should scarcely recognize her - poor Grace Warrington!" I bent over her in shuddering surprise. " (Are you, indeedi. Grace Warrington?" I asked. She started wildly from her bed, and, tossing back the tan- gled hair from her pallid brow, exclaimed, in a low, hollow tone, 1' Who calls upon the miserable Grace Warrington?" "'T is I, Grace! Don't you know me -- Mrs. Hastings?" ( Ah!" she exclaimed, sitting. upright in the bed, and. shaking her long, bony finger at me, " you have come, have you, to disturb my last, dying moments "with your reproaches? 4 41' page: 534-535[View Page 534-535] 534 lBOS'TON COMMON. Go away! I want no more of you, or your detestable hus- band! Ihate you both!" Exhausted by the effort she had made, she was suddenly seized with a violent coughing-spell. The old woman whohad accompanied me sprang instantly forward, and caught her in her arms. "IMistress Bessie, Mistress Bess," said she, "do stop! Don't make such a time of it - poor, suffering thing! There, you are better," she continued, as Grace ceased, and fell back upon the bed, with a cheek pale as death. I had retreated to one corner of the room during the cough- ing-spell, but now came forward, and, leaning over the invalid, said: "'Dear Grace, I am a friend to you, and wish to do something for you that may help you." "No, no," said she. "I don't want anything from you I' You need n't come around me, with your saintly face, and soft words! Go away! I say, go away! - your look reproaches me." ",But, Grace, I come to you without a single hard feeling in my heart. I have forgiven you all, long ago.; and God has kindly permitted -" -,Who is God?" she wildly cried. "O, I remember I My mother used to talk to me of him, when she prayed with me, at night. She said that he made me, arid wanfed nme to do right; but I was very beautiful, and that was my ruin. I had fine eyes,- and I was vain of them. I had long, golden. ringlets, too, but I cut them all off, and sold them to keep me from starving. And, long ago, I forgot my mother, for- got; my God, and all." 535 BOSTON COMMON. n^^ *I^os're stillaits , B ut, Grac e, Go d has not forgotten you . He sth as for you to repent and com e t o him ."e would ,'Tis too late," she sobbhee,- 4tOO late! e would ; laugh at m y prayers , an mok mpray ewithtreaties." , N o, Grace," said I , 'h e w ould not. et me pray with a tyou . t" her '[ No," she replied. "I do not w ish you to com e here, with your gibberish an prayers--keep them fo r oth ers m ore worthy. I will die as I have lived. I do n ot w ish to see you aga D o you hear? she wildly screamed,-- 4 "I you ain- Do you hhusband again, in this, never w ish to see either you r our hus again, in thi world or the other." I I turned sadly away, an ft-the room, w ith to woman, for I thought she would feel better to hav e me gone; and, after leaving with her some money for Grace, and telling her that she was an old acquaintance of mine, I departeda I was exeedingl y shocked at finding the once beautiful and fascinating Grace Warrington in such a miserable con- dition, and longed to ask Roland if he c ould acount forit; but, thinking that it would revive unpleasant recollections, I forbore to gratify my ouriosity at the expense of pain to him. . . The next afternoon, I visited Grae again, in spite of her prohibition, and carried her a pillow, some sheets, and other arties of which she stood in need., She received both them and myself very sullenly, and desired me to leave her in- stantly, for she had enough of me, she said. I endleavored, however, to remain with her a short time, and tried to converse with her concerning the future, to which she wasso rapidly hastening. She told me, however, page: 536-537[View Page 536-537] 536 BOSTON COMMON. that She did not wish to, hear anything about the future; and that-she w-aited no prayers, or any of my interference. Feeling sad and disheartened at my unfruitful labors, I onee more returned home. Every day, for a week, I visited Grace, and tried, with every delicacy for her appetite, to buy her willingness to let me read to her from the Bible, or pray with her. My efforts, however, were all fruitless. She would fly into a terrible passion when the subject was mentioned, and a violent coughing-spell would generally end the scene. Fearful of hastening her disease, I at length desisted from my efforts, leaving her in the hands of God, knowing and trusting that he would do with her all that was right. One night, a little after tea, Nance came running to my cottage, with her hair flying, and eyes distended with fear. "Mar wants you, Miss Hastings," said she, ' to come right away. The critter is wus." "Mistress Bessie,. do you mean, child?9 "Yet, ma'am; she be dyin', we all knows." I seized my bonnet, and hastened to PO aoce's residence. When we arrived there it was nearly dark; and the reflec- tion of Grace s features, by the feeble lamp-light, was ghastly in the extfeme. She started up in bed, at my approach, and exclaimed, "Have you come again to torture me, Helen Hastings?" "No, dear Grace, not to torture, but to comfort you. O, Grace, let me entreat of you now, in this solemn hour, to throw aside your obstinacy, and come to God; or it will soon be too late!" She looked at me earnestly. "Helen," said she, " do you think I am dying?" 