v1^^ ^-^ 2^. ^t C'i^>^^^*^: ^ ^^/IKP iiS^Sf ^i^^ ^ ■% niaM!naMiiiiMtuiiKUiUjiiuUi » :rt i . g(» ya; «a> i . v Stolen Waters i «»w»Vj>>»jMm j m t »M j» »K !' >»»»v» i. y X n ^ti^MN»»>«Ma£»saiii£[)a!Mi«c^6t^^ •c^eej^s Wl^'BO 'a OSt^ MISS GARDNER'S NOVELS. NEW EDITIONS JUST PUBLISHED. 1. STOLEN WATERS— " Stolen Waters are Sw»et "$1.60 2. BROKEN DREAMS— A Novel in Verse 1.60 3. TESTED— A Story of Woman's Constancy 1.50 4. RICH MED WAY'S TWO LOVES 1.50 5. AWOM.\N'S WILES 1.50 6. TERRACE ROSES 1.60 7. COMPENSATION -A Story in Verse., 1.60 8. A TWISTED SKEIN A Story in Verse 1,60 8.SERAPH-0R MORTAL.-tyw) 1J60 Sent FBKB by mail, on receipt of price, by G W DILLINGHAM, PUBLISHER, SUCCESSOB TO G. W. CARLETON & CO., New York. Stolen Waters BT OELIA E. GARDNER. Pbovbkw, IB. a^ ^. NEW YORK: G. PF. DilliiigluDu, Ptiblisher, Successor to G. W. Carleton »S: Co. london : s. low, son & co. MDCCCLXxxyin. •orawding t» Act of CkxigroM, m tke fw IfTl, ty Q. W, CARLETON t CO., In tlM OAoe <^ th« libcRTJua of Cooktcm. at WMhiaffM* '•tVivV:/*:-../...* TO ONB WHO HAS PROVED AT ALL TIMES I'HAT HE If «■ DBABEBT, THE NOBLEST, THE rKUBlV, WITH THE GRATITUDE, LOVE, AND BgrOfiM OF A HKABT THAT HAS YET NEVER KNOWN 8WEET1-R DREAMS THAN THOHH HE HAS FILLED, AND WHOSE PRAYER IS, WHEN DEATH gHALL HAVE STILLED OUR HEARTS' OURUENT WITH HIS ICY BRVAt^ WB MAY CTAND WITH EACH OTHER BEFORE THE WHITE THBONB, DP HIM UNTO WHOM ALL HEART-SKCRi<:TS ARE KNOWN, WHO, TEMPFED IN ALL POINTS AS WE ARE, LOOKS DOWN •r WITH COMPASSION DIVINE, AS HE STUDS OUR BRIQHT CROWNS WITH A GEM FOR EACH CROSS WE ENDURF^ WHILE WB WATT rOR THE SUMMONS THAT COMETB 1X> ALL, SOON OR LATB. THUS GRATEFUL, AND HOPEFUL, I TEUS WORK TO TBBB OOmSCHATBl PROUD TO SIGN MYSELF o. a. % 571, PRELUDE lOU who never have loved — you who nevor wwre trifld, Lay this volume, without a perusal, aside I Should yon reiul it, you'd tind much to shock preoonoelToi Ideas of what should luid what should not be. You would find no perfection of character here ; Only weak human nature— the hopes and the fean Of a heart, if undisciplined, loving and true ; Temptations resistiid, and yielded unto ; And the tale of a love far beyond estimation, All potent, in doubt or in reahzation. I claim for my heroine, nothing I except Her humanity. Yet from the reader expect The remembrnnce that this is a Journal, wherein She confides all her secrets ; some which would have Most carefully, jealously guarded, 'tis j)lain, From the world. For my hero, your honor^ I claim. For my work, ask that your criticism be mild, BeooUecting, in authorship, I'm but a child. Sev'ral similar cases to this having come Under my observation, when there has been done By the world much injustice to those who have proved In the end, although human, botli earnest and tma, Three UUngt it has been my endeavor to ahow ; ^iii PRELUDE. And lest I have failed in portraying ttem lo That they may be discerned, — like an artist I know, Who writei o'er the landscape he paints, " Thew are treei Bo I o'er my work write the points, which are these : — First! That no one can tell what they'll do 'till they're Must in like circumstances be placed to decide. That those the most strong in asserting their own Immacnlateness are most often the ones, Not alone to be tried in that special respeot, Bat to yield to the offered temptation when met. geeond/ That it is possible^ for e'en a love That's forbidden — impassioned and earnest abore All expression, to be not alone true but pure. And that love without marriage not always enaoree Oriminality for those who to it succumb. And that a true love can but act upon one Beneficially, and a refiner become. And third ! That though conscience and ptindple maj ^or a time be crushed down, in the end their full sway They'll resums, and accomplish what naught else oonld Ia Aad with thia prelude brief, I my work leave with joo. STOLEN WATERS. 420 ELCaiMtol Street. PART FIRST. * Bweet are stolen waters 1 pleaaant is the bf«id Ib secret eaten." tomooL. 'And thns, unnoticed and apart, And more by accident than choice, I listened to that single voice. Until the chambers of my heart Van filled with it by night and daj.** Stolen Waters. $8rt ^itnt NEW YORK. November 2d, 1862. SUNDAY. Mt dear little Journal I bo fresh, white, and new, I haye seated myself for a short chat with you, And to tell you where I have been passing the eve, If you will but listen, and give me the leave. Annie called here to-night, and desired me to go To the new church but just dedicated ; and so I donned cloak and furs, hat and boots and went forth. Twas cold, too ! the wind blew direct from the north, Twas but a short distance, we soon reached the place, And passed in with devout hearts and reverent pace. Twas lovely 1 b^it I am too weary, to-night, To describe in detail all the music and light, Boffc carpets, rich carving, the Organ so grand, 12 STOLEN WATERS. The tablets containing our Lord's ten commands, And all that. But perhaps I may some other time Describe all to you, even to the belPs chime. To tell you the truth, my dear Journal, my thoughti In vain sought to rise above earth, as they ought. I seemed to be dreaming, or under a spell, And which one it was I can yet hardly tell , For a mouth wreathed with smiles I could see but too nesTi And a voice full of melody burst on my ear ; For he sang as he smiled, and his dark, lustrous eyee,, Seemed reading my soul ; and I found with surprise That my cheeks burned with blushes, my eyes sought thf ground, The blood rushed through my veins with tumultuous bound. Everything was forgotten — time also, and place ; I heard but one voice, and I saw but one face. This strange fascination continued complete Till the service was over, and I in the street, When the cool, bracing wind fanned my feverish cheek, Subdued its deep flush, and unnatural heat. And calmly the blood coursed once more thro' my TeinBy And I my own stoical self soon became. What was it affected me thus, there to-night? I have heard people talking of " Love at first sight.'' Was it love for a stranger that sent such a thrill Through my frame, 'till my very heart seemed to stand stOl f Was it love for a stranger ? No I that cannot be ; We oft hear of such things, but who'd thini it of me? I, who have so many known — flirted so long. To yield now, to a voice I've heard only in song ? Think of my proud, high spirit subdued by a smile, 4 glaooe from soft eyes. Call it consummate gnile^ STOLEN WATERIS. 11 Call it music's enchantment, the pressure of light- Call it sorcery, witchcraft, or aught that you like. That so deeply impressed me at service to-n.ight, But d II A. few weeks ago, for the first dme ; and yet, ft \io(M passing strange what overcame me that nigkt, CTnless 'twas the heat and the strong press of light. Vi liatever it was, I am firmly convinced h.t had nothing at all to do with it ! And, since Tt was not what I feared that it might be, that night, J will have no more faith in this " love at first sight." Msnreh Ui, 1863. SUNDAY. When I drew up the blind, somewhat early this mon, I found there had been quite a heavy snow-storm. And when it was church time, I hardly could tell If 'twas best to go out or to stay at home. "Well ! Did not much like remaining within doors, all day, So I donned rubber-boots, and we started away; And when we soon after arrived at the church Mr. Tenor was standing right there in the porch. His glances at me were quite earnest, and I Looked closely 8t him, too, while passing him by. So you see, my dear Journal, I had a fair view Of this wonderful (?) man, and this fine singer, too. I suppose you would like a description of him, I have told you so much of him. Well I to begin, He waa not very formidable after all! He is neither quite short, nor is he very talL His shoulders are wide, and you'd feel you could rest Safe ihaltered from harm on his broad, manly Inmuit 16 STOLEN WATERia. Dark hair, soft, dark eyes, and a mouth paaeiiig Bweet| Soft mustaches and whiskers shade both lip and cheek. Hands white and well-shaped, moderately small feet, You have now, my Journal, his picture complete. Now if this noble gentleman only just knew \Vhat a flattering description I've given to yara, Of his exquisite singing, his fine manly grace, His smiles and his glances, his form and his face, What would he say to it ? But that ne'er will be ! 1 can say what I please, my dear Journal, to " thee," Tell you all of my secrets, and ne'er have a fear That you'll ever disclose aught that I whisper here But, dear me I what a soft little goosey I am. To be thinking so much of a quite unknown man ! But I told you about him, upon that first night When I " fell in love (?)" with him, you know, at first dghi I mean, therefore, to tell you henceforth all I know Of him who's of late interested me so. But to tell you the truth, perhaps I've over-drawn My fair picture of him ; for a calm looker-on Might not, perhaps, call strictly handsome his face ; But his smile, and his grand, indescribable grace, Which once made me forgetful of both time and plAMg Are more charming by far than mere beauty of tTOLEN WATEBa. VI Ma/rck 22d, 1863. SUNDAY. WaU i another brief week has passed swiftly along, And. another sweet Sabbath is now nearly gone. And to service of course I again went to-day — Twould take strong inducements to keep me awaj, For a Sunday at home I can never endure — A stormy one even — and so I am sure There's nothing that scarcely could tempt me to stay From church upon such a magnificent day As this one has been. It was lovely as one Could desire to behold ; for the glorious sun, In unrivalled splendor, shone all the day through ; The sky was one vast arch of unclouded blue ; £ach twig, bush, and tree were a-glitter with ice, And the pavement as well, which was not quite so nios^ For many unlucky pedestrians met A fall on the sidewalk so slipp'ry and wet. The new-fallen snow, with a pure, dazzling sheet Of white, covered tree-top, and house-top, and street ; Ard sleigh after sleigh-load dashed swiftly along, And before one could fairly behold them, were gone ; And the tinkle of bells on the listening ear. Fell with musical murmur so merry and clear. The whole scene was charming ! but soon we passed in From the splen<|[^r without to the beauty within. Already, the ofgan^e deep, exquisite notes. All through the vast edifice solemnly floats. 18 STOLEN WATERS. The wliole congregation is silent as death, And I listen entranced, and almost catch my breath, As the tones of the singers, so thrillingly sweet, Join the organ's, and render the charm quite complete^ What, think you, cared I then that a bright Bmiling Cmm Was beaming on me from the usual place, And a pair of soft eyes looking into my own ? E saw nothing, heard naught but the musical tones Of the voices I've learned to, of late, love so well, And that ever bewitch me more than I can telL But when next they arose the enchantment was o'e?, And I then could look into his fine face once more ; But he so intently gazed into my eyes. That, in spite of myself, I could feel the blood rise To my face, and I knew he had found he could call A warm flush to my cheek, notwithstanding, too, all My cold looks, and his glances indifferently met, And the smiles that are haunting me, too, even yet. July 6th, 1863. SUNDAY. Well I yesterday was the grand " Fourth of Julji" Our national holiday. Gert.-ude and I Went out to my brother's, and ppent the whole day In the cool, verdant country, so quiet ; away From the heat of the city, the dust and the din Which prevails from the time that the " Fourth's " ushered 1% By the booming salute in the sweet early mom, *I\U the hour of midnight proclaims the day gone. STOLEN WATERB. 1« We 2)as8ed the day quietly, pleasantly, then At evening came back to the city again. I felt this A.M. just a little fatigued, But to church went as usual, my ** Unknown " to see. 1 saw hiray and the smiles, too, that brightened his face, Afl I my seat took iu the usual place. Oh, dear ! T would much like to know what's his name, But yet, what is the use ? 'Tis of course all the same, The gentleman nothing at all is to me. And what is more still, never will, or can be. I presume, did I know him quite intimately, I'd think no more of him than of others I see ; 'Tis the myst'ry that charms me, and if that was o'er I'm convinced I should think of the man never more, I know 'tis a mere passing fancy, and yet It seems to be one I'm not like to forget, At least very soon, — while I sit in the seat Which I now do in church. 'Twould be gladness compleU) It sometimes seems to me, if I only could rest For one single moment upon his broad breast. Could but around me have the clasp of his arm. And know that he'd shield me from every harm. But what am I thinking of? How could I write Such words as these Pve written herein to-night ? Yet I read in a fine modem author, to-day, ** There is not a true woman but what longs to hiy Her head on the fond loving breast of a man. And see in his eyes the one look that he can Give to no one else in the whole world," And so, why, If the man truth was speaking, oh ! then, wliy should 1^ 90 8T0LEN WATJSS& A.S I Bit here this evening, in silence, alone. Hesitate to write what not an eye bub my own Does now or will ever behold ? Why, I say, If that be the case, should I blush to obey The wise laws of nature, which prove me to be A. true woman according to his theory ? But I'm weary, and sleepy as well ; and the light Flickers so that I scarcely can see now to write. The gas must be poor!— Well I I'm thro' for to-nigki, August 9th, 1863. SUNDAY. How swiftly, indeed, time does hasten along t Two whole months of summer are already gone, The middle of August is now very near. And ere we're aware of it, winter'll be here. But yet, notwithstanding time passes away So exceedingly fast, and that day follows day In such rapid succession that one hardly leaves Their bed in the mom ere it comes dewy eve, Yet the same old story 'tis over and o'er. The same wearj routine gone through with once mor^ The same dull monotony day after day ; Now a trifle of work, then a small bit of play, A book that's absorbing, a brilliant day-dream, Or a bright, flashing ray from hope's glittering beam, A walk now and then on a clear moonlight night, A letter received, or perchanw* one to write ; NOLEN WATWBSL ti k ofJl from a friend, or a brief visit paid, kn engagement fuliilled, or some promises made, Sometimes a fine drive, an occasional song, Ajad thus, the long, warm, summer dajs pass along. I am heartily tired of these trivial things I I would like a change, now, whatever it brings ; Something wonderful, startling, or thrillinglj strange, Something new, something grand, anything for a cluuige \ i almost had said 1 would rather it be Even grief than this sameness so irksome to me. It is true we receive startling news every day From the army, but that's such a distance away, .Ajid no one is out there for whom aught I care, With exception, it may be, of Colonel Allair. Nor do I know why I should care for him much, Though I think him a friend, and I like him as such ; But then my acquaintance with him was but slight, And yet I did think he would certainly write. He did not, 'tis true, say he would, but I thought He intended to do so, but that matters not; I was thinking, perhaps, that it possibly might Have been some variation, although it were sKght, To the usual round that of late marks each day. But there, let him pass I I have something to aay About the events of the day nearly gone. I went out to service as usual this mom. But not as in general saw I the face Of my charming " unknown " in his usual place ; For a stranger, to-day, occupied his old seat bk ike choir, aud thui rendered their number complefto M arOLJBN WATSBA Mr. S. gave to us a war-sermon this mom. Which I of course listened to only with scom. I cannot at any time hardly submit Under one of his ultra war-sermons to sit, But think I was annoyed and disgusted still This morning than ever I have been before. The discourse provoked me, was tediously long; The music was harsh, and there seemed something wrongs Something wanting, in all of the service to-day, But what it might be I pretend not to say, And I only can tell that, as over and o'er I turned toward the choir, that I missed indeed more Than I like to acknowledge, I think, e'en, to you, My dear Journal, a face that I've been wont to view, A voice I have listened to gushing in song. And smiles that have beamed on me now for so long. I wonder where he could have been all to-day, And what could have kept him from service away. By the way, my dear Journal, I'll say in this place, That I heard a few days since his last name was " Chase," And that 'tis his intent to be married soon, too, And then I should like to know what I'm to do ! For she will get all of his smiles if she's there. And he will for me, then, have not one to spare. Such a fate would be terrible(?). And, by the waj, Perhaps that is why he was absent to-day. And wheu next I see him, perchance by his side I shall then see a beautiful, sweet, " blushing bride." But there I I should rtally like to know who The " fair ladye " may be if the story is true. And I wonder if he will then give up his place In the choir, if that should be tha state of the qmsu STOLEN WATERS. SW 1 hope not ; I do not believe they will find His peer very soon, not, at least, to il.j^ mind. Perhaps, though, that Zmay be partial somewhat; 6at then, who that ever has heard him is not I By all I believe he's acknowledged to be " Ne plus ultra " in singing, at least ! But, dear me! I am too tired to think, and I'm too tired to write, Ajid presume I have said quite enough for to-night. Av^guat 23dy 1863. SUNDAY. I have not been to church since the last time 1 ifrotft^ ^t have had of the service each day a report, And each Sabbath they've politics had o'er and o'er ; And I thought I would not go to church any more Until there's a change, for I cannot endure rolitica in the pulpit, and think, I am sure, We hear quite enough of them during the week, Without going to church and there hear a man speak Of nothing at all beside slavery and war. Now, I do not believe but that J do abhor The system of slavery as much as does he. Am just as desirous the slaves should be free. But I own 1 don't think that the end justifies The means ; nor to me does it seem hardly wiae Our country to plunge into this civil war — Which every nation should always abhor — And our fair land to cover with unnumbered graTe% for thft powible iBf u« of freeing the slaveB. ^ STOLEN WATEB& I think that if there had been made a decree That every child henceforth born should be firoe That it better, far better would been in the end^ For all would, of course, educated been, then, For freedom ; been qualified thereby to do Their share in this lifers hard, stem battle. And, too^ In a few fleeting years slavery would have been o'er, And the " cry of the oppressed " would be heard iie¥«i more — All chains would bo broken, all slaves would be frt%. And then, too, how many fond hearts there will be Left sad, and how desolate I Z don't pretend To be so patriotic: I never would send Any dear friend of mine, to lose limb, perhaps life, In this fratricide war, in this unholy strife. I am not patriotic enough, yet, to bind The sword to the side of a loved friend of mine. And to bid him " God speed," with a clear, tearless eye ; Bid him go forth to battle, perchance, too, to die. All alone and forlorn, with not one dear friend nigh To catch the last word, or last, tremulous sigh ; Or, in a rude hospital, sick and unfriended, To lie moaning with pain, yet unwatched and untended ; Or what would be worse still, in prison to be. Unfed and unclothed, sick for sweet liberty. Had this cruel war been with some other nation. We could have endured our fair land's desolation— Our broken home-circles, our firesides so drear. The hush of the voices that once were so dear. So fearfully hard it would not be to see Our loved ones torn from us. Tea, it would* indtitdt STOLEN WATEBS. 25 hh «iil.itt>i»nt far if 'twas strife witli another Ijiind or power; hwx, brothers against their own brothertl Tw too horrid to thkiik of, or speak of, or write 1 And I tbink, loo, thj*t I have already said quite Enough Ofi the subjer»ti ; I did not intend To do I'le tt»me thing vrhich I just now condemned, And pre»4ch » " war-s^-rmon," my Journal, to you. And perhaps, just as -iltra this one has been, too, As those Mr. b write:?, which I can't endure. But I'm no+. in vhe pulpit, and I am assured That my congre^tioij is not a mixed one. So I think there u not any great mischief done. It has been pretty stormy the whole day, and so I did not this mom go to church ; and although £ expected, as usual, they'd have war to-day, And that our Mr. Tenor remained yet away, I was somewhat mistaken on both points, I find, For the sermon this morn was exceedingly fine — Father told me (he went out this morning alone), And the music of course was, because " my Unknown" His usual seat in the choir filled this mom ; And of course I regretted that I had not gone. [ would like to see him, and find out if I can, ff of him I must think as a lost, married man. And I might have been able to tell if I'd gone To church. But, it's being so stormy this mom, She would not have been out very probably, so I presume it's as well now that I did not go. B it I would like to know if he's married or not— (, indeed, scarcely think that he is. I forgot % 26 STOLEN WaTBBS. That I had tne gentleman's name ascertained ; I shyuld caU him by it. Yet it's aU the samel To me he's the " Unknown," beside, I'm not quitt A wiired that the name to me given was riglife As father thought he wj)uld go down town to-nighi, And as it was stormy, and dark, too, about Half-past seven, to service none of us went out. But next Sunday morning, I think I shall go, And try to find out if he's married or no ; And then, my dear Journal, I'll let you know, too, And until then I think I must bid you adieu. September 9thf 1863. WEDNESDAY. Again over two weeks have flown swiftly past. And two Sabbaths have flitted by since I wrote ' I service attended two Sundays ago. And saw Mr. Tenor, but still do not know Any better, in fact, than I did the last time I wrote of him here in this journal of mine, If he's married or not; I indeed only know That as usual he sat in the choir ; know, also. That no lady was with him that morning, and, too, lEe looked and appeared just as he used to do. 1 might, therefore, as well still believe him to be, Until I know better, " heart-whole, fancy-ftee I " STOLEN ¥ATBELa. 21 I went out to Tarrytown last Saturday, Remaining 'tUl Monday, and so was away From service on last Sunday morn. Nothing new Has occurred since that time. Yes, indeed ! there has, too \ The carrier called yesterday afternoon, My Journal, and brought me a leiter ; from whom I could not imagine at iSrst, as the hand Was quite unfamiliar ; but when I began A perusal of it, and had looked to see where It was dated, inferred 'twas from Colonel Allair ; And, on turning to look for the name at the close, I found it to be just as I had supposed. 'Twas indeed a nice letter, but only just such As I knew he would write, and it did please me much. 'Twas dated at Vicksburg, the twentieth day Of last month ; and informed me that he'd been away On service detached, for some little time past ; But had now been sent back to the army, at last. That at the surrender of V. he was there ; But on the day followiag. Colonel Allair Was detailed to convey to his far Western home The mortal remains of a friend of his own. His regiment's Major. And that was why he Had postponed for so long, this, his letter to mo But hoped I'd excuse his unwilling delay. And very soon write him a few lines to say He still might regard me a friend. That 'twas not Because for a moment that me he forgot. But feared that ere this I'd ceased thinking of him. But hoped not, and trjsted, though that might har* The case before now, this would serve to remind lie lufficiently of him to send V^iwi a Uoe. 28 STOLEN WAJERB, { aaid to iiini once, I was fearful that we On certain points possibly might disagree. 80 he writes ; " My dear friend, why snppoBB thftt wa de f I do not imagine we'd quarrel, do you ? I believe, certainly, every one has a right Their own free opinions to hold. Though they might Differ widely from others, I never should think That they much monil courage possessed, should they shrink From freely expressing the same. And although I am likely to say what 1 think, am also Willing others should do just the same. So think we Shall not, my dear friend, vein/ miicJh disagree." Then in speaking soon after of what he well knew To be my opinions on war and peace, too, He says : " I imagine, from what you have said^ ITiat your * love of imion ' is too limited. I think that, if I understiind you aright, That your love of union must ever be qidte In abeyance unto your wishes for peace, To your earnest desii-e that the war should soon Now my love of * union with peace ' is strong, too, But when it is necessary to subdue Rebellions like this, T say, * imion with war.' But there are more unions that IVe a love for. * A union of States, and a »mion of lands, A union of hearts, and a union of hands.* iLjid a union of mim to the woman he loves, Providing, of coarse, that both parties spproT^* Ihen hs adds ^^rther down, STOLEN WATERS. 2t ^^ But I jet do not know. Of the passion of love, auything at all ! So, If any peculiar sensations are felt, I own I am ignorant of their effect; Nor do I intend, now, to miike any such Proposals to you, unless I very much Change my mind on the subject. But hope now and then, For some flashes of wit fi'om your bright, lively pen, That, for sweet friendship's sake, you'll sometimes send to m« A few lines, the monotony thus to relieve Of my dreary war-path ; and as far, too, as lies In my power to do so, I ever shall try To render it pleasant to you." That's about All he wrote I But my light is so fast going out, I must shut up my book, I suppose, for this time. And go down-stairs. But, hark I the bell's ringing for ain«. So the gas in my dressing-room think I will light. Bead an hoar or two, and not go down to-night. September 27t^, 1863. SUNDAY. My dear little Journal 1 I come here once moi^ To have a nice chat, as so often before We've chatted together in this tiny room, A.t sunrise, at sunset, at nidnight, and noon. Under all circumstances as well as all times, Right her«, in this little dear " Sanctum " of minfl^ 30 STOLEN WATEBa. This place all so quiet, where no one intnidoB, The spot where I alwajs may find solitude, I sit here when the morning sun's glorious beams Through the deep, arching window so dazzlingly sti And gilds with a radiance almost sublime Every object in this dear apartment of mine — The easy-chair here in this curtained recess, The table beside it vn\h. wide-open desk, The papers, engravings, and late magazines, And touches again with its i*adiant beams Every favorite book in the cases, and all The familiar dear pictures which hang on the walL I love the spot, then. When the deep glowing noon Makes oppressive the heat, then I come to this room. And I draw down the curtains to soften the light. If a book I've to read, or have letters to -write. Tnen I love to sit here when the gathering twilight Proclaims day is rapidly yielding to night, Watch the swift-fading hues of the far sunset sky, The stars glimmer out in the blue vault on high. And trying to count them, as fiist, one by one, They dot the wide cii'cle of Heaven's arching dome. Then I love to come here in the night's silent noon, When from high, spangled throne the fair, pale " lady Moon* Serenely looks do^^^l on the still, sleeping world, With its armies at rest, and its biumers all furled, Its doors barred, windows blinded, and storehouses closed, And everything sleeping in perfect repose. But tl\ough on the world she looks coldly, and me. She floods with pure silver each leaf, bud, and tree, And my " Sanctum " she fills with a weird, mystic lights Oh, w'lo can help loving a clear, moonlight night f STOLEN WATERS, SI Then I sit in the window and rear in the air Castles gorgeoualy grand, and surpassinglj fair I And give myself up for the time to bright dreams, And imagine that all things are just what they seem ; That all that doth glitter is pure, unalloyed gold, That the world is not heartless, and cruel, and cold. That friends never are false, nor our loved ones untme, No lost hopes to mourn, and no errors to rue, That all is sweet harmony, purity, love, No sorrow below, and no dark clouds above. But wiien wishing to sleep, give me then a dark room, No gas-light, no stai-light, no light of the moon, Let the curtain droop low, and draw down the blind tighfti And bid to things earthly a silent good-night. Well I my brother each Saturday's been up for me To go for the Sabbath with him up to T. Since the last time I wrote, and of course, too, I wett — I had no excuse, there was naught to prevent. And so I have not been to church 'till to-day, Although I disliked much remaining away. And it did seem so pleasant to be there once more, And to hear the grand organ's exquisite notes pour All through the vast temple, and hear once again The tones of the choir with the organ's notes blend. *Twa3 nice, just to sit in my usual place. And see there above me the same smiling face. I went out to service this eve, too, again, ft is 80 pleasant there in the evening ; and then I like my " Unknown " to observe best at night. Though he looks quite as well, by day as by gas-lighi 82 STOLEN WATERS. He's splendid in all places, and at all times ; And I do like him ever so much, too, in fine ! By the way, I believe I at last have found out Bis name; and this time, too, without any dovkfc I never, in fact, beKeved really yet My former intelligence very correct In regard to the matter ; nor could I have called Him by that ; but his name is not pretty at all, The first or the last ; but I think I'll not tell You, my Journal, what 'tis — think 'twill be just m well That you should not know it. Suffice it to say That his first name is " John," and a name, by the way, That I never did like ; although 'tis, it is true. Quite a family name with us. Then I have, too, More friends by that name than by any beside, ItB Colonel Allair's, too 1 My Journal, good-night. N^ovember 3rf, 1863. TUESDAY. To-day in my birth-day ! I'm nineteen to-day. Can another whole year have so soon slipped away? 4nd can it be possible that I have seen Of girlhood's sweet birthdays the last In my teens ? It seems, when I look back, almost like a dream, The years that have passed since I entered my teeii% And thought it would seem such a very long time Before I was out of them I But, Journal mine. The long years have flown very quickly away. And my nineteenth birthday I welcome to-day. SrOLEJV WATERS. W The weather to-day rather stormy has been, But cleared off quite pleasant before evening; The sun sank to rest in the beautiful west, fn his rich-tinted robes just as gorgeously dressed^ As if he'd not hidden almost the whole day His glorious head behind dark clouds of gray. And only emerged for a parting good-night Ere leaving our world with his life-giving light. Well 1 as it had cleared off so wondrously fair, I thought I'd go out for a breath of fresh air. And so, dressing, I went down to Ed Vamey's store. For some pond-lily, pens, one or two trifles more. He seemed, as in general, glad to see me. What a singular man he to me seems to be I Like Lord Byron's " bird with cerulean wings," Whose song ever " seemed saying a thousand sweet things," So his eyes and his tones do speak volumes sometimes, As he touches my hand, or his glances meet mine. His every word is almost a caress, And his manner, in truth, seems at times scarcely less. He's a rather fine-looking man, and — let me see I TTia age I sho ild think is about thirty-three. £ wonder sometimes if he seems just the same To all lady friends, or e'en some I could name ; I presume that he does, though, but such looks and toniM f could give to no one I've as yet ever known, And though I'm disposed very often to flirt He seems too much in earnest, and fear I might hnit His feelings far more than I'd gratify mine, And for such a flirtation I now have no time. With letters s^ '^^n from Colonel Allair, And my ^ Un^Jiown " to think about, too, do not 84 BTOLEN WATERa. Another flirtation just now to begin, A.t least with Ed Yamey. Enough, thoigh, of him I Let him pass for the present. And, oh, by the way, I learned tha address of " my Unknown " to-day, TTia residence, his place of business, and all 1 Next time I go down town I think I will call At the store ; and if he should then chance to be in. And I am so fortiuiate as to see him, I shall know I am right ; then I'll send him a note. Just the sweetest one also that I ever wrote. And now, as the hours are fast taking their flight. My birth-day I'll bid a regretful good-night ! I^avemher 9th, 1863. MONDAY. ^ 1 of course went to chui'ch morn and eve, yesterday. It has been quite a time now, siuce I've staid away. Saw my charming " Unknown," and I heard once again His exquisite voice in the solemn refrain. And met the soft glance of his splendid dark eye, And saw the same smile, as in days now gone by Sucn ** perilous glances," " bewilderiug smiles," I very much fear this poor heart will beguile, ^Till I yield me a captive to love's rosy hand. While he binds me quite fast with his glittering band, And imlike " Ellen Douglass " and " Malcolm Graeme," Hi* hand '11 hold the clasp, while my neck wears the chain STOLEN WATERS. 