Stzl 
 
 4 / 
 
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 4fC 
 
 THE LINWOODS 
 
 OB, 
 
 SIXTY YEARS SINCE’’ IN AMERICA. 
 
 BY MISS SEDGWICK, 
 
 AUTHOa OF “hope LESLIE,” “ REDWOOD,” ETC« 
 
 The Eternal Power 
 
 Lodged in the will of man the hallowed names 
 Of freedom and of country. 
 
 Miss Mitfoed. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN CUNNINGHAM, CROWN-COURT, 
 FLEET-STREET, 
 
 AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 1841 
 

 ( 
 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 I 
 
THE LINWOODS 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The title * of these volumes will render their 
 readers liable to a disappointment, from which a 
 few prefatory words may save them. It was 
 chosen simply to mark the period of the story, 
 and that period was selected as one to which an 
 American always gratefully recurs, and as affording 
 a picturesque light for domestic features. The 
 writer has aimed to exhibit the feeling of the 
 times, and to give her younger readers a true, if a 
 slight, impression of the condition of their country 
 at the most — the only suffering period of its ex- 
 istence, and by means of this impression, to 
 deepen their gratitude to their patriot- fathers ; a 
 sentiment that will tend to increase their fidelity to 
 the free institutions transmitted to them. Historic 
 events and war details have been avoided, the 
 writer happily being aware that no effort at 
 
 A swashing and a martial outside 
 
 would conceal the weak and unskilled woman. 
 
 A very few of our “ immortal names” have been 
 introduced, with what propriety the reader must 
 determine. It may be permitted to say, in ex- 
 tenuation of what may seem presumption, that 
 whenever the writer has mentioned Washington, 
 she has felt a sentiment resembling the awe of 
 the pious Israelite when he approached the ark of 
 the Lord. 
 
 For the rest, the author of these volumes is most 
 happy in trusting to the indulgent disposition 
 which our American public constantly manifest 
 towards native literature. 
 
 * It has been suggested, that the title might be 
 -deemed ambitious ; that it might indicate an expec- 
 tation, that this “sixty years since in America” 
 woiild take place with the “ sixty years since’’ of the 
 great Master. I have not yet forgotten the literature 
 ■of my childhood — the fate of the ambitious frog. 
 To those who know me, I need not plead “ not 
 iguilty” to a charge of such insane vanity ; and 
 those who do not, will believe me when I say, that 
 the only moment when I could wish the benefactor 
 of the universal reading public to be forgotten, is 
 whoa my humble productions are under perusal. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Un notable example de la forcenee curiosite da 
 notre nature, s’amusant se preoccuper des choses 
 futures, comme si elle n’avoit pas assez a faire a 
 desirerles presentes. Montaigne. 
 
 Some two or three years before our revolutionary 
 war, just at the close of day, two girls were seen 
 entering Broadway through a wicket garden-gate, 
 in the rear of a stately mansion which fronted oa 
 Broad-street, that being then the court-end of the 
 city — the residence of unquestioned aristocracy— 
 (sic transit gloria mundi !) whence royal favour and 
 European fashions were diffused through the pro- 
 vince of New York. 
 
 The eldest of the two girls had entered upon her 
 teens. She was robust and tall for her years, with 
 the complexion of a Hebe, very dark hair, an eye 
 (albeit belonging to one of the weaker sex) that looked 
 as if she were born to empire — it might be over 
 hearts and eyes — and the step of a young Juno* 
 The younger could be likened neither to goddess, 
 queen, nor any thing that assumed or loved command. 
 She was of earth’s gentlest and finest mould — framed 
 for all tender humanities, with the destiny of woman 
 written on her meek brow. “ Thou art born to love, 
 to suffer, to obey, — to minister, and not to be minis- 
 tered to.” Well did she fulfil her mission ! The 
 girls were followed by a black servant in livery. 
 The elder pressed forward as if impelled by some 
 powerful motive, while her companion lagged be- 
 hind, — sometimes chasing a young bird, then smell- 
 ing the roses that peeped through the garden paling; 
 now stopping to pat a good-natured mastiff, or caress 
 a chubby child. Many a one attracted her with its 
 broad shining face and linsey-woolsey short gowa 
 and petticoat, seated with the family group on the 
 freshly-scoured steps of the Dutch habitations that 
 occurred at intervals on their way. “Come, do 
 come along, Bessie, you are stopping for every thing,’* 
 said her companion, impatiently. Poor Bessie, with 
 the keenest sensibility, bad, what rarely accompanies 
 it, a general susceptibility to external impressions,— 
 one might have fancied she had an extra set of 
 nerves. When the girls had nearly reached St. 
 Paul’s church, their attendant remonstrated, — “ Miss 
 Isabella, you are getting quite out to the fields— 
 missis said you were only going a turn up the Broad- 
 way.” 
 
 ** So I ara/Jupe,” 
 
4 
 
 THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 “ A pretty long turn,’’ muttered Jupiter ; and after 
 proceeding afevr paces further, he added, in a raised 
 voice, “ the sun is going down, Miss Isabella.” 
 
 “That was news at twelve o’clock, Jupiter.” 
 
 “But it really is nearly set now, Isabella,” inter- 
 posed her companion Bessie. 
 
 “ Well, what if it is, Bessie ? — it is just the right 
 time — Effie is , always surest between sundown and 
 dark.” 
 
 “ Mercy, Isabella ! you are not going to Effie’s. 
 It is horrid to go there after sundown — please Isa- 
 bella, don’t.” Isabella only replied by a “ pshaw, 
 child 1” and a laugh. 
 
 Bessie mustered her moral courage (it required it 
 all to oppose Isabella,) and stopping short, said, “ I 
 am not sure it is right to go there at all.” 
 
 “ There is neither right nor wrong in the matter, 
 Bessie, — you are always splitting hairs.” Notwith- 
 standing her bold profession, Isabella paused, and 
 with a tremulousness of voice that indicated she was 
 not indifferent to the cardinal points in her path of 
 morality, she added , — “ Why do you think it is not 
 right, Bessie?’’ 
 
 “Because the Bible says, that sorcery, and divina 
 tion, and every thing of that kind, is wicked.’’ 
 
 “Nonsense, child! that was in old times, you 
 know.” 
 
 Isabella’s evasion might have quieted a rationalist 
 of the present day, but not Bessie, who had been 
 bred in the strict school of New England oitho- 
 doxy ; and she replied, “ What was riglit and wrong 
 in old times, is right and wrong now, Isabella.” 
 
 “ Don’t preach, Bessie — I will venture all the harm 
 of going to Effie’s, and you may lay the sin at my 
 door;” and with her usual independent, fear-nought 
 air, she turned into a shady lane that led by a cross- 
 cut to “ Aunt Katy’s garden,” a favourite resort of 
 the citizens for rural recreations. The Chatham- 
 street theatre has since occupied the same spot — that 
 theatre is now a church. Isabella quickened her 
 pace, Bessie followed most unwillingly. “ Miss 
 Belle,” cried out Jupiter, “I must detest, in your 
 ma’s name, against your succeeding farther.’’ 
 
 “ The tiresome old fool I” W'^ith this exclamation 
 on her lips, Isabella turned round, and drawing her 
 person up to the height of womanhood, .she added, 
 “ I shall go just as far as I please, Jupe — follow me ; 
 if anybody is scolded it shall be me, not you. I 
 ■W’ish fmamma,” she continued, pursuing her way, 
 “ wmuld not send Jupe after us, just as if we were 
 two babies in leading strings.” 
 
 “I would not go a step farther for the world, if 
 he were not with us,’’ said Bessie. 
 
 “ And pray, what good would he do us if there 
 were danger — such a desperate coward as he is?” 
 
 “ He is a man, Isabella.” 
 
 “He has the form of one; — Jupe,” she called out 
 (the spirit of mischief playing about her arch moiilh,) 
 pointing to a slight elevation, called Gallows Hil’, 
 where a gibbet was standing, “ Jnpe, is not that the 
 place where they hung the poor creatures who were 
 concerned in the negro- plot ?’’ 
 
 “ Yes, miss, sure it is the awful place and he 
 mended his pace, to be as near as might be to the 
 young ladies. 
 
 “Did not some of your relations suffer there, 
 Jupiter?” 
 
 “ Yes, miss, two of my poster’ty — my grandmother 
 and aunt Venus.” 
 
 Isabella repressed a smile, and said, with unaf- 
 fected seriousness, “It was a shocking bu.sine.'s, 
 Bessie — a luiiulred andfiity prHJr.wrctchcssacTliced, 
 I have heard papa say. Is it true, Jupe, that their 
 
 ghosts walk about here, and have been seen many a 
 time wdien it was so dark you could not discern your 
 hand before your fece?” 
 
 “ I dare say, Miss Belle. Them that’s hung on- 
 justly always travels.’’ 
 
 “ But how could they be seen in such darkness ?” 
 
 “ ’Case, miss, you know ghosts have a light in their 
 anterior, just like lanterns.” 
 
 “ Have they ? I never understood it before — what 
 a horrid cracking that gibbet makes ! Bless us! and 
 there is very little wind.” 
 
 “ That makes no distinctions, miss ; it begins as 
 the sun goes down, and keeps it up all night. Miss 
 Belle, stop one minute — don’t go across the hill— 
 that is right in the ghost-track !'* 
 
 “ Oh don’t, for pity’s sake, Isabella,” said Bessie,, 
 imploringly. 
 
 “ Hush, Bessie, it is the shortest way, and” (in a 
 whisper) “ 1 want to scare Jupe. Jupe, it seems to 
 me there is an odd hot feel in the ground here.” 
 
 “ There sartin is, miss, a very onhealthy feeling.” 
 
 “And, my goodness! Jupiter, dou’t you feel a 
 very, very slight kind of trembling — a shake — or a 
 roll, as if something were walking in the earth, under 
 our feet ? ’ 
 
 “ I do, and it gets worser and worser, every step.” 
 
 “ It feels like children playing under the bed, and 
 hitting the sacking with their heads.” 
 
 “Oh, Lord, miss — yes — it goes bump, bump, 
 against my feet.” 
 
 By this time they had passed to the further side 
 of the hill, so as to place the gibbet between them 
 and the western sky, lighted up with one of those 
 brilliant and transient radiations that sometimes im- 
 mediately succeed the sun’s setting, diffusing a crim* 
 son glow, and outlining the objects relieved against 
 the sky with light red. Our young heroine, like all 
 geniuses, knew how to seize a circumstance. “ Oh, 
 Jupe,’’ she exclaimed, “ look, what a line of blood ist 
 drawn round the gibbet !” 
 
 “ The Lord havemarcy on us, miss!” 
 
 “ And, dear me 1 I think I see a faint shadow of 
 a man with a rope round his neck, and his head on 
 one side — do you see, Jupe !” 
 
 Poor Jnpe did not reply. He could bear it no 
 longer. His fear of his young mistress — his fear of 
 a scolding at home — all were merged in the terror 
 Isabella had conjured dp by the aid of the tradi- 
 tionary superstitions with which his mind was pre- 
 viously filled , and w ithout attempting an answer, he 
 fairly ran off the ground, leaving Isabella laughing, 
 and Bessie expostulating, and confessing that she did 
 not in the least wonder poor Jupe was scared. Once 
 more she ventured to entreat Isabella to give up the 
 expedition to Effie’s, for this time at least, when she 
 was interrupted and reassured by the appearance of 
 two friends, in the persons of Isabella’s brother and 
 Jasper Meredith, returning, with their dogs aud 
 guns, from a day’s sport. 
 
 “ What w ild-goose chase are you on, Belle, at this 
 time of day?” asked her brother. “I am sure 
 Bessie Lee has not come to Gallows Hill with her 
 own good will.” 
 
 “ I have made game of my goose, at any rate, and 
 given Bessie Lee a good lesson, on what our old 
 schoolmaster would call the potentiality of mankind 
 — but come, ” she added, for though rather ashamed 
 to confess her purpose when she knew ridicule must 
 be braved, courage was easier to Isabella than sub- 
 terfuge, “ come along with us to Elbe’s, and I will 
 tell yon the joke I played oft’ on Jupe.” Isabella’s 
 joke seemed to her auditors a capital one, for they 
 were at that happy age when laughter does not ask 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 a reason to break forth from the full fountain of 
 youthful spirits. Isabella spun out her story till 
 they reached Effie’s door, which admitted them, not 
 to any dark laboratory of ma^ic, but to a snug little 
 Dutch parlour, with a nicely-sanded floor — a fire- 
 place gay with the flowers of the season, peonies and 
 Guelder-roses, and ornamented with storied tiles, 
 that, if not as classic, were, as we can vouch, far 
 more entertaining than the sculptured marble of our 
 own luxurious days. 
 
 The pythoness Effle turned her art to good ac- 
 count, producing substantial comforts by her myste- 
 rious science; and playing her cards well for this 
 •world, whatever bad dealings she might have with 
 another. Even Bessie felt her horror of witchcraft 
 diminished before this plump personage, with a round, 
 good-humoured face, looking far more like the good 
 vrow of a Dutch picture than the gaunt, skinny hag 
 ■who has personated the professors of the bad art 
 from the Witch of Endor downwards. Eflie’s phy- 
 siognomy, save an ominous contraction of her eye- 
 lids, and the keen and somewhat sinister glances 
 that shot between them, betrayed nothing of her 
 calling. 
 
 There were, as on all similar occasions, some 
 initiatory ceremonies to be observed before the for- 
 tunes were told. Herbert, boylike, was penniless; 
 and he oftered a fine brace of snipes to propitiate 
 the oracle. They were accepted with a smile that 
 augured well for the official response he should re- 
 ceive. Jasper’s purse, too, was empty ; and after 
 lansacking Lis pockets in vain, heslipped out a gold 
 sleeve-button, and told Effie he would redeem it the 
 next lime he came her way. Meanwhile there was a 
 little bytalk between Isabella and Bessie ; Isabella 
 insisting on paying the fee for her friend, and Bessie 
 insisting that “ she would have no fortune told, — 
 that she did not believe Effie could tell it, and if she 
 could, she would not for all the world let her.” In 
 vain Isabella ridiculed and reasoned by turns. 
 Bessie, blushing and trembling, persisted. Effie at 
 the same moment was shuffling a pack of cards, as 
 black as if they had been sent up from Pluto’s 
 realms ; and while she was muttering over some in- 
 comprehensible phrases, and apparently absorbed in 
 the manipulation of her art, she heard and saw all 
 that passed, and determined that if poor little Bessie 
 would not acknowledge, she should feel her power. 
 
 Herbert, the most incredulous, and therefore 
 the boldest, first came forward to confront his des- 
 tiny. “ A great deal of rising in the world, and 
 but little sinking for you, Master Herbert Linwood; 
 you are to go over the salt water, and ride foremost 
 in the royal hunting-grounds.” 
 
 “ Good ! — good I — go on, Effie.” 
 
 “ Oh what beauties of horses — a pack of hounds. 
 High ! how the steeds go — how they leap — the buck 
 is at bay — there are you !” 
 
 “ Capital, Effie! — I strike him down ?” 
 
 “You are too fast, young master — I can tell no 
 more than I see — the sport is past — the place is 
 changed— there is a battle-field, drums, trumpets, 
 and flags flying. Ah ! there is a sign of danger— a 
 pit yawns at your feet 1” 
 
 “Shocking!” cried Bessie; “pray don’t listen 
 any more, Herbert.” 
 
 “Pshaw, Bessie! I shall clear the pit. Effie 
 loves snipes too well to leave me the wront; side of 
 t.iat.” 
 
 Ellie was either otfendcd at Herbert's intimation 
 that her favours might be bouglit, or perhaps she 
 saw his lack of faitli in his laughing eye, and, deter- 
 mined to punish him, she declared that all was dark 
 
 5 
 
 and misty beyond the pit ; there might be a leap 
 over it, and a smooth road beyond — she could not 
 tell — she could only tell what she saw. 
 
 “ You are a croaking raven, Effie 1” exclaimed 
 Herbert ; “ I’ll shuffle my own fortune !” and seiz- 
 ing the cards, he handled them as knowingly as the 
 sybil herself, and ran over a jargon quite as unin- 
 telligible ; and then holding them fast, out of Effie’s 
 reach, he ran on. “ Ah, ha — I see the mist going 
 olT like the whitt’ from a Dutchman’s pipe ; and 
 here’s a grand castle, and parks, and pleasure- 
 grounds ; and here am I, with a fine blue-eyed lady 
 within it.’’ Then dashing down the cards, he 
 turned and kissed Bessie’s reddening cheek, saying, 
 “ Let others wait on fortune, Effie, I’ll carve my 
 own.” 
 
 Isabella W'as nettled at Herbert’s open contempt 
 of Effie’s seership. She would not confess or ex- 
 amine the amount of her faith, nor did she choose 
 to be made to feel on how tottering a base it rested. 
 She was exactly at that point of credulity where 
 much depends on the sympathy of others. It is 
 said to be essential to the success of animal mag- 
 netism, that not only the operator and the subject, 
 but the spectators, should believe. Isabella felt 
 she was on disenchanted ground, while Herbert, 
 with his quizzical smile, stood charged, and aiming 
 at her a volley of riilicule; and she proposed that 
 those who yet had their fortunes to hear should, 
 one after another, retire with Effie to a little inner 
 room. But Herbert cried out, “ Fair play, fair 
 play ! Dame Effie has read the riddle of my des- 
 tiny to you all, and now it is but fair I should hear 
 yours.’’ 
 
 Bessie saw Isabella’s reluctance, and she again 
 interposed, reminding her of “mamma — the coming 
 night,” &:c. ; and poor Isabella was fain to give up 
 the contest for the secret conference, and hush 
 Bessie, by telling Effie to proceed. 
 
 “ Shall I tell your fortin and that young gentle- 
 man’s together?” asked Effie, pointing to Jasper. 
 Her manner was careless ; but she cast a keen 
 glance at Isabella, to ascertain how far she might 
 blend their destinies. 
 
 “Oh, no, — no partnership for me,” cried Isa- 
 bella, while the fire which flashed from her eye 
 evinced that the thought of a partnership with 
 Jasper, if disagreeable, was not iiulitferent to her. 
 
 “ Nor for me, either. Mother Effie,” said Jasper^ 
 “or if there be a partnership, let it bo with the 
 pretty blue-eyed mistress of Herbert’s mansion.’’ 
 
 “ IS ay, master, that pretty miss does not choose 
 her fortune told — and she’s right — poor thing!” she 
 added, with an ominous shake of the head. Bessie’s 
 heart quailed, for she both believed and feared. 
 
 “ Now, shame on you, Effie,” cried Herbert; 
 “ she cannot know any thing about you, Bessie ; she 
 has not even looked at your fortune yet.” 
 
 “Did I say I knew, Master Herbert? Time 
 must show whether I know or not.’’ 
 
 Bessie still looked apprehensively. “ Nonsense,” 
 said Herbert; “what can she know? — she never 
 saw you before.” 
 
 “True, I never saw her; but I tell you, young 
 lad, there is such a thing as seeing the shadow of 
 tilings far distant and past, and never seeing the 
 realities, though it be they that cast the shadows.” 
 Bessie shuddered — Effie shullled the cards. “ Now 
 just for a trial,” said she ; “ I will tell you some- 
 thing about her — not of the future; for I’d bo loath 
 to overcast her sky before the time comes ; but of the 
 past.” 
 
 “ i’r.iy, do not,” interposed Bessie; “I don't 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 6 
 
 •wish you to say any thing about me, past, present, 
 or to come.” 
 
 “ Oh, Bessie,” whispered Isabella, “ let her try — 
 there can be no harm if you do not ask her— the 
 past is past, you know- — now we have a chance to 
 know if she rea,lly is wiser than others.” Bessie 
 again resolutely shook her head. 
 
 “ Let her go on,” whispered Herbert, “ and see 
 what a fool she will make of herself.” 
 
 “ Let her go on, dear Bessie,” said Jasper, or 
 she will think she has made a fool of you.” 
 
 Bessie feared that her timidity was lolly in Jasper's 
 eyes ; and she said, She may go on if you all wish, 
 but I will not hear her and she covered her ears 
 with her hands. 
 
 “ Shall 1 1” asked Effie, looking at Isabella ; Isa- 
 bella nodded assent, and she proceeded. ‘‘She 
 has come from a great distance — her people are well 
 to do in the world, but no such quality as yours, 
 Miss Isabella Linwood — she has found some things 
 here pleasanter than she expected — some not so 
 pleasant — the house she was born in stands? on the 
 sunny side of a hill.’* At each pause that Effie made, 
 Isabella gave a nod of acquiescence to what she said ; 
 and this, or some stray words, which might easily 
 have found their way through Bessie’s little hands, 
 excited her curiosity, and by degrees they slid down 
 so as to oppose a very slight obstruction to Effie’s 
 voice, “Before the house,” she continued, “ and 
 not so far distant but she may hear its roaring, when 
 a storm uplifts it, is the wide sea — that sea has cost 
 the poor child dear.” Bessie’s heart throbbed audibly. 
 
 “ Since she came here she has both won love and lost 
 it.” 
 
 ” There, there you are out,” cried Herbert, glad 
 of an opportunity to stop the current that was be- 
 coming too strong for poor Bessie. 
 
 ” She can best tell herself whether I am right,” 
 said Effie, coolly. 
 
 “ She is right— right in all,” said Bessie, retreat- 
 ing to conceal the tears that were starting from her 
 eyes. 
 
 Isabella neither saw nor heard this — she was only 
 struck with what Effie delivered as a proof of her 
 preternatural skill; and, more than ever eager to 
 inquire into her own destiny, she took the place 
 Bessie had vacated. 
 
 Effie saw her faith, and was determined to reward 
 it. “ Miss Isabella Linwood, you are born to walk 
 in no common track,” — she might have read this 
 prediction, written with an unerring hand on the 
 girl’s lofty brow, and in her eloquent eye. “You 
 will be both served and honoured — those that have 
 
 stood in king’s palaces will bow down to you but 
 
 the sun does not always shine on the luckiest — you 
 will have a dark day — trouble when you least expect 
 it— joy when you are not looking for it.” This last 
 was one of Effie’s staple prophecies, and was sure to 
 be verified in the varied web of every individual’s 
 experience. ” You have had some trouble lately, 
 but it will soon pass away, and for ever." A safe 
 prediction in regard to any girl of twelve years. 
 “ You’ll have plenty of friends, and lots of suitors — 
 the right one will be — ’’ 
 
 “Oh, never mind— don’t say who, Effie,” cried 
 Isabella, gaspingly. 
 
 “ I was only going to say the right one will be 
 tall and elegant, with beautiful large eyes— I can’t 
 say whether blue or black— but black, I think; for 
 his hair is both dark and curling !” 
 
 “ Bravo, bravissimo, brother Jasper !” exclaimed 
 Herbert; “ it is your curly pate Effie sees in those 
 black cards, beyond a doubt,*' 
 
 “ I bow to destiny,” replied Jasper, with an arch 
 smile, that caught Isabella’s eye. 
 
 “ I do not,’’ she retorted — “ look again, Effie — it 
 must not be curling hair — I despise it.” 
 
 “ I see but once, miss, and then clearly ; but there’s 
 curling hair on more heads than one.” 
 
 “ I never — never should like any one with curling 
 hair,” persisted Isabella. 
 
 “ It would be no difficult task for you to pull it 
 straight. Miss Isabella,’’ said the provoking Jasper, 
 Isabella only replied by her heightened colour ; and 
 bending over the table, she begged Effie to pro* 
 ceed, 
 
 “ There’s not much more shown me, miss, — you 
 will have some tangled ways — besetments, wonder- 
 ments, and disappointments,” 
 
 “ Effie’s version of the ‘ course of true love never 
 does run smooth,' ” interposed Jasper. 
 
 “But all will end well,” she concluded ; “your 
 husband will be the man of your heart — he will ba 
 beautiful, and rich, and great; and take you home to 
 spend your days in merry England.” 
 
 “ Thank you — thank you, Effie,’* said Isabella, 
 languidly. The ‘beauty, riches, and days spent in 
 England, were well enough, for beauty and riche* 
 are elements in a maiden’s beau ideal ; and England 
 was then the earthly paradise of the patrician 
 colonists. But she was not just now in a humour 
 to acquiesce in the local habitation and the name 
 which the ‘dark curling hair’ had given to the ideal 
 personage. 
 
 Jasper Meredith had not even a shadow of faith in 
 Effie ; but next to being fortune’s favourite, he liked 
 to appear so ; and contriving, unperceived by his 
 companions, to slip his remaining sleeve-button into 
 Effie's hand, he said, “ Keep them both ;” and added 
 aloud, “Now for my luck. Dame Effie; and be it 
 weal or be it woe, deliver it truly.” 
 
 Effie was propitiated, and would gladly have im- 
 parted the golden tinge of Jasper’s bride to his 
 future destiny ; but the opportunity was too tempting 
 to be resisted, to prove to him that she was mastered 
 by a higher power: and looking very solemnly, and 
 shaking her head, she said, “ There are too many 
 dark spots here. Ah, Mr. Jasper Meredith— disap- 
 pointment ! — the arrow just misses the mark— the 
 cup is filled to the brim — the hand is raised — the 
 ips parted to receive it — then comes the slip !” She 
 hesitated, she seemed alarmed ; perhaps she was so, 
 for it is impossible to say how far a weak mind may 
 become the dupe of its own impostures — “ Do not 
 ask me any farther,” she adiled. The young people 
 now all gathered round her. Bessie rested her 
 elbows on the table, and her burning cheeks on her 
 hands, and on Effie rivetted her eyes, which, from 
 their natural blue, were deepened almost to black, 
 and absolutely glowing with the intensity of her 
 interest. 
 
 “ Go on, Effie,” cried Jasper ; “ if fortune is cross, 
 I’ll give her vheel a turn.” 
 
 “Ah, the wheel turns but too fast — a happy youth, 
 is uppermost.” 
 
 “ So far, so good.” 
 
 “ An early marriage.’’ 
 
 “ That may be weal, or may be woe," said Jasper; 
 ‘ weal it is,” he added, in mock heroic ; “ but for 
 the dread of something after.’* 
 
 “An early death !” 
 
 “For me, Effie? Heaven forefend I ’’ 
 
 “ No, not for you ; for here you are again a leader 
 on a battle-field — the dead and dying in heaps- 
 pools of blood — there’s the end on’t,” she con- 
 cluded, shuddering, and throwing down the cards. 
 
TUB LINWOODS. 
 
 ** What, leave me there, Effie ? Oh no — death or 
 ■victory 1” 
 
 “ It may be death, it may be victory ; it is not 
 given to me to see which.” 
 
 Jasper, quite undaunted, was on the point of pro- 
 testing against a destiny so uncertain, when a deep- 
 drawn sigh from Bessie attracted the eyes of the 
 group ; they perceived the colour had faded from 
 her cheeks, and that she was en the point of fainting. 
 The windows were thrown open — Effie produced a 
 cordial, and the fair girl was soon restored to a sense 
 of her condition, which she attempted to explain, by 
 saying, she was apt to faint even at the thought of 
 blood 1 
 
 They were all now ready, and quite willing, to bid 
 adieu to the oracle, whose responses not having been 
 entirely satisfactory to any one of them, they all 
 acquiesced in Bessie’s remark, that “ if it were ever 
 so right, she did not think there was much comfort 
 in going to a fortune-teller.” 
 
 Each seemed in a more thoughtful humour than 
 Hsual, and they walked on in silence till they reached 
 the space, now the park, then a favourite play-ground 
 for children, shaded by a few locusts, and here and 
 there an elm or stunted oak. Leaning against one 
 of those was the fine erect figure of a man, who 
 seemed just declining from the meridian of life, past 
 its first ripeness and perfection, but still far from the 
 decay of age. “ Ah, you runaways !’’ he exclaimed, 
 on seeing the young people advancing. “ Belle, 
 your mother has been in the fidgets about you for 
 the last hour.” 
 
 “Jupiter might have told her, papa, that we were 
 quite safe." 
 
 “Jupe, truly! he came home with a rigmarole 
 that we could make nothing of. I assured her there 
 was no danger, but that assurance never quieted 
 any woman. Herbert, can you tell me what these 
 boys are about? they seem rather to be at work than 
 play.” 
 
 “ What are you about, Ned ?” cried Herbert to a 
 young acquaintance* 
 
 “Throwing up a redoubt to protect our fort,” and 
 he pointed as he spoke to a rude structure of poles, 
 bricks, and broken planks on an eminence, at the 
 extremity of the unfenced ground. 
 
 “ And what is your fort for, my lad ?” asked Mr. 
 Linwood. 
 
 “ Te keep off the British, sir.” 
 
 The British ! and who are you ?” 
 
 “ Americans, sir !” 
 
 A loud huzzaing was heard from the fort— “ What 
 does that mean ?’’ asked Mr. Linwood. 
 
 ** The whigs are hanging a tory, sir.” 
 
 “ The little rebel rascals ! — Herbert 1 — you throw- 
 ing up your hat and huzzaing too !” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir — I am a regular whig.” 
 
 A regular fool 1 — put on your hat — and use it 
 like a gentleman. This matter shall be looked into 
 —here are the seeds of rebellion springing up in 
 their young hot bloods — this may come to something, 
 if it is not seen to in time. Jasper, do you hear any 
 thing of this jargon in your schools?” 
 
 “ Lord bless me ! yes, sir ; the boys are regularly 
 divided into whigs and tories — they have their 
 badges and their pass-words, and I am sorry to say 
 that the whigs are three to one.” 
 
 “ You are loyal then, ray dear boy ?” 
 
 Certainly, sir, I owe allegiance to the country 
 in which I was born." 
 
 “And you, my hopeful Mr. Herbert, with your 
 huzzas, what say you for yourself?" 
 
 “ I say ditto to Jasper, sir — I owe allegiance t® 
 the country in which I was born.” 
 
 Don’t be a fool, Herbert — don’t be a fool, even in 
 jejt — 1 hate a whig as I do a toad, and if my son 
 should prove a traitor to his king and country, by 
 George, I would cut him off for ever !’’ 
 
 “But, sir,” said the imperturbable Herbert, “if 
 he should choose between his king and country—” 
 
 “ There is no such thing — they are the same— so 
 no more of that.” 
 
 “ I am glad Herbert has his warning in time,” 
 whispered Isabella to Bessie. 
 
 “ But it seems to me he is right for all,” replied 
 Bessie. 
 
 So arbitrarily do circumstances mould opinions. 
 Isabella seemed like one who might have been born 
 a rebel chieftainess, Bessie as if her destiny were 
 passive obedience. 
 
 We have thus introduced some of the dramatis 
 personae of the following volumes to our readers. It 
 may seem that in their visit to Effie, they prema- 
 turely exhibited the sentiments of riper years — but 
 what are boys and girls but the prototypes of men 
 and women ? — time and art may tinge and polish the 
 wood, but the texture remains as nature formed it. 
 
 Bessie Lee was an exotic in New York. The 
 history of her being there was simply this. New 
 England has, from the first, been a favourite school 
 for the youth from the middle and southern states. 
 Mr. Linwood sent Herbert (who had given him some 
 trouble by early manifesting that love of self-direc- 
 tion which might have been the germ of his whig- 
 gism) to a Latin school in a country town near Bos- 
 ton. While there, he boarded in the family of a 
 Colonel Lee, a respectable farmer, who had acquired 
 his title and some military fame in the campaign of 
 forty-five against the French. Herbert remained a 
 year with the Lees, and returned the kindness he 
 received there with a hearty and lasting affection. 
 Here was his first experience of country life, and 
 every one knows how delightful lo childhood are its 
 freedom, exercises, and pleasures, in harmony (felt, 
 long before understood) with all the laws of our na- 
 ture. When Herbert returned he was eloquent in 
 his praises of Bessie — her beauty, gaiety (then the 
 excitability of her disposition sometimes appeared in 
 extravagant spirits), her sweetness and manageable- 
 ness; a feminine quality that he admired the more 
 from having had to contend with a contrary dis- 
 position in his sister Isabella, who, in all their child- 
 ish competitions, had manifested what our Shaker 
 friends would call a leading gift. Isabella’s curiosity 
 being excited to see this rara avis of Herbert (with 
 her the immediate consequence of an inclination was 
 to find the means of its gratification,) she asked her 
 parents to send for Bessie to come to New York, and 
 go to school with her. Mrs. Linwood, a model of 
 conjugal nonentity, gave her usual reply, “just as 
 your papa says, dear.” Her father seldom said her 
 nay, and Isabella thought her point gained, till he 
 referred the decision of the matter to her aunt 
 Archer. 
 
 “ Oh dear ! now I shall have to argue the matter 
 an hour; but never mind, I can always persuade 
 aunt at last.” Mrs. Archer, as Isabella had fore- 
 boded, was opposed to the arrangement — she thought 
 there would be positive unkindness in transplanting 
 a little girl from her own plain, frugal family, to a 
 luxurious establishment in town, where all the re- 
 finements and elegances then known in the colony 
 were in daily use. “ It is the work of a lifetime, my 
 dear Belle,” said she, “ to acquire habits of exertion 
 and self-dependenc:— juch habits are essential to 
 
8 THE NOVEL 
 
 tills little country-girl— slie does not know their 
 ■worth, but she would be miserable without them — 
 how will she return to her home, where they have a 
 single servant of all work, after being accustomed to 
 the twelve slaves in your house?” 
 
 “Twelve plagues, aunt! I am sure I should be 
 happier with one, if that one were our own dear 
 good Rose.” 
 
 “ I believe you would, Belle, happier and better 
 too ; for the energy which sometimes finds wrong 
 channels now, would then be well employed.” 
 
 ” Do you see no other objection, aunt, to Bessie’s 
 coming?” asked Isabella, somewhat impatient at the 
 episode, though she was the subject of it. 
 
 I see none, my dear, but what relates to Bessie 
 herself. If her happiness would on the whole be 
 diminished by her coming, you, my dear, generous 
 Belle, would not wish it.” 
 
 “ No, aunt — certainly not — but then I am sure it 
 •would not be — she will go to all the schools I go to 
 —that I shall make papa promise me — and she will 
 make a great many friends, and — and— I want to have 
 her come so much. Now don’t, please don’t tell 
 papa you disapprove of it — just let he have my own 
 Tvay this time.” 
 
 “ Ah, Belle ! when will that time come that you 
 do not have your own way?” 
 
 Isabella perceived her aunt would no longer op- 
 pose her wishes. The invitation was sent to Bessie, 
 and accepted by her parents ; and the child’s singular 
 beauty and loveliness secured her friends, one of the 
 goods Isabella had predicted. She did not suffer 
 precisely the evil consequences Mrs. Archer ration- 
 ally anticipated from her residence in New York, 
 yet that, conspiring with events, gave the hue to her 
 after-life. Physically and morally, she was one of 
 those delicate structures that require a hardening 
 process — she resembled the exquisite instrument that 
 responds music to the gentle touches of the elenreuts, 
 but is broken by the first rude gust that sweeps over 
 it. But we are anticipating. 
 
 There is a history in all men’s lives, 
 
 Figuring the nature of the times deceased; 
 
 The which observed, a man may prophesy. 
 
 With a near aim, of the main chance of things 
 
 As yet not come to life. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 This life, sae far’s I understand, 
 
 Is a’ enchanted fairy land. 
 
 Where pleasure is the magic wand, 
 
 'That, wielded right. 
 
 Make hours, like minutes, hand in hand. 
 Dance by fu’ light. — Burns, 
 
 As soon as Mr. Lin wood became aware of his 
 son’s whig tendencies, he determined, as far as 
 possible, to counteract them ; and instead of 
 sending him, as he had proposed, to Harvard 
 University, into a district which he considered 
 infected with the worst of plagues, he determined 
 to retain him under his own vigilant eye, at the 
 loyal literary institution in his own city. This 
 ■was a bitter disappointment to Herbert. 
 
 “It is deused hard,” he said to Jasper Mere- 
 dith, who was just setting out for Cambridge to 
 finish his collegiate career there, “ that you, who 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 have such a contempt for the Yankees, should go 
 to live among them ; when I, who love and honour 
 them from the bottom of my heart, must stay 
 here, play the good boy, and quietly submit to 
 this most unseasonable paternal fiat.” 
 
 “No more of my contempt for the Yankees, 
 Hal, an’ thou lovest me,” replied Jasper; “you 
 remember ^Esop’s advice to Croesus at the Ptr- 
 sian court?” 
 
 “No, I am sure I do not. You have the most 
 provoking w’ay of resting the lever by w'hich you 
 bring out your own knowledge on your friend’s 
 ignorance.” 
 
 “Pardon me, Herbert— I was only going to 
 remind you of the Phrygian sage’s counsel to 
 Croesus, to speak flattery at court, or hold his 
 tongue. I assure you, that as long as I live 
 among these soi-disant sovereigns, 1 shall con- 
 ceal my spleen, if I do not get rid of it.” 
 
 “ Oh, you’ll get rid of it. They need only to 
 be seen at their homes to be admired and loved.” 
 
 “ Loved !” 
 
 “Yes, loved; to tell you the truth, Jasper,” 
 Herbert’s honest face reddened as he spoke, “it 
 was something of this matter of loving that I 
 have been trying for the last week to make up my 
 mind to speak to you. You may think me fool, 
 dunce, or what you please ; but, mark me, I am 
 serious — you remember Bessie Lee ?” 
 
 ” Perfectly! I understand you — excellent?” 
 
 ** Hear me out, and then laugh as much as you 
 ike. Eliot, Bessie’s brother, will be your class- 
 mate — you will naturally be friends — for he is a 
 first-rate — and you will naturally — ” 
 
 “ Fall in love with his pretty sister?" 
 
 “If not forewarned, you certainly would; for 
 there is nothing like her this side heaven. But 
 remember, Jasper, as you are my friend, remem- 
 ber, 1 look upon her as mine. ‘ I spoke first,’ as 
 the children say ; I have loved Bessie ever since I 
 lived at Westbrook.” 
 
 “Upon my soul, Herbert, you have woven a 
 pretty bit of romance. This is the very youngest 
 dream of love I ever heard of. Pray, how old 
 were you when you went to live at farmer Lee’s ?’’ 
 
 “ Eleven — Bessie was six. I stayed there two 
 years ; and last year, as you know, Bessie spent 
 with us.” 
 
 “ And she is now fairy entered upon her teens. 
 You have nothing to fear from me, Herbert, de- 
 pend on’t. I never was particularly fond of chil- 
 dren. There is not the slightest probability of 
 my falling into an intimacy with your yeomaa 
 friend, or ever, in any stage of my existence, 
 getting up a serious passion for a peasant girl. I 
 have no affinities for birds of the basse cour. My 
 flight is more aspiring — ‘ birds of a feather flock 
 together,’ my dear fellow ; and the lady of my 
 love must be such a one as my lady aunts in Eng- 
 land, and my eagle-eyed mother will not look 
 down upon. So a truce to your fears, dear Her- 
 bert. Give me the letter you promised to your 
 farmer, scholar, friend ; and, rest assured, he 
 never shall find out that I do not think him equal 
 in blood and breeding to the King of England, as 
 all these Yankees fancy themselves to be.” 
 
 Herbert gave the letter, but not with the best 
 grace. He did not like Jasper’s tone towards his 
 New England friends. He half wished he had 
 not written the letter, and quite, that he had 
 been more frugal in his praise of Jasper. With 
 the letter, he gave to Jasper various iave-toke.fts 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 frdfli Isabella and himself for Bessie. The young 
 men were saying their last parting words, when 
 Herbert suddenly exclaimed, “ Oh, I forgot ! Isa- 
 bella sent you a keepsake and he gave Jasper 
 a silk purse, with a dove and olive-branch prettily 
 wrought on it. 
 
 “Oh, you savage!” exclaimed Jasper, “had 
 you forgotten this .5*” He pressed it to his lips. 
 “ Dear, dear Belle ! I kiss your olive-branch — we 
 have bad many a fall out, but thus will they al- 
 ways end.” Then slipping a ring from his finger, 
 on which was engraven a heart, transfixed by an 
 arrow — ‘‘Beg Isabella,” he said, “ to wear this 
 for my sake. It is a pretty bauble, but she’ll not 
 value it for that, nor because it has been w'orn by 
 all our Capulets since the days of good Queen 
 Bess, as my aunt. Lady Mary, assured me ; but, 
 perhaps, she will care for it — pshaw.” He 
 dashed off an honest tear ; a servant announced 
 that his uncle was awaiting him, and cordially 
 embracing Herbert, they parted. 
 
 As Herbert had expected, Eliot Lee and Mere- 
 dith were class-mates, but not, as he predicted, 
 or at least not immediately, did they become 
 friends. Their circumstances, and those habits 
 which grow out of circumstances, were discordant. 
 Meredith had been bred in a luxurious establish- 
 ment, and was taught to regard its artificial and 
 elaborate arrangement as essential to the pro- 
 duction of a gentleman. He was a citizen “ of 
 no mean city,” though we now look back upon 
 New York at that period, with its some eighteen 
 or twenty thousand inhabitants, as little more 
 than a village. There was then, resulting from 
 the condition of America, far more disparity be- 
 tween the facilities and refinements of town and 
 country than there now is : and even now there 
 are young citizens (and some citizens in certain 
 illusions remain young all their lives) who look 
 with the most self complacent disdain on country 
 breeding. Prior to our revolution, the distinc- 
 tions of rank in the colonies were in accordance 
 with the institutions of the old world. The 
 coaches of the gentry were emblazoned with their 
 family arms, and their plate with the family crest. 
 If peers and baronets were rarai aves, there were 
 among the youths of Harvard, ” nephews of my 
 lord,” and ‘‘sons of Sir George and Sir Harry.” 
 These were, naturally, Meredith’s first associates. 
 He was himself of the privileged order, and, con- 
 nected with many a noble family in the mother 
 country, he felt his aristocratic blood tingle in 
 every vein. A large property, which had de- 
 volved to him on the death of his father, was 
 chiefly vested in real estate in America ; and his 
 guardians, with the consent of his mother, who 
 herself remained in England, had judiciously de- 
 cided to educate him where it would be most ad- 
 vantageous for him finally to fix his residence. 
 
 The external circumstances — “ the appliances 
 and means” of the two young men, were certainly 
 very different. Eliot Lee’s parentage would not 
 be deemed illustrious, according to any artificial 
 code; but graduated by nature’s aristocracy, 
 (nature alone sets a seal to her patents of uni- 
 versal authority,) he should rank with the noble 
 of every land; and he might claim what is now 
 considered as the peculiar, the purest, the en- 
 during, and, in truth, the only aristocracy of our 
 own. He was a lineal descendant from one of 
 the Tenowned pilgrim fatl ers, whose nobility, 
 stamped in the principles that are regenerating i 
 
 9 
 
 mankind, will be transmitted by their sons on the 
 Missouri and the Oregon, when the stars and 
 garters of Europe have perished and are forgotten. 
 
 Colonel Lee, Eliot’s father, was a laborious 
 New England farmer, of sterling sense and inte- 
 grity — in the phrase of his people, ‘‘ an independ- 
 ent, fore-handed man;” a phrase that implies a 
 property of four or five thousand dollars, over and 
 above a good farm, unencumbered with debts, and 
 producing rather more than its proprietor, in his 
 frugal mode of life, has occasion to spend. Eliot’s 
 mother was a woman of sound mind, and of that 
 quick and delicate perception of the beautiful ia 
 nature and action that is the attribute of sensibi- 
 lity and the proof of its existence, though the 
 possessor, like Eliot’s mother, may, from diffi- 
 dence or personal awkwardness, never be able to 
 embody it in graceful expression. She had a keea 
 relish of English literature, and rich acquisitions 
 in it ; such as many of our ladies, who have beea 
 taught by a dozen masters, and instructed ia 
 half as many tongues, might well envy. With all 
 this, she was an actual operator ia the arduous 
 labours that fall to the female department of a 
 farming establishment — plain farmer Lee’s plain 
 wife. This is not an uncommon combination of 
 character and condition in New England. We 
 paint from life, if not to the life our fault is not 
 extravagance of colouring. 
 
 It is unnecessary to eater into the details of 
 Eliot Lee’s education. Circumstances combined 
 to produce the happiest results — to develope his 
 physical, intellectual, and moral powers ; in short, 
 to make him a favourable specimen of the highest 
 order of New England character. He had just 
 entered on his academic studies, when his father 
 (as our friend Effie intimated in her dark sooth- 
 saying) was lost while crossing Massachusetts’ 
 Bay during a violent thunder-storm. Fortun- 
 ately, the good colonel’s forecast had so well 
 provided for his heirs, that his widow was able 
 to maintain the respectable position of his family 
 without recalling her son from college. There, as 
 many of our distinguished men have done, he 
 made his acquisitions available for his support by 
 teaching. 
 
 Meredith and Eliot Lee were soon acknow- 
 ledged to be the gifted young men of their class. 
 Though nearly equals in capacity, Eliot, being by 
 far the most patient and assiduous, bore off the 
 college honours. Meredith did not lack industry 
 — certainly not ambition ; but he had not the 
 hardihood and self-discipline that it requires to 
 forego an attractive pursuit for a dry study ; and 
 while Eliot, denying his natural tastes, toiled by 
 the midnight lamp over the roughest academic 
 course, Meredith gracefully ran through the light 
 and beaten path of belles-lettres. 
 
 'I'hey were both social — Meredith rather gay 
 in his disposition. Both had admirable tempers ; 
 Meredith’s was partly the result of early train- 
 ing in the goodly seemings of the world — Eliot’s 
 the gift of Heaven, and therefore the more per- 
 fect. Eliot could not exist without self respect; 
 The applause of society was essential to Mere- 
 dith. He certainly preferred a real to a merely 
 apparent elevation ; but experience could alone 
 decide whether he were willing to pay its 
 pr ce — sustained effort, and gencraus sacrifice. 
 B. th were endowed with personal graces. Neither 
 m< n nor woman, that ever we could learn, is indif- 
 feient to these. 
 
10 the novel newspaper, 
 
 Before the young men had proceeded far in 
 their collegiate career, they were friends, if that 
 holy relation may be predicated of those who are 
 united by accidental circumstances. That they 
 were on a confidential footing will be seen by the 
 following conversation. Meredith was in his room, 
 when, on hearing a tap at his door, he answered 
 it by saying, “ Come in, Eliot, my dear fellow. 
 My good, or your evil genius, has brought you to 
 me at the very moment when I am steeped to the 
 lips in trouble.” 
 
 “ You in trouble! why — what is the matter ?” 
 
 “ Diable 1 matter enough for song or sermon. 
 
 * Not a trouble abroad but it lights o’ my shoul- 
 ders’ — First, here is a note from our reverend 
 Praeses. ‘ Mr. Jasper Meredith, junior class — 
 you are fined, by the proper authority, one pound 
 ten, for going into Boston last Thursday night to 
 an assembly or ball, contrary to college laws — as 
 this is the first offence of the kind reported 
 against you, we have, though you have been 
 guilty of a gross violation of known duty, been 
 lenient in fixing the amount of your fine.’ Le- 
 nient, good Praeses ! Take instead one pound 
 ten ounces of my flesh. My purse is far leaner 
 than my person, though that be rather of the 
 Cassius order. Now, Eliot, is not this a pretty 
 bill for one night’s sorry amusement - one pound 
 ten, besides the price of two ball tickets, and 
 sundry confections.” 
 
 Plow, two ball tickets, Meredith ?” 
 
 “ Why, 1 gave one to the tailor’s pretty sister, 
 Sally Dunn.’’ 
 
 “ Sally Dunn ! Bravo, Meredith. Plebeian as 
 3 Ou think my notions, I should hardly have es- 
 corted Sally Dunn to a ball.” 
 
 “ My service to you, Eliot ! — do not fancy I have 
 been enacting a scene fit for Hogarth’s idle ap- 
 prentice. Were I so absurd, do you fancy these 
 Boston patricians would admit a tailor’s sister 
 within their tabooed circle? No, no, little Sally 
 went with company of her own cloth, and trim- 
 mings to match (in her brother’s slang) — rosy 
 milliners and journeymen tailors, to a bail got up 
 by her compeers. I sent in to them lots of raisins 
 and almonds, which served as a love-token for 
 Sally and munching for her companions.’’ 
 
 “ You have, indeed, paid dear for your whistle, 
 Meredith.’’ 
 
 ” Dear ! you have not heard half yet. Sir 
 knight of the shears assailed me with a whining 
 complaint of my ‘ paying attention,’ as he called 
 it, to his sister Sally, and I could only get off by 
 the gravest assurances of my profound respect for 
 the whole Dunn concern, followed up by an order 
 for a new' vest, that being the article the youth 
 would least mar in the making, and here is his 
 bill — two pounds two. This is to be added to my 
 ball expenses, fine, &c., and all, as our learned 
 professor would say, traced to the primum mobile, 
 must be charged to pretty Sally Dunn. Oh wo- 
 man 1 woman 1 — ever the cause of man’s folly, 
 perplexity, misery, and destruction!” 
 
 “ You are getting pathetic. Meredith.” 
 
 “ My dear friend, there is nothing affects a 
 man’s sensibilities like an empty purse — unless it 
 be an empty stomach. You have not heard half 
 my sorrows yet. Here is a bill, a yard long, from 
 the livery-stable, and here another from Monsieur 
 Pate et Confiture !” 
 
 “ And your term-bills.^” 
 
 Oh 1 my term-bills I have forwarded, with 
 
 the dignity of a Sir Charles Grandison, to my 
 uncle. Now, Eliot,” he continued, disbursing 
 a few half crowns and shillings on the table, and 
 holding up his empty purse, and throwing into 
 his face an expression of mock misery, “ Now, 
 Eliot, let us resolve ourselves into a committee 
 of ways and means, and tell me by what finan- 
 cial legerdemain I can get affixed to these scrawls 
 that happiest combination of words in the Eng- 
 lish language — that honeyed phrase, ‘ received 
 payment in full’ — ‘ oh, gentle shepherd, tell me 
 where ?’ ” 
 
 ” Where deficits should always find supplie?, 
 Meredith — in a friend’s purse. I have just settled 
 the account of my pedagogue labours for the 
 last term, and as I have no extra bills to pay, I 
 have extra means quite at your service.” 
 
 Meredith protested, and with truth, that nothing 
 was farther from his intentions than drawing on 
 his friend ; and when Eliot persisted and counted 
 out the amount which Meredith said would relieve 
 his little embarrassments, he felt, and magnani* 
 mously expressed his admiration of those ‘ work- 
 ing-day world virtues’ (so he called them), indus- 
 try and frugality, which secured to Eliot the 
 tranquillity of independence, and the power of 
 liberality. It is possible that at another time, 
 and in another humour, he might have led the 
 laugh against the sort of barter trade — the selling 
 one kind or degree of knowledge to procure an- 
 other, by which a Yankee youth, who is willing to 
 live like an anchorite or a philosopher in the midst 
 of untasted pleasures, works his passage through 
 college. 
 
 Subsequent instances occurred of similar but 
 temporary obligations on the part of Meredith. 
 Temporary, of course, for Meredith was too tho- 
 roughly imbued with the sentiments of a gentleman 
 to extend a pecuniary obligation beyond the term 
 of his necessity. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Hear me profess sincerely — had I a dozen sons, 
 each in rny love alike, I had rather had eleven die 
 nobly for their country, than one voluptuously sur- 
 feit out of action. Shakspeare. 
 
 The following extracts are from a letter from 
 Bessie Lee to her friend Isabella Linwood, 
 
 Dearest Isabella, 
 
 “ You must love me, or you could not endure 
 my stupid letters — you that can write so delight- 
 fully about nothing, and have so much to write 
 about, while I can tell nothing but what I see, 
 and I see so little ! The outward world does not 
 much interest me. It is what I feel that I think 
 of and ponder over ; but I know how you detest 
 what you call sentimental letters, so I try to avoid 
 all such subjects. Compared with you I am a 
 child — two years at our age makes a great dif- 
 ference — I am really very childish for a girl almost 
 fourteen, and yet, and yet, Isabella, I sometimes 
 seem to myself to have gone so far beyond child- 
 hood, that I have almost forgotten that careless, 
 light-hearted feeling I used to have. I do not 
 think 1 ever was so light-hearted as some chUc 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 11 
 
 drcn, and yet I was not serious- -at least, not in 
 the right way. Many a time, before I was ten 
 years old, I have sat up in my own litt'e room till 
 twelve o’clock on Saturday night, reading, and 
 then slept for an hour and a half through the whole 
 sermon the next morning. I do believe it is the 
 natural depravity of my heart. I never read over 
 twice a piece of heathen poetry that moves me but 
 I can repeat it — and yet, 1 never could get past 
 ‘ what is effectual calling?’ in the Westminster 
 Catechism ; and I always was in disgrace on Sa- 
 turday, when Parson Wilson came to the school to 
 hear us recite it ; — the sight of his wig and three- 
 cornered hat petrified mel” 
 
 ‘‘Jasper Meredith is here, passing the vacation 
 with Eliot. I was frightened to death when Eliot 
 wrote us he was coming— we live in such a homely 
 way — only one servant, and I remember well how 
 he used to laugh at every thing he called a la \ 
 lourgeoise. I felt this to be a foolish, vulgar j 
 ride, and did my best to suppress it ; and since | 
 
 have found there was no occasion for it, for j 
 Jasper seemed— I do not mean seemed, I think he 
 is much more sincere than he used to be — to miss I 
 nothing, and to be delighted with being here. I ^ 
 do not think he realises that I am now three years j 
 older than I was in New York, for he treats me 
 with that sort of partiality — devotion you might , 
 almost call it — that he used to there, especially j 
 when you and he had had a falling out. He has ; 
 been giving me some lessons in Italian. He says j 
 I have a wonderful talent for learning languages, j 
 but it is not so : you know what hobbling work I 
 made with the French when you and I went to ^ 
 poor old Mademoiselle Amand — Jasper is quite a j 
 different teacher, and I never fancied French. He 
 has been teaching me to ride, too — we have a nice 
 little pony, and he has a beautiful horse — so that ; 
 we have the most delightful gallops over the i 
 country every day. It is very odd, though I am 
 such a desperate coward, I never feel the least 
 timid when I am riding with Jasper — indeed, I 
 do not think of it. Eiiot rarely finds time to go 
 with us — when he is at home from cdlege he has 
 so much to do for mother — dear Eliot, he is hus- 
 band, father, brother, everything to us.” 
 
 “I had not time, while Jasper and Eliot stayed, 
 to finish my letter, and since they went away I 
 have been so dull! The house seems like a tomb; 
 
 I go from room to room, but the spirit is not 
 here. Master Hale, the schoolmaster, boards 
 with us, and gives me lessons in some branches 
 that Eliot thinks me deficient in ; but, ah me ! 
 where are the talents for acquisition that 
 Jasper commended ? Did you ever know, dear 
 Isabella, what it was to have every thing affected 
 by the departure of friends, as nature is by the 
 absence of light — all fade into one dull uniform 
 hue. When Eliot and Jasper w^ere here, all was 
 bright and interesting from the rising of the sun 
 to the going down thereof — now ! — ah me 1 
 
 “ I am shocked to find how much I have written 
 about myself. My best respects to your father 
 and mother, and love to Herbert. Burn this 
 worthless scrawl without fail, dear Isabella, and 
 believe me ever most affectionately 
 “ Yours, 
 
 “ Bessie Lee.” 
 
 Jasper Meredith to Herbert Linwood. 
 
 “ Dear Linwood, 
 
 “ I have been enjoying a very pretty little 
 episode in my college life, passing the vacation at 
 Westbrook, with your old friends the Lees. A 
 month in a dull little country town would once 
 have seemed to me penance enough for my worst 
 sin, but now it is heaven to get any where beyond 
 the sound of college bells — beyond the reach of 
 automaton tutors — periodical recitations — chapel 
 prayers, and college rules. 
 
 “ I went to the Lees with the pious intention of 
 quizzing your rustics to the top o’ my bent ; but 
 Herbert, my dear fellow, I’ll tell you a secret ; 
 when people respect themselves, and value things 
 according to their real intrinsic worth, it gives a 
 shock to our artificial and worldly estimates, and 
 makes us feel as if we stood upon a wonderfully 
 uncertain foundation. These Lees are so strong 
 in their simplicity — they would so disdain aping 
 and imitating those that we (not they, be sure !) 
 think above them — they are so sincere in all their 
 ways — no awkward consciousness — no shame- 
 facedness whatever about the homely details of 
 their family affairs. By heavens, Herbert, I 
 could not fiud a folly, a meanness, or even a ludi- 
 crous rusticity at which to aim my ridicule. 
 
 I begin to think — no, no, no, I do not — but if 
 there were many such families as these Lees in 
 the world, an equality, independent of all extra- 
 neous circumstances such as the politicians of 
 this country are now ranting about, might subsist 
 on the foundation of intellect and virtue, 
 
 “After all, I see it is a mere illusion. Mrs. 
 Lee’s rank, though in Westbrook she appears 
 equal to any Roman matron, is purely local. 
 Hallowed as she is in your boyish memory, Her- 
 bert, you must confess she would cut a sorry 
 figure in a New York drawing-room. 
 
 “Eliot might pass current any where ;but then 
 he has had the advantage of Boston society, and 
 an intimacy with— pardon my coxcombry — your 
 humble servant. Bessie — sweet Bessie Lee, is a 
 gem fit to be set in a coronet. Don’t be alarmed, 
 Herbert, you are welcome to have the setting of 
 her. There is metal, as you know, more attrac- 
 tive to me. Bessie is not much grown since she 
 was in New York ; she is still low in stature, and 
 so childish in her person, that I was sometimes 
 in danger of treating her like a child — of forget- 
 ing that she had come within the charmed circle 
 of proprieties. But, if she has still the freshness 
 and immaturity of the unfolding rosebud, the 
 mystical charm of woman, the divinity stirring 
 within beams through her exquisite features. 
 Such features ! Phidias would have copied them 
 in his immortal marble. How in the world 
 should such a creature, all sentiment, refinement, 
 imagination, spring up in practical, prosaic New 
 England I She is a wanderer from some other 
 star. I am writing like a lover, and not as I 
 should to a lover. But, on my honour, Herbert, 
 I am no lover — of little Bessie I mean. I should 
 as soon think of being enamoured of a rose, a 
 lily, or a violet, an exquisite sonnet, or an abstrac- 
 tion. 
 
 “ It is an eternity since Isabella has written 
 me a postscript — why is this? Farewell, Lin- 
 wood. 
 
 “Yours, &c. 
 
12 THE NOVEL 
 
 “ P. S. — Oae word on politics ; a subject I de- 
 test, and meddle with as little as possible. There 
 must be an outbreak, there is no avoiding it. 
 But there can be no doubt which party will finally 
 prevail. The mother country has soldiers, money, 
 everything; ‘’tisodds beyond arithmetic.’ As 
 one of my friends said at a dinner in Boston the 
 other day, ‘ the growling curs may bark for a 
 while, but they will be whipped into submission, 
 and wear their collars patiently for ever after.’ 1 
 trust, Herbert, you are already cured of what my 
 uncle used to call the ‘ boy fever;’ but if not, take 
 my advice — be quiet, prudent, neutral. As long 
 as we are called boys, we are not expected to be 
 patriots, apostles, or martyrs. At this crisis 
 your filial and fraternal duties require that you 
 should suppress, if not renounce, the opinions you 
 used to be so fond of blurting out on all occa- 
 sions. I am no preacher — I have done — a word 
 to the wise. 
 
 “M 
 
 We resume the extracts from Bessie’s letters. 
 
 “Dear Isabella, — Never say another word 
 to me of what you hinted in your last letter: in- 
 deed, I am too young ; and besides, I never should 
 feel easy or happy again with Jasper, if I admitted 
 such a thought. I have had but one opinion 
 since our visit to Effie ; not that I believed in her 
 — at least, not much; but I have always known 
 who was first in his thoughts — heart — opinion ; 
 and besides, it w’ould be folly in me, knowing his 
 opinions about rank, &c. Mother thinks him 
 very proud, and somewhat vain ; and she begins 
 not to be pleased with his frequent visits to West- 
 brook. She thinks — no, fears, or rather she ima 
 gines, that Jasper and I— no, that Jasper or I — 
 no, that 1 — it is quite too foolish to w^rite, Isa- 
 bella — mother does not realise what a wide world 
 there is between us. I might possibly, sometimes, 
 think he loved (this last word was carefully effaced, 
 and cared substituted) cared for me, if he did not 
 know you. 
 
 “ How could Jasper tell you of Eliot’s preju- 
 dice against you ? Jasper himself infused it, 
 unwittingly, I ana sure, by telling him that when 
 with you, I Jived but to do ‘your best pleasure, — 
 were it to fly, to swim, or dive into the fire.’ Eliot 
 fancies that you are proud and overbearing — I 
 insist, dear Isabella, that such as you are born to 
 rule such weak spirits as mine ; but Eliot says he 
 does not like absolutism in any form, and espe- 
 cially in woman’s. Ah, how differently he w'ould 
 feel if he w-ere to see you — I am sure you would 
 like him — I am not sure, even, that you would not 
 have preferred him to Jasper, had he been born 
 and bred in Jasper’s circumstances. He has 
 more of some qualities that you particularly like, 
 frankness and independence — and mother says 
 (but then mother is not at all pai tial to Jasper) he 
 has a thousand times more real sensibility — he 
 does, perhaps, feel more for others. I should like 
 to know which you would think the handsomest. 
 Eliot is at least three inches the tallest ; and, as 
 Jasper once said, ‘cast in the heroic mould, with 
 just enough, and not an ounce too much of mor- 
 tality but then Jasper has such grace and sym- 
 metry-just what I fancy to be the beau ideal of 
 the arts. Jasper’s eyes are almost too black — too 
 piercing ; and yet they are softened by his long 
 lashes, and his olive complexion, so expressive. 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 like that fine cld portrait in your drawing-room. 
 His mouth, too, is beautiful — it has such a de- 
 fined, chiseled look ; but then do you not think that 
 his teeth, being so delicately formed, and so very, 
 very white, is rather a defect? I don’t knowhow 
 to describe it, but there is rather an uncertain ex- 
 pression about his mouth. Eliot’s, particularly 
 when he smiles, is truth and kindness itself, and 
 his deep, deep blue eye expresses every thing by 
 turns ; I mean every thing that should come from 
 a pure and lofty spirit, now tender and pitiful 
 enough for me, and now superb and fiery enough 
 for you— but what a silly, girlish letter 1 am 
 writing — ‘ Out of the abundance of the heart,’ 
 you know! I see nobody but Jasper and Eliot, 
 and I think only of them.” 
 
 We continue the extracts from Bessie’s letters. 
 They were strictly feminine, even to their being 
 dateless ; we cannot, therefore, ascertain the 
 precise period at which they were written, except 
 by their occasional allusions to contemporaneous 
 events. 
 
 “ Thanks, dear Isabella, for your delightful letter 
 by J asper— no longer J asper, I assure you to his face, 
 but Mr. Meredith. Oh, I often wish the time back 
 w^hen 1 was a child and might call bim Jasper, and 
 feel the freedom of a child. I wmnder if I should 
 dare to call you Belle now, or even Isabella ? Jas- 
 per, since his last visit at home, tells me so much 
 of your being ‘ the mirror of fashion — the ob- 
 served of all observers’ (these are his own words 
 — drawing-room terms, that were never heard in 
 Westbrook but from his lips), that I feel a sort of 
 fearful shrinking. It is not envy — I am too happy 
 now to envy any body in the wide world. Eliot is 
 at home, and Jasper is passing a week here. Is 
 it not strange they should be so intimate when 
 they differ so widely on political topics ? I suppose 
 it is because Jasper does not care much about the 
 matter ; but this indifference sometimes provokes 
 Eliot. Jasper is very intimate with Pitcairn and 
 Lord Percy ; and Eliot thinks they have more 
 influence with him than the honour and interest 
 of his country. Oh, they talk it over for hours 
 and hours, and end, as men always do with their 
 argument, just where they began. Jasper insists 
 that as long as the quarrel cau be made up it is 
 much the wisest to stand aloof, and not, ‘ like mad 
 boys, to rush foremost in the first fray ;’ besides, be 
 say she is tied by a promise to his uncle that he will 
 have nothing to do with these agitating disputes 
 till his education is finished. Mother says (she 
 does not always judge Jasper kindly) that it is very 
 easy and prudent to bind your hands with a pro- 
 mise when you do not choose to lift them. 
 
 “ Ah, there is a terrible storm gathering ! Those 
 who have grown up together, lovingly interlacing 
 their tender branches, must be torn asunder — some 
 sw-ept away by the current, others dispersed by 
 the winds.” 
 
 “ Dear Isabella, 
 
 “ The world seems turned upside dowm since I 
 began this letter; w-ar, war (what an appalling 
 sound) has begun ? blood has been spilt, aad our 
 dear, dear Eiiot — but I must tell you first how it all 
 was. Eliot and Jasper were out shooting some 
 miles from Cambridge, when, on coming to the 
 road, they perceived an unusual commotion — old 
 men and youne, and even boys, all armed, in wag- 
 gons. on horseback, and on foot, were coming from 
 all points, and all hurrying onward in one direction. 
 
THE LTNWOODS. 
 
 Oa inquiring into the hurly-burly, they were told 
 that Colonel Smith had inarched to Concord to 
 destroy the military stores there, and that our 
 people were gathering from all quarters to oppose 
 his return. Eliot immediately joined them, 
 Jasper did not; but, dear Isabella, I that know 
 you so well know, whatever others may think, 
 that tories may be true and noble. There was 
 a fight at Lexington. Our brave men had the 
 best of it. Eliot was the first to bring us the 
 news. With a severe wound in his arm, he came 
 ten miles, that we might not be alarmed by any 
 reports, knowing, as he told mother, that she was 
 no Spartan mother to be indifferent whether her 
 son came home with his shield or on his shield. 
 
 “ Jasper has not been to Westbrook since the 
 battle. My mind has been in such a state of alarm 
 since, I cannot return to my ordinary pursuits. 
 I was reading history with the children, and the 
 English poets with mother, but I am quite broken 
 up. 
 
 “ I do not think this horrid war should separate 
 those who have been friends. Thank God, my dear 
 Isabella, we of womankind are exempts— not called 
 upon to take sides ; our mission is to heal wounds, 
 not to make them — to keep alive, and tend with 
 vestal fidelity the fires of charity and love. My 
 kindest remembrance to Herbert. I hope he has 
 renounced his whiggism, for if it must come to 
 that, he had better fight on the wrong side igno- 
 rantly than to break the third commandment. 
 Write soon, dear Isabella, and let me know if this 
 hurly-burly extends to New York — dear, quiet New 
 York ! In war and in peace, in all the chances and 
 changes of this mortal life, your own 
 
 “ Bessie Lee.” 
 
 Miss Linwood to Bessie Lee. 
 
 '^Exempts ! my little spirit of peace — your vo- 
 cation it may be, my pretty dove, to sit on your 
 perch with an olive branch in your bill, but not 
 mine. Oh, for the glorious days of the Clorindas, 
 when a woman might put down her womanish 
 thoughts, and with helmet and lance in rest do 
 battle with the bravest ! Why was the loyal spirit 
 of my race my exclusive patrimony.!’ Can his 
 blood, who at his own cost raised a troop of horse 
 for our martyr king, flow in Herbert’s veins or 
 his who followed the fortunes of the unhappy 
 James ? Is my father’s son a reuegado — a rebel ? 
 Yes, Bessie — my blood burns in my cheeks while 
 I write it. Herbert, the only male scion of the 
 Linwoods— my brother — our pride — our hope, has 
 declared himself of the rebel party — ‘ Ichabod, 
 Ichabod, the glory is departed,’ is written on our 
 door-posts. 
 
 “ But to come down from my heroics, we are in 
 a desperate condition — such a scene as I have just 
 passed through. Judge Ellis was dining with us 
 — Jasper Meredith was spoken of. ‘ In the name 
 of.Heaven,Elli3,’said my father, ‘why do you suffer 
 your nephew to remain among the rebel crew in 
 that infected region ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ I do not find,’ replied the judge, glancing 
 at Herbert, * that any region is free from in- 
 fection.’ 
 
 “ ‘ True, true,’ said my father ; ' but the air of 
 the Yankee states is saturated with it, I would 
 not let an infant breathe it lest rebellion should 
 break out when he came to man’s estate.’ ‘ I am 
 sorry to say it, dear Bessie ; but my father traces 
 Herbert’s delinquency to his sojourn at Westbrook, 
 
 13 
 
 I saw a tempest was brewing, ’and thinking to 
 make for a quiet harbour, I put in my oar, and 
 repeated the story you told me in your last letter 
 of our non-combatant, Mr. Jasper. The judge was 
 charmed. ‘Ah, he’s a prudent fellow,’ he said; 
 
 ‘ he’ll not commit himself.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Not commit himself r exclaimed my father ; 
 
 ‘ by Jupiter, if he belonged to me he should commit 
 himself. I would rather he should jump the wrong 
 way than sit squat like a toad under a hedge till 
 he was sure which side it was most prudent to 
 jump.’ You see, Bessie, my father s words im- 
 plied something like a commendation of Herbert, 
 I ventured to look up; their eyes met— 1 saw a 
 beam of pleasure flashing from them, and passing 
 like an electric spai’k from one heart to another. 
 Oh, why should this unholy quarrel tear asunder 
 such true hearts ? 
 
 “ The judge s pride was touched ; he is a mean 
 wretch. ‘ Ah, my dear sir,’ he said, ‘ it is very 
 well for you, who can do it with impunity, to dis- 
 regard prudential considerations ; for instance, 
 you remain true to the king, the royal power is 
 maintained, and your property is protected. Your 
 son — I suppose a case — your son joins the rebels, 
 the country is revolutionised, and your property 
 is secured as the reward of Mr. Herbert’s patri- 
 otism. 
 
 “ My father hardly heard him out. ‘ Now, by 
 the Lord that made me,’ he exclaimed, setting 
 down the decanter with a force that broke it in a 
 thousand pieces, ‘ I would die of starvation before 
 I would taste a crumb of bread that was the re- 
 ward of rebellion.’ 
 
 “ It was a frightful moment; but my father’s 
 passion, you know, is like a whirlwind : one gust, 
 and it is over ; and mamma is like those short- 
 stemmed flowers that lie on the earth ; no wind 
 moves her. So, though the judge was almost as 
 much disconcerted as the decanter, it seemed all 
 to have blown over, while mamma, as in case of 
 any ordinary accident, was directing Jupe tore- 
 move the fragments, change the cloth, &c. But 
 alas! the evil genius of our house triumphed; 
 for even a bottle of our oldest Madeira, which is 
 usually to my father like oil to the waves, failed to 
 preserve tranquillity. The glasses were filled, and 
 my father, according to his usual custom, gave 
 ‘ the king — God bless him.’ 
 
 “Now you must know, though he would not 
 confess he made any sacrifice to prudence, he has 
 for some weeks omitted to drink wine at all, on 
 some pretext or other, such as he had a headache, 
 or he had dined out the day before, or expected to 
 the day after; and thus Herbert has escaped the 
 test. But now the toast was given, and Herbert’s 
 glass remained untouched, while he sat, not biting, 
 but literally devouring his nails. I saw the judge 
 cast a sinister look at him and then at my father’s 
 brow. ‘Herbert, my son,’ said mamma, ‘you 
 will be too late for your appointment.’ Herbert 
 moved his chair to rise, when my father called 
 out, ‘ Stop, sir — no slinking away under your 
 mother’s shield — hear me — no man who refuses 
 to drink that toast at my table, shall eat of my 
 bread or drink of my wine.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Then God forgive me — for I never will drink 
 it — so help me Heaven!’ 
 
 “Herbert left the room by one door — my 
 father by another — mamma stayed calmly talking 
 to that fixture of a judge, and I ran to my room, 
 where, as soon as I had got through with a com- 
 
THE NOVEL newspaper. 
 
 14 
 
 fortable fit of crying, I sat down to write you 
 (who are on the enemy’s side) an account of the 
 matter. What will come of it, Heaven only 
 knows ! 
 
 “ But, my dear little gentle Bessie, I never 
 think of you as having any thing to do with these 
 turbulent matters ; you are in the midst of fiery 
 rebel spirits, but you are too pure, too good to 
 enter into their counsels, and far too just for any 
 self-originating prejudices, such as this horrible 
 one that pervades the country, and fires New 
 England against the legitimate rights of the 
 mother country over her wayward, ungrateful 
 child. Don’t trouble your head about these 
 squabbles, but cling to Master Hale, your poetry, 
 and history : by the way, I laughed heartily that 
 you, who have done duly — reading so virtuously 
 all your life, should now come to the conclusion 
 * that history is dry.’ I met with a note in Hero- 
 dotus, the most picturesque of historians, the 
 Other day, that charmed me. The writer of the 
 note says there is no mention whatever of Cyrus 
 in the Persian history. If history then is mere 
 fiction, why may we not read romances of our 
 own choosing ? My instincts have not mis- 
 guided me, after all. 
 
 “ So, Miss Bessie, Jasper Meredith is in high 
 favour with you, and the friend of your nonpa- 
 reil brother. Jasper could always be irresistible 
 when he chose, and he seems to have been ‘ i’ the 
 vein’ at Westbrook. With all our impressions 
 (are they prejudices, Bessie?) against your Yankee 
 land, we thought him excessively improved by his 
 residence among you. Indeed, if he were never 
 to get another letter from his worldly icicle 
 mother, to lire away from his time-serving uncle, 
 and never receive another importation of London 
 coxcombries, he would be what nature intended 
 him — a paragon. 
 
 “ I love your sisterly enthusiasm. As to my 
 estimation of your brother being affected by the 
 accidents of birth and fortune, indeed, you were 
 not true to your friend when you intimated that. 
 Certainly, the views you tell me he takes of my 
 character are not particularly flattering, or even 
 conciliating. However, I have my revenge — you 
 aint him en heau—tht portrait is too beautiful to 
 e very like any man born and reared within the 
 disenchanted limits of New England. I am 
 writing boldly, but no offence, dear Bessie ; I do 
 not know your brother, and I have — yes, out 
 with it, with the exception of your precious little 
 self— I have an antipathy to the New Englanders 
 —a disloyal race, and conceited, fancying them- 
 selves more knowing in all matters, high and low, 
 especially government and religion, than the rest 
 of the world — ‘ all-sufficient, self-sufficient, and 
 insufficient.’ 
 
 “ Pardon me, gentle Bessie — I am just now at 
 fever heat, and I could not like Gabriel if he were 
 whig and rebel. Ah, Herbert! — but 1 loved him 
 before I ever heard these detestable words ; and 
 once truly loving, especially if our hearts be knit 
 together by nature, I think the faults of the sub- 
 ject do not diminish our affection, though they 
 turn it from its natural sweet uses to suffering.” 
 
 “ Dear Bes»ie, 
 
 “A week, a stormy, miserable week has passed 
 since I wrote the above, and it has ended in Her- 
 bert’s leaving us, and dishonouring his father’s 
 name by taking a commission in the rebel ser- 
 
 vice. Papa has of course had a horrible fit of 
 the gout. He says he has for ever cast Her- 
 bert out of his affections. Ah ! I am not skilled 
 in metaphysics, but I know that we have 
 power whatever over our affections. Mamma 
 takes it all patiently, and chiefly sorroweth that 
 Herbert has lost caste by joining the insurgents, 
 whom she thinks little better than so many 
 Jack Cades. 
 
 “ For myself, I would have poured out my blood 
 — every drop of it — to have kept him true to hi* 
 king and country ; but in my secret heart I 
 glory in him that he has honestly and boldly 
 clung to his opinions, to his own certain and in- 
 finite loss. I have no heart to write more. 
 
 “ Yours truly, 
 
 “ Isabella Linwood. 
 
 P. S. — You may show the last paragraph 
 (confidentially) to Jasper ; but don’t let him know 
 that I wished him to see it. “ 1. L.” 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 An’ forward, though I canna see, 
 
 I guess an’ fear. Burns, 
 
 Three years passed over without any marked 
 change in the external condition of our young 
 friends. Herbert Linwood endured the hardships 
 of an American officer during that most suffering 
 period of the war, and remained true to the cause 
 he had adopted, without any of those opportu- 
 nities of distinction which are necessary to keep 
 alive the fire of ordinary patriotism. 
 
 It has been seen that Eliot Lee, with most of 
 the young men of the country, as might be ex- 
 pected from the insurgent and generous spirit of 
 youth, espoused the popular side. It ought not 
 to have been expected, that when the young 
 country came to the muscle and vigour of man- 
 hood, it should continue to wear the leading- 
 strings of its childhood, or remain in the bondage 
 and apprenticeship of its youth. It has been 
 justly said, that the seeds of our revolution and 
 future independence were sown by the Pilgrims. 
 The political institutions of a people may be in- 
 ferred from their religion. Absolutism, as a 
 mirror, reflects the Roman Catholic faith. What- 
 ever varieties of names were attached to the reli. 
 gious sects of America, they were, with the excep- 
 tion of a few Papists, all Protestants ; all, as 
 Burke said of them, “ agreed (if agreeing in 
 nothing else) in the communion of the spirit of 
 liberty — theirs was the Protestantism of the 
 Protestant religion — the dissidence of dissent.’^ 
 It was morally certain, that, as soon as they came 
 to man’s estate, their government would accord 
 with this spirit of liberty; would harmonise with 
 the independent and republican spirit of the 
 religion of Christ, the only authority they ad- 
 mitted. The fires of our republic were not then 
 kindled by a coal from the old altars of Greece 
 aod Rome, whose freest government exalted the 
 few, and retained the many in grovelling igno- 
 rance and servitude : ours came forth invincible 
 in the declaration of liberty to all, and equality of 
 rights. 
 
 Such minds as Eliot Lee’s, reasoning and reli- 
 gious, were not so much moved by the sudden iia- 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 pulses of enthusiasm as incited by the convictions 
 of duty. His heart was devoted to his country, 
 his thoughts absorbed in her struggle ; but he 
 quenched, or rather smothered his intense desire 
 to go forth with her champions, and remained 
 pursuing his legal studies, near enough to his 
 home to perform his paramount but obscure duty 
 to his widowed mother and her young family. 
 
 Jasper Meredith’s political preferences, if not 
 proclaimed, were easily guessed. It was obvious 
 that his tastes were aristocratic and feudal — his 
 sympathies with the monarch, not with the people. 
 New York was the head-quarters of the British 
 army, and Judge Ellis, his uncle, on the pretext 
 of keeping his nephew out of the way of the se- 
 ductions of a very gay society, advised him to 
 pursue the study of the law in New England, 
 and thus for a while he avoided pledging himself. 
 He resided in Boston or its vicinity, never far 
 from Westbrook. He had a certain eclat in the 
 drawing-rooms of Boston, but he was no favourite 
 there. A professed neutrality was, if not sus- 
 picious, most oifensive in the eyes of neck- or* 
 nothing patriots. But Meredith did not escape 
 the whisper that his neutrality was a mere mask. 
 His accent, which was ambitiously English, was 
 criticised, and his elaborate dress, manufactured 
 by London artists, was peculiarly displeasing to 
 the sons of the Puritans, who, absorbed in great 
 objects, were then more impatient even than usual 
 of extra sacrifices to the graces. 
 