537 BOSTON CO MMON. , ' I do, Grace, indeed. O, let me pray for you!" "N o, Helen," she replied; "but you may bring me a minister-only be- quick.' I may be gone ere your return." A sudden thought darted into m mind,--a wild, vague sensation, which nothing but the extremity of the case could have inspired. Starting down stairs, I rushed outiof the house, and jumped into the first carriage I met. ireting it hastily to Summer-street, No. -, the driver mounted his box, and we were off in a twinkling. a We soon arrived at the door, and, alighting? I gave the bell a hasty pull. The servant who answered my ring started on seeing me. , HEush, Peggy," said I; ' is your master at home?" ,r He is, madam, and in his study. Miss Richmond and Mr. Dennison are in the drawing-room." Desiring her not to mention my arrival to Mabel, and re- questing the Coachman to wait for me, I ran hastily up stairs, and stood before the study door. Another moment, and I had entered, and was in the presence of Ernest! I was dressed in white, as it was the last of July; and, appearing before him so suddenly and unexpectedly, quite startled him for a moment. He was leaning ova the table, writing, when I entered. Ah! -what thoughts, what wild dreams and passions, did noble facee and form revive in my mind! He glanced at me in wonder. I went up to him, and, laying my trembling hand upon his arm, essayed to speak; but the words died in my throat, ere my tongue could. give utterance to them. ', Helen!" said Ernest, at length. Recollecting that perhaps a soul's happiness depended page: 538-539[View Page 538-539] 5y8 BOSTON COMONX. upon my commanding myself, and using expedition, I made another effort, and this time succeeded. 'Ernest! lose not a moment's time. A poor woman is dying, and needs your?rayers. Come with e." He arose, andl, while putting on his coat and hat, I had an opportunity of looking at him a momnent. Ah I saw, with agony, that he tall form was bending slowly, and the hair that lay upon the broad, fair brow was a little whiter than when last we met. Aswe i]aently descended the stairs, a choking sensation came into my throat, as I remembered that these changes in my noble Ernest-were caused by my own folly; and, as I stepped into the carriage, assisted by his hand, I burst into a violent fit of weeping. Ernest's strong frame shook with emotion, but not a word was spoken between us during that ride. We arrived at the house, hurried up stairs, and entered the room of the dying woman. She was lying quite still upon her pillow; but the dreadful death-rattle had already commenced, and she had evidently but a few moments longer to live. I went up to the bed, and, as loud as my emotion would allow, whispered, "Grace, Ihave brought you a holy man of God. He will help your soul, if any one can." Ernest approached her, and, after putting a fei questions to her, to which she replied in a low tone, said, A Let us pray." - At1 the miserable inmates of the room wept aloud at that rayer. I never heard a more feivent, beautiful appeal. te stood in the midst of that group, and by that ying 'hdb ha ^n BOSTON COMMON. .589 couch, and poured out the whole fervor of his strong soul at the throne of mercy. He prayed that God would take that poor, wandering sheep home to his fold, and make her his own; and that she might truly repent, ere the films of death had gathered over her soul. As he concluded, a sweet smile passed over the features of the dying woman; and, with a long-drawn sigh, but without a. word, the spirit fled. Grace was indeed gone. God, the Almighty, called her, in the midst of that earnest supplica- tion. Who can tell the effect of that prayer upon her soul? We can only hope and trust that he had called her to himself. A few moments after Grace had died, Ernest approached me, and, saying "Come, Helen," took my hand, and we de- scended to our carriage. He directed the coachman to carry me to my home, and then to drive him to Summer-street. The dreadful scenes I had just witnessed, together with the thoughts of being so near Ernest, overcame me, and once more I wept. But few words passed betwee n us, and those were mostly questions, asked by Ernest, concerning the health of my husband, to which I replied through my tears. When we reached my cottage, Ernest tenderly lifted me from the carriage, and whispered, "Helen, my poor Helen, do not weep so. God is looking upon you, and he loves the sacrifice of a willing heart." I glanced at him as he spoke. His face was pale as death, and an expression of woe, tempered with submission, rested upon it. I hastily bade him good-by, and ran into the parlor. Throwing myself upon -the sofa, I listened