31 Went down town this p.m. my friend Annie, and L Ao I stopped in the store as I chanced to pass by ; I purchased a magazine, at the same time Looking 'round for the owner, that " Unknown " of minei And I looked not in vain ! for, apart from the rest, He sat, cahn, serene, at a low private desk Swiftly writing —oh, would that it had been to me He was tracing those lines, graceful, careless, and free, Intent on his task, never once raised his head, Nor while I was in there a single word said. He did look so handsome, so splendid, so grand. Sublimely unconscious, that so near at hand Was a girl just sufficiently fooHsh to let His mild, handsome face haunt her thoughts even yet. But enough I let him pass ! I have seen him, and when I get ready a note I will send him, and then Perhaps he will sit in the very same place, And over my letter bend his handsome face. Nbvembm- 16ihy 1863. SUNDAY. The last week passed quietly, calmly away. With nothing important to mark its brief stay. Af y sister came home from the East, Thursday mom, And the next day a note from my friend, " Colonel JotoL' That is all, I believe, that is worthy of note, Exoept that one evening a few lines I wrote^ 86 STOLEN WATERS. Intending to send it off to my " Unknown," But mj heart having failed me, I left it aloiMi /ind its in my writing desk, still incomplete, But I think I will finish it during this week. It rained this A.M., so we all staid at home, And father and I went this evening alone. "We were rather late, also, and when we went in, The choir were just taking their places to sing. My " Unknown " was there in his usual place, Smiles adding their charm to his fine, manly face l And as the rich light with its radiance warm, Beautifying and brilliant, streamed over his form. To his strange fascinations quite captive once more, I thought him more pleasing than ever before. What is there about him bewitches me so ? I am sure that I wouM very much like to know. It is not his face, for although it is fine, And I've praised it so highly, too, time after time. Yet I've seen a great many far handsomer men. There's Colonel AUair, to begin with, and then Charlie Darling, and Morrill, and Gus, and — oh \t we all call The * world,' not to fancy with readiness aT 40 STOLEN WATEBB, You may think of the one who this note Bends to foik But judge me with charity, as is my due, And some time you may have occasion to change Yo'ir opinion of me I — 'twould be naught very strange 1 Now, hoping to hear from you during the week, 1 am, ** With sincerity, « Yours. « 'Bitter-Sweet.'" That, except my address, is the whole, I beUeve. I may have an answer by Saturday eve. But probably not 'till the following week. I am glad I have finished — I'm almost asleep. HTwemher 22d^ 1863. SUNDAY. One more holy Sabbath has vanished among llie things that have been 1 And once more I am Fcr a few moments' chat, my dear Journal, with yoo As there's now nothing else I'm desirous to do, And as I don't care to retire either, yet. Though I ought to before very long, I expect^ For it's nearly eleven now, I must admit. I dovCt like to go to bed early one bit I I meant, as I said the last ^ime that I wrote^ To have gone yesterday, to find out if a note At the office was waiting, in answer to mine f despatched to my unknown friend '' onoe on arOLBN WATBNS. ♦i But when I ^ai dressed, and had sieppe^ out fcisc door-, I perceived what I'd quite failed to notice before, That 'twas then raining fast ; so I <^hought Td dela^ My walk to another and pleasanter day. I did not, in fact, care about getting wet, And 'twas doubtful, beside, if he'd written me yet. Well' I've been out to churoh mom and evening 9^^, As a matter of course, my df^ar Journal ! and when The choir were come forward tho first time to sing. Of course my first glance was for his diamond ring. And my first thought for him ! And as then from my book I raised my eyes slowly, my fii*«^, quiet look Was rewarded by seeing him standing up there, And looking as merry, ao gay^ free from care. As handsome, as smiling, as oplendidly grand, As ever before. And there on Ids left hand, And taking especial pains to have it seen. Was, as I expected, his elegant ring. To-morrow some time I'll be certain to go To see if he's sent me a letter or no. Or if he was playing when carrying out The request I in mine made his fine ring about. My brother and sister were in town to-night. And went to church with us. M y " Unknown *' was |uiti Amased about something, but 1 do not know, Of course, what it was. But, — I think that, althoiigh With the same laughing glance he looked into my eyes, Betraying therein no unusual surprise. No curious wonder, yet he does not dream That I'm his unknown correspondent, 1 *2 STOLEN WATWEta. Bis ring still remained on his left hand to-ni^t, And I saw it, of course ! but he did not make qidto So much effort to hold it in such a way, then. That it might be observed — as he did this A.M. Sometimes 'twas behind him, as often he stands. And sometimes his hymn-book was held in that But here I've sat dreaming and writing of him And events of the day 'till my eyes are quite dii% So my book I will shut up this instant, and write Not one other line in my journal to-night. Novemh&r 26d^, 1863. THXJItSDAY. To^iay is " ThaxJtsgiving ! " But first let me write *Vliat has happened to me since the last Sunday nigbt- •• That is, the result of my venture last week, The kind of reception my letter did meet, With all that pertains to the same 1 You must know The morning hours, Monday, dragged tediously slow. While the tasks which employed both my hands and time, d!elped but little to quell such impatience as mine — Provoking impatience ! my most common sin 1 Which makes in my heart such perpetual din, Which ruffles my temper, and oft clouds my brow. Unstrings every nerve, 'till I'm ready to vow That life is a burden I fain would lay down, yield with the cross all my hopes of the crowm; STOLEN WATERS. 43 That life is a battle the strongest must win, Bo they powers of good, be they powers of sin. So much for impatience ! which, last Monday monij An unwelcome guest, which refused to be gone* With hand on my heart-strings, kept close at my aidt| And made the slow hours e'en more tardily glide. Well 1 the afternoon really did come at last, And about two o'clock, or a few minutes past, I was dressed, and had started for Brooklyn, to see If there was at the office a letter for me. (I directed, my Journal, his answer should be Sent to Brooklyn Post Office, in order that he Might the less reason have for suspicions of me; For I, of course, do not intend he shall know Who I am, either now or hereafter, and so I must take all precautions lest he should find out, As he would be glad to do, I've not a doubt!) Well I when the detestable clerk there had eyed Both me and my letter till quite satisfied. And quizzed me 'till patience was vanishing fast, The much wished for letter he gave me at last. With it safe in my hand I left there in great haste, And for New York I started at once with quick pace, And once more to impatience succumbing, you see, And regardless of what etiquette's rules might be On the point, I at once broke the seal of my notie, And in the street read what my unknown friend wrote | But glanced through it so swiftly, I really knew little more of my letter when I had got through Hum when I began ; but I hastened back home, At Cut as I could, and when once more alone ^ STOLEN WATERS. i read the nice note to my heart's full content Which he to his new friend so kindly had sent. He writes an uncommonly nice, handsome handy Especially so for a true business man, Full and round, smoothly flowing as well as quite pi«IiH And the well-expressed sentiments, pleasing, the same ; On " Carson's Congress " it was written, enclosed In a plain buff envelope ; the same, I suppose, Which he keeps in his office for use when he writet To his business friends. That, too, is just what 1 like I Whenever a man sends a letter to me 1 like that the note should a mamly one boj [n paper, envelopes, and handwriting, too, k& well as its contents both honest and true. But whenever a lady a note sends to me, I don't care how dainty the billet may be. To return to his letter again ! Journal, dear, L suppose you would like me to give to you here A copy of it, as I have done of mine, And I think I will, too, though I hardly have time; It was not very long, or at least the one sheet Was not nearly filled. It commenced — « « Bitter Sweet ! ' " Your note of the 18th to me to-day. And I truly can do nothing less than to say, That, as well as surprised, I of course could but be Somewhat pleased at its contents I But 70U mnat ceive That you have indeed the advantage of me, And I am of course very curious to see STOLEN WATERb. 4» And know you ; altho' you need have not a fear I will take any means not quite open and clear, And overy way hon'rable, to ascertain What would give me much pleasure to have you explain,-** That is, who is taking such interest in me. And who my unknown correspondent may be. ** What a fine, pretty hand you are writing I and so, Of course, young and fresh it must be. Do you know What Don Caesar Bazan exclaims to the veiled bride, As he takes her whit© hand upon reaching her side ? * It's tol'rably soft, and I'm curious to know. With such a small hand, if a wrinkled face gooa.' Now that is just what is the trouble with me, And I wonder if I could your hand just once see, I could of your face judge, as you seem to trace— Or affect to at least — by a glance at my face. My character social. But, let me ask * who Hath made thee a judge ' as between me and you? Who has said I objected to what you have called An * innocent flirtation ? ' Oh, no 1 not at all 1 And as to the * vanity,' I have my share. King Solomon seems to have had some to spare, Tf we judge by his words. " But there I I cannot wnto^ To you, except 'tis with some vagueness, to-night, As I do not know who you may be — man or woman, A spirit or goblin. Divine or quite human. And do you remember what * Sam Weller ' says (Of course you read Dickens ; all do in these days), * Weal pies wery good is, when one knows as what They are made of.' But who yoi may be I know aot» *6 STOLEN WATERS. Though iho writing iloi^s look quite fjuuiliar, *ti» fcrv*; 1 never was good at coiiimdrums ! Are you t If your wish is to see wx^}^ why, you o^m do so 1 ni not eat you, no oiuinibal aui 1, you know. I think iij) to Oarleton's 1*11 go, by the bj, And a copy of * Bitk^r Sweot ' piiivluu^e — sliall I ? Do you me^ui to somo fuu have at my sole expenae? Vxe a [K)em that's better thaw what you have sent, Or quvUlieve me to be, Now and ever, indeed, " Truly yours, "*Antony."' " To * Bitter Sweet I * (wormwood and sugar.)" And thai Was the end and was :dl. Can it be 'tis in fiact A note fnnn my " Unknown'' 1 hold in my hand? Am 1 drt^aming, or is it a truth, that tiie man Whose eyes have so oft^n of late sought my own, And whose every motion familiar h:is grown. To whose voice 1 have list<»iied again and again, In solo, or chorus, or solemn rt>fnun, Has over this letter Ivnt hU handsome face, That his hand hoi 1 tbe pen which tluve kind wordi kftTf traced, STOLEN WATERS *7 Tlmt his heart or his braiu hajs diotated thiB A»te, A pIoHaiug reply to tlie one which 1 wrote ? I OAiinot the fact realize. By the \Ta,y \ I Mw at au artistes rooms lately, one day, A. picture exactly liko my " Antony." (En jMiHsiuit., lie seoiiuui to adopt nnuiily, The ftuiciful name which I signed to ni}' note, And iu8t(>ad of his using his o^^^l when he wrote, He too took a fancy one ! mine ought to l)e " Cleojwitni," to match well with his " Antony I") To return to tlie [)icture I And whose it might be, Or if it was his, 1 was anxious to see. The resembhuice was striking, the painting, too, fins, I gazed at its details for quite a long time. I was sure it was him, or that if it was not, Whoever it was, he had certainly caught His smile and expression ! and not only that. The poise and contour of tlie head were exact. The features were like, and the beard worn the same, And in till points the likeness wt»s perfectly plain. His name of the artist 1 presently tisked. Wliat was it ? let's see I J believe it has passed Wholly out of my mind. But it matters not, thon^ \ He resides up at Harlem is all that I know. It was not my *' Antony." Oh, by the way, Had I gone to tlie office on last Saturtiay His note 1 should probably found, as tlie date ^•» November 19th. But it's getting quite late, [ must haste '•rith what else I'm intending to write. 48 STOLEN WAIEBS. The first thing I did, of course, last Monday nij^ty Was to sit myself down at my desk, to indite A. reply to my note. And I asked him to send Hiij next though to Brooklyn, in care of a Mend^ My cousin Lorette. She was over to-day, Ajid I told her about it ere going away. And charged her to keep it quite safely for me Did the letter arrive before I was there. She Thought it was romantic, yet hardly approved. She thinks that the world and its people should mcrrv In the one self-same channel forever and aye. But I tire of the same events, day after day, A change like sometimes, and the stranger the betteir. Oh dear, I will try and get back to my letter. I don't know what ails me I somehow I can't keep To-night on one subject. I am not asleep, I believe. But then ! I've been so blue all the day, Though there is no reason for it, I must say ; I believe that I am not like other girls quite. A houseftd of friends we have had here to-niglit, In fact, have all day, and all Mends near and dear, But somehow the day has been lonely and drear. To to-day, though, I have not arrived yet ; my thougbli Seem to be anywhere else except where they ought. Once more to my letter I The first thing I wrote Was but to acknowledge receiving his note, With thanks for the favor ; and as to the rest, Twas less sentimental than saucy, I guess. 1 began with afiectionate warmth, it is true, And there was an undertone of it all through. But yet it could hardly be calJed sentiment. As the frail wood anemone's delicate scent STOLEN WATES& Is too freAi And too faint to be named a perfbnfl^ So this was too faint and too p are. To resume I I thanked him, of course, for replying so soon. And fulfilling my wish in regard to the ring, Waa exceedingly glad to find, I assured him, By the letter which I that p.m. had received, That he in that point at least had not deceived His firiend yet unknown, howe'er treacherous he l^ight in the dim future himself prove to be. I gave him in answer to what he would know Of me and my name the quotation below : " I know a girl with sunny curls. And shoulders white as snow ; She lives — ah, well ! I must not tell. But wovldiCt you like to know ? She has a name, the sweetest name That mortal can bestow. ^Twould break the spell if I should tell. But woiddrCt you like to know ? " Somewhat tantalizing he'll think it, I fear. The best I can do for him now, though, howe'er Desirous he may be to know more of me. Then I said— " So you fcincy that if you could SM My hand you could judge of my face I I will try And send you a photograph of it. Shall I ? Of course you can't guess who I am 1 I did not Suppose that you could I but I know all about You and yours I and not only that, but I've bei>- In your business place, and you were writing, too, But it was not to me. 60 STOLEN WATERS. *' Don't you like, my dear frieMli My nomde-pliime ? Why I I am siire that the end Is moeet if the rest is not ; possibly, you Will find, if I'm sweet, I am bitter some, too. [ts language is * t/ruth.^ I believe I am true 1 /think the name pertinent all ways 1 don't you?" I spoke of attending the service to-day, If nothing prevented, and went on to say That I never could see him at all, where I sit, Except during singing, and if he saw fit To sit farther forward, just so he could see The preacher, he at the same time would please me. And added, " I o?o * wish to see you,' and do Quite often, but hardly dare trust myself too Near to you for the present, at least. I can you At a safe distance see, but if you would please send Your picture to your, though unknown, yet true friend 'Twould indeed please her much." Then I asked him if ha Did not Uke my poetry ; and — saucily — " Now I thought you would think it was flattering, quite ; 1 defy you to find any better. You might, Though, send me the piece you referred to, and I Expect it win come to me with your reply." I wrote somewhat more, but we'll let the rest go. It rained very hard all day Tuesday, and so I found it impossible quite to get out To mail it that day, so I very much doubt His having received it as yet, though it might ^nst possibly come to his h inds late last nigh.t» STOLEN WATERS, 5\ To-day is "Thanksgiving" — I said so before— And I'm heartily glad that the day is now o'er. The morning was pleasant, but cold. I must own Twas not with reluctance I ^ent out alone To church this a.m. No one else was inclined To go out, or in fact seemed to have enough time To spare for the purpose. And though it is true We should have a political sermon, I knew, Yet I had my " Antony " told I should go. And I mean to do just as I promise, you know ! The sermon, if possible, seemed rather more Triumphantly ultra than ever before. The reverend man never energy lacks When he's preaching of war, or of freeing the blacka I did not, however, expect on this day To hear aught but that ; but endeavored to pay As little attention to it as I could, Though I could but acknowledge that some points were good For instance, he quoted in his matchless way, A poem from Whittier, which, I must say, Was not only pertinent, in itself fine, But rendered exquisitely. In the meantime, I thought of my Antony, who, I well knew Was right there before me, though hidden &om view. When the service was over, and we going home. He walked right in front of me, he, too, alone 1 How little he knew that his friend " Bitter Sweet " Was 80 near at hand as he turned at his street- How I wished that the spell were dissolvea that miuit keef XJi foiever apart ; that at ono mighty sweep 62 STOLEN WATEB& I miglifc oreak all the bands with which Custom doth bind Our acts, though we still keep unfettered our minds. Well ! he passed down the street, and soon entered his doca And between us there then rose one barrier more. I, too, hastened home ! As I said once before, WeVe a houseful of visitors had here all day ; I might have enjoyed it if I had been gaj. As I am sometimes. Hark ! the clock's striking omt^ I am 40 tired, and glad that at last I haye done I ITovmnber 29th, 1863. SUNDAY. Another week's rapidly flitted away ; Again it is Sunday ! I went yesterday To make a short call on my cousin Lorette, With hopes that I also a letter might get. And she is true as steel, if she did not approve My romantic and somewhat unusual move. I knew I could trust her. We soon went upstaira To her own little " Sanctum Sanctorum," and where She placed me at once in her favorite chair, And gave me my letter, all safe, smooth, and fidr. Not long was I breaking the seal of my note. Or reading the kind words my Antony wrote. As I thought, he did not, it appears, receive mine (Jntil Friday a.m. And his letter was fine. Much nicer I think than the other he sent. And gave me much pleasure, I own I It comnwmowi STOLEN WATERB, M ** To my sweetest Bitter, and bitterest Sweet ^ * A form of address I thought rather unique, Yet characteristic of him, I believed. And then wrote as follows : " Your note I reoeiTsd In this morning's mail, and of course I was pleMod At hearing from you. But you'll please recollect That Thanksgiving came yesterday, therefore expect From a quite torpid brain not much brilliance to-day^ In reply to your letter. And here let me say I believe that I am not afflicted at all With a certain disease which is commonly called « Cacoethes Scribendi.' " And then he went on To ask if I went to church Thanksgiving mom, And heard the " political sermon." He thought, As regards abolition and war, that it ought To content the most ultra — I'd written in mine That I was exceedingly fond of that kind. — He was pleased that his letter was gladly receivedt And hoped I'd enough " charity " to believe It to be on his part but a mere oversight That he failed in his other to ask me to write. Says — '^ I ask who you are, and you give me a Ut Of a poem in answer. Now I will admit Poetry is indeed very good in its place, But don't answer questions — at least in this cate. Of course I should much ' like to know ' who yon mn^ My far-off, unknown, * bright particulai star 1 ' I>o not send me a photograph, though, of your hand; If you do rU not have it, indeed I but /ou can 64 8T0LBN WATBB8. The thing itself place in my own, then Vd know I was holding in mine something more tl an shadow ; But one of your face you can send me. How, though. Should I send mine to one I as yet do not know ? I've not lost my reason, or caution, and still Yon can have a good chance to exchange if you will, When I've aught to exchange with." How much I would llkt His fine pictured face ! How I wish that I might Comply with the terms, if in no other way I might have it. Although, it is needless to say. That's out of the question, of course. He'd know me As soon as he saw it, and that must not be. Who his " Bitter Sweet " is I cannot let him know^ Or now, or henceforth ; but I don't tell him so. He fondly imagines he'll know me some time. I don't undeceive him. Dream on, friend of mine ! Hope is good for the soul, and " an anchor both sure And steadfast," 'tis said. Though we find it a lure Too often, I fear, to the bitter despair Of grim disappointment. Hope promises fair, And leaves us to find, in reward for our faith, In our grasp but a phantom, a flickering wraith — A shadow delusive, as fleeting as sweet. Yet by all mankind followed with swift, eager feet, Who will never be warned by another's sad fiite But press madly forward, nor pause 'till, too late, They find themselves in disappointment's broad lakA She tells us without her our fond hearts will break. Then leaves us to sicken with faint " hope deferred," I hATe a dear friend whom I often have heard STOLEN WATERS. W Declare she has been disappointed in naught, Because she ne'er hopes. She had certainly ot ghi To be indeed happy ! At least, Z think so. I envy her more than all persons I know. But I'm not like her ; I have less self-control, A. more turbulent heart, and more intense soul ; Have less calmness of nerve, and less coolnesfl cf loraiiii Less firmness, more impulse ; in short, it is plain We are cast in two moulds which are very unlike. Or made of materials difierent quite. But if I could crush out all hope from my heart. And in my acts give the " fair siren " no part, Last not to her calls, shut my eyes to her smiles. And yield nevermore to her dangerous wiles, Feel free from her temptings both now and alway^ I would have nothing more to desire 1 I could say, " Howl, wind of November, rough, wrathful, and chilly, As loud as you please, and I'll not take it illy, For here in my chamber all's comfort and ease. All's peace and delight, all is pleasure and glee. For I'm happy to-night as a mortal can be I " But " Dum spiro spero " 's my fate, and should be My motto ! Well ! back to his note — let me see I How far had I written ? The picture — and then The next thing he wiote was, I think, near the end^- " Your quotation — I surely no fault found with it, For 'twas good, and if true was of course better yet But then, I am sure it was merely ideal, AJid I send you my own, and imagine it reaL Chifl scrawl please excuse, and believe me " Yoar own <«Ajit0B7 M m^OLEN WATES8. "To mj 'Bittersweet' " This TTEfl the poem . •* You kissed me ! my head had dropped low on your breast, With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest, While the holj emotion my tongue dared not speak Flashed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek. Your arms held me fast ! and your arms were so bold, Heart beat against heart lq that rapturous fold, Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes. As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies. And your lips clung to mine 'till I prayed, in my bliss, They might never unclasp from that rapturous *' You kissed me I my heart and my breath and my will In delirious joy for the moment stood stilL Life had for me then no temptations, no charms, No vista of pleasure outside of your arms. And were I this instant an angel, possessed Of the glory and peace that is given the blest, I would throw my white robes unrepioingly down. And tear from my forehead its beautiful crown. To nestle once more in that haven of rest. With your lips upon mine and my head on your breast. " You kissed me ! my soul in a bliss so divine Reeled and swooned, like a drimken man foolish with wins And I thought 'twere delicious to die then, if death Would come while my mouth was yet moist with your braatk TVere delicious to die if my heart might grow cold While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold STOLEN WATBBB. 51 And these are the questioiis I ask daj and night : Must my soul taste but once such exquisite delight f Would yoi care if your breast was my shelter as then, And if you were here would you kiss me again ? " I think it exquisitely fine. And of course Seems doubly expressive to oome from that source. Impassioned and sweet, yet refreshingly pure, No fault I can have to find with it, I'm sure. But to come to to-day ! and to hasten it, too, For as ever 'tis late, I must quickly get through. To church mom and eve I of coui-se went to-day, Saw my "Antony," too, just as handsome and gay — He does have such an easy and nonchalant way. As if nothing could ruffle him, let others say Or do what they might. And his temper is sweet, I am certain, as well as his manner just meet To match with his face, so serene, true, and kind. His soft, laughing, passionate eye stUl meets mine, Persistently, sweetly as ever, and yet I've not the least reason to think he suspectb That I am his Bitter-Sweet I never a trace Since sending my first have I seen in his face Of bewilderment, doubt, curiosity aught Of inquisitive wonder. 'Tis strange he does not Have any suspicions, not only of me But of no one beside. There are many that Its Might with very good reason imagine to be His unknown correspondent. Oh well, letit paai! I lent him an answer to-day to Ids laxtt. 8* 58 STOLEN WATEBA Hell receive it to-morrow I And ch, by the wmy^ He sat not in front as I askeil him, to-day ; I suppose that he thinks he's not anxioas to be Closely scrutinized all the time, even by me, His " own Bitter-Sweet I " That 'tis sufficient that iM Is constantly conscious that some one imknown Is watching each motion and look of his own When he sings. So he sat in his usual seat In the " comer " this morning, and so Bitter-Sweet's tlequeat was unheeded I asked what he did, In my letter to-day, when he sat safely hid From sight in the " corner. "*"* 'Tis late, and in bed I must hasten to pillow my quite wearied head. December 2d, 1863. WEDNESDAY. Oh, how perfect the night I I've been sitting upstairf The whole evening, nearly. My great easy chair And my table drawn close to the bright glowing grate, I have written and di-eamed 'till it's getting quite late. With my journal unopened before me. The night, With its undreamed-of beauty all liidden from sight, By the low-drooping shade, and the tightly-closed blind Unheeding the voice of December's chill wind, Ite soft ciUls for entrance at casement and door, I have, aj? I said, sat the bright fire before, Blow yielding to Fancy's magnetic advance. Her airy bright dreams, heart-bewildering STOLEN WATERS. M At intei^-als writing, when not in the power Of the lovely enchantress, 'till hour after hour Have rolled their swift round, to return never more From the vanishing past, from Eternity's shore. " Like a song that is sung, and a tale that is told," They have now passed away, and the day waxes old. Midnight softly approaches, and swift, one by one, The minutes glide onward, and — this day is done I The clock's striking twelve, my watch ticks a response And silence and midnight are now, for the nonce, Of our city twin-monai-chs unquestioned. The bell Slowly tolls for the hour just departed, and swells Softly deep on the clear, frosty air. Now the last Stroke is dying — farewell to to-day ! I had passed To the casement a short time ago, and I drew Up the shade to look out on the night. And a view Before me was spread I've no words to describe. My seat I resimied, but I left open wide Every blind in the room, that the fidl lustrous tide Of the night's perfect beauty might entrance gain heie« While I sit here and write. And the picture spreads oVwtt And sweetly before me ! The city lies calm In night's silent embrace ; and a lullaby psalm Is sung by the wind, though it tranquilly sleeps And heeds not the clasp or the music which sweeps So fitfully, tenderly o'er it. Its spires. Gleaming white in the moonlight, now seem to point bighei Than ever before to the home of the blest. All with eloquence speaks of sweet quiet and rest •0 STOLSX WATERS. ^^ D\uch for the background ! Aud now in th© fore The j>Hrk lies till silejit, the trees festocned o'er With creamy white s^now-wreaths, luid ice-pemlant*, toOii W^iioh glitter like diamomls, or morning's eleivr dew, Ab over the whole strcivms the moonlights The street Is desert chI ! tuid hark ! I can hear my heart beat, So profound is the hush. The K>ng, deep shadows meet, Intertwining luid tracing, too, iigui-es unique, Gn\et^ful, fanciful, varied, oft shifting, ttx). As the tickle wind llits the white tive-bnmches through. And then over jUI is the arched azure sky, Det^jily bhie and uncknided. The moon's riding high On her gi-and throne of state, and her nuliance bright Sweeps over all points of the picture, lUid lights With a brilliance sublime the whole view. And tJis staT% Scintillesct^nt, umiuml>ei'ed, and lovelier far. To my eye, than all in the picture Wside, G'ow softly and puivly ; and spangle in bright And bouniUess pix>fiisdon tlie N^ast vault above, A glorious array ! And the bright stiir of love Still mort> lovely than any shines soft fivm a^r — Sweet Venus, our beautiful ** Evening star." Fuivwell lo tlie night ! let me now turn aw»y From it« l>eautiful self, while I come to to-day — The day just depiirted. I wejit this A. M. To Brooklyn to look for a letter again, And I went not in vain, though 1 f;uicied I should All the way over tJiero. He's indeed very good i I said in my last IM a long way to go, And ho^)ed tie would not disappoint me ', and so STOLEN WATERS. €1 His letter was promptly dispatched. He replied As follows to that part : " You do not reside In Brooklyn, my Bitter-Swect ? Well I it is tru« I hardly supposed that you did ; nor did you Even say that you did : but you only implied It in your first letter." The city is wide, He cannot locate me. Poor boy ! 