 The transition from Boston to Westbrook was 
 delightful to Meredith. There was no censure of 
 any sort, but balm for the rankling wounds of 
 vanity ; and it must be confessed that he not only 
 appeared better, but was better at Westbrook than 
 elsewhere ; the best parts of his nature were 
 called forth; he was (if we may desecrate a tech- 
 nical expression) in the exercise of grace. There 
 is a certain moral atmosphere, as propitious to 
 moral well being as a genial temperature is to 
 health. Vanity has a sort of thermometer, which 
 enables the possessor to graduate and adapt him- 
 self to the dispositions, the vanities (is there any 
 gold in nature without this alloy ?) of others. 
 Meredith, when he wished to be so, was emi- 
 nently agreeable. Those always stand in a most 
 fortunate light who vary the monotony of a vil- 
 lage existence, and he broke like a sunbeam through 
 the dull atmosphere that [hung over West- 
 brook. He brought the freshest news, he studied 
 good Mrs. Lee’s partialities and prejudices, and 
 accommodated himself to them. He supplied to 
 Eliot what all social beings hanker after, com- 
 panionship with one of his own age, pursuits, and 
 associations. The magnet that drew him to 
 Westbrook was never the acknowledged attrac- 
 tion. Meredith was not in love with Bessie Lee. 
 She was too spiritual a creature for one of earth’s 
 mould ; but his self love, his ruling passion, was 
 flattered by her. He saw and enjoyed (what, 
 
 las! no one else then saw) his power over her. 
 He saw it in the mutations of her cheek, in the 
 kindling of her eye, in the changes of her voice. 
 It was as if an angel had left his sphere to cast 
 incense upon him. Meredith must be acquitted 
 of a deliberate attempt to ensnare her affections. 
 He thought not and cared not for the future. He 
 cared only for a present self gratification. A ride 
 at twilight, or a walk by moonlight with this 
 creature, all beauty, refinement, or tenderness, 
 
 15 
 
 was a poetic passage to him — to her it was 
 fraught with life or death. 
 
 Poor Bessie 1 she should have been hardened 
 for the changing climate of this rough world; 
 but by a fatal, though very common error, she 
 had been cherished like a tropical bird, or au 
 exotic plant. “ She has such delicate health— 
 she is so different from my other children 1” said 
 the mother. “She is so gentle and sensitive,” 
 said the brother. And thus, with all their sound 
 judgment, instead of submitting her to a hardenj 
 ing process, it seemed an instinct with them, by 
 every elaborate contrivance, to fence her from the 
 ordinary trials and evils of life. Only when she 
 was happy did they let her alone ; with Meredith 
 she seemed happy, and they were satisfied. 
 Bessie shared this unfounded tranquillity, arising 
 with them partly from confidence in Meredith, 
 and partly from the belief that she was in no 
 danger of suffering from an unrequited love ; but 
 Bessie’s arose from the most childlike ignorance 
 of that study, puzzling to the wisest and craftiest 
 — the human heart. She was the most modest 
 and unexacting of human creatures — her gentle 
 spirit urged no rights — asked nothing, expected 
 nothing beyond the present moment. The wor- 
 shipper was satisfied with the presence of the idol. 
 Her residence in New York had impressed a con- 
 viction that a disparity of birth and condition was 
 an impassable gulf. It was natural enough that 
 she should have imbibed this opinion ; for, being 
 a child, the aristocratic opinions of the so- 
 ciety she was in were expressed, unmitigated 
 by courtesy — they sank deep into her susceptible 
 mind — a mind too humble to aspire above any 
 barrier that nature or society had set up. 
 
 There was another foundation of her fancied 
 security. This was shaken by the following con- 
 versation : — Meredith was looking over an old 
 pocket-book, when a card dropped from it at 
 Bessie’s feet; she handed it to him — he smiled 
 as he looked at it, and held it up before her. She 
 glanced her eye over it, and saw it was a note of 
 the date of their visit to the soothsayer, Effie, 
 and of Effie’s prediction in relation to the “ dark 
 curling hair.” 
 
 “I had totally forgotten this,” said he, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 “ Forgotten it !” echoed Bessie, in a tone that 
 indicated but too truly her feelings. 
 
 “ Certainly I had — and why not, pray ?” 
 
 “ Oh, because — ” she hesitated. 
 
 “ Because what, Bessie ?” 
 
 Bessie was ashamed of her embarrassment, and 
 faltering the more she tried to shake it off, said, 
 “ I did not suppose you could forget any thing 
 that concerned Isabella.” 
 
 “Upon my honour, you are very much mis- 
 taken : I have scarcely thought of Effie and her 
 trumpery prediction since we were there.” 
 
 “Why have you preserved the card, then, 
 Jasper?” asked Bessie, in all simplicity. 
 
 Jasper’s complexion was not of the blushing 
 order, or he would have blushed as he replied, at 
 the same time replacing the card — “ Oh, Lord, I 
 don’t know! accident — the card got in here 
 among these old memoranda and receipts,* trivial 
 fond records’ all !” 
 
 “There preserve it,” said Bessie, “and we 
 will look at it one of these days.” 
 
 “When?” 
 
iTHfi NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 16 
 
 When, as it surely will be, the prediction is 
 verified.” 
 
 “ If not till then,” he said, “ it will never 
 again see the light. This is the oddest fancy of 
 yours,” he added. 
 
 “ Not fancy, but faith.” 
 
 Faith most unfounded. Why, Bessie, Isa- 
 bella and I were always quarrelling.” 
 
 ” And always making up. Do you ever quarrel 
 now, Jasper?” 
 
 “ Oh, she is still of an April temper: but I — ” 
 he looked most tenderly at Bessie — ‘‘ have lived 
 too much of late in a serene atmosphere, to bear 
 well her fitful changes.” 
 
 A long time had passed since Bessie had men. 
 tinned Isabella to Meredith. She knew not 
 why, but she had felt a growing reluctance to ad- 
 vert to her friend even in thought ; and she was 
 now conscious of a thrilling sensation at the 
 careless, cold manner in which Jasper spoke of her. 
 It seemed as if a load had fallen off her heart. 
 She felt like a mariner who has at length caught 
 a glimpse of what seems distant land, and is be- 
 wildered with new sensations, and uncertain w^he- 
 ther it be land or not. She was conscious Jas- 
 per’s eye was on hers, though her own was down- 
 cast. She longed to escape from that burning 
 glance, and was relieved by a bustle in the next 
 room, and her two little sisters running in, one 
 holding up a long curling tress of her own beau- 
 tiful hair, and crying out, “ Did not you give this 
 to me, Bessie ?” 
 
 “ Is not it mine ?” said the competitor. 
 
 “No, it is minel” exclaimed Jasper, snatch- 
 ing it, and holding it beyond their reach. 
 
 The girls laughed, and were endeavouring to 
 regain it, when he slipped a ring from his finger, 
 and set it rolling on the floor, saying, “ The hair 
 is mine — the ring belongs to whoever gets it.” 
 The ring, obedient to the impulse he gave it, 
 rolled out of the room ; the children eagerly fol- 
 lowed ; he shut the door after them, and repeated, 
 kissing the lock of hair, “ It is mine — is it 
 not?” 
 
 “Oh, no— no, Jasper! — give it to me,” cried 
 Bessie, excessively canfused. 
 
 “ You will not give it to me! Well, ‘a fair 
 exchange is no robbery,’ ” and taking the scissors 
 from Bessie’s workbox, he cut off one of his own 
 luxuriant dark locks, and offered it to her. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “That is unkind — most unfriendly, Bessie.” 
 He paused a moment, and then (still holding both 
 locks) he extended the ends to Bessie, and asked 
 her if she could tie a true love knot. Bessie’s 
 heart was throbbing ; she was frightened at her 
 own emotion ; she was afraid of betraying it ; 
 and she tied the knot as the natural thing for her 
 to do. 
 
 “ There is but one altar for such a sacrifice as 
 this,” said Meredith, and he was putting it into 
 his bosom, when Bessie snatched it from him, burst 
 into tears, and left the room. 
 
 {■ After this there was a change in Bessie’s man- 
 ners ; her spirits became unequal, she was nervous 
 and restless. Meredith, in the presence of ob- 
 servers, was measured and cautious to the last 
 degree in his attentions to her. When, however, 
 they were alone together, though not a sentence 
 might be uttered that a lawyer could have tortured 
 into a special plea, yet his words w'ere fraught 
 with looks and tones which carried them to poor 
 
 Bessie’s heart with a power that cannot be ima- 
 gined by those 
 
 Who have ceased to hear such, or ne’er heard* 
 
 It was about this period that Meredith wrote 
 the following reply to a letter from his mother 
 
 “ You say, my dear madam, that you have heard 
 ‘ certain reports about me which you are not willing 
 to believe, and yet cannot utterly discredit.’ You 
 say also, ‘ that though you should revolt with hor- 
 ror from sanctioning your son in these liaisons 
 that are advised by Lord Chesterfield and others 
 of your friends, yet you see no harm in’ lover-like 
 attentions ‘ to young persons in inferior stations ; 
 they serve,’ you add, ‘ to keep alive and cultivate 
 that delicate finesse so essential to the success of a 
 man of the world, and, provided they have no im- 
 moral purpose, are quite innocent,’ as the object 
 of them must know there is an ‘ impassable gulf 
 between her and her superiors in rank, and is 
 therefore responsible for her mistakes.' I have 
 been thus particular in echoing your words that I 
 may assure you my conduct is in conformity to 
 their letter and spirit. Tranquillise yourself, my 
 dear madam. There is nothing in any little 
 fooleries I may be indulging in to disquiet you for 
 a moment. The person in question is a divine ' 
 little creature — quite a prodigy for this part of the 
 world, where she lives in a seclusion almost equal 
 to that of Prospero’s isle ; so that your humble 
 servant, being scarcely more than the ‘ third man 
 that e'er she saw, it would not be to marvel at 
 ‘ if he should be the first that e’er she loved ;’ and 
 if I am, it is my destiny ; my conscience is quite 
 easy — I never have committed myself, nor never 
 shall : time and absence will soon dissipate her 
 illusions. She is an unaspiring little person, quite 
 aw’are of the gulf, as you call it, between us. ^ She 
 believes that even if I were lover and hero enough, 
 to play the Leander and swim it, my destiny is 
 fixed on the other side. I have no distrust of 
 myself, and I beg you will have none. I am saved 
 from all responsibility as to involving the happiness 
 of this lily of the valley, by her very clear-sighted 
 mother and her sage of a brother, her natural guar- 
 dians. 
 
 “ It is yet problematical whether, as you sup- 
 posed, a certain lady’s fortune will be made by the 
 apostacy of her disinherited brother. If the rebels 
 win the day, the property of the tories will be con- 
 fiscated, or transferred to the rebel heir. But all 
 that is in futuro — Fortune is a fickle goddess ; we 
 can only be sure of her present favours, and de- 
 serve the future by our devotion. 
 
 “With profound gratitude and affection, 
 
 “ Yours, my dear mother, 
 
 “ J. Meredith, 
 
 “ P. S.— My w’armest thanks for the inestimable 
 box, which escaped the sea and land harpies, and 
 came safe to hand. The Artois buckle is a chef 
 d'oeuvre, worthy the inventive genius of the royal 
 count, whose taste rules the civilised world. The 
 scarlet frock-coat, with its unimitated (if not ini- 
 mitable) capes, ‘ does credit (as friend Rivington 
 would say in one of his flash advertisements) to 
 the most elegant operator of Leicester-fields.’ I 
 must reserve it till I go to New York, where they 
 always take the lead in this sort of civilisation— 
 the boys would mob me if I w’ore it in Boston. 
 The umbrella (a rare invention) is a curiosity here. 
 
THfi tlNWOODS. 
 
 1 understand tkey have been introduced into New 
 York by the British officers. Novelty as it is, I 
 venture to spread it here, as its utility commends 
 it to these rationalists, who reason about an ar- 
 ticle of dress as they would concerning an article 
 of faith. 
 
 “ Once more, your devoted son, 
 
 “M.” 
 
 Meredith’s conscience was easy. “ He had not 
 committed himself.” Ah, let man beware how he 
 wilfully or carelessly perverts and blinds God’s 
 vicegerent, conscience. 
 
 Meredith was suddenly recalled to New York, 
 and Bessie Lee was left to ponder on the past, and 
 weave the future of shattered faith and blighted 
 hopes. The scales fell too late from the eyes of 
 her mother and brother. They reproached them- 
 selves, but never poor Bessie. They hoped that 
 time, operating on her gentle, unresisting temper, 
 would restore her serenity. She, like a stricken 
 deer, took refuge under the shadow of their love ; 
 she was too affectionate, too generous, to resign 
 herself to wretchedness without an effort. She 
 wasted her strength in concealing the wound that 
 rankled at her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I, considering how honour would become such a 
 person, was pleased to let him seek danger where he 
 was like to find fame. ShaJcspeare. 
 
 Another sorrow soon overtook poor Bessie ; but 
 now she had a right to feel, and might express all 
 she felt, and look full in the face of her friends for 
 sympathy, for they shared the burden with her. 
 
 In the year 1778 letters were sent by General 
 Washington to the governors of the several states, 
 earnestly entreating them to reinforce the army. 
 The urgency of this call was acknowledged by 
 every patriotic individual, and never did heart 
 more joyously leap than Eliot Lee’s when his mo- 
 ther said to him — ‘‘ My son, I have long had mis- 
 givings about keeping you at home, but last night, 
 after reading the general’s letter, I could not sleep 
 — I felt for him, for the country ; my conscience 
 told me you ought to go, Eliot ; even the images 
 of the children, for whose sake only I have thought 
 it right you should stay with us, rose up against 
 me : we should pay our portion for the privileges 
 they are to enjoy. I have made up my mind to 
 it, and on my knees I have given you to my coun- 
 try. The widow’s son,” she continued, clearing 
 her voice, “is something more than the widow’s 
 mite, Eliot ; but 1 have given you up, and now I 
 have done with feelings — nothing is to be said or 
 thought of but how we shall soonest and best get 
 you ready.” 
 
 Eliot was deeply affected by his mother’s deci- 
 sion, voluntary and unasked ; but he did not ex- 
 press his satisfaction, his delight, till he ascertained 
 that she had well considered the amount of the 
 sacrifice and was willing to meet it. Then he 
 confessed that nothing but a controlling sense of 
 his filial duty had enabled him to endure loitering 
 at the fireside when his country needed the aid he 
 , withheld. 
 
 The decision made, no time was lost. Letters 
 
 17 
 
 were obtained from the best sources to General 
 Washington, and in less than a week Eliot was 
 ready for his departure. 
 
 It was a transparent morning, late in autumn» 
 in bleak, wild, fitful, poetic November. The vault 
 of heaven was spotless ; a purple light danced 
 over the mountain summits ; the mist was con- 
 densed in the hollows of the hills, and wound 
 round them like drapery of silver tissue. The 
 smokes from the village chimneys ascended through 
 the clear atmosphere in straight columns ; the 
 trees on the mountains, banded together, still pre- 
 served a portion of their summer wealth, though 
 now faded to dun and dull orange, marked and 
 set off by the surrounding evergreens. Here and 
 there a solitary elm stood bravely up against the 
 sky, every limb, every stem defined — a naked 
 form , showing the beautiful symmetry that had 
 made its summer garments hang so gracefully. 
 Fruits and flowers, even the hardy ones that 
 venture on the frontiers of winter, had disap- 
 peared from the gardens ; the seeds had dropped 
 from their cups ; the grass of the turf border was 
 dank and matted down ; all nature was stamped 
 with the signet seal of autumn — memory and 
 hope. Eliot had performed the last provident 
 offices for his mother; every thing about her 
 cheerful dwelling had the look of being kindly 
 cared for. The strawberry-beds were covered, 
 the raspberries neatly trimmed out, the earth well 
 spaded and freshly turned ; no gate was off its 
 hinges, no fence down, no window unglazed, no 
 crac V unstopped. 
 
 A fine black saddle horse, well equipped, was at 
 the door. Little Fanny Lee stood by him, patting 
 him, and laying her head, with its shining flaxen 
 locks, to his side — “ Rover,” she said, with a 
 trembling voice, “ be a good Rover — won’t you? 
 and when the naughty regulars come, canter off 
 with Eliot as fast as you can.” 
 
 “ Hey! that’s fine!” retorted her brother, a 
 year younger than herself. “ No, no. Rover, 
 canter up to them, and over them, and never dare 
 to canter back here if you turn tail on them, 
 Rover.” 
 
 “ Oh, Sam ! how awful ; would you have Eliot 
 killed?” 
 
 “ No, indee 1, but I had rather he’d come deused 
 near it than to have him a coward.” 
 
 “ Don’t talk so loud, Sam — Bessie will hear 
 you.” 
 
 But the young belligerent was not to be si- 
 lenced. He threw open the “ dwelling-room” door, 
 to appeal to Eliot himself. The half-uttered sen- 
 tence died away on his lips. He entered the 
 apartment, Fanny followed ; they gently closed 
 the door, drew their footstools to Eliot’s feet, and 
 qu’etly sat down there. How instinctive is the 
 sympathy of children! how plain and yet how de- 
 licate its manifestations I 
 
 Bessie was sitting beside her brother, her head 
 on his shoulder, and crying as if her heart went 
 out with every sob. The youngest boy, Hal, sat on 
 Eliot’s knee, with one arm around his neck, his 
 cheek lying on Bessie’s, dropping tear after tear, 
 sighing, and half-wondering why it was so. 
 
 The good mother had arrived at that age when 
 grief rather congeals the spirit than melts it. 
 Her lips were compressed, her eyes tearless, and 
 her movements tremulous. She was busying her- 
 self in the last offices, doing up parcels, taking 
 last stitches, and performing those services that 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 18 
 
 seem to have been assigned to women as safety- 
 valves for their effervescing feelings. 
 
 A neat table was spread with ham, bread, 
 sweetmeats, cakes, and every delicacy the house 
 afforded — all were untasted. Not a word was 
 heard except such broken sentences as “ Come, 
 Bessie, I will promise to be good if you will to be 
 happy r’ 
 
 “ Eliot, how easy for you — how impossible for 
 me !” 
 
 “ Dear Bessie, do be firmer, for mother’s sake. 
 For ever 1 oh no, my dear sister, it will not be 
 very long before I return to you ; and while I am 
 gone, you must be every thing to mother.” 
 
 “ 1 ! I never was good for any thing, Eliot — and 
 now — ” 
 
 “ Bessie, my dear child, hush — you have been 
 — you always will be a blessing to me. Don't put 
 any anxious thoughts into Eliot’s mind — we shall 
 do very well without him.” 
 
 “ Noble, disinterested mother I’’ trembled on 
 Eliot’s lips ; but he suppressed words that might 
 imply reproach to Bessie. 
 
 The sacred scene was now broken in upon by 
 some well-meaning but untimely visitors. Eliot’s 
 approaching departure had created a sensation in 
 Westbrook ; the good people of that rustic place 
 not having arrived at the refined stage in the pro- 
 gress of society, when emotion and fellow feeling 
 are not expressed, or expressed only by certain 
 conventional forms. First entered Master Hale, 
 with Miss Sally Ryal. Master Hale ” hoped it 
 was no intrusion and Miss Sally answered, “ by 
 no means ; she had come to lend a helping hand, 
 and not to intrude” — whereupon she bustled about, 
 helped herself and her companion to chairs, and 
 unsettled everybody else in the room. Mrs. Lee 
 assumed a more tranquil mien ; poor Bessie sup- 
 pressed her sobs, and withdrew to a window, and 
 Eliot tried to look composed and manly. The 
 children, like springs relieved from a pressure, 
 reverted to their natural state, dashed off their 
 tears, and began whispering among themselves. 
 Miss Sally produced from her workbag a com- 
 forter for Mr. Eliot, of her own knitting, which 
 she ” trusted would keep out the cold and rheu- 
 matism:” and she was kindly showing him how 
 to adjust it when she spied a chain of braided hair 
 around his neck — ” Ah, ha, J\Jr. Eliot, a love 
 token!” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Yes, it is,” said little Fanny, who was 
 watching her proceedings; ” Bessie and I cut 
 locks of hair from all the children’s heads and 
 mother’s, and braided it for him; and! guess it 
 will warm his bosom more than your comforter 
 will. Miss Sally.” 
 
 It was evident, from the look of ineffable ten- 
 derness Eliot turned on Fanny, that he ” guessed” 
 so too ; but he nevertheless received the com- 
 forter graciously, hinting, that a lady who had 
 been able to protect her own bosom from the most 
 subtle enemy, must know how to defend another's 
 from common assaults. Miss Sally hemmed, 
 looked at Master Hale, muttered something of 
 her not always having been invulnerable ; and 
 finally succeeded in recalling to Eliot’s recollection 
 a tradition of a love-passage between Miss Sally 
 and the pedagogue. 
 
 A little girl now came trotting in, with 
 
 grandmother’s love, and a phial of her mixture 
 for Mr. Eliot — good against camp-distemper and 
 like.” 
 
 Eliot received the mixture as if he had all 
 grandmother’s faith in it, slipped a bright shilling 
 into the child’s hand for a keepsake, kissed her 
 rosy cheek, and set her down with the children. 
 
 Visitors now began to throng. One man in a 
 green old age, who had lust a leg at Bunker’s 
 Hill, came hobbling in, and clapping Eliot on the 
 shoulder, said, ” This is you, my boy ! This is 
 what I wanted to see your father’s son a doing: 
 I’d go too, if the rascals had left me both my legs. 
 Cheer up, widow, and thank the Lord you’ve got 
 such a son to offer up to your country — the richer the 
 gift, the better the giver, you know ; but I don’t 
 wonder you feel kind o’ qualmish at the thoughts 
 of losing the lad. Come, Master Hale, can t you 
 say something ? A little bit of Greek, or Latin, 
 or ’most any thing, to keep up their sperits at the 
 last gasp, as it were.” 
 
 “ I was just going to observe. Major Avery, to 
 Mrs Lee, respecting our esteemed young friend, 
 Mr. Eliot, that I, who have known him from the 
 beginning, as it were, having taught him his al- 
 phabet, which may be said to be the first round of 
 the ladder of learning (which he has mounted by 
 my help), or rather (if you will allow me, ma’am, 
 to mend my figure) the poles that support all the 
 rounds ; having had, as I observed, a primordial 
 acquaintance with him, I can testify that he is 
 worthy every honourable adjective in the language, 
 and we have every reason to hope that his future 
 tense will be as perfect as his past.” 
 
 ‘‘ 'Wheugh !” exclaimed the major, “ a pretty long 
 march you have had through that speech 1” 
 
 The good schoolmaster, quite unruffled, pro- 
 ceeded to offer Eliot a time-worn Virgil ; and 
 finished by expressing his hopes that “ he would 
 imitate Caesar in maintaining his studies in the 
 camp, and keep the scholar even-handed with the 
 soldier.” 
 
 Eliot charmed the old pedagogue, by assuring 
 him that he should be more apt at imitating 
 Cmsar’s studies than his soldiership, and himself 
 bestowed Virgil in his portmanteau. 
 
 A good lady now stepped forth, and seeming 
 somewhat scandalised that, as she said, “ no 
 serious truth had been spoken at this peculiar 
 season,” she concluded a technical exhortation 
 by giving Eliot a pair of stockings, into which she 
 had wrought St. Paul’s description of the gospel 
 armour. ” The Scripture,” she feared, ” did not 
 often find its way to the camp ; and she thought 
 a passage might be blessed, as a single kernel of 
 wheat, even sowed among tares, sometimes pro- 
 duced its like.” 
 
 Eliot thanked her, and said “it was impossible 
 to have too much of the best thing in the world ; 
 but he hoped she would have less solicitude about 
 him, when he assured her that his mother had 
 found a place for a pocket Bible in his portman- 
 teau.’’ 
 
 A meek-looking creature now stole up to Mrs. 
 Lee, and putting a roll of closely-compressed lint 
 into her hand, said, “ tuck it in with his things. 
 Miss Lee. Don’t let it scare you — I trust he will 
 dress other people’s wounds, not his own, with it. 
 My 1 that will come natural to him. It’s made 
 from the shirt Mr. Eliot stripped from himself, 
 and tore into bandages for my poor Sam, that 
 time he was scalt. Mr. Eliot was a boy then, 
 but he has the same heart now.’’ 
 
 Mrs. Lee dropped a tear on the lint, as she 
 stowed it away in the closely packed portmanteau* 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 There comes crazy Anny!” exclaimed the 
 ^ildren ; and a ^oman appeared at the door, 
 scarcely past middle age, carrying in her hand a 
 pole, on which she had tied thirteen strips of cloth 
 of every colour, and stuck them over with white 
 paper stars. Her face was pale and weather-worn, 
 and her eye sunken, but brilliant with the wild 
 flashing light that marks insanity. The moment 
 her eye fell on Eliot, her imagination was excited 
 “ Glory to the Lord!” she cried — ” glory to the 
 Lord I A leader hath come forth from among my 
 people ! Go on, Eliot Lee, and we will gird thee 
 about with the prayers of the widow, and the 
 blessing of the childless ! This is comfort ! But 
 you could not comfort me, Eliot Lee, though you 
 spoke like an angel that time you was sent to me 
 with the news the boys was shot. I remember you 
 shed tears, and it seemed to me there was a hissing 
 in here (she put her hand on her head) as they fell. 
 My eyes were dry — I did not shed one tear, though 
 the doctor bid me, I cried them all out when 
 he (she advanced to Eliot, and lowered her 
 ■voice), the grand officer in the reg’lars, you 
 know, decoyed away my poor Susy, the prettiest 
 and kindest creature that ever went into West- 
 brook meeting ; fair as Bessie Lee, and far more 
 plump and rosy — to be sure Susy was but a 
 servant- girl, but — ” she raised her voice to a 
 shriek, “ I shall never lay down my head in 
 peace till they are all driven into the salt sea, 
 where my Susy was buried.” 
 
 “We’ll drive them all there,” said Eliot, 
 soothingly, laying his hand on her arm — ” every 
 mother’s son of them, Anny — now be quiet, and 
 go home, Anny.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir— thank you, sir, — yes, sir I” said 
 she, calmed and courtesying again and again — 
 “oh, I forgot, Mr. Eliot 1” she drew from her 
 bosom an old rag, in which she had tied some 
 kernels of butternuts — ” give my duty to General 
 Washington, and give him these butternut 
 meats — it’s all I have to send him — I did give 
 him my best— they were nice boys for all — 
 wer’n’t they. Bob and Pete?” And whimpering 
 and trailing her banner after her, the poor bereft 
 creature left the house. 
 
 A loud official rap was heard at the door, and 
 immediately recognised as the signal of the mi- 
 nister’s approach. We must claim indulgence 
 while we linger for a moment with this reverend 
 divine, for the race of which he was an honoured 
 member is fast disappearing from our land. 
 Peace be with them ! Ill would they have 
 brooked these days of unquestioned equality of 
 rights, of anti- monopolies, of free publishing and 
 freer thinking, of universal sufirage, of steam- 
 engines, railroads, and spinning jennies, — all in- 
 direct contrivances to raze those fortunate 
 eminence.*^, by mounting which little men became 
 great, and lorded it over their fellows : but peace 
 be with them 1 How should they have known 
 (tiU it began to tremble under them) that the 
 height on which they stood was an artificial, not 
 a natural elevation. They preached equality in 
 heaven, but little thought it was the kingdom 
 to come on earth. They were the electric chain, 
 unconscious of the celestial fire they transmitted. 
 
 We would give them honour due ; and to them 
 belongs the honour of having been the zealous 
 champions of their country’s cause, and of having 
 fought bravely with the weapons of the church 
 militant. 
 
 Our good parson Wilson was an Apollo ” ia 
 little ;” being not more than five feet four in 
 height, and perfectly well made, — a fact of which, 
 he betrayed the consciousness, by the exact ad- 
 justment of every article of his apparel, even ta 
 his long blue yarn stockings, drawn over the knee, 
 and kept sleek by the well-turned leg, withou- 
 the aid of garters. On entering Mrs. Lee’s part 
 lour, he gave his three-cornered hat, gold- headed 
 cane, and buck skin- gloves to little Fanny, who, 
 with the rest of the children, had at his approach 
 slunk into a corner (they needed not, for never 
 was there a kinder heart than Parson Wilson’s, 
 though somewhat in the position of vitality en- 
 closed in a petrefaction), and then giving a general 
 bow to the company, he went to the glass, took a 
 comb from his waistcoat-pocket, and smoothed 
 his hair to an equatorial line around his fore- 
 head; he then crossed the room to Mrs. Lee with 
 some commonplace consolation on his lips ; but 
 the face of the mother spoke too eloquently, and 
 he was compelled to turn away, wipe his eyes, 
 and clear his throat, before he could recover his 
 official composure. “ Mr. Eliot,” he then began, 
 “though a minister of the gospel of peace, T 
 heartily approve your going forth in the present 
 warfare, for surely it is lawful to defend that 
 which is our own ; no man has a right to that for 
 which he did not labour ; to cities which he built 
 not ; to olive-yards and vineyards which he planted 
 not.” 
 
 “I don’t know about olive- yards and vine- 
 yards,” interposed the major, “ never having 
 seen such things; but I’m thinking we can eat 
 our corn and potatoes without their help that 
 have neither planted nor gathered them.” 
 
 The parson gave an acquiescent nod to the 
 major’s emendation of his text, and proceeded : 
 “ I have wished, my young friend, to strengthen 
 you in the righteous cause in which you are taking 
 up arms; and, to that end, besides the prayers 
 which I shall daily offer for you and yours at the 
 throne of divine grace, I have made up a book for 
 you (here he tendered a package, large enough to 
 fill half the portmanteau of our equestrian tra- 
 veller,) consisting of extracts selected from three 
 thousand eight hundred and ninety- seven sermons, 
 preached on the Sabbaths throughout my ministry 
 of forty-eight years, besides occasional discourses 
 for peace and war, thanksgivings and fasts, asso- 
 ciations and funerals. As you will often be out 
 of reach of preaching privileges, I have provided 
 here a word in season for every occasion, which I 
 trust you may fiud both teaching and refreshing 
 after a weary day’s service.” 
 
 Eliot received the treasure with suitable expres- 
 sions of gratitude. The good man continued 
 “I could not, my friends, do this for another; 
 but you know that, speaking after the manner of 
 men, we look upon this dear youth as the pride 
 and glory of our society.” 
 
 “Aod I’m thinking, reverend sir,” said the 
 major, with that tone of familiarity authorised by 
 age (but stared at by the children), “ I’m thinking 
 you’ll not be called on again for a like service ; for 
 after Eliot Lee is gone, there’s not another what 
 you can raly call a man in the parish. To begin 
 with yourself, reverend sir ; you’ve never been a 
 fighting character, which I take to be, humanly 
 speaking, a necessary part of a man ; then there’s 
 myself, minus a leg ; and Master Hale here, who 
 — I respect you for all. Master Hale — never was 
 
20 the novel 
 
 born to be handy with a smarter weapon than a 
 ferule ; then comes blind Billy, and limping 
 Harris, and to bring up the rear, Deacon Allen 
 and the doctor.” Here the major chuckled: 
 
 They both say they would join the army if ’twas 
 not as it is ; but they have been dreadfully near- 
 sighted since the war broke out. That’s all of 
 ‘mankind,’ as you may say, that’s left in the 
 bounds of Westbrook. Ob, I forgot Kisel — poor 
 Kisel! Truly, he seems to have been made up of 
 leavings. Kisel would not make a bad soldier 
 cither, if it were one crack and done. He is brave 
 at a go off, but he can’t bear the sight o’ blood ; 
 and if he shoots as crooked as he talks, he’d be as 
 like to shoot himself as any body else. But some- 
 times the fellow’s tongue does hit the mark in a 
 kind of providential manner. By the Lor — 
 Jiminy, I mean! there he comes, on Granny 
 Larkin’s colt 1” 
 
 The person in question now halted before Mrs. 
 Lee’s door, mounted on an unbroken, ragged, 
 party-coloured animal, such as is called in country 
 phrase, “ a wishing horse,” evidently equipped for 
 travelling. His bridle was compounded of alter- 
 nate bits of rope and leather; a sheepskin served 
 him for a saddle, behind which hung on either side 
 a meal-bag, filled with all his worldly substance. 
 His own costume was in keeping; an over gar- 
 ment, made of an old blanket, a sort of long 
 roundabout, was fastened at the waist with a 
 wampum belt, which, tied in many a fantastical 
 knot, dangled below his knees ; his under-gar- 
 ments were a pair of holiday leather breeches, 
 and yarn stockings of deep red ; a conical cap, 
 composed of alternate bits of scarlet and blue 
 cloth, covered his head, and was drawn close over 
 hisejebrows. Nature had reduced his brow to the 
 narrowest p-ecincts ; his face was concave ; his 
 eyes sparkling, and in incessant motion; his nose 
 thin and sharp ; a pale, clean-looking skin, and a 
 mouth with more of the characteristics of the 
 brute than the human animal, complete the por- 
 trait of Kisel, who, leaping like a cat from his 
 horse, appeared at the door, screaming out, in a 
 cracked voice, “ Ready, Misser Eliot ?” 
 
 While all were exchanging inquiring glances, 
 and the children whispering, ” Hush, Kisel — 
 don’t you see Dr. Wilson?” Eliot, who compre- 
 hended the strange apparition at a glance, came 
 forward and said — 
 
 “No, Kisel; I am not ready.” 
 
 “Well, well — ail same — Kisel can wait, and 
 Beauty too — hey !” 
 
 “No, no, Kisel,” replied Eliot, kindly taking 
 the lad’s hand, “ you must not wait — you must 
 give this up, my good fellow.” 
 
 “Give it up! — Diddle me if I do — no, I told 
 you that all the devils and angels to bargain should 
 not stop me, no — you go, I go, — that’s it, hey !” 
 
 Here Major Avery, who sat near the door, his 
 mouth wide open with amazement, burst into a 
 hoarse laugh, at which Kisel, his eyes flashing 
 fire, gave him a smart switch with his riding whip 
 (a willow wand) over the face. The good- 
 humoured man, deeming the poor lad no subject 
 for resentment, passed his hand over his face as if 
 a musquito had stung him, saying — “ Well, now, 
 Kisel, that was not fair, ray boy; I was only 
 smiling that such a harlequin looking thing as you 
 should think of being waiter to Mr. Eliot. He 
 might as well take a bat, or a woodpecker.’’ 
 
 Eliot did not need his poor friend should be 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 placed in this ludicrous aspect to strengthen the 
 decision which he had already expressed to him : 
 and drawing him aside beyond the irritation of the 
 major’s gibes, he said — “ It is impossible, Kisel— 
 I cannot consent to your going with me.” 
 
 “Can’t, hey! can’t! can’t!” — and for a few 
 moments the poor fellow hung his head, whimper- 
 ing ; then suddenly elevating it, he cried, “ Then 
 I go ’out consent — I go, anyhow ;’’ and springing 
 back to the door, he called out — “ Miss Lee, hear 
 me — Miss Bessie, you too, and you, Parson Wil- 
 son, for I speak gospel. When I boy, all boys 
 laugh at me, knock me here, kick there — who took 
 my part? — Misser Eliot, hey! When they tied 
 me to old Roan, Beauty’s mother, head to tail, 
 who licked the whole tote of ’em ? — Misser Eliot. 
 I sick, nobody care I live or die — Misser Eliot stay 
 by me all night. When every body laugh at me, 
 plague me, hate me, I wish me dead, Misser Eliot 
 talk to me, make me feel good, glad, make me 
 warm here.’’ He laid his hand on his bosom — 
 “He gone, I can’t live ! — but I’ll follow him — I'll 
 be his dog, fetch, carry, lay down at his feet, 
 S’pose he sick, Miss Lee ? every body say I good in 
 sickness — S’pose, Miss Bessie, he lie on the 
 ground, bleeding, horses trampling, soldiers flying, 
 hey! — I bind him up, bring water, carry him in 
 my arms — if he die, 1 die too !” 
 
 The picture Kisel rudely sketched struck the 
 imaginations of mother and daughter. They 
 knew his devotion to Eiiot, and that in emer- 
 gencies he had gleams of shrewdness that seemed 
 supernatural. They were too much absorbed 
 in serious emotions to be susceptible of the ludi- 
 crous ; and both joined in earnestly entreating 
 Eliot not to oppose Kisel’s wishes. Dr. Wilson 
 supported their intercession by remarking, “ that 
 it seemed quite providential he should have been 
 able to prepare for such an expedition.” The 
 major took off the edge of this argument by 
 communicating what he had hastily ascertained, 
 that Kisel had bartered away his patrimony 
 for “ Granny Larkin’s” wishing horse, yclept 
 Beauty ; but he added two suggestions that had 
 much force with Eliot, particularly the last, for if 
 there was a virtue that had supremacy in his well- 
 ordered character, it was humanity. “The lad, 
 Mr. Lee,” he said, “ may be of use after all. It 
 takes a great many sorts of folks to make a world, 
 and so to ranke up an army. There’s a lack of 
 hands in camp, and his may come in play. Kisel 
 is keen at a sudden call ; and besides,” he added, 
 in a lower voice to Eliot, “it’s true what the 
 creatur says, when you are gone he’ll be good for 
 nothing — like a vine when the tree it clung to is 
 removed, withering on the ground. Say you’ll 
 take him, and well rig him out according to 
 Gunter.” 
 
 Thus beset, Eliot consented to what half an hour 
 before had appeared to him absurd ; and the major 
 bestirring himself, from his own and Mrs. Lee’s 
 stores, soon rectified Kisel’s equipment in all im- 
 portant particulars, to suit either the honourable 
 character of volunteer soldier orvolunteer attend- 
 ant on Mr. Eliot Lee. This done, nothing re- 
 mained but the customary devotional service, still 
 performed by the village pastor on all extraordinary 
 occasions. On this Dr. Wilson’s feelings over- 
 powered his technicalities. His prayer, sublimed 
 by the touching language of Scripture, melted the 
 coldest heart, and raised the most dejected. After 
 bestowing their farewell blessing the neighbours 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 withdrew, all treasuring in their hearts some last 
 word of kindness from Eliot Lee, long remembered 
 and often referred to. 
 
 The family were now left to a sacred service 
 more informal, and far more intensely felt. Eliot, 
 locking his mother and sister in his arms, and the 
 little ones gathered around him, with manly faith 
 commended them to God their Father; and re- 
 ceiving their last embraces, sprang on to his horse, 
 conscious of nothing but confused sensations of 
 grief, till having passed far beyond the bounds of 
 Westbrook, he heard his companion lightly sing- 
 ing — “ I cries for nobody, and nobody cries for 
 Kisel !” 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I do not, brother, 
 
 Infer, as I thought ray sister’s state 
 Secure without all doubt or controversy; 
 
 Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear 
 Daes arbitrate the event, my nature is, 
 
 That I incline to hope rather than fear. 
 
 Millon. 
 
 Eliot Lee to Ms Mother 
 
 “ Town, 1778. 
 
 I have arrived thus far, my dear mother, on 
 my journey ; and according to my promise, am 
 beginning the correspondence which is to soften 
 our separation. 
 
 “My spirits have been heavy. My anxious 
 thoughts lingered with you, brooded over dear 
 Bessie and the little troop, and dwelt on our home 
 affairs. 
 
 “I feared Harris would neglect the thrashing, 
 and the wheat might not turn out as well as we 
 hoped ; that the major might forget his promise 
 about the husking bee; that the pumpkins might 
 freeze in the loft ( pray have them brought down 
 — I forgot it) ; that the cows might fail sooner 
 than you expected ; that the sheep might torment 
 you. In short, dear mother, the grief of parting 
 seemed to spread its shadows far and wide. If 
 Master Hale could have penetrated my mental 
 processes he would have deemed his last admo- 
 nition, to deport myself in thought, word, and 
 deed, like a scholar, a soldier, and a gentleman, 
 quite lost upon me. I was an anxious wretch, 
 and nothing else. Poor Kisel did not serve as a 
 trantjuilliser. His light wits were throwing off 
 their fermentation in whistling, laughing, and so- 
 liloquising ; and this, with Beauty's shambling 
 gait, neither trot, canter, nor pace, but something 
 compounded of all, irritated my nerves. Never 
 were horse and rider better matched. Together 
 they make a fair centaur; the animal not more 
 than half a horse, and Kisel not more than half a 
 man. There is a ludicrous correspondence between 
 them; neither vicious, but both unbreakable and 
 full of all manner of tricks. 
 
 “ Our land at this moment teems with scenes 
 of moral and poetic interest. We made our first 
 
 atop at the little inn at R . The landlord’s 
 
 son was just setting off to join the quota to be sent 
 from that county. The father, a stout old man, 
 W'as trying to suppress his emotion by bustling 
 about, talking loud, whistling, hemming, and 
 coughing. The mother, her tears dropping like 
 
 21 
 
 rain, was standing at the fire, feeling over and over 
 again the shirts she was airing for the knapsack. 
 ‘ He’s our youngest,’ whispered the old man to 
 me, ‘ and maramy is dreadful tender of him, poor 
 boy !’ Not, mammy alone, thought I, as the old 
 man turned away to brush off his starting tears. 
 The sisters were each putting some love-token, 
 socks, mittens, and nutcakes into the knapsack, 
 which they looked hardy enough to have shoul- 
 dered, while one poor girl sat with her face buried 
 in her handkerchief, weeping most bitterly. The 
 old man patted her on the neck — ‘ Come, Letty, 
 cheer up !’ said he, ‘Joe may never have another 
 chance to fight for his country, and marrying can 
 be done any day in the year.’ He turned to me 
 with an explanatory whisper — ‘ ’Tis tough for all 
 — Joe and Letty are published, and we were to have 
 the wedding thanksgiving evening.’ 
 
 “ All this was rather too much for me to bear in 
 addition to the load already pressing on my heart ; 
 so, without waiting for my horse to be fed, I 
 mounted him and proceeded. 
 
 “ My next stop was in H-— . There the com- 
 pany had mustered on the green in readiness to 
 begin their march. Some infirm old men, a few 
 young mothers with babies in their arms, and all 
 the boys in the town, had gathered for the last 
 farewell. The soldiers were resting on their mus- 
 kets, and the clergyman imploring the benediction 
 of Heaven on their heads. ‘Can England,’ 
 thought I, ‘ hope to subdue a country that sends 
 forth its defenders in such a spirit, with arms of 
 such a temper ?’ Oh, why does she not respect 
 in her children the transmitted character of their 
 fathers ! 
 
 “ I arrived at Mrs. Ashley’s just as the family 
 were sitting down to tea. She and the girls are in 
 fine spirits, having recently received from the 
 colonel accounts of some fortunate skirmishes with 
 the British. The changed aspect of her once 
 sumptuous tea-table at first shocked me ; but ray 
 keen appetite (for the first time in my life, my dear 
 mother, I had fasted all day) quite overcame my 
 sensibilities ; the honest pride with which my pa- 
 triotic hostess told me she had converted all her 
 tablecloths into shirts for her husband’s men, and 
 the complacency with which she commended her 
 sage tea, magnified the virtues of her brown bread 
 and self sweetened sweetmeats, would have given 
 relish to coarser fare more coarsely served. 
 
 “ I have been pondering on the character of our 
 New England people during my ride. The aspect 
 of our society is quiet, and to a cursory observer, 
 it appears tame. We seem to have the plodding, 
 safe, self preserving virtues; to be industrious, 
 frugal, provident, and cautious ; but to want the 
 enthusiasm that gives to life all its poetry and 
 almost all its charms. But it is not so— there is 
 a strong under-current. Let the individual or the 
 people be roused by a motive that approves itself 
 to the reasoning and religious mind, afervid energy, 
 an all-subduing enthusiasm burst forth, not like 
 an accidental and transient conflagration, but ope- 
 rating, like the elements, to great effects, and ir- 
 resistibly. This enthusiasm, this central fire, is 
 now at his height. It not only inflames the elo- 
 quence ofthe orator, kindles the heart of thesoldier, 
 the beacon-lights and strong defences of our land, 
 but it lights the temple of God, and burns on the fa- 
 mily altar. The old man throws away his crutch ; 
 the yeoman 'eaves the plough in the half-turned 
 furrow ; and the loving, quiet matron like you, 
 
THE NOVfiL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 221 
 
 my dear mother, lays aside her domestic anxie- 
 ties, dispenses with her household comforts, and 
 gives the God-speed to her sons to go forth and 
 battle it for their country. The nature of the 
 contest in which we are engaged illustrates my 
 idea. Its sublimity is sometimes obscured by the ex- 
 travagance of party zeal. We have not been goaded 
 to resistance by oppression, nor fretted and chafed, 
 with bits and collars, to madness ; but our sages, 
 bold with the transmitted spirit of freedom, sown 
 at broadcast by our Pilgrim fathers, have reflected 
 on the past and calculated the future ; and coolly 
 estimating the worth of independence and the right 
 ©f self government, are willing to hazard all in the 
 Lope of gaining all ; to sacrifice themselves for the 
 prospective good of their children. This is the 
 dignified resolve of thinking beings, 'not the angry 
 impatience of overburdened animals. 
 
 “ But good night, dear mother. After this I 
 shall have incidents, and not reflections merely, to 
 send you. The pine-knot, by the light of which 
 I have written this, is just flickering its last 
 flame. ‘ I cannot afford you a candle,’ said my 
 good hostess when she bade me good night ; ‘ we 
 sold our tallow to purchase necessaries for the 
 colonel’s men — poor fellows, some of them are yet 
 barefooted ?’ 
 
 “ I shall enclo3e a line to Bessie — perhaps she 
 will show it to you ; but do not ask it of her. Tell 
 dear Fan I shall remember her charge, and give 
 the socks she knit to the first ‘ barefooted 
 soldier’ I see. Sam must feed Steady for me ; 
 and dear little Hal must continue, as he has be- 
 gan, to couple brother Eliot with the ‘poor sol- 
 diers’ in his prayers. Again farewell, dear mother. 
 Your little Bible is before me ; my eye rests on the 
 few lines you traced on the title-page ; and as I 
 press my lips to them, they inspire holy resolu- 
 tions. God grant I may not mistake their fresh- 
 ness for vigour. What I may be is uncertain ; 
 but I shall ever remain, as I am now, dearest mo- 
 ther, “ Your devoted son, 
 
 “ Eliot Lee.” 
 
 Eliot found his letter to his sister a difficult 
 task. He was to treat a malady, the existence of 
 which the patient had never acknowledged to him. 
 He wrote, effaced, and re-wrote, and finally sent 
 the following : — 
 
 “ My sweet sister Bessie, nothing has afflicted 
 me so much in leaving home as parting from you. 
 I am inclined to believe there can be no stronger 
 nor tenderer affection than that of brother and 
 sister ; the sense of protection on one part, and 
 dependence on the other ; the sweet recollections 
 of childhood ; the unity of interest ; and the com- 
 munion of memory and hope, blend their hearts 
 together into one existence. So it is with us — is 
 it not, my dear sister ? With me, certainly ; for 
 though like most young men, I have had my fan- 
 cies, they have passed by like a summer breeze, 
 and left no trace of their passage. All the love, 
 liking (I cannot find a word to express the essen- 
 tial volatility of the sentiment in my experience of 
 it) that 1 have ever felt for all my favourites, 
 brown and fair, does not amount to one thou- 
 sandth part of the immutable affection that I bear 
 you, my dear sister. I speak only of my own ex- 
 perience, Bessie, and, as I well know, against the 
 faith of the world. I should be told that ray 
 fraternal love would pale in the fires of another pas- 
 sion, as does a lamp at the shining of the sun ; but 
 
 I don’t believe a word of it — do you, Bessie ? I am 
 not, my dear sister, playing the inquisitor with 
 you, but fearfully and awkwardly enough approach- 
 ing a subject on which I thought it would be 
 easier to write than to speak ; but I find it cannot 
 be easy to do that in any mode, which may pain 
 you. 
 
 ” I have neglected the duty I owed you; and 
 yet, perhaps, no vigilance could have prevented 
 the natural consequence of your intercourse with 
 one of the most ffiscinating men in the world. 
 There, it is out 1 — and now I can write freely. I 
 said I had neglected my duty ; but 1 was not con- 
 scious of this till too late. The truth is, my mind 
 has been so engrossed with political subjects, so 
 harassed with importunate cravings, and conflict- 
 ing duties, that 1 was for a long time unobservant 
 of what was passing under my eye. I awoke a& 
 from a dream, and found (or feared) that my sis- 
 ter’s happiness was at stake ; that she had given,, 
 and given to one unworthy, the irrequitable boon 
 of her affection; irrequitable, but, thank Heaven, 
 not irrecoverable. No, I do not believe one word’ 
 of all the trumpery about incurable love. I will 
 not adopt a faith, however old and prevailing, 
 which calls in question our moral power to achieve 
 any conquest over ourselves. For my own part, 
 
 I do not think we have any power over our affec- 
 tions to give or withdraw them, or even to mea- 
 sure their amount. This may seem a startling 
 assertion, and contradictory of what 1 have said 
 above ; but it is not. The sentiment I there al- 
 luded to is generated by accidental circumstances, 
 is half illusion, unsustained by reason, unau- 
 thorised by realities — not the immortal love in- 
 fused by Heaven and sustained by truth ; but a 
 disease very mortal and very curable, dear Bessie, 
 believe me. Such a mind as yours, so pure, so 
 elevated, has a self-rectifying power. You have 
 felt the influence of the delightful qualities which 
 
 M undoubtedly possesses ; and why should 
 
 you not, for who is more susceptible to grace 
 and refinement than yourself? Heaven has so 
 arranged the relations of affections and qualities, 
 that, as I have said above, we can neither give 
 nor withhold our love — the heart has no tenants 
 at will. If M has assumed, or you have im- 
 
 puted to him, qualities which he does not possess, 
 your affection will be dissipated with the illusion. 
 But if the spell still remains unbroken, I entreat 
 you, my dear sister, not to waste your sensibility, 
 the precious food of life, the life of life, in moping 
 melancholy. 
 
 “ ‘ Attach thee firmly (I quote from memory) to tha 
 virtuous deeds 
 
 And offices of love — to love itself, 
 
 With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.’ 
 
 “ I have long had a lurking distrust of M . 
 
 He has acted too cautious a part in politics for a 
 sound heart. Let a man run the risk of hanging 
 for it either way ; but if he have a spark of gene- 
 rosity, he will be either a whole souled whig or a 
 loyal tory in these times. 
 
 ” I know what M has so often reiterated. 
 
 ‘ He had a mother in England; all his friends 
 were on the royal side ; and, on the other hand, 
 his property was here, and might depend on the 
 favour of the rebels; and, indeed, there was so 
 much to be said on both sides, that a man might 
 well pause 1’ There are moments in men’s Lis- 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 tones, when none but cowards or knaves, or (worse 
 than either) cold-blooded, selfish wretches, would 
 pause ! 
 
 “ It is possible that I misjudge him ; Heaven 
 grant it ! All that I know is, that he is in New 
 York, no longer pausing, but the aid of General 
 Clinton. It is barely possible tnat he has written : 
 letters are not transmitted with any security in 
 these times ; but why did he not speak before he 
 went ? why, up to the very hour of his departure 
 (as my mother says, you know I was absent), did 
 he continue a devotion which must end in suffer- 
 ing and disappointment to you ? There is a vicious 
 vanity and selfishness in this, most unmanly and 
 detestable. Do not think, dearest Bessie, that I 
 am anxious to prove him unworthy. Alas, alas ! 
 
 I was far too slow to believe him so ; and I now 
 only set before you these inevitable inferences 
 from his conduct, in the hope that your illusion 
 will soon vanish, and you will the sooner recover 
 your tranquillity. 
 
 “ I am writing without a ray of light, except 
 what comes from the embers on the hearth. Per- 
 haps you v\ill think I am in Egyptian mental dark- 
 ness. No, Bessie, I must be clear-sighted when 
 I have nothing in view but your honour and hap- 
 piness. They shall ever be my care, even more 
 than my own. But why do I separate that which 
 is one and indivisible ? Good night, dear sisier. 
 Let me fancy you listening to me ; your sweet eye 
 fixed on me ; no dejected nor averted look ; your 
 face beaming, as I have often seen it, with the 
 tenderness so dangerous here, so safe in heaven ; 
 the hope so often defeated here, there ever bright- 
 ening; the joy so transient here, there enduring! 
 Let me see this blessed vision, and I shall sleep 
 sweetly, and sweetly dream of home. 
 
 “ Ever thine, Bessie, 
 
 “ E. L,” 
 
 Bessie read her brother’s letter with mixed 
 emotions. At first it called forth tenderness for 
 him; then she thought he judged Meredith preci- 
 pitately, harshly even ; and after confirming 
 herself in this opinion, by thinking of him over 
 and over again in the false lights in which he had 
 shown himself, she said, “ Even Eliot allov/s that 
 we can neither give nor withhold our love ; then 
 how is Jasper to blame for not giving it to one so 
 humble, so inferior as I am? and how could 1 with- 
 hold mine ?” Poor Bessie ! it is a common trick of 
 human nature to snatch from an argument what- 
 ever coincides with our ov/n views, and leave the 
 rest. “ If,” she continued in her reflections, “ he 
 had ever made any declarations, or asked any con- 
 fessions— but I gave my whole heart unasked, and 
 silently.” She could have recalled passionate 
 declarations in his eye, prayers in his devotion ; 
 but her love had the essential characteristics of 
 true passion — it was humble, generous, and self- 
 condemning. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Si tout le monde vous ressembloit, un roman se- 
 roit bieiitot fini ! Moliere, 
 
 November’s leaden clouds and fitful gleams of 
 4nuishine, coming like visitations of heaven- 
 
 23 
 
 inspired thoughts, and vanishing, alas 1 like illu- 
 sions, harmonised with the state of Bessie’s mind. 
 She was much abroad, rambling alone over her 
 favourite haunts, and living over the dangerous 
 past. This was at least a present relief and so- 
 lace ; and her mother, though she feared it might 
 minister to the morbid state of her child’s feel- 
 ings, had not the resolution to interpose her au- 
 thority to prevent it. Bessie was one evening at 
 twilight returning homeward by a road (if road 
 that might be called which was merely a horse- 
 path) that communicated at the distance of a 
 mile and a half with the main road to Boston, 
 
 It led by the margin of a little brook, through a 
 pine wood that was just now powdered over with 
 a light snow. Meredith and Bessie had always 
 taken their way through this sequestered wood 
 in their walks and rides, going and returning ; not 
 a step of it but was eloquent with some treasured 
 word, some well-remembered emotion. Bessie had 
 seated herself on afallen trunk, an accustomed rest- 
 ing-place, and was looking at a bunch of ground 
 pine and wild periwinkles, as if she were perusing 
 them ; the sensations of happier hours had stolen 
 over her, the painful present and uncertain future 
 were forgotten, when she was roused from her 
 dreamy state by the trampling of an approaching 
 horse. Women, most women, are cowards on in- 
 stinct. Bessie cast one glance backward, and saw 
 the horse was ridden by a person in a military dress. 
 
 A stranger in this private path vas rather an 
 alarming apparition, and she started homeward 
 with hasty steps. The rider mended his horse’s 
 pace, and was soon even with her, and in another 
 instant had dismounted and exclaimed— “ Bessie 
 Lee ! — It is you, Bessie — I cannot be mistaken 1” 
 Bessie smiled at this familiar salutation, and did 
 not refuse her hand to the stranger, who, with 
 eager cordiality, offered his ; but not being in the 
 least a woman of the world, it was plain she ex- 
 plored his face in vain for some recognisable 
 feature. — ” No, you do not remember me — that is 
 evident,” he said, with a tone of disappointment. 
 
 “ Is there not a vestige, Bessie, of your old play- 
 mate, in the whiskered, weather-beaten personage 
 before you?” 
 
 ‘‘ Herbert Linwood 1" she exclaimed, and a 
 I glow of glad recognition mounted from her heart 
 to her cheek. 
 
 ” Ah, thank you, Bessie ; better late than never, 
 but it is sad to be forgotten. You are much less 
 changed than I, undoubtedly ; but I should have 
 known you if nothing were unaltered save the 
 colour of your eye ; however, I have always 
 worn your likeness here,” he gallantly added, 
 putting his hand to his heart, ” and, in truth, 
 you are but the opening bud expanded to a flower, 
 while. I have undergone a change like the chest- 
 nut, from the tassel to the bearded husk.’* 
 Bessie soon began to perceive familiar tones and 
 expressions, and she consoled Herbert with the 
 assurance that it was only her surprise, his 
 growth, change of dress, &c., that prevented her 
 from knowing him at once. They soon passed to 
 mutual inquiries, by which it appeared that Her- 
 bert had come to Massachusetts on military busi- 
 ness. The visit to Westbrook was a little episode 
 of his own insertion. He was to return in a few 
 weeks to West Point, where he was charmed to 
 hear he should maet Eliot. 
 
 “ I am cut off from my own family,” he said, 
 
 and, really, 1 pine for a friend. 1 gather froob 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 24 
 
 Belle’s letters that my father is more and more 
 estranged from me. While he thought I was 
 fighting on the losing side, and in peril of my 
 head, his generous spirit was placable ; but since 
 the result of our contest has become doubtful, 
 even to him, he has waxed hotter and hotter 
 against me ; and if we finally prevail, and prevail 
 we must, he will never forgive me.” 
 
 “ Oh, do not say so — he cannot be so unrelent- 
 ing ; and if he were, Isabella can persuade him 
 —she can do any thing she pleases.” 
 
 “Yes, a pretty potent person is that sister of 
 mine. But when my father sets his foot down 
 the devil— I beg your pardon, Bessie, and Belle’s 
 too — 1 mean his metal is of such a temper that 
 an angel could not bend him.” 
 
 “ Isabella is certainly the angel, not its op- 
 posite.” 
 
 “Why yes, she is, God bless her! But yet, 
 Bessie, she is pretty well spiced with humanity. 
 If she were not she would not be so attractive to 
 a certain friend of ours, who is merely human.” 
 
 Bessie’s heart beat quicker ; she knew, or 
 feared she knew, what Herbert meant ; and, after 
 a pause, full of sensation to her, she ventured to 
 ask “ if he heard often from New York ?” 
 
 “ Yes, we get rumours from there every day — 
 nothing very satisfactory. Belle, in spite of her 
 toryism, is a loving sister, and writes me as often 
 as she can ; but as the letters run the risk of 
 being read by friends and foes, they are about as 
 domestic and private as if they were endited for 
 Rivington’s Gazette.” 
 
 “Then,” said Bessie, quite boldly, for she felt a 
 sensible relief, “ you have no news to tell me ?” 
 
 “ No — no, nothing official,” he replied, with a 
 smile ; “ Belle writes exultingly of Meredith 
 having, since his return to New York, come out 
 on the right side, as she calls it — and of ray 
 father’s pleasure and pride in him, &c. Of course, 
 she says not a word of her own sentiments. I 
 hear from an old friend of mine, who was brought 
 in a prisoner the other day, that Meredith has 
 been devoted to her ever since his return. They 
 were always lovers after an April-day fashion, you 
 know, Bessie, and I should not be surprised to 
 hear of their engagement at any time — should 
 you?” 
 
 Fortunately for poor Bessie, her hood sheltered 
 the rapid mutations of her cheek ; resolution or 
 pride she had not, but a certain sense of maidenly 
 decorum came to her aid, and she faintly answered, 
 “ No, I should not.” If this were a slight de- 
 parture from truth, every woman (every young 
 one) will forgive her, for it was a case of self- 
 preservation. Liuwood was so absorbed in the 
 happiness of being near her, of having her arm in 
 his, that he scarcely noticed how that arm trem- 
 bled, and how her voice faltered. He afterwards 
 recalled it. 
 
 Herbert’s visit to the* Lees was like a saint’s 
 day to good Catholics after a long penance. He 
 had, in his boyhood, been a prime favourite with 
 Mrs. Lee — she was delighted to see him again, 
 and thought the man even more charming than 
 the boy. She made every effort to show off her 
 hospitable home to Linwood in its old aspect of 
 abundance and cheerfulness ; and, in spite of war 
 and actual changes, she succeeded. She had the 
 skilful housewife’s gift “to make the worse ap- 
 pear the better,” far more difficult in housewifery 
 than iu metaphysics. Herbert enjoyed, to her kind 
 
 heart’s content, the result of her efforts. The 
 poor fellow’s appetite had been so long mortified 
 with the sorry fare of the American camp, that 
 no Roman epicurean ever relished the dainties of 
 an emperor’s table (such as canaries’ eyes and 
 peacocks’ brains) more keenly than he did the 
 plain but excellent provisions at Lee Farm ; the 
 incomparable bread and butter, ham, apple-sauce, 
 and cream, the nuts the children cracked, and the 
 sparkling cider they drew for him. We are quite 
 aware that a hero on a sentimental visit should be 
 indifferent to these gross matters ; but our friend 
 Herbert was no hero, no romantic abstraction, 
 but a good, honest, natural fellow, compounded 
 of body and spirit, each element bearing its due 
 proportion in the composition. 
 
 Bessie yielded to the influence of old associa- 
 tions, and, as her mother thought, was more light- 
 hearted, more herself, than she had been for many 
 a weary month. “After all,” she said, anxiously 
 revolving the subject in her mind, “ it may come 
 out right yet. Bessie cannot help preferring 
 Herbert Linwood, so good-humoured and open- 
 hearted as he is, to Meredith, with his studied 
 elegance, his hollow phrases, and expressive looks. 
 Herbert’s heart is in his hand ; and hand and 
 heart he’ll not be too proud to offer her, for he 
 sees things in their true lights, and not with the 
 world’s eye.” 
 
 Mrs. Lee was delicate and prudent; but she 
 could not help intimating her own sentiments to 
 Bessie. From that moment a change came over 
 her. Her spirits vanished like the rosy hues from 
 the sunset clouds. Herbert wondered, but he 
 had no time to lose in speculation. He threw 
 himself at Bessie’s feet, and there poured out his 
 tale of love and devotion. At first he received 
 nothing in return but silence and tears ; and, 
 when he became more importunate, broken pro- 
 testations of her gratitude and ill desert, which 
 he misunderstood, and answered by declaring, 
 “ she owed him no gratitude ; that he was but too 
 bold to aspire to her, poor wretch of broken for- 
 tunes that he was ; but, please Heaven, he would 
 mend them under her auspices.” 
 
 She dared not put him off with pretences. She 
 only wept, and said, “ She had no heart to give;’’ 
 and then left him, feeling much like some poor 
 mariner, who, as he is joyously sailing into a long- 
 desired port, is suddenly enveloped in impenetrable 
 mist. 
 
 Herbert was not of a temper to remain tran- 
 quil in this position. He knew nothing of the 
 “ blessed promise to those that wait,” for he had 
 never waited for any thing ; and he at once told 
 his perplexities to Mrs. Lee, who, herself most 
 grieved and mortified, communicated slight hints, 
 which, by furnishing a key to certain observa- 
 tions of his own, put him sufficiently in posses- 
 sion of the truth. Without again seeing Bessie, 
 he left Westbrook with the common conviction of 
 even common lovers in fresh disappointments, 
 that there was no more happiness for him in this 
 world. 
 
 Mrs. Lee uttered no word of expostulation or 
 reproach to Bessie ; but her sad looks, like the 
 old mother’s in the ballad, “ gaed near to break 
 her heart.” 
 
 There are few greater trials to a tender hearted, 
 conscious creature like Bessie Lee, than to defeat 
 the hopes and disappoint the expectations of 
 I friends, by opposing those circumstances which. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 as it seems to them, -will best promote our honour 
 and happiness. “ Eliot,” saidi Bessie, in her secret 
 meditations, ” thinks 1 am weakly cherishing an 
 unworthy passion — my mother believes that I 
 have voluntarily thrown away my own advantage 
 and happiness— thank Heaven, the wretchedness, 
 as well as the fault, is all my own." 
 
 P'Many may condemn Bessie’s unresisting weak- 
 ness ; but who will venture to graduate the scale 
 of human virtue? to decide in a given case how 
 much is bodily infirmity, and how much defect of 
 resolution. Certain are we, that when fragility 
 of constitution, tenderness of conscience, and 
 susceptibility of heart, meet in one person, the 
 sooner the trials of life are over the better. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A name which every wind to Heaven would bear : 
 
 Which men to speak, and angels joy to hear. 
 
 Another letter from Eliot broke like a sunbeam 
 through the monotonous clouds that hung over 
 the Lees. 
 
 “My dearest Mother, 
 
 “ I arrived safely at head quarters on the 22ad. 
 Colonel Ashley received me with open arms. He 
 applauded my resolution to join the army, and 
 bestowed his curses liberally (as is his wont on 
 whatever displeases him) on the young men who 
 linger at home, while the gallant spirits of France 
 and Poland are crossing the ocean to volunteer in 
 our cause. He rubbed his hands exultingly when 
 I told him that it was your self-originating de- 
 cision that I should leave you. ‘ The only son of 
 your mother — that is, the only one to speak of’ 
 (forgive him, Sam and Hal), ‘ and she a widow !’ 
 he exclaimed. ‘ Let them talk about their Spar- 
 tan mothers, half-men and demi-monsters ; but 
 look at our women folks, as tender and as timid 
 of their broods as hens, and as bold and self- 
 sacrificing as martyrs ! You come of a good 
 stock, my boy, and so I shall tell the gin’ral. 
 He’s old Virginia, my lad ; and looks well to 
 blood in man and horse.’ 
 
 ^‘The next morning he called, his kind heart 
 raying out through his jolly face, to present me to 
 General Washington. If ever I go into battle, 
 which Heaven of its loving mercy grant, I pray 
 my heart may not thump as it did when I ap- 
 proached the mean little habitation, now the resi- 
 dence of our noble leader. ‘ You tremble, Eliot,’ 
 said ray colonel, as we reached the door-step. ‘ I 
 don’t wonder — I always feel my joints give a little 
 when I go before him. I venerate him next to the 
 Deity*; but it is not easy to get used to him as you 
 do to other men.’ 
 
 “ When we entered, the general was writing. If 
 Sam wishes to know whether my courage returned 
 when I was actually in his presence, tell him I then 
 forgot myself — forgot I had an impression to make. 
 The general requested us to be seated while he 
 finished his despatches. The copies were before 
 him, all in his own hand. ‘ Every t crossed, and 
 every i dotted,’ whispered the colonel, pointing to 
 the papers. ‘He’s godlike in lliat; he finishes off 
 little things as completely as great.’ I could not 
 but smile at the comparison, though it was both 
 
 2 
 
 striking and just. When the general had finished, 
 and had read the letters of introduction from 
 Governor Hancock and Mr. Adams, which I pre- 
 sented, ‘Y'ou see, sir,’ said my kind patron, ‘ that 
 my young friend here is calculated to enter the 
 army; 111 answer for him, he’ll prove good and 
 true; up to the mark, as his father, Sam Lee, was 
 before him. He, that is, Sam Lee, and I, fit side by 
 side in the French war ; I was no fliucher, you 
 know, sir, and he was as brave as Julius Ctesar, 
 Sam was ; so I think my friend Eliot here has a 
 pretty considerable claim.’ 
 
 “ ‘ But, my good sir,’ said the general, ‘ you 
 know we are contending against hereditary claims.’ 
 
 ‘“That’s true, sir; and, thank the Lord, he can 
 stand on his own ground. He shot one of the first 
 guns at Lexington, and got pretty well peppered too, 
 though he was a lad then, with a face as smooth as 
 the palm of my hand.’ 
 
 ‘ Something too much of this,’ thought I ; and 
 I attempted to stop my trumpeter’s mouth by say- 
 ing, ‘ I had no claims on the score of the affair at 
 Lexington; that my beirg there was accidental, and 
 I fought on instinct.’ 
 
 “‘Ah, my boy!’ said the colonel, determined to 
 tell his tale out, ‘you may say that — there’s no 
 courage like that that comes by natur, gin’ral ; — he 
 stood within two feet of me, as straight as a tomb- 
 stone, when a spent ball bounding near him, he 
 caught it in his hands, just as if he had been play- 
 ing wicket, and said, ‘you may throw down your 
 bat, my boys ; I’ve caught you out !’’ Was not that 
 metal ?’ 
 
 “ General Washington’s countenance relaxed as 
 the colonel proceeded (I ventured a side glance,) and 
 at the conclusion he gave two or three em[thatic and 
 pleased nods; but his grave aspect returned imme-. 
 diately, and he said, as I thought, in a most rigid 
 manner, ‘ the request, Mr, Lee, of my friends of 
 Massachusetts, that you may receive a commission 
 in the service, deserves attention ; Colonel Ashley is 
 a substantial voucher for your personal merit. Are 
 you aware, sir, that a post of honour in our array 
 involves arduous labour, hardships, and self-denial? 
 Do yon know the actual condition of our officers— 
 that their pay is in arrears, and their private re- 
 sources exhausted? There are among them men who 
 have bravely served their country from the beginning 
 of this contest; gentlemen who have not a change 
 of linen ; to whom I have even been compelled to 
 deny, because I had not the power to divert them 
 from their original destination, the coarse clotVies 
 provided for the soldiers. This is an afi'ecting, but 
 a true view of our actual condition. Should the 
 Almighty prosper our cause, as, if we are true to 
 ourselves, he assuredly will, these matters will im- 
 prove; but I have no lure to hold out to you — no 
 encouragement but the sense of performing your 
 duty to your country. Perhaps, Mr. Lee, you would 
 prefer to rellect further, before you assume new ob- 
 ligations.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Not a moment, sir. I came here determined to 
 serve my country at any post you should assign me. 
 If a command is given me, I shall be grateful for 
 it : if not, 1 sliall enter the ranks as a private soldier.’ 
 
 “General Washington excl)anged glances with 
 the colonel, that implied approbation of my resolu- 
 tion; but not one syllable dropped of encouragement 
 as to tlie commission; and it being evident that he 
 had no leisure to protract our audience, we took our 
 leave. 
 
 “ I confess I came away rather crest fallen. I am 
 not such a puppy, my dear mother, as to suppose my 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 26 
 
 single arm of mucli consequence to my country ; 
 but I felt an agreeable, perhaps an exaggerated con- 
 sciousness, that I deserved — not applause, but some 
 token of encouragement. However, the colonel said 
 this was his way : — ‘ he never disappoints an ex- 
 pectation — seldom authorises one.* 
 
 * Is he cold-hearted?’ I asked. 
 
 *“ The Lord forgive you! Eliot,’ he replied. ‘Cold- 
 hearted 1 No ; his heat does not go off by flashes, 
 but keeps the furnace hot out of which the pure gold 
 comes. Lads never think there is any fire, unless 
 they see the sparks and hear the roar.’ 
 
 “ ‘ But, sir,’ said 1, ‘I believe there is a very 
 common impression that General Washington is of 
 a reserved, cold temperament — ’ 
 
 “ ‘ The devil take common impressions ; they are 
 made on sand, and are both false and fleeting. Wait, 
 
 Eliot you are true metal, and I will venture your 
 
 impressions when you shall know our noble com- 
 mander better. Cold egad !’ he half muttered to 
 himself. ‘ Where the deuce, then, has the heat 
 come from that has cemented our army together, 
 and kept their spirits up when their fingers and toes 
 were freezing ?’ " 
 
 “Give me joy, my dear mother; a kiss, Bessie; 
 a good hug, my dear little sisters; and a huzza, 
 boys ! General Washington has sent me a lieutenant’s 
 commission, and a particularly kind note with it. 
 So, it appears, that while I was thinking him so 
 lukewarm to my application, he lost no time in trans. 
 mitting it to Congress, and enforcing it by his re- 
 commendation. Our camp is all bustle. Soldiers 
 just trained and fit for service are departing, their 
 term of enlistment having expired. The new quotas 
 are coming in, raw, undisciplined troops. The 
 general preserves a calm, unaltered mien ; but his 
 officers fret and fume in private, and say that nothing 
 effective will ever be achieved while Congress per- 
 mits these short enlistments.’* 
 
 “ Thanks to you, dear mother, my funds have 
 enabled me to purchase a uniform. I have just tried 
 it on. 1 wish you could all see me in it. ‘ Every wo- 
 man is at heart a rake,’ says Pope; that every man is at 
 heart a coxcomb, is just about as true. My new dress 
 will lose its holiday gloss before we meet again ; but 
 the freshness of my love for you will never be dimmed, 
 my dear mother — for Bessie, and for all the little 
 band, whose bright faces are even now before my 
 swimming eyes. “ Yours devotedly, 
 
 “Eliot Lee.” 
 
 P. S. — My poor jack-o’-lantern, Kisel, is of course 
 of no use to me, neither does he give me much trouble. 
 He is a sort of mountebank among the soldiers, merry 
 himself, and making others merry. If he is a bene- 
 factor who makes two blades of grass grow where but 
 one grew before, Kisel certainly is, while he pro- 
 duces smiles where rugged toil and want have stamped 
 a scowl of discontent.” 
 
 In this letter to his mother, Eliot enclosed one to 
 Bessie, reiterating even more forcibly and tenderly 
 what he had before said. It served no purpose but 
 to aggravate her self-reproaches. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Come not near our fairy queen. 
 
 Before mid-winter, Linwood joined Eliot Leo at 
 West Point, and the young men renewed their ac- 
 quaintance on the footing of friends. There was just 
 that degree of similarity and difference between 
 them that inspires mutual confidence, and begets 
 interest. Herbert, with characteristic frankness, 
 told the story of his love, disappointment, and all. 
 Eliot felt a true sympathy for his friend, whose de- 
 serts he thought would so well have harmonised with 
 Bessie’s advantage and happiness; but this feeling 
 was subordinate to his keen anxiety for his sister. 
 This anxiety was not appeased by intelligence from 
 home. Letters were rare blessings in those days-^ 
 scarcely to him blessings. His mother wrote about 
 every thing but Bessie, and his sister’s letters were 
 brief and vague, and most unsatisfactory. The 
 winter, however, passed rapidly away. Though in 
 winter quarters, ho had incessant occupation ; and 
 the exciting novelty of military life, with the deep 
 interest of the times, to an ardent and patriotic 
 spirit, kept every feeling on the strain. 
 
 Eliot had that intimate acquaintance with nature 
 that makes one look upon and lore all its aspects, a» 
 upon the changing expressions of a friend’s face; 
 and as that most interests us in its soul-fraught seri- 
 ousness, so he delighted even more in the wild gleams 
 of beauty that are shot over the winter landscape, 
 than in all its summer wealth. To eyes like his, 
 faithful ministers to the soul, the scenery of West 
 Point was a perpetual banquet. 
 
 Nature, in our spring-time, as we all know (es- 
 pecially in this blessed year of our Lord, 1835), 
 rises as slowly and reluctantly from her long winter’s 
 sleep as any other sluggard. On looking back to 
 our hero’s spring at West Point, we find she must 
 have been at work earlier thaa is her wont ; for April 
 was not far gone when Eliot, after looking in vaia 
 for Linwood to accompany him, sauntered into the 
 woods, where the buds were swelling and the rills 
 gushing. At first his pleasure was marred by his 
 friend not being with him, and he now, for the first 
 time, called to mind Linwood’s frequent and unex- 
 plained absences for the last few days. Linwood 
 was so esseufially a social being, that Eliot’s curiosity 
 was naturally excited by this sudden manifestation 
 of a love of solitude and secrecy. 
 
 He, however, pursued his way ; and having reached 
 the cascade which is now the resort of holiday 
 visitors, he forgot his friend. The soil under his 
 feet, released from the iron grasp of winter, was soft 
 and spongy, and the tokens of spring were round him 
 like the first mellow smile of dawn. The rills that 
 spring together like laughing children just out of 
 school (we borrow the obvious simile from a poetic 
 child), and at their junction form “the cascade,*’ 
 were then filled to the brim from their just unsealed 
 fountains. Eliot followed the streamlet where it 
 pursues its headlong course, dancing, singing, and 
 shouting, as it flings itself over the rocks, as if it 
 spurned their cold and stern companionship, and was 
 impatiently running away from the leafless woods to 
 a holiday in a summer region. He forced his way 
 through the obstructions that impeded his descent, 
 and was standing on a jutting point which the 
 stream again divided, looking up at the snow-white 
 and feathery water, as he caught a glimpse of it here 
 and there through the intersecting branches of hem- 
 locks, and wondering why it was that he instinctively 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 infused his own nature into the outward world ; why 
 the rocks seemed to him to look sternly on the frolic- 
 ing stream that capered over them, and the fresh 
 white blossoms of the early iloaering shrubs seemed 
 to yearn with a kindred spirit towards it, when his 
 speculations were broken by human voices mingling 
 with the sound of the waterfall. He looked in the 
 direction whence they came, and fancied he saw a 
 white dress. It might be the cascade, for that at a 
 little distance did not look unlike a white robe float- 
 ing over the grey rocks ; but it might be a fair lady’s 
 gown, and that was a sight rare enough to provoke 
 the curiosity of a young knight- errant. So Eliot, 
 quickening his footsteps, reached the point where 
 the streamlet ceases its din, and steals loiteringly 
 through the deep narrow glen, now called Washing- 
 ton’s Valley. He had pressed on unwittingly, for 
 he was now within a few yards of two persons on 
 whom he would not voluntarily have intruded. One 
 was a lady (a lady certainly, for a well-practised ear 
 can graduate the degree of refinement by a single 
 tone of the voice,) the other party to the tete^a-leU 
 was his truant friend Lin wood. The lady was 
 seated with her back towards Eliot, in a grape-vine 
 that hung, a sylvan swing, from the trees ; and Lin 
 wood, his face also turned from Eliot, was decking 
 his companion’s pretty hair with wood anemones, 
 and (ominous it was when Herbert Linwood made 
 sentimental sallies) saying very soft and pretty things 
 of their starry eyes. Eliot was making a quiet re- 
 treat, when, to his utter consternation, a lady on his 
 right, till then unseen by him, addressed him, saying, 
 — “ She believed she had the pleasure of speaking to 
 Lieutenant Lee." Eliot bowed ! whereupon she added, 
 that she was sure, from Captain Linwood’s descrip- 
 tion, that it must be his friend. Captain Linwood 
 is there with my sister, you perceive,” she continued ; 
 ** and as he is our friend, and you are his, you will 
 do us the favour to go home and take tea with us.” 
 
 By this time the iete.a tete party, though suffi- 
 ciently absorbed in each other, was aroused, and both 
 turning their heads, perceived Eliot. The lady said 
 nothing ; Linwood looked disconcerted, and merely 
 nodded without speaking to his friend. The lady 
 rose, and with a spirited step walked towards a farm- 
 house on the margin of the Hudson, the only tene- 
 ment of this secluded and most lovely little glen. 
 Linwood followed her, and seemed earnestly address- 
 ing her in a low voice. By this time Eliot had 
 sufficiently recovered his senses to remember that the 
 farmhouse, which was visible from West Point, had 
 been pointed out to him as the temporary residence 
 of a Mr Grenville Ruthven. Mr. Ruthveu was a 
 native of Virginia, who some years before had, in 
 consequence of pecuniary misfortunes, removed to 
 Now York, where he had held an office ander the 
 king till the commencement of the war. His only 
 son was in the English navy, and the father was 
 suspected of being at heart a royalist. His political 
 partialities, however, were not so strong but that they 
 might be peferred to prudence: so be look her coun- 
 sel, and retired with his wife and two daughters to 
 this safe nook on the Hudson, till the troubles should 
 be overpast. 
 
 Eliot could not be insensible to the friendly and 
 volunteered greeting of his pretty lady patroness, 
 and a social pleasure was never more inviting than 
 now when he was famishing fur it ; but ic was so mani- 
 fest that his presence was any thing but desirable to 
 Linwood and his companion, that he was making 
 acknowledgments and turuieg away, when the young 
 lady, declaring she would not take “ no" for an an- 
 »wer, called out, “ Stop, Helen — pray, stop— -come 
 
 27 
 
 back, Captain Linwood, and introduce us regularly 
 to your friend ; he is so ceremonious that he will not 
 go on with an acquaintance that is not begun in due 
 form.” 
 
 Thus compelled. Miss Ruthven stopped and sub- 
 mitted gracefully to an introduction, which Linwood 
 was in fact at the moment urging, and she peremp- 
 torily refusing. 
 
 “Now, here we are, just at our own’ door," said 
 Miss Charlotte Ruthven to Eliot, “and you must 
 positively come in and take tea with us.” Eliot 
 still hesitated. 
 
 “ Why, in the name of wonder, should you not?” 
 said Linwood, who appeared just coming to himself, 
 
 “ You must come with us,” said Miss Ruthven, for 
 the first time speaking, “ and let me show your friend 
 how very magnanimous I can be.” 
 
 “Indeed, you must not refuse us,” urged Miss 
 Charlotte. 
 
 “ I cannot,” replied Eliet, gallantly, “ though it is 
 not very flattering to begin an acquaintance with 
 testing the magnanimity of your sistei’.” 
 
