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 GIRLHOOD AND WOMANHOOD: 
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES 
 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
 
 Musing in Solitude, I oft perceive 
 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 
 Pure, and with no unpleasing sadness mixed; 
 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 
 And dear remembrances whose presence soothes 
 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 
 The good or evil of our mortal slate. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 BY MRS. A. J. GRAVES, 
 
 AUTHOR Of WOMAN IN AMERICA. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 T. H. CARTER & CO., AND BENJAMIN B. MUSSEY. 
 1844.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, 
 
 BY T. H. CARTER & CO., 
 In the Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 A. J. WRIGHT, PRINTER 
 No. 3 Water Street.
 
 PS 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To ONE given to imaginative musing, there is no sight more 
 interesting than a band of happy schoolmates. And as we look 
 on them sporting in merriment, unconscious and unthinking of 
 what is to befall them, how prone are we to sketch out their 
 destiny by casting a visionary glance into futurity. We draw 
 the coloring from our own experience, and our own joys or sor- 
 rows brighten or darken the picture of their coming histories. 
 If we be hopeful in our nature and prosperous in life, we follow 
 each little boy or girl through the successive scenes of their 
 career, until one stands on a proud height of fame or fortune, 
 and the other takes her place as a happy wife and mother, sur- 
 rounded by all the blessings that a husband's love can procure. 
 But if we have learned to look in saddened earnestness on all 
 human destiny, through the medium of stern adversity and our 
 own blighted hopes, than we will sigh deeply as we look on 
 them and wish that they could always remain as they are, and 
 never know what it is to live on to manhood and womanhood, 
 to sustain the heavy burden of their multiplied cares and sorrows. 
 
 This tendency of the human mind to shadow forth what lies 
 hidden in the dim obscurity of the future, is not without its uses 
 if it be rightly and usefully applied. But if we have no better 
 foundation for it, than our own imagination, it is at best but idle 
 dreaming, and we will be the first to laugh at our own romantic 
 visions when reality convinces us of their falsity. The school- 
 boy who was to have a proud pre-eminence over his fellow-men, 
 and fill the world with his name as a genius, a statesman or a 
 warrior, becomes a plain, plodding citizen, buried amidst ledgers 
 and piles ff merchandise, without a thought beyond the walls 
 of his counting house, or his annual investments in bank stock, 
 and the fair, delicate girl who was to droop and die in early
 
 womanhood, under the blight of wounded affections, becomes a 
 heartless coquette ; sells herself to some old man for a splendid 
 establishment, and is found, at the age of forty, a fat, buxom 
 widow, ready for another speculation in the marriage lottery. 
 But if we thus have occasion to acknowledge ourselves mistaken 
 in our prophecies, and are disposed to make merry over our 
 delusive fancies, yet the fault was our own. 
 
 If we have looked on the little group as strangers, and suf- 
 fered our imaginations to dream improbabilities, merely because 
 some boy might have had dark, flashing eyes, and a noble bearing, 
 or the soft, blue eyes of some little girl may have been seen 
 suffused in tears, then we need not wonder that our predictions 
 were fallacious. But if each individual child among them had 
 been known to us , if we had studied every opening character as 
 it became unfolded beneath our watchful observation, carefully 
 marked every indication of mental power, or mental weakness, 
 rejoicing in the first rays of rising genius, or sadly brooding over 
 the leaden clouds of dullness, then our vain fancies might have 
 given place to a prophetic glance. When truth and a sound 
 judgment are our basis, then we may venture to predict what 
 will be, from what is. Although we cannot pretend to foretell 
 the external condition of each to any degree of certainty*, yet 
 we have a guide even here. For the philosophic Butler justly 
 remarks, " there is a correspondence be.tween our nature and 
 external condition," and again, " that every species of creatures 
 is designed for a particular way of life to which the nature, 
 capacities, temper and qualifications are as necessary as their 
 external circumstances." When we see the fledging bird in its 
 nest, we know from its anatomical structure that it is destined 
 to wing its way through the free air as its native element, when 
 we examine the mollusca ere the shell has been fully formed, 
 we see that its life must be sustained in a different %node, and 
 therefore the element on which it is to move, must be entirely 
 different ; so it Is with the human character as it is revealed in
 
 the process of expansion. The marked differences that exist in 
 individual minds and temperaments, prove that each one will 
 naturally seek that external condition that corresponds with its 
 peculiar organization. The boy that faints at the sight of blood, 
 or trembles in nervous agitation on hearing the heavy firing of 
 artillery, will never seek his fortune amidst the horrors or dan- 
 gers of war, if he be left to follow the tendencies of his nature 
 or the little girl that steals away to some quiet solitude, that she 
 may indulge her fondness for books, or fill her imagination with 
 visions of future intellectual eminence, excited by a mysterious 
 consciousness of mental power, will never be found striving with 
 restless vanity for the admiration of fashionable triflers, amidst 
 the frivolities of the ball room, unless a violence has been done 
 to her inclinations by the force of a contrary training. 
 
 This instinctive tendency in each individual to avoid all that 
 is uncongenial and to seek its own element, belongs to man in 
 his moral and intellectual nature, as well as to the other portion 
 of creation in their physical condition. But the analogy cannot 
 be pursued to its full extent, without going beyond the limits of 
 truth. The bird and the shell-fish cannot by any mode of train- 
 ing be made different from what they are, nor can their instincts 
 be so far violated as to confine the former to the waters, or the 
 latter to the air, without destroying their vitality. But our 
 nature is such that human creatures are " capable of becoming 
 qualified for states of life for which they were once unqualified." 
 The germs of mind and character are susceptible of being so far 
 modified in their full development, as to place the future to a 
 certain degree in the hands of those whose duty it is to train 
 them aright. And it is here that our insight into human nature, 
 and our foresight into the future can be usefully applied to the 
 benefit of those unconscious little creatures over whose destiny 
 we often so idly dream. 
 
 This work is not intended to show the effects of a right train- 
 ing upon the future character or destiny, for its pictures are
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 drawn from human nature as it is found, and not from any ideal 
 representation of what it may become. And in the following aerial 
 sketches, nothing higher has been attempted than to exhibit 
 different varieties of female character as seen in girlhood, and to 
 follow them to their full development in womanhood, to prove the 
 natural connection that exists between these two important peri- 
 ods. As the girl is, the woman will be, unless some powerful 
 counteraction has intervened. In drawing my portraits from the 
 inmates of a boarding school, instead of taking them from the 
 members of a family around the domestic hearth, it was easier 
 to find the requisite varieties, and to study human nature as it 
 usually presents itself unchecked in its tendencies in youth, 
 and consequently seeking its own element amidst surrounding 
 circumstances in maturity. And by exhibiting a boarding school 
 under the most favorable conditions in which it is possible to 
 place one, and where more was attempted than is usually done, 
 towards the formation and modification of character, it may be 
 seen how little power can be exercised even by the best of teach- 
 ers, in counteracting evil tendencies, or in establishing a firm 
 foundation of moral principle. The great responsibility of mak- 
 ing man or woman what they should be, rests not upon teach- 
 ers, upon whom God has not laid it, but upon parents, and upon 
 them alone. It is in their hands that the present life and future 
 destiny of each child are chiefly placed, and for which they 
 alone will be called on, to render in an account at the last 
 Great Day of reckoning.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Oakwood School. 9 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 Sketches of my Schoolmates. 17 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 Breaking up of the School. 36 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Anna Percival, or the Maniac Mother. 50 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Emily Howard, or the Gentle Wife. 67 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Amanda Malvina Burton, or Fashionable Ambition. - 83 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 Margaret Etherington, or Family Pride. 98 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Mary and Ellen Grosvenor, or the Two Sisters. - - 117 
 
 CHAPTER DC. 
 Elizabeth Harrington, or the History of a Coquette. - 132 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Amelia Dorrington, or the Lost One. - 146 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Matilda Harwood, or the Imaginary Invalid. - - 152 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Sarah Sherman, or the Mechanic's Daughter. - - 176 
 
 CHAPTER XHI. 
 Conclusion. 208
 
 Tit
 
 GIRLHOOD AND WOMANHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 
 
 Hail ! mem'ry, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine, 
 From age to age unnumbered treasures shine. 
 Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
 And place and time are subject to thy sway ! 
 
 IT is generally considered an evidence -of the approach 
 of old age, when the scenes of our youth return to the 
 mind with a distinctness of impression that more recent 
 events fail to produce. If this be true, then I must be 
 verging towards that retrospective season of life, for 
 memory has of late been so busily re-touching the recol- 
 lections of the past, that they stand before me in colors 
 as fresh and bright, as if they were the pencilings of 
 yesterday. The boarding school, with its beautifully 
 shaded grounds, and the beloved teacher, with the little 
 band under her maternal care, are so vividly portrayed, 
 that it seems as though I have again returned to the 
 years of my childhood and to the friends of my youth. 
 
 In the days of my girlhood, there were so few good 
 schools among us, that every parent in our neighborhood, 
 who was desirous that his daughters should know some- 
 thing, beyond the mere mechanical arts of " reading, 
 1*
 
 10 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 
 
 writing and cyphering," endeavored to place them under 
 the care of Mrs. Norville. However defective their 
 elementary education may have been, it was considered 
 all-sufficient, if they could have the advantage of a year's 
 " finishing " at Oakwood. Such was the reputation that 
 thJs School obtained, that the frequency and urgency of 
 the applications for admission never permitted a vacancy 
 to continue unfilled ; nor was its celebrity undeserved, 
 for if it be necessary for females to learn in their girl- 
 hood, those things that they will be called on to practice 
 in their womanhood, then was the knowledge gained 
 under the judicious tuition of Mrs. Norville, of far 
 greater importance than all the accomplishments and the 
 sciences attempted to be taught in most of our female 
 academies of the present day. It was her endeavor to 
 prepare her scholars for the duties of after life to make 
 them good daughters and sisters, and to enable them to 
 become good wives, mothers and mistresses of families. 
 With regard to our intellectual education, her aim was 
 to awaken a desire for knowledge, to cultivate a taste for 
 literature and science, and to direct us how to proceed in 
 the duty of self-instruction, instead of laboring to fill our 
 memories with a certain amount of lessons. In our 
 moral culture, she was a faithful friend, a safe guide and 
 a watchful monitor. In the school-room, her govern- 
 ment was strict, firm and decided, yet tempered with 
 maternal kindness and sympathy. In our walks and re- 
 creations, she was as an elder sister, and a beloved com- 
 panion. With her, we felt nothing like reserve or con- 
 straint, but our faults and our follies were uncon- 
 sciously laid open before her. She skillfully led us to 
 this, that she might study our characters, so as to know 
 how to apply the remedies we needed. She was the 
 sun of our little system, around which we all moved in 
 beautiful harmony.
 
 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 11 
 
 Mrs. Norville had been left a widow, with two infant 
 sons, and though her husband was considered, during his 
 life, a man of fortune, yet when his affairs were settled 
 by his administrators, she found that Oakwood, her fa- 
 vorite residence, was all that remained to her. To sup- 
 port and educate her boys, she opened a female boarding 
 school, for which she readily secured a sufficient number 
 of pupils, from her acknowledged abilities, her station in 
 society and her extended circle of acquaintance. Some 
 of her rich and worldly neighbors freely commented on 
 the downfall of " poor Mrs. Norville," and when they 
 came to her with a patronizing air to proffer their aid, by 
 proposing to place their daughters under her care, they 
 found to their surprise and disappointment, that the de- 
 ferential respect with which they had always approached 
 the wife of the distinguished Mr. Norville, was equally 
 elicited by Mrs. Norville, the governess. No feelings 
 of mortified pride, or imaginary abasement on account 
 of altered circumstances, were mingled with her deep and 
 silent grief for a departed husband. In her poverty, she 
 felt and acted as a Christian. To her it was no degra- 
 dation, that she was obliged to support herself and her 
 children by her own exertions. She was grateful to her 
 God, that she still had spared to her, a home of her own ; 
 and the luxuries of wealth, to which she had so long 
 been accustomed, were resigned without a murmur or a 
 sigh. She knew that affliction springeth not from the 
 dust, and hers was looked upon, as coming from the 
 hand of an overruling Providence, who knoweth what is 
 best for his creatures. And to her, the uses of adver- 
 sity were richly revealed, for her character attained a 
 strength and elevation, and her piety a devotedness and 
 stability, that can never be reached among the enerva- 
 ting influences of prosperity. Never was there a more 
 beautiful exemplification of the Christian character. Her
 
 12 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 
 
 daily walk and conversation, and her every action 
 showed, that the spirit of peace and love had taken its 
 abode in her heart. In all our transgressions she would 
 entreat us to ask forgiveness of God, and would make us 
 feel as much contrition for having broken His commands 
 as we of ourselves were ever ready to feel a bitter self- 
 reproach, for having acted contrary to her wishes. No 
 heart among us, however obdurate or rebellious by 
 nature, could remain long unmoved, when we looked 
 upon her grieved countenance or listened to the mild, 
 sad tones of her maternal reproof. In her example, re- 
 ligion became so lovely and attractive, that we were 
 almost persuaded to become Christians. 
 
 How well do I remember our Sabbath evenings ! 
 These were her especial seasons, for endeavoring to instill 
 into our youthful minds those heavenly truths that had 
 elevated her above the trials of life into a region where 
 all was calm, and holy. In the bright and beautiful 
 Spring, the soft and lovely Summer, and in the early 
 days of Autumn, her favorite retreat on the afternoons of 
 that sacred day, was a rustic seat, beneath the drooping 
 branches of an aged elm. The view from this spot was 
 rich and varied. The quiet meadows with their grazing 
 cattle, the rich, dark woods, and the green and lonely 
 hills lay around us, while away in the hazy distance, the 
 bay spread its calm, blue waters, where snowy sails were 
 gliding, some homeward bound, and others steering their 
 course to the far-off ocean. It was a fitting place for 
 retirement, and holy meditation. The only human hab- 
 itations in view, were two or three lowly dwellings, 
 scattered at distant intervals, and the curling smoke, as 
 it floated away on the evening breeze, was the only sign 
 of living man's abode. The village church, surrounded 
 by the simple memorials of the dead that lay sleeping 
 beneath them, was embosomed in a lovely valley that
 
 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 13 
 
 sloped away before us, and seemed peculiarly appro- 
 priate to the holy quiet, the Sabbath beauty of the scene. 
 In this sweet spot, would Mrs. Norville sit for hours, 
 surrounded by her little band ; and with the word of God 
 lying open before her, and his glorious works around 
 her, she would gradually impart to us as we were able 
 to receive it, a strong and abiding impression of the wis- 
 dom and goodness and power of the great Creator. Her 
 favorite passages in the Bible were those which spoke of 
 the Saviour, and this was the theme on which she de- 
 lighted to dwell. The prophecies and promises that an- 
 nounced his coming, and the narratives that gave the 
 history of his mission on earth, were most frequently 
 read and commented on, and never shall I forgot the 
 heavenly expression of her countenance, as she spake to 
 us of .his patience, his meekness and his compassionate 
 love for the guilty race, whom he died to save. In the 
 works of creation, every object around us, served as a 
 text, from the greatest and the most sublime, to the hum- 
 blest and the most minute. The sky with its sunset 
 hues, its rising morn, and evening stars, and the earth in 
 all the varied beauty of its surface, down to the weed 
 and the wild flower that grew beside us, were by turns 
 the subjects upon which she would pour out the rich 
 treasures of her gathered thoughts. One of the most 
 beautiful and impressive conversations that I can now 
 recall, arose from a withered leaf which circling through 
 the still air of a lovely autumnal day, fell rustling at our 
 feet. She took it in her hand pointed out the veins 
 that spread in innumerable divisions over its surface 
 the stem that had connected to the branch and the differ- 
 ence between the upper and the under side, and then 
 explained to us the wonders of its physiology. She 
 traced its progress from the closely cinctured leaf-bud to 
 its full expansion, and its final decay ; and then showed 
 2
 
 14 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 
 
 us that it had fulfilled its allotted work, in having con- 
 tributed to the nourishment of the parent tree, and had 
 now fallen to the earth to mingle with its mould. This 
 train of thought led her to point out the various objects 
 around us, which had also performed the part assigned 
 them, by Him who made them the plant withering 
 when its flowers have passed away, and its seeds have 
 become ripened, and the fruit trees casting their leaves 
 as soon as their rich treasures are ready for the use of 
 man. She then directed our attention to the fleecy 
 clouds as they floated onward over the soft blue sky, the 
 declining sun, and the moon's silvery crescent which 
 was also verging towards the western horizon, and pro- 
 ceeded to show how these too moved in their appointed 
 courses, and fulfilled the wise designs of Him who had 
 launched them forward into illimitable space. She con- 
 cluded the conversation by impressing us with the humil- 
 iating thought that of all that God has created, it is man 
 alone, who leaves undone the work allotted him, and 
 brings disorder and disorganization into the harmonious 
 system of God's holy law. In all the relations of life, 
 and in his obligations to the Ruler of the Universe, it is 
 he only who has wandered out of the way, and is found 
 wanting. 
 
 Never shall I forget the impressiveness, the eloquence 
 with which she spake. Oh, that these outpourings of 
 her mind and heart, had been engraven on some more 
 enduring tablet than the evanescent memories of young 
 and thoughtless children ! Had they been gathered up 
 as they fell from her lips, and been written down in all 
 the flowing beauty of her language, in her own expres- 
 sions so full of the peculiar richness of her refined taste 
 and cultivated intellect, and so deeply imbued with that 
 spirit of deep heartfelt piety which shed its soothing, 
 purifying balm over all she uttered, then not even the
 
 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 15 
 
 proud infidel could have read the pages without feeling 
 his heart become melted within him and his spirits bow- 
 ed down with the humility of a little child, before that 
 great and good Being who made and sustains all man- 
 kind, from the man after his own heart, to the wretched 
 ingrate who madly rebels against Him and vainly strives 
 to deny his existence. 
 
 In her choice of pupils Mrs. Norville was influenced 
 by character and not by wealth or station. The modest 
 daughter of a worthy mechanic often received a ready 
 admission when the haughty and spoiled child of fortune 
 was respectfully declined. Though some were accepted 
 whom she did not entirely approve as companions for her 
 scholars yet these were the children of intimate acquaint- 
 ance whom she could not easily refuse. The characters 
 of the Oakwood scholars were as various and diverse as 
 their situations in life the vain and the retiring the 
 proud and the humble the indolent and the industrious 
 and the dull and the intelligent. Each class had also its 
 representatives, from the daughters of the rich planter, 
 the wealthy merchant and the distinguished professional 
 man, to the children of the aspiring shop-keeper and the 
 humble mechanic. Such were the discordant materials 
 and the opposing forces out of which Mrs. Norville pro- 
 duced an agreeable combination, and a harmonious system. 
 There was nothing that pained her benevolent spirit 
 more, than to see the evil effects of imaginary distinctions 
 in society manifesting themselves among her pupils. 
 She endeavored to make us feel that we were a band of sis- 
 ters, and that in the eye of God we were all equals. I have 
 never met a human being who was more elevated above the 
 prejudices of society than our beloved preceptress. She 
 viewed the various states and conditions of men with the 
 eye of a philosopher, an American and a Christian. She 
 would ofterj tell us that of all countries ours should be the
 
 16 THE OAKWOOD SCHOOL. 
 
 last, where the folly of measuring a man's standing by 
 his riches should be found, for in no other are fortunes so 
 ephemeral or do wealth and honors so frequently pass 
 from one to another. She said that even in the sphere 
 of her observation she had seen the daughter of the once 
 wealthy merchant became the wife of a laboring mechan- 
 ic, and the son of a village cobbler united to the portion- 
 less child of an aristocratic planter. And that she had 
 known several instances, where females born and reared 
 in affluence, had become obliged to labor for their subsist- 
 ence, as tailoresses or seamstresses, and in two or three 
 eases even as hirelings to those who once would have 
 thought it an honor to have been permitted to claim their 
 acquaintance. 
 
 In trying to convince us of the absurdity of entrench- 
 ing ourselves behind these conventional outworks, thrown 
 up by those who endeaver to create artificial distinctions 
 in social life, Mrs. Norville would frequently tell us that it 
 was only the really vulgar who need them. For the man 
 or woman of refinement and intelligence is never in 
 danger of being intruded upon, by the rude or unculti- 
 vated or by those whose habits render them unfit as- 
 sociates. Arbitrary divisions such as are made in fash- 
 ionable life, serve only to keep the wealthy vulgar from 
 the indigent vulgar, and were they abolished, society 
 would gain much more than it would lose. Every one 
 feels more deeply conscious of their own position than 
 others can force them to acknowledge by external arrange- 
 ments, for it is the natural tendency of society to sepa- 
 rate into different classes, those who assimilate in minds, 
 tastes and pursuits. Such were the sentiments often ex- 
 pressed by our venerated preceptress and so deeply did 
 she feel the injustice of this fancied superiority of one 
 over another, and the folly of these petty distinctions, 
 that she endeavored in various ways to enlighten our
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 17 
 
 minds on this subject and to bring us to a proper state of 
 feeling and acting towards each other. While with her 
 we almost became in this respect, all that she wished, 
 but how often in after life have I thought of our dear 
 teacher's labors and sighed to think how soon their good 
 effects passed away. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SKETCHES OF M Y S C H O O L M A T E 8 . 
 
 Our old companions now perchance 
 Estranged, forgot, or dead 
 Come round us as the autumn leaves 
 Are crushed beneath our tread ! 
 
 MRS. NORTON. 
 
 WHEN memory re-touches the faded images of the Past, 
 and brings again before me, my school-mates at Oakwood, 
 pursuing their studies under the guidance of Mrs. Nor- 
 ville or sporting in all the innocent gayety of childhood, 
 under the shady oaks that surrounded her dwelling, it 
 pains my heart, to recall the subsequent history of some 
 of the loveliest among them. As yet, the world was to 
 us, afar off, with its untried realities, its vicissitudes and its 
 bitter trials. To me girlhood has always been the most 
 interesting of all ages from the recollection of my happy 
 school-days and my beloved companions. For it is then, 
 that the thoughtless levity of infancy is gradually giving 
 place to the awakening thoughts and stirring affections 
 of approaching womanhood, while its sweet ingenuousness 
 and simplicity are still retained. And sad it is to think 
 that these feelings, still fresh with the dew of youth, mar 
 2*
 
 18 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 ere long be withered by the cold and heartless maxims 
 of worldly policy or be crushed under the blighting ef- 
 fects of earthly sorrow. 
 
 My favorite friend among the pupils of Oakwood, was 
 Anna Percival. Though there was little similarity either 
 in our minds or characters, yet this very difference seem- 
 ed to unite us more closely by rendering us necessary to 
 each other. Her devoted attachment to me softened my 
 natural reserve and opened the sealed fountain of my af- 
 fections. Although we were nearly of the same age, 
 yet I was to her as an elder sister. She came to me for 
 assistance in her studies and all her little grievances were 
 wept into calmness upon my bosom. Her sensibilities 
 were naturally keen and had become morbidly so, under 
 the unlimited indulgence of a widowed mother. The 
 slightest appearance of neglect or indifference in those 
 she loved, caused her more suffering than others would 
 have felt from unkindness or harshness. If at any time, 
 I was lost in thought and did not notice her approach 
 with my usual attention, she would imagine I was offend- 
 ed and with tearful eyes would ask me if I was displeased 
 with her. The sight of pain or anguish was more than 
 she could bear, and I have seen her turn, shuddering, from 
 a wounded bird or a crushed insect, while her counte- 
 nance vividly expressed the keenness of her sympathy. 
 Oh how much need was there of a guiding hand to 
 strengthen and prepare her for the pilgrimage of life ! 
 She was unfitted for the world and for earth's alloyed 
 happiness. Ever vacillating between the extremes of joy 
 or sorrow, one moment she would be almost wild in the 
 exuberance of her spirits and the next she would be 
 convulsed with grief, from some cause which in one of a 
 different temperament would scarcely have given rise to 
 a tear. Mrs. Norville would often say to me " my dear 
 Ellen this sensitive child needs much of our care, her
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 19 
 
 attachment to you, places a great deal in your power and 
 we must both endeavor to fortify her mind and bring her 
 sensibilities into healthful action." 
 
 Anna Percival was gentle, loving and kind to all, but 
 wherever her affections were bestowed, she gave them 
 up so unreservedly, so trustingly, that her whole heart 
 and happiness were yielded to another's keeping. My 
 beautiful Anna Percival ! it seems as though I can see 
 thee now, in all the graceful loveliness of girlhood, seat- 
 ed upon a grassy bank, rapturously caressing the young- 
 est of our youthful band, the pet and the play-thing of 
 all as if I can yet feel the fond pressure of thy encircling 
 arms, when we met after a short absence. 
 
 There was another of my schoolmates whose charac- 
 ter was in some respects silmilar to that of Anna Perci- 
 val, but whose feelings were less keen or better regulated 
 than those of my sensitive friend. Emily Howard was 
 one of the gentlest of human beings. She always re- 
 minded me of a calm, beautiful lake, whose placid surface 
 reflected the cloudless summer sky. Nothing seemed to 
 have power to disturb the serenity of her mind. Her 
 disposition was naturally amiable and it was rendered 
 still more so, by the peculiar circumstances that had sur- 
 rounded her from childhood. Sources of irritation, sor- 
 row or disappointment were alike unknown to her, for 
 though her Mother had died in giving her birth, she 
 never felt the loss, for her surviving parent had added a 
 Mother's tenderness to a Father's love. She had been 
 nourished in an atmosphere of affection and had never 
 heard the language of reproof or unkindness. In her 
 infancy, her father would hang over her cradle to watch 
 her as she slept and as she grew older she was his con- 
 stant companion. His love seemed to become still more 
 devoted as her resemblance to his departed wife became 
 more apparent. He almost worshiped her, and he fond-
 
 20 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 ly deemed her worthy of his idolatry. He had been her 
 only teacher until finding there were accomplishments 
 that needed a female hand, he placed her under the tem- 
 porary charge of Mrs. Norville, but nothing save a sense 
 of the duty he owed his daughter could have induced him 
 to make the sacrifice. Though he resided at some dis- 
 tance from Oakwood yet he never suffered a week to pass 
 without seeing his beloved Emily. How often have I 
 witnessed these happy meetings. He would fold her to 
 his heart as if they had been separated for years. He 
 would sit by her side, hold her hand in his, and gaze on 
 her beautiful countenance, as if earth held for him but 
 one object of interest or attraction his own idolized 
 daughter. I have seen my Anna Percival's dark eye be- 
 come suffused in tears as she looked on them, and once 
 she grasped Emily's hand when her father left her and 
 said "My dearest Emily, oh is it not too much happiness, 
 to be thus tenderly loved ! 
 
 As ideas and remembrances are as frequently associated 
 by contrast as by resemblance, I suppose it is owing to 
 this, that the image of Amanda Malvina Burton next 
 presents itself. She was the only child of a shopkeeper 
 in the neighboring village, whose highest ambition was 
 to see his daughter become a fine lady and prospectively 
 a rich heiress. Setting aside the former folly, which I 
 think could not have come naturally to him, but must have 
 been suggested by his wife, he was a shrewd, sensible 
 little man arid the very prince of shopkeepers. If an old 
 woman came in for a cent's worth of tobacco for her pipe, 
 a little girl for a skein of thread, or a fashionable lady 
 condescended to stand beside his counter to look over his 
 new goods, the civil Mr. Burton gave to each an equal 
 share of attention. But it was not so with his aspiring 
 wife, she would always prefer administering to the ca-
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 21 
 
 prices of the " quality," as she called them, with the ut- 
 most obsequiousness, rather than to sell any article for 
 twenty-five per cent profit to her humble neighbors. She 
 had high notions of gentility and was continually drill- 
 ing her husband, so as to teach him to behave like a 
 gentleman. Her ideas of fashionable life were drawn 
 from a few obsolete novels, which her mother had brought 
 with her from England, and she had named her daugh- 
 ter after her favorite heroine, in " the Children of the 
 Abbey" a work now almost forgotten, but which was 
 many years ago a reigning favorite with all great novel 
 readers. 
 
 When Mr. Burton happened to indulge himself in any 
 of our indigenous habits, which his wife stigmatized as 
 American vulgarities he would listen very patiently to 
 her code of instructions on the true mode of becoming a 
 gentleman, and of raising his family in the world, but he 
 secretly determined to follow his own plan, formed from 
 a shrewd observation upon American life and manners 
 and which from the experience of others he knew to be 
 the best. He was already worth many thousands, and 
 in a year or two he intended to remove to the commer- 
 cial Emporium, and commence a mercantile establish- 
 ment upon an extended scale. And as soon as he had 
 ostensibly realized his half a million, and entered upon 
 a style of living, equal to his credit, he was confident 
 that his wife and daughter would then attain the summit 
 of " good society," and that he would be considered a 
 gentleman of standing, from the show and glitter of ex- 
 ternal appliances without the necessity of making any 
 change in his own mind or manners. 
 
 When it was known that Mrs. Norville was left in 
 destitute circumstances, after the death of her husband, 
 Mr. Burton who had formerly been under many obliga- 
 tions to Mr. Norville, while he was his overseer, endeav-
 
 22 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 ored to requite them by offering to render every assistance 
 in his power. And when he afterwards came to request 
 her to admit his daughter among her pupils, her grateful 
 remembrance of even a proffered kindness prevented a 
 refusal. There was much whispering among our school- 
 mates, when it was discovered that the daughter of Mr. 
 Burton was to be received at Oakwood. Mrs. Burton's 
 parting injunction to Amanda as she left home, was that 
 she should " hold up her head as high as any of us" but to 
 Amanda such a charge was needless, for she talked and 
 acted as if she were a princess. It was her delight to get 
 a group of girls around her, and tell them long histories 
 of the lords and ladies her grandfather had known in 
 England. Lord Dormer's castle, its saloons and corri- 
 dors, was a favorite theme, and she would say that her 
 grandfather and this nobleman were so intimate that they 
 saw each other every day, which was not at all surpris- 
 ing as he was Lord Dormer's gamekeeper, but of this, 
 she was intentionally kept ignorant by her weak-minded 
 mother. She would often regret that her mother's fami- 
 ly had left England, where they had such opportunities 
 of mingling in so much better society than could be found 
 in America. She often spoke of her grandfather's estate 
 that he purchased when he first emigrated to this country, 
 and it would often cause a smile in the faces of the few 
 who had heard that it was a ten acre lot, he cultivated as 
 a market garden. She could not describe any thing with- 
 out an hyperbole, and with her the most common objects 
 became invested with beauty or grandeur a grass plat 
 was styled a lawn and a lawn became a park ; her father's 
 two story house was a mansion and the little room open- 
 ing into the shop by a glass door was dignified by the 
 name of a drawing-room. And strange it was that with 
 her aspiring notions, she was not discontented with the 
 reality, but it was not so, for she would pass through her
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 23 
 
 father's well-filled store which was the only entrance to 
 their setting room, with as stately a step as if it were the 
 spacious hall of some lofty dwelling. Her imaginary 
 consequence seemed all sufficient for her enjoyment. 
 Notwithstanding her folly, she was a well meaning, amia- 
 ble girl and under more judicious culture than her parents 
 were able to give her, might have made a fine woman. 
 
 There was one of my school-mates who seemed as if 
 she never could become reconciled to the idea, of being 
 associated in daily companionship with Amanda Malvina 
 Burton. And unfortunately she was the very one with 
 whom Amanda was most desirous of being intimate, be- 
 cause she was the daughter of one of the oldest and most 
 respectable families in the State. Margaret Etherington 
 was aristocratic by nature and education. She was proud 
 of her name and proud of her descent, for from the ear- 
 liest days of the colony down to the present, the family 
 of the Etherington's had been among the highest in the 
 land. And never was any high-born English dame, who 
 could trace her ancestry up to one of the royal houses of 
 the kingdom, fonder of dwelling on the records of the 
 past, than was Margaret Eiherington. Though the idea 
 of coming in contact with the plebeian or the vulgar was 
 abhorrent to her, yet she was simple in her manners and 
 entirely devoid of restless pretension. Proudly conscious 
 of her own high lineage, she imagined that others were 
 equally aware of it, and therefore seldom or never spoke 
 of her ancestors. She knew that her father was not as 
 wealthy as he had been, but so far from considering her- 
 self less entitled to respect on this account, she thought 
 the name of Etherington a sufficient passport to distinc- 
 tion, in any company with whom she might happen to be 
 associated. To her, a regard or anxiety about money, 
 appeared to be the business of factors and tradesmen, but
 
 24 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 to regret the loss of wealth was far beneath the dignity 
 of a planter or a planter's daughter. 
 
 With all her pride, Margaret Etherington, was a favo- 
 rite of mine. There was a quiet dignity of manner, a 
 graceful simplicity about her, and so much high-souled 
 and honorable feeling that she won the esteem and respect 
 of all. She possessed great energy of character and a mas- 
 culine strength of intellect, and under the tuition of her 
 father she had pursued those classical studies and exten- 
 sive attainments in science, to which few females are per- 
 mitted to have access. She felt an utter contempt for 
 every species of falsehood, deception or outward seeming, 
 and every thing she said or did was characterized by a 
 noble candor, and a fearless independence. Mrs. Norville 
 was very much interested in her as a pupil and a relative, 
 and while she valued her for the sterling virtues she pos- 
 sessed, faithfully endeavored to lessen her pride, by con- 
 vincing her of its folly, and tried to impress upon her the 
 necessity enjoined on her to study and practice economy, 
 in the present situation of her father's concerns. But 
 Margaret had never heard the word economy used in her 
 ancestral home, except as synonymous with meanness or 
 penuriousness. and it was hard to induce her to believe it 
 to be a virtue. Mrs. Norville saw what was before her, 
 and feared that her family pride would prove a source of 
 much suffering, should she ever be forced to earn her own 
 subsistence and she often labored to bring her to a better 
 state of feeling. But it was a task not easily to be ac- 
 complished and I have seen Margaret's dark eye flash, as 
 her proud spirit rebelliously rose, when Mrs. Norville 
 would tell her that, independent of her personal qualities, 
 she was in reality no better entitled to respect than the 
 daughter of her father's overseer. Poor Margaret Ethe- 
 rington ! to her the duty of Christian humility was a 
 lesson that nothing earthly could teach, but the bitter ex- 
 perience of long continued adversity !
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 25 
 
 There Were two sisters who were for a short time, pupils 
 at Oakwood, in whom I felt very much interested. They 
 had been educated at home in much seclusion and had 
 mingled very little with girls of their own age. Though 
 this had made them reserved when with strangers, yet it 
 had preserved them from many evils resulting from the 
 association of numbers, and which the most careful instruc- 
 tress cannot always guard against. The lovers of gossip, 
 the retailers of family secrets, and those who were prone 
 to talk on forbidden or improper subjects found nothing 
 congenial in Mary and Ellen Grosvenor. With the cul- 
 tivated understanding of maturity, they retained the sim- 
 plicity, the innocence, and the mental purity of childhood. 
 Evil example with its contaminating influence, appeared 
 to have no power to harm them, as their principles had 
 become strengthened by a home education, before they 
 entered upon the ordeal of a boarding-school. Whatever 
 may be urged in favor of a public education for boys 
 there can be no doubt that a private one is preferable for 
 girls. To be convinced of this let any mother look back 
 upon her school-days and reflect on the evil influence that 
 one bad disposed child has often exerted upon young and 
 impressible minds, unless they had been previously guard- 
 ed by careful parental training. The school at Oakwood 
 united as far as it was possible the advantages of home 
 and school education and the system pursued by Mrs. 
 Norville was more like that of a mother than a mere in- 
 structress, yet even with all the faithful guardianship 
 and constant solicitude with which she hovered around us, 
 even in our hours of unrestrained amusement, there were 
 one or two who evaded her watchful care by bringing 
 among us immoral works, poisonous to the unsuspect- 
 ing credulity of childhood. And if such abuses could 
 creep stealthily in, under a preceptress such as she was, 
 what must be the case in a crowded boarding-school, 
 3
 
 26 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 where external discipline is entirely depended on, and 
 where little or no care is taken in the cultivation of moral 
 principles and where the opportunities for successful de- 
 ception are so frequent, as even to discourage those who 
 endeavor to unite both modes in training the young com- 
 mitted to their care. "If I had ten daughters," said a lady 
 who once kept a boarding-school, while addressing a 
 mother on female education, " not one of them should 
 ever enter a boarding-school, you are therefore right, 
 madam, in wishing to keep yours under your own super- 
 vision." 
 
 The contrast between Mary and Ellen Grosvenor and 
 some of the pupils who had previously spent some years 
 at fashionable boarding-schools was often strikingly ap- 
 parent, and afforded the most powerful inferences in favor 
 of private education. If a book were offered to the sis- 
 ters with a caution not to let Mrs. Norville see it, they 
 would instantly decline taking it and appear surprised 
 that any one could wish to read what their instructress 
 disapproved. 
 
 I never saw a more beautiful example of sisterly affec- 
 tion than existed between these two interesting girls. 
 Each seemed to prefer the other above herself. And 
 whenever Mrs. Norville praised one sister, any one would 
 have supposed it was the other from the sparkle of her 
 eye and the flush of gratified feeling that passed over 
 her countenance. Though their characters were differ- 
 ent yet they were the same in their tastes and pursuits. 
 They read the same books, enjoyed the same scenes, and 
 loved the same studies, 
 
 as if their minds 
 
 Had been incorporate. So they grew together 
 Like to a double cherry seeming parted, 
 But yet an union in partition ; 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem, 
 So with two seeming bodies but one heart.
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 27 
 
 And happy was it for them, that they were thus richly 
 blest in each other's society, for those gifted with minds 
 and tastes like theirs, seldom find congeniality or com- 
 panionship among a general acquaintance. 
 
 From their quiet reserve, a casual observer might pass 
 them without notice, but a judge of character would soon 
 discover there was a rich mine of intellectual and moral 
 worth lying beneath it and that they possessed warm 
 and disinterested affections and hearts full of tenderness, 
 sympathy and kindness. Indeed no one could know 
 Mary and Ellen Grosvenor intimately, without loving 
 and honoring them. I regretted very much that they 
 were obliged to leave Oakwood on account of the removal 
 of their parents to a distant part of the country. And 
 often did I think of these lovely, retiring sisters, and wish 
 there were more like them to be found in our schools and 
 around our firesides. For it is such as these, that shed 
 the light of moral purity over all with whom they associ- 
 ate, and surround the domestic hearth with a halo of love, 
 peace and intellectual refinement. 
 
 Ellen and Mary Grosvenor had a cousin, also a pupil 
 of Mrs. Norville, but who was wholly different from them 
 in disposition, mind and character. She was the daugh- 
 ter of worldly parents, had spent several years at a city 
 boarding-school and was a perfect specimen of an incipi- 
 ent woman of fashion. Every thing that Elizabeth 
 Harrington said or did was intended for effect, and so ef- 
 fectually had she learned the art of suiting herself to the 
 tastes of all in order to secure their admiration, that it 
 was difficult to decide what was her real character. Her 
 various affectations sat so naturally and so gracefully upon 
 her, that every one who saw her for the first time gave 
 her the credit of being what she assumed. Her mind 
 was shallow and uncultivated, yet possessing a quick, re*-
 
 28 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 tentive memory, ready conversational powers and a great 
 deal of tact, she passed with the generality of persons 
 for a girl of intelligence and information. I have often 
 been struck with the contrast between her and her cous- 
 ins. She would deliver her opinions on any subject, 
 with an ease and assurance that to the superficial would 
 appear to proceed from a thorough knowledge of it 
 while the shrinking dread of display that characterized 
 Mary and Ellen Grosvenor kept the rich treasures of 
 their well stored minds concealed, except to the few with 
 whom they were intimate. 
 
 Elizabeth Harrington was born a coquette and her love 
 of conquest was as insatiable as Alexander's, and she too 
 would have wept had she found no more hearts to con- 
 quer. She was a perfect Proteus. When surrounded 
 by her schoolmates, she would be herself, but if any 
 strangers entered, her whole manner and even the tone 
 of her voice would be instantly changed. One moment 
 she would be a laughing, romping hoyden and the next 
 she would appear all softness, gentleness and sensibility. 
 
 The duties of the school were irksome to her, she dis- 
 liked study and never did a heart-sick captive more ar- 
 dently long for the sweets of liberty, than did Elizabeth 
 Harrington for the time to arrive, when she could enter 
 into the gayeties and frivolities of fashionable life. Mrs. 
 Norville endeavored to show the futility of such pleasures 
 by contrasting them with the only true sources of hap- 
 piness, but her labors were ineffectual by being constantly 
 counteracted by her visits to her parents and the frequent 
 letters of her mother, filled with descriptions of the last 
 ball, rout, or dinner party. Her anxiety to leave school 
 was at length gratified and at an early age when she 
 ought still to have been at her studies, she had launched 
 forth upon the tide of fashionable follies, without a rudder 
 to direct her course through the dangerous voyage or an 
 anchor to steady the frail bark in the hour of tempest.
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 29 
 
 There was another girl among my schoolmates who 
 possessed all the vanity and fondness for admiration that 
 distinguished Elizabeth Harrington, but with fewer re- 
 deeming qualities. Elizabeth with all her faults was a 
 pleasant and popular companion, she was always so ready 
 to do a favor for any one that requested it, so good tem- 
 pered and so free from selfishness that we could not help 
 loving her. But Amelia Dorrington was entirely the 
 reverse. She was an only child and an heiress, and from 
 earliest infancy had been so accustomed to find all around 
 her giving up their comfort and happiness to hers, that 
 she still exacted it as a right from all with whom she 
 associated. In our hours of recreation, if we refused to 
 enter into the amusements that she happened to prefer, 
 she would try to mar our enjoyment by every scheme 
 that her petty malice could suggest. If she failed to at- 
 tract the especial notice of Mrs. Norville's visitors, she 
 would vent her spleen upon the one who had excited the 
 most attention. But she seldom had reason to become 
 dissatisfied or ill-tempered from this cause, for she was 
 so rarely, so exquisitely beautiful, that she arrested the 
 admiration of all who saw her. When she first entered 
 as a pupil at Oakwood, we were all captivated by her 
 surpassing loveliness. Her graceful little figure, moulded 
 in faultless proportion, her brilliant eyes shaded by their 
 long dark lashes, the perfect outline of her youthful 
 features and the peculiar richness of her silken hair, 
 falling in curls around her fair shoulders, made up a pic- 
 ture of beauty such as I never have seen equalled. Poor 
 child ! happy had it been for her to have been laid in the 
 grave even in all her youthful loveliness, than to have lived 
 on as she did until the evil passions that were then awak- 
 ening in her breast had thrown her a shattered wreck up- 
 on the rocks of vice and wretchedness ! 
 3*
 
 30 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 The next schoolmate that memory presents, was a gay 
 little creature named Matilda Harwood. She was full 
 of life and animation and it seemed as if nothing had 
 power to check the flow of her spirits. If her studies 
 were difficult she only laughed over them and if she met 
 with any grievances the smile returned to her lips, while 
 the tear was in her eye. She was constantly tempting us 
 to ill-timed merriment and in the midst of the most dif- 
 ficult problem or while listening to the explanation of 
 some subject that required our undivided attention, if she 
 could only succeed in attracting a glance of our eyes to- 
 wards her, she would excite an uncontrollable burst of 
 laughter, by some action or gesture. Our instructor in 
 astronomy was one of the gravest of men and with him 
 this was unpardonable, and we would have to bear his 
 reproofs, while she would put on so sober a face when he 
 looked round to discover the cause of our mirth, that she 
 always escaped suspicion. I never saw any one who pos- 
 sessed so keen a sense of the ludicrous ; she could find 
 cause for laughter where no one else could, and if a mer- 
 ry thought came across her mind, even at church or in 
 prayer time, she could not help enjoying it and giving 
 those nearest her the benefit of it. She was fond of mim- 
 icry, and nothing pleased her better than to take off 
 some amusing peculiarity in others. She seemed to 
 consider every body and every thing as legitimate objects 
 of ridicule, and nothing of a serious nature made any 
 impression upon her volatile disposition. Like most per- 
 sons who are full of levity and merriment, she had little 
 sympathy with sorrow or suffering, and although she was 
 very popular as a companion, yet there was not one 
 among us who selected her as a friend. And yet there 
 was something so attractive in her mirthfulness, that she 
 always drew a number around her in our play hours, and 
 wherever there was heard a gay peal of laughter from
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 31 
 
 mingled voices, some sally of wit or some happy stroke 
 of ridicule from Matilda Harwood was generally the ex- 
 citing cause. I never saw her sad or thoughtful, and 
 when I looked on her gay countenance and laughing 
 eyes, I often thought that the buoyancy of her spirits was 
 a talisman which would hear her unscathed through the 
 trials and vicissitudes of life. 
 