'tis too bad I can't tell him the whole. I am sure I'd be glad To do so at once, if I thought 'twould be best. Think of that, though, I imist not I And now for tne ^Wl^^ And hastily too, of my Antony's letter ; It was not very long, began — " My Sweet Tormentor ! " He acknowledged at first the receipt of my note. Praising me for the prom]>tness with which I last wiofcc, Saying I would an excellent post-mistress be. And then — " But don't bother my life out of me, Keeping me for so long in suspense, like a fish With a hook in his gills ! " So my gentleman is Getting rather impatient, I see ; nor can I Wonder at it, indeed ; but I can't gratify My dear friend in this point, though I made in reply Promise fair of acquaintance with me by and by. He was glad I was pleased mth the poem he sent, And how could I help it ? Hwas fine, and he meant When some better he found to at once kt me know. He sent me with this note another alsa llien he said, — 62 STOLSy WAISRS, " lu rogarxl to the ♦ oomer ' I rwui. Sometimes ' ^<\kv* a little^ Jou't talk mud\, iude^, But A greAt deal of tliinkiiig I da How should I For :i sight j^eivli mv^-lf up ? although, by tJie bv, I f 1 kuew where rou sat, might j>o.rhaj^ get a gUmp« Of 70U oncv in a while." 1 r^iiioml>e.r now, sinc« Reom - You Kisseii Me,*' had passed To say, I supjx^stvl every one's heart to be i>n the li^/t side. In that case, of cour^ he must 9M V }H>sition iu which a " he^ut K\us against heart," \t U>{ist, must W awkwaixi extremely. That jx^t lie replies to as folio\^-s: '• Now as to the ht^rt, *.^f ooui-st^ every one's is e-X|HVt<\l to Iv Oil the / side I but theii, ilid you never yet s«« Or hear of a i>erson that had not a begirt ? I ha^v, at least, m:my, I think, for my jvirt.*" Wrote a page or so more, then abruptly he says, I am going away to be gone a few daj^s, Shall return Friday morning, exj>ecting to find A letter from tair Bitter S\>-e-\^r thine " Antony." S^> a note I have \>-ritten his ©v« In reply to his last, and which he will nvvive, I trust, aa he wL^e^l, Friday morn. A last look ▲ 1 the b^atitlAil nigit while IV dosing my book. STOLEN WATJSB& €S D^oeniber 6f cting close by the window ; the g:itliering gloom 8s?wlj filling my Siinotum with weird shadows grim, While without distiuit obj ect« now swiftly grow dim. Failing are the rich hues from the fas west-ern sky. The first st^vr shines out in the blue arch on high, And the short winter twilight is oW. I must light The gas iu my sanctiun if wishing to \^Tite. Tve s;it here a long time, my eyes on the grand Sunset clouds in the west, with my cheek in my hand, Unoj>eneii the book in my lap. A tumult Of vague troubleii thought* in my mind, the resnlt Of to-day's observation and last night's erent. m tell you about it I *Twas late when I went To B. yesteen, oh, *o long ! Fiiileti in getting away Till late in the afternoon ; then it \o me Seemed an endless long way fivm here over to B. All day I had soarcely dared think I sliould find Any letter awaiting me there, and my mind And nerve* were so wrought up with hope, doubt, and fewr. Being anxious to go, tmd yet forced to stay here, That rne been somewhat irritable all the day, Kerrous, too, and — well, " vtow," I once heard Gertrnde nj €4 JSTOLEJV WATBSS, And when I at length was en rcntte for Lorette's, As I said just above, tlie way seemed longer yet Than ever before. When I reached there at last. The snn had long set and 'twas growing dark faoL My cousin I found entertaining some friends. And I thought, I am sure, their call never would end. Lorette guessed the question my first glance implied, And by one just as eloquent quickly replied. And then softly whispered, while kissing my cheek, " Tve a letter upstairs for my dear * Bitter-Sweet.' " I was forced to seem calm, although inly I chafed, While they talked of all things, and of nothings ! and TSkvei About this one's fine mustache, and that one's sweet £EU)e, Of Miss A.'s last new dress, of Miss B.'s lovely lace. The next biUl, last night's party, and so, on and on, 'Till politeness and patience were both nearly gone, I turned to tlie window in silence, and found It was growing yet darker each moment. The sound Of their farewells at length reached my ear ; and then I, With a smile not all feigned, turned to bid them good-bj Lorette shut the door on her callers, and ran Upstairs for my letter. 'Twas soon in my hand, And I went to the window to catch the few last Faint gleams of daylight, while she lighted the gas. 1 turned from the -vasement at length, with a cheek A-flush with both pleiisure and pain — turned to speak To Lorette, but the dear girl had gone out the room That I might be alone with my letter. She sooiiy However, returned, in her sweet, pretty w»y Did her best to induce me in Brooklyn to st«y Until Monday A.M. ; but I sent her instead lb her room for a hat for her dear little haad. STOLEN WATEBix. 65 And her home dress to change for her wjilking attiro. Her toilet was mads with a s})eed I atimire Very much, but somehow never can emulate, And homeward we started at once, at quick rate. She returned home this morning. And now for his lettot \ I think that he never has sent me a better. And yet, as I said once before, or implied. It gave me some paui if much pleasure. Each vied With the other for conquest. But still, of the two, £ think the most plei\sure remains. Though 'tis ti je [ scarcely can tell which is yet most complete. But if pleasure, my name it is like, hitter-sweet ! In order to make plain some parts of his note, I'm obliged te refer to some tilings which I wrote In my last one to him. And tii-st, some time ago. In one of my letters, and when he was so Very curious as to who B. S. might be, I told him he need not be looking for me Among hlach-eyed ladies in church. And I this Said because, though I did not assuredly wish Him to think me his new correspondent, I yet Did not care, I think, either, that he sliould suspect Any one else hiit me. And to this he has never Made any reply 'till this very last letter. Then in answer to what he about the P.M. In his other had said, I replied — " AVhen I sfeaA Some time in the country, a few years ago, 1 kad a dear friend who was post-mistress. So I thought it fine fiir to assist h€ r, you kncv t 66 STOLEN WATRRS, Nothing now wjuld it W to no, tlitn?loit», \ lu «*^ To bo a * P.M.* do you not, Antony ? I tliiuk l\\ nv>t oat\^ to hold office, altJiough, Undor * AbnU\am First/ "* Then I told him, below. In regiud to desiring to stv me, that I W.«is going do^^-ll to^>^l to havo made, by and by, A hair ring, which a doiu* friend in viying gave me, And then it wa^ jx>s&ible, tc>o, he might see His own ** Bitter-Sw^vtv*' Promise* doubtful soiuewluU And I ftuicy that A<», t, will tliiiik they are not j£Zr/*Y: ^f,'y roliaWe, Then I said, tov^, Oonov^ruiug the picture — " I cannot send you One of mine, 1 Wlieve, fv^r youM ot^rtcviuly know At the v\>ry first gbuice who wa:5 * Bittex-Sw^et.' So If on no other terms you will seaid yours to me, Oontentoti without it supjK^se I must be,'* I cv>me now to his letter, of which I inteod A cv>py to give ftvm Wginniug to end. To you, juid to you, my dear Journal, alone. First, as usual, the date, then — ** Mv •Antony's own I ' 1 receivwi youre this morning, and find you art^ still Most punctual in your convsjH^ndejicie ; and will You be in \-v>ur jt>n>f>«4>f!s also ? " How caune That thought of tJie jx^st-mistress into my iMrain ? Was it a coincivience, do >*\iu surmise, i>r WTM^ it ^>athotism V say, my Blue Eyes ! And so (/i>w do not like * Abraham the First,' WevV^ V can't say tliat T^vlo a great deal myself^ STOLEN WATERS. 67 AlUiough 1 doubt not there are yot many men That are, in some poinis, worno tlian ho is. Bi*. then Wo will lot, as a nmiiUo, our ' charity ' cover rheir sins of omisaic u and coniiuissiou over. Well! Tm just as inquisitivo, curious, too, Now as over before. Yours are not * eyes of blue ' When Tm singing at church I so froqiuvntly meet Upturned to my own, are thoy, my Bitter-Sweet ? Wliat do you suppose in the * corner ' 1 road ? * Words, words, words,' but 1 thiidc not a little indeed Of late, and of whom ? ayo ! my friend, that's the questioB Can you g\u>ss, or in truth make the slightest suggestion As to who it might bo ? Do wo not, it is clear. Attend service ihe pn^achor's fine sermons to hear, And of what he discourses to think ? " I su]>pose When you have your ring made I shall see it; who knowi But 1 am a judge of the article, too? Do you really think I should recognize you If your picture I saw ? Well I and what if I do ? Are you so ill-looking that you are afraid To be looked at, my B. S. ? " Quite likely you may Have before seen the poem, and possibly, too, The first. Both were good 1 I think this is, don't youi \ * For tlie })illow of dawn where you rest your headj I'll pillow my c wii on your breast instead, For love can sc ften the hardest bed. And I know that I love you I And when you grow tired of your marble hal^ Of your wtHiry life and its gilded tliralls, Oome where the voice of true love calkr And gee how I love you ! ' 68 STOLEN WATERa, * La patience et am^re, mais son fi 'ait est doux I ' Yoiir whole name is there. When am I to see jc«. No longer to draw on the imagination Of "Your ^^ Antony?" With fiill realizatioB That hs at last knew me, I went out, to-day, To service as usual. Although I must say My heart faster beat, as I entered the porch, And also the whole time that I was in church, Until its pulsations almost made me faint, And coloreil my cheek with a crimson not paint. And made me self-vexevl at my want of control Of my heart and my face. The vexation of soul Did not better it much. And then, not only that, But in front all the a.m. my " Antony " sat. And by his frequent glances, his witcliing, and wise, Conscious look, and soft smiles, too, whenever his ejtm Met my o^ti, very plainly told me, if before I had doubteil, that all mystery was now o'er, In his mind, at the least, and was cert^iin he knew His Bittlo4» He sat with his back to the prt^icher, so I Could not, if I would, fail to underst \nd why He sat in the front of the choir tliis a.m., And glancixl so (>ersistently at me. But then. STOLRS^ WATERS 6t Although, as I said once before, in his look There whs t'ousoiousnoss plain, even that I could t^itxik, As long tks no triumph blent with it. And I Must acknowledge I could not, indeed, should I try, Tike the slightest offence at his actions, or feel Iliat any desire I need have to conceal My identity longer from him. For if pleased And conscious he looked, j\nd convinced, yet, at least, There was nochii\g but sweetness expi-essed in his fkofr-^ And of triumph or sarcasm never a trace. This was last night's " event," and was also a part Of tiviiay's '* observation," which rendei-ed my heart And thoughts much more troubled than ever before. " Never singly misfoi-tunes do come." I was more ,Ajmioyed at his guessing than I have expi*essed. And ere I to that became ivconciled, pressed On my heart was another and far deeper cause For trouble, vexation, regi-et ! And this was — But drst, I must go biick a very short time. To a trifling occurrence, which made on my mind At the moment no sort of impression, I think, And yet, has, it seems, proved to be the lirst link In the chain of events which fii*st made me snspeol What now I am sure of. I don't recollect Exactly how long, but a few weeks ago, My Sabbath-school teacher was absent, and sOj With exception of one or two, all of the class, And the superintendent to me came to ask If I would a class please to teach for the sesadoB? He*d tttke no refusal, so I took ^>ossd8sian 70 STOLEN WATERti. Of a small class of boys near my own.: They wen 3^ \ think, of about twelve or thirteen. I had In Tn ^rlnng the class-book, to ask them their names — Thero were two little boys there whose names were tiM same Ihat my Antony's is ; and then, not alone that, But they on the same street resided, in fact, Or one of them, rather, the other boy being A cousin from out of town ; both, though agreeing Sufficient in manner and look to be brothers ; Were attentive and quiet, while all of the others Were restless extremely and vexing. They, too. Were very intelligent, and, it is true, I took quite a fancy to both, and yet, 1 Never dreamed that they could be related to my Antony, notwithstanding that both street and name Were aUke. Still, I think this will not seem so strange. When I say there are several more of the same Name in church. And siace then I have seen many times The same boy in the seat abreast nearly of mine, With a fresh, fair-faced lady appearing to be His mother ; though very young-looking is she. To claim such a large boy as son Well, now I Have heard, more than one time of late, by the by. That my friend Antony was a married man ; yet The report I have never considered correct, For various reasons. And first, as the scurco From which it had come was not trusty, of coiint I could not a story believe which was told With vagueness and doubt. To be sinre he is old RTOLEN WATERS. Tl mgh to have been some years married; bul then One never can judge of the age of such men As he is. To look at his face, one would say It was one that wo\ild never grow old, and to-day He might be twenty-five, and from there all the way To forty, or forty-five, even. Beside AK this, too, although to the same church have I Every Sabbath been, nearly a whole year or more, I have never seen with him, not either before Or after the service, one lady. And so *Tifl no wonder I doubted his marriage, I know. I was early this morn, and I reached there before My Antony did ; but the vestibule door By some chance was left open ; and when he came ir The boy I have spoken about was with him. The door being directly in front, too, of me, Of course when they entered, I could not but see Them both very plainly. Alike, much, forsooth, In form, not in face, were those two, man and youth* At my first glance at them, the entire bitter truth Flashed over my mind in a trice. This and that Put together had quickly resolved into fact "What I'd given no thought to before. I then knew How thoroughly blind I'd been all the way through. You must know, my dear Journal, the sermon to-daj May have been Greek or Hebrew, for all Zcan say — That not much of it entered my mind. Howe'er well It may have been written or rendered, it fell In my case on unheeding ears. Take all that, With the just acquired knowledge that he was in £u3t 7S STOLEN fVATESa. At lengt). satisiied who was his Bitter-Sweet ; And not this alone, but within a few feet He was sitting, his handsome face, tender and grukd^ Bo'jatetimes turned to me, sometimes bent on his hand, III a reverie sweet and profound. And I could Kct have doubted of whom he then thought, if I wou«d Then his soft, tender, smiling, and passionate eye Constantly sought my own. Do you wonder that I, My dear Journal, quite failed in controlling my heart, Or the flush on my cheek? That I felt the blood start Through the swift op'ning valves and pulsate through mj frame With rapid and thrilling vibrations, 'till brain Was reeling, confused, my brow throbbing with pain, And my thoughts in a tumult which it would be vain To attempt to describe ? I was glad to reach home, And at last find myself in my sanctum alone. Well ! the first thing I did was to sit down and writ* A reply to the note I had from him last night. And in the first place did my best to dispel His ideas about my identity. Well, Told him plainly, in fact, I thought he did not know Me at all (an excusable falsehood, although, I am certain) ; and then, somewhat shortly, I fear— Couldn't help it, though, actress I'm not, it is dear — I asked him how he should suppose I could know If mine were the blue eyes he mentioned, or no. And presumed there were many a pair, too, that looked That way, when he sang ; but that if on his book HIb were placed as they should be, he'd not be aware How many looked at him. Then asked him right STOLEN WATERS. TB To make some amends for my crossness, yon eeOi And also to see what he'd answer — if he Could a place for a meeting appoint, if a time 1 should mention. And as to that hair ring of mine, I said he should see it, half promised also He should help me the pattern select. He will knoT It is all idle words, I presume. And I then Asked saucily what he had read this a.m. Now I wanted to introduce, too, in some way, The discovery which I this morning had made, Ascertaining thus if my suspicions were true In regard to it. And, though I pretty well knew He would tell me the truth if T asked him outright, Yet I did not know but it possibly might Be best to assume that I already know What indeed I am hardly assured of. And so As follows I wrote : " Do you think it would be Safe, entii'ely — a meeting between you and me ? Or am I mistaken in thinking that you Are a * Benedict ' Antony? Please tell me true. But I'm certain I'm not — think I know, too, by sights Your wife and your boy — and I'm sure I am right. Does she know of our correspondence ? To-day I fancied a little she did. Does she ? Say ! " J don't recollect what besides this I wrote ; Nothing more, I presume, that is worthy of note. What a day this has been ! Looking back now it seemi Like A long, ever-changing, a vague, troubled dream. And my mind is yet quite too confused to resolve. Into aught that's dke order, the thoughts that reTolre, 4 T4 STOLEN WATBBB, In such entire ciiaos through it, and restraint Or control 'twould be \ain to attempt. Pve a fidnt Sense of feeling regret that I ever had sent My first letter to him, and that ever I went To service at that church, or ever saw him, And some indignation that I had not been Informed of all this weeks ago. And then, too, There's a slight thread of deep disappointment runs throng The whole warp and woof of my miad and my thoughts- Disappoiatment in both; in myself, that I sought Any method to know him that custom denied. Disappointment in him, that he ever replied To the first note I sent him. And yet, there are few Men in this age who would not, I fancy. And, too. He supposed certainly from the first that I knew All there was to be told. As I boastingly wrote That I knew all about him, in my second note; And so, he is not much to blame, after all, And 'tis useless to mourn what I cannot recall. No service this evening in church ; no one went Out at all, I believe ; and, as for me, I have spent The entire evening here in my room, all alone With ir~ thoughts and my journal ; and though I must «>wa I have not exceedingly happy been here. More so elsewhere I could not have been. But I few My sleep wiQ be broken. Must stop, and in bed Try 'And rest for a w'lile aching heart, weary htmAm STOLEN WATEBa. 7i December ^th, 1863. WEDNESDAY. Good evening, my Journal I I come here onc« more To my sanctum, with drawn shades and tightly Ciosed «na ^ ^ext asked him whal 80 STOJJC^W W'ATKHai Wu* tlio htvlo of hor hat, how Kho woro Lw Lair «1iv«8M^ Ami why ho \\i\d ohiKsoii ouo oni of tho i\\st Who WA8 luoiv than uinotivn, whoii 1 toUl hiin before That tliftt NViu^ my a:;o, jxist uiui^tivn aiul no mora. Thou as fi>lli.>vs I wivto , ** I tJiOiujht you diii not nMid Vtxry much tlu> h\st. Sjiblvitii ; but did tlunv, imltHnl, Any fti//<^ c\>miH^to with tho ^itYt^t in your thoughts? Or woix^ thoy with unaUoyoil iluUntudo fraught V Thtui in imswor io what ho had sjviil of tho riiig^ Ai\d appoint mont, I wroto, •» I (/Ush, I think, if I judgt^ n\ysolf right. As t<> i>l;u-o uiNsi^lf yot in NvUir |\>n\ or outiro ; And so you oa.n't hlaiuo mo if I shall inquiix^ Whoiv tho/>/ will * think of it,' Aiitouy miitol Should you liko mo luiwh lH>ttor, think you, my dtxar friend If you know who I am? And would you till tlio end iK two months to oomo ho quito willing io wnit Kiv you siv mo, if I tioho tho mystory gi\>iit?" Thtui I iUsktHl him if t iivd lir »^aii vvmiug to l>e i)f our i\>ru\spvnulo.uot> ! A nil IioihhI ho'd >rrite me If that wius tlu> oaso. This I s;iid I holiove Just aftor tho vvusmv I \vrott\ Oh I somo lt>HT«»— FVagi-:uit laavos fi\nn my cousin's gmunium - -1 Thou gathoivd ; svuuo ihiiuty whito ribKni to tie WitJi a ♦* trut>-Unor*a knot'" tho swivt U>:»viv^, I then sent IV'ir lA>rt^tto tv> hor i\H>m to soarvrh for. and sl\o wwit, NVhilo I wivto in my lottoi -" I send you »ome lettve^ m kim hid within 1 "' mVlJSN WATERJS. 81 And that wan, I beliere, About all that I wrote, or at loa«t all that I Now remtMulK>r. No coinmoiiLs must I, by the by, M&ko thia ovoiiing — it's gottiiig so hito, just as ever; The next tiuio, my Joiiriud doar, I will endeavor To bo more entertaining. But somehow, to-uighi, A Uak it has been, and an eflbrt to write. December IZth, 1863 SUNDAY, Hi© night is so cold, and is darksome and dreary, It rains, ivnd the wind soems to novor bo weary, Tlie trees toss without, in the bleak wintry blast Tlieir bare loalless branelies. Tlio ohill wind sweeps past Just now with a sigh, low ami mournful, juid then WitJi wild sobs, as of anguish, or deep, bitter pain, Tlien rises to moans and shrill shrit^ks of distress, Wliich, slowly subsiding, grow fitfully loss. And merge in low sighings once more. And the rain. Chill, drenching, and pitiless, sphushos the panes And keeps on the bjilcony just luulorneath A restless continual j>atter. The eve Breatlies but dampness, iliacomfort, aiul diirknoss; withia All is cheerfuhiess, soft light, and warmth. I have betui Bitting here in my sanctum a little time past, Asd trying to tJiink. But the turbulent blast. 89 STOLBS WATSR& And the sound of the fksfc-fiilliiig rsun hiwe dis^ielletl All Qiv iliw-uns, whioli Nv^r*? Knli '* swvet and hanefoL" O^ well! t 111 let thorn tdl go, and the gloom of the ni^t, ljid» i\ni&iug m\-^4t\ uiAe an etfort to vrrit«> Of events of the day, and the daN-« that have p&saed So fleetly, my Journal, s^iiiee chatting here kst A few e>'\^niiigs .sp.^ Well, last Friday, againy I t<.vk A ride over to Brvx^kKii; and vrhen 1 arrivtxi tlu :v 1 t\nuui that Lotvtto whs alone. And sdie woi;Ui lun ^vt.vnt to my cv>mmg Kack home, At legist until night : so reu\aiuet.i tliere all day. And wv» did have a nioo, pleasant time, 1 must say. She M a dear girl, and I like hex so much I Pretty, graot.>tul, swwt-temjvreil, with just a slight toudi Of sarc5»sm and wit in her natuw ; as steel Tnw to those that slie love*, whether woe come or weal ; Obliging, atrtvtionato, cheeriul and sxnaei, In her nature so placid iuid calm there are deeps Of sym^vathy, jvassion, and thought only those Of the friends who Ivst know her ha>-^ ever suppo*^ To Iv hidden within her s^-jft he:\rt, I neeii not, 1 presume, my dear ,loun\al, ntwl I ? mention what Oilleil me on-vt to Rn.x>klyn agsun, nor neeil I Assure you I »>-\^nt not iu v^vin. Indtwl, I CVui but say that my Antony k? very kind 1R) write me so promptly. The one sont this time I fanciixl to W more than usually fine. And g*ve me much pUvasur^ Til gi>'^* here oompleit 4. <^Yy — oommencii;^ — ^ My own Bittg«v j) w i <6 4 1 STOLEN WATERS. M •* How exceedingly promptly the mails Jo arrive, Ajid bring to us letters most welcome. And IVe Received yours this morning, \vitli scented sweets fiuught— Uow fnigi*ant they ai'e ! And what wonder I thought Them rendered, imleod^ JonhJy so, since they've been With a pair of sweet lips iu close contact. How, then, Could jT avoid having a tiistc of tliem, too? And I tlid so, in fancy at least, it is true, If not in reiility, seeming to lind With the leaves still some lingering sweetness combined. Of all the sweet phints, the geranium give me I Did I guess who the blue-eyed young lady might be ? I tliought tliat I asked might it be so and so. Wlio I thought that you were do you really know ? Well, who, dear B. S. ? You remember you said That nineteen bright summers hatl passed o'er youi head, But did not Siiy oidi/y or how many more. I thought from the fact of your saying before How much you had seen of the world, and then, that An innocent intrigue's your life — 1, in fact, Supposed you some older. At what age, indeed, Do young ladies commence on a life of intrigue ? I ciuuiot describe how she ih-cssos her hair, Or what is the style of the hat which she wears. My Bitter Sweet, how do you think that of these Ti'itiing things a poor fellow can think, when he sees A pair of soft, liquid, blue eyes looking through His very soul — while they appear to read, too, Sis innermost thoughts ? " The * French ' sentence I mi Will tell you I think that there was bitter blent 84 STOLEN WATER& With the sweet in my thoughts. And could you dear B. B| Head that in my lace ? For you know you professed To do that in the very first letter you sent. * I da/re anything do but meet you ! ' Well 1 then Let me know who you are. I do not suppose you So foolish, my friend, as to place yourself too £ntire in my power, and therefore on me You can call, at my own place of business, you lee, In open day, just as all ladies may do, And be free, too, from any controlling />oioV. Mistake in supposing 1 did not believe What you wrote in the first letter from you receiyed. Believe you I did I but I cannot pass by That essential, fine quality, caution, which I Am sure, ' my own Bitter-Sweet,' you should admire In every person in whom you desire Or choose to confide. " Yes ! IshaU better far Like you, my dear friend, when I know who you And if you will tell me, I'll try, with content, For two months, or longer, to wait your consent To a meeting between us ; but I would much like The favor of looking at you, if &om quite A distance. " I must assure you, I regret The poem offended ; and though I have yet The rest of it written, I'll keep it at home. When I * weary of our correspondence ' beconne I will teU you at once. And I shall not offend Ton willingly, ever ; and hope to be then STOLEN WATERS. 8J For all past offences forgiven. I'm not Perhaps, my B. S., quite so bad as you thought And you do me injustice, too, I must protest, In saying you * might have expected no less I ' You certainly did not expect it to be — The poem — original, did you, with me ? I never have had that opinion extreme Of "wonieii that some profess — as will be seen In Posthumous tirade in Shakspeare's * CymbeJiiie,' And Dryden's translation of Juvenal's Satire On woman — an author that many admire. No ! my * cha/rity ' 's almost as vast in extent As the universe ; neither would I with intent Wound your feelings, believe me I And so I will keep * To be called for ' — the poetry — My Bitter-Sweet, Or to the Dead-Letter Office will transmit. ** Is it not hitter cold to-day ? How sweet to mk Beside a good fire, listing to the chiU wind As it whistles without. I will not at this time Inflict on you any words further of mine. With one good inhalation from yowr fragrant leavei. Until the next time I trust you will believe I am still ** Your own " Antony I "To Bitter Sweet" That waa all ! and I certainly need not repeat What I said once before : that not one I've reoeivei Has more pleasure afibrded than this. I believe rhere have been not a great many moments to-day Ibat k6 has been out of my thoughts. I mustflur S6 STOLEN WATSSS, I am pleased afc the way he received my reproof* And perhaps I did do him injustice. In truthy He has in lai:ge measure one virtue most rare In this weak sinful world, if all else that is fair And good, he is wanting in. Sweet Cha/rityy That no evil doth think ! Of the fair, divine thret. The rarest and greatest is sweet Charity 1 I gue(3S he is not such a very bad boy, After all ! And so that afternoon was employed^ A part of it, writing an answer to his. And I mailed it ere I returned home. But it is Impossible that I should now recollect What I wrote in reply to his letter, except That I gave him some hopes of receiving next time My name and address. I've not made up my mind If I'll in reality tell him or not. I think that I shall — weU ! I hardly know what I shall do I I have not at any time thought I should tell him at all. I suppose that I ought Not have led hun to think I would some time diflcloM What I firmly believe that he pretty well knows Even now, were it not my intent to do so. And it certainly was not. But then — I don't know But somehow one thing and another has led Me to say what perhaps I ought never have said^ And promise much more th.an I meant to fulfil. Or perhaps than I mean even yet to do. Still, It seems hardly fair, or just either, to him, To cheat him like this ; for he's certainly been Mosi kind and most generous all the way tkroi|^ STOLEN WATERS 81 And 1 want to be quite as honorable, too, So I really scarcely know what I will do. And then, there is still one more motive, more gtrong^ Perhaps, than all others, which I have been long Only half-conscious of in my innermost soul, But which, nevertheless, has through nearly the whole Of our correspondence so long, been the power By which I've been led day by day, hour by hour, 'Till I am where I am. And that strong motive is A desire just for once to place my hand in hia, To listen just once to his soft, tender tones, In kind words intended for my ear alone. Just for once, possibly, to be clasped to his breast, ** With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest ! " Only just for a moment ! — Is it very wrong ? 'Twould be something to think of through all my life long. 'Twould be, I suppose, hungry heart satisfied With sweet fruit from the tree that's forbidden, supplied ; Raging thirst quenched by sweet " stolen waters ^'^ whicli flow From a fountain that hides depths most bitter below. Oh ! one other thing I remember I wrote — That is, in the answer I sent to his note — And that was to try the next Sabbath and see If he could not discover who B. S. might be. I brought from Lorette's some geranium leaves To carry to church to-day, morning or eve, Intending to let him observe them, while I Bhould note the efiect in his face. By the by, £ believe he possesses a quite tell-tale face. Well ! this forenoon found me in my usual plaM SS bTOLBN WATEB& In eiiurcii, and he aho in his. I forgot This morning to carry my leaves, so did not. Of course, my experiment try. Mr. S. Annoiinced this a.m. that by special request He intended this eve to the sermon repeat Delivered Thanksgiving day last. From vosf seat I listened, and raised to my Antony's face My eyes. At that moment he turned in his place And looked down at me. With a glance in which pluiB Was a consciousness, neither, I think, could restrainy Our eyes met, for an instant, then each turned away. So much for this morning ! It rained the whale daj, And was gloomy enough. But I did not stay home This evening, and father and I went alone. Just before service opened, my Antony came To the front, with some music ; and then he remained There for some Kttle time ; and I raised from my book. Where they rested, the leaves to my lips, and then looked With full, steady glance in the eyes that were bent That moment on me. The act told, as I meant That it should do I The light was quite strong, and Um Between us was short. From my book to my face His eyes my hand followed, and as the sweet leaves Touched my lips, and he saw what I held, I believe A change more decided, and sudden, and plain, And transforming, too, o'er a man's face never came Than at that moment swept over his. In my eyes He looked with a full, searching glance. Slight surprise^ Satisfaction, and wonder, and pleasure, expressed In the soft, lustrovji depths of his own. While compreaa>4 STOLEN WATERS. 