attentively for the page: 540-541[View Page 540-541] 540 BOSTON OOMMON. departing coach-wheels; and, as the last sound died away in the distance, kneeled and prayed for resignation and peace both for Ernest and myself. Early in the morning I prepared Grace's robe, and, leaving Roland and Willie upon the Common, hurried away once more to the old house. She had been laid out- neatly, and one of the women about her took the robe, and placed it upon the corpse. I stood before the remains of Grace. "How short a time," thought I, 4' and that, poor, senseless lump of clay had power to sting my heart with the severest pangs! Now how cold and still she lies, struck down like the early flower, withered and powerless!" Grace, lookeyery well in her snowy shroud. The same calm smile that-had visited her in death lingered about her mouth, and extended itself at over the sunken features. I placed a : few flowers on her breast, and, Saying "Farewell, Grace!" turned away. "I will send a coffin, and see, about the funeral,"'I said, addressing one of the women. "You need not, ma'am; for the gentleman-saint who came here with you last night was here early this morning, and tiFd me he would send a coffin this afternoon, and would him- self make the prayer, and see about burying her. Bless his sweet, noble face! he looks, for all the world, just like you, ma'am!a " Dear Ernest! it was so like him to take all the trouble off my hands'! I inquired of the woman if she knew anything of Grace's history, or if she had left any papers or clothes behind her. BOSTON COMMON . 541 dI don't know, ma'am, " was her answer. 'She came here about six months ago, and was quite poorly at the time. She said that her name was Bessie Gray, and that she had tried all sorts of ways to get a living, and at last had to take up with selling fruit and candy upon the Com- mon." She then showed me a small box, which she said contained all herlothes. A few miserable old rags, and a locket of a gentleman whom I did not know, but supposed to be her hus- band, wasall that I could find. I threw them all back into the box, and, slipping a couple of dollars into the woman's hand, bade her good-by, and re- turned once more to Roland and Willie. I never mentioned Grae's name or death to Bolanad, as did not like, in his weak state of health, to disturb him with unpleasant reminiscences; and, besides, there was a delicacy and restraint concerning this subject between us that I did not like to break through, and I soon had occasion to think of other things. " [ page: 542-543[View Page 542-543] CHAPTER LV. '"O, stormy wind of winter-time! moan wildly as you will, His rest you cannot trouble now, his heart you cannot chill. Deep in yor bosom fold, O Earth! your shining flowers away; His steps are in the lily-fields of never-ending May. "Draw your red shadows from the wall, O, beauteous ember-glow! Drift cold about his silent house, O, white December snow! Across the sparkle of the dew dry dust in whirlwinds pour; Hide, new moon, in the cloudy skies - he needs your light no more." \ ALICE CAREY. ROLAND'S health grew worse as the summer declined into autumn; and, as I looked into his pale, thin face, and wasted form, I felt the certainty almost that I should soon be called upon to stand by another death-bed. All through the beautiful summer I had been constantly by his side. My hand alone had smoothed his pillow, and pre- sented him the cooling beverage. I had read to him, walked with him, and sat many, many hours by his side, listening to his gentle conversation. We had prayed and wept together, and I had had the blessed satisfaction of feeling that he was an earnest and devoted follower of God. But now the days grew shorter; the fruits had ripened, and autumn-leaves were strewing the paths of our beautiful retreat. BOSTON COMMON. 543 One day, late in September, as we sat gazing sadly at the fading leaves, Roland said: ,' How sweet is the face of nature to me! how beautiful , 4' the changing seasons! And is it possible that I must so soon dclose my eyes upon all these fpmiliar and pleasing scenes?-that for me the seasons will no more present their varying forms? that I shall be dead to all the sweet influences of nature? I can scarcely realize it, and yet it is so. Helen, I feel that .I have looked my last upon this sweet spot; that henceforth, when you wander here, you will miss a familiar voice and form; that I shall no longer be with you." I wept, for his words seemed prophetic. "But, dear Helen," he continued, "IL shall still be near you; and, in yon bright world, where the seasons never change, and the flowers do not fade, shall still watch over you and our boy." - -. " Roland's words were true. He never walked upon the Common again. The next day a severe attack of his cough visited him; and, when that somewhat abated, he was too weak to walk about much. Besides, the weather had grown much colder, and I feared to have him venture out. We read and talked, however, and enjoyed our