 Among the group of schoolmates that still remain un- 
 described there was but one more who has left a vivid 
 impression on my memory. Modest and retiring in her 
 manners, and possessing that peculiar refinement which 
 can only proceed from a highly cultivated mind, Sarah 
 Sherman, in intellect and character was superior to most 
 of the pupils at Oakwood. Though entitled to the kind- 
 ness and respect of all her associates, yet she was the 
 one who had most frequent occasion to bear the sneers 
 and contumely of the haughty and the wealthy. Sarah 
 Sherman was the youngest daughter of a worthy carpen- 
 ter, whose honesty and integrity gained him the confi- 
 dence and respect of many who thought themselves su- 
 perior to him in station. He requested Mrs. Norville to 
 receive his daughter as a pupil, not for the sake of forcing 
 her into a higher standing in society than her parents had 
 occupied, as Mr. and Mrs. Barton had done, but solely 
 with the desire of giving his child an opportunity of im- 
 proving those talents with which she was richly gifted, 
 and to gratify her ardent thirst for knowledge by more 
 extensive means of acquiring it. He would have been 
 contented for her to have been brought up as her sisters 
 had been, but he found that her natural capacity and 
 tastes required something more than a mere elementary 
 education. She had been studious from early childhood 
 and in the little library with which her kind father had 
 provided her, she enjoyed a communion and companion-
 
 32 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 ship that she found not in those around her. But she 
 felt the want of direction and instruction and timidly re- 
 quested her father to apply to Mrs. Norville for her ad- 
 mission into the Oakwood School. 
 
 Mr. Sherman though deficient in mere school educa- 
 tion, was a man of strong, practical intelligence, and 
 possessed a mind which had been improved by observa- 
 tion and reflection. He had formed just views of his 
 condition in society, and was as independent in feeling 
 and action as he was firm and upright in his principles. 
 He pursued his course unmoved by the arrogance of 
 wealth or the unwarranted assumptions of the powerful. 
 Believing that " all men are born free and equal," he 
 was enabled to fix a just appraisement on the outward 
 circumstances that surrounded them, and experienced no 
 diminution of self respect in the presence of those who 
 considered themselves above him, while at the same 
 time, he had no wish to intrude himself upon them, or to 
 violate the arbitrary enactments of society. The injus- 
 tice of worldly prejudices, had no power to wound his own 
 feelings, yet he knew his darling Sarah was ignorant of 
 them, and he dreaded their effects upon her sensitive 
 mind. In the sheltered seclusion of home, no opportu- 
 nity was found to learn the world and its ways, and she 
 had yet to be taught the painful truth, that among her 
 future associates there were many who would look down 
 upon her .with contempt, because her father happened to 
 be a mechanic. Mr. Sherman was well aware of this, 
 and told her what she must expect. He endeavored to 
 fortify her mind, by teaching her to form a proper esti- 
 mate of the various conditions of society, so as to save 
 her keen sensibilities from the pain that he foresaw 
 would be inflicted by the cold, the proud and the heart- 
 less. 
 
 These efforts of Mr. Sherman were ably seconded by
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 33 
 
 the kind and judicious Mrs. Norville, and though the 
 tear of wounded feeling frequently trembled in the eye of 
 the gentle, unobtrusive girl, yet she gradually learned to 
 rise above it, and at length she bore the slights and 
 sneers of her companions with the undisturbed calmness 
 of true wisdom. After having realized the truth of her 
 father's teachings from his own knowledge of the world, 
 she became so fearful of trespassing npon the imaginary 
 rights of the aristocratic, that it was difficult to draw her 
 into the least degree of intimacy. She became doubly 
 reserved and still fonder of the solitary pursuits that 
 formed the happiness of her childhood. In our play 
 hours, instead of joiningin the sports of her schoolmates, 
 she would sometimes take a book to some shady retreat, 
 and in silent communion with the bright imaginings of ge- 
 nius would soon forget the world without, or at others, 
 would pursue her lonely walk, over the hills and among the 
 woods, enjoying the calm delight inspired by the beautiful 
 scenes around her, and finding in these and her own high 
 thoughts a source of happiness unknown to those who 
 depend on others for amusement. Though she shrunk 
 from social intercourse with us in the hours of our joy- 
 ousness, yet when we met with any trouble or difficulty, 
 she was the first to come forward to do what she could. 
 I loved and respected her and would gladly have claimed 
 her as a friend and intimate companion, but I never could 
 induce her to throw aside the reserve in which she was 
 infolded. In all our classes, in the various studies we 
 pursued, Sarah Sherman bore the palm of superiority 
 for industrious application and rapid acquirement, yet so 
 meekly and unassumingly did she wear her honors, that 
 the most envious never wished to deprive her of the 
 merited distinction. She was a favorite with all our 
 teachers, and indeed this could not be wondered at, for it 
 must have been a pleasure instead of a task to guide an
 
 34 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 
 
 intellect like hers. Her desire for knowledge seemed to 
 increase with every additional means of gratifying it, and 
 not content with being always prepared in her allotted 
 tasks, she would frequently employ her hours of leisure 
 by reading larger works on the different subjects of our 
 studies. 
 
 Sometimes with the bigotry of narrow prejudice, the 
 thought would arise that it was a pity that this refined, 
 intellectual girl should be the daughter of a mechanic. 
 And I could not help fancying that she could not be hap- 
 py to descend again into the humble circle that gathered 
 around her father's hearth. How can she, I would ask 
 myself, be contented to associate with those in her own 
 sphere of life. I often thought her father would have 
 'acted more wisely if he had restrained her thirst for in- 
 tellectual acquirements by training her to fill some subor- 
 dinate post of usefulness, instead of elevating her above 
 the companionship of her family and friends by an edu- 
 cation suited only for the daughters of the wealthy and 
 the great. But subsequent experience has taught me the 
 fallacy of such reasoning for if this objection can be made 
 to apply to the daughter of a carpenter, it can be urged with 
 equal force against the children of our richest merchants. 
 For who that has mingled much in fashionable society 
 has not found as great a want of true refinement and as 
 much innate vulgarity and unlettered ignorance, but illy 
 concealed by conventional forms, in the families of many 
 men of fortune as could be met with in the household of 
 the most illiterate mechanic. And a member of one of 
 these wealthy families would be as far removed, by intel- 
 lectual cultivation, from companionship or congeniality 
 with her parents and sisters as the daughter of the me- 
 chanic could be from hers. Such being thetfact in both 
 cases, why should we be so ready to allow the most ex- 
 tensive privileges of education in one instance, and yet 
 question its wisdom or propriety in the other ?
 
 SKETCHES OF MY SCHOOLMATES. 35 
 
 And it is also the opinion of those who have had op- 
 portunities of forming an enlightened judgment upon 
 both classes, that there are men of sounder intelligence 
 and more thorough information to be found among those 
 who are styled workingmen, than can be met with among 
 those who have accumulated princely fortunes by their 
 merchandise, and whose ships touch every port of the 
 commercial world. And the reason of this is obvious ; 
 for the man who has been devoted from his early years, 
 to the love of gain and to the passion for wild specula- 
 tion, has had fewer opportunities for mental improvement 
 than he who has handled the tools of the artisan, for the 
 former has had every faculty of his mind concentrated 
 upon his schemes for amassing wealth, while the latter 
 follows an occupation that requires only the labor of his 
 hands, leaving his thoughts free to gather wisdom and 
 intellligence from observation, experience and reflection, 
 and silently to work their way in elevating him as a 
 thinking, reasoning being.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 Too swiftly fled ! the rosy hours of youth, 
 
 Shall yield their fairy charms to mournful truth, 
 
 E'en now, love's anxious, fond, prophetic fear, 
 
 Sees the dark train of human ills appear ; 
 
 Views various fortune for each lovely child, 
 
 Grief for the joyous, anguish for the mild ; 
 
 And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know, 
 
 In their long passage through a world of woe. 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 MRS. Norville, from the continuance of a feeble state of 
 health, felt herself unable to attend to the duties of her 
 school, and at last came to the determination of finally 
 relinquishing it, at the ensuing August vacation. She 
 had watched over us and guided us for many years with 
 the anxious tenderness of a mother's love, and most of us 
 had nearly reached that period of life, when we would be 
 expected to enter upon the sphere of womanhood. The 
 breaking up of the Oakwood school was to us a painful 
 intelligence, and the idea of a separation from our beloved 
 instructress, cast a shade of sadness over all the pupils. 
 
 A day or two previous to the time fixed on for our re- 
 turn to our respective homes, Mrs. Norville told us to put 
 away our books and take a farewell ramble to our favor- 
 ite seat under the old elm tree. Seeing the sorrow ex- 
 pressed in the countenances of her scholars, she playfully 
 said, you know you have styled it my throne, and I now 
 wish to make an abdication in due form, so come, my be- 
 loved subjects, and see me follow the example of Charles 
 the Fifth. And I fear I shall find my solitary fireside as 
 gloomy, without the sight of your happy faces, as he must
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 37 
 
 have found the naked walls of his lonely cells in the 
 monastery of St. Justus, after he had given up the splen- 
 dors of royalty, his worshiping crowd of courtiers, and the 
 prosecution of his ambitious schemes of aggrandizement. 
 So like him, I bid ' a long farewell to all my greatness,' 
 but in descending from my elevation, I have the happi- 
 ness of knowing that there is not one of my little band 
 that will not still claim me as a friend, though they will 
 have to relinquish me as a governess." I shall never 
 forget that day ! It was a calm, beautiful afternoon in the 
 latter end of July. A soft western breeze had freshened 
 the air after the noon-tide heat, and stirred the branches 
 of the trees above us, with a gentle rushing sound, like 
 the fall of waters. The green hills, and the distant 
 forests were tinged with the mellowed radiance of the 
 setting sun, while the lovely vallies were deepening into 
 the lengthened shadows of evening. As we traced the 
 winding path, Mrs. Norville pointed out the varied beau- 
 ties that lay around us, and expressed the hope that our 
 admiration of the beautiful and sublime scenes of nature 
 would ever be associated with high and holy thoughts of 
 Him who had thus richly endeared our earthly home. 
 When Mrs. Norville gained the rustic seat, we formed 
 a group around her, some sitting on the grassy bank, and 
 others leaning against the mossy trunks of the aged trees 
 that encircled this favorite spot. The thought that it was 
 the last time we should assemble here around our dear 
 teacher, gave rise to a general expression of sadness. As 
 Mrs. Norville looked on us, her eyes filled ; and her 
 voice trembled with emotion as she commenced her fare- 
 well address. " We have spent many happy hours, in 
 this sweet spot" said she, " and I trust that the truths I 
 have endeavored to impress on your youthful minds, may 
 remain with you, and guide you safely through the trying 
 scenes of the world upon which you are soon to enter. It 
 4
 
 38 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 is a momentous period, and upon your conduct during the 
 few first years will depend your character for life, and 
 the happiness or misery of your earthly course, and it 
 may be, of your future state. As yet, ' ye know not 
 what spirits ye are of.' Sheltered during infancy within 
 the sanctuary of home, and passing your girlhood beneath 
 the eye and under protecting regulations of your teacher, 
 yoa have met with nothing to test your weakness or 
 your strength. The watchfulness that hitherto took heed 
 to your footsteps, will soon be withdrawn, and you will 
 be trusted to go alone. In other nations, it is usual to 
 keep up a systematic course of -parental restriction over 
 young females, until they are given up to the guardian- 
 ship of husbands, but in ours it is considered unnecessary 
 after they have attained to womanhood. You will be 
 supposed to have arrived at years of discretion, and the 
 confidence thus placed in your principles, renders your 
 responsibility tenfold greater. But you are not left 
 guideless or unprotected, for He who called you into 
 being hath given you a conscience and a Bible, which 
 can bear you safely through every danger, and secure 
 you an entrance to the kingdom of Heaven, if you earn- 
 estly pray unto God to make these become a lamp unto 
 your feet, and a light unto your path. When your pa- 
 rents and guardians have ceased to exert their govern- 
 ment over you, it is then you are called on to exercise a 
 government over yourselves. And to do this, it is neces- 
 sary to study your character and capacities, your faults 
 and your besetting sins, that you may avoid temptation, 
 and learn how to rule your own spirits aright. In your 
 progress towards self-knowledge you will be more and 
 more convinced that you have continual need of Divine 
 assistance, that you can place no reliance on your own 
 strength. The wisest plans, and the firmest resolutions 
 will vanish away like the morning cloud and the early
 
 BREAKING TIP OF THE SCHOOL. 39 
 
 dew, if the aid of the Holy Spirit be not fervently and 
 prayerfully sought. Self dependence, and self conceit 
 are ever the offspring of weakness and ignorance. Then 
 in all your trials, my children, whether of prosperity or 
 adversity, remember the only true source of wisdom and 
 strength, and cling to it as your only safety in the hour 
 of temptation. 
 
 " To you, my dear girls, the world is a fairy spot, and 
 each one of you has probably pictured in the mists of the 
 distant future an illusive mirage, whose bright and beau- 
 tiful forms take the hues of your own tastes and fancies. 
 But you will find the reality of these visions is but a 
 scene of earth, that will lose all its charms when the fal- 
 lacious medium of imagination has passed, and given 
 place to the clear view of truth. Like the traveler in the 
 desert, your hastening footsteps will bring you to an arid 
 waste, where you expected to meet refreshing waters and 
 cooling shades. It is not with the intention to give you 
 gloomy views of life, my children, that I thus forewarn 
 you ; it is to save you from the bitterness of disappoint- 
 ment, and to lower your expectations of earthly bliss. 
 ' Man is born to trouble,' and all of you will one day 
 acknowledge this scripture truth. The loss of friends by 
 death or separation, the vicissitudes of fortune, the alter- 
 nation of joy and sorrow, and even heavier trials than 
 these, you may experience, and some among these will 
 certainly fall to your lot ; then is it not wise to be pre- 
 pared for their coming ? They who expect no more from 
 earth, than it can bestow, are those that find most happi- 
 ness. There are some sources of enjoyment in the path 
 of every one. The day hath its gleams of sunshine, the 
 night has its twinkling stars and silvery moon. The 
 world is never wholly shrouded in gloom. No ! thanks 
 be to our Heavenly Father, He hath scattered as many 
 delights around our earthly dwellings, as are safe for us
 
 40 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 to enjoy. He gives us much to cheer our hearts, and 
 sends us afflictions from time to time to wean us from 
 this passing earth, and to lead us to the only immutable 
 and unalloyed source of happiness. 
 
 " To this wise, and kind, and gracious Father, I com- 
 mend you all, my dear children, and will pray that you 
 may ' Remember your Creator in the days of your youth,' 
 when the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, 
 when ye shall say we have no pleasure in them." 
 
 The day on which my schoolmates were to leave 
 Oakwood at length arrived. Different vehicles were seen, 
 at intervals, winding through the trees, and drawing up be- 
 fore the porch, where we were all assembled; warm greet- 
 ings between the pupils and their parents or friends who 
 had come to escort them ; a parting embrace with Mrs. 
 Norville, and affectionate farewells to each other followed 
 in rapid succession, and thus one after another, they were 
 borne away to their separate homes, and many then 
 parted never to meet again ! 
 
 While we were under the charge of our instructress, 
 we appeared as a band of sisters ; Mrs. Norville having 
 strictly enjoined the utmost simplicity and uniformity in 
 our dress, there were no external indications by which 
 the daughter of the rich man could be distinguished from 
 that of one in restricted circumstances. But how soon 
 were worldly distinctions made apparent ! The gay 
 equipages, with their proud steeds, liveried coachman 
 and attendants, that came dashing up to the door, pre- 
 sented not a more striking contrast to the humble one 
 horse chaise, than we now felt there existed between the 
 outward condition of those who were about to take their 
 places within them. The gratified pride expressed in the 
 countenances of some, and the mortified feelings of false 
 shame that crimsoned the cheeks of others, showed that 
 it was human passions, as well as different circumstances
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 41 
 
 that would keep them at a distance from each other. 
 Mrs. Norville sighed deeply at this exhibition of human 
 frailty, and her benevolent heart was pained to see how 
 ineffectual were all her exertions where the spirit of 
 Christian humility was wanting. 
 
 The haughty purse-proud parents of the beautiful 
 Amelia Dorrington, arrived at Oakwood in an equipage 
 that would have suited an English noble. The gay car- 
 riage was emblazoned with the armorial bearings of 
 some titled European personage of the same name, but 
 not of the same family, and the rich caparison of the 
 four prancing steeds flashed in the sunlight, as they im- 
 patiently pawed the ground, as if unwilling even to wait 
 their master's pleasure. Amanda Burton was full of rap- 
 turous admiration, and though secretly disliking the 
 petted Amelia, she yet officiously assisted her prepara- 
 tions for departure, and bade her farewell, as if she were 
 her dearest and most intimate companion. As soon as 
 this vision of fashionable life had vanished from our 
 sight, Mr. Burton's one horse carriage was seen entering 
 the gate. Poor Amanda ! how her countenance fell, 
 it was the first time that I had seen her imaginary conse- 
 quence forsake her. 
 
 The plain old fashioned carriage of Mr. Etherington, 
 with its grey-headed coachman next came in view, and 
 the aristocratic Margaret looked on the silver crest that 
 unostentatiously graced the pannels, and recalled with 
 contempt the assumed heraldic blazonings of the perverse 
 Dorrington's. The only being who seemed entirely free 
 from the petty feelings exhibited on this occasion, was the 
 gentle Sarah Sherman, and when her plain and worthy 
 father alighted from his humble vehicle, she thought only 
 of him, and ran down the steps to meet him with a 
 warmth of affection, which owing to her reserve, I never 
 knew she possessed. Mrs. Norville held her hand as 
 4*
 
 42 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 * 
 
 she came to take leave of her, and said to Mr. Sherman, 
 " I now return to you one of my best pupils ; and the 
 pleasure I have received in instructing your estimable 
 daughter, makes me feel indebted to you, for having 
 placed her under my charge. She is a girl after my own 
 heart, and she will prove a treasure to you, of whose 
 value you will daily become more sensible. She has 
 been assiduous and successful in her studies, and ranks 
 among the first in intellectual advancement ; but what is 
 far better than all, she has become a student of the Bible, 
 and has learned to prize the wisdom from above as more 
 than surpassing that of earth." 
 
 The father's eyes filled with tears, and his face flushed 
 with gratified feeling as he replied, " Sarah was always 
 a good child, and I am thankful that she is still my own 
 little girl. Some persons told me, I was doing wrong in 
 giving her a better education than I or any of my family 
 had received, that it would make her ashamed of her 
 parents and sisters, but I would not believe them, and I 
 knew she would always be the same as I find her now, 
 my own precious, affectionate daughter." 
 
 The happy father and daughter departed, and we were 
 left alone. A few hours before, my schoolmates were 
 assembled together, the inmates of one dwelling, under 
 the care of one common friend and preceptress, and now 
 all had passed away; we were scattered in diverging 
 paths, never to meet again as equals. The invidious dis- 
 tinctions of the world had come in between us, and 
 those who had sat upon the same bench, and studied the 
 same lesson side by side, would look coldly on each 
 other, without the slightest token of acquaintanceship or 
 recognition. 
 
 My dear father was my only parent, my mother hav- 
 ing died before I knew what it was to lose her, and he 
 had not yet returned from Europe, whither he had gone
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 43 
 
 for the recovery of his health. Having no home to be 
 welcomed to, as my schoolmates had, I requested Mrs. 
 Norville to permit me to remain with her until his arri- 
 val. This arrangement was grateful to me, for I knew 
 that my dear preceptress needed some female companion 
 in her feeble state of health. We both hoped that the 
 tranquil life she would now be enabled to pass, by hav- 
 ing relinquished the care of her pupils, would be attended 
 by beneficial effects, and she often said, that as soon as 
 her strength was restored, she would take the entire 
 charge of her two boys, and get a private tutor to give 
 them daily lessons. It was the greatest trial she experi- 
 enced in her loss of fortune, that she was obliged to re- 
 linquish the education of her sons. Had she been able 
 to attend to them, she would have kept them with her, 
 but finding the duties of her school occupied her so en- 
 tirely, she placed them at a grammar school, kept by a 
 clergyman, who had been a warm personal friend of her 
 husband. 
 
 It made me sad to enter the deserted school-room, after 
 the departure of my companions, and often as Mrs. Nor- 
 ville and I sat down to our solitary meals, or rambled 
 along our favorite paths, we frequently spoke of those 
 who had left us. Their different characters, their prob- 
 able destinies, and our hopes and fears for each gave 
 rise to many interesting conversations. " It may be sel- 
 fish she would say, but I feel as if I could have wished 
 to have them always with me. I cannot bear to think of 
 the evils to which those will be exposed, who are about 
 to enter into the fashionable world. I have seen so many 
 sweet ingenuous girls so soon transformed by flattery and 
 admiration, that I dread their influence. Unless the 
 mind and heart be strengthened by religious principle, 
 there are few who can come unscathed from the trial. 
 Can we wonder there is so little elevation of character or
 
 44 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 intellect among females, when they find that a pretty 
 face, or a fashionable air, is more attractive than moral 
 beauty, or a cultivated mind ? The desire to please is 
 natural to all, and when a girl finds that to increase her 
 personal attractions, to dress fashionably, and to acquire 
 popular manners are the quickest and surest passports to 
 favor, it is not surprising that she should forget she has a 
 mind to improve and duties to perform. And they who 
 complain of the vanity and folly of our sex and censure 
 their fondness for trifling pursuits, would do well to re- 
 flect if they as members of society have not done their 
 part towards making them what they are. I have known 
 some females, who when at school were remarked for 
 their intelligence, become mere triflers in society, and 
 indeed, with the generality of girls, the period of their 
 leaving school is the time for casting aside every thing 
 like serious occupation, or mental cultivation. In this 
 error the blame rests not with them alone, but upon the 
 society into w r hich they are thrown. It is not the male 
 sex only that fosters these evils by their delusive flatte- 
 ries, for I have heard mothers, even those who professed 
 to have renounced the world and its follies, expressing 
 regret that their daughters had no fondness for company, 
 and that they preferred their own fire-side.s, instead of en- 
 deavoring to attract notice in the circles of fashion. 
 And strange it is, yet true, that if a girl of retiring man- 
 ners and superior mind, be induced by the solicitation of 
 friends to enter a fashionable assembly, she will be left 
 unnoticed, while the coquette and the giddy trifler gather 
 around them, not only those who are equally vain and 
 trifling with themselves, but they will often monopolize 
 the attention of men of talent and acquirements. In 
 society as it is at present constituted, the external attrac- 
 tions of person, manners or fortune, are alone valued, 
 but the intrinsic treasures of mind, heart and character
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 45 
 
 are unfelt, and unappreciated. It is for this reason that 
 girls who are desirous of attaining a high standard of 
 moral and intellectual excellence, should first learn to be 
 happiest at home, and to be independent of others for en- 
 joyment. They will meet with little sympathy or en- 
 couragement from their general acquaintance of either 
 sex ; but they must be content with the approval of God, 
 and of their own hearts, and with the esteem and friend- 
 ship of the few. The companion of an evening, or the 
 casual visiter will pass them by, but the inmates of their 
 household, and the friends of a life-time will cherish 
 them among their heart's dearest treasures." To have 
 enjoyed the privilege of intimate communion with a wo- 
 man like Mrs. Norville, has been throughout my life, a 
 source of grateful feeling. It is to the blessing of Provi- 
 dence and her endeavors that I owe all the tranquillity 
 and contentment I have found in my desolate orphanage. 
 For she taught me to find society in solitude, and happi- 
 ness in an isolated situation. My dear father never 
 reached his native land. He died in Bordeaux, a day or 
 two previous to his intended embarkation and I was 
 left alone, the last of my kindred, without the prospect of 
 a home. The fortune that reverted to me as the sole 
 heir of the family estates, gave me no pleasure, and was 
 a miserable exchange for the glad anticipations of a 
 father's society at a father's hearth. I entreated Mrs. 
 Norville to let me be unto her as a daughter, and to con- 
 sider her house as my permanent home. She folded me 
 in her arms, and said she would endeavor to supply a 
 parent's place and begged me to call her mother. How 
 willingly did I avail myself of this precious privilege ; it 
 seemed as though the load that pressed on my heart, 
 when I thought of my strange, sad loneliness, was taken 
 from me, and that I now had one kindred breast to lean 
 upon. She was indeed a mother to me. With all the
 
 46 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 delicacy and tenderness of true affection, she endeavored 
 to rouse my mind from its brooding melancholy, by 
 interesting me in some active pursuit or some pleasing 
 mental occupation. Every day had its allotted walk or 
 ride, to view the beautiful scenes with which the neigh- 
 borhood abounded, and every evening was spent in 
 sketching some picturesque spot that we had visited, or 
 in alternately reading aloud some favorite author. 
 
 When time and the affectionate attentions of my 
 adopted mother had brought my spirits into comparative 
 calmness, there were certain fearful indications that I 
 should have to bear another loss that I should ere long 
 be alone, without one being in the crowded world 
 whom I could look up to, for sympathy or counsel. 
 Increasing feebleness and a wasting cough were symp- 
 toms on which I could not bear to dwell. While sel- 
 fishly absorbed in my own affliction, the change in my 
 dear Mrs. Norville was unnoticed, but now I watched 
 every variation with intense anxiety, and alternate hopes 
 and fears. Gentle exercise in the open air had been 
 recommended to her, and sweet, though very sad were 
 the rides and the rambles we took together. She had 
 tenderly ministered unto my stricken heart, and now, I 
 became her constant nurse and attendant, in the hour of 
 her physical disease. Leaning upon my arm we would 
 saunter through the beautiful grounds of Oakwood, and 
 as the fresh breeze played around her brow, she would 
 feel a renovated strength, which, alas ! was but tempo- 
 rary. She enjoyed the lovely scenes around her with 
 the eye of a poet, and the heart of a Christian. As she 
 noticed the tokens of departing summer, in the withered, 
 decaying flowers, and the first falling leaves, she would 
 advert to her own expected dissolution, and trace the im- 
 pressive analogy between the life of man and the objects 
 surrounding him. And once she said to me " Yes, I
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 47 
 
 now feel the full force of these remarks of a late author- 
 ess. ' In their decay and changes we see a resemblance 
 to our own, and it is this that makes them so attractive.' 
 And with her too I can say, ' The heaven's declare the 
 glory of God.' No curse has marred its order or its 
 beauty. All is still as He created it a visible manifest- 
 ation of the power, the wisdom, and beauty of the Di- 
 vine Mind. When pursuing the same thoughts in her 
 own expressive language, she added " when we look on 
 earth, every thing thai we see reminds us of man : the 
 opening bud, and the scattered petals, the tender foliage 
 of Spring, the sear and yellow leaves of Autumn, sun- 
 shine and shadow, ruggedness and beauty, barren wastes 
 and fertile fields succeed to each other, or mingle to- 
 gether. And from his own handiwork man may read 
 the same lesson on human life, the towering edifice 
 fresh from the labors of its builders, and the crumbling 
 ruin with its broken columns, its fallen grass-grown 
 walls, populous cities, the sudden growth of a few 
 years, instinct with the hum and bustle of vitality, and 
 cities desolate, without an inhabitant, and without a 
 name, whose dilapidated temples are the only traces 
 left of a long buried, forgotten race on this earth. 
 Vicissitudes and decay are marked upon the works of 
 God, and the works of his creatures, but when we look 
 above, all is bright and unchanging, one eternal Now 
 from the* first creation of the universe to the present 
 hour. The clouds rising from earth may obscure the 
 blue heavens, but it is still the same ; the sun and the 
 stars roll on, immutable in their lustre, and even the 
 changes of the silvery moon are not in herself, but from 
 the varying shadows that our own world casts on her 
 surface. The earth indeed is the type of man, but the 
 Heavens are the glorious emblem of Him, who is the 
 same yesterday, to-day, and forever !" 
 
 Mrs. Norville waited for the hour of death in ealm
 
 48 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 submission, and it was only when thinking of her dear 
 children that her eyes would fill, and her tongue falter 
 with emotion. They were two interesting boys, and 
 fondly attached to their mother ; and a few weeks previ- 
 ous to her death she had them brought to Oakwood to 
 remain with her during the time that was spared her on 
 earth. It was a beautiful sight to look on these dear 
 boys as they waited on their feeble mother, and attended 
 to her slightest wish. There was a hush upon their 
 boyhood's spirits, as if they knew there was some cause 
 that forbid their merriment. They would sometimes 
 range through the fields to gather the tempting fruit or 
 the bright autumnal flowers, and then glide softly to 
 their mother's room and lay them beside her. And at 
 others, they would sit at her feet and read to her some- 
 thing that had given them pleasure, and look up to find 
 their reward in her placid smile. As yet she could not 
 bring herself to the painful task of telling them she was 
 soon to die, and they were still unconscious of their 
 approaching loss. She said to me, " How can I grieve 
 their young hearts by an anticipation of sorrow, tell me 
 Ellen, do you think it would be any alleviation to them 
 to have been prepared for the event ? But one thought 
 consoles me it is not the nature of childhood to suffer 
 long ; after the first burst of grief is over, their instinc- 
 tive buoyancy of feeling soon restores them to calmness 
 or cheerfulness. One day when speaking of them, she 
 regretted that she had not been able to add more to the 
 fund she had invested for their education. This was an 
 opportunity I had long wished for, but delicacy had pre- 
 vented my adverting to it, being aware of that independ- 
 ence of character which had always induced her to de- 
 cline any aid from others. I entreated her to entrust 
 her boys to me. " I am perhaps too young," said I, " for 
 such a responsibility, yet the trust would stimulate me 
 to fit myself for it. You have been a mother to me, then
 
 BREAKING UP OF THE SCHOOL. 49 
 
 let me be a sister to them." She clasped my hand and 
 said, " Take them Ellen, they are yours !" Her heart 
 was too full to utter more. 
 
 It was on one of the mild days of Indian summer, that 
 my beloved friend breathed her last. The genial air of 
 that sweet season seemed to revive her, and she was 
 again able to resume her favorite seat by a window 
 overlooking a varied and beautiful prospect. The dis- 
 tant bay in the horizon, the village church with its 
 surrounding woods, and the lively hills and vallies of 
 Oakwood lay sleeping in the softening haze of autumn. 
 The brilliant hues of the forest foliage that shone out so 
 brightly in the clear frosty air, a few days before, were 
 now mingled into that mellowness of coloring that an 
 artist loves. The outlines of distant objects had a dream- 
 like indistinctness, and sunshine and shadow were so 
 gently transfused into each other, that the line of separa- 
 tion could scarcely be traced. At Mrs. Norville's re- 
 quest, I raised the window, and a soft breeze came in, 
 stirring the clustered berries of the leafless woodbine, 
 and the feathery sprays of the jessamine, that still re- 
 tained the greenness of their summer hours. There was 
 a brooding quiet upon the scene, as if the season were 
 Nature's sabbath. The only sounds that met our ear 
 were the melancholy chirp of the field cricket, and the 
 occasional note of some solitary bird. Mrs. Norville sat 
 silently gazing on the scene before her, as if her spirit 
 were communing with Him who had spoken its beauty 
 into existence, and, at length, as if giving unconscious 
 utterance to her thoughts she said, " Yes ! He has called 
 me away from this beautiful earth, and from my lovely 
 boys, but I leave them to Him, who has graciously 
 promised to be a Father unto the fatherless, and in this 
 trust, I die content." 
 
 A sudden change passed over her saint-like counte- 
 nance, and my friend, my mother was no more. 
 5
 
 50 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ANNAPERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 Oh ! why should woman oft so blindly love 
 Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, 
 Happiness, are but things of which henceforth 
 She'll only know the name ? Her heart is seared ; 
 A dazzling light hath flashed athwart her life 
 And made its after darkness terrible ! 
 
 L. E. t. 
 
 HAVING placed the two dear boys entrusted to me, at 
 the school selected by their departed mother, according 
 to her written request, I parted from them with regret, 
 and having obtained their promise to write often, left 
 them to make a long promised visit to my friend Anna 
 Percival. I had not seen her since her return from 
 Boston, where she and her mother had spent some time 
 with her paternal relatives. 
 
 I found my friend even more graceful and beautiful 
 than when I last saw her, but still the same ingenuous, 
 warm-hearted and sensitive girl I had loved in our 
 school-days. The residence of Mrs. Percival was in the 
 immediate neighborhood of a populous city, and united 
 the facilities of social intercourse with its polished circles 
 to the charms of rural scenery. 
 
 Anna was fond of society, and her rare personal attrac- 
 tions drew so many around her, that we were seldom 
 alone. She was equally a favorite with both sexes, and 
 Roseville was quite a Mecca to the devotees of fashion- 
 able life. I regretted that she should have been thrown 
 in circumstances so unfavorable to the growth of that 
 invaluable instruction implanted by our dear Mrs. Nor- 
 ville, yet the world had still left her heart unchilled,
 
 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 51 
 
 while it captivated her fancy by its specious brilliancy. 
 Her mother had once been a belle and a beauty, and she 
 vainly supposed she had secured her daughter's happi- 
 ness by introducing her into the same scenes which had 
 formerly been so attractive to herself. Mrs. Percival's 
 natural vanity was fully gratified in the admiration ex- 
 cited by her beautiful child, and by the many offers of 
 marriage she received. But although the hand of Anna 
 was often solicited, yet it was some time before she met 
 a suitor to whom she could give her heart. She had too 
 much intellectual refinement to be satisfied with any one 
 who was common-place, and the imaginary standard of 
 perfection upon which her fancy had often dwelt, had 
 not yet been realized. " I care not for wealth, personal 
 attractions or elevated standing," she would often say, 
 "but the man that I can love must be one that is supe- 
 rior in noble bearing, and manly grace, one whose 
 talents and character will command the respect and ad- 
 miration of all, and it is only with such an one, that I 
 could be happy." I told her that then her love would be 
 too like idolatry ever to be a happiness. 
 
 One of the frequent visitors at Roseville brought with 
 him a friend who had just returned from Europe. His 
 reputation for talents, acquirements and polished ele- 
 gance had preceded him, and Anna's imagination had 
 been busy in picturing him as the living prototype of her 
 fancy's sketch. Her highly wrought expectations met 
 no disappointment, for Frederick Elton was one in every 
 respect suited to fascinate a young, imaginative female. 
 I never saw one in whom there was so much manly 
 beauty, his finely formed figure, the noble contour of 
 his Roman features, and the high expanded forehead, 
 with the rich masses of dark hair that gracefully curved 
 around it, were sufficient to justify the admiration ex- 
 cited by his personal attractions. In addition to these,
 
 52 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 his manners were singularly refined and elegant, and 
 his attentions to females were characterized by all that 
 delicate courtesy and deferential respect, so attractive to 
 a woman's heart. In conversation, he was fluent and 
 graceful, and he could pass from the lightest to the 
 gravest subjects without any appearance of effort. He 
 was evidently a man of superior talents, and pre-eminent 
 attractions, yet he did not suit my taste. There was so 
 much exterior elegance, so much conventional polish, 
 that you could form no estimate of his character or his 
 principles. In his rapturous admiration of the beautiful 
 or sublime in nature or art, and in his eloquent decla- 
 mations on the glowing inspirations of genius ; there was 
 too much scientific enthusiasm, his feelings seemed to be 
 untouched. In all that he said or did, there was nothing 
 that revealed a heart. I saw that Anna's fancy was 
 captivated, and I feared that her affections would soon 
 follow. With the privilege of our long established 
 friendship, I entreated her not to be too precipitate, but to 
 judge him with the calmness of reason, and not to per- 
 mit her imagination to lead her into unconscious error. 
 Their attraction was mutual, and I soon found that the 
 grace and beauty of my friend, had made an evident im- 
 pression on one who was a passionate admirer of per- 
 sonal loveliness. 
 
 A few months after their acquaintance, Frederick El- 
 ton was an accepted suitor, and as devoted to the lady of 
 his love as the most gallant knight of romance or chivalry. 
 Previous to his engagement with Anna, he had promised 
 to meet a party of his friends in Italy the ensuing winter 
 and he urged an immediate union, that he might be ac- 
 companied by his expected bride. Anna was pleased 
 with the thoughts of visiting the beautiful land he had 
 so often described to her ; but as he did not propose to 
 take her mother, she could not bear the idea of leaving
 
 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 53 
 
 her alone for so long a period, as his contemplated ab- 
 sence. At first, she had not the courage to oppose the 
 slightest wish of her lover, but when he spoke of it 
 again, she said " but my Mother how can I leave her 
 alone," this was uttered with hesitation, as if she ex- 
 pected he would invite her mother to accompany them. 
 For a moment, he made no reply, a slight shade of dis- 
 pleasure passed over his countenance, and he at last said, 
 " but recollect, my Anna, your husband will be with you, 
 and your Mother need not be alone, for I am sure that 
 your friend will consent to remain with her until our re- 
 turn." Before I had time to assent to this, Mrs. Perci- 
 val, too much gratified with the eclat of her daughter's 
 bridal voyage to Europe, to offer any obstacles to it; 
 urged Anna to consent to the proposed plan. The wed- 
 ding was celebrated with all the splendor usual among 
 the wealthy on such occasions, but as I gazed on the 
 brilliant scene before me, the dazzling lights illuminating 
 rich festoons of flowers, the moving figures in their gay 
 costumes, the bright faces of the young and gay, I 
 thought of other scenes, that would soon succeed this 
 gorgeous pageant in the diorama of human life. I mused 
 upon the parting hour, the sudden breaking up of those 
 ties that bind the heart to the home of youth, and that 
 entrance upon untried duties and realities with one who 
 is as yet a stranger, and whose companionship whether 
 it will be for weal or for woe, time only can prove. 
 When I looked on the beautiful bride, I thought of her 
 when a school-girl at Oakwood, and prayed that the 
 fears so often expressed by our dear instructress would 
 never be realized, and that she might learn to moderate 
 her expectations of worldly bliss, without experiencing 
 the bitter fate of those who sacrifice the whole of their 
 affections at the shrine of an earthly idol. 
 
 A few weeks afterward my friend and her husband 
 5*
 
 64 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 were voyagers upon the wide lonely sea, and we were 
 also left in comparative solitude, for there was but little 
 attraction for the gay world at Roseville, since the de- 
 parture of its lovely inmate. Mrs. Percival was devotedly 
 attached to her daughter, and it was several weeks before 
 she was sufficiently accustomed to her absence, to become 
 . interested in any thing. For she had laid up her treasure 
 upon earth, and the rich resources of the Christian in 
 every affliction, were to her unknown. In order to 
 withdraw her mind from the melancholy into which 
 she had fallen, from the separation from her only child, 
 and the solitary life she led, I often spoke to her of Mrs. 
 Norville, and in giving her the history and character of 
 my beloved preceptress, I endeavored to impress her with 
 a consciousness of the support to be derived from religion 
 under every trial. Mrs. Percival had never enjoyed the 
 blessing of Christian parents, and her notions of piety 
 extended no farther than a periodical attendance at 
 .Church, and a weekly reading of some portion of Scrip- 
 ture on Sabbath afternoons. But the Bible was to her a 
 .sealed book, for its glorious truths were still unrevealed. 
 ,1 endeavored to interest her mind in the study of the 
 .Scriptures by following the plan of my own dear teacher, 
 .and had at length the happiness of finding that my 
 prayers for assistance had not been left unanswered. 
 The seed received through the word, had fallen into 
 .good ground, and gradually brought forth fruit in that 
 peace which the world can neither give nor take away. 
 . She had all the trusting faith and simplicity of a child, 
 and was thus saved from the doubts and temptations of 
 those who lean to their own understandings. She 
 -sought the Bible daily, for that spiritual food suited to 
 .her state and condition, and prayed for her absent 
 daughter night and morning, and entreated her God and 
 Saviour that He would graciously interpose to save her
 
 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 55 
 
 child from the effects of her maternal neglect in not hav- 
 ing trained her in the way she should go. In her letters 
 to Anna she was faithful to her duty, and endeavored to 
 impress her with a sense of her absence from God, and 
 her need of a Saviour. But alas ! in the hour of pros- 
 perity and earthly happiness these truths and warnings 
 pass by us unheeded ! It is only when we see all we 
 have trusted to, lying in ruin around us, that we become 
 convinced of our sin and folly, and bitterly feel the want 
 of a better hope, and a surer foundation than this world 
 can offer. 
 
 We heard frequently from Anna, and it seemed as if 
 she could write of nothing but Frederick, her idolized 
 husband. In answer to one of Mrs. Percival's letters, 
 she said, " you tell me, my dear Mother that worldly 
 bliss is illusive and transitory, and that it cannot satisfy 
 an immortal mind, but I have not found it thus ; for the 
 happiness that I am blessed with, leaves me nothing to 
 wish for. In devoting my affections to one like Fred- 
 erick, in living for him, in doing all that I can to please 
 him, I have found a fruition of bliss surpassing the 
 brightest dream of fancy. Believe me, my mother, the 
 only cloud that throws its passing shadow over my sun- 
 lighted prospects, is the thought that he is mortal. 
 Sometimes when I look on him in all the pride of his 
 manly beauty, and his gifted intellect, I mentally exclaim, 
 can these ever be a prey to death ? The idea that I may 
 lose him comes over me with shuddering apprehension, 
 even in my happiest moments, and I clasp my arms 
 around him, and breathe the hope, that when the hour 
 of separation comes, he may be the survivor." 
 
 After several months residence abroad, her letters 
 were less frequent, and they were no longer the same. 
 She seldom spoke of her husband, and when writing to 
 her mother often expressed a wish to return, to her dear
 
 56 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 Roseville, and said she had a hope of being once more 
 with her mother and friend the ensuing autumn; hut 
 she could not state the period of her departure from 
 Italy, with any certainty, as it depended entirely on Mr. 
 Elton's arrangements. In her letters to me, she no 
 longer eulogized the happiness of wedded life, nor ban- 
 tered me on my obstinate resolution to be an old maid, 
 or with her playful declaration that she would make me 
 repent it, when I saw how happy she was. The cheer- 
 ful vivacity, and the continual flow of gayety that once 
 pervaded them, gave place to a gentle sadness, and she 
 now often reverted to her happy school-days and her 
 dear Mrs. Norville. If a stranger had read them, there 
 could nothing be found which a happy wife might not 
 have written ; and even her mother seemed to be uncon- 
 scious of any change in her daughter's feelings ; she 
 would sometimes say, " I do not wonder she should wish 
 to be at home again, after being so long away from us." 
 But to me her simplest expressions spoke volumes, and 
 what would have been unnoticed by one who had not 
 studied her heart, were not trifles to me ; they revealed 
 to me this painful truth, that my Anna was unhappy. 
 the cause was but a conjecture. And had she so soon 
 awakened from her bright dream of bliss ; was it the 
 reality of life that now opened itself before her in all its 
 sterility and ruggedness ? The worldly moralist might 
 exclaim, Alas, for the sad doom of fate ! but the Chris- 
 tian one acknowledges in these trials the hand of a 
 Father, who thus graciously saves us from our self-delu- 
 sion, and turns us from earthly idols to worship Him, the 
 only being worthy our adoration. 
 
 It was a cold evening in November, Mrs. Percival and 
 I had seated ourselves beside a comfortable fire, and 
 were arranging our respective employments for the even- 
 ing. She had placed her Bible on the stand before her,
 
 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 57 
 
 and I had my writing desk open to write a letter to my 
 dear adopted brothers. The loud rushing of the blast 
 through the leafless boughs, and its hollow moan as it 
 swept past the dwelling, arrested our attention, and mu- 
 tually reminded us of the dangers of " those who go 
 down to the sea in ships." Mrs. Percival said, "It is a 
 fearful night for the vessels upon our coast ; I trust my 
 dear Anna will not attempt the voyage at this tempestu- 
 ous season, much as I wish to see her, I would rather 
 she would defer her return until spring." As soon as 
 she ceased speaking, we heard the sound of carriage 
 wheels, and Mrs. Percival exclaimed, " that must be 
 Anna for who else would come here on such an even- 
 ing." We both ran into the hall, and the mother and 
 daughter were folded in each other's arms. 
 
 When the tumultuous joy of our unexpected meeting 
 had subsided, I saw that my friend was altered, very 
 much altered ! She was pale and haggard, and had lost 
 the sparkling vivacity that once animated her counte- 
 nance. There was a shade of painful thought that came 
 over it, whenever she ceased speaking, as if it were its 
 habitual expression. And Frederick Elton too was 
 changed. He had still the same courtly elegance of 
 manner, but his face had lost much of its intellectual 
 beauty, and there was a coarseness about it, which I 
 never saw before. 
 