99 Were his lips, very slightly, in efforts moet nun To hide the emotion, betrayed yet so plain, In flushed cheek, and dark, sparkling eye. A» for me, I was, I beKeve, so desirous to see The effect of my act upon him, I did not My own agitation give one moment's thought, Or make^ then, the slightest attempt to control My heart or my face. And I doubt not the whole Confirmation of all he would know he could read In my swift-changing cheek, tell-tale eye, and, indeed. More than all, in the sweet leaves I held. It all passed In a moment, and he turned away, too, at last. To his seat in the " comer." And how I would like To know what he thought, as, with back to the light He waited the signal to sing. Well! to-night. All during the sermon, he sat quite in front. And Twt in the " comer " as he has been wont. But he sat looking toward the preacher, this time. But frequently glancing from his face to. mine. And during the last prayer abruptly he turned And looked down full at me. How my foolish cheek burned! 'Neath his glances so earnest, and thrilling, and sweet I My eyes faltered and drooped, quite unable to meet The passion in his, as with head on his hand He sat motionless quite, I thought looking more grand And handsome than ever before. The soft light In his fine speaking eye, new, to me at least, quite 90 STOLEN WATSB& Aud KEohri on his lips, both of whi;h added mach To his evei>fine face, would have given a touch Of beaut J and sweetness to one that was plain, A ad his made exquisitely pleasing. 'Twere vain To think that he was not enlightened. He knows His Bitter-Sweet well enough now, I suppose. I'm impatient to ha>e his next letter, and see AVTiat he'll write about it. I some notes took of the Fine (?) sermon, this evening, and wrote to him too. He looked down and saw me ! Will that be a clue, When he sees how 'tis dated — " In Church, Sunday Eve"f- To induce him with more firmness still to believe That I'm his unknown correspondent ? Mj leaves I left in my book at church. Hark ! it still rains, Ajid the chill wind still rattles and beats at the pane*. The night slowly wanes, and is " cold, dark, and dreary/ And of writing and thinking, I am, oh, so weary I Decmtiber Ibthy 1863, TUESDAY. It is evening again, and once more I am here For a nice little confab with you, Journal dear. Ere 1 seek the repose I am conscious I need. And I ought to do so at this moment, indeed I My watch I will place very close to the spot Where my book lies, and when it is twelve I will To-m him, my *' own Autouy.'* Ami I was glad To gt^t it. But, somehow, I always am sad AfttT ha>Hng a letter fivm him. I eaimot, I aiu »uro, give the reason for it. My tirst thoughts Art< ever most i)U>astvnt and sweet, I must own, Though the sweet soou dies out, and the bitter alone Kemaius ot' the stolen dnvnght. ^otes from him 1 Rt'^il tigiiin and tigiiin, besiiles ktx^piiig them by Me the whole time, each one, till the next one arriy«A; Yet, though they are all I desire, all the time iVly spirits ai*o very uuetu-taiu, i fuid. For instance, one day they^-e remiu-kably fine (Most often the day that his notes are ivceived), And the next even indigo \l make, 1 Mieve, A white murk upon me. And, too, this stftte of miuii. Or temper, or heart, or whatever, in tine. It dt\serves to W called, has been coustiuitly mine, And not only of late, but through all of the time Very uciU'ly of our cori'ospoi\ileuce. Tve found '• The luvtwt auiiiot alwnys control, or (wcount For the ftvlings which sway it." And also must own " That I think, as I swing on the gjxto heiv tvlone. How the sweetness of horehonnd will soon all die out. While the hitter still keeps or. tind en ! " WeU, Aboil* His letter, which lies here this monif^it by me : lirrt — " Sunday, December loth, *03, W STOLEN WATEHS In the * corner ,' '• was how it was dated. I thought Ic quite a coinciaence — aiid was it not? — That he should that mormng have written to me In church, and then I, who of course did not see Or dream of his having done any such thing, Should that very same evening have written to Mm, And I also, in church. I can give here to-night A few extracts alone. In one place thus he writes : " What an unpleasant day ! yet it may not be quite So to those who have hearts that are careless and li^t. Where are you to-day ? Why do I not see you here This morning at service as usual, my dear ? " (Just as if he had not known so well I was there I Dissembler I that I, too, was sitting right where. Every time that he bent slightly forward, and raised From his book or his paper his fine eye, my face Was almost the first thing arresting his gaze.) And then he went on : " We shall have once again This evening the Thanksgiving sermon, my friend. And you cannot relish that much, I suppose ; But then, if ifye do not, it seems there are those Who do, as it is by especial request The reverend this eyening repeats it." The rest Of that page, and a part of the next, is of no Especial importance, so let it all go. Near the end of the third page he writes — "DoDOi To com« in and see me, for if I'm not here A lady most certainly never need be At a low foi excuses for entering the Ptiblic storfs, tuiil Nvhix'Ii huiuln>ils habit uallj Art' vitxitiug, !Si> thoii'\s no ix^usou, yon soo. My Uittor-Swtvt, why you inu't I'tiH \i\'>on mo. No I I'm not gotting Nvoiuy, Ih4u>vi> mo you will, Of ivndiui; yi>nr Kntoi-s, but look t"or thorn still W^ith t\ gn at iloal o( |>loasurt>, uiul hopo niul oxj> nauu>/* Thou ho 8»yt, *• Prayoi* now ha.s oouuuoui'Oil ! 1 must st<>p, my l>. S , Vou will brtvo ditVumlty in roailiug, I gut^ss, This lottor, svml timl but rt littlo, 1 four. To amuso, or inst nu-t, or lo bonotit horo ; But ivntioipato i>uo froui nu\ ono oi' thoso ilays, Souiowhat bc^tlor." I thiuk rvi> t'lMgottou io Siiy This Wiks writton in ponoil ; in ink, thon, ho writs'? ami tho sormon last night Might porhaps bo tho moans of assisting it, too ; Might it not, my iloar friond ? Ov how is it with you? But I can this morning iio notliing but mopo, And writing is out of tho i|uostitm, I hopo To ht»ivr from you soon, anil am ** Kvor your owix *♦ Antoa^, " To my Bittor-Swoot ! " I might Imvo known He'd not say a word in this lot tor of what Ha Siiw Sunday ovo, thougli I know ho oanuot Help but Ih> protty suro who his Inttor-Swieet im. But he mAde a slight guo««s iii one letter of hi% 94 STOLEN WATERS. And 1 answered so crossly he thinks he will let Me tell him the whole, when he knows, I expect. I wrote him at twilight before Lorette went, Although rather briefly, but with it I sent I'he note I had written iu church, Sunday eve, And which he to-morrow forenoon should receiTOi Upstairs I had just come, I wrote him, to find A pattern ; and, stealing a moment of time (Notwithstanding I'd visitors waiting below), On the floor of my sanctum was then sitting low, And, close by the window, was trying to write A few lines to him by the fast-fading light. I sent him the wished-for address at the close, Though I told him above he would not, I suppoeedj If I told him my name, know me then any better Than he would do before the receipt of my letter. As he said he ne'er knew how a lady was dressed^ I did not see how I could tell him the rest. And then, just to tease him, I asked him when he ' Expected to know who I am — what of me He thought. Also wrote that to service I went On last Sabbath morning as usual ; and sent At the close of the letter my love to my friend, I shall look for his answer on Thursday A.M. I am glad I have not any longer to go All the way o'er to B. for his letters, although He has been very kind indeed, always to write Just when I requested, and so that I might Qave never to go there in vain. WeU, to-night My brother and wife were in town, and here, too, To dinnei this evening. Just twelve I I am throuj^ STOLEN WATSm. December 17 thy 1863. THURSDAY. How stormy a day ! from the earliest dawr II16 clouds have bent low, swiftly showering doim The soft, fleecy snow-flakes. All nature around Seems just to have donned a fresh mantle of white, Soepothssly pure, and so downy and light — So dazzlingly lovely, this " beautiful snow" — The air filling all, shrouding all things below, With a soft-falling vesture more dainty and fair Than any fine lady can e'er hope to wear. Yet this white, vestal raiment, unsullied by aught Unlovely or tainting — oh, what a sad thought ! This snow that's " so pure when it falls from the sky^ Must be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by, Must be trampled and tracked by the thousands of fwel^ Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street." This day has been one of sensations, to me Rather new and peculiar; have half seemed to be In a sweet, happy dream all day long. I presume My spirits will be at their lowest ebb soon, Quite likely to-morrow. There always must be With them a reaction ; and one day to me Of light-hearted joyousness, pleasure, and glee, Is sure to result in depression and gloom ; Anc this no exception will be, I presume. By halves I do nothing ; and when I am gtj No one can be livelier ; and, I must say. M STOLEN WATERS. That when I'm depressed, no one ever could be In the depths of despondency lower than me ; And it takes such a slight, such a small, trifling thiag To make me unhappy, on one hand, or bring k fimile to my lips, and a light to my eye- Joy and glee to my heart. Yery happy was I To perceive it to be in the usual clear And well-known handwriting of Antony dear The note was addressed which was handed to mey When I this forenoon the door opened to see The carrier there in the pitiless storm — The feathery snow-flakes all over his form So lavishly showered — he looked almost like A snow-bank himself. With unusual delight I ran in the parlor at once with my note, To read, all alone, what my Antony wrote. He's getting impatient, despondent, some, too ! And I cannot wonder much at it, 'tis true. I have kept him now quite a long time in suspenit H^d no little amusement at his sole expense. But patient he's been, indeed, nevertheless; Much more so than I should have been, I confess; And he does well deserve the reward, I must say, Which he'll get with the letter I wrote bim to-daj. But first I've a few words to say of his note ; Twas not very long, and I fancied he wrote A little despondingly, as I believe I have said once before. First he writes : yours this morning, and your address also with it, ibid shail govern myself in accordance therewith." 'STOLEN WATERS. 97 That is all that ho says about that. Next replies To some trifling inquiries I made, and then writes Shortly : " How can I tell, think you, when I expect To know you? To tell you the truth, I suspt)ct That I never shall know you at all, as I do Not have any means to find out, and as you Do not choose to inform me. And then, as to what I think of you — think that you wish — do you not? To have some amusement, occasionally. By a few letters writing, perhaps just to see What answers there may be returned. Possibly, That unsatisfactory oft they may be ; But you must remember that I am still quite In the dark, as to knowing to whom I now write. To-day I am feeling especially blue. But the reason for it cannot give ; and ccm you t I am pleased to find you are so punctual in your Attendance at church, my B. S., I am sure I But where do you sit, and what mean you to weai The next Sabbath morning if you should be there ? I hope that you had an agreeable seat On the floor of your * sanctum,' my own Bitter-Sweet, When writing to me. How would you, at the time, Have liked sorne one to lean on ? and did you then find The pattern you sought? Guess your friends mu«t have thought It took you a long time indeed, did they not ? " And then right after this quite abruptly he writes : " * And these are the questions I ask day and night, Must my soul never d continued the rest of the day, and also A part of the next. I reached home about noon. And Fannie was going to Tarrytown soon. And wished me to accompany her. I, 'tis trae, Did not like to at all; but then, what could I do? 116 STOLEN WATERS, I had no excuse, sho insisted, and I, As a matter of course, could do naught but eomplj. And so one more brief note to my " own Antony," I wrote ere I started, and took out with me, To mail on the way. And I told him that he Must not come out on Tuesday, as I had to go Out of town for a few days, against my will, though. But that I should be, without much doubt, at home Next Thv/rsday p.m., and if so, be alone. And then should be happy to see him. I know Scarcely what, when he reads it, he'll think. Somehow though, I felt that he cared not to come ; yet each time That we have arranged it, the fault has been mine That 'twas not carried out — for he every time wrote He should come at the time I had named in my note. Yet the letter I sent him that day was somewhat Independent, at least — he could come, or need not — I made him perceive, just which pleased bim to do. And then wrote : " If you come, though, I shall not tempt yon I think, from allegiance unto your wife. I imagine, although, 'twould not be, in your life, The first time it had swayed." We called in at a stora On our way to the depot, and there right before Me a gentleman stood I was introduced to On last Christmas evening ; who then, it is true. Paid me some attention ; but I've never thought Of him since, and I certainly that day did not Feel at all like conversing with strangers, that .1 Oared nothing abovt. So I'd net meet his eye, STOLEN WATBBS, HI rhough he made, Fannie said, every effort he ooulA To attract my attention ; but did him no good. I knevir he was there, so would give him no glance Of recognition, warranting any advance Ob his part. We had quite a time getting out To T., for the snow gained so fast 'twas about All the cars could then do to get through, and 'twas Uite When at last we arrived at my brother Frank's gate. The next day my depression of spirits was gone, So I had a nice time, notwithstanding my strong A-version to going. Came home this p.m. ; Found letters awaiting me, one from m.y friend— 'Twas short, but most kind, and he said he had been Nearly " driven to death " for the whole day, and then Was completely fagged out ; but had just snatched a few Brief moments to tell me, and hurriedly, too. That he should go up town the next afternoon If pleasant, about two o'clock, or as soon Thereafter as might be, according to my Instructions. I sent, since I came home to-night. Him a letter, or rather a word — it was not Hardly worthy the name of a letter, as what I wrote in it merely was " C(yne / " and the date — Though I signed it, of course, it was getting quite late When I went out to mail it. A man spoke to me^ And frightened me so that I think I shal^ be More careful in future about going out Is the evening alone ; I said uDthing about [t^ because no one knew that I went. 118 8T0L&N WATSHA Mot.VoT IpOM (Tp U> T. in tho luoniiug, if pUvksautv i*-uil f*«^^ Ai my sistt^r itnuaiiuHi thoro, mui Uortriuio will W To iuon\»v ttt sohov>l, o( ooxirso, / i^uiuot »ty» As i\\o\\^ will bo iuiy tiling now to prt^vout Oiir lUtH^t ing »t lai»t. C'au it b<> luy dctvr fiitmd I idutU 8 in i>iio im>iv tlay ^ Kv^r oucv h*v«» him, i To my own sc^lt" ruiuoly? I on.iiuot, ^-iiu yon, My Jomual, iloar V yot iVii.Ur.o it is truo I I httvo untioiinitod with sv> n\iuh oi' doeyt Ami i»4ii»iout*to longing; his ooumit; iu aUn^p Uavo tkiio.iovl hiiw ufjir mo so oAou. to Wivk« Ami tliul it IX iluMlU, .in llUlSlNv> IUlS(:l.k0, Thrtt m»v thiit tho tuuo is sv> uomly ai liAiul, Whoii my divams nhall boov>mo hU ivnlity, A.ud JM^V hopo8 iu tVuitiou bo unngtHl, I Oiwiuot llimlly givo oitnioiuv unto tho sNvo<>t, happy tlioiifki| lx>4»t tiV-nionv>>v I >v:vkou (o tluvl it bnt a Dolu^oiu, whio.h niovniug Ui;ht s.-nttor:* ftwuy. IktmUx^r :^Ui, 1863, TIirU&UAY. Uow i\m I wiito down tho ovotit*; of tins AtkjJ Whert^ aha.ll I Ivgin. and oh, wh.it sh^-U I say? llov \n\ unto uw» — Th\s .. 'vor io W> 8ot upart V .\ud ** cmt» Wiuiful o( af »c>us»t.iou«, tofl^ Rnowi) but oiuM^ ill jv Hfotniiiv" 1 (hink, Uh>, ihmi 4# Will novor ft)ri:;t^( it; timl i\u\l it muHt bo To A#»A*, ovon, mail i>f (lu> woi Ul ns \\o iw, A day o( Hoxno u\\\Hnl ; uiul (hat I in hiM Thoughts (iKui^ht o.-ui but hav<>a ii)iiN|)itniou« pIttOA. A« for uic, I rail iu>\v rlosv* my (\von, ami hin faoo 8(>t\>rt» uu>. ll(> i-aiiio tiiin P.M. AlK>ut twi> t>\U)ilv not miioii hit or -ami wliAO 110 jvaasoil by t.ht> wimlow I Haw him, aiul ho To ojuui t.ho iloor I uiail<> all hasto, although Ho yot hail not rung, ami luvNtA>i>il hofoi-o mo, JuHt UJA haiulsimio ami nohlo a;^ oviu-; aiul wo Shook hamls in a uiaittM- of laot, tVituully wuy. No oont'usion on oitlior Hiilt> ; a.ml I must, nay, NotwitbHtuiuliuj; that wo ti> day mot umltM- Huali Ciroumst-aiut s p( ruhar, thoro was iu>t a touch ()t* ombanassuuuit sliown in liia mannor, aiul I ^ono t>\|unioiiooil, ot>rta.inly 1 t^voii if my Ohook was tluslunl with (»\i'ittMUOut, my lioart boatiug With joy at. his ^>l•^^sl>ll^•o, long hDjuul t'or, at hint 111 lis fuhu>sH possossoil. Ill tho |)arli>r wo ptuimnl — AiuI sat ili>wii by tho gratt>, in an oasy-irhair, I, Wo soating himsolf in aiu>t]ior lUMir by, l>irortly in front of, ami facing, too, luilie. i)f various matttus wt> talktul iVir Hoino timo, And I foun I my doar frituul to ho ijuitc^ aa rofmod, Aj* int<>lligont, too, well infiirnuHl, and aH kind, Ah phnming in maniuM-, in voioi% and in sjuHHrh — Am I had imu^inod him. hulaoil! in t\acU i^O STOLEN WATERS. He went far ahead of my fancy. I find He ia thoroughl/^ gentle, too, which, to my mindy Ii the most potent charm which a man can [innnrwi I always have thought he would be, I confess, fiUrcsstic somewhat, but I never saw less Of that than in him who was with me to-day. Ajid then he has, too, I can't less do than say, The most fascinating, caressing, nice way, Of any man which I have known heretofore, And I'm certain that no one has e'er made me mart Intensely, unspeakably happy than he Did to-day, when he sat here conversing with me. I would I were able to write it all here, Each motion and act, every word that his dear Lips uttered ; but that I can't do, it is clear. It is all indistinct as a last evening's dream, And I into form could not draw it, I ween. I write a few words, and, ere I am aware, I forget what I'm doing, almost forget where I am, for the time, and my pen is laid down, And I, in a reverie sweet and profound, Live over again every moment of the Two brief fleeting hours, so delicious to me, So full of exquisite, entrancing delight, A spell w hich yet rests on me. I ccmnot write I I do not know how ; I cannot language find To express w) at I wish — to convey from my To this paper insensate, the memory of what Was so pleasant in passing. I'm sure I cannot Forget it, as long as I live, and so why Should I 3are about having it written ? Yet I HTOLEN WATBB8, 121 Buppose rather pleasant 'twould be, by and by, These leaves of my life to turn backward, and read Of a fancy — it is nothing deeper, indeed, I am certain — and which may have long since burnt ont^ And a memory, that half-forgotten, no doubt, Be all that is left of the ashes. I'll try And write what I can, though it should, by the by, Be somewhat incoherent. As saying before, Of various things we conversed, and went o'er Some points, too, of our correspondence. Pretty much The first thing he said was, " How da/re you make sucbi Grave charges against me ? " And this with a smile Arch and humorous ; I, though, could not for awhile Understand his allusion, and so I told him. And he only repeated the same thing ; but in A moment or two it had flashed on my mind To what he referred — what I wrote the last time — That " I should not tempt him, etc.," and so I answered, " I recollect now, but you know [ da/re to do anything, but to meet you I " He laoghed then a little, replied, " So you d9 Think, then, it would not be thejirst timey do you ? ** He hardly looks like the same man in the choir Uiat he does out of it ; not but what I admire Him as much, or but what he looks quite as weU, toOi Near by as he does farther off. To the view , e 122 STOLEN WATEm. Distance lends not enchantment, at least, in thia He is very fine-looking, in form and in face. T do not see how I could ever have thought That Colonel Allair is more handsome I He's tiol) By any means ; though he in fact is somewhat Of a different style, from " my own Antony ; " Is darker complexioned, I think ; at least, he Is less fair in face, and his beard darker, too ; Is taller, not quite so broad shouldered. I do Not think that he either possesses such grace Or polish of manner, allowing his face To be nearly as handsome. Remarking to him That he did not look like the same person when in The choir that he did out of it, he replied. Laughingly, that perhaps he was not ; how did I Know, indeed, but he was some one else ? Heto-daj To call on a lady a few blocks away Was going — her name Mrs. Douglass, I think, And a stranger to him — to engage her to sing Next Sabbath at church. I inquired whose place she Was to take, the soprano's, or alto's. And he First replied laughingly, " Oh, the tenor's," and theiif Said that she was to sing in the place of Miss M., The present soprano. Referred, by tue by, To the poem he sent me, " You Kissed Jtfe/" and I Asked if he knew the author. He said he did not. It purjjorted to come from a lady, but thought A woman naught half so exquisite could write, And added that tn the piece ^rre was some quite STOLEN WAIERU iSit Strong language employed ; and then quoted, in aiB Tones so matchless, the few lines commencing with thig, ** And were I this instant an angel, possessed Of the glory and peace that is given the blest, I would throw my white robes uni'epiningly down, And tear from my forehead its glittering crown, To nestle once more in that haven of rest " — At the next line he paused, and with archness expressed In his face, and I fancied some bashfulness, said. With a little short laugh, tossing backward his head, " I've forgotten the rest 1 " He informed me that he And my Sabbath-school teacher schoolmates used to be. I exclaimed in surprise, " Why he's older than you ? " He smiled, said, " I guess not, think he's fifty-two, And I fifty-seven 1 " ** You are not so old ! " I replied, and I knew by his face he'd not told Me the truth when he answered me — *' Why 1 that ia Bot Very old, is it ? " " Oh, not so very J I thought, Though that you was much younger ! " replied I, and he Said, ** No I I am just seventeen ! " Teasing me, I of course knew he then was, or trying to do ; 8o I said " No! but tell me, just how old a/re you! " •* Thirty-seven," he then said he was, and I knew That this time, at least, he wao telling me true. Just <« think of it I He was last year twice as old As I \ And how long he'd been married, he told Me, as weU. Fifteen ysars, I believe, ana so J Waa scarcely four years old. He wuuld, by the bj| J 24 STOLEN WATERS. Elave bad a long time to have waited for me. He has two little boys, and the oldest thirteeiiy The other one seven. I never have seen The youngest. I spoke of a cousin of mine Seeing him at a ball, one eve, some little time Ago ; but he said he'd not been to but one This season ; and that was masonic. He'd od A masonic ring, also. I asked him if he Was a mason, and could he not give unto me The "grip," and he answered, " Oh, yes! " as he took My hand in his own, but of course merely shook It, and naturally, I suppose, held it fast, And pressing my fingers, retained in his clasp The hand he had taken, although from his grasp To release it I did once or twice vainly try. But he then took the other, instead, by the by, Both holding with firmness, yet gently, and I Did not care very much. I expected he would Have made such advances. I think that I should Be affected and fooKsh if I should pretend That I did not ; or either that he did offend By making such overtures. I of course knew When I sent my first letter, and also all through, More especially, though, since becoming aware That 1 knew he was married, and-so-forth, that thero Could not be much doubt but that he'd misjudge me And not only weak, but rmprincipled, he Might possibly think me. 'Twould certainly be Very natural, too ; and I could not blame him [f )ie did| yet I can but acknowledge he's been STOLEN WATERS. A.2ft Kioeeclingiy generous, and, I have had Occasion but once any fault to find — that Was his sending the poem, to which some way back I think I referred. Therefore, 1 was, in fact, Prepared for injustice, yet still hoped he might In the end change his mind, and I think ihat, ta nigkii Of me his opinion is different quite From what 'twas this morn. I repelled all I could. Without being rude, the caresses he would ELave lavished on me ; and I've no fault to find, And he, I am certain, went home with his mind In regard to my frailty quite disabused. And, While making him fully, I think, understand I was not what he thought me, I did not repel What I knew was quite harmless, and also was— well. There has been in my heart for so long an intense, Half-unconscious desire for my friend's dear presence— <^ A longing just once to be clasped in his arms, That now that my wishes could be without harm Gratified, why should /, what he gave on his part With so much of pleasure, refuse, while my heart A rapid response beat to each fond caress That he offered. And so I did not, I confess, Repulse him, when he his head laid on my breast, But suffered it there a few moments to rest, While I to his forehead my cheek softly pressed, As happy as he. Nor again, when he drew Me within his embrace foi a moment or two, Jusi. before he was leaving, and pressed on my itpi His fiiBt kiss, while to my very finger-tips I lelt tbe blood rush from my heart. 136 HTOLEIS WATEH8. He, at Jast, Having glauoed at his watch, found that two hours haJ And *twas then four o'clock ; therefore, was about time For Gertrude to come home from school ; and to find Him with me she must not; so I told him that he Must go, which he already knew. So of me Taking leave, very sweetly and kindly, he went, And I was alone. One more hour was far spent Before Gertie came home, so he need not have gone So soon, had I known it would been quite so long Ere she would have come. Mother did not get home Until about nine, and so we were alone — I and Gertie — as father went down town this eve, To hear — Wendell Phillips' address, I believe. Gertrude soon went to sleep on the sofa, and I Before the fire sat, in a rocker, with my Elbows resting on each of the arms of my chair, Both hands clasped o'er my eyes, and my thoughts--olig well, where Should they be but with him ? And I wonder, too, whethei " He thought of to-day, of when we were together. How ? Where ? Oh, what matter ! Somewhere in a drean^ Drifting, slowly drifting down a wizai'd stream — Where ? Togetlier I Then what matters it whither? *' But midnight is rapidly hastening thither, And I'll say good by to to-day which has been One of unalloyed pleasure ; enshrining within My heart's " white-washed chamber," its deepef fc The memory dear of to-daj> , and confess ** th, 1864. FRIDAY. "The great laws of life readjust their infiractioiiy ^d to every emotion appoint a reaction." That sentiment I indorse with all my heart, And have realized fully, I think, for my part, The truth of the sentence. That pleasure must be By misery followed inevitably. No letter last Saturday did I receive, Ab I hoped that I might ; and the Sabbath, indeed. Was a miserable day all around. In the mom I of course went to service. My brother was down And went to church with us. My cousin came, too. From Brooklyn, and as to myself, I was blue, I thought, as I could be, before I went out ; But my spirits, when I had returned, were about Ten degrees lower still. Well ! my friend was then t09^ And he much as usual appeared, it is true ; Yet I own I was rather dissatisfied, felt Oroflfi at him just a little, and more at mysell I also waft vexed that I had not received Amy letter from him Saturday, and belieyed 128 STOUCN WATERH. That he might to iiui AriUt^ii, if hn had carod to* Ab ho promimHl, if I'm not uastakon, to do, And was iiioni tllsappoiiiUid than caring to o^n. Thou \ny biotlior and wifo, afUu- wo roturnod home, Had soiiio worils, wldoh wore callod out by someikiiig ) Haid) Though (juito iimoceutly ; and thou, too, my head Aohud ahnoHt aH uuioli an uiy hoart, and I thought, On tho vvh(>lo, 'twan a day hh thorouglily fraught Witli annoyanotiH, trilling, porhapH, but yet uone Th(^ li^HH irriUiting and vexing, an ono Vfiry fnu|uontly paHHOs. Ilioro was, by the by, In thtM'Juipol a prayor-nuuiling nuuoly, that uight, Aiul no Borvico iu ohnn^h, and ho I vvaH quite Coutont to Btay homo. VVoll, I heard tho boll ring To-dav, but supposed it waH not any thing For me; consecpumtly, was inuch pleased to find IM not only a hsttor from Antony mine, But ono also from Oolonol A Hair. And 1 then Felt bettor ; for botli were tpiito phrasing, aud when I hail opomul tho ColonoPs I found there (moloBod A photograph of him - a (ino one 1 8up]«ose My Antony wisluul to make up for delay In writing to me, for bin letter to-day Was much longt^r than uHual, nor c»ui I but say, "Was equally kindly tuid warndy expressed. CkHumeniHHl " My own Bit tor-Sweet," aiui, fir the ntk^ I would much like to co|>y it here if I could. But have ueitlier the time nor the spaoe. tilVLUN W/tTI£UH. IM 'J'bougbt b« ihouU In the choir his i)08ition roHign Hoon, ulthough lie did " ratlujr liko tho old * cornor,' " and ho Gu6Hu ho^ll not. And his lottr^r L armwcrod to-niglit, And niuil^Mi it. 1 wont ))aKt IiIh Iioiiho. A bright light Wa8 in parlor and hall ; hut tlio hIuuIoh woro drawn down. I Baw naught of him — proauino ho wuh down town. Sistor Fannie to HoHton roturnf;*! ycHtxjrday. Pm 90 tired, and think i havo no nioro to aaj. Jmma/ry KMJk, 18G4. SUNDAY. Do not fool much liko writing, havo not maoh to write I It'B bocomo Rocond naturo U) writo Hahhatli night. So, aH in my wont, I havo takon my poii, And ojionod my hook for tliat purpon*;. lint then, Ab Ixiforo J havo Hainio friondH to tho thoatro. Then Vd an invitation to B. thiH i*.M. To dino, hut 'twan ho " bitt<;r cold " did not go. Went to church morn and ov<5rjirjg aH uHual, ami no (>f courKO Haw my Antony, /did not, though, I*ay but little attention to him, nor did he To m« ei viier thin morning ; he leerntMi, tluuigh, to M 130 aXOLEN WATERS, Very pleaaanl and smiling this evening, but I Looked coldly away, and would not meet hia ej«t I suppose that he thinks I am ugly — I, too, Think ^ ia a little, my Journal ; don't you? Jofimairy 14^A, 1864. THURSDAY. One more pleasant day in my changeable life I Again I can write of some hours that were rife With pleasure, instead of with pain. A short note I sent to my Antony Tuesday last. Wrote That mother was going to Brooklyn to-day, And if he could come out this p.m., and stay An hour or two with me, that I should be glad To see him, of course. I had hoped to have bad A letter in answer this morning, to know Was he coming or not. None arrived, though, and lo I hardly knew whether to expect him or not. About noon, though, the bell loudly rang, and I tkoagbt It sounded indeed like the carrier's ring ; But it was so late, thought it could not be him. However, it was, and he brought me the note I had been expecting ; and yet, though he wrote A long letter, for him, no' a word did he say As to whether he should, or not, come out to-day He asked near the end how I liked Sunday mom rhe sermon ; and said he dared hardly look down, Aa it seemed j'lst as though sonro one's eyes were (A 411 the time. STOLEN WATJSBJU. 