calm fire-, side as much as we could enjoy anything under the present circumstances. Roland was. at length confined to his bed all day. I had all sorts of medicines and many physicians for him; but they- pronounced it a case of hopeless consumption. He did not suffer much, however. Unlike our beloved Harry; he hadi no fearful pains to struggle with, but seemed to be gently page: 544-545[View Page 544-545] 544 ]BOSTON CO MM ON. add calmly- passing away, as the light fades upon a summer's evening. ,The marks which dissipation had left upon his face had nearly disappeared, and were succeeded by a' sweet, spirit. -zal expression. Suchois the power of the blessed religion of God: it can change the-hardest face, and make it soft with the dew of tender emotion. As all hopes of Roland's recovery had now disappeared, I sent immediately for his parents and mine to come and wit- ness his last moments. In a week they had arrived, and our little cottage was filled with weeping guests. One evening, about a fortnight after their arrival, Roland requested them all to leave the room, telling them that he had something very particular to say to me. "' Helen," said he, " take Willie, and come and sit down by me a few moments. I wish to talk with you. Helen, I am very anxious to see Ernest once more. He has been my spiritual adviser, my savior, and I wish to see him ere I die. Will you bring him to me, Helen?" ( I will, Roland, -I will do anything you wish." "You told me, a short time ago, dear Nellie, of a strange dream you had concerning Ernest- how that, when we were sinking in aodeep, black slough, he rescued us therefrom. Me he has already saved; but you, my precious one, are still :;I tthe depths of trouble I have often thought, Helen, that q-you would make a beautiful couple-two noble, earnest fsirits, just fitted to go hand in hand together, and do God's holy work'; and, Nellie, when I aim gone, and you have heaped the turf over my breast, go to Ernest, and tell him to take you to himself. I know he loves you, and I am willing, and should be happy, to have you united. BOSTON COMMONS 545 "To-morrow, dear Nellie, I wish to partake of the sacra- a ment; and who but Ernest can administer it? You will seek him to-night, my wife, and tell him to come." r I will, -I will, dear Roland!" "Thank you. Now, Willie, darling," he continued, as I held the child for him to, kiss, "God bless you, my son, and may you live to be a faithful servant of his! I leave you in good hands, my darling boy,--I leave you with a kind father and mother." He sunk back upon his pillow quite exhausted, and, as it was now past sevel*o'clock, I prepared to seek Ernest. I donned my bonnet, and walked, with sad steps, to his house. Again did I find myself, scarcely knowing it, in that soli-, tary study; again did I encounter Ernest's sad eyes, as they met mine inquiringly. , Helen, dearest," said he, as he arose, " what means that pale cheek and teaiful eye? Is Roland worse?" "He is, Ernest. I think he will scarcely survive through the morrow. He wishes. you to administer the sacrament to him before he departs. Wilt come, dear Ernest?" "I will be there to-morrow, Helen,--I will obey his re- quest.9" I wrung his hand, and stole noiselessly into the drawing- room. I had seen Mabel many times during the summer, as she had been a constant visitor at the cottage; but when I told her of Roland's approaching death, she mingled her tears with mine. Edward was tihere, and accompanied me home. I found Roland in a sweet sleep, and seated myself upon his bed. I could not leave him, for I fancied that this'would be his last night upon earth; and so I sat watching the page: 546-547[View Page 546-547] 546 BOSTON COMMON. beloved countenance, until gray dawn tipped the eastern hori- zon, anl checkered that darkened room with a few rays of light. About eleven o'clock Ernest arrived, and was affectionately received by Roland. The ceremony of the Lord's Supper, was deeply impressive and solemn; and, after it was over, Roland called Ernest and myself to his bedside. '( Dear Ernest," said he, t will you promise to be a husband to Helen, and a father to my orphan boy, jvhen I am gone?' "I will, I will,"replied Ernest, in a firm tone. "Then, Ernest, I shall depart in peace. You love each other, and may you both be happy!" "Amen!" responded every heart in that little room. Roland did not die that night, but lingered two or three days longer. His speech grew weaker and weaker, his breathing fainter; and, at-length, on one calm, quiet October evening, he fell softly asleep in the arms of Jesus. When all was over I sought my room, and, folding my fatherless babe to my breast, wept- but I wept not as those without hope: I felt assured that the weary spirit was safe --was happy; and, trusting that it was still watching over us, I fell asleep. Roland looked beautifully calm in his shroud. We sur- rounded him with the snowy blossoms of the japonica; we parted the bright hair from off the pale