 In the course of conversation a day or two afterwards, 
 he said to Mrs. Percival, " Anna has seen something of 
 the world since we left Roseville. She has found some 
 difference between the polished society of Europe, and 
 the cold precision, and awkward reserve of the limited 
 circles she mingled with here. She expected me to play 
 the domestic man in Italy, and this you well know, Mrs. 
 Percival, would be as much out of place in that sunny 
 clime, as one of your wintry snow storms." " But now"
 
 58 ANNA PEECIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 said he, turning to Anna, " that I am once more in 
 America, I must do all that good American husbands do. 
 This comfortable fireside will serve for our picture you 
 will be seated in a chair, sewing as industriously as if 
 depending on the labors of your needle for support, while 
 I am lolling in a rocking chair beside you with a news- 
 paper in my hand, reading to you the record of mar- 
 riages, deaths and accidents ; or taking a nap with my 
 feet on the fender. How happy we shall be, and what a 
 fine domestic couple we shall make ! If any of my 
 friends in Europe should happen to pay us a visit, they 
 would never recognize Frederick Elton in the sober 
 Benedict the uxorious, home-staying husband. Then I 
 must wait on you, whenever you wish to spend the even- 
 ing with a friend ; attend you to church, or in your 
 shopping excursions. I shall be quite a model married 
 man, do you not think so, Mrs. Elton ?" 
 
 A forced smile passed over Anna's face, but a tear 
 started in her eye ; and I saw that his badinage was 
 painful to her. She made him no reply, but hastily ad- 
 dressed some question to her mother, as if anxious to 
 change the subject. In those few moments how much 
 was revealed ! What a life of suffering I saw before my 
 Anna. She was united to a man who could not appre- 
 ciate her devoted attachment ; one who selfishly followed 
 his own pleasures ; made a jest of domestic happiness, 
 and ridiculed every feeling that makes marriage honora- 
 ble or sacred. 
 
 A few weeks after their return, Frederick took his 
 wife to a home adorned with all that wealth could pro- 
 cure, or fashion render attractive. Many of her former 
 acquaintance envied her the possession of so much 
 splendor, and thought she must be a happy woman in 
 having secured such a matrimonial prize as the rich and 
 brilliant Mr. Elton ; but how gladly would Anna have
 
 ANNA PERC1VAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 59 
 
 relinquished this gorgeous mansion for' the humblest 
 dwelling, made bright by a husband's devoted affection. 
 The love of Frederick Elton was but the passing whim 
 of the moment. He was fascinated by Anna's youthful 
 loveliness, from contrasting it with the designing co- 
 quetry and artificial charms of the European females, in 
 whose society he had lived for several years ; and when 
 he first saw her, the freshness and beauty of her dawning 
 womanhood, took him by surprise. Her face lost its 
 attraction with its novelty, and as he was incapable of 
 valuing the love he had inspired, or of understanding the 
 excellencies of her character, he left her society for that 
 of other females, and my unhappy friend soon found that 
 she had sacrificed the whole wealth of her young affec- 
 tions upon a heartless libertine. When this dreadful 
 truth was first revealed, oh who can tell the full tide of 
 misery that rushed upon her trusting, devoted heart ! 
 
 She had already learned the hard task of wearing a 
 
 I smile upon her face, while her heart was almost bursting 
 
 with conflicting emotions ; and when mingling with the 
 
 I world, or when presiding at his festive board, she hid 
 
 1 her sufferings under a calm exterior. The natural pride 
 
 of woman nerved her in the effort, for who can brook to 
 
 bare a wounded heart before the gaze of strangers ? but 
 
 when alone with her mother, and the friend of her 
 
 youth, it was heart-rending to witness the outgushing of 
 
 her agonized feelings. We both endeavored to support 
 
 her wearied, fainting spirit; but how could we offer her 
 
 consolation ? all that we could do was to offer up our 
 
 prayers to God, that He would be her stay and comforter 
 
 in her sore affliction. 
 
 Frederick Elton had spent a life of excitement, and in 
 the absence of the varied amusements he had found in 
 Europe, he had recourse to a constant succession of con- 
 vivial meetings with men as profligate as himself. This
 
 60 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 led him speedily to that fatal vortex a habit of frequent 
 inebriation ; and this once reached, all hope of recovery 
 was gone. Even in the midst of his dissipated career in 
 Italy, he would have scorned the degraded creature he 
 became in his own land. While there, the giddy whirl 
 of brilliant attractions, found in the theatre, the opera, 
 the fashionable gaming clubs, and the fascinating but 
 corrupting society of Italian females, gave him all that 
 he craved in his thirst for amusement, without losing his 
 caste as a man of elegance and fashion ; but in the better 
 regulated, and more virtuous social life of his native 
 country, he was forced to descend from his pride of 
 place, to seek congenial companions. 
 
 Night after night did his wretched wife sit by her soli- 
 tary hearth, waiting yet dreading his return. And when 
 at the hour of midnight or early dawn, she heard his 
 uncertain footsteps, and beheld him staggering into the 
 room, disfigured by brutal intoxication, oh who can des- 
 cribe her misery. She had idolized her Frederick, as 
 she once imagined him noble, virtuous and high mind- 
 ed, but her heart loathed the degraded being before her. 
 The fastidious refinement of her tastes, which had led her 
 to reject many suitors more worthy of her, now deepened 
 the disgust she felt for her husband. And much as has 
 been said and sung by man of woman's unchanging affec- 
 tions, that she can love in whatever guilt or shame she 
 may find in the one to whom she has given her heart, yet 
 woman seldom or never responds to this sentiment. For 
 woman's love, if it be worthy the name, can find no ali- 
 ment in vice or impurity. She may continue the same 
 in her outward attentions, she may be as assiduous to 
 please, and as careful not to offend, but it is from a high 
 sense of her duty as a wife and not from that affection 
 which once prompted her actions. She may mourn over 
 his wretchedness with bitter lamentings, and compassion-
 
 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 61 
 
 ate his failings with a seraph's pity, but she cannot, can- 
 not love him ! She is slow to believe in his guilt, and is 
 the last one on earth who will give credence to the testi- 
 mony of his shame, her confidence clings to him while 
 there is yet a solitary hope to rest upon, but when he- 
 stands before her in all his vileness, the ties that bound 
 him to her heart are rent asunder and he falls from the 
 place he held in her affections, never, never to rise again ! 
 The life of my ill-fated friend became more and more 
 wretched. To neglect and desertion her husband added 
 cruelty, and at last denied her even the society of those 
 who loved her the mother and friend so dear to her. 
 He would not permit her to come to Roseville, and we 
 were forbidden access to his dwelling. It was when thus 
 deprived of all intercourse with her kindred or friends 
 that she gave birth to a lovely boy. And at this trying 
 season, when the presence of a mother is so anxiously 
 longed for and so much needed, hired menials were her 
 only attendants. Mrs. Percival, agitated by contending 
 emotions, sent hourly messengers to know the state of 
 her daughter's health. As soon as Anna was able, she 
 wrote a few lines to relieve her mother's anxiety. The 
 sweet babe soon became a source of consolation to my 
 unhappy friend, but when it grew older and she could 
 trace its striking resemblance to its father, this discovery 
 so delightful to the happy wife, gave such a pang of an- 
 guish to her bosom that she involuntarily turned her eyes 
 away from it. Sometimes she would wildly say, " yes, 
 it was thus he must have looked when a nursling in his 
 mother's arms, so mildly beautiful, so guileless, so inno- 
 cent and what if he should become all his father is now ! 
 Oh is it not better for this lovely babe to die, even if it 
 should wring my own heart with an added weight of sor- 
 row. It will be nurtured amidst tears and affliction, it 
 6
 
 62 ANNA PKRCIVAL, OB THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 will be reared through scenes of pollution. Oh ! my 
 child, my child! an early grave is your only safety." 
 
 The excited feelings of my unfortunate friend, increased 
 in intensity by her isolated situation, proved too much for 
 her in her feeble condition, and in a few weeks after the 
 birth of her child she was raving in the delirium of a 
 brain fever. She constantly entreated her mother to 
 come to her, and the physician told her husband that her 
 mother's presence and attention was the only hope of her 
 restoration. Mrs. Percival was sent for, and what a 
 painful scene presented itself as we entered poor Anna's 
 chamber. The dear invalid lay tossing from side to side, 
 her eyes wildly rolling, but without a ray of recognition 
 when they turned towards us, as we stood by her bed. 
 Her beautiful babe lay sleeping in its cradle in all the 
 happy unconsciousness of infancy. It was a saddening 
 sight to see it smile and move its little lips, as if partak- 
 ing its maternal nourishment, it seemed as though it were 
 dreaming, it lay upon its mother's bosom. Poor infant ! 
 it was indeed the child of misfortune ! 
 
 For several days the life of my friend was despaired 
 of, but the violence of the disease subsided and left her 
 a maniac ! 
 
 The unconscious mother and her tender babe were 
 removed to Roseville. Sometimes the paroxysms of 
 mental derangement were so violent that she required 
 close confinement, but generally it was like a settled mel- 
 ancholy. She seemed to have no knowledge of any one 
 or anything around her, and would sit for hours gazing 
 vacantly on one spot, as if in gloomy abstraction, and 
 occasionally she would sing snatches of old songs, the 
 favorite airs of her girlhood. The soft, musical tones of 
 her voice thrilled through my heart with bitter anguish. 
 I thought of the past, and contrasted it with the present ! 
 
 One day she asked for her baby, and appeared to show
 
 ANNA PERC1VAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 68 
 
 so much anxiety to see it, that with the advice of the 
 physician it was brought to her. She caught it in her 
 arms, talked to it in terms of rapturous endearment, and 
 opened her bosom as if to give it nourishment, when gaz- 
 ing intently on it as its beautiful dark eyes were turned 
 upwards to her face, she suddenly exclaimed, " it is not 
 my baby, it is the demon that haunts me, it tried to de- 
 ceive me by coming in the form of my child, but it shall 
 not cheat me thus !" Before we had time to reach her, 
 she rushed to the open window, and threw out her child, 
 exclaiming, with a laugh of triumph, " now it will never 
 haunt me again !" Her wretched mother, with a scream 
 of agony rushed out, and when she raised it from the 
 ground, its life was extinct ! The heart-breaking misery 
 that succeeded this dreadful incident, I cannot record, it 
 makes me shudder even now to recall it, and often have 
 I vainly wished to blot it from my memory. 
 
 Several months after this harrowing scene, the poor 
 maniac became extremely ill. Her disease was one that 
 rapidly wasted her strength, and for hours she lay as if 
 hovering between life and death. At last she seemed to 
 revive, and from one or two questions she asked, we had 
 the faint hope that her reason would be restored. The 
 physician advised her removal into the chamber she oc- 
 cupied previous to her marriage, and to have every thing 
 fixed as she had been accustomed to see it. In all the 
 agitation of newly awakened hope, I commenced the 
 preparations. Her geraniums and roses were placed on 
 the window-sill her favorite books were laid on her 
 work stand, her dressing table arranged according to her 
 taste, and every chair was set in its accustomed place. She 
 was under the influence of a gentle opiate during her 
 removal, and when she awoke she looked round on every 
 old familiar object with a pleasing smile, and then turning 
 to us, as we stood beside her, tremblingly waiting the re-
 
 64 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 suit, she said, " my dear Mother, you are almost worn 
 out in nursing me, for you look much older than when I 
 was taken sick. It seems as if I had been ill a long, 
 long time, but I feel as if I am now getting well. And 
 you too, my dear Ellen, must be greatly fatigued in at- 
 tending me so many months. But I must try to repay 
 you both by loving you more than ever." 
 
 As her strength returned, she would sometimes say to 
 me, " T have strange thoughts at times, it seems as if I 
 have been married and my husband was unkind. I 
 dreamed too that I had a lovely infant and it was taken 
 from me. I must have been delirious, and these were 
 my feverish fancies. And yet it appears so much like 
 reality, there is so much confusion here," she said, 
 placing her finger on her forehead, " that my dreams are 
 like real occurrences." 
 
 She continued to dwell upon these thoughts until the 
 full recollection returned of all that had happened previ- 
 ous to her derangement. But of this and her infant's 
 miserable death she was happily unconscious. She 
 thought that she had suffered a long, dangerous illness, 
 and that her baby died during the time she was too weak 
 to be conscious of her loss. Her wretched, degraded 
 husband was suddenly cut off, after a violent fit of delir- 
 ium tremens, a month or two previous to her restoration 
 to reason. And when she became well enough to inquire 
 for him, we told her he had died during her illness. 
 
 When her mind was entirely restored, she often re- 
 quested me to read to her, and I took up the Bible as the 
 only book that could give consolation to this stricken one. 
 She became so interested in its perusal, that she wished 
 for no other. She would sometimes audibly join her 
 mother in the morning and evening prayer, and we had 
 the happiness of finding that the calm and holy influence 
 of religious truth was gradually dawning upon her mind.
 
 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 65 
 
 After this blessed change was wrought in her, she was 
 enabled to review her past trials, and with serenity ac- 
 knowledged that for her sake it was good that she had 
 seen much affliction. She never mentioned her hus- 
 band's name after we told her of his death, and appeared 
 to avoid speaking of any circumstance with which his 
 memory was associated, but one day after slightly allud- 
 ing to her married life, she said, " my affections were so 
 wedded to earthly objects, that nothing but this total 
 wreck could have weaned me from them. This world 
 was so attractive that I could even have given up the 
 hope of heaven to have been immortal here. But the 
 dark thunder storm has passed and the blue heaven of 
 peace is graciously revealed. The remaining years of 
 my life will, I trust, be devoted to the service of Him 
 whom I have long neglected for this perishing world. 
 There is a calm resignation upon my spirit, that I would 
 not exchange for all the pleasure I enjoyed in the days 
 of my youthful enthusiasm. 
 
 The widowed mother and daughter secluded them- 
 selves from society, for hearts that have been deeply 
 wounded in the conflict of life, feel that the marks of their 
 suffering remain, although their wounds have been healed , 
 and they withdraw into the congenial quiet of retirement, 
 as best fitting for those who have passed through many 
 sorrows. But Mrs. Percival and Anna were not inactive 
 in their seclusion. The blessings of the poor and the 
 ignorant followed them as they went from one humble 
 dwelling to another, in their errands of love and mercy. 
 " Sorrow is indeed a sacred thing," and every recipient 
 of their benevolence from the parent to the child evinced 
 their sympathy for their dear Mrs. Elton by a delicate, 
 respectful tenderness when addressing her, that frequently 
 brought to her eyes tears of grateful feeling. In doing 
 good to others, and in laboring to promote their happi- 
 6*
 
 66 ANNA PERCIVAL, OR THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 ness, she lost the sense of her own misfortunes, and found 
 a rich reward in the approval of God and the testimony 
 of a good conscience. 
 
 Mrs. Percival and Anna were desirous that I should 
 fix my home at Roseville, but I wished to be nearer my 
 dear boys, and as I now considered myself of sufficient 
 age to become mistress of a house, I began to look out 
 for a suitable residence. 
 
 I was at length so fortunate as to find one suited to my 
 taste, in the neighborhood of the College that my dear 
 Edward and Charles were about to enter. They were 
 to reside with me, and my time was soon pleasantly occu- 
 'pied in arranging it for our reception. My little parlor 
 and library were contiguous, and the windows of the latter 
 opened upon an extensive lawn richly shaded by groups 
 of forest trees, and between the lofty arches formed by 
 the united curve of their branches, there was a beautiful 
 vista of the blue hazy mountains, with the nearer view of 
 hills, fields and woods, in the rich garniture of summer. 
 The room next to my dear brothers' chamber was fitted 
 up for their study, and I experienced a melancholy pleas- 
 ure in placing on their book-shelves the little library 
 selected for them during their infancy, by their devoted 
 mother. As soon as every thing was in readiness, I sent 
 for the two boys, and seldom did three happier beings 
 ever meet together than when I welcomed them to Glen- 
 wood Cottage as their future home. 
 
 After taking them to their study and showing them the 
 touching evidence of their mother's love and forethought, 
 I presented them with a letter written for them a few 
 days before her death, and to be given them as soon as 
 they came to reside with me. It was filled with such 
 counsel as only a mother like Mrs. Norville could give, 
 and it concluded by telling them to regard me as her 
 representative, that they must love and obey me as their
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 67 
 
 older sister, and always address me by that endearing 
 title. They read the letter together, and as soon as it was 
 finished, my dear thoughtful Edward took my hand in 
 his and sobbed as if his heart was bursting, while my 
 ardent and enthusiastic Charles threw his arms round 
 my neck, saying, " Yes, we will always love and obey 
 you, my dear sister Ellen, and do all we can to make you 
 happy. 
 
 My heart was full, too full for utterance, I breathed a 
 silent prayer to God, to bless these dear boys and to make 
 me faithful to the solemn trust committed to my charge. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 The rose smells as sweetly in sunshine and air, 
 But the greenhouse has all our affection and care; 
 The lark sings as sweetly while soaring above, 
 But the bird that we nurse, is the bird that we love. 
 
 IN giving the subsequent history of those schoolmates 
 previously described, when pupils at Oakwood, the re- 
 membrance of Emily Howard is always associated with 
 Anna Percival, as the two dearest friends of my girlhood 
 and womanhood. From the joyous season of childhood 
 to the quiet evening of declining years, they have been 
 very dear to me, and our friendship has been that of a 
 life-time. 
 
 I love to recall my first visit to Emily, after her return 
 to her paternal home, and whenever I look on a rare and 
 beautiful exotic, it always reminds me of the girlhood of 
 the sweet and gentle Emily Howard. She was fair and
 
 68 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 delicate as a tender flower, and you felt that she needed all 
 the protecting carefulness with which she was nurtured. 
 Her slight and graceful figure, her complexion of trans- 
 parent purity, the cloud-like softness of her golden hair, 
 the heavenly expression of her mild blue eye, made her 
 appear too ethereal for earth, and too fragile to endure 
 its trials or its duties. Her father cherished her like a 
 nursling plant, and seemed to think she was born to be 
 ministered unto, and not to minister to others, even to 
 him. As far as regarded the formation of her tastes and 
 the cultivation of her mind, he faithfully discharged his 
 duty as a parent, but he appeared to forget that this world 
 is a scene of action, where every one is expected to per- 
 form their allotted part, and where woman especially, 
 even the most delicate and tenderly reared, is seldom 
 permitted to claim an exemption from bearing her own 
 heavy portion of life's burden. 
 
 Fortunately for Emily, her disposition was naturally 
 amiable and singularly free from selfishness, and she 
 thus escaped many faults that usually result from unlim- 
 ited indulgence and idolatrous attachment in parental 
 training. She was never happier than when in the soci- 
 ety of her father, she anticipated every wish and was as 
 assiduous in her attentions to him as if he had exacted it 
 from her as a duty. Her love to him, though not as 
 exclusive as that he felt for her, was equally tender and 
 devoted. She had the most deferential respect for his 
 opinions and character, and reverenced him for his sacred 
 attachment to the memory of her mother. She took me 
 into his room and showed me the portrait of his departed 
 wife, which he had placed where he could look on it, the 
 last object upon which his eye should rest at night, and 
 the first to meet his waking glance at morning. She 
 told me that he always spent the anniversary of her death 
 in the solitude of his own private study, and that on those
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 69 
 
 days he never saw any one that called on him. " I fear, 
 my dear Ellen," said she, " that there are few men who 
 can love as my father loved, but I could not be happy 
 with less." 
 
 In addition to her personal and mental attraction, Em- 
 ily had the reputation of being an heiress, and her recep- 
 tion in the gay world was as nattering as even her father 
 could have anticipated. The beautiful Emily Howard 
 was the theme of general admiration. Her society was 
 courted by all, and she soon became the reigning belle. 
 Though her father's pride was gratified by the number of 
 her admirers, yet he was pleased to find that none of her 
 suitors had won her affections, for he was, as yet, unwill- 
 ing to relinquish his lovely daughter, even to a husband 
 every way worthy of her. 
 
 In a summer's tour through the Northern States, Mr. 
 Howard and Emily became acquainted with Mr. Har- 
 court, an eminent lawyer of New York. They had trav- 
 eled together up the beautiful Hudson, and remained 
 several days at Balston and Saratoga, as inmates of the 
 same house, and although Mr. Harcourt had contemplated 
 a different route from that fixed on by Mr. Howard, yet 
 the agreeable companionship o/ the father, and the rare 
 beauty of the daughter, induced him to change his deter- 
 mination. He requested permission to join them in their 
 excursion to the lakes, and he was found to be a delight- 
 ful accession to their party, being a man of taste, intellect 
 and varied information. He was not slow in discovering 
 that the charms of Emily's mind and disposition even 
 surpassed those of her person, and he became quite assid- 
 uous in his attentions. 
 
 Mr. Harcourt had mingled much in female society, but 
 had entered upon the early stage of bachelorship with a 
 heart as yet untouched by female attractions. His wealth, 
 talents, and known obduracy, had made him the object of
 
 70 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 so many designing attentions, that he began to look on 
 every woman as a coquette, and kept his heart carefully 
 guarded against every attack. After the tiresome uni- 
 formity of fashionable females, whose forms, minds and 
 tastes seem to be carefully chiseled after the same model, 
 Emily Howard came before him like a being from another 
 sphere. Her unadorned beauty, the graceful simplicity 
 of her manners, and the freshness and originality of her 
 mind, to htm Were novel attractions. Emily was per- 
 fectly natural and unstudied in all that she said or did, 
 and was in every respect calculated to fascinate the most 
 refined or even fastidious taste. The admiration she 
 excited was always unsought, and indeed so little im- 
 pression did it make on her mind, that her father's atten- 
 tions were more gratifying to her than those of any other 
 being. Emily respected Mr. Harcourt, and was delighted 
 with his intelligent and agreeable conversation, but she 
 had not thought of him as a lover. It was true that his 
 society gave her more pleasure than that of any other 
 gentleman she had known, but this she thought was ow- 
 ing to the congeniality of their tastes, and to the intellec- 
 tual graces of his own gifted mind. She looked forward 
 to their return to New York with regret, as she knew 
 they then would be separated, perhaps forever, from the 
 talented Mr. Harcourt. 
 
 On the morning of their departure from New York, 
 Mr. Harcourt accompanied them to the boat, and as he 
 was taking leave of Mr. Howard, he requested permission 
 to visit him. As he bid Emily farewell, the slight pres- 
 sure of her hand and his faltering voice, first revealed to 
 her his feelings towards her. It sent a thrill through her 
 heart, and she recalled the strange circumstances of their 
 parting again and again. Her father pointed out to her 
 the beautiful scenes through which they were rapidly 
 passing, but found it difficult to rouse her from the reverie
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 71 
 
 into which she had fallen. Emily had always been an 
 ardent admirer of nature, but now the picturesque har- 
 bor, and the noble bay with its island shores, made as 
 faint an impression on her mind as a fleeting dream, for 
 her memory was busily retracing every little incident 
 connected with her acquaintance with Mr. Harcourt, and 
 shedding a new light on trifles unnoticed before. Her 
 father's observing eye soon saw what was dwelling on 
 her thoughts, and he said to her in a low tone, " we will 
 see Mr. Harcourt in a few weeks at Elmwood." A crim- 
 son flush passed over Emily's beautiful face, but quickly 
 recovering herself she called her father's attention to some 
 object on the Jersey shore, and began to express her ad- 
 miration of the scenes around her. Her father smiled, 
 and said, " your admiration is now sadly thrown away, 
 for you have passed the beautiful prospects most worthy 
 of it, without even a passing notice." Her woman's pride 
 soon took alarm, and she exerted herself, so as to appear 
 deeply interested in every thing she saw, reserving her 
 strangely delightful musings for her hours of solitude. 
 
 When Emily returned to her once loved home, it 
 seemed as if it had lost all its charms during her absence. 
 There was a strange void within her heart, and a painful 
 sense of loneliness pressed heavily on her spirit. She 
 would steal away to some favorite haunt, and sitting down 
 on a grassy bank overshadowed by embowering elms, 
 she would recall the beautiful scenes through which she 
 had journeyed, and treasure up every expression that had 
 fallen from the lips of Mr. Harcourt. Night after night 
 would she sit by her chamber window, when the full 
 moon poured its mellow light on the prospect without, 
 with her gaze resting on its soft, still beauties, while her 
 thoughts were far away with him whom she had just 
 learned to love. Lost in blissful musings on the past, and 
 in agitating anticipations of the future, the hours passed
 
 72 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 by unheeded, and the early dawn would often brighten 
 the east, before she sought her couch to rest, in the sweet 
 hope of renewing her waking thoughts in the visions of 
 sleep. Every thing that he had touched became sacred 
 to her, the specimens he had collected for her, were taken 
 from her father's vase of minerals and placed in her own 
 room. The book she had lent him was rendered doubly 
 precious by a few faint pencil strokes, marking his favor- 
 ite passages, and these were read again and again, yet 
 never lost their freshness, for in them she fancied she 
 could trace some expression of his love for her. 
 
 Happy, happy period ! that comes but once in the ex- 
 perience of all ! the sunrise of love upon the heart it 
 is the only poetic season of its existence. Then, and then 
 only does it shed a rosy light on every object, the near 
 and the distant, investing them with a glorious beauty 
 not their own ! The loved one then appears as he never 
 will again, for we see him not as he is, but as imagina- 
 tion has fondly pictured him. We worship a creation of 
 our own fancy, and forget that the one we idolize is a 
 being of earth and must share the frailties and errors of 
 mortality. We vainly dream that every virtue and gift 
 of character and intellect are centered in him, and regard 
 him as the living prototype of every favorite hero of his- 
 tory or romance. And when a nearer view in the clear 
 light of truth has awakened us to the reality, we too often 
 suffer the blame to rest where it might not, upon him and 
 not on ourselves. It is not he who has deceived us, it is 
 our own self-delusion, and we should remember this when 
 the disappointment comes. 
 
 It was a bright, beautiful day in September, and Emily, 
 tempted by the freshening breeze, so delightful after the 
 oppressive heat of summer, had taken a longer morning 
 walk than usual. Her father had left home early, to 
 attend to some business in the neighboring town, and she
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 73 
 
 hastened her steps when returning, lest she should not be 
 back in time to meet him. When she had reached the 
 winding road leading to the house, she heard the sound 
 of approaching carriage wheels. Thinking it was her 
 father's barouche, she turned back a few steps and waited 
 till it came in sight, as it was still hidden by the shrub- 
 bery. As it suddenly emerged from the embowering 
 foliage, she saw it was a strange equipage, and in a few 
 moments Mr. Harcourt was at her side. She struggled 
 to recover herself from the embarrassment caused by the 
 surprise, but could not conceal the tumultuous agitation 
 produced by this unexpected meeting. 
 
 The happy days that Emily passed in the society of 
 Mr. Harcourt, as her acknowledged and accepted lover, 
 glided by with the rapidity and indistinctness of a dream. 
 And she only awakened to consciousness when she found 
 herself again alone, looking forward to his promised letters 
 as the only source of consolation in his absence. When 
 the first one was handed her by her father, what a tide 
 of emotions swelled in her heart, and she hastened to the 
 solitude of her own room, that she might read it unseen 
 by another. She glanced her eye rapidly over its pages 
 as if she wished to take in the whole contents at once, 
 and then read it again and again, pausing over every 
 sweet expression of affection, until the whole was written 
 in her memory. And when the time came for expecting 
 another, how anxiously did she watch the return of the 
 servant who brought her father's papers from the Post 
 Office, and yet endeavored to hide her anxiety even from 
 her parent, under an assumed aspect of indifference. 
 Strange mystery of the human heart ! the union of wo- 
 man's pride and woman's love, and when they both hold 
 an equal mastery over the spirit, what hours of suffering 
 it is forced to endure ! 
 
 Mr. Howard was pleased that Emily's choice had 
 fallen upon one like Mr. Harcourt, and the painful thought
 
 74 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 of his leaving her parentless was softened by the reflec- 
 tion that she would have a protector when he should be 
 taken from her. His health had been failing for some 
 time, and he feared that his allotted days upon earth were 
 few. He had studiously concealed this from Emily, as 
 he could not bear to cast a shade over her happiness. 
 He felt that in giving up his idolized daughter to the 
 guardianship of Mr. Harcourt, that he would appreciate 
 the rich treasure entrusted to him, and watch over her 
 with a tenderness equal to his own. 
 
 Emily was unwilling to fix on the early day named by 
 her lover for their union, until she gained her father's 
 consent to reside with them, for she could not bear the 
 thought of leaving him alone at Elmwood. This beauti- 
 ful spot became dearer to her as the period drew near 
 when she must bid it farewell. She wandered over its 
 green meadows and through its romantic woods, whose 
 foliage was daily brightening with rich autumnal hues, 
 and wished that the home of her youth could also be the 
 home of her wedded life. 
 
 In the latter part of the lovely month of October, Emily 
 exchanged the quiet scenes of Elmwood, for the stir and 
 tumult of a crowded city. But her husband and her 
 father were with her, and the beautiful bride had nothing 
 to regret. The estimation in which the character and 
 talents of Mr. Harcourt were held, was a source of grate- 
 ful feeling to Emily, and she felt proud in being the wife 
 of one whom all delighted to honor. But her happiness 
 was soon overshadowed by the sudden illness of her 
 beloved father, and in less than two months after her 
 marriage she stood by the bedside of her dying parent. 
 This agonizing trial was the first she had ever borne, her 
 first experience of life's bitter sorrows. Her husband did 
 all that he could to counsel her in her grief, but it was a 
 long time before she recovered from the effects of this 
 unexpected and overwhelming affliction.
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 75 
 
 Mr. Harcourt loved his young and gentle wife, but he 
 never could be to Emily all that her father had been. 
 He was an only son and had been the sole object of atten- 
 tion to his mother and sisters. He was accustomed to 
 have every thing arranged for him according to his own 
 fastidious tastes, without even having the necessity of 
 expressing his wishes; and he naturally expected the 
 same from his wife, forgetting the manner in which she 
 had been reared by her fond but too indulgent father. 
 
 Emily was wholly unprepared for the duties of married 
 life, and knew not how much was expected from a wife 
 and the mistress of a family. While she was suffering 
 from the recent loss of her devoted father, Mr. Harcourt 
 forebore to remind her of her failures, but his disposition 
 was naturally irritable, and at times he could not repress 
 an impatient remark, which he speedily endeavored to 
 atone for, when he saw the pain it caused her. 
 
 In presiding over the well-regulated establishment at 
 Elmwood she had found no difficulty, for with her father's 
 old family servants every thing proceeded in quiet and 
 order. Accustomed to the implicit obedience of numer- 
 ous and faithfully attached attendants in her youthful 
 home, she was wholly unfitted to contend with the im- 
 pertinence and inefficiency of hired menials. In order 
 to produce neatness and regularity in the daily routine of 
 her husband's household, she knew not how much was 
 necessary, what vigilant attention and what -unremitting 
 superintendence in every department. She endeavored 
 to do her best, but fell short of what was expected from 
 her. A man expects to find a helpmeet in his wife, and 
 it is proper he should do so, but in making his selection 
 he is seldom guided by those qualities which would en- 
 sure his anticipations. The graces of person, manner or 
 intellect win his regard, and he imagines the household 
 virtues will come when they are needed, not knowing 
 that unless they are previously practiced, nothing but 
 years of painful experience can teach them.
 
 76 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 One day Mr. Harcourt brought home with him a friend 
 to dinner. Emily made the necessary arrangements and 
 gave her orders to the servants, hut upon taking her seat 
 at the table, she saw that through inadvertence something 
 had been neglected. Mr. Harcourt instantly noticed the 
 omission, and in giving his directions to the waiter his 
 wife saw the displeasure expressed in his countenance. 
 She endeavored to conceal her agitation, when her hus- 
 band's eye, as it met hers, showed that he considered the 
 fault to be that of the mistress rather than the servant. 
 When this painful meal was over, and as soon as he could 
 address her unnoticed by his friend, he said, " Hencefor- 
 ward when I bring home a friend, I perceive it will be 
 necessary for me to leave my business earlier than usual, 
 in order to avoid the mortification of an ill-arranged ta- 
 ble." Poor Emily was cut to the heart, she hastily re- 
 treated to her chamber and gave vent to her wounded 
 feelings. She thought of her father's tenderness, and 
 wept tears of bitterness as she said, " 1 never heard a 
 harsh word from him. Oh my father, my father, I never 
 shall meet in this world a love as devoted as thine, would 
 that I were sleeping in the grave with thee, for my hus- 
 band does not love me or he could not have spoken thus ! " 
 
 This incident may appear too trivial to cause such 
 suffering, but the slightest reproof from one we love, is a 
 barbed arrow that rankles deeply in the heart. These 
 things may appear trifles to others, but they are sad trials 
 to the young- and inexperienced, and many a woman's 
 spirit has been crushed by their frequent recurrence. 
 Every hasty expression of irritated feeling uttered by Mr. 
 Harcourt, which by him was forgotten as soon as spoken, 
 sank deeply, one by one, into Emily's heart, until at last 
 the painful thought that her husband no longer loved her, 
 brooded darkly over her spirit. Sometimes she would 
 feel as if she could go to him, and tell him her sufferings,
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 77 
 
 and breathe unto him this harassing suspicion, in the 
 hope that he would re-assure her of his love and unchanged 
 affection, but woman's pride withheld her. " No ! no ! I 
 cannot," she would mentally exclaim, " he cannot under- 
 stand my feelings, he will ridicule them as childish fol- 
 lies. I can bear a hasty reproof far better than cold, 
 withering ridicule. I will bury my sorrows in my own 
 wretched heart, and not even my husband's eye shall 
 witness them." A settled gloom hung over her, and she 
 endeavored to conceal it when in the presence of Mr. 
 Harcourt, by a forced gayety or an assumed indifference. 
 She still fondly loved her husband, and tried to fulfill his 
 wishes in every thing, yet it was without the slightest 
 hope of success. 
 
 The bright visions of domestic bliss that she had often 
 so fondly pictured before her marriage, came thronging 
 back upon her memory, and she bitterly felt the contrast 
 of the reality. She recalled the lover-like devotion she 
 expected to find in her husband, the tender solicitude he 
 would express for her in her slightest indisposition, his 
 unvarying kindness and assiduous care in ministering to 
 her happiness, and then thought how fondly she idolized 
 him, and all that she would have done and suffered for his 
 sake, if he had been less exacting and more lenient. 
 " And yet," she would say, " I love him still ! would that 
 my heart could grow cold towards him, then the pangs I 
 now endure would be unfelt. I dread to look forward to 
 the future, since the first year of our wedded life has 
 brought so much unhappiness. " The desponding thoughts 
 and gloomy views that continually haunted her imagina- 
 tion, were as far from truth, as the cloud-built structures 
 of prospective bliss that floated before her youthful fancy. 
 And she was still the dupe of a melancholy self-delusion, 
 which prevented her from appreciating the unchanged 
 affection of her husband, notwithstanding his transient 
 7*
 
 78 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 irritability, which, in a truer estimate of human life, would 
 have been forgiven and forgotten. 
 
 It has frequently been said by the experienced, that the 
 first year of marriage is generally the most unhappy. 
 This sounds strangely to the young, and they refuse to 
 give it credence. But all will find it true, save those 
 whose knowledge of life and human nature have taught 
 them to expect faults and imperfections in their fellow 
 creatures, and to remember that cares and sorrows will 
 sometimes cross their path in every situation in which 
 they may be placed. In the happiest union, there is 
 much to be learned and unlearned, many occasions to 
 bear and forbear. There is many an obstacle to be passed 
 before the deepening current of conjugal affection can 
 flow on, with the uninterrupted tranquillity of the well- 
 tried love of years. There are many efforts to be made 
 in self-government, much to be given up on both sides by 
 the wedded pair before even love, all powerful as it is, 
 can really make them one. Emily was passing through 
 this trying ordeal, it was her first awakening to a con- 
 sciousness of its reality, and she already began to feel 
 that she too might have to share the blame of her own 
 misery. 
 
 Mr. Harcourt saw that she was altered, but was uncon- 
 scious of the cause. It grieved him to see the gloom 
 that saddened her countenance, when she knew not he 
 was looking on her. As he saw she tried to hide it from 
 him, he instinctively forbore to notice it, hoping it would 
 soon pass away. But on coming home one day earlier 
 than usual, he entered unexpectedly into her chamber, 
 and found her in tears. He tenderly took her hand in 
 his, and said, " Tell me my dearest wife, what is it that 
 makes you unhappy? I cannot bear to see you thus." 
 Emily struggled to conceal her emotion, and made an 
 ^ineffectual attempt to appear cheerful. He shook his
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 79 
 
 head mournfully, saying, " No ! my own Emily, this cruel 
 reserve must not be continued, there is something that 
 weighs down your spirits, then why do you hide it from 
 your husband then tell me, my loved one, what is it 
 that depresses you ?" He folded his arms around her, 
 poor Emily leaned her head on his bosom, and wept as 
 if her heart was breaking. " I feared you no longer 
 loved me," she faltered. " Not love you, my wife, how 
 could you think thus, even for a moment, you, my own 
 idolized Emily, the only woman I have ever loved what 
 could have given rise to such an illusion ?" " You 
 seemed so often displeased with me, that I despaired of 
 becoming what you wished. I thought you regretted 
 your choice." "I see it all now," he exclaimed, " it is 
 my impatience and irritability that has caused all this 
 suffering. Yes ! I have been cruel, unkind, will you 
 forgive me ?" His eyes filled and his lips quivered, as 
 he pressed her to his .heart, and entreated her to forget 
 all that he had thoughtlessly uttered. " I must have been 
 a brute, not to have remembered the tenderness and 
 indulgence with which you were cherished by your father, 
 and that you were unable to perform the duties I have so 
 unreasonably expected from you. Forgive me, my own 
 love, and I trust you shall never again have cause to 
 suffer all that I have so heedlessly inflicted." "You 
 have no need to ask my forgiveness, my husband, it is I, 
 who should entreat yours. Once I thought you harsh 
 and exacting, but I have seen my own deficiencies, and 
 acquit you of injustice. I wronged you in becoming 
 your wife, when I was so unfitted for the station. But I 
 was unconscious of this unfitness, or I would- never have 
 taken advantage of your affection, by burthening you 
 with a helpless charge." 
 
 " Talk not thus, mv Emily, you have done what you 
 could, and I now see my rashness and folly instead of 
 
 "
 
 
 80 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 appreciating your exertions, I suffered some little trifle 
 that was forgotten, to blind me to all you so faithfully 
 performed. And should I ever again so far forget what 
 is due to you by giving expression to my irritable tem- 
 per, chide me for my fault, but never, Oh ! never again 
 think that your husband loves you the less." 
 
 What an auspicious event was this, upon the future 
 happiness of both husband and wife, this mutual confes- 
 sion of mutual errors, their united resolutions to sin no 
 more against each other ! How many a wedded pair for 
 the want of this free interchange of harbored thoughts 
 and feelings, this candid avowal of real, or imaginary 
 grievances, have gone on for years, in the cold reserve of 
 wounded affections, or the unwise determinations of 
 wounded pride, until their hearts have become wholly 
 estranged, and the devoted love that would have borne 
 each other up under every trial, has departed from their 
 bosoms, leaving them to a mutual indifference which 
 makes every affliction doubly grievous, and presses an 
 added weight of sorrow upon the spirit that is almost 
 crushed beneath its burden. Happy indeed, was it for 
 Mr. Harcourt and his Emily, that this confession came 
 so soon before either of them had become burdened 
 under a longer continuance of mutual reserve and while 
 their hearts were yet susceptible of being thrilled with 
 emotion by the remembrance of their early love. 
 
 Emily's cheerfulness again returned, after having un- 
 burthened the sorrow that oppressed her, and after hav- 
 ing received the sweet assurance that she was still ten- 
 derly loved by her husband. And, Oh ! with what a 
 different spirit she now entered upon her duties. Her 
 energies, that had so long been paralyzed by despondency, 
 awakened into fresh vigor, and her labors were all light- 
 ened by the cheering hope that her exertions would be 
 felt by her husband, and that her unintentional failures
 
 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 81 
 
 would be met by his kind forbearance. His approving 
 smile was the rich reward that strengthened her when 
 weary, and sweetened every toil. 
 
 For his dear Emily's sake, Mr. Harcourt exercised a 
 self-control he had never before exerted, and by gratefully 
 acknowledging her efforts, he aided her in the attempt to 
 discharge her varied duties. Whenever he noticed any 
 omission, instead of the hasty expressions he once un- 
 guardedly permitted to escape him, he gently pointed 
 them out to her, and she received his advice as kindly as 
 it was intended. No longer disheartened by the fear of 
 displeasing him, his forbearance stimulated her to activ- 
 ity, and enabled her to attain a capacity for usefulness, of 
 which he once thought her incapable. She gradually 
 overcame the enervating effects of her Father's indulgent 
 training, and became so efficient as a wife and the mis- 
 tress of a family, that her husband would often playfully 
 say, " that he would match his southern wife against any 
 daughter of New-England." 
 
 When his dear wife's domestic cares were increased 
 by the charge of a lovely infant, he no longer expected 
 the same exclusive attention to her household. In the 
 days of its helpless infancy he was conscious it required 
 the unremitting devotion of its mother ; he knew that 
 every other duty could be better entrusted to others than 
 this, and was fully satisfied that in every thing she did 
 what she could. 
 
 The lively little Emily inherited its mother's beauty, 
 and one day when the delighted father was tracing the 
 striking resemblance, his wife said to him, " in one respect 
 she shall never resemble me, if I am spared to rear her 
 into womanhood. My chief endeavor shall be to teach 
 her the duties of her sex and station, to lead her to form 
 a rational estimate of what woman is expected to be, that 
 she may be saved from the suffering, that my own ignor- 
 ance and unconsciousness, have forced me to endure."
 
 82 EMILY HOWARD, OR THE GENTLE WIFE. 
 
 " If she makes as good a wife as her mother, and gains 
 her knowledge and practice of domestic duties as readily, 
 even if it be after her marriage, her husband will have 
 every reason to be fully satisfied." 
 
 The gentle wife smiled sadly as she replied, " In this, 
 my husband, I cannot agree with you, for I still daily feel 
 my limited capacity when I see what other women can 
 do without the least appearance of effort. And even the 
 little I have gained, none but my own heart knows, how 
 painfully it has been purchased. The season of girlhood 
 is the only period of preparation for the duties of married 
 life, and she who madly rushes upon its untried respon- 
 sibilities, while unfitted for the task, may tremble for the 
 fair fabric of domestic bliss, unless she is so happy as to 
 meet a husband like mine, whose affection will as soon 
 teach him to appreciate her exertions and to pardon her 
 failures."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON, OR FASHION- 
 ABLE AMBITION. 
 
 Is not Fashion a noble divinity to possess such zealous adherents ? 
 a pititful lackey-like creature which struts through one country with the 
 cast off finery of another. DEVEREUX. 
 
 DURING one of the college vacations, I left Glenwood 
 cottage with my adopted brothers, to make a long contem- 
 plated visit to the falls of Niagara. On reaching New 
 York, we remained several days with my old friend 
 Emily Harcourt, and found her cheerfully devoting her- 
 self to the duties of a wife and mother, occasionally ming- 
 ling in the social parties of her husband's friends and ac- 
 quaintances. The society into which Mr. Harcourt had 
 introduced his wife, was refined and intellectual, and their 
 style of living was characterized by a tasteful elegance, 
 devoid of every thing like glitter, or ostentation. Mr. 
 Harcourt had a strong prejudice against what are called 
 " fashionable people," and, indeed, the orbit in which he 
 and Emily moved, seemed to be separate and distinct from 
 that of the fashionable world, for there was no affinity in 
 their enjoyments or pursuits. 
 
 While staying with my friend, I left the house one 
 morning, attended by Edward and Charles, to visit with 
 them some of the public buildings. As we'iwere stand- 
 ing before a church in Broadway, and I was pointing out 
 to them some of the peculiarities in its Gothic style of 
 architecture, a fashionably dressed female advanced to- 
 wards us with hastening steps and exclaimed, " Is not 
 this Ellen Maitland ?" I immediately recognized her as 
 Amanda Malvina Burton, and we were mutually pleased 
 with our unexpected meeting. She insisted on our re-
 
 84 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 
 
 taming home with her, which she said was but a short 
 distance. Accepting her invitation, we were soon after 
 ushered into a lofty mansion, furnished in all the gor- 
 geousness of wealth and luxury. When we entered the 
 drawing room, there sat the veritable Mrs. Burton, upon 
 a crimson velvet ottoman, her feet resting on a rich foot- 
 stool, and the ample folds of her purple satin dress cover- 
 ing a goodly space of the imperial carpet. Two or three 
 visitors were seated with her, engaged in an animated 
 conversation upon an evening party they had lately at- 
 tended. Our entrance caused a temporary interruption, 
 which however, was but of few moment's duration. 
 
 The tone of delight with which Amanda announced 
 our names to her mother, found no echo in the heart of 
 Mrs. Burton, for there was an evident flurry and agita- 
 tion as she spoke, which I thought arose from the fear 
 that her former situation might be accidentally reverted 
 to. She speedily resumed the subject, upon which her 
 visitors were speaking when we entered, saying " were 
 you not surprised Mrs. Liston, to meet the Miss Stan- 
 ley's there ? I was not before aware they visited among 
 fashionable people indeed it was quite a mixed assem- 
 blage, do you not think so ?" " It was certainly, Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, but you know that Mrs. Payton is never very exclu- 
 sive in her invitations, for she never omits any one 
 whom she thinks has the slightest claim on her attention. 
 The Miss Stanleys it is true are only the daughters of 
 her husband s clerk, but although the family is now in 
 reduced circumstances, Mr. Stanley was a few years 
 ago one of our first merchants." 
 