131 Well, of course I was dressed an 1 wiUiim The parlor before two o'clock ; but I had Nearly given him up ere he came ; but was glad, Very glad, to see his well-known form, pass at lengthy rhe window ; and so to the hall-door I went, And admitted vdlj friend. Mrs. A., who has been Staying here for some time, had gone out this p.m., Saying that she expected a call from a friend, And asked me if I would not see him, and tell Him why she was absent, and send him there. Well ! I promised to do so, and thought it was him, When soon after my friend came I heard the bell ring. So I went to the door ; but a lady was there Whom I did not know ; proved to be a Miss Ware, A teacher of music, and came here to see If mother would not allow Gertrude to be A pupil of hers. So I told her that I Would speak to mamma about it, and would try And at once let her know the result. She had then Full particulars given to me ; therefore, when She asked me if she might come in, I was so Much surprised that just what to reply did not know. Nor did I think ahead far enough then to say That I was engaged, and if some other day She'd call, she would doubtless mamma £nd at homo. Hesitating one instant, the next I had shown Her in the front-parloi My Antony then Had my albums, and sat calmly looking at them ; He was in the back room; both the doors, thoughj betweep Were wide open, and bo she of oourse must have seen 132 aTOLEJS WATERS, Him sitting there ; but I did not at the tine Think anything of it, except, Journal mine, That I wished she would go. And she did not say onm Single thing except what she had previously done. Remained a few moments, and then went aw&j. She gave me her card, and I found, by the way, That she on the same street resided that he Does. He looked at her card, and he said she must be But a few doors from him, and he guessed he would go Ajict tuke lessons in singing ; but he did not know Her at all, in reply to my question, said. WeUI W© were having a cosey chat all to ourselves, Wlien some little time after the bell rang again. You must know that I did not go this time, but when In a moment Ann opened the door, I heard them Enquire for my mother, and heard her reply That she was away ; she believed, though, that I Was at home. So at once turned to show them into The parlor, but — most fortunately, 'tis true — The key I had turned when they rang, and she found The door fastened. And so after upstairs and down She had looked for me vainly, informed them that I Must also have gone out. And when, by the by, Their names they had given, I foimd them to be Two of our own church ladies most prominent. He Wished to know who they were, and I told him. Bj&m shocked They'd have been, if the door had not chanctjd to le looket^ And they had been shown in the parlors, to find Him and me there alone. 'Twould created a fine Piece of iKandal, no doubt. But I w mdet; in timei 8T0LBN WATERS. 183 riuit I thought to do BO , but 'twaa well that I did^ Thus escaping unpleasant exposure. Amid Bo much interruption, the afternoon passed Away but too swiftly. Hours too bright to L»at Glided rapidly onward. Why cannot we atAj The swift flight of Time ? Sometimes bid a to-SAe" was there, too, this evening — ^his wife ;-« She watches me closely, as if she might be Just the least trifle jealous. She need not — of me. And I was of her once, but think I'm not now, For sh^s much more cause than 7" have, I'll allow. Febrria/ry 1««, 1864. MONDAY. I Imagine the end can be not distant far I That the time swift approaches when he and I aj To become merely strangers again. And to-day Has been an eventful one, I can but say I Ib the first place, this morn I a letter received From him, which was written on Saturday eve l ^M just going up to rehearsal, he wrote. I'M STOLEN WATWHa ** TwM » bora, ihould U glad wken. r«li«T#d t * Btrt I hope Tkat iim« will ii)t come very looa. " I inppofle 1 shall sec you to-morrow,'' he writes, near the cloae '* But know not as then I shall hardly dare meet Your eyes, lest I see that you look. Bitter Sweet, So frowningly at me because I have not Replied to your letter before, as I thought To be able to do. This is, though, the first chance I have had." But there was not much fear in his glanoe Last Sabbath, nor did I frown much, I believe. But he wrote before this — "la letter received Anonymously but a few days ago. In regard to my visiting up town ; and so It seems some one saw me, has taken the pains To warn me of it, and attributes the same To bad motives. Perhaps 'tis as well, for although My mind's free from wrong, others may not think so. And a mere friendly visit construe thus into Something worse. Well ! we all are quite likely, 'tis troi^ To judge from appearance ! Unjustly, sometimes, As in this case. And we should perhaps bear in mind The old proverb, * Avoid all appearance of wrong.' ** I knew in a moment just where it came from — The caller I had the last time he was here ; From no one else covM it have come. It is clesr She saw him come in, and, they living so near STOLEN WATERS. 141 ro each other, she certainly must have known Mm ; j8o suppose that she made up her miud to come in And ascertain why he was there. I thought, then, Rather strange she should as/cif she might, and, too, irkea She'd ah-eady said all necessary to say. She's contemptible I Bad as I am, or she may Think I am — for I faucy I'm not, by the way. Any worse than she is — I would ne'er condescend To do aught so mean. Force herself in, and then rake advantage of what she discovered, to send An anonymous letter to him. She is not, Neither is her opinion, deserving a thought ! But it is rather galling to be so misjudged, To a proud girl like me, it is true I But then, fudge I It is not worth minding, to come from that source, Though for his sake, it could but annoy me, of course. But if it don't get to his wife I don't care 1 Finished reading my letter, I went right downstain, And nearly the first thing, mamma asked me where My letter was from. An evasive reply Was I forced to make. This concealment, though, I Dan hardly endure. 'Tis quite foreign to my Nature, habit, and wish. But it shall not be so I [ loUl sever all ties that now bind us, although My heart it should break. Though there is not much Ami [)f that, I imagine ! Instead, it is clear 'Twill be more a relief than aught else to me. Yet, Can I give him up ? It will be hard, I expect, Although it must be. Mother said that a week 4go yesterday, she had gone for a sheet 149 STOLEN WATERS, Of note-paper tc my portfolio, and saw It was locked. But she tiijugh.t that perhaps she draw Some forth from the leaves in between. So she tried. And she did ; but she drew something eLse, too, beside. One sheet of the letter — or copy — I sent TTim the previous week ; and which also I meant Cpstairs to have taken, and placed in my desk. And did the next day. An envelope addressed To him I have been very careful, all through. Not to keep, lest some person should see it ; and, too, . Whene'er there has been anything of the kind Within my portfolio before, any time. In the pockets I always have placed it, and not The leaves in between ; but this time my forethought Seems quite to have left me. She read it all through. Told how it commenced, and some things I wrote, toe^ And quoted verbatim — " I shan't forget you, You shall not forget me, long as you continue To sing in that choir, and I sit in the pew That I now do in church." So I saw that she kneir The whole story, and farther dissembling would be Both useless, and also impossible. She Said she " hoped that it might be the bass-singer, ani Could not think I'd been writing to a married man.** And why did I do it ? Foolish giri ^hat I am I I told her I thought no more of him than she, And, as soon as my letters I could obtain, we Would be done with each other. So I must tell Ua When I have a good chance. ' don't like to go in STOLEN WATERS 14* To the store, bo must wait until he comes out here. And no knowing when that time will come, but I fear Twill be not very soon, ^nd I do wonder what Will come next ? " It ne'er rains, but it pours ! " and I thought There was truth in the proverb to-day. Thiap.it i wrote him a note ; have not sent it. Well, when We part, we'll part friends. One more meeting, and then— Fefntuvry 7thy 1864. SUNDAY. Nothing very important since here I last wrote. Last Wednesday A.M., there arrived a brief note From my friend ; and he spoke of the one he received, And he writes — " Who it came from I cannot conceive. Can you ? You must see that will render it, though, Impossible for me at present to go Out to see vou." I do wish that some people would Iheir own affairs mind I It would do them more good. And cause much lees trouble. I had not sent mine rhat I wrote him on Monday, so added a line, And Hent it that day. And I wrote him I thought ifter reading the rest Df my letter, he'd not 144 STOLEN WATERS. Have much doubt whsre his came from, and asked hin to send It to me for perusal. I told him I then Expected that somethiiig would come of her call, But thought not of that ; neither cared I at all. If it did not through her reach his wife. And I hope It will not, for her own sake and his too. I wrote, " I am sure 'twas from her, so you see that th^re would Be no danger in your coming up, if I could Opportunity give to you ; but I cannot Just at present. But you seem to have not a thought That Pve aught at stake." I wrote nothing about My mother's discovery ; 'till he comes out, I thought I would wait ere I told him. Have had Not as yet any answer to that, though I half Elxpected one yesterday morn. This A.M., I of course went to church. He was there, and agdbl Sat back with the rest of the singers, and I Felt jealous as usual. I do not see why He does so, I'm sure ! for he never used to Until the now singer came ; now, it is true, He does nearly always. Was given to-night In the chapel a Sabbath-school concert. 'Twas quite A good one. He was not of course there, but " tM* — His wife — was, and sat, too, one seat back of me. After concert, her little boy came to her seat ; So I've seen him at last ! He's the image complete Of his father. He has the saite eye, dark and deep, The small mouth, |x>uting lips and the same rounded STOLEN WATEB8, 14i Anil, more Uke him than all, same expressLDn of miLil« Sweet good-humor. And he is a beautiful child 1 And I fimcy that she thinks so, too, by the tone Of fondness with which she addressed him. I owa That she well may be proud of her fine, lovely boy. I wonder where he was to-night, how employed I The Sabbath-school had a rehearsal last night. I went. The choir, too, were rehearsing. I'd liked To have looked in a moment on them, I confess ; But of course I could not, and was forced ts reproM All longings to see my dear/Wewc?, 'till today, And then was not quite satisfied, I must say. Jfebnuvry \2th^ 1864. FRIDAY. Friday Eve ! and once more all alone in my With my journal before me, my pen I resume, To inscribe on its pages the passing events Of the week nearly gone, of a day of content, Which also hastes fast to its close. And I, too, Must with brevity say all I'm wishing to do. And seek my repose. Tuesday last, I believe, From Colonel AUair I a letter received, And one from my ^^ friend " on the following daj. He writes — '^ I have felt much annoyed, I must mj^ Since receiving the note which I spoke of to you« In my last ; and I cannot imagine yet, who t l46 STOLEN WATERS. Its author ca Jd be. I can scarcely think, thoagk^ It came from the party that called, as I know I neyer saw her before ; but it might be Possible, I suppose, that she may have known xne. So vexed did I feel, then, that I destroyed it At once I but have many times wished, I admit, That I had not, as I would have liked you to see The note, though 'twas not very likely to be — The handwriting — familiar to you. I can't free . My mind from the thought that they're yet waiting fo9 The next visit." But /don't at all think sol new- Have I any doubt where it came from, as I Said before, three or four days ago ; or that my Visitor and his new correspondent are one. My sister has been wishing mother to come And see her, for some time, and when she went hcHne Mamma promised to do so. She Wednesday receiTod A summons to come on immediately, As my sister was ill. So she left us this mom, And three or four weeks, I suppose, will be gone. I sent him an answer to his yesterday, And wrote him that mother was going away, And asked bim if he would come out this P.IL I looked for his coming 'till half-past two, ¥Phen I quite gave him up, and had taken a book And been reading some moments, when chancing to Out the window, I saw he was just passing by. My book was thrown down in an instant, and I At the door to admit him. He said what I Aboo* OBBUBf up to-dajr^ hi did not noto, STOLEN WATJgmi li" Uudl two o^clock. That mj letter he thea Adjust taken out to look over again, And afl soon as he saw that he came right awmy. I wrote him in pencil, and that wlb in a ** P. S.," I believe, why he did not see it. I told him about mamma, and I admit He took it quite coolly, seemed vexed not one bit| But laughingly asked why I did not permit Her still to think it was the bass-singer 1 I Enquired the first time he was here, by the by, Where my letters he kept, and he told me within A drawer in his desk ; and to-day I asked him If its contents he brought, and he said, no ; that he Could not get to them, as he had broken the key. But so roguishly I could but know he was not The truth telling me, and that he could have got Them, had he desired to. I coaxed him to bring Them out the next time that he came, but a thing Satisfactory I could not get in reply, Or nothing, at least, on which I could rely. I told him I knew he would ne'er have the time For " reading them backwards/" While teasing for miu| He said not one word of my giving back his. K he had, I should not. Had he told me, " That ia The condition alone on which I'll return yours," I should said aot another word of it, I'm sure. I can't give them up, come what may ! So I teased^ And coaxed, and persuaded, and he at his ease. Leaning back in his chair, laughed in answer, or gave BoiTOfttimfiB a caress for reply, or else mad« i*S STOLEN WATEB& Unto each argument some objectioA ; at leagthi He said — -and his tone changed to ice— h« would Them, certainly, if I insisted on it. But that he had not all of them, he'd admit ; When they were about him sometimes, he had been Obliged to destroy them, lest they should be seen. He thought he would come out next Tuesday again. From school Gertie came ere he left me, but went Right downstairs ; then he bade me good-by. Welly we spflgnl An afternoon pleasant indeed ; or at least To me. He is splendid^ I think, and was pleased Much as ever, to-day, with him. But I must not Write more at this time. To my ^* friend " many thoof^ii I am sending to-night, and with fond wishes fraught. Fehrwiry 14^, 1864. BUKDAT. Quite a nice, pleasant day this has been, and I comfi^ At its close, to write here of it ; and I have some News, my Journal, to tell you. Last night we reoeiTed A telegram, saying the previous eve Manmia safely at her destination arrived — Fannie's husband it came from — and that his dear wilb Had a very fine boy bom that mom. Gertie went To Turytown yesterday ; brother Frank seat BTOLMir WATEim. li* f*«r fath«T and I to diiie vdth him toAT. "I'm homesick, and heartsick, and weary of life! ** Its pleasures, its follies, its turmoil, its strife ! I am weary of all that I've tasted below, I am weary of friend, and I'm weary of foe. And friends (?), what are they ? When Joy brightens oni skies. They flutter around ^s like gay butterflies. Display their bright colors, their rainbow-hued wings. Ah { they're happy, and joyous, and beautiful things I But touch their bright spots and their beauty is gone. They spread their frail wings, and then soon flutter on. Yes ! when sorrow's dark clouds have our heavens o'ercMt^ We find, all too soon, their rich hues will not last. On a frail " broken reed " we've been placing our trost^ Our friends are all &lse, and their vows naught bnt dnit 130 HfTVLMX WA Tbey^rt* our» vhile tin* tuu shinei^ when tluui^ cccdm ih^ fly. ••rm hcMUt>s;.k'k, an.i ht>Art^:ck. and weAry of life! " Its dt^A.rt>$t euiovv > ritV. lu { < :o AbouDui? A:;. ^^/. .> . S • .c>.- .>"c\-. dtioujjhts iKai Hauu>? IV Sou- ^' : -> nidehAud? A cu- < ;■> tlnsna, > :>At^ troer. Meittory poii > \ To > ■ <; Svhoilld hAT« Tho Ai, 1.0^ ;- A ik^WTOr I -T^f. STOLKIf WATUmA 151 Hut too fioon w© awake from ilio Hwoot, blissful drpara^ To find hoarte aro faithloaa, lovo not what it BtMsms. Friondsluj> ? ^Tia an oinpty, a luoauiuglosH word ; *Ti« fraught with lioart-arhinujs, with siglis bitxathed QJI lioanl. True *tia U) you when thon^ is auglit to bo gMntnl ; Whon noodtnl nu)«<, loavos your fond hoarts to ho painod By it>a tickUnioss, untruth, and hoartU^sH disdain; To find your lioju^s l»light<>d, your faith all in vaiii. Lifo I what ia that ? Ask tho poot or painter, Ask him whoso wojik voice with ago daily grows fainter. Tho poet in eloquent vocse will portray Its joys and its sorrows, smootli paths and rough ways. The artist will paint you with light here, tliero shade, A cradle- —an altar - a grave newly made. The old man will say 'tis a meteor bright. One moment 'tis noonday, the next, it is night. ** Tm hoiuesick, and heartsick, and weary of lifo I " There's nothing but bitterness, nothing but strife ! Bickerings without, and ttMuptat.ions within, Smiles battlmg with tears, and purity with sin. Hopes are crushed at one blow, and true hearts Mxt h% trayed, Love's Eden is entered, homo desolate made. Diahonor is stamped upon many a biow, Disgrjice hangs o'er those that wero hap]>y but now ; The death angel dark hovers o^er our bright land, Touching aert^ one, and then^ one, with his icy hand| Gathering iu"ound him his nuuitle of gloom, Only to drop it o'er some lonely tomb. War o'er our coimtry spreads its deso ation, Broduv 'gainjit brother., and mitiou 'giuniit natiott. 162 8TCLSN WATEia. Pure streams dyed with hearts^ blood, fielis red tad fVjp liyes yielding all up to country and glory. Deep is the darkness, tl^e night is dreary, T'm homesick, heartsick, of life I am weary. It has been a long time since Tve written in heM. Two weeks ! that in passing, have seemed long and draac Two weeks, which have brought in their flitting to me, A few gleams of joy, but much more misery. For writing no heart I have had, or for aught Else beside where was requisite much composed thou^t ; And to-day I so restless have been all the time, I thought that it possibly might ease my mind. To talk for a short time, my Journal, with yon, And something tell you of the past week or two ; The record's too humiliating, though, quite Too troubled and sad to be pleasant to write. The week following his latest visit to me, I received not a word from him, nor did I see Him as I expected. You know he said then He thought he would come the next Tuesday — but wliea Tuesday came a most terrible storm raged. The next Day was not much better, nor did I expect Him of course ! And the rest of the week was, aliJiou|[kL Fair and clear, cold intensely, and Zdid not know But possibly that might the reason be why He did not come up. I wrote him by the by, Onoe or twice in the interim. Day after day I watched for his coming — a letter- — alway To b^ disappointed. And no on<» can know How eatless, unhappy, I felt, and how M STOLEN WATWm. IM Dragged f regret for the past, for th3 future no hope I The six weeks to me have passed by very slow. For nearly a mouth he had been ill, before I knew what detained him from service. Two more Sabbaths since then have gone. When last week I went o il " She " was there, and I fancied knew something about Our acquaintance, she then looked so queerly at me, I presume 'twas all fancy, though ! By the way, he This winter is wearing an overcoat light. And during the service it hangs just in sight In the " corner." The first thing I noticed to-day, When I went in, was Mrs. , his wife — and away From her face to the " corner " I glanced ; and saw there A light overcoat, yet even then did not dare Hardly think it was his, fearing still I should be Disappointed. But when they began to sing, he Stood before me as handsome as ever, although Looking so pale and thin ; and a glad light, I know. Filled my eyes, as I could not, indeed, fail to see That when he came out his first glance was for me. How happy it made me to see him again I And so, my dear Journal, you see that his chain Is gtjll round my neck, and the clasp he yet holds, But chains always chafe, although made of fine go^ 186 STOLMN WArHSSi May \H, 1864. 8UNDAT. Again Vm. in much tribulation t This week Fatlier changes his business to Brooklyn. He spetkM As if toe should stay where we are until fall, But expect when he gets there he'll soon want us all. And how can I think of it ? How can 1 go And leave him^ '' my own? " I shall never, I know. Never see him at all I I to church went to-day ; He >>-JiS thoro, ;uid I «r«K« very ghul, I must say. To see he wjvs looking mucli better — quite like His dear self. No service, but concert to-night. Mai/ St^, 1864. Sr>T)AY. Well 1 this, I 8upjH>^, is my last Sunday here f For the last time, my Journal, I come to this dear Little sjinctum of mine for a S;ibb-ath night's chat, Of wliich we so m:my Wfore have had, that I scanvly c^m force mvself now to Wlieve TTiat this is tlie hvst ! That this week I shall leav» This liouse in which so many hours I have ^^assed, So happy :uui joyous I kuew they'd not last ; Hours of sadness, as well, which could not fly too fa blOi^N WATERS. 161 That I must bid ftdieu to this dear little room, With associations of both sunshine and gloom Bo brimful ; where so many castles I've built. 8ome have melted in air, some have been all fiilfiLed ! My hvst Sabbath here has as usual been spent, And is now nearly eiulod. This morning I went To church, luui the drst thing 1 saw wjis a dark Overcoat, which was hung in the " comer." My heart Sank sev'ral degrees. Soon the bass-singer came To the front with a gentleman ; both I Siiw plain, And thought, " Well I it seems we are having this A new tenor, oi- organist 1 " And, although down At my seat he kept const^mtly glancing, while he Stood talking, I never ouce thought it could be My Antony dearest ! and not until they Were commencing to sing did I know him. The waj Of it was, since the last Sabbath he's taken off His beai'd, leaving only his mustache, so soft And drooping. It made in his looks such a change, So distinct and decided, 'twas not very strange That I did not know him, e'en though his dear &oe Is so sweetly familiar, and in it I've traced Each passing emotion so many a time. He looks younger and hjindsomer ; yet, Journal min«^ I must own that I do scai'cely like him so well ; It miikes him seem almost a stranger ; the spell Of his presence has something of newness in it, And seemed desecrating the past, I admit ! We intend to retain, for the present, our pew. When I write here again, I suppose in my new But less dearly loved home I shall be. So adiea To the memory of hopes, disappointed ones toe. lt>S ^rOL.^V WATMBa, Which cluster vritliiu this ii»^r t\x>ui ; and a ImI Ajhi lingt»rmg firewv?ll to its viiw^uns of the >i«st t BROOKLYN. May ^2%i, 1364 SrS'T>AT. TVo w^eks since my last writing I In mj new In ray new ♦* sanot^im ivvavnorum." once more I oome To tracn^ loaf of mv lifo in this Kvok. I did not to church gv> last Sablvith ; it looked Like ;\ storm, and I was not quite well. But to-daj We all of us we.nt^ and I thought I would star For the service this evening ; so did not oome home ; Witli a friend jvasstxi the interim. Father alone Came over this evening. My friend did not go To chxirch to-night with me ; my Antony, though, Was there mom and eve ; but he sat in his j>ew, And wie hwi a new tsenor ; so he has got thro\igh With the choir, I conclude. On my going to-night To service^ I jvassed by his house ; 'twa^ twilight ; The windows were oj>en, and A« stood near on^ Binding over a table with his oldest soil^ Bi>th consulting a large Kx*k then lyiqg HMveoiL I know not if he saw me ; l»ut had not been long 1b church, when I saw them oome in ; and while ilw Was taking her seat, my friend turned towards m« iiTOl.Wi WATERS, 1^9 His ilt>ar faiv, with a sinil© most impassionwl and Bweet; And !uv oht>t>k slightly tlushed, and my foolish hoar* beat Just tlio lt>iist tritlo tkstor, I i>nvii ; it diil soom 80 stnmgo, to soo him sit tli>wnstairs ! And I dcHum [t a pUvasant coincidonoo i>ur seats should bo So noar to oaoh otlior. rivsiimo, though, that he Will not bo at ohuich halt* tho time, now ho sings No moro in tho I'lioir. '* Phoi-e comes ever somotliiug Botwoou us aiul what wo our happinoss doom." I sJuUl now soo my tVituul only raioly, 1 woon! Octoht^r 2ast, Since 1 optMunl this book, and made in it my hist Brief record. And though thoro has, in tho mean time.. r>t>en ovout^i of slight import to mo and to mine, I iiave not been desirous of writing them down ; Haii no wish to oonmuino with a heart I havo found Moro rebellious, and more imeontrollablo too, Then I CiU'e to acknowledge, now, even to you, My Journal anil cinitidant(>. All sunnuer long We haNe had visitora, and tlie last are just gone. My father went out West some thi-ee months ago, lletr^rning last wet^k. As for me, you must know Fve l)oen doing my best to attempt to forget S^oen^ *iud frieiids of the juist, but whoso Lntluenoe jM 170 STOLES VATEJUf Is felt in my heart. And my efforts haw beeiA Of but little avail ; and now, down deep withim My heart, I am forced to acknowledge a fiw* 1 was long iu discovering ; one, also, that I would now fain ignore ; and a ti-uth, that to bm Is so full of bitterness, gi-ief, nusery, And humiliation, it does seem, a:; times. As if I could hardly eudui-e it; How blind I ha\-e been ! but my eyes ai-e wide oj>en at last ; And 1 now know, and bitterly know, why the past Is yet so indelibly stamped on my heart ; Why I dud it impossible, even a j>art Of a certain thi-ee months to forget ; and wherein Lies the chai-m which has bound me so strvnii^Iv to him • Why I never could bivak the enchantment, and feel That I once moi-e was fi-ee. No ! I cannot conceal From myself any longer, the fact that the thrall That for mouths has enslaved me is this : That, with «11 The intenseness and depth of my nature, I love Him, my Antony dearest ! Ai\d that far above All others he stands in my heart ; and that no Sej>aratJon, or silence, or coolness, although It might make me both grieved and uulignant, coidd chaa^ Or serve in the slightest degree to estiuuije My atTection for him. I may not ever see Him again, unless 'tis at a distance, and he May not even one tender thought give to me; But yet he*s my love, and my darling, my o^ii ! And happiness, fiveviom, and peace, have all tlown Prom my heart, to make room for the \mweh\Hue gn««« Which 1 ^in would exclude. For, it must be ci>niw«ed. TKh knowltnipfi^ is not \ov\ gni(<^t'ul ami HWYyit, Nor ilot's it :i(U>rvl io mo happinoss doop, Oaii it l>t>, tlioiii^h, that /, iiuiojxnulont ami prouil, 1, who, uioit> than oiuo, srotut'uUy h:»vo avowod I Ci")uUi think n.'vn;;h( ot' i>no who did not ran* t*« i.R> lor mil, Ami inmijiniHl that I wjus " hivirt-whoh», ianov-frxHi *' — /am torcoii io routoss, that not only unsoiii:;ht, l^nivturn(>ii, I havo U>voJ, hut — t.ho most hittor t.hoii^ht i>t* all othors, Nvhov(> nono with nnu'h swootnoss an^ fra.i^i^h^ I ha\i> in my lu'art ^^lu■iIu^^ i\\c (aco o{' tv man ^Vho is boiuui io anothor, and who novor can Anythinoj ho io uio. ({oil tVui^ivo mo, I pniv. Ami pilv mt\ l0i> ! In t.ho wookvS |vusst>il away Sinoo hoivin 1 wiv^to last, Tvo a now^ nu>thoil trioti To mako mo t\>r^ot. A tlirtation, that vioii With tho k'ust, ono in ni>thins;; ami was, on my Rul<^ iVrrioil on with snoh woary imlitVoronot*, it Oouhi mo not mnoh ploasnro atVoni, I ailmit. I hopoil io (ovi:^ot, in anothor's toml smiU>, i>ao whoso s\vi\»tnoss hail ilono, oh ! so much to iH^giiilfl i\ly hivut t'lx^m it^ poaoo. l>ut. t.ho man was not one 1 oonhl ovor oaro much t\>r ! a.ml now it is dom> — Tho tlirtation ami all thoro is h>t't is a low Fomi lottois, woll-writton and kluti, it is truo, Ami a photognvph. With not a rlu>Ui;ht of ivgret, I havo hviii tliom away. Many lottors I yot From Oolonol Allair am roooiving. llo wn-itos Notloasi!\g and tnu> ; and \\o says lio is quite Oaptiyatod by our oorrospondonot^ ; anil noVr Will forgot mo, ho knows! Woll I porhaps not; If e'et 1T2 STOLEN WATERS. Ho ia tiied, we shall see! But we always agree, Never jar in the least. Says he hopes to see me Before very long, as his time has expired, And he'll now soon be home. I can't say Tve desiroJ To see him th^'s fall very much, and presume He will alter his mind about coming so soon When he my next letter receives. I have been To church frequently, but have rarely seen him. One morn, I remember, when going up town, \ saw him on a car that passed by, coming down. How glad]\\^t that one passing glimpse made me feel! Though a slight tkige of sadness began soon to steal O'er my heart, as the old potent charm was revived, Bringing with it vain longings for what was denied. I felt all the morn, I perhaps should see him, But hoped that to church my dear friend would have bees. I went up to-day. He was there ; neither gave To the other much notice ; in fact nothing, save An occasional most careless glance. And he went Out of church just ahead of me, talking intent With a gentleman friend. Afterwards, I passed bj Him so closely, my dress must have brushed him ; out I Neither spoke, nor yet looked, just as if he was nH My Antony dearest I acd in all my thoughts. flTOLEN WATERS. Hi October ZOthy 1864. SUNDAY. Was in town yesterday, and went into his store. I bare not for a long time been in there before. I did not inquire for him, purchased a book, And while I was doing so he came to look For something near where I was standing, and aske«l His partner some question about it, then passed Back, returning a moment thereafter, and stood By the counter, where when I should pass out I could But see him. I sometimes have thought that he would Ne'er again speak to me ; I have so many times Decidedly cut him ; but he was as kind, Yesterday, in his manner as ever ; and I Of course bowed and smiled too, as him I passed by. But though I was outwardly calm and serene, I trembled excessively ; but did not mean He should know I was moved ; neither did he, I ween. Were to-day both at church. He, my dearest, and I ' And his eye met my own more than once. By the bjr, I think he still likes his quondam " Bitter-Sweet," Just a little, and no one with him can compete In wy heart, no person at least that I've met, Thongb I fway see some one that I like better, t^ 174 STOLEN WATERR N'avemher 19th, 1864. SATURDAY. Been to clrnrch only once since the last time I wrotfl^ And naught has occurred that is worthy of note. That day I remained all the noon time in church. Went up in the choir for the first time, in search Of traces of him ; but found nothing ; but sat For a moment within the dear " corner ;" in fact, In the very same spot where my friend used to sit, But one brief year ago ; and from it to transmit Many thoughts, looks, and smiles down to me. Do you know My dear Journal, that it was just one year ago Yesterday that I sent my first letter to him ? How brimful of sweet recollections they've been — The two days just passed. I wrote him, by the way, A. note to remind him of it, and to-day Was in town, and went into his place, but did not Have a chance to deliver, without doing what I disliked very much — to inquire for him ; so [ purchased a book, went where else I'd to go, And returned, and accomplished my object that time. How handsome he looked ! and how pleasant and kind Was his smile and his tone, as he took from my hand The parcel I gave. He is splendid, and grand I ily letter ran nearly like this ; " My dea/r * tTohn ' / '^ Don't it look to you singular, boom what, that form STOLEN WATEHS. Vtl Of address at the head of a letter of mine ? For though 1 have written the same many timeSy To you before, never ! I write to you now, Not thinking you'll cai-e much to hear, I'L allow. But because I just now know not what else to do. And because I feel, too, just like writing to you. I have not forgotten how wrong it is, though, I wish that I could ! But I ask you for no Reply, and write only because to me 'tis A gratification. " Do you know it is Just one year to-day, since my first note to you I wrote and despatched ? It does seem, it is true. Hardly possible, but so it is ! Ah, my dear. This cold, wintry weather, so frosty and clear, Brings back very forcibly old times to me. Does it to you also, my own ' Antony ? ' And do you ever think, I would much like to know. Of this time, but one little, brief year ago ? A smile quite involuntary sometimes says You have not entirely forgotten * B. SI' As to me, I like you just as well now as then ; I liked you the first time I saw you, and when Our brief correspondence was closed, you, my Mend, Were not the less dear ; and I like you, too, still. Although inconsiderate, unkind, you will Admit tJiat you often have been — will you not ? I remember of your saying, once, that you thciight There was, 'tween the sexes, no such thing as love ! rhat ^twas mostly mere passion — or that was alovt Pure affection predominant. /^ don't believe Vou really thought cto ; nor did you conceive, 176 STOLEN WATERS My dear * John^ how conclusively that remark pro^eOi rhough sixteen years married, you never have lovedL If this 18 your opinion, I differ with you I For I — shall I say * love ' f yes ! for it is true, That it, in this case, means no more than I like, And I think it is, too, somewhat easier to write — Yes, love you I but not with one passionate thought. Am contented to see you, and, though I would not Be sorry to have an occasional chat With you, my dear friend, I am well aware that I have to your love and caresses no right. Nor do 1 care for them. It is to me quite Immaterial whether you like me or no ; If you treat me unkindly or kindly ; and so. You see, nor your smiles nor your frowns can disturb My calm equanimity ; neither can curb Or enhance the full flow of my spirits. << I thought I saw you a few days ago, but was not Quite certain of it — on Broadway, I believe. Trusting you will with pleasure this letter reoeiTe^ And sending you love and a kiss, 'till we meet, I am still and am only, ** Your own, <mtment for Tiiestiay, p.m,, But it raiueti harti all day ; couse^|ue.ntlv a^ub It wa^ misiikHi. Yostonlay IM a lot tor, altlioug^ Saving any p.m. of next w^et^k ho would go To tho T>. to iiuvt mo. To-day tho wind blew Exceevliugly hanl, and >\\'as ♦' bittor ov^ld," too; But I >wnt up to cXwwk^x. Vd forgotten to »j That a stONv^ird to mo camo, I think tho hist day I was up thon*, and a.'