 Helen Ruthven bowed, smiled, and coloured ; and 
 at the first opportunity said to Linwood, “ Y'onr 
 friend is certainly the most civilised of all the 
 eastern savages I have yet seen, and, as your friend, 
 
 I will try to tolerate him.” She soon, however, 
 seemed to forget his presence, and to forget every 
 thing else, in an absorbing and hatf-whispeied con- 
 versation with Linwood, interrupted only by singing 
 snatches of sentimental songs, accompanying herself 
 on the piano, and giving them the expressive appli- 
 cation that eloquent eyes can give. In the mean- 
 while Eliot was left to Miss Charlotte, a commonplace, 
 frank, and good-humoured person, particularly well 
 pleased at being relieved from the role she had lately 
 played, a cipher in a trio. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ruthven made their appearance with 
 the tea service. Mr. Ruthven, though verging to- 
 wards sixty, was still in the unimpaired vigour of 
 manhood, and was marked by the general charac- 
 teristics, physical and moral, of a Virginian : the 
 lofty stature, strong and well-built frame, the open 
 brow, and expression of nobleness and kindness of 
 disposition, and a certain something, not vanity, nor 
 pride, nor in the least approaching to supercilious- 
 ness, but a certain happy sense of the superiority, 
 not of the individual, but of the great mass of which 
 he is a component part. 
 
 His wife, unhappily, was not of this noble stock. 
 She was of French descent, and a native of one of 
 our cities. At sixteen, with but a modicum of beauty, 
 and coquetry enough for half her sex, she succeeded, 
 Mr. Ruthven being then a widower, in making him 
 commit the folly of marrying her, after a six weeks* 
 acquaintance. She was still in the prime of life, and 
 a* impatient as a caged bird of her country seclusion, 
 or, as she called it, imprisonment, where her 
 daughters were losing every opportunity of achieving 
 what she considered the chief end of a woman’s life. 
 
 Aware of her eldest daughter’s propensity to con- 
 vert acquaintances into lovers, and looking down upon 
 all rebels as most unprofitable suitors, she had se- 
 dulously guarded against any intercourse with the 
 officers at the Point, 
 
 Of late she had begun to despair of a favourable 
 change in their position ; and Miss Ruthven having 
 accidentally renewed an old acquaintance with Her- 
 bert Linwood, her mother encouraged his visits from 
 that admirable policy of maternal manoeuvres, which 
 wisely keeps a pisaller in reserve. Helen Rnthven 
 was one of those persons, most uncomfortable in 
 domestic life, who profess always to require an eb* 
 
THE KOTEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 '28 
 
 ject (which means something out of woman’s natural, 
 safe, and quiet orbit) on which to exhaust their en- 
 grossing and exacting desires. Mr. Ruthven felt 
 there was a very sudden change in his domestic at- 
 mosphere; and though it was as incomprehensible 
 to him as a change in the weather, he enjoyed it 
 •without ashing or caring for an explanation. Al- 
 ways hospitably inclined, he was charmed with Lin- 
 wood’s good fellowship ; and while he discussed a 
 favourite dish, obtained with infinite trouble, or 
 drained a bottle of Madeira with him, he was as 
 unobservant of his wife's tactics and his daughter’s 
 coquetries as the eagle is of the modus operandi of 
 the mole. And all the while, in his presence, Helen 
 was lavishing all her flatteries with infinite finesse 
 and grace. Her words, glances, tones of voice even, 
 might have turned a steadier head than Linwood’s. 
 Her father, good, confiding man, was not suspicious, 
 but vexed when she called his companion awavjjust, 
 as he said, “ as they were beginning to enjoy them- 
 selves,” to scramble over frozen ground or look at a 
 wintry prospect, or to play over, for the fortieth 
 time, a trumpery song. Helen, however, would 
 throw her arms around her father’s neck, kiss him 
 into good humour, and carry her point ; that is, se- 
 cure the undivided attentions of Herbert Linvvood. 
 Matters were at this ])oint, after a fortnight’s inter- 
 course, when Eliot entered upon the scene ; and, 
 though his friend Miss Charlotte kept up an even 
 flow of talk, before the evening was over he had 
 taken some very accurate observations. 
 
 When they took their leave, and twice after they 
 had shut the outer door, Helen called Linwood back 
 for some last word that seemed to mean nothing, 
 and yet k clearly meant that her heart went with 
 him : and then 
 
 So fondly she bade him adieu. 
 
 It seemed that she bade him return. 
 
 The young men had a long, dark, and at first 
 rather an unsocial walk. Both were thinking of the 
 same subject, and both were embarrassed by it. 
 Linwood, after whipping his boots for ten minutes, 
 said, “ Hang it, Eliot, we may as well speak out ; 
 I suppose you think it deuced queer that I said no- 
 thing to you of my visits to the lluthvens?” 
 
 “ Wh3", yes, Linwood — to speak out frankly, 
 I do.” 
 
 “ Well, it is, I confess it. At first my silence was 
 accidental — no, that is not plummet and line truth ; 
 for from the first I had a sort of a fear — no, not fear, 
 but a sheepish feeling, that you might think the 
 pleasure I took in visiting the Ruthvens quite incon- 
 sistent with the misery I seemed to feel, and, by 
 Heavens, did feel, to my heart’s core, about the 
 afl'air at Westbrook.” 
 
 ” No, Linwood — whatever else I may doubt, I 
 never shall doubt your sincerity.” 
 
 “ But my constancy you do?” Eliot made no 
 reply, and Linwood proceeded: ” Upon my soul, I 
 have not the slightestidea of falling in love withoither 
 of these girls, but I find it exceedingly pleasant to 
 go there. To tell the truth, Eliot, 1 am wretched 
 •without the society of womankind ; Adam was a 
 good sensible fellow not to find even paradise toler- 
 able without them. I knew the Iluthveus in New 
 York ; I believe they like me the better, apostate as 
 they consider me, for belonging to a tory family ; 
 and looking upcn me, as they must, as a diseased 
 branch from a sound root, ihey certainly are very 
 kind to me, especially the old gentleman — a fine old 
 fello-w, is he i-ot?V 
 
 “ Yes — I liked him particularly.*’ 
 
 “ And madame is piquant and agreeable, and very 
 polite to me ; and the girls, of course, are pleased to 
 have their hermitage enlivened by an old acquaint- 
 ance.” 
 
 Linwood’s slender artifice in saying “ the girls,’’ 
 when it was apparent that Miss Ruthven was the 
 magnet, operated like the subtlety of a child, betray- 
 ing what he would fain conceal. Without appear- 
 ing to perceive the truth, Eliot said, “ Miss Ruth- 
 ven seems to restrict her hospitality to old acquaint- 
 ance. It was manifest she did not voluntarily ex- 
 tend it to me.” 
 
 “ No, she did not. Helen Ruthven’s heart is in 
 her hand, and she makes no secret of her antipathy 
 to a rebel — per se a rebel ; however, her likes and 
 dislikes are both harmless — she is only the more 
 attractive for them.’’ 
 
 Herbert had not been the first to mention Helen 
 Ruthven; he seemed now well enough pleased to 
 dwell on the subject. ” How did you like her sing- 
 ing, Eliot,” he asked. 
 
 “ Why, pretty well; she sings with expression." 
 
 “ Does she not? infinite 1 and then what an ac- 
 companiment are those brilliant eyes of hers.” 
 
 “With their speechless messages, Linwood?” 
 Linwood merely hemmed in reply, and Eliot added, 
 “ Do you like the expression of her mouth ?” 
 
 “ No, not entirely— there is a little spice of the 
 devil about her mouth; but when you are well ac- 
 quainted with her you don’t perceive it.” 
 
 “ If you are undergoing a blinding process,’* 
 thought Eliot. When the friends arrived at their 
 quarters and separated for the night, Linwood asked, 
 and Eliot gave a promise, to repeat his visit the next 
 evening to the glen. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 He is a good man. 
 
 Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? 
 
 From this period Linwood was every day. at the 
 glen, and Eliot as often as his very strict perform- 
 ance of his duties permitted. He was charmed with 
 the warm-hearted hospitality of Mr. Ruthven, and 
 not quite insensible to the evident partiality of Miss 
 Charlotte. She did not pass the vestibule of his 
 heart to the holy of holies, but in the vestibule (of 
 even the best of hearts) vanity is apt to lurk. If 
 Eliot, therefore, was not insensible to the favour of 
 Miss Charlotte, an every-day character, Linwood 
 could not be expected to resist the dazzling influence 
 of her potent sister. A more wary youth might have 
 been scorched in the focus of her charms. Helen 
 Ruthven was some three or four years older than Lin- 
 wood,— a great advantage when the subject to bo 
 practised on combines simplicity and credulity with 
 inexperience. Without being beautiful, by the 
 help of grace and versatility, and artful adaptation 
 of the aids and artifices of the toilet. Miss Ruthven 
 produced the effect of beauty. Never was there a 
 more skilful manager of the blandishments of her 
 sex. She knew how to infuse into a glance “thoughts 
 that breathe,” — how to play oil those flatteries that 
 create an atmosphere of perfume and beauty, — how 
 to make her presence felt as the soul of life, and life 
 in hei absence as a dreary day of nothingness. She 
 had little true sensibility or generosity (they go to- 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 gether) ; but selecting a single object on 'which to 
 lavish her feeling, like a shallow stream compressed 
 into a narrow channel, it made great show and noise. 
 Eliot stood on disenchanted ground; and, while 
 looking on the real shape, was compelled to see his 
 credulous and impulsive friend becoming from day to 
 day more inthralled by the false semblance. “ Is 
 man’s heart,” he asked himself, “ a mere surface, 
 over which one shadow chaseth another.^” No. 
 But men’s hearts have different depths. In some, 
 like Eliot Lee’s (who was destined to love once and 
 for ever), love strikes a deep and ineradicable root ; 
 interweaves itself with the very fibres of life, and 
 becomes a portion of the undying soul. 
 
 In other circumstances Eliot would have obeyed 
 his impulses, and endeavoured to dissolve the spell 
 for his friend ; but he was deterred by the conscious- 
 ness of the disappointment that his sister was so soon 
 superseded, and by .his secret wish that Linwood 
 should remain free till a more auspicious day should 
 rectify all mischances. Happily, Providence some- 
 times interposes to do that for us which we neglect to 
 do for ourselves. 
 
 As has been said, Linwcod devoted every leisure 
 hour to Helen Ruthven. Sometimes accompanied 
 by Charlotte and Eliot, but oftener without them, 
 they visited the almost unattainable heights, the 
 springs and waterfalls, in the neighbourhood of West 
 Point, now so w'ell known to summer travellers that 
 we have no apology for lingering to describe them. 
 They scaled the coal-black .'summits of the “ Devil’s 
 Peak;” went as far heavenward as the highest 
 height of the “Crow’s Nest;” visited “ Bull. hill. 
 Butter-hill, and Break-neck,’’ — places that must 
 have been named long before our day of classic^ 
 heathenish, picturesque, and most ambitious chris- 
 tening of this new world. 
 
 Helen Ruthven did not affect this scrambling 
 
 thorough bush, thorough brier,” through 
 streamlet, snow, and mud, from a pure love of 
 nature. Oh, no, simple reader! but because at 
 her home in the glen there was but one parlour — 
 there, from morning till bedtime, sat her father — 
 there, of course, must sit her piother; and Miss 
 Ruthven’s charms, like those df other conjurers, 
 depended for their success on being exercised 
 within a magic circle, within which no observer 
 might come. She seemed to live and breathe alone 
 for Herbert Linwood. A hundred times he was 
 on the point of offering the devotion of his life to 
 her, when the image of bis long-loved Bessie 
 Lee rose before him, and, like the timely inter- 
 vention of the divinities of the ancient creed, 
 saved him from impending danger. This could 
 not last much longer. On each successive occa- 
 sion the image was less ^ivid, and must soon cease 
 to be effective. 
 
 Spring was advancing, and active military ope- 
 rations were about to commence. A British sloop- 
 of-war had come up the river, and lay at anchor 
 in Haverstraw Bay. Simultaneously with the 
 appearance of this vessel there was a manifest 
 change in the spirits of the family at the glen— 
 a fall in their mercury. Though they were still 
 kind, their reception of our friends ceased to be 
 cordial, and they were no longer urged, or even 
 asked, to repeat their visits. Charlotte, who, like 
 her father, was warm and true-hearted, ventured 
 to intimate that this change of manner did not 
 originate in any diminution of friendliness ; but, 
 save this, there was no approach- to an explana- 
 tion ; and Eliot ceased to pay vi-sits lhal, it was 
 
 29 
 
 obvious, were no longer acceptable. The mys- 
 tery, as he thought, was explained, when they 
 incidentally learned that Captain Ruthven, the 
 only son of their friend, was an officer on board 
 the vessel anchored in Haverstraw Bay. This 
 solution did not satisfy Linwood. “ How, in Hea- 
 ven’s name,” he asked, “ should that affect their 
 intercourse with us .!* It might, to be sure, agitate 
 them ; but, upon my word, I don’t believe they 
 even know it;” and, in the simplicity of his heart, 
 he forthwith set off to give them information of 
 the fact. Mr. Ruthven told him, frankly and at 
 once, that he was already aware of it, — and Helen 
 scrawled on a music-book which lay before them, 
 “ Do you remember Hamlet ? ‘ ten thousand bro- 
 thers 1’ ” What she exactly meant was not plain 5 
 but he guessed her intimation to be, that ten 
 thousand brothers and their love were not to be 
 weighed against him. Notwithstanding this kind 
 intimation, he saw her thenceforth unfrequently. 
 If he called, she w'as not at home ; if she made an 
 appointment with him, she sent him some plausi- 
 ble excuse for not keeping it ; and if they met, 
 she was silent and abstracted, and no longer 
 kept up a show of the passion that a few weeks 
 before had inspired her words, looks, and move- 
 ments. Herbert was not destined to be one of 
 love’s few martyrs ; and he was fast reverting to 
 a sound state, only retarded by the mystery in 
 which the affair was still involved. Since the 
 beginning of this intercourse with the family, his 
 Sunday evenings had been invariably spent at the 
 glen ; and now he received a note from Miss 
 Ruthven (not, as had been wont, crossed and 
 double-crossed), containing two lines, saying her 
 father was ill, and as she was obliged to attend 
 him, she regretted to beg Mr. Linwood to omit 
 his usual Sunday evening visit ! Linwood had a 
 lurking suspicion — he was just beginning to sus- 
 pect — that this was a mere pretext; and he re- 
 solved to go to the glen, ostensibly to inquire after 
 Mr. Ruthven, but really to satisfy his doubts. It 
 was early in the evening when he reached there* 
 The cheerful light that usually shot forth its wel- 
 come from the parlour window was gone — all 
 was darkness. ” I was a rascal to distrust her !” 
 thought Linwood, and he hastened on, fearing 
 good Mr. Ruthven was extremely ill. As he ap- 
 proached the house he perceived that, for the first 
 time, the window-shutters were closed, and that a 
 bright light gleamed through their crevices. He 
 put his hand on the latch of the door to open it, 
 as was his custom, without rapping; but no 
 longer, as if instinct with the hospitality of 
 the house, did it yield to his touch. It was 
 bolted ! He hesitated for a moment whether to 
 knock for admission and endeavour to satisfy his 
 curiosity, or to return as wise as he came. His 
 delicacy decided on the latter course ; and he was 
 turning away, when a sudden gust of wind blew 
 open one of the ricketty blinds, and instinctively 
 he looked through the window, and for a moment 
 was rivetted by the scene disclosed within. Mr, 
 Ruthven sat at a table on which were bottles of 
 wine, olives, oranges, and other most rare lux- 
 uries. Beside him sat a young man — his younger 
 self. Linwood did not need a second glance to 
 assure him this was Captain Ruthven. On a 
 stool at her brotliper’s feet sat Charlotte, her arm 
 lovingly resting on his knee. Mrs. Ruthven was 
 at the other extremity of llie table, examining, 
 with enraptured eye, caps, feathers, and flowers, 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 30 
 
 wkich, as appeared from the boxes and cords be- 
 side her, had just been opened. 
 
 But the parties that fixed Linwood’s attention 
 were Helen Ruthven and a very handsome young 
 man, who was leaning over her chair while she 
 was playing on the piano, and bestowing on him 
 those wondrous glances that Linwood had verily 
 believed never met any eye but his ! What a sud- 
 den disenchantment was that! Linwood’s blood 
 rushed to his head. He stood as if he were 
 transfixed, till a sudden movement within re- 
 calling him to himself, he sprang from the steps 
 and retraced his way up the hill-side ; — the spell 
 that had well nigh bound him to Helen Ruthven 
 was broken for ever. No man likes to be duped, 
 —no man likes to feel how much his own vanity 
 has had to do with preparing the trap that en- 
 snared him. Linwood, after revolving the past, 
 after looking back upon the lures and deceptions 
 that had been practised upon him, after compar- 
 ing his passion for Helen Ruthven with his senti- 
 ments for Bessie Lee, came to the consoling con- 
 clusion that he had never loved Miss Ruthven. 
 He was right— and that night, for the first time 
 in many weeks, he fell asleep thinking of Bessie 
 Lee. 
 
 On the following morning Linwood confided to 
 Eliot the denouement of his little romance. Eliot 
 was rejoiced that his friend’s illusion should be 
 dispelled in any mode. After some discussion of 
 matter, they came to the natural conclusion that 
 a clandestine intercourse had been for some time 
 maintained by the family at the glen with the 
 strangers on board the sloop-of-war, and that 
 there were reasons for shaking Linwood and 
 Eliot off more serious than Linwood’s flirtation 
 having been superseded by a fresher and more ex- 
 citing one. 
 
 In the course of the morning Eliot, in returning 
 from a ride, at a sudden turn in the road came 
 upon General Washington and Mr. Ruthven, who 
 had just met. Eliot was making his passing salu- 
 tation, when General Washington said, “ Stop u 
 moment, Mr. Lee ; we will ride in together.” While 
 Eliot paused, he heard Mr. Ruthven say, “ You 
 will not disappoint me, general, — Wednesday even- 
 ing, and a quiet hour — not with hat and whip in hand, 
 but time enough to drink a fair bottle of ‘ Helicon,’ 
 -as poor Randolph used to call it — there are but two 
 left, and we shall ne’er look upon its like again. 
 Wednesday evening — remember.” General Wash- 
 ington assented, and the parties were separating, 
 when Mr. Ruthven, in his cordial manner, stretched 
 out his hand to Eliot, saying, “ My dear fellow, I 
 should ask you too ; but the general and I are old 
 friends, and I want a little talk with him, by our- 
 aelves, of old times. Besides, no man, minus forty, 
 most have a drop of my ‘ Helicon but come down 
 *oon and see the girls, — they are Helicon enough for 
 you young fellows, hey ?” 
 
 As Mr. Ruthven rode away, “ There goes,” said 
 ‘General Washington, as true-hearted a man as 
 ever breathed. We were born on neighbouring 
 plantations. Our fathers and grandfathers were 
 friends. Our hearts were cemented in our youth, 
 or at least in my youth, for he is much my elder, but 
 bis is a heart always fusible. Poor man, he has had 
 much ill-luck in life ; but the worst— and the worst, 
 let me tell you, my young friend, that can befall any 
 man— was an ill-starred marriage. His wife is the 
 slaughter of a good-for-nothing Frenchman; bad 
 blood, Mr. Lee. The children show the cross— 
 
 I beg Miss Charlotte’s pardon, she is a nice girl, 
 fair Virginia stock ; but Miss Helen is — very like 
 her mother. The son I do not know ; but his fight* 
 ing against his country is prima facie evidence 
 against him. 
 
 The conversation then diverged to other topics.' 
 There was in Eliot that union of good sense, keen 
 intelligence, manliness, and modesty, that excited 
 Washington’s esteem, and drew him out ; and Eliot 
 had the happiness, for a half hour, of hearing him, 
 whom of all men he most honoured, talk freely, and 
 of assuring himself that this great man did not, as 
 was sometimes said of him, 
 
 A wilful stillness entertain, 
 
 With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion 
 Of wisdom ; 
 
 but that his taciturnity was the result of profound 
 thought, anxiously employed on the most serious 
 subjects. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the same day, Linwood 
 received a note from Helen Ruthven, enclosing one 
 to General Washington, of which, after entreating 
 him to deliver it immediately, she thus explained 
 the purport. “It contains a simple request to your 
 mighty commander-in-chief, to permit me to visit my 
 brother on board his vessel. I know that Washing- 
 ton’s heart is as hard as Pharaoh’s, and as unrelent- 
 ing as Brutus’s; still it is not, it cannot be in man to 
 refuse such a request to the daughter of an old friend. 
 Do, dear, kind Linwood, urge it for me, and win tho 
 everlasting gratitude of your unworthy but always 
 devoted friend, Helen Ruthven.” 
 
 “ Urge it !” exclaimed Linwood, as he finished 
 the note, “ urge General Washington ! I should as 
 soon think of urging the sun to go backward or for- 
 ward ; but I’ll present it for you, my ‘ devoted friend, 
 Helen,’ and in merely doing that my heart will bo 
 in my mouth.’’ 
 
 He obtained an audience. General Washington 
 read the note, and, turning to Linwood, asked him if 
 he knew its purport. 
 
 ” Yes, sir,” replied Linwood, ” and I cannot,’’ ha 
 ventured to add, “ but hope you will find it fitting ta 
 gratify a desire so natural.” 
 
 “Perfectly natural; Miss Ruthven tells me sha 
 has not seen her brother for four years.” Linwoed 
 felt his honest blood rush to his face at this flat false- 
 hood from his friend Helen. Washington perceived 
 the suffusion and misinterpreted it. “ You think 
 it a hard case, Mr. Linwood ; it is so, but there ara 
 many hard cases in this unnatural war. It grieves 
 me to refuse Helen Ruthven — the child of my good 
 friend.” He passed his eye again over the note, and 
 there was an expression of displeasure and contempt 
 in his curling lip as he read such expressions as the 
 following : ” I cannot be disappointed, for I am ad- 
 dressing one who unites all virtues, whose mercy 
 even surpasses his justice.” — “ I write on my kneei 
 to him who is the minister of Providence, dispens- 
 ing good and evil, light and blessing, with a word.’* 
 General Washington threw down the note, saying, 
 
 “ Miss Ruthven should remember that flattery cor- 
 rupts the giver as well as the receiver. I have no 
 choice in this matter. We have an inflexible rulo 
 prohibiting all intercourse with the enemy.” 
 
 He |theo wrote a concise reply, which Linwood. 
 sent to the lady in a blank envelope. 
 
 “ Ah !” thought Helen Ruthven, as she opened 
 it, this would not have been blank three weelu ago, 
 mait n*importe, Mr, Herbert Linwood, you may 
 run free now ; 1 have nobler pray in my toils,” Sh^ 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 finsealed General Washington’s note, and after 
 glancing her eye over it, she tore it into fragments 
 and dispersed it to the winds, exclaiming, “ I’ll risk 
 my life to carry my point ; and if I do, I’ll humble 
 you, and have a glorious revenge !” 
 
 She spent a sleepless night in contriving, revolv- 
 ing, and dismissing plans on which, as she fancied, 
 the destiny of the nation hung, and, what was far 
 more important in her eyes, Helen Ruthven’s destiny. 
 She at last adopted the boldest that had occurred, 
 and which, from being the boldest, best suited her 
 dauntless temper. 
 
 The next morning, Tuesday, with her mother’s 
 aid and applause, she effected her preparations ; and 
 having fortunately learned, during her residence on 
 the river, to row and manage a beat, she embarked 
 alone in a little skiff, and stealing out of a nook 
 near tbe glen, she rowed into the current and 
 dropped down the river. She did not expect to 
 escape observation, for though the encampment did 
 not command a view of the Hudson, there were 
 sentinels posted at points that overlook it, and bat- 
 teries that commanded its passage. But rightly 
 calculating on the general humanity that governed 
 our people, she had no apprehensions they would 
 fire on a defenceless woman, and very little fear that 
 they would think it worth while to pursue her, to 
 prevent that which she dared to do before their eyes 
 and in the face of day. 
 
 Her calculations proved just. The sentinels le- 
 Telled their guns at her, in token not to proceed ; 
 and she in return dropped her head, raised her hands 
 deprecatiilgly, and passed on unmolested. 
 
 At a short distance below the Point there is a 
 remarkable spot, scooped out by nature in the rocky 
 bank, always beautiful, and now a consecrated shrine 
 •-a “ Mecca of the mind." On the memorable 
 morning of Miss Ruthven’s enterprise, the welcome 
 beams of the spring sun, as he rose in the heavens, 
 casting behind him a soft veil of light clouds, shone 
 on the grey rocks, freshening herbage, and still dis- 
 robed trees of this lovely recess. From crevices in 
 the perpendicular rocks that wall up the table-land 
 above, hung a sylvan canopy ; cedars, studded with 
 their blue berries, wild raspberries, and wild rose- 
 bushes ; and each moist and sunny nook was gemmed 
 with violets and wild geraniums. The harmonies 
 of nature’s orchestra were the only and the fitting 
 sounds in this seclusion : the early wooing of the 
 birds; the water from the fountain of the heights, 
 that, filtering through the rocks, dropped from ledge 
 to ledge with the regularity of a water-clock ; the 
 ripple of the waves as they broke on the rocky 
 points of the shore, or softly kissed its pebbly mar- 
 gin; and the voice of the tiny stream, that, gliding 
 down a dark, deep, and almost hidden channel in 
 the rocks, disappeared, and welling up again in the 
 centre of the turfy slope, stole over it, and trickled 
 down the lower ledge of granite to the river. Tra- 
 dition has named this little green shelf on the rocks 
 “ Kosciusko’s Garden ;” but as no traces have been 
 discovered of any other than nature’s planting, it 
 was probably merely his favourite retreat, and as 
 such is a monument of his taste and love of nature. 
 
 The spring is now enclosed in a marble basin, and 
 inscribed with his name who then lay extended be- 
 side it : Kosciusko, the patriot of his own country, 
 the friend of ours, the philanthropist of all, the enemy 
 only of those aliens from the human family who are 
 the tyrants of their kind. An unopen book lay be- 
 side him, while, gazing up through the willows that 
 drooped over the fountain, he perused that surpassing 
 book of nature, informed by the spirit and written by 
 
 31 
 
 the finger of God — a book of revelations of his wis« 
 dom, and power, and goodness. 
 
 Suddenly his musings were disturbed by ap- 
 proaching footsteps ; and looking up he saw Lin- 
 wood and Eliot winding down the steep pathway 
 between the piled rocks. He had scarcely exchanged 
 salutations with them, when the little boat in which 
 Helen Ruthven was embarked shot out from behind 
 the dark ledge that bounded their upward view of 
 the river. 'They sprang forward to the very edge of 
 the sloping ground. Helen Ruthven would most 
 gladly have escaped their observation, but that she 
 perceived was impossible ; and making the very best 
 of her dilemma, she tossed her head exuiti ugly, and 
 waved her handkerchief. The young men instinc- 
 tively returned her greeting. “A gallant creature,^ 
 by Heaven!” exclaimed the Pole ; “ God speed you, 
 my girl !” And when Lin wood told him who she 
 was, and her enterprise, so far as he thought fit te 
 disclose it, he reiterated, “ Again then, I say, God 
 speed her ! The sweetest affections of nature should 
 be free as this gushing rill, that the rocks and the 
 earth can’t keep back; I am glad when they throw 
 off the shackles imposed by the cruel but inevitable 
 laws of war.” They continued to gaze after the 
 boat till it turned and disappeared with the river in 
 its winding passage through the mountains. 
 
 On Wednesday morning it appeared that the 
 sloop-of-war had changed her position, and ap- 
 proached as nearly to West Point as was possible 
 without coming within the range of its guns. “I 
 am convinced,” said Lin wood to Eliot, taking up 
 the thread of conversation where they had dropped 
 it the day before, “ I am convinced there is a plot 
 brewing." 
 
 “ I am apprehensive of it too. Our obvious duty,. 
 Linwood, is to go to General Washington and tell 
 him all we know of the Ruthvens." 
 
 “ My service to you ! — no, he is the wariest of 
 human beings, and has grounds enough for suspi- 
 cion without our prompting. Can’t he put this and 
 that together — the old man’s pressing invitation,, 
 Helen’s flight, and the movement of the vessel .5”’ 
 
 “ Ah, if his suspicions were excited, as ours are, 
 by previous circumstances, these would suflice ; but 
 he has entire confidence in his old friend ; he is un- 
 informed of the strong tory predilections of the 
 whole family ; and, though he does not like Helen 
 Ruthven, he has no conception of what we have 
 tolerable proof, that she has the talents of a regular- 
 bred French intriguer. Besides, as the fact of your 
 having seen those men at the glen proves the practi- 
 cability of their visiting it again, the general should 
 certainly be apprised of it.’’ 
 
 “ No, Eliot, I’ll not consent to it — this is ray 
 game, and I mast control it. It is a violation of the 
 Arab bread-and-salt rule, to communicate that 
 which was obtained by our friendly intimacy at 
 the glen.’’ 
 
 “ I think you are wrong, Linwood ; it is a case 
 where an inferior obligation should yield to a su- 
 perior one." 
 
 “ I don’t comprehend your metaphysical reason- 
 ing, Eliot ; I govern myself by the obligation I 
 feel.” 
 
 “ By the dictates of your conscience, ray dear fel- 
 low ; so do I ; therefore I shall go immediately to 
 the general, with or without you.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ Not with me — no, I’ll not tell him what I 
 know, that's flat ; and as to being questioned and 
 cross-questioned by him, heavens and earth ! when 
 he but bends his awful brow upon me, I feel as if 
 my heart were turning inside out. No, I’ll not go 
 
 d 
 
32 the nove 
 
 near hirn. Why can’t we write an anonymous 
 letter ?” 
 
 •“ I do not like anonymous letters — my course 
 appears plain to me, so good morning to you.” 
 
 One moment, Eliot — remember, not a word of 
 what I saw through the window at the glen.” 
 
 Certainly not, if you insist." Eliot then went 
 to the general’s marquee, and was told he would see 
 him in two hours. Eliot returned at the precise 
 moment, and was admitted. “ You are punctual, Mr. 
 Lee.” said the commander, “ and I thank you for it. 
 A young man should be as exact in military life as 
 the play requires the lover to be ! ‘ he should not 
 break a part of the thousandth part of a minute.’ 
 L'enr business, sir? ’ 
 
 Eliot was beginning to disclose it, when they were 
 interrupted by a servant, who handed General 
 Washington a note, A single involuntary glance at 
 the superscription assured Eliot it was from Linwood. 
 General Washington opened it, and looked first for 
 the signature, as one naturally does at receiving a 
 letter in an unknown hand. “ Anonymous !” he 
 said ; and refolding without reading a word of it, he 
 lighted it in a candle, still burning on the desk 
 where he had been sealing letters, and suft'ered it to 
 consume ; saying, “ This is the way 1 how serve all 
 anonymous letters, Mr. Lee. Men in public life are 
 liable to receive many such communications, and to 
 have their minds disturbed, and sometimes poisoned, 
 by them. They are the resort of the cowardly or 
 the malignant. An honest man will sustain by his 
 name what he thinks proper to communicate.” 
 
 “ There is no rule of universal application to the 
 versatile mind of man,” thought Eliot, and his heart 
 burned to justify his friend ; when the general re- 
 minding him they had no time to lose, he proceeded 
 concisely to state his apprehensions and their 
 grounds. Washiirgton listened to him w ithout in- 
 terruption, but not without an appalling change of 
 countenance. “I have heard you through, Mr. 
 Lee,” he said; “your apprehensions are perhaps 
 Katural ; at any rate, I thank you for frankly com- 
 municating them to me ; but, be assured, your sus- 
 picions have no foundation. Do you think «uch 
 ▼ile treachery could be plotted by a Virginian, my 
 neighbour, my friend of thirty years, my father’s 
 friend, when all the grievous trials of this war have 
 not produced a single traitor? No, no, Mr. Lee, I 
 would venture my life — my eoantry, on the cast of 
 Kuthven’s integrity. If I do not lightly give my 
 ■confidence, I do not lightly withdraw it ; and once 
 withdrawn, it is never restored.” 
 
 Eliot left Washington’s presence, half convinced 
 Limself that his suspicions were unfounded. It 
 never occurred to Washington or to Eliot that there 
 might be a conspiracy w ithout Mr. Ruthven being a 
 party to it, and the supposition that he was so inva- 
 lidated all the evidences of a plot. 
 
 In the afternoon Kisel asked leave to avail him- 
 self of a permit which Eliot had obtained for him, 
 to go on the opposite side of the river to a little 
 brook, whence he had often brought a mess of trout 
 for the officers’ table ; for our friend Kisel w’as 
 skilled in the craft of angling, and might have 
 served Cruikshank for an illustration of Johnson’s 
 definition of the word, “ a fishing rod, with a bait at 
 one end and a fool at the other;” but happily, as it 
 proved, our fool had some “subtlety in his simpli- 
 city.” Eliot gave him the permission, with direc- 
 tions to row up to the glen when he returned, and 
 await him there. 
 
 Eliot determined to go to the glen, and station 
 himself on the margin of the river, where, in case 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 (a chance that seemed to him at least possible) of 
 the approach of an enemy’s boat, he should descry 
 it in time to give Washington warning. He went 
 in search of Linwood, to ask him to accompany 
 him ; but Liuwood was no where to be found. Ha 
 deliberated whether to communicate his apprehen- 
 sions to some other officer. The confidence the ge- 
 neral had manifested had nearly dissipated his 
 apprehensions, and he feared to do what might 
 appear like officiousness, or like a distrust of Wash- 
 ington’s prudence ; that virtue, which, to remain, 
 as it then was, the bulwark of his country’s safety, 
 must continue unsuspected. 
 
 Eliot in his anxiety had reached the glen while 
 it was yet day-light; and, careful to escape observa- 
 tion, he stole along the little strip of pebbly beach 
 where a mimic bay sets in, and seated himself on a 
 pile of rocks, the extreme point of a hill that de- 
 scends abruptly to the Hudson. Here the river, 
 hemmed in by the curvatures of the mountains, has 
 the appearance of a lake ; for the passage is so nar- 
 row and winding through which it forces its way, 
 that the eye scarcely detects it. Eliot for a while 
 forgot the tecliousness of his watch in looking 
 around him. The mountains at the entrance of 
 the Hudson into the highlands, which stand like 
 giant sentinels jealously guarding the narrow 
 portal, appeared, whence he saw them, like a 
 magnificent framework to a beautifal picture. An 
 April shower had just passed over, and the mist was 
 rolling away like the soft folds of a curtain from the 
 village of Newbuigh, which looked like the abode 
 of all “ country contentments, ” as the setting sun 
 shone cheerily on its gentle slopes and white houses, 
 contrasting it with the stern features of the moun- 
 tains. Far in the distance, the Caskills, belted by 
 clouds, appeared as if their blue heads were sus- 
 pended in the atmosphere and mingling with the 
 sky, from which an eye familiar with their beautiful 
 outline could alone distinguish them. But the 
 foreground of his picture was most interesting to 
 Eliot; and as his eye again fell on the little glen 
 sleeping in the silvery arms of the rills between 
 which it lies — “can this place,’’ he thought, “so 
 steeped in nature’s loveliness, so enshrined in her 
 temple, be the abode of treachery ! It has been of 
 heartlessness, coquetry, duplicity — ah, there is no 
 power in nature, in the outward world, to convert 
 the bad ; blessings it has — blessings manifold, for 
 the good.” 
 
 The spirit of man, alone in nature’s solitudes, is 
 an instrument which she manages at will ; and Eliot, 
 in his deepening seriousness and anxiety, felt him- 
 self answ ering to her changing aspect. The young 
 foliage of the well-wooded little knoll that rises over 
 the glen had looked fresh and feathery, and as bright 
 as an infant awaking to happy consciousness; but as 
 the sun withdrew its beams, i' appeared as dreary as 
 if it had parted from a smiling friend. And when 
 the last gleams of day had stolen up the side of the 
 Crow’s Nest, shot over the summit of Breakneck, , 
 fiushed the clouds, and disappeared, and the wavy 
 lines and natural terraces be3’oud Cold Spring, and 
 the mass of rocks and pines of Constitution Island, 
 were w rapped in sad-coloured unil'orm, Eliot shrunk 
 fiom the intluence of the general desolaleness, and 
 became impatient of his voluntary watch. 
 
 One after a . other the kindly-beaming home-lights 
 shot forth from hill and valley, and Eliot’s eye 
 catching that which flashed from Mr. lluthven’s 
 window, he determined on a reconnoitre; and pass- 
 ing in front of the house, he saw Washington and 
 his best seated at a table, served with wiqe and nuts; 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 "but none of those tropical luxuries that had been 
 manifestly brought to the glen by the stranger guests 
 from the sloop of war. Eliot’s heart gladdened at 
 seeing the friends enjoying one of those smooth and 
 delicious passages that sometimes vary the ruggedest 
 path of life. That expression of repelling and im- 
 moveable gravity, that look of tension (with him the 
 bow was always strained) that characterised Wash- 
 ington’s face, had vanished like a cloud ; and it now 
 serenely reflected the social aflcciions, bright and 
 gentle spirits! that, for the time, mastered his per- 
 plexing cares. He was retracing the period of his 
 boyhood ; a period, however cloudy in its passage, 
 always bright when surveyed over the shoulder. He 
 • recalled his first field sports, in which liuthven had 
 been his companion aud teacher; and they laugh- 
 ingly reviewed many an accident by flood and field. 
 ^‘No wonder,” thought Eliot, as in passing he 
 glanced at Ruthven’s honest, jocund face; “no 
 wonder Washington would not distrust him! ’ 
 
 Eliot returned to his post. The stais had come 
 out, and looked down coldly and dimly through a 
 hazy atmosphere. The night was becoming obscure. 
 A mist was rising ; and shortly after a heavy fog 
 covered the surface of the river. Eliot wondered 
 that Kisel had not made his appearance ; for, desul- 
 tory as the fellow was, he was as true to his master 
 as the magnet to the pole. Darkness is a wonderful 
 magnifier of apprehended danger ; and, as it deepened, 
 Eliot felt as if enemies were approaching from every 
 quarter. Listening intently, he heard a distant 
 sound of oars. He was all ear. “ Thank Heaven !” 
 he exclaimed, “it is Kisel — a single pair of oars, 
 and his plashy irregular dip !’’ In a few moments 
 he was discernible; and nearing the shore, he 
 jumped upon the rock where Eliot stood, crying out, 
 exultingly, “ I've dodged ’em, hey ! ” 
 
 “ Softly, Kisel. Whom have you dodged 
 
 “Them red birds in their borrowed feathers. 
 Cheat me? No ! Can’t I tell them that chops, and 
 reaps,- 4 nd mows, and thrashes, from them that only 
 handles a sword or a gun, let ’em put on what ev’y- 
 day clothes they will 
 
 “ Tell me, Kisel, plainly and quickly, what you 
 mean.” 
 
 A command from Eliot, uttered in a tone of even 
 slight displeasure, had a marvellous effect in steady- 
 ing Kisel’s wits; aud he answered with tolerable 
 clearness and precision — “I was cutting 'cross lots 
 before sunset with a mess of trout, long as my arm 
 —shiners I when I stumbled on a bunch of fellows 
 squatted ’mong high bushes. They held me by the 
 leg, and said they’d come down with provisions for 
 Square Ruthven’s folks, and they had not got a pass, 
 and so must wait for nightfall ; and they’d have me 
 stay and guide 'em across, tor they knew they might 
 ground at low water if they did not get the right 
 track. I mistrusted ’em. I knew by their tongues 
 they came from below ; and so I cried, and told ’em I 
 should get a whipping if I didn’t get home afore 
 sundown ; and one of ’em held a pistol to my head, 
 loaded, primed, and cocked, and told ir.e he’d shoot 
 my brains out if I didn’t do as he bid me. ‘ Lo’d o’ 
 massy !’ says I, ‘ don’t shoot — ’twou’t do any good, 
 for I ha’n't got no brains, hey !’ ” 
 
 “ Never mind what you said or they said. What 
 did you do ?” 
 
 “ I didn’t do nothing. They held me fast till 
 night ; and then they pushed their boat out of a kind 
 o’ hiding place, and come alongside mine, and put 
 me into it, and told me to pilot ’em. You know 
 that sandy strip a bit off t’other shore ? I knew my 
 boat would swim over it like a cob, and 1 guessed 
 
 The Novel Ne'^-spaper, No. 127. 
 
 33 
 
 they’d swamp— and they did; diddle me if they 
 didn’t 
 
 “Are they there now ?" 
 
 “There! not if they’ve the wit of sucking tur- 
 keys. The river there is not deep enough to drown 
 a dead dog, and they might jump in and pull the 
 boat out.” 
 
 A slight westerly breeze was now rising, which 
 lifted aud wafted the fog so that half the width of 
 the river w'as suddenly unveiled, and Eliot descried 
 a boat making towards the glen. “By Heaven! 
 there they are 1’’ he exclaimed. “Follow me, Kisel;” 
 and without entering tlie house, he ran to tlie stable 
 close by. Fortunately, often having had occasion, 
 during his visits at the glen, to bestow his own horse, 
 he was familiar with the “ whereabouts,” and in one 
 instant General Washington’s charger was bridled 
 and at the door, held by Kisel, while Eliot rushed 
 into the house, and in ten words communicated the 
 danger and the means of escape. General AVash- 
 ington said not a word till, as he sprang on the' 
 horse, Rutliven, on whose astounded mind the truth 
 dawned, exclaimed, “I am innocent.” He replied, 
 “ I believe you.” 
 
 Washington immediately galloped up the steep 
 embowered road to the Point. Eliot hesitated for a 
 moment, doubting whether to attempt a retreat or 
 remain w'here he was, when Mr. Ruthven grasped 
 his arm, exclaiming, “ Stay, for God’s sake, Mr. 
 Lee; stay, and witness to my innocence.” The im- 
 ploring agony with which he spoke w'oul(^ have 
 persuaded a more inflexible person than Eliot Lee. 
 In truth, there w'as little use in attempting to fly, for 
 the footsteps of the party were already heard ap- 
 proaching the house. They entered, five armed 
 men, and were laying their hands on Eliot, when 
 Mr. Ruthven’s frantic gestures, and his shouts of 
 “ He’s safe — he’s safe — he’s escaped ye!” revealed 
 to them the truth ; and they perceived what in their 
 impetuosity they had overlooked, that they held an 
 unknown young man in their gra.sp instead of the 
 priceless AVashington ! Deep were the oaths they 
 swore as they dispersed to search the premises, all 
 excepting one young man, wh )se arm Mr. Ruthven 
 had grasped, and to whom he said — “ Harry, you’ve 
 ruined me — you’ve made me a traitor in the eyes of 
 Washington — the basest traitor! He said, God 
 bless him I that he believed me innocent. But ho 
 will not when he reflects that it was I who invited 
 him — who pressed him to come here this evening — 
 the conspiracy seems evident — undeniable ! Oh ! 
 Harry, Harry, you and your mad sister have ruined 
 me !” 
 
 The young man seemed deeply affected by his 
 father’s emotion. He attempted to justify himself 
 on the plea that he dared not set bis filial feeling 
 against the importance of ending the war by a single 
 stroke ; but this plea neither convinced nor consoled 
 his father. Young Ruthven’s associates soon re- 
 turned, having abandoned their search, and an 
 nounced the necessity of tlieir immediaie return to 
 the boat. “You must go with us, sir,” said Rutin ei 
 to his father; “ for, blameless as you are, you will be 
 treated by the rebels as guilty of treason.” 
 
 “ By Heaven, Harry, I’ll not go. I had rather 
 die a thousand deaths — on the gallows, it I must. 
 I’ll not budge a foot.” 
 
 “ Ho must go — there is no alternative. You must 
 aid me,” said young Ruihvon to his companions. 
 They advanced to seize his father. “Oil — oil !” 1 a 
 cried, struggling against them. “ I’ll not go a living 
 man.” 
 
 Eliot interposed ; and addressing himself to young 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 34 
 
 Huthven, said, “ Believe me, sir, you are mistaking 
 your dut 3 ^ Your father’s good name must be dearer 
 to you than his life; and his good name is blasted 
 for ever if in these circumstances he leaves here. 
 But his life is in no danger — none whatever. He is 
 in the hands of his friend, and that friend the most 
 generous, as well as just, of all human beings. You 
 misunderstand the temper of General Washington, 
 if you think he would believe your father guilty of 
 the vilest treachery without damning proof.’’ Young 
 Huthven was more than hall convinced by Eliot, and 
 his companions had by this time become impatient 
 of delay. Their spirit had gone with the hope that 
 inspired their enterprise, and they were now only 
 anxious to secure a retreat to their vessel. They 
 had some little debate among themselves whether 
 they should make Eliot prisoner; but, on young 
 Huthven’s suggestion that Lieutenant Lee’s testi- 
 mony might be important to his father, they con- 
 sented to leave him, one of them expressing, in a 
 whisper, the prevailing sentiment, “ We should feel 
 sheepish enough to gain but a paltry knight when 
 we expected a checkmate by our move.” 
 
 In a few moments more they were off ; but not 
 till young Ruthven had vainly tried to get a kind 
 parting word from his father. “No, Harry,” he 
 said, “ I’ll not forgive you — I can’t; you’ve put my 
 honour in jeopardy — no, never and as his son 
 turned sorrowfully away, he added, “ Never, Hal, 
 till this cursed war is at an end.” 
 
 Early next morning Eliot Lee requested an audi- 
 ence of Washington, and was immediately admitted, 
 and most cordially received. ‘‘ Thank God, my 
 dear young friend,” he said, “you are safe, and here. 
 I sent repeatedly to your lodgings last night, and, 
 hearing nothing, I have been exceedingly anxious. 
 Satisfy me on one point, and then tell me what hap 
 pened after my forced retreat. I trust in Heaven 
 this affair is not bruited.” 
 
 Eliot assured him he had not spoken of it to a 
 human being — not even to Linwood; and that he 
 had enjoined strict secrecy on Kisel, on whose obe- 
 dience he could rely. 
 
 Thank you — thank you, Mr. Lee,” said Wash- 
 ington, with a warmth startling from him, “ I should 
 have expected this from you — the generous devotion 
 of youth, and the coolness and prudence of ripe age 
 — a rare union.” 
 
 Such words from him who never flattered, and 
 rarely praised, might well, as they did, make the 
 blood gush from the heart to the cheeks. “I am 
 most grateful for this approbation, sir,” said Eliot. 
 
 Grateful! Would to Heaven I had some return 
 to make for the immense favours you have done me, 
 beside words; but the importance of keeping the 
 affair secret precludes all other return. I think it 
 will not transpire from the enemy, — they are not 
 like to publish a baffled enterprise. I am most par- 
 ticularly pleased that you went alone to the glen. 
 In this instance I almost agree with Cardinal de 
 Betz, who says, ‘ he held men in greater esteem for 
 what they forbore to do than for what they did.’ I 
 now see where I erred yesterday. It did not occur 
 to me that there could be a plot without my friend 
 being accessary to it. I did not err in trusting him’ 
 This war has cost me dear; but, thank Heaven, it 
 has not shaken, but fortified, my confidence in human 
 virtue !” Washington then proceeded to inquire into 
 the occurrences at the glen after he left there, and 
 ended with giving Eliot a note to deliver to Mr. 
 Ruihveu, which proved a healing balm to the good 
 man’s wounds. 
 
 Our revolutionary contest, by placing men in new 
 
 relations, often exhibited in"new force and beauty 
 the ties that bind together the human family. Some- 
 times, it is true, they were lightly snapped asunder, 
 but oftener they manifested an all-resisting force, and 
 a union that, as in some chemical combinations, no 
 test could dissolve. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Our will we can command. The effects of our 
 actions we cannot foresee. Montaigne. 
 
 Herbert Linwood to his Sister. 
 
 “Dearest Belle, July 30th, 177 9. 
 
 “ I write under the inspiration of the agreeable 
 consciousness that my letter may pass under the sub- 
 lime eye of your commander-in-chief, or be scanned 
 and sifted by his underlings. I wish to Heaven that, 
 without endangering your bright orbs, I could infuse 
 some retributive virtue into my ink to strike them 
 blind. But the deuce take them. I defy their over- 
 sight. I am not discreet enough to be trusted with 
 military or political secrets, and therefore, like Hot- 
 spur’s Kate, I can betray none. As to my own 
 private affairs, though I do not flatter myself I have 
 attained a moral eminence which I may challenge 
 the world to survey, yet I’ll expose nothing to you, 
 dear Belle, whose opinion I care more for than that 
 of king, lords, and commons, which the whole world 
 may not know without your loving brother being 
 dishonoured thereby : so on, in my usual ‘ streak o* 
 lightning style,’ with facts and feelings. 
 
 “ You have, before this, seen the official account 
 of our successful attack on Stony Point, and have 
 doubtless been favoured with the additional light of 
 Rivington’s comments, your veritable editor. These 
 thralls of party editors I the light they emit is like 
 that of conjurors, intended to produce false impres- 
 sions. 
 
 “ Do not imagine I am going to send you a re- 
 gular report of the battle. With all due deference 
 to your superior mental faculties, my dear, you are 
 but a woman, and these concernments of ‘ vile guns’ 
 must for ever remain mysteries to you. Bat, Belle, 
 I’ll give you the romance of the aff’air — ‘ thy voca- 
 tion, Hal,’ 
 
 “ My friend Eliot Lee has a vein of quixotism,, 
 that reminds me of the inflammable gas I have seen 
 issuing from a cool healthy spring- Doctor Kissam, 
 you know, used to say every man had his insanity. 
 Eliot’s appears in his affection for a half-witted fol- 
 lower, one Kisel ; the oddest fellow in this world. 
 His life is a series of consecutive accidents, of good 
 and bad luck. 
 
 “ On the 10th he had been out on the other side 
 of the river, vagrantising in his usual fashion, and 
 returning late to his little boat, and, as we suspect, 
 having fallen asleep, he drifted ashore at Stony Point. 
 There he came upon the fort, and a string of trout 
 (which he is seldom without) serving him as a pass- 
 port, he was admitted within the walls. His sim- 
 plicity, unique and inimitable, shielded him from 
 suspicion, and a certain iuspiralion which seems 
 always to come direct from Heaven at the moment 
 of his necessity, saved him Irom betraying the fact 
 that he belonged to our army, and he was suffered to 
 depart in peace. The ebservations he made (he is 
 often acute) were of course communicated to his 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 master, and by him made available to our enterprise. 
 Eliot and myself were among the volunteers. He, 
 profitiug by Kisel’s hints, guided us safely through 
 some ‘ sloughs of despond.’ With all his skill, we 
 had a killing scramble over pathless mountains, and 
 through treacherous swamps, under a burning sun, 
 the mercury ranging somewhere between one and 
 two hundred, so that my sal volatile blood seemed 
 to have exhaled in vapour, and my poor body to be 
 a burning coal, whose next state would be ashe^ 
 
 “Our General Wayne (you will understand his 
 temper from his nomde guerre , ‘ mad Anthony’) had 
 ordered us to advance with unloaded muskets and 
 fixed bayonets. He was above all things anxious to 
 avoid an accidental discharge, which might alarm 
 the garrison. At eight in the evening we were 
 within a mile and a half of the fort, and there the 
 detachment halted ; while Wayne, with Eliot and 
 some other officers, went to reconnoitre. They had 
 approached within gunshot of the works, when poor 
 Kisel, who away from Eliot is like an unweaned 
 child, and who had been all day wandering in search 
 of him, suddenly emerged from the wood, and in a 
 paroxysm of joy discharged his musket. Wayne 
 sprang forward, and would have transfixed him with 
 his bayonet, had not Eliot thrown himself before 
 Kisel, and turned aside Wayne’s arm ; some angry 
 words followed, but it ended in the general leaving 
 Kisel to be managed by Eliot’s discretion. The 
 general’s displeasure, however, against Eliot, did not 
 subside at once. 
 
 “ When the moment for attack came, I felt myself 
 shivering, not with fear, no, ‘ franchement' (as our old 
 teacher Dubois used to say, on the few occasions 
 when he meant to tell the truih), franchement, not 
 with fear, but with the recollection of my father’s 
 last words to me. The uncertain chances of a fierce 
 contest were before me, and my father’s curse rung 
 in my ears, like the voices that turned the poor 
 wretches in the Arabian tale into stone. Once in 
 the fight, it was forgotten ; all men are bulldogs then, 
 and think of nothing past or to come. 
 
 “ They opened a tremendous fire upon us ; it was 
 the dead of night. Belle, and rather a solemn time, 
 
 I assure you. Our commander was wounded by a 
 musket ball ; he fell, and instantly rising on one 
 knee, he cried, ‘ Forward, my brave boys, forward.’ 
 The gallant shout gave us a new impulse; and we 
 rushed forward, while Eliot Lee, with that singular 
 blending of cool courage and generosity which marks 
 him, paused and assisted the general’s aid in bear- 
 ing him on, in compliance with the wish he had ex- 
 pressed (believing himself mortally w’ounded), that 
 he might die in the fort. Thank God, he survived; 
 and, being as magnanimous as he is brave, he re- 
 ported to the commander.in-chief Eliot’s gallantry 
 and good conduct throughout the whole affair, and 
 particularly dwelt on the aid he had given him, after 
 having received from him injurious epithets. In 
 consequence of all this, Eliot is advanced to the rank 
 of captain. Luck is a lord. Belle; I would fain 
 have distinguished myself, but I merely, like the 
 rest, performed my part honourably, for which I 
 received the thanks of General Washington, and got 
 my name blazoned in the report to Congress. 
 
 “ I hear that Helen Ruthven is dashing away in 
 New York, as I expected, after her romantic de- 
 parture hence, as the Honourable Mrs. O— — . 
 Well! all kind vestals guard her I Heaven knows, 
 she needs their vigilance. Rumour says, too, that 
 you are shortly to vow allegiance to my royalist 
 friend. God bless you! my dear sister. If it were 
 true— alas! nothing is more false— that matches ' 
 
 35 
 
 are made in heaven, I know who would be your 
 liege lord. Another match there was, that my boy- 
 hood — my boyhood! my youth, my maturity, I be- 
 lieved Heaven had surely made. It is a mu>iy pro- 
 verb, that. Farewell, Belle ; kiss my dear mother 
 for me, and tell her I would not have her, like the 
 old Scotch woman, pray for our side, ‘ right or 
 wrong,’ but let her pray for the right side, and then 
 her poor son will be sure to prosper. Oh, would 
 that I could, without violating my duty to my 
 country, throw myself at my father’s feet. His 
 loyalty is not truer to King George, than mine te 
 him. Dearest Belle, may Heaven reunite us all. 
 
 “ Yours, 
 
 “ H. Linwood, 
 
 “ P. S. — Kind love, don’t forget it, to Rose.’’ 
 
 A day or two after Herbert’s letter was dis- 
 patched, Eliot received a summons from Washing- 
 ton ; and on his appearing before him, the general 
 said, “ I have important business to be transacted iu 
 New York, Captain Lee. I have despatches to 
 transmit to Sir Henry Clinton. My agent must be 
 intrusted with discretionary powers. An expedi- 
 tion to New York even with the protection of 
 a flag of truce, is hazardous. The intervening 
 country is infested with outlaws, who respect no 
 civilised usages. My emissary must be both intre-^ 
 pid and prudent. I have therefore selected you. 
 Will you accept the mission?” 
 
 “ Most gratefully, sir — but — ” 
 
 “ But what? if you have scruples name them.” 
 
 “ None in the world, sir ; on my own account, I 
 should be most happy, but I should be still happier 
 if the office might be assigned to Linwood. It would 
 afford him the opportunity he pines for, of seeing his 
 family.” 
 
 “ 'That is a reason, if there were no other, why 
 Captain Linwood should not go. Some embarrass- 
 ment might arise. Your friend has not the coolness 
 essential in exigencies.” 
 
 Eliot well knew that Washington was not a man 
 with whom to bandy arguments, and he at once de- 
 clared himself ready to discharge, to the best of his 
 ability, whatever duty should be imposed on him ; 
 and it was settled that he should depart as soon as 
 his instructions could be made out. 
 
 Eliot soon after met Linwood, and communicated 
 his intended expedition. “ You are always under 
 a lucky star,’’ said Linwood ; “ I would have given 
 all I am worth for this appointment.” 
 
 ” And you certainly should have it if it were mine 
 to bestow.’’ 
 
 “ I do not doubt it, not in the least; but is it not 
 hard ? Eliot, I am such a light-hearted wretch, 
 for the most part, that you really have no concep- 
 tion how miserable my father’s displeasure makes 
 me. I don’t understand how it is. The laws of 
 Heaven are harmonious, and certainly my con- 
 science acquits me, yet I sufl'er most cruelly for my 
 breach of filial obedience. If I could but see my 
 father, eye to eye, I am sure I could persuade him 
 to recall that curse, that rings in my ears even now 
 like a death-knell. Oh, one half-hour in New York 
 would be my salvation ! The sight of Belle and my 
 mother would be heaven to me ! Don’t laugh at me, 
 Eliot,” he continued, wiping his eyes, “ I am a calf 
 when I think of them all.” 
 
 ” Laugh at you, Linwood ! I could cry with joy 
 if I could give my place to you ; as it is, I must 
 hasten my preparations. I have obtained leave to 
 take Kisel with me.’’ 
 
 *' Kisel ! Heaven forefend, Eliot* Do you knoir 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 36 
 
 what ridicule such a valet-de-place as Kisel will 
 call down on your head from those lordly British 
 offic r6?” 
 
 Yes, I have thought of that, and it would be 
 sheer aftectation to pretend to be indifferent to it ; 
 hut I can bear it. Providence has cast Kisel upon 
 my preteciion, and if I leave him he will be sure to 
 run his witless head into some scrape ihat will give 
 me ten times more trouble than his attendance.” 
 
 Well, as you please ; you gentle people are al- 
 ways wilful.’’ Alter a few moments’ thoughtful 
 silence, he added, “ How long before you start, 
 Eliot?” 
 
 ” The general said it might be two hours before 
 my instructions and passports were made out.’’ 
 
 “ It will be dark then, and,’’ added Linwood, 
 after a keen survey of the heavens, “ I think very 
 dark.” 
 
 “ Like enough; but that is not so very agree- 
 able a prospect as one would infer from the tone of 
 your voice.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, my dear fellow ; it was New York 
 I was thinking of, and not any inconvenience you 
 might encounter from the obscurity of the night. 
 Your passports are not made out?” 
 
 “ Not yet.” 
 
 “ Do me a favour, then — let Kisel ride my grey. 
 I cannot endure the thought of the harlequin spec- 
 tacle you’ll furnish forth, riding down the Broadway 
 with your squire mounted on Beauty ; besides, the 
 animal is not equal to the expedition.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Linwood. I accept your kindness 
 as freely as you ofiered it. You have relieved me of 
 my only serious embarrassment. Now get your leiters 
 ready ; any thing nnsqpled (my orders are restricted 
 o that) I will take charge of, and deliver at your fa- 
 her’s door.” 
 
 “ My father’s door!’’ exclaimed Linwood, snap 
 ping his fingers with a sort of wild exultation that 
 made Eliot stare — “ oh, what a host of images those 
 words call up; but as to the letters, there is ijo plea- 
 sure in unsealed ones; I sent a bulletin ofmy health 
 to Belle y'esterday ; I have an engagement that will 
 occupy me till after your departure: so farew ell, and 
 good luck to you, Eliot.’’ The friends shook hands 
 and parted. • 
 
 The twilight was fading into night when Eliot 
 was ready for his departure. To his great vexation 
 Kisel was missing; and he was told he had ridden 
 forward, and had left word that he would await his 
 master at a certain point about three miles on their 
 way. The poor fellow’s habits were so desultorv 
 that they never excited surprise, though they would 
 have been intolei'able to one less kind tempered 
 than Eliot Lee. He found him at the point 
 named. Pie had reined his horse up against the 
 feiice, and was awaiting his master, as Eliot saw, 
 for he could just descry the outline of his person 
 lying back to back to the horse, his legs encircling 
 the animal's neck. 
 
 “ Sit up, Kisel,’* said his master, in an irritated 
 tone; “ remember you are riding a gentleman’s horse 
 that’s not accustomed to siicli triok.s. And now I 
 tell you, once for all, that unless you behave your- 
 selt quietly and reasonably', I will send you adrift.” 
 
 Kisel whistled. He always either replied by a 
 whistle or tears to Eliot’s reproof, and the whi-stle 
 now, as usual, was followed by a fit of sulkiness. 
 The night was misty and very dark. Kisel, in spite 
 of sundry kind overtures from his master, remained 
 doggedly silent, or only answered in a muttered 
 monosyllable. Thus tliey travelled all night, merely 
 stopping at the farm-houses, to Avhich they had been 
 
 directed to refresh their horses. On these occasions 
 Kisel was unusually zealous in performing the office 
 of groom, and seemed to have made a most useful 
 transfer of the uimhlenessof his tongue to his hands. 
 
 The dawn found them within the enemy’s lines, 
 at twenty miles distance from the city of New York, 
 and in siglit of a British post designated in their 
 instructions, where they were to stop, exhibit their 
 flag of truce, show’ their passports, and obtain others 
 to the fity. 
 
 “Now, Kisel,” said Eliot, “you must have done 
 with your fooleries; you will disgrace me if you do 
 not behave like a man : jull up your cap — do not 
 bury your face so in the collar of your coat — sit 
 upright.” 
 
 Kisel threw the reins upon his horse’s neck, 
 affected (o arrange his cap and coat, and in doing so 
 dropped his whip. This obliged him to dismount 
 and go back a few yards, which he did as if he had 
 clogs at his heels. 
 
 In the mean time Eliot spurred on his horse, and 
 rode up to the door where the enemy’s guard wa.? 
 stationed. His passports were examined, and re- 
 turned to him countersigned. He passed on; and 
 the guard was giving a cursory glance at the attend- 
 ant, w hen it seemed to strike him there was some 
 discrepance between the description and the actual 
 person. 
 
 “ Stop, my man,” said he, “ let's have another 
 glance. ‘Crooked, ill-made person;’ yes, crooked 
 enough — ‘sandy hair;’ yes, by Jove, sandy as a 
 Scotchman's grey eyes, small and sunken;’ grey 
 to be sure, but neither small nor sunken.” 
 
 “ Well, now,” said Kisel, with beseeching simpli" 
 city, and looking eagerly after Eliot, who was watering 
 his horse at a brook a few rods in advance of him — - 
 “ well, now, I say, don’t Lender me — smallness is 
 according as people thinks. My eye a’nt so big as 
 an ox’s nor ’tan’ t so small as a mole’s, and folks w ill 
 dispute all the way ’twixt the two; so what signifies 
 keeping captain waiting? ’ 
 
 ‘‘ Well, well, it must be right — go on. I don’t 
 know though,” muttered the inquisitor as Kisel rode 
 ofl' at a sharp trot; d — n these Yankees — they’d 
 cheat the devil. The jiassport said ‘ a turnup nose’ 
 — tliis fellow’s is as straight as dti arrow. Here, 
 halloo, sirs— back.” But Kisel, instead of heeding 
 the recall, though seconded by his master, galloped 
 forward, making antic gestures, laughing and shout- 
 ing; and EliJt, bitterlv repenting his indiscretion in 
 bringing him, retraced his steps. He found the 
 inspectors faculties all awakened by the suspicion that 
 he had been outwitted. 
 
 “My friend,’’ said Eliot, reproducing his pass- 
 ports, “ this detention is unnecessary and discour- 
 teous. You see I am, beyond a question, the person 
 here described ; and I give you my honour that my 
 coaipanion is the attendant specified. He is a fellow 
 of weak wits, as you may see by his absurd conduct, 
 who can impose on no one, much less on a person of 
 your keenness.” 
 
 “ That is to say, if he is he. But I suppose you 
 know, sir, that a wolf can wear a sheep’s clothing. 
 There are so many rebels that have connexions in 
 the city, outside friends to his majesty, that we are 
 obliged to keep a sharp look-out." 
 
 “ Certainly, my friend ; all that you say is per- 
 fectly reasonable, and I respect you for doing your 
 duty. But you must be satisfied now, and w ill have 
 the goodness to permit me to proceed.” 
 
 The man was conciliated, and after making an 
 entry in his note- book, he again returned the pass- 
 orts. Eliot put spurs to bis horse ; and as the man 
 
THE LIN WOODS, 
 
 37 
 
 gazed after him, he said, '‘A noble-looking youth. 
 The Almighty has written his passport on that face, 
 hut that won’t serve him now-a-days without 
 endorsements. That other fellow I doubt. Well, 
 I’ll just forward these notes I have taken down to 
 Colonel Robertson, and he’ll be on the look-out.” 
 
 In the mean time Eliot followed Kisel at full speed ; 
 but after approaching him within a few yards he 
 perceived he did not gain an inch on him, and 
 apprehensive that such forced riding might injure 
 Linwood’s horse, or, at any rate, that the smoking 
 sides of both the steeds would excite suspicion, he 
 reined his in, and wondered what new demon had 
 takeu possession of Kisel, for while he now rode at a 
 moderate pace, he had the mortification of seeing 
 that Kisel exactly, and with an accuracy he had 
 never manifested in any other operation, measured 
 his horse’s speed by his master’s, so as to pre#rve 
 an undeviating distance from him. Tims they 
 proceeded till they approached Kingsbridg ’, where a 
 Rritisli picket was .stationed. Here Kisel m.anaged 
 so as to come up with liis horse abreast to Elioi’s. 
 The horse seemed to take alarm at the colours that 
 were flying from the British flagstaff, and reared, 
 Avhirled round, and curvetted, so as to require all his 
 rider's adroitness to keep on his back. Meanwhile 
 the passports were being e.xamined, and they were 
 suffered toprocecd without a particular investigation. 
 
 'i'hey had passed the bridge, and beyond obser- 
 vation, when Eliot, who svas still in advance of his 
 attendant, turned suddenly round, with the intention 
 of trying the whole force of a moral battery ; but he 
 was surprised by a coup de main that produced a 
 sudden and not very agreeable shock to his ideas. 
 
 His follower’s slouched and clownish attitude w.as 
 gt'ne, and in its place an erect and cavalier bearing. 
 His head was raised from the mufller that had half 
 buried it— his cap pushed back, and from beneath 
 shone the bright laughing eve of Herbert Linwood. 
 
 “Now, Eliot, my dear fellow,” he said, stretching 
 out his hand to him, “ do not look so, as if you liked 
 the knave less than the fool.” 
 
 “ If I do look so, Linwood, it i.s because fools are 
 easier protected than knaves. It is impossible to 
 foresee what may be the consequence of till's rash 
 business.” 
 
 “Oil, hang the consequence. I wish yon would 
 get over that Yankee fashimi of weighing every pos- 
 sible danger; you are such a cautious race.” 
 
 ‘^Grauted, Linwood, we are; and I think it will 
 take all n.y caution to get us out of a scrape that your 
 heroism has plunged us into.” 
 
 Tlie first shaft of Lin wood’s petulance had glanced 
 oft’ from the shield of his friend’.x good-temper, and he 
 had not another. “ I confess,” he said, in an altered 
 voice, “that the boldness i.s worse than question- 
 able that involves others in our own danger. But 
 consider rny temptations, and then try, rny dear 
 fellow, to pardon .ny sclflsliiie.ss. I have lived three 
 years in exile — I who never before passed a night 
 out of my fatiior’s house. I arn siift'ering the wretch- 
 edness of his disjileasure, and am absolutely famishing 
 for the f.ices ami voices of home. I could live a week 
 upon the ticking of the old hall clock'.” 
 
 “ But what satisfaction can you expect, Linwood ? 
 You have always told me you believed your father’s 
 displeasure was invincil)le — ” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know that ; his ’dark is worse than 
 his bite. I cannot calculate probubilit'es. One 
 possibility outweighs a million of them. I shall at 
 any rate see my sister — my peerle.ss, glorious sister, 
 and my mother. And, after all, what i.s the risk If 
 you did not detect me, others will not, surely.” 
 
 “ You did not give me a chance.” 
 
 “Nor will I them. The only catastrophe I fear 
 is the possibility of General Washington finding me 
 out. But it was deuced crabbed of him not togive 
 me the commission. He ought to know that a maa 
 can’t live on self-sacrifice.” 
 
 “ General Washington requires no more than ha 
 performs.” 
 
 “ That is true enough ; but is it reasonable to 
 require of children to bear the burdens of men ? — of 
 common men to do the deeds of heroes?” 
 
 “ I believe there is no limit, but in our will, to our 
 moral power.” 
 
 “ P.shaw ! — and I believe the moral power of each 
 individual can be measured as accurately as his sta- 
 ture. But we are running our heads into metaphysics, 
 shall get lost in a fog.” 
 
 “ A New England fog, Linwood ?’ 
 
 “ They prevail there,” he answered, with a quiz- 
 zical smile. “ But we are w’andering from the point. 
 I really have taken all possible precautions to keep 
 my secret. I obtained leave for four days absence- 
 on the pretext that I was going up the river on mj 
 private bu''iness. The only danger arises from my 
 having been compelled to make a confidant of Kisel.’* 
 
 “ That occurred to me. How, in the name of 
 wonder, did you manage him ?" 
 
 “ Oh, I conjured in your name. I made him be- 
 lieve that your safety depended on his implicitly 
 obeying my directions ; so I obtained his holiday 
 suit(whic]i you must confess is a complete disguise), 
 and se’nt him on a fool’s errand up the river.” 
 
 The friends entered the city by passing the pickets^ 
 at the Bowery. Tliey -were admitted without scru- 
 ple : — letting animals into a cage is a very difi’erent 
 affair from letting them out. At Linwood’s sugges- 
 tion, they crossed into Queen-street. That great 
 mart, now stored with the products of the commer- 
 cial world, and supplying millions from its packed 
 warehon.se3, was then chiefly occupied by the resi- 
 dences of the provincial gentiy. Linwood had re- 
 sumed his mufflers and his clow'ni.sh air ; but the 
 true man from the false exterior growled forth many 
 an anathema as he passed house after house belong- 
 ing to the whig absentees — his former familiar haunts 
 — now occupied, and, as he thought, desecrated by 
 British officers, or resident royalists, whose loyalty 
 was thus cheaply paid. 
 
 “ Look not to the right nor left I pray you, 
 Linwood,’’ said Eliot; “you are now in danger of 
 being recognised. VVe are to stop at Mrs. Billings’s, 
 in Broad-street.” 
 
 “Just above my father’s house,” replied Linwood, 
 in a sad tone, 'i'hey rodo on briskly ; for they per- 
 ceived that Eliot’s Amerjcan uniform and grotesque 
 attendant attracted ob.servalion. They had entered 
 Broad-street, and were near a largo double house, 
 with the c.rrving about the doors and windows that 
 disiitigiiished the more ambitions edifices of the pro- 
 vincialisis. Two horses, equipped for their riders, 
 stood at the door, and a black servant in faded livery 
 beside them. 'Die door opened; and a gentleman of 
 lofty stature, attended by a young lady, came lortb. 
 •She patted the animal that awaited her, and sprang 
 into tlie saddle. “It must be Isabella Lin wood !’* 
 tlio'ight Eliot, turning his asking eye to his com-- 
 panion, who, he now perceived, had reined in his 
 iiorse towards the flagging opposite that where the 
 parties who liad attracted lii.s observation were. “ He 
 is right and careful for once,” thought Eliot. That 
 Eliot would have thought it both right and inevita-* 
 ble to have indulged himself in a nearer survey of 
 the beautiful young lady, we do uot doubt; but as he 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 38 
 
 again turned, her horse suddenly reared his hind 
 legs in the air. Her father screamed — there were 
 several persons passing — no one dared approach the 
 animal, who was whirling, floundering, and liicking 
 furiously. Some, gazing at Miss Lin wood, ex- 
 claimed, “she’ll be dashed to pieces!” — and otliers, 
 
 “ Lord, how she sits!" She did sit bravely; her 
 face colourless as marble, and her dark eyes flashing 
 fire, Ehot and Linwood instinctively dismounted, 
 and at the risk of their lives rushed to her rescue ; 
 and, at one breath’s intermission of the kicking, 
 stood on either side of the animal's head. She was 
 an old acquaintance and favourite of Linwood, and 
 with admirable presence ©f mind (inspiration he 
 afterwards called it) he addressed her in a loud tone, 
 in his accustomed phrase, “ Jennet— Jennet, softly 
 — softly 1’’ The animal was quieted; and, as Lin- 
 wood afterward affirmed, spoke as plainly to him with 
 her eye as ever human voice spoke. At any rate, 
 she stood perfectly still while Eliot assisted the 
 young lady to dismount. The people now gathered 
 round ; and at the first burst of inquiry and congra- 
 tulation, Herbert disappeared. “Thank God, you 
 are not hurt, Belle!” exclaimed her father, whose 
 voice, though choked with emotion, was heard above 
 all others. “ What in Heaven’s name possessed 
 Jennet? — she never kicked before; and how in the 
 world did you quiet her, sir?” turning to Eliot. “ It 
 was most courageously done !’’ 
 
 ^‘Miraculously!” said Miss Linwood; her face, 
 as she turned it to Eliot, beaming with gratitude. 
 There are voices that, at their first sound, seem to 
 strike anew chord that ever after vibrates; and this 
 first word that Eliot heard pronounced by Isabella 
 Linwood, often afterward rung in his ears like a re- 
 membered strain of sweet music. There were per- 
 sons present, however, not occupied with such high 
 emotions; and while Eliot was putting in a dis- 
 claimer, and saying, if there were any merit attend- 
 ing arresting the horse, it was his servant’s, diligent 
 search was making into the cause of the animal’s 
 transgression, which soon appeared in the form of a 
 thorn, that, being entangled in the saddle-cloth, had 
 pierced her side. 
 
 The first flow of Mr. Linwood’s gratitude seemed 
 to have been suddenly checked. “ Papa has seen 
 the blue coat,’’ thought Isabella; “and thegushings 
 of his heart are turned to icicles!” And infusing 
 into her own manner the warmth lacking in his, 
 she asked what name she should associate with her 
 preservation. 
 
 “ My name is Lee." 
 
 *‘A very short one. May we prefix Harry or 
 Charles?” alluding to two distinguished command- 
 ers in the American army. 
 
 “Neither, Mine is a name unknown to fame — 
 Eliot." 
 
 “Eliot Lee! — Herbert’s friend! — Bessie’s bro- 
 ther ! Papa, you do not understand. Mr. Lee is 
 the brother of your little pet, Bessie Lee, and," she 
 added, “ Herbert’s best friend.” 
 
 Her father coloured ; and civilly hoped Miss 
 Bessie Lee was well. 
 
 “Well! that is nothing,” exclaimed Miss Lin- 
 wood, “ We hope all the world is well ; but I must 
 know where Bessie is — what she is doing — how she 
 is looking, and a thousand million et ceteras. Papa, 
 Mr. Lee must come home with us.” 
 
 “Certainly, Isabella, if Mr. Lee choses," 
 
 Thus bidden, Mr. Lee could only chuse to refuse, 
 which he did ; alleging that he had no time at his 
 own disposal. 
 
 Isabella looked pained, and Mr. Linwood felt un- 
 
 comfortable ; and making an effort at an amende 
 lionurahle, he said, “ Pray send your servant to me 
 sir ; 1 shall be happy to express my obligations to 
 him.” 
 
 “Heaven smiles on Herbert!’’ thought Eliot; 
 and he replied eagerly, ‘‘I will most certainly .send 
 him, sir, this evening, at eight o’clock.” He then 
 bowed to Mr. Linwood, took Isabella’s hand, which 
 she again graciously extended to him, and thanking 
 her for her last kind 'words — “ Best — best love to 
 Bessie ; be sure you don't forget it,’’ he mounted his 
 horse and was oft'. 
 
 “Send him!” said Mr. Linwood, reiterating 
 Eliot’s last words. “ I’ll warrant him ! — trust a 
 Yankee for not letting slip a shilling.’.' 
 
 ‘‘He is quite right, papa. If he cannot obtain 
 the courtesy due to the gentleman in return for the 
 service he has rendered, he is right to secure the re- 
 ward of the menial. You were savage, sir — abso- 
 lutely savage. Mr. Lee will think we are barbarians 
 — heathens — any thing but Christians.” 
 
 “ And so am I, and so will I be to these fellows. 
 This young man did only what any other young 
 man would have done upon instinct ; so don’t pester 
 me any more about him. Y'ou know, Belle, I have 
 sworn no rebel shall enter my doors.” 
 
 “ And you know, sir, that i have — not sworn — oh, 
 no ! but resolved, and my resolve is the feminine of 
 my father’s oath, that you shall hang me on a gallows 
 high as Haman’s, before I cease to plead that our 
 doors may be opened to one rebel at least.’’ 
 
 “ Never, never!” replied her father, shutting his 
 hall-door after him as he spoke, as if all the rebel 
 world were on the other side of it. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Oui, je suis sur que vons m’aimez, mais je ne la 
 suis pas que vous m'aimiez toujours. — Moliere, 
 
 When Eliot rejoined his friend at the appointed 
 rendezvous, Mrs. Billings’s, Herbert listened most 
 eagerly to every particular of Eliot’s meeting with 
 his father and sister, and thanked him over and over 
 again for so thoughtfully smoothing the way for his 
 interview with them in the evening. “ Oh, Eliot,” 
 he said, “ may you never have such a hurricane iu 
 your bosom as I had when I stood by my father and 
 Belle, and longed to throw myself at his feet, and 
 take my sister into my arms. I believe I did kiss 
 Jennet — what the deuce ailed the jade? she is the 
 gentlest creature that ever stepped. Never doubt my 
 self-control after this, Eliot !’’ Eliot’s apprehen- 
 sions were not so easily removed. He perceived 
 that Herbert was in a frame of mind unsuited to the 
 cautious part he was to act. His feelings had been 
 excited by his rencounter with his father and sister, 
 and though he had passed through that trial with 
 surprising self possession, it had quite unfitted him 
 for encountering the “ botheration,’' (so he called it) 
 that awaited him at Mrs. Billings’s. 
 
 “We are in a beautiful predicament here,’’ he 
 said ; “ our landlady, who is one of your ‘ ’cute Yan- 
 kees,’ will not let us in till she has sent our names 
 and a description of our persons to the Commandant 
 Robertson’s : — this, she says, being according to his 
 order. Now this cannot be — I will not implicate 
 you — thus far I have proceeded on my sole respon- 
 sibility, and if any thing happens, I alone am liable 
 
THE LINWOODS. 39 
 
 for the consequences. Are your instructions to stop 
 at this house positive?” 
 
 “Yes; and if they were not, we might not be 
 better able to evade this police regulation elsewhere. 
 I will see my countrywoman — ‘ hawks won’t pick 
 out hawks’ een,’ you know they say; perhaps one 
 Yankee hawk may blind another.” 
 
 A loud rap brought the hostess herself to the door, 
 a sleek lad 3 ^ who, Eliot thought, looked as if she 
 might be diplomalieed, though a Yankee, and entitled 
 to the discretion of at least forty-five years. 
 
 “ Mrs. Billings, I presume?” 
 
 The same, sir ; will you walk in ?” 
 
 “ Thank you, madam. Kisel, remain here while 
 I speak with the ladies.” 
 
 Mrs. Billings looked at the master, then at the 
 man, then hemmed, which being interpreted 
 meant, ” I understand your mutual relations,” 
 and then conducted Eliot to her little parlour, 
 furnished with all the display she could command, 
 and the frugality to which she was enforced, a 
 combination not uncommon in more recent times. 
 A carpet covered the middle of the floor, and just 
 reached to the stately chairs that stood like gre- 
 nadiers around the room, guarding the uncovered 
 boards, the test of the housewife’s neatness. One 
 corner was occupied by a high Chinese lackered 
 clock, and another by a buffet filled with articles, 
 like the poor vicar’s, ” wisely kept for show,” be- 
 cause good for nothing else ; and between them 
 was the chest of drawers that so mysteriously 
 combined the uses which modern artisans have 
 distributed ever sideboards, wardrobes, &c. The 
 snugness, order, and sufficiency of Mrs. Billings’s 
 household certainly did present a striking contrast 
 to the nakedness and desolation of our soldier’s 
 quarters, and the pleased and admiring glances 
 with which Eliot surveyed the apartment were 
 quite unaffected, 
 
 “You are very pleasantly situated here, 
 madam,” he said. 
 