brow; we shut the beautiful features from our sight, and, placing him in a little mound of earth by the side of Harry, left him to rest until the resurrection i rn, J in that sweet; place he loved so well upon earth, -inthat fair temple where his footsteps had so often and fondlytlingered, -in that bright spot that looks as if the smile of God was ever resting upon it-beautiful Boston ommon. CHAPTER LVI. CONCLUSION. "T is never woman's part, Out of her fond misgivings to perplex The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves; 'T is hers to weave all that she has offfair And bright in the dark meshes of their web, Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart Hath found its refuge in a hero's love; Whatever destiny his generous soul Shape for him, ' is its duty to be still, And trust him, till it bound or break with him." TALFOURD. A FEW weeks more, and I had shut up the little cottage, that now looked so lonely since Roland's death,--had re newed my deep, unalterable vows to E3nest,- had thanked him for the happiness I now enjoyed, in having fulfilled my duty, and returned to Linden with my parents and Willie. I intended to pass the period of my mourning with them, which, by both Roland's and Ernest's request, had been lim- ited to one year. ; I found my friends all glad to seer me, and very ready to sympathize with me in the deep affliction I had met with. Kate Merton received me with open arms. She looked just page: 548-549[View Page 548-549] 548 BOSTON COMMXON. as bright and beautiful as ever, and was just as affectionate. Time had no effect upon our Katie; and would you know the secret, reader? She always kept her heart warm and pure; and I do believe that, if Katie lives to be a hundred years old, she will still possess the same affectionate nature, and the same kind smile, that give her such a youthful ap- pearance. Kate informed me, a few days after my arrival, that she was going to postpone her marriage until my own took place. "I am determined, Helen," said she, ', to be your brides- maid this time, let what will happen. Master Robert Everett may fret and fume as much as he pleases, but I shall certainly have my way." I thanked my friend for her kindness, but half guessed that she had another motive in view. Katie was very tenacious of her liberty, between you and me, reader; and she did long so much to have one more sunmmer to roam around our grand old woods and rocks with me. And didn't we have it?--but stop a bit. Winter came, and passed away in quiet enjoyment. Every week I received a long letter from Ernest. Every letter grew brighter and brighter with hope, and at last I could alhiost fancy that I saw the reflection of his own happy face in each one. Ernest's letters were so affectionate, so eloquent, and so full of good maxims, that I think I shall publish them, some day, if he will permit me. They would do the world all sorts of good, I think -but, then, you need not take my word for it, reader, as you happen to know pretty well, by this time, that I am rather :partial to my cousin Ernest, and, conse. quently, think both him and his sayings a little the best of anything in the world. BOS-TON, CO MMON. 549 Spring came, at last, with her soft skies, gentle zephyrs, and opening blossoms. The days began to grow milder, and Katie and myself betook ourselves to our long-expected rambling excursions. We climbed every mountain, roamed every field, and ex- plored every valley around. We spent hours in drawing sketches of our sweet native Linden, and soon had our port- folios filled with landscapes. When weary of drawing, we would betake ourselves to our favorite "Granite Bluff," and spend hours in reading or con- versing in this charming spot. At last, and somewhat to my surprise, Ernest's letters grew in quantity. I now had two a week, and sometimes three. Kate had been visited with the same phenomenon, and told me, with a pouting lip, that if Master Bob Everett (she always called him Bob, when a little vexed) expected her to answer half the letters he wrote, he would find himself very much mistaken, for she had a plenty of other business to attend to, besides that. This business was helping prepare her little-friend, Nellie Hastings, for her second bridal; and all the time that could be spared from our needles was spent in rambling about the woods of Linden. At last, the letters grew so frequent that we began to be a little alarmed, for fear we could not find a place sufficiently large to keep them -in; but this astonishing increase, as well as our fears, was explained and laid at rest by a visit from the gentlemen themselves. Of course we were very sorry to see them, for they hin- dered our work, and other fine plans we had laid out for the summer.