^ktxi mo if I would object To {fitting ouo soat farthor Ivtok ; ho oould let Our jxnv to ad\ autagi\ and thought as 'twas rart For any of us, but uiN-self, to be there, Tliat wo did not cj^ro tho whole soat to retain, And that l\i very prolvibly not mind the ohanga. And c/i&ite that Oooupioii by my Antony doart^sts If we Both should at tlio inner end sit, there would be But a thin, low jMirtition l>etweeii us. This moim» I did not know what wiis decided ujK>n, So took my old place. The new ocouj>ajits, thouga, Were then\ This p.m. there \^-as service, also, To the mem'ry of one of our fallen heroes. rhej wen> thers, too, and thought it quit« stranfii, 1 ix»e, 8T0LBN WATERS. 185 To notice the change ; or, at least, she stared some When I took my now sent. Tlie number of one Of the first hymns, she failing to catch, at once looked At him, but his oycs were then bent on his book; W"itli a gesture just slightly impatient she then- Furued to me, so 1 passed her my hymn-book, and when 8h« returned it, of course bowed and smiled pleasantly ; We were both in the; corner, and so could but be Veiy near to each other. How little she knew Of the ties indissoluble binding us two I That ehs was the one only barrier between Him and me, in more senses than one, too, I ween ! For as sJie sat between us at service to-day, So in all things she parts us, both now and alway. tTcmuaury 27^A, 1865. FRIDAY. Last week an appointment for Thursday I mada And again were frustrated my plans, so well laicL One of the L.'s patrons is recently dead, And I in the paper on Wednesday eve read That the L. would be closed on the following day, [ was mu(5h disappointed and vexed, I must say. But I not being able to help it, was forced To make the best of it ; supposing, of course, That he would have seen the same notice, also, That morning at latest, and so would not go. But lest he should no^ have, I wrote him agai% 18ff j^ousir WATBsa. Saying why I that day should not come in, and thes Making one more appointment for Tuesday p.m. Vhere seems on our meeting to be a spell set ! But all obstacles only make stronger yet kly will and desire him to see. It has been, Oh, such a long time since IVe spoken with him. Since my hand with fond pressure has been clasped in klB ! Almost a whole, long, weary year. Yet he is My love, and my dearest ! and what wonder, then, I desire with insatiable longing again To stand face to face, hand to hand, with the man Who to me is so much ; and that also I am Quite ready to sacrifice any amount Of pride to accomplish my wish ; and would count It all nothing, compared to an hour's chat with him? And thus far, in fact, our acquaintance has been A sacrifice constant of pride on my part. Pride is strong — strong enough ! but yet love in my heart Is more potent still ! and IVe found, it is true, That in a contest 'tween the sentiments two, Love always is conqueror ; that I'm a slave, And each effort to sunder the fetters, which chafe Me so sorely, but rivets my chains stronger yet, While I 'neath their clankings still hopelessly fret. When Tuesday arrived I in town went once more. And stopped on my way to the L. at the store. He was in ; I was certain he saw me, though I Did not speak with him. Oh \ but I bought, by the by, A paper, the first one I thought of, and found When carelessly k '>king its columns a-down, rhe first poem he sent me, " Yon Kissed Me! '* mm ia iK I 'went \o the L and I waited, while minute STOLEN WATER& 181 By minute flew on, and still he did not come. I at? last gave him up, and then started for home. Vexed, provoked was I ? No ; those words cannot expraii Half how angry I was. Far more so, I confess, Than heretofore ever I h^ve been with him. Feeling certain he knew very well I was in. And that, if he had not intended to go. Or could not, he might at the least have said so When I went in the store, why, how could I but feel Very angiy, indeed ? Neither did I conceal How incensed I then was, in the letter I sent. I was very cross witli him, and also meant He should know it. To-day, I received a reply. Though its contents were read with a quite tearless eye, In my heart was such sorrow as never before It has known ; for I felt sure that now was all o'er, And strangers we were to become evermore ! But I was not conscious how plainly was traced The grief and despair I then felt, in my face. Till a friend coming in had expressed much concern. Being sure 1 was ill. I could but have discerned From his note, that he was, indeed, only less vexed Than I was when I wrote. Neither was I perplexec^ After reading his letter, the reason to know, Nor could I then wonder at his feeling so. He never has sent me one cross word before ; And I — well ! I've written to him many more Cross letters than kind ones, I'm fearful ; but then, I get angry one minute, the next pleased again, While a person not easily vexed frequently Betains their displeasure some time. And so he IS5 STOLEN WAr£S& Haw^ once got pnoTt^ed, or in anger at me^ Will uo\r not forgi\-« me, I fear, readily. My *' note \ras insulting," he wrot^^, and 1 cx>uld But Aokuovrltnig^ its truth. He presumed that it w nld SkK be in aocoi\l:uict? with etiquette, should He ;i lady's vroixi doubt ; :vnd that therefore, as 1 ^iid I \}fw that he s;iw me, he had in reply N"Augh: to s;\y. And apviii. nents he Wpt ; The til's: time he found tlie l i the next Xo one there that he knexr ; and ^ last t^o Had K - > ' ' " ^> •...: :o do, I at first hanlly knew But then, conscious thai I Had wrongeil him, I coiild do no le^Ss. in reply. Than acknovrled^ my error, ;md thus make amends For my unjust^ int<»m^>erate langua^^ and sexid An a[K»logy too. stipulating that he His forgivenei&s should prove by his keeping with me The ap|vnntment which I should make nejtt ; so I And he will to-morrow, I think, hare mr nota. Fhbnmy 7ik, 1865. TTESDAT Nothing new or of import, since h^re 1 wi^ote Have not Iwn to service for two Sabbath* So him I have not seen, aid neither have I R^>eived any letter from him, in reply STOLEN WATERS. 189 1V> the one whic bi I sent more than one week agow If hs could pass that by unanswered, I know Not what he is made of. I sent this p.m. A very cool note, and appointing again A meeting for Thursday. And failure this time Will crush out all hope from this poor heart of mine \ B^orcfcd to yield to despair, 1 will never again Elxpect aught but misery, sorrow, and pain. ** He tosses me bitterness," truly I Must I With a stone be contented when bread is so nigh, Or with husks, just because the fruit's hanging so high f Februa/ry ^th, 1865. THURSDAY. Far more happy to-night than my words can portray, I have seated myself, the events of to-day To transcribe in my book ; but my heart is so ight, So jubilant, joyful, and so filled with bright. Sweet thoughts, hopes, emotions, I scarce can compose Myself to write calmly, this evening, of those Events and sweet feelings. Well, /need not say, f presume, my dear Journal, what rendered this day Such a glad one to me ! What has rolled far away The lowering clouds, shown the bright " silver lining,'* That " behind the dark cloud is the sun still shining." And that ever 'tis " darkest just previous to dawn.** What else covld have turned into roseate morr 190 STOLEN VATEBS. My l.eart's midnight, except that to-day I fe And that he is still, that he ever has been, My dearest dear friend ! This P.M. I went in, And at the Library I waited for him (Jntil three o'clock, when — he c&me ! What a bound Of delight my lieart gave, as my darling came down The long room, to where J was then sitting ! How bright Was the smile on his lips, and how sweet the soft light In his eye, and how pleasant his musical tones. As he murmured his greetiag, and pressed in his own, With warm fondness, the hand which I gave! Then hi drew A chair close to miae, and sat down. And I knew, Without farther words, that my love was " still true." What a nice chat we had ! and all, too, was explained To my satisfaction, 'till no thought remained In my heai-t but of kindness for him ; and it seems All the trouble was caused by his " prudence " extreme^ He likes ;;i5 just as well now as ever before. And I — well ! I own that I like him far more Than words can express ! Oh ! the reason that I To my penitent letter have had no reply, Was that he was away, so it was not received Untn his return — I think yesterday gve — When he found it awaiting him, also my laat, Appointing to-day's interview. So we passed An hour or two there in the most pleasant chat; A nd, as we were coming away, he said that if Td not get cross any more, he would be A good boy in the future. He a^so asked ma^ STOLEN WA1ER8. 191 Once or fc^vice, when I thought I'd be in town again* And said, too, that if I would let him know when He'd try and come up. I of course was too glad I'o promise. We walked to my car, where he bade 4ie good by, and then left me. How sweet 'tis^ onoe aiore To feel we are friends I all unpleasantness o'er, AJl difference reconciled ! What wonder, then, [n my heart smiles and sunshine are nestling again f February \2th^ 1865. SUNDAY. I have nothing to write of since Thursday, except Our sweet reconcilement, and perfect, has kept My heart constantly buoyant and glad. Was to-day Up at church, though it snowed when I started away, And was bitterly cold. He was not there this mom, And I thought possibly on account of the storm Might not be this afternoon either. Of late We've service had in the p.m., I must state, [nstead of the evening, as usual. I'd not Have gone up to church this cold day, but I thought I would much itke to know if my friend would appear Any different now than before. Well I my fears In regard to his absence were all put to flight When I Mw him come in. We were both of oa c uite l^iJ STOLKS WATSJtS. Alone iu ■-"^r tv-wc <> l- = ^. '-nhing to do But kV:. • .^ uuprov«»d, tOAl Toaa>.r He Seiit ff-i:-:-, :_:_, _,./., . ux\ to UM» ; Kejn .v-s.-utly turne.i :. , 'Lu his f»c>e rh^ SA-in ". - ' " ■\e iATS Lv^ug i;v.. .■.u<«," i A ud 1 ftmov :' us plVO ;\1 To t^ ; ' uot. An.i , . . .:ht for me, Mv :v.; : il.-.v .'..■\ I loT« Ll.^NV ,>^^--:o-;'v * ' ' > Ix^'c'.n I iBdeH -unigh know As I h.iN .. o' l^ .... ...._. I hou^tit— jus; Wo t^v-day sfti in ^ Uo iuid I 'W«»t».\:: lu X©w York, flv Kcniu>'a\\vr it then. I wroto A ■:' IVlV rhv To i... Whc»U NV. 1 of —when ■'■"■ -,'; ^ l>eoime n«w.* 'O, ■.;ue .-.r, in finft, :;ome I did uot, I own. . lusd. t! ^ his ^>ew ^^- didiw4 •.ght ■..n caKne A-iA for it. , 1 admit. , ^ .'.: il' he saw ft| JSlVLUjy WATKRS. 198 llo could join mo. lUit Mr. S., whoa ho vaiuo out, Took his ana very coolly, walkoii with liiui uhout IVo blocks, juul then loft him. The rest of the way i Lati him mysolf ; and altJiough, I dju'o say, It waji Vii^hly " impnulont" — our walking (ogotJier — T!waa uouo tho loss ploa^saut. It stormed, :uid the weathet Wiw feaifullj cold, yet I gave it no thought ; His |)re86uoe with life, warmtli, and smisliino waa fi-aught» Mbruarf/ 23rf, 1865. THURSDAY. Nearly two ploiisjuit weeks have now glided away Since my last reconl here. I had mtuie for to-day An apjHnntmont. ^Twas cloudy, ami so, hardly kueii About going in, what 'twas bt^st 1 should do. At length I decided 1 would ; and was glad Aftart of the store. He sprai.g up to spe^ik to me, kee})uig me there Fir mon> than an hour. It was ijuito priN^ito where We were st^juuliug, and not many people were in. But rd not the slightest idea 1\1 been 104 SIVLEX WATERS lliere so long , *nd whs quite surprised, too, I Must my That he wished- -as w^ evident — ^that I shonld stay. And wonder he thought it quite ** prudent/' Aw»t Time rapidly hastenevl, and forced me to leave. To a masquenuie ball, thev were going this eve. He and Mrs. , his wife, I tried to induce U\m to tell me where now wei^ my letters. No use I found it to coax or to tease ; he refused To inform me, or rather he told me, 'tis true, So m:mv improbable storie^ I knew Not which to Wlieve, I asked him if heM oome Out to see me some time ; but he thought he'd not mm Any risk ; I inquireii, if for no other one He had riske<.l any moiv, S;ud, decidedly, " Nol " Very flattering, truly ! Perhaps it is so. " With ease we believe what we aixiently wish To lie true I " He, however, did promise me this : That if the next summer our j>eople should be Awiiy, about three huudivd miles, lea>-ing me All alone, he would try and come over. He would Go up to the L. the next time, if he could Get away from the store. Would l\ave gone up to-day. Very likely, if I had not called on the way. Many thoughts :md swe^^t oue^ of my dearest to-night I God bleas and preserve him 'till momin|;'s fair U^tl STOLEN WATERS. 19S May 31«<, 1865. WKDNESDAY. The last day of May 1 Aiid I find it has bee a rhree montlis, .md more even, since I have withim These pages a single word traced. Also find, Glaiiclug backward a little, this journal of mine Has of late more a simple heart-record become, Than aught else beside. The truth is, to no one Can I speak of the pain which at times I have f^und Unl>earable quite. And the festering wound Forced to ever conceal, it to me gives relief Sometimes to give utterance here to my grief. And therefore I wiite of it. Common events Have, of lat«, been to me of so little moment, I have come to ignore them all here, though each week And ^ach day brings its own, either bitter or sweet. And as to my love, we have met now and then, Sometimes at the store, at the L., or again A few times at church, ouvje or twice in the street. He has been just as charming whene'er we did meet, But IVe made some appointments that he did not keep And sent him some letters, to which a reply I have failed to receive. I wrote him, by the by, About three weeks ago, a short note, to which I, Requesting an answer, directed it sent •« To remain at the offirje 'till called for." I wen* IW STOLEN WATSSSi In to .vn tc the L. — though it stormed — on tie d^y [ looked for it ; \rheii coming down, on Bnxidway, [ saw ou tlio .- :^'- ^^': :^^' - stiwt, 1 fiu-^ auJ a f- ^ iiuvt >r jvjiss without nc Peivt"v ^ ■-' 'f^— . ,,..u ,,v ^..■^txi ;o Fark Rot Ajtui •>' towHTvi home, Elnthvlv .IS his •• A- ' ,^wn " Elad so ii:.-.-. '/im. 1 • ■< e Ivou vrlad ^'ith him jus: ^d, A.S ii m^itter of ^\^uv^o ; b;;: i t.li0Ui;:i: L would re i^uito eontouuHi if I should tiiid wiring for me, A.t the otiiv.v, a letter from him, a;? I ho^vxi. A.ud IdU ' -' "^ , ! I op^ Ajid it^ ^ r rused. Aud time in mv spirits intustxi N'ow ..\. T'^ " ^. iov. By tV.t^ ^v■.y, we, I dnd, B^nh c-i'^^ ' m ohuTvii i: : v.^ same time, .Vud each quite ui. This ere, I !isjj;iu w vi I BelieTe N < -iS dlNTipp 1 ,; o ^. . ..:iu up. 1 ,-— ... .:..:--:-^ ^uch Aggnnutiou aud tortun? much long^^r. I am Of.vmfortar.' ' ^ i how can Any one Iv s. - > I He is rm>fr tl. ^^i^» is more than unkind. And yet, I su > Iv, DcK^ not kuo^^ > me. Maiiy times Tve re^^lveil I wotild never apiin Either write him or '- - -"tment ; and thea 9T0f£X WATERS. 197 Irresistible longings for tidings of him, Or desires for one glimpse of his deAr face, have beeA Triiimphtmt, mv good resolutions disj>elled, And while pride remonstrated, tvnd I have ielt To the utmost my folly, have ^^Titten agimi. Why my fate muM it been to have loved thiid in vain ? But I will not complivin ; right and best, I doubt not. It is, and ivbellion is quelled by the thought That underneath all there's a long-broken vow. Would I could forgot him ! nor ever allow Him a place in my heart any moi^. I intend At the sea-shore to pass a few weeks with some friends, And expect to pu soon. So, my Journal friend dear, Until my return, I shall write no more here. J\tli/ 20th, 1S65. THURSDAY. At home once apiin ! And howpleasiuit it seems! " There is no place like home ; " and although all my dreamt Of pleasure were fully, I think, realized. And the time gayly passed by in siuls, walks, and drive*, Yet sometimes my heart turned with longing, I own, To the quiet and peace of my dearly-loved home. While absent, some lettei-s I had from a friend. One with whom, 1 believe, I have pi*evious to tl'en Had no correspondence. Permission to write He requested, and /thought perhaps that it migKi Be to me pleasant, also, so gave my consent ; Stipulating, howeT-er, in its commencement. 198 STOLEN WATERS, No love-]C»assage there should be in it. He tl ought Of the " Jieart disease " I'd a slight touch, but 'twould noi A lasting blight prove. Would that he might be right \ He wrote me nice letters, and though I was qi,ite Glad to have them, yet I, caring nothing for him, His letters in consequence, when they had been On<;e perused and replied to, could not be to me Of much farther value. From home frequently, Of course, heard while absent ; from Colonel A H ai r Found, when I arrived, one awaiting me there. I also had five or six others from him ; Some from Annie, my friend, who a long time has been My dear correspondent ; and from my love — st have my love ! And my heart, tempest-tossail And despaii'ing, is utterly desperate now. And I will be something to him, I avow 1 For him I have sacrificed my peace of mind, Independence, my pride, happiness, and, in fine, Everything but my honor — am tempted to say That if I can have him in no other way. Even that shall go also. To him, all the de^'pest, And freshest, and fondest, the purest, and sweetest Emotions and thoughts of a heai-t only hs Has power to thrill — all the wealth of a free And impassioned fiist love — and one, too, felt to be The one love of my life — has been long consecrated, And he cares for it nothing ! I am aggravated Endurance beyond ; past resistance am tempted ; Eidiaust^d with being fix)m pain ne'er exempted ; ^^^ 820LEN WATEm. And weury, and heart-sick of struggles to gain The mastery over this hopeless, and vain, This humiliating, tormenting, and quite Uncontrollable love. Indignation, grief, pride. On my part — indifference, coldness, neglect, On his own, do not have e'en the slightest effect, Except more completely to make me the slave Of this fierce, overpowering passion. Things gra^e. And not pleasant, are these to acknowledge, I knoir Nor anywhere else but here could I do so. But all confidences are sacred with you. My Journal, my friend ever silent and true! Feeling thus, I have written a letter to him, And written like this : «MyDear<,/bA»;' "Openiiig My casket of letters, the first thing that met My eye was one written by you, and not yet Acknowledged. My time being quite occupied While I was away, and I having, besides. Many letters to write, I did not answer youra — As it would not matter to you, I felt sure. But since having seen it this morning, of you I've been thinking much ; our relations unto Each other reviewed, and have now come to write To you the result. " In the first place, Tm quite Resolved upon this : that the state of things now Existing between us I wiU not allow To longer continue. Fou very well know It has been to me most aggravating, also Cnpleasant, at, times — our acquaintance — althougjk iSTOLEN WATERS. ^01 i presume that it often has been my own fauli. More than yours ; but some things have excessively galled My sensitive feelings, when probably you Were unconscious of giving oflfence. It is true, I have written you letters, and more than a few, Such as no gentleman to me ever would sent More than once ; and your very forbearance — well meant As I doubt not it was — has sometimes made me more Aimoyed with you still. You have exercised o'er Me a strange fascination ; and, bent to your will My high spirit has been, and pride also, until I feel I can't longer endure it. I may Have told you, perhaps, the same thing ere to-day ; But then it was written on impulse, and now I am deeply in earnest ; and you will allow That if you have found me * all things at all times,' I at least have been always sincere ! " Now, in fine, I am ready to meet you upon your own terms, Or to meet you no more ! just as you shall discern Will be best. You know very well why you came To see me the first time ; with motives the same If you now desire calling upon Hic again, I shall be glad to see you. You told me that when Mamma was * three hundred miles distant,' you then Would come over ; and now is the time to fulfil The promise you made — and I'm sure that you will. If you have the slightest regard for me still. Should you come out here once, and you then do not chooM To do so again, I will ask you to lose No more time for me. But I think you will not Regret it, if you should decide to come out. 9 2f52 STOLEN WATEBB. And 1 think that indeed it is m'^h m^re for y And of Gertrude, who went to the door, directing A gentleman up the street farther ; and thought At the time, what a soft voice he had ; but did not Once dream of its being my friend ; and am glad *£hai,t 7did not go to the door; If I had 1^4 STOLEN WATIRRla. S\>mo suspouso, tliough, *t>vould savtnl \m!», of course. Bui Oortnulo Did not iwoi^iii-o him at ull, I conclude, I wondortxi if A<» heani me sc^Idlug ; 1 know I >\*n:s foarfully nt>rvons tmil orv>ss ; th.>ught also, Ho porhiipjs luiijht hivve Stvn nio : I snt just in&id© Tho lvrtC.k-l>iVi-lor. Nviih l\>th t\>lduii;-d>.Hn-s o^vu \ride. l>ut ho Sii.iJ ho did not. That nv-us T^iosdav ! tho d^r IVfoiv uiothor Aud (.Ttu-nnuio woro L;oiiii4 iiwivy. And this Ht'toruoou ho was hovx^ I iuid is still ^ly K>vo ! iuid my durliui; 1 I t'ooJ tliat \mtil his iliiy I've iudotnl uovor kuowu hiui. T find I'vo ot'rou misJudgtHl him ; for ho. 1 kind. Of tho i\vkU>i>s.uosj> in my U;st lotu : \^ :>sc\l. No iulvanUge did take ; but, instead, I ovniu ss, IV'HttHi mo with tho ntmost rt>iS}H>ot, Frioudship truA^ Kog^uxl iltvp ttud Nvurm, and nuioh tondoruoss, tiX>, Was betraytni in oaoh notion tuid woul ; aud yot, he Not ovon ttt pai-tiug so much as kissod mo! Oonolnsivoly pivvt\l how unjust I had K\m, l\v an imptvjHU- motive ascribing to him, In his tiT-^t vis-its to mo. I uovor aj7» read lliu\ at all ; and his heart is a st^aUxl Kx>k indeed I To think ovil of him, I am too much it\olint\i. St> in this oasc\ at loast, I'm suiv, lo>o is not bliml I aui ,< ^ tlnd that my darlv ae ! And t\\ . . . .• lu f>iirful ^vril K\ ... .... And thank iiod I am s^ifo. For had A<< prv>vt\l to b« lx>{is hononiibie nobu>- ' d uu''^ — I know not I might h;iN i to '\>«ijai^^ And ixataral virtuo I ^1 j s.^xist. But Vm tlumkful, at lo;usi, thai I tluni wjitt lu t tritnl, And tliftt I Imvo .it loni;th all his gooJr.oss lU^.'l•itH.L 1 4touad And st^Hxi still, a:> I ojitoivd the luniso and siit down, A-i\d oiuloavouHl my tiubulout jnilses to calm, Whilo I wa.itod his ooming, and know that tho man Whom I lovo *' with a lovo pas&ing knowlodgt^," woilw soon — His doar solf — Ih> Iv^do mo in thin vory room. Ho has movod np to llarlom ; noxt door, 1 lH>licve, To his tathor. Ho wont alnnit six. All tho ovo My hoiul has aehotl foiU-fuUy ; so, without light.s, I'vo Slit in tho window and droamod. And tho night is j>orftvt.ly lovoly ! One moi\) hap})y day ! Yet a happiness, douhi/ul, somewhat, I must say. He Riud ho would come out agidn the i e^vt week. God bless him tt.v night, and tVoui ail diingei keep! August bth, 1865. SATURDAY. Ofcn it lx> thai but yesterday he was with me T That my hand w:is one* more oIiwsjkhI in his, and that he Then re6t<\l his dear ht^ad awhile on uiy kut^ V sot) ibTOTjEiV WATfCHS. For Iio, woiKl-woHiv mail lio, my iiuK)loiit boy, Must iuhhIs luivo H K)uni;o, aiul my hip must omploj As rt pillow. Am bliio to-ilay ! thoughts of '* what might Huvo boon," orowil so olv>«o «^n my hourt^ that iu spito Of luysolf I am siid. I oxpoottnl, toHiay, A liOto from my lato oonvspoiuloiit. Must stiy, Tiiough lumo was loooivod, I omvd not; for, as long As ho is '' my own,'" what bosido oaii I wiuit? My doar oiio I yt»t noC iiiiuo, aiul never Oivn Ih\ l>iit I must not tlwiUl upon this; it ma.ki\s mo Too tmtiix^ly uiilinp[>y. Ah, truly ! '* The grief Of atreotii>ii bot inyod is but taiuo aiul brief Beside a t'orbiiKleu love's utter desjuurl" (^tnl pity aiul love me is my earnest pi-ayor. Auffti^C Othy 1805. SUNOAY. Olio uioiv break iug out of tiio oKl wi>uudl Tivniajr I have Ihhvu far morx> nus^'ablo t.ha.11 I eaii say, llavi* not bi>en out at all ; ami I hanlly have loft My ivom siiiee (lie imnii, and for horn's i have wept. \Vi\>t<< to luotlun-, but only a uote. (7t writA Why onuuot I eoiupier this passion, whose might And intensity elioki^s me, and tills my poi>r heart Witli sadness so often * IiuUhhI! wo tniMt part! 1 must give him up; he eaii iu>ver Ih> miiM^! 1 am very unhappy if he is uuki^ud, tnVlJiJN WA'JEIiS, «0> And if proofs of iitfectiou he gives me, then \houghis Of — not what T have lost, but of what I cani.ot Ever gain, and that ho is not only not mine, But another's instead, rushes on me at times, With such force iis completely to overwhelm me, 4nd my self-control, hardly-won, break down utterly ! September I2th, 1865. TUESDAY. Xis more than a month been since I've written here, d "ud ^thin that short time — oh, what ages of fear, Hope, pain, and suspense IVe endured and lived through. I thou^'ht I'd before been most wretched, 'tis true ! But uoi hing that could in the least be compared To this, '^ave I ever experienced. There Has day t*fter day been, when all I have felt Was a longing desire for " escape from myself, And oblivion of time." When from this to that place, With a quit ) tearless eye, but a white, anguished face. Have I waiivCered ; now pausing awhile in my room, Drawing doww the blind close, and with darkness and gloou Replacuig the i uiilight tliat mocked my despair — On my bed for wwhile, lying silently there. Then ciouched on the floor with my heait in a chftir Down stall's in tho parlors, a book in my hand, But the purport oi which I could not understand ; And then perhaps ^>lkiying a haJf-dozen chords. Which had much lesa >>f harmony than of disoord, 208 STOLEN WATEBB Or leaning far back in a rocker, in vain Endeavoring tlius with the turbulent pain In my heart to keep pace — Oh ! my God alone knows TIow brimful of agony to me were those Few weeks, at length ended forever. It seems, Looking back on it now, like a long, fearful dream ; For a calm has succeeded the storm, or, at least. The exhaustion that comes with severe pain's release. Two weeks I looked for him almost every day, And vainly. A letter he wrote then, to say He had met with an accident, somewhat severe. On the cars, which some days had confined him, and feared 'Twould be several more before he should be out Permanently ; was going right home ; when about. He should try and come over. My hopes this renewed, And confidence too. One more week ensued, And then I began to expect him again. One day I in town went, with Bella, my friend, And so at the store called, in order that he Might know I was not home in case he should be Intending that day to go over to B. But he was not in. The clerk said had been out For more than an hour, and 'twas doubtfiU about His again coming in. I supposed, of course, then. He had gone to see me. Was in torture again, Until I reached home, and found out he had not. The next day was in town again ; therefore, I thoufhl To end my suspense I'd make one more attempt. Or at least ascertain if he really meant To come out or not ; so I called ; he was in, But 80 busy I had but a few words with him. STOLEN WATERS. 309 He said he iutendecl to come out that daj. But had so much to do he could not get away. Had had some reverses in business, and then Was not his own master. I had that a.m. A letter from mother received, saying she Should be home the next Thursday. I told him, and he Said that he would come over that day, if he could ; Could not say with positiveness that he should ; But would unless business prevented. But I Then gave up his coming ; and Thursday passed by And I did not see him. The next morning brought From mother a letter, and stating she thought She should visit Boston before she came home ; Consequently, should some two weeks longer be gone And one from him also, and saying that he Intended that day to get over to B., But found it impossible ; as he was quite With visitors over-run, and had beside His hands full of business, and knew not at times Hardly what he was doing. And then wrote, in fine, " Dcn't feel cross with me, though, I have got a head wind But hope for fair weather again, by and by 1 " TMs rather brought me to my senses ; and ^ Felt ashamed that I had been so cross with him then^ Thus adding unto his annoyances, when He already was quite over-burdened, although I, of course, did not know he was troubled. And so I fidly resolved that another cross word I would nevermore send him, whatever occurred When I oould not write pWsantly, I would not 210 STOLEN WATERS. My mother and Gertie arrived home to STOLEy WATERS. 211 [ could then separation or sibncw onduro — Anything^ if I could of his lovo but bo sure ! Thus the New Year again brings me happinesa pum. Jcmnia/ry 18^A, 1866. THURSDAY. Is it possible that in my journal this v\'^ I write for tho last timo in Brooklyn ? Auil !