 “ Why, yes ; as comfortably as I could expect.” 
 
 “ You are from Rhode Island, I believe, Mrs. 
 Billings ?” 
 
 “ I am happy to own I am, sir;” the expres- 
 sion of hostility with which the lady had begun 
 the conference abated. It is agreeable to have 
 such cardinal points in one’s history as where one 
 comes from known — an indirect flattery, quite 
 unequivocal. 
 
 “I have been told, madam,” continued Eliot, 
 
 that you were a sufferer in the royal cause before 
 ou left your native state ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, I may say that ; but I have never 
 regretted it.” 
 
 “The lady’s loyalty is more conspicuous than 
 her conjugal devotion,” thought Eliot, who re- 
 membered to have heard that, with some other 
 property, she had lost her husband, 
 
 “ No, madam,” he replied, “ one cannot regret 
 sacrifices in a cause conscientiously espoused.” 
 
 “ Your sentiments meet my views, sir, exactly.” 
 
 “But your sacrifices have been uncommon, 
 Mrs. Billings ; you have left a lovely part of our 
 country to shut yourself up here.” 
 
 “ That’s true, sir ; but you know one can do a 
 great deal from a sense of duty. I am not a person 
 that thinks of myself — I feel as if 1 ought to be 
 useful while I am spared.” 
 
 Our self-sacrificing philanthropist was driving 
 a business, the gains of which she had never 
 dreamed of on her sterile New England farm. 
 
 “ I am glad to perceive, Mrs. Billings, that 
 your sacrifices are in some measure rewarded. 
 You have, I believe, the best patronage in the 
 city ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir; I accommodate as many as I think 
 it ray duty to : my lodgers are very genteel per- 
 sons, and good pay. Still, I must say it is a 
 pleasure to converse with one’s own people. The 
 British officers are not sociable except among 
 themselves.” 
 
 “ I assure you our meeting is a mutual pleasure, 
 Mrs. Billings. May I hope for the accommodation 
 of a room under your roof for a day or two ?” 
 
 “ I should be very happy to oblige you, sir. It 
 appears to me to be a Christian duty to treat even 
 our enemies kindly ; but our officers — T mean no 
 offence, sir — look down upon the rebels, and I 
 could not find it suitable to do what they would 
 not approve.” 
 
 “As to that, Mrs. Billings, you know we are 
 liable to optic illusions in measuring heights — that 
 nearest seems most lofty.” 
 
 Eliot paused, for he felt he had struck too high 
 a note for his auditor, and lowering his pitch, he 
 added, “You are a New England woman, Mrs, 
 Billings, and know we are not troubled by in- 
 equalities that are imaginary.” 
 
 “ Very true, sir.” 
 
 “ If you find it convenient to oblige me, I shall 
 not intrude on your lodgers, as I prefer taking my 
 meals in my own room.” 
 
 This arrangement obviated all objection on the 
 part of the lady, and the matter was settled after 
 she had hinted that a private table demanded 
 extra pay. 
 
 Eliot perceived he was in that common case 
 where a man must pay his quid pro quo, and ac-* 
 knowledge an irrequitable obligation into the bar- 
 gain ; he therefore submitted graciously, acceded 
 to the lady’s terms, and was profuse in thanks. 
 
 Looking over the mantel piece, and seeming to 
 see for the first time a framed advertisement sus- 
 pended there, “ I perceive, madam,” he said, “ that 
 your lodgers are required to report themselves to 
 the commandant ; but as my errand is from Gene- 
 ral Washington to Sir Henry Clinton, I imagine 
 this ceremony will be superfluous — somewhat 
 like going to your servants for leave to stay in 
 your house after obtaining it from you, madam, 
 the honoured commander in chief ?” 
 
 “ That would be foolish.” 
 
 “ Then all is settled, Mrs. Billings. As my man 
 is a stranger in the city, you will allow one of your 
 servants to take a note for me to Sir Henry 
 Clinton ?” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir ?” 
 
 Thus Eliot had secured an important point by 
 adroitly and humanely addressing himself to the 
 social sympathies of the good woman, who, though 
 ycleped “a ’cute calculating Yankee,” was just 
 that complex being found all the world over, made 
 up of conceit, self-esteem, and good feeling — with 
 this difference, that, like most of her country peo- 
 ple, she had been trained to the devotion of hec 
 faculties to the provident art of getting along. 
 
 In conformity to the answer received to his note> 
 Eliot was at Sir Henry Clinton’s door precisely at 
 half- past one, and was shown into the library, 
 there to await Sir Henry. 
 
 The house then occupied by the English com- 
 mander-in-chief, and afterward consecrated by the 
 occupancy of Washington, is still standing at the 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 40 
 
 south-western extremity of Broadway, having been 
 respectfully pei milted by its proprietors to retain 
 its primitive form, and fortunately spared the 
 profane touch of the demon of change [soi-disant 
 improvement) presiding over the city corpora- 
 tion. 
 
 In the centre of the library, which Eliot found 
 unoccupied, was a table covered with the freshest 
 English journals and other bite publications ; among 
 them Johnson’s political pamphlets, and a poetic 
 emission of light from the star just then risen above 
 the literary horizon — Hannah More J Eliot amused 
 himself with tossing these over, and then retired 
 to an alcove formed by a temporary damask dra- 
 pery, inclosing some bookcases, a'Sofa, and a win- 
 dow. This window commanded a view of the 
 Battery, the Sound, indenting the romantic 
 shores of Long Island, the generous Hudson, 
 pouring into the bay its tributary waters, and 
 both enfolding in their arms the infant city, or- 
 dained by nature to be the queen of our country. 
 
 Ah!” thought Eliot, as his eye passed exult- 
 ingly over the beautiful scene, and rested on one 
 of bis majesty’s ships that lay anchored in the 
 bay, ‘‘how long are we to be shackled and 
 sentinelled by a foreign power ! how long before 
 we may look out upon this avenue to the ocean as 
 the entrance to our independent homes, and open 
 or shut it, as it pleases us, to the commerce and 
 friendship of the w'orid !” 
 
 His natural reverie was broken by steps in the 
 adjoining drawing room — the communicating door 
 was open, and he heard a sei vantsay, “Sir Henry 
 bids me tell you, sir, he shall be detained in the 
 council-room for half an hour, and begs you will 
 excuse the delay of dinner.” 
 
 “ Easier excused than endured I” said a voice, 
 as scon as the servant had closed the door, which 
 Eliot immediately recognised to be Mr. Linwood s. 
 “ I’ll take a stroll np the street. Belle— a half 
 hour is an eternity to sit waiting for dinner!’’ 
 
 “ If Dante bad found my father in his Inferno,’’ 
 thought Isabella, ” he certainly would have found 
 him waiting for dinner !’’ 
 
 The young lady, left to herself, did what we be- 
 lieve all young ladies do in the like case — walked 
 up to the mirror, and there, while she was re-ad- 
 justing a sprig of jessamine, with a pearl arrow 
 that attached it to her hair, Eliot, from his fortu- 
 nate position, c mtemplated at leisure her image. 
 The years that had glided away since we first in- 
 troduced our heroine on her visit to Effie, had 
 advanced her to the ripe beauty of maturity. The 
 freshness, purity, and frankness of childhood re- 
 mained ; but there was a superadded grace, an 
 expression of sentiment, of thought, feelings, 
 hopes, purposes, and responsibilities, that come 
 not within the ken of childhood. Form and 
 colouring may be described. Miss Linwood’s 
 hair was dark, and contrary to the fashion of the 
 times (she was no thrall of fashion), unpowdered, 
 uncurled, and unfrizzed, and so closely arranged 
 in braids as to define (that rare beautv) the 
 Grecian outline of her head. Her complexion 
 had the clearness and purity that indicates health 
 and cheerfulness. “ Hosv soon, ’ thought Edot, 
 as he caught a certain look of abstraction to 
 wliich of late she was much addicted, “ how soon 
 she has ceased lo gaze at her own image ; is it 
 that she is musing, or have her eyes a sibylline 
 gaze into futurity 1” Those eyes were indeed the 
 eloquent medium of a soul that aspired to heaven ; 
 
 but that was not, alas ! above the carking 
 c res’’ of earth. 
 
 We must paint truly, though we paint the lady 
 of our love ; < ud therefore we must confess that 
 our heroine was not among the few' favoured mor- 
 tals whose noses have escaped the general imper- 
 fection of that feature. Hers was slightly — the 
 least in the world — but incontrovertibly of the 
 shrewish order; and her mouth could express 
 pride and appalling disdain, but only did so when 
 some unworthy object made these merely human 
 emotions triumph over the good humour and 
 sweet affections that played about this, their 
 natural organ and interpreter. 
 
 Her person was rather above the ordinary 
 height, and approaching nearer to embonpoint than 
 is common in our lean climate ; but it had that 
 grace and flexibility that make one forget critically 
 to mark proportions and dimensions, and to con- 
 clude, from the effect produced, that they must 
 be perfect. We said we could describe form and 
 colour ; but who shall describe that mysterious 
 changing and ail powerful beauty of the soul, to 
 w hich form and colour are but the obedient minis- 
 ters ? — who, by giving the form and dimensions 
 of the temple, can give an idea of the exquisite 
 spirits that look from its portals ? 
 
 Eliot was not long in making up his mind to 
 emerge from his hiding-place, and was rising, 
 when he was checked by the opening of the 
 library door, and the exclamation, in a voice that 
 made his pulses throb — “ Nymph, in thy orisons 
 be all my sins remembered !” 
 
 “ All, Jasper replied Miss Linw'ood, starting 
 from her meditations, and blushing as deeply as 
 if she had betrayed them — “all thy sins? I should 
 be loath to charge my prayers with such a burden.” 
 
 “Notone committed against you, Isabella,” 
 replied Meredith, in a tone that made it very 
 awkward for Eliot to present himself. 
 
 “ It would make no essential difference in my 
 estimation of a fault whether it were committed 
 against myself or another.” 
 
 “ Perhaps sol’’ 
 
 Miss Li..wood took up one gfizette and Mere- 
 dith another. Suddenly recollecting herself — 
 “ Oh, do you know,” she said, “ that Eliot Lee 
 is in town ?’’ 
 
 “ Now,” thought Eliot, “ is my time.” 
 
 “God forbid!” exclaimed Meredith. Miss 
 Linwood looked at him with an expression of 
 question and astonishment, and he adroitly added, 
 “Of course, if he is in town, he is a prisoner, 
 and I am truly sorry for it.” 
 
 “ Spare your regrets — he comes in the honour- 
 able capacity of an emissary from his general to 
 ours.” 
 
 “It is extraordinary that he has not apprised 
 me of his arrival ; — you must be misinformed.” 
 
 Isabella recounted the adventure of the morn- 
 ing, and concluded by saying, “He must have 
 some reason for withholding himself. You were 
 friends ?” 
 
 “ Yes, college friends — boy friendship, which 
 passes eft’ with other morning mists — a friend- 
 ship not originating in congeniality, but growing 
 out of circumstances — a chance.” 
 
 “ Chance friendship !” exclaimed Isabella, in 
 a half-suppressed tone, that was echoed from the 
 depths of Eliot’s heart. He held his breath as 
 she continued — “ I do not understand this ; the 
 instincts of childhood and youth are true and safe. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 I love every tbin^ and every body I loved whea I 
 was a child. I now dread the effect of adventi- 
 tious circumstances — the flattering illusions of 
 society — the frauds that are committed on the 
 imagination by the seeming beautiful.” Isabella 
 was, perhaps, conscious that she was mentally 
 giving a personal investment to these abstractions, 
 for her voice faltered ; but she soon continued 
 with more steadiness and emphasis, and a search- 
 ing of the eye that affected Meredith like an over- 
 powering light — ” Chance friendship ! This 
 chance friendship may remind you of a chance 
 love, growing out of circumstances too.” 
 
 “No, no, Isabella; on my honour, no. In 
 these serious matters I am a devout believer in 
 the divinity that shapes our ends. The concerns 
 of my heart never were,^ never could be at the 
 mercy of the blind, blundering blockhead, 
 Chance.” 
 
 “Then, if it existed,” continued Isabella, her 
 eye still rivetted to Meredith’s face, where the 
 pale olive had become livid — “if it had existed, 
 you would not, or rather, if you speak truly, you 
 could not cast aside love for the sister, as care- 
 lessly as you do friendship for the brother. ’ 
 
 “ If it existed! — my thanks to you for putting 
 the question hypothetically ; you cannot for a mo 
 ment believe that I ever offered serious homage to 
 that pretty little piece of rurality, Bessie Lee ! 
 Certainly, I found her an interesting exception to 
 the prosaic world she lives in — a sunbeam break- 
 ing through those leaden New England clouds — a 
 wild rosebud amid the corn and potatoes of her 
 mother’s garden patch. She relieved the inex- 
 pressible dulness of my position and pursuits. It 
 was like finding a pastoral in the leaves of a 
 statute-book — Aminta in Blackstone.” 
 
 Poor Eliot ; his ears tingled, his brain was 
 giddy. 
 
 “ The case may have been reversed to Bessie,” 
 answered Isabella, “ and you may have been the 
 statute-book that ga,ve laws to her submissive 
 heart.” 
 
 “ Ca peut-etre!'' replied Meredith; but he 
 immediately checked the coxcomb smile that 
 curled his lips, for it was very plain that Miss 
 Linwood would bear no levity on the subject of 
 her friend ; and he added, apparently anxiously 
 recalling the past, — “ No— it is impossible— she 
 could not make so egregious a mist.jke — she is 
 quite unpresuming — she must have understood 
 me, Isabella.” There was now emotion, serious 
 emotion in his voice. “ Bessie Lee was not a 
 simpleton; she must have known what you also 
 
 know ” He faltered. Eliot would have given 
 
 worlds for a single glance at Isabella’s face at this 
 moment ; but even if the screen between them 
 had fallen, he could not have seen it, for she had 
 laid her hands on the table, and buried her face 
 in her palms. “ I appeal,” continued Meredith, 
 “ from this stage of our being, troubled and dark- 
 ened with distrust, to our childhood — that, you 
 say, is true and unerring : — then, Isabella, believe 
 its testimony, and believe that, from the fountain 
 which you then unsealed in my heart, tliere has 
 ever since flowed a stream, never diverted, and 
 always increasing, till I can no longer control it. 
 Notone word, not one look, Isabella? Again I 
 appeal to the past — w^ere you unconscious of 
 the wild hopes you raised when you said, ‘ I 
 love every body that I loved iu my childhood?’ ” 
 
 41 
 
 “ Oh !” cried Isabella, raising her head, “ I did 
 not mean that — not that !” 
 
 The drawing-room door opened, and Helen 
 Ruthven appeared, calling out, “ Isabella Liu- 
 wood — a teLc-a-lele — ten thousand pardons ; but, 
 Isabella, dear, as the charm is broken, do come 
 here, and you too, Mr. Meredith — here is the 
 drollest looking fellow at Sir Henry’s door. He 
 was walking straight into the hall, when the sen- 
 tinel pointed his bayonet at him. ‘ Now don’t,* 
 said he ; ‘ that’s a plaguy sharp thing, and you’ll 
 hurt me if you don’t take care ; I only want to 
 speak a word to my happen,’ meaning captain, 
 you know. Finding the sentinel would not let 
 him pass, he screamed out to me as I was coming 
 up the stairs—* Miss, just please give my duty to 
 Gin’ral Clinton, and ask him if he won’t be so ac- 
 commodating as to let me speak to Kappen Lee.* 
 Was it not comical ?’’ 
 
 “ What did you say to the poor fellow ?’’ asked 
 Isabella, who at once concluded he was the coad- 
 jutor in her preservation. 
 
 “ Say. my dear child! of course, nothing.” 
 
 They were now all gazing at the personation of 
 Kisel, seated on the door-step, his head down, and 
 he apparently absorbed in catching flies. “ I 
 think I know the poor fellow,’’ said Meredith, 
 who recognised some odd articles of Kisel’s 
 odd apparel — “ he is a half-idiot, who from his 
 infancy attached himself to Eliot Lee, and clung 
 to him as you have seen a snarl of drifted sea- 
 weed adhere to a rock. I am amazed that a 
 man of Lee’s common sense should have such an 
 attendant.” 
 
 “ I honour him for it,” said Isabella ; “ honest, 
 heartfelt, constant affection, elevates the humblest 
 and the meanest. From all I have heard of Eliot 
 Lee,” she continued, after a moment’s pause, “ it 
 is not his fault if his friends in all conditions of 
 life do not cling to him.” 
 
 Isabella’s remark was common-place enough ; 
 but the tremulous tone in which it was uttered 
 struck Miss liuthven. Judging, as most persons 
 do, from her own consciousness, she thought there 
 was but one key to a young lady’s emotions ; and, 
 whispering to Isabella, she said, “ Your blush is 
 beautiful, but a tell-tale.” 
 
 “ False, of course, then,’’ replied Isabella, net- 
 tled and embarrassed ; and suddenly recollecting 
 she had an unperformed duty towards the uncouth, 
 lad at the door, she left the drawing-room (de- 
 clining Meredith’s attendance) to perform it. 
 
 “ This Captain Lee,” said Miss Ruthven to 
 Meredith, “ must be a gentleraau I sometimes 
 saw at West Point. Our Charlotte was half ia 
 love with him.” 
 
 “ Indeed I” 
 
 “ ‘ Indeed,’ yes ; but be pleased now, Mr. 
 Meredith, to recall your absent tiioughts, and at- 
 tend to me. who am cast upon your tender mercies. 
 I have a word to charm back the wanderers — Isa- 
 bella Linwood! — Ah, I see you are here — now tell 
 me honestly, do you not think that was a false 
 sentiment of hers.!* Do you think one must of 
 necessity be constant in friendship or love ? You 
 are in the constant vein now, but hear me out. 
 Suppose I am interested, in love if you please, 
 with a particular individual— I see another who is 
 to him Hyperion to a satyr, and by a fixed law of 
 nature one attraction must be overcome by the 
 other. It is not a deliberate or a voluntary change 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 42 
 
 —it certainly is not caprice : I am but the passive 
 subject of an irresistible power.” 
 
 “ The object still changing, the sympathy true,” 
 said Meredith, with a satirical smile, 
 
 “ That was meant,” replied Miss Ruthven, 
 for a piquant satire: it is a mere truism,” and 
 fixing her lustrous eyes on Meredith, she conti- 
 nued : “ The heart must have an object, but we 
 are at the mercy of chance ; and should we cling 
 to that first thrown in our way, when taste is crude 
 and judgment unripe, and cling to it after another 
 appears ten thousand times more worthy ? Should 
 we, when daylight comes, shut out the blessed 
 sun, and continue to grope by a rush-light? We 
 cannot — it will penetrate the crevices, and anni- 
 hilate the stinted beam that we thought enough for 
 us in the luminary’s absence. Ah, Mr. Meredith, 
 there is much puling parrotry about constancy, 
 and first love, and all that ; I am sure of it — am 
 sure the object may change, and the sympathy re- 
 main, in the truest, tenderest hearts. That sym- 
 pathy — a queer name, is it not? — is always alive 
 and susceptible — a portion of the soul— a part of 
 life. A part ! — life itself." 
 
 There was a strange confusion of ideas in Mere- 
 dith’s mind as he listened to this rhapsody of Helen 
 Ruthven. By degrees one came clearly out of the 
 mist : and “ is the girl in love with me ?” was his 
 mental interrogatory. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Is’t possible that but seeing you should love her? 
 
 In the mean time Eliot had been released from his 
 durance, where he had suffered, as mortals sometimes 
 mysteriously do, what he seemed in nowise to have 
 deserved ; and passing unobserved into the entry, he 
 had preceded Miss Linwood down the stairs, and was 
 standing wuthin the outer door in conversation with 
 his attendant, so earnest that he did not perceive her 
 approach till she said, “ Am I intruding?’’ 
 
 She was answered by Herbert’s suddenly turning 
 his face to her, and uttering” Isabella!” 
 
 In the suddenness of surprise and joy she forgot 
 every thing but his presence ; and would have 
 thrown her arms around him but for Eliot’s inter- 
 vention. 
 
 ” Herbert ! — Miss Linwood ! I entreat you to be 
 cautious — your brother’s safety is at stake — not a 
 moment is to bo lost — is concealment possible at 
 your father’s house?” 
 
 “Possible! — certain. I will instantly go home.” 
 
 “Stop — pray hush, Herbert. Was the reason of 
 yoiir coming down stairs known to any one, Miss 
 Linwood ?’’ 
 
 “ Only to Helen Ruthven and Mr. Meredith.” 
 
 “Two foxes on the scent! — that s all,” said 
 Herbert. 
 
 “ Oh, no, Herbert ; they would he the last to 
 betray ; but they do not suspect you.” 
 
 “Then all may be managed,” said Eliot; “trust 
 no one, Miss Linwood — you cannot serve your bro- 
 ther better than by appearing at Sir Henry’s table, 
 and letting it be known, incidentally, that you have 
 seen my attendant.” 
 
 “ I understand you, and will do my best. Heaven 
 help us ! avoid by all means seeing mamma, Herbert 
 —she will not dare incur the responsibility of con- 
 
 cealing your presence. Go in at the back gate — you 
 can easily elude June — trust all to Rose. God bless 
 you, dear brother,” she concluded; and, in spite of 
 the danger of observation, she gave him one hasty 
 embrace, and returned to the drawing-room to enact 
 a part — a difficult task to Isabella Linwood. 
 
 The few guests expected soon arrived ; and Mr. 
 Linwood reappeared from his walk with the air of a 
 person who has tidings to communicate. “Ah, Isa- 
 bella,” said he, “ I have news for you.” 
 
 “ The rebels have been crucifying more tories, I 
 suppose?” 
 
 “ Pshaw, Belle — you know I did not believe that 
 any more than you did when Riviugtou first pub- 
 lished it. I have heard news of your Yankee pre- 
 servers.” 
 
 “ Only heard ! — then I have the advantage of you 
 for I have seen them.’’ 
 
 “ Seen them ! Lord bless me — where, child ?” 
 
 “ In the half below. I seized the opportunity of 
 relieving you from the interview appointed this 
 evening.’’ 
 
 “ You astonish me ! Well, after all, Robertson’s 
 suspicions may be groundless. He has just received 
 advice to look out sharply for the attendant of Cap- 
 tain Lee, who is suspected not to be the person he 
 passes for.” 
 
 “ And what if he is not, papa ?” 
 
 “ What if he is not ! — a true girl-question ! Why, 
 he may be an officer, wffio, under the disguise of a 
 servant, may be a very efficient emissary for Mr, 
 Washington. He may have come to confer with 
 ‘ some of our whited sepulchres’ — pretended tories, 
 hut wJiigs to the back-bone — w e have plenty such.” 
 
 “ It would be very dangerous,” said a sapient 
 young lady, “ to let such a person go at large.” 
 
 “ But, papa,” continued Isabella, w ithout noticing 
 the last iuterculator, “it seems to me ver}' improba- 
 ble that General Washington would be accessory to 
 any such proceeding.’’ 
 
 “ Ah, he’ll take care to guard appearances. He 
 is as chary of his reputation as Ceesar was of his 
 wife’s — a crafty one is Mr. Washington. The 
 passport seems to have contained a true description 
 of the true servant of this Captain Lee. Probably 
 some young Curtius has assumed the respensibility 
 of the imposition. His detection w ill reflect no dis- 
 honour on the great head of the schismatics — only 
 expose the pooryculh to danger.” 
 
 “ Danger, papa !” Isabella’s tone indicated that 
 the w’ord fell on her ear associated with a life she 
 loved. 
 
 “Yes, Miss Linwood; he may find a short and 
 complete cure for whiggism ; for, I take it, that in 
 that department of t’other world which these gentry 
 go to, they will find rebellion pretty well under.” 
 
 “Oh my! how you hate,^he w'higs, Mr. Lin- 
 wood !” exclaimed the aforesaid young lady. 
 “Supposing it were poor dear Herbert who had 
 disguised himself just to take a peep at us all.” 
 
 “Herbert!” echoed Mr. Linwood, his colour 
 deepening and flushing his high forehead, — 
 
 “ Herbert^ — he is joined to idols — I should let him 
 alone.” 
 
 “ My! Isabella, is it not quite shocking to hear 
 your lather speak in such a hard-hearted way of 
 poor Herbert?” whispered the young lady, who 
 still cherished a boarding-school lore lor Herbert, 
 
 “ But, dear me! who is that coming in with Sir 
 Henry? — He must be one of the young officers who 
 arrived in the ship yesterday. ‘ Captain Lee, an 
 American officer!’ ” reiterating Sir Henry’s presen- 
 tation of his guest. “ My ! 1 ought to have known 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 the uniform : but I had no idea there was such an 
 elegant young man in the American army — had 
 you, Isabella ?” 
 
 Isabella was too much absorbed in her own ob- 
 servations to return anv thing more than bows and 
 nods to her voluble companion. She saw Meredith 
 advance to Eliot with that engaging cordiality 
 •which he knew so well how to throw into his 
 manner ; and she perceived that Eliot met him 
 with a freezing civility that painfully re-excited the 
 apprehensions she had long felt, that there was 
 “ something rotten in the state of Denmark.” Sir 
 Henry, after addressing each of his guests with 
 that official and measured politeness that marks the 
 great man’s exact estimate of the value of each nod, 
 smile, and word vouchsafed to his satellites, 
 advanced to her, and said in an under-tone, “ My 
 dear Miss Linwood, I have sacrificed my tastes at 
 your shrine — invited a rebel to my table in con- 
 sideration of the service he had the honour of 
 Tendering you, aud ray valued friend your lather, 
 this morning.” 
 
 “ If all I have heard of the gentleman be true,” 
 replied Isabella, “ Sir Heury will find his society 
 an indulgence rather than a sacrifice of taste.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so.” Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders. 
 “ He seems a clever person ! but youknowantipathies 
 are stubborn ; and, enlre noun, I have what may be 
 termed a natural aversion to an American. I mean, 
 of course, a rebel American.” 
 
 England was so much the Jerusalem of the loyal 
 colonists, the holy city towards which they always 
 worshipped, that Sir Heury, in uttering this senti- 
 ment, had no doubt of its calling forth a responsive 
 “amen” from Miss Linwood’s bosom. But her 
 pride was touched. For the first time an American 
 feeling shot athwart her mind, and, like a sunbeam 
 falling on Memnon’s statue, it elicited music to one 
 ear at least. “Have a care. Sir Henry,” she re- 
 plied aloud; “such sentiments from our rulers 
 engender rebellion, and almost make it virtue. I 
 am beginning to think that if I had been a man, I 
 should net have forgotten that 1 was an American.” 
 Her eye encountered Eliot Lee’s; and his expressed 
 a more animated delight than he would have 
 ventured to embody in words, or than she would 
 have heard spoken with complacency. 
 
 Sir Henry turned on his heel, and Eliot occupied 
 his position. Without adverting to what he had 
 just overheard, or alluding to the discords of the 
 country, he spoke to Miss Linwood of her brother, 
 of course, as if he had left him in camp; from 
 her brother they naturally passed to his sister. 
 ]Ioth were topics that called forth their most elo- 
 quent feelings. The consciousness of a secret sub- 
 ject of common concern heightened their mutual 
 interest, ami in half an hour they had passed from 
 the terra incognita o^strangers to the agreeable foot 
 ing of Ifiends. 
 
 “ I Saw you bow to Miss Ruthven,” said Isabella : 
 
 you knew her at West Point. J”’ 
 
 “ Slightly,’’ replied Eliot, with a very expressive 
 curl of his lip. 
 
 “ Did I not hear my name?’’ asked Miss Iluthven, 
 advancing, haugiiig on Meredith's arm, aud seating 
 herself in a vacant chair near Miss Linwood. 
 
 “ You might, for we presumed to utter it,’’ replied 
 Isahf Ha. 
 
 “ Oh, I suppose Captain Lee has heon telling you 
 of my e.soape from that .stronghold of the enemy — 
 indeed, I could omluro it no longer. You know, 
 Captain Lee, lliero is no excitement there but the 
 scenery ; and even if I were one of those favoured 
 
 43 
 
 mortals who find ‘ tongues in trees, books in the 
 running brook, and sermons in stones,’ I have no 
 fancy for them. I prefer the lords of the creation,” 
 fixing her eyes expressively on Meredith, “ to crea- 
 tion itself.” 
 
 “ Pray tell me, Captain Lee,” asked Isabella, “ is 
 your sister such a worshipper of nature as she used 
 to be? it seemed to be an innate love with her.” 
 
 “ Yes, it is ; and it should be so, if, as some poets 
 imagine, there is a mysterious covrespondeuce and 
 affinity between the outward world and pure spii its.” 
 
 “ Dear Bessie ! I am so charmed to hear from her 
 again. She has sent me but one letter in six mouths, 
 and that a very, very sad one.” Isabella’s eye in- 
 voluntarily turned towards Meredith, but there was 
 no indication that the sounds that entered his ears 
 touched a chord of feeling or even of memory. It 
 was worth remarking, that while subjects had been 
 alluded to that must have had the most thrilling in- 
 terest for both Miss Ruthven and Meredith, they 
 neither betrayed by a glance of the eye, a variation 
 of colour, or a faltering of voice, the slightest con- 
 scionsne.ss. Truly, “ the children of this world are 
 wiser in their generation than the children of 
 light.” 
 
 At the very moment Isabella was speaking so ten- 
 derly of her friend, Meredith interrupted her with, 
 “I beg your pardon, Miss Linwood, but I have a 
 controversy with Miss Ruthven which you must de- 
 cide. I insist there is disloyalty in discarding the 
 Queen Charlotte bonnet; a fright, I grant, very like 
 the rustic little affair your sister Bessie used to wear,, 
 Lee ; and absolute treason in substituting la vendange, 
 a Bacchante concern, introduced by the Queen of 
 France, the patroness of the rebel cause — pardon 
 me, Captain Lee — your decision, Miss Linwood; we 
 wait your decision — ■” 
 
 Isabella carelessly replied, “ I wear la vendange 
 but not thus carelessly did she dismiss the subject 
 from her mind. “ Meredith could not so lightly 
 have alluded to Bessie, in speaking to her brother, ’j 
 thought she, while she weighed each word in a 
 tremulous balance, “if he had ever trifled with the 
 affections of that gentle creature. I have been un- 
 just to him 1 he is no heart-breaker after all. ” There 
 is no happier moment in the history of the heart 
 than when it is relieved of a distrust; and most 
 deeply to be pitied is a young, enthusiastic, and 
 noble-minded creature, who, with a standard of ideal 
 perfection, has her affections fixed, and her confi- 
 dence wavering. 
 
 Eliot perceived that Miss Linwood’s mind was 
 abstracted, and feeling his position to be an awkward 
 one, he withdrew to a distant part of the room. 
 Meredith too made his observations. He was acute 
 enough to perceive that he had allayed Isabella’s 
 suspicions. He was satisfied with the present, and 
 not fearful of the future. 
 
 “ Pray tel! me, Meredith, do you know that Cap- 
 tain Lee?” asked a Major St. Clair. 
 
 “ Very well ; we were at Harvard together !” 
 
 “Ah ! scholar turned soldier. These poor fellows 
 have no ch.\nco against the regular bred military. 
 Homer and Virgil are not the masters to teach our 
 art.” 
 
 “ Our army would halt for officers if they Averc,” 
 said Miss Linwood. 
 
 “ St. Clair,” said IMeredith, “is of the opinion of 
 the old Ramans. Pliitarcli, you know, says fliey 
 estopined Greek and scholar terms of rei»roacli.” 
 
 “ Yon mistake me, Meredith ; I meant no reproach 
 to the learned Theban ; upon inv word, he strikes ino 
 as quite a soldier-like looking fello i— i keen, quick 
 
44 THE novel 
 
 cje — powerful muscles — piood air — very good air, 
 has he not, Miss Linwood?’’ 
 
 “Just now he appears to me to have very much 
 the air of a neglected guest. Jasper, pray present 
 Major St. Clair to your sometime friend.” , 
 
 “Excuse me, Miss Linwood,’’ replied the major, 
 “we have ro/wr/ers enough in our own horsebold. 
 I am not ambitious of making the acquaintance of 
 those from the rebel camp.” 
 
 “May I ask,” resumed Isabella, “ who our roturiers 
 are?” 
 
 “Oh, the merchants — men of business, and that 
 sort of people.” 
 
 “ Our city gentry?” 
 
 Major St. Clair bowed assent. 
 
 Isabella bowed and smiled too, but not graciously ; 
 her pride was olfended. A new light had broken 
 'upon her, and she began to see old subjects in a 
 fresh aspect. Strange as it may appear to those who 
 have grown up with the rectiiied notions of the pre- 
 sent day, she for the first time perceived the folly of 
 xaeasuring American society by a European standard 
 —of casting it in an old and worn mould — of per- 
 mitting its vigorous youth to be cramped and im~ 
 paired by transmitted manacles and shackles. Her 
 fine mind was like the perfectly organised body, that 
 wanted but to be touched by fire from Heaven to 
 use all its faculties freely and independently. 
 
 It was obvious that Meredith avoided Eliot, but 
 this she now believed was owing to the atmosphere 
 of the court drawing room. Eliot was not so un- 
 comfortable as she imagined. A common man in 
 his position might not have risen above the vanities 
 and littlenesses of self. He might have been fearful 
 of offending against etiquette, the divinity of small 
 polished gentlemen. He might, an irritable man 
 would, have been annoyed by the awkward silence 
 in which he was left, interrupted only by such formal 
 courtesies as Sir Henry deemed befitting the bearing 
 of the host to an inferior guest. But Eliot Lee cared 
 for none of these things — other and higher matters 
 engrossed him. He was meditating the chances of 
 getting Herbert safe back to West Point, and the 
 means of averting Washington’s displeasure. He 
 was eagerly watching Isabella Linwood’s face, where 
 it seemed to him her soul was mirrored, and inferring 
 from its eloquent mutations her relations with Lin- 
 wood : and he was contrasting Sir Hem-y’s luxurious 
 establishment, and the flippant buzz of city gossip 
 he heard around him, with the severe voluntary pri- 
 vations and intense occupations of his own general 
 and his companions in arms. His meditations were 
 suddenly put to flight. 
 
 Isabella had been watching for an opportunity to 
 speak privately to Eliot of her brother. ISIissEuth- 
 ven and Meredith never quitted her side. MissRuth- 
 ven seemed like an humble worshipper incensing two 
 divinities, while, like the false priest, she was con- 
 triving to steal the gift from the altar ; or rather, like 
 an expert fiuesser, she seemed to leave the game to 
 others while she held, or fancied she held, tlie con- 
 trolling card in her own hand. “ I must make a 
 hold push,” thought Isabella, “ to escape from these 
 peop’e and beckoning to Eliot, who immediately 
 obeyed her summons, she said, “ Permit me, Sir 
 Henry, to show Captain Lee the fine picture of Lord 
 Chatham in your breakfasting room ?” 
 
 “ Lord Chatham has been removed to give place 
 to the Marquis of Shelburne,” replied Sir Henry, 
 with a sarcastic smile.” 
 
 “ Shall I show you the marquis, then? The face 
 of an enemy is not quite so agreeable as that of a 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 friend, but I am sure Captain Lee will never shrink 
 from either.” 
 
 “ This Captain Lee,” whispered Helen Ruthveu 
 to Meredith, “ has a surprising faculty in converting 
 enemies into friends — have a care lest he make 
 friends enemies." 
 
 Unfortunately, Isabella’s tactics were baffled by a 
 counter-movement. She was met at the door by the 
 servant announcing dinner, and Eliot was obliged to 
 resign her hand to Sir Henry, to fall behind the 
 privileged guests entitled to precedence, and follow 
 alone to the dining-room. 
 
 There were no indications on Sir Henry’s table of 
 the scarcit}' and dearness of provisions so bitterly 
 complained of by the royalists who remained in the 
 city. At whatever rate procured. Sir Henry’s dinner 
 was sumptuous. Eliot compared it with the coarse 
 and scanty fare of the American officers, and he felt 
 an honest pride in being one among those who con- 
 tracted for a glorious future, by the sacrifice of all 
 animal and present indulgence. 
 
 Dish after dish was removed and replaced, and 
 the viands were discussed, and the generous wines 
 poured out, as if to eat and to drink were the chief 
 business and joy of life, “ A very pretty course of 
 fish for the season,” said Major St. Clair, who sat 
 near Eliot, passing his eye over the varieties on the 
 table: “ Pray, Captain Lee, have you a good fish- 
 market at West Point?” 
 
 “ We are rather too far from the seaboard, sir, for 
 such a luxurj".” 
 
 “ Ah, yes — I forgot, pardon me; but you must 
 have fine trout in those monntain.streams — a pretty 
 resource at a station is trout-fishing.” 
 
 “Yes, to idlers who need resources; but time, as 
 the lady says in the play, ‘ time travels in divers 
 paces with divers persons’ — it never ‘ stays’ with us.” 
 
 “ You’ve other fish to fry — he ! he ! — very good — 
 allow me to send you a bit of biandt. Captain Lee ; 
 do the brandt get up as far a.s the Highlands?” 
 
 “ I have never seen them there.” 
 
 “ Indeed! — but you have abundance of other game 
 — wild geese, turkeys, teal, woodcock, snipe, broad- 
 bills?” 
 
 “ We have none of these delicacies, sir.” 
 
 “ God bless* me ! — how do you live?” 
 
 Eliot was pestered with this popinjay, and he an- 
 swered with a burst of pardonable pride, “ I’ll tell 
 you how we live, sir” — the earnest tone of his voice 
 attracted attention — “we live on salt beef, brown 
 bread, and beans, when w e can get them ; and 
 when we cannot, some of us fast, and some share 
 their horses’ messes.” 
 
 “ Bless me— how annoying !” 
 
 “ You ma} very possibly have heard, sir,” re- 
 sumed Eliot, “of the water that was miiactilously 
 sweetened, and of certain bread that came down 
 from Heaven : and we, who live on this nutriment 
 that excites your pity, and feel from day to day our 
 resolution growing bolder and our hopes brighter, 
 we fancy a real presence in the brown bread, and an 
 inspiration in the water that w ells up through the 
 green turf of our native land.” 
 
 There is a chord in the breast of every man that 
 vibrates to a burst of true feeling — tbis vibration 
 w'as felt in the silence that followed. It was first 
 broken by Isabella Linwood’s delicious voice. She 
 turned her eye, moistened with the emotion he bad 
 excited, towards Eliot ; and filling a glass from a 
 goblet of water, she pushed the goblet towards him, 
 saying," Ladies may pledge in the pure element— 
 our native land! — Captain Lee.” 
 
 Eliot filled a bumper, and never did man drink a 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 more intoxicating draught. Sir Henrj looked tre- 
 mendously solemn. Helen Ruthven exchanged 
 glances with Meredith, and Mr. Linwood muttered 
 between his teeth, “Nonsense — d — d nonsense, 
 Belle!” 
 
 It must be confessed, that Miss Linwood violated 
 the strict rules that governed her contemporaries. 
 She was not a lady of saws and precedents. But if 
 she sometimes too impulsively threw open the door 
 of her lieart, tliere was nothing there exposed that 
 could stain her cheek with a blush. We would, by 
 no means, recommend an imitation of her sponta- 
 neous actions. Those only can afford them to whom 
 they are spontaneous. 
 
 After the momentary excitement had passed, 
 Eliot felt that he had perhaps been a little too 
 heroic for the occasion. Awkward as the descent is 
 from an assumed elevation, he effected it with grace, 
 hy falling into conversation with the major on 
 sporting and fishing; in which he showed a science 
 that commanded more respect from that gentleman, 
 than if he had manifested all the virtues of all the 
 patriots that ever lived, fasted, starved, and died for 
 their respective countries. 
 
 It was hard for Eliot to play citizen of the world, 
 while he saw Meredith courted, admired, and ap 
 parently happy, mapping out, at his own will, a 
 brilliant career, and thought of his sister wasting 
 the incense of her affections; no more to Meredith 
 than a last summer’s flower. ’•He deserves not,” 
 he thought, indignantly, as his eye fell on Isabella, 
 '■ the heart of this glorious creature ; no man de- 
 serves — I almost wonder that any man should dare 
 aspire to it.’’ 
 
 When a man begins (o be humble in relation to 
 a woman, ho is not very far from love; and absurd 
 as Eliot would have deemed it to fall in love 
 at first sight with Miss Linwood, it was most for- 
 tunate for him that he was suddenly taken from 
 her presence, by a request from Sir Henry (who 
 had just had a note put into his hands) 
 that he would accompany him to his council- 
 chamber. When there, he informed Eliot that 
 suspicions having been excited in relation to his at- 
 tendant, a quest for him had been made at Mrs. 
 Billings’s — but in vain. “ Captaiir Lee must be 
 aware,” he said, “that the disappearance of the 
 man was a confirmation of the susj)icions !” 
 
 Eliot replied, that “ he was not responsible for 
 any suspicions that might be felt by the timid, or 
 feigned by the ill-disposed,” 
 
 “ That may be, sir,” replied Sir Henry ; “ but we 
 must make you responsible for the re-appearance of 
 the man — your flag cannot exempt you from this 1” 
 
 “As you please, sir,” replied Eliot, quite un- 
 daunted ; “ jou must decide how far the privilege of 
 my flag extends. You, sir, can appreciate the im- 
 portance of not violating, in the smallest degree, 
 the few humanities of war.” 
 
 Sir Henry pondered for a moment before he 
 asked, “ Is there any thing in the character of your 
 attendant which might betray him into an indis- 
 cretion ?” 
 
 “ I am an interested witness. Sir Henry; but if 
 you do not choose to infer the character from the 
 action, which certainly has been sufficiently indis- 
 creet, give mo leave to refer you to Mr. Meredith; 
 he knew the poor lad in Massachusetts.” 
 
 “Blit how can you identify him with this 
 man ?” 
 
 “ He saw this man to-day.” 
 
 Mere lith was summon-jJ and questioned: “He 
 had seen Captain Lee’s servant on Sir Henry’s door- 
 
 45 
 
 step, and recognised him at the first glance — th® 
 dullest eye could mistake no other man for Kisel.” 
 
 “ Do me the favour, Mr. Meredith,” said Eliot, 
 “ to tell Sir Henry Clinton whether you think my 
 man would be liable to a panic; for it appears, 
 that having overheard he was under suspicion, he 
 has fled.” 
 
 “ True to himself, Kisel 1 He would most assur- 
 edly fly at the slightest alarm. He is one of those 
 helpless animals whose only defence is the instinct 
 of cowardice. I have seen him run from the bark- 
 ing of a family dog, and the mewing of a house-cat; 
 and yet, for he is a curious compound, such is his 
 extraordinary attachment to Captain Lee, that I be- 
 lieve he would stand at the cannon’s mouth for him. 
 Poor fellow ! his mind takes no durable impression ; 
 to attempt to make one is like attempting to form an 
 image in sand ; and yet, like this same sand, 
 which, from the smelting furnace, appears in bril- 
 liant and defined forms, his thoughts, kindled in the 
 fire of his affections, assume an expression and 
 beauty that would astonish you ; always in frag- 
 ments, as if the mind had been shattered by some 
 fatal jar.” 
 
 Meredith spoke co?i amore. He was delighted 
 with the opportunity of doing Eliot a grace ; and 
 Eliot, in listening to the sketch of his simple friend, 
 had almost forgot the subterfuge that called it forth. 
 He was not, however, the less pleased at its success, 
 when Sir Henry told him that his despatches and 
 passports should be furnished in the course of the 
 evening, and that no impediment would be thrown 
 in the way of his departure. 
 
 The three gentlemen then parted, Meredith ex- 
 pressing such animated regret at their brief meeting, 
 that Eliot was on the point of reciprocating it, 
 when the thought of his sister sealed his lips and 
 clouded his brow. Meredith’s conscience rightly 
 interpreted the sudden change of countenance ; but 
 his retained its cordial smile, and his hand abated 
 nothing of its parting pressure. 
 
 Again we must quote that most apposite sentence 
 — “Truly, the children of this world are wiser in 
 their generation than the children of light.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Oh, my home. 
 
 Mine own dear home. 
 
 While Eliot was enjoying the doubtful advantage 
 of Sir Henry’s hospitality, Herbert Linwood, a fu- 
 gitive in his native city, was seeking concealment in 
 his father’s house. His ardent temperament, which 
 had plunged him into this perplexity, did not qualify 
 him to extricate himself fi'om it. So far from i;©’: 
 giving to any “ unproporiioned thought its act,” 
 thought and action were simultaneous with him. 
 His whole career had shown that discretion was no 
 part of his valour. He never foresaw danger till 
 he was into the very lips; and, unfortunately, he 
 manifested none of the facility at getting out that 
 he did at getting in. In short, he was one of those 
 reckless, precipitate, vivacious, kind, and whole- 
 hearted young fellows, who are very dear and very 
 troublesome to their friends. 
 
 After leaving Sir Henry Clinton’s, he turned into 
 a lane leading from Broadway to Broad-street, and 
 all'ordiug a side culrauce to his father’s premises. 
 
46 THE NOVEL 
 
 As he was about to turn into his father’s gateway, he 
 saw a man enter the lane from Broad-street, and, for 
 once cautious, he continued his walk. He fancied 
 the stranger eyed him suspiciously. As he turned into 
 Broad-streef, the man also turned into Broadway, 
 and Herbert eagerly retraced his steps ; but as he 
 entered his father’s gate, he had the mortification to 
 see the man repass the upper corner of the street, 
 and to believe that he was observed by him. He 
 ■was once more on his father’s premises. His heart 
 throbbed. The kitchen-door was half-open, and 
 through the aperture he saw Rose, who he was sure 
 would joyfully admit him into the garrison if he 
 could open a communication with her; but there 
 were obstacles in the way. Jupiter, whom Isabella 
 had warned him not to trust, was, according to his 
 custom of filling up all the little interludes of life, 
 eating at a side-table. Beside him sat Mars on his 
 hind legs, patiently waiting the chance mouthfuls 
 that Jupe threw to him. Mars was an old house- 
 dog, an enfant gaie^ petted by all the family, and 
 pampered by Jupe. An acquaintance of Jupiter’s 
 had dropped in for an afternf^on’s lounge ; and Rose, 
 who had a natural antipathy to loungers of every 
 degree, was driving round with a broom in her 
 hand, giving with this staff of office the most ex- 
 pressive intimations that his presence was unwel- 
 come. 
 
 We must be permitted to interrupt our narrative, 
 and recede some nine or ten years, to record the 
 most remarkable circumstance in Rose’s life. She 
 was a slave, and most faithful and efficient. Slaves 
 at that period were almost the only servants in the 
 province of New York; and Rose, in common with 
 many others, filled the office of nurse. Gifts and 
 favours of every description testified her owner’s 
 sense of her value. On one memorable New-year’s 
 day, when Isabella was a child of eight years, she 
 presented Rose a changeable silk dress. It was a 
 fine affair, and Rose was plea-sedand grateful. 
 
 “Now,” said Isabella, “you are as grand and as 
 happy as any lady in the land — are you not. Rose ?” 
 
 “ Happy 1” echoed Rose, her countenance chang- 
 ing ; “ I may seem so ; but since I came to a think- 
 ing age, I never have had one happy hour or minute, 
 Miss Belle.” 
 
 “Oil, Rose, Rose! why not, for pity’s sake?” 
 
 “ I am a slave.” 
 
 “ Pshaw, Rosy, dear ! is that all ? — I thought you 
 was in earnest.” She perceived Rose was indeed in 
 earnest; and she added, in an expostulating tone, 
 “ are not papa and mama ever so kind to you ? and 
 do not Herbert and I love you next best to them?” 
 
 “Yes, and that lightens the yoke; but still it is a 
 yoke, and it galls. I can be bought and sold like 
 the cattle. I would die to-morrow to be free to- 
 day. Oh, free breath is good — free breath is good !” 
 She uttered this with closed teeth, and tears rolling 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 Tears on Rose’s cheeks! Isabella could not resist 
 them, and pouring down a shower from her own 
 bright eyes, she exclaimed, “You shall be free, 
 Rose,” and flew to appeal to her father. Her father 
 kissed her, called her “ the best little girl in the 
 world,” and laughed at her suit. 
 
 “Rose is a f ol," he said; “she had reason to 
 comjdain when she lived with her old mistress, who 
 nsed to cuff' her; but now she was free in every 
 thing but the name — far better off than nine-tenths 
 of the people in the world.” This s®iihistry silenced, 
 but did not satisfy Isabella. The spirit of truth 
 and independence in her own mind responded to 
 the cravings of Rose’s, and the thrilling tone in 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 I which those words were spoken, “ it is a yoke, and 
 it galls,” continued to ring in her ears. 
 
 Soon after, a prize was promised in Isabella’s 
 school, for the best French scholar. She was sadly 
 behind hand in the studies that require patient ap- 
 plication; and her father, who was proud of her 
 talents, was often vexed that she did not demonstrate 
 them to others. “Now, Belle,” he said, “if you 
 w^ill but win this prize, I’ll give you any thing you’ll 
 ask of me.” 
 
 “ Any thing, papa?” 
 
 “Yes — any thing.” 
 
 “ You promise for fair, sir?” 
 
 “You gipsy! yes.” 
 
 “Then write it down, please; for I have heard 
 you say, papa, that no bargain is good in law that is 
 not written down.” 
 
 Mr. Linwood wrote, signed, and sealed a fair con- 
 tract. Isabella set to work. The race was a hard 
 one. Her competitors were older than herself, and 
 farther advanced in the language ; but a mind like 
 hers, with motive strong enough to call forth all its 
 energy, was unconquerable. Every day and even- 
 ing found her with increasing vigour at her tasks. 
 Her mother remonstrated, Herbert teased and ridi- 
 culed, and Rose fretted. “ What signiQed it,” she 
 asked, “ for Miss Belle to waste her rosy cheeks and 
 pretty flesh over books, when, without book learn- 
 ing, she was ten times brighter than other girls?” 
 Still Isabella, hitherto a most desultory creature in 
 her habits, and quitting her tasks at the slightest 
 temptation, persevered like a Newton ; and, like all 
 great spirits, she shaped destiny. The prize was 
 hers. 
 
 “Now, Belle,” said her father, elated with the 
 compliments that poured in upon him, “ I will fulfil 
 my part of the contract honourably, as you have 
 done yours. Wliat shall it be, my child?” 
 
 “ Rose’s freedom, papa.’J 
 
 “ By Christopher Columbus (his favourite oath 
 when he W'as pleased), you shall have it ; and in half 
 an hour you shall give her, with your own hand, 
 Belle, the deed of manumission.” 
 
 “Could we but find the right sort of stimulus,” 
 he afterward said to his wife, “ we might make Belle 
 a great scholar.” But the “ right sort of stimulus” 
 was not easily found ; and Isabella soon recovered 
 “ rosy cheeks and pretty flesh.” Her mind fortun- 
 ately resembled those rich soils, w'here every chance 
 sunbeam and passing shower brings forth some 
 beautiful production. Her schoolmates studied, 
 plodded, and wondered they did not know half as 
 much, and were never half as agreeable, as Isabella 
 Linwood. Human skill and labour can do much, 
 but Heaven’s gifts are inimitable. 
 
 Rose’s outward condition was in no wise changed, 
 but her mind was freed from galling shackles, by the 
 restoration of her natural rights, and she now en- 
 joyed the voluntary service she rendered. 
 
 We return from our digression. Herbert per- 
 ceived, from a glance at the dramatis personae that 
 occupied the scene, that it was no time for him to 
 enter; and slouching his cap over his face, he seated 
 himselfon the door-step, and whittled aslick, listen- 
 ing, with what patience he could muster, to the col- 
 loquy within. 
 
 “’Ron my honour, Mr. Linwood” (the slav'es 
 W'ere in the liabit of addressing one another by the 
 names or titles of their masters), “ ’pon my honou’*, 
 ; Mr. Linwood, yon were in a ’dicament this morn- 
 i ing,” said Jupiter’s friend. 
 
 * “ Just ’scaped with my life, gin’ral.” 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 “That's alvvays safe,” muttered Rose, “ tliat no- 
 body would cry for if it were lost.” 
 
 “That’s not the case with Mr. Liuwood,” re- 
 sumed the general, “ for Miss Phillis, in parlic’lar, 
 turned as white as any lily when he stood by that 
 kiching horse.” 
 
 “ It was a 'markable 'liv’rance, and I’ll tell you 
 how it happened, only don’t tell any body but Miss 
 Phillis, with iny 'spects. Just as Jennet had stopped 
 one bout of kicking, and was ready to begin again, 
 I heard an apparition of a voice crying out ‘softly, 
 softly, Jennet, softly,’ and ’pon my honour she stood 
 stock still, tr ambling like a leaf — do you surmise who 
 it was?” 
 
 “ Miss Isabella, to be sure, you fool,” said Rose. 
 
 ^ “No such ting, Rose, I was as calm as ” 
 
 “ A scared turkey, Jupe.” 
 
 “ I say I was as calm as them tongs, and there 
 was nobody near the horse but that rebel officer 
 when I heard the apparition. As true as you sit 
 there, gin’ral, it was Mr. Herbert’s voice that 
 quieted Jennet. I’ll lay the next news we hear will 
 be his death — poor ’guided young man !” 
 
 “ ’Tisa pity,” rttplied the believing general, “ to 
 cut him oft' ’fore he’s a shock of wheat ; but then the 
 rebels must die first or last, as they desarve, for 
 trying to drive off the reg’lars. Pretty times we 
 should have in New York if they were gone : no 
 balls, no races, no t’eatres, no music, no cast-off 
 regimentals, for your lawyers and traders an’t*gen. 
 teel that way, Mr. Linwood.” 
 
 “ Very true, gin’ral. Here’s ’fusion to the re- 
 bels!" and he passed his cup of cider to his com- 
 patriot. 
 
 “ Now out on you, you lazy, slavish loons,” cried 
 Rose; “can’t you see these men are raised up to 
 fight for freedom for more than themselves? If the 
 chain is broken at one end, the links will fall apart 
 sooner or later. When you see the sun on the 
 mountain-top, you may be sure it will shine into the 
 deepest valleys before long.” 
 
 “ I s’pose what you mean, Rose, is, that all men 
 are going to be free. I heard Mr. Herbert say, 
 when he argied with master, that ‘ all men were 
 born free and equal he might as well say, all men 
 w'ere born white and tall ; don’t you say so, 
 gin’ral ?” 
 
 “ Be sure, Mr. Linwood, be sure. And I wonder 
 what good their freedom would do ’em. Freedom 
 an’t horses and char’ots, tho’ horses and cbar’ots is 
 freedom. Don’t you own that. Miss Rose? " 
 
 “ He’s a dog that loves his collar,” retorted Rose. 
 
 “ Don’t be ’fronted. Miss Rose. Tell me now, 
 don’t you r’ally think it’s Cain-like and ongenteel 
 for a son to fight ’gainst his begotten father, and so 
 on ?” 
 
 “ I would have every man fight on the Lord’s 
 side,” replied Rose, “ and that’s every man for his 
 own rights.” 
 
 “La, Miss Rose, then what are them to do what 
 has not got any?” Rose apparently disdained a 
 reply to this argument, and the general interposed. 
 
 “ It may be well Mr. Herbert is gone, if he an’t 
 dead and gone; for, by what folks say, if the war 
 goes on, there won’t be too much left for Miss 
 Isabella.” 
 
 “ ‘ Folkssay !’ ” growled Rose, “ don’t come here. 
 Mart, with any lies but your own.” 
 
 “ Well, well, Miss Rose, I did not say noting. I 
 know Miss Isabella is sure to have a grander forlin 
 nor ever her father had, and that ’fore long too — Jem 
 Meredith tells me all about it.” 
 
 “ That being the case, Rose,” said Jupe, “ hand 
 
 47 
 
 us on a bit of butter. You are as close as if we were 
 in a ’sieged city.” 
 
 “ Butter for you, yon old cormorant! and butter 
 a dollar a pound! No, no; up Jupe — out, out, 
 Mars— let me clear aw^ay.” 
 
 Rose was absolutely iii her authority. Jupiter 
 rose, and Mars crawled most unwilliugly out at the 
 door. When there, the drowsy, surfeited animal 
 was suddenly electrified; he snnfl'ed, wagged his 
 tail, barked, and ran in and out again. “ What does 
 all this mean ?” demanded Rose ; and pushing the 
 door wide open, she espied a figure quietly seated 
 on the steps, repressing Mars, and whittling with, 
 apparent unconcern. Now Rose, in common with 
 many energetic domestics, had the same sort of an- 
 tipatliy to beggars that she had to moths and vermin 
 of every description, considering them all equally 
 marauders on the domicile. 
 
 ‘•What are you doing here, you lazy varmint? 
 pretty time of day for a great two-fisted fellow to h® 
 lying over the door, littering the steps this fashion. 
 Fawning on a beggar, Mars! shame on you! clear 
 out, sir! ’ — and she gave a stroke with her broom, 
 so equally shared by the man and dog, that it was 
 not easy to say for which it was designed. The dog 
 yelped, the man sprang adroitly on one side of the 
 step, raised his cap, and looked Rose in the face. 
 
 It was a Gorgon glance to Rose. For an instant 
 she was transfixed ; and then recovering her self- 
 possession, she said, so as to appear to lier auditors 
 within to be replying to a petition, — “ Hungry, are 
 yon? — well, well, go to the washhouse, and I’ll 
 bring yon some victuals — the hungry must be fed.’* 
 
 “ 'Tliat’s what master calls sound doctrine, Rose,’* 
 said Jupiter ; “ I hope you won’t forget it before my 
 supper, time.’’ 
 
 “ You, you hound, you never fast long enough to 
 be hungry ; but I’ll remember you at supper-time— 
 I’ve some fresh pies in the pantry — ifyou’ll take the 
 big kettle to be mended. Now is a good time — Mart 
 will lend you a hand.’’ 
 
 Both assented, and thus in a few moments were 
 disposed of; and Rose repaired to the washhouse to 
 embark her whole heart in Herbert’s concerns, pro- 
 vided her mind could be satisfied on some cardinal 
 points. After she had given vent to the first burst 
 of joy, something seemed to stick in Rose’s throat— 
 she hemmed, coughed, placed and displaced the 
 moveables about her, and then speaking out her up- 
 right soul, she said, “you an’t a deserter?’’ 
 
 “A deserter, Rose! I’d not look you in the face 
 if I were.” 
 
 “ Nor a spy, Mr. Herbert?” 
 
 “ Indeed I am not, Rose.” 
 
 “ Tlien,” she cried, striking the back of one hand 
 into the palm of the other, “ tlien we’ll go tlirough 
 fire and water for you; but Miss Belle and I could 
 not raise onr bands for spy or deserter, though he 
 were bone of her bone.” 
 
 These preliminai ies settled, nothing was easier 
 than for Rose to sympathise fully wiili the impru- 
 dent intensity of Herbert’s longings to see bis own 
 family. Nothing beyond present concealment was 
 to be thought of till a council could be held with 
 Isabella. Her injunction was obeyed, and Rose 
 immediately conducted Herbert to his own apart- 
 ment. On his way thither he caught through a 
 glass door a glimpse of his mother, who was alone, 
 employing some stolen moments in knitting for her 
 son ; — stolen we say, for well beloved as he was, she 
 dared not even allude to him in his father’s pre- 
 sence. Mrs. Linwood was thoroughly imbued witb 
 the conjugal orthodoxy, that 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 48 
 
 Maa was made for God, 
 
 Woman for God in him. 
 
 She firmly believed that her husband ruled by 
 divine right. She loved her son ; but love was not 
 with her as witli Isabella, like the cataract in its na- 
 tural state, free and resistless ; but like the cataract 
 subdued by the art of man, controled by his inven- 
 tions, and subserving his convenience. Such cha- 
 racters, if not interesting, are safe, provided they fall 
 into good hands Such as she was, her son loved 
 her tenderly, and found it hard to resist flying to her 
 arms; and he would actually have done so when he 
 saw her take up the measure-stocking lying in her 
 lap and kiss it, and Rose said, “It is yours,’’ but 
 Rose held him back. 
 
 Every thing in his apartment had been preserved, 
 with scrupulous care, just as he had left it, and all 
 indicated that he was daily remembered. There 
 was nothing of the vault-like atmosphere of a de- 
 serted room ; no dust had accumulated on the furni- 
 ture. His books, his writing materials, his little 
 toilet aflairs, were as if he had left them an hour be- 
 fore. Herbert had never felt more tenderly than at 
 this moment, surrounded by these mute witnesses of 
 domestic love, the sacrifice he had made to his 
 country. He was destined to feel it more painfully. 
 
 Rose re-appeared with the best refreshments of 
 her larder. “Times are changed, Mr. Herbert,” 
 she said, “since you used to butter your bread both 
 sides, and when you dropped it on the carpet, say, 
 * The butter side is up. Rosy.’ If the war lasts 
 much longer we shall have no buttered side to our 
 bread.’’ 
 
 “How so, Rose — I thought you lived on the fat 
 of the land in the city ? Heaven knows our portion 
 is lean enough.” 
 
 “Oh, Mr. Herbert, it takes a handful of money 
 now to buy a day’s fare ; and money is far from be- 
 ing plentiful with your father, though I’d pull out 
 my tongue before I’d say so to atiy but your father’s 
 son. There’s little coming in from the rents, when 
 the empty houses of the rebels (as our people call 
 them) are to be b.ad for nothing, or next to nothing. 
 They say the commandant does take the rent for 
 some, aud give it to the poor; which is like trying 
 to cheat the devil by giving a good name to a bad 
 deed.’’ 
 
 “ But, Rose, my father has property out of the 
 city.” 
 
 “Yes, Mr. Herbert; but the farms are on 
 what’s called the neutral ground ; and the tenants 
 write that what one side does not take t’other 
 does not leave ; and so between friends and foes, 
 it’s all Miss Isabella and I can do to keep the 
 wheels agoing. She has persuaded your father to 
 dispose of all the servants but Jupe and me — 
 plague aud no profit were they always, as slaves 
 always are. There’s no telling the twists and 
 turns that she and your mother make, that your 
 father may see no difference on the table, where 
 he’d feel it most. If he does, he’s sure to curse 
 the rebels ; and that’s a dagger to them.” 
 
 “ Rose, does my father never speak of me ?” 
 
 “Never, Mr. Herbert, never.’’ 
 
 “Nor my mother?” 
 
 Rose shook her head. “ Not in your father’s 
 hearing,” 
 
 “ And my sister — is she afraid to speak my 
 name?’’ 
 
 “She! -the Lord forgive you, Mr. Herbert. 
 When did she ever fear to do what was right ? 
 There’s not a day she does not talk of you, though 
 
 your mother looks scared, and 5^0 ur father look* 
 black ; but I mistrust he’s pleased. I heard her 
 read to him out of a newspaper one day how 
 General Washington had sent your name in to 
 Congress as one of them that had done their duty 
 handsome at Stony Point or some of them places ; 
 and she clapped her hands, and put her arras 
 round his neck, and said, with that voice of hers 
 that’s sweeter than a flute, ‘ Are you not proud 
 of him ?’ ” 
 
 “My noble sister ! — what did he say, Rose ?’’ 
 
 “ Never a word with his lips; but he went out 
 of the room as if he’d been shot, his face speak- 
 ing plainer than words.” 
 
 “Oh, he’ll forgive me ! — I’m sure he will !” ex- 
 claimed Herbert, his ardent feelings kindling at 
 the first light. 
 
 “ Don’t be too sartin, Mr. Herbert — will and 
 heart are at war ; aud will has been master so 
 long that I mistrust heart is weakest— if, indeed,’* 
 she added, averting her eye, “ you should join the 
 Reformees— ’’ 
 
 *’ Ay, then the fatted calf would be killed for 
 me 1 No, Rose, I had rather die with my father’s 
 curse upon me.’’ 
 
 “And better — better! — far better, Mr. Her- 
 bert : your father’s curse, if you don’t desarve it,, 
 won't cut in; but the curse of conscience is what 
 can’t be borne. I must not stay here longer. If 
 you get tired sitting alone, you can sleep away 
 the time. The bed has fresh linen — I change it 
 every month, so it sha’n't get an old smell, and 
 put them in mind how long you’ve been gone.” 
 
 “After ail,” thought Herbert, as the faithful 
 creature quitted the room, “ I have never suffered 
 the worst of absence — the misery of being for- 
 gotten !” But every solacing reflection was soon 
 lost in the anxieties that beset him. A light- 
 hearted, thoughtless youth is like the bark that 
 dances over the waves when the skies are cloud- 
 less, breezes light, and tides favourable, but wants 
 strength and ballast for difficult straits and tem- 
 pestuous weather. “I have swamped myself 
 completely,’’ thought Herbert. “ Eliot must in- 
 evitably leave ms in the city. It was selfish in me 
 to expose him to esnsure ; that never occurred to 
 me. Instead of getting iny father’s forgiveness 
 — a fond, foolish dream — I stand a good chance,, 
 if Rose is right, of being handed over to the ten- 
 der mercies of Sir Henry Clinton. And, if I 
 escape banging here, I am lost with General 
 Washington: imprudence and rashness are sins of 
 the first degree with him. Would to Heaven I 
 could get out of this net as easily as I ran into it I 
 I always put the cart before the horse — actioa 
 before thought.” 
 
 With such meditations the time passed heavily; 
 and Herbert took refuge in Rose’s advice, and 
 threw himself on the bed within the closely- drawa 
 curtains. 
 
 We hope that our sentimental readers will not 
 abandon him, when we confess that he soon fell 
 into a profound sleep, from which he did not 
 awaken for several hours. They must be agita- 
 ting griefs that overcome the strong tendencies of 
 a vigorous constitution to eating and sleeping. 
 And besides, it must be remembered in Herbert’s 
 favour, that the preceding night had been one 
 long fatiguing vigil. Kind nature, pardon us for 
 apologising for thy gracious ministry. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 L’habitude de vivre ensemble fit naitre les plus 
 doux sentimens qui soient connus des hommes. 
 
 Rousseau. 
 
 Herbert’s sleep was troubled with fragments 
 and startling combinations of his waking thoughts. 
 At one moment he was at Westbrook, making 
 love to Bessie, who seemed to be deaf to him, 
 and intently reading a letter in Jasper Meredith’s 
 hand ; while Helen Ruthven stood behind her, 
 beckoning to Herbert with her most seductive 
 smile, which he fancied he was not to be deluded 
 by. Suddenly the scene changed — he had a rope 
 round his neck, and was mounting a scaffold, sur- 
 rounded by a crowd, where he saw Washington, 
 Eliot, his father, mother, and Isabella — all un- 
 concerned spectators. Then, as is often the case, 
 a real sound shaped the unreal vision. He wit- 
 nessed his own funeral obsequies, and heard his 
 father reading the burial service over him. By 
 degrees, sleep loosened the chain that bound his 
 fancy, and the actual sounds became distinct. 
 He awoke : a candle was burning on the table, 
 and he heard his father in an adjoining apart- 
 ment, to which it had always been his habit to 
 retire for his evening devotions. He heard him 
 repeat the formula prescribed by the church, and 
 then his voice, tremulous with the feeling that 
 gushed from his heart, broke forth in an extem- 
 pore appeal to Him who holds all hearts in the 
 hollow of his hand. He prayed him to visit with 
 bis grace his wandering son ; and to incline him 
 to turn away from feeding on husks with swine, 
 and bring him home to his father’s house — to his 
 duty — to his God. “ If it please thee,” he said, 
 “ humble thy servant in any other form — send 
 poverty, sickness, desertion, but restore my only 
 and well-beloved boy ; wipe out the stain of 
 rebellion from my name. If this may not be, 
 if still thy servant must go sorrowing for the 
 departed glory of his house, keep him steadfast 
 in duty, so that he swerve not, even for his son, 
 his only son.” 
 
 The prayer finished, his door was opened, and 
 he saw his father enter without daring himself to 
 move. Mr. Linwood looked atthe candle, glanced 
 his eye around the room, and then sat down at 
 the table, saying, as if in explanation, “ Belle 
 has been here.” He covered his face with both 
 his hands, and murmured in a broken voice, “ Oh, 
 Herbert ! was it to store up these bitter hours 
 that 1 watched over your childhood — that I came 
 every night here, when you were sleeping, to kiss 
 you and pray over your pillow ? — what fools we 
 are ! we knit the love of our children with our 
 very heart-strings — we tend on them — we pamper 
 them-we blend our lives with theirs, and then 
 we are deserted — forgotten!” 
 
 “Never, never for one moment!” cried Her- 
 bert, who with one spring was at his father’s feet. 
 Mr. Linwood started from him, and then, obeying 
 the impulse of nature, he received his son’s em- 
 brace, and they wept in one another’s arms. 
 
 The door softly opened. Isabella appeared, 
 and her face irradiating with most joyful surprise, 
 she called, “Mamma, mamma; here, in Her- 
 bert’s room !’’ In another instant, Herbert had 
 folded his mother and sister to his bosom ; and 
 Mr. Linwood was beginning to recover his self- 
 
 49 
 
 possession, and to feel as if he had been betrayed 
 into the surrender of a post. He walked up and 
 down the room, then suddenly stopping and lay- 
 ing his hand on Herbert’s shoulder, and survey- 
 ing him from head to foot, “ I know not, but I 
 fear,’’ he said, “ what this disguise may mean— 
 tell me, in one word, do you return penitent ?” 
 
 “ I return grieving that I ever offended you, my 
 dear father, and venturing life and honour to see 
 you — to hear you say that you forgive me.’’ 
 
 “ Herbert, my son, you know,” replied Mr. 
 Linwood, his voice faltering with the tenderness 
 against which he struggled, “ that my door and 
 my heart have always been open to you, pro- 
 vided — ’’ 
 
 “Oh, no provideds, papa! Herbert begs your 
 forgiveness — this is enough.” 
 
 “ I wish, sir, you would think it was enough,’^ 
 sobbed Mrs. Linwood. 
 
 “ You must think so, papa; it is the sin and 
 misery of these unhappy times that divide you. 
 Give to the winds your political differences, and 
 leave the war to the camp and the field. Herbert 
 has always loved and honoured you.’’ 
 
 Mr. Linwood felt as if they were dragging 
 him over a precipice, and he resisted with all his- 
 might. “ A pretty way he has taken to show 
 it !" he said, “ let him declare he has abandoned 
 the rebel and traitors, and their cause, and 1 will 
 believe it.’’ 
 
 Herbert was silent. 
 
 “ My dear father,’’ said Isabella. 
 
 “ Nay, Isabella, do not ‘dear father’ me. I will 
 not be coaxed out of my right reason. If you can 
 tell me that your brother abandons and abjures the 
 miscreants, speak — if not, be silent." 
 
 “ If it were true that he did abandon them, he 
 would be no son of yours, no brother of mine. If 
 he were thus restored to us, who could restore 
 him to himself ? where could he hide him from 
 himself? Your own soul would spurn a rene- 
 ^ado! — think better of him— think better of his 
 friends— they are not all miscreants. There are 
 many noble, highminded — ’’ 
 
 “ What, what, Isabella?" 
 
 “ As deluded as he is.’’ 
 
 “ A wisely-finished sentence, child. But you 
 need not undertake to teach me what they are. I 
 know them— a set of paltry schismatics-— pettifog- 
 ging attorneys — schoolmasters — mechanics — shop- 
 keepers— bankrupts — outlaws —smugglers— half- 
 starved, half-bred, ragged sons of Belial; banded 
 together, and led on by that quack Catiline, that 
 despol-in-chief, Washington. ‘ No son of mine if 
 he abjures them!’ I swear to you, Herbert, that 
 on these terms alone will I ever again receive you 
 as my son.” Again he paused, and after some 
 reflection added, “ You have an alternative, if you 
 do not choose to avail yourself of Sir Henry’s 
 standing proclamation, and come in and receive 
 your pardon as a deserter — you may join the corps 
 of Reformees. This opportunity now lost, is lost 
 for ever. Is my forgiveness worth the price I have 
 fixed ? Speak, Herbert.” 
 
 “ Have I not proved how inexpressibly dear it 
 is to me ?” 
 
 “ No faltering, young man! speak to the 
 point.” 
 
 “ Oh, my dear, dear son,’’ said his mother, “ if 
 you but knew how much we have all suffered for 
 you, and how happy you can now make us, if you 
 only will, you would not hesitate, even if the rebel 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 50 
 
 cause were a good one : you are but as oue man to 
 that, and to us you are all the world.” 
 
 This argumenlum ad hominem (the only argument 
 of weak minds) clouded Herbert’s perception. It 
 was a momeut of the most painful vacillation ; 
 the forgiveness of his father, the ministering in- 
 dulgenc love of his mother, the presence of his 
 sister, the soft endearments of home, and all its 
 dear familiar objects, solicited him. He had once 
 forsaken them : but then he was incited by the 
 immeasureable expectation of unrebuked youth, 
 thoughts of high emprise, romantic deeds, and 
 strange incidents ; but his experience, with few 
 and slight exceptions, had been a tissue of dan- 
 gers without the opportunity of brilliant exploits ; of 
 fatigue without reward ; and of rough and scanty 
 fare, which, however well it may tell in the past 
 life of a hero, has no romantic charm in its actual 
 details. He continued silent. His father perceived, 
 or at least hoped, that he wavered. 
 
 “ Speak,” he said, in a voice of earnest en- 
 treaty, ” speak, Herbert — my dear son, for God’s 
 sake, speak.” 
 
 “ It is right above all things to desire his for- 
 giveness,” thought Herbert, ‘‘and it is plain there 
 is but one way of getting it. I am in a diabolical 
 hobble— if I succeed in getting back to camp, what 
 am I to expect? Imprudence is a crime with our 
 general ; and, after all, what good have I done the 
 cause ?— and yet — ” 
 
 “ Herbert,” exclaimed Isabella, and her voice 
 thrilled through his soul, “ .is it possible you 
 waver ?” 
 
 He started as if he were electrified : his eyes met 
 hers, and the evil spirits of doubt and irresolution 
 were overcome. 
 
 ‘‘ Heaven forgive me!’’ he said, “ I waver no 
 longer.” 
 
 “ Then by all that is holy,” exclaimed Mr. Lin- 
 wood, flushed with disappointment and rage, ” you 
 shall reap as you sow ; it shall never be said that 
 I sheltered a rebel, though that rebel be my son.” 
 He rang the bell violently ; “Justice shall have 
 its course — why does not Jupe come ! — you too 
 to prove false, Isabella 1 I might have known it 
 when I saw you drinking in the vapouring of 
 that fellow Lee to-day;’’ again he rang the bell; 
 “ you may all desert me, but I’ll be true so long as 
 my pulse beats.” 
 
 No one replied to him. Mrs. Linwood, sus- 
 tained by Herbert’s encircling arm, wept aloud. 
 Isabella knew the tide of her father’s passion 
 would have its ebb as well as flow ; she believed 
 the servants were in bed, and that before he could 
 obtain a messenger to communicate with the 
 proper authority, which she perceived to be his 
 present intention, his Brutus resolution would 
 fail. She was however startled by hearing voices 
 in the lower entry, and immediately Rose burst 
 open the door, crying, “ Fly, Mr. Herbert — they 
 are after you !” 
 
 The words operated on Mr. Linwood like a gust 
 of wind on a superincumbent cloud of smoke. His 
 angry emotions passed off, and nature flamed up 
 bright and irresistible. Every thought, every 
 feeling but for Herbert’s escape and safety, va- 
 nished. “ This way, my son,’’ he cried ; “ through 
 your mother’s room — down the back stairs, and 
 out at the side gate. God help you !’’ He closed 
 the door after Herbert, locked it, and put the key 
 into his pocket. Isabella advanced in the entry 
 to meet her brother’s pursuers, and procure a de- 
 
 lay of a few moments on what pretext she could* 
 She was met by two men and an officer, sent by 
 Colonel Robertson, the commandant. “ Your 
 pardon. Miss Linwood,’’ said the officer, pushing 
 by her into the room where her father awaited 
 him. 
 
 “ How very rude !’’ exclaimed Mrs. Linwood, 
 for once in her life speaking first and independ- 
 ently in her husband’s presence ; “ how very rude, 
 sir, to come up stairs into our bed-rooms without 
 permission.’’ 
 
 The officer smiled at this pretended deference to 
 forms at the moment the poor mother was pale as 
 death, and shivering with terror. “ I beg your 
 pardon, madam, and yours, Mr. Linwood — this 
 is the last house in the city in which I should 
 willingly have performed this duty ; but you, sir, 
 are aware, that in these times our very best and 
 most honoured friends are sometimes involved 
 with our foes.” 
 
 “No apologies, sir, there’s no use in them — 
 you are in search of Mr. Herbert Linwood — pro- 
 ceed — my house is subject to your pleasure.” 
 
 The officer was reiterating his apologies, when 
 a cry from the side entrance to the yard announced 
 that the fugitive was taken. Mr. Linwood sunk 
 into his chair ; but, instantly rallying, he asked 
 whither his son was to be conducted. 
 
 “ I am sorry to say, sir, that I am directed to 
 lodge him in the Provost's — ” 
 
 “ In Cunningham’s hands 1 — the Lord have 
 mercy on hina, then !” 
 
 The officer assured him the young man should 
 have whatever alleviation it was in his power to 
 afford him, until Sir Henry’s further pleasure 
 should be known. He then withdrew, and left 
 Mr. Linwood exhausted by a rapid succession of 
 jarring emotions. 
 
 Isabella retired with her mother, and succeeded 
 in lulling her into a tranquillity which she herself 
 was far enough from attaining. 
 
 The person whom, as it may be remembered, 
 Linwood met in passing down the lane to his 
 father’s house, was an emissary of Robertson’s, 
 who had been sent on a scout for Captain Lee’s 
 attendant, and who immediately reported to the 
 commandant his suspicions. He, anxious, if pos- 
 sible, not tooft'end the elder Linwood, had stationed 
 men in the lane and in Broad-street, to watch for 
 the young man’s egress. They waited till ten in 
 the evening, and then found it expedient to proceed 
 to the direct measures which ended in Herbert’s 
 capture. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Great is thy power, great thy fame. 
 
 Far keun’d and noted is thy name ! 
 
 An’ tho’ yon lowin’ heugh’s thy barae, 
 
 Thou travels far. 
 
 Burns, 
 
 Eliot Lee returned to his lodgings from Sir 
 Henry’s in no very comfortable frame of mind. It 
 was his duty, and this duty, like others, had the 
 inconvenient property of inflexibility, to return to 
 West Point with the despatches, without at- 
 tempting to extricate his friend from the shoals 
 and quicksands amid which he had so rashly 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 Tushed. He consoled himself, however, under this 
 necessity, by the reflection that he could in no 
 •way so efficiently serve Herbert as by being the 
 first to communicate his imprudence and its con- 
 sequences to General Washington. His anxiety 
 to serve him was doubled by the consciousness 
 that he should thereby serve Isabella. An ac- 
 quaintance of a day with a young lady ought not, 
 perhaps, to have given a stronger impulse to the 
 fervours of friendship ; yet the truest friend of 
 three and-twenty will find some apology for Eliot 
 in his own experience, or would have found it, if, 
 like Eliot, he had just seen the incarnation of his 
 poetic imaginings. 
 