 " Indeed ! I was not aware of that," replied Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, " but do you not think it is a folly in them to appear 
 in the company of those, who cannot regard them as 
 equals, now that they do not keep up, at least, the ap- 
 pearance of style."
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 86 
 
 A young lady who appeared to be rather envious of 
 the beautiful and accomplished Miss Stanleys, remarked 
 " did you riot observe how little attention they received, 
 notwithstanding Mrs. Payton's endeavors to bring them 
 into notice. The gentlemen to whom she introduced 
 them, could not have found their society very attractive, 
 for they left them as soon as they could, to pay their 
 devoirs to more fashionable women. 
 
 There was one gentleman, however, " observed ano- 
 ther lady," whose attentions were not quite so transient as 
 those you may have happened to notice. Mr. Norton, 
 the cousin of the celebrated Mr. Harcourt. He was with 
 them nearly the whole evening. Indeed, it is rumored 
 that he is addressing one of these accomplished sisters." 
 
 " The proud and wealthy Mr. Norton, who has just 
 returned from Europe," exclaimed the young lady, " im- 
 possible ! he might have amused himself by an evening's 
 flirtation, but he never could stoop to marry one of 
 them." 
 
 Although no part of the conversation had been ad- 
 dressed to me, yet I could not help intruding a remark, 
 and said, " I have frequently met the Miss Stanleys at 
 Mrs. Harcourt's, and they are considered there as young 
 ladies whom any man might be proud to win, and the 
 eldest is spoken of as the future wife of Mr. Norton." 
 
 As soon as I mentioned Mrs. Harcourt's name, there 
 was an evident change in the bearing of Mrs. Burton's 
 visiters towards me. Previous to this, they seemed to 
 have a genteel unconsciousness of my presence so 
 much for the influence of a name ! 
 
 One of the ladies observed, " Mrs. Harcourt is a 
 charming woman, what a pity it is, that one whose 
 beauty and grace are so well calculated to adorn any cir- 
 cle, should keep herself so much at home but I suppose 
 it is owing to her husband, who though belonging to one 
 of our first families, is rather antiquated in his notions." 
 8
 
 86 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 
 
 " Emily was such a belle," said Amanda, " that I 
 wonder how she can be contented to shine only upon her 
 own fireside." 
 
 " My friend," I replied, " consults her own taste, in 
 living as she does. The love and admiration of her 
 husband, and the esteem and attachment of his friends 
 are all that she desires." 
 
 " I do not think it at all necessary," said one of the 
 married ladies, " that a woman should become a slave to 
 her household when she becomes a wife. It is for this, 
 that we are so often ridiculed by foreigners, for they say 
 that in this country a female is buried in obscurity as 
 soon as she marries; while in Europe, married women 
 are often the most attractive ornaments of fashionable 
 society." 
 
 " It is a distinction of which we have reason to be 
 proud," I answered, " and I trust that from the increasing 
 intelligence and moral worth of the female sex in every 
 part of the civilized world, that this peculiarity will not 
 long be considered, an American one, only. For how- 
 ever ready we may be to imitate foreign customs in other 
 respects, in domestic life we should surely be the copy, 
 and not the copyists." 
 
 When I was left alone with Mrs. Burton and Amanda, 
 I could not help taking a rapid survey of the gorgeous 
 drawing-room, and contrasting the situation of the fashion- 
 able Mrs. Burton of New York, with the obsequious 
 Mrs. Burton/ behind the counter of a village shop. I 
 was surprised at the facility with which she had taken 
 the conventional airs and graces of fashionable society, 
 for no one would have imagined that she had not been 
 born and bred amidst its luxurious elegancies. The 
 queenly air of Amanda excited no wonder, for her im- 
 aginary consequence when but the daughter of our 
 village storekeeper, was of course increased when she
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 87 
 
 found herself among the elite of fashion in New York. 
 The native goodness of her heart seemed to have been 
 still left unseared, from the affectionate warmth with 
 which she reverted to Mrs. Norville. She gave a pressing 
 invitation to the boys and myself, to spend the day with 
 her ; but my old acquaintance with Mrs. Burton seemed 
 to recall so many mortifying reminiscences, that I 
 thought best to decline it. 
 
 After we left them, I could not help musing on the 
 rotations of Fortune's wheel, that trite but illustrative 
 metaphor of the frequent revolutions that are continually 
 taking place in society. The rise and fall of families, 
 the rapid changes from poverty to riches, from wealth to 
 penury, are more striking in our country than any other; 
 for in no other are found such opportunities for the 
 quick accumulation, or the sudden reduction of fortunes. 
 The desire of gain, is the master passion that animates 
 and directs the energies of our people, and the most am- 
 ple facilities for its gratification are found in our financial 
 operations, with their tempting credit system ; by which 
 the small capitalist is enabled to maintain a competition 
 with the largest, in extending his commercial transac- 
 tions. The slow, yet sure gains of our forefathers, are 
 abandoned for wild speculation, as the former are not 
 sufficiently exciting to the gambling spirit of modern 
 merchandise. The possible success is held before the 
 view, while no prudent preparation is made for the prob- 
 able loss, and the ruin of others who may be involved 
 with them, is not thought worthy of consideration. 
 Honor, justice, and probity are thrust aside, as impeding 
 obstacles, and the desirableness of the end, renders it an 
 easy matter to justify the means taken to secure it. 
 
 The success of Mr. Burton was almost unexampled, 
 even in a period of suddenly accumulated fortunes. 
 In the eyes of others, his Midas-like touch turned
 
 00 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 
 
 every thing into gold; arid he had become so intoxicated 
 with his first winnings in the game of mercantile specu- 
 lation, that he continued to pursue it as an absorbing 
 passion. The regular daily profits of his village store, 
 to which he owed the snug capital which first enabled 
 him to get into good credit in a more extended sphere, 
 were contemptuously reflected upon, as having been too 
 trifling for a man of his business talents. With these 
 united powers of capital and credit, he was soon able to 
 place his wife and daughter in a richly furnished man- 
 sion, and to maintain them in a style of living equal to 
 their ambition. 
 
 Mrs. Burton and Amanda were equally successful in 
 their own sphere of operations, that of attaining a place 
 in fashionable society. Neither of them were very 
 scrupulous as to the means they used in gaining access 
 to the families they wished to visit, nor did their self- 
 consequence, and self-complacency permit them to feel 
 any thing as an intention at slight or repulse. While 
 the name was an unknown one, their efforts were ridi- 
 culed by some, and considered as insufferably presump- 
 tuous by others, yet they moved upward step by step, 
 into general notice, until no one thought of asking, 
 " who is Mrs. Burton ?" and they were then quietly per- 
 mitted to take a high station in the circle of fashion. 
 
 Although Mr. Harcourt and Emily lived apart from 
 the fashionable world, yet rumors from the " great 
 Babel" sometimes reached them through the medium of 
 occasional visitors. Emily told me she heard of the 
 wealthy Mrs. Burton, her splendid entertainments, and 
 her stylish equipage and of her daughter Miss Burton 
 who created quite a sensation among fortune-hunters as 
 the sole heiress of her father's millions, but had no idea 
 that it was the Burtons, who lived in the village near 
 Oakwood, until she one day met with Amanda at a 
 fashionable store in Broadway.
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 89 
 
 The morning before I left Mr. Harcourt's, to proceed 
 on our summer tour, two or three young ladies called to 
 see Emily. 
 
 " Have you heard the news, Mrs. Harcourt ?" was the 
 greeting salutation of one of them, as soon as Emily 
 entered the room. 
 
 " There is so much that is new and strange in the 
 flying rumors of the day," replied Emily, " that it would 
 require a better memory than mine to keep pace with 
 them. But what news do you allude to ?" 
 
 " It is currently reported that Miss Burton has made a 
 conquest of Lord Merton, and that he visits her con- 
 stantly. I suppose you have heard of Lord Merton ?" 
 
 " If I have," said Emily, " I have forgotten it, for there 
 are so many titled foreigners that create a temporary stir, 
 as they come and go, among us, that their names make 
 but little impression." 
 
 " Lord Merton has been here several weeks, and is 
 quite the lion of the day in the fashionable world. He 
 is on a tour through the United States, and is said to be 
 a man of immense wealth. There have been many 
 sieges laid, in order to captivate him, and if Miss Burton 
 has been the fortunate heroine, she will be quite envied 
 by those whom she has out-generaled." 
 
 After they had gone, my friend and I recalled many 
 of Amanda's ambitious visions, and pictured to ourselves 
 the gratification of the mother and daughter, should the 
 rumor prove to be founded in truth. 
 
 After our return from Niagara, the engagement of 
 Amanda and Lord Merton was the favorite topic of con- 
 versation in fashionable society. Every thing that Miss 
 Burton said or did was invested with additional conse- 
 quence ; and in the morning promenade, or at the even- 
 ing soirees, she was the "observed of all observers." 
 And many a fair belle sighed that there were not more
 
 90 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 
 
 Lord Merlon's to be won. In that excessive admiration 
 of foreign manners, foreign fashions and foreign customs, 
 which is found among the circles of ton, foreign hus- 
 bands, of course, claim the greatest share. Much as our 
 country is sometimes lauded by its sons and daughters, 
 yet it would seem as if nothing that is elegant, tasteful, 
 or refined, nothing that is good or great can be wholly 
 indigenous. And if it should happen to be first dis- 
 covered here, foreign culture is needed to bring it to 
 perfection. 
 
 Europe is at present the Mecca of all classes of our 
 tourists. The painter, or sculptor, the professional or 
 scientific man, cannot attain eminence, unless by the 
 ctudy of transatlantic models, or by the instruction of 
 transatlantic teachers. But were not all the great 
 masters in the arts, taught in the school of nature; then 
 would it not be as profitable to study the living original 
 more, and the mere mannerism of its copies less ? And 
 if one half of the sums lavished upon European profes- 
 sors were employed in remunerating the mental labors 
 and research of our own men of science, now paralyzed 
 into inaction by a want of support, there would surely be 
 little need of foreign instructors. Rich and independent 
 as we really are, or ought to be in our native resources, 
 yet the propensity to borrow and to imitate seems to be a 
 national idiosyncrasy. We not only draw upon foreign 
 fashions, foreign talent, and foreign capital to contribute 
 to our supposed improvement, but we also feel the neces- 
 sity of sending agents to an absolute monarchy in 
 Europe, to procure a system of popular instruction for 
 the children of a republic. The devotees of fashionable 
 world have become for many years past, as desirous of 
 taking lessons in foreign travel as the scientific, and 
 American society is reaping the full benefit of that ex- 
 ample and instruction, they are enabled to give after
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 91 
 
 their return. We are learning to rival the foreign no- 
 bility in splendor and magnificence, we have found it 
 desirable to turn the natural season for repose, into the 
 artificial season for amusements, and are attempting the 
 difficult task of arranging a chart, where the true bound- 
 ary lines may be traced which separate the mechanic 
 from the architect, the retail trader from the importer, 
 and the teacher from the professional man. They have 
 brought to us the Waltz, and the Mazurka, the Fancy 
 Ball and the Tableaux Vivants, as preparatory lessons to 
 the Masquerade, and the Private Theatrical. They have 
 taught us to estimate the " Poetry of Motion" far higher 
 than any other species of Poetry ; and to give far greater 
 encouragement to those who practice it, than to the most 
 gifted Bard, or the most eloquent orator. Our fashion- 
 able travelers have been so apt as scholars, and so 
 efficient as teachers, that we are in danger of losing all 
 our distinctive character as republicans, and were it not 
 for the healthful counteraction of our institutions, we 
 should gradually sink into all the corruptions of Euro- 
 pean society. 
 
 Mrs. Burton and Amanda, from their previously im- 
 bibed notions, were fit subjects for the prevailing mania 
 for every thing foreign ; and it soon became the ruling 
 passion, after they had gained the opportunity of gratify- 
 ing it. In their house, their style of living, their visiting, 
 and their equipage, every thing bore the impress of a 
 second hand imitation of European models. And in their 
 conversation, they continually referred to what was the 
 latest fashion in England or France. When I paid my 
 farewell visit to the future Lady Merton, previous to 
 my return to Glenwood, I asked her where she intended 
 to reside after her marriage. 
 
 She replied, " in London, of course, for Lord Merton 
 would never think of relinquishing his title and estate
 
 92 AMANDA MALV1NA BURTON. 
 
 by remaining here. I have long wished to visit Eng- 
 land, but I scarcely hoped to have done so, under so 
 favorable auspices for enjoying the best society. We 
 are to leave New York immediately after our marriage, 
 as he is anxious to return to his friends." 
 
 I saw that poor Amanda's brain was almost turned by 
 the anticipation of mingling with " Lords and Ladies," 
 of whom she had so . often dreamed, and whose society 
 shone to her as a prospective Paradise, of bright and 
 blissful enjoyment. And the ambitious Mrs. Burton was 
 now in the zenith of her hopes and her triumph. The 
 Court of St. James, the Drawing-room, and the Park, 
 were to her as familiar topics as Broadway and the 
 Battery, and I was very much edified by her second- 
 hand descriptions of Lord such-an-one's splendid estab- 
 lishment, and Duke so-and-so's magnificent palace. She 
 recounted the different articles of furniture with the 
 minuteness of an upholsterer, and could tell even the 
 cost of the grates, the curtains, and the carpeting. 
 " Americans often talk of their splendidly furnished 
 rooms," said she, " but Lord Merton says that we cannot 
 form the faintest idea of the splendor and magnificence 
 of a nobleman's mansion." I am trying to persuade Mr. 
 Burton to settle his business here, as soon as Amanda is 
 married ; and to establish himself in London as a banker, 
 for I am sure that life in England is worth living for, 
 do you not think so, Mrs. Stanford ?" 
 
 " It is I assure you," replied the lady addressed, " Al- 
 though Mother and I felt reluctant to leave America, 
 when Mr. Stanford first established himself in England, 
 yet since we have known what it is to live there, I could 
 not exist out of it, for there are elegancies and comfort to 
 be found there, that we cannot hope to meet with in this 
 country. Indeed we have become decidedly English in 
 OUT tastes and habits, and it will seem like returning
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 93 
 
 home again, when this visit to our American relatives is 
 over and we will once more mingle in the refined and 
 polished society to which we have become accustomed." 
 I did not know whether pity, or contempt was the more 
 suitable feeling, as I listened to these silly encomiums 
 on English life and manners, and to the disparaging com- 
 parisons made by Mrs. Burton and her visitor, to the dis- 
 advantage of America, as though conventional etiquette, 
 and fastidiously graduated ceremonies, were preferable 
 to natural grace and ease in social intercourse, and to 
 that free interchange of good feeling between the enter- 
 tainer and the guest which distinguishes true American 
 hospitality, and makes a far more attractive board than 
 champagne, silver forks, damask napkins, or finger bowls 
 of rose-water. And whenever these trifles are gravely 
 magnified into affairs of the greatest importance, it is as 
 convincing a proof of innate vulgarity, as to tell the 
 prices given for your wine, or your plate, or to impress 
 on your visitors the rare merit of a piece of statuary or 
 painting, by naming the large sum paid for it. Anxious 
 display and restless pretension, are never found in persons 
 of cultivated taste or true refinement. After my return 
 to my quiet home at Glenwood, and I again mingled 
 with the society in its neighborhoods, I was forcibly struck 
 by the contrast between its genuine hereditary refine- 
 ment and the apish, affected airs of gentility, assumed by 
 the suddenly elevated members of our city aristocracy. 
 The unostentatious dignity and graceful ease of the 
 mothers were naturally transmitted to the daughters, 
 whose indigenous manners had a native polish which 
 needed not the varnish and gilding of European imita- 
 tions. Their words and actions sprung forth spontane- 
 ously from their minds and hearts, and it was delightful 
 to see again, natural characters revealed in all their 
 beauty, their freshness and their variety. " In what is
 
 94 AMANDA MALV1NA BURTON. 
 
 called the world," says a late writer, " it would seem that 
 there 1 is a guillotine established, to which every intellec- 
 tual energy is fitted by lopping off every germ that buds 
 beyond the narrow limits assigned as the modern stand- 
 ard. The heart is forced to undergo a like Procrustian 
 operation ; and all the young affections, timid respect 
 and blushing reserve which would seem to be the indi- 
 genous growth of the female mind, are destroyed with as 
 much zeal as the gardener employs in restraining the 
 luxuriance of his espaliers. Dressed to one common 
 model both in mind and body, you pass from one autom- 
 aton to another, in the city drawing-room, without being 
 conscious that you change your place, unless by the va- 
 riety of the glare in the colors that surround you. These 
 effigies neither see, feel, hear nor understand, except as 
 machines may appear to do. Likings, dislikings, looks, 
 words and actions are all artificial !" How faithfully is 
 the above picture of London society, copied and re-copied 
 in the fashionable society of our cities, and in this respect 
 we have been most successful as imitators. And to ex- 
 change society like this, for the delightful companionship 
 of my Glenwood neighbors, was like passing from a mo- 
 tionless panorama of some gaudy spectacle, to the fresh 
 air, the diffused fragrance, and the waving foliage of a 
 picturesque scene in nature. 
 
 In a letter from Emily, received a few months after my 
 leaving New York, she gave me a description of the 
 splendor and gayety attendant upon Amanda Burton's 
 marriage to Lord Merton, and in concluding, it mentioned 
 a strange rumor respecting Mr. Burton's business trans- 
 actions, which she said might prove untrue, but feared 
 there was some foundation which gave it credit. 
 
 A few weeks afterward the following letter confirmed 
 the report. 
 
 " MY DEAR ELLEN : 
 
 " The rumor to which my last letter alluded, is now con-
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 95 
 
 firmed. Mr. Burton has been charged with several 
 fraudulent transactions, which explain the mystery of his 
 suddenly accumulated wealth. An order for his arrest 
 was issued but he escaped from his pursuers, and is now 
 voyaging in safety upon the trackless sea, as his port 
 of destination is unknown. Every thing that he left 
 has been seized by his creditors and poor Mrs. Burton 
 is reduced to penury. Amanda and her husband had 
 not left the city when the conduct of her father was made 
 known, but they went immediately afterward, and it is 
 not known where they have gone. A report has also 
 been circulated that Lord Merton was only a false title, 
 assumed for the purpose of winning an American heiress, 
 that he is a mere English adventurer without property, 
 or standing. This, however, may have been made, in 
 order to give greater effect to the sudden downfall of the 
 Burtons. But yet, there are circumstances attending 
 their departure, which give some shadow of probability 
 to the rumor. If this prove true also, truly the career of 
 the Burtons was as short as it was brilliant, and their 
 former most obsequious admirers are now their most ac- 
 tive defamers. How like the world as it is found in fash- 
 ionable circles ! we can never be sufficiently grateful, my 
 dear Ellen, for having been taught the folly of seeking for 
 happiness in such scenes, and in having learned to look 
 for it, where it is only to be found, in the quiet domestic 
 circle and in the faithful discharge of our duties to God, 
 and our fellow-creatures." 
 
 Whenever I afterwards heard of a family suddenly ris- 
 ing into wealth and fashionable notoriety, my memory 
 always reverted to the Burtons, and it was sometime be- 
 fore I learned what had become of them. Previously to 
 my accepting an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt, 
 to bring my dear Edward and Charles with me, to pay 
 them a long promised visit, I took them to Oakwood that
 
 96 AMANDA MALVINA BTTRTON. 
 
 we might visit the scenes hallowed by the remembrance 
 of their sainted mother. On passing through the adja- 
 cent village, I went into the store formerly kept by Mr. 
 Burton to make a trifling purchase. To my utter sur- 
 prise I found Mrs. Burton again behind the counter. She 
 was much agitated on seeing me so unexpectedly, but ap- 
 peared to be very much changed. She gave me several 
 particulars of her history, and informed me that her hus- 
 band was still in Europe, and that he sent on frequent 
 remittances to her in money and goods. Upon my ask- 
 ing for Amanda, she confirmed the report circulated res- 
 pecting her husband, but said that he loved Amanda, al- 
 though her supposed wealth led him first to address her. 
 She said he was a sober man, and had become quite an 
 industrious one in endeavoring to make a competence for 
 his family, and tried in every way he could to reconcile 
 Amanda to her humble condition, and to make amends 
 for the bitter disappointment he had caused her, by his as- 
 suming a false name and title. Mrs. Burton also inform- 
 ed me that they resided in Philadelphia, where Mr. 
 Holmes kept a store. Upon finding that I intended pas- 
 sing through there on my way to New York, she re- 
 quested me to take charge of a small package for her 
 daughter. I willingly acceded to her wishes as I felt an 
 interest in Amanda, and was anxious to see her. I val- 
 ued her good traits of character, even while I was dis- 
 posed to condemn her folly. And now that she had ex- 
 perienced so sudden a reverse of fortune, I felt it a duty 
 to visit her in her adversity. Upon my arrival at Phila- 
 delphia, I followed the direction given by Mrs. Burton, 
 which led me to an humble dwelling in an obscure part 
 of the city. A small grocery store was kept in it, and I 
 felt some hesitation in entering, as there was no other 
 door to the house but the one opening into the shop. 
 When I went in I recognized the ci-devant Lord Merton,
 
 AMANDA MALVINA BURTON. 97 
 
 attired in a linen apron. He appeared to be embarrassed 
 when I asked for Amanda, but quickly recovering him- 
 self, he opened the door and invited me into a small room 
 where I found two chubby little children playing on the 
 floor. He called his wife, and she came in soon after- 
 ward. Poor Amanda seemed to be quite overcome when 
 she found who was her visitor, as the contrast between 
 her former circumstances and the present must have been 
 forcibly recalled, when she recollected the last time I saw 
 her. Blushes of mortified pride, and tears of genuine 
 feeling suffused her still beautiful countenance, and she 
 wept long and bitterly. " I am a poor weak creature," 
 said she, " I thought that I had learned to be contented 
 in my present condition." I am more comfortable than 
 I deserve to be. Mr. Holmes is a kind husband and 
 tries to make me happy, and how much greater would 
 have been my disappointment had he proved cruel, or 
 neglectful. I thought the serpent, pride, was almost 
 crushed in my bosom, but I found it sprung again into 
 renewed strength, when I saw you. I have many hum- 
 ble friends around me, but they are kind and true. Oh ! 
 how unlike those who professed so much for me, in the 
 day of prosperty, for those were the first to add insult to 
 our misfortunes. One of my neighbors has been a bless- 
 ing to me ; she was formerly in better circumstances, and 
 is now a poor widow, but she is a Christian, and has 
 taught me to feel resigned to the lot that providence has 
 assigned me, by endeavoring to fulfill its duties. 
 
 As I bid my old schoolmate farewell, I thought that 
 she was then more truly an object of envy, and admira- 
 tion, than when she was moving in the fashionable circles 
 of New York, a bright attraction to those who crowded 
 round her as a fashionable belle, and the prospective 
 heiress of a wealthy merchant. 
 9
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MARGARET ETHER1NGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 Think now of noble birth. If any one should glory in this, how idle 
 and how fruitless would that glory be ! Because every one knows that 
 all men came from one father and one mother. 
 
 God created men on the earth. He has connected together the soul 
 and the body "by his power, and made all men equally noble in their 
 first nature. Why do ye then arrogate over other men for your birth 
 without works ? Now you can find none unnoble. But all are equally 
 noble if you will think of your beginning, creature and the creator, and 
 afterward of your own nativity ; yet the right nobility is in the mind. 
 It is not in the flesh. KING ALFRED'S BOCTICS. 
 
 IT was upon one of the calm, unclouded days of sum- 
 mer, that I was tempted by a beautiful afternoon, to take 
 a stroll upon the Battery. Languid and enervated by the 
 sultry atmosphere of the crowded city, my sight aching 
 and dimmed by the noon-tide glare reflected from paved 
 streets and the weary perspective of buildings, I felt like 
 another being as the breeze came freshly from the waters, 
 bathing my brows with its delicious coolness, and sooth- 
 ing my ear with its refreshing sound, as it stirred the 
 branches of the overarching trees. And it was a glorious 
 sight too ! that noble bay, with its green islands and its 
 beautiful shores. As I watched the light barks as they 
 rose and fell with the undulating waves, or the distant 
 ship, with its white sails gleaming in the sunshine, I felt 
 a strange yearning to be out upon the waters. There is 
 a life, a mystery in their pulsating, unquiet heavings, 
 whether you watch them from the shore, or are borne 
 <upon their surface, that is wildly, fearfully exciting. 
 These gathered waters are never wholly still, even in 
 their calmest hours. Though they may sleep in quiet- 
 ness, yet there is vitality left in the throbbings of their 
 bosom.
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 99 
 
 This wonderful element is never at rest, from the 
 smallest rill that gurgles through green meadows, to the 
 mighty ocean whose waves are dashed into foam. Its 
 motion is ceaseless, and its coursing currents will ever be 
 onward and onward and onward, until the foot of the 
 Archangel will be planted in the sea, to proclaim unto 
 earth that Time shall be no longer. Oh ! who can de- 
 clare the wisdom, the power, and the goodness of God ! 
 Oh that men would praise Him for His wonderful works ! 
 
 The thoughts that rushed upon my mind, and the feel- 
 ings that vibrated in my heart as I continued gazing on 
 the scene before me, made me for a while unconscious of 
 the place, or of the presence of others. I was first roused 
 from my reverie by a deep sigh from a lady who was 
 sitting near me. She was so closely veiled that I could 
 get no glimpse of her face, but I was struck by the grace- 
 ful outlines of her finely proportioned figure, and the air 
 of gentility in her whole appearance. There was a mel- 
 ancholy abstraction in her attitude, as she sat with her 
 head slightly bending as if her eyes were fixed on the 
 ground, while her thoughts were wandering far away 
 among the saddening haunts of memory. I felt deeply 
 interested in her, and desirous to know who she was. 
 While my imagination was rapidly sketching her history, 
 and suggesting the probable causes of her sorrow, a little 
 girl came with hasty steps towards her, and said, " I wish 
 you would reprove sister Alicia, Miss Etherington, for 
 she will not mind me, and you know mamma has posi- 
 tively forbid our associating with any girls when we do 
 not know who they are." The familiar sound of the 
 name by which she addressed the lady, startled me. But 
 as soon as I heard the lady's voice in reply, I knew that 
 it could be none other than my old schoolmate, Margaret 
 Etherington ! 
 
 When I first made myself known to her, or rather re-
 
 100 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 called myself to her recollection, her sadness gave place 
 to a dignified reserve. But after we had talked over the 
 days we spent at Oakwood, and of our departed Mrs. 
 Norville, this all vanished, and she addressed me with 
 the freedom and ease of an old friend. 
 
 " You were doubtlessly surprised, my dear Ellen," she 
 said, " to meet me in New York, and to find me filling 
 my present situation, that of a governess to the two little 
 girls who are sitting beneath that elm tree. I have ex- 
 perienced a bitter change since we parted from each other 
 on the breaking up of the Oakwood school. Little did I 
 think that I ever could have stooped to labor for my own 
 subsistence, but I could better brook even this, than" to 
 have lived in dependence on my proud relatives, yet there 
 is one thing left of which nothing can deprive me, I am 
 an Etherington still ! and the consciousness of this, lifts 
 me above every trial I have to endure. Amidst all my 
 poverty, I would not exchange the proud satisfaction of 
 having descended from one of the first families in the 
 country, for all the wealth and luxury of my fashionable 
 employers. 
 
 " After I returned home, from Oakwood, I found my 
 dear father less cheerful than he used to be. He ap- 
 peared to suffer from some cause of disquietude, but made 
 no communication to me on the subject that harassed 
 him. But the crisis came at last, and the shock was sud- 
 den and overwhelming. My noble minded parent had 
 always implicitly trusted the management of his pecuni- 
 ary affairs to his agent, and never even knew the extent 
 of his funded income, or the annual proceeds from his 
 plantation. Whatever sums he wished for, were always 
 ready when demanded, and it was as new as unexpected 
 to him, when he was first told that his income had be- 
 come so far reduced as to make it necessary that he 
 should proportion his expenses to his resources. The
 
 MARGARET ETHER1NGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 101 
 
 agent finding this suggestion unpleasant to my father, 
 readily offered to make advances for him, which he said 
 could be soon redeemed, when a revival of trade increased 
 the value of the yearly crops. This proposal was acceded 
 to, and my father still kept up the style of living to which 
 he had always been accustomed, and restricted his princely 
 establishment in nothing. Think not that I reproach his 
 memory in this, no, much as I have suffered, yet I feel 
 more pride in claiming one like him as a parent, than to 
 have been descended from a man who had spent his life 
 in the ignoble employment of adding up long lines of 
 petty sums, or of measuring off goods by the yard for two 
 or three per cent profit, though it had enabled him to 
 become the possessor of millions." 
 
 " My dear Margaret," I ventured to remark, " there is 
 a prudent preparation for the future, and a necessary care 
 to be exerted in providing for the present, which is not 
 only laudable, but is a duty incumbent upon all, and is 
 quite as distinct from the debasing love of gain as it is 
 from reckless extravagance or thoughtless improvidence. 
 A life of honest industry, in any occupation, has no mean- 
 ness attached to it, and those who have been so accus- 
 tomed to affluence, as never to know the want of money, 
 ought to be pitied rather than commended, for their inca- 
 pability of feeling the necessity of its proper manage- 
 ment." 
 
 " Perhaps I am wrong," she added, with sweet ingenu- 
 ousness, "but those are the prejudices of my birth and 
 education, and it may be that my dear parent and I would 
 have been much happier, had we but listened to the 
 affectionate counsel of our sainted cousin Norville, who 
 by her own experience was so well fitted to be an adviser. 
 If my father had only sold part of his large estate, and 
 given up some of our luxurious indulgences, he might in 
 all probability have saved a competence for his old age, 
 9*
 
 102 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 and might even now have been spared to me, but he was 
 a proud man and could not bear the least hint as to the 
 necessity of retrenchment. His agent, though not legally 
 dishonest, was a shrewd man of business, and his situa- 
 tion enabled him to gain many advantages for himself, 
 from my father's necessities. He had held a mortgage 
 on the estate for nearly a year, when a tempting offer 
 made to him by one who wished to purchase it, induced 
 him to foreclose it, much to my father's surprise and in- 
 dignation. The sale took place, and we were obliged to 
 relinquish the patrimony, which had been in the possess- 
 ion of the Etherington family for more than a century. 
 My poor father was unable to bear up under the loss of 
 his fortune and estate, and survived the shock but a few 
 months. Oh my dear Ellen, I cannot describe to you 
 the agony that convulsed my heart when I saw my only 
 parent lying a corpse before me all that I loved or val- 
 ued in life was gone, and I stood alone and an orphan, 
 without a tie to bind me to earth. 
 
 " I had two or three distant relatives on my mother's 
 side, with whom I had never cultivated much intimacy, 
 as they were wholly uncongenial to both my departed 
 father and to me. They resided at some distance, in the 
 capital of the State, and as the full extent of the losses 
 sustained had not yet been ascertained, they considered 
 me still comparatively wealthy, and sent for me to fix my 
 residence with them. Not knowing what resources I 
 might have to depend on, when the estate was settled, 
 and wholly ignorant where to go, or what to do for the 
 best, I readily yielded to their kindly expressed wishes, 
 by accepting their invitation. At first I was overwhelmed 
 with the excessive attentions I received, and although 
 they were too much devoted to fashion and frivolity to 
 suit my tastes, yet I thought they were sincere in the 
 . sympathy and affection they evinced for me, while mourn-
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 103 
 
 ing the recent loss of my beloved father. But from the 
 time when it was known that the settlement of his effects 
 would leave me so limited an income as to be insufficient 
 for my own support, their whole manner towards me was 
 altered. I saw that I was looked on as an unwelcome 
 visitant, and I could not brook a dependence, which was 
 evidently offered without a desire of its being accepted. 
 For a moment my proud heart was humbled, and I felt 
 the helpless desolation to which I was reduced, but I 
 quickly recovered my self-possession, and declined their 
 heartless offer of a home, with more pride and as much 
 assumed superiority as they had exhibited in proffering 
 it. As soon as I was left alone, I gave way to a parox- 
 ysm of mental distress and agitation. I was determined 
 to seek a home elsewhere, but knew not how I could 
 support myself in the interval that would elapse, before I 
 could get even the little secured to me from the wreck of 
 the estate. After hurriedly devising several plans, which 
 were rejected as soon as I reconsidered them, my attention 
 was accidentally arrested by an advertisement for a gov- 
 erness in a New York paper, which was lying on a table 
 before me. With the sudden resolution of despair, I 
 determined to apply for it, without suffering myself to 
 dwell upon anything that might have deterred me from 
 entering upon such a situation. The letter was immedi- 
 ately written and sent to the Post Office. The answer 
 was favorable, the salary a liberal one. I bade a hurried 
 farewell to my fashionable relatives, and embarked in a 
 vessel bound to New York. 
 
 " The family in which I reside, is considered here 
 among the first in fashionable life, though the father rose 
 from an obscure condition, and owes his large fortune to 
 his industry and love of gain. I am treated with respect, 
 for whatever may be my situation, I can brook no other 
 treatment. Knowing that I have seen ' better days,' and
 
 104 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 perhaps anxious to gratify the curiosity of their female 
 visitors, who express much surprise on the singularity of 
 a Southern born governess, they frequently wish me to 
 mingle with the society that frequents the house. But it 
 is my endeavor to avoid company as much as I can, and 
 to keep myself secluded. The little that I have seen of 
 it, has given vne a contempt for its shallow preten- 
 sions to refinement and gentility. Those who have 
 sprung from the lowest rank are most assuming, and 
 their jealous fears lest any should intrude upon them who 
 are not entitled to the privilege, forcibly exhibits their 
 own doubtful claims to the exclusiveness they are so for- 
 ward in asserting. As they have no genealogical de- 
 scent to boast of, they make wealth and expensive living 
 their graduating standard of rank. Every thing is esti- 
 mated according to its cost, and you hear of the sums 
 given for articles of dress, from a shawl down to a pocket 
 handkerchief, and have as accurate a knowledge of their 
 expenditures in furniture and equipage, as if they had 
 given you an extract from their account books. It is 
 amusing to see how this spirit pervades even the children 
 and servants, for my little pupils will often entertain and 
 astonish the chamber-maid with the second-hand gossip 
 of the parlor, by giving the cost of the dress of their 
 mother's visitors. I have often checked them, and 
 endeavored to inspire them with better notions of what 
 constitutes gentility, but with little effect, when opposed to 
 the influence of examples that counteract my efforts." 
 
 " In all commercial cities," I replied, " the class that 
 owes its rise to suddenly accumulated wealth, and whose 
 distinction is solely gained by profuse expenditure and 
 gorgeous display, must always be a large one, as the 
 greater number who crowd its streets, or fill its fashionable 
 saloons, are drawn thither by the facilities these afford 
 for the acquisition of wealth, or the attainment of notori-
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON OR FAMILY PRIDE. 105 
 
 ety. But there are other circles where there is as much 
 true refinement, as much graceful elegance or as highly 
 cultivated intellectual tastes as can be found in the best 
 society in any portion of the country ; and in which 
 you will find none of the objections you so justly make 
 to that specimen of New York society with which you 
 have been made acquainted." 
 
 Before Margaret had time to make any reply, one of 
 the little girls came again to her and said, " Miss Ether- 
 ington, I wish you would make sister stay with you, for 
 she will insist on making acquaintance with those chil- 
 dren, and has even asked them to ride home with us, 
 and I am sure they cannot be genteel, for their dress is 
 quite plain and common." 
 
 Margaret replied, " my dear Mary, fine dress is not 
 always an evidence of gentility, but call your sister, it is 
 time you should be going home, as it is later than I 
 thought it was." Then motioning to the footman who 
 was standing near us, she told him to attend the young 
 ladies to the carriage, that she would walk home with a 
 friend. 
 
 As soon as Margaret had seen her little charge seated 
 in the carriage, we left the Battery, and slowly pursued 
 our way engaged in an interesting conversation on the 
 past and the present. I spoke to her of Emily, and of 
 Mr. Harcourt, and pressed her to return with me, that 
 Emily would be surprised and delighted to see her. 
 But Margaret refused, saying, " no, my dear Ellen, the 
 sight of an old friend would only make my own lot seem 
 harder to bear. Although my proud spirit will -not 
 acknowledge any inferiority in having been obliged to 
 become a governess, yet I am conscious in the eyes of 
 the world, that I am looked on as filling a station far 
 subordinate to the one which Emily adorns. No ! do 
 not attempt to draw me from the seclusion that is most
 
 106 MARGARET ETHERLNGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 agreeable to my own feelings and forget that Margaret 
 Etherington still lives." 
 
 On passing up Broadway, a gentleman bowed to me, 
 and I said to Margaret, " There is an estimable man 
 whom I pity from my heart. Like you, he keeps him- 
 self aloof from society, for fear of not being considered 
 as an equal, though his pride rises from a different 
 source, yet its effects are the same as in your case. He 
 was a student of Mr. Harcourt's, and is always a wel- 
 come visitor at his house ; but because the father of 
 Henry Bancroft happened to be a mechanic, he is fearful 
 that the society to which his manner and acquirements 
 entitle him, will consider him as an intruder. His mor- 
 bid sensitiveness on this subject is the only weak point 
 in his character, and it is often regretted by his friends, 
 that one so capable of shining in the circles of the refined 
 and the intellectual, should keep himself in the back- 
 ground on account of the senseless prejudice of a few 
 silly worldlings. Like you, he would make himself a 
 victim to the false influences by which some portion of 
 our society is still slavishly bound ; forgetting that indi- 
 vidual claims are the only ones thought worthy of atten- 
 tion, by those whose companionship is most desirable. 
 All persons of true refinement and gentility, are quick in 
 acknowledging kindred minds and tastes, and are seldom 
 or never governed by adventitious circumstances. It is 
 only the parvenu and the pretender that pause to inquire, 
 ' what was his father ?' ' what does he follow ?' before 
 they can tell whether they ought to consider a man to be 
 a gentleman. You err, my dear Margaret in supposing 
 that any one whose favorable opinion is worth cultivat- 
 ing, will respect you less for becoming a governess ; and 
 he errs also, in imagining that the trade of his father 
 will prevent him from taking that place in society to 
 which he is entitled."
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 107 
 
 I left Margaret at the door of her home, and continued 
 my walk to Mr. Harcourt's. Emily was surprised to 
 hear that Margaret Etherington was in New York, and 
 said that she would go with me to see her. And the 
 next day, my friend and I proceeded to the house of Mr. 
 Beaufort. We were ushered into the drawing room 
 where several visiters were seated. Mrs. Beaufort 
 though not personally acquainted with Emily, knew her, 
 as Mrs. Harcourt, and appeared surprised that our visit 
 was intended for her governess. She sent for Margaret, 
 who soon after entered in some agitation on meeting us, 
 but this quickly gave place to a dignified self-possession, 
 when she found there were other ladies present. Emily 
 was much gratified in seeing her old schoolmate after so 
 long a separation, and pressed her to spend the next 
 evening with us. I told her we could not take a refusal, 
 for I wished her to see Edward and Charles Norville, 
 whom I expected to return the next morning, from their 
 tour through New England. Margaret consented, though 
 with some degree of reluctance, as she was fearful of 
 meeting others beside her old friends. Mrs. Beaufort 
 and her visiters exchanged glances of surprise, doubt- 
 lessly thinking it strange that Mrs. Harcourt would visit 
 a governess on terms of equality ; little imagining that 
 the Miss Etherington whom they considered beneath 
 them on account of the station she them filled, was 
 entitled by birth, education and manners, to a rank far 
 above theirs. How favorably did Margaret's quiet dig- 
 nity and grace, contrast with their assumed gentility, 
 one was the genuine refinement of a well-bred woman ; 
 the other the affected elegance of conventional polish. 
 
 After we left the house, Emily appeared to be lost in 
 thought, and then suddenly rousing from her reverie, 
 said " Do you not think, my dear Ellen, that I could 
 persuade Margaret to make her home with me. It
 
 108 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 grieves me to see her placed in a situation, which ap- 
 pears a subordinate one, to those with whom she must 
 associate at Mr. Beaufort's." I replied that Margaret 
 had refused to become dependent on her relatives, and 
 would never consent to live thus with a friend. Then 
 said she, " perhaps she would assist me in educating my 
 daughters, will you make the proposal to her as delicately 
 as you can ? use every argument that may induce her to 
 consent to reside with us, as I cannot bear to see her, 
 with those who cannot appreciate her." I promised to 
 make' the trial, anxiously hoping that it would prove 
 favorable to Emily's benevolent wishes. 
 
 The carriage was sent for Margaret the next evening 
 at an early hour ; and the pleasure we enjoyed in her 
 intellectual companionship, made Emily still more 
 anxious to gain Margaret's consent to the proposal she 
 had authorized me to make. Mr. Harcourt warmly 
 acceded to the wish of his wife, as he felt her assistance 
 would be invaluable to Emily, in cultivating the minds 
 of his children ; and that she would be quite a delightful 
 accession to their domestic circle, and social parties. 
 
 When I first spoke to Margaret on the subject, she 
 raised many objections, from that feeling which all 
 proud minds experience, that it is easier to bear a 
 reverse of fortune in a strange land among strangers, 
 than in our own home with those who have known us in 
 prosperity. But at last by reasoning with her, and per- 
 suading her, I succeeded in gaining her consent, and had 
 the happiness of seeing her established as an inmate of 
 Mr. Harcourt's household. 
 
 Among our visiters, there was no one who appeared 
 more deeply interested in my friend Margaret, than 
 Henry Bancroft. There was a sympathy in their feel- 
 ings, and a congeniality in their tastes, which led to 
 attentions from him so delicate and respectful that Mar-
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 109 
 
 garet could not help receiving them with some degree of 
 pleasure. The remembrance of our evenings at Mr. 
 Harcourt's is still one of the most delightful pages in the 
 tablet of memory. Margaret's vigorous, energetic mind, 
 and lofty sentiment were sweetly tempered by the intel- 
 lectual graces, and feminine tenderness of my gentle 
 Emily. And when two or three of Mr. Harcourt's 
 favorite companions were added to our fireside circle, 
 and all gave free utterance to their thoughts, opinions 
 and feelings, our domestic conversational parties were 
 more pleasant and attractive than any thing that the gay 
 world could furnish. And a few evenings thus spent 
 together, give persons a more intimate acquajntance with 
 each other, than years of frequent association in the 
 crowded halls of fashion. Henry Bancroft threw off the 
 reserve that had obscured his fine talents, and became at 
 times quite animated and brilliant ; though his conversa- 
 tion was more characterized by thought and feeling than 
 by wit. But whenever Margaret gave expression to any 
 opinion which evinced her pride of ancestral descent, Mr.. 
 Bancroft appeared to feel it deeply, and would again be- 
 come abstracted and gloomy. One evening, after Marga- 
 ret had spoken thoughtlessly on the subject of family 
 distinction, I remonstrated with her, telling her that Mr. 
 Bancroft's sensitiveness on this point, should prevent her 
 expressing such opinions before him. " I do not wish to 
 see you less candid or frank, my dear Margaret," said I, 
 " but there is a regard due to other's feelings, even when 
 we express our own !" 
 
 Her eyes filled, and she replied, " I respect Mr. Ban- 
 croft, and would not intentionally wound his feelings, but," 
 she hesitatingly faltered, " I feared from one or two cir- 
 cumstances that he might have an idea " here wo- 
 man's pride forbade her to finish the confession, but I 
 saw that adversity had not yet taught its uses to my 
 10
 
 110 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 friend. She found that Henry Bancroft's esteem was 
 giving place to a more tender sentiment, and she used 
 this means to prevent its acknowledgment. And yet 
 there was a struggle going on within her heart, between 
 her love and her pride, which she scarcely dared to 
 dwell upon. She spurned the idea of marrying into an 
 obscure family, and yet her thoughts had lingered round 
 the image of Henry Bancroft, until he had become 
 dearer to her than she was willing to admit, even to 
 herself. 
 
 " My dear Margaret," I inadvertently exclaimed, as I 
 pressed her hand, " do not let your false pride destroy 
 the happiness of an estimable man, and prevent your 
 filling a station you are fitted to adorn, as the happy wife 
 of one every way worthy of you." " But Ellen" she 
 replied, while her dark eye flashed with kindling pride ; 
 " how can an Etherington stoop to an alliance beneath 
 her ?" 
 
 u For shame, my friend," said I, " remember that Henry 
 Bancroft in point of talents, education, manners and 
 fortune is considered here a match for any one ; and if 
 he governed himself according to the prejudices of 
 fashionable society, he would deem it a descent to marry 
 a governess. You have ridiculed the pretensions of 
 those that prided themselves on their wealth, and have 
 deeply felt the injustice and folly of their assumptions; 
 may not the pride of family appear equally ridiculous to 
 some, and be felt to be equally unjust by others ? If your 
 ancestors, for several generations, have held a station, 
 which placed them above the necessity of labor, yet 
 recollect that the one who conferred this distinction upon 
 his descendants, and of whom you have most reason to 
 be proud, was himself a man of obscure birth, and owed 
 his title, his office, and his estate, entirely to his own 
 merit, and his own exertions. Then how is Henry Ban-
 
 MARGARET ETHER1NGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. Ill 
 
 croft your inferior, if one of his forefathers not quite so 
 far back, should have sprung from the same humble con- 
 dition as your remoter one. Forgive me, dear Marga- 
 ret," I added, " if my interest in you both, should lead 
 rne to say more than I ought ; but I cannot bear to see 
 you recklessly trampling on a heart devoted to you, and 
 throwing away an offer which will rescue you from ad- 
 versity, and secure to you a home, made happy by all 
 that refinement, intellect and wealth can bestow. 
 