- We put the best face we could upon the matter, s page: 550-551[View Page 550-551] 550 BOSTON COMMON. however, and received them with a very good grace, con- sidering. And now came the fine rambles. We dragged our city gentlemen all over the woods,--we made them climb rocks and hills, -and, one day, Kate had serious intentions of sending Robert Everett, Esq., into a muddy pond, after lilies for her. The capricious little wretch had set her mind upon having these same lilies; but Robert looked so deprecatingly at her, and then at his broadcloth and boots, that, in pity to their lustre, and his vanity, she forbore, and said some other time would do just as well. Our gentlemen soon grew weary of these walks, called us a couple of romps, and declared they would not hunt another squirrel from his lair, or soil their fingers with our dirty roots and plants again; that they were not naturalists, and did n't wish to be. They preferred to sit with us and converse, in the quiet parlor; and we, in pity to their city habits, of course submitted. What long,-pleasant hours did we now spend in laying plans for the future! Sabbath came, and I had the happi- ness of seeing my betrothed filling the pulpit of the little church under whose eaves I had listened, from earliest child- hood, to the preaching of the Gospel. How noble he looked, in that venerable old church! and how simple, yet eloquent, were the words that proceeded from his mouth! By the end of the next week the gentlemen had gone, and Kate and myself were once more left to our rambles. But Ve were so lonely after their departure, and the woods looked lo solitary, that we chose to remain at home, and finish our rork L *y ' BOSTON COMMON. 551 Everything was at last in readiness, and the first of October brought Ernest, Robert, Edward, and Mabel, once more to our sylvan dell. We were to have a treble wed- ding in the church, and it was to take place in the morning. The evening before my bridal was spent with Ernest and my parents. As the event approached that was to unite me to this noble being, I experienced a calm, serious happiness lying deep in my heart, - it seemed too deep for grief ever to reach again. And yet to be really married to him appeared so strange, so unreal. I looked at my wedding-cards, and wondered who the Mrs. Richmond upon them could be, and how she would feel when all was over. Early on that beautiful morning, dressed in our snowy robes, and accompanied by our friends, we repaired to the church. The whole air upon that auspicious morning seemed teeming with joy; the birds were singing, their departing songs, and the groves were beautifully clothedi ifi their dap- pled colors of green, brown, orange, and red. The old church received us to its sheltering bosoin, and once more did I stand before the altar, and this time pledge the vows that forever bound me to my long-loved, long-tried cousin Ernest. The minister who had poured the baptismal water upon my infant brow joined our hands in marriage, and pro- nounced over us the benediction. An affecting prayer now concluded the ceremony, and, stepping into our carriages, we returned to our respective homes-Katie and Robert to her father's, Edward and Mabel to the Linden House, q * v4 page: 552-553[View Page 552-553] -552 BOSTOeN COMMON. and Ernest and myself to our parents', in the dear old homestead. And now, dear reader, after manifold temptations and trials, sorrows and vicissitudes, Ernest and Helen are really married. We spent three days at Linden with our friends, and then started for our future homes in dear old Boston. Robert and Edward, upon their arrival, took their wives immediately to their beautiful, comfortable homes.; while Ernest, Willie, and myself, repaired to our future home in Summer-street.' And Ernest was now happy. A calm, tranquil smile ever rested upon that face, and added to the noble interest of his features. But few years have passed since we came to the old house; but God has never permitted the shadow of a grief to rest upon our hearts since our marriage. Two lovey children, a son and daughter, who bear the names of Ernest and Helen, have been added to our darling Willie. Willie is now a fine large boy. He has the same sweet face, floating hair, and soft eyes, as his father; but the strongly-drawn lines around the mouth indicate that nothing can tempt him aside into the paths of evil, like that unfortu. nate fat-her. It is our daily prayer that all our children may be good and happy; we-will be content if these blessings are but granted us. Uncle and aunt Glenmore are now in the sere and yellow leaf. They have settled down quietly at the old Glen I have thead occaion to mention so often in this story, and are passing the evening of their lives in peaceful tranquillity. BO TON COMMON. 