 While he awaited in his room the despatches, 
 he tried to adjust the complicated impressions of 
 the day. He reviewed the scene in the library, 
 and his conclusions from it were the result of his 
 observations, naturally tinged by the character of 
 the observer. Is is not impossible for any man to 
 understand perfectly the intricate machinery of a 
 woman’s heart, its hidden sources of hope and 
 fear, trust and distrust; or its invisible springs 
 and complex action? “ If,” he thought, “ Miss 
 Linwood knew Meredith as I know him ; if she 
 knew what she now fears, that he had fed his va- 
 nity, his idol, self, on the exhalations of homage, 
 love, trust, and hope, from a pure heart that, like 
 a flower, withered in giving out its sweets, she 
 would not love him ; not that it is a matter of vo- 
 lition to love or not to love, — but she could not. 
 If Isabella Linwood, gifted as she is in mind and 
 person, were less sought — if, like my poor little 
 Bessie, she were in some obscure, shady place of 
 life, her pre-eminence unacknowledged and un- 
 known, like her she would be deserted for an en- 
 throned sovereign. This she cannot know ; and 
 she is destined to be one of the ten thousand mis- 
 mated men and women who have thrown away their 
 happiness, and found it out too late. Find it out 
 she must ; for this detestable selfishness dulls a 
 man’s perception of the rights of others, of their 
 deserts, their wants, and their infirmities, while 
 it makes him keenly susceptible to whatever 
 touches self. He resembles those insects who, in- 
 stead of the social senses of hearing and seeing, 
 which connect one sentient existence with another, 
 are furnished with feelers that make their own 
 bodies the focus of all sensation.” 
 
 Eliot was roused from his sententious reverie 
 by a whistle beneath his window. He looked out, 
 and saw by the moonlight a man squatted on 
 the ground, and so shaded by the wooden entrance 
 to the door, as to be but dimly seen. Eliot, con- 
 jecturing who it might be, immediately descended 
 the stairs and opened the outer door. The man 
 leaped from the ground, seized both Eliot’s hands, 
 and cried out in a half articulate voice — “ Could 
 not Kisel find you ? hey ! — whea the dog can’t find 
 his master, nor the bean its pole, nor the flower tim 
 side the sun shines, then say Kisel can’t find you, 
 Misser Eliot — hey !” 
 
 “ My poor fellow! how in the name of wonder 
 did you get here alone 
 
 “ Ah, Mi.sser Eliot, aUvays told you you did 
 not know what a S'alvation it was to pass for a fool, 
 and all the while be just as wise as other folks. 
 I have my own light,” — he pointed upwards, — 
 “ there’s one that guides the owl as well as the 
 eagle, and the fool better than the wise man.” 
 
 “ But how came the enemy to let you pass?’’ 
 
 Let me 1 what for should not they ? What 
 
 51 
 
 harm could such as I do them ? I told them so, 
 and they believed me — good, hey!” 
 
 ” You cannot have walked all the way ?” 
 
 ” Walked! — when did wit walk? No, Misser 
 Eliot, not a step of it. Hooked a fishing canoe, 
 and poled 'ioug shore some, — ^jumped into a wag- 
 gon with a blind nigger fiddler and his wife, and 
 rode some, — then up behind a cow-boy, and paid 
 him in ^whistling some,— boarded market carts 
 some, — and musquashed some.’’ >. 
 
 “ And here you are, and now I must take care 
 of you.” 
 
 “ Yes, Misser Eliot, depend on you now, 
 pretty much like other folks — Kisel, hey ! depends 
 on Providence -when he can get nothing else to 
 depend on.” 
 
 ” Thank Heaven,” thought Eliot, ” I have not 
 to draw on my extempore sagacity. Now that I 
 have the real Dromio, I shall get on without let 
 or hindrance.’’ He re entered the house, encoun- 
 tered his landlady, and, emboldened by the pre- 
 sence of Kisel, laughed at the unnecessary sus- 
 picion that had been excited, ordere>d his horses, 
 and having received his despatches and his coun- 
 tersigned passports from Sir Henry, he determined 
 to profit by the moonlight, and immediately set 
 forth on his return. 
 
 As they passed Mr. Linwood’s house, Eliot 
 paused for a moment, but there was no intimation 
 from its silent walls ; and hoping and believing 
 that his friend was safe within them, and breath- 
 ing a prayer for the peerless creature who seemed 
 to him, like a celestial spirit, to sanctify the 
 dwelling that contained her, he spurred his horse 
 as if he would have broken the chain that bound 
 him to the spot — the chain already linking in with 
 his existence, and destined never to be broken till 
 that should be dissolved. 
 
 He proceeded, some twenty or five-and-twenty 
 miles without incident, when, as he passed a nar- 
 row road that intersected the highway, five horse- 
 men turned from it into the main road. Kisel, 
 with the instinct of cowardice, reined his horse 
 close to his master. The men remained in the 
 rear, talking together earnestly in low tones. 
 Suddenly, two of them spurred their horses and 
 came abreast of the forward party, the one beside 
 Kisel, the other beside Eliot. There was, at best, 
 impertinence in the movement, and it annoyed 
 Eliot. It might mean something worse than im- 
 pertinence. He placed his hand on the loaded 
 pistol in his holster, and calmly awaited further 
 demonstrations from his new companions. A 
 cursory glance assured him that they were 
 questionable characters ; they wore cloth caps re- 
 sembling those used by our own winter travellers, 
 drawn close over the eyes, and having a sort of 
 curtain that hid the neck, ears, and chin. The 
 mouth and nose were the only visible features ; and 
 though they were dimly .«eea by the star-light the 
 moou had set, they seemed to Eliot, with a little 
 aid from imaginatioQ, to indicate brutal coarse- 
 ness and vulgarity. They had on spencers of a 
 dreadnought material, girded around tnem with a 
 leathern strap. “ Good evening,” said the man at 
 Eliot’s side. 
 
 Captain Lee made no reply ; but bis squire, 
 eager to accept a friendly overture, and always 
 ready ou the least hint to speak, replied, “ Good 
 evening to you, neighbour; which way are you 
 riding ?” 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 52 
 
 “ After our horses’ noses,” replied the fellow, 
 gruffly. 
 
 “ Oh, that’s the way we are travelling — so we 
 may as well be friendly ; for in these times there’s 
 many a bird on the wing at night beside owls and 
 bats — hey ?” 
 
 Where are you from, fellow?” ashed the first 
 speaker. 
 
 “ From below.” 
 
 ‘‘ Where are you going ?” 
 
 “ Above.” 
 
 The man, not disposed to be silenced by Kisel’s 
 indefinite replies, repeated his first question to 
 Eliot. 
 
 “ The true answer is the safest,” thought Eliot, 
 who was determined, if possible, to avoid a contest 
 where the odds w'ere five to one ; and he briefly 
 communicated his destination and errand. 
 
 “Despatches !” replied the man, echoing Eliot. 
 “Is that all you have about you? I wish you 
 well, then, to your journey’s end — and that wish 
 is worth something, I can tell you. Come, Pat, 
 spur your horse — we’ve no time to be lagging 
 here.” 
 
 “I’m thinking, captain, we had better change 
 horses with these gentlemen, and give them our 
 spurs to boot” — and suiting the action to the 
 word, he seized Kisel’s bridle, and ordered him to 
 dismount. At the same instant his comrade- 
 captain made a lunge at Eliot as if for a corres- 
 ponding seizure, but Eliot perceived the move- 
 ment in time to evade it. He roused the mettle 
 of his horse with a word— the fine animal sprang 
 forward — Eliot turned him short round, and 
 presented his pistol to Kisel’s antagonist, w'ho let 
 fall the bridle, and turned to defend himself. 
 
 “Now spur your horse, and fear nothing, 
 Kisel,” cried his master. 
 
 Not to fear was impossible to Kisel, but the 
 first injunction he obeyed, even to the rowels of 
 his spurs, and he and his master soon distanced 
 their pursuers, who now partly incited by revenge, 
 pursued the hopeless chase for two or three miles. 
 
 Sson after losing sight of these men, Eliot 
 reached Gurdon Coit’s. Coit was a farmer, who, 
 on the borders of the river and on the neutral 
 ground, kept a public-house as supplemental to 
 his farm, which in these troubled times was 
 roughly handled by friends and foes. Friends and 
 foes we say ; for though Coit observed, as 
 beseemed a man of his present calling, a strict 
 outward neutrality, in heart he W'as on his coun- 
 try’s side, as he often testified, with considerable 
 risk to himself, by affording facilities to secret 
 emissaries to the city, and by receiving into his 
 house valuable supplies, that were run up from 
 the city (where Washington had many secret 
 trusty friends) for the use of the army at West 
 Point. 
 
 Eliot stopped at Coit’s, and announced his in- 
 tention, received by a hurra from Kisel, of re- 
 maining there till daylight. Coit was aroused from 
 a nap in his chair by the entrance of his new guests. 
 In reply to Eliot’s request for refreshment and 
 lodging, he said, “ You see, captain, (he recognised 
 Eliot, who had been at his house on his way down) 
 my house is brimful. Caesar, and Venus, and all 
 the little niggers, sleep in the kitchen. My wife’s 
 sisters are here visiting, and they’ve got the best 
 bedroom, and my wife and the gals the other, for 
 you know we must give the best to the women, 
 poor creturs — so a plank here in the bar-room is 
 
 the best sleeping privilege 1 can give you, and the 
 barn to your man.” 
 
 “ Oh, Misser Eliot, I’ve got a trembling in my 
 limbs to night,” interposed Kisel ; “ don’t send 
 me away alone.” 
 
 Eliot explained the cause of poor Kisel’s tremb- 
 ling limbs, and it was agreed that he should share 
 his master’s sleeping privilege. 
 
 In answer to Eliot’s communication, Colt said, 
 “ As sure as a gun, you’ve met the Skinners, and 
 you’re a lucky man to get out of their hands alive. 
 They’ve been harrying up and down the country 
 like so many wolves for the last three weeks, doing 
 mischief wherever ’twas to be done. Nobody has 
 escaped them but Madam Archer.” 
 
 “ Who is Madam Archer ?” 
 
 “ I mistrust, captain, you a’ n’t much acquainted 
 with the quality in York state, or you’d know 
 Madam Archer, of Beech-hill — the widow lady 
 with the blind twins. I believe the Lord has set 
 a defence about her habitation, for there she stays 
 with those helpless little people, and neither harm 
 nor the fear of it come nigh her, though she has 
 nothing of mankind under her roof except one old 
 slave; and them that are brought up slaves, you 
 know, have neither sense nor pluck for difficult 
 times.” 
 
 Kisel interrupted the landlord’s harangue to 
 hint to his master that his fright had brought on 
 a great appetite ; and Eliot feeling the same 
 effect, though not from precisely the same cause, 
 requested his host to provide him some supper 
 while he and his man went to look after their 
 horses, a duty that he gratefully performed, rejoic- 
 ing in the rustic education that made it light to 
 him to perform services for the want of which he 
 often saw the noble animals of his more daintily- 
 bred brother officers suffering. 
 
 “Who are these, my bedfellows?” he asked 
 of Coit, a few moments after, as he sat discussing 
 some fine bacoto and brown bread, and handing 
 slice after slice to Kisel, who, squatting on the 
 hearth, received it like a petted dog from his hand. 
 The subjects of his inquiry were too long fellows 
 wrapped in blankets, and their heads on their 
 knapsacks, stretched on the floor, and soundly 
 sleeping. 
 
 “ They are soldiers from above,” replied Coit 
 in a whisper, “ who have come here to receive some 
 tea and sugar, and such kind of fancy articles, for 
 the ladies at the Point.” 
 
 “ And who is this noisy person on the settle?” 
 
 “ He does snore like all natur’,” replied Coit, 
 laughing, and then continued in a lowered voice — 
 “ I don’t know who he is, though I can make a 
 pretty good guess, and if I guess right he a’ n’t a 
 person I should li’ise to interfere with, and it’s plain 
 he don’t choose to make himself known. He has 
 a rough tongue that does not seem like your born 
 quality — he does not handle his victuals like them 
 — but he has that solid way with him that shows he 
 was born to command the best of you in such 
 times as these, when, as you may say, we value a 
 ■garment according to its strength, and not for the 
 trimmings. No offence, captain.” 
 
 “ None in the world to me, my good friend ; I 
 am not myself one of those you call the born 
 quality.” 
 
 “A’n’t? I declare! then you’ve beat me — I 
 thought I could always tell ’em.” Coit drew his 
 chair near to Eliot, and added, in an earnest tone, 
 “ The time is coming, captain, and that’s what 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 the country is fighting for — for we can’t say but 
 we are desperately worried with the English yoke 
 — but the time is coming when one man that’s no 
 better than his neighbour won’t wear stars on his 
 coat, and another that’s no worse a collar round 
 his neck ; when one won’t be born with a silver 
 spoon in his mouth, and another with a pewter 
 spoon, but all will start fair, and the race will be 
 to the best fellow.” 
 
 “ Hey, Misser Eliot !’’ cried Kisel, in his wonted 
 tone, when a ray of intelligence penetrated the 
 mists that enveloped his brain. 
 
 His shrill voice awakened the sleeper on the 
 settle, who lifting up his shaggy head, asked what 
 ‘‘all this cackling meant?” Then seeming to 
 recover his self-possession, he keenly surveyed 
 Eliot and his man, covered his face with his 
 bandana handkerchief, and again composed himself 
 to sleep. 
 
 Eliot, after securing a “ sleeping privilege” for 
 Kisel, received from our friend Coit the best un- 
 occupied blanket and pillow the house afforded, 
 and giving his fellow-lodgers, in seamen’s phrase, 
 the best berth the width of the room admitted, he 
 Wfs soon lost in the deep refreshing sleep com- 
 pounded of youth, health, and a good conscience. 
 
 Our host was left to his own musings, which, 
 as he fixed his eye on Eliot’s fine face, marked 
 with nature’s aristocracy, were somewhat in the 
 following strain: — “ ‘ Not of the born quality 1’ 
 — hum — well, he has that that is quality in the 
 eye of God, I guess. How he looked after his 
 dumb beast, and this poor cretur here, that seems 
 not to have the wit of a brute ; he’s had the 
 bringing up of a gentleman anyhow. I see it in 
 his bearing, his speech, his voice. Well, I guess 
 my children will live to see the day when the like 
 of him will be the only gentlemen in the land. 
 The Almighty must furnish the material, but the 
 forming, polishing, and currency, must be the 
 man’s own doings, not his father’s or grandfather’s, 
 or the Lord knows who.” 
 
 While Coit pursues his meditations, destined 
 soon to be roughly broken, we offer our readers 
 some extracts of a letter which fortunately has 
 fallen into our hands to authenticate our veritable 
 history. It was written by Mrs. Archer, of Beech- 
 hill, to her niece, Isabella Linwood. 
 
 “ No, no, my dear Belle, I cannot remove to 
 the city — it must not be ; and I am sorry the 
 question is again mooted. ‘ A woman, and na- 
 turally born to fears,’ I may be ; but because I 
 have that inconvenient inheritance, I see no 
 reason why I should cherish and augment it. 
 Your imagination, which is rather an active 
 agent, has magnified the terrors of the times; 
 and it seems just now to be unduly excited by the 
 monstrous tales circulated in the city, of the 
 atrocities the Yankees have committed on the 
 tories. I see in Rivington’s Gazette, which you 
 wrapped round the sugar-plums that you sent the 
 children (thank you), various precious anecdotes 
 of Yankee tigers and tory lambs, forsooth ! that 
 are just about as true as the tales of giants and 
 ogres with which your childhood was edified. The 
 Yankees are a civilised race, and never, God bless 
 them ! commit gratuitous cruelties ! If they 
 still ‘see it to be duty’ (to quote their own Pu- 
 ritan phrase), they will cling to this contest till 
 they have driven the remnant of your Israel, 
 Belle, every tory and Englishman from the laud; 
 but they will commit no episodical murders ; it is 
 
 53 
 
 only the ignorant man that is unnecessarily cruel. 
 They are an instructed, kind-hearted, Christian 
 people ; and of this there will be abundant proof 
 while the present war is remembered. Remember, 
 Belle, these people have unadulterated English 
 blood in their veins, which to you should be a 
 prevailing argument in their favour ; and, believe 
 me, they have a fair portion of the spirit of their 
 freedom-loving and all-daring ancestors. Our 
 English mother, God bless her, too, should have 
 known better than to trammel, scold, and try to 
 whip her sons into obedience, when they had 
 come to man’s estate, and were fit to manage 
 their own household. Thank Heaven, I have 
 outlived the prejudices agamst the people of New 
 England, which my father transmitted to his chil- 
 dren. ‘ There they come,’ he used to say, when 
 he saw these busy people driving into the manor; 
 
 ‘ every snow brings them, and, d — n them, every 
 thaw, too.' 
 
 “What a pander to ignorance and malignity 
 is this same prejudice, Belle! How it disturbs 
 the sweet accords of nature, sacrilegiously severs 
 the bonds by which God has united man to man, 
 and breaks the human family into parties and 
 sects! How it clouds the intellect and infects 
 the heart with its earthborn vapours ; so that the 
 Englishman counts it virtue to scorn the American, 
 and the true American cherishes a hatred of the 
 Englishman. Our generous friends in the south 
 look with contempt on the provident frugal sons 
 of the Puritans : and they, blinded in their turn, 
 can see nothing but the swollen pride of slave- 
 owners, and hard-heartedness of slave-drivers in 
 their brethren of the south. Even you, dear 
 Belle, have not escaped this atmospheric influence. 
 After a general denunciation of the rebels, as you 
 term the country’s troops, you say, in the letter 
 now before me, ‘ of course you have nothing to 
 fear from the British regulars ;’ and I reply, like 
 the poor brute in the fable, ‘ Heaven save me 
 from my friends!’ The British soldiers are aliens 
 to the soil ; they have neither ‘ built houses nor 
 tilled lands’ here ; and they cannot have the 
 kindly and home feeling that a native extends to 
 the denizens of his own land. Besides, they are, 
 for the most part, trained to the inhuman trade 
 of war ; and though I have all due respect for 
 English blood, and know many of their officers to 
 be most amiable accomplished men, I never 
 see a detachment of their troops, with their colours 
 flying (and such often pass within sight of us), 
 without a sudden coolness creeping over me. 
 Then there are the jagers and other mercenaries 
 that our friends have brought over to fight out this 
 family (piarrel — is this right, Belle? you will sus- 
 pect me of having turned whig — well, keep your 
 suspicion to yourselves. The truth is, that living 
 isolated as I do, I have a fairer point of view than 
 you, surrounded as you are by British officers and 
 tories devoted to the royal cause, and to you, my 
 beautiful niece, their elected sovereign. 
 
 “ My only substantial lear, alter all, is of the 
 Cowboys and Skinners, more especially the last, 
 who have done some desperate deeds in my neigh- 
 bourhood. I have taken care to have it well known 
 that I have sent all my plate and valuables to the 
 cTy, and I hope and believe they will not pay me a 
 visit. Should they, however, a widow and two blind 
 children have little to dread from creatures who are 
 made in the imago of God, defaced as that imago 
 may be. Defenceless creatures have a fortress in 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 54 
 
 every human heart. No, I repeat it, I cannot go to 
 the city. You say I am afraid of the shackles of 
 city life 1 I confess, that with my taste for freedom, 
 and my long indulgence in it, they would be galling 
 to me, I could, however, hear them without winc- 
 ing to be near you; but iny children, Belle — my 
 blind children ! my paramount duty is to them, and 
 is prescribed and absolute. In the city they are 
 continually reminded of their privation, and tlie 
 kinder their friends the more manifold are the evi- 
 dences of it ; there they feel that they are merely 
 objects of compassion, supernumeraries in the hu- 
 man family, who can only receive, not give. Here 
 they have motives to exertion, dependents on their 
 care. Their fruits and flowers, dove®, rabbits, 
 chickens, ducks, dogs, and kittens, live and thrive by 
 them. Nature is to them a perpetual study and de- 
 light. I have just been walking with them over the 
 bill behind my house. You remember the hill is 
 fringed with beech-trees, and crowned by their su- 
 perior forest-brethren, the old tory oak, the legiti- 
 mate sovereign, by the grace of God; the courtier 
 elm (albeit American !), that bows its graceful limbs 
 to every breeze; the republican maple, that resists 
 all hostility ; and the evergreen pine, a loyalist — is 
 it. Belle? well, be it so ; it always wears the same 
 coat, but (hey say its heart is not the soundest 1 — 
 Pardon me, we fall so naturally into political allu- 
 sions in these times, 
 
 “My children have learned so accurately to dis- 
 criminate sounds, that, as we walked over the hill, 
 they made me observe the variations of sound when 
 the breezes whispered among the light beech leaves 
 when they stole through the dense masses of the 
 maple foliage, fluttered over the pendent stems of 
 the elm. rustled along the polished oak leaves, and 
 passed in soft musical sighs, like the lowest breath 
 of the .^Eolian harp over the bristled pines. Do 
 you remember the lively little stream that dashes 
 around the rear of this hill, and wdnding quietly 
 through the meadow at its base, steals into the Hud- 
 son ? They, in their rambles, unattended and fear- 
 less, have worn a footpath along the margin of this 
 Stream, and w herever there is a mossy rock, or fallen 
 trunk of a tree, they may be seen tying up wild 
 flowers, or the arm of each around the other, sing- 
 ing hymns and songs. I have seen men with hard 
 features and rough hands arrested by the sound of 
 their voices, and, as they listened, the tears trick- 
 ling dov\n their weather-beaten faces. Can I fear 
 for them. Belle? They both delight in gardening; 
 they love none but flowers of sweet odour ; no uu- 
 perfumed flower, however beautiful, is tolerated ; 
 hut the lawn, the borders of the walks, all their 
 shady haunts, are enamelled with mignonette, violets, 
 lilies of the valley, carnations, clove-pinks, and every 
 sweet-breathed flower. The magnificent view of the 
 Hudson from the piazza they cannot see ; but they 
 have wreathed the pillars v^ith honeysuckles and 
 sweetbriers, and there they sit and enjoy the south- 
 west breezes, the chief luxury of our climate. Could 
 I pen them up in a city, where they will never walk 
 into the fresh air but to be a spectacle, and where 
 they must be utterly deprived of the ministration of 
 nature through which God communes with their 
 spirits? I am sure you will acquiesce in my decision, 
 my dear Isabella. You need not try to convince 
 your father of my rationality ; the reasonableness of 
 any woman is a contradiction in terms to him. 
 Whatever may happen, your mother will not re- 
 proach me ; she will only say again what she has so 
 often said before, ‘ that she expected it, poor sister 
 Mary was always so odd.’ This letter is all about 
 
 myself. I have anxieties too about you, hut for the 
 present I keep to myself. The bright empyrean of 
 hope is for youth to soar in, and your element shall 
 not be invaded by croakings from the bogs of ex- 
 perience. “ Truly yours, 
 
 “ Mary Archer.” 
 
 The same conveyance that transported this letter, 
 so full of resolution and trust, to Isabella, carried 
 her information of the events related in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 We are men, my liege. 
 
 Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men. 
 
 Surprise has sometimes been expressed by our 
 English friends who have travelled among us, that 
 the American should cherish such lively recollec- 
 tions of the war that achieved their independence, 
 when their countrymen had almost forgotten that 
 such a contest ever existed. They seem to have for- 
 gotten, too, that while their part was enacted by 
 soldiers by profession and foreign mercenaries, our 
 battle was fought by our fathers, sons, and brothers; 
 that while the scene of action was three thousand 
 miles from them, it was in our home-lots and at our 
 fire- sides; and above all, that while they fought for 
 the preservation of colonial possession, at best a 
 doubtful good, we were contending for national in- 
 dependence — for the right and power to make the 
 last and best experiment of popular government. 
 
 Such circumstances as it falls to our lot now to 
 relate are not easily forgotten ; and such, or similar, 
 occurred in some of the happiest homes of our land. 
 
 Mrs. Archer was quietly sleeping with her chil- 
 dren, when she was awakened by unusual sounds in 
 the room below her; and immediately her maid, who 
 slept in the adjoining apartment, rushed in, crying 
 out, “ that the house was full of men — she heard 
 them on the stairs, in the parlour, hall, every- 
 where !’’ 
 
 Mrs. Archer sprang from the bed, threw on her 
 dressing gown, bade the girl be quiet, and beware of 
 frightening the children ; and then, as they, startled 
 by the noise, raised their heads from their pillows, 
 she told them in a calm and decidedly cheeiTul voice, 
 that there were men in the house, who she believed 
 had come to rob it ; but that they wi/uld neither do 
 harm to them, nor to her. She then ordered her 
 maid to light the candles on the dressing-table, and 
 again reassuring her trembling children, who had 
 meanwhile crept to her side, she awaited the learful 
 visitors, whose Footsteps she heard on the staircase. 
 
 A fierce-lookiug wretch burst into the apartment. 
 The spectacle of the mother and her children ar- 
 rested him, and he involuntarily dolled his cap. It 
 was a moment for a painter, if he could calmly have 
 surveyed the scene. The maid had shrunk behind 
 her mistress’s chair, and kneeling there had grasped 
 her gown with both hands, as if there were safety 
 in the touch. Poor little Lizzy’s face was hidden in 
 her mother's bosom, and her lair silken curls hung 
 over her mother’s dark dressing-gown. Ned, at the 
 soundjof the opening door, turned his sightless eye- 
 balls towards the villain. There was something 
 manly and defying in bis air and erect attitude, 
 something protecting in the expression of his arm as 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 be laid it over his sister, while the clinging of his 
 other arm around his mother’s neck, indicated the 
 defencelessness of cliildhood, and liis utter helpless- 
 ness- Mrs. Archer had thrown aside her nightcap: 
 her hair was twisted up in a sort of Madonna style; 
 but not of the tame Madonna cast was her fine, 
 spirited countenance, which blended the majesty of 
 the ideal Minerva with the warmth and tenderness 
 of the woman and mother. 
 
 The marauder, on entering, paid her, as we have 
 said, an instinctive homage ; but immediately re- 
 coveting his accustomed insolence, he replied to her 
 calm demand of “ What is your purpose ?” “ To 
 
 get what we can, and keep what we get — my name is 
 Hewson, which, if you’ve heard it, will be a warrant 
 to you that I sha’n’t do my work by halves.” 
 
 The name of the Skinner was too notorious not to 
 have been heard by Mrs. Archer. Her blood ran 
 cold, but she replied, without faltering, “ Proceed 
 to your work; the house is open to you, not a lock 
 in your way. Abby, give him my purse off the 
 dressing-table — there is all the money 1 have by me 
 — now leave my room, I pray you.” 
 
 “ Softly, mistress— catch old birds with chaff. 
 First surrender your watch, plate, and jewels, which 
 I take to be in this very mom that you are so choice 
 of.” 
 
 My watch, plate, and jewels, are in New York.” 
 
 “ The d — 1 they are I” Then emptying out and 
 counting the gold and silver the purse contained, 
 
 this will never do,” he said, “this will not pay the 
 reckoning — live and let live — every one to his trade.” 
 He then proceeded, without further ceremony, to rip 
 open beds and mattresses, emptied the contents of 
 every box, trunk, and drawer, explored every corner 
 and recess as adroitly as a trained dog would unearth 
 his game, and seized on such light articles as at- 
 tracted his eye, grumbling and swearing all the time 
 atgbeing cheated and out- manoeuvred by a woman ; 
 for in this light he seemed to view the measures Mrs. 
 Archer had taken to secure her valuables. 
 
 In this humour he rejoined his comrades in the 
 dining, room ; w ho he found, with the exception of a 
 few-dozen silver spoons and forks, had had an equally 
 bootless search, and were now regaling themselves 
 with cold meats, (fee., from the pantry. 
 
 “ Hey, boys — always after the provender before 
 you’ve done your worlc.” 
 
 “ There’s no work to be done, captain — w'e can’t 
 carry off’ chairs and tables — so what’s the use of 
 bothering? we’ve done our best, and nobody can do 
 better.” 
 
 “ Your best — maybe, Pat — but your and my best 
 are two. We shall have whigs, tories, and reg’lars 
 at our heels for this flash in the pan.” He strode up 
 and down the room, kicking out of his way whatever 
 obstacle was in it, and muttering to himself a plan he 
 was revolving: “Madam must turn out the shiners,” 
 he concluded aloud. 
 
 “ Ay, captain — but how’s the bird that won’t sing 
 to be made to sing — she is a cunning old one, I’m 
 thinking.” 
 
 “ Old ! — Time has never made a track on her yet 
 — cunning she may be, but I don’t believe she lied to 
 me — she seems high as the stars above that — but if 
 she has not got the money, boys, she can get it — I’ll 
 make her, too — I’ll wager your soul on that, Pat.” 
 
 “ Wager your own, honey, that’s forfeit to the 
 devil long ago.” 
 
 “ A little more time was wasted in similar retorts, 
 well shotted, in their own phrase, with oaths, and 
 washed down with plentiful draughts of wine, when 
 the captain returned to Mrs. Archer’s apart- 
 
 55 
 
 ment. “ I say, mistress,” he began, his flushed face 
 and thickened voice indicating she had fresh cause 
 for alarm, “ I say we can’t be choused — so if you 
 want to save what’s choicer than money,” he shook 
 his fist with a tiger-like expression at the children, 
 “ you must have two hundred guineas put under 
 ground for me, on the north side of the big oak, at 
 the bridge, and that before Saturday night ; nobody 
 to know it but you — no living soul but you and that 
 gal there — no false play : remember! Come, strike 
 while the iron’s hot, or we’ll say three hundred.” 
 
 Mrs. Archer reflected for a moment. She would 
 have given a bond for any sum by which she could 
 relieve herselfof the presence of the outlaws. They 
 had already produced such an efl’ect on little Lizzy, 
 a timid, susceptible creature, that she expected every 
 moment to see her falling into convulsions; and with 
 this dread eacli moment seemed an hour. She re- 
 plied, that the money should, without fail, be placed 
 in the appointed spot. 
 
 “ Tliat is not quite all, madam; I must have 
 security. I know how the like of you look on pro- 
 mises made to the like of me. I got a rope good as 
 round my neck by trusting to them once, and no 
 thanks to them that I slipped it. I’ll clinch the 
 nail this time — I’ll have security.” 
 
 “ What security?” demanded Mrs. Archer, the 
 colour for the first time forsaking her cheeks and 
 lips ; for by the ruffian’s glance, and a significant up 
 and down motion of his head, she guessed his pur- 
 pose. 
 
 “ A pawn — I must have a pawn — one of them 
 young ones. You need not screech and hold on so, 
 you little fools. If you behave. I’ll not hurt a hair 
 of your head. The minute I handle the money you 
 shall have ’em back ; but as sure as my name’s 
 Sam Hewson, I’ll make ’em a dead carcass if you 
 play me false.’’ 
 
 “You shall not touch my children — any thing 
 else — ask all — take all — any thing but my chil- 
 dren.” 
 
 “ Take all ! — ay, that we shall — all we can take ; 
 and as to asking, we mean to make sure of what we 
 ask — ‘ a bird in the hand, mistress.” 
 
 Oh, take my word, my oath — spare my chil- 
 dren I” 
 
 “ Words are breath, and oaths breath peppered. 
 Your children are your life ; and, one of them in 
 our hands, our secret is as safe with you as with 
 us — we’ve no time to chaffer — make one of them 
 ready.” 
 
 ” Oh, mother! — mother 1” shrieked Lizzy, cling- 
 ing round her mother’s waist. 
 
 “ Hush, Lizzy — I’ll go,” said Edward. 
 
 ” Neitijer shall go, my children — they shall take 
 my life first.’’ 
 
 The outlaw had advanced with the intention of 
 seizing one of them; but, awed by the resolution of 
 the mother, or perhaps touched by the generosity 
 of the boy, he paused and retre^^d, muttering to 
 himself, “ It’s a rough job — Pat shall do it.” He 
 once more left the apartment and returned to his 
 comrades. 
 
 A sudden thought occurred to JMrs. Archer; a 
 faint hope dawned upon her. “ Bring me the horn 
 from the hall-table,” she said to her servant. The 
 girl attempted to obey, but her limbs sunk under 
 her. Mrs. Archer disengaged herself from the 
 children, ran down the stairs, returned with the 
 horn, threw open her window, and blew three peal- 
 ing blasts. The outlaws were engaged in packing 
 their spoil. 
 
 “Hat” exclaimed Hewson, “ it rings well — agaiu 
 
■HE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 t6 
 
 — again. Never mind ; you’ll n'ake nothing, mis- 
 tress, hut the dogs, cocks, and owls. Hear how 
 they’re at it ; — ‘ bow — wow — wow — the beggars are 
 come to town,’ — ha, ha — well done. But, boys, I 
 say, we’d best be off soon. Pat, you know,” 
 (he had already communicated his plan to Pat,) 
 “ bring down one of them young ones.” 
 
 Pat went — he lingered. “ Come, boys, hurry’," 
 cried Hewson, who now began to apprehend the 
 possibility of a response to Mrs. Archer’s summons: 
 ♦‘what the d — 1 ails that fellow — he went to the 
 staircase and called. Pat appeared; but without 
 the child, and looking as a wild beast might, sub- 
 dued by a charm. “ They’re blind, captain — both 
 blind !" he said. “ I can’t touch them — by all 
 that’s holy I can’t — there’s not strength in my arm 
 to hold the sighile.ss things — the one nor the t’other 
 of ’em. So do it yourself, captain — I can’t, and 
 there’s an end on’t.’’ 
 
 Hewson hesitated. The image of the mother and 
 her blind children daunted even his fierce spirit. 
 An expedient occurred to hira;-»-“ A sure w’ay,’’ he 
 thought, “ of drowning feelings.” In ransacking 
 the pantry he had seen a flask of brandy’, and then 
 prudently concealed it from his men. He now 
 brought it forth, and passed it round and round. It 
 soon began its natural work : consumed in its in- 
 fernal fires all intellectual power, natural affection, 
 domestic and pitiful emotion ; put out the light 
 of Heaven, and roused the brute passions of the men. 
 
 Hewson saw the potion working ; their “ human 
 countenances phanged to brutish form.” ” It’s a 
 d — d shame, — a’n’t it, boys,’’ said he, “ for this 
 lory madam to balk us? — we shall have a hurra after 
 us for this frolic, and nothing to show — we might 
 as well have robbed a' farm-house, and who would 
 have cared?” 
 
 “ Well tache her better, captain,’’ said Pat; 
 “ we’ll make an example of her, as the judges say 
 in Ireland when they hang the lads. I’ll give 
 her a blow over the head, if you say so, handy like 
 —or wring the chickens’ necks — it’s asy’ done.” 
 
 “Pshaw, Pat — it’s only your asses of judges that 
 think examples of any use. If we hook one of the 
 chickens, you know, Pat, she’ll be glad to buy it 
 back with the yallow shiners, boy, that’s lodged 
 safe in York — fifty a-piece — share and share alike 
 — my turn is it? — here’s to yon, boys — a shortlife 
 and a merry one : I’ve charged ’em np to the 
 mark," thought he; and in raising the flask to his 
 lips, it slipped through his hands and was broken 
 to fragments. “ Ah, ray men ! there’s a sign for 
 us — we may have a worse slip than that ‘ ’tween 
 the cup and the lip so let’s be off — come, Pat.” 
 
 “ Shall I fetch 'em both, captain ?’’ 
 
 “ No, no— one is as good as a thousand. But slay, 
 Pat. Drunk as they are,” thought Hewson, “ I’ll 
 not trust them in the sound of the mother’s screeches. 
 First, Pat, let’s have all ready for a start — tie up your 
 bags, boys, come.” 
 
 The men’s brains. were so clouded, that it seemed 
 to Hewson they were an eternity in loading their 
 beasts with their booty. Delay’ after delay occurred; 
 but finally all was ready, and he gave the signal 
 to Pi t. 
 
 Pat now obeyed to the letter. He mounted the 
 stairs, sprang like a tiger on his prey, and returned 
 ■with Lizzy, already an unconscious burden, in his 
 arras. One piercing shriek Hewson beard pro- 
 ceeding from Mrs. Archer’s apartment, but not 
 ano'ther sound. It occurred to him that Pat might 
 have committed the murder he volunteered ; and 
 exclaiming, “ The blundering Irish rascal has 
 
 kicked the pail over !” he once more ascended the 
 stairs to assure himself of the cause of the ominous 
 silence. Edw’ard was in the adjoining apartment 
 when Lizzy was wrested from her mother’s arms. 
 He was recalUd by Mrs. Archer’s scream; and 
 when Hewson reached the apartment, be found 
 Mrs. Archer lying senseless across the threshold of 
 the door, and Edward groping around, and calling, 
 “ Mother! — Lizzy ! — where are you? — do 'speak, 
 mother !" 
 
 A moment after, Mrs. Archer felt her hoy’s 
 arms around her ntck. She returned to a conscious- 
 ness of her condition, and heard the trampling 
 of the outlaws’ horses as they receded from her 
 dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Good vent’rous youth, 
 
 I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise. 
 
 “ Captain ! — Captain Lee ! don’t you hear that 
 horn ?” said Gurdon Coit, shaking our soundly-sleep- 
 ing friend, Eliot. 
 
 ” Yes, thank you, I hear it ; — it’s daylight, is it ?’^ 
 
 “ No, no; but there’s something to pay up at 
 Madam Archer’s. Those devils you met on the road, 
 I doubt, are there — the lights have been glancing 
 about her rooms this hour, and now they’ve blow’n 
 the horn — there’s mischief, depend on’t.” 
 
 “ Why in the name of Heaven diil not you wake 
 me sooner ?’’ exclaimed Eliot. “Rouse up these 
 fellows — wake that snoring wretch on the settle, and 
 we’ll to her aid instantly.” 
 
 The offensive snoring ceased as Coit whispered, 
 ‘ No, don’t wake him — edge-tools, you know.” He 
 then proceeded to wake the men from West Point, 
 who were sleeping on the floor. Eliot, as they 
 lifted their beads, recognised them — the one a com- 
 mon soldier, the other a certain Ensign Tooler — a 
 man who bad the mosfdisagree:-ible modification of 
 Yankee character ; knowingness overlaid with con- 
 ceit, and all the self- preserving virtues concentrated, 
 in selfishness, as bad liquor is distilled from whole- 
 some grain. “Tooler, is that you?’’ exclaimed 
 Eliot — “ and you. Mason ? up instantly !” Andhe 
 explained the occasion for their prompt service. 
 
 “ And who is this Madam Archer ?’’ asked Tooler, 
 composedly resting bis elbow on the floor. 
 
 “ She is a woman in need of our protection. This 
 is enough for us to know,” replied Eliot, discreetly 
 evading more explicit information. 
 
 “ She lives in the big house on the bill, don’t 
 she ?” 
 
 “ Yes, yes.” 
 
 “ Then I gness we may as well leave her to her 
 luck, for site belongs to the tory side.” 
 
 “Good Heavens, Tooler! — do you hesitate?" 
 — Mason, go with me, if you have the soul of a 
 man.” 
 
 “ Lie still. Mason, we’re under orders — Captain 
 Lee must answer for himself. It's none of our bu- 
 siness if he’s a mind to go off fighting windmills; 
 but duty is duty, and we’ll keep to the straight and 
 narrow palti,” 
 
 “ Cowardly, canting wretch !” exclaimed Eliot. 
 
 “I’m no coward, Captain Eliot Lee, and if Coit 
 will say that Madam Archer is on our side, and 
 you’ll undertake lo answer to General Washington 
 
THE LIIJWOODS, 
 
 for all consequences, I'll not hinder Mason’s joining 
 you." 
 
 The terms were impracticable. There was no 
 time to be lost. “You will go with me, Coit?” 
 said Eliot. 
 
 “ Why, Captain Lee, it’s a venturesome business.” 
 
 “ Yes or no, Coit — not an instant’s delay.’’ 
 
 “ I'll go, Captain Lee; I’m not a brute.” 
 
 Mason did not quite relish the consciousness of 
 acting like a brute, and he half rose, balancing in 
 his mind the shame of remaining against the risk 
 of disobeying his ensign’s orders. “ Lie still. 
 Mason,’’ said Tooler; “ mind me and you’re safe — 
 I'll take care of number one.’’ 
 
 The person on the settle now sprang up and 
 poured a torrent of vituperative oaths and invectives 
 on Tooler. Tooler looked up with the abjecl^ex- 
 pression of a barking cur when he hears his master’s 
 voice. “ Why, gen’ral,”said he, “ if I had known — ’’ 
 
 “ Don’t gen’ral me — don’t defile my name with 
 your lips ! A pretty fellow you, to prate of duty 
 and orders in the very face of the orders of the 
 Almighty commander-in-chief, to remember the 
 widow’s and fatherless in their affliction. I always 
 mistrust your fellows that cant about duty. They’ll 
 surrender the post at the first go oft', and then expect 
 conscience to let them march out with the honours 
 of war.” 
 
 “ I’m ready to go, sir — ready and willing, if you 
 say so.” 
 
 “ No, by George ! — I’d rather fight single-handed 
 with fifty Skinners, than have one such cow'ardly 
 devil as you at my side.” All this was said while 
 “ the gen’ral” was putting on his coat and hat, and 
 arming himself. “Are we ready, Captain Lee?” 
 he concluded. 
 
 “Perfectly,” replied Eliot, wondering who this 
 sturdy authoritative auxiliary might be, but not ven- 
 turing to ask, as he thought “ the gen’ral” had im- 
 plied his wish to remain incognito, and really not 
 caring at this moment whose arm it was, p^vided 
 it was raised in Mrs. Archer’s defence. After one 
 keen survey of “ the gen’ral’s” person, he concluded, 
 “ I never have seen him.” He had not. Once 
 seen, that frank, fearless countenance was never to 
 be forgotten, neither could one well forget the broad, 
 brawny, w'orking day frame that sustained it, or the 
 peculiar limp (caused by one leg being shorter than 
 the other), the only imperfection and marring of the 
 figure of our rustic Hercules. 
 
 In an instant they were mounted, and in five 
 minutes more, the distance not much exceeding half 
 a mile, they were entering Mrs. Archer’s hall. An 
 ominous silence reigned there. The house was filled 
 with smoke, through which the lighted candles, left 
 by Hewson’s crew, faintly glimmered, and exposed 
 the relics of their feast, with other marks of their 
 foray. A bright light shone through the crevices of 
 the pantry-door. Coit opened it, and immediately 
 the flames of a fire which had been communicated 
 (whether intentionally was never ascertained) to a 
 chest of linen, hurst forth. “ Good Heaven ! where 
 are the family !” exclaimed Eliot and his companion 
 in a breath. 
 
 “Follow me,” cried Coit, leading the way to 
 Mrs. Archer’s apartment, and shouting “Fire!” 
 His screams were immediately answered by the 
 female servants, who now rushed from their mis- 
 tress’s apartment. “ Where’s your lady ?” de- 
 manded “ the geu’ral.” They were too much be- 
 wildered to re|»ly, and both he and Eliot followed 
 Coil’s lead, and all three paused at the threshold of 
 Mrs. Archer’s door, paralysed by tho spectacle of 
 
 57 
 
 the mother sitting perfectly motionless, with her hoy 
 in her arms, and looking like a statue of d-spair. 
 The general was the first to recover his voice. “ Lord 
 of Heaven, madamT' he exclaimed, “your house is 
 on fire.” 
 
 She made no reply whatever. Slfe seemed not 
 even to hear him. “ Where is the little girl ?” asked 
 Coit. 
 
 Mrs. Archer’s face became slightly convulsed. 
 Her boy sprang from her arms at the sound of a 
 familiar voice. “ Oh ! Mr. Coit,” he cried, “ they’ve 
 taken off Lizzy 1” 
 
 The crackling of the advancing flames, and the 
 pouring in of vast volumes of smoke, prevented any 
 further explanation at the moment. The instinct 
 of self-preservation, awakened in some degree, re- 
 nerved Mrs. Archer, and half-sustained by Eliot’s 
 arm, she and her boy were conducted to an office 
 detached from the house, and so far removed from it 
 as to be in no danger from tlie conflagration. In 
 the mean time, the general had ascertained from the 
 servants all that could be learned of the direction the 
 Skinners had taken, and that they were not more 
 than fifteen minutes in advance of them. He and 
 Coit had remounted their horses, and he was halloo, 
 ing to Eliot to join them. “ Come, young man,” 
 he cried, “let’s do what’s to be done at once, and 
 cry afterwards, if cry we must.” 
 
 ‘ Recover her !” said Mrs. Archer, repeating the 
 last w’ords of Eliot’s attempt to revive her hopes : 
 “her lifeless body you may — God grant it.’’ 
 
 She paused, and shuddered. She still felt the 
 marble touch of Lizzy ’s cheek — still saw her head 
 and limbs drop as the rulfian seized her. 
 
 Eliot understood her. My dear madam,” he 
 said, “ she has fainted from terror, nothing more j 
 she will be well again when she feels your arm 
 around her. Take courage, I beseech you.” 
 
 It is not in the heart ot woman to resist such in- 
 spiring sympathy as was expressed in Eliot’s face 
 and voice, if Mrs. Archer did not hope, there was 
 something better than despair in the feeling of in- 
 tense ^expectation that concentrated all sensation. 
 She seemed unconscious of the flames that were 
 devouring her house. She did not hear the boyish 
 exclamations with which Edward, as he heard the 
 falling rafters and tremblit)g chimneys, interspersed 
 his sobs for poor Lizzy, nor the clamorous cryings 
 of the servants, which would break out afresh as 
 they remembered some favourite article of property 
 consuming in the flames. 
 
 A few yards from Mrs. Archer’s house, a road 
 diverged from that which our pursuers had taken. 
 They halted for a moment, when Coit, who was 
 familiar with the localities of the vicinity, advised 
 to take the upper road. “ They both,” he said, 
 “ came out in one at a distance of about three miles. 
 They would thus avoid giving the forward party any 
 warning of their approach, and their horses being 
 tho freshest and fleetest, they might possibly arrive 
 at the junction of the roads first, and surprise the 
 Skinners from an ambush.’’ 
 
 “ Lucky for us that there is another road,’’ re- 
 plied the general, as, conforming to Coil’s sugges- 
 tion, they turned intuit. “ The rascals we’re alter 
 are foxes, and would be sure to escape if they heard 
 the hounds behind them.’’ 
 
 “ I should think, from my observation of their 
 horses,’’ replied Eliot, “ they have small ''.haiice of 
 escaping us in a long pursuit.” 
 
 “ There I tliink you mistake. They get their 
 jades for no vartii under heaven but running away ; 
 and I’ve heard of I heir distancing horses that looked 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 58 
 
 equal to mine. Speed a’n’t Charlie’s forte, though,” 
 he added, in a half-audible voice, and patting his 
 beast lovingly, “ you’ve done a feat at it once, 
 Charlie. They know all the holes and hiding- 
 places in the country,’’ he continued, “ and I have 
 heard of their disappearing as suddenly as if the 
 ground had opened and swallowed them up. I wish 
 it would — the varmin !” 
 
 “ Had we not best try the mettle of our horses?’’ 
 asked Eliot, who felt as if his companions were 
 taking the matter too coolly,’’ 
 
 “ If you please." 
 
 The general put up his Bucephalus to his utmost 
 speed; but, in spite of the feat his master boasted, 
 he seemed to have been selected for other virtues 
 than fleetness, for both Eliot and Coit soon passed 
 him, and so far outrode him as not to be able to 
 discern the outline of the rider’s figure when they 
 reached the junction of the roads where they hoped 
 to intercept the Skinners. They had perceived the 
 faintest streak of dawn, while they could see the 
 eastern horizon and the morning star trembling and 
 glittering above it. Now they entered a little wood 
 of thick-set pines and hemlocks, and the darkness of 
 midnight seemed to thicken around them. 
 
 “Hark?” cried Eliot, suddenly halting; “don’t 
 you hear the trampling of horses?” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Coit “there is a bridge just 
 ahead ; let us secure a position as near it as pos- 
 sible.” They moved on, and after advancing a few 
 yards, again halted, still remaining under cover of 
 the wood, “ We are within twenty feet of the other 
 road,” resumed Coit; “it runs along just parallel 
 to where we stand, and a few feet below us; there 
 is a small stream of water on the other side of the 
 pines, which we pass over by the bridge as we fall 
 into the other road ; the rub will be to get on to the 
 bridge before they see us. I wish the general would 
 come up 1” 
 
 “ We must not wait for him, Coit.” 
 
 “ Not wait for him !” replied Coit, whose valour 
 was at least tempered by discretion ; “ we are but 
 two to five, and they such devils !” 
 
 “ We have Heaven on our side — we must not wait 
 a breath — we must intercept them. Follow me when 
 I give the spurs to my horse.” 
 
 “ Oh, if he would but come up !” thought Coit ; 
 “this young man is as brave as a lion, but the 
 general is a lion !” 
 
 The Skinners had now approached so near to our 
 friends that they fancied they heard the hard breath- 
 ing of their horses. They halted at the brook, and 
 Eliot distinctly heard Hewson say to Pat, “ Don’t 
 she come to yet?” 
 
 “I can’t just say — once or twice she opened her 
 sightless eyes like, and she gasped, but she’s corpse- 
 cold ; and captain, I say, I don’t like the feel of her ; 
 I am afeard I shall drop her, there’s such a wonder- 
 ful weight in her little body.” 
 
 “ You cowardly fooll” 
 
 “ By the soul of my mother it’s true— -try once 
 the lift of her 1” 
 
 “ Pshaw I I’ve twice her weight in this bundle 
 before me. Hold up her head while I dash some 
 water in her face ; they say the breath will go 
 entirely if you let it stop too long.” Hewson then 
 dismounted, took from his pocket a small silver cup 
 he had abstracted from Mrs. Archer’s pantry, and 
 was stooping to fill it, when he was arrested by the 
 appearance of his pursuers. 
 
 “ Now is our time!” cried Eliot, urging his horse 
 down the descent that led to the bridge. There 
 the animal instinctively stopped. The bridge was 
 
 old, the rotten planks had given way, and as destruc- 
 tion, not reparation, was the natural work of those 
 troubled times, the bridge had been suffered to re- 
 main impassable. Eliot looked up and down the 
 stream ; it was fordable, but the banks, though not 
 high, were precipitous and ragged. Eliot measured 
 the gap in the bridge accurately with his eye ; '* My 
 horse can leap it,” was his conclusion, and he gave 
 him voice, whip, and spur. The animal, as if he 
 felt the inspiration of his master’s purpose, made a 
 generous effort and passed the vacant space. Eliot 
 did not look back to see if he were followed. He 
 did not heed Coil’s exclamation, “ you’re lost !” nor 
 did he bear the general, who, on arriving at the 
 bridge, cried, “ God help you, my boy ! — I can’t-— 
 my beast can't do it with my weight on him — follow 
 me, Coit,” and he turned to retrace his steps to a 
 point where, as he had marked in stopping to water 
 his horse, the stream was passable. 
 
 Eliot was conscious of but one thought, one hope, 
 one purpose — to rescue the prey from the villains. 
 He had an indistinct impression that their numbers 
 were not complete. He aimed his pistol at Patrick’s 
 head — the bullet sped — not a sound escaped the poor 
 wretch. He raised himself upright in his stirrups, 
 and fell over the side of the horse, dragging the 
 child with him. 
 
 At this moment two horsemen passed between 
 Eliot and Pat, and one of them, dropping his bridle 
 and stretching out his arms, screamed “ Misser Eliot 
 — oh, Misser Eliot!” 
 
 It was poor Kisel,but vain was his appeal. One 
 of the men smartly lashed Kisel’s horse — Linwood’s 
 spirited grey darted forward as if he had been start- 
 ing on a race course, and Kisel was fain to cling to 
 him by holding fast to his mane, so strong is in- 
 stinct, though if he had deliberately chosen between 
 death and separation from his master, he certainly 
 would have chosen the former. 
 
 Meanwhile Hewson, springing forward like a cat, 
 and disengaging the child from Pat’s death-grasp, 
 cried, “ Fire on him, boys! — beat him down !” and 
 remounted his horse, intending to pass Eliot, aware 
 that his policy was to get off before the attacking 
 party should, as he anticipated, be reinforced. Eliot 
 prevented this movement by placing himself before 
 him, drawing his sword, and putting Hewson to the 
 defence. 
 
 Hewson felt himself shackled by the child; he was 
 casting her off, when changing his purpose, he placed 
 her as a shield before his person, and again ordered 
 his men to fire. They had been ridding themselves 
 of the spoils that encumbered them, and now obeyed. 
 Both missed their mark. 
 
 “ D — n your luck, boys !” cried Hewson, who 
 was turning his horse to the right and left to avoid 
 aside stroke from Eliot, “out with your knives— 
 cut him down !” 
 
 To defend himself and prevent Hewson from 
 passing him, was now all that Eliot attempted ; but 
 this he did with coolness and consummate adroitness, 
 till his horse received a wound in his throat that was 
 aimed at his master, and fell dead under him. 
 
 “That's it, boys!” screamed Hewson, “finish 
 him and follow me.” But before the words had well 
 passed liis lips, a bullet fired from behind penetrated 
 his spine. “ I am a dead man !” he groaned. 
 
 Fiis men saw him reeling; they saw- Eliot’s 
 auxiliaries close upon them; and without waiting 
 to take advantage of his defenceless condition, they 
 lied, and left their comrade captain to his fate. 
 
 The general was instantly beside Eliot. Coit re- 
 ceived the child from the ruffian’s relaxed hold. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 Oh, help me!” he supplicated; “for the love of 
 God, help me !’' 
 
 “ Poor little one,” said Coit, lading Lizzy's cheek 
 gently to his, “ she’s gone.” 
 
 “ Oh, I have not killed her ! I did not mean she 
 should be harmed — I swear I did not,” continued 
 Hewson, “ Oh, help me 1 I'll give you gold, watches, 
 silver, and jewels — I’ll give them all to you.” 
 
 “ You are wounded, my dear boy, you are covered 
 ■with blood,'’ said the general to Eliot, as he suc- 
 ceeded in disengaging him from the superincumbent 
 burden of his horse. 
 
 “ It’s nothing, sir ; is the child living ?” 
 
 “ Nothing! bless your soul, the blood is dripping 
 down here like rain.” While he was drawing off 
 Eliot's coat-sleeve, and stanching his wound, Hewson 
 continued his abject cries. 
 
 “ Oh, gentlemen,” he said, “ take pity on me ; my 
 life is going — Pll give you heaps of gold — it's buried 
 in — in — in—” His utterance failed him. 
 
 “Can nothing be done for the poor creature?” 
 said Eliot, turnitsg to Hewson, after having bent 
 over Lizzy, lifted her lifeless hand, and again mourn- 
 fully dropped it. 
 
 “We will see,” replied the general, “ though it 
 seems to me. my friend, you are in no case to look 
 after another ; and this car’on is not worth looking 
 after; but come, we’ll strip him and examine his 
 wound — life is life — and he’s asked for mercy, what 
 we must all ask for sooner or later. Ah,” he con- 
 tinued, after looking at the wound, “he’s called to 
 the general muster— poorly equipped to answer the 
 roll. But come, friends — there’s no use in staying 
 here — there’s no substitute in this warfare— every 
 man must answer for himself.” 
 
 “ Oh !” groaned the dying 'wretch, “don’t leave 
 me alone.” 
 
 “ ’Tis a solitary business to die alone,’’ said Coit, 
 looking compassionately at Hewson as he writhed 
 on the turf. 
 
 “ It is so, Coit ; but he that has broken all bonds 
 in life, can expect nothing better than to die like a 
 dog, and go to the devil at last. I must be back at 
 my post, you at yours, and our young friend on his 
 way to the camp, if he is able. General Washington 
 a’n’t fond of his envoys striking out of the highway 
 when they are out on duty. There’s no use — there’s 
 no use,” he continued to Eliot, who had kneeled 
 beside the dying man, and was whispering such 
 counsel as a compassionate being would naturally 
 administer to a man in his extremity. 
 
 “Repent!” cried Hewson, grasping Eliot’s arm 
 as ho was about to rise; “ repent 1 — what’s that? 
 Mercy, mercy — Oh, it’s all dark; I can’t see you. 
 Don’t hold that dead child so close to me !— take it 
 away! Mercy, is there? — speak louder — I can’t 
 hear you — oh, I can’t feel you ! Mercy! mercy!’’ 
 
 “He’s done — the poor cowardly rascal,’’ said the 
 general, who, innured to the spectacle of death, felt no 
 emotion excited by the contortions of animal suffer- 
 ing, and who, deeming cowardice the proper con. 
 comitant of crime, heard without any painful com- 
 passion those cries of the wretched culprit, as he 
 passed the threshold to eternal justice, which con- 
 tracted Eliot’s brow, and sent a shuddering through 
 his frame. 
 
 “ There’s something to feel for,’’ said the general, 
 pointing to Eliot’s prostrate horse; “ if ever I cried, 
 I should cry to see a spereted, gentle beast like that 
 cut off by such villanous hands.” 
 
 “ Poor Rover I” thought Eliot, as he loosed his 
 girth, and removed the bits from his mouth, “ how 
 Sam and Hal will cry, poor fellows, when they hear 
 
 59 
 
 of your fate. Ah, I could have wished you a longer 
 life and a more glorious end ; but you have done well 
 your appointed tasks, and they are finished. Would 
 to God it were thus with that wretch, my fellow- 
 creature !” 
 
 “ You’re finding this rather a tough job, I’m 
 thinking,” said the general, stooping to assist Eliot; 
 “ our horses, especially in these times, are friends ; 
 and it’s what Coit would call a solitary business to 
 have to mount into that rogue’s seat. But see how 
 patiently the beast stands by his master, and how he 
 looks at him ! Do you believe,’’ he added, in a lower 
 voice, “ that the souls of the noble critters, that have 
 thought, affection, memory — all that we have, save 
 speech, will perish; and that low villain’s live for 
 ever? — I don’t,’’ 
 
 Eliot only smiled in reply; but he secretly won- 
 dered who this strange being should be, full of gener- 
 ous feeling, and bold speculation, who had the air of 
 accustomed authority, and the voice and accent indi- 
 cating rustic education. It was evident he meant to 
 maintain his incognito ; for when they ax'rived at a 
 road which, diverging from that they were in, led 
 more directly to Colt’s (the same road that had proved 
 fatal to poor Kisel), he said, “ that he must take the 
 shortest cut; and that if Eliot felt equal to carrying 
 the poor child the distance that remained, he should 
 be particularly glad, as Colt’s atteudance was im- 
 portant to him.” 
 
 Eliot would far rather have been disabled than to 
 have witnessed the mother’s last faint hope ex- 
 tinguished; but he was not, and he received tho 
 child from Coit, who had carried her as tenderly as 
 if she had been still a conscious, feeling, and suffer- 
 ing being. 
 
 Coit charged Eliot with many respectful messages 
 to Mrs. Archer, such as that his house was at her 
 disposal — he would prepare it for the funeral, or sea 
 that she and her family were safely conveyed to a 
 British frigate which lay below, in case she preferred, 
 as he supposed she would, laying her child in tha 
 family vault of Trinity Church. Eliot remembered 
 the messages, but he delivered them as his discretion 
 dictated. 
 
 As he approached Mrs. Archer’s grounds, he in- 
 ferred from the diminished light that the flames had 
 nearly done their work ; and when he issued from 
 the thick wood that skirled her estate, he saw in tha 
 smouldering ruins all that was left of her hospitable 
 and happy mansion. “ Ah,” thought he, “a fit 
 home for this lifeless little body !” 
 
 He turned towards the office where he had left the 
 mother. She was awaiting him at the door. It 
 seemed to her that she had lived a thousand years in 
 the hour of his absence. She asked no questions— 
 a single glance at the still, colourless figure of her 
 child had sufficed. She uttered no sound, but, 
 stretching forth her arras, received her, and sunk 
 down on the door-step, pressing her close to her 
 bosom. 
 
 Edward had sprang to the door at the first sound 
 of the horse’s hoofs. He understood his mother’* 
 silence. He heard the servants whispering, in sup- 
 pressed voice.s, “ She is dead !” He placed his hand 
 on Lizzy’s cheek: at first he recoiled at the touch; 
 and then again drawing closer, he sat down by his 
 mother, and dropped his head on Lizzy’s bosom, 
 crying out, “ I wish I were dead too !” His bursts 
 of grief were frightful. The servants endeavoured 
 to soothe him— he did not hear them. Her mother 
 laid her face to his, and the touch of her cheek, after 
 a few moments, tranquillised him. He became quiet; 
 then suddenly lifting his head, he shrieked—” Hex 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 60 
 
 heart beats, mother ! her heart beats ! Lay your 
 hand there. Do you not feel it? It does, it does, 
 mother; I feel it, and hear it too!” 
 
 Eliot had dismounted from his horse, and stood 
 •with folded arms, watching with the deep sympathy 
 of his affectionate nature the progress of this family- 
 tragedy, while he awaited a moment when he might 
 offer such services as Mrs. Archer needed. He 
 thought it possible that the sharpened senses of the 
 blind boy had detected a pulsation not perceptible 
 to senses less acute. He inquired of the servants for 
 salts, brandy, vinegar, any of the ordinary stimulants; 
 nothing had been saved but the elements of fire and 
 water. These suggested to his quick mind the only 
 and very best e.xpedient. In five minutes a warm 
 bath was prepared, and the child immersed in it. 
 Mrs. Archer was re-nerved when she saw others act- 
 ing from a hope she scarcely dared admit. “ Station 
 yourself here, my dear madam,” said Eliot; “ there, 
 put your armin theplace of mine — let your little boy 
 go on the other side and take her hand — let her first 
 conscious sensation be of the touch most familiar and 
 dear to her — let the first ;«ounds she hears be your 
 voices — nothing must be strange to her. 1 do believe 
 this is merely the overpowering effect of terror ; I 
 am sure she has suffered no violence. Put your hand 
 again to her bosom, my dear little fellow. Do you 
 feel the beats now 
 
 “ Oh, yes, sir ! stronger and quicker than be- 
 fore.” 
 
 “ I believe you are right ; but be cautious, I en- 
 treat you — make no sudden outcry nor exclama- 
 tion.” 
 
 Mrs. Archer’s face was as colourless as the child’s 
 over whom she was bending; and her fi.xed eye 
 glow-ed with such intensity, that Eliot thought it 
 might have kindled life in the dead. Suddenly he 
 perceived the blood gush into her cheeks — he ad- 
 vanced one step nearer, and he saw that a faint suff’u 
 sion, like the first perceptible tinge of coming day, 
 had overspread the child’s face. It deepened around 
 her lips — there w-as a slight distension of the nostrils 
 — a tremulousness about the muscles of the mouth — 
 a heaving of the bosom, and then a deep-drawn sigh. 
 A moment passed, and a faint smile was perceptible 
 on the quivering lip. 
 
 Lizzy!” said her mother. 
 
 “ Dear Lizzy!” cried her brother. 
 
 Mother! — Ned !’' she faintly articulated. 
 
 “ Thank God, she is safe !” exclaimed Eiiot. 
 
 The energies of nature, once aroused, soon did 
 their beneficent w'ork ; and the little girl, in the per- 
 fect consciousness of restored safety and happiness, 
 clung to her mother and to Edward. 
 
 The tide of gratitude and happiness naturally 
 flowed towards Eliot. Mrs. Archer turned to ex- 
 press something of all she felt, but he was already 
 gone, after having directed one of the servants to say 
 to her mistress that Coit would immediately be at 
 her bidding. 
 
 It was not strange that the impression Eliot left 
 on Mrs. Archer’s mind was that of the most beauti- 
 ful personation of celestial energy and mercy. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIir. 
 
 Ignomy in ransom, and free pardon, 
 
 Are of two houses. 
 
 It is reasonable to suppose that the disclosures 
 which occurred in Sir Henry Clinton’s library 
 would be immediately followed by their natural 
 consequences : that love declared by one party, 
 and betrayed by the other, wrould, according to the 
 common usages of society, soon issue in mutual 
 affiancing. But these were not the piping times 
 of peace, and the harmony of events was sadly 
 broken by the discords of the period. 
 
 The conflict of Mr. Linwood’s political with 
 his natural affections, at this eventful meeting 
 with his son, was immediately followed by a 
 frightful attack of gout in the stomach — a case 
 to verify the theories of our eminent friend of the 
 faculty, who locates the sensibility in the mucous 
 tissue of that organ. Isabella, afflicted on all 
 sides, and expecting her father’s death at every 
 moment, never left his bedside. In vain Meredith 
 besieged the house, and sent her message after 
 message; not he, even, could draw her from her 
 post. “ My life depends on you, Belle,” said her 
 father ; “ the doctor says I must keep tranquil — 
 he might as well say so to a ship in a squall- 
 But, ray child, you are my polar star — my load- 
 stone — my sheet-anchor — my every thing ; don’t 
 quit me. Belle !” She did not for an instant. 
 
 ” Bless me, Mr. Meredith,” said Helen Ruth- 
 ven, on entering Mrs. Linwood's drawing-room, 
 and finding Meredith w'alking up and down with 
 an expression of impatience and disappointment, 
 “ what is the matter — is Mr. Lin wood wmrse ?” 
 
 “ Not that I know.” 
 
 How happens it that you are alone, then ?” 
 
 “ I'he family are with Mr. Linwood.’’ 
 
 “ The family ! the old lady can surely take care 
 of him. Is Isabella invisible ? — invisible to you ?” 
 
 I have not seen her since her father’s illness. 
 
 “ My heavens ! is it possible ? Well, some 
 people are better than others.” 
 
 ‘‘My meaning is simple enough; a woman 
 must be an icicle or an angel to hang over an old 
 gouty father, without allowing herself a precious 
 five minutes with her lover.'' 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Linwood is very dutiful !” said Meredith, 
 half sneeringly, for his vanity was touched. 
 
 ” Dutiful !— she may be — she is undoubtedly — 
 a very, very sweet creature is Isabella Lmwood : 
 but I should not have imagined her a person, if 
 her heart were really engaged, to deny its long- 
 ings, and sit down patiently and play the dutiful 
 daughter. I judge others by myself. In her 
 situation, precisely in hers,” she paused and looked 
 at Meredith with an expression fraught with 
 meaning, ‘‘I should neither know scruple nor 
 duty.” 
 
 There was much in this artful speech of Helen 
 Ruthven to feed Meredith’s bitter fancies when he 
 afterwards pondered on it. “ If her heart were 
 engaged 1” he said — ” it is, I am sure of it — and 
 yet, if it were, she is not, as Helen Ruthven said, 
 a creature to be chained down by duty. If it 
 were ! — it is — it shall be — her heart is the only 
 one I have invariably desired, the only one I have 
 found unattainable. I believe, I am almost sure, 
 she loves me ; but there is something lacking — I 
 do not come up to her standard of ideal perfection. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 Others do not find me deficient. There’s poor 
 Bessie, a sylvan maiden she. But there’s Helen 
 Ruthven — the love, the just appreciation of such 
 a woman, so full of genius, and sentiment, and 
 knowledge of the world, would be — flattering.” 
 
 These were afterthoughts of Meredith, for at 
 the time his interview with Miss Ruthven was in- 
 terrupted by Rose putting a note into his hand, 
 addressed to Sir Henry Clinton, and requesting 
 him, in Miss Liu wood’s name, to deliver it as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 “ Pray let me see that,” said Miss Ruthven; 
 and after examining it closely on both sides, she 
 returned it, saying, “ Strange ! I thought to have 
 found somevvhere, in pencil, some little expressive, 
 world-full of meaning word. As I said, some people 
 are very different from others.” 
 
 Meredith bit his lips, and hastened away with 
 the note. It contained a plain statement to Sir 
 Henry Clinton of the motives of Herbert’s return, 
 and every fact attending it. The note was thus 
 finished : — ■ 
 
 ‘‘I have told you the unvarnished and unex- 
 tenuated truth, ray dear Sir Henry. I think that 
 justice will dictate my brother’s release, or, at 
 least, require that he be treated as a prisoner of 
 war; but if justice (justice perverted by artificial 
 codes and traditionary abuses) cannot interpose in 
 his behalf, I commend him to your mercy. Think 
 of him as if he were your own son, and then mete 
 out to him, for the rashness of his filial affection, 
 such measure as a father would allot to such of- 
 fence. 
 
 “If my appeal is presuming, forgive me. My 
 father is suffering indescribably, and we are all 
 wretched. Send us, I beseech you, some kind 
 word of relief.” 
 
 Late in the afternoon, after many tedious hours, 
 the following reply was brought to Isabella, 
 written by Sir Henry’s secretary: — 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton directs me to present his 
 best regards to .'Miss Linwood, and inform her 
 that he regrets the impossibility of complying with 
 her wishes,— that he has no absolute power by 
 which he can remit, at pleasure, the offences of 
 disloyal subjects. Sir Henry bids me add, that 
 he is seriously concerned at his friend Mr. Lin- 
 wood’s illness, and that he shall continue to send 
 his servant daily to inquire about him.” 
 
 “Yes, no doubt,” said Isabella, in the bitter- 
 ness of her disappointment, throwing down the 
 note, ” these empty courtesies will be strictly paid, 
 while not a finger is raised to save us from utter 
 misery.” 
 
 ” My dearest child,” said her mother, who had 
 picked up the note aud reverently perused it, 
 ” how you are hurried away by your feelings. Sir 
 Henry, or rather his secretary, which is the same 
 thing, says as much as to say, that Sir Henry 
 would aid us if he could : and 1 arn sure I think 
 it is extremely attentive of him to send every day 
 to inquire after your poor father. I do wonder a 
 little that Sir Henry did not sign his name. It 
 would have seemed more polite, and Sir Henry is 
 so strictly polite. I am afraid, my dear, you were 
 not particular enough about your note. Was it 
 written on gilt paper and sealed with wax? 
 Isabella— do you hear me, child ?” 
 
 61 
 
 ” Indeed, mamma, I did not observe the paper» 
 and I forget whether I sealed it at all. ‘ Remit at 
 pleasure the offences of disloyal subjects 1’ Her- 
 bert has trauferred his loyalty to his country, and 
 is no longer amenable to his sovereign in another 
 hemisphere.” 
 
 “Feminine reasoning!” interposed Meredith, 
 who entered at this moment. He stopped and 
 gazed at Isabella, and thought he had never seen 
 her so perfectly lovely. Watching and anxiety 
 had subdued her brilliancy, and had given a depth 
 of tenderness, a softness to her expression, bor- 
 dering on feminine weakness. When a man has 
 a dread, however slight it maybe, that a woman 
 is superior to him, her attractions are enhanced 
 by whatever indicates the gentleness and depend- 
 ence of her sex. 
 
 Meredith took her hand ; his eyes expressed 
 the emotion she produced, and his lips all the 
 sympathy and none of the vexation he had felt for 
 the last few days ; and then reverting to Sir 
 Henry, he said, “ I trust the current of your feel- 
 ings will change when I tell you that I have ob- 
 tained an order for Herbert’s release.” 
 
 “ God bless you, Jasper. Oh 1 mamma, do you 
 hear ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Pray go, my dear madam,” added Meredith, 
 ” and prepare Mr. Linwood for good news. You 
 interrupted me, Isabella,” he resumed, vvhen Mrs. 
 Linwood had left the room ; “ your \v s les always 
 fly over the mean to the end. A moment’s re- 
 flection will show you that your brother’s release 
 cannot be unconditional.” 
 
 ” Well — the conditions are such as can in honour 
 be complied with ? Sir Henry would propose no 
 other.” 
 
 ‘‘ Honour is a conventional term, Isabella.” 
 
 “The honour that I mean,” replied Miss Lin- 
 wood, “ is not conventional, but synonimous with 
 rectitude.” 
 
 Meredith shook his head. He had an instinc- 
 tive dislike of definitions, as they in Scripture, 
 who loved darkness, had to the light. He was 
 fond of enveloping his meaning in shadowy ana- 
 logies, which, like the moon, often led astray with 
 a beautiful but imperfect and illusive light. 
 
 ‘‘Even rectitude must depend somewhat on 
 position, Isabella,” he replied. ‘‘He who is 
 under the pressure of circumstances, and crowded 
 on every side, cannot, like him who is perfectly 
 fiee, stand upright and dispose his motions at 
 pleasure.” 
 
 ‘‘Uo not mystify, Jasper, but tell me at once 
 what the conditions are.” 
 
 Isabella’s face and voice expressed even more 
 dissatisfaction than her words, and Meredith’s 
 reply was in the tone of an injured man. 
 
 ” Pardon me, Miss Linwood, if my anxiety ta 
 prepare your mind by a winding approach has be- 
 trayed me into awkwardness. Certainly, Herbert’s 
 honour, tlie honour of your brother, cannot be 
 dearer to any one than to me.” 
 
 ‘‘You have always been his friend, I know,” 
 replied Isabella, evading Meredith’s implication •; 
 ‘‘ watchful nights, and more anxious days, have 
 made me peevish — forgive me.” 
 
 Meredith kissed the hand she extended to him. 
 “You cannot imagine, Isabella, what it cost me 
 to inluse another bitter drop into the cup already 
 overflowing with accumulated anxieties. But 
 your aunt’s disasters are followed with new trials* 
 
62 THE NOVEL 
 
 Do not be alarmed — the threatening storm may 
 pass over.” 
 
 ” O, tell me what it threatens 1” 
 
 “ Sir Henry has within the last hour received a 
 despatch from Washington, disclaiming all part 
 and lot in Herbert’s return to the city, and ex- 
 pressing his deep regret that the sanctity of a flag j 
 of truce should be brought into question by one of 
 his own officers.” 
 
 “ This was to be expected.” 
 
 “ Of course. But we all know that Washington 
 has his resident spies in this city, and emissaries 
 continually passing to and fro, in various disguises, 
 and under various pretences. However, assuming 
 that he is exempt from any participation in this 
 disastrous affair, common humanity would have 
 dictated some plea for a brave and faithful officer 
 — some extenuation for a rash and generous youth. 
 But Washington is always governed by this cold, 
 selfish policy — ” 
 
 Is there not one word?” 
 
 Not one! There is indeed a private letter 
 from Eliot Lee, stating that_,the motives of Her- 
 bert’s return were wholly personal, and containing 
 the particulars you had previously stated, and a 
 very laboured appeal to Sir Henry, with a sort of 
 endorsement from Washington that these state- 
 ments are entitled to whatever weight they might 
 derive from the unquestionable integrity of Captain 
 Lee.” 
 
 Thank Heaven ! Eliot Lee has proved a true 
 friend.” 
 
 “ Certainly, as far as writing a letter goes ; but, 
 as you must perceive, Isabella, Sir Henry cannot 
 act officially from the statements of a sister and 
 friend. He will do all he can. He has empow- 
 ered me to offer Herbert not only his release, but 
 favour and promotion, provided he will renounce 
 the bad cause to which he has too long adhered, 
 and expiate the sin of rebellion by active service 
 in the royal army.” 
 
 “ Never, never; never shall Herbert do this!” 
 
 “You are hasty, Isabella — hear me. If I con- 
 vince Herbert that he has erred, why should he 
 not retrieve his error ?” 
 
 Ay, Jasper, if you can convince him, but the 
 mind cannot be convinced at pleasure — we cannot 
 believe as we would — I know it is impossible.” 
 
 Her voice faltered — she paused for a moment, 
 a moment of the most painful embarrassment, and 
 then proceeded with more firmness — “ I will be 
 frank with you, J asper. Herbert is not — you know 
 him as well as I do — he is not of a temper to suffer 
 long and patiently. He is like a bird, for ever 
 singing and on the wing in sunshine, but silent 
 and shrinking when the sky is overcast. He may 
 —it breaks my heart to think it possible — but he 
 may— his spirit broken by imprisonment and de- 
 sertion, and stung by what will appear to him his 
 commander’s indifference to his fate, he may yield 
 to the temptation you offer, and abandon a cause 
 that he still believes in the recesses of his heart to 
 be just and holy.” 
 
 Meredith fixed his piercing eyes on Isabella. It 
 seemed that something new had been infused into 
 her mind. He forebore, however, from expressing 
 a suspicion, and merely said, “You place me in a 
 flattering light, Isabella — as the tempter of your 
 brother.” 
 
 “Oh, no — ^you mistake me — you are only the 
 medium through which temptation comes to him ; 
 but remember his infirmity — the infirmity of 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 human nature, and do not increase the force of 
 the temptation— do not make the worse appear the 
 better reason, Jasper. I know you will not — at 
 least, I believe, I think, I hope ■” 
 
 “For Heaven’s sake, my dear friend,” inter- 
 rupted Meredith, “ do not reduce your confidence 
 in ray integrity to any thing weaker than a hope. 
 No w, as I perceive that you would choose accu- 
 rately to limit and define my agency,! entreat you 
 to do so — my hope, my wish, my purpose, Isabella, 
 is to be in all things moulded and governed by your 
 will. Let us understand each other. I go to 
 Herbert the advocate of a cause in which I, at 
 least, have unwavering confidence ” 
 
 “Thank Heaven for that!” said Isabella, re- 
 plying courageously to the equivocal curl of Me- 
 redith’s lip. 
 
 He proceeded — “ I am permitted, am I not, to 
 communicate Sir Henry’s generous offer?” 
 
 “ His offer — but do not call it generous. 
 Nothing remitted — nothing forgiven. His oblivion 
 of the past, and his future favour, are torbe dearly 
 paid for.” 
 
 “ Sir Henry’s offer, then, without note or com- 
 ment.” 
 
 Isabella nodded assent. 
 
 “ I may report, a la Washington’s renun- 
 ciation, disclaimer, or whate^^er you may be pleased 
 to call it.” 
 
 “ Literally, Jasper.” 
 
 “ I may suggest to him— or do your primitive 
 notions prohibit this? — that Washington’s com- 
 munication and Eliot’s letter enabled us to give 
 an interpretation to his return to the city that will 
 relieve him from the appearance of having been 
 forced by circumstances into our ranks. Indeed, 
 without any essential perversion, this return to 
 the path of duty may appear to have been his de- 
 liberate intention in coming to the city. This, of 
 course, would very favourably affect his standing 
 with his fellow-officers — you hesitate. Isabella, 
 forgive me for quoting the vulgar proverb — be not 
 ‘ more nice than wise.’ Why should not Herbert 
 avail himself of a fortunate position — a favourable 
 light?” 
 
 “ Because it is a false light— a deceptive gloss. 
 Do not, Jasper, over-estimate the uncertain, im- 
 perfect, and ignorant opinions of others— pray do 
 not be offended ; but is it not folly to look for our 
 own image in other’s minds, where, as in water, it 
 may be magnified, or, as in the turbid stream, 
 clouded and distorted, when in our own bosoms we 
 have an unerring mirror?” 
 
 “ Your theory is right undoubtedly, Isabella— 
 your sentiments lofty— no one can admire them 
 more than I do ; but what is the use of standing 
 on an eminence a hundred degrees above your 
 fellow mortals with whom you are destined to 
 act ? It is certain they will not come up to you, 
 and as certain that, unless you are unwilling to 
 live in the solitude of a hermit, useless and for- 
 gotten, it is wisest to come down to them.” 
 
 Meredith paused. 
 
 “ We do not see eye to eye,” thought Isabella ; 
 but she did not speak, and Meredith proceeded. 
 
 “ God knows, Isabella, that it is my first wish 
 to conform my opinions, my mind and heart, to 
 you, but we must adapt ourselves to things as 
 they are. Herbert is in a most awkward and 
 fearful predicament. Sir Henry, like other public 
 men, must be governed by policy. If your father's 
 fortune or influence were important to the royal 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 cause, Sir Henry might make an exception to the 
 usual proceedings in similar cases in favour of his 
 son ; but as he remarked to me to-day, your father 
 is injudicious in his zeal, and such a friend often 
 harms us more than an enemy. He says, too, that 
 he fiods it essential not to relax in severity towards 
 the rebel sons of royalists. Nothing is more com- 
 mon than for families to divide in this way ; their 
 fathers remain loyal, the sons join the rebels ; 
 and Sir Henry deems it most politic to cut them 
 off from all hope of immunity on account of the 
 fidelity of their fathers. If Herbert does not ac- 
 cept Sir Henry’s terms, it will be particularly 
 unfortunate for him that he came into the city 
 under the protection of a flag of truce ; for, as 
 Sir Henry remarked to me, it behoves us to seize 
 every occasion to abate the country’s confidence 
 in Washington’s integrity, and certainly this is a 
 tempting one.” 
 
 “ Does Sir Henry believe that Washington was 
 privy to Herbert’s coming to the city ?” 
 
 “ Oh, Lord — no?’’ 
 
 “ And yet, he will be guilty of the falsehood and 
 meanness of infusing this opinion into other men’s 
 minds, and call it policy! — Jasper, how is it that the 
 religious obligations of truth, which govern man in 
 his intercourse with his fellow — which rule us in 
 our homes and at our firesides, have never presided 
 in the councils of warriors nor in the halls of states- 
 men ?” 
 