««▼• To-morrow tho plac(5 f;ndoared to ino y)y so Many sweet recollections ? And although I kncrw That it is the tnith, I cannot bring my mind To realize it as a fact. For some time I've written so soldo rn and briefly, I find I neglected to state that some Um months ago My brother to Boston removed, and also That father has been ther(5 some months, and intwidi To have us all go in the spring. Of course, then, I shall not return. And my last inornents here Are shadowed hy a disapj:)omtmeut severe. I made an appointment not quite two weeks since, And which he failed to ke(;p. But yet, being crnTinoeil That ho was not in fault, I did not feel cross, Although disappointed, as lie doubtless was. I am going away sooner than T have Vxicii IntendiDg to do ; consequently, wrote him To that effect ; also ap]:>ointing again For Tuesday an interview ; but it rained then^ 216 STOLEN WATBSa. And jTdid not go. Yesterday I went in And stopped at the store. On inquiring for liiniy To my consternation as well as surprise, That he was at home, sick in bed, was apprised. Thus again were my dearest hopes blighted ; and I To Brooklyn and home forced to murmur good-by, With no farewell word from my love, whom I've not For fire weary months once beheld. Oh ! the thought Almost breaks my heart I It is cruel, I'm sure, And bitterly, bitterly hard to endure. To my brother a letter I'd written that day, Intending to mail it that evening, to say I should be there to-morrow. I stood a long time At the office, with it in my hand, half inclined Not to send it at all, but to write them, instead, That I should not come on. Looking forward with drefti To an absence from home while my darling was ill, With no hopes of tidings of him, as, until I should know he was well, I would not dare to write ; And he knew not where to address. Well I might Hesitate ! But the true reason I could not state. And I had no other excuse. 'Twas too late, I decided at length, to turn back ; so I sent My letter, and then, with an aching heart, went Up town, and the night with my friend Annie spenlt She had risitors, and the whole eve was to me On) long torture ! And now, a sad farewell to Bl STOLEN WATERS, 211 Ma/rch 31»<, 1866. SATURDAY, The first month of spring ! and my record agaixi Is in Brooklyn!, and home I I imagined that when I once more was here I should quite happy be; But there is so much of him to remind me, That it keeps me sad constantly. Then I have not Been well, either, since my return, and no doubt That my spirits helped some to depress. Father thought When I left, it was doubtful extremely about Our moving to Boston this spring. Gertie, too, Was quite ill, and they were " so lonely," I knew That I ought to go home, and was glad so to do. Although every efifort to render my stay In B. pleasant was made ; and indeed, I must say Was unhappy much less than I feared I should be ; A.nd Fannie, my sister, returned home with me. Of course, of or from my friend naught I had heard And was anxious, exceedingly, too, for some word. So when I was home a few days, I went in, Ajid called at his place for some tidings of him- Found he had been ill all the time I was gone ; But was better then, and would be out before long About a week later was in town once more, 4nd having occasion to call at the store, To purchase a book, casually inquired If he was within, with no thought the desdre 10 818 STOLEIi WATERS, Of my heart would be granted fulfilment. Was glad To learn that he'd been down that day, though he had, The clerk said, just gone out. Some days after, we In New York, on Broadway ; b'lt, to my great regret, He had with him a gentleman — Fan was with me — So content with mere greeting was I forced to be. Nothing but aggravation was that, when not once Had I seen my darling in seven long months. Then I wrote ; but receiving no word in reply, Went in to see him. He was cordial ; but I Was quite cool at first, 'till I found he had not Been able for months to read, write, or do aii^ght Of the kind. His physician forbade it, and feared That another attack, if as long and severe As the last, would entirely deprive him of sigh< My dearest ! May God, in His infinite might, And love, such affl^.tion avert. I suppose He suffers intensely when prostrate with those Prolonged and repeated attacks ; and he says He's often delirious, unconscious for days ; And when sane, he can neither endure Kght nor wms kA And days of convalescence roll tardily 'round. lis a nervous affection, and is the same thing That connned him so long in the wearisome spring Of two years ago ; but his health otherwise Is robust ; and unmarred are his beautiful eyes, Though his sight is impaired. He said he wrote dm r.(»st week, just as well as he could, although he Was fearful that I could not read it, and though k [t was doibtfiil if he could himself. He forgol STOLEN WATERS. 219 My address, and so it to the post-office sent ; And I called tliere to get it as homeward I went Twas written in pencil, and all sorts of ways, And formed, to the usual neatness and grace, With which he is wont his nice letters to trace, Quite a contrast indeed. He told me that one Of my letters was sent to the house ; it had come To the store, at the time he was absent — at home. Mrs. thought that it " looked like a lady's fine hand.* *Twas quite likely a bill, he made her understand. He does- not come in town until late, he told me, And leaves the store early. How nice it must be To have hin« at home so much ! though perhaps she Does not care about it as I should. But this I musjb not dwell upon, a topic that is Forbidden to me. I was quite calm that day In my interview with him, and have been, I must i«y> Ever since. Can it be I am loving him less ? Oh, would it were so ! dare not think it, tho', lest I'm again overwhelmed before I am aware With its might and intenseness, its bitter despair. AprU 27JSC STOLRN ^ATSBSi Htf twiiil if 1 Oiui.t" i:\ hoM liko me to i"*!! At tht> stoiv on my way. Hut I do not at all Liko to go tlu>rt', ami told him so also, but h« Insisting upon it^ I could but agrtw Tht< iLiy [nx>vious to that wo appointod, a note Frtuu him I nwivod, and in whioh ho Mum wrote Ho might bo away tho no\t day, but it' not Ho would at tho stoiv Ih>, alxnit thiw^ o'clock. Htvsitating awhilo about gvung, at Uwit I dtvidt\l 1 would ; it was just qunrtor j^ast Whon I ontoiovl his plaoo ; on inqxiiring for him Was iutornuHl ho had stopjunl out, but soon would be i% Supposing of coMxso that such word ho had loft>, 1 waittnl and waitovi, until, quito Ivivft (^f [Vitiouoo, I papor itupiivxHl tor, and wivto With hasto a fow linos, of ivni^t^ U.iMUi; tho notk tho mattor: iliil not, a.s in days now g\.>ne by, Ftvl at all oivss with him, noithor waf< I so mudi Pisiippoii\tod tis ofton 1 am undor suoh (."'iri'mnstauivs, 1 ftvl i|uito onoouragtHl ! Ht^fow* 1 hav-^^ thought 1 was not quito so nuioh as of yore In Oiiptivity to him. tint om^ intorviow, Or a K>tt(M- from him, has dis]>olU>d, it is t.ruc^ All my faiu'ioil inditVoivmv ; but it has stood Now both tosts. 1 WHS vo\od with mysolt, that I ahooM llavo waitod. I in^vtn- bot'oio li.uo Jono so. Nor should I tlum, had I not nMson to know, *^r think, that ho soon would Iv in, A fow davi Tlu^>aftor, a !u>to I n \ hou ho savs Ho wt>nt in that day p.. ^ , . . ., .'.' .vv vk<. Waiting tliort^ at tho stoi:> 'till <^wclvo miuutos uast thr0% And then rpturn(Hl homo tipun, lus hcM Horte man At work ou his |>luot», ami his |>rost>uco with thcra Wa» vtx[mvx\\. Ho woiiUl soo mo this woi^k. In rrjMy, I wrote that I thought it \vu8 ilt>uhtt*iil if I WouUl Ih^ ttbh> to oomo in this wook ; if I ooiild, Tlia* l\\ lot hiiu know, but, that 1 oortainly aUould JV^o/! ctill at tlw sfoir. Ni\'ir tho closo I \vn>to, though, If A*? mjulo an appointuiout, I thought I might go, And to do as he likod. Vnii it's m>\v Friday ove. And ho lijii^ not; indood, tlu>iigli, I hanlly WHovod Tliat he would. Hut I thiuk tho timo will coiuo when h»» Will mjiko jui appointtutMit, juid anx^ious, too, be That I fthould fultil it. Ami Til >vait and see. April 2Sth, 1866. BATURDAY. I dreamtHl all tho uight of my friend, and io-daj Tlie cjirrior brought me a letter, to say He would bo at tho L. abo\it tivo thi*' i.«n. Bo he's niado an appoiutuiont ! That's sometliing thai 1 vrrote here hist night that ho shouhf do sometime 1 dn^unuHl not wouUl happou so so(.>n. To my mind That was proof ho wai? wishing to »cc mo, a:^ he Must have sinni by my note \was a matter to mo Of iiiditforonoo. So I proc^cdod to make If J toilet with htisto, fearing I should bo Uta 222 UTOLEU WATEK'^. But I reached th3 L. first. He came soon, and w© A happy hour there; then we parted, and went Each our separate way — ^he desiring to see Me again very soon, and I happy that he Should have and express such a wish. He told me He sang at the " old chu/rch " last Sabbath, and should To-morrow as well ; 1 shall go up. It would Seem indeed like old times to see him in the choir. I go at his wish, and my own strong desire I I asked if he sat in the *' corner " ; said, " yes. And it was nice to be there ! " Did thoughts of B. Si. And the sweet olden time make it nicer ? I guess That did not from the charm very largely detract. We did have, as usual, a most pleasant chat I I allowed him to hold my hand — gloved — in his own For quite a long time. Ah, my heart I where has flows Thy boasted indifierent coolness? The last Test was fatal, I fear. Since we parted, I've passed Some moments most wi-etched ; but, weary to-night| I may feel quite different in morning's clear light. May Uty 1866. TITESDAT. Have been very unhappy for some few days past, kwi not quite well either. On Sabbath mom lait^ STOLEN WAT ERR. 293 I went up to cliurch. I was eai*ly, but he Wiii* thoro boforo 1 was, aiul givcui to mo Weio liiu iirst glauco and sinilo, whon ho camo tul to llBgj But thoro by his sido waa a woman IVo seen But too often already, and that I would fain As long an I livo bt^hold luHor again — Mrs. D., tlio sopnmo, I always disliked. We had ai)okon of hor on tho provious night, Whon wo mot at tho L., and he said ho had not Even soon hor sinoo she loft tho choir. If IM tlioughi That sI»o would have boon thoro, Td not gone o\w step. Bhe was, though, and he must noods sit back, instead Of his place in tho '* corner. " It nuide mt^, indeed, Most provoked and unliappy ; though he \n\u\ no heed To her, and did not stoj) to speak. But my eyes Witli bitter totu-s Ulled many times; so surj)rised An lie took To speak as he paasoil me. J low luuulsome ho looked I Fai'ther down, Mrs, D., sweeping by me, joined them As they tvuiied down Broadway, walking next him, thougk then Ho was on tho outsiilo. That, indeed, wtis the lai»*, Birter droj) in my full cup of wormwood. They )>tussed From my sight., anil I t^itereil a car, homeward bound, Bad and wretched indeed. But that day has torn down Every barrier «/ coldness, indillerence, that 1 had fancied wjis raised. Alas I 'twas, in fao^i Otdy fanc} , tuid I am as wholly his own TcMlay aa I ever wa« — his, liis alone t ' 8SM JSrOL.'CN WATKtiJS. This morniug, fioui Colonel Allair, 1 retofivvd Jii»t tho nioost t pistlo ho has, \ l>olie^*t», Ever writkMi to nio ; and had no slight effect In raising my spirits, juid helping to check The 8iulnos8 thou wi>io;hing uie ary lifo. In all rt^si>ect8 How unlike to tni/ oiJi^r tfohn is he, luul yet Jw%s l$iy 1866. FUIDAY. 1 went np to ohuroh a few iSablviths ago. My friend did not sing, nor did Mrs. D. So T]iert> w^js nani^ht io disturb my devotions. Rt>lie Hrf 1 felt, I must own ! Some vlays sin^v, I nwivetl A letter trom him, auil a niee one. lie writ<«, Tliut he onne on t'lvni Boston tlie pn^vions nights Had taken a oold n\ost seveiv, and was then Cioing home for a steaming. He told me tlmt when lie Siiw me up town at ehuivh wjus the last time That he s:vng ; he went ilown for his ear, :uid ou miiM Siiw me as we pai^i^evl <\iU'h tlie other ; but I NVjis not hn^kuvg that wuy. And did lux, by Vhe by, Burmij»^ how I felt, »ui 1 so told me to sot At rx^t all my ilv>ubts, and show v^ he wua yet My love and my ilarliug? While with Mrs. D., 1 iiuagiueii he w^iii, he wjis tliinkuig of me, And waicbiiig to boo mo jis I bhouM piusj* by. Ot 1 hoio maiiy tiiuos I'vo bot'ii i\)us(.'ioii8 tbiit I Uayo doiio bim iudeod " gross injusiicol " He irrotc Ho ahixibl soon tiud ociMision to soo ino, bo liopod, That wo iniglit liavo ii confab togotbor. 1 sent Him a noU^, U>lluig biiu (bat on Woihiosday nm meant To ho absent, and asking [(ho would oonio out. But sbo did not go, as it rained luird about A.11 tbo moniing, and noitlior did bo conio. Tbat day. However, be wrote nie a Utter to say Tbat lie wanted to see nie, and tbougbt tbat bo might Appoint Friday, about four p.m. ; but tbat iiigbt 1 bad an engjigemout, and to tbat eilect I wroti^ bini, of course ; but witb after regi-ot Tbat 1 bad not kept bis a})poLnt.nient. To-day 1 fulfdled my engagement ; tlio bours passed away Very pletisantly, tbougb I of coui'so at tbo tinu> Could but tbiiik tbat I migbt be(>n witb '* Antony minc^*' If I bad not boon tbere. He's done bravely, of late, Not only one, but two a})j>oin(nients to make. I wonder if tbere'a a day passes but be Sends many a tender tbougbt over to me ; And if musings of me are botb pli'asant and sweet, And give to bim bappiness lasting and deep. 1 never sliall know more tluui now, 1 suppose ; He is so reserved, be will ueveb disclose Them to me, or reveal me tbe depths v)f bis heart ; I only can judge by a passing renuirk, An occasional word. If unable to read, He mu»t of co\im<3 think some, oik] can he, indeed, S26 JSTOLEy WA1ER8. Help thinking of one much and often, who so Devotedly loves him? He fnust care, 1 know, A little for me and my letters y or he Would not cling to tliem so, and refuse utterly To give them up ever. I ^aid the last time That I s:\w him, that he\i bettor give me Iviok misfl^ Lest sometliing sliould hapi>en to him. He reiused To do ST, and tuud they were Siife. And no use To urge tlie thing farther. I saw it would be. He don't like to own how mt/oA he cares for me. " Oh cvHild my fond ideas ivality prove, And one blissful moment give me all liis love, I would for that moment my life fivt^y give, \jid when he ce^ised to love, 1 no longer would Ut*.' June 6th, 1866. WEDNESDAY. I hanily know when I so happy have l>een. And so fully ixwlbed it, as within The brief boui-s of this swift-flitting day. You must know My dear Journal, that some live or six wet>ks ago. My friend s^x^ke of a series of ** Crinhaju's wise men," Wluch is now being publishevi ; ajid told me that when His picture was out — which it would be then sonn)ght me a jvn>er, addresseii In the well-known handwriting of him L love Vwf(| 8T0i.Bi^ WATERS. 827 t 8upi)osed it was that ; neitlior was I, indetnl, Disappointed ; but, opoiiiiig it with all speed, E found an engraving so perfect, it seemed Almost as if he was before mo. Ma deemed It not at all like him ; but she liaa not seen Him in two years or over, juid doubtless forgot How he looked. And that lie too has changed, It cannot Be denied. I have marked it in him, and it is More evident still in his picture. There is On liis face an expression entirely unlike What it wore but three short years ago ; then Hwas bright Smiling, happy, and cai'eless ; but now there are linet, And he looks sjid and anxious. I caimot divine The cause — perhaps business cares, illness, a mind Or a heart that is troubled. Whatever it be, He's the dearest of all earthly objects to me. " I ne'er wake at morn, but his name ever bounds To my heart, the first hope of the day. Ne'er kneel dowa At evening, but it in my prayers, whether in Thought or speech, mmgles too. If in this I have sinnedi Grod forgive me I " for I have my punishment had. In the " Consciousness of degradation^ the sad Despair which a woman overwhelms, when she dares Unwooed, unrequited to love ! " Yet how fair And precious to me is my love ! All the day I have trembled with my intense happiness. Yea, My thoughts constantly turned to the fact that at last I have his tlear }>icture ; at each thought there |>asaed llirough my pulses a thrl'l of exquisite delight. Notwithst^iuding this, I'm feeling sjid, though, to-nigh% To think this poor semblance of him, of the dear, LiTing, loving original's all that I e'er 998 UTOLBN ^yATEm, Cui hajie for possession of 1 Naught but a bib Of flimsy, insensible paper. Tliose lips Can yield no response to my tender caress ; Those eyes cannot change from their sad eainestneMi Or give me e'en one glance of love. And with this I must be content ! Oh, my God ! but it is Bitter, hitter ^ this burden I ever must bear, Of a hopeless and wasted affection. Oh, there Ajre times when it seems it must kill me, this weight At my heart which I'm forced constant effort to make To keep back, and crush down, lest some cold, careless eyt Should sometime read the tale I so zealously try To conceal. I'm yet young ; must I go all through life With the curse of unsatisfied longings at strife In my heart, blighted hoi)es, and affection unsought, Unreturned ? O ! God knows that against it I've fought And struggled in vain ! My love, gliding along So smoothly, with naught to disturb the deep, strong Serenity of his grand nature, I'm sure Can't imagine what J^ daily have to endure. His picture is lying before me ! Each fine Well-cut feature's indelibly stamped on my mind, And impressed on my heart in most deep burning lines. The smooth brow, and the eyes, so sweet, tender, and kind, The full lips whose soft touch I can never forget ; E'en the poise of the head, the hair's careless and yet Smooth adjustment ; the cut of the beard and mostaohc So familiar — and all that makes up the fine cast Of form and Of feature — are painted down deep In my heart's fairest chamber, in colors soft, sweety STOLKJ^ WATERS. 5W9 And ot<»niaI. Yet ^t^is good to have even this PictunHl soiubUmce of him ; tuui I own, to me 'tis liultvd jvritvloss. Whilt^ lookiiii* at it, I can iioVr Forgot that thoso eyos hiivtt looktul lovo ; that tho»e leu Lij)S httve, with a touch that no others caii eVr Restnublc, mot uiiue iii Ion c's j)uit>, swcot caress ; 'Hiat my check has against that smooth lort>ht>ad bt>on pressed. And my ht^d pillowed ou that broad, true, tender brtxiiat But midnight approaches I My book I must close On the nH\>ril of this day, and seek my repi>se, With thanks t*.) tlie ilostiny which has, at Unigth, The fultihnent of ont> of my strong desires sent. Aug-ujft Ut^ 1866. WEDNESDAY. Two months, very nearly, since I've >\Titten here ! But though I've l^een silent, it's not, Journal dear, Been bei'ause T*ve had nothing worth writing. Inst^^ad, The past weeks have been ones of strong and varitni Kmotions. I've heard peopU> Siiy ihvy ct>idd not Keep a jovirnal, bwause they wouhl never, tJiey thought. Have aught worth tlie writing ; tlieir lives were »o iame And quite uneventf\d. I can't say the same I If I shouUl write all the events strongly marked Which occur in my life, in fact even a part, ^Twould till volumes. Tm conscious my journal is quits Incomplete ; is recording alone, of my life, 230 8I0ZSN WAFEBS. That part i^hich is inner and hidden — ^that But myself ever sees ; that it, too, has become An escape- valve for long-pent emotion alone. Were people to read it, to me quite unknown, I fear they would think me a person of one Idea — despondent and gloomy. But though I have lost the extravagant spirits, whose flow A.t times was so brilliant, but three years ago, Yet I often am cheerful, and lively, e'en now Though not very gay ever, I will allow. But I'm sure, did they know how completely I hid© The grief which sometimes bursts all barriers, they might Their opinion of me somewhat change. Zov«f whick ia To some but a sentiment, mere transient bliss, Tamely felt, tamely lost, or at pleasure transferred, To T/M is a life's one " grand passion " — oft heard And read of, but seldom, I think, known or seen. But though it pervades with its bitter-sweet sheen Every fibre and pulse of my heart, yet it there Abides, and is not in my face written, where It by each passer-by may be read ; and although Within all my thoughts it may be, it has no Part or place e'er in my conversation. Within The interim since my last writing, I've been So happy as from my love one or two notes To receive, and in one of the latest he wrote Mine had just come to hand ; he expected to get A ** grand scolding " from me, for his recent n^ecA In writing ; he knew he was negligent in All hia correspondence ; but that he had been STOLEN WATBBB, %^ Quite unwell, and away a great deal. At he end He writes that he hopes we shall meet soon, and thfln Have a long chat together. And Z hoped so, too I Then adds — " Don't feel hard toward me, if I do Not write you so often, or much as you like \ '* He need fear no " scolding " from me, I replied. I gave him my last more than one year ago, I VM8 surprised, somewhat, a month since, or so. At receiving a letter from one with whom I Once flirted a little, and who, by the by. At the time — about four years ago — sent to me Some notes that were — welll very wa/rm, certainly! I then liked him much ; but had not seen or heard From him, until then, since we parted, one word. The acquaintance was closed amicably at the time, By mutual consent. I was quite pleased to find I was not forgotten ; glad also to hear From him once again after so many years. The old correspondence he wished to renew ; To this I objected, acceding unto His desire the acquaintance might still continue. Between us a few letters passed, and he came To see me, of course. And he seemed just the same As in the old time. Indeed ! J could not see As he'd changed in the least ; but he told me that h© Never saw such a change as there had been in me. And my letters, as well — that, in fact, 'twas more ma^lsid In those than it was in myself. Not but what rhey were fine, and as finished as ever, he thought^ But seemed so much colder, more formsJ, «nd etfl ^*J 232 STOLEN WATSBA So %'ivacioiis aud gay. I asked did he think so. And he said, " 1 think nothing about it. I knauf ! * How sliocked I one evening felt at the receipt Of one of his notes. " My own dear Bitter-Sweet !* Was how it commenced ; and I cannot describe The feeling which passed o\>r me, as I descried Those words at the head of a letter from him. The note from my hand dropped, as if it had been A live coal of fire. When I saw him I asked How he came to write that ; and he stud in times pMt I signed one of mine thus (but that was before The first to my love), and he thought to once more Awake old emotions by using it now. I replied somewhat bitterly, I must allow, That it called up emotions entirely unlike What he\i anticipated. And he did not write Another addressed in that way. I had liked Him always, as I stiid before ; and awhile — Shall I own it ? — attempted myself to beguile With dreams of the possible chance of my heart Being " caught in rebound," and transferring a pari Of my wasted aflections to him. He came, too, Just at the right time ; when I was, it is true, With the old love disgusted and wei;*y, its place Supplying, indeed, better, for a brief space. Than I had deemed possible. But the dream soon Was dispelled ; for the old intimacy resumed Khowed ine, also, that I had changed ; how much ls# To my love was inferior, proving to me How impossible 'twas he should e'er satisfy Hie ontvings of he«rt, or of mind, or sopplj srOLSy WAVERS. 838 Hi© place bv my ilarliiig left vacan:, and brought Me Kick io * he old sweot allegianw. I thought That mere sUuiigt>rs 'twas best we should ho, as betbr«| Ajid took moiisures acconiingly. Yet, I was more Disiappoiuted thuii I can express, to again Find mv hopes for a new stute of things blighted. Thea VVith that came despondency, even moi*e deep Than usual. Yesteniay, wretched indeed Was I ; and I felt like exchuiing myself From society wholly, and bivaking, tiii well, All my tN.^ri-esjx>ndence — infutuit> vv-itMu Myself hve entirely ; tonlay to begin The new life. But I slept o'er it, jmd, as the mom In roseate splendor from darkness is bom, So to yestenlay^s night so profoimd, gloom so dt>ep, Succeeds to-day *s glorious sunshine. To ktvp This P.M. witli my love, an appointment^ went in. I was lat<\ altho' he was still later. I'd been Thert> some time, and was just about leaving, when b» At length came in. His partner was out, he told me, And he waited for him *till sbc nearly, and then Left, at once. We stayeil theiv for awhile, and then wen' For a walk. By the way, he to-day spoke again About seeing me in the car that day when 1 WAS coming fivm church, when he &\ng the last tip t ; And said his surprise was not mucJi less th:\n mine At Mi-s. D. singing that morning. He bade Me fai-ewell somewhat hastily, as his car had Alrtvuly pjisstnl hy ; Ixnuling low o'er my hand, With a gi'ice all his oNvn, tmd a tenderness grand 834 STOLEN WATBB& And simple as vrell, he pressed it in both Of his, with a lingering warmth, as if loath To release it, then said he'd soon see me again. And was gone. But there was such a difference wfaoi He was with me to-da}', in his manner, &om what There was ever before — an air which I cannot Describe, but that I perceived plainly. A &ee Familiar regard in his bearing to me, Elntirely unusual ; and never did I, His friendship appreciate more. He's seen my Worst qualities, surely, and yet is " still true," Notwithstanding, too, all I have done or can do. August nth, 1866. PBIDAY. I did not, I think, say, w^hen writing here last, There'd a much longer season than usual elapsed Since from Colonel Allair I'd a letter received. But though thinking it strange, his not writing, belie re There was a good reason, and that his delay Was compulsory. Two weeks ago yesterday, The wished-for epistle arrived. I was much Pleased, indeed, upon opening it, to find such A long letter, and thought that its kindly contents Its late coming would amply compensate. Intent On this thought, I glanced first at the close, then ag»ia To the head, and, all being «i3 usual, I then BTOLBN WATERS. 2S5 Pre(>ared with mucli pleasure to read it ; but down The first page I had not far perused, ere I found There waa a great change. It was e\en more fond Than his letters in general, yet he goes on To say — while expressing unbounded regret That it should bo so, that he thinks 'twould be best To close our correspondence — the reason expressed Being his strong desire for a sweet retrospect. And his fetus, it continued, between us there might Come something to render the mem'ry less bright And pleasing than now. I might think this to be Inconsistent, perhaps, with what hitherto he Had written ; he'd then thought to leave it to fate, Rut now feared to do so ; he knew it would take From his life its sweet charm — would be piu'ting, in truth, With a piece of his heart. His pen almost refused To transcribe the words — much like that in effect. Hoped that some time it might be renewed upon yet More agreeable terms ; should he e'er visit me, He trusted a most welcome guest he should be. But if, before then, the time should be so long, His desire to hear from me sufficiently strong To his silence o'ercome, begged permission to write, Grtmting me, too, the same ; said he hoped that he migh^ Be allowed to retain still my letters, as they Were dear unto him ; I might do the same way With his, or aught else that I liked. I read on To the end of the fond, cruel letter, though long Before I had finished tears blinded my eyes ; And I'd reached my room, scarcely, ere sobs har4 and itrj 236 8TCLEN WATERS. In volumes broke forth ; neither could I contra! Myself in the leasi. 'Twas so sudden, the whole So quite unexpected ! T ne'er was so grieved In my life I So entirely I'd trusted, believed In his truth, never doubting him once. I felt there Was for me nothing but disappointment, despair I Loving with supreme ardor all those whom 1 caiit In the least for, I'm constantly wounded. Oh I would That I were less extreme ; that, like others, I oould Sometimes keep a medium course. I expect Never happiness lastiug ; in every respect My organization's too sensitive, quite. I feel everything too acutely — delight And sorrow as well. I am one of those who Desire, above all things, affection ; and, too, Manifested, not unexpressed love — to whom ihskt Is the only thing worth bearing life for, in fact, And yet are too proud e'er to make manifest Their desire for the love which they wish to possess; Too reticent any endeavor to make To win the affection they constantly crave, By showing to others the same. Bi>+- yet J Cannot endure always in silence ; and try As I may to keep down all emotion, I must Give way to grief sometimes. And having so mndi Disappointment of late, which I'd swallowed and kept Out of sight, this last hard, unexpected blow swept Aside every atom of my self-control. And in my despaii', and abandon, the whole I would have avowed — misplaced love, woimded pride. Blighted friendship, and all, howe'er humbling it might STOLEN WATEItS. 287 Be to me. But with my self-command once regsdiie«2» Grief exhausted, accustomed reserve again came, And I crushed it all down in my heart, buried deep From all human sight, and of sympathy's sweet Consolation deprived. But this kept me prostrate The whole day, and I did not go down until late ; And with eyes then so swollen I scarcely could see, Throbbing temples, and sad, aching heart. Up to me Ma and Fannie had both been, and anxious to know The cause of my grief, but I begged them to go Ajad leave me alone. And so, when I that eve Went down, I took with me the letter to leave With them if they wished. With true delicacy, Neither mentioned the subject. The colonel wished mc To write in reply, and I did so. To-day I an anBwer received, and it was, I must say, A fine letter indeed ; and he said he had thought Many times that our long correspondence could naught But a bore be to me. In its closing, the loss Would be wholly on his side, and so that it was On my ^account, merely, he wrote as he did. At last owning, what I had half suspected. The cause was my writing about the renewed Intercourse with my old friend (I spoke of to you, In my last record here, my dear J oumal). Of that I wrote him, as I anything else do, in fact, Which interests me, never di-eaming that it Would have such effect upon him, I admit. He begged me to answer, and said he should Again in the interim. So we, to-night, At« iust as good friends as before. 238 STOLEN WATERS. I'm perplexed To disooTer what fate has in store for me next. Octohm' My 1866. YTEDNESDAY. I have from my love received two or three note% In the interval which has occurred since I wrote. And one which he sent me I did not receive, Much to my regret. He addressed, I believe, To the office, and so it was lost. But how glad I was, when to-day I another one had. And such as he never has sent me before. My love and forbearance the last year or more Have not been in vain; and he loves me to-day, And trusts, and respects me much more, I dare say, Than if anger and sarcasm I'd not repressed. Conmienced as in general : " My dear B. S." And said that upon the receipt of my Ust He could not but blame himself that there had pasMll Such an interval since he had written to me ; But had been away most of the time. And so he Feels, it seems, his shortcomings, ;now I utter no Reproaches; but when I found fault with him so, He'd make no acknowledgments. I'm indeed glad. For vaj sake, as well as his, too, that I had Resolved to write no more cross letters, and my Resolution have kept. Farther on he writes — Can but say that it is real pleasure to read Vour letters : they're so entertaining, indeed^ STOLEN WATERS, 2W 80 loviikg, and seem to come right &om the heiurt.