553 The school is now broken up, the boys dispersed to differ- ent parts of the world, and some are dead. Elwyn Moore, our nervous teacher, married, long ago, a plain, simple,- un- affected girl, just fitted for him, and with whom he lives very happily. Mrs. John Smith made one or two attempts at visiting her "old cherished friend Helen; " but that person, -understanding the motives which prompted these visits, never returned them, and the acquaintance dropped. She still lives in the big house, and is as fashionable as ever. She does not, however, give or attend large parties quite as much as formerly; for she is very much engaged in attending to the little John Smiths, of whom, as usual, there is a large number. My parents and their children still reside in the old Clifton Homestead. Every summer we visit them, with the children, and in the winter are visited by them in return. Ernest, my husband, is still engaged in ministering to the spiritual yants of his congregation. He is regarded by them with the utmost respect and affection, and is unwearied in his efforts to promote their good and his heavenly Master's kingdom. Shall I say--what it is almost superfluous to add--that we are now happy?-that we are constantly engaged in doing good; and that, deep in the recesses of our beloved sanctuary home, we silently work and pray that all the world may seek happiness from the source wh ence we have received it? Reader, who may have traced with me my simple history thus far, will you listen a moment longer, while I point out the moral of this tale? 47 page: 554-555[View Page 554-555] '554 BOSTON COMMON. It shows low easily temptations assail us, and that nothing but the Spirit of God will ever keep us from them. It shows how a holy life, a conscience void' of offence, will insure us a peaceful death, and a triumphant entrance into- heaven. It shows how the most hardened sinner may be brought, by sincere prayers and tears, to penitence,; and- although years may pass ere those prayers are answered, yet that their incense is ever fresh before the throne of God, and that he will surely lend a listening ear, and vouchsafe an answer of peace to the suppliant. It shows how the soul may be sustained and cheered in the darkest hour of trouble. When grief presses it sor- rowing to the earth; when all is black as the tomb; when the fainting soul is ready to expire,.and death seems a precious boon, could it be granted, then it shows that the blessed Spirit of God alone has power to recvive all these drooping faculties, and to make the languishing soul arise and sing for joy. And, lastly: it plainly teaches that duty, however painful to be performed, if performed faithfully, and in the right spirit, always brings its own reward; and that to have peace, sweet peace, ever dwelling in our hearts, we must always do right. My tale is done, and yet I linger; loth to, part with the ompanions who have cheered me in my task. It is evening, tnd I wander among the sequestered bowers of the beautiful Common. Ernest, my beloved, is by my side, and our three hildren are playing merrily at our feet. Once more do I take you, gentle reader, to this fair spot, j ' o BOSTON COMMON. . 555 where you have been with me so many times before. Here am I still, where I have suffered so much, where so many emotions have struggled in my breast-where so much of love, peace, and joy, has filled my heart. Still do I point out the little hill where Ernest and myself spent so many happy hours in the spring-tide of our lives,- still do I muse beside the limpid pond, and gaze -down into its clear depths with my cousin, to note and wonder at the striking resemblance between us. Still am I wandering beneath the trees with the gentle Harry, and, looking into his spiritual eyes, almost dream of the heaven to which he is hastening; still am I weeping by his side as he talks so mournfully of his death. Once more do I bend forward to catch the parting breath, and once more, deep down in my soul, do I hear the words, 4 Helen, I am waiting for thee!" Again do I kneel over the sacred mound, and pray for strength to heed those parting words; and again am I seated upon that lonely grave, in the silent evehing hour, alone with my child and God. Once more am I wanderingr side by side with the husband of my youth, and feeling, by his cheering words, that my prayers, breathed in agony and darkness, have at last found a listening ear. And, here am I, lingering with my husband and children, still in this beloved place, the scene of so many joys, hopes, sorrows, to us. We wander beneath the lofty trees; we stand beside the cool fountain; we pause and dream over the rose 'overed graves of our lost Harry and Roland, and a deep quiet takes " . - . - :Z page: 556-557 (Advertisement) [View Page 556-557 (Advertisement) ] 656' . osS ON. COMMON possession of our hearts. We hear theirgentle spirits,call. ing to us from the tree-tops; we feel the cool rustling of their angel-wings bathing our brows; and, with hope,peace, and ON SCH OQL WEITIN BOO K:for the use of ia and Private Schools'; in Six Numbers, with copies to assist 1 eacoher and aid the Learner. ; - ' ; ' !ontains the 'Elementary Prinoiples, togehe ,with ,th: :, exisb Ha :nd. . . . '. i/. * ;; '/". . * * * * * * * * * , 'ontains the Pr'mciples and First' Exerci'es for a S4 all d' Wind. . ' . ' . "* .:; . :-. ;. 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