 " Henry Bancroft," continued I, " has an income inde- 
 pendent of his profession, and if he could only divest 
 himself of his false pride and diffidence, he would find no 
 difficulty in taking a prominent place, in any station to 
 which he might aspire. Recollect too, ours is not a 
 country where men are kept subordinate on account of 
 their origin. Look at most of our distinguished men, 
 those who fill the places of honor among us ; our Gover- 
 nors, our Judges, &c. ; who would think of refusing to 
 acknowledge them as equals, because they chanced to 
 be the sons of mechanics ? Henry Bancroft has talents 
 and capacities, and his name may yet sound as loftily 
 even in your ear, as that of Etherington." 
 
 Margaret's aristocratic prejudices were more subdued 
 than she was willing to acknowledge. Now and then, 
 her pride would manifest itself, but I saw with pleasure 
 that she was attaining a better state of feeling under the 
 combined influence of Mr. Harcourt's strong, good sense, 
 and the humble piety of Emily. Though she at first 
 repulsed the idea of an alliance with Henry, yet she 
 could not help becoming more and more interested in 
 him, until her pride was gradually overcome by the 
 gentle, yet more powerful influence of a growing attach- 
 ment. 
 
 The time I had spent at Mr. Harcourt's passed so 
 pleasantly, that I regretted when the day fixed on for my
 
 112 MARGARET ETHER1NGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 return to Glemvood had arrived. Edward and Charles 
 had improved the opportunity of their recess from college 
 studies by traveling through the New England States ; 
 and by attending one or two courses of lectures after 
 their return to New York ; and were ready to take their 
 places among their fellow students with renewed physical 
 energy, and fresh intellectual excitement. We took 
 leave of our kind friends, and set forward on our home- 
 ward journey. 
 
 A few months after our return home, I received the 
 following welcome letter from Emily. 
 
 " I know not whether you will be surprised, or not, my 
 dear Ellen, when I tell you that Margaret Etherington, is 
 shortly to be married to Henry Bancroft. The change 
 that was taking place in her feelings before you left us, 
 no doubt prepared you to receive this information at some 
 future period. Soon after your departure from New 
 York, Mr. Bancroft's mother removed into the city, and 
 took a house a short distance from ours. Mr. Harcourt 
 and I lost no time in making her acquaintance, especially 
 on Margaret's account, who, although reconciled to Henry 
 himself, was still afraid of finding his mother an unsuit- 
 able associate. We found Mrs. Bancroft a lady-like, in- 
 teresting woman. She soon regarded me as a friend, 
 and related to me several incidents of her early life, and 
 her subsequent history, of which, I shall give you a short 
 sketch, knowing your interest in all that concerns Mar- 
 garet and Henry. Mrs. Bancroft was the daughter of a 
 clergyman in England, who died and left her to the care 
 of Sir Robert Newman, his only surviving relative. 
 This bequest was not very graciously received by the 
 wife and daughters of Sir Robert, who were mortified on 
 account of having a poor relative as a dependent. She 
 was forbidden to associate with their visitors, or even to 
 mention her relationship to them before the servants
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 113 
 
 and was kept in the children's apartments to assist the 
 nurse and governess, in attending to them. Sir Robert 
 was often obliged to be absent from home, and was igno- 
 rant of the treatment that the destitute orphan was forced 
 to bear, and whenever he asked why Eliza did not mingle 
 more with the family, he was told that she prefered to 
 keep herself secluded, and was not fond of society. Poor 
 Eliza was led to believe that her uncle was a stern, 
 haughty man, and broken spirited by grief and bitter de- 
 pendence, she thought there was no one that loved her, 
 or cared for her. Her only comfort was to steal away to 
 some retired nook of the grounds, when her charge were 
 engaged with their governess, and there give vent to her 
 feelings. One day, while thus weeping over her desolate, 
 friendless condition, her sobs were overheard by a carpen- 
 ter, who was superintending some improvements on the 
 estate and who happened to be then passing by. He 
 had often noticed her when walking with the children, 
 and had become very much interested in her. He had 
 heard she was an orphan, and her melancholy expression 
 awakened a sympathy in his bosom, which gave rise to a 
 half-formed wish that it was in his power to alleviate her 
 sorrow, and contribute to her happiness. As yet, he had 
 only ventured to bow respectfully to her, as she passed 
 by him, in her rambles with the governess and the chil- 
 dren, but when he heard her convulsive sobs, he ap- 
 proached, and in a kind sympathizing tone, asked her the 
 cause of her sorrow. The language of kindness was so 
 new to the young desolate Eliza, that it made her weep 
 still more bitterly. She confessed to him the unhappi- 
 ness of her situation, and her wish to get a place in some 
 family, where she could find a peaceful home. She 
 looked on him as a friend who had unexpectedly come 
 to advise her, as she had long been desirous of seeking a 
 situation in any capacity, by which she could earn her 
 10*
 
 114 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 own support. Not knowing that she was a relative of 
 Sir Robert Newman, he made her an offer of his hand, 
 and confessed the deep interest he had long felt for her. 
 He begged her to forgive his sudden avowal, as the sight 
 of her unhappiness had prematurely forced it from him. 
 He was so much her senior, and the declaration was so 
 unexpected that Eliza could not at first accept his offer, 
 though she felt grateful for his sympathy, and happy that 
 she had found a friend. He requested her to let him 
 ask permission of the family to visit her, but she refused 
 this, and was still afraid to tell him of her relationship. 
 And in a few weeks afterward she gave her consent to 
 marry him. This man was Henry Bancroft's father. 
 He was a worthy man, and one whose education was su- 
 perior to most of his fellow mechanics. He was the son 
 of a farmer, who had become reduced in his circumstan- 
 ces, and had apprenticed his sons to those trades which 
 were considered likely to become lucrative. Henry's 
 father was the eldest, and his taste and skill, soon advan- 
 ced him to the grade of a master workman, and though 
 still comparatively young when he met the destitute or- 
 phan girl, yet, he was many years older than she was. 
 When he found after his marriage, that his wife belonged 
 to a rank so far above his own, he determined if possible 
 to restore her to a society superior to that, which as his 
 wife, she would be forced to associate with in England, 
 and accordingly made up his mind to emigrate to Amer- 
 ica, a country where birth is not an obstacle to social 
 elevation. Here his endeavors to acquire wealth, were 
 crowned with success, but he never could overcome the 
 prejudices of caste, under which he had been bound in 
 his native land. His fortune would have enabled him to 
 take a high station, if he had determined to push him- 
 self forward, without regarding the sneers, or remarks, 
 of the would-be exclusives, but in his sensitiveness re-
 
 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 115 
 
 specting the distinctions of society, he thought that the 
 barriers still existing in America, were legitimately inher- 
 ited by her, as the daughter of England. He retired to 
 a beautiful estate upon the Hudson, where he and his 
 Eliza lived in happy seclusion, esteemed by their neigh- 
 bors, and undisturbed by the petty clashings, competi- 
 tions, and jealous exclusiveness of a city aristocracy. 
 He gave his only child every advantage that money 
 could procure, and chose for him the profession of a law- 
 yer, as one that would enable him to rise to a rank suited 
 to his mother's birth. Henry's father died about five 
 years ago, leaving his widow and son, a handsome inde- 
 pendence, but Henry inheriting his father's sensitiveness 
 and reserve, has kept himself aloof, and refused to take 
 advantage of any opportunity, to gain admission into 
 society. He devotes himself to his profession, and most 
 of his leisure hours are spent with his mother. Ours is 
 the only house he visits intimately, and if he had been 
 disposed to form an alliance with any of our fashionable 
 exclusives, there are many, I know, who would have been 
 willing to accept him for a fine person, a handsome for- 
 tune, and polished manners, would be irresistible even 
 to those who could not appreciate him for the nobler, and 
 higher qualities of his mind and heart. 
 
 After Margaret had seen Mrs. Bancroft, and had heard 
 her history, her last objection was completely overruled, 
 and the change she evinced in her manner towards 
 Henry, induced him to make a respectful offer of his 
 hand, which as I have already informed you, was 'duly 
 accepted.' 
 
 " Henry, yesterday, told Mr. Harcourt that he had made 
 inquiries respecting the Etherington estate, and found from 
 the failure of its proprietor, it was shortly to be offered 
 for sale. He said he had made an offer to purchase it, 
 and was in expectation of securing a favorable answer from
 
 116 MARGARET ETHERINGTON, OR FAMILY PRIDE. 
 
 the one who was authorized to dispose of it. He has 
 not yet told Margaret, for he wishes to give her an agree- 
 able surprise. This will be happy news for her, for I 
 know she will gladly leave the scene of her adversity, 
 and her descent, as she still considers her station as gov- 
 erness, and will be rejoiced to be once more mistress of 
 the patrimony of the Etheringtons. 
 
 " Henry and Margaret desired me to ask you, and your 
 adopted brothers, to be present at the wedding, which is 
 to take place in a few weeks." 
 
 Upon the appointed day, I had the happiness of seeing 
 my old schoolmate wedded to a man so worthy of her, 
 and left New York in company with the bridal party, as 
 they were proceeding southward to their future home. 
 
 I often hear from my old friend Margaret. She is a 
 happy wife and mother, and is filling the station she 
 once held as the mistress of Etherington Manor, with 
 less pride than she did, as the daughter of Robert Ether- 
 ington, but with equal elegance and dignity, as the wife 
 of Henry Bancroft.
 
 117 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR, OR THE TWO SISTERS. 
 
 " There may be faithful friendships formed in after years, but where 
 a sister is a sister's friend, there can be none so tender and none so true. 
 It is in seasons of affliction that we prove the real value of the deep 
 well-spring of a sister's love." MRS. ELLIS. 
 
 A FEW years ago, when I was suffering from the effects 
 of a severe spell of illness, my physician recommended a 
 few weeks' residence at the Virginia Springs. I found 
 on my arrival, the usual number of gay triflers who 
 strangely delight in turning the resort of the sick and the 
 dying into a scene of thoughtless frivolity and worldly 
 amusements, and not meeting with any one with whom 
 I cared to associate, I kept myself in the seclusion of my 
 own room. 
 
 A week or two after I came there, as I was sitting by 
 my window watching the alighting of some passengers 
 who had just arrived in the stage, I saw two ladies among 
 them whose countenances were familiar to me, but I could 
 not recall the place where I had met them. For several 
 mornings I saw these sisters, for such they appeared to 
 be, taking their regular walks, for the benefit of the exer- 
 cise and the fresh air. One seemed to be quite an inva- 
 lid, and it was touching to see the devoted attentions paid 
 to her by the other. No fond, anxious wife, or tender 
 lover in the days of courtship, could evince a deeper 
 sympathy or more untiring kindness. Fearful lest the 
 invalid should task her strength too much, the sister 
 would insist on her resting frequently beneath the shade 
 of a tree, and as she reclined on the seat, the kind nurse 
 would stand by and fan her, or wipe the moisture 'from 
 her brow. Sometimes she would gather the sweet wild
 
 118 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 flowers that grew around, and bring them to refresh the 
 sufferer. A melancholy smile and a look of deep affec- 
 tion rewarded these attentions, but an attachment like 
 that of the one who tendered them, needed no other grat- 
 ification than the feeling that drew them forth. 
 
 Sometimes the sisters would be accompanied by an old 
 lady, who came with them to the Springs. She occupied 
 the room next my own, and two or three trifling services 
 I had an opportunity of rendering her, brought about an 
 acquaintance. Upon inquiring from her the name of the 
 two females in whom I had become so much interested, 
 " They are," said she in reply, " the daughters of my old 
 friend Mr. Grosvenor one is a widow, the other is still 
 unmarried." "Are their names Mary and Ellen?" I 
 hastily inquired. She replied that they were. " Then," 
 said I, " they must have been once schoolmates of mine, 
 and I should gladly renew the acquaintance, if agreeable 
 to them. Tell them, my dear Mrs. Merdaunt, that Ellen 
 Maitland, a former pupil of the Oakwood school, is anx- 
 ious to see them." The old lady soon returned to my 
 room, with a kind invitation to visit them. 
 
 I found that they were indeed my old friends Mary 
 and Ellen Grosvenor. We had a long and interesting 
 conversation about Mrs. Norville and our old school- 
 mates, and we seemed mutually gratified to have met 
 with companions with whom we could associate, in the 
 crowd of strangers that thronged the place. Mary was 
 but little altered in appearance, except by such changes 
 as added years will bring, but Ellen's pale cheek and sad- 
 thoughted countenance, bore traces of much sickness and 
 sorrow. I felt anxious to know something of their history 
 since we parted, and befere I left the Springs, their old 
 friend Mrs. Merdaunt made me acquainted with most of 
 the particulars in the life and experience of the two 
 sisters.
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 119 
 
 After Mary and Ellen left the Oakwood school, to 
 accompany their parents upon their removal into another 
 State, they continued to carry on a course of study at 
 home. Fond of retirement and of literary pursuits, they 
 divided their time between the domestic duties of their 
 sex, and the refined pleasures of taste and intellect, and 
 felt no desire to mingle in the gay scenes of fashion or 
 Avorldly enjoyments. When asked by any of their ac- 
 quaintance, when they intended to " come out," as it is 
 termed, they would reply "never." "Then you must 
 not expect to be married," said their gay friends, " it is 
 necessary for every one who wishes to make a good 
 match, to go out into society very frequently. The gen- 
 tlemen, you know, will not take the trouble to seek out 
 for wives, so that those who wish to become wives must 
 come before their notice. As the mountain would not go 
 to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain." 
 
 " If that be the alternative," said Mary, " I shall rest 
 quite contented in my own place, without a wish to win 
 or be won. I see nothing dreadful in the idea of remain- 
 ing unmarried, or even in anticipating the title of ' old 
 maid.' I have had dreams, and made fancy sketches like 
 most of us do, but when I come down to sober reality, I 
 think it doubtful whether I shall ever meet one who will 
 satisfy my fastidious taste, and if I should, he would in 
 all probability never take a fancy to me, so that I never 
 give myself any uneasiness on the subject." Mary was 
 the entire reverse of what is called " a susceptible young 
 lady," and there was therefore no danger of her ever 
 giving her heart where her reason disapproved. She 
 possessed almost an intuitive perception of character, and 
 a soundness of judgment which enabled her to form a 
 true estimate of men and things. But Ellen, being more 
 imaginative than Mary, viewed every one through the 
 medium of her own fancy, and too often invested them
 
 120 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 with virtues not their own. It was this that led the 
 gentle Ellen to yield up the rich treasures of her heart, 
 to one who eventually proved unworthy of her. Edmund 
 Bolton was a man of the world, and had studied the fe- 
 male character in all its phases. He knew how to 
 accommodate himself to every taste, and to appear to 
 every one all that they wished. He was captivated by 
 Ellen's beauty, and knew also there was a prospect of 
 her inheriting a large fortune at her father's death. 
 These were the incentives that led him to use every 
 means to win her for his own, and his endeavors at last 
 proved successful. 
 
 Ellen knew nothing of the world. She loved Edmund 
 Bolton with all the enthusiasm of woman's early love, 
 and fondly imagined him all she thought him to be. 
 But the illusion vanished before she was long a wife, for 
 when once in possession of the prize he had sought, the 
 husband thought it no longer necessary to maintain 
 towards her the character he had assumed. He had no 
 longer any motive for controlling his violent temper, or 
 for repressing his impatience whenever she unconsciously 
 excited it, for she was now irrevocably his own. Mary 
 accompanied her sister to her new home, and remained 
 some time with her, and soon discovered with an aching 
 heart that Edmund Bolton was not the man to make her 
 beloved sister a happy woman. The delicacy and re- 
 finement of their feelings, and the high sense of propriety 
 in conduct and manners, which had always governed the 
 society to which the sisters had been accustomed at home, 
 rendered the contrast with the levity and freedom of 
 Edmund and his companions, a striking and painful one. 
 Ellen's love for her betrothed, was characterized by the 
 blushing reserve and timid respect peculiar to a nature 
 like hers, she loved to look up to him as a being superior 
 to herself, and felt as if all should regard him with equal
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 121 
 
 veneration. But when she found that he, whom she 
 imagined to be all that was noble and dignified, could 
 become the trifling, romping companion of giddy girls, 
 the disappointment was as unexpected as it was painful. 
 When she saw the husband, the pressure of whose lips 
 was sacred to her as an evidence of his affection, freely 
 bestowing the same evidence on other females of his 
 acquaintance, when she beheld the brow upon which she 
 could not imprint a timid kiss, without bringing blushes 
 to her cheeks, familiarly kissed by strangers, she was 
 startled from her dream of happiness, and her confidence 
 in his attachment became weakened. He saw the pain 
 that it gave her, and being unable to appreciate the deli- 
 cacy and refinement of her deep affection, he continued 
 his flirtations, sneeringly smiling at the effects they pro- 
 duced in disturbing her peace. For his own amusement 
 he recklessly trifled with her feelings, but the love of a 
 devoted heart is not a thing to be trifled with. She 
 could have borne with his impatient spirit, and his out- 
 bursts of temper, by learning to look on them as natural 
 infirmities, which called for her compassion, but when 
 she saw him thus deliberately destroying her trust in his 
 love, for the petty gratification of the moment, a feeling 
 of contempt for him came over her involuntarily and 
 chilled the current of her affections to their utmost depths. 
 Edmund Bolton was intensely selfish. His own ease 
 and his own gratification were all that he thought of, or 
 cared for. He exacted the most slavish attention to his 
 wants and caprices, and all that his wife did for him was 
 received without acknowledgment or gratitude. And 
 often the only return she met with, was bitter sarcasm, 
 if her services happened to fall short of what he unrea- 
 sonably required. Poor Ellen bore all this with the 
 patience of a meek and quiet spirit she did all that she 
 could, but without the hope or expectation of pleasing 
 him or satisfying his demands on her time and attention. 
 11
 
 122 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 Mary's proud and independent spirit could scarcely 
 brook the treatment of her sister in silence. It was diffi- 
 cult for her to refrain from reproof, but this she knew 
 would only add to Ellen's unhappiness, and she pru- 
 dently forebore all expression of her feelings towards 
 him. When the period of her return to her parents had 
 arrived, she could not bear the thought of leaving her 
 beloved sister, and as she pressed her hand in bidding 
 her farewell, the tears that started to Ellen's eyes spoke 
 all that her tongue had refused to utter. It was her hus- 
 band that caused her grief, and she had kept all that she 
 suffered close within her own heart, not even breathing 
 one word of complaint against him, to the beloved com- 
 panion with whom she had been accustomed from infancy, 
 to share every thought and every sorrow. 
 
 When Mary returned home, her grief at the loss of 
 her sister's society was bitterly felt. It would have been 
 so, had she been assured that Ellen had only exchanged 
 one happy home for another; but oh, how much bitter- 
 ness was added to her unhappiness, when she knew that 
 the dearly beloved associate of her infancy and woman- 
 hood had been cruelly taken from kindred, whose ten- 
 derness and affection had made her life like a pleasant 
 dream, to spend the remainder of her days with one who 
 was incapable of loving or appreciating her as she 
 deserved. 
 
 Several months after Mary had left E:len, she received 
 the following brief letter from her, whose handwriting 
 bore painful evidence that it was penned in much weak- 
 ness and exhaustion. 
 
 " I am sorry, my dear Mary, to ask you to come to me 
 in this inclement season ; but I am sick, very sick. I 
 want some one near and dear as you are to nurse and 
 attend to me the servants do as well as they can, but 
 they are inexperienced and unskillful. My husband has
 
 -dT t. Ok 
 
 ipleas- 
 ,eya, 
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 123 
 
 never been accustomed to a sick room, and, of course, I 
 cannot expect him to be with me, as he knows not what 
 to do for me. My physician said this morning that I 
 must send for my mother or sister, as good nursing was 
 necessary for my recovery. This must be my apology, 
 dear Mary, for my selfishness in asking you to leave a 
 comfortable fireside, and expose yourself to the unpl* 
 ant voyage across the bay at this season." 
 
 When Mary showed the letter to her parents, the 
 first refused to let her go, telling her it would be hazard- 
 ous to attempt to reach her sister. But Mary's resolution 
 was taken her sister needed her assistance, and nothing 
 was deemed a sufficient obstacle to deter her. Her father 
 finding her determined to incur all risks, made inquiries 
 for a suitable opportunity. He found a small vessel 
 which was to sail on the following day, and as the cap- 
 tain thought he would be able to make a short and suc- 
 cessful trip, Mr. Grosvenor at last consented that she 
 should go. 
 
 It was upon a bright, cloudless day, in early winter, 
 that Mary embarked in the vessel that was to bear her 
 to her sister. The wind blew freshly from the shore, 
 and the captain being anxious to take advantage of it, 
 hurried the preparations for departure. As soon as all 
 was in readiness, the word was given, and the boat 
 started onward in its pathway through the waters, as if 
 rejoicing in its freedom from the tether which had bound 
 it. Mary felt all that exhilarating excitement which is 
 peculiar to the sensation of sailing, and she sat upon the 
 deck to enjoy the delightful emotion. The breeze flapped 
 the white sails and whistled through the rigging with a 
 wild, melancholy sound ; sometimes with a shrill, scream- 
 ing note, like the cry of a sea-bird, and then sinking into 
 those low, mournful tones, such as the mysterious and 
 many-voiced wind alone can bring forth. The light bark
 
 c : 
 
 124 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 glided rapidly through the dashing waves, as if it were 
 borne upon wings, and Mary gladly watched each 
 swiftly receding point as they, passed by, feeling that 
 every moment brought her nearer and nearer to her be- 
 loved Ellen. 
 
 The wind increased and blew so strongly, that the 
 .plain was obliged to slacken his sails, for fear of the 
 fety of his little vessel. Night was drawing near, and 
 he vvas still many miles from their destined port. The 
 cold had become so intense since the morning, that he 
 was unwilling to cast anchor, lest they might be locked 
 in the ice which would rapidly form around them, as 
 soon as the wind was lulled. He knew not whether to 
 remain where they were, or to push forward to the near- 
 est point of land ; each alternative was a dangerous and 
 doubtful one, but he decided in choosing the latter, as he 
 was well acquainted with the coast, and hoped to reach 
 it before night had set in. It was an exciting moment. 
 At the hazard of engulfing his vessel in the roaring 
 waters around him, he put on more sail, and as they 
 flew onward, the rushing waves every now and then 
 would dash over the deck, threatening to draw in the 
 vessel after them as they receded. Dark clouds were 
 gathering over the sky, adding to the shadows of ap- 
 proaching night, and the stout hearts of the captain and 
 his men began to quail at the impending danger. Large 
 masses of ice which had been loosened from the rivers 
 by the mild weather of one or two previous days, were 
 now seen by the dubious twilight, rapidly driving 
 towards them by a sudden change in the wind, and they 
 felt that all hope was lost. Mary sat in the cabin, con- 
 scious of her danger, yet calmly awaiting the result in 
 all the unshrinking fortitude of woman, strengthened by 
 the confiding trust of a Christian. A sudden shock, and 
 a wild piercing shriek from the men told that death was
 
 MARY AND ELLEN SROSVENOR. 
 
 before her. Mary was unconscious of all that followed, 
 until she found herself on the shore, supported by the 
 captain, beside a fire that was kindled on the beach. 
 The sailors had wrapped her in the only blanket they 
 could procure, and had even taken off their own coats to 
 add to her comfort. As soon as she opened her eyes, 
 the old captain exclaimed, " Thank God, the dear lady 
 lives !" Mary's heart responded to the feeling, and her 
 prayers of gratitude arose to Him who had thus miracu- 
 lously preserved her. 
 
 It was a wild scene, that midnight watch on the 
 lonely shore ! A wide waste of snow covered all the 
 land, as far as the eye could reach, over which the full 
 moon was pouring her silvery light. Tall trees stood 
 here and there, whose leafless branches were whitened 
 by the feathery flakes that rested on them ; and these 
 were interspersed with clumps of the dark pine and 
 cedar, through whose fringed boughs the wind was 
 wailing, in low mournful tones ; while farther off, the 
 gloomy waters were dashing on the frozen beach with a 
 sullen roar, as if madly disappointed of the prey which 
 had been so lately rescued from their power. Before 
 her, was the bright fire, casting its crimson radiance upon 
 the snow, with its flames curling round the fragments of 
 the wreck, that had been cast on the shore ; and ever 
 and anon rising in renewed brilliancy by the addition of 
 the scattered boughs that had been torn from the forest 
 by the storm. The captain and his men were conversing 
 round the blaze, enlivened by its grateful warmth, and 
 exchanging their mutual congratulations on their unex- 
 pected deliverance from the dangers that surrounded 
 them. And as Mary looked on them, she saw with 
 thankfulness, that not one had been lost. As soon as the 
 day dawned, the Captain sent one of his men to find the 
 nearest dwelling, that Mary might have a shelter from 
 11*
 
 126 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 the weather, until he could provide some means of con- 
 veying her to the place, where her sister resided. The 
 sailor was successful in his search, and returned with an 
 invitation to Mary from a hospitable farmer who lived 
 several miles distant. After an hour's walk she was 
 kindly received by the family, who provided every thing 
 necessary to her comfort, and urged her to remain with 
 them until she had entirely recovered from her fatigue 
 and exposure. But when the worthy old Captain arrived 
 with the welcome intelligence that he had procured a 
 carriage, and was ready to accompany her as soon as 
 she felt able to travel, her anxiety to see her dear Ellen 
 would not admit of any longer delay. 
 
 After a long ride of forty miles, Mary had the happi- 
 ness of embracing her dear Ellen, and of finding her 
 better than she was, at the time the letter was written, 
 but yet she was altered, sadly, sadly altered by sickness 
 and suffering. Her disease was one that required un- 
 disturbed quiet, and mental repose, and for many, many 
 days did Mary sit by the solitary bedside of her sister, 
 and watch and wait on her with the keenest anxiety, and 
 with alternate hope and fear ; excited by the frequent 
 changes that came over her. Edmund Bolton seldom 
 came to see his wife, for he could not bear the solitude 
 of a sick room. His evenings were spent abroad in 
 scenes of merriment, and his much enduring wife was so 
 .accustomed to his neglect and desertion in her hours of 
 health, that she thought it no strange thing, that he 
 should absent himself from her, when sickness had ren- 
 dered her incapable of ministering to him. 
 
 When Ellen had sufficiently recovered to receive the 
 calls of her acquaintance, she frequently heard of her 
 husband's gayety in society, and a giddy girl one day 
 said to her, " Mr. Bolton and I had quite a flirtation at 
 ithe ball last night ; he has engaged me for his second
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 127 
 
 wife." " The opportunity of fulfilling your engage- 
 ment," Ellen replied, with a sad smile, " may be nearer 
 than either of you anticipate." There was a time when 
 this evidence of the heartless levity of her husband, and 
 his cold indifference to her sufferings, would have pierced 
 her heart with sudden agony; but she had so long 
 grown familiar with these things, that her feelings seem- 
 ed to have become paralyzed to insensibility. She 
 looked forward to the grave as a release from mental and 
 physical suffering ; and the fears expressed by her phy- 
 sician met with a willing credence on her part, which 
 continued even when there was a hope that she might 
 again be restored to health. The calmness with which 
 Ellen referred to her own death, in her reply to her 
 thoughtless visitor, startled Mary ; and the indignation 
 she felt against the giddy trifler, who could jest on such 
 a subject, at such a time, could scarcely be repressed, 
 a bitter sarcasm struggled to find utterance, but she 
 looked on her sister, and for her sake, kept silence. 
 
 Mary could not bear the idea that Ellen should remain 
 an uncomplaining victim to the unkindness and injustice 
 of Edmund Bolton. In her love for her sister, she forgot 
 that Ellen was a wife, but in all her trials, Ellen never 
 ceased to remember that there were obligations still due 
 to her husband, even if his were neglected. Mary 
 wished her sister to return with her in the Spring, and 
 often entreated her to do so, but Ellen steadily refused, 
 " No," said she, " my duty to my husband, requires 
 that I should not leave him, even for a few weeks. 
 " Talk not thus, dear Ellen," replied Mary, " your du- 
 ties are cancelled by his conduct, and you are not called 
 on to sacrifice yourself for one who is incapable of appre- 
 ciating all you have done and suffered for him." " My 
 Bible dear Mary does not tell me this," said Ellen, " I 
 am his wife, and my course is prescribed both by reason 
 and religion."
 
 128 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 Mary knew that Edmund was wholly devoid of virtue 
 in principle, or action ; and she thought Ellen would be 
 justified in leaving him. Although she refrained from 
 upbraiding him in her sister's presence, yet she took the 
 first opportunity, when she saw him alone, to reproach 
 him keenly for her sister's unhappiness. " I have been 
 persuading Ellen," said she to him, " to return to her 
 old home, that she may be restored to herself in its 
 atmosphere of peace and affection. You found her a 
 beloved inmate of a happy home ; and you took her to 
 yourself, to make her a miserable woman." " She has 
 my consent to go," he coldly replied, " for a sickly wife 
 is a dull companion, and in my pleasures I am wholly 
 independent of Mrs. Bolton's society." In saying this, 
 he abruptly quitted the room. His utter heartlessness so 
 unfeelingly expressed, struck like an arrow into Mary's 
 soul, and in painful sympathy for her sister's fate, she 
 wept long and bitterly. 
 
 She had the consolation of seeing Ellen restored to 
 health before she left her, but soon after her return 
 home, a sudden bereavement made that home a scene of 
 gloomy desolation. Her beloved father died after a short 
 illness, leaving his widow and daughters overwhelmed 
 by the unexpected stroke. The afflicted mother did not 
 long survive his loss ; and Mary was left an orphan in 
 her solitary home. Recent losses in her father's com- 
 mercial transactions had taken so much from his estate, 
 that it was supposed there would be but a small portion 
 left for the daughters. Edmund Bolton's disappointment 
 was visited upon his wife ; and he added to the grief she 
 felt in having lost her beloved parents, by his own 
 increased harshness. Ellen had given birth to two 
 lovely twin daughters, a few weeks previous to the 
 death of her parents, and these were the only earthly 
 sources of consolation that was left her, for her hus- 
 band had denied her request to have Mary with her.
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 129 
 
 Edmund Bolton's health had been failing for some 
 time, and the increased irritability of his temper caused 
 his uncomplaining wife every variety of suffering he 
 could inflict on her. At last he was taken ill of a dan- 
 gerous fever, from which it was thought he could not 
 recover, as his constitution had become so much weak- 
 ened by his previous indisposition. Ellen watched by 
 his bed-side day and night, and nursed him with as 
 much tenderness and devoted attention as she could have 
 done, had he been to her all that he ought to have been. 
 She tried gently and gradually to prepare him for the 
 probable result of his disease, but apparently without 
 any effect. When she offered to read to him, he refused 
 to listen, and could not bear the slightest allusion to 
 death. The only evidence of a better state of feeling 
 toward Ellen, was the wish he expressed that she would 
 send for Mary to relieve her, as he plainly saw that his 
 wife was nearly exhausted by her unremitted attend- 
 ance. Ellen gladly availed herself of this permission, 
 and in a few days Mary was with her sister. As Ed- 
 mund became weaker and weaker, under the slow fever 
 which was destroying him, he felt all that his wife was 
 to him ; a feeling of remorse often came over him, and 
 at times, visions of his past life haunted his memory. He 
 was too feeble to give expression to his feelings except 
 in occasional broken accents, but oh, how eagerly did 
 his poor wife drink in these faltering words ; earnestly 
 ponder them over in her heart, and treasure them up for 
 future consolation. He declined rapidly the week after 
 Mary's arrival ; and breathed his last, expressing peni- 
 tence for the past ; but no words of hope in futurity. 
 Poor Ellen sought comfort in clinging to his broken ex- 
 pressions of remorse and conviction, and she confidently 
 hoped for him, where others were afraid to hope, yet un- 
 willing to doubt. All his sins against her were forgiven
 
 130 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOR. 
 
 and forgotten, one or two kind words, a slight pressure 
 of his hanc$ as a token of gratitude for her devotion, a 
 few tears shed for the past, these were treasured in her 
 heart, to the exclusion of all his neglect and unkindness. 
 She only thought of him as she once fondly imagined 
 him, when he was the lover of her youth, and mourned 
 his loss as if he had realized her dearest expectations, 
 and fulfilled all her brightest dreams. 
 
 After Ellen had become sufficiently calm, to examine 
 into the state of her affairs, and to arrange plans for the 
 future, she found that the portion left to her was too 
 small for the maintenance of herself and her children. 
 She roused herself from the effects of her grief, for she 
 knew there was a necessity for exertion. She thought 
 over several modes of supporting herself, and of provid- 
 ing for the future education of her daughters. When 
 she suggested these to Mary for her judgment and coun- 
 sel, Mary replied, " No, my dear Ellen, your health is too 
 much shattered to make such attempts, you are not equal 
 to these exertions, all that I have is yours, and if it be 
 not sufficient for our support, I will open a school in our 
 former happy home, and this will supply us with ample 
 means. I am strong 1 and healthy, and can endure con- 
 finement and fatigue, but you are wholly unfit for any of 
 the plans you have proposed." 
 
 Soon after Mary had brought her widowed sister and 
 her infant daughters to the home which was still her 
 own, she commenced her proposed plan with all the 
 energy of a determined and persevering spirit. She had 
 the satisfaction of gaining the requisite number of pupils, 
 and found that her annual income would be more than 
 sufficient to supply all their wants, and would even allow 
 them to keep up the refined elegancies of their youthful 
 home. Ellen's health continued feeble for several years, 
 and Mary had brought her sister to the Springs where I
 
 MARY AND ELLEN GROSVENOE. 131 
 
 met them, in the hope of restoring her languid frame to 
 its healthful energies. Ellen was much benefitted by 
 her visit, but her anxiety to return to her beloved daugh- 
 ters, whom she had left in the charge of a faithful ser- 
 vant, hastened her return much earlier than Mary wished. 
 
 Before we parted, they made me promise to visit them 
 before my return home, and I soon after availed myself 
 of their pressing invitation. The place where they 
 resided was beautifully situated near the suburbs of the 
 city, on a lofty eminence which commanded a fine pros- 
 pect of the bay, the river, and its wooded shores. The 
 noble old oaks that shaded the lawn gave an air of rural 
 seclusion, although the church spires and chimneys of 
 the city were visible here and there through their aged 
 trunks. The time for re-assembling Mary's pupils had 
 not yet arrived, and I found the two sisters enjoying the 
 sweets of leisure, and employing their hours in those 
 refined and elegant pursuits which had made the happi- 
 ness of their youthful days. It was delightful to see 
 these devoted sisters again re-united in one home, after 
 their painful separation. Ellen's twin daughters, Mary 
 and Ellen, were two lovely, interesting children, and the 
 affection with which they were treated by both, would 
 have left a stranger in doubt as to which was the mother. 
 
 After a delightful visit, I bade farewell to these affec- 
 tionate sisters and the dear children, with the hope of 
 their fulfilling a promise of spending the next summer's 
 vacation at Glenwood. Both Mary and Ellen are my 
 frequent correspondents, and from the latter I have 
 learned that Mary has had several offers of marriage, 
 from men of high standing and moral worth, but she has 
 refused them all, having determined to live only for Ellen 
 and her children. Her devotion to her dear sister's hap- 
 piness has met its reward in the consciousness of having 
 fulfilled a sacred duty. She is beloved and respected by 

 
 132 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 all with whom she associates, and one of the happiest 
 women among my acquaintance, is the noble-minded and 
 self-sacrificing Mary Grosvenor. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON, OR THE HISTORY OF A COQUETTE. 
 
 And is it thus that woman's heart 
 
 Can trifle with its dearest part, 
 
 Its own pure sympathies ? can fling 
 
 The poisoned arrow from the string 
 
 In utter heartlessness around, 
 
 And mock, or think not of the wound ? 
 
 L. E. LANDON. 
 
 WHILE I was staying with Mary Grosvenor and her 
 sister, at their delightful house, we were one day seated 
 in the library, alternately reading aloud one of the new 
 works that had just appeared, when the children came 
 running into the room, exclaiming in their infantine glee, 
 " Mamma, cousin Elizabeth and her two little girls are 
 coming." We laid aside our book, and the sisters went 
 out to meet their visitor. When she entered the room 
 where I was sitting, Mary introduced her to me as my 
 old schoolmate, their cousin Elizabeth. I never could 
 have recognized the gay Elizabeth Harrington, in the 
 careworn, faded woman I saw before me. She knew me 
 immediately, for owing to my peaceful, happy life, years 
 had passed lightly over me. Elizabeth remained several 
 days with us, and before we parted she gave me the fol- 
 lowing history of her life. 
 
 " In my history, my dear Ellen," said she, " you will 
 see one of the many unhappy instances of a marriage for 
 wealth, without affection. Oh ! that ambitious parents
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 133 
 
 who look for riches alone, as the one thing needful in 
 the man who seeks the hand of their daughters, would 
 only pause ere they urge them to take the fatal step, and 
 remember that money cannot purchase peace or happi- 
 ness. And would that the gay and thoughtless girl who 
 permits herself to be blinded by the idea of living in 
 splendor, may take warning by others, and recollect that 
 she has a heart and affections, whose claims will one 
 day or other be deeply and painfully felt, when she is no 
 longer free to meet them. 
 
 " Soon after I parted from my schoolmates at Oakwood, 
 I was plunged into the vortex of fashionable life. Visit- 
 ing or receiving visits by day, and attending balls, routs, 
 and parties at night, I had not a leisure moment for 
 thought or reflection. The aliment of flattery and admi- 
 ration upon which I lived, created such a restlessness 
 and thirst for worldly amusements, that I could not spend 
 a single evening at home without company, without 
 suffering from ennui and unhappiness. My gayety and 
 animation made me popular in society, and I was gener- 
 ally the reigning belle. My vanity was so much excited 
 by the number of offers I received, that one of my first 
 endeavors on being introduced to a gentleman, was to 
 study his tastes and character, that I might be successful 
 in winning his heart. It was a long time before I met 
 with one whom I could love, but the eclat of adding 
 another and another to my list of rejected suitors, was 
 the only incentive that led me onward in my thoughtless 
 career. My parents continually held before me the 
 temptation of making a splendid alliance, and as long as 
 they knew my heart was free, my coquetry received no re- 
 proof, and their pride was gratified by the number of my 
 admirers. I cannot, I believe, reproach myself with 
 having broken many hearts, for the greater portion of 
 these were caught in my toils more by their fancy than 
 12
 
 134 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 their affections. For who that was capable of loving 
 devotedly, would have sought the heart of a gay, giddy 
 creature, such as I appeared when mingling with the 
 world. But there was one different, far different from 
 all these, with whom I afterwards became acquainted, 
 while staying in the country with my Aunt, for the pur- 
 pose of restoring my health after a winter's dissipation. 
 The debility under which I was laboring, gave a pen- 
 siveness and softness to my manners that were foreign 
 to my character, and after we had met a few times I saw 
 that he had become interested in me. He was on a 
 visit to a friend of his father's, and had also come as a 
 seeker for health among the breezy hills and green val- 
 leys of the neighborhood. A long and* unremitting devo- 
 tion to his studies, had exhausted his strength and 
 enfeebled his frame, and he sought the restoration of his 
 physical energies by constant exercise in the pure, fresh 
 air of the country. He had received a wreath of fame 
 from the hands of his medical professors, in their united 
 testimony to his talents and acquirements, but its laurels 
 infused a poison, to whose venom I afterwards added a 
 still more deadly draught. Poor Alfred Thornton ! I 
 cannot yet think of him without emotion, cold and callous 
 as my heart has become ! No one could have known 
 him without loving him. To all the high mental culti- 
 vation and intellectual power of man, he added the gen- 
 tleness and sensibility of woman. From his exclusive 
 devotion to study, he had never mingled in female society, 
 and he first awakened to its influence after his unfortu- 
 nate acquaintance with me. I was deeply interested in 
 him from his superiority to the generality of the gentlemen 
 whom I had known, and I endeavored to appear to him 
 all that he desired a woman to be. It was the first time 
 that I had occasion for the knowledge that our dear Mrs. 
 Norville so successfully labored to impart, and I brought
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 135 
 
 forward my almost forgotten acquisitions to engage his 
 attention, and to enchain his heart, by the belief that I 
 felt an intellectual sympathy in his love for science and 
 literature. My heart was not wholly dead to the glorious 
 works of creation, and I labored to impress him with the 
 idea, that my admiration equalled his own passionate 
 idolatry of the sublime and the beautiful. He rambled 
 with me over hill and dale, through the wild solitude of 
 the upland forests, or beside the winding stream that 
 gurgled through the green meadows, and pointed out his 
 favorite scenes, while I assumed an enthusiasm I did not 
 feel. He read to me the glowing thoughts of genius, and 
 I assented with affected warmth, to all that he felt and 
 enjoyed. He drew from nature with the skill and taste 
 of an artist, and he sketched each lovely spot whose 
 beauties had become doubly endeared to him, from our 
 having admired them together. 
 
 " The growing attachment that he felt for me, gave a 
 new impulse to his energies, and his health improved so 
 rapidly, that he thought it was time he should enter upon 
 the arena of his profession. I never shall forget the 
 evening he came to bid us farewell. He entreated me to 
 visit with him once more the scenes we had so often 
 enjoyed, and as we rambled onward he unfolded to me 
 his plans and prospects for the future. 
 
 " ' Never before, my dear Elizabeth,' said he, ' did I 
 feel the misery of poverty. In my high aspirations, I 
 never thought of this ; but as incentive to unceasing and 
 strenuous exertion, I ever felt it a glorious thought that I 
 should be the creator of my own fame and fortune, and I 
 proudly said that I would be indebted to no one for the 
 place I intended to fill in the honor and estimation of 
 mankind. I felt that I had talents, and I resolved that 
 these should win me a name. But now that I am pain- 
 fully conscious of how much I am deprived by my want
 
 136 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 of wealth, that this must deter me from making an offer 
 of my hand to the only woman I ever loved, the thought 
 of my poverty is madness ! I cannot ask you to share it 
 with me. I could not endure to see you make any sacri- 
 fice for me, but can you, will you promise, when success 
 shall crown my exertions, that you will be mine ! The 
 thought of this will be an incentive tenfold more power- 
 ful than the restless stirrings of ambition, and this sweet 
 hope will soothe every care and lighten every toil I may 
 have to endure. 
 
 " But I must leave you, my Elizabeth, for a long and 
 weary absence. Here there is no prospect for a young 
 physician. A college friend has written me that there is 
 a favorable opening in one of the Southern States, and I 
 have consented to try my fortune there. Once I could 
 not so easily have given up my aspiring dreams, for I 
 longed to grapple with rival competitors of equal talent, 
 in the noble contest for fame ; but now, wealth has be- 
 come to me a brighter prize than fame ; and I can now 
 relinquish the intellectual companionship of my fellows, 
 and the hope of distinction, for the prospect of acquiring 
 a fortune in a place where I am unknown. I can give 
 up the struggle of ambition, but how can T leave you, 
 Yes ! it must be so, it is for you that I go. We are both 
 young yet, 'dear Elizabeth, will you not give me the 
 sweet assurance, that when fortune has smiled on me, 
 that I may return to claim you as my betrothed, my 
 bride, my wife ? ' He pressed the hand he held in his, 
 and the slight pressure in return was an answer to his 
 hopes. 
 
 " The moon had risen, before we reached the house, 
 and after bidding farewell to my Aunt, who was engaged 
 in her domestic duties in another apartment, he returned 
 to me, and taking my hand in his, respectfully touched it 
 with his lips, saying, in an agitated tone, ' Farewell, my
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 137 
 
 Elizabeth, you will hear from me soon.' He hastened 
 away, as if to conceal his emotions, and I let him depart 
 in all the trusting confidence that his love was recipro- 
 cated. 
 