** How delighted I was at this earnest remark ! I have many times felt, that, instead of to him Giving pleasure, they must very often have been A source of annoyance ; and though they could b^— Such feelings — but bitterly humbling to me, I still sent them on, with faint hopes that I might In answer a few lines receive, did he write, Indeed, never so coldly and formal. But now I have my reward ; for my darling avows rhey do give him pleasure, and I've learned at lengdi That he never says what is not fully meant ; The confession, beside, half unwillingly seems To have come, and which double force gives it. I deem That our correspondence, at last, has become On a basis established more pleasant and firm Than it has been of late. In my last, I a kiss Sent to him and to " Bertie " (the baby, that is). Telling him to be sure and deliver it. So He writes me in answer : " The kiss, which yon know You sent in your letter a few days ago, Was duly delivered to Bertie ; but, bless His innocent soul, from whence came the caress He indeed little knew." Since this note I received, How mai^y times IVe fancied him, just at eve, After his return home, clasping close in his arms The beautiful child, pressing on his soft, warm, 8aby lips, a fond kiss from lips none the less sweet, Witb thoughts of thfj love for him, boundless and deep^ 940 8T0LKN WATERS. Wliioh hat] smit tlie oiireHS to tlio uuooiiHoiouB boy** Tlu^ lovo for liiin, which wouhl rojoico in liia joy, Ami gri( vt^ at his sorrow, uiid whioli rtMulors dear AU t.h« ohjoots of liin «h>o|) HUootion, \Vli«n hero, A fow (luys nj;o, liort^tto asked luo if 1 Hat! iunt»r (h»sir(»(l (hat (ho woman woiiM die, Wlio standrt hotwoon mo and (hi^ man that 1 love, Wni tliougli h)vini» him with a passion above Antl ln>yoiul tistimation, 1 thank (u>d Tvo Inwn From thnt ttunptut it)n sjmrod ; that, it has not within My mind ft)r a momont oVn once had a jdaoo. 1 h)ve him too woll to doaii*o to otfaoo From liis hivirt or his homo what sho is, or haso intimacy i>f honu> — Tht^ rohition t^xistinu; bt^twciMi thorn. But tliOBO Thoughtj^ bnt' mako \\\o nnliappy, and never dispofla Mo to Ch>1 hard or bit.tor to hor or to him. Of coiTst^ vtu-y ditfortMit, thougl», it might been, If ho had not marriod until 1 Iiad seen And U)vt>il him and hanUn- io boar, too, T ween I \\\\i I nt>w can but feci that no consuro is due Anywhcix^ ; but tho crut>l stri>ko was, it is true, Unavoidabh^, OU>sinsjj, ho savs - '* l>id you know That 1 sang at tlio o\d church a fow wt>oks ago. For u sin;^h> thiy merely ? IM sent you the won! Had it \\o[ l>(>(«n toi> late to lio so, when I heard I "WHH want<>ii io sing. It did seem like old times t " And m> /* I,* thoughts Homt^timra turn to sweet " Auld Ung UTOLKN WATETiK 941 How co/n I Iu^l)> Miinkin<; Ik^ dooH caro for mel That I a/M (I(>!ir (,0 him, in houu) litUo ihijj;nwl Ilia iiianiuu- was ulwnys most kmdrr niul kind. And porhapH it luay ho a fault wholly of miiio, That so brit^f, cold, nvscM-vnl, his notos jwcr liavo fxHUij Pvo hoon cross iiixd umc'iisonnhio oft(Mi with him, And, dear as ho is, from him / could not l>*Mir Wluit Iio'h taken from uw. Ihit in uttor despair, 80 wretched, and chiidni^ so undm- my honds, I Bont Icttors Harcastic and hitter, when fond And gentle ones would liavo ho(ni bettor. But jMwt Art) thoHO days, fonwc^r, 1 truHt. In tho lu8t Of the colonors nice letters, in ont^ place ho wiyH — ** What a blessed thing 'tis a true fritnid to possess I 1 etting so longeil for, the perfect cont<>nt Wliieh his mere pi\^sence giive me, the pure joy that semi Every thought but of happiness out of my heart, Though I knew time was living, tuul soon we must part. lie was all the eve so allectionat*^, kind ; He called me '* dear " once, and by mmie many times. Though never addressing me by it before, It could not have come from his lips now with more b^e and naturjil readiness, if it had been Kor long, a familial* ** household wortl " with him. Very pivtty he speaks it, moit> as a ctiress Thau luiything else, and it sounds, 1 confess, Very sweet from his lips. He has never appeared So tender and loving, tuid never so clear And mtuiifest was hu attachment. Although Always kind, he was then more than usually so. More reason to think 1 am tlear to him, he Never giive me. Indeed ! 1 am imrf he loves meu At Iciu^t next to her, who in his heart claims The tii-st place. And am I contented to reign As second witliin a ilivided heart? One Who has often declared she would have all, or none, Is witki thu satJAtied t Yes 1 far better a part, A moiety of hi*, than another's whole heart! He 8j>oke miuiy times oi my writing to him. ** YouTl write me wheu Boston you shall arrive in," STOLBir WATBh^S. 249 Was the laut thing lio said. It was past eight o'clock When iu]faiii we l)eforo my iVioiul's resitlenoe stopped. Then tiiking inj liaiids, botli of thoni, in hia own, Left a ki»s ot farewell on my lips luui w»ia gone. I fancy hia friends tirotl of waiting, ere he The theatre rtmchetl. Well I tl\e evening, to me. Was perfect I My love every want satistiea ; For the void in my heart sweet content he snpplies, Until it overflows with a love so entire, So sacred, imd pure, passion can but expire, So sweet 1 ignore all the pain gone Ix^fore. Wliile I drank in the joy which his presence affoixls, What wonder I should for a moment forget That 1 " stoUn loatcrs " was (piatlhig ! And yet. Is a love pure as mine such a deep, deadly sin. And a crime each impassioncul exi)ression ? There's bee* Very much to regret, and repent of — lose sight Of the wrong, or excuse it, T do not — it might, However, bo worife ; and to One, who, if just, Is loving and pitiful also, I'll trust The sin and its [>unishment, knowing that He Looks alone on tlie heart, each temptation ctm see, Whether conquered or yie ded to. Once having worn Our humanity, been by furce tempt jitiona torn, He knows how to succor, to pity, forgive ; To His love and compassion the issue 1 leave. This morning was fair, so of course went up town To cliurcii, as I promised. Was early, and found He liad not yet arrived ; but the sexton gave me. As re(][ueste(l, a seat near the choir ; and when h« 11* 250 STOLEy [rATERA Soon after CAiiie in, his face plainly betrayed His i;leasuiv at seeing me. He sang to-day, Divinely, as ever! liis voice seemed in truth Ihe impressive Episcopal service to suit, And lost none of its richness and beauty, when iu The elabonite " Te Deum" heard. I had been So proud of hiiu, had we but met ere it came To be sin he should love me — had J borne his nai i^ When service wiis over, I had not gone far Ere he joined me. Together we waited for cai-s. He said the last Sabbath "• INly Lady " was down, But to-day it was too late to come, when she found He intended to sing — I presume iio design Thei-e was iu his fiiiliiig to tell her in time (?). I spoke of his being so late Thursday night, Ere he kept his engjigement ; he Siiid yes, 'twas qui' \ Ten o'clock ere he entered the theati*e. When He tirst left the car, about nine, he missed then, For the first time, a valuable diamond ring. He thought for a moment, then recollecting That he drew oiV his glove where we stood a long ti< i Convei*sing, he took a car back ; failed to find What he sought, so he borrowed a lantern near by- • Turned away unsuccessful again, when his eye Was caught by the glitter. Indeed! he, 1 think, Was most fortunate. It was a l>eautiful ring, One his wife ordinarily w eai-s. So, I ween, ^ For the last time for many long months, I have seea My love, and my dciuest ! 1 gOy though, a-way, Feeling sure of his truth and afi'ecuon. All dnj igTOhlSN WATBUR 261 I Lave thought of a poem, expressing indeed With perfectness my feelings to him. Thus its reads i " What ai*e my thoughts of thee ? Ah, most serene and calm I Amid the liin, The stir, and tumult of the busy crowd, Like birds fi*om far, they softly flutter in, And breathe to mo thy name, but not aloud. I liear some voice with music like thy tone, And start to know that I iim not alone — I look amid them all, if I may trace Thy glance, thy smile, thy form's fiuniliar grao»> • And by the sudden flutter of my heart, I know, my love, we are not fir apart. " What are my thoughts of thee ? All pure and fair, yet passionately sweet. Moonlight and starlight whisper still of thee. I breathe thy name, and o'er and o'er repeat The words thou said'st beneath the whispering tree. Again 'neath Winter's moonlight skies we stand, I feel in mine the pressure of thy hand — And words that touched my soul with sudden thrill Are murmured o'er by lingering memories still. And though our paths must part, 'tis sweet to know Blest thoughts of thee are mine where'er I go — Sweeter to know that with no vain regret. We shall recall the hour when first we met." It does seem so strange that we, after three yeam Of misunderstandings, heart-burnings, and tears, Bliould stand on the footing we now do ; and that Onr long correspondence, which has been in fkol 352 8T01SN WAVERS. Irregular, sparriag, unpleasant — at length. All jarrings at end — we, by mutual consent, With mutual pleasure, propose to renew, On a basis of confidence, knowledge, and fcma Respect and affection, that neither could know At its fatal beginning, just three years ago. I have much injustice done him in the past, But I'm glad I can truthfully say, that at last My confidence in him is perfect, entire ! 1 find, looking back for a year, I aspired Ere to-night to be able the end to write here Of this unhappy love. But this record, I fear, Looks not much like an overcome passion. We leave On the night train for Boston, on next Wednesday evtv And so to my home I once more bid adieu, To my darling, and also, my Journal, to you. March 23d, 1867. SATURDAY. Once more I'm in Brooklyn 1 How happy I ai^ That, after a long, five months' abseace, I can Sit here in my own, cosey, dearly-loved room, My old confidential chats here to resume With my Journal ; once more on its pages to trace The sweet words " at home ! " There indeed is m. fiaot STOLEN WATERS. SSS So dear to mj heart I I from Boston arrived About two A.M. yesterday. WeU! my life, Binoe I left home last fall, has as usual not been Uneventfiil ; but on the contrary, within A few months a great deal has been crowded. Bui H Is so far in the past, I have now, I admit, No time, nor, in fact, inclination to write It in detail, and merely will give here to-night A simimary brief of a part. When I had Been in B. a few days only, I was attacked With severe fever symj)tom.s, so suddenly that 'Twas with great dilBculty that they were controlled| And for a few days was quite ill. On the whole, It was almost a wonder that I had escaped A long run of fever. I >vrote the same day I arrived, to my frieiul ; disappointed was I, And greatly, that to it I had no reply. I waited some two weeks, and then wrote agaia. Still no answer ! A letter to Annie I then Dispatched, and enclosed one to him, the desire Expressing that sheVl take it in and inquire For him — thus the state of his health ascertain, And at once let me know the result. This was vain (I had wi'itt^n to her two or three times before), For from neither a word I received. And once I was in despair ! and I cannot express How unhappy it made me ; and yet, none the leM Did I trust him, nor lose for one moment in him Bij oonfide&oe ; and I felt sure he'd not baes 954 STOLEN WATERS. In fault in the matter. \Vlieu I coiUd roprwiB No longer the grief which I ctm but confess Elftch day but beotune moi*e unbearable still, The suspense and iuixiety no force of will Could suppress, which was killing me — Fannie would iaf " Why was I so sad, why not try to be gay ? She was sure I had nothing to trouble me I " She Would thought diftbrently had she changed places with m^ Were her husband away from her, ill, perhaps blind, Or sleeping in Death's ioy clasp — and a line Or a word of, or from him she could not receive, She would weep, and imagine she'd retison to grieve, I say this deliberately. I believe He's no less de^ir to me thiui her husband to her. I was just as assured he was ill, as if word To that effect I had received. An event Of some moment, six weeks or so after I went To Boston, occurred, which Til briefly state her© : When just finished shopi>ing, one day, sharp and clear A fire alarm struck from the " Old South " church bell, And was echoed all over the city, as well. A few moments later the tuigiues rushed past, A mad crowd in their wake. They were all gone at last, Auvl crossing the sidewalk, I signalled a car, Then leisurely walked out to meet it. Not ftu* Had I gone, ere I heanl shouts of " luxate ! " and was caught Dragged on to the platform, and thrust quick as thought In the car, where a man on the left in liia arms Clasped me close — then a crash, a few screams of alarm, Or of i>ain, and I, trembling «nd white, but unharmed. STOLEN WATERS. 9M Was released, and sat down. And then, for the first time, I knew what the danger had been, lUail divined What a hairbreadth osonpo T had suffered. It »eeimi That an engine, iu all its mad fury — imseen And unheard of by nio — was directly lehind The car, which, obeying the signal of mine, By stopping provoked the collision, which then Could not be avoided. They told mo that when They sjiw me approaching they thought I coidd not Esciipe certjiin death. I, unconscious of whftt Was menacing me, luust assuredly met The fate which then threatened — 1 shudder e'en yet, When I think of it — had it not been for the kind And prom}>t action of those on the car at the time, And the interposition direct of Di^'ine Omnipotent love tmd protection. It seemed A miiiicle, almost, that saved me. I deemed It indeed nothing less. The polo of the engine Was half-way tlirough the car, and the door was crushed iHf The window-pane shattered, and weak women screamed. And attempted to faint, and the crimson blood stretunei From both cheek and hiuid of one man near the dcor ; Another one had his coat torn ; sevenil more Were injured iu person or dress — yet was 7", More exposed than all others, by diinger passed by. And I stood there unharmed and untouched. Not » irord Did I speak, but to luiswer, when if 1 was hurt Tliey kindly inquired. 1 almost held my breath At the Power which saved me from violent death. And I thought that I never would murmur again At whatever might come; or despair, feeling then 256 STOLEJS WATEB& That there must be something in store for me yot> Or I would not been spared ; and, resohing to fret No more at Fate's fickleness, wiiit for the end With patience, \vith trust, and with hope. To mj frifltt^ My dearest y I wrote the last day of the year, With ho}>es that would bring me some tidings. A mera Note only, I sent, scarce a page, yet I knew *Twas enough to assure him that I wiis " still true," And that if he was well he'd let nie know the same. In due time, to my joy, a reply to this came. It was brief, but he stated he'd written me three Directed according to ordei-s. That he Had been sick, as a matter of course, but was better. That note I was not to consider a letter ; Was just leaving town, and had no time to write; Would only be gone a few days, then I might Expect to hear from him agiiin. But although I waited, and hoped, besides writing, also, One or two more to him, yet not one other lino Did I receive from him, in all the long time I was absent. And though I wrote Annie, again And again, I heard nothing from her. This, too, when From Colonel Alhiir I was hearing each week, And from home twice as often as that, not to speak Of others more transient ; yet not one was lost. And I thought it was hard those I wanted the most Should have been just the ones to miscarry. There WM In Maiden a friend of my brother-in-law's, Whose acquaintance I made while in B. There was no\ All during my stay, a week passed by, but what HTOLEJS WATERS, 261 He was there, and quite often more frequently etilL I liked Lim very much, and had reason to feel The attachment wtis mutual. Indeed, we at oii.oe Became very good friends ; and the long, weary montlui Of my absence from home his society could But render more pleasant, indeed, than they would Have otherwise been. And between us one bond Of union there was, he knew naught of. I found That heM "loved and lost ; " and though he little thought That I was awai^e of the fact, I could not Avoid feeling for him, from the depths of my heart. He, knowing the day that I meant to depart, Met me at the depot, and bade me farewell With regi-et that was evident. jT cannot tell When again we shall meet — probably not for long — But with pleasure 1 ever shall look back upon Our pleasant acquaintance. We*d been a short timo In B. when my sister's health slowly declined, And soon after the birth of the " Happy New Year," She seemed slipping from earth, while with anguish aii4 tears. We knew we could ne'er stay the fluttering soul. Felt her feet would be soon threading streets of pure gold, Her weary head pillowed on Jesus' true breast, And her impatient spirit forever at rest. My mother and father were summoned in haste, And came on, expecting to see the dear face Frozen, white, by the kiss of the conqueror. Death ; And indeed, we could fancy his icy cold breath BUmI fanned her pale cheek, so near his portals grim Did her faltering feet then approach. I had beep 268 STOLEN WAIEHS. Last to give ap all hope, and I night and iay paased By her side, 'till upon the fair brow gathered fast Tlio coJd dews of death, the pulse llickered and failed^ The soft loving eye became dim, 'neath the nails The purple bloou settled; then 7112/ hope was gone; In my heart I then bade her a silent, and long, Last farewell, thinking never to see her again, *TiU the jewel was lost from the casket. But when The night waned, the grim visitor slunk from our dooiy And fair hope fluttered back to our sad hearts one© mcra What a trying time 'twas to us all ! In despair Was her husband — her children gi'ief-stricken — all care Devolved upon me, no less troubled, indeed ! Truly strength must be given to us as we need, Or I could not endured what I did in those days. WTien we gave up the loved one, I promised to stay As long as they needed my presence ; although The effort which it required, God alone knows I But I counted the cost, and still felt it to be A duty for me to remain. I could see, When, later she iold me that I was indeed Such a comfort to her when she felt that her feet Were fast slipping over the brink, why impelled I was to leave Brooklpi, last fall, and, as well, One reason why God spared my life weeks before, When 'twas in fearful peril. When she, as of yore. Was again in our midst, seemed as if we'd had one Uiven back from the grave. 'Till her heal+h had beoomc Sufficiently firm to permit a i*esume Of her family's charge, I remained, and then iiooii romed my joyful sf«ps homeward. STOLEN WATEB8. ^9 Awaiting me theze, t found a nice letter from Colonel Allair. Have to-day been in town, and of course called to try And some tidings obtain of my love. Just as I Had expected, I found he was HI. 'Twas about Three weeks, they informed me, since he had bMsa out J Was no better when last they had heard — yesterday. Though this knowledge made me very sad, I must say Even that was much better than longer suspense. Of late my anxiety's V)een most intense. I knew not, of course, but in all this long time, Death had entered his door. Relieved was I to find My dear one was living, though 'prisoned within A silen*. and darkened apartment. For him It is very hard thus afflicted to be — Hard for him — for all his — doubly painful for me, WTio must constant suspense and uncertainty feel. And cannot be near him to nurse, soothe, or heaL AprU im, 1867. THURSDAY. i had been home from Boston not more than a week When somewhat surprised was I at the receipt Of another nice letter from Colonel Allair - Although none was due me ; and, wondering where I could be all that time that from me he'd net heard* He was anxious extremely, he said, for some word, And feared there'd befallen me some accident iky my way home from B. Not in any event S60 STOLEN WATESS. Expressing one doubt of myself. My dear boy t His letter was most kind, and gave me much joy. A short time after my return, Annie one day Came over to see me, and said, by the way, That while I was absent she wrote me three timeB| Yet not once did I hear. 'Tis indeed to my mind Very incomprehensible. Sow sad I was All day Sabbath ! yet from no particular cause, Or rather no new cause ; old griefs, and the old And yet ever new wounds ! Not alone the untold Despair of my wasted, unwise, hopeless love, But my long-broken vows to my Father above, Lost hope, and lost happiness. 7" can't convey To these pages, how heavy my heart was all day. But 'tis gone, and I will not attempt its recall — A passing cloud merely, yet, however small, Dark and heavy with rain-drops ; but only such as Have over my life-sky but too often passed, And more and more frequently still, as the swift Flitting years cnward roll. And to-day the cloud-drifts Have been scarcely less dark. All the night I had dreaiDS Of m.j friend — dreams not pleasant. With morning's first beams, X weeping awoke. I'm so anxious I It seems As though I could not any longer endure This racking suspense. No one knows, I am sure, Half how wearying 'tis. Were it but allowed me To see him, to soothe a few moments, 'twould be A blest privilege ; but I have neither the rightt Nw the power ; tut 'tis very hard to be quits STOLEN WATERS, 261 Coateni always. Oh, why do I love him? And whj Can I not give him up ? When ia B., by the by, A friend casually said, " Two years is a long time To be constant I " But I, unto this love of mine, So hopeless, perhaps unrequited, have been Not two, but fowr years, nearly, constant. And in My heart, I must own, that the love is to-day Warmer, purer, and sweeter, and in every way More deep and enduring than ever before. There is sweet with the pain, balm is oft sprinkled o'oi My heart's bitter anguish. I love him with truth. And with purity. So there is nothing, forsooth, In the love that should shame me ; and only an act Accomplished long years ere I knew him, in fact. Almost in my babyhood, makes love like mine A sin, and the simplest endearment a crime. I did wrong, in the first place, I do not deny I But most bitterly have I been punished, and I Can but feel that the sin has been here expiated. And by it the hereafter will not be shaded. Over me for a long time the cloud has hung low ; Will its sable edge never roll backward, and show The bright splendor beneath ? Or are the few sweet Brief moments of happiness, exquisite, deep, That his presence has always afforded, to be The whole compensation intended for me. For the anguish and paia I've endured, and must yet ? The one brilliant gem in a setting of jet ? The one gleam of light in the darkness so long Enshrouding me ? " Sorrow and silence are strong, And patient endurance is CJod-like I " one writes. And if that end's accomplished, my heart made Gk>d-]ik6^ 262 STOLEN WATERS, If by patient endurance of tnis bitter grief I am ** purified, strengthened, perfected," in brie^ If through that I gain Heaven, I'll think it, indeed, Lightly won, and give thanks for the glorious need. A notice in this evening's paper just caught My eye, and which proved to be, just as I thought^ Intended to summon to-morrow a.m. Certain lodges of masons to meet, and attend The funeral rites of a member. My heart Stood still 'till I read it, and found that the hard| Cruel dread at my heart-strings was not realized ; That others were called to mourn, not me ; and eyes And heart filled with gratitude. My mourning coali But be secret, and kill me it certainly would. It seems as if that blow I never could bear ; Me from that bitter trial, I pray God to spare. May ith, 1867. SATURDAY. About two weeks ago, I despatched a brief note To my dearest, and after the date, merely wrote ** B. S. is at home ; when you're well enough, write To the usual address." And I hoped that I might Hear at once ; but a week or more passed by before I received a reply ; then he did not write more Than a half-dozen lines. Had a few days been oat| He hoped permanently ; but he was about STOLEN WATERS, 263 Broken down. For warm weather was praying, with trust That hifl health would recruit. My poor love ! though il must, Without doubt — summer's warmth — have the Ibnged-fts effect, Ajud bring his old buoyancy back again, yet I fear winter's cold will prostrate him again. And undo all the glad summer's work, and as then Make him captive to pain. If with him I could be, I'd such care of him take ! Why did fate deny me What would be such a boon ! Nothing more I'd desire Than to watch o'er him, nurse him in sickness — aspire To naught better than in all his joy to rejoice. Support and give comfort in sorrow. A choice It is not mine to make. Were he healthy and strong It would not be so hard. And if one of these long And repeated attacks should my darling leave blind 1 How could I endure it ? I've known for some time That 'twas possible, probable even ; yet I Am not, and ne'er shall be, prepared for it. Why, When I think of that, should I forever be teased With the memory of " Jane Eyre " and " Rochester " ? H€ Was blind, also, and she was permitted to be tight and eyes to him ; yet, when he'd health and strength, then Circumstances and stem destiny parted them. But my " Rochester," he, my darling, my love. Does not need me. God grant me from Heaven aboTe Strength sufficient the weight of my sorrow to bear I It grows very burdensome ; and in despair I almost sink beneath it.. Will ever there come A. better tome for me ? The colonel, in one 264 STOLEU WATSBSi Of his last le+ters, vrites — " 'Tis indeed a long, longi Weary night, that no : one promise gives of the monu^ When will dawn for me break ? I wrote him in replj To his note, saying Saturday afternoon I Would be in. For an answer I looked all the week. But 'twas not 'till the day I appointed received. I went to the door when the carrier called, And he passed me three letters ; the last one of all Was the one long desired. In the folds of my dress I slipped it, and though I could scarcely repress My expectant impatience the contents to read Of the unopened letter, then lying, indeed. So near to my heart, yet I forced myself to Read both of my other long letters quite through — i)ne each from my brother and sister — and then 1 hastened upstairs to devour the contents Of the other. He merely wrote, though, he would Im At the L. about six o'clock Saturday eve. I at once made my toilet, then up town to see My friend Annie I went, and returned at the time Appointed. But scarcely expected to find My love at the L., as I wrote him in mine I should not be in if it rained, and It did Nearly all the p.m. ; knew his health would forbid Of his braving a storm ; and he came not. I sent Another, and made an appointment again For yesterday. Ajid I am able once more To record plsasant things, and to write as of yore^ Of realized anticipations, and bright, Sweet hopes all fulfilled. And if, while I shall wiitt tiTOLBN WA1KR& 265 Of yesterday's happiness, there should sometimes A word of endearment slip out, from the mine Of my love for him, why should I care ? Why repiem The impulse to utter the deep tenderness rhat broods in my heart for him, when I well know rhai these pages will be by no eyes but my own Seen ever, at least while 1 live. And when " life's Fitful fever" is o'er, and 1 " sleep," why should I Be concerned as to what may be then seen and thought? Those who would for my weakness condemn me, do not Know what they in the like circumstances would do ; And those, who in any degree have been through The temptations and trials besetting me so. Will pity me, rather than censure ; will know How utterly wretched I often liave been. And while to the dregs all the bitter drops in The full cup of love I have drained, very few Of its sweets I have tasted. That life's to me, too, But " a harvest of barren regrets," and a blight All my sweet hopes of happiness, fleeting as bright. My mother I Ho'^ she would feel did she know all I She wonders why I am so sad, and why pall All my pleasures so soon. And she may some time know J-iome time solve the riddle that puzzles her so. ); would not have her now, as I know that it would Cause her much pain, and could do no possible good. I can't give him up 1 want the requisite strength : I expect that 1 may be obliged to, at length, By trie strong force of circumstances ; and 'till then 1 cling to liim ; hoping as my love for him Is involuntary, uncontrollable, in «66 STOLEN WATSB& All respects pure and true, tha it may be forgi^CA And not future punishment biing. I have striyen, God knows, to o'ercome it, and think I have had My chastisement aU of the time, in the sad, Bitter humiliation it caused, the frequent Disappointments, the grief which seems ne'er to be spenii The hopeless heart-achings for one who from me Is eternally sundered. I feared it would be Stormy yesterday, also ; as all the forenoon Was cloudy, with strong, cold, east winds ; but it soon After noon cleared away very pleasant. At four I left home, and I then went direct to the store. The first one I saw when I opened the door Was mj friend, and not far from the entrance. He canM At once up to me ; when we'd greetings exchanged, I asked if to go up it was his intent. Ho replied " Yes ! at six ? " and I gave an assent, And hastened away. I had waited for him An hour nearly, and hs a half hour too had been There, before we discovered each other, through some Slight misunderstanding. I stood not far from The entrance, and very much vexed I felt, too, And thought if he did not come up, when he knew That I was in town, and he'd promised to come, I'd never forgive him, nor ever make one More appointment, when just at that moment my hand Was taken, a few words of greeting said, and I turned, and my love was beside me. Remained There a moment, then went in. Oh I how he had changed ( And how my heart ached as I saw in his face The ravages which two months' illness had traced. STOLEN WATERS. S61 He had grown an old man since last autumn, and yet To my heart he is dearer than ever. He said He ■WTOt(; me thrice after the note I received, None of which came to hand — and said last, he believMl He sent me a paper. It is strange, indeed 1 At first we of mere commonplaces conversed , But after a time we dropped into the first Serious conversation that ever has passed Between us. I wrote him, I think in my last. With my whole force of will I was trying to gain The courage to give him up wholly ; obtain The requisite strength to say, never agaia I'd a meeting appoint, no more letters write him ; When we met we would talk of a parting ; and in The interim hoped he would think of it. Yet, When first I referred to it, laughingly met All I said with evasion, and when I reproved, Retorted by saying, " But you're smiling, too I " But his playfulness he at length dropped, and became As serious as I could desire. With his cane Clasped in one hand, his other one holding his hat. Which he from the table beside which we sat Had taken a moment before, and his head Bent slightly, he listened to all that I said, Attentively, gravely, and ans'Jv^eriug, too. As occasion demanded . I briefly reviewed Our long, desultory acquaintance, and when I spoke of the grief he had caused me, he then Asked what he had done. I referred, in reply. To his frequent neglect of my letters, his sligbl 868 STOLUN WATERS Of my wishes, his failure engagements to keep, And the like. But he answered, I yet did not Bpeak Of what he had done^ only what he had not. That ho would prefer condemnation, he thought, For emissive, rather than commissive sin. I asked if he meant to imply that he'd in Disregarding my wishes sinned less than he might In fuliilluig them ; and, tliat if so, he was right, I had not a doubt. That was not, he replied, What he meant ; but for what he'd omitted to dOy He would rather be censured, when censure was