 “ For no other reason that I know, Isabella, than 
 that they would be exceedingly inconvenient there. 
 ‘ Might makes right’ — those that have the power 
 •will use it.” 
 
 ” Ah, Jasper,” said Isabella, without responding 
 to^Meredith’s simile, ” the time is coming when that 
 base dogma will be reversed, and right will make 
 might. The Divinity is stirring within men, and 
 the policy and power of these false gods, who fancy 
 they have a chartered and transmitted right to all 
 the good things of this fair world, shall fall before it, 
 as Dagon fell prostrate before the ark of the Lord.’’ 
 
 “I do not comprehend you, Isabella.” 
 
 “ I simply mean, that the time is at hand when 
 the truth that all men are made in the image of 
 God, and therefore all have equal rights and equal 
 duties, will not only be acknowledged in our prayers 
 and churchyards, but will be the basis of govern- 
 ment, and of public as well as of private intercourse,” 
 
 “ ‘ When the sky falls’ — these are edd specula- 
 tions for a young lady.” 
 
 “ Speculations they are not. The hardest metals 
 are melted in the furnace, to be recast in new forms ; 
 and old opinions and prejudices, harder, Jasper, than 
 any metal, may be subdued and remoulded in these 
 fiery times.” 
 
 “ And does our aunt Archer furnish the mould in 
 which they are recast? — if .she talks to you as she 
 has to me of the redoubtable knight errantry of the 
 indomitable deliverer of her captive child, I do not 
 wonder at this sudden in.spiration of republicanism. 
 It is rather a feminine mode, though, of arriving at 
 political abstractions through their incarnation in a 
 favourite hero.” 
 
 A deep glow, partly hurt pride, partly conscious- 
 ness, suifused Isabella’s cheek. Her aunt’s was the 
 only niind wliose direct influence she felt. 
 
 ‘‘ Vou are displeased," he continued; “but you 
 must forgive me, for I am in tliad state when ‘ trilles, 
 light as air,’ disturb me. My destiny, or rather, I 
 should say, tho.se hopes that shade destiny, seem to 
 be under the control of some strange fatality, that I 
 can neither evade nor understand. If I dared re- 
 
 63 
 
 trace to you the history of these hopes, from our 
 childhood to this day, you would see how many 
 times, when they have been most assured, you have 
 dashed them by some evident and inexplicable alien- 
 ation from me. At our last interview 
 
 “ When was it— when was it ?” asked Isabella, 
 in her nervousness and confusion, forgetting they 
 had not met since the day of the ’dinner at Sir 
 Henry Clinton’s. 
 
 “ When — have you forgotten our last meeting?” 
 
 “ Oh no — no ; but aeres have passed since — ages of 
 anxiety and painful reflection.” 
 
 “ And have these ages, compressed as they have 
 been into five days, changed your heart, Isabella?— 
 or was it folly and presumption to hope — I will con- 
 fess the whole extent of my presumption — to believe, 
 that that heart, the object of all my hopes — that for 
 which I only care to live, was — mine ?” It was well 
 that Isabella covered her face, for it expressed what 
 she forbade her lips to speak. 
 
 “Any thing but this mysterious silence,” con-^ 
 tinTied Meredith, aware how near a suppressed agi- 
 tation was to the confession he expected. “ Let me, 
 I beseech you, know my fate at once. It is more 
 important to ns both that it should now be decided 
 than you can imagine.” 
 
 “ Oh, not now — not now, Jasper!” 
 
 Meredith was too acute not to perceive hoAv near 
 to a favourable decision was this “ not now.” 
 
 “And why not now, Isabella? Surely I have not 
 seriously offended you. Think, for a moment, that 
 after passing the last five days between the most 
 anxious vvaiting at your door, and continued efforts 
 for Herbert, when I at last get access to you, you 
 receive my plans for your brother coldly and doiibt- 
 ingly ; and I find that while I was burning with im- 
 patience to see you, you had been occupied with 
 abstruse meditation upon the rights of man! I was 
 galled, I confess, Isabella ; and if I seemed merely to 
 treat them with levity, I deserve credit for mastery 
 over stronger feelings.” Isabella was half convinced 
 that she had been unjust and almost silly. “ You 
 have it in your power,” continued Meredith, “to 
 infuse what opinions you will into my mind — to in- 
 spire my purpose — to govern my affections — to fix 
 my destiny for time and eternity. Oh, Isabella ! 
 do not put me off with this silence. Let this blessed 
 moment decide our fate. Speak but one word, and 
 I am bound to you forever !” 
 
 That word ef doom hovered on Isabella’s lips ; her 
 hand, which he had taken, was no longer cold and 
 passive, but returned the grasp of his ; — doubt and 
 resolution were vanishing together; and the balance 
 that had been wavering for years was rapidly de- 
 scending in Meredith’s favour, when the door opened 
 and Mrs. Linwood appeared. At fir.st starting back 
 with delighted surprise, and then receiving a fresh 
 impulse from her husband’s impatient voice calling 
 from his room, she said, “You must come to your 
 father, instant’y, Isabella.” Isabella gave one glance 
 to Meredith and obeyed the summons. Meredith 
 felt as if some fiend had dashed from his hand the 
 sparkling cup just raised to his lips. His face, that 
 expressed the co.'flict of hope just assured, and of 
 sudden disappointment, was a curious contrast to 
 Mrs. Linwood’s smiling all over. She believed she 
 at last saw the happy issue of her long-indulged ex- 
 pectations. She waited in vain for Meredith to 
 speak; and finally came to the conclusion, that 
 there were occasions in life when the best bred 
 people forgot ])ropriety. “ I am quite niorlifiod that 
 I intruded,” she said; “ but you know Mr. Linwood 
 —he is so impatient, and the gout you know is so 
 
THE l^OVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 64 
 
 teasing, and lie never can bear Isabella out of bis 
 sight, and be is just on the sofa for the first time 
 since this attack, and I unluckily hurt his foot. You 
 know the gout has left liis stomach and gone into his 
 foot. It is much less dangerous there, but I don’t 
 think he is any more patient with it ; and I hap- 
 pened just to touch the tip end of his toe in putting 
 under the cushion, and he screamed out for Isabella. 
 He thinks she can do every thing so much better 
 than any body else. Indeed, she is a first rate 
 nurse — so devoted, too — she has not left her father’s 
 bedside till now for five days and nights ; she seemed 
 to forget herself a little now (spoken in parenthesis, 
 and significantly). Wiiatever man may think before 
 marriage, Mr. Meredith, he finds afterwards, es- 
 pecially if ho is subject to the good nursing is 
 
 every thing. I often say, all a woman need know 
 is how to take good care of her family and of the 
 sick. Hovvever, that and something more Isabella 
 knows.” 
 
 “ Madam ?” said Meredith, waked from his reve- 
 rie by Isabella’s name, the only word of this long 
 speech, meant to be so effective and appropriate, that 
 he had heard. He slightly bowed and left the house. 
 
 “ How odd ! — how very odd 1” thought Mrs Lin- 
 wood. “When Mr. Linwood declared himself, he 
 directly told my father and mother, and the wedding- 
 day and all was settleil before he went out of the 
 house. I wish I knew just how matters stand. 
 Belle will not say a word to me unless it’s a fixed 
 thing : so I shall find out one way or the other. 
 I am sure I used to tell iny mother every thing ; but 
 Belle don’t take after me : however, she is a dear 
 girl, and I am sure I ought to be satisfied with her. 
 —If she should refuse Jasper Meredith 1” 
 
 This last supposition of a tremendous possibility 
 was quite too much for a solitary meditation ; and 
 the good lady started from her position at the win- 
 dow, where she had stood gazing after Meredith, 
 and returned to her customary avocations. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Un gentilhomme merveilleuseraent sujet a la 
 goutte, estant presse par les raedecins de laisser de 
 tout I’usage des viaiides salees, avoit accoustume de 
 respondre plaisamment,que sur les efforts et tourmens 
 du mal il vouloit avoir a qui s'en prendre; et que 
 s’escriant et mauldissant tantot le cervelat, tantot le 
 jambon, il s’eu sentoit d’aultaut allege. 
 
 Montaigne, 
 
 Isabella retarned to her father’s apartment in a 
 frame of mind rather adver.se to her performing 
 accurately the tasks of the “ best nurse in the 
 world.'’ 
 
 “ What the devil ails you. Belle?” exclaimed her 
 father: “you are putting the cushion under the 
 wrong foot! — there — there — that will do — that’s 
 right — now kiss me, Belle, de.-tr. I did not mean 
 to speak cross to you ; but your mother has been 
 fidgeting here a little eternity. I wonder what the 
 deuce is the reason she can never make any thing 
 lie easy. She does try her best, poor soul; but 
 she has no faculty — none in the world. What is 
 this good news, Belle, she tells me Jasper has 
 brought ?” I 
 
 ” It amounts to nothing, sir.” 
 
 Humph ! — I thought as much.” A pause en- ' 
 
 sued. “Hark!” resumed Mr. Linwood — “is not 
 that Helen Ruthven’s voice on the stairs? — call 
 her in, Belle,” Miss Ruthven entered. “ Glad to 
 see you, my dear — like to see living folks alive. 
 Belle is sitting up here like a tombstone, neither 
 seeing, hearing, nor moving. ‘ How am I, child ?’ 
 — alive, thank God, and better — the enemy has 
 cleared out of the citadel, and is firing away at the 
 outworks — expect to eat a capital dinner to-day— 
 Major St. Clair has sent me a brace of woodcock — a 
 man of taste is Major St. Clair ! Woodcock, cur- 
 rant jHly, and a glass of Madeira, will make a 
 Christian of me again. I should be as happy as 
 the king if it were not — heigh ho, poor Herbert! 
 Oh, Jupiter Ammon, what a twinge 1 — Belle, do 
 loosen that flannel — your mother has drawn it up 
 like a vice — there — there — that will do. Do for 
 conscience’ sake tell me some news, Helen, my 
 dear.” 
 
 “ I came on purpose, sir, to tell Isabella a famous 
 piece of news ; but I met Jasper Meredith ” 
 
 “ What of that, child ?’’ 
 
 “ He has told the news, sir, of course.” 
 
 “ He may have told it to Belle; but I am none 
 the better for it: so pray tell on, my dear.” 
 
 “ Meredith’s mother has arrived.” 
 
 “ His mother!’ echoed Isabella. 
 
 “ His mother !” repeated Mr. Linwood, in a 
 voice that drowned hers — “ When? — how? — 
 where ?” 
 
 “ Ah,” thought Miss Ruthven, with infinite satis- 
 faction, “ they are not in smooth water yet, or this 
 fact would have been announced.” — “ The ship,’’ 
 she replied to Mr. Linwood, “ arrived last night, 
 and is at anchor below waiting for a wind." 
 
 “ What ship, child ?” 
 
 “ The Thetis, or Neptune, or Minerva?” 
 
 “ It can’t be, my child; there is no such ship 
 expected.” 
 
 “ It may be called by some other name, sir ; I 
 never remember ships’ names ; but Mrs. Meredith 
 has most certainly arrived, and her niece. Lady 
 Anne Seton, with her.’’ 
 
 “ Extraordinary' — most extraordinary I Did 
 Jasper ever speak to you of expecting them, Belle ?” 
 
 “ Never, sir.” 
 
 “ Do, for Heaven’s sake, Belle, speak more than 
 one \j'ord at a time — go on, Helen — what else did 
 you hear ?’’ 
 
 Miss Ruthven was nothing loth to speak, and she 
 proceeded: — ‘ I met St. Clair at Mrs. Archef’s. 
 By the way', I admire your aunt excessively. Belle.” 
 Miss Helen was a wholesale flatterer, and practised 
 all the accesses to the heart through admiration of 
 owe’s favourite friends and relations. “ How 
 sweetly she is settled ; but I could not but laugh at 
 her scruples about using the Ludlows’ furniture. I 
 told her it was the good and universal rule of the 
 city to make the most of what the rebel runaw'ays had 
 left behind them. You do not assent. Belle. I am 
 sure your father agrees with me — do you not, Mr. 
 Linwood ?” 
 
 “ Mrs. Archer has a way of her own. Go on 
 with your news, my child, — was Mr. Meredith 
 expected ?” 
 
 “ I really do not know, sir ; Isabella has the best 
 right to know.” 
 
 Isabella blushed painfully. This was the answer 
 Helen Ruthven wished, and she proceeded: — “ St. 
 Clair was with Jasper when the news arrived, and he 
 says Meredith appeared delighted ; but then St. 
 Clair does not penetrate below the surface, and 
 
THE LINWOODS. 65 
 
 Meredith is a bit of a diplomatist — don’t you think I agreeable and good-humoured — a sort of person that 
 80 , Isabella?” everybody likes.” 
 
 ” It is neither very flattering to Jasper nor to his 
 mother,” replied Isabella, evading Helen Ruthven’s 
 annoying question, “ to doubt his joy at the arrival 
 after a ten years' separation.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not; but then we must see things as 
 they are — mothers are sometimes inconvenient 
 appendages, and sometimes — troublesome spies. 
 At any rate, I do not believe it is pure maternal love 
 that has brought the lady out. St. Clair says she 
 is not that kind of person ; she loves her ease, he 
 says, and loves the world of London, and would 
 not come here without a powerful motive. Your 
 aunt said, that the pleasure of seeing her son 
 would be motive enough to most mothers; but 
 your aunt is all mother. By the way, what a sweet 
 fellow Ned Archer is. I did not sre Lizzy — her 
 mother says she is not yet recovered from her 
 fright — she is so nervous — poor thing! I do not 
 wonder.” 
 
 “ Go on, Helen. What motive did you find out 
 for Madam Meredith? — wise heads yours to think a 
 woman acts from motive.” 
 
 “ Ah, sir, but we did find one ; a right, ra- 
 tional, atid probable one too. Perhaps yon do not 
 know that Lady Anne Saton is Mrs. Meredith’s 
 ward, and that she is, moreover, a rich heiress.” 
 
 “ Well, what of that ?” 
 
 “ Oh, a vast deal ‘ of that’ — a forhine is a most 
 important item in a young lady’s catalogue of charms; 
 and poor Mrs. Meredith flatters herself she has a 
 son yet to be charmed.” 
 
 Miss Ruthven fixed her eyes, that had the quality 
 of piercing, on Isabella ; but Isabella’s were riveted 
 to the embroidery on which her hands were employed, 
 and she did not raise them, nor more a muscle of 
 her face. 
 
 Mr. Linwood breathed out an expressive “ humph,” 
 and asked if fortune was the young lady’s only 
 charm. 
 
 ” 01), no ! St. Clair gave me a catalogue of them 
 as long as my arm. In the first place, she is just 
 sweet eighteen — very pretty, though a little too 
 much inclined to embonpoint — rather pale, too 
 — very sweet eyes, hazel, soft, and laughing — 
 not a classic nose; but pretty noses are rare — hair 
 of the loveliest brown ; but that matters not now, 
 when no one, save Isabella, wears ‘ hair of the 
 colour God chooses’ — a sweet pretty mouth she 
 has, St.Clair says; and her hands, arms, and feet 
 are such beauties, that she has been asked to sit to 
 a sculptor.’’ 
 
 ” The deuce, girls ! Slie’ll cut you all out.” 
 
 “ Slio may' prove a dangerous rival, Isabella.” 
 
 Isabella looked disturbed, and was so ; not so much 
 at Miss Ilutliven’s allusion as at a sudden recollec- 
 tion. Meiedith had urged her immediate decision 
 as momentous to them both. ” Is he,” thought she, 
 “ afraid that this resolution, his affectious, are 
 not strong enough to resist a siege from his mo- 
 ther ?” llallying her spirits, she asked ‘‘if St. Clair 
 had only furnished a schedule of Lady Anue’s per- 
 sonal charms?” 
 
 ” 01), my dear friend, yes. She enters the lists 
 armed cap-a-pee-^^X^Q iinjj been partly educated in 
 dance* like a sylph, and speaks French like 
 Sk Parisian angel,’’ 
 
 •“ Don’t beguiled by that, girls; if she sputters 
 away in Frciici), it is a pretty sure sign she ha? po- 
 shing worth saying in Kiigdisti 
 
 ” lint St Clair says, xMr, Linwood, that she is 
 Tiil Novel NEAVSi’ArEii, No, 1*28, 
 
 “ Then I sha’n’t like her, that’s flat ; for I don’t 
 like that kind of fit that fits everybody.” 
 
 “ But you like lier name? — Lady Anne Sefon. 
 There is such a charm in a name — a title too — a 
 rose by any other name might be as sweet ; but a 
 name with the prefix of' lady’ is far more captivat- 
 ing for it. Lady Isabella. There is a coronet in the 
 very sound. 
 
 ‘‘ Do y'ou know St. Clair says, that if Isabella 
 w'ere to appear in Er)glan<l, she might soon w’rite 
 herself lady ? ” She added, in a whisper, ” he says, 
 Belle — don’t be offended — that if an earl, or even a 
 baronet were to address you, it would fix a certain 
 person at once; he has such deference for rank, that 
 if you were merely to have it within your grasp, you 
 would he perfectly irresistible to him.” 
 
 ‘‘ St. Clair talks idly,” replied Isabella, proudly, 
 and the teai-s, in spite of her efforts to repi-ess them, 
 starting i)ilo her eyes; “he knows very little of 
 .Jasper Meredith.” Alas ! such a suggestion, even 
 from such a source, had power to wound her. 
 
 “ Helen,” she added, “ p ipa is getting tired, and 
 must take his drops, and try for his nap.” 
 
 “ Bless me, rny dear, forgive me for staying ; I 
 always get so intere.sted i)i your interests. Good 
 morning, dear Mr Linwood; make haste and get 
 w'ell. Farewell, dear Isabella, I am going to recon- 
 noitre, and will )-eport progress;” and kissing both 
 father and daughter, she departed. 
 
 “ Helen Rulhven is very fond of you. Belle,’’ said 
 her fatlier. 
 
 Lsabella stniled ; but it w'as a hitler smile. She 
 did not c.are to rectify her father’s opinion, but she 
 thought Helen Ruthven )nnch like a bee, %yho stings 
 while laden with sweets. 
 
 “Very odd, Mrs. Meredith coming out just now,” 
 continued Mr. Linwood; “ the ocean covered with 
 rebel privateers. Bringing over this girl, too — a 
 right w'oman’s move. Give me my di-ops. Belle— 
 they will sharpen my appetite — thank you, dear. 
 Pah ! what’s this — that devilish rhubarb — you've 
 spoiled my dintrer, Belle.” 
 
 “A thousand paialons, papa — take this wate.— • 
 now rest a little, and then your drops.’’ 
 
 “ Never mind, my- dear — set clow)i the glass, and 
 come and kneel down by me, Belle. There’s some- 
 thing the matter with ymn, my child ; I am sure of 
 it. A^ou cannot deceive me. Belle — you are ts 
 transparent as that glass. Twice since you cane 
 from the parlour you have blundered, first with the 
 cushion, and now the drops. It’s an uncommon 
 thing far you, iny dea)', to look one way', and row 
 t’other. Jasper w'as with you, Belle— has he offered 
 himself? — Don’t hesitate — 1 am in no condition to 
 be trilled with — has Jasper done it?” 
 
 “ A'es, sir.” 
 
 “ Have yo)i accepted or rejected him ?” 
 
 “ Neither.” 
 
 “Do you love him, Belle?” 
 
 “Dear papa!” said she, springing to her feet, 
 and walking to the extremity of the room ; “do not 
 questinu mo any' farther.” 
 
 “ Coi))o Lack to me. Belle — kneel down by me 
 again, and listen to mo. I can tell you a love-story 
 yes — liUlo like a lover as I now .seem. Whe)) I was 
 C-ight-nnd-lv, entv, still in the hey-day' ol life, I 
 loved? with jny wljole soul, your aunt Archer — don t 
 llinch. child— li.slo). Slio was vo-y young, just 
 I’roni school; twelve years younger than I, eight 
 than y our nietlicr; but, iheii she pioniis' il all she 
 has .siuco heei'i She rejocted mo. In a fit of pique 
 
66 THE NOVEL 
 
 I married your mother — mark the consequences. 
 She has been the poor, subservient, domestic 
 drudge — ” 
 
 Oh, papa! pray — " 
 
 “ I am telling a plain story, Belle, and you must 
 hear it ; but never mind what she has been. You 
 can’t dispute that I have been unreasonable, peevish, 
 passionate, and so we have worn away life together ; 
 and now, when the curtain is about to fall, I look 
 back on my useless existence — my wasted talents — 
 my lost opportunities, and mourn over it all — in 
 vain 1" His voice was choked with emotion. 
 
 “Oh, do not say so, sir; you are the dearest, 
 kindest of fathers." 
 
 “ To you. Belle ; and what thanks to me for that ? 
 I have been proud of you — 1 have loved you — there 
 it is ; if 1 had loved your mother, I should have been 
 the kindest of husbands. Love makes virtue easy. 
 
 ‘ Love,’ the Scripture says, ‘ is the fulfilling of the 
 law.’ I say those must be saints who fulfil the law 
 without it. Conscience does not sleep even in such 
 a self-lover as 1 am ; and think you. Belle, I am not 
 often tormented with the thought, that I was created 
 for something better than to make my dinner the 
 chief good of every day— to pamper myself with 
 the bounties of Providence, and fret and fume at 
 every straw in my way? No, my dear child, you 
 never have felt my petty tyranny ; but you hold the 
 master-key to my heart. Poor Herbert, I sacrificed 
 him to a gust of passion. It was I that drove him 
 into the ranks of the rebels." 
 
 “Pray compose yourself, sir; do not say any 
 more.” 
 
 “ I must finish what I began upon— I have gore 
 aside from it — Jasper Meredith ! Ah, Belle, that 
 name conjures the blood back to your cheeks — 
 Jasper Meredith has fortune, which, thanks to this 
 unnatural war, we want enough. He has rank 
 which I honour, and talents which all men honour; 
 but if he has not your whole heart, child, let him 
 and his fortune, rank and talents, go to the devil.’’ 
 
 “Thanks, dearest father, for your counsel; and 
 trust me, I will be assured of something better and 
 higher than fortune, rank, or talents, before I bind 
 myself in that indissoluble bond.” 
 
 “I believe it. Belle; I know it.” Mr. Linwood 
 felt, though he did not perfectly comprehend the 
 emotions that at this moment irradiated Isabella’s 
 beautiful face. “And, my child,” he continued, 
 
 “ ever since you have come to woman’s estate, I have 
 resolved that whoever you loved, let his name, con- 
 dition, fortune, be what it would, your hand should 
 go with your heart. Belle ; and I fear not to stand 
 hy my .resolve, for I know that your giving your 
 heart means your respect, honour, esteem, and all 
 that one of God’s creatures can feel for another.” 
 
 “You are right, sir.” 
 
 “ I am sure of it— now kiss me, dear— that’s a 
 seal to the bond. Read to me the last London 
 Gazette — no matter where. I’ll doze away the time 
 till dinner.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, 
 and life unto the bitter in soul ? 
 
 We ought not to tax too severely the ingenuity of 
 our readers, and therefore must briefly explain our 
 
 NE'V^SPAPER 
 
 poor friend Kisel’s sudden appearance with the 
 marauders. He had waked from his sound sleep on 
 Gurdon Coit’s floor at the moment that Eliot gal- 
 loped off with his associates towards Mrs. Archer’s, 
 and in spite of all remonstrancehe had mounted his 
 horse and followed him. He had the dog’s affection, 
 but not his instinct ; and failing to find the right 
 track, he fell in with the Skinners instead of rejoin- 
 ing his master. It occurred to Hewson that the 
 poor fellow might be a useful agent in reconveying 
 the child to Mrs. Archer ; and ordering his men to 
 ride on each side of Kisel, he enforced his con- 
 tinuance in the company into which he had unwit- 
 tingly fallen. One flash of hope came upon him at 
 the sight of his master, but he was soon beyond the 
 possibility of Eliot’s pursuit or rescue ; and with a 
 heavy heart he commended him to that Power that 
 had seemed hitherto to care for him as for the ravens 
 and all helpless things. 
 
 When Eliot reached Gurdon Coit’s, he found that 
 the general and men from West Point had been gone 
 for a half hour. Coit stood before the door, holding 
 by the halter a fine bay horse, and as soon as he had 
 expressed his heartfelt joy at Eliot’s report from Mrs^ 
 Archer’s, he said, “ I am thinking, captain, you are 
 pretty near breaking the tenth commandment — no 
 wonder; this is a noble animal; how he paws the 
 dust, as though he smelt the battle afar off. But 
 here's a note the gen'ral left for you.” 
 
 As some among the youth of the present day may 
 be shocked at the spelling of the canonised old 
 general, before Eliot reads the note we must premise, 
 that as neither reading, writing, nor spelling (Jack 
 Cade to the contrary notwithstanding) ‘ come by 
 nature,” the general’s accomplishment in these arts 
 was very limited ; and wm beg them to remember, 
 that even in these days of universal learning, a 
 patriot-soldier might be forgiven very imperfect 
 orthography — but to the note. 
 
 “Dere, galunt young friend — I could have huged 
 you before w e parted, I have been so pleased with 
 you from the beginiu to the end of this biznes. I 
 felt for you in the loss of your hors, and I can’t bear 
 the thots of your riden that sorry jade, that’s only 
 been used to prouling about o’ nights, on all sorts of 
 diviltry ; so I’ve ordered Gurden to put into your 
 hands a likely^ cretur, that our fokes at home has 
 sent up to be sold to the ofisers in camp. Take 
 it, my boy, and don’t feel beholden to me; for when 
 the war is at end, and it’s couveneyent, we’ll settle 
 for it. 
 
 “Yours, tell death, and ever after, if the Lord 
 permits, “ Israel Putnam.’’ 
 
 We will leave Eliot’s surprise, joy, and gratitude 
 to be imagined. The last emotion was greatly aug- 
 mented by his benefactor’s exempting him from the 
 pain of a pecuniary obligation. He was soon mounted 
 on his new steed, and retracing his w*ay, with many 
 a delightful recollection to counteract his anxieties. 
 These, however, prevailed when he was ushered into 
 Washington’s presence, and felt the whole weight of 
 the task Herbert’s rashness had imposed on him. 
 He first delivered his despatches, and had the happi- 
 ness of receiving his commander’s thanks for the 
 manner in which he had performed his mission. 
 Washington wasted no time in formal compliments, 
 and Eliot felt his approval to be more than the praise 
 of other men. Might not that approval be withdrawn? 
 Eliot must encounter the risk, and he proceeded to 
 ask the general’s patience while he recounted the 
 misdemeanors and misfortunes of his friend. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 • It is well known that Washington’s moderation 
 and equanimity were the effects of the highest prin- 
 ciple, not the gift of nature. He was constitutionally 
 subject to gusts of passion, but he had acquired a 
 power, almost divine (and doubtless from a divine 
 source), by w hich he could direct the wtiirlwind and 
 subdue the storm; — a power that has seemed to the 
 believing to verify that prophetic verse in Proverbs, 
 which accords with his natal day, and which so 
 truly graduates and expounds his virtues — “ He that 
 ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh 
 a city.” 
 
 Eliot saw, as he proceeded in his narrative, that 
 Washington’s brow contraeted, and that “the angry 
 spot” glowed there; but he continued to speak with 
 the calmness and manly freedom that suited a man 
 conscious of his own integrity, and zealous for his 
 friend; nor did hejchange colour till Washington, 
 checking the hasty strides he was making up and 
 down the apartment, said, “What proof is there. 
 Captain Lee, that vou were not privy to this mad and 
 disgraceful expedition of your friend ?” 
 
 “ None, sir,” replied Eliot, unappalled, but not 
 tinmoved. Washington seemed struck witli the 
 dignity of his manner; his countenance somewhat 
 relaxed as Eliot proceeded : — “ There may be proba- 
 bilities as conclusive to a generous mind as proofs to 
 acomujon one. You will perceive, sir, tliat the same 
 action that was indiscretion in my friend would have 
 been crime in me, honoured as I svas, by your trust. 
 And further, that I could have had no temptation to 
 a violation of that trust but a desire to oblige my 
 friend, w hile he was urged on and blinded to conse- 
 quences by the intensity of filial and fraternal love, 
 which, allow me to say, sir, has been kept in long and 
 painful abeyance by his devotion to his country.” 
 
 “ Your zeal for your friend is generous, Captain 
 Lee. Fidelity in friendship is a bond for integrity 
 in other matters; be assured, I will not hastily with- 
 draw the confidence I have with so much reason 
 placed in you. I must take time to reflect on this 
 matter. To what did you allude as having occurred 
 last night ?” 
 
 “Eliot briefly related the aflhir at Mrs. Archer’s. 
 He saw a smile on Washington’s lips, when bespoke 
 cf his hearty coadjutor ” the gen’ral.” He concluded 
 by saying, he trusted he had not offended by follow- 
 ing what seemed to him the imperative dictates of 
 humanity. 
 
 “ No, my friend — no,” replied Washington, not 
 tinmoved ; “ war too often cuts us off from the hu- 
 manities — in God’s name, let's perfect them when 
 we may. I am engaged now ; come to me again this 
 crening.” 
 
 Eliot left his commander somewhat relieved, but 
 still not without deep anxiety for Linwood. He 
 had reason for solicitude. No man that ever lived 
 more jealously guarded against the appearance of 
 evil than Washingten. One who kept with his ex- 
 actness the account with conscience, might, in or- 
 dinary circumstances, have afforded to be careless of 
 appearances, and regardless of public opinion ; but 
 he was aware that his reputation belonged to his 
 country ; that it was identified with the cause he had 
 espoused — the cause of liberty and popular govern- 
 ment ; and how has that glorious cause profited by 
 it? Heralded by his spotless name, it has gone 
 forth to restore the order of God’s providence; to 
 nbase the high, and raise up those that were bowed 
 down ; to break the golden sceptre, and to over- 
 throw thrones, to open bastiles, to unbind chains, to 
 reclaim the deserts that man had made, and to sow 
 
 67 
 
 at broadcast the seeds of knowledge, virtue, and 
 happiness. 
 
 Tlie issue of Eliot’s second interview with Wash- 
 ington is already known, so far as it appeared by the 
 de-^patches sent to New York. He had the consola- 
 tion of being assure I that not a shadow of distrust 
 remained on Washington’s mind. Never man more 
 needed solace in some shape than did Eliot at this 
 conjuncture of his affairs. On first going to his 
 quarters he found there a packet from his mother. 
 He pressed it to his lips, and eagerly broke the seal. 
 The following is a copy of his mother’s letter : — ■ 
 
 “ My dear Son, 
 
 “I perceive bv your letters of the first, which, 
 thanks to a kind Providence, have duly come to hand, 
 that it is now nearly three months since you have 
 heard from ns. Much good and much evil may befall 
 in three months! Much good have I truly to be 
 grateful for: and chiefly that your life and health 
 have been thus precious in the sight of tlie Lord, 
 and that you have received honour at the hand of 
 man (of which our good Dr. Wilson made suitable 
 mention in his prayer last Sabbath) ; and, as I hum- 
 bly trust, approval from Him who erreth not. 
 
 “ We have had a season of considerable worldly 
 anxiety. The potatoe-crop looked poorly , and our 
 whole harvest was cut off by the blight in the rye, 
 which, as you see in the newspapers, has been fatal 
 through Massachusetts. This calamity has been 
 greatly aggravated by the embargo they have laid 
 on their flour in the Southern States. The days 
 seemed to be coming upon us when ‘ plenty should 
 be forgotten in our land, and sore famine overspread 
 the borders thereof.’ Our people have been greatly 
 alarmed, and there have been fasts in all ourchurches; 
 at which the carnally-minded have murmured, say- 
 ing — it would be time enough to fast when tlie famine 
 came. It is indeed a lime of desolation in our land 
 — ‘ there is no more in our streets the voice of mirth 
 and the voice of gladness — the voice of the bride- 
 groom and the voice of the bride’ — the step of the 
 father and the brother are no more heard on our 
 thresholds, and we stretch our ears for tidings of 
 battles that may lay them in the dust. Think you, 
 my son, that our children’s children, when they bear 
 tbeir sheaves rejoicing, will remember those who 
 sowed in tears, and with much patience and many 
 prayers? 
 
 “ For my own part, my dear Eliot, I have had 
 but little part in this worldly anxiety, for divers 
 reasons which you will presently see. One care 
 eats up another.” (Bessie’s name was here written 
 and effaced.) “Let me tell you, before I forget 
 it, that the Lord has smiled on our Indian corn. I 
 had an acre put in the south meadow, which you 
 know is a warm soil, and Major Avery tells me it 
 will prove a heavy yield. He is a kind neighbour 
 (as indeed we all try to be in these times), arid called 
 yesterday to ask me to get into his waggon, and take 
 a ride, saying it would cheer me up to see the golden 
 ears peeping out of their scared and rusiling leaves; 
 but 1 did not feel inclined to go.’’ (Here again 
 Bessie’s name was written, and again effaced — the 
 tender mother shrunk from giving the blow that 
 must be given.) “ Do not have any care, dear Eliot, 
 about our basket and our store; they are sufficiently 
 filled. The children are nicely prepared for winter, 
 even to their shoes. Just as I was casting about to 
 see how I should get them made, there being no shoe- 
 maker left short of Boston, Joe Warren came home, 
 his term of service having expired, and he, as he 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 68 
 
 says, ‘liking much better the clack of the hamraer 
 and lapstone than bloody soldiering.’ 
 
 My dear son, I have written thus far without 
 touching on the subject which fills heart and mind, 
 day and night. I felt it to be suitable to mention the 
 topics above ; but I knew if I left them to the last 
 you would read without reading, and thereby lose 
 the little comfort they might give you. Fain would 
 I finish here ! God grant you may receive with 
 submission what follows. You know, that never 
 since you went away have I been able to hold out 
 any encouragement to you about your poor sister. 
 The dear child struggled, and struggled, but only 
 exhausted her strength without mafiug any hi ad 
 way ; I shall always think it was from the first more 
 weakness of body than any thing else, for she had 
 such a clear sense of what was right; and this it 
 was that weighed her down — a for ever tormenting 
 sense that she was wasting in idle feelings the life 
 and faculties that God had given to her. She tried 
 to assist me in family duties, but she moved about 
 like a machine; and often her sewing would drop 
 from her hands, and she would sit silent and motion 
 less for hours. 
 
 “ III the fust part of Herbert Lin wood's visit she 
 was more like her former self — old feelings seemed 
 to revive, and I had hopes — but oh ! they were sud- 
 denly dashed ; for immediately on his going away 
 she seemed to have such self reproach — such fear 
 that she had foregone her duty, and had for ever for- 
 feited your confidence. All night she was feverish 
 and restless, and during the day she would sit and 
 weep for hours together. She never spoke but to 
 accuse herself of some wrong committed, or some 
 duty unperformed. When the clock struck she 
 would count the strokes, and you could see the beat- 
 ings of her heart answer to each of them, and then 
 she would weep till the hour came round again. Dr. 
 Wilson and some of our godly women hoped she was 
 landei conviction ; but 1 did not favour their talking 
 to her as often as they wished, for I knew that her 
 health was much broken, her mind hurt, and that in 
 this harp of a thousand strings (as Dr. Watts says) 
 there were many they did not understand, 
 
 “ Through the summer her flesh has wasted away 
 till she seemed b it the shadow of her former self. 
 Her eyes appeared larger, and as the shadows deep- 
 ened about them, of a deeper blue than ever — sc me- 
 times as I looked at her she startled me ; it seemed 
 to me as if all of mortality was gone, and I was 
 standing in the presence of a visible spirit. There 
 was such a spea'dng, mournful beauty about her, that 
 even strangers — rough people too — would shed tears 
 when they looked at her. 
 
 “She never ip )ke of . If the children 
 
 mentioned his name, or but alluded to him, she 
 seemed deaf anti palsied. She never approached the 
 honeysuckle window where they used to sit. She 
 never touched the books he read to her — her 
 favourite books! and, one after another, she put away 
 the articles of dress he had noticed and admired. 
 Still with all these efforts she grew worse, till her 
 reason seemed to me like the last ray of the sun before 
 its setting. 
 
 “ Two weeks ago she brought me a small box, en- 
 veloped and sealed, and asked me to keep it for her. 
 
 * Be sure,’ she said, ‘ and put it where I cannot find 
 it — be sure, mother.’ From this moment there was 
 a change ; it seemed as if a pressure was taken off. 
 From hour to hour her spirits rose. She talked w itli 
 more than her natural quickness and cheerfulness, 
 joined in the children’s sports, and was full of im- 
 practicable plans of doing good, and wild expecta- 
 
 tions of happiness to all the world. I saw a fearful 
 brightness in her eye. I knew her happiness was 
 all a dream; but still it was a relief to see the dear 
 child out of misery. I hoped, and feared, and lived 
 on, trembling from hour to hour. Last night sha 
 asked me for her box, and when she had taken it 
 she threw her arms around me, and looked in my 
 face, smiling. O I what a wild, strange smile it was ! 
 She then kissed the children and went to her room. 
 She has scarcely been in bed five minutes together 
 fir the last fortnight ; and as she did not come to 
 breakfast in the morning, I hoped she was sleeping ; 
 and truly thankful for ihis symptom that her excite- 
 ment was abating, I kept the house still. Ten o’clock 
 Cirne, and notyet a sound from her room. An ap- 
 prehension darted through my mind — I ran up stairs 
 — her room was empty, her bed untouched. 
 
 “ On ihe table, unsealed, w'as the packet I enclose 
 to you. I read it, and was relieved of my worst 
 fear. Our kind neighbours went yesterday in search 
 of her, but in vain. Last evening we heard the 
 tramp of a horse to the door, and it proved to be 
 Steady. He has been kept in the home-pasture all 
 the fall ; and it seems the poor child, who you know 
 is so timid that she never before rode without you 
 
 or at her side, had put on the saddle dnd 
 
 bridle, and started in the night. How far she rode 
 we can only conjecture from Steady appearing quite 
 beat out : Major Avery judges he might have tra- 
 velled eighty miles, out and home. You will conclude 
 with me that it is Bessie’s intention to go to New 
 York ; and when I think of her worn and distracted 
 condition, and the state ef the country through which 
 she must pass, filled with hostile armies and infested 
 wiih outlaws, do I sin in wishing she were dead be- 
 neath her father’s roof? If any thing can be done, 
 you will devise and execute — my head is sick with 
 t linking, and my heart faint with sorrowing. Fare- 
 well, my beloved son. Let us not, in our trouble, 
 forget that we are all, and especially the poor, sick, 
 wandering lamb of our flock, in the hands of a good 
 Being who doth not willingly afflict us. 
 
 “ Your loving, grieving mother, 
 
 “S. Lee.” 
 
 The first part of Bessie’s letter appeared to have 
 been written at intervals, and some weeks antecedent 
 to the conclusion : it was evidently traced with a 
 weak and faltering hand, and had been drenched 
 with her tears. She began-»- 
 
 “Dear Brother Eliot, 
 
 (The word “ dear” was effaced and re-written}— 
 I am but a hypocrite to call j on ‘ dear’ Eliot, for all 
 permitted affections are devoured by one forbidden 
 one. The loves that God implanted have withered 
 and died away under the poisonous shadow of that 
 which has been sowrn in my heart — think you by 
 the evil spirit, Eliot? I sometimes fear so. I used 
 to love our overkind mother, and for our little 
 brothers and sisters my heart did seem to be one 
 .fountain of love, ever sweet, fresh, and overflowing; 
 and you, O Eliot, how (ondly, proudly I loved you 1 
 And now’, if I were to see you all dead before me, 
 it would move me no more than to see the idleleaves 
 falling from the trees.” 
 
 “ I have read your letters over and over again, 
 till they have fallen to pieces with the continual 
 dropping of my hot tears; but every syllable is im- 
 printed on my heart. You did not believe your 
 ‘ sister would waste her sensibility, the precious food 
 of life, in moping melancholy.’ Oh, Eliot, how 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 much better must I have appeared to you than I 
 ■was ! I have been all my life a hypocrite. You 
 believe,] ‘ my mind had a self-reciifying power/ and 
 I imposed this belief on you ! I am ready, now, to 
 bow my head in the dust for it. ‘ Love,’ said your 
 letter, ‘ can never be incurable when it is a disease ; 
 t )at is to say’, when its object is unworthy/ Ah, 
 my dear brother, there was your fatal mistake. It 
 was I that was unworthy — it was your simple sister 
 that, in her secret, unconfessed thoughts, believed he 
 loved her, knowing all the while that his lot was 
 cast with the high, the gifted, the accomplished — 
 with such as Isabella Linwood, and not with one so 
 humble in condition, so little graced by art, as lam. 
 I do not blame him. Heaven knows I do not. ‘Self 
 rectifying power!’ Eliot, talk to the reed, that has 
 been uprooted and borne away by the tides of the 
 ocean, of its ‘ self-rectifying power !’ ” 
 
 A lonu interval had elapsed after writing the above, 
 and the subsequent almost illegible scraps indicated 
 a mind in ruins. 
 
 “Oh, Eliot, pray — pray come home! They are 
 all persecuting me. The children laugh at me, and 
 whistle alter me ; and when I am asleep, they blow 
 his n-iine in my ears. Mother looks at me, and will 
 not speak.” 
 
 “ They have printed up all the books. Even the 
 Bible has nothing but his name from beginning to 
 end. I can never be alone ; evil spirits are about 
 me by day and night. My brother, lam tormented." 
 
 “ Eliot, my doom is spoken! Would that it were 
 to cut down the cumberer of the ground ! But no ! 
 I am to stand for ever on the desolate shore, stricken 
 and useless, and see the river of life glide by. The 
 day, as well as the night, is solitary, and there is no 
 joyful voice therein.” 
 
 “Oh, memory! — memory ! — memory 1 what an 
 abyss ot misery art thou ! The sun rises and sets 
 — the moon rolls over the sky — the stars glide on in 
 their appoinied paths — the seasons change, but no 
 change cornetli to me — (he past, the past is all — 
 there is no present, no future ' 
 
 ^ “ 1 remember hearing Dr. Wilson preach about 
 sin deserving infinite puuisliment, because it was 
 against an Infinite Btiutf. I did not compreliend 
 him then — now I do. In vain I raise my faded 
 eyes and fevered hands to God.” 
 
 The remainder was written in a more assured and 
 rapid h ind : — 
 
 “ Eliot, you have seen thosa days, have you not? 
 when clouds gaiiiered over the firinamenl ; when, 
 one alter another, each accustomed and dear object 
 W'as lost ill their le uleii folds, when they grew 
 darker and camo nearer, till you felt yourself 
 wrajiped about in their chilling drapery, and you 
 feared the blessed sun was blotted out id’ heaven. 
 Snddenly God s ine.ssenger hath como forth — the 
 clouds have risen at las bidding, and unveiled bis 
 beaniilul works. Tlio smiling waters and the 
 green fields, one after another, have appeared — the 
 silvery cartain has rolled up the mountain’s side, 
 and then melted away and left the bine vault .spot- 
 le.ss. Such darkness has oppressed me ; such 
 brightness is now abive and around me. Dear 
 Eliot, how glad yon will be! My spirits dance as 
 they did in my childhood. The days are all clear, 
 and the nights so beautiful, that I would not sleep 
 
 69 
 
 if I could. Shame to those who sleep themselves 
 in the dull and brutish oblivion of sleep, when the 
 intelligences of heaven are abroad on the moon- 
 beams, calling to the wakeful spirit to leave the 
 drowsy world, and join their glorious company — to 
 career from star to star, and commute in the silence 
 of night with their Creator. Oh, Eliot! I have 
 heard the music ‘ of the young-eyed cherubim 
 and I have learned secrets — wonderful secrets of 
 the offices and [relations of spirits, if I were sure 
 you would believe them— but no, yon cannot. The 
 mind must be prepared by months of suffering — it 
 must pass a dark and winding way to reach (while 
 yet on earth) the blight eminence where I stand. 
 But take courage, brother; when you pass the 
 bounds of time you will hear, and see, and kno\r 
 what I now do. 
 
 “ You will wonderhow I haveescaped the manacles 
 that so long bound me. I cannot explain all now ; 
 but thus much I am permitted to say, that they 
 were rivetted by certain charms : and I cannot be 
 assured of my freedom till I myself return them to 
 him from whom they came — to him who has so long 
 been the lord of my affections and master of my 
 mind. Then, and not till then, shall I be the ‘ self- 
 rectified’ being you blindly but truly predicted. I 
 must go to New York; but mind, dear brother, and 
 indulge no /die fears for me. Do you remember 
 once, when we read Comus together, wishing your 
 sister might, like the sweet lady there, be attended 
 by good spirits — dear Eliot, I am. I cannot always 
 see them through this thick veil of mortality, but I 
 can both hear and feel them. 
 
 “ Our good mother pesters me so. Should you 
 think, brother, that a being, accompanied as I am, 
 could eat and drink, and lie dow’n and sleep as other 
 mortals dog? Oh, no ! And, besides, are they not 
 all the time praying that the Lord would send corn 
 into their empty garners; and yet, poor dull souls, 
 they cannot see their prayer is answered, when 1 am 
 fed and satisfied with bread from Heaven — sweet, 
 spiritual food ! 
 
 “ I shall set forward to-night, when they are all 
 steeped in this sleep they would fain stupefy me 
 with. I have not hinted to our mother my purpose, 
 because, dear Eliot, since you are gone she is quite 
 different from what she was. I would say it to none 
 but you in the w’orld ; but the truth is, she has 
 grown very conceited, and would not believe one 
 word of my superior knowledge. I do not blame 
 her. The time is coming when the .scales will fall 
 fro'ii her eyes. Farewell, dear brother, — ‘angels 
 guard thee,’ as Jasper used to say;— I can write his 
 name novy-with a steady hand — what a change! 
 They do guard me — the blessed angels! Once 
 more, fear nothing, Eliot. In going, I am attended 
 by that ‘strong siding champion, conscience if I 
 stay, he will desert me.” 
 
 Eliot’s manliness was vanquished, and he wept 
 like a child over his sister’s letter. He reproached 
 himself for having left homo. He bitterly re- 
 proached himself for not having foreseen the danger 
 of her long, exclusive, and confiding intercourse 
 witli Meredith. He was almost maddened when he 
 thought of the perils to which she must have been 
 exposed, and of his utter inability to save her from 
 one of them. The only solacing thought that oc- 
 curred to him wa.s the extreiiio improbability that 
 her Ir.igile and exhausted fraino could support the 
 fatigues she must encounter, and that even now, whij[e 
 he wept over her letjer (a fortnight had elapsed sinco 
 it was written), her gentle spirit might have euteretl 
 upon its eternal rest. 
 
70 
 
 THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Tills fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the Eng- 
 lish colonics, probably, than in any other people 
 of the earth. Burke. 
 
 Meredith's last interview with Isabella, broken ofi‘ 
 so inopportunely by her nio'lier, had left iiiiii per- 
 plexed and disappointed. His love for her, if ana- 
 lysed, might have exhibited ninch ot the dross that 
 belongs to a selfish and woihlly spirit, — pride and 
 vanity, and something perhajis yellower than these; 
 still it was a redeeming sentiment, and if it had not 
 force enough to conquer all that was evil in him, il 
 at least inspired some noble aspirations. 
 
 He had been apprised of his mother’s arrival by 
 a sort of official note w hich she sent him from the 
 Narrows, the amount of which was, “ That she had 
 come out because .she could see no prospect of an 
 end to the atrocious war — that she had brought 
 her dear niece. Lady Anne, because it w as a'- impos- 
 sible to separate from her as to prolong her own cruel 
 absence from her son. ” Meredith interpreted this 
 note as readily as if he were reading a conventional 
 diplomatic cipher, and thus re-read it; — “The term 
 of my dear niece. Lady Anne’s mourning, is nearly 
 expired — she will have scores of suitors, and her 
 fortune will pass out of the family ; while you, my 
 dear son, are throwing yourself away upon the 
 brokendown Lin woods — the only hope is in my 
 crossing the horrible Atlantic, aud braving storms 
 and privateers." 
 
 Strange as il may seem, though thus forewarned, 
 be felt that he was not loreaimed, at least in pano- 
 ply divine ; he distrusted his power of resistai ce, 
 and was anxious to secure himself with grappling- 
 irons before he should be wafted by his mother’s 
 influence whither she would. Once assured by her 
 own lips, of what he had but the faintest doubt, 
 that Isabella Linwood loved him, his fa.te would be 
 fixed. He could tell his mother it was so, and she 
 would be saved the trouble of setting her toils, and 
 be from the necessity of avoiding her snare, and — 
 from the danger of falling into it. If Jasper Me- 
 redith’s virtue was infirm, he was sagacious, and 
 bad at least the merit of being conscious of the tot- 
 tering base on which il rested. 
 
 When he left Isabella, he deferred his filial duties, 
 and proceeded forthwith to the city prison, then 
 called the Provost, where the prisoners of war who 
 were in the city, with the exception of such officers 
 as were on their parole, were herded together, aud 
 treated in all respects like criminals. 
 
 Meredith, provided with an order from Robertson, 
 the commandant, and countersigned by Cunningham 
 (of infamous memory), the keeper of the city prison, 
 made his way through dens crowded with American 
 soldiers, to a small inner cell, which Linwood was 
 allowed the privilege of occupying alone. Mere- 
 dith had paid Linwood daily (visits, had reported 
 to him his father’s condition, and had each day la- 
 boured to give such a bias to his mimt, as to lead 
 him to the course which he was now authorised to set 
 before him, 
 
 “ Good morning, and good news for you, Lin- 
 wood he said, as he shut the door alter him. 
 
 “ Ha! has General Washington interposed for 
 me ?’’ 
 
 Meredith shrugged his shoulders : “ I alluded to 
 your father.” 
 
 “ God forgive me ! he is better then !’’ 
 
 “ Quite relieved — the gout has gone to the feet, 
 
 and if— if he were easy about you, there would he no 
 danger of a relapse. But, my dear Limvood, you 
 are looking ill yourself.” 
 
 “ Not ill — no, but deuced hungry. Cunning- 
 ham’s short and sour commons leave an aching 
 void, I assure you. ’ Liuw'ood placed his hands 
 upon the seat of his most painful sensations at the 
 moment. 
 
 *' I hoped the partridges and madeira I smuggled 
 in yesterday, would have made you independent of 
 Ciiiiiiiugham’s tender mercies, for twenty-four hours 
 at least.” 
 
 “ Don't mention them just now, if you love me. 
 
 I worked myself up to making them over to some 
 poor wretches out there, who are dying by inches of 
 had and itJsulFicient food — but hunger is selfish, and 
 shiirpset as I now am, I am afraid I shall repent 
 mo of my good deeds — so don't speak of them. Are 
 there no despatches, no letters, nothing from West 
 Point ?■’ 
 
 Meredith told him of the official conamunicatioa 
 received from Washington, and the letter from 
 Eliot ; of the one he spoke contemptuously, of the 
 other coldly. He then paused for Herbert to give 
 U’teiance to the disappointment expressed in his 
 truth-telling face, but be was silent, and Meredith 
 proceeded;— “ One would think that a brave 
 young officer who, like you, had sacrificed every 
 thing to a fancied duty, deserved a kind word at 
 least from his commander; but these old-fash- 
 ioned courtesies have a little too much of the 
 aristocratic feudal taint for your republican leader. 
 They savour of the protection the lord extends to 
 his foilcwer, in return for services that are more 
 cheaply paid in continental rags, or in the pro- 
 mises of King Congress! It is a hard service 
 wliere there is neither honour, favour, nor profit.’* 
 Meredith again paused. Linwood was still silent, 
 aud he went on to make the proposition authorised 
 by Sir Henry, and which he enforced by argu- 
 ments of policy so artfully and plausibly urged, 
 that an older and sterner casuist than our friend 
 Herbert might have been puzzled, if not tempted. 
 But “ it was a joyous sight to see” how he 
 brushed away the web that was spun about him. 
 He opened the door that communicated with 
 the adjoining apartment, and the generous blood 
 mounting to his cheeks, “ Do you see that young 
 man?” he asked, in a low but energetic voice, 
 aud pointing to a youth who, pale and haggard, 
 v.'as stretche-'. on the floor in one corner, wrapped 
 in his camp-cloak, eating a crust of mouldy bread; 
 “ he is from Carolina, and as bold and generous a 
 soldier as ever shouldered a musket. He and his 
 two brothers joined the American army and came 
 to the north — by the way, Jasper, please mark 
 how' the scattered and distant members of our vast 
 country are drawn and bound together by one 
 sentiment — we fight for Carolina, and Carolina 
 fights for us. This poor fellow is the survivor of 
 his twojbrothers — they fell in battle. His widowed 
 mother lives on a small plantation. Her slaves have 
 been decoyed away by the offer of freedom from 
 your British officers — generous, forsooth! and 
 she is left with one son. Yesterday this young 
 man contrived to get a letter forwarded, entreat- 
 ing- his mother to give up this son to her country. 
 Look at that man with the frame of a Hercules, 
 his joints loosened, and staggering as he crawls 
 about from the effects of starvation, and thecursed 
 fetid atmosphere of this hole ! He is a Connectital 
 cut farmer, who began his career at Bunker’s 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 Hill. Think you he spends his time in bewailing^ 
 unrequited services, and whining about continental 
 money? No, but in stimulating the spirits of 
 these poor fellows by visions of the future glory of 
 their free and independent country. ‘ Never 
 mind, boys,’ he says ; ‘ let ’em burn our houses 
 (his was burned at Fairfield), our children shall 
 live in better, and shall tie the flag with thirteen 
 stripes, and maybe more, to the mast-head of 
 their own ships.’ Jasper, there is not one of 
 these most abused men whose heait does not 
 beat true to his country : to die doing battle for 
 her would be nothing, that is the common lot of a 
 soldier — but they are pining, starving, dying by 
 inches here, without one thought disloyal to her. 
 And I,” he continued after reclosing the door, 
 “ am to be humbled and gulled with offers that 
 the most squalid wretch, among them -would 
 spurn. Perhaps I deserve it ; there was one mo- 
 ment — but one, thauk God! when, tempted by 
 more than all the gold and all the honour in 
 the king’s gift, I swerved. I was saved by a 
 look from Isabella. Do you think I could ever 
 meet that eye again after 1 had joined Sir Henry’s 
 honourable corps of lleformees. I am humble, 
 and with reason, Heaven knows ; but I do marvel, 
 Jasper, that you could suggest dishonour to Isa- 
 bella’s brother.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, Mr. Linwood ; we have different 
 views of the honour of the course I proposed, 
 which appears to me simply a return to your in- 
 alienable duty.” 
 
 “ We certainly have very different views, Jas- 
 per. You call those poor fellows out there rebels ; 
 I, patriots. You think they deserve to be grov.nd 
 to the dust ; I that they are infernally abused. You 
 think Washington is cold, selfish, calculating, arabi. 
 tious ; and I believe that he is generous, disinter- 
 ested, just (thereby I suffer) ; and humane I know 
 him to be, for there is not a man within these 
 walls, myself excepted, who has not received some 
 intimation that he is remembered and cared for by 
 his general. Now, with these views I could as 
 easily put on the poisoned tunic of Nsssus as 
 the uniform of the Reformees.’’ 
 
 The young men were both awkwardly silent for 
 a few moments. Meredith was discomfited and 
 mortified. Linwood’s vexation had effervesced in 
 his long speech ; to use a household smile, the 
 scum had boiled over and left the liquor clear. 
 " Haag it, Jasper,’’ he resumed, in his natural 
 good-humoured tone, “ don’t let’s quarrel, though 
 the more you will serve me the more I won’t be 
 served. We will agree to make over these 
 contested topics to dame Posterity, who, instead 
 of peering forward, as we must, into the dark 
 future, has only to cast her eyes behind her to 
 award an infallible decision. ITifty years hence, 
 my dear fellow, would that we could be here to see 
 it, New York will still be, if you are right, a petty, 
 colonial station for Hritish officers ; if I am, the 
 rich metropolis of an independent empire. But, 
 allons— is there no news, no gossip, no agreeable 
 scandal afloat?” 
 
 Meredith suddenly recollected and communi- 
 cated the arrival of his mother and Lady Anne 
 Seton, and the propriety of hastening to receive 
 them. Linwood heartily congratulated him, little 
 thinking how deeply his own fate was involved in 
 this arrival. 
 
 Meredith went to play his filial part, and Her- 
 bert was left to solitary, but not sad, reflection. 
 
 71 
 
 He felt a most comfortable, and perhaps unex* 
 pccted assurance, that his virtues were purified 
 and strengthened in the fires of adversity. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
 
 Has bless’d my glorious day ; 
 
 And shall a glimmering planet fix 
 
 My worship lo its ray ! Burns, 
 
 Meredith, after leaving the Provost, was hasten- 
 ing down Broad. street, when he perceived a 
 carriage approaching him. At this moment a 
 band of, black musicians, who were in training, 
 bearing the British flag, turned from Beaver into 
 Broad-street ; and as they turned, struck up a 
 march in the faces of the horses. The suddenness 
 of the apparition and the clamour terrified them; 
 they reared and plunged. A lady screamed from 
 the coach to the musicians to stop ; but the souls 
 of the Africans were lapt in the elysium of their 
 own music, and they neither heard nor heeded till 
 Meredith, springing forward, dashed the instru- 
 ment of their leader to the ground. The music 
 then ceased, and the coachman, by great adroit- 
 ness or strength, or both, checked the progress of 
 his steeds, while two ladieS sprang from the coach 
 and w'ere followed by shrieking waiting-maids and 
 broken bandboxes, with their contents of feathers, 
 flowers, ribands, fans, &c., showering over the 
 pavement. 
 
 The elder of the two ladies looked as if she 
 could have lifted up her hands and wept ; the 
 younger did lift up her’s and laugh. “ Make 
 haste, Nancy,” said the elder ; “oh, the coloured 
 hair powders— shut up the box, they are all blow- 
 ing away — we can get none here.” 
 
 “ Depechez vous, Therese,” cried the young 
 lady ; “oh, mes fleurs — mes plumes !” 
 
 “Ah, oui, mon Dieu I qu’est ce que e’est 
 qu’une demoiselle sans plumes, sans fleurs !” 
 replied the little trig Francaise, flattering hither 
 and yonder to reclaim her treasures from the dis- 
 persing winds. 
 
 “My dear mother!” exclaimed a voice, that 
 for a moment silenced the chattering, and called 
 forth a parenthetical and solio-voce exclamation 
 from Thh-ese— “Ah, le fils de madame— un bel 
 homme !” 
 
 While the usual expressions of a joyful meeting 
 were interchanging, Mrs. Linwood, who from her 
 window had watched the affair to its denouement, 
 appeared at her door, calling “Jasper, bring the 
 ladies here, I entreat you. My dear Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, I am so sorry you have had such a fright, 
 and yet so very glad to see you.” 
 
 “ For the love of Heaven, who is she?” asked 
 Mrs. Meredith, so averting her face as to limit 
 her query to her son. 
 
 “ Mrs. Linwood.” 
 
 A shadow passed over Mrs. Meredith’s face ; 
 but she instantly replied, “My dear Mrs. Linwood, 
 how very happy I am to see you again — an awk- 
 ward debut, this,” shrugging her shoulders ; “but 
 so fortunate it should have happened at your door ; 
 that the first house my foot eaters in America 
 should be that of a friend.’’ 
 
 “A friend I Mrs. Linwood 1 strange, I uever 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 72 
 
 heard my aunt mention the name,” thought Lady 
 Anne. 
 
 “Lady Anne Seton,” continued Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, presenting her niece ; “and how is the dear 
 husband ? and Herbert, my harum-scarum little 
 friend, as I used to call him ? Miss Belle— ah, 
 ten years make such changes — ‘ the boy and girl 
 to man and woman grown and yourself — upon 
 my word, Mrs. Linwood, the ten years have slipped 
 by without touching you. ” 
 
 “Aunt forgets she did not recognise her,” 
 thought Lady Anne; and she conveyed her obser- 
 ration of the discrepancy by such an arch glance 
 at her aunt, that she checked the flood-tide of her 
 civilities, and gave Mrs. Linwood, who was nearly 
 overpowered by them, time to rally. She, good 
 woman, received them all literally ; and, in return, 
 furnished the most circumstantial details of her 
 husband’s late illness, told when he took physic 
 and when he did not ; when his laudanum made 
 him sleep and when it would net — to all of which 
 Mrs. Meredith “lent the pitying ear’’ of a 
 thorough, bred lady, while she was mentally won- 
 dering the woman could be such a fool as to think 
 she cared whether her husband were dead or alive. 
 After having threaded the mazes of the materia 
 medica, Mrs. Linwood concluded with, ‘ Bless 
 me! I have not sent for Isabella!’’ The good 
 lady trusted she had given Isabella time to make 
 her toilette. Mrs, Linwood’s artifices were very 
 pardonable, and never exceeded some trifling 
 manoeuvre to keep the best foot forward without 
 apparent limping. She rang the bell no one 
 answered. “ Jasper, will you have the goodness,” 
 she said, “to tap at her father’s door, and let 
 Belle know who is here ? — you see Jasper is quite 
 one of us, Mrs. Meredith.” 
 
 A more acute observer than Mrs. Linwood 
 would have understood the lowering of Mrs. 
 Meredith’s brow, as her eye followed her son. 
 
 “ Jasper has been fortunate, indeed, in making 
 such friends,” she said; “ a great security is it, 
 my dear Mrs. Linwood, for a young man to have 
 domestic influences, and se<c7i influences.” 
 
 On opening Mr. Linwood’s door, Meredith 
 found Isabella apparently absorbed in reading a 
 political pamphlet to her father. “Ah, Jasper, 
 I’m glad to see you!” cried out Mr. Linwood: 
 “I give you joy. I have been trying, ever since 
 I heard your mother was below, to drive this girl 
 down ; but she sticks tome like the breath of my 
 nostrils. Now Jasper has come for you, you 
 must go, Belle.’’ 
 
 ^‘Not must, sir, unless Miss Linwood prefers 
 to do so.” 
 
 “ Did you come for me — I mean, did my mother 
 send for me ?” 
 
 “ Do not go down if it is disagreeable to you,” 
 said Meredith, replying to rather more than met 
 her ear. 
 
 “ Pshaw ! go Belle ; your dress is well enough ; 
 the ladies — no disrespect, Jasper, it’s the nature 
 of the animal — will like you all the better for 
 being vvorse dressed than themselves.’’ 
 
 Isabella was not sorry to have her reluctance 
 ascribed to her dishabille ; but that, though she 
 had some womanish feeling about it, constituted 
 a very small portion of her shrinking from a pre- 
 sentation to Jasper’s mother and fair cousin. 
 She had, however, enough self-control to do well 
 whatever must be done ; and without farther 
 hesitation she gave her arm to Meredith, As 
 
 soon as her father’s door was closed after them 
 he paused. He was intensely anxious to intimate 
 to his mother, at their first meeting, the relation 
 that he believed would subsist between them : 
 but while he hesitated how to word this wish, 
 Isabella prevented him. 
 
 “ You have seen Herbert ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “And the result?” she added, with a quivering 
 lip. 
 
 “ Precisely as you wished.” 
 
 “Dear, dear Herbert!’’ she exclaimed, and 
 sprang forward with a lightened heart and 
 buoyant step. The first flush of elevated and 
 gratified feeling beamed from her soul-lit eye and 
 dyed her cheek. 
 
 The light within shone on all w-ithout her. Her 
 personal anxieties were forgotten ; and to her 
 natural elegance of manner there was a gracious- 
 ness and brightness that made her at once shine 
 forth as the sun of the little circle. Mrs. Mere- 
 dith had proposed to herself to be condescending 
 to Miss Linwood ; and was quite sure that Lady 
 Anne, whom she had induced, with an eye to a 
 first impression on Jasper, to array herself before 
 leaving the ship in a French w^alking-dress, would 
 be frappante. But both ladies were destined to 
 feel in Isabella’s presence they were lesser lights. 
 Her simple morning dress, and the classic ar- 
 rangement of her dark rich hair, unspoiled and un- 
 touched by the profane fashion of the times, con- 
 trasted most favourably with the forced, prim, 
 and fantastical mode of the day. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was as near being astounded as 
 a woman of the world ever can be, and was 
 actually embarrassed and uncomfortable ; but 
 Lady Anne, though surprised, was charmed. 
 For a moment she might have felt overshadowed ; 
 but nothing could, for more than one moment, 
 cloud her sunny self complacency. “ Qu’elle a 
 I’air noble 1” she whispered to her cousin — “ She 
 has been abroad ? — in France ?’’ 
 
 “No,” he replied ; “but undisputed superiority 
 anywhere is apt to produce ‘ I’air noble.’ ” Mere- 
 dith was not a man of independent opinions ; and 
 he had never felt a more assured admiration of 
 Isabella than now, that he witnessed her im- 
 pression on his reluctant and lady-of-the-world 
 mother, and his a la mode cousin. 
 
 “You find Isabella grown?” said Mrs. Lin- 
 wood, expecting to elicit a flood of compliments. 
 
 “ Oh, certainly,” replied Mrs. Meredith, “ very 
 much grown : ten years, you know', makes a vast 
 difference. Miss Linwood was not, I believe, 
 much over twelve when I went home.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Ten — tw’elve — twenty-two — bless me 1 no, 
 dear Mrs. Meredith, she is not yet quite twenty,” 
 said the simple mother, as eagerly as if she were 
 putting in the plea “ not guilty.” 
 
 “Scarcely three years older than my niece,” 
 replied Mrs. Meredith, with an evident satisfac- 
 tion in the three years minus. 
 
 “And what are three years?” exclaimed Lady 
 Anne; “they shall make no gulf between us, 
 Miss Linwood ; we will be friends at once — inti- 
 mate— will we not?” 
 
 “ You are very kind.” 
 
 “Oh, not in the least. It will be quite as 
 much my gain as yours. Aunt has brought me 
 out to make my debut here; and half the pleasure, 
 I think, must consist in having a friend — a con- 
 ! fidante, to talk over one’s conquest with.” 
 
THE LINWoODS. 
 
 “ Lady Anne, my love, you are so elated by 
 getting out of that odious ship, that you hardly 
 know what you are talking about.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, aunt, I do. I was talking 
 on the most enchanting subjects — lovers, con- 
 quests, and confidantes.” 
 
 “ And what do you know about lovers and con 
 fidantes, my dear child ? They are the unknown 
 inhabitants of & terra incognita to you.” 
 
 ‘‘My veteran mother,” thought Meredith, 
 “ would fain shelter my pretty cousin with the 
 <Bgis of simplicity.” But simplicity was not in 
 the role of the young lady. “ Mille pardons, chere 
 tante,” she replied—” have you not for the last 
 twelve months been teaching me the geography of 
 this unknown world ? — and, besides, what think 
 you we read of, talk of, dream of at a boarding- 
 school — history ? — Greeks and Romans ? — no, no, 
 dear lady : young lords and nice officers in scarlet 
 coats and epaulettes, and, now and then, par pa- 
 renthese — un beau cousin.” A bright glance at 
 Jasper with these last -words propitiated his 
 mother, and Lady Anne was permitted to proceed. 
 ” I take it for granted. Miss Linwood, that New 
 York is quite a paradise just now ?” 
 
 “ If ‘ nice young officers’ are the birds of your 
 paradise. Lady Anne, it is." 
 
 “The beau cousin might perhaps be admitted 
 into yours,” retorted the young lady, archly 
 looking at Isabella for the blush she expected to 
 provoke; but the blush called for came net to 
 Isabella Linwood’s cheek. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith explored another face. Jas. 
 per’s brilliant eyes impulsively turned towards 
 Isabella, and there came a revelation from them 
 that she would not admit, and yet could not mis- 
 understand. “My dear son,” said she, “ I must 
 trouble you to order a carriage for us. I am quite 
 forgetting myself in the happiness of meeting an 
 old friend. ^ 
 
 Mrs. Linwood interposed. The time had not 
 yet passed away when such primitive hospitalities 
 were frankly offered and unceremoniously ac- 
 cepted, and she insisted on her friends st tying to 
 pass the day. Mrs. Meredith declined as reso- 
 lutely as courtesy would permit; but Lady Anne, 
 independent in all her pi-oceedings, expressed so 
 strong an inclination to remain, and brushed 
 away her aunt’s objeclions with such evident and 
 relentless assurance cf their flimsiness, that iMrs. 
 Meredith was reduced, as a last resource, to yield 
 with grace. 
 
 Tne day, on many accounts, was oppressive to 
 Isabella. Her sisterly thoughts were much with 
 Herb rt ; she was anxious for his future ; and in 
 imagination painfully contrasted his solitary 
 prison with the seeming cheerfulness of h’s 
 father’s house. There was something in Mere- 
 dith’s manner that offended her. It was con- 
 strained and elaborate, and it was evident to her 
 that he shunned disclosing their actual relations 
 to his mother, and sheltered them from her pene- 
 tration by appearing quite engrossed in playful 
 devotioD to liia pretty cijusin. She was anaoye(i 
 with Mrs. Meredith's hollow and emphasised su- 
 perlatives. She here a strong pel sonal resemblanc< 
 to her sun. Isabella was often painfully startled 
 by a corresponding mental resemblance, which 
 affected her .somewhat like those family likenesses 
 where an ugly face, by a sort of travestie, biings 
 into questi(/u the beauty of a more fortunate one. 
 The qualities that were glaring and obtrusive in 
 
 73 
 
 the mother, were in the son sheltered by a nicer 
 tact, and a more acute perception of their effect 
 on others. “ But,” Isabella asked herself, “ were 
 they less real or less hopeless ?” 
 
 Isabella, iu her turn, was the subject of passing 
 speculation to Mrs. Meredith. At first, when 
 she appeared all radiant with animation, the sa- 
 gacious lady concluded that she had taxed all her 
 powers to take the heart of Jasper’s mother by a 
 coup-de-theatre ; but afterwards she could find no 
 satisfactory solution to Isabella’s abstractedness 
 and apparent carelessness whether she pleased 
 her or not. Nothing is so incomprehensible to a 
 mere worldly spirit, spell-bound within a narrow 
 circle of selfish interests, as the workings of an 
 independent, lofty mind. 
 
 Isabella’s sole enjoyment was from a source 
 whence it would be least expected — from her pro- 
 bable rival — from the light-hearted, good hu- 
 moured Lady Anne ; and before they parted they 
 had made lair progress towards an intimacy. 
 
 The intimacies that occur between persons of 
 powerful and iuferior character, probably result 
 from the same necessity of the mind that drives a 
 statesman to relaxation over a senseless game of 
 cards, or (if, as with Edmund Burke, his heart 
 overflows with the milk of human kindness) leads 
 him to play at leap-frog with children. The same 
 principle may furnish a solution for some puzzling 
 disparities in matrimonial alliances. 
 
 ” And what sort of a person is this Lady 
 Anne?" asked Mr. Linwood of his daughter, 
 who had been giving him such particulars of the 
 day as she thought might entertain him. 
 
 “ Very pretty, and graceful, and agreeable too. 
 I am sure you will like her, papa. It is amusing 
 to see how she goes straightforward to her point, 
 like a bird by an air line, while her aunt winds 
 about as if she were manoeuvring a ship into port 
 in presence of an enemy ; oh, above all things, I 
 like truth, straightforwardness ! Lady Anne is 
 not brilliant, nor has she, I imagine, any great 
 depth of feeling; but she is independent, true, 
 and kind-hearted, and in such good humour with 
 herself, that she makes small demands upon 
 others ; — I like her.” 
 
 “ And do not fear her. Belle !” 
 
 Isabella answered to her father’s probing glance 
 proudly. “Fear her! — no, sir — no,” she reite- 
 rated, but in a less assured tone. 
 
 “ Bravo, my girl 1 but depend on’t she will be a 
 star in our firmament, this Lady Anne. What a 
 match she would have been for Herbert — obsti- 
 nate, foolish, dear boy.” 
 
 “Thank you for that, papa! he is dear and 
 noble, and like bis f ther in clinging to what he 
 believes to be right.” 
 
 “That is like me,” replied Mr. Linwood, 
 wiping the mist from his eyes ; ” hut not like 
 me. Belle, not at all like me, in mistaking wrong 
 for right.” 
 
 Strangely is the human mind compounded. 
 Mr. Linwood had been informed of Herbert’s 
 rejection of Sir Henry Clinton’s proffer. This 
 hoiia fide intimation of the resemblance Herbert 
 ii.'ul manifested to his father in this rejection, 
 placed tile action in a fresh and favourable aspect. 
 Vanity has its uses. 
 
74 
 
 THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Come pu6 ritarre il pigde 
 
 Inesperto pellegrino 
 
 Dagli Inciampi che non vede, 
 
 Dai Perigli che non sa? — Metastasio. 
 
 It was long before the dawn of one of the few 
 soft days of October, 1779, that Bessie Lee left 
 her safe home to begin a perilous journey. The 
 light of reason was not quite extinct, and with 
 some forecast she took a few coins, keepsakes 
 that bad long lain idly in a drawer, and transferred 
 them to her pocket ; then placing in her bosom 
 the little ivory box containing, as she wildly fan- 
 cied, the charms that bound her to Jasper Mere- 
 dith, she equipped herself for her journey. A 
 regard to dress is an innate idea in a woman, that 
 no philosopher can deny to the sex. In all her 
 mutations, that remains. 
 
 The resemblance of the dress of an insane per- 
 son to the ill-sorted and imperfect equipment in a 
 dream, verifies Rush’s remark, that derangement 
 IS a long dream a dream a short derangement. 
 Bessie, after looking over her moderate wardrobe', 
 selected the only gala dress it contained— a white 
 silk petticoat and bme bodice; but after dressinr>- 
 herself in them, either from the instinct of neat- 
 ness, or from the glimmering of the unfitness of 
 such travelling apparel, she took off the silk petti- 
 coat, and after tying it in a handkerchief with 
 some more essential articles she laced the bodice 
 oyer a dimity skirt, and put over that a long linen 
 n'ght-gown. Delighted with her own provident 
 sagacity in arraying herself for day and night she 
 threw over the whole a brown silk cardinal, and a 
 chip gipsey hat. tied dow'n with a blue gauze hand- 
 kerchi' f. “ He always told me I had inspipation 
 in dress,” she said, as she gave a pleased, parting 
 glance at the glass. In passing her mother’s 
 door, she paused: “I have heard it was a bad 
 sign,” thought she, “to leave home without vour 
 parent’s blessing ; but I go forth with Heaven’s, 
 and hers must follow.” She then proceeded to 
 equip her horse, and set out cn the New York 
 road, which she pursued unerringly. She fancied 
 that the same providential exemption from the 
 necessity of sustenance vouchsafed to her was 
 extended to her horse Steady, and the animal, 
 happening to he full-fed, sturdy, and of hard- 
 working habits, seemed to acquiesce in his sup- 
 posed destiny, save now and then, when he re- 
 solutely halted at a stream of water to s ake his 
 thirst. The part of New Englan i through which 
 Bessie’s route lay was sterile and thinly settled. 
 She was unmolested, and for the most part unob- 
 served. She would sometimes pass a house w'here 
 the children wmuld pause from their play, stare, 
 and ask, one of the other — who that pretty lady 
 could be? and w'onder that, with such a nice 
 cloak, she should ride without gloves! Once a 
 kind-hearted farmer stopped her. and after asking 
 her numberless questions, to which he received no 
 satisfactory replies, he earnestly b^gi ed her to 
 stop at his house for some refreshment. She 
 decined his ho.«pitality with an assurance that slie 
 did not need it, and a smile that so little harmo- 
 nised with her blanched cheek, and wild and me- 
 lancholy eye, that the good man said her looks 
 haunted him. In truth, so unearthly was her 
 appearance, that two gossips, whom she passed 
 
 on the road, stopped, drew nearer to each other* 
 and, without speaking, gazed after her till she was 
 out of sight ; and then, with feminine particula- 
 rity, compared their observations. 
 
 “She’s master beautiful I” exclaimed one of 
 them. 
 
 “ Call you that beautiful?” replied her com- 
 panion ; “why, she has neither flesh nor blood — I 
 I felt a chill when I looked at her.” 
 
 “And I felt my blood rush to my heart, as if I 
 had seen something out of nature. I might have 
 taken her for an angel, but for her silk cardinal, 
 and her horse, that looked more like our old roan 
 than like the horses in Revelations.” 
 
 Nancy was less imaginative. “ I did not see 
 nothing mysterious,” she said, “but her pale 
 little hands that looked as if they could hardly 
 hold a thread of silk.” 
 
 “My! did not you see those long curls that 
 streamed down below the hood of her cloak, look- 
 ing as bright and soft as Judith’s baby when we 
 laid it out — poor thing ! and the colour of her 
 cheeks, that were as while as my poor man s fresh 
 tombstone — and her eyes, that shone like stars of 
 a frosty night! don’t tell me, Nancy! we must 
 expect to see visions, and dream dreams when 
 there’s war in the land, and famine at the door 1” 
 The unconscious subject of this colloquy went on, 
 her innocent heart dilating with a hope as assured 
 and buoyant as that of a penitent on her way to a 
 shrine where absolution and peace await her. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when, emerging 
 from a wood, she observed that at a short distance 
 before her the road forked. She was hesitating 
 which direction to take, when seeing two men 
 seated on a log by the fence, she reined her horse 
 towards them. They were soldiers returning from 
 service, who had laid down their knapsacks and 
 halted to refresh themselves with some coarse 
 food, which was spread on the ground. Bessie 
 was close upon them, and had stopped her horse, 
 when their broad insolent stare awakened her 
 timidity, and she was turning away when one of 
 them seized her bridle, exclaiming, “ Not so fast, 
 my pretty mistress! first thoughts are best; what 
 did you come here for?” 
 
 “ Oh ?” she answered, confused and stammer- 
 ing, “I — I — I do not know — 1 came for — for— 
 nothing,” 
 
 “ Then don’t be scared— for nothing can come 
 of nothing — (a rare sight, a petticoat, hey. Mart?) 
 — come, di.smount, lady fair.” 
 
 Bessie seemed paralysed. Mart's face expressed 
 an emotion cf compassion — “ I say. Raphe,” he 
 interposed, “be civil; let her go on.” 
 
 “ 1 mean to be civil, you sir ; don’t you see her 
 horse is half starved ’’ (the poor beast was eagerly 
 cropping the grass), “ and she looks as if she had 
 not tasted victuals for a mouth — come, come, little 
 one, what are you ’fraid of?” and .slipping her foot 
 from the stirrup, he lifted her from the saddle and 
 seated her on the log. He then took up the blue 
 check handkerchief on which the r repast (coarse 
 brown bread, slices of raw pork and apples) was 
 spread; “come, take some and eat away,” he 
 continued, “ that’s a nice girl !” Bessie, the de- 
 licate, slrinkiog Bessie, seized the food thus 
 ■ il'ered ar.d thus served, and ate ravenously. In 
 her di.'ordeied state she seemed to exist in two 
 separate natures ; the mind took no cognisance 
 of the necessities or sensations cf the body, and 
 the body, at the first opportunity, asserted and 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 gratified its cravings- While she ate the men 
 talked apart. ‘'This is droll, by jiminy !” said 
 Mart; ‘-who or what do you guess she is, 
 Raphe ?” 
 
 “Some stray cast-off of some of the old country 
 folks — German gin’rals or Enerlish lords.” 
 
 “She don’t look like it," said Mart, after having 
 cast at Bessie a surveying glance, in which pity 
 was mingled with curiosity. 
 
 “Don’t look li e it I you can’t tell what she 
 does look like. She’s worried, and pale, and 
 scared out of her wits ; but I tell you what does 
 look like it — do you sec that fandango finery 
 (Bessie’s blue bodice) peeping out of the neck of 
 her gown 1 By the living jingo, she eats like a 
 Trogan, don’t she? This way she’ll soon get the 
 blood back to her pretty cheeks. But I say. 
 Mart, w'e must make some sort of a calculation 
 what to do — ” 
 
 “ What to do ! That’s plain enough — let her 
 go her way, and we’ll go ours.” 
 
 “ You're a fool, Mart, and t’ant the first time 
 I’ve thought so.” 
 