 " Alfred was a great favorite with my Aunt ; and she 
 had written to my parents respecting him. Her letter was 
 soon followed by one to me, requesting my immediate 
 presence at home. As my visit was to have been a much 
 longer one, I supposed that there was some special reason 
 for their urgency in insisting on my speedy return to the 
 city. Nor was my supposition unfounded, for not being 
 aware of Alfred Thornton's departure, they were desirous 
 of separating me from the society of one, whom my 
 Aunt had described as singularly gifted with mental and 
 personal attractions ; fearful, lest in the absence of other 
 admirers, I might become so deeply interested in him as 
 to destroy their plans for my matrimonial prospects. My 
 father had lately met an old acquaintance who had been 
 residing in the West Indies for many years, and had 
 returned to become a resident of our city. He was said 
 to have amassed a princely fortune, and my parents 
 were delighted in having found one, who was regarded 
 as a desirable suitor for their daughter's hand. He was 
 thought to be in search of a wife ; and each young 
 lady who wished for a splendid establishment, put on all 
 her graces and attractions for the purpose of winning 
 him. My parents had been so assiduous in their atten- 
 tions as to secure his frequent visits ; and this was an 
 additional motive for my recall from the country, that I 
 might have the most favorable opportunity of distancing 
 all rival competitors for the wealth of the rich Mr. Hor- 
 ton. The next day after my return, I was introduced to 
 him, as he had been especially invited to spend the 
 evening at our house, in order to lose no time in making 
 us mutually acquainted. My mother had taken every 
 12*
 
 138 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 means to secure for him a favorable reception from me, 
 by the most extravagant eulogies of his generosity and 
 munificence, and an animated description of the sumptu- 
 ous residence he was preparing for his future abode. 
 And in expatiating on the sensation he had made in our 
 fashionable circles, and on the devotion that was every 
 where paid to him, my mind was painfully struck by 
 the contrast between these attentions, and the neglect 
 and contumely with which Alfred Thornton as a phy- 
 sician, without fortune or practice, would be treated in 
 that society which had been the scene of so many tri- 
 umphs to my ambition ; and I already began to regard 
 the encouragement I had given him as a romantic folly. 
 While I was making my toilet, my mother stood by me, 
 and her frequent directions and consultations with my 
 French dressing maid showed her anxiety to have my 
 personal charms displayed to the best advantage. I wil- 
 lingly seconded their efforts, and determined that my 
 mother's vanity, and my own should be gratified, by 
 doing all that I could to make myself agreeable in the 
 eyes of our wealthy visitor. But when at the expected 
 hour Mr. Horton presented himself in our drawing room, 
 where we were assembled to receive him, I could scarcely 
 command my gravity, when I recollected that this was 
 the one whom my parents wished me to gain as a lover. 
 His figure was ungainly, and he looked older than my 
 father. But I quickly recovered my self possession, and 
 my mother was quite elated with the favorable impression 
 I seemed to have made. As soon as he left us, my father 
 came to me, and taking my hand in his, said, ' my daugh- 
 ter, 1 have never interfered with your decision respecting 
 the numerous suitors who have aspired to your favor, for 
 I was willing to leave this to your own judgment, and 
 good sense, knowing that you were superior to all those 
 .romantic follies and delusions, which under the name of
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 139 
 
 constancy, love and disinterested affection, lead some 
 silly girls to sacrifice their best interests by uniting them- 
 selves to men destitute of wealth. Hitherto I have ex- 
 pressed no wish on the subject, but now, my Elizabeth, 
 that you have so favorable an opportunity for gratifying 
 your parents by accepting a lover so desirable as Mr. 
 Horton, I trust that you will continue to make yourself 
 as attractive to him as you have evidently done on your 
 first acquaintance.' 
 
 " The idea of Mr. Horton as a lover, seemed to me so 
 ridiculous, that in despite of my father's gravity while 
 addressing me, I laughed at it as an absurdity. This 
 excited the displeasure of both my parents, and their 
 remonstrance was so far successful as to extort a promise 
 that I would give Mr. Horton no cause for offence, nor 
 say any thing that might prematurely lead him to discon- 
 tinue his visits. They entreated me to pay him every 
 attention, and said it was impolitic as well as presumptu- 
 ous for any body to express her feelings whether favor- 
 able, or unfavorable, to the gentleman who is addressing 
 her, until his explicit declaration by the offer of his hand 
 gives her the only justifiable opportunity for accepting or 
 rejecting him. This doctrine suited so well with my 
 natural coquetry, that although I thought so old a man as 
 Mr. Horton scarcely worth the trouble of striving to 
 make a conquest of his heart, yet when I saw the en- 
 deavors made by mothers and daughters to entrap him, I 
 determined to bring him to my feet, even if I did not 
 choose to accept him. But the representations of my 
 parents, in speaking of the style in which I could live as 
 his wife ; and my own ambition for display which again 
 had resumed its powerful influence over me, made me be- 
 gin to think the match a desirable one. So that after the 
 lapse of one short month after I parted with Alfred 
 Thornton, I was betrothed to the wealthy Mr. Horton.
 
 140 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 " I became his wife, and had the satisfaction of finding 
 that I had won the prize so eagerly sought after by so 
 many others of my acquaintance. Shortly after my 
 marriage I received a letter from Alfred, written in all 
 the warmth of devoted affection, and in the calm trusting 
 faith of his confiding nature. Judging my heart by his 
 own, not a doubt of my constancy appeared to cast a 
 shadow over his generous mind. I was struck to the 
 heart, by the baseness of my conduct towards him, but 
 had not the courage to answer it, and tell him I was 
 another's ; for I could not bear the idea of destroying the 
 buoyant hope which cheered him in his endeavors to 
 place himself in a situation which would allow him to 
 claim me as his own. 
 
 " I tried to shake off ihe gloom produced by his letter, 
 by entering into all the gayeties of society. I knew that 
 Mr. Horton's health was enfeebled, but after my mar- 
 riage, I found that he was the victim of a painful malady, 
 which often prevented him from moving from one room 
 to another without the assistance of a servant, and ren- 
 dered him at times as helpless as an infant. He became 
 an object of detestation to me, which in my pride I con- 
 cealed from others ; but took little pains to hide from 
 himself. To prevent my young friends from discovering 
 my unhappiness, I became the gayest of the gay, in the 
 circles of fashion, and no one suspected that the brilliant 
 Mrs. Horton was, at home, one of the most miserable of 
 women. 
 
 " Two or three other letters from Alfred reached me, in 
 which he seemed saddened by not having heard from 
 me, but attributed it to the uncertainty of the mail, which 
 he thought had prevented the reception of my answers. 
 In less than two years after I became the discontented 
 wife of Mr. Horton, a letter came from Alfred, filled with 
 joyous anticipations of seeing me in a few weeks, and
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 141 
 
 expressing the confident hope that our separation would 
 soon be ended ; as the only obstacle to our union was 
 unexpectedly removed, by a sudden accession to that pe- 
 cuniary independence, he had so anxiously labored for, 
 that he might present himself to my parents as a claimant 
 for the hand of her whose heart had so long been his 
 own. He said that he had just received information 
 from his father that an eccentric bachelor uncle, whom 
 they thought had been dead for many years, from not 
 having heard from him, had accumulated a large fortune 
 in Calcutta, and had lately died, leaving by his will the 
 whole amount of his wealth to be divided between his 
 father and himself. ' As soon as I laid down the letter,' 
 said Alfred, ' that contained intelligence so welcome to 
 us both, I hastened to communicate it to you, that we 
 may rejoice together in the happiness that awaits us.' 
 He added, that as soon as he could arrange his affairs he 
 would come on, to receive the sweet assurance that I was 
 still his own Elizabeth; and to claim the reward for 
 which he had toiled during a long and weary absence 
 from all that was dear to him, his home, his beloved 
 parents, and her who was the first and only object of his 
 awakened affections. 
 
 " In the madness of my disappointment and misery, I 
 could have wildly reproached my parents for the wretch- 
 edness they had brought upon me, and could have bitterly 
 upbraided the man whom I had falsely promised at the 
 altar to 'love, honor and obey.' For days and weeks I 
 endured an agony which I cannot, cannot describe ; sthd 
 feigning severe indisposition, I secluded myself in the 
 solitude of my own room. 
 
 " He came ! to find the woman he so fondly loved, the 
 wife of another man ; and that man the old and imbecile 
 Mr. Horton. I had no interview with him, for neither of 
 us could have borne it; but I saw him when he knew 1 it
 
 142 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 not. The pale and interesting countenance, such as he 
 wore when I first met him, was now in all the perfection 
 of health and manly beauty ; and his finely formed 
 frame once so attenuated by confinement and study, was 
 now moulded into the full and graceful proportions of 
 vigorous manhood. Independent of his mind, his 
 heart and his character such as I knew they were, his 
 personal attractions were those which win the eye and 
 interest the feelings of woman. When I looked on his 
 noble form, his dignified bearing, his firm step, and the 
 fine attitude of his classic head, as he was passing by the 
 house from which I was gazing on him unseen, and then 
 thought upon the one whom I called my husband, I 
 loathed the title my own consent had given him, and sin- 
 fully wished that I was free from the yoke to which I 
 had bent my own neck. But conscience reproached me 
 for my wicked rebellion, and I felt that I had sinned, 
 grievously sinned against my God and against him 
 whose name I bore. A better state of feeling succeeded, 
 and I tried to make amends for the past by more atten- 
 tion to my husband, whose increasing feebleness required 
 the constant assistance of a nurse more tender and assid- 
 uous than a menial. My previous neglect had excited 
 his naturally morose and irritable temper, and he treated 
 me as I deserved. The fortune for which I had married 
 him, was much less than it was said to be, and my 
 parents had the mortification of finding that if they had 
 not ".endeavored to overcome my affection for Alfred 
 Thornton, by stimulating my silly ambition and vanity, 
 so easily excited by a prospect of a magnificent establish- 
 ment, and the splendors of wealth, their daughter might 
 have been the happy wife of the man she loved and have 
 lived in a style far surpassing that which Mr. Horton 
 could afford. 
 
 " The short time that Alfred remained in our city, he
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 143 
 
 met with the most devoted attention from the highest 
 circles, and his society was universally courted, by match- 
 making mothers, and their marriageable daughters, but 
 he mingled as little in company as he could avoid with- 
 out giving offence. His melancholy, and abstraction 
 were often commented on, but no one except my parents 
 knew the cause. He returned to the South, contrary to 
 his original intention on leaving there, much to the sor- 
 row and disappointment of his parents and friends. And 
 in a few months afterwards, I saw an account of his 
 death. In the obituary notice, it stated that the state of 
 health in which he returned to re-assume the laborious 
 duties of his profession, made him soon fall a' victim to 
 the prevailing epidemic from whose fatal effects he was 
 so skillful in saving others. Strangers in that distant 
 clime, had learned to value him as he deserved, and to 
 feel that his loss was painful and irreparable, and how 
 deeply did my heart respond to the glowing tribute to his 
 many and great excellencies, and how wildly did I wish 
 that he had never met, or loved one so unworthy of his 
 affections as I was. It was I that administered the fatal 
 draught of sorrow, that made him an easy prey to the 
 first stroke of illness, and had it not been for his ac- 
 quaintance with the wretched, wretched Elizabeth Har- 
 rington, he would probably have been still living in the 
 vigor of ripened manhood, the pride of his parents, and 
 friends, and the cherished object of devoted affection to 
 some lovely, refined, intellectual woman, far more capa- 
 ble than I could have been, to promote his happiness, and 
 to brighten his home by a companionship of both mind 
 and heart. 
 
 " My grief and remorse for his early death, were long 
 and severe, but I was roused from this morbid indulgence 
 by the dangerous illness of Mr. Horton. I attended his 
 sick bed as faithfully as I could have done, had he been 

 
 144 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 
 
 the choice of my affections, instead of my ambition, for 
 when I saw that I was about to lose him, compunction 
 .for my frequent indifference to his comfort, with which 
 he justly used to upbraid me, kept me a constant and de- 
 voted attendant upon him in the last, lingering attack of 
 that distressing disease under which he'had so long been 
 a sufferer. He never knew any thing of my previous at- 
 tachment to Alfred Thornton, and was wholly uncon- 
 scious how deeply I had wronged him in giving him my 
 hand while my heart belonged to another, nor did he ever 
 express the slightest suspicion that I had only wedded 
 him for his possessions. He ascribed my inattention and 
 neglect to my natural levity, youth, and fondness for socie- 
 ty, and although he often blamed me, yet in his last hours 
 he entreated my forgiveness for the past. But oh, how 
 much more need had I to ask his pardon, for all that my 
 selfishness had suffered him to endure, his hours of 
 loneliness, with no one to sympathize with his affliction, 
 or to minister to the many wants of his invalid condition, 
 but a servant, who could but illy supply all that his 
 wife ought to have been to him. I could not bear it; 
 when he asked me to forgive him, I told him that it was 
 I who needed his forgiveness, and it was freely and af- 
 fectionately given. In this interchange of feeling, I 
 learned when it was too late, to appreciate those excel- 
 lencies of my husband, to which I had voluntarily con- 
 tinued a stranger, and if he had been once more restored 
 to comparative health, I might have learned how to love 
 and honor him. 
 
 " After the death of my husband, it was my intention to 
 purchase a country residence, near this pleasant abode of 
 my cousins, and devote my time and attention to my two 
 children, whose extreme delicacy of constitution rendered 
 this change desirable. But the failure of my husband's 
 nephew, who had purchased his West India plantation, 
 
 m
 
 ELIZABETH HARRINGTON. 145 
 
 and to whom a large amount of money had been loaned 
 about a year previous, deprived me of the small compe- 
 tence which was to have been appropriated to my sup- 
 port, and to the education of my daughters. I was left 
 penniless, and rny poor father who had offered me a 
 home with him, when he found my means were inade- 
 quate to purchase one of my own, was taken from us, 
 by a sudden indisposition, and my mother and I both be- 
 came widows, in the lapse of two months. As my pa- 
 rents had always lived up to the extent of their income, 
 no portion of my father's salary had ever been invested 
 in stock, or property, so that we were companions in 
 poverty, as well as widowhood. We proposed to open a 
 boarding-house as the most eligible means of support, 
 and the only one for which we were fitted, our house is 
 considered a fashionable one, and it is generally filled. 
 It is true, we have succeeded in gaining a livelihood, and 
 are kept from the pressure of temporal want, yet our lives 
 are spent in harassing anxiety, and in the wasting fa- 
 tigue of wearisome labor. We occasionally take alter- 
 nate seasons of rest and quiet with our dear cousins, in 
 this happy, peaceful home, which strengthens us for con- 
 tinued endurance. This life is all I have to look for- 
 ward to on earth, until I am laid in the repose of the 
 grave. And this, my dear Ellen, is the sad history of a 
 thoughtless coquette, of one who bartered the gushing 
 affections of a young heart, for the miserable ambition of 
 living in ostentatious splendor with one whom she did 
 not love, but deceived even at the very altar with false 
 vows to love, honor and obey. 
 13
 
 146 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AMELIA DORRINGTON, OR THE LOST ONE. 
 
 I have seen, and I know, that an empty mind is not a strong citadel, 
 and in the melancholy chronicle of female degradation, the instances are 
 rare of victims distinguished for mental cultivation. N P. WILLIS. 
 
 The purity of the female mind cannot be too sedulously guarded from 
 injury ; once blighted, it can never be restored ! ANON. 
 
 SEVERAL years ago, while Edward and Charles were 
 taking a tour through the western States, I spent the 
 period of their absence with the family of Judge Colling- 
 wood, an old friend of my father. One day while seated 
 with his wife and daughters, in the pleasant piazza, en- 
 joying the beauty of the evening, a woman approached 
 us, asking alms. I immediately noticed the singular 
 beauty and richness of her hair, whose silkiness shone 
 through its evident neglect in arrangement. As she 
 raised her head, I caught a glimpse of a face where there 
 were remains of much beauty, and I could not help won- 
 dering what had brought her to such a state of wretched 
 destitution. 
 
 The small sum she asked for, was gently refused by 
 Mrs. Collingwood, but she told her to go round to the 
 Housekeeper's room, who would give her a cup of tea, 
 and something to eat, if she wished it. As soon as the 
 woman had gone, Mrs. Collingwood said with a sigh, 
 " it makes me sad to witness the degradation to which 
 woman can be brought when she makes shipwreck of 
 virtue, and principle. That wretched creature I knew in 
 her youth, as a girl of wealth, beauty, and accomplish- 
 ments. Amelia Dorrington, was the daughter of one of 
 my neighbors." 
 
 " Amelia Dorrington did you say !" I hastily interrupt- 
 ed her, " was she once a pupil of Mrs. Norville ?"
 
 AMELIA DORRINGTON, OR THE LOST ONE. 147 
 
 " She was," replied Mrs. Collingwood. 
 
 " Can it be possible !" I exclaimed, " that in this poor 
 beggar, I saw the once beautiful Amelia Dorrington, 
 what could have brought her so low ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered sadly, " this poor degraded crea- 
 ture was born to a station, brightened by all that wealth 
 and unlimited parental indulgence could bestow. Soon 
 after her return from school, before she was of sufficient 
 age to bear unharmed the flattery and admiration she re- 
 ceived in society, she was launched into all its gayeties and 
 frivolities. She had never known any thing like restraint 
 while with her parents, as their excessive and injudicious 
 fondness induced them to permit her to do as she pleased, 
 and to associate with any one she fancied. Prudent 
 friends cautioned them respecting the latitude they gave 
 to one so young and thoughtless, but they were offended 
 by these admonitions, for in their eyes Amelia was fault- 
 less. She ruled her doting father and mother with des- 
 potic sway, and gratified by the admiration she excited, 
 they took no heed to her conduct or her principles. 
 Amelia's large fortune, as the only heiress to her father's 
 wealth, and her animated beauty, drew around her a 
 crowd of suitors. There was a great degree of levity in 
 her manners, bordering on undue familiarity with the 
 opposite sex, but she seemed to think that her position in 
 society gave her a license to set female propriety at defi- 
 ance. ' I will do as I please, and people may think what 
 they please,' was a favorite retort of this self-willed girl, 
 when any of her friends remonstrated with her on her 
 conduct. She appeared to take delight in violating all 
 rules of prudence, conscious that she could do with impu- 
 nity, as a leader of fashionable society, that which would 
 have injured her reputation, had she rilled an humbler 
 station. But although such are the maxims and practices 
 of many girls in fashionable life, yet the ground is a
 
 148 AMELIA DORRINGTON, OR THE LOST ONE. 
 
 dangerous one, and if they are saved from the consequen- 
 ces of their daring, they are more indebted to the safe- 
 guards of their position than to their principles, for in no 
 situation would a woman of truly virtuous character 
 recklessly venture beyond the prescribed boundaries of 
 feminine decorum. Many remarks were made upon the 
 conduct of the thoughtless Amelia. Prudent mothers 
 would say, ' if my daughter was like Amelia Dorrington, 
 I should be unwilling to trust her in society without a 
 chaperone,' while fashionable ones would exclaim, ' these 
 are nothing but girlish follies. Amelia is so full of life 
 and spirits that we must not expect her to be as staid as 
 girls of a less cheerful disposition. She will be sober 
 and demure enough by and by, when she becomes a 
 wife.' What might have been her fate, if she had been 
 married to a man of better morals and habits than Charles 
 Sefton, we now have no opportunity of judging, but it 
 seldom happens that one like Amelia ever makes a wise 
 choice in a husband. Charles, like herself, was a spoiled 
 child of fortune. He had been brought up in idleness, 
 and attendant vices followed in its train. He was proba- 
 bly the most dissipated among her numerous admirers, 
 but this was not thought an objection, as he possessed a 
 handsome person and much wealth. They began their 
 career as the gayest and most fashionable couple in our 
 village, but our society was soon regarded as too limited 
 for the sphere of their ambition. Their summers were 
 spent at the different watering-places, and their winters 
 at a fashionable hotel in New York or Washington. 
 Charles soon dissipated his own fortune by gambling, and 
 other vices, and when the death of Mr. Dorrington gave 
 him a control over that of his wife, it was not many years 
 before this too was squandered with equal recklessness. 
 The society into which Amelia was thrown, was pecu- 
 liarly unfavorable to one so thoughtless and volatile, and
 
 AMELIA DORRINGTON, OR THE LOST ONE. 149 
 
 in order to revenge the neglect of her husband, she re- 
 ceived the attentions and admirations of other men, with 
 evident pleasure and gratified vanity. This was her first, 
 fatal step, and so rapid was her downfall, that even be- 
 fore the death of her husband, she was cast off by him 
 and his relatives, as unworthy even to be the wife of one 
 as degraded as he was. Her children were taken from 
 her, and she was denied all access to their presence. 
 After this she sank to the lowest state of vice and wretch- 
 edness, and her course is too revolting to repeat. 
 
 "In one of our cities, the scene of her former display in 
 its fashionable circles, she has been the inmate of its 
 lowest negro hovels, and has often been brought before 
 its criminal court, for disturbing the peace in midnight 
 brawls. She has been twice a convict in the State prison 
 for theft, and her last term of punishment has just expired. 
 The feelings of a mother still haunt her heart, low and 
 vile as she has become, for she frequently visits this 
 neighborhood in the hope of catching a glimpse of her 
 children. They are happily ignorant that they have a 
 mother living, for she has never been permitted to see 
 ' them since they were taken from her. A few days ago, 
 one of her daughters was riding with a party of young 
 persons, on their way to a bridal dinner at the house of 
 one of our neighbors. On the side of the road lay a 
 woman, in a state of brutal intoxication. Miss Sefton 
 exclaimed, ' what a wretched, degraded creature !' The 
 gentleman to whom she made the remark knew who it 
 was, but, poor girl, happy was it for her that she was un- 
 conscious that the object of her pity and contempt was 
 the mother to Avhom she owed her being." 
 
 This sad recital of Amelia Dorrington's history, made 
 me feel very unhappy, for the contrast between the* beau- 
 tiful child at the Oakwood school, and the wretched beg- 
 gar I had just seen, was too painful to dwell upon. "Poor
 
 150 AMELIA DORRINGTON, OR THE LOST ONE. 
 
 creature," said I, " has no effort been made to reclaim 
 her?" 
 
 " Many, many, my dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Colling- 
 wood, "but all without apparent effect. Her vicious 
 course of life seems to have closed up every avenue of 
 hope. She is lost to the sense of shame, and every feel- 
 ing of her heart has become deadened, except the love for 
 her children, but even this has had no power to induce 
 her to reform her conduct. Her intemperate habits create 
 a burning thirst for the maddening draught, and this 
 thirst has made her a thief and a beggar ; but those who 
 know her, much as they pity her destitute condition, 
 refuse to supply her with the means of debasing herself 
 still deeper by continued intoxication." 
 
 About a year after I saw the wretched Amelia, I was 
 visiting an almshouse in a neighboring State with a pious 
 and benevolent friend, who 'labored to benefit both the 
 bodily and spiritual wants of its inmates. As we were 
 passing through the room appropriated to the sick, I heard 
 heavy groans proceeding from one of the beds, where a 
 woman lay tossing as if in the agonies of death. As we 
 approached her, the nurse said to us, " that poor crea- 
 ture was brought here a few days past from the road, 
 where she was found almost frozen to death, after having 
 lain out, it was supposed, during the whole night, one of 
 the coldest we have had this season. Her hands and feet 
 are so badly frozen, that it is hourly expected that a mor- 
 tification will take place, her case is considered a hopeless 
 one. Poor wretch, she raves continually about her chil- 
 dren, and talks of having once been wealthy and living 
 in ease and splendor." 
 
 When the dying woman turned her face towards us, I 
 saw to my horror that it was the once beautiful Amelia 
 Dorrington ! It was a consolation that she was unable 
 to recognize me, for how much would it have added to
 
 AMELIA DORRINGTON, OR THE LOST ONE. 151 
 
 her remorse to see one who had known her as the gay 
 schoolmate of Oakwood. Oh, how it harrowed my heart 
 to hear her groans, bitter self-accusation, and blasphemous 
 imprecations ! Sometimes she would rave like a maniac, 
 and then she would weep like a suffering child. I could 
 bear it no longer, and entreated my friend to hasten from 
 the sight of the mental and physical agony, which we 
 could do nothing to relieve. 
 
 The next morning we heard of her death. Such was 
 the miserable end of the lost Amelia Dorrington. Born 
 to affluence, and blest with all that prosperity and indul- 
 gence could bestow, she died in an almshouse the 
 wretched victim of depravity and intemperance ! 
 
 Oh that parents would take warning by examples such 
 as this, to " train up their children in the way they should 
 go." To how many might be addressed the solemn ad- 
 monition given to Eli, " your children made themselves 
 vile, and ye restrained them not." To such, a history 
 like this should cause their ears to tingle, and their hearts 
 to feel bitter forebodings, if they have abused that most 
 fearful of all responsibilities, parental power parental 
 influence ! Oh that those indulgent mothers who permit 
 trifling indiscretions to pass by unreproved, regarding 
 them as childish follies, would but reflect that these are 
 often the first steps to greater evils, that they may check 
 them, ere it is too late ! How assiduously should every 
 parent labor, to implant into the minds of their children 
 the strictest principles of virtue and purity, and to instill 
 into their daughters the most refined ideas of feminine 
 propriety in all their words and actions. Here nothing 
 is trifling, for thoughtless levity may be followed by a 
 total loss of virtuous principle. No one can say, " thus 
 far mayst thou go and no farther," when the first barrier 
 is permitted to be broken down. There is many a girl, 
 in the unthinking vanity and gayety of her heart, who
 
 152 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 supposes she will be more popular in society by her free- 
 dom of manners ; but she is sadly, sadly mistaken ! The 
 coldest reserve is more desirable in the woman whom a 
 man wishes to make his wife, than the least approach to 
 undue familiarity. It is true, that levity of conduct may 
 cause a female to be sought after as an amusing compan- 
 ion at an evening party, but no man, even the most dissi- 
 pated and reckless, would select such an one as the wife 
 of his bosom, and the future mother of his children. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 Our thoughts are never more frivolously employed than when we per- 
 mit them to dwell upon trifling feelings of indisposition. To these, 
 most women are subject more or less, but they suffer least from them, 
 who endeavor, by the aid of useful and cheerful occupation, to give them 
 no attention. The poet tells a truth when he says, 
 
 " To dally long on subjects mean and low, 
 
 Shows a weak mind or quickly makes it so." MRS. PARKS. 
 
 SEVERAL years ago, I went to Philadelphia with an 
 interesting girl, the daughter of one of my neighbors, 
 who had been advised to consult an eminent physician of 
 that place, respecting a chronic affection of the liver. 
 When I found it would be necessary for her to remain 
 for some time under his care, we took lodgings in a com- 
 fortable boarding house in a pleasant part of the city. 
 Soon after we were fixed in our transient home, I acci- 
 dentally discovered in a conversation with an old lady 
 who occupied the same floor, that my old schoolmate, 
 Matilda Harwood, had settled in Philadelphia after her 
 marriage. I was anxious to see her, and lost no time in 
 renewing our acquaintance, thinking she would prove an
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 153 
 
 agreeable accession to our society, situated as we were 
 among strangers. 
 
 Upon calling at her dwelling, I was told by the servant 
 that Mrs. Granville was very much indisposed. I sent 
 np my card, and was invited to visit her in her room. I 
 found her seated in a cushioned rocking chair, moving 
 slowly backward and forward, as if she were lulling her- 
 self to sleep, and wrapped up in a large shawl, though it 
 was in the early part of September. " How are you, my 
 dear Ellen," she languidly said, still keeping her seat as 
 I advanced to take her proffered hand. " You look as 
 well as you did when a blooming school girl, but you 
 find me sadly altered by sickness since you last saw me." 
 " Your face does not indicate severe indisposition," I re- 
 plied, "I hope your complaint is but a temporary one." 
 
 " It is the flush of fever, that gives me the appearance 
 of health," she added, " as if half offended by my sup- 
 posed imputation, that she was not as ill as she imagined 
 herself to be. " Feel my pulse," said she, taking her 
 fingers from her wrist, and appealing to me, to confirm 
 her own testimony. I declined the examination, telling 
 her that I had no skill in judging of such matters. " I 
 have had so much sickness," she continued, " that I can 
 generally tell the extent of my own indisposition even 
 better than any physician. I have never known what it 
 is to be well for a day, for many years past. I have con- 
 sulted the best medical practitioners without experiencing 
 any benefit, and I change my attending physician very 
 frequently, and yet every one has failed in discovering 
 the seat of my disease. I have heard that the Homoeopa- 
 thists have been very successful in their practice. There 
 is a celebrated one in New York, and I have requested 
 Mr. Granville to take me there, to consult him on my 
 case ; for I had a very severe attack last week, although 
 I am now a little better, but if some women were as
 
 154 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 much indisposed as I feel even now, they would be in 
 bed." 
 
 " Your health was very good in your school days," I 
 replied, " I do not recollect your having lost a single day 
 by sickness. How many pleasant hours have we spent 
 together at Oakvvood, sporting over its green meadows 
 and fields. And our dear Mrs. Norville ; how forcibly 
 does the sight of you bring to mind the happiness we all 
 enjoyed under her care. I remained with her until she 
 died, and have her two sons living with me." 
 
 " Yes, it is pleasant to recall those days when I was 
 free from pain and sickness," said Matilda, whose 
 thoughts could not be drawn by any subject from her own 
 ailments. " My health was first undermined about a 
 year before my marriage, and afterwards entirely de- 
 stroyed by the fatigue I underwent in nursing my first 
 child. Since then I have always employed a wet-nurse, 
 indeed it is too much exertion for a mother as delicate as 
 I am to go through this life-wearing duty." 
 
 " How many children have you ?" I enquired. 
 
 " I have had twelve," she answered, " and seven still 
 survive. Oh, you know not, my dear Ellen, how much 
 you have escaped by remaining unmarried. Children 
 are a source of great trouble and anxiety, and I am 
 wholly unable to bear the fatigue of attending to them. 
 The deaths of my five children were ascribed by my 
 husband to the carelessness and neglect of their nurses ; 
 but what could I do ? feeble as my own health was, it 
 could not be expected that I could always keep them un- 
 der my own eye ; the worry and labor of a continual 
 personal supervision on my part, would have cost me my 
 own life. Mr. Granville is a strong, healthy man, and 
 does not know how to feel for one whose constitution and 
 nervous system are as delicate as mine." 
 
 While she was speaking, a servant came into the room
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 155 
 
 bearing a waiter of refreshments. " This," said she, " is 
 my hour for taking some nourishment, and I hope you 
 will excuse me, as the only way I can bear food without 
 suffering from it, is to take it at regular intervals, and I 
 have to eat sparingly and often." 
 
 " Bring me the scales," she said to the servant. 
 When the girl brought them, I was curious to know the 
 use she intended to make of them. The articles of diet 
 were placed in one, and a couple of weights in the other, 
 and Matilda was as careful in adjusting the balance as if 
 she were weighing out calomel. " My physician," she 
 said, addressing herself to me, " only allows me to take 
 so many ounces at once, and the slightest deviation from 
 the prescribed quantity gives me the most distressing 
 symptoms. And now, my dear Ellen, I must again beg 
 you to excuse me for eating before you ; as my digestive 
 powers are so weak, that I cannot bear with impunity the 
 least delay in taking my food at the allotted periods." 
 
 She ate with apparent appetite, what seemed to me 
 fully sufficient for one in perfect health to take at a 
 luncheon. " My appetite is so miserable," she said, 
 " that every thing I eat is forced ; but I know I would 
 soon sink unless I endeavored to take enough to keep up 
 the little strength that is left me. This bread is made of 
 unbolted flour, and I have to sprinkle it with cayenne 
 pepper to make it agree with me. But with all this pre- 
 caution, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, what a 
 constant heart-burn I endure, after I have eaten it. A 
 few minutes after my simple meal is finished, I feel the 
 most distressing symptoms through my whole system, 
 even to the ends of my fingers and toes. Oh, no one 
 knows what I suffer." 
 
 I made no reply, but I thought it was quite probable 
 that she should feel what she called a heart-burn, if she 
 used a quantity of cayenne pepper every day, equal to
 
 156 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 that which I saw her add to the bread she was then eat- 
 ing. Soon after I entered her room, I noticed a cradle of 
 extraordinary size, standing in one corner; and as my 
 curiosity was naturally excited by its unusual length, I 
 at las? ventured to ask her if her infant was sleeping 
 there. " Oh no," she replied, " I always keep my baby 
 in the nursery, as I cannot bear the noise of its crying. 
 When it is in a good humor, I have it brought to me 
 once a day, and sometimes twice a day, and let it remain 
 here for half an hour at a time, if it continues quiet." I 
 was afraid that my curiosity respecting the mammoth 
 cradle would not be gratified, but she continued, " that 
 cradle was made for me when I was suffering under a 
 distressing nervous complaint; for I hoped that its lulling 
 motion would make me sleep." 
 
 I could scarcely refrain smiling, when she told me 
 this, and she was commencing to give me a full history 
 of her nervous attack, with all its attendant symptoms, 
 when the door opened, and a young lady entered with an 
 infant in her arms. " Mother," said she, " I have 
 brought Mary to see you, does she not look sweetly 
 to-day ?" 
 
 The languid mother smiled faintly oh her beautiful 
 babe, who was stretching out its little arms to her, 
 crowing with infantine glee, and showing two pearly 
 teeth between its parted lips. She introduced the young 
 lady to me as her step-daughter, Sophia Granville, and 
 then addressing herself to her said, " I cannot take Mary 
 now Sophia, I feel too much wearied and exhausted to 
 bear, her weight, and I have no candy to give her, for 
 Henry had the last this morning." 
 
 When I looked at the delicate girl who stood before 
 Matilda, with her lovely burthen, whose panting breath 
 showed that the fatigue of supporting it was too much 
 for her strength ; I could riot help thinking that the sel-
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 157 
 
 fish, indolent mother was by far most able to sustain its 
 weight. The disappointed babe expected to be taken 
 into its mother's lap to receive its accustomed portion of 
 confectionary, which this weak and ill-judging parent 
 always kept by her, for the purpose of attracting her chil- 
 dren when she took a fancy to have them with her. The 
 sweet little infant cried aloud when its mother refused to 
 take it ; and she told Sophia to carry it to the nurse, as 
 her nerves were too weak to bear its crying. 
 
 As soon as Sophia had left the room, I said to Matilda, 
 " how extremely delicate your step-daughter looks, her 
 cough is distressing. I should fear from her breathing, 
 that her lungs are affected." " Oh no," she hastily re- 
 plied, " Sophia is in much better health than I am, I 
 assure you ; I could not endure one half the labor that 
 she does. You have no idea how useful she is to me. 
 She has taken the whole charge of my children, and the 
 family concerns ever since she left school, because my 
 own state of health rendered me unequal to so great a 
 responsibility. Her father sometimes makes much ado 
 about her cough, and wishes to consult a physician ; but 
 I tell him it is only a cold, and its ejects will soon pass 
 away, as she has naturally a stronger constitution than I 
 have. No one should give up to a trifling indisposition, 
 if I did so, I should never be well enough to leave my 
 room." 
 
 After a gentle hint from Matilda, that she was afraid 
 she had increased her fever by talking too much, and 
 that the hour for her morning repose had arrived, I took 
 my leave, scarcely able to realize that this poor selfish 
 creature could be the gay and witty Matilda Harwood I 
 had known in my school days. During the time I sat 
 with her, I tried to turn the conversation from herself, by 
 recalling many incidents of the past to her recollection, 
 but she took no interest in any thing but her own symp- 
 14
 
 158 MATILDA HAEWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 toms and feelings. What is it, I asked myself that 
 could have wrought such a change ? What can it be, 
 that could thus cause a wife, a mother, and the mistress 
 of a family to become so dead to the affections arid duties 
 of married life. Although I was in some degree pre- 
 pared to find her altered, by having heard from the lady 
 who directed me to Mr. Granville's residence, that Ma- 
 tilda had become as nervous as her mother was ; yet I 
 had no idea of finding my gay schoolmate so strangely 
 metamorphosed. I felt disappointed, and grieved by my 
 visit, and on my return, I asked her old acquaintance, 
 Mrs. Thomas, how long Mrs. Granville had been in this 
 miserable state of mind, and what had caused such a 
 change. 
 
 " When Matilda returned from school," she replied, 
 " I never saw a girl more gay and animated than she 
 was. Mrs. Harwood was a timid, nervous woman, and 
 was continually urging her thoughtless daughter to take 
 better care of her health ; but Matilda laughed at her 
 mother's counsels and fears, arid seemed to take pleasure 
 in trying how much exposure she could bear. It was 
 then the fashion for young ladies to make their forms 
 appear as slight and delicate as fairies are fabled to be, 
 and to do this, they wore as little clothing as they 
 could, without violating their sense of feminine propriety. 
 Matilda was as plurnp as a partridge, and she tried to re- 
 duce her figure to the standard of fashionable fragility 
 and slenderness, by tight lacing and thin apparel. She 
 was very fond of society, and accepted every invitation 
 to mingle in its gayeties. During the whole winter of 
 her first coming out into the fashionable world, she was 
 in the habit of laying off her flannel, whenever she went 
 to a ball or evening party. The effects of this impru- 
 dence soon became apparent by repeated colds, and 
 towards the last of February, she was confined to a sick 

 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 159 
 
 bed. Her indisposition was long and severe, and her 
 mother nursed and attended her as tenderly and devo- 
 tedly as if she had been an infant. The interest that she 
 excited in her parent, and her friends, and the willing 
 readiness of all around her, to minister to her capricious 
 whims when she became convalescent, was a new source 
 of satisfaction to Matilda ; and recompensed her for the 
 loss of those attentions which her popular manners had 
 always secured to her, in the circles where she visited. 
 She made the most of every little ailment for the sake of 
 exciting sympathy, and became as pettish and exacting 
 as a spoiled child. In her hours of gayety and unbroken 
 health, her vivacity and wit made her a pleasant com- 
 panion, and threw a veil over her greatest defect, an 
 intense selfishness, which Mrs. Harwood had uncon- 
 sciously fostered by unlimited indulgence, and by 
 making herself a complete slave to her daughter from 
 her infancy to womanhood. But when Matilda's fine 
 flow of spirits forsook her, when confined to her sick 
 room, she became peevish and fretful ; and this unfortu- 
 nate trait in her character became apparent to all who 
 saw her. She never thought of sparing her feeble mo- 
 ther in any thing; and her foolisMy indulgent pa/ent 
 gave up to all that her daughter required from her. 
 
 I have no doubt that Matilda suffered much during 
 her illness, as her liver and stomach were at first very 
 seriously affected. But she was relieved from her dan- 
 gerous symptoms by medical attendance, aided by her 
 mother's good nursing. And the slight ailments that 
 remained, would have been entirely removed by exercise 
 in the open air, and a little energy in resisting the indo- 
 lence they produced. But she became a confirmed hypo- 
 chondriac, and permitted her thoughts and imagination 
 to dwell continually on the most trifling feelings of indis- 
 position. She constantly fancied herself to be the vie-
 
 160 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 tim of some dangerous and fatal disease, which would be 
 varied in its title, according- to the variation of her 
 symptoms. Her mother, instead of checking this grow- 
 ing evil, indulged her by giving up to every whim, that 
 by turns possessed her. I had seen so many painful 
 instances of women who were made a burthen to them- 
 selves, and their families, by this delusion of fancying 
 themselves invalids, that I saw Matilda's error, and 
 tried to convince her of its evils, by a long and serious 
 conversation with her; begging her, as she valued her- 
 self, and her mother, to arouse with resolute determina- 
 tion from this indolent indulgence, and engage herself in 
 some active employment, which would soon restore her 
 to her former health. But my sincerity and plainness of 
 speech, offended both mother and daughter ; and this 
 deterred me from giving them any farther advice. I 
 was with them one day, when a Physician came, who 
 had lately been called on to attend Matilda. He was a 
 man of sense, and candor, and so far removed from the 
 quackery and polite dissimulation that belong to some 
 members of his profession, that he honestly told them 
 the truth, however unpalatable it might be. 
 
 V Your daughter? 1 my dear madam," said he, " has no 
 disease that requires medical attendance. All that now 
 ails her, is the consequence of sedentary confinement, 
 and want of exercise. Let her rise early, and attend to 
 those domestic duties which, from your age and infirmi- 
 ties, you should now resign to her. Let her eat plain 
 and simple food, instead of those dainties with which you 
 indulge her capricious fancies. She must stir about and 
 employ herself in sweeping, and dusting, and when the 
 weather is clear, be it ever so cold, let her equip herself 
 in a pair of thick solid shoes, woolen stockings, and a 
 comfortable cloak, and take a long walk in the frosty 
 air ; and she will soon become a stout, healthy young 
 woman."
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 161 
 
 Poor Matilda ! this was a sad thrust to her vanity and 
 indolence. She to whom the slightest exertion was 
 thought an impossibility, to be told to sweep and to dust ! 
 those menial employments which she thought belonged 
 only to servants to perform ! it was insolence to mention 
 such a thing ! to lay aside her silk stockings and French 
 slippers, and clothe her fairy feet in woolen hose, and 
 thick soled shoes, he might as well have recommended 
 her to wear a plaid, domestic, and a tow linen apron ! 
 And she who had so often complacently surveyed her 
 pale and interesting face, and supposed delicate frame in 
 her toilet mirror, she, predicted to become that horror 
 of all horrors a stout healthy young woman ! the bare 
 supposition was insulting her ! The honest Physician, 
 of course, was dismissed, as being incapable of under- 
 standing her case, and a more flattering one was kept in 
 
 pay- 
 
 " When I heard a year or two afterward of Matilda's 
 marriage, I thought that from her having taken upon 
 herself the responsibility of a wife, and a step-mother, 
 that she must be altered for the better, or that if she were 
 still the same, that the new ties, and duties she had as- 
 sumed, would soon rouse her from her selfish indulgence. 
 But when I first visited her after her removal to Phila- 
 delphia, I found her unchanged, for the habit had been 
 too firmly fixed to be easily removed. 
 
 " Her husband at first indulged her whims as her mother 
 had done, but she exacted so much, that he at length 
 saw he was fostering her selfishness and indolence. 
 The judicious means that he took to cure her, were con- 
 sidered harsh and cruel, and she added the supposition 
 that she was a neglected wife, to her other foolish fancies. 
 Poor Mr. Granville ! I pity him from my heart ; his first 
 wife was indeed a help-meet to him in his early struggles 
 in commencing the world, but his last is only a burthen
 
 162 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 and expense." When Mrs. Thomas had finished her 
 history of Matilda, I clearly saw the cause of the change 
 that had taken place in her, since we were fellow play- 
 mates at Oakwood, and I thought how little dependence 
 is to be placed upon mere animal spirits, and gayety of 
 disposition, for it is evident that those only can sustain 
 the wear and tear of life, and its duties, who are unselfish 
 in heart, and cheerful by principle. 
 
 Matilda returned my visit, the next week after I called 
 on her, and invited my young friend, and myself, to 
 spend the next day with her. When we entered the 
 parlor, we found Matilda lying on an ottoman, in all the 
 affected languor of indisposition. Soon after we were 
 seated, she questioned Eliza Wharton, respecting the 
 most prominent symptoms of her complaint, and, as she 
 simply repeated them, Matilda replied at every pause, 
 "I have long suffered this, in the most distressing degree. 
 That is just what I have felt," &c. And when Eliza 
 remarked, how much she was relieved by the course of 
 treatment pursued by her attending physician, Mrs. 
 Granville said "I must consult him on my case, perhaps I 
 should also be benefited, but I fear my complaint is of 
 too long continuance, and too firmly seated, to indulge 
 such a hope." 
 
 A visitor coming in, interrupted the conversation, and 
 when the ceremony of introducing us was over, the fol- 
 lowing dialogue between the lady and Mrs. Granville, 
 ensued. 
 
 " I am glad to see you look so well and blooming, 
 Mrs. Granville, how thankful I should be for the share 
 of health that you enjoy. I am just recovering from one 
 of my severe attacks, and have taken a ride this morning 
 to try the "effect of its exercise." 
 
 " You do not look as if you had been ill, Mrs. Manton, 
 I should never have supposed," replied Matilda.
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 163 
 
 quite unwell this morning, I assure you, my cheeks are 
 flushed by sitting too near the fire, when I was suffering 
 from excessive chillings. I wish it were the bloom of 
 health, but I fear it may be a hectic, for I often think 
 that my lungs are affected. Something like a slight 
 chill comes on every morning when I leave my chamber, 
 and come in contact with the cold air. I will be forced 
 to follow the plan recommended to Mrs. Smith, to have 
 my room heated to a certain height by the thermometer, 
 and to keep its atmosphere always equable, for I cannot 
 bear the least sudden change of temperature, without feel- 
 ing it very sensibly." 
 
 " Indeed, my dear Mrs. Granville, I fear you imagine 
 yourself worse than you really are. If you followed my 
 example and used more exercise in the open air, you 
 would be quite well. If I gave up as you do, I should 
 be ill indeed, nothing but exertion and energy, keep me 
 alive. Dr. Fanshawe says, that he believes I would 
 strive to get up and walk down stairs, if I should faint 
 away in making the effort. I have not eaten enough for 
 the last week to satisfy a bird for a day, and yet you 
 see my spirits have not failed me, and my activity is as 
 great as that of some women who have never known 
 what it is to be sick. I have not slept for several nights, 
 and as soon as I take the slightest food my stomach re- 
 jects it, and from several symptoms that I read in a case, 
 I think it probable that an ossification of the stomach is 
 taking place, as the case was very similar to mine. My 
 husband, and the Doctor, try to laugh me out of this notion, 
 but I suppose they are afraid I should become depressed, 
 and wanted to hide the truth from me. My spirits, how- 
 ever, bear me up under all my sufferings." 
 
 I was amused as well as saddened by the conversation 
 between these rival invalids ; no two belles ever tried to 
 outvie each other, in exhibiting their respective attractions,
 
 164 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 with more animation and interest than did these two hy- 
 pochondriacs in recounting their pains, symptoms, and 
 distressing feelings. What a strange, incongruous man- 
 ifestation of human vanity, and ambition ! These beg- 
 gars for sympathy, revealed every evidence of indisposi- 
 tion, with as much ostentatious eagerness as the poor 
 mendicant who uncovers his sores and wounds, to extort 
 pity and alms from the passer by. And these women 
 were wives and mothers, those above all others, whose 
 duties made it needful for them to forget their own 
 trifling ailments, and minister to the wants and necessi- 
 ties of those so dependent on their exertions. Not hav- 
 ing seen Sophia Granville since we came, I asked for 
 her, and Matilda replied, " she is confined to her bed, by 
 the order of her physician, which I think is quite unne- 
 cessary, as her cough is better, although she is still fee- 
 ble." Upon my requesting permission to see her, Matilda 
 rang the bell for the servant to conduct me to Sophia's 
 room. 
 
 When I entered, I found she was sleeping. The phy- 
 sician was seated by the fire, waiting until she should 
 awake, and upon my asking if he thought her better, he 
 shook his head sadfy, and said, " I fear the dear child will 
 never be better in this life. Her cold has been so long 
 neglected, that it has settled on her lungs. The case is 
 a hopeless one, and all that I can do is to alleviate her 
 sufferings. Her constitution is extremely delicate, and 
 she has been tasked beyond her strength. She possesses 
 her poor mother's amiable, self-sacrificing disposition, 
 and the indolent and selfish woman who took her place, 
 has laid upon this tender child a burden too heavy to be 
 borne. Much as I pity Mr. Granville, I cannot help 
 blaming him severely for not having prevented this 
 shameful imposition." 
 
 When Sophia roused from her uneasy slumber, the
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 165 
 
 physician went to her, and she held her hand out to him, 
 saying 1 , "How long have you been here, Doctor, why did 
 you not wake me ? I am fearful you have Jet me engross 
 too much of your time." When she saw me, she wel- 
 comed me with a sweet smile, and kindly inquired re- 
 specting the health of my young friend. I asked her 
 how she felt, and she gently replied, " my pain is not 
 very great, and this weakness I hope will soon be re- 
 moved, as soon as my kind physician here, will let me 
 exert myself. He makes me too helpless and trouble- 
 some, by keeping me in bed to be wailed on, do you not 
 think so ?" 
 
 This was all that this dear girl said to me respecting 
 her own suffering. She tried to turn the conversation 
 from herself by expressing her sympathy for others. " I 
 am so glad," said she, " that Miss Wharton is better, how 
 happy will she feel when she is well enough to return to 
 her mother. She then addressed herself to her physi- 
 cian, who was an old friend and medical attendant of her 
 departed mother, and asked after the different members 
 of his family. All her thoughts and feelings, seemed to 
 be engaged for others. She spoke not of herself, except 
 in answer to the physician's inquiries, and bore all her 
 sufferings without a murmur, or complaint. Every now 
 and then, I noticed a sudden contraction of her brow, that 
 revealed the presence of some acute pain, but when this 
 passed off, she would resume the conversation, with a 
 sweet, placid smile, while her smooth, beautiful forehead 
 looked as if pain, or sorrow, had never brought even a 
 transient wrinkle over it. I took her delicate taper hand 
 in mine, as I stood by her bedside, to bid her farewell, 
 and she begged me to take to Eliza some fine grapes 
 she had just received, " for" said she, " I have found them 
 very delightful and refreshing. How thankful I ought 
 to be, my Dear Miss Maitland, for all the blessings and
 
 166 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 attentions bestowed on me, for many a poor creature is 
 confined to a bed of sickness, without any of these allevi- 
 ations. I often think how great must be the suffering, 
 when sickness and poverty, with its sad destitution of all 
 comforts, have both to be borne." I kissed the flushed 
 cheek of the invalid, and promised to see her again very 
 soon. 
 
 When I returned to the parlor, Matilda asked me if I 
 did not think that Sophia would soon be well. " I am 
 certain that she would be entirely cured," said she, " if 
 she were only under the care of Dr. Lafont, for he is so 
 successful in all pulmonary affections. Mr. Granville, 
 however, will not take my advice, as he thinks there is 
 no physician, like old Dr. Bertrand, who has attended the 
 family for many years, but his system of practice is too 
 antiquated to suit me, and I always have my own physi- 
 cian. If Sophia were permitted to take Dr. Lafont's 
 celebrated cough drops, and to exercise freely through the 
 house, she would gain her strength more rapidly than by 
 lying in bed. If I were to lie in bed for a week, I should 
 be even more feeble than she is. But I use more exer- 
 tion than she is allowed to do." 
 
 " I fear she has already exerted herself beyond her 
 strength," I replied, " and that this has added to her dis- 
 ease. Poor Sophia is ill, I fear, dangerously so. Yet, 
 how patient, and uncomplaining she is." " It is chiefly 
 debility that ails her," replied Matilda, " her cough is 
 only a slight hacking one, and she does not suffer half 
 the pain, or distressing sensations that I do." 
 
 I saw that Matilda was determined not to acknowledge 
 to herself, or another, the extent of Sophia's danger, lest 
 it should detract from her own claim, in being the greater 
 invalid of the two, and I felt too much disgusted by her 
 cold-hearted selfishness, to make any farther remarks on 
 the subject of Sophia's indisposition. Eliza and I took
 
 MATILDA HAEWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 167 
 
 leave of her early in the afternoon, for she had made 
 herself so uninteresting and tiresome, by her repeated re- 
 capitulation of her own fancied ailments, that we were 
 glad to shorten our stay. 
 
 We sent frequently to know how Sophia was, as no 
 visitors were allowed to see her, on account of an abscess 
 on the lungs, which was discovered upon an examination 
 that took place a few days after I saw her. We had but 
 little inclination to repeat our visit to Matilda, dreading 
 to encounter her wearisome egotism. But in less than 
 two weeks after the day we spent with Matilda, I received 
 the following note from her. 
 
 i by coming to sit up d| 
 rarefe may not live j^'j 
 vefPind strength are 
 : with her. I calcu- 
 
 " MY DEAR ELLEN, 
 
 ' You will oblige me very much by coming to sit up 
 with Sophia, as Dr. Bertrand fears 
 through the night, and my own nerv< 
 not equal to the fatigue of watching with her. 
 late upon our old acquaintance in making this claim on 
 your services. Do not disappoint me. 
 " Your sick friend, 
 
 MATILDA." 
 
 I lost no time in acceding to this request, and was 
 deeply distressed at the painful intelligence of Sophia's 
 expected death. Although I had seen so little of her, yet 
 I felt as much interested in the dear sufferer as if I had 
 known her for years, and was willing to do what I could 
 for her. Upon my arrival at the house, Matilda expressed 
 her gratification, and said, " I am thankful for your kind 
 consideration in saving me from the fatiguing duty, for I 
 know that my own life would be sacrificed, were I to 
 attempt to sit up with her. The loss of sleep, and the 
 gloom of a dying bed, would be more than T could bear. 
 My duty to my family requires that I should be careful 
 of my own health, for the life of a mother is too valuable
 
 
 168 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 to be needlessly risked. An unmarried woman has no 
 one dependent on her, and you cannot tell, my dear Ellen, 
 what it is to feel this pressing necessity of saving our 
 own strength. What would become of my husband and 
 children, if I were as near death as poor Sophia !" 
 
 I could not help thinking that her loss would not be 
 half so severely felt by her husband or children as that 
 of the young, self-sacrificing Sophia, who had done so 
 much for them. Matilda was grieved at the idea of los- 
 ing her, but there was more of selfishness than of heart- 
 felt sorrow. She wept for herself more than for her 
 dying step-daughter. 
 
 Matilda did not attend me to the sick room, for she 
 said her nerves were too weak to bear the sight of her 
 husband's grief agd Sophia's struggling agonies. She 
 went only as fa^Bs her own chamber, saying to me, 
 " Put your hand ^n my heart, and feel how it is palpitat- 
 ing, I am too much agitated, I must try to get a little rest, 
 that I may become more composed." She went to her 
 bad to lose her sorrow in sleep, and I proceeded to the 
 apartment where the dear Sophia Granville lay dying. 
 When I entered, I found her father bending over her, in 
 all the distraction of his tortured feelings. She had just 
 fallen into a restless slumber, from exhaustion after a 
 severe spell of coughing. When she roused, she ex- 
 tended her hand to welcome me, and after having taken 
 a reviving draught, her strength and spirits seemed to be 
 so far resuscitated that she spoke with apparent ease and 
 cheerfulness. Just at this time her physician came into 
 the room, and Mr. Granville said to him in a joyful tone, 
 " Sophia looks so much brighter to-day, Doctor, and seems 
 so much easier, that she may yet be spared to me." 
 
 Dr. Bertrand was too honest to encourage a hope so 
 fallacious, for he too well knew the nature of the insidi- 
 ous disease. He was conscious that it was the last kind- 
 ling up of the flame of life, previous to its final extinction.
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 169 
 
 Sophia answered her father and said, " No, my dear 
 father, I shall never recover, I feel that my moments are 
 numbered, and now that I enjoy this transient revival, I 
 should like to see mother and the dear children once 
 more. Let them be brought to me." Mr. Granville rang 
 the bell, and told the servant that his daughter wished to 
 see Mrs. Granville and the children. The nurse came 
 in soon afterward with the little band of brothers and 
 sisters, saying that Mrs. Granville was lying down, and 
 felt too unwell to come into the room. A flash of wounded 
 feeling passed over Mr. Granville's face, and he sighed 
 deeply, but made no reply. He took the children one by 
 one to kiss their beloved sister. Sophia took a tender, 
 affectionate farewell of each, and when the last one was 
 brought to her, the dear little babe she had watched over 
 so faithfully and loved so much, she drew it towards her 
 with all a mother's fondness, and laid its soft cheek 
 against hers. The dear infant threw its little arm round 
 her neck, and kissed her again and again. Tears of 
 affection and sorrow trickled down the sunken cheeks of 
 the dying one, and she said to her father, " Take care of 
 dear little Mary when I am gone." Poor Mr. Granville 
 was too much convulsed by grief to make any reply my 
 heart ached for him. When the nurse drew near to take 
 the infant, she begged that it might remain beside her a 
 little longer. She pressed it to her bosom, and looked 
 round on all the beloved children with a long, earnest 
 gaze, as if she were unwilling to give them up. The 
 physician fearing that her emotions would hasten her end, 
 requested that they might be taken away. 
 
 Her eyes followed them as they left the room, and for 
 a few minutes she seemed engaged in silent prayer. A 
 soft, tranquil expression came over her countenance, and 
 she said, with a sweet smile of peaceful resignation, " I 
 leave them in the hands of my Heavenly Father, who 
 15
 
 170 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 loves them far more than I do. I am now willing to 
 depart and be with my Saviour. He has softened the 
 pain of separation, by enabling me to trust them to Him. 
 He loved little children and blessed them when on earth, 
 and does he not bless and guard them with equal love 
 now? They are his peculiar care, and it is He who 
 sends ministering angels to watch over them and shield 
 them from harm. They are the little lambs of his flock, 
 he bears them gently in his arms, and places them in 
 safety within his fold." 
 
 As soon as she ceased speaking, a painful struggling 
 for breath came on she clasped her father's hand, and 
 looked up into his face, saying in broken accents, "father, 
 weep not so bitterly, those dear ones that are left to you 
 will comfort you. Jesus himself will be your comforter. 
 It is He that calls me home all is peace." Her voice 
 fell to a low whisper as the last words were passing her 
 lips, and a quiet sleep came over her. Her father sank 
 into a chair, exhausted by the violent burst of grief to 
 which he had given way, and a death-like stillness per- 
 vaded the room. We could just distinguish her gentle 
 breathing, and sat in silence for fear of disturbing her. 
 At last even this seemed to cease, the physician softly 
 approached the bed, and touching her hand, said with a 
 deep sigh, " She is gone !" 
 
 The poor father hearing this, started from his torpor 
 with convulsive energy, and raved like one distracted. 
 He bitterly reproached his wife, and blamed himself for 
 his neglect and inattention. " My poor dying Mary," 
 said he, " placed our dear Sophia in my arms, entreating 
 me to be both father and mother to her. Little did I 
 think I could so soon break this promise, by giving her 
 into the hands of a selfish step-mother. She was all that 
 was left to me by my angel wife, and she too is taken 
 from me, but I have deserved it all wretched, cruel
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 171 
 
 father, my remorse is now my punishment. But she is 
 happy she has gone to her mother and her Saviour." 
 
 Upon the day appointed for the funeral, I went to take 
 the last look upon the face of the young and beautiful 
 Sophia Granville. As I gazed on her corpse as it lay 
 cradled in the coffin, a strangely mingled feeling came 
 over me, too sad to be called happiness and yet too calm 
 and soothing to be grief. Her countenance wore a sweet, 
 placid smile, and she looked like an infant in a quiet 
 sleep. I thought that for her pure spirit it was a blissful 
 exchange. She had left the world with its sins, its self- 
 ishness and its trials, for a home of peace, holiness and 
 love. I mused on all she had escaped, by being thus 
 early called to die. If she had been spared to continue 
 here, what might she not have suffered ! Her heart, so 
 full of warm, self-sacrificing affection, might have been 
 crushed by the heartlessness of others. She might have 
 lived to endure that bitterest agony of a wounded spirit, 
 when we are forced to hide from the world the hand that 
 inflicts the injury, and to conceal the sufferings we have 
 to bear. It was her happier fate to be gathered from 
 earth in the dewy freshness of her blossoming, ere worldly 
 cares or sorrows had left her in a blighted, leafless stem. 
 She had never known harshness or unkindness, for even 
 Matilda, cold and selfish as she was, had never seemed 
 cruel or unjust to her. Although there was a passive 
 cruelty in permitting Sophia to assume so heavy a bur- 
 den, yet the dear girl undertook the charge willingly, 
 without its even being required from her. She felt for 
 Matilda, and believed in her fancied illness, for, as yet, 
 she had not learned to read the darker pages of the human 
 heart, and was happy in her unconsciousness of what its 
 future knowledge would have revealed. It was thus, I 
 thought, and felt, as I stood beside the inanimate form 
 that was so soon to be placed in its last dark resting
 
 172 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 place, for I knew that her spirit was rejoicing in the re- 
 gions of light and glory. Matilda, true to her selfish 
 nature, even in her grief, tried to excite the sympathy of 
 those who visited her, by dwelling on the additional cares 
 that devolved on her by the loss of one so useful, and 
 efficient, as Sophia had been. But the feeling that more 
 now depended on her, had no effect in rousing her to ex- 
 ertion. She lived on as helplessly, and as uselessly, as 
 she had done before, until her husband finding the disor- 
 dered state of his uncomfortable home, and the waste 
 and extravagance that ensued from having no one to 
 manage his household, was forced to give up housekeep- 
 ing, and take his family to a boarding-house, exchanging 
 his family fireside, for the hearth-stone of strangers. 
 
 Many years afterward, I heard of Matilda. Mr. Gran- 
 ville had died several years before, leaving her a comfort- 
 able support. She had placed all her children in board- 
 ing-schools, that she might be relieved from the fatigue 
 of attending them, and she was leading the same useless 
 existence, always considering herself in a dying condi- 
 tion, yet living on, year after year, without the love or 
 respect of her sons and daughters ; the by-word, and 
 ridicule of her acqaintance, and a wearisome burden to 
 her friends. I have seen so many women, who might 
 have been a blessing to those around them, become use- 
 less drones in society, by this selfish indulgence in mag- 
 nifying every trifling indisposition, that I would urge 
 ' every mother to guard against this evil in her daughters. 
 For when it is traced to its source, we usually find its 
 commencement in that period, when a girl is still under 
 her mother's guidance. The cares and responsibilities of 
 married life, are too healthful for the egotism of hypo- 
 chondriacs ; if the disease appear then, it has been taken 
 into the system at an earlier date. Parental fondness, 
 like every other earthly affection has danger in its ex-
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OB THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 173 
 
 cesses. The slightest suffering, or indisposition in a be- 
 loved child, is tenderly inquired into, and attended to; 
 she is nursed, cared for, and waited on, as if she were to 
 be kept through life as a nursling plant. But if she is to 
 become a wife, and mother, how different should be her 
 training ! She must be taught, that it is woman's lot to 
 minister unto others. To fulfill this lot, she must learn 
 to bear pain, sickness, and disappointment, with patience 
 and fortitude. So far from expecting attention to every 
 little ailment she may experience, she must not dwell on 
 them, but must rouse herself from the disabling effects of 
 indisposition, by strenuous, persevering exertion in the 
 path of duty. Her husband will look to her as the head 
 of his household, as the one who is responsible for the 
 care and management of all that he entrusts to her. The 
 numerous and pressing duties of domestic life, must be 
 attended to, though her strength may fail under her con- 
 stant and fatiguing exertions. For her helpless babes, 
 she must endure broken rest and long and weary hours of 
 watching, when sickness comes upon them, cradling them 
 in her arms, resting their little heads on her bosom, 
 whatever may be her own feebleness and pain, for who 
 can so faithfully tend them as a mother, and to whom 
 else do they look as their own proper nurse ? 
 
 Since these are woman's duties, how illy is she pre- 
 pared for them in her girlhood, by the mother who 
 "keeps even the winds of heaven from visiting her too 
 roughly." Let every mother think of these things, and, 
 as she values her daughter's happiness, or future useful- 
 ness, let her teach her " to bear the yoke in her youth," 
 and to provide for after duties, by instilling into her mind 
 the necessity, and inculcating the practice of unshrinking 
 fortitude and unwearying activity, of patient, uncom- 
 plaining endurance of pain. 
 
 Let me urge it also, upon the young, to resist this in- 
 15*
 
 174 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 
 
 sidious habit of dwelling upon trifling feelings of indis- 
 position, in its first advances. The female frame is so 
 delicate in its organization, and physical education is so 
 little attended to, that almost every woman who has not 
 been trained to active employment, is subject, more or 
 less, to occasional suffering. Dyspepsia in its many 
 forms, and its endless varieties, is so common at the pre- 
 sent day, that we scarcely find any one who has not felt 
 some of its effects. The indolence, loss of energy, and 
 lowness of spirits that it produces, tend to fix it most 
 firmly in those who give up to these symptoms. A little 
 exertion in resisting these feelings, which are at once both 
 the cause and effect of this indisposition, would do much 
 towards arresting its progress. Its tendency is to induce 
 the habit of exaggerating every ailment, and to fill the 
 mind with morbid selfishness, Let every one who first 
 becomes conscious, that she is in danger of yielding to 
 these, rouse at once, and resolve to do all she can to save 
 herself from their paralyzing influence. If she find her 
 thoughts brooding over every slight variation in her feel- 
 ings, and anticipating the approach of some fatal disease, 
 from every unpleasant sensation, let her turn her atten- 
 tion to some active occupation, which will so far engross 
 her mental and physical powers, as to leave no time for 
 this indolent and ruinous habit. If she is disposed to 
 talk continually of her various ailments, let her remem- 
 ber that even the nearest and dearest relative, or friend, 
 will soon weary under such discourse, and that, so far 
 from exciting the sympathy she so childishly seeks, this 
 is the very means to shut her out from, all sympathy, even 
 for her real and acutest sufferings. No one is disposed 
 to give heed to the constant complainer, for if there be no 
 visible effect of indisposition, we are apt to doubt its ex- 
 istence. 
 
 How imperious then is the necessity, that every one
 
 MATILDA HARWOOD, OR THE IMAGINARY INVALID. 175 
 
 should watch narrowly for the slightest indication of this 
 growing habit, so as to check it in its first beginning. 
 Once firmly rooted by indulgence, neither genius, nor 
 mental cultivation, neither conjugal, or maternal affection, 
 and not even religion itself, seems able to deliver its vic- 
 tims from its wretched influence. The history of Ma- 
 tilda Harvvood, may appear to be too strongly drawn to 
 those who have never witnessed the effects of this selfish 
 brooding over every trifling indisposition, but, there are 
 many who will feel it to be a true portrait of this self-in- 
 flicted monomania, and these will find its counterpart 
 among their acquaintance of both sexes. For it is by no 
 means confined to woman alone. It has its victims among 
 those from whom we naturally expect greater strength of 
 mind, and a higher degree of moral courage, and many 
 a man, whose gifts of intellect enabled him to sway an 
 influence over his fellow-men, has recklessly thrown 
 himself aside in utter uselessness and inanity, and be- 
 come as poor a driveler, and dotard, as if he had given 
 himself up to intemperance. Our capacity for action, in 
 any sphere, makes action in that sphere an imperative 
 duty, and if we voluntarily destroy our own powers, by 
 any course of self-indulgence, we will be as answerable 
 to God for what we might have done, as we will be for 
 that which we refuse to do, when our ability is fully 
 equal to all that He has required from us. In both cases 
 we are left without excuse.
 
 176 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SARAH SHERMAN, OR THE MECHANIC'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Plain living and high thinking." WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A dignified, but most rare, and difficult union this. ' It is easy to 
 forget the common cares of life, and easy to be absorbed in them ; easy 
 to be too ethereal for any occupation but thinking, or too coarse for any 
 questions, beyond such as have reference to the life of the body ; but to 
 find taste, and time, and energy for both, argues such a balance of power, 
 moral, and intellectual, that if the individual cannot receive a triumph, 
 he deserves at least, an oration.' Miss JEWSBUBY. 
 
 " True refinement inheres within, and no more derives its character 
 from outward trappings, than physical symmetry, owes its fair propor- 
 tions to the fringes, with which fashion encumbers its beauty." ANON. 
 
 IT was at the breaking up of the Oakwood school, that 
 we last parted from Sarah Sherman, and I will proceed 
 with her history, from that period, in the consecutive or- 
 der of its incidents, as related to me many years after- 
 wards. 
 
 When the worthy Mr. Sherman was returning home 
 with his beloved daughter, instead of continuing in the 
 road leading to the town where he resided when Sarah 
 left them, he turned to another, which took a different 
 direction. 
 
 " Where are going ather ?" said she, " this is not the 
 route you used to travel ; we seem to be going farther 
 from home, instead of getting nearer to it." 
 
 Her father smiled as he replied, " I am taking you 
 home, Sarah, as fast as our little horse can carry us. 
 Every mile brings us nearer to it, so that when you 
 reach there, you will find you have been mistaken in 
 your supposition."
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 177 
 
 Sarah was wondering how this seeming difficulty 
 could be solved, but was content to wait patiently, as she 
 knew her father never said what was untrue, even in 
 jest. And after riding several miles farther, Mr. Sher- 
 man stopped at a gate, and when he had opened it, again 
 took the reins, and guided his horse through a winding 
 avenue of elms, until he came in sight of a neat dwell- 
 ing, surrounded by a beautiful lawn. " This is your home 
 Sarah," said her father, " how do you like the change ? 
 I could not tell you of this before, as I wanted to take 
 you by surprise." 
 
 " I am delighted dear father, nothing could have grati- 
 fied me more, how happy I shall be." 
 
 As soon as the chaise stopped at the door, Mrs. Sher- 
 man came out to meet them, and her daughter was folded 
 in her arms. " How much you have grown, my Sarah," 
 she exclaimed, " but you look delicate, poor thing ! you 
 have pored over your books, until you have injured your 
 health. Now since your sisters are married, you are the 
 only girl left at home, so you must run about in the fresh 
 air, and help me attend to the chickens, and the dairy. 
 You will then soon become hearty, and your cheeks will 
 he as rosy, as they used to be, before you loved to study. 
 Moping over books, does no one any good." 
 
 Sarah kissed her kind mother, and promised to assist 
 her in doing whatever she wished. 
 
 " But this will not do for me to be loitering here," said 
 the active, busy Mrs. Sherman, then addressing herself 
 to her maid of all work, who had just come to the door, 
 to look at the stranger. " Susy, have you brought in the 
 supper ?" Without waiting for an answer, she said, " Come 
 in, come in Sarah, you must be hungry after your long 
 ride. It will be time enough to-morrow to look at the 
 flowers. Susy, call Mr. Sherman, and tell him supper is 
 ready. Run quick Susy, he has gone down to the stable."
 
 178 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 Sarah accompanied her mother to the room, where a 
 plentiful meal was laid out, tempting with all the luxu- 
 ries of country fare, and set off to the best advantage, 
 by clean white plates, and a snowy cloth just fresh from 
 the folds. 
 
 " Put plenty of cream in your coffee, Sarah, we are 
 not in town, now, and tell me how you like this butter. 
 I churned it this morning, before sunrise. Help yourself 
 more freely to the cakes, why child, your appetite is too 
 mincing. Your lessons have taken away all your relish 
 for food. I always told your father, it would ruin your 
 health to study so much." 
 
 Sarah assured her mother she was perfectly well, but 
 her mother considered a keen appetite the only evidence 
 of good health. As soon as supper was over, Mrs. Sher- 
 man said to Sarah, " Come up stairs, with me, I will 
 show you the room your father has fitted up for you." 
 
 Sarah was conducted by her mother into the pleasant 
 chamber prepared for her, and her heart gratefully ac- 
 knowledged the many evidences of parental kindness in its 
 arrangements. The neat bed with its snow-white counter- 
 pane, the tidy toilet with its muslin drapery, and the dimity 
 curtains that shaded the windows, bespoke her mother's 
 thoughtful care. While the range of well-filled book- 
 shelves, a handsome portable desk, and a flower-stand, 
 filled with pots of geranium, mignonette, and other beauti- 
 ful exotics, exhibited her kind father's attention to those 
 tastes, in which he had always loved to indulge her. 
 
 " How do you like your room, Sarah ?" said her grat- 
 ified mother, " there are too many books here, by a great 
 deal, as I told your father, but he would get them for you 
 as he knew you were so fond of reading. I looked over 
 them, when he brought them from town, but there was 
 nothing but poetry, philosophy, history, and such useless
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 179 
 
 things, and not one cookery book among them, so the 
 next time I went to town, I brought you ' The Virginia 
 Housekeeper,' and ' The Frugal Housewife,' and squeezed 
 them in here, on the lowest shelf, but I had hard work to 
 get them in, for your father had the shelves so well filled 
 with other books not half so good for you, but your father 
 says you will like his choice best. But you will study 
 mine too, Sarah, now you have finished your schooling, 
 I know you will." " I can never be grateful enough to 
 you, and my dear father," said Sarah, while tears of 
 affection filled her eyes, at this touching evidence of her 
 parents' kind provision for her comfort, and happiness. 
 " How do you like this bureau, and washstand ? your father 
 had them made for you. Look at thes eclosets," contin- 
 ued Mrs. Sherman, while she busied herself in hanging 
 up Sarah's bonnet, folding up her shawl, and laying it in 
 its place. " These closets are very convenient, Sarah, 
 and I hope you are still as fond of order and neatness, as 
 you were before you went to school, some girls become 
 very careless when they go to a boarding-school. I hope 
 it has not spoiled you, Sarah. But I must leave you 
 now, as I have to give out the supper to the workmen. 
 I will send up your trunk, and you can employ yourself 
 in unpacking it, and laying your things away, while I 
 am busy down stairs." 
 
 The busy mother then went to attend to her concerns, 
 and Sarah walked to the window to look out on the sweet 
 rural spot, her father had chosen for his residence. 
 A beautiful prospect stretched away before her. A fine 
 range of green, softly swelling hills, bounded the horizon, 
 behind which, the sun was setting, in all the splendor of 
 a richly tinted canopy of clouds. At their base, a lovely 
 valley lay in shadow, through which, a stream was glid- 
 ing, fringed here and there with clumps of trees and 
 shrubs, and upon its grassy banks, her father's herds
 
 180 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 were quietly grazing. A fine grove of old oaks rose be- 
 neath the window, whose trunks were lighted up with 
 the red rays of the declining sun, and the green sward 
 from which they sprung, was beautifully varied by long 
 lines of sunshine and lengthened shadows, as interven- 
 ing trees or intermediate spaces admitted, or obscured 
 the brilliant hues of sunset. Sarah felt all this beauty 
 with the deep rapture of a poetic taste, and fondly dream- 
 ed of the quiet happiness she would enjoy in rambling 
 over these scenes, long after day, drinking in all their 
 sweet influences, and finding a realization of the ideal, 
 even in the actual life that surrounded her. 
 
 As she thought of the low, uncomfortable house, in its 
 narrow street, in which she had passed her youth, her 
 heart rose in a silent prayer of gratitude to God, for the 
 pleasant home to which her kind father had brought her, 
 and she asked for Divine assistance, to enable her to be- 
 come all that her parents wished her to be. 
 
 The entrance of Susy, with her trunk, roused her 
 from her reverie, and, in obedience to her mother's in- 
 junction, she immediately commenced the work of un- 
 packing, and arranging her clothes, according to her 
 mother's directions. 
 
 The next morning Sarah arose at what she considered 
 an early hour, and arrayed herself in the neat working 
 dress, provided for her by her economical mother. She 
 hastened down stairs to assist in the household duties, 
 and found that her mother had been up for two or three 
 hours and was now busy in her dairy. Soon after 
 Sarah joined her Susy came in, bearing two pails brim- 
 ming with milk fresh and warm from the cows. " Here 
 Sarah," said Mrs. Sherman, " is nice work for you, strain 
 this milk into those pans, while I print the butter I have 
 just churned." Sarah obeyed with alacrity, though with 
 a little awkwardness, in her new task, and ever and anon,
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 181 
 
 as she stole a glance upon the fresh and dewy scene 
 without, she longed to be treading the green sward that 
 looked so tempting, but she resolutely turned to her work, 
 resolving to finish her task before she permitted herself 
 to enjoy the pleasure of rambling among the fragrant 
 flowers, whose breath came wafting in the windows upon 
 the morning breeze. As soon as the employments allott- 
 ed her were over, she put on her gingham bonnet and 
 took a delightful range over the woods and fields, happy 
 as the birds who were singing in the branches above her. 
 She found a little nook which she soon fixed on as her 
 bower, and ran to ask her father's consent to claim it as 
 her own, and to adorn it as^suited her fancy. This was 
 readily granted and Sarah sat down on the grassy bank 
 to plan her improvements. A group of weeping willows 
 and two large old locust trees shaded the spot, and 
 around their trunks a fragrant woodbine clustered, with 
 its graceful drapery of twining stems richly clothed with 
 leaves and blossoms. 
 
 The bees from a hive near by, were flying from flower 
 to flower, and their dreamy hum mingling with the soft 
 whisper of the wind lulled her into a delicious reverie. 
 What a sweet place, thought she, this will be for reading 
 and meditation ; a rustic seat, a little table for my books 
 and writing implements, a few more vines and flowers 
 planted here will make it a shady, charming retreat for 
 study, even in the most sultry hours. It was indeed a 
 sweet, picturesque solitude, and the beautiful landscape 
 that opened to the view through the overarching boughs, 
 would have fascinated any one who had a heart to enjoy 
 the charms of rural scenery. The gentle eminence on 
 which the embowering trees were grouped, sloped away 
 into a green sunny meadow, interspersed at distant inter- 
 vals with lofty oaks, beneath whose shade the cattle were 
 sheltering themselves from the noon-tide heat, while on 
 16
 
 182 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 either side could be seen a lovely perspective of hills and 
 valleys, cultivated fields and noble forests. 
 
 Many were the happy hours that Sarah spent in this 
 sweet spot in reading her favorite authors, drinking in 
 the sweet influences of nature's beauty, or in indicting 
 the poetic fancies, and the musing thoughts that filled 
 her mind to overflowing. Never having been accustom- 
 ed to congenial companionship at home, and never hav- 
 ing sought for it among her schoolmates, she felt not 
 the want of a kindred mind, for her books, her own 
 thoughts and imaginings were to her all-sufficient. 
 
 The assiduity and industry with which she assisted 
 her mother, saved her from becoming a mere bookworm; 
 and in sacrificing her own tastes to conform to what her 
 active mother thought every woman should be, a health- 
 ful influence was shed upon her character of which she 
 felt the benefit in after life. But it cost her many a 
 struggle. Often when she took the broom or duster in 
 her hand to go through the daily routine of household 
 occupations, or when her delicately formed fingers were 
 soiled by her labor in burnishing the brass ornaments 
 and iron castings of the parlor stove, the sight of an un- 
 finished book lying open on the table, where she had 
 laid it, the soft breeze that passed over her brow, or a 
 transient glimpse of the woods and meadows that caught 
 her eye as the wind stirred aside the light curtains that 
 shaded the windows, were to her temptations hard to be 
 resisted. Sometimes she would unconsciously pause in 
 the midst of her task and sink into a reverie, picturing to 
 herself the happiness of a life of literary leisure and in- 
 tellectual employments, and, at others, while her hands 
 were busy in her uncongenial occupations, tears filled 
 her eyes and melancholy feelings brooded in her heart 
 as she thought how unsuited these duties were to her 
 tastes, and remembered how many hours were sacrificed
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 183 
 
 to them which might have been devoted to her studies 
 had her situation in life been different. She knew that 
 to some women these household labors were pleasures, 
 that her mother considered them as agreeable relaxations 
 but that to her they were regarded as a painful necessity, 
 from which she would have been glad to be relieved. 
 She had not yet learned the possibility of uniting " plain 
 living with high thinking," but when she found that 
 these dreamy aspirations after the ideal, left a sickness 
 of heart and a distaste for the common realities and ne- 
 cessary duties of life, her sound intellect and tender con- 
 science convinced her that she had erred and she re- 
 solved to go cheerfully onward in her self-denying duties, 
 without suffering any thing to lessen her alacrity. The 
 domestic employments which at first were so irksome to 
 her, became easy and pleasant from the force of habit, 
 and at last she learned to pass by her books without a 
 sigh of regret and to give her thoughts and attention to 
 the labors assigned her, conscious that the time given 
 her as her own could be spent in pursuing her studies, 
 without the self-reproach of having neglected any thing 
 necessary for woman to learn or of having acted contrary 
 to her mother's wishes. 
 
 Although Mrs. Sherman considered nothing worthy to 
 be called employment in which the hands were left to 
 lie idle, and looked on a book as a species of indolent 
 recreation, yet she permitted Sarah to occupy her leisure 
 hours as it suited her, without making any objection, ex- 
 cept an occasional admonition respecting the injury she 
 might receive by her close application. By activity and 
 a careful economy of time, Sarah gained daily opportu- 
 nities to add to her stores of knowledge. And by fol- 
 lowing the plan of study recommended to her by Mrs. 
 Norville, her mind became enriched and cultivated to an 
 extent that few of her sex attain even under the most
 
 184 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 favorable auspices. Sarah was her father's idol, and he 
 took much pride in her attainments although he knew 
 they surpassed his own, but her mother valued her most 
 for her skill and industry in that department of which 
 she was so competent a judge. So unassumingly did 
 this retiring girl bear her knowledge, that no one knew 
 the extent of her acquirements. Mrs. Sherman's preju- 
 dice against learning in woman was gradually overcome, 
 when she found that her beloved daughter had not been 
 spoiled by it as she had often feared and predicted. The 
 reserve that chilled the sensitive Sarah, when with those 
 whom she knew looked on her as their inferior in station, 
 was never thrown aside, and her actions were prompted 
 by the sweet and gentle affections that warmed her heart. 
 She was with those that loved her, and her kind, affec- 
 tionate parents were enough for her to love. 
 
 Mr. Sherman became so popular in his neighborhood 
 and so highly respected for his good sense and judgment 
 by all that knew him, that he was frequently urged to 
 become a candidate for the Legislature. His consent 
 was at length obtained, and after his election, he was de- 
 sirous that Sarah should accompany him to the seat of 
 government. His affection made him wish to have her 
 with him, and his pride in her, induced him to introduce 
 her into the society she was so well fitted to adorn. 
 Sarah was so happy in herself and in her seclusion, that 
 she had no wish for any other companionship than her 
 parents, but ever anxious to gratify her father, she ex- 
 pressed her willingness to accompany him, if her mother 
 should not feel any objection to be left alone. Mrs. 
 Sherman, with all a mother's pride in her lady-like 
 daughter, acceded to her husband's plan with ready con- 
 sent, telling Sarah that there was no danger of her being 
 lonesome while she had enough to employ her time and 
 attention.
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 185 
 
 The mild, intellectual beauty of Sarah Sherman, and 
 the quiet dignity and refinement of her manners soon 
 made her a favorite in society. The association with 
 gifted minds and cultivated tastes brought out the rich 
 treasures of her knowledge, which had so long lain silent 
 for want of companionship, and the charms of her con- 
 versation, so unpretending in its wisdom and so attract- 
 ive from her poetic imagination, drew around her those 
 who were capable of appreciating her talents. Among 
 her admirers there was one whose kindred taste and 
 feeling awakened a deep interest in Sarah's heart. He 
 was a lawyer who had been lately admitted to the bar, 
 but was universally spoken of as a young man of high 
 promise and extensive acquirements. He was at first 
 struck with the superiority of Miss Sherman to the gen- 
 erality of females with whom he was acquainted, and 
 when he found that her character and disposition were 
 as attractive as her mind and person, he became her con- 
 stant visitor. He read with her, lent her his favorite 
 books and before the end of the session was a declared 
 and accepted suitor. At first Mr. Sherman felt loth to 
 give up his darling Sarah to any one, but when he found 
 that her happiness was so deeply entwined with the high- 
 souled and talented Charles Glentworth, he gave a re- 
 luctant consent to their future union. Although it pained 
 him to think of the time when her lover should claim the 
 fulfillment of his promise; yet the character of Charles 
 was such that he could feel no distrust in placing his be- 
 loved daughter under his protecting care. 
 
 To Sarah, this event awakened many new and delight- 
 ful emotions. She had never known what it was to 
 reveal to any one, the thoughts that had filled her 
 mind, and stirred the deep enthusiasm of her nature, but 
 now there was a dear friend near her to whom she could 
 express every sentiment and feeling as freely as if com- 
 16*
 
 186 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 muning with her own spirit. The young affections that 
 had slept within her bosom, rose up in all their strength 
 and freshness, and she experienced for the first time, the 
 sweet happiness of loving, and being loved, by one who 
 could understand and appreciate all that she felt and en- 
 joyed. The thought of their separation gave her a pain- 
 ful sense of anticipated loneliness, but she looked forward 
 to his promised visits, and letters, as the bright gleams 
 that were to irradiate the solitude that had become dis- 
 tasteful to her in prospect. 
 
 Charles Glentworth, in asking the consent of Mr. Sher- 
 man, had explicitly stated his circumstances and his 
 prospects, and lamented the necessity of his becoming 
 established in practice, before he could claim the hand of 
 his daughter. And Mr. Sherman, considering the united 
 possession of talents, industry, and integrity, more valua- 
 ble than wealth, regarded the want of fortune, as no ob- 
 jection to his future son-in-law. Charles, in all the con- 
 fidence of youth and inexperience, thought that poverty 
 was an obstacle soon to be removed, and Sarah gave 
 ready credence to his sanguine anticipations of speedy 
 success in his profession, and sympathized in his aspir- 
 ing dreams of future eminence. 
 
 When Sarah returned to her home, she found that its 
 pleasures had lost the power to satisfy her heart as they 
 had done. When she resumed her studies, she longed 
 for the assistance which her dear Charles was so well 
 qualified to give her, and when reading her favorite poets, 
 their finest imaginings only awakened a regret that she 
 had no one to enjoy them with her. As she rambled 
 along her accustomed walks, or sat in her bower, the 
 most beautiful prospects lost half their charms, since 
 she had no companion who could feel their beauties with 
 her. Her dreamy musings, and frequent fits of abstrac- 
 tion made her sadly forgetful, and her observant mother
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 187 
 
 soon found occasion to remind her of her many omissions 
 in household duties. "Why Sarah," said Mrs. Sher- 
 man, " do look at these tables, they are covered with dust, 
 I have been so busy that I have not had time to look at 
 the parlor for two days. The room looks as if it had 
 not been dusted for a week. Your visit has spoiled you 
 for a housekeeper. This will never do, your lover must 
 not make you forget your duties. This is but a poor pre- 
 paration for married life, Sarah. A husband will think 
 it no excuse for a wife's negligence, if she should tell 
 him that she thought so much of him as to make her for- 
 get every thing else. Men generally estimate a woman's 
 affection by her attention in giving him a well ordered 
 home. If you think of becoming a wife, you must bestir 
 yourself in preparing for future duties. Idle dreaming, 
 an absent mind, or reading poetry, will not keep the 
 house in order." 
 
 Sarah's cheeks were suffused with blushes, as she re- 
 ceived this well-meant reproof from her plain-spoken 
 mother. And reflection soon convinced her of its truth 
 and justice, however unpalatable it seemed to her at first. 
 She acknowledged to herself that the delightful intellec- 
 tual companionship, she fondly dreamed of finding as the 
 wife of Charles Glentworth, could be enjoyed but for a 
 brief hour or two, at evening, since his restricted circum- 
 stances would call for constant devotion to business on his 
 part, and as his wife, it would be necessary for her to 
 study practical economy, and the art of housekeeping, 
 instead of poetry and philosophy, and to cultivate daily 
 habits of industry and activity, instead of indulging her 
 fondness for science, or literature. A life of leisure, 
 would be unsuited to either of them in their united strug- 
 gles to promote their material interests. Labor must 
 necessarily be their constant duty, and the pleasures of 
 taste and intellect, could be only the transient recreation
 
 188 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 of a few passing moments ; with Sarah, to be convinced 
 of error, was to take immediate steps to retrieve it, and 
 she again resumed her daily occupations with renewed 
 vigor, and unremitting attention. Her household labors 
 were rendered pleasant and delightful, by the sweet con- 
 sciousness that she was thus fitting herself to be a future 
 help-meet to her beloved Charles. 
 
 The time fixed upon by Charles Glentworth for his 
 visit at length arrived, and the happy lovers were again 
 in each other's society, wandering over Sarah's favorite 
 haunts, and admiring together the varied beauties that 
 the early summer had thrown over hill and dale. Many 
 were the fair pictures of domestic bliss, which the enthu- 
 siastic Charles drew for his Sarah, when they would 
 share one home together, and much as she loved the 
 sweet scenes around her, yet she felt that even a city life 
 would be a green and sunny spot to her, when spent with 
 her future husband. The time that they were together 
 fled away on its fleetest wings, and again Sarah found 
 herself alone. She could scarcely realize that Charles 
 had been with her ; it was like a passing dream, bright 
 and transient as the rose-tinted clouds of morning. 
 
 Slowly and wearily did the months pass by with 
 Charles Glentworth, in his separation from his beloved 
 Sarah. And to his saddened spirit, it seemed as if the 
 period of their union was more distant than when he first 
 declared himself her lover. Ambitious and aspiring, yet 
 proudly sensitive, he shrank from thrusting himself for- 
 ward to the notice of his fellow men, and saw .others far 
 less gifted and competent, pressing onward, and leaving 
 him behind in the struggle for fame and fortune. At 
 length despondency with all its baleful influences settled 
 darkly over him, and he was about giving up in utter 
 despair of success, when he was roused from its gloomy 
 lethargy by a visit from the lawyer, under whom he had
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 189 
 
 studied. Mr. Melmoth's, practice was more lucrative 
 and extensive than that of any other member at the bar, 
 and his health had become so undermined by his devo- 
 tion to business, that he found it necessary to procure an 
 assistant. And the object of his visit, was to offer this 
 desirable situation to Charles Glentworth. The salary 
 proposed was a liberal one, and the opportunity thus 
 afforded of establishing himself in future practice, pro- 
 mised fair for success. Charles gratefully accepted the 
 offer, and lost no time in communicating his good fortune 
 to Sarah, asking her to share it with him by an early 
 marriage. 
 
 Though Mr. Sherman was not a wealthy man, yet he 
 had a sufficiency to spare in assisting his children. He 
 rented a comfortable dwelling, and furnished it neatly 
 throughout, for his daughter; and the happy Charles 
 soon after took his beloved wife to her wedded home. 
 As Sarah passed through her house, she saw that every 
 thing had been provided by her kind father and mother, 
 that could add to their comfort, and in the little room 
 fitted up expressly for her own use, she felt that she was 
 indebted to her dear Charles from the evidences of his 
 taste in its arrangement. The little library which had 
 been given her by her father, was enriched by numerous 
 additions, and placed in a carved oak book-case, with its 
 desk lying open, on which lay a handsome portfolio, and 
 standish. On the opposite side there was a neat cabinet, 
 with several divisions appropriated to various departments 
 of natural history, and filled with their respective speci- 
 mens of minerals, insects, dried plants, &c. Two large 
 maps and a few choice pictures hung on the walls, and 
 in the middle of the room stood a centre table, with an 
 Astral lamp, around which, lay a collection of engravings 
 and a few choice volumes. In front of the window, there 
 was a tastefully designed flower stand, filled with plants.
 