 “ And you’re a rogue, Raphe, nor is it the first 
 time I’ve thought so.” 
 
 Raphe’s angry blood mounted to his cheeks ; 
 but well aware this was not the moment for a 
 broil, he gulped down his passion, and resumed, 
 in a more conciliating tone — “There’s no use 
 in falling out. Mart ; we’ve had lean fortin long 
 enough, and when a streak of fat come', I don’t 
 see no reason in turning our plates bottom side 
 upwards — do you ?” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ It’s plaguy tedious walking barefoot.” He 
 looked significantly at the horse. “There’s a 
 hundred long miles to foot it before I see home.” 
 
 “ And a hundred and fifty to boot, before 1 see 
 the top of our steeple.” 
 
 “ Tnen I conclude ’twould be an accommodation 
 to you, as well as to me, to lide and tie that stout 
 beast?” 
 
 “And she?’ said Mart, interrogatively, and 
 pointing to Bessie. 
 
 “Why, she — she’s as light as a feather. She 
 can ride behind while she behaves and holds her 
 tongue, and we find it convenient. Tne like of 
 her can’t expect to pick and choose.” 
 
 “You’re a d — d rascal. Raphe!” This excla- 
 mation, spoken with energy and in a louder voice 
 than the previous conversation, roused Bessie’s 
 attention, and she listened to and comprehended 
 what followed. “ I’m going home, to our folks,” 
 continued Mart, “ and do you think I could look 
 mammy in the face after such a trick as that ?” 
 
 “ Well, well, man— don’t be mad ; if one shoe 
 don’t fit, another may. Supposing we just slip 
 into this wood with this traveller, just so far that 
 she can’t rouse people on the high road here with 
 crying ‘ stop thief!’ and then we’ll be off on the 
 beast; that, on my conscience, I believe is no 
 more hers than ours." Before the sentence was 
 finished, Bessie had sprung into her saddle. 
 Raphe, whose fierce passions had been kept in 
 abeyance by the necessity of his companion's co- 
 operation, now sprang forward and seized her 
 bridle. “ Oh, mercy ! mercy !” cried the terrified 
 girl. 
 
 A blow from Mart’s fist on his side obliged 
 Raphe to turn and defend himself ; and Bessie, 
 thus released, urged her horse onward, leaving 
 her champion to do battle in her righteous cause. 
 
 75 
 
 which he did so manfully and thoroughly that 
 Raphe was disrabled for the present, and left to 
 curse his own folly and to pursue his pedestrian 
 journey alone. 
 
 Bessie’s horse fortunately selected the right 
 road ; and refreshed by his half hour’s rest, he 
 obeyed his mistress’s signals to hasten onward. 
 These signals she reiterated from an impregsion 
 of some indefinite danger pursuing her. By 
 degrees, how'ever, her thoughts reverted to their 
 former channels, and she dwelt no more on her 
 recent alarm than a dreamer does on an escaped 
 p ec pice. A languor stole over her that prevented 
 her from observing Steady’s motions. From a 
 f'lst trot he had slackened to a walk, and after 
 thus creeping on for a mile or two, he stood stock 
 still. 
 
 Bessie sat for a while as if waiting his pleasure, 
 and then looking at the setting sun, she said, 
 “ Well, Steady, you have done your day’s duty, 
 and I’ll not be unmerciful to you. I too have a 
 tired feeling,” and she passed her hand over her 
 thr!)bbing temples; “but, Steady, we will not 
 stay here by the roadside, for 1 think there be bad 
 people on this road ; and be-sides, it is better to be 
 alone where only God is.” 
 
 The country through which Bessie was now 
 passing was rocky, hilly, and wooded, excepting 
 narrow intervals and some few cleared and cul- 
 tivated slopes. She had just passed a brook, that 
 glided quietly through a very green little meadow 
 on her left, but which, on her right, though 
 screened from sight, sounded its approach as in 
 the glad spirit of its young life it came leaping and 
 dancing down a rocky gorge. Bessie, as it would 
 seem from the instinct of humanity, let down some 
 bars to allow her hungry steed admittance to the 
 meidow, saying, as she did so, “ You shall have 
 the green pastures and still waters, Steady, 
 where those home-looking willows are turning 
 up their silvery leaves as if to kiss the parting 
 sunbeams, and the sunflower and the golden rod 
 are still flaunting in their pride, poor things! 
 But I will go bn the other side, where the trees 
 stand braveiy up, to screen and guard me — and 
 the waterfall will sing me to sleep.” 
 
 She crossed the road and plunged into the wood, 
 and without even a footpath to guide her, she 
 scrambled along the irregular margin of the brook. 
 Sometimes she swung herself round the trunk of 
 a tree by grasping the tough vines encircling it; 
 sometimes, when a bald perpendicular rock pro- 
 jected over the water, she surmounted it, as if the 
 danger of welting her feet must be avoided at all 
 pains and risks; then a moss-covered rock imbedded 
 in the stream attracting her eye, she would spring 
 on to it, drop her feet into the water, dolf her 
 little chip hat, and bathe her burning temples in 
 the cool stream; and when she again la sed her 
 head, shook back her curls and turned her face 
 heavenward, her eye glowing with preternatural 
 brightness, she might have been mistaken for a 
 wanderer from the celestial sphere gazing home- 
 ward. After ascending the stream for about a 
 hundred yards, sire came to a .spot which seemed 
 to her excited imagination to have been most 
 graced 
 
 By the sovereign planter, when He formed 
 
 All things for man s delightful use ; 
 
 an 1, 'n truth, it was a resting-place fo. the troubled 
 
'HE TJOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 76 
 
 spirit, far more difficult to find than a bed of down 
 for the wearied body. 
 
 The thicket here expanded and spread its encir- 
 cling a'rms around a basin worn into the earth by 
 the force of the stream, which leaped into it over 
 a rock some thirty feet in height. Here and there 
 a rill straggled away from the slender column of 
 water, and as it caught the sun’s slant ray, dropped 
 down the rock in sparkling gems. ’I'he trees were 
 wreathed with grape-vines, whose clusters peeped 
 through the browm leaves into the mirror below. 
 The leaves of the topmost branches of the trees 
 were touched with the hues of autumn, and hung 
 over the verdarit tresses helovv them like a wreath 
 of gorgeous flowers. The sky was clear, and the 
 last rays of the setting sun stole in obliquely, 
 sweet and sad, ns the parting smile of a friend, 
 glancing along the stems of the trees and flashing 
 athwart the waterfall. 
 
 “ Here will I lay me down and rest,” said Bessie, 
 rolling up with her foot a pillow of crisp crimson 
 leaves that had falieu from a young delicate tree, 
 fit emblem of herself, stricken by the first touch of 
 adversity. “ But first I will say my prayers, for 
 I think this is one of God’s temples.” She knelt 
 and murmured forth the broken aspirations of tier 
 pure heart, and then laying herself down, she said, 
 wish mother and Eliot could see me now — they 
 would be so satisfied 1’’ 
 
 Once she raised her head, gazed at the soft mist 
 that was curling up from the water, and seemed 
 intently listening. ” I have somewhere read,” 
 she .said, “ that 
 
 “ Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth, 
 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. 
 
 I believe it !" Again her head fell bade on its sylvan 
 pillow, and utterly incapable of farther motion or 
 thought, she sank to deep repose. Night came 
 on, the watchful stars shoue down upon her, the 
 planets performed their nightly course, the moon 
 rose and set, and still the unconscious sufferer 
 slept on. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Alas ! V, hat poor ability’s in me 
 
 To do him good ! 
 
 Assay the power you have. 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 “Ah, Belle, is that you ?” said Mrs. Areher, as 
 Miss Linwood just at twilight stole into her aunt’s 
 room to have a tete-a-tete witli the only person in 
 the world with wlicm she bad a strictly confidential 
 intimacy. “ What is Sir Henry’s answer?” 
 
 “ Just such as we might have expected. He does, 
 to be sure, in good set terms, beg me to have no ap- 
 prehensions about my brother. But he says it is 
 impossible for him just now to grant me an oppor- 
 tunity to speak to him in private on the subject : ‘ it 
 would be quite useless,’ and ‘ he’s particularly 
 occupied,’ and all such trumpery excuses." 
 
 “ Then take my advice. Belle, and make the op- 
 portunity he will not grant — go to his ball this even- 
 ing. Never mind the gossip of kind friends, who 
 will wonder you can have the heart to appear there 
 when your brother is in such unfortunate circum- 
 
 stances. You and I agree in the principle of never 
 sacrificing the greater to the less — go ; Sir Henry 
 will not refuseyou his ear when you are before him; 
 and if you cannot obtain all y ou desire, you may get 
 some mitigation of poor Herbert’s condition.” 
 
 “ I liave made up my mind — I will go.” 
 
 ‘‘You will meet Lady Anne Seton ! The ball is 
 given in honour of her arrival, 1 hear.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes.” 
 
 “You are very pensive and monosyllabic, Belle. 
 Has any thing occurred? Have you seen Jasper 
 since that last critical conjuncture in your aliairs?” 
 
 “No — oh, yes. he has called two or three times 
 with L-idy Anne.” 
 
 “ Then something has not occurred, which 
 amounts to pretty much the same thing ; or, perhaps, 
 my dear child, you are beginning to feel a little 
 tremulous about this pretty and rich cousin?’’ 
 
 “ No, aunt, I assure you that my first serious 
 doubt on that subject would fix my waveriog judg- 
 ment./ 
 
 “ And your feelings ?” 
 
 “ They go in the same scale with my judgment. 
 You know that I do not expect perfection. If ever 
 I marry, which I think very doubtful — you may 
 smile, aunt Mary, but I think it more than doubtful 
 — I shall expect f udtsin abundance. Heaven knows 
 I am no match for perfection I onlj" ask that they 
 may not be such faults as affect the vitality of the 
 character.” 
 
 “ And you would cease to love, Isabella, where you 
 suspected such ?’’ 
 
 “If I merely suspected,” replied Isabella, faltering, 
 “ I cannot say ; but if I were sure, most certainly.’* 
 
 “ A suspicion of ten years standing is, I should 
 think” — assurance doubly sure, she would have said; 
 but wondering at the subtleties of that sentiment 
 that could mystify the perceptions of the clear-sighted 
 Isabella Linwood, she merely said, “it matters not 
 what I think — you will both feel and act right; and 
 if you ought to get rid ol the shackles, you will not 
 wait till they rust oft.” 
 
 Mrs. Archer had never interposed her advice in 
 Isabella’s aflair with Meredith, though she watched 
 its progress with far more interest than ifit had been 
 a disease that might issue in death. She thought it 
 was a case where she must and w ould work out her 
 own salvation ; and where, at any rate, she must be 
 left to the free decision of her own heart. Still she 
 found it impossible in their confidential womanly 
 intercourse not to betray her own biases ; and 
 whenever they were betrayed, Isabella felt them the 
 more as they produced the only discord in the perfect 
 harmony of their minds. The souls of the aunt and 
 niece seemed to be informed by the same spirit. 
 They had the same independence of mind, the same 
 acute perception of truth through all the adventitious 
 circumstances and artificial forms ot society, the same 
 restiveness under the everlasting trifling of frivolous 
 minds, the same kindling at w hat was beautiful in 
 thought, and the same enthusiasm for the beautiful 
 in action. 
 
 After Mrs. Archer’s last words to her, Isabella sat 
 thoughtful and silent, till her aunt reminded her that 
 it was quite time she should go home and dress for 
 Sir Henry’s ball. 
 
 “ I w ill go,” she replied, “ though (here is nothing 
 in life I detest quite so much as playing suitor to a 
 great man." 
 
 “ Then, my dear child, you had best come on our 
 side, for so long as we are colonists, and wear the 
 yoke, suing and obsequiousness is the necessity of 
 our conditiun.” 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 “You would take advantage of my pride to make 
 me a republican. The very first rebel, if I remember, 
 was he a ho could not bow and sue for grace with 
 suppliant knee.’ ” 
 
 “An arch rebel he was, but no republican; our 
 champions are republicans, and no rebels, since they 
 claim only their original and indefensible rights. 
 But here come Ned and Lizzy to assert theirs." 
 
 The children were attracted by Isabella’s voice. 
 Her hearty devotion to them made them regard her 
 much in the light of the good genius of an eastern 
 tale, who never appears without conferring some 
 signal happiness. “Tell me, Ned," said she, “ are 
 you whig or tory ?” 
 
 “ I used to be a tory, cousin Belle, because you 
 were, and I thought mamma was." 
 
 “ And now ?’’ 
 
 “I’m for Washington; but don't you tell,” he 
 replied, kissing her. 
 
 “And you. Lizzy, do you know what whig and 
 tory means ?" 
 
 “ To be sure, I know whig means the very best 
 man in the world, and that is Captain Lee; and I 
 shall always love the whigs best — ” 
 
 “ And I begin to love their cause best, too, my 
 dear children; and with this parting confession, 
 which pray keep to yourselves, good-bye to you all.” 
 
 Mrs. Archer hailed the change of Isabella’s sen- 
 timents (a woman’s political conclusions are rather 
 sentiments than ©pinions) as a good omen. It was 
 a link broken in the chain that bound her to Mere- 
 dith ; and it indicated, as she thought, the weakness 
 of the whole chain. She tlius concluded a long 
 reverie: “Belle thinks and feels indepeudenily. 
 No woman in the unimpaired perfection and intensity 
 of love does this. Milton understood our nature 
 wlien he put those words of dependence and ten- 
 derness into Eve’s mouth : — 
 
 “ God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more 
 
 Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise.’’ 
 
 The gala days of Sir Henry Clinton’s reign in New 
 York are still celebrated in traditionary fire- side 
 stories as a brilliant period in the colonial ieaw vxonde. 
 However unsuited to tlie times, the exiled whigs, 
 who were driven from their homes, might have 
 deemed this pump, pageantr)', feasting, and revelry ; 
 however much it might have exasperated the Ame- 
 ricans, who, half-starved and half-clothed, were 
 contending for their rights, it served to kill the 
 ennui of foreign officers, to bring e.n scene the pretty 
 candidates lor husbands, and in short, to do what is 
 done for us by the balls and company (societ}- ?) of 
 our own gay seasons. Never, according to the grand- 
 mammas, was there such abundance of the elements 
 of a belle’s happiness — such music — such dresses — 
 so many, and such admirers ! 
 
 “My dear Jasper,” said Mrs. Meredith, while 
 Lady Anne, in Sir Henry’s antechamber, w'as telling 
 a bevy of admiring young ladies that her Frencli 
 milliuer had fashioned her dress after one of Maria 
 Antoinette’s, “ my dear Jasper, is not your cousin 
 looking perfectly lovely this evening?’’ 
 
 “ For the first time I tliink her beautiful.” 
 
 “ She is beautitul ! — Colonel Davidson says she 
 is by far the prettiest woman on this side of the At- 
 lantic.” 
 
 The lady paused ; and then, being in her argu- 
 ments what is called an authority lawyer, pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 “ Sir Edward remarked, as he handed me up-stairs, 
 how superior her air is to that of the young women 
 
 77 
 
 here, indeed, how should they have an air, poor things 
 in this demi savage world.” 
 
 Meredith could not but smile as he compared his 
 cousin to that model of elegance enthroned in his 
 mind. He coolly replied, “ Lady Anne is easy.” 
 
 “ Easy ! — bless me, Jasper, Helen Ruthven is what 
 I call easy; and a very engaging girl she is — but 
 Lady Anne! Sir Henry himself remarked her grace, 
 her faultless proportions. There is that troublesome 
 St. Clair peering through the door ; he means to ask 
 her for the first dance. Pray anticipate him, Jas- 
 per : it is \iQT debut ; you will oblige me infinitely, 
 my son.” 
 
 “ What are you and aunt caballing about ?" asked 
 Lady Anne, approaching. 
 
 “ Con-piling against the world, fair cousin. I am 
 entreafing my mother to interpose her authority, 
 and command you to lead down the first dance with 
 me." 
 
 “ Her authority ! I cannot dance with a collar 
 round my neck. If you wish it, authority out of 
 the question, I will dance with you with all my 
 heart. Of course you know, cousin Jasper,’’ she 
 added, as at the striking up of the music Meredith 
 led her into the dancing-room, “ I prefer you to a 
 tiresome stranger.” 
 
 “ You flatter me 1’’ 
 
 “ No, indeed,” replied the young lady, without 
 perceiving that Meredith was piqued by her unvar- 
 nished truth, “ I never flatter — one gets so tired of 
 flattery that hears nothing else all day from her ad- 
 mirer down to her dressing-maid. I never should 
 flatter where I particularly wished to please.” 
 
 Meredith was always inferring a little more than 
 met the ear, winding in a labyrinthine path where 
 he was not likely to meet one who, like his literal 
 cousin, went straight forw'ard. “ Ah, my pretty coz, 
 are you there?" thought he. “ You would have me 
 understand that, though you do not wear my mother’s 
 collar, yon are well enough inclined to go where she 
 would guide you.” 
 
 Lady Anne took the station assigned her in the 
 dance bv the ritual of precedence ; but as soon as she 
 moved it was plain that, whatever rank was assigned 
 her, nature and art had decreed that she should there 
 be first. Those who went before her through the 
 mazes of the long dance, sighed, panted, and puffed, 
 at the imminent risk of breaking the bounds of their 
 whalebone priaons, or sinking under their brocades. 
 She, in a dress tliat lor lightness and grace would 
 have suited an Ariel or a Pirdan dancing-girl, moved 
 like a bird through its own element. There was no 
 sign of effort or fatigue. Her eyes, instead pf being 
 set by overpowering exertion, or wandering like an 
 ambitious performer's, sparkled with animation, and 
 her coral lips parted in achild-like smile. Slie seemed 
 to have surrendered herself to the music, and to be 
 a poetic manifestation of the pleasure of motion. The 
 oliservers followed her to the foot of the dance — tho 
 dancers became mere observers. 
 
 Lady Anne received this tribute as a matter of 
 course, and if she were not surprised, she was not 
 elated by it. Not so Mrs. Meredith; she enjoyed it 
 as a triumph. She had anticipated the sensation to 
 be produced on the assembly, and had made a pretty 
 accurate es imate of that which, by a very natural 
 reaction, would bo felt by Meredith ; and when 
 stationed near them, she heard the eloquent flood of 
 compliments he poured out — heard him, this time 
 unbidden, earnestly beg his cousin’s hand for another 
 dance, she turned away satisfied that the first step 
 was taken. 
 
 Every one present who might aspire to such dis- 
 
THE KOVEL KEAVSPAPER 
 
 78 
 
 tinction, asked Lady Anne’s kand, and each soli- 
 citation enriched the prize to Meredith, for (if it be 
 allowed thus to speak of such high concernments), 
 he graduated even ladies’ favours by their market 
 value. 
 
 Miss Ruthven had not been dancing herself; she 
 •was conscious of not dancing well ; but hovering 
 about the dance, and expressing, whenever she caught 
 Meredith’s eye, by animated gestures and significant 
 glances, her admiration of his partner. At the first 
 opportunity she said to Lady Anne in a low voice, 
 but not loo low to be heard by Meredith — ‘ How 
 very glad 1 am that my dear friend, Isabella Liuw'ood, 
 is not here.” 
 
 “And how very sorry I am! — but pray, Miss 
 Ruthven, why are you glad ?” 
 
 “ Oh, you know’ — you faultless creature, I am 
 sure you know.” 
 
 “Indeed, I cannot conjecture.” 
 
 “ Then, if I must tell, one does not like to see 
 one’s friends outslione. Isabella Litisvood has so 
 long been the brightest star in our firmament. Ah, 
 Mr. Meredith, sic transit! — as you learned in the 
 tongues say.” 
 
 Meredith made no reply, for at this moment he 
 caught Isabella’s eye as she entered the room, lean- 
 ing on Sir Henry’s arm. She was dressed in a while 
 silk gtTwn, without any ornament or decoration 
 ■whatever, save a rich Brussels lace veil, which she 
 had put on partly to screen and partly to apologise 
 for her | very simple and rather inappropritite 
 toilet. 
 
 “Ah, console toi mon amie 1” exclaimed Lady 
 Anne, touching Miss Ruthven’s arm with her fan, 
 “ look at that peerless creature, and tell me now 
 •whose light will wax dim. I like my own looks as 
 well, I am sure, as any body else likes them, but I 
 can see that I am quite une chose terrestre compared 
 with Isabella Linwood — n’est ce pas mon cousin.” 
 
 “ Les choses terrestres are best adapted to the 
 sphere for which they are created,” said Meredith, 
 turning, with a bitter smile from what he thought a 
 very cold salutation from Miss Linwood, to begin the 
 second dance with Lady Anne. 
 
 Isabella stood for a moment with the rest, admiring 
 and wondering at Lady Anne’s performance; then, 
 intent on the object which alone brought her to Sir 
 Henry’s, she begged five minute’s audience in the 
 library. 
 
 “ There si e goes,” thought Mrs. Meredith, taking 
 a long breath as if relieved from a load, “ 1 knew it 
 would make lier very uncomfortable.” 
 
 “Ah,” thought Meredith, as following Isabella 
 with his eyes he blundered in the dance — “ there is 
 something of the terrestre in that movement — I will 
 profit by it.’’ 
 
 “ Quite as terrestrial as the rest of us,’’ thought 
 Helen Ruthven, and as she stationed herself next to 
 Mr.s. Meredith, and made some very acceptable re- 
 marks about Miss Linwood, she felt like a political 
 mancEuvrer, wlio, having started rival candidates, 
 flatters himself he shall run into the goal between 
 them. 
 
 “To what am I indebted for this grace, Miss Lin- 
 wood,” asked Sir Henry, rather to relieve Isabella 
 than to inform himself of what he already anticipated. 
 
 “ I am here a beggar. Sir Henry.” 
 
 “In your brother’s behalf? — I understand — a 
 very painlul subject, my dear young lady; — I feel, 
 on my honour I do, the deepest svmpathy with your 
 father. You are aware that I have done all in my 
 power for the misguided young man, and that he has 
 not accepted my overtures.” 
 
 “ And that his refusal is the warrant of his honour 
 — is it not. Sir Henry ?” 
 
 “ Why, there are many modifications of this prin- 
 ciple of honour. You would not hold a thief bound 
 by his oath to his comrades, if he were offered pardon 
 and enrolment among honest men as his reward for 
 abandoning them ?” 
 
 An indignant reply rose to Isabella’s lips, but shn 
 remembered in time that she came as a suitor, and 
 saying that she would not waste Sir Henry’s tirno 
 with arguing on a subject on which they mu§t ut- 
 terly differ, she went straight to her point. “You 
 must, sir, she said, “ believe that my brother came to 
 the city for the purpose he avows, and for no other." 
 
 “ What proof have I of this?” asked Sir Henry, 
 with a tormenting smile. 
 
 “The word of a man of truth." 
 
 “ And the faith of an all-believing girl. This may 
 be very sufficient evidence in a cour d'amour — it 
 would hardly suffice in a court-martial. But pro- 
 ceed, my dear Miss Linwood, and tell me precisely 
 your wishes. You may rely on my desire to serve 
 you 
 
 Sir Henry’s tone was earnest and sincere, and 
 Isabella was encouraged. “ My brother,” she said, 
 “ has, thank Heaven, shown himself equal to bear- 
 ing well the adverse turns of a soldier’s fortune* 
 He endures manfally his imprisonment in the dark, 
 filthy, crowded prison allotted to the Americans-— 
 the honest yeomen of the land. He suffers, without 
 complaint. Sir Henry, the petty tyranny of the atro- 
 cious keeper of these poor men." 
 
 “ Tut, tut, my dear,— it is the fortune of war.” 
 
 Isabella had again to quell her pride, before she 
 could command her voice to proceed with due hu- 
 mility. “ All he asks, Sir Henry, all that I ask for 
 him, is, that you put him on the footing of a prisoner 
 of war, and thus relieve him from an imputation 
 that compels General Washington to withhold all 
 interference in his behalf, and to leave him here a 
 degraded man, suffering for an act of rashness what 
 is alone due to crime.’’ 
 
 “ It is impossible, my dear girl — you overrate my 
 powers — I am responsible — ’’ 
 
 “ To God — so are we all. Sir Henry, and happiest 
 are those who have most of such deeds as I ask of 
 you to present to this tribunal. But are you not 
 supreme in these provinces ? and may you not ex- 
 ercise mercy without fearing that man shall miscall 
 it ?” 
 
 “ My powers, thanks to my gracious sovereign, are 
 ample ; but you have somewhat romantic notions of 
 the mode of using them. I am willing to believe 
 — or rather,” he added with a gracious smile, “ to 
 believe that you believe your brother’s story to be a 
 true one ; but. Miss Linw ood, this view of the ground 
 must not alter, to speak en militaire, our demonstra- 
 tion. We are bound, as I have communicated to 
 you, through our friend Mr. Jasper Meredith — we 
 are bound, by the policy of war, to avail ourselves 
 of the accident, if it be one, that enables us plausi- 
 bly to impute to Washington an act held dishonour- 
 able in all civilised warfare.’’ 
 
 “Then, in plain English,” said Isabella, with a 
 burst of indignation this time irrepressible, “ the 
 ‘ policy of war’ compels you to profess to believe a 
 falsehood, in order to stain a spotless name.” 
 
 Sir Henry made no reply, but strided with folded 
 arras up and down the apartment. A glance at his. 
 irritated ceuntenance recalled Isabella to herself. 
 “ Forgive me. Sir Henry,’’ she said, “ if, feeling only 
 that my poor brother is a victim to this horrible 
 
THE LINWOODS* 
 
 * policy of war,’ I have spoken more boldly than was 
 fitting a humble, miserable suitor.” 
 
 Whether it is that the tone of submission is that 
 ■which Heaven has ordained for women, and that 
 which is the natural vehicle of a lofty sense of su- 
 periority, is a falsetto in which she rarely succeeds, 
 we cannot say; but true it is, that the moment Isa- 
 bella’s voice faltered, Sir Henry’s brow relaxed, and 
 condescending to her weakness, he said, “ It can 
 hardly be expected, Miss Linwood, that a young lady 
 should comprehend a subject quite out of her line — 
 we will, therefore, if you please, wave its farther 
 discussion, and return to the drawing room.” 
 
 |f, “ Excuse me, Sir Henry, I cannot go back to the 
 drawing-room,” replied Isabella, in spite of her ef- 
 forts, bursting into tears — “ I came here solely for 
 the purpose of obtaining something for poor Herbert, 
 and I have utterly failed/' It is not in man — a 
 gentleman and a soldier, to be unmoved by the tears, 
 the real distress of a young and beautiful ivoraan. 
 Sir Henry too, to his friends — to thpse of his own 
 household (we have it on poor Andre's testimony), 
 was generous and kind hearted. 
 
 “ My dear girl,” he said, “ pray do not make your- 
 self so unhappy. You know not how much your 
 brother is already indebted to you — if he were not 
 fenced about by such friends, your father on one 
 side, and yourself and your devoted knight on the 
 other— do not blush, my dear young lady — he would 
 have fared much worse than he has, I assure you. 
 He has onlj' to suff’er durance with patience — our 
 bak is worse than our bite ; and, believe me, the war I 
 cannot List much longer.” 
 
 ” And he must remain in prison while the war 
 lasts?” 
 
 “ I fear so.” 
 
 ” Then for mercy’s sake, Sir Henry, grant us one 
 favour. My father is old. His health and fortune, 
 as you know, are shattered. This cruel war severed 
 him from his only son, and drew down on poor Her- 
 bert the displeasure which has ended in all this 
 wretchedness. Something may be saved from the 
 wreck, their disjointed affections may be re-united 
 if — if they are permitted to meet?” 
 
 “If your father wished to visit your brother, he 
 would have asked permission — it certainly' would 
 not have been refused.” 
 
 Isabella well knew that her father, after having 
 once (to use his favourite phrase) set his foot down, 
 would not make so violent a recession as such a step 
 demanded ; but not choosing to allude to his infir- 
 mities, and anxious to secure for Herbert a greater 
 alleviation than a single interview, she availed her- 
 self of an obvious reason. “ My father,” she said, 
 
 ” is still confined to his apartment. He cannot go 
 to Herbert — if Herbert might come to him?” 
 
 “ This would be indeed an extraordinary departure 
 from all form and precedence.” 
 
 “ Yes; but it would be the very essence of kind- 
 ness, which is better than all form and precedence. 
 Oh, .Sir Henry, have you not sometimes sleepless 
 hours in the silent watches of the night; and will 
 not then the thought that you have sidaced an old 
 man, your friend, and restored peace and li)ve to his 
 habitation, be better than the memory of victories — 
 dear Sir Henry, will it not 
 
 ” I should be too happy to oblige you — it would 
 be a very great ;)leasure; but indeed, indeed, my 
 dear Mi.ss Isabella, this is an extraordinary pro- 
 position.” 
 
 “ So much the better fitting you fo accede to it ; 
 you who have the power to depart frou» tlie vulgar , 
 beaten track. You may have little reason to re- ' 
 
 79 
 
 member, with pleasure, this vexatious war, Sir 
 Henry ; but the good you have done by the way ■ 
 will be like the manna of the wilderness.” 
 
 Isabella had touched the right chord. “Well, 
 my dear Miss Belle, tell me precisely what you want, 
 and what security you can give that my trust will 
 not be abused. ’ 
 
 “ I want an order from you to Cunningham, direct- 
 ing him to permit my brother to leave the prison in 
 the evening between any hours you shall see fit to 
 assign ; and for your security. Sir Henry, I can 
 ofl’er the surest, the word not only of a man of ho- 
 nour, as you have said there are many and uncertain 
 modifications of that principle, but tlie word of a 
 man bound to you by every tie of gratitude and 
 good faith.” 
 
 “ Yon have per.snaded me, my dear, against my 
 better reason, it may be, but you have persuaded 
 me; and to-ranrrow, after our cabinet council, 1 will 
 send you the order.’’ 
 
 “Ob, no — tonight. Sir Henry,” urged Isabella, 
 with her characteristic decision, determining to 
 leave nothing to the possible influence of a cabinet 
 council or a treacherous to-morrow ; “ to night, if 
 you would make me completely happy. Here on 
 the table is pen, ink, and paper ; and here is a chair 
 — sit down, and write three lines, and I will go home 
 with them, and fall down on my knees, and pray 
 God to bless you for e^er and ever.” 
 
 If Sir Henry had been told one hour before that 
 he should be perruaded to such an act, he might 
 have exclaimed with Hazael — “Am I a dog,’’ that I 
 should be tluis managed ?’’ But, like many other 
 great men, he yielded to a superidr mind, albeit in 
 tl)e form of woman. He wrote the order, taking 
 care to qualify it by requiring Cunningham to guard 
 young Lin wood’s egress and ingress from observa- 
 tion, and stipulating that he should be attended by 
 Cnnningliam himself, the most formidable of the 
 bull-dog race of gaolers. 
 
 “ Now,” said Sir Henry, after Ts-abella, with a 
 transport of gratitude, had received the order, and 
 was about to take her leave, “ you must not run 
 away — you, of all others, are bound to grace a 
 fete given to Jasper Meredith’s cousin — you owe 
 me this.’’ 
 
 “ And most gratefully will I pay you all I can of 
 the debt I owe you, Sir Henry,” she replied, giving 
 him her hand, and returning to the drawing-room. 
 Tiie consciousness of the advantage she had gained, 
 the buoyant siiirit of youth, tliat having taken one 
 step from the starling point believes the race won, 
 lit up her eye and clieek with their natural bright- 
 ness. If a mask had fallen from her face, the change 
 would not have be n mo-e sfartliiig to some of her 
 observers, nor more puzzling to others. 
 
 ” I do marvel, cousin Jasper,” said Lady Anne, 
 when (hey were driving home, ''tliat you have never 
 fallen in love with Isabella Linwood'.” 
 
 ‘‘And how do you know that I have not?” he 
 askeil, willing to try the ground of her conclusions. 
 
 “ Moiv! bless me, do you think I am stoiie-bliiid ? 
 — you have not danced with h r — you have scarcely 
 spoken to lier this evening, when she appeared so 
 perfectly irresislilile.” 
 
 “ I fancy, my dear,’’ interposed Mrs IMeredith, 
 “ that your cousin Jasper, like oilier men of his 
 stim|), jirel’ers a person less proiioncci ' — more ipii- 
 cscont — more ductile than Mi-s liinwood.” 
 
 “ You mean, aunt, not shining w illi a light of her 
 own — .iiorc of a reflector ” 
 
 I ‘‘I’arJon me, my dear L idy .\nn 0 ,you interrupted 
 ' me, I was going on to say, that men who are con- 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 80 
 
 scious of eminent talents, prefer those who, not 
 ambitious to shine, will amuse and soothe their 
 hours of relaxation.” 
 
 “Lesser lights — I understand jou perfectly," said 
 Ladj Anne, cutting in to escape her aunt’s tedious 
 circumlocution: “do tell me, Jasper," she continued, 
 *‘if you observed how changed Miss Linnood ap- 
 peared when she returned to the drawing-room. I 
 was dancing with that tiresome colonel, and you 
 were talking to me,’’ 
 
 “I was talking with you— how could I observe 
 another?” 
 
 “ Miss Linwood mistakes,’’ said Mrs. Meredith, 
 “ in assuming such violent contrasts — in making 
 such sudden transits from grave to gay. He is 
 a poor artist w ho resorts to glaring lights and deep 
 shadows to set off his pictures — she wants toning 
 down." 
 
 The mother was not more at fault in her expressed 
 opinion, whether sincere or not, than her son was in 
 his mental inference from the sudden change in Isa 
 bella’s deportment. None are more fallible in their 
 judgment than people of the world, and simpl}' be 
 cause they make no allowance for truth as a basis of 
 action. Notwithstanding Meredith’s disclaimer, he 
 had observed, and narrowly, the change so obvious, 
 and thus had reasoned upon it: — “Isabella was 
 piqued at my devotion to my cousin ; she was, for 
 no woman is above these little vanities, vexed at 
 Lady Anne’s superlative dancing ; but she soon 
 rallied, and determined to appear high as the stars 
 above me, and all these matters. Her pride is in- 
 yincible; it is quite time to show her that her power 
 is not. Women are destined to be the ‘ lesser lights.’ 
 I have most generously committed myself, while she 
 has remained as silent, if not as cold, as a statue; 
 therefore I am at liberty to retreat, if I should — at 
 any future time — choose to do so. When I am with 
 her I feel her full supremacy; but away from her, 
 on reflection, I can j erceive that an alliance with 
 my cousin might, in the end, be quite — that is very 
 tolerable, and vastly more eligible (and in these 
 times that must be ihoug.at of) than this long, long 
 dreamed-of marriage with Isabella Linwood.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIJ. 
 
 The wonder ; or, a woman keeps a secret! 
 
 Isabella moulded and arranged every thing to 
 profit by Sir Henry’s boon. She persuaded her 
 father ( one is easily led the w'ay the heart inclines) , 
 in consideration of Herbert’s past sufferings and 
 uncertain future, to acquiesce in a present oblivion 
 of his ofi'ences. She exacted a promise from Her- 
 bert that he would hear her father laud King 
 George, his ministers, and all their acts, without 
 interpoiiug a uisqualifying word, or even a glance ; 
 and, what was a greater feat for him, that he 
 ■would sit quietly and hear the names of Washing 
 ton, Franklin, Jay, Hamilton, La Fayette — all 
 that he most honoured, coupled with the most 
 offensive epithets. This \ituperation she knew’ 
 was a sort of safety valve, by which her father let 
 off the passion that might otherwise burst on 
 poor Herbert’s head. She felt that no sacrifice, 
 short of that of principle, was too great to obtain 
 
 affectionate intercourse between the father and 
 son ; that, between those thus related, there never 
 could be a “good war, nor a bad peace.” 
 
 As Sir Henry had exacted a strict secrecy as to 
 his indulgence, Isabella congratulated herself that 
 she had long before this persuaded her father to 
 dismiss Jupiter (an irreclaimable gossip), on the 
 ground that he was a useless piece of lumber ; but 
 really because Rose had declared that it exceeded 
 the ability of her commissary department to supply 
 his rations. Rose herself was worthy of all con- 
 fidence. Mrs. Archer, of course, was one of the 
 family cabinet. 
 
 The awkwardness of the first meeting got over, 
 all difficulties were past. Little differences, if let 
 alone, soon melt away in the warmth of hearty 
 affection. Herbert was obliged sometimes to bite 
 his lips, and at others, when his frank and hasty 
 spirit prompted a retort, a glance from Isabella 
 kept him silent. 
 
 It was not till Herbert’s second or third visit 
 that Mr. Linwood manifested the uneasiness in 
 cident to persons of his age and habits when 
 put out of their accustomed track. Rivington’s 
 Royal Gazette, issued twice a week, and the only 
 newspaper in the city, was to Mr. Linwood, as 
 newspapers are to most men, one of the necessa- 
 ries of life. “ My dear,’’ he asked his wife, 
 “where is the paper?” 
 
 “ I left it below, my dear. There is nothing in 
 it.” Mrs. Linwood had ventured this omission 
 from consideration to Herbert, whose temper she 
 feared might boil over at the hearing of one of 
 those high-toned tory gazettes. 
 
 “ Pshaw — nothing in it ! just so all women say, 
 unless they find some trumpery murder or ship- 
 wreck. Belle, be good enough to bring the paper 
 and read it to me ; and do ask R( se to bringusin 
 a stick of wood — it is as cold as Greenland here. 
 Five pounds I paid Morton yesterday for a cord 
 of hickory. D— n the rebels, I wish I had their 
 bones for firewood ” 
 
 “ They do their best, sir, to make it hot for the 
 tories,’’ said Herbert, very good humouredly. 
 
 “Ahl Herbert, my son, I forgot you were 
 here; I did, indeed. But 1 can’t be mealy- 
 mouthed — I must speak out, come what come will. 
 But it is hard not to be able to get the wood from 
 our own farms — is it not?” 
 
 ‘•Very hard, sir, to be deprived of any of our 
 rights.” 
 
 “ Rights !” Isabella entered, and Mr. Linwood 
 added, in a softened tone, “have a care, my boy; 
 there are certain words that fall on my ear like 
 sparks on gunpowder.’’ 
 
 “ Here is something to prevent your emitting 
 any more sparks, just now, Mr. Herbert,” said 
 Isabella, giving him a Boston paper, while she 
 retained the orthodox journal to read aloud. 
 
 “What’s that?— what’s that?’’ asked her 
 father. 
 
 “A Boston paper, sir, sent to you with Colonel 
 Robertson’s compliments.” 
 
 Herbert read aloud a few lines written on the 
 mf'.rgiii of the paper, chuckling in spite of his 
 filial efforts to the contrary: — “Major-General 
 Putnam presents his compliments to Major- 
 General Robertson, and sends him some American 
 newspapers for his perusal. When General Ro- 
 bertson shall have done with them, it is requested 
 they may be given to Rivington, in order that they 
 may print some truth.” 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 ‘*The impudent renegado! Come, Isabella, 
 what says Rivington to-day ?” 
 
 Isabella read aloud an order from Sir Henry 
 Clinton, “That all negroes taken fighting in the 
 rebel cause should be sold as slaves ; and that all 
 deserting should live at what occupation they 
 pleased within the British lines.” 
 
 “Very salutary that!” interposed Mr. Lin 
 wood. “ Black sons of Belial — they fighting for 
 liberty, d — n ’em.” 
 
 Herbert cleared his throat. “My father — my 
 upright father applauding a bounty offered to 
 cowardice and treachery. Oh ! the moral per- 
 versions engendered by warl” thought Isabella; 
 but she wisely kept her reflections to herself, and 
 striking another chord, ran over one of Riving- 
 ton’s advertisements of fancy articles for sale by 
 himself, the sole editor and publisher in the city. 
 Oh ! Smetz, Stewart, Gardiner, Tryon, Baily, ye 
 ministers to the luxury of our city 1 well may ye 
 exclaim, in your rich repositories of the arts and 
 industry of the old world — 
 
 Great streams from little fountains flow. 
 
 For the curious in such matters, we permit our 
 heroine to read aloud verbatim: — “For sale at 
 this office, scarlet dress-frocks, with silk lining 
 and capes, the work of celebrated operators west 
 of London ; the celebrated new-fashioned buckle, 
 which owes its origin and vogue to the Count 
 d’ Artois, brother to the King of France ; of the 
 locket or depository for preserving the gentle 
 Saccharissa’s hair, a great variety ; crow quills 
 for the delicate Constantia ; scarlet riding-dresses 
 for ladies, made to suit the uniform of their hus- 
 bands or lovers ; canes for the gallant gay Lo- 
 thario ; gold and silver strings for plain walking- 
 canes, with silver and gold tassels for plain Master 
 Balance ; vastly snug .shaving equipages ; bro- 
 caded shoes aud slippers ; ladies’ shuttles for the 
 thrifty in the knotting amusements ; songs suited 
 to the various humours and affections of the 
 mind.” 
 
 “ Bravo, friend Rivington !” exclaimed Her- 
 bert, “you do not expend all your imagination in 
 the invention of news.” 
 
 “ Is there nothing but this nonsense in the 
 paper, Belle ? What is that in capitals about 
 letters from England?” 
 
 Isabella resumed. “ Letters from England say 
 they will never acknowledge the Independence of 
 the United States while there is a soldier to be 
 raised, or a tester to be expended in the three 
 kingdoms 1” 
 
 “ John Bull for ever ! What say you to that, 
 Mr. Herbert?” asked his father, exultingly. 
 
 “ Nous verrons, sir ! — but mercy upon us 1 what 
 is this?” Herbert read aloud from the Boston 
 paper : — “ We retjret to state that the daughter 
 of Mrs. Lee, of Westbrook, left her mother’s house 
 two weeks since, with the supposed intention 
 of going to New York. The young lady has 
 been for some time in a state of partial mental 
 alienation.” A description of Bessie’s person 
 followed, and an earnest request that any infor 
 mation obtained might be transmitted to the 
 unhappy mother. 
 
 Both Herbert and Isabella were filled with 
 consternation and anxiety, and after revolving the 
 past, both came to the same conclusion as to the 
 probable origin of poor Bessie's mental malady. 
 
 81 
 
 Mr. Linwood, who only recollected her as a quiet, 
 pretty little girl, exhausted his sympathy in a few 
 inquiries and exclamations, became somewhat 
 impatient of the sadness that had overclouded his 
 children. 
 
 “ We areas doleful as the tombs here,” he said, 
 “ What can keep your aunt Archer to-night, Isa- 
 bella? Ah ! here she comes ; right glad to see you, 
 Mary. Belle and Herbert are knocked up by an 
 unlucky bit of news.” 
 
 The news was communicated to Mrs. Archer, 
 who entered deeply into their feelings. 
 
 “Ah!” said she, “this explains a note I re- 
 ceived this morning from Captain Lee.” 
 
 “From Eliot?” exclaimed Herbert. 
 
 “ Yes ; he sent by a courier, who came to Sir 
 Henry, a most acceptable present — a set of chess > 
 men for the children, which he has contrived, and 
 aided by an ingenious private, made for them.” 
 
 “Chessmen contrived by a rebel!” said Mr, 
 Linwood; “ of course he has left out the king, 
 queen, and bishop.” 
 
 “ Pardon me — he may think kings, queens, and 
 bishops, very fit playthings.” 
 
 “ But what says the note ?” asked Herbert, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 “ It says, that if the chessboard should fail to 
 be of use to Ned and Lizzy, it has at least served 
 the purpose of partially diverting his thoughts from 
 a erief that almost drives him mad. Of course he 
 alludes to the sad affair.” 
 
 “Undoubtedly,” replied Herbert; “and this 
 business of the chessboard is just like himself — he 
 is the most extraordinary fellow ! I never knew 
 him in any trouble, small or great, that he did not 
 turn to doing something for somebody or other by 
 way of a solace— a balm to his hurt mind.” 
 
 “ I do not wonder you love him so devotedly,’* 
 said Isabella. 
 
 “ O, Belle,” whispered Herbert in return, “ had 
 Heaven but put him in Jasper's place, or made 
 Jasper like him !” 
 
 “ Mrs. Archer caught the words, and in spite of 
 her own discretion and Isabella’s painful blushes, 
 she uttered a deep and insuppressible “Amen!” 
 
 “Come, come, what are you all about?” said 
 Mr. Linwood. “Suppose you imitate this won- 
 derful hero of yours in the use of his mental 
 panacea, and comfort me vvith a game of whist. 
 Do you play as deep a game as you used to, Her- 
 bert ; trump your partner’s trick and finesse with 
 a knave and ten ? ’ 
 
 Herbert confessed he had forgotten the little he 
 knew. 
 
 “Well, then, you may brood over your Yankee 
 paper, aud we will call in your mother, who, in five- 
 aiul-twenty year’s drilling, has learned just euough 
 not to trump lier partner's tricks.” 
 
 Mrs. Linwood was summoned, and the party 
 formed. Mr. Linwood was in high good-humour ; 
 aud though Isabella made some inscrutable plays, 
 all went smoothly till the family party was alarmed 
 by a tap at the door, and before any one had time 
 to reply to it, the door was opened, and L’-uiy Anne 
 Seton appeared. Startled by tlie :i[)pcarance 
 of a stranger, and somewhat disconcerted by per- 
 ceiving the embarrassment caused by her intrusion, 
 “ Shall I go back ?” she asked, her hand still on 
 the door." 
 
 “Oh, no — no,” cried Mr. Linwood, “ come in, 
 my dear little girl, by all means ; you promised me 
 a game of piquet, and I, an old savage, forgot it, 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 32 
 
 and so I have forfeited my right, and now make it 
 over to this young man, my son Herbert.” 
 
 “Lady Anne turned a surprised, sparkling, and 
 inquiring glance at Herbert, as much as to say. 
 Is it possible 1 and Herbert made his bow of pre- 
 sentation. 
 
 . “You know,” continued the father, “ that this- 
 young man is in limbo ; but you do not know, and 
 be sure you let no one else know, that Sir Henry, 
 God bless him ! permits the rascal to visit us pri- 
 vately.” 
 
 “ Am I really trusted with an important secret ? 
 —delightful! — and does anything depend on my 
 keeping it?” 
 
 ” The continuance of my brother’s visits and Sir 
 Henry’s favour," replied Isabella, emphatically, 
 alarmed at the necessity of confiding their secret 
 to one so gay and inexperienced as Lady Anne. 
 
 Inexperienced she was, but true and single- 
 hearted. 
 
 “ Do not look so solemn, my dear Miss Lin- 
 wood,” she said ; “ indeed I will not tell. I am 
 loo much puffed up with the first important secret 
 lever had in my keeping to part with it carelessly. 
 I am even with aunt and Jasper now, with their 
 everlasting private talks ; and when it is stupid at 
 home, I may come here, may I not?” 
 
 “ Always,” interposed Mr. Linwood, really de- 
 lighted with the accession of the charming girl to 
 their circle. 
 
 Mrs. Linwood, who only waited for her husband 
 to strike the key-note, was voluble in her hospi- 
 table expressions. Herbert looked the most 
 unequivocal welcome ; and Lady Anne, never 
 querulous, did not trouble herself about Isabella’s 
 merely civil assent, and perhaps did not notice it. 
 From this time her visits were almost as regular 
 as Herbert’s. She was little addicted to romance ; 
 but every young girl has a spice of it, and Her- 
 bert’s romantic and precarious position increased 
 the charm of his frank and spirited character. A 
 dear lover of sunshine was Herbert; and these 
 short domestic interludes, brightened by Lady 
 Anne, were hours in paradise to him. All day in 
 his gloomy prison he locked forward to his release 
 from purgatory ; and once engaged at a side-table 
 with his lively partner in the most fascinating of 
 all tete a tete games, or round the petit souper, 
 which his good mother spent the day in contriving 
 and concocting, he forgot the ills of life till the 
 summons from his keeper reminded him that he 
 had still to buffet with his portion of them. 
 
 ” If I do not mistake,” said Mrs Archer to Isa- 
 bella, after the breaking up of one of their evening 
 meetings, ‘ ‘ Herbert and Lady Anne are beginning 
 to see visions and dream dreams. ” 
 
 “ Heaven forbid !” 
 
 “And why, my dear Belle, should Heaven for- 
 bid so natural and pleasant a consequence of their 
 familiar intercourse? ” 
 
 “ How can you ask, aunt Mary ! I could not 
 forgive Herbert if he were so soon to forget poor 
 Bessie.” 
 
 “We must take man as he is. Belle. Herbert 
 is too light-hearted to cherish a hopeless passion; 
 he regards his love for Bessie Lee as a dream, 
 and rely on it, he is thoroughly awakened fro.n 
 it. You must have perceived that he has not 
 been desperately afliicted about your unfortunate 
 little friend ?” 
 
 “Yes, I have — but men do not show their 
 feelings.” 
 
 “ Some men do not, but Herbert does ; and 
 rely on it, Belle, he is not of a temper to continue 
 to love a person (even if poor little Bessie were 
 not, as she must now be, utterly lost to him) 
 whose heart is another’s.” 
 
 “ I suppose you are right, aunt Mary,” replied 
 Isabella, after a moment’s hesitation, colourings 
 deeply; “ the whole sex are alike incapable of the 
 generosity of unrequited affection 1” Unacknow- 
 ledged was her mental reading of unrequited. 
 
 “ Substitute folly or weakness for generosity, 
 Belle and you will take a more masculine, and if 
 may be, a more rational view of the case.” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt Mary, are you, like the rest of the 
 world, giving up all feeling for what you call 
 rationality ?” 
 
 “ No, my dear child, but I have learned that 
 what you call feeling, what constitutes the dream, 
 of a few weeks, months, or it may be years of 
 youth, makes but a small portion of the reality or 
 the worth of life. Providence has kindly so orga- 
 nised man that he cannot waste his affections in 
 one hopeless, fruitless concentration ; nor lose 
 life in a tissue of vain regrets. The stream that 
 is obstructed in one course will take another, and 
 enrich and beautify regions for which it did not, 
 at first, seem destined.” 
 
 I sabella was not just now in a humour to assent 
 to Mrs. Archer’s conclusions, but her mind was 
 the good ground in which the seed could not be 
 lost. She was conscious that, though her aunt’s 
 strictures were ostensibly directed to Herbert, 
 they had some bearing on herself. She was in a 
 position the most tormenting to a mind prompt 
 both to decide and act. Since Lady Anne’s ar- 
 rival she had rarely seen Meredith. This she 
 admitted was in part her own fault. She had been 
 restrained by her promise to Sir Heury Clinton 
 from communicating to Jasper the favour granted 
 to Herbert. “ But when she gave the promise to 
 Sir Henry, ought she not to have excepted J asper ? 
 Was it not due to him ? and would she not have 
 made the exception, through all the blushing and 
 faltering it must have cost her, had she not felt 
 sure that Sir Henry himself would have made 
 Meredith a party to the secret?” 
 
 Sir Henry, after a little reflection, was ashamed 
 of the spell that had been wrought on him, and 
 communicated it to no one. 
 
 Merediih, partly spurred by pride, partly led on 
 by the incessant manoeuvres of his mother, partly 
 incited by the worldly advantages of an alliance 
 with Lady Anne, and flattered too by his cousin’s 
 frank and affectionate manner, was fast verging 
 towards that point, to attain which his mother 
 had compassed sea and land. 
 
 He had confidently expected that Isabella would 
 at once and fully have reciprocated his declarations 
 of attachment. Her reserve had abased his pride, 
 piqued his vanity, and disappointed his afftclion. 
 He believed he truly loved her, and he did, as 
 truly as he could love. But Jasper Meredith’s 
 love, like water that rises through minerals, was 
 impregnated with much foreign material. He at 
 first had no formed purpose in his devotion to 
 Lady Anne ; but after being twice or thrice re- 
 pulseii from Mr. Linwood’s door by “My master 
 is better, sir, but not yet down stairs;” and 
 “Miss Isabella is very much engaged,’’ be half 
 resolved no longer to resist the “ tide in his affairs 
 that was leading on to fortune.” 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Some die of weariness, 
 
 Some of disease, and some insanity. 
 
 And some of withered or of broken hearts ; 
 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are numbered in the lists of fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Bessie Lee’s sylvan lodge harmonised so well 
 with her wild fancies, that when she awoke it 
 seemed no more strange to her than her accus- 
 tomed sleeping. place. Whatever she might be 
 destined afterward to suffer from this exposure 
 oh the damp earth through a cold autumnal night, 
 she was as unconscious of the ills that flesh is 
 heir to as if she were a disembodied spirit. 
 “ Sluggard that I am !” she exclaimed, starting 
 up and shaking oflf the heavy dew-drops, “the 
 spirits of morning, are at worship, and I sleeping ! 
 the birds are singing their hymns, and I, that 
 have been watched and guarded, am si eat.” She 
 leaned her cheek on the mossy stem of a tree, 
 and began to repeat the Lord’s Prayer: “ ‘ Our 
 Father’ — ay, nature worships with me — beautiful 
 waterfall, majestic trees, glad light, is he not our 
 father? — ‘ hallowed be his name,’ — ye hallow his 
 name, for ye are the manifestations of his wisdom, 
 the ministers of his love, the shadows of celestial 
 beauty 1 — ‘ thy kingdom come’ — it is come here — 
 obedience, peace, serenity, are his kingdom — war is 
 not— care is not — love is not — love to fallible 
 mortals, for there no peace is — sol will on my pil- 
 grimage, and break the last link in the chain — then 
 will I return here, finish my prayer, and lay me 
 down and rest agaia.” 
 
 Thus mingling with her celestial meditations 
 one earthly purpose, she retraced her way to the 
 road, and looked about in vain for her horse, who, 
 having obeyed his rational impulses, was now far 
 on his way homeward. “ It was not kind of you. 
 Steady,” she said, as she came to the conclusion 
 he had abandoned her ; but without one thought 
 of relinqu'shing her purpose, or one doubt of her 
 ability to effect it, she walked on for about half 
 a mile, and probably began to have some obscure 
 sense of tremulousness and weakness, for seeing 
 a 'horse equipped with saddle and bridle hitched 
 to the fence, and a basket standing by him con- 
 taining biscuits and apples, she laughed, exclaim- 
 ing, “Who would have thought it!’’ and then 
 checking herself, raised her eyes devoutly and 
 added, “ yet, I might have known they would be 
 provided by the wayside, just when I wanted 
 them. I wonder there is not a woman’s saddle, 
 but I can manage and taking the basket in one 
 hand, she mounted, and rode briskly on. She 
 proceeded without any hindrance or molestation 
 whatever, now and then, probably, from an in- 
 supportable feeling of weariness, dismounting and 
 lying for a moment under the shadow of a tree. 
 It was about the middle of the afternoon, when 
 she was entering the street of a little village, that 
 she heard behind her the trampling of horses on 
 the full gallop, and outcries of “Stop thief 1” 
 Her horse, incited more by the uproar at his heels 
 than by any impulse she was able to give him, 
 sprang forward. The people rushed from their 
 houses — their screams bewildered her. She gazed 
 fearfully around her, her wearied horse soon 
 
 83 
 
 slackened his speed, and one of her pursuers 
 reached her just at the moment that, having 
 dropped the bridle from her powerless hand, she 
 was falling from her saddle. “Time you was 
 spent, young madam,” cried her rough assistant, 
 as, supporting half her weight, he prevented her 
 sinking to the ground. 
 
 The people of the village, chiefly women and 
 children, gathered around, all gazing on Bessie 
 with scrutinising glances. Her wandering eye 
 and blanched cheek must have half told her story, 
 for not one of them spoke till she, drawing up 
 from the arm that supported her, asked, with an 
 air of offended dignity, “ Why are ye so unman- 
 nerly to me ?’’ 
 
 “ Ha, ha — not quite so topping, miss — serve 
 your writ, Mr. Sheriff,” replied one of her 
 pursuers. “ Pretty high, to talk about manners, 
 when you’ve been riding fifty miles on a stolen 
 horse.’’ 
 
 “Stolen!” echoed Bessie, “indeed, I did not 
 steal him.’’ 
 
 “ How upon ’arth did you get him then ? 
 answer that.” 
 
 “I took him — ” the standers-by interrupted her 
 with a coarse laugh ; but Bessie, without heeding 
 them, proceeded : “I took him, where he stood 
 awaiting me.” 
 
 “Now, if that is not a high joke 1 Just hear 
 me, good people — the sheriff can swear to all I 
 say. This is Squire Saunders’s horse — you have 
 all heard of the squire?” They had all heard of 
 Squire Saunders, whose fame rayed through a 
 large circle. “Well, the squire rode up to his 
 wood-lot this morning, to see about a trespass 
 that’s committing there — you know, sheriff; and 
 the squire just hitched his horse to the fence, and 
 went up into the woods, and got out of his reck- 
 oning ; and two hours after, when he came, upon 
 the road ” 
 
 “ Take care of that poor young woman,” cried 
 a benevolent looking man who was passing in an 
 ox-cart, “ don’t you see she can’t stand ? ’ 
 
 “ I am tired,’’ said Bessie, sinking to the 
 ground, and putting her hand to her head ; “ this 
 noise tires me.” 
 
 The spectators exchanged glances of inquiry 
 and pity ; the sheriff looked compassionate ; his 
 companion sturdy, and resolved not to be taken in. 
 The man of the ox-cart stopped his vehicle, and 
 joined the group : ‘‘ are ye all blind and deaf,’’ he 
 added, “ that ye do not see the poor girl’s mind 
 is unsettled ?” 
 
 “ Oh no, friend,” said Bessie, shaking her 
 head, and looking up with a faint smile, ‘ you are 
 very much mistaken — my mind is not the least 
 un-ettled— indeed, it every day becomes stronger 
 and more capable than it was. ’ 
 
 Her champion looked to the standers hy for 
 their assent to this confirmation of his opinion, 
 and then turning to the sheriff, said, “ You will 
 not, I am sure, trouble her farther ?” 
 
 “ No, I’ll be hanged if I do 1” 
 
 “Nor you?’’ appealing to the sheriff’s attend- 
 ant. 
 
 “ I don’t know — if I were sure — I don’t like to 
 be outwitted — remember, sheriff, it was for horse 
 and thief the squire offered the reward.’’ 
 
 “ The devil take the reward, Dan ! ’ 
 
 “ You may say so— for you that’s got an 
 office can afford it, but I’m a volunteer. But 
 since you all take on so about it, if you’re a mind 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 84 
 
 to contribute and pay something towards my ex- 
 penses and trouble and so on, I’ll trust to the 
 squire for the rest.” 
 
 “ I have not one copper to pay,’’ said Bessie’s 
 friend. 
 
 “Pay! is that all he wants ?” asked Bessie, 
 thrusting her hand into her pocket, and giving 
 into his greedy grasp her few coins ; “ perhaps it 
 was meant,’’ she added, in a confidential tone to 
 her champion, “ that I should pay for the use of 
 the horse, but I know he was provided for me. 
 Are you satisfied?’’ she asked, in a tone to pierce 
 the heart ; “ indeed 1 have given you all.” 
 
 “ He shall be satisfied— he must be satisfied !’’ 
 cried every voice at once; and the man, perceiving 
 the general sentiment was against him, was glad 
 to mount his horse and follow the sheriff, who was 
 already leading away Squire Saunders’s recovered 
 property. It was evident the sheriff’s organ of 
 benevolence had resisted the influence of his sta- 
 tion. 
 
 “ And now what is to be done with this poor 
 helpless thing?” asked Barlow, the kind-hearted 
 man who had so far-betriended Bessie. At this 
 question, two or three of the spectators slunk 
 away ; the rest exchanged fearful and uncertain 
 glances; one or two murmured that they “did 
 not love to have crazy folks in their houses and 
 it was obvious that the benevolence of all was 
 restrained by that irrational fear which so much 
 increases the sufferings of those who are mentally 
 diseased. No one offering an asylum for the poor 
 wanderer, Barlow turned to her and asked, 
 “ What will you donow, my poor child?” 
 
 “ Oh, go on.’’ 
 
 Go on ! where, in the name of wonder ?” 
 
 “ To New York.’’ 
 
 “ Impossible ! how are you to go ?’’ 
 
 I must go — more than life depends on it— now, 
 I cannot tell exactly. I do not think I could 
 walk very far” — she vainly attempted to rise ; 
 “but do not be concerned about me, for certainly 
 He who hath helped me so far will not now desert 
 me.’’ 
 
 The gentle girl’s unconsciousness of her wants 
 was more touching than the most passionate 
 appeal. 
 
 “ Will you go home with me ?” asked Barlow, 
 after wiping his eyes, and clearing his voice. 
 
 “ Oh, no, I thank you ; I cannot lose any 
 time.’’ 
 
 “ Poor child! but,’’ he added, “ I live six miles 
 nearer to New York than this, and I can take you 
 so far on your way.” 
 
 “Then indeed I will go. Did I not tell 
 you, O ye of little faith, that the way would be 
 provided?’’ Again, and again without success, 
 she attempted to rise. 
 
 “ Lend a hand, neighbours,’’ said Barlow ; 
 
 the straw on my cart is clean, and we will lay 
 her on it.” Bessie was placed in the cart, and 
 driven to Barlow’s humble habitation, a dwelling- 
 house adjoining a blacksmith’s shop, within a few 
 miles of Hartford, in Connecticut. 
 
 Barlow would have been justifiable, if overman 
 was, in going on “ the other side,’’ and leaving 
 Bessie Lee to the chance mercies of others. But 
 Barlow’s heart bore a faint resemblance to his 
 own anvil ; the stroke of his fellow- creature’s 
 necessities always brought forth sparks of kind- 
 ness. 
 
 “Dear me!’’ exclaimed his wife, when he 
 
 entered their little dwelling, supporting Bessie 
 with one arm ; “ whom have you got here ?’’ 
 
 “ Open the door into the bedroom, Martha, and 
 I’ll tell you afterwards.” The door was promptly 
 opened, the bedspread turned down, and Bessie 
 laid upon the clean inviting bed. 
 
 “ Oh, thank you, thank you!’’ she said; “1 
 shall tell mother and Eliot how very kind you are 
 to me.’’ 
 
 “ Dear me !” said pitiful Mrs. Barlow. 
 
 “ Oh, ma’am, I am very well, ’ said Bessie, 
 replying to her compassionate look ; “only a little 
 tired — do not let me oversleep to-morrow morn- 
 ing.” 
 
 *' Give her some warm milk, Martha ; and let 
 her sleep, if she can — it’s her only chance.” 
 
 The hospitality was done, and Bessie left to the 
 ministry of nature, while Barlow related to his 
 marvelling wife all he knew of her. “ Well,” 
 said she, as he concluded, “ I do feel for her folks ; 
 and yet she don’t look as if she belonged to this 
 world. I 1 ave dreamed of seeing angels, and she 
 looks like them ; but like nothing made out of 
 clay. I’m glad you have brought her home, 
 Barlow ; it’s a great easement to the heart to do a 
 kindness, though we are in a poor case to enter- 
 tain strangers, even if they be angels.’’ 
 
 “ We be in a poor situation ; but it would have 
 been awful to have left such a young, delicate, 
 innocent, beautiful fellow creature to perish by the 
 wayside !’’ 
 
 “ Dear me ! yes, indeed.’’ 
 
 “Or to have left her to people that were so 
 slack about helping her.” 
 
 “ It would.’’ 
 
 “ And so, knowing your feelings, Martha, I’ve 
 done what I h..ve done.” 
 
 “You've done right, Barlow.” 
 
 “ I don’t know, you are so poorly, and the boys 
 sick. Have they missed their chill to- day ?” 
 
 “No, neither they nor I.’’ 
 
 Barlow rose, looked at the pale faces of his 
 little boys, who were lying in a truckle bed, then 
 at his sickly wife, and shook his head. 
 
 “Martha,! am afraid I have been presump- 
 tuous.’’ 
 
 “ Dear me, husband 1 don’t worry about that ; 
 what would be the use of sickness if it did not 
 give us feelings for others ?” 
 
 “ True, Martha; and somehow I could not help 
 it; and now I can’t but think Providence will 
 help us through with what his finger pointed out. 
 I have repented of a great many things in my day ; 
 but 1 never saw reason to repent of a good deed 
 — look in the bedroom, Martha, and see if she is 
 sleeping.’’ 
 
 “ Dear me, no ! but there’s a quiet smile on her 
 lips, and her beautiful eyes are raised ; and she 
 seems just like a lamb looking at the shepherd.’’ 
 
 “If she’s still she may fall asleep; so let us 
 ask a blessing on her and the rest of us, and then 
 we’ll to bed ourselves.” 
 
 What grace and dignity do the devotion and 
 compassion of such pure hearts impart to the 
 dwelling of the poor man ! Oh ye, who fare 
 sumptuously every day, imitate him in his only 
 luxury — the luxury of deeds never to be re 
 pented of 1 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The man I speak of cannot in the world be 
 singly counterpoised. 
 
 A week subsequent to Bessie Lee’s arrival at 
 Barlow’s, a violent hallooing and knocking were 
 heard at the blacksmith’s shop ; and no answer 
 being given, Barlow’s house-door was soon beset 
 with impatient knocks and cries of “ Halloo, 
 blacksmith, you are wanted 1” 
 
 Barlow rose from the bed, where he had been 
 laid by a severe attack of intermittent fever, and 
 answered, that he was utterly unable to go to his 
 workshop. “"What does he say?” asked a 
 young gentleman in a foreign accent, who, with 
 two or three attendants, was impatiently awaiting 
 Barlow’s services. 
 
 “ He says he cannot come, sir.’’ 
 
 “ Cannot 1 Ce n’est pas le mot d’aujourd’hui." 
 
 Neither, I think, sir," replied the first 
 speaker, “ is rnuitt current in these parts.” 
 
 “ Vous avez raison, mon ami ; mais mon Dieu 1 
 What are we to do 
 
 The gentleman, being very much in the habit 
 of overcoming other men’s impossibilities every 
 day of his life, dismounted, gave his bridle to an 
 attendant, and walked up to the open door of our 
 friend Barlow, who, on seeing the uniform of an 
 American general officer, was somewhat abashed, 
 though its wearer was a fair young man, with a 
 remarkable gentle and benignant countenance. 
 
 If it were barely possible, sir,” said Barlow, “ I 
 should be happy to serve you ; but I am scarcely 
 able to stand.’’ 
 
 “Ah, my good friend, I see you are in a bad 
 position, and your wife too. How long have you 
 been ill, madame ?” 
 
 “I have bad the fever ’nagur, sir, six weeks, 
 off and on.” 
 
 “ Fever 'nagur ! Qu’est que c'est ?’’ asked the 
 gentleman, aside, of his companion. 
 
 “Fever and ague.’’ 
 
 “ Ah, je coraprends ! very bad malady, ma- 
 dame, very bad ; you should take every day a 
 little port wine." 
 
 Mrs. Barlow smiled. “Dear me! yes, sir, if 
 I bad it. ” 
 
 “ You go or send often to Hartford ?” resumed 
 the stranger, addressing Barlow. 
 
 “ Almost every day, sir.” 
 
 ** Ah ! very well ! I have some port wine there 
 in a friend's cellar. I will give youan order for a 
 bottle or two ; and I pray you to send for it ; and 
 you and your wife, and these little fellows, who, 
 by their blue lips, have the ague too, shall drink 
 to my health and your own.” 
 
 “ Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Barlow; “a little 
 port wine is what I have been all along thinking 
 would cure us — dear me!” 
 
 “ Is it only one horse, sir, that wants shoeing?’’ 
 as-ked Barlow, tying a handkerchief round his 
 throat. 
 
 Only one, my good friend; my own brave 
 beast, who has done much good service, and has 
 much more to do. Pauvre bete I it goes to my 
 heart to have his hoof broken up." 
 
 Barlow felt as if his strength came with the 
 sympathy and consideration manifested by the 
 person who needed it. “ I guess, sir,” he said, 
 
 I could stand long enough to do so small ajob.” 
 
 85 
 
 “ Ah, my friend, mille — a thousand thanks ; but 
 spare your strength to do what no one else can 
 do. Here, orderly, kindle up the blacksmith’s 
 fire quickly.” While this was in preparation, the 
 stranger took writing materials from his pocket, 
 and addressed the following note to a person, 
 whose munificence is still remembered, though he 
 has long ago gone to the enjoyment of his trea- 
 sures, where he was then wisely laying them up. 
 
 “My dear Wadsworth, 
 
 “ I have just chanced to call at a poor black* 
 smith’s, who, with his worthy family, is at death's 
 door with a protracted intermittent. It seems to 
 me that port, like that I drank with you yester- 
 day, might restore them. As the man looks like 
 too independent an American to beg a favour, I 
 have taken the liberty to give him this order for 
 a bottle or two, telling him, with a poetic truth, 
 that I had wine in your cellar. It is your own 
 fault if all your friends feel that they have a pro- 
 perty in your possessions. Adieu." 
 
 Just a.s the stranger had signed and sealed this 
 billet the inner door opened, and Bessie Lee ap- 
 peared, her cheeks dyed with fever, her eyts 
 bright as gems, her lips of the brightest vermilion, 
 and her beautiful hair hanging in many a tangled 
 curl over her face and neck. “ Mon Dieu I" ex- 
 claimed the stranger. 
 
 “Dear me ! my child, go back," said Mrs. Bar- 
 low, gently repulsing her. Bessie, however, with- 
 out heeding her, pressed forward, and addressing 
 herself to the stranger in an energetic business 
 sort of a way, “ You are going to New York?" 
 she said. 
 
 “Not exactly, young lady ; but I am going ia 
 that direction.” 
 
 “ Do go back into the bedroom, — do, husband, 
 persuade her — ” 
 
 “ No, no, Martha, let her have her own way.” 
 
 “Thank you,” said Bessie. “Will you be 
 kind enough, sir, to step into my room ? — this 
 buzzing confuses me.” 
 
 The stranger, with characteristic sagacity, had 
 already half penetrated the truth. He motioned 
 to Bessie to precede him, saying, in a low voice to 
 Mrs. Barlow, “Your husband is right. It is 
 best your child should have her own way.” 
 
 “ Dear me, she is not our child, sir I” 
 
 “She does not look as if she were,” thought 
 the stranger ; but there was no time for farther 
 explanation. As soon as they were fairly within 
 the inner room, Bessie shut the door. She 
 seemed at first disconcerted ; but instantly rally- 
 ing, she said, “ I am unknown to you, sir, but 
 your face seems to have that heavenly sentence 
 written on it: ‘ Ask and it shall be given to you.’ ’’ 
 
 “ Then why do you hesitate ?” 
 
 “ They would think it so strange that I should 
 be asking such a favour of a stranger— a young 
 gentleman — ” 
 
 “ Who are they ?” 
 
 “ My m Jther and brother." 
 
 “Their names, my friend ?” 
 
 “ I cannot tell their names. My present ob- 
 ject is to get to New York as soon as possible, 
 where I have business of the greatest importance. 
 I have been staying here for some days with very 
 kind people. I would not wound their feelings 
 on any account,’’ she added, in a whisper; “ but 
 * they arc very weak-minded— no judgment at all; 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 86 
 
 indeed, there are few people that have, so I do not 
 choose to confide to them the reason of my ac- 
 tions. All will be explained and published when 
 I return from New York." 
 
 “ But, my dear y' ung lady, are you aware that 
 New York is in possession of the enemy ?” 
 
 “Oh, sir, I have no enemies.” 
 
 “ Rough soldiers — foreign soldiers, my fair 
 friend, will make no exception in your favour ” 
 
 “ You do not know,” she replied, drawing up 
 her little person with an air of assured but mys- 
 terious superiority, “ you do not know that I am 
 one. of those of whom it was said, that ‘ their 
 angels do always stand before my Father;’ and I 
 could tell you of such difficult passes where in- 
 visible spirits have guided and tended me — so 
 faithfully ! but that at another time. There is 
 not the slightest danger in my going to New 
 York — indeed, I have no choice ; I must go.” 
 
 “ Do you know any one in New York?" 
 
 “ Yes, Miss Linwood, the friend to whom I am 
 going.” 
 
 “ Miss Linwood? Miss Isabella Linwood ? Ah, 
 1 have heard of her.” 
 
 “ She is not my only — ” friend, she was going 
 to say ; a shade passed over her countenance, and 
 she added, “ acquaintance in New York. Now, 
 sir, all that I am going to ask of you is for liberty 
 to ride behind you, or one of your attendants, 
 as far as you go on my way.” 
 
 The stranger, compassionate as he felt, could 
 scarcely forbear a smile. “ We should be hardly 
 a proper escort for you, my fair friend,” he re- 
 plied. 
 
 “ Oh, fear not for that; I am so fenced about 
 •—so guarded by unseen and powerful spirits, that 
 it matters not with whom, if I but get forward.” 
 
 After a moment of anxious thought, “ Tell me, 
 young lady,” he replied, “ the name of that bro- 
 ther of whom you spoke, and on my honour I will 
 do all in my power for you.’’ 
 
 “ No — never — this is a temptation of that evil 
 one who so long led me astray, to turn me again 
 from the straight path, to frustrate my purpose. 
 I do not blame you, sir. He has before, in my 
 dreams and at other times, whispered to me, that 
 if I were but to speak my brother’s name, I should 
 be cared for ; but this would be trusting to a hu- 
 man arm. No; his name must not pass my lips.” 
 If she had then spoken it, how different would 
 have been the fate of many individuals ! 
 
 The benevolent stranger perceived that the im- 
 pressions (whether illusions or not) from which 
 Bessie acted were inellaceable, and that she had 
 that fixedness of purpose from which it seems im 
 possible, by reason or art of any sort, to turn an 
 insane person. He was at an utter loss what to 
 do or say, and merely murmured, “ Would to 
 Heaven I could serve you !” 
 
 “ You would and cannot! Indeed, you look to 
 me like those favourites of Heaven, who both will 
 and can. Who are you ?’’ 
 
 “ I am more generous than you, my friend, and 
 I will tell you. My name is La Fayette.” 
 
 " La Fayette ! Now is it not wonderful,’’ ex- 
 claimed Bessie, clasping her hands and looking 
 upward, her whole face bright and rapturous — 
 ** Is it not wonderful that he who is chosen and 
 set apart of God for the cause of freedom, the 
 friend of Washington, the best friend of my strug- 
 gling country, should be guided to this little 
 dwelling to find me out and aid me ? You cannot 
 
 choose but serve me,” she added, laying her hand 
 on bis, and faintly and wildly laughing. 
 
 ” And I will serve you, my poor girl, so help me 
 God !’’ he replied, kissing her faded, feverish hand. 
 
 “ Sit you here quietly, and I will see what can be 
 done.” 
 
 “ I will wait patiently ; but remember, there is 
 but one thing to be done.’’ 
 
 La Fayette appeared in the outer room. His 
 eyes were suffused with tears, and for a moment 
 he found it difficult to command his voice» 
 
 “ You can make nothing of her,” said Mrs. Bar- 
 low, looking inquiringly- “No? I thought so— 
 she is the meekest and the beautifullest mortal, 
 the gentlest and the most obstinate, that ever I 
 came across.” 
 
 “ Where is your husband, my good friend?’’ 
 
 “ Shoeing your horse, sir.” 
 
 “ Ah, that’s very kind, very kind indeed. I 
 will go and speak with him.” Accordingly, he 
 proceeded to the workshop, and there received 
 from Barlow all the particulars he could com- 
 municate of poor Bessie Lee. “ It is not only her 
 master beautiful looks, sir,’’ said Barlow, in con- 
 clusion ; “ but she seems so pure in heart, and so 
 well nurtured, and so pretty spoken. She draws 
 many a tear from us — being weak and sick, sir, 
 makes one easy to cry.’’ 
 
 “ The fountain of such tears is a good heart, 
 my friend ; and no one need apologise for letting 
 them gush out now and then. You say you 
 have made every effort to find out who the poor 
 girl is ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, indeed I have; but it is impossible, 
 
 I have thought of advertising the stray lamb,” 
 he added, with a smile ; “ but somehow I did not 
 love to pul her in the newspapers.” 
 
 “ That, perhaps, would have been wisest; but 
 now I think the best thing that can be done is to 
 gratify her ruling desire, and get her to New York 
 as soon as possible.” 
 
 “ Ay, indeed, sir ; but how get her there now ?’* 
 
 “ Why, ray friend, you must furnish the way, 
 and I the means. You know that those of us who 
 are best off in these times have no superfluity. I 
 cannot spare more than guinea from the small 
 sum I have with me.” 
 
 “ A guinea is a great sura, sir, in these hard , 
 times ; but — ” 
 
 “ But not enough to get the young lady to 
 New York, I am awaie of that; and therefore, 
 in addition, I shall g ve you my watch, which, 
 being of gold and a repeater, will enable you to 
 raise enough for her necessities, and a surplus to 
 make your family comfortable till you come to the 
 anvil again.” 
 
 “ This is too much,” replied Barlow, bending 
 low over the horse’s hoof, either his gratitude or 
 his sickness making it “ easy for him to cry 
 again.” 
 
 “ Not too much, nor quite enough, my friend. 
 You will find some worthy man and woman to ac- 
 company her to the American lines ; and I will do 
 what I can to secure her safe conduct. She will 
 certainly go safely to the British posts, and be- 
 yond, I trust. Surely none of God’s creatures, 
 who have a trace of his image, can be inhuman to 
 her ; but we must take all precautions.” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed, sir. War, like a slaughter-house, 
 breeds vermin ; and there be those abroad whose 
 hearts are as hard as my anvil.” 
 
 “ We will do our best to protect her from such.’* 
 
THE LINWOODS. 87 
 
 La Fayette then wrote an earnest recommenda- 
 tion of Bessie to the protection and kindness of 
 all Americans. He requested the American officer 
 to forward her under the protection of a flag, and 
 finally addressed a note to the British commander, 
 and all his officers and agents, stating the condi- 
 tion of the young person whom he commended to 
 their humanity, and praying them to expedite 
 her progress to New York, where (as he thought 
 proper to state, knowing Mr. Linwood to be a 
 tory) the friend to whose house she was going, 
 Robert Linwood, Esq., resided. The surprise of 
 Barlow when he received these notes, and saw 
 the powerful, all-honoured, and loved name of La 
 Fayette attached to them, is indescribable. La 
 Fayette gave the watch into his hands, and with- 
 out waiting for his thanks, he pressed Barlow’s 
 hand, mounted his horse, joined his companions, 
 and rode off at full speed. Barlow gazed after 
 him till the cavalcade disappeared, then, after a 
 fervent thanksgiving to God, he said, looking at 
 the watch, “ I must pledge this; but if Heaven 
 prosper me I will redeem it, and leave it, as better 
 than all my fast property, to my children.” 
 
 We have graced our page by recording here one 
 of His unnumbered good deeds, who has filled up 
 the measure of human benevolence by every mani- 
 festation, from the least to the greatest, of this 
 divine quality. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 But this was what I knew had come to pass, 
 
 When, answ’ring with your vacant no, and yes, 
 
 You feed upon your thoughts and mark’d me not. 
 
 “ My dear Lady Anne,” said Mrs. Meredith 
 to her niece, as they were one morning sitting 
 together, ” you seem to have taken a wonderful 
 liking to that knotting (Lady Anne had become, 
 as our friend Rivington has it, “ thrifty in the 
 knotting amusement”) ; where in the world did 
 you learn it ?” 
 
 “ Mrs. Linwood taught me.” 
 
 “ So I should think. It is as monotonous as 
 she is.” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt, I find it charming! It is the very 
 perfection of existence to have an occupation like 
 this for your fingers, while your heart and mind 
 are left free to rove to the end of the world, or, 
 what is better still, to be at the service of some 
 agreeable companion you may chance to have be- 
 side you.” 
 
 “ Chacun a son gout!” said Mrs. Meredith, 
 taking up a book, with a vexing consciousness that 
 she was not the “ agreeable companion” preferred 
 to her niece’s maiden meditations. Lady Anne 
 had not spoken five words for the hour they had 
 been sitting together. As the morning was rainy 
 the ladies were likely to remain uninterrupted ; 
 and it was too templing an opportunity for Mrs. 
 Meredith to make an attack she had long been 
 meditating, to be foregone ; so she put aside her 
 book and her vexation, said, in a voice sufficiently 
 untoned for an old diplomatist, “ You seem quite 
 fond of the Linwoods, my love?” 
 