 190 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 which formed a pyramid of mingled verdure and bloom, 
 and diffused a delightful fragrance through the apart- 
 ment. Sarah looked around upon her husband's gifts, 
 while tears of grateful love trembled in her eyes, and still 
 more deeply did she feel these evidences of his affection 
 as he joined her, and said, " This room, my dear Sarah, 
 is sacred to you, and here not even your husband will in- 
 trude upon you, except when you desire his presence. It 
 is my wish that you will still continue the studies and 
 pursue the tastes which have so richly adorned your 
 mind. I would not have my wife become a household 
 slave, and when your domestic duties are over, you can 
 spend your leisure hours here free from interruption, and 
 when my engagements for the day are over, I will join 
 you, and we can read and study together." 
 
 A flush of affection and gratitude, passed over Sarah's 
 beaming face as she turned towards her husband, and said, 
 " It shall be as you wish dear Charles, I will strive to 
 be active and industrious in fulfilling my duties as a 
 housekeeper, that I may secure some leisure for mental 
 improvement, so as to be always a congenial companion 
 for my husband. I know there is great danger of a 
 woman's becoming wholly engrossed in the routine of 
 household occupations, and thereby rendering her society 
 uninteresting to a man of intellect, who by his daily in- 
 tercourse with men, and books, is continually advancing 
 in his mental progress, but I trust my dear Charles, that 
 under your guidance, I will be all that you wish." 
 
 Their prospects of happiness dawned brightly upon this 
 newly married pair, and few ever entered upon wedded 
 life whose morning promised so unclouded a future. 
 Charles Glentworth, though ambitious in his profession, 
 was, as yet, free from the petty aspirings of social life, 
 and Sarah's whole sphere of happiness was centered in 
 her home. Their income, though comparatively moderate,
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 191 
 
 was more than sufficient for their wants, and authorized 
 an indulgence in their refined and intellectual tastes. It 
 was now, since Sarah had entered upon the duties 
 of her own household, that she felt the full benefit she 
 had received from her mother's careful instruction in do- 
 mestic employments. Those daily recurring labors, so 
 harassing to the inexperienced and uninitiated, were light- 
 ened to her, by her long practice under her mother's 
 training, and she was enabled to go through them with 
 ease, cheerfulness and dispatch, and to find as much leis- 
 ure for literary pursuits as she desired. She was thus 
 saved from those harassing disquietudes and vexatious 
 trials which so many newly married women experience, 
 day after day, in their endeavors to discharge those wea- 
 risome labors to which their time and their capacities 
 seem wholly insufficient ; and many of whom would 
 then gladly exchange those useless accomplishments 
 which their girlhood was spent in acquiring, for that 
 knowledge of domestic affairs so painfully learned, when 
 it is most needed, and whose practice nothing but a pre- 
 vious preparation can fit them to fulfill. 
 
 When Sarah had gone through her household duties, 
 with what pleasure did she hasten to her pleasant little 
 room and enter upon her studies, and how were these 
 studies sweetened by the thought that it was with her 
 husband's approval, and by his request, that she indulged 
 in those intellectual enjoyments which had been the 
 source of so much happiness to her from her early youth. 
 Few married women are allowed to pursue a system of 
 mental culture, and even the little that is sometimes 
 gained by reading, is momentarily seized on like a for- 
 bidden gratification, for few men ever consider it a duty 
 to promote the intellectual advancement of their wives. 
 A well ordered house, a good dinner, and a slavish at- 
 tention to every capricious want, are by many rigorously
 
 192 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 exacted, but they forget that the woman they have chosen 
 is not a hireling, but that she is to be the mother, the 
 guide and the instructor of his children, and that it is 
 . incumbent on them, as they value the future welfare of 
 their offspring, to allow her leisure to fit herself for these 
 high and sacred responsibilities, and to encourage and 
 assist her in a continued course of self-education. Charles 
 Glentworth was superior to that petty jealousy and pre- 
 judice, which some men still feel and express against 
 learning in woman. It was a delight to him to draw out 
 the resources of Sarah's mind, and to stimulate her to 
 greater acquisitions, by placing every facility for improve- 
 ment within her reach. The enjoyment he experienced 
 in communing with his wife, by the free interchange of 
 thought, was a pleasant relief from the dry details of legal 
 study, and in being blessed with congenial companion- 
 ship in her cultivated mind, he had no temptation to seek 
 intellectual excitement abroad. Happy and contented in 
 each other's society, neither seemed to have a wish be- 
 yond their humble home. 
 
 Charles Glentworth, though descended from a family 
 of influence and respectability, was left at an early age 
 an orphan, without friends or fortune to aid him in his 
 struggles to obtain an education suited to the profession 
 of his choice. His talents and energy enabled him to 
 overcome every obstacle, and the high estimation in 
 which his capacity and acquirements were held by his 
 legal preceptor, induced him to seek out Charles Glent- 
 worth as a competent assistant in relieving him from the 
 pressure of business. As Charles was comparatively a 
 stranger in the city where he had fixed his residence, he 
 had but few associates and had mingled but little in so- 
 ciety. But his present situation in the employment of 
 Mr. Melmoth, brought him into companionship with men 
 of the highest standing, both conventional and political.
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 193 
 
 He became quite a favorite among Mr. Melmoth's inti- 
 mate friends, and his cultivated mind, refined tastes and 
 polished manners brought him numerous invitations to join 
 their literary club, and to become a guest at the dinners 
 and suppers, given in rotation by each of the members at 
 their own dwellings. At first, Charles was unwilling to 
 accept them, as he knew that their style of living was so 
 different from his own, and felt a greater preference for 
 his home pleasures in the society of his wife, than for 
 any anticipated enjoyment he might receive from the 
 sparkling wit or high converse of his new associates. 
 But Mr. Melmoth, who was a man of the world as well 
 as a man of business, constantly urged him to accept 
 these invitations, representing to him the advantage 
 which would accrue to him in his profession, by cultivat- 
 ing a more extended acquaintance with the society of 
 men of wealth and influence. When Charles at length 
 entered upon these scenes of luxurious refinement, the 
 contrast between their splendid mansions and his own 
 humble dwelling struck him painfully. He began to feel 
 discontented when he returned to his plainly furnished 
 apartments, and thus gave access to that spirit of desire 
 for things forbidden to his limited circumstances, which 
 is the wily serpent that has entered into many a fair 
 Eden-home, banishing peace and happiness from the 
 bosom of its inmates. 
 
 The affectionate Sarah quickly perceived the change 
 in her beloved Charles, and her knowledge of human 
 nature soon enabled her to divine its cause. In one point 
 she was far superior to her husband she was a decided 
 Christian, and was thus guarded by grace from the tempt- 
 ation to which he had fallen so ready a victim. His 
 repinings had no effect in destroying her calm content- 
 ment in her lot, but she felt deeply for the unhappiness 
 which clouded her husband's brow. She tried to instill 
 17
 
 194 SAEAH SHERMAN. 
 
 into his mind the same elevated feelings that lifted her 
 above the disquietude that corroded his peace, and often 
 and fervently did she pray for her dear Charles, that he 
 too might become a partaker of those blessings which 
 religion had shed upon her own heart. 
 
 Mr. Melmoth, finding that his failing health caused 
 him to leave so much of his business to the care of 
 Charles, proposed taking him into partnership upon the 
 most liberal terms. This offer was eagerly accepted, as 
 the former salary, once fully sufficient, had been regarded 
 by Charles as a painfully restricted one,, since the desire 
 for luxurious indulgence had taken possession of his 
 heart. The extent of his prospective income added still 
 stronger incentives to the spirit of competition which had 
 given him so much unhappiness, and he determined to 
 make an immediate change, by removing into a larger 
 house in a more fashionable neighborhood. When he 
 communicated what he esteemed his good fortune to Sa- 
 rah, he said, " Now, my dear wife, you can no longer 
 object to our living in a different style, since the opportu- 
 nity of doing so is secured to us." " Would it not be 
 better my husband," she replied, " to improve this oppor- 
 tunity by laying up something for the future, as we know 
 not how long this income may be ours, as Mr. Melmoth's 
 declining health induces us to fear that he may not be 
 much longer spared to assist us." 
 
 " In case of that event, which I trust may be far distant, 
 as his disease though painful is not a dangerous one, I 
 may succeed to his practice, which is extensive enough 
 to support any style of living to which we can aspire. I 
 have already gained favor and respect among his numer- 
 ous clients, and to secure the practice it is desirable, if 
 not actually necessary, that I should maintain the appear- 
 ance of wealth." 
 
 This false idea, so current in the world, of the neces-
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 195 
 
 sity of keeping up appearances in order to procure pro- 
 fessional advancement, how much misery has it occa- 
 sioned ! If the lives of our professional men could be 
 written, what a history would they unfold of heart- wear- 
 ing struggles and heart-breaking trials inflicted upon 
 themselves by following this fallacious maxim. How 
 many a noble spirit has been crushed, how many domes- 
 tic hearths have been turned into scenes of bitter anguish 
 and distress by this deluding, this wretched, wretched 
 course of self-deception ! The demoralizing influence of 
 incurring debts which cannot be discharged, the many 
 petty shifts to avoid the duns of importunate creditors, 
 the hypocrisy and falsehood necessary to be daily and 
 hourly practiced, in order to deceive the world as to 
 their real situation, added to the obligation of wearing a 
 pleasing smile and assuming popular, agreeable manners, 
 while the heart is torn and harrassed by constant anxie- 
 ty who would voluntarily bring this dreadful train of 
 evils upon themselves, if they knew beforehand all they 
 would have to endure ! This deceptive axiom, the man- 
 date of that most cruel of all tyrannies, the petty micro- 
 cosm of each city, town or neighborhood, should be strenu- 
 ously rebelled against by all who value their own integ- 
 rity and self-respect, their own happiness and eventual 
 prosperity. 
 
 Charles Glentworth had already become too deeply im- 
 bued with worldly principles to give heed to the prudent 
 suggestions of his wife, and he soon after took a large 
 house in a fashionable part of the city, and commenced a 
 style of living better suited to the neighborhood than to his 
 circumstances. Sarah deeply regretted the change, but 
 with all the energy of her character she determined that 
 her husband should not suffer from the effects of his impru- 
 dence, if they could be averted by her industry and man- 
 agement. She had always been an economist, but now
 
 196 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 she made it her constant study and exertion to strive to 
 keep their increased expenses within the limits of their in- 
 come. To avoid the necessity of keeping as many servants 
 as the house required, she took upon herself a large share 
 of its labors, and to prevent every thing like waste or 
 extravagance in the kitchen, required the most constant 
 and harassing supervision over her fashionable cook and 
 waiter. This was a painful necessity of which she had 
 felt nothing in her former humble dwelling, for the hon- 
 est country servant procured for her by her mother was 
 always as careful of her interests as if they were her 
 own. This unremitting vigilance and oversight left 
 Sarah now no leisure hours she could claim as her own, 
 and she was forced to give up every thing like systematic 
 mental culture. Her husband wished her to form a cir- 
 cle of acquaintance, and to be always prepared to receive 
 morning visitors, and the hours she was obliged to sit in 
 the drawing-room, she endeavored to improve by reading ; 
 but the frequent interruption from the calls of her new 
 associates obliged her to lay down her book so often, as 
 to lose all interest in its contents. Sarah found but little 
 congeniality in her fashionable neighbors, and as she 
 listened with forced attention to the unmeaning gossip of 
 idle visitors, she often sighed over the hours she once 
 enjoyed in communing with the recorded thoughts of 
 gifted intellects in the solitude of her own little room. 
 And as she sat in her' richly furnished apartment, she of- 
 ten reverted with regret to the humble home where she 
 spent the first year of her married life. 
 
 Another source of sorrow to Sarah's heart, was that 
 the visits of her kind parants were not as frequent as 
 they once were. Her father had candidly expressed his 
 fears to Charles that his income was not sufficient to 
 warrant the expenses he had incurred by his change of 
 living, and the coldness with which this prudent sugges-
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 197 
 
 tion was received, convinced Mr. Sherman that he had un- 
 intentionally offended him. He saw that he was not fitted 
 for the companionship of his son-in-law's present associ- 
 ates, and imagined he was less warmly welcomed by him. 
 than upon his visits to their former dwelling. Sarah 
 often wrote to them, and expressed her regret that they 
 came so seldom to see her, but her father wrote in an- 
 swer, half in jest, but sadly in earnest, that " we plain 
 country folks are not suited for the society in which you 
 now move, but are better in our own place at home." 
 
 As Charles now maintained an appearance of wealth, 
 which placed him on an apparent equality with those 
 whom he associated, he returned the courtesies which 
 had been shown to him, and his dinners and suppers 
 were an additional outlay which caused the prudent Sa- 
 rah much anxiety. In order to prevent every needless 
 expense, she prepared most of the dishes herself, and as 
 she went through her fatiguing toil, the reflection upon 
 the sinful waste of time and money that these entertain- 
 ments required, often came over her, but the recollection 
 that she was endeavoring to please her husband lightened 
 every exertion however painfully borne. 
 
 The grace and dignified ease with which Sarah pre- 
 sided at her husband's table gained her the respect and 
 admiration of his aristocratic guests, and little did they 
 think, in their prejudiced exclusiveness, that the intellec- 
 tual and refined Mrs. Glentworth was the daughter of a 
 plain mechanic. So true it is, that mental cultivation 
 and refinement of mind will more certainly produce a 
 genuine refinement of manners, than the external polish 
 of conventional forms for the one is inherent and the 
 other is assumed. 
 
 The numerous extravagances, in which the insane am- 
 bition of Charles involved him, soon made themselves 
 painfully felt. And Sarah found that the strictest econo- 
 17*
 
 198 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 my that she could maintain in her household manage- 
 ment, had failed in saving her husband from various 
 debts, whose liquidation he was forced to defer from 
 time to time. Charles was obliged to acknowledge his 
 error in having thus voluntarily plunged himself into in- 
 extricable difficulties. He became gloomy, misanthropic 
 and irritable, and the hours they once so happily spent 
 in each other's society, were now passed in cold abstrac- 
 tion and reserve. They still tenderly loved, but there 
 was no pleasant interchange of thought and feeling, for 
 the sense of their situation pressed heavily on their 
 hearts and banished domestic enjoyment from their 
 hearth. 
 
 A stranger, of political distinction, having arrived in the 
 city, Charles thought it incumbent on him to give an 
 entertainment to him, having met him at several dinners 
 given by his legal friends. Sarah remonstrated with her 
 husband on the imaginary necessity, but finding him 
 determined, she said no more, but used every exertion to 
 make the preparations with as little expense as possible, 
 though she was obliged to keep up the appearance of 
 style and liberal expenditure, well knowing that Charles 
 would never forgive any thing that looked like parsimony. 
 
 During the course of the entertainment, the gentleman 
 gave an account of a visit paid the day before to one of 
 his college friends. " I was delighted," said he, " with 
 the good sense displayed by my friend and his wife, in 
 living according to their means. The present mania of 
 keeping up appearances without a sufficient income to 
 maintain them, has so deeply infected every class, from 
 the highest to the lowest, that there is no greater evidence 
 of wisdom, intellectual superiority and true gentility, than 
 to see a man sufficiently independent to live according to 
 his own notions of what he can afford. When my friend 
 came to me, he said, ' my wife and I will be much grati-
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 199 
 
 fied by your coming to take a family dinner with us. 
 We cannot entertain you as you have lately been accus- 
 tomed, but you will have our heart's welcome, and the 
 best of our plain fare. We are poor with respect to this 
 world's wealth, but rich in all that makes life desirable 
 domestic bliss, a moderate competency, and contentment 
 with our lot.' 
 
 " When I entered my friend's neat dwelling, I was 
 presented to his lovely wife, who was attired with a taste- 
 ful simplicity so far preferable to the gorgeous apparel of 
 fashion. She received me with that graceful ease which 
 marks the well-bred woman, and soon after, upon her 
 husband's request, brought in her beautiful children from 
 the next room one, a noble, intelligent looking boy of 
 four years of age, and the other, a smiling babe, who threw 
 out its little arms to its father, and laughed with delight 
 as he clasped it in his arms. It was a sweet picture of 
 hearth-side enjoyment, and bachelor as I was, I envied 
 him the possession of such treasures. During the time I 
 staid with them my friend's wife was often obliged to 
 leave us to attend to her infant, and her husband said, 
 ' My Mary is her children's nurse and attendant, she has 
 them constantly under her own eye, for she often says 
 that no one can bear with their little irritations with a 
 mother's patience, or guide them as tenderly as a mother 
 can do.' 'Oh, my friend,' continued he, 'she is a min- 
 istering angel to her husband and children, and although 
 she was reared in all the luxurious indulgences of opu- 
 lence, and has relations and acquaintance among the 
 wealthiest families in the city, yet she is as happy and 
 contented in sharing my humble home, as if she had all 
 the elegancies that fortune could lavish on her. She was 
 the daughter of an old friend of my mother, and I first 
 became acquainted with her in her days of prosperity, 
 before her father had become reduced in his circumstan-
 
 200 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 ces, but even then she had already agreed to share my 
 early struggles in advancing myself in my profession. 
 If you could only see with what willingness she goes 
 through the labors that our poverty renders it necessary 
 she should perform, and the cheerfulness with which she 
 bears every privation, you would be able to appreciate all 
 that she is to me.' It was with regret and the highest 
 respect that I left this happy pair, and were the society 
 of our cities composed of more members like my estima- 
 ble friend and his wife, we should present to carping for- 
 eign tourists a model of republican simplicity which they 
 would be forced to admire and extol. But unfortunately 
 such models are rare, and they find sufficient food for 
 satire in our apish imitations of European style, to which 
 the generality of American fortunes is wholy unequal." 
 
 This gentleman knew nothing of the circumstances of 
 Charles Glentworth, or he would not have thus spoken, 
 but the words that he uttered were barbed arrows to Sa- 
 rah's heart, and she felt their truth to its inmost depths. 
 How gladly would she have exchanged her own luxurious 
 home for the happy and humble one he had just des- 
 cribed ! 
 
 Poor Charles was soon doomed to feel the error of his 
 fatal ambition for display to its fullest extent. Mr. Mel- 
 moth died two years after he had taken him into partner- 
 ship, and Charles found himself again dependent upon 
 the precarious support of uncertain practice, overwhelmed 
 with accumulated debts which he now saw no prospect 
 of discharging. How wildly did he reproach himself for 
 all his sufferings, and vainly turn from side to side in the 
 hope of bettering his situation. 
 
 Sarah's suggestion of immediate retrenchment was at 
 first resolutely refused, but at length he was obliged to 
 give up his fashionable house and furniture, and return 
 to his former plainer style of living. But his mind could
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 201 
 
 not return to its former contentment, for the spoiler's hand 
 had been there, and the dove of peace would not come 
 back to its rifled nest. 
 
 A few months after they had removed to their new 
 dwelling, Sarah gave birth to her first-born babe, a lovely 
 boy. This was a source of happiness, of which not even 
 adversity could deprive her, and she hoped that its smiles 
 and endearments would win back tranquillity to her hus- 
 band's care-worn bosom. Charles fondly loved his dear 
 boy, but its infantile charms had not the same power in 
 soothing and cheering his heart. The debts that still 
 remained unpaid, even after he had disposed of his luxu- 
 rious establishment for the purpose of discharging them, 
 hung over him like an incubus and paralyzed his ener- 
 gies. Sarah tried in every way to animate his hopes, 
 and to stimulate him to renewed exertion in his profession, 
 for his sanguine expectation of succeeding to his partner's 
 business, in the event of his death, had been blighted, by 
 finding that his wealthiest clients had sought legal advis- 
 ers of more eminent reputation. But there was yet a 
 prospect of securing a competency from the humbler ones 
 that still had recourse to him, and Sarah's mind was fer- 
 tile in suggesting expedients whereby this could be ren- 
 dered sufficient to cancel the sums still owing. " It will 
 now cost us but little in our household expenses," she 
 would say, " and if we are only saving and prudent, my 
 husband, in a year or two you will be freed from all 
 pecuniary embarrassment." Charles deeply felt the ten- 
 derness and delicacy of that affection, which carefully 
 avoided every thing like reproach for having brought 
 these trials on himself, and his Sarah became ten-fold 
 dearer than she ever was. But yet he could not patiently 
 wait for the slow accumulation of the funds he needed, 
 by a tedious protracted economy, and he therefore en- 
 deavored to gain some situation which would bring a 
 more speedy relief from his difficulties.
 
 202 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 Charles returned home one day in so much better 
 spirits, that Sarah immediately perceived the change in 
 his countenance. " I have had a new client this morning, 
 my wife," said he, " who has employed me in a case, 
 which, if I gain it, will enable me to be once more freed 
 from debts or duns." Sarah was much pleased by this 
 intelligence, and warmly seconded her husband's hopes 
 of success. 
 
 After some delay, the case was finally decided in favor 
 of his client, and the portion which reverted to Charles 
 was soon transferred to those whose claims upon him had 
 been left unsettled. This event was deeply gratifying to 
 Sarah, as she hoped that Charles would relinquish his 
 applications for official preferment, and look to his prac- 
 tice alone for support. " Now my husband," said she, 
 *' we can again be happy. I know that your business 
 will be sufficient to meet our limited expenses, and what 
 more can we want ?" 
 
 " This expectation would have satisfied me once, Sa- 
 rah," he replied, " and would still do so, if I only pos- 
 sessed your contented mind, but I have not yet lost my 
 desire to maintain a higher position in society than our 
 present circumstances will admit, though I will never 
 again be guilty of the folly of living beyond our means. 
 No ! I have suffered too much to fall a second time into 
 so ruinous a course. I wish to better my situation for 
 your sake, as much as my own. You know not, my 
 wife, how much pride I felt in you, when I saw you fill- 
 ing with so much grace and dignity a station you are so 
 well fitted to adorn, and when I think of the respect and 
 admiration you elicited from the most aristocratic of our 
 visitors, I cannot bear to see you buried in obscurity, and 
 toiling on from day to day, amidst the privations of pov- 
 erty." 
 
 " If you only knew, my dear Charles," replied Sarah,
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 203 
 
 " how much happier I feel in our present retired life, you 
 would not wish to draw me from it. The society of my 
 husband and child is sufficient for me, and how inade- 
 quate are the unmeaning compliments and insincere 
 admiration of the crowd to satisfy the heart, when I am 
 thus richly blest by your tender affection, and the clinging 
 fondness of my lovely boy." 
 
 A week or two after this conversation, Charles told 
 Sarah that he should be obliged to visit Washington, and 
 urged her to spend the period of his absence with her 
 parents. She gladly acceded to his wishes, as she had 
 not spent any time with them since her marriage, being 
 always unwilling to leave her husband to a lonely fireside 
 and solitary meals. Charles procured a carriage to con- 
 vey her to the country, and soon after he left her, she 
 started on her journey with her precious charge, and in a 
 few hours had the happiness of being welcomed by her 
 dear father and mother to her youthful home. The little 
 babe became the idol of its doating grandfather, and all 
 his leisure hours were spent in dandling it on his knee, 
 or taking it abroad to inhale the pure country air, under 
 the shade of the embowering trees. The quiet and se- 
 clusion of this sweetly rural spot were like a balm to 
 Sarah's heart, and she felt that if Charles were only with 
 her she would be perfectly happy. As she rambled once 
 more over her favorite haunts, how like a fevered dream 
 did her past trials appear. It seemed as though she 
 could scarcely realize all she had endured and suffered, 
 under the pecuniary embarrassments and the consequent 
 misery inflicted on her husband. It was a consoling 
 thought that this source of unhappiness had been removed, 
 and she felt that if her husband could again be contented 
 to live as they had done in their first wedded home, the 
 peace they had then enjoyed might yet return to cheer 
 their hearts, and the simple intellectual pleasures they
 
 204 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 shared in reading the same books and pursuing the same 
 studies together in her own little room, would once more 
 be sufficient to constitute his happiness. 
 
 The letters Sarah received from Charles were written 
 in so cheerful a strain, that she hoped he was again him- 
 self, and fondly anticipated his coming with all the anx- 
 ious affection of a devoted wife, upon her first separation 
 from a beloved husband. At length the day come round 
 which he had fixed upon for his return, when he intended 
 to proceed directly to her father's residence. Sarah, with 
 all the restlessness of expectation, could not settle herself 
 to any employment, and early in the afternoon she took 
 her little Charles in her arms and walked towards the 
 road, in the hope of meeting him sooner. She heard the 
 sound of approaching wheels, and a few moments after- 
 wards the babe and its mother were clasped to the happy 
 husband's heart. " I have been successful in the object 
 of my mission, my wife, and have been appointed to a 
 situation in an embassy to the court of St. James. And 
 we must now make immediate preparations for our de- 
 parture." Sarah's heart sank within her at this sudden 
 and unexpected announcement, and she felt that she was 
 about to part from her parents and home perhaps forever ; 
 but the joy that irradiated her husband's countenance was 
 soon reflected upon her heart, and she felt ready and 
 willing to say to him, "wheresoever thou goest I will go." 
 
 Though Mr. Sherman's pride was naturally gratified 
 by his son-in-law's preferment, yet he painfully regretted 
 the separation from his beloved Sarah, and her darling 
 child. But he looked cheerfully forward to the time 
 when he should again welcome them to their native land, 
 and his own fire-side. Mrs. Sherman, having no pride 
 in her daughter's elevation to buoy her up, felt loth to 
 submit to so long an absence from her, but with her accus- 
 tomed activity, and kind heartedness, she assisted Sarah
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 205 
 
 in making the necessary preparations, and insisted on 
 adding to her sea-stores, every little nicety that she 
 thought would be acceptable during their voyage. 
 
 A month or two after Charles Glentworth and his 
 wife had bid farewell to their home and their friends, 
 they became residents of a foreign land. The society to 
 which they gained access gratified the highest wish of 
 the aspiring Charles, for, although he was too much of a 
 republican to seek associates among England's proud no- 
 bility for the sake of their titles, or the mere splendor 
 that surrounded them, yet he found an atmosphere of 
 taste and refinement, which was congenial to his fasti- 
 dious predilections. Less spiritual than his intellect- 
 ual wife, he could not conceive it possible to enjoy the 
 highest pleasures of mind and taste, amidst the coarse 
 and homely accompaniments of poverty. But with 
 Sarah, it was different ; for no outward circumstances 
 however adverse, in relation merely to material life, had 
 power to circumscribe the lofty range of her thoughts, or 
 to impede the indulgence of her refined tastes. She was 
 naturally domestic, preferring a quiet seclusion at home, 
 to the greatest attractions that the world could offer, but 
 to please her husband she accepted many of the invita- 
 tions given them. The dignity and self-possession re- 
 sulting from ner native independence of character, gave 
 such ease and grace to her manners that she appeared to 
 advantage in every circle in which ,he moved. Being 
 superior to that silly rivalry which endeavors to compete 
 with the wealthy and aristocratic in outward adornment, 
 she maintained at all times, and in all places, a republi- 
 can simplicity in her attire and deportment, and thereby 
 gained the respect, and admiration of all with whom she 
 associated. And the refined, intellectual Mrs. Glent- 
 worth was frequently spoken of, as a beautiful model of 
 what all American women should be. 
 18
 
 206 SARAH SHERMAN. 
 
 Several years ago, I paid a transient visit to Wash- 
 ington, on my way to visit my Dear Charles Norville, 
 who had lately taken possession of Oakwood. While 
 criticising with my usual freedom, the manners and style 
 of living I had noticed in several families of my acquaint- 
 ance, as partaking too much of an apish imitation of 
 foreign customs and habits, the friend with whom I was 
 staying, replied, " There is one lady here, whom I know 
 would satisfy even your carping and fastidious taste, 
 for indeed, Ellen," continued she, smiling, " you have 
 lived so long among sensible people, that you do not 
 make sufficient allowance for the follies of the fashiona- 
 ble world. The lady to whom I alluded, has lately re- 
 turned from Europe with her husband, where they have 
 spent several years, and I never saw any one so little in- 
 jured by contact with foreign usages. Simple and un- 
 pretending in her manners, and style of living, she evin- 
 ces the possession of that intellectual superiority which 
 alone can pass through the ordeal of European society, 
 without any detriment to republican simplicity. She has 
 invited a few friends to meet her this evening, and I in- 
 sist on your accompanying me, when I shall have the 
 pleasure of introducing you to her acquaintance." I was 
 glad of the opportunity of seeing this " rara avis," and 
 when I entered the tasteful and simply furnished draw- 
 ing-room, and was presented to the lady of the house, I 
 had the unexpected pleasure of recognizing my former 
 schoolmate, Sarah Sherman. She clasped my hand 
 with a heart-felt welcome, and we had a long, and inter- 
 esting conversation about Mrs. Norville, and in answer- 
 ing her inquiries respecting the subsequent histories of 
 her pupils. After I left her side to speak with some of 
 my old friends, whom I met there, I could not help notic- 
 ing with admiration, the dignified ease with which she 
 entertained some of the highest in our land, both as re-
 
 SARAH SHERMAN. 207 
 
 spects talents, and station. And this graceful, elegant 
 woman, said I to myself, is the same Sarah Sherman, 
 whom so many of our schoolmates were disposed to con- 
 sider beneath them, because she was the daughter of a 
 mechanic. What a commentary is this, or the absurdity 
 and folly of those artificial distinctions, which fashiona- 
 ble exclusiveness so vainly attempts to maintain. Men- 
 tal cultivation and genuine refinement should be regarded 
 as the only unquestionable passports to good society, and 
 whether admitted, or not, they bear the stamp of author- 
 ity from our own glorious institutions, and sooner, or later, 
 will triumphantly overcome every obstacle attempted to 
 be raised by the petty police tyrannies of every self-con- 
 stituted coterie of fashion's arbiters, and gain an undis- 
 puted ingress to any circle, however high these may en- 
 deavor to elevate it. While observing the respectful ad- 
 miration with which Sarah was regarded by the most 
 distinguished of her guests, I could not help wishing that 
 some of the quondam pupils of Oakwood who had scorn- 
 ed to associate with Sarah Sherman, were now present, 
 as I well knew that they would have considered them- 
 selves highly honored by an invitation from Mrs. Charles 
 Glentworth, and by finding themselves admitted to the 
 refined society which she drew around her. Examples 
 such as this, are of so frequent occurrence in our land of 
 liberty and equal rights, that one cannot help wondering 
 at that fatuity still so rife among us, which strives to 
 counteract the tendencies of our government, by endeav- 
 oring to engraft upon American society those distinctions 
 and castes which belong exclusively to the feudal usages 
 of Europe, while it is evident that even there the time- 
 worn barriers are every day becoming weaker and weaker, 
 before the rising strength of the ' eternal people,' whose 
 mental and moral elevation are raising them to an equal- 
 ity with those who claim to be their superiors.
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 My task is done. The last familiar face, 
 Of those long kept on mem'ry's tablet traced, 
 Stands finished on the easel. As I gaze, 
 On each fair portrait that around me hangs, 
 Past hours return, and every scene of life, 
 Is acted o'er again. ANON. 
 
 HAVING thus brought to a close my little sketches of 
 those schoolmates whose histories have left the strongest 
 impression on my memory, it may perhaps be expected 
 that I should give a few touches of my own course of 
 life. Like most other elderly maiden ladies, I have some 
 " confessions" to make, should I choose to do so, of the 
 many suitors, who from time to time, sought to woo me 
 from a state of single blessedness. But on this tender 
 and delicate subject it will suffice to say, that I never met 
 among them " a man after my own heart." And as the 
 cognomen of an " old maid," was never enough of a 
 scare-crow, to induce me to marry one who did not come 
 up to my beau-ideal, I chose to remain as I was, know- 
 ing that it is character and not situation which procures 
 the respect of all those whose respect is worth possessing. 
 I have always had a touch of romance about me, amount- 
 ing to what some might call an ultra-sentimentalism. 
 My ideas of love and constancy were drawn; more from 
 the pages of the poet, than from real life, and were con- 
 sequently rather Utopian. I have always thought that 
 if I loved, or was beloved, it must be with an affection be- 
 longing rather to immortality than time, and although I 
 am willing to admit with Allan Ramsay's gentle heroine,
 
 CONCLUSION. 209 
 
 There's some men constanter in love than we, 
 Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind, 
 Has blest them with solidity of mind. 
 
 Yet such instances I ever considered as belonging to 
 rare exceptions, rather than to the general rule. And in 
 despite of some examples to the contrary, my mind be-' 
 came possessed with a settled conviction, owing perhaps, 
 to my verging towards the condition of ' old-maidism,' 
 that men as a race, are very fickle and capricious, and 
 that their hearts are not worth the trouble of win- 
 ning. But this opinion was sometimes painfully strength- 
 ened by events that have come within the sphere of my 
 own observation. I have known lovely, interesting 
 women, whose whole lives were spent in self-sacrificing 
 devotion to their husband's welfare and happiness, and I 
 have stood beside them in their dying hours, when the 
 last whispered prayer that died away unfinished on their 
 lips, was for their husbands, that they might be supported 
 under the approaching bereavement, and when the last 
 earnest gaze was fixed on their beloved partners, in sad- 
 dened tenderness, as if the thought of leaving them made 
 it a hard thing to die ; and yet in a few months after- 
 wards, I have seen each of these husbands gayly conduct- 
 ing a new wife to his home, as if his departed one had 
 been nothing more than a worn out article of furniture, 
 which could be as easily replaced. When I have mused 
 on such things as these, I confess I have often indig- 
 nantly exclaimed, " if this be man's love ! I'll have none 
 of it." I suppose, however, that many young ladies of 
 the present day, will say that such notions as these prove 
 that "I waP&orn to be an old-maid." It is very likely 
 that it may be so, and the strange light in which I viewed 
 such common, every-day occurrences may have been ow- 
 ing to my one-sided position, and to my romantic ideas 
 about the spirituality of love, which are now wholly obso- 
 18*
 
 210 CONCLUSION. 
 
 lete among those fashionable females who regard matri- 
 mony only as a pecuniary speculation. They have 
 learned to take quite a rational view of those things that 
 used to trouble me in my younger days, and say " it is very 
 natural that a man should marry again as soon as he 
 can," and if the rich widower happens to have recently 
 been the husband of their dearest associate, he is consid- 
 ered as a fair chance for a matrimonial prize, particularly 
 as they profess to believe that a speedy second marriage 
 is the highest compliment that he can pay to their de- 
 ceased friend. Young, giddy girls will doubtless con- 
 sider it a fair subject for merriment to hear an old-maid's 
 opinions about love and matrimony, but old as I am, I 
 cannot help feeling shocked, when I see a youthful crea- 
 ture gayly sacrificing herself to gray hairs and decrepi- 
 tude for the sake of wealth, and when I find that to marry 
 a man without loving him is now considered so reasona- 
 ble a doctrine both by mothers and daughters, that they 
 unanimously join in defending and upholding it by pre- 
 cept and practice. 
 
 Though my frame is old and decaying, yet my heart 
 is yet young in its sympathies, and I can take as deep an 
 interest in the " true love," of my young friends as I ever 
 did, and still do all that I can to make it "run smooth." 
 There is to me no sweeter picture in the world than a 
 happy domestic hearth with its devoted father, its fond, 
 thoughtful mother, and the little clustering band of lovely, 
 affectionate children. It warms and stirs my heart to 
 look on it, and I repulse with indignation the falsehood 
 that belies my sisterhood, when it is said w^ore cold and 
 heartless. A true woman's heart never grows cold, and 
 even the most isolated of my sex will ever find some ob- 
 ject, upon which her affections will expend themselves. 
 And here perhaps it may not be deemed an unpardona- 
 ble digression, if I offer a few remarks on the injustice
 
 CONCLUSION. 211 
 
 with which old-maids are treated by an ill-judging world. 
 Among my youthful companions I was accustomed to 
 hear them ridiculed and made a jest and by-word by silly 
 young men, and tittering girls. An old-maid was 
 always associated with ill-nature, scandal, hatred of chil- 
 dren and a pet cat, but how rarely do we find the original 
 of this fancy's sketch. Let every one look round upon 
 the elderly unmarried females of their acquaintance and 
 judge of the falsehood of this picture. Who are the kind 
 friends who come forward to our assistance in the hours 
 of sickness or sorrow are they not found among this cen- 
 sured class ? Which is the aunt best beloved by a merry 
 band of nieces, and nephews is it not the elderly maiden 
 one ? Is it not she, who strings the kite, makes the ball, 
 and kindly lays aside her own employments to minister 
 to their wants or amusements ? And if an " old-maid," 
 as she is disrespectfully termed, should happen to have a 
 peevish temper, or too much self-love, are all married 
 women, amiable and free from selfishness? She may 
 have causes of irritability of which the world knows noth- 
 ing, broken health, protracted and painful diseases, and 
 the consciousness that she has no one to minister to her 
 in her hours of sickness but hired menials, no arm upon 
 which she can lean in her feebleness, or no sympathizing 
 heart to feel for her or to bear her complainings, with pa- 
 tient love and endurance. These surely are enough to 
 cloud the brow and effect the temper. And should these 
 involuntary infirmities be made the subject of ridicule 
 and mockery ? Should these failings shut out a suffer- 
 ing, lonely being from our sympathy and tenderness? 
 Surely JroSt! Every heart that is susceptible of kind, or 
 generous emotions, must feel the cruelty and injustice of 
 considering such an one a fitting subject for flippant jests 
 and silly merriment, and will acknowledge with me that 
 she who has no " children to rise up and call her blessed,"
 
 212 CONCLUSION. 
 
 and no husband or son to protect her gray hairs from in- 
 sult or wrong, has double claims upon our charity and 
 compassion. 
 
 The fear of being called an " old maid," has been the 
 cause of more domestic misery than many are aware of, 
 and many a woman has thus thoughtlessly thrown her- 
 self away upon the first one that offered, however un- 
 worthy, and has given her hand to the man to whom 
 she could not give her heart, thereby sealing her own 
 unhappiness for life. The reasons for remaining unmar- 
 ried are in many instances creditable to the head and 
 heart of those who continue so. Some are high-minded, 
 intellectual women, who could not stoop to ally them- 
 selves with those whom they could not truthfully promise 
 to love, honor and obey, and others are those who have 
 been unable to overcome the effects of a disappointment in 
 early life, or whose faithful constancy to the memory of 
 the loved and lost, would never permit them to transfer 
 their affections to another. If their respective histories 
 could be related to the young and thoughtless who have 
 made them the butt of their cruel levity, how would the re- 
 cital make their cheeks bum with shame, if they were capa- 
 ble of feeling remorse for having wounded the feelings of 
 those who were richly entitled to their respect and be- 
 nevolence. In my own pilgrimage through life, some of 
 my happiest and most delightful companions have been 
 those of my own sisterhood. In the society of the intel- 
 lectual among them, I have passed many pleasant hours 
 in listening to their gathered thoughts, or to their inter- 
 esting reminiscences of the past. Even in my earliest 
 years I found their company attractive. Ana in my 
 childhood I often used to sit on a low stool at the feet of 
 an old lady, while she entertained me with her recollec- 
 tions of the scenes and characters of our ^evolutionary 
 history. She loved to dwell on its soul-stirring incidents,
 
 CONCLUSION. 213 
 
 and to speak of those whose names have become hallow- 
 ed on account of their service sin the cause of freedom. 
 And the time passed by me, unheeded, as I heard her 
 describe the melancholy Pulaski as he sat alone and ab- 
 stracted, musing on the fate of his unhappy country, or 
 the elegant Count Rochambeau who in the pauses of the 
 toils of war would mingle in the ball-room, gayest among 
 the gay. Or when she spoke with reverence of the dig- 
 nified, heroic Washington his country's idol and trusted 
 hope and with fond admiration of the young La Fayette, 
 enthusiastically entering upon that service, which he left 
 wife and home to aid. It gave her great delight to re- 
 count all that was done by the women of those days, 
 their willingness to endure toil and privation, their self- 
 denial in relinquishing every luxury, and their active 
 patriotism in behalf of those who were fighting their 
 country's battles. She would tell me of those females^ 1 
 who volunteered their assistance in clothing the tattered 
 and barefooted soldiers, encamped in the neighborhood of 
 the city, and with what zeal and untiring industry they 
 proceeded in their labors in cutting out garments and 
 making them up, that the poor ragged troops might be 
 comfortably appareled, before they^ started on a danger- 
 ous and toilsome campaign. I have often sat and listen- 
 ed to her interesting relations for hours, and never grew 
 weary, for the animation and enthusiasm with which 
 they were delivered, excited my attention and left them 
 indelibly impressed on my memory. She possessed an 
 unfailing fund of cheerfulness and good humor, and the 
 
 * I have often heard it stated that one of those patriotic females, cut 
 out five hundred pair of pantaloons, and so efficient was the aid she ren- 
 dered, that her name and services attracted attention, not only in those 
 days when so many women did well, but she was still remembered by 
 the great and good La Fayette forty-three years afterward, when he 
 became our " Nation's Guest."
 
 214 CONCLUSION. 
 
 very sight of her pleasant countenance was like a gleam 
 of sunshine. Her sister, who was near her age and also 
 unmarried, was one of those quiet, kind-hearted beings, 
 whose whole thoughts seem engaged in providing for the 
 comfort and happiness of others ; one whom we always 
 describe as " motherly," because she looked on all young 
 persons and loved them as if they were her children. 
 Her heart was full of tender sympathy, and she seemed 
 to feel the sorrows of others as deeply as if they were 
 her own. Age and bodily infirmity could not chill her 
 keen sensibilities, and I have seen her eyes fill with tears 
 and her lips quiver with emotion as she stood and looked 
 on a touching scene, while younger hearts remained un- 
 moved. It was a beautiful sight to witness the affection 
 that existed between these two aged sisters ; each one 
 considered the other as her peculiar care, and their con- 
 tinual thought seemed to be, in what way they could 
 best promote each other's well-being. My ideas of " old 
 maids " were first formed from seeing these warm- 
 hearted, kind and happy sisters and my frequent visits 
 to them are among the most pleasing recollections of my 
 early youth. For their sakes, even in my younger days, 
 T was always the defender and apologist of elderly un- 
 married females, and could never bear to hear them dis- 
 respectfully called " old maids," or made a subject of 
 ridicule without expressing my contempt towards the 
 silly jester in warm and unmeasured terms of indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 But to return to my own history. I arn now in my 
 sixtieth year, and a happier being than I an> cannot be 
 found in any domestic circle in the country. My two 
 adopted brothers have grown up to manhood under my 
 care into estimable, talented and worthy men. Charles 
 became a farmer and settled himself down at Oakwood, 
 and the last time I saw him and his lovely wife and chil-
 
 CONCLUSION. 215 
 
 dren, they were as cheerful and contented as industry, 
 health and intellectual enjoyment could make them. 
 And my Edward, who claims me as a member of his 
 own household, is a promising lawyer in a city not far 
 distant from Glenwood, and has been married several years 
 to one whom I love as a daughter. Glenwood cottage is 
 our summer residence and it has lately had an addition 
 built to it, to accommodate Edward's increasing family. 
 It being the latter end of the merry month of May, we 
 have just taken up our abode in it for the ensuing season. 
 If I thought there was any probability that young la- 
 dies would be tempted to declare against matrimony, I 
 would not have confessed so freely how happy and con- 
 tented I have always been in my single blessedness. 
 But I know very well that ry)t one among them will be 
 disposed to follow my example, if she should happen to 
 meet a man whom she could love, particularly if he should 
 happen to love her. So that I think there is no danger of 
 my strengthening the ranks of the maiden sisterhood by 
 my representations. I believe still that a married life is 
 the happiest condition on earth when the husband and 
 wife are bound together by an undying, changeless affec- 
 tion when they are mutual helpers in each other's trials 
 when they voluntarily bear each other's burdens, ten- 
 derly minister to each other in sickness or sorrow, and 
 go hand in hand through life, tender-hearted, forgiving 
 and affectionate, one in their happiness and welfare on 
 earth, and one in their hope of immortality in heaven. 
 But for all this, a single life has its own happiness too, 
 different in its kind yet differing but little in its degree. 
 That this is true my experience has abundantly proved. 
 And who that could see me now seated in the porch with 
 Edward's eldest son standing by me, his arm round" my 
 neck and his book in his hand ready for his daily les- 
 sons, and the little babe the last born and the pet, rest-
 
 216 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ing on my lap and striving with all his winning ways to 
 concentrate all my attention on himself, would not ac- 
 knowledge that an old maid can enjoy, all the pleasures 
 of maternity without its pains and its trials, and believe 
 with me that Ellen Maitland in her old age is as happy 
 as the happiest of the schoolmates of Oakwood.
 
 
 
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