 “ I am, aunt.” 
 
 “ You find the choleric, peevish, egotistical old 
 man charming ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Indeed, I do sincerely think him a delightful 
 old gentlemau.” 
 
 “ And that living manifestation of all the me- 
 diocrities, his patient consort?” 
 
 ” The most amiable woman in the world.” 
 
 “ And their lofty, capricious daughter, now si- 
 lent and infolded in her own sublimities, like a ' 
 worshipped idol on its pedestal, and now gracious 
 as a new-made queen?’’ 
 
 “ And always captivating and gentle, aunt.’' 
 Mrs. Meredith thre w up her hands and eyes. “ I 
 mean almost always gentle as a woman should be. 
 For my part, I do not fancy perpetual sunshine. 
 
 I am much of a certain English sea-captain’s way 
 of thinking, who, after being becalmed in the 
 sunny waters of France, sailed away in one of his 
 own north-easters and thick fogs, and thanked 
 ffieaven he was out of that d — d sunshine.” 
 
 “ Your illustration is a fortunate one, Lady 
 Anne. I congratulate you on your peculiar taste. 
 But for this gusty variety in the temper of your 
 friend, your long evenings with that little family 
 coterie would be rather of the becalmed order,” 
 
 “ The evenings never seem long to me,” replied 
 Lady Anne, her face dimpling with recollected 
 pleasure. 
 
 ” Ho w in the world do you kill time ?” 
 
 “ Oh ! the old gentleman and Mrs. Archer, and 
 Isabella and her mother, play whist ” 
 
 “And you sit by and look on .5* This is in- 
 scrutable, that you, my dear chill, who are so 
 admired, courted, worshipped, should be content 
 to play so obscure a part. If there were a young 
 man in the case — if that son of Mr. Linwood 
 were at home — by the way, they seem to make 
 themselves exceedingly comfortable while he is in 
 durance. Yes, if the juice of ‘ that little western 
 flower’ were on your eyelids, I could understand 
 why you should thus ‘madly dote.’ ’’ 
 
 Lady Anne laughed, and shook her head, as if 
 to say, “ Puzz'e it out if you can.’’ 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was displeased ; but, like many 
 persons who have self-command and good taste, 
 she chose to show her angry feelings in the light 
 of gentle emotions. Her voice faltered, and her 
 eyes filled with tears (her eyes, it may be remem- 
 bered, were fine, the prototypes of her son’s bril- 
 liant orbs). “I ought, my dear girl,” she said, 
 “to be satisfied if you are : but I have so set my 
 heart upon you, the only child of my dear la- 
 mented brother. I had hoped that Jasper and I 
 should make our home attractive to you, that we 
 might have, at least, a portion of your affection.” 
 
 “ My dear aunt,” exclaimed Lady Anne, throw- 
 ing down her knotting, “ I — I — ” do love you 
 dearly, she was on the point of adding, but she 
 was too honest to indulge her good nature at the 
 expense of truth, and she said, “ I feel your kind- 
 ness to me. I should be most ungrateful if I did 
 not.” 
 
 “ Grateful, undoubtedly you are, and so you 
 would have been to any faithful guardian ; but 
 the heart asks something more. You in inifest 
 neither to me nor Jasper more than the affecliou 
 of a common relative. Whatever place 1 may 
 take in the scale of your friends, your cousin is 
 certainly no common person.” 
 
 “ No, indeed, that he is not,” said Lady Anne, 
 charmed tliat she could soothe her aunt and 
 speak sincerely. “Jasper is by far the most 
 agreeable geuileinan you have introduced to me 
 here. He is a little abstracted now and then j 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 88 
 
 but whea he knows what he is saying, he is per- 
 fectly delightful. I told Isabella Liawood last 
 evening that it was a mystery to me— U7;e veritablj 
 vurveille — that she had never fallen in love with 
 Jasper.” 
 
 “ What did she say ?” asked Mrs. Meredith, 
 eagerly, and off her guard. 
 
 “I do not remember. I believe she said 
 nothing.” 
 
 “A provoking, inscrutable person she is,” 
 thought Mrs. Meredith ; and then made a remark 
 which she meant to be what the lawyers call lead- 
 ing : — “ There was a report, before we came, of an 
 attachment between Jasper and Miss Linwood.’’ 
 
 “ Bless me ! was there ?” 
 
 “ Why are you surprised ?” 
 
 “For the best reason in the world, aunt — 
 neither seems to fancy the other. As for Isabella, 
 whenever I praise cousin Jasper, she is either 
 quite silent, or turns the conversation, as if she 
 did cot like to appear to disagree with me.” 
 
 “ Ah ! my young lady,” thought the aunt, “ you 
 do not see quite through a millstone.” 
 
 Jasper at this moment entered. “ Come here, 
 cousin," said Lady Anne ; and when he approached, 
 she added, in a playful voice, putting ber hand 
 (the prettiest hand in the world) on his arm, 
 
 *' Were you ever in love with ” her mischievous 
 
 pause nearly suspended the pulsations of Mere- 
 dith’s heart — “ with — don’t be scared — the most 
 loveable person in the world ?” 
 
 He had recovered himself. “If I never have 
 been,” he replied, seizing her hand, and kissing 
 it — I shall soon be— irretrievably.” 
 
 The past, the future, rushed upon him, and 
 overpowered his self-command. He turned from 
 Lady Anne, and left the apartment. “ Oh, Jasper, 
 Jasper,” cried Lady Anne, blushing, laughing, and 
 springing after him, “stop one minute — you did 
 not understand me.” But before she reached the 
 stairs, the outer door closed after Meredith. Mrs. 
 Meredith clasped her hands. Jasper was w'on— 
 Lady Anne must of course be ! — and she seemed 
 to herself to have reached the summit of her 
 Pisgah, and thence to descry the promised land 
 for which she had come to the wilderness. That 
 “there is many a slip between the cup and the 
 lip,” is a proverb somewhat musty; but it pithily 
 indicates the sudden mutations to which poor 
 humanity is liable. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 I would to Heaven I had your potency. 
 
 And you were Isabel! should it then be thus? 
 
 No ! 1 would tell what ’twere to be a judge, 
 
 And what a prisoner. 
 
 We change the scene from Mrs. Meredith’s 
 draw'ing-room to the gloomiest cell in the city 
 prison, where, stretched on a heap of straw, lay a 
 poor wretch condemned to be hung at four o’clock 
 in the afternoon of that day. The door opened, 
 and Isabella entered, attended by Rose, and es- 
 corted by a turnkey, who, having set down a 
 candle to aid the feeble light of the cell, went out 
 himself, and locked the door upon them. 
 
 “Take up the light. Rose,’’ said Isabella, who 
 was shivering, not so much from the unsunned 
 
 air of the apartment, as at the presence of a 
 fellow-creature in such circumstances; “hold it 
 near him, Rose, so that I can see his face.’’ 
 
 Rose approached close to him, and said, as if 
 announcing the visit of an angel, “ Here’s a lady 
 come to see you.” He made no reply ; and, after 
 an eager survey, she turned to her young mistress 
 and said, “His senses are clean gone.” Isabella 
 held Rose’s arm while she gazed at him. His 
 face was ashen, his hair was in matted masses, 
 and his pale blue eye wandered inexpressively, 
 “Who are you?” asked Isabella. The music of 
 her voice for an instant fixed his uncertain gaze, 
 but he made no reply, and again his eye was bent 
 on vacancy. “Who are you, friend?” she re- 
 peated. 
 
 “ I a’n’t nobody,’’ he replied, inabroken voice, 
 between a laugh and a sob. 
 
 “ Have you no friend ?” He turned his face to 
 the straw, and muttered something inaudibly. 
 “ What does he say. Rose ?” 
 
 “Turn up your face so the lady can hear,’’ said 
 Rose. He obeyed ; but Rose’s voice seemed to 
 have broken the spell of her mistress’s, and he 
 remained silent. 
 
 “ Roxxse yourself, my good friend,” said Isabella 
 — “ I wish to be of service to you. Can you give 
 me any reason why you should not die the death 
 to which you are sentenced ?” 
 
 “ No — lief as not.’’ 
 
 “It cannot be — you must have something — 
 some friend for whom you would like to live and 
 come out of this place ?’’ 
 
 “ Had I — had!” the poor creature sobbed like 
 a child. 
 
 “Tell me,” said Isabella, eagerly, “the name 
 of this friend?” But the obstinate mood had 
 again seized him ; and though she varied the 
 question, and put it in every possible form, he 
 gave no sign of answer. 
 
 “Try him upon some other hook, Miss Belle,” 
 whispered Rose. 
 
 “ How long had you been with the Skinners 
 when you wrre taken ?” 
 
 Now he answered promptly — “ Years ! years !’* 
 
 “ Years ? — that cannot be.” 
 
 “ Cannot? A’n’t the minutes years to the child 
 that’s crying for its mammy, hey?” He had 
 risen on his elbow ; but he again sank back on 
 the straw, and renewed his piteous crying. 
 
 “ What does this mean ? What can be done for 
 him?” exclaimed Isabella. “My poor friend, 
 death is very near to you— do you know it ?” 
 
 “Yes, yes, lady. Ha’ n’t they brought me a 
 new suit ?” He pointed to the execution suit that 
 was folded up and lying beside him. “ There be 
 three times in every one's life when they’re sure 
 of a new suit:- -when they’re born, when they’re 
 married, and when they die. I’ve got my last 
 and prettiest, I’m thinking; for 1 remember 
 granny reading about the angels being in white 
 robes.” 
 
 His mind seemed now more collected, and 
 Isabella ventux*ed to ask him if he were willing 
 to die ? 
 
 “ Glad on’t — don’t look at me, lady, with that 
 bright watery eye — I am glad on't.” 
 
 “ Have you prayed for the pardon of your sins?” 
 
 “ Haven’t any — never had — never wronged any- 
 body, nor wished it, nor thought on’t.” 
 
 “ Merciful Heaven 1” exclaimed Isabella, “ what 
 is to be done ?” 
 
THE LIN WOODS. 
 
 For me, lady? — nothing.” 
 
 “ Do you not wish to live ?” 
 
 “ Yes — with him. ’Out him ? — no.” 
 
 “Who?” Isabella spoke too eagerly. He 
 looked at her, shook his head, then broke into 
 an exulting laugh, like a boy who has seen a 
 trap and escaped it. 
 
 ‘‘Miss Belle,” said Rose, ‘‘you are wasting 
 your tears and your feelings — we must all die once, 
 and the stroke can’t come in better time to him 
 than now, when he’s so willing to go.” 
 
 “Willing? glad, hey! nobody cares for me, and 
 I cares for nobody but him ; I think he be dead ; 
 but,” he added, laying his hand on Isabella’s arm, 
 “be he dead, or be he living, you’ll see him — 
 your soul is kin to his, lady — and mind you tell 
 him how the Skinners kept me till the reg’lars 
 came — did not tell ’em I was not a Skinner — 
 cheated ’em, hey !” 
 
 Isabella waited till he v/as through and then 
 said quietly, “Who did you tell me to give your 
 message to ?” 
 
 “ Misser Eliot.” At the utterance of this name 
 poor Kisel sank back on the straw, laughed and 
 cried, and attempted to whistle, but he was too 
 weak to control the muscles of his lips. By 
 degrees his voice subsided into low moanings, and 
 his eye wandered without light or direction from 
 his mind. The name had produced its effect upon 
 Isabella also. She bad been incited to this visit 
 to the prison by Herbert, who had communicated 
 to her, the previous evening, some particulars he 
 had received from a sub-keeper in the prison, in 
 relation to this condemned man, which had excited 
 a fear in Herbert's mind that there was some 
 mistake in relation to the culprit. Herbert had 
 not, however, the slightest suspicion that the poor 
 victim was Kisel. One or two particulars of the 
 convict’s apparent innocence and simplicity had 
 touched Isat)ella’s heart, and all night she had 
 been disturbed by the impression that he was un- 
 justly condemned. Some young ladies would have 
 rested satisfied with dropping a few pitiful tears 
 over such a mischance ; but Isabella Linwood was 
 of another temper, and having no male friend on 
 whom she could rely, she went herself to the 
 prison, and easily obtained access to the pri- 
 soner’s cell. The moment Kisel pi'onounced 
 Eliot’s name, she was convinced the condemned 
 must be the half-witted attendant of Captain Lee, 
 whom she had often heard Herbert describe; and 
 she doubted not that, by going to Sir Henry 
 Clinton and communicating her conviction, she 
 might obtain an order for having him identified by 
 confronting him with Herbert, or at any rate, 
 that she should procure a respite of his sentence. 
 Her carriage was awaiting her ; and having com- 
 municated her intentions to Rose, she directed 
 her to walk home, saying she should go imme- 
 diately to Sir Henry’s. Rose remonstrated. 
 
 ‘ ‘ What if he be the poor man you think for, Miss 
 Belle? life is nothing to him — he can do nothing 
 with it — he would not thank you for it.” 
 
 “But, Rose, the life of an innocent man is 
 sacred.” 
 
 “ La, Miss Belle, they don’t stand on such 
 trifles as innocence in war times — please don’t 
 go to Sir Henry’s. He won’t think the man be 
 longing to Captain Lee alters the case much, and 
 you don’t love to be denied, and — 1 don’t love to 
 have you.” 
 
 Rose was right. Her young mistress did not 
 
 89 
 
 “ love to be denied,” but the discipline of events 
 was fast subduing her self-will, and counteracting 
 the indulgence and flattery of her friends. A 
 common nature is not taught by experience, and 
 may, therefore, be either the tool or victim of cir- 
 cumstances : but a creature like Isabella Linwood, 
 composed of noble elements (if, as with her, these 
 elements are sustained by religious principle), has 
 within herself a self-rectifying and all-controlling 
 power. “Rose little dreams,” said she, as the 
 carriage-door closed upon her, “how my fondest 
 wishes and expectations have been denied and 
 defeated I God grant that the affections thus 
 cast back upon me may not degenerate to morbid 
 sensibility or pining selfishness, but that they may 
 be employed vigorously for the good of my fellow- 
 beings ! This poor harmless, broken creature, if 
 I could but save him ! — save him and render Eliot 
 Lee a service — Herbert’s friend — poor Bessie’s 
 brother -and the preserver of my dear little pet, 
 Lizzy l” 
 
 In the midst of these meditations she was 
 shown into Sir Henry’s library, where she per- 
 ceived Jasper Meredith seated at the table, reading 
 in the identical spot where, a few weeks before, 
 she had received so passionate a declaration from 
 him. A most embarrassing reminiscence of the 
 scene struck them both. He started fiom the 
 table, and she asked the servant to show her to 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 “The drawing-room was occupied and thus, 
 though the awkwardness of entering was in- 
 creased tenfold by the effort to avoid it, enter she 
 must. 
 
 Seldom have two persons been placed in a more 
 singular position in relation to each other. Their 
 destiny, while it was governed by inflexible prin- 
 ciples, seemed to have been at the mercy of the 
 merest accidents. “ If,” as Meredith had thought 
 a thousand times, while pursuing his retrospec- 
 tions, “ if Isabella had not hesitated, and while 
 she hesitated, Helen Ruthven had not broken in 
 upon us, our fate would then have been fixed ; or 
 if, on the second occasion, when I urged her de- 
 cision, she had not again hesitated till her impa- 
 tient father called her, I should not now be wa- 
 vering between my inclination and my hetlcr 
 judgment 
 
 But Isabella did hesitate, and that hesitation, 
 proceeding from the demands of her pure and 
 lofty nature, was her salvation, and a fatal rebuke 
 and spur to his vanity. 
 
 They exchanged the ordinary salutations. Isa- 
 bella sat down. They were in the same chairs 
 they had occupied at that memorable moment of 
 their lives ; the same table was before them — the 
 same books on the table. Feelings have their 
 habits, and so easily revert to their customary 
 channels! A spell seemed to have been cast over 
 them. Neither spoke nor moved, till Isabella, 
 starting as one starts from a thrilling dream, rose 
 and walked to the window. “ Ah,” thought she, 
 “ what memories, hopes, dreams, ‘ poor fancy’s 
 followers,’ has this place conjured up !” 
 
 Jasper, moved by an irresistible impulse, fol- 
 lowed her, and was arrested, in his half- formed 
 purpose, by the vision of Helen Ruthven, who, as 
 she was- passing on the opposite side of the street, 
 bad seen Isabella come forward, and had vainly 
 tried to catch her eye. She was smiling and bow- 
 ing. When she saw Meredith, she beckoned. 
 
90 THE NOVEL 
 
 “You had best go to Miss Ruthven,” said Isa- 
 bella ; “ I have some business with Sir Henry.” 
 
 “I will go, Miss Linsvood,” he replied; and, 
 adding bitterly, ” the wdll of man is by his reason 
 swayed,” he disappeared. Isabella burst into 
 tears. Was ever a woman disenthralled from 
 such a sentiment as Isabella had felt, without 
 efforts repeated and repeated, and many such 
 pangs as she now suffered, secretly endured. The 
 struggle is a hard one — the conquest worth it. 
 
 Sir Henry entered. “Your pardon, my dear 
 Miss Isabella. I believed Meredith was here, 
 and thought you might chance to profit by the 
 blessing promised to those who wait — but you 
 look troubled— your father is not worse, no ? — 
 your brother has not abused his liberty ? — papa 
 does not frown upon the faithful knight ?” 
 
 ” Oh, no, no — nothing of all this, Sir Henry — 
 I have again come a petitioner to you, but not 
 now in my own cause.” Isabella then proceeded 
 to state concisely and eloquently the case of the 
 condemned ; Sir Henry became graver as she 
 proceeded ; and as she ended, losing a good deal 
 of his habitual courtesy, he said, ‘‘ Really, Miss 
 Linwood, these are not matters for a young lady 
 to interfere with. The day for voluntary and ro- 
 mantic righters of wrongs is past. This fellow 
 has been adjudged to death after due investiga- 
 tion, before the proper tribunal, and I do not see 
 that it makes any essential difference in his fa- 
 vour, even if he should have had the honour of 
 once being in the service of a man who is so for- 
 tunate as to be the friend of your brother, and to 
 have rendered an accidental service to your aunt. 
 The poor wretch, as you allow, was one of a band 
 of Skinners, when captured by a detachment of 
 our soldiers. His comrades were hung last week, 
 and I have already granted a respite to this man 
 for some reason (what, 1 do not precisely re- 
 collect,) alleged by the proper officer.” 
 
 *‘ He was ill — unable to stand, when the others 
 suffered.” 
 
 “Ah, yes — I remember.” 
 
 Isabella urged her conviction that the prisoner 
 had been accidentally involved with the Skinners. 
 She described his simplicity and imbecility of 
 mind, and, as it seemed to her, his utter incapa- 
 city to commit the energetic and atrocious crimes 
 perpetrated by a band of desperadoes. But to all 
 her pleadings Sir Henry still returned the answer 
 so satisfactory to an official conscience : — “ His 
 death had been decreed by the laws in such cases 
 made and provided.” 
 
 Isabella said, that so slight seemed to be the 
 prisoner’s tenure of life, that if he were reprieved 
 for a week, Sir Henry might be relieved from the 
 responsibility of taking a life perhaps not for- 
 feited. But Sir Henry did not shrink from res- 
 ponsibility, and though she still reasoned and 
 urged, it was all in vain. 
 
 He alleged that the press of important affairs 
 rendered it impossible for him to make a personal 
 investigation of the business ; and that indeed it 
 was out of the question, occupying the station he 
 did, to attend minutely to such a concern. The 
 truth was, that Sir Henry was somewhat fortified 
 in his present decision by a sec et consciousness, 
 that, on a former occasion, he had surrendered a 
 point purely to the influence of a lovely young 
 woman; and he was now resolved to maintain 
 the invincible. 
 
 Isabella was obliged to take her leave, having 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 failed in her errand of mercy, and feeling a just 
 indignation at the carelessness with which a man 
 could make his station an apology for neglecting 
 the rights of his fellow ; and struck with the 
 truth, that the only reason for one man’s occupy- 
 ing a station more elevated than another, is, that 
 it gives him the opportunity of better protecting 
 and serving his fellow-beings.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement, 
 
 Inhabit here 1 Some heavenly power guide us 
 
 Out of this fearful country. 
 
 The hour appointed for Kisel’s execution drew 
 nigh. The premonitory bell was already sound- 
 ing, when a countryman, who had come from the 
 other side of the Hudson, sheltering his little 
 boat in a nook under some cedars growing where 
 Warren-street now terminates, was proceeding 
 towards the city with a market-basket, contain- 
 ing butter, eggs, &c. As he was destined to 
 enact an important part in the drama of that 
 day, it may not be superfluous to describe the 
 homely habiliments in which he appeared. He 
 had on a coarse dark grey overcoat, a sort of 
 dreadnought, of domestic manufacture, double- 
 breasted, and fastened with black mohair buttons, 
 as large as dollars, up to his throat; his cravat 
 was a blue and white linen handkerchief — an en- 
 during article, then manufactured by all thrifty 
 housewives; his stockings were blue and white 
 yarn, ribbed ; his shoes cowhide, and tied with, 
 leather thongs. A young man is rarely without a 
 dash of coxcombry, and our humble swain’s was 
 betrayed in a fox- skin cap, with straps of the fur 
 that decorated his cheek, much in the mode of 
 the brush- whisker of our own day. The cap was 
 drawn so close over his brow as nearly to hide 
 his dark pomatumed hair ; and finally, his hands 
 were covered by scarlet and white mittens, full 
 fringed, and with his name, Harmann Van Zandtj 
 knit in on their backs. 
 
 The storm of the morning had passed over. 
 The sun was shining out clear and warm for the 
 season ; and as every one is eager to enjoy the 
 last smiles of our stinted autumn, the country- 
 man must have wondered, as he passed the few 
 habitations on his way to the populous part of 
 the town, not to see the usual group — the good 
 man with his pipe, the matron knitting, and the 
 buxom Dutch damsel leaning over the lower por- 
 tal of the door. As he approached Broadway, 
 however, the sounds of life and busy movement 
 reached his ear, and he saw half a dozen young 
 lads and' lasses issue from a house on his left, 
 dressed in their Sunday gear, their faces full of 
 eager expectation, and each hurrying the other. 
 
 The good vrow, who stood on the door-step, was 
 giving them a last charge to hear every thing and 
 see every thing to tell her ; for she “always had 
 to stay at home when any thing lively was going 
 on.” As she turned from them, her housewife 
 eye fell on the countryman’s market-basket. 
 “Stop, neighbour,” said she, “and tell us the 
 price of your butter and eggs.” 
 
 “ Butter, one dollar the pound — eggs, three for 
 a shilling.” 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 “ That’s the prettiest price asked yet ; but — ” 
 
 “ Ay, mother ; but live and let live, you know.” 
 
 “ Let live, truly. You Bergen people are turn- 
 ing your grass into gold.” 
 
 “We must make hay while the sun shines.” 
 
 “While the sun shines 1 Ah, it does shine 
 as through a knot-hole on a few, but the rest of 
 us are in solid darkness. Go your wavs, friend ; 
 you’ll find lords and generals, admirals, com- 
 mandants, and gaol-keepers, to buy your butter 
 and eggs ; honest people must eat their bread 
 without butter nowadays. The hawks have 
 come over the water to protect the doves, for 
 sooth, and the doves’ food, doves and all, are 
 like to be devoured.” 
 
 This was a sort of figurative railing much in- 
 dulged in by those who were secretly well-afi'ected 
 to the country’s cause, but who were constrained, 
 by motives of prudence, to remain within the 
 British lines. 
 
 It seemed to have struck a sympathetic chord 
 in the countryman; for drawing near the good 
 woman, whose exterior expressed very little re- 
 semblance to the gentle emblem by which she 
 had chosen to personify herself, he said, kindly 
 smiling, “ Bring me a knife, mother, and I’ll give 
 you a slice of butter to garnish your tea-table 
 when your comely lasses come home.” 
 
 “This is kind and neighbourlike,” said the 
 woman, hastily bringing the knife and plate ; “ I 
 thought the first minute you openedyour lips, you 
 were free-hearted. This an’t the common way of 
 the Bergen people — they sell the cat and her skin 
 too— you have not their tongue neither — mine is 
 more broken than your’s ; I’m only Dutch on the 
 mother’s side.” 
 
 “ Ah, mother, trading with gentlefolks, and such 
 fair-spoken people as you, gets the mitten off one’s 
 tongue. But I must be going. Can you direct 
 me to Lizzy Bengin’s ? our Lida wants a pink 
 riband against Christmas.” 
 
 “ Now don' t say you come to market, and don’t 
 Jknow where L’zzy Bengin lives ! Did you never 
 take notice of the little one-story building at the 
 very lower end of Q.ueen-street, with the stoop 
 even with the ground, and plenty of cochinia. and 
 cookey horses, and men and women, in the window, 
 and a parrot hanging outside that beats the world 
 for talking ?” 
 
 The man gave the expected assent, and his in- 
 formant proceeded. 
 
 That is Lizzy’s ; and without going a step 
 out of your way, you may turn your butter and 
 eggs into silver before you get there. Call at the 
 Provost — Cunningham starves the prisoners, and 
 eats the fit of the land himself; or at Admiral 
 Digby’s, who has the young Prince William under 
 his roof, and therefore a warrant for the best in 
 the laud ; or at Tryon’s, or Robertson’s, or any of 
 the quality : their bread is buttered both sides, 
 but the time is coming — ” 
 
 “ When the bread shall be fairly spread for all. 
 I thing so, mother, but I must be going — so, good 
 ■day.” 
 
 “ Good-day, and good luck to you — a nice youth 
 imd a well-spoken is that,” said she, looking after 
 him; “and if butter must be a dollar a pound, 
 I’m glad the money find its way into the pockets 
 of the like of him.” 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of her approbation pur- 
 sued his way, and soon found himself in the midst 
 of a throng, who were hurrying forward to the 
 
 91 
 
 place of execution. The usual place for military 
 executions was in an apple orchard, where East 
 Broadway now runs ; but the condemned having 
 to s'lffer as one of the infamous band of Skinners, 
 was not thought worthy to swing on a gallows 
 devoted to military men. Accoriiia 2 :ly a gallows 
 was erected in a field just above St. Paul’s church. 
 Our friend of the butter and eggs found himself 
 on reaching Broadway, retarded and encompassed 
 by the crowd. 
 
 “ Hold your basket up, fellow, and let me 
 pass,” said a gentleman, who seemed eager to get 
 beyond the crowd. 
 
 The countryman obeyed, but turned his back 
 upon the speaker, as if from involuntary reseut- 
 ment at his authoritative tooe. 
 
 “ Whither are you hastening, Meredith askell 
 another voice. 
 
 “Ah, Sc. Clair, how are you? I am trying to 
 get through this abominable crowd to join my 
 mother and Lady Anne, who have gone to take a 
 drive. My servant is waiting with my horse be- 
 yond the barracks.” 
 
 ■‘Your mother, Lady Anne, and Miss Lin- 
 wood !” 
 
 An opening now before the countryman would 
 have allowed him to pass on, but he did not move. 
 
 “Upon my honour, St. Clair, I did not know 
 that Miss Lmwood was with them. They talked 
 of asking Helen Ruthven.” 
 
 “ And so they did. Lady Anne sent me to her, 
 but Miss Ruthven said, not very civilly I think, -she 
 had no inclination for a dr ve, and begged me to 
 stop while she wrote you this note.” 
 
 Meredith opened the note, sealed with an 
 anchor, and containing only these lines, exqui- 
 sitely written in pencil: — “Could I endure any 
 thing called pleasure on the same day with my 
 tete-a-tete walk with you this morning? Oh, no 
 — there is no next best. — H. R.” 
 
 “You seem pleased, Meredith,” resumed St. 
 Clair, as he saw Meredith’s eye kindle, and his 
 cheek brighten. 
 
 Meredith made no reply, but thrust the note 
 into his pocket. He was pleased. He felt much 
 like a musician whose ears have been tormented 
 by discords, when the keys are rightly struck. 
 
 “ Lady Anne had hard work,” continued St. 
 Clair, “ to persuade Miss Linwood to go with her. 
 It seems she has got up her nerves for this poor 
 devil of a Skinner. Lady Anne persuaded her at 
 last ; indeed, I believe she was glad to get beyond 
 the tolling of the bell till the rumpus was over.” 
 
 “Women are riddles,” thought Meredith; 
 “ they feel without reason, and will not feel when 
 reason bids them.” 
 
 He had lost his desire to go alone to join the 
 ladies ; and he offered St. Clair his horse, saying 
 he would himself ride his servant’s. St. Clair 
 eagerly accepted his courtesy, and the two gentle- 
 men elbowed their way through the crowd. 
 
 The countryman turned to gaze after them ; and 
 while his eye followed Meredith with its keenest 
 glance, the wave of the multitude had set towards 
 him, and so completely hedged his way in front, 
 that not being able to proceed, he thought best to 
 retreat a few yards to where the crowd was less 
 dense, and wait till the pressure was past, which 
 must be soon, as the procession with the prisoner 
 had already moved from the Provost. Meanwhile 
 he secured the occupation of a slightly elevated 
 platform, aa entrance to a house, where sitting 
 
THK NOVEL NEWSPAPER. 
 
 92 
 
 down his basket, he folded his arms, and while 
 detained had the benefit of the various remarks of 
 the passers-by. 
 
 “ What a disgrace it is,” said a British subal- 
 tern to his companion, “ that those rebels.” point- 
 ing to some American officers, prisoners on parole, 
 “ are permitted to walk the streets in uniform ! 
 It is too annoying ; I hate the sight of them.” 
 
 “ Yes,” retorted his companion, laughing, “ and 
 so you have ever since they distanced you skating 
 on the Kolch last winter.” 
 
 “ A crying shame is it,” said an honest burgher 
 to a fellow-vestryman, “ that a human creature is 
 going to his doom and but one bell tolling. But 
 the Lord’s temples are turned aside from all holy 
 uses — our sanctuary is a prison for soldiers, and 
 the Middle Dutch a riding-school 1” 
 
 “A soul’s a soul,” returned his companion, 
 " but the lordly English bells may not toll for the 
 parting of this poor wretch’s ; only the tinkling 
 bell of the Methodist chapel that’s kept open, for- 
 sooth, because John Wesley and his followers are 
 loyal.” 
 
 “ We shall have our pains for our trouble,” said 
 a fellow, who seemed to have come to the spectacle 
 en amateur ! “ the boys say he never will stand it to 
 get to the gallows.” 
 
 “Move on — move on,” cried a voice that he- 
 ralded the procession ; and the crowd was driven 
 forward in order to leave an open space around the 
 prisoner and his assistants. 
 
 It is impossible for a benevolent man to look on 
 a fellow-creature about to suffer a violent death 
 (be his doom ever so well merited) without a 
 feeling of intense interest. The days of the cul- 
 prit’s youth, of his innocence, of his parents’ 
 love and hope ; the tremendous present, and the 
 possible future, all rush upon the mind ! It would 
 appear that our country friend was a man of re- 
 flection and sentiment, for, as he gazed at the 
 prisoner, his cheek was blanched, his brow con- 
 tracted, and the exclamation, “Oh, God! oh, 
 God !” burst from lips that never lightly uttered 
 that holy name. 
 
 Poor Kisel appeared as if nature would fain save 
 him from the executioner’s touch. His head had 
 fallen on his bosom, his knees were bent and 
 trembling, and his step as wavering and uncertain 
 as that of a blind mao. He was supported and 
 helped forward by a stout man on his right. When 
 he was within a few feet of the countryman a ray of 
 consciousness seemed to shoot athwart his mind. 
 Heraised his head, shook back his shaggy locks, cast 
 a wild inquiring glance around him, when his eye 
 encountering the stranger, he seemed electrified, 
 his joints to be reset, his nerves to be restrung. 
 He drew up his person, uttered a piercing shriek, 
 sprang forward like a cat, and sinking at his feet, 
 sobbed out, “ Misser Eliot, hey 1” 
 
 The multitude were for an instant palsied ; not 
 a sound — not a breath escaped them : and then a 
 rush, and a shout, and cries of “ Seize him !” and 
 shrieks from those who were trodden under foot. 
 
 “ Stand back— back — back, monsters!” cried 
 Eliot, himself almost wild with amiizement and 
 grief—” give him air, space, breath, he is dying !’’ 
 He raised Kisel’s head, and rested it on his breast, 
 and bent his face over him, murmuring, “ Kisel, 
 my poor fellow I” 
 
 Kisel’s eye, gleaming with preternatural joy, 
 was riveted to Eliot’s face. A slight convulsion 
 passed over his frame ; drops of sweat, like rain, 
 
 gushed from every pore ; and, while his quivering, 
 half smiling lips murmured inaudibly, “ Misser 
 Eliot !— -Misser Eliot! ’ they stiffened, his eyes 
 rolled up, and his released, exulting spirit fled. 
 
 Eliot was but for one instant unmanned ; but 
 for one instant did be lose the self-possession on 
 which even at this moment of consternation he 
 was conscious that much more than his own in- 
 dividual safety depended. He made no effort to 
 escape from observation ; that would have excited 
 suspicion ; but said, calmly, still supporting 
 Kisel’s head, “The poor mao, I think, is gone ; is 
 there not some physician here who can tell whe- 
 ther he be, or not?’’ A doctor was called for; 
 and, while jone was bustling through the crowd, 
 there were various conjectures, surmises, and as- 
 sertions. Some said ‘ he looked as good as dead 
 when he came out of prison some asked “ if he 
 could have hoped to have got away ?” and others 
 believed that the excitement of the scene had 
 maddened his brain. Eliot said he had fallen at 
 his feet like a spent ball; and, while he was in- 
 ternally blessing God ,that his poor follower had 
 escaped all farther suffering, the medical man an- 
 nounced, with the authority of his art, that “ life 
 was extinct.” The body was conveyed to the prison 
 for interment. The crowd dispersed ; and Eliot, 
 feeling that Heaven had conferred its best boon on 
 Kisel, and extended a shield over him, pursued 
 his way to Lizzy Bengin’s shop. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Les revers de la verite a cent milles figures, et 
 un champ indefiny, 
 
 Les Py thagoriens font le bien certain et finy, le mal 
 incertain et infiny. Montaigne. 
 
 ’While the circumstances related above were in 
 action, the ladies, in their drive, had stopped at an 
 opening to the Hudson, where the shore we 8 
 shelving and indented with a footpath, on which 
 the full mellow rays of the afternoon sun shone. 
 And who would not pause to gaze at the noble 
 Hudson, which, coming from its source in distant 
 mountains, infolds in its arms the city it has cre- 
 ated, wears on its bosom its little emerald island 
 gems, reposes in the bay, and then finishes its 
 course through the portal of the Narrows? 
 
 The river is now precisely what it then was, for 
 “ man’s hand cannot make a mark upon the wa- 
 ters ;’’ but on its shores what changes has that 
 marvellous instrument wrought! Where nature 
 sat like a hermit, amid the magnificence of her 
 solitary domain, are now bustling cities, fortified 
 islands, wharves and warehouses, manufactories, 
 stately mansions, ornamented pleasure-grounds, 
 and citizens’ cottages, and the parent city extend- 
 ing up and branching oat in every direction, from 
 the narrow space it then occupied, covering with 
 its thronged stieets the wooded heights and 
 bosky dells, now, alas 1 reduced from the aristo- 
 cracy of nature to one uniform level. Then the 
 city’s tributary waters bore on their surface a few 
 fishing-skiffs, and some two or three British men- 
 of-war. Now see the signals of population, en- 
 terprise, and commercial prosperity : schooners 
 from our own eastern ana southern ports, neatly 
 rigged vessels from a hundred river-harbours, 
 
THE LIN WOODS. 
 
 mammoth steamers bringing in and carrying out 
 their hundred at every hour of the day. ferry boats 
 scudding to and fro, sail boats dancing over the 
 ■waves, row-boats darting out and in, hither and 
 yon, packets taking their semi- weekly departure for 
 England and France, ships with the star-spangled 
 banner floating from the mast head, and rich 
 freighted argosies from all parts of each quarter of 
 the globe. What a change ! 
 
 Lady Anne heard the trampling of horses, and 
 put her head out of the coach window. A blush 
 suffused her sunny face at the recollection of her 
 parting with Meredith in the morning. Her em- 
 barrassment was as transient as the suffusion. 
 “Ah, cousin Jasper,” she said, “ you have come 
 at last ; I have been waiting impatiently, sitting 
 here, like a dutiful niece (as I am), because aunt 
 has heard bugbear stories about American rattle- 
 snakes, and absolutely forbade my strolling along 
 the shore with Isabella. You will not be afraid, 
 aunt, if the gentlemen are with me ?” 
 
 “ Not in the least, my love ; indeed, I will 
 alight myself, if Major St. Clair will give an old 
 lady his arm.” 
 
 “ She understands tactics,’’ thought St. Clair. 
 “ She will defile with me, and leave Jasper to a 
 tele.a-lele on vantage ground!” He, however, 
 bowed, tn militaire, and gave Mrs. Meredith his 
 arm ; and she, as he had foreseen, led him off in 
 an opposite direction from that which Lady Anne 
 had taken. 
 
 Isabella had before alighted, and left her com- 
 panion, on the pretext of looking for an autumnal 
 flower, that she knew grew on the river’s bank ; 
 but really, that she might, in the freedom of soli 
 tude, and in the calm of a sweet country walk, in- 
 dulge her sad reflections. Isabella had learned 
 to master herself in great trials ; but she had 
 not yet learned that far more difficult lesson, to 
 be patient and serene under small annoyances. 
 She was vexed and wearied with Mrs. Meredith’s 
 pompous talk and common place and hollow sen- 
 timent, and somewhat disturbed by Lady Anne’s 
 kind-hearted, but too manifest efforts, to divert 
 her thoughts from the tragedy enacting in the 
 city, to which she had imputed all the sadness 
 that might have been in part ascribed to another 
 cause. 
 
 Lady Anne had no enthusiasm for scenery ; she 
 had never lived in the country, never been trained 
 in Nature’s school, nor a guest at her perpetual 
 and sweetest banquet ; but she had youthful 
 spirits stirred to joyousness by a ride, or a walk, 
 or any other exciting cause; and she lauihed, 
 rattled, and bounded on, wondered where Isabella 
 could be, and at last, quite out of breath, sat 
 down on a grassy bank by a very high rock 
 around which the pass was narrow and difficult. 
 ‘‘ I will not venture that,” said she, pointing to 
 the path. ” You may go for Isabella, Jasper, and 
 I will wait here for you.” 
 
 ” Thank you, sweet coz ; but I prefer staying 
 here too, if you will permit me.” 
 
 ” You may as well, I fancy. Isabella is rather 
 pemeroso this afternoon ; and as she very faintly 
 seconded my entreaties to aunt that I might go 
 with her, I think she prefers la solitaire. To tell 
 you the truth, Jasper, she is horribly blue to-day, 
 though I would not own it to aunt.” 
 
 ” And why not ?” 
 
 “ Oh, you know she is no favourite with aunt: 
 and when we really love a person, as I do really 
 
 93 
 
 and fervently Isabella Linwood, we are not fond 
 of speaking of their faults to those who do not like 
 them.” 
 
 ” Then perhaps you think she is a favourite of 
 mine ?” 
 
 ” Certainly I do — is she not ?” 
 
 “ She- was.” 
 
 With what different import do the same words 
 fall on different ears. This “ she was” hardly 
 reached Lady Anne’s sensorium. Her thoughts 
 were weighing something more important than 
 any of Meredith’s words could be to her. Mere- 
 dith’s heart throbbed as he pronounced them. 
 Uttered to Lady Anne, they seemed to him to 
 cut the gordian knot that bound him to Isabella. 
 There was another unseen, unwilling, and involun- 
 tary auditor, who, as on the other side of the rock 
 she leaned breathless against it, proudly responded 
 from the depths of her soul ‘‘ she was — it is past 
 — a finished dream to us both!’’ 
 
 ‘‘ How very nice these little scarlet berries 
 are,” said Lady Anne, picking some berries from 
 their evergreen leaves. 
 
 ‘‘ Very nice.” 
 
 ” This is a lovely river. Jasper. How I should 
 like a nice cottage on this very spot.” 
 
 “ And when your imagination builds the cot- 
 take, coz, is there no one permitted to share it 
 with you .5*” 
 
 . La ly Anne picked the leaves from the stem in 
 her hand, strewed them around, and laughing and 
 blushing, said, ” that absolute solitude in a cot- 
 tage would be just as stupid as in a palace.” 
 
 On this hint shall I — can I speak?’’ thought 
 Meredith. 
 
 “ Formerly, when I built castles in the air,” 
 continued Lady Anne, engrossed in her own sweet 
 fancies, and not dreaming of the interpretation 
 Meredith’s deluded vanity was giving to her words, 
 
 I always put wings to them, and would lodge 
 them in London, Paris, or Italy, as suited the hu- 
 mour of the moment — now I make them fixtures in 
 A'-nerica.” 
 
 Meredith felt somewhat like the sportsman, 
 who, accustomed to the keen pursuit of game that 
 incites and eludes him, cares not for the silly prey 
 tliat runs into his toils. ” Heigh-ho!” resumed 
 Lady Anne, awaking from a reverie, after a short 
 pause, ‘‘it is time we returned — the sun is set- 
 ting — you are very stupid, Jasper — you have not 
 spoken three words.” 
 
 •‘My dear cousin, there are moments when it 
 is far more agreeable to look, and to listen, than 
 to speak.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ But then, sir, you should look ‘ unutterable 
 things.’ ” 
 
 ‘ We may feel them without looking or speak- 
 ing them — do not go now — there are few delicious 
 moments in life— why not prolong them ?” 
 
 ‘‘ You talk limpingly, Jasper, like one who has 
 conned a task, and recites it but half learned ; 
 there should be a vraisernhlance in compliments.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oil my honour !” 
 
 ” Oh, never swear to them ; these are like 
 beggars’ oaths, nobody believes them.” Lady 
 Anne was already on the wing. “Bless us,” 
 lliought Meredith, “ a little dash of coquetry 
 might make her quite charming and springing 
 after her, he gave her his arm. When they met 
 his mother at the road-side, his face and air were 
 so changed and so animated, that, in the flush of 
 her hopes, she ventured to whisper to him — 
 
^4 THE NOVEL 
 
 ‘‘ Not Hermia, but Helena I love ; 
 
 Who would not change a raven for a dove !” 
 
 He smiled assentingly, and his mother was per- 
 fectly happy. 
 
 “ Where is Isabella?” and “Where is Miss 
 Linwood ?” “ I thought she was on your side 
 and “ I thought she was on yours,” was asked 
 and reiterated, and answered by the person in 
 question appearing. She had left the shore, 
 scrambled through the wood, and come into the 
 road in advance of the party. They rallied her 
 on her preference of solitude, and she them (for 
 she had regained her self command), on the willing 
 forbearance with w'hich they had permitted her to 
 enjoy it. Mrs. Meredith, of course, first entered 
 the carriage ; and while the young ladies were 
 getting in, putting on their cloaks, &c., she wrote 
 on a card, and gave to her son the following hint 
 from Metastasio ; — 
 
 E folle quel nocchiero 
 Che cerca un' altra stella, 
 
 E non si fida a quella 
 Che in porto lo guido. 
 
 “My sage mother is this sure star, by whose 
 directing ‘ light I am to pilot my bark,’ ” thought 
 Meredith, as he read the pencilled words — “well, 
 be it so.” 
 
 Mrs. Meredith’s carriage stopped at Mrs. Lin- 
 wood’s door. Isabella alighted, and Lady Anne 
 Wfis following her, when her aunt interposed. 
 “ My dear child,’’ she said, “I particularly wish 
 you to go home with me this evening.’’ 
 
 “I would, aunt — but — but I have promised Mr. 
 Linwood — ” 
 
 “I appeal to your generosity. Miss Linwood ; 
 I have not your passion for solitude, and I am 
 quite wretched without Lady Anne.’’ 
 
 Lady Anne’s back was to her aunt ; and she 
 turned up her eyes imploringly to Isabella, who 
 consequently resolutely professed herself afraid 
 to encounter her father if she should resign Lady 
 Anne, Lady Anne finished the parley by spring- 
 ing from the carriage, and promising her aunt to 
 be at home an hour earlier than usual. Mrs. 
 Meredith, vexed, puzzled, and disconcerted, drove 
 borne. 
 
 The young ladies were met at the door by Rose, 
 ■with a message from Mrs. Archer, requesting 
 Isabella, without a moment’s delay, to come to 
 her house. “ Make my excuses to papa,” said 
 Isabella to Lady Anne, “ and enact the good 
 daughter till I return.” 
 
 “Yes, that I will,” said Lady Anne; “ and the 
 good daughter would I be in reality all my life to 
 him,” she thought ; “ but Herbert Linwood will 
 not, in his forlorn circumstances, declare his love 
 for me if he feels it ; and I, like all the rest of my 
 sex, must keep the secret of my pure love as if it 
 were a crime.” Whether the open-hearted girl’s 
 eyes and cheeks would betray the secret which the 
 austere proprieties of her sex forbade her to tell, 
 and whether on this hint Linwood would be em- 
 boldened to speak, was soon put to the proof ; for 
 one hour after, arriving on his evening visit. Rose 
 conducted him into the breakfast. room, informing 
 him that he must wait till a person who was with 
 his father on business should be gone. Rose sa- 
 gaciously divining her young master’s inclinations, 
 then went to Lady Anne and whispered— •“ Mr, 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 He bert is in the breakfast-parlour; and do, miss, 
 happen in there ; poor boy, he has enough of his’ 
 own company in prison.’’ 
 
 Lady Anne did not wait for the request to be 
 repeated. She went, nor did she and Herbert 
 appear in Mr. Linwood’s room till after a re- 
 peated, and finally, very impatient summons from 
 him ; and then they entered, and kneeling to- 
 gether at his feet, asked his blessing on their 
 plighted loves. 
 
 He did not speak for half a minute, and then 
 laughing, while the tears gushed from his eyes, 
 “God bless you, my children!” he said ; “God 
 bless you! — kiss me, my dear little girl —this 
 has been pretty quickly hatched, though ; but I 
 don’t wonder ; 1 loved you the first minute I saw 
 you.” 
 
 “ And I, like a good son, dutifully followed my 
 father’s example.’’ 
 
 “ Vous n’avez fait que votre devoir filial ; fort 
 bien, monsieur!” said Lady Anne archly. 
 
 “My dear child!” interposed Mr. Linwood, 
 “now you are going really to be my child, don't 
 torment me with interlarding your English with 
 French. There’s nothing I cetest like cutting up 
 a plain English road with these French ditches. 
 It’s a slipshod tongue, good enough for those that 
 are born to parlez vous and gabble all their lives ; 
 but English, ray dear, is for men of sense and 
 true-hearted girls like you, that speak what they 
 mean.” 
 
 Lady Anne promised to cure herself of a habit 
 into which she had unconsciously fallen ; and a 
 pause followed, which gave Mr. Linwood time for 
 a reflection that clouded his brow. 
 
 “ This won’t do, Herbert,” he said ; “I forgot 
 myself entirely, and so have you. What business 
 have you to be making love, and stealing away 
 this dear little generous girl’s heart — you, a pro- 
 scribed man — holding your life by sufferance- 
 disgraced.” 
 
 “ Not disgraced, sir 1” 
 
 “ Oh, no 1 dear Mr. Linwood, not disgraced.’^ 
 
 “ Well, well, ’tis a devilish ugly word to bestow 
 on one’s own fiesh and blood, but, my dear little 
 girl, we must look truth in the face. Your aunt 
 is a woman of the world; she will accuse us; and 
 she may very well suspect us of conniving at this 
 business — you have fortune — we are poor.” The 
 proud old man’s blood mounted to his face — “No, 
 no ; it must not be. I take back my consent.’* 
 
 Herbert’s face expressed the cooflict of his love 
 with his sense of rectitude — the last prevailed. 
 “ My father is right,” he said ; “ and I, head- 
 long as usual, have done just what I ought not 
 to do.” 
 
 “ You’re right now, anyhow, my boy; you show 
 blood — go up to the mark, though a lion — ” A 
 glance at poor Lady Anne, leaning on the side 
 of his easy chair, with tearful eyes, mended his 
 sentence — “ I should say, though an angel were 
 in the way.” 
 
 “ I have been far enough from the mark, sir; 
 
 I should have remembered in time that I was in 
 the enemy’s talons ; and what is far worse, under 
 the censure of my own general.” 
 
 “As to that, Herbert, as to that — ” 
 
 “ Be kind enough to hear me out, sir. I should 
 have remembered that I was penniless ; that Lady 
 Anne is very young, careless for herself, and aa 
 heiress ; but how could I think of any thing,’’ he 
 added, taking her hand, and pressing it to his 
 
the linwoods, 
 
 heart, ‘‘when I beard her generous, bewildering 
 confession, that she loved me — but that I loved 
 her with my whole soul?” 
 
 “ It’s — it’s — it’s hard ; but you must come to 
 it, my children. You must just set to work and 
 undo what has been done ; you must forget one 
 another.” 
 
 “ Forget, dear Mr. Linwood ! Herbert may 
 forget ; for I think it seems very easy to him to 
 ecede ’’ 
 
 “ Anne !” 
 
 “ Forgive me, Herbert ; but really you and your 
 father place me in such an awkward position. 
 Give you up, I will not; forget you, I cannot. 1 
 cannot extinguish my memory ; and there is no 
 thought in it, waking or sleeping, but what con- 
 cerns you. 1 know it is very shocking and im- 
 proper to say this before you, Mr. Linwood, but 
 it is true.” 
 
 “ I love truth, my child — such truth — God 
 knows I do, too well.” 
 
 “Then, sir,” she continued, smiling archly 
 through her tears, “let me go on and speak a 
 little more of it.” Her voice faltered. “ I wish 
 Isabella were here — any woman would feel for 
 me.” 
 
 “ God bless me, child, don’t I feel for you — 
 look at Herbert, the calf — don’t he feel for you ? ’ 
 
 “ Herbert says I am so very young. I am sure 
 seventeen and past has years and wisdom enough 
 for not quite two-and-tvventy. He says I am 
 careless for myself ; if I were as calculating as my 
 aunt Meredith, what could I do better for myself 
 than to supply the cruel deficiencies of ray lot ? 
 than to provide for myself the kindest and best of 
 fathers and mothers, and a sister that has not her 
 peer in the wide world? Herbert says I am an 
 heiress — I am so ; but what is fortune to me, if I 
 may not select the object with whom to share it ? 
 
 If 1 am not two-and-twenty ” she cast an arch 
 
 glance at Herbert, “ I have lived long enough to 
 see that fortune alone is perfectly impotent. It 
 does not create friends, nor inspire goodness, nor 
 secure happiness ; but when it comes as an acces- 
 sory to a happy home, to love, and health, and 
 liberal hearts; ah, then it is indeed a boon from 
 Heaven! Am I not right, Mr. Linwood?” 
 
 “Yes, by Jupiter, you are! Your views could 
 not be juster if you were as old as Methuselah, | 
 and as wise as Solomon. But, my dear, we must j 
 come back to the point — what is very right for you ! 
 and noble, would be very wrong for us. The Lin- ! 
 woods have always had a fair name, and now, 
 when every thing else is gone, they must hold fast 
 to that. Oh, Herbert, if you had only stuck to 
 your king, all would be well; but I won't reproach 
 you now — no, no, poor boy ! I never felt so much 
 like forgiving you for that d—d blunder.’’ 
 
 “ Then, for Heaven’s sake, sir, say you forgive 
 me — let that account be settled.” 
 
 “ I will — I do forgive you, my son ; but it’s the 
 devil and all to forget!’’ Herbert grasped the 
 hand his father extended to him. There was a 
 silence of a few moments, broken by Mr. Linwood 
 saying, “ It’s tough to come to it, my children ; 
 but this must be the last evening you meet.” 
 
 “ Lady Anne,” said Rose, opening the door, 
 
 “ Mrs. Meredith’s carriage is waiting for you.’’ 
 
 “ Let it wait. Rose.” 
 
 “ But the footman bade me tell you, my lady, 
 that your aunt is ill, and begs you will come home 
 immediately. 
 
 05 
 
 “Then I must go,” said the poor girl, bursting 
 into tears, all her natural buoyancy and courageous 
 cheerfulness forsaking her at the foreboding that 
 this might be a final separation, Mr. Linwood 
 hemmed, wiped his spectacles, put them on, threw 
 them down on the table, stirred the fire, knocked 
 down shovel, tongs, and fender, and cursed them 
 all ; while Lady Anne retired with Herbert to the 
 farthest part of the room, to exchange words that 
 can never be appreciated rightly but by the parties, 
 and therefore must not be repeated. They verily 
 believed that mortals had never been so happy^ 
 never so wretched as they. 
 
 Once there was a reaction in Lady Anne’s mind. 
 She started from Herbert, and, appealing to his 
 father, said — “Think once more of it, Mr. Lin- 
 wood ; why should you heed what my aunt or 
 any one else may impute to you ? We have all 
 felt and acted right, naturally, and honestly. I 
 cannot, for my life I cannot, see why we should 
 sacrifice ourselves to their false judgments.’’ 
 
 Mr. Linwood shook his head. “ It cannot be,’’ 
 said Herbert ; “ we must cast ourselves upon the 
 future; if,’’ he added, “lowering his voice, “it 
 should please Heaven to permit me to regain my 
 freedom, if— but I am wrong — I must not cherish 
 these hopes. Years may pass away before the 
 war ends ; and in the meantime, you may bless 
 another with that love which ’’ 
 
 “ Never end that sentence, Herbert Linwood. 
 You may take back your own vows~you cannot 
 give me back mine — I will not receive them. My 
 love will not depend on your fi eedoin, your name 
 with friend or foe : it will not be touched by cir- 
 cumstance, or time, or absence. Farewell, Her- 
 bert.” 
 
 One fond embrace she permitted — the first— 
 was it the last ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung, 
 
 With feigning voice, verses of feigning love; 
 
 And stolen the impression of her fantasy, 
 
 With bracelets of thy hair — rings, gawds, conceits,. 
 Knacks, trifies, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers 
 Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth. 
 
 It will be remembered that Isabella, at her 
 aunt’s summons, had gone to her house. She 
 met Mrs. Archer at her street door. Her face 
 spoke of startling intelligence before she uttered 
 it. “ My dear Belle,” she said, “ I have the 
 [ strangest news for you. I went to your father’s 
 j while you were out; and just as my foot was on 
 ! your door- step, a man drove up in a waggon, with 
 I a girl as pale as death — such a face i The mo- 
 I ment he stopped, she sprang from the waggon. 
 
 I At once I knew her, and exclaimed, “ Bessie 
 ! Lee 1” 
 
 “ Bessie Lee ! Gracious Heaven I” 
 
 “ Yes ; she asked eagerly if yon were at home. I 
 perceived the inconvenience — the impossibility of 
 your taking care of her in the present state of 
 your family. I felt anxious to do any thing and 
 I every thing for the sister of young Lee; I therefore 
 j told her you were not at home, but she could see you 
 at myh)/' « ; and I persuaded her to come homo 
 ] with me. 
 
96 
 
 THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 “ Dear Bessie! can it be possible that she is 
 here?’’ 
 
 ‘‘Yes, I have left her in that room. Her attend- 
 ant told me that she arrived this morning at Kings- 
 bridge, with a decent man and woman, who had 
 passports from La Fayette, atid a letter from him to 
 the commander of that post, commending the unfor- 
 tunate person to his liumanity, and entreating him 
 to convey her, under a proper escort, to Mr. Lin- 
 w’ood's.’’ 
 
 ‘■Poor Bessie! Heaven has miraculously guided 
 her into the best hands. How does she eppear?” 
 
 “ With scarcely enough of niortalit}' to shield her 
 troubled spirit ; tluttering and gentle as a stricken 
 dove — pale., unnaturally, deadly pale — a startling 
 brightness in her deep blue eye — her cheeks 
 sunken ; but still her features preserve the exquisite 
 symmetry we used to think so beautiful, when a 
 pensive, quiet little girl, she stole after you like a 
 shadow. And her voice, oh Belle ! you cannot hear 
 it without tears. She is mild and submissive, but 
 restless, and excessively impatient to see you and 
 Jasper Meredith. Twice she has come to the door 
 to go out in search of him. I have ordered the 
 blinds to be closed, and the candles lighted, to make 
 it appear darker without than it really is. 1 could 
 only quiet her by the assurance that I would send 
 for him immediately.” 
 
 “ Have you done so ?” 
 
 “ No ; I have waited to consult you.” 
 
 The house Mrs, Archer occupied was of the 
 common construction of the best houses of th-at day, 
 being dou’ole, the two front apartments separated 
 by a wide hall, a drawing-room in the rear, and a 
 narrow cross.passage opening into a carriage-way 
 to the yard. A few moments before Isabella arrived, 
 a person had knocked at the door, and asked to see 
 Mrs. Archer ; and being told that she wasparticularly 
 engaged, he asked to be shown to a room where he 
 might aw'ait her convenience, as he had business of 
 importance with her. Fie was accordingly shown 
 into an apartment opposite to that occupied at the 
 moment by Mrs. Archer and Bessie. 
 
 There he found the blind children, Ned and 
 Lizzy, so absorbed in a game of chess, that although 
 he went near them, and overlooked them, they 
 seemed just conscious of his presence, but not in 
 the least disturbed by it. They went on playing 
 and managing the game with almost as much facility 
 as if they had their eyesight, till, after a closely'- 
 fought battle, Lizzy declared a checkmate. Ned, 
 (only not superior to all the chess-players w e have 
 ever seen) was nettled by this unexpected defeat, 
 and gave vent to his vexation by saying, ‘‘ Anyhow, 
 Miss Lizzy, you would uothave beaten, if I had not 
 thought it was my knight, instead of youis, on 
 number four.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, Ned !” 
 
 “You would not ; you know I alwaj's get puzzled 
 about the knights — I always said it was the only 
 fault in the chessmen — I alw ays said I wished Cap- 
 tain Lee had made them more difierent.” 
 
 “That fault is easily rectified,” said the looker-on. 
 
 “Captain Lee! ” exclaimed Ned, whose memory 
 was true to a voice once heard, and who never, in 
 any circumstances, could have forgotten the sound 
 of Eliot’s voice. 
 
 “ Hush, my dear little fellow — for Heaven’s sake, 
 hush!” cried Eliot, aware of the imprudence he 
 had committed ; hut it was too late. 
 
 Ned's feelings were as susceptible as his hearing. 
 He impetuously sprang forward, and open'ii" the 
 door into the entry, where Mis. Arclr r had just 
 
 uttered the last sentence we reported of her con- 
 versation with Isabella, he cried out — “ Ob, mamma, 
 Captain Lee is here !” 
 
 Eliot involuntarily doffed his fox skin cap, and 
 advanced to them. Both ladies most cordially gave 
 him their hands at the same moment, while their 
 brows were clouded with the thoughts of the sad 
 tidings they had to communicate. Conscious of the 
 precarious position he occupied, he naturally inter- 
 preted the concern so evident on their faces, as the 
 expression of a benevolent interest in his safety, 
 ‘‘Do not be alarmed, ladies,” he said; “I have 
 nothing to fear, if my little friends here be quiet; 
 and that I am certain they will be, when they 
 know my life depends on ray remaining unknown.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, what have I done?" exclaimed Ned, burst- 
 ing into tears; but he was soon soothed by Eliot’s 
 assurances that no harm as yet was done. 
 
 Mrs. Archer withdrew' the children, while Miss 
 Liu wood communicated to Eliot, as briefly as pos- 
 sible, the arrival and condition of his sister; and 
 he, rather relieved than distressed by the informa- 
 tion, told her that his deepest interest in coming to 
 the city was the hope of obtaining some tidings of 
 the poor wanderer. They then consulted how and 
 when they had best present themselves before her; 
 and it was decided that Miss Lin wood should first 
 go into the apartment, and prepare her to see Eliot. 
 
 Eliot retreated, and stood still and breathless to 
 catch the first sound of Bessie’s voice; but he heard 
 nothing but the exclamation, “She is not here 1” 
 Eliot sprang forward. The door of the apartment 
 which led into the side passage and the outer door 
 were both open, and Eliot, forgetful of every thing 
 but his sister, was rushing into the street, when 
 Bessie entered the street door with Jasper Meredith ! 
 Impelled by her ruling purpose to see Meredith, she 
 had, on her first discovery of the side passage, 
 escaped into the street, where the fir.st person she 
 encountered was he whose image had so long been 
 present to her, that seeing him vvilh her bodily organ 
 seemed to make no new impression, nor even to in- 
 crease the vividness of the image stamped on her 
 memory. She had thrown on her cloak, but had 
 nothing on her head, and her hair fell in its natural 
 fair curls over her face and neck. Singular as it 
 was for the delicate, timid Bessie to appear in this 
 guise in the public street, or to appear there at all, 
 and much as he was startled by her faded, stricken 
 form, the truth did not at once occur to Meredith. 
 The wildness of her eye was subdued in the dim 
 twilight; she spoke in her accustomed qnietmanner; 
 and after answering to his first inquiry that she was 
 perfectly well now, she begged him to go into Mrs. 
 Archer’s witii her, as she fiad something there to 
 restore to him. He endeavoured to put her off with a 
 common-place evasion, “ Hewasengaged now, would 
 come some other time,” <fec., but she was not to be 
 eluded; and seeing some acquaintances approaching, 
 whose observation he did not care to encounter, he 
 ascended Mrs. Archer's steps, and found himself in 
 the presence of those wfliom he would have wished 
 most to avoid ; but there was no retreat. 
 
 Bessie now acted with an irresistible energy. 
 “ This w'a}',” said she, leading Meredith into the 
 room she had quitted ; “ come all of you in here,” 
 glancing her eye from Meredith to Isabella and 
 Eliot, but without manifesting the slightest surprise 
 or emotion of any sort at seeing them, but simply 
 saying, with a smile of satisfaction, as she shut the 
 door and threw ( If Iter cloak, “ I expected tliis — I 
 knew' it would be so. lu visions by day, and dreams 
 by night, I always saw yoii together.” 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 It was a minute before Eliot could command his 
 voice for utterance. He folded his arms around 
 Bessie, and murmured, “ My sister 1 — ray dear 
 aister 1” 
 
 She drew back, and placing her hands on his 
 shoulders and smiling, said, “ Tears, Eliot, tears ! 
 Oh, shame, when this is the proudest, happiest mo- 
 ment of your sister’s life !” 
 
 “Is she mad?” asked Meredith of Isabella. 
 
 Bessie’s ear caught his last word. “Mad!” she 
 repeated. “ I think all the world is mad ; but I alone 
 am not! I have heard that whom the gods would 
 destroy they first make mad. Men and angels have 
 been employed to save me from destruction.” 
 
 “It is idle to stay here to listen to these ravings,” 
 aaid Meredith, in a low voice, to Miss Linwood ; 
 and he was about to make his escape, when Isabella 
 interposed. “ Stay for a moment, I entreat you,” 
 *he said ; “ she has been very eager to see you, and 
 it is sometimes of use to gratify these humours.” 
 
 In the meantime Eliot, his heart burning within 
 him at his sister’s being gazed at as a spectacle by 
 that man of all the world from whose eye he would 
 have sheltered her, was persuading her, as he would 
 a wayward child, to leave the apartment. She re- 
 sisted his importunities with a sort of gentle pity 
 for his blindness, and a perfect assurance that she 
 was guided by light from Heaven. *• Dear Eliot,” 
 she said, “you know not what you fsk of me. For 
 this hour my life has been prolonged, my strength 
 miraculously sustained. You have all been assembled 
 here — you, Eliot, because a brother should sustain 
 his sister, share her honour, and partake her happi- 
 ness ; Jasper Meredith to receive back those charms 
 and spells by which my too willing spirit was bound ; 
 and you, Isabella Linwood, to see how, in my better 
 mind, I yield him to you.” 
 
 She took from her bosom a small ivory box, and 
 opening it, she said, advancing to Meredith, and 
 showing him a withered rosebud, “ Do you re- 
 member this? You plucked it from a little bush 
 that almost dipped its leaves in that cold spring on 
 the hill-side. Do you remember? It was a hot 
 summer’s afternoon, and you had been reading 
 poetry to me; jou said there was a delicate praise 
 in the sweet breath of flowers that suited me; and 
 some silly thing you said, Jasper, that you should 
 not, of wisliing yourself a flower that you might 
 breathe the incense that you were not at liberty to 
 speak ; and then you taught me the Persian lan- 
 guage of flowers. I kept this little bud ; it faded, 
 but was still sw'eet, Alas! alas! I cherished it for 
 its Persian meaning." Her reminiscence seemed too 
 vivid — her voice faltered, tind her eye fell from its 
 fixed-gaze on Meredith; but suddenly her counte- 
 nance brightened, and she turned to Isabella, who 
 stood by the mantelpiece resting her tlirobbing head 
 on her hand, aud added, ” Take it, Isabella, it is a 
 true symbol to you.” 
 
 Eliot for the first time turned his eye from his 
 sister, and even at that moment of anguish a thrill 
 of Joy shot through every vein when he saw Isabella 
 take the bud, pull apart its shrivelled leaves, and 
 throw them from her. Meredith stood leaning 
 against the wall, his arms folded, and his lips curled 
 into a smile that was intended to express scornful 
 unconcern. He mi,:^ht have expressed it, he might 
 possibly have felt it towards Bessie Lee ; but when 
 he saw Isabella throw away the bud, when he met 
 the indignant glance of her eye Hashing tbrough the 
 tears that sutrused it, a livid paleness spread around 
 his mouth, and that feature, the most expressive and 
 truest organ of the soul, betrayed its inward conflict. 
 
 The Novel Newspaper, No. 129. 
 
 97 
 
 He snatched his hat to leave the room ; Bessie laid 
 her hand on his arm. “ Ob, do not go; I shall bo 
 cast back into my former wretchedness if you go 
 now.” 
 
 “ Stay, sir,” said Eliot. “ My sister shall not l« 
 crossed.” 
 
 “ With all my heart. I have not the slightest 
 objection to playing out ray dumb show between 
 vapouring and craziness.” 
 
 “Villain!” exclaimed Eliot. The young men 
 exchanged glances of fire. Bessie placed herself 
 between them, and stretching out her arms, laid 
 a hand on the breast of each, as if to keep them 
 apart. “Now this is unkind — unkind in both of 
 you. I have come such a long and wearisome 
 journey to make peace for all of us; and if you will 
 but let me finish my task, I shall lay me down and 
 sleep — for ever, I think.” 
 
 Eliot pressed her burning hand to his lips. “ My 
 poor, dear sister,” he said, “ I will not speak 
 another word if I die in the effort to keep silence,” 
 
 “Thanks, dear Eliot,” she replied; and putting 
 both her arms around his neck, she added, in a 
 whisper, “ do not be angry if he again call me crazy; 
 there be many that have called me so — they mistake 
 inspiration for madness, you know.” Never was 
 Eliot’s self-command so tested ; and retiring to the 
 farthest part of the room, he stood with knit brows 
 and compressed lips, looking and feeling like a mau 
 stretched on the rack, while Bess e pursued her 
 fancied mission. “ Do you remember this chain?’* 
 she asked, as she opened a bit of paper, and let fall 
 a gold chain over Meredith’s arm. He started as if 
 he were stung. “It cannot harm you,’’ she said, 
 faintly smiling, as she noticed his recoiling. “ This 
 was the charm.” She smoothed the paper envelope. 
 “As often as I looked at it, the feeling with which 
 I first read it shot through my heart — strange, for 
 there does rot seem much in it.” She murmured 
 the words pencilled by Meredith on the envelope. 
 
 Can she who weaves electric chains to bind the 
 heart, 
 
 Refuse the golden links that loast no'mystic art? 
 
 “ Oh, well do I remember,” she cast up her eyes 
 as one does who is retracing the past, “ the night 
 you gave me this ; Eliot was in Boston ; mother was 
 — I don’t remember where, and we had been all the 
 evening sitting on the porch. The honeysuckles and 
 white ro.ses were in bloom, and the moon shone in 
 through their leaves. It was then you first spoke of 
 your mother in England, and you said much of fha 
 happy destiny of those who were not shackled by 
 pride and avarice ; and when you went away, yon 
 pressed niy hand to your heart, aud put this little 
 packet in it. Yet” (turning to Isabella) “ he never 
 said he loved me. It was only my over credulous 
 fancy. Take it, Isabella; it belongs to you, who 
 really weave the chain that binds the heart.” 
 
 Meredith seized the chain as she stretched out 
 her hand, and crushed it under his foot. Bessie 
 looked from him to Isabella, and seemed for a moment 
 puzzled ; then said, acquiescingly, “ Ah, it’s all well ; 
 symbols do not make nor change realities. This 
 little broocli,” she continued, steadily pursuing her 
 purpose, and taking from the box an old-fashioned, 
 brooch, in the shape of a forget-me-not, “ I think 
 was powerless. What need had I of a forget-me- 
 not, when memory devoured every faculty of ray 
 being? No, there was no charm in the forget-me- 
 not; but oh, this little pencil,” she took from the 
 box the end f a lead pencil, “ with which we CPpi^ 
 
98 THE NOVEL 
 
 and scribbled poetry together. How many thoughts 
 has this little instrument unlocked — what feelings 
 has it touched — what affections have hovered over 
 its point, and gone thrilling back through the heart ! 
 You must certainly take this, Isabella, for there is 
 yet a wonderful power in this magical little pencil — 
 it can make such revelations.” 
 
 “ Defar Bessie, I have no revelations to make.” 
 
 “Is my task finished ?” asked Meredith. 
 
 “Not yet — not quite yet— be patient — patience is 
 a great help ; I have found it so. Do you remember 
 this?” She held up before Meredith a tress of her 
 own fair hair, tied with a raven lock of his in a 
 true-love knot. “ Ah, Isabella, I know very well 
 it was not maidenly of me to tie this; I knew it 
 then, and I begged it of him with many tears, did 
 I not Jasper? but I kept it — that was wrong too. 
 Now, Mr. Meredith, you will help me to untie it?” 
 
 “Pardon me; I have no skill in such matters.” 
 
 “ Ah, is it easier to tie than to untie a true-love 
 knot? Alas, alas! I have found it so. But you 
 must help me. My head is growing dizzy, and I 
 am so faint here !” She laid her hand on her heart. 
 *‘It must be parted — dear Isabella, you will help me 
 —you can untie a true-love’s knot?” 
 
 “ I can sever it,” said Isabella, with an emphasis 
 that went to the heart of more than one that heard 
 her. She took a pair of scissors from the table, and 
 cut the knot. The black lock fell on the floor; the 
 pretty tress of Bessie’s hair curled around her 
 hiiger : — ” I will keep this for ever, my sweet 
 Bessie,” she said ; “ the memorial of innocence, and 
 purity, and much-abused trust.” 
 
 “ Oh, I did not mean that — I did not mean that, 
 Isabella. Surely I have not accused him ; I told 
 you he never said he loved me. I am not angry 
 with him— you must not be. You cannot be long, 
 if you love him ; and surely you do love him.’* 
 
 “ Indeed, indeed I do not.” 
 
 “Isabella Linwood ! you have loved him.” She 
 threw one arm around Isabella’s neck, and looked 
 Tvith a piercing gaze on her face. Isabella would 
 at this moment have given worlds to have answered 
 with truth — “No, never!” She would have given 
 her life to have repressed the treacherous blood that, 
 rushing to her neck, cheeks, and temples, answered 
 uneq ivocally Bessie’s ill- timed question. 
 
 Meredith’s eye was riveted to her face, and the 
 transition from the humiliation, the utter abasement 
 of the moment before, to the undeniable and mani- 
 fested certainty that he had been loved by the all 
 exacting, the unattainable Isabella Linwood, was 
 more than^he could bear, without expressing his 
 exultation. “I thank you, Bessie Lee,” he cried j 
 *‘this triumph is worth all I have endured from 
 your raving and silly drivelling. Your silent con- 
 fession, Miss Linwood, is satisfactory, full, and plain 
 enough; but it has come a thought too late. Good 
 evening to you.’’ “A fair good night to you, sir.’’ 
 “I advise you to take care that your sister sleep 
 more and dream less.” 
 
 There is undoubtedly a pleasure, transient it may 
 be, but real it is, in the gratification of the baser 
 passions. Meredith was a self-idolater; and at the 
 very moment when his divinity was prostrate, it had 
 been revived by the sweetest, the most unexpected 
 incense. No wonder he was intoxicated. Howlong 
 his delirium lasted, and what were its eflects, are 
 still to be seen. His parting taunt was lost on those 
 he left behind. 
 
 Bessie believed that her mission was fulfilled and I 
 ended. The artificial strength which, while she 
 received It as the direct gift of Heaven, her highly. 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 wrought imagination had supplied, was exhausted. 
 As Meredith closed the door, she turned to Eliot, and 
 locking her arms around him, gazed at him with an 
 expression of natural tenderness, that can only be 
 imagined by those who have been so fortunate as to 
 see Fanny Kemble’s exquisite personification of 
 Ophelia ; and who remember (who could forget it?) 
 her action at the end of the flower-scene, when reason 
 and nature seeming to overpower her wild fancies, 
 she throws her arms around Laertes* neck, and with 
 one flash of her all-speaking eyes makes every chord 
 of the heart vibrate. 
 
 The light soon faded from Bessie’s face, and she 
 lay as helpless as an infant in her brother’s arms. 
 Isabella hastened to Mrs, Archer; and Eliot, left 
 alone and quite unmanned, poured out his heart over 
 this victim of vanity and heartlessness. 
 
 Mrs. Archer was prompt and efficient in her kind- 
 ness. Bessie was conveyed to bed, and Eliot assured 
 that every thing should be done for her that human 
 tenderness and vigilance could do. After obtaining 
 a promise from Mrs. Archer that she would write a 
 letter to his mother, and forward it with some des- 
 patches which he knew were to be sent to Boston on 
 the following day ; and after having arranged mat- 
 ters for secret visits to his sister, he lefther, fervently 
 thanking God for the kind care that watched over 
 her flickering light of life. 
 
 Shall we follow Eliot Lee to his hiding-place ? 
 shall we betray his secret meditations ? shall we 
 show the golden thread that ran through their dark 
 web ? shall we confess, that, amid the anxieties (some 
 understood by our readers, and some yet unex. 
 plained) that lowered over him, a star seemed to 
 have risen above his horizon ? Yes — we dare con- 
 fess it ; for a little reflection rebuked his presumption, 
 and he exclaimed, “ What is it to me if she be free ?’*' 
 
 Isabella passed the nigbt in watching with Mrs. 
 Archer over her unconscious little Iriend ; and as 
 she gazed on her meek brow — on the beautiful 
 features that were stamped with truth and tender- 
 ness, her indignation rose against Meredith, who, 
 for the poor gratification of his miserable vanity, 
 could meanly steal away the treasure of her affec- 
 tions — that most precious boon, given to feed the 
 lamp of life, and light the way to Heaven. 
 
 Mrs. Archer, at this crisis, felt much like one who 
 having seen a rich domain relieved by the sudden in- 
 terposition of Providence from a pernicious in- 
 truder, is impatient to see it in possession of a lawful 
 proprietor. It was womanly and natural, that when 
 she and Isabella were watching at Bessie’s bed-side, 
 she should descant on Eliot — should recall his ten- 
 derness and gentleness to Bessie, and the true heroism 
 with which, for her sake, he repressed the indigna- 
 tion that was ready to burst on Meredith. Mrs. 
 Archer thought Isabella listened languidly, and 
 assented coldly. She told her so. “ Dear aunt 
 Mary,’’ she replied, “ my mind is absorbed in a 
 delicious, devout sense of escape. From m 3 ’ child- 
 hood I have been in thraldom — groping in mist. 
 Now I stand in a clear light — I see objects in their 
 true colours — I am mistress of myself, and am, as 
 far as relates to myself, perfectly happy. Some 
 other time we will talk over what your friend said, 
 and did, and did not do, and admire it to your 
 heart’s content. Now 1 am entirely selfish ; I have 
 but one idea — but one sensation I" Mrs. Archer 
 was satisfied. 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Chi puo dir com’ egli arde e ia picciol fuoco. 
 
 Meredith left Mrs. Archer’s in a state of feverish 
 excitement. He paced up and down the street, 
 trying by projects for the future to drive away the 
 memory of the past. The thought of his degra- 
 dation before Isabella Linwood was insupportable ; 
 and the recollection that Eliot Lee had bestowed 
 the stinging epithet of villain on him in her 
 presence, roused his strongest passions and stimu- 
 lated him to revenge. He turned his steps 
 towards Sir Henry Clinton’s. 
 
 “I shall but do a common duty,” he said, “in 
 giving information that a rebel officer, high in 
 Washington’s favour, is in disguise in the city. 
 I shall, indeed, be summarily avenged if Tryon 
 should requite on Lee’s head the death of Palmer.” 
 
 The man to whom his thoughts adverted was he 
 in relation to whom Putnam had addressed to 
 Tryon the famous laconic note ; — 
 
 Sir, 
 
 ** Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in the service of 
 your king, has been taken in my camp as a spy, 
 condemned as a spy, and will be hung as a spy. 
 
 “ P. S. — He has been hanged.” 
 
 The thought of such a catastrophe changed 
 Meredith’s purpose. He had no taste for tragedy. 
 He believed that Eliot’s visit to the city had re- 
 lation only to Bessie, and shrinking from adding 
 such an item to his account with her as the 
 betrayal of her natural protector, he turned back, 
 and retraced his way homeward, meditating a 
 retaliation, better suited than revenge, to his 
 shallow character. Passions flow from deep 
 Sources. Meredith’s relations with Isabella were 
 far more interesting to him than the life or death 
 of Eliot Lee. or his poor sister ; and in trying to 
 devise some balm for his wounded vanity, he hit 
 upon an expedient on which he immediately re- 
 solved. This alluring expedient was none else 
 than an immediate engagement with Lady Anne 
 Seton, which being antedated but by a few hours, 
 •would demonstrate to Isabella Linwood that he, 
 and not she, had first thrown off the shackles ; 
 and would leave for ever rankling in her proud 
 bosom the tormenting recollection that she had 
 involuntarily confessed she loved him, as he had 
 tauntingly said, “ a thought too late.” 
 
 His decision made, he hastened home, dwelling 
 with the most soothing complacency on Ixis recent 
 meeting with his cousin on the banks of the Hud- 
 son, and smiling as he thought how delighted she 
 would be at his profiting by her hint, in thus soon 
 offering to be joint tenant of her love-built Ame- 
 rican cottage. 
 
 “ Where is my cousin ?” he asked, as he en- 
 tered the drawing-room, and found his mother 
 sitting alone. 
 
 “ Where she eternally is,” replied his mother, 
 throwing down her book and eyeglass, and rising 
 with the air of one who has borne a vexation till it 
 is no longer supportable; ” it is the most inex- 
 plicable infatuation ; the girl seems absolutely be- 
 witched by Isabella Linwood.” 
 
 ” But Miss Linwood is not at home this even- 
 lug. 1 left her at her aunt Archer’s.” 
 
 99 
 
 “At Mrs. Archer’s? — you were with her there, 
 Jasper ?” 
 
 Meredith replied, smiling, and without attempt- 
 ing to evade his mother’s probing eye, “ Yes, I 
 was there, but much against ray will, for I had 
 hoped to pass this evening with you and my 
 cousin.” 
 
 “Thank you, ray son, thank you. I flattered 
 myself that all was settled in your mind— definitely 
 settled — when you so gallantly assured Anne that 
 you soon should be ‘ irretrievably in love,’ leaving 
 her to supply the little hiatus, which no girl in 
 like cases would fail to fill with her own name. 
 And now I will be perfectly frank with you, Jas- 
 per ; indeed, if there is any thing on which I pride 
 myself, it is frankness. You understood the inti- 
 mation in the Italian stanza I gave you from the 
 carriage this afternoon?” 
 
 Meredith bowed. 
 
 “ It conveyed a little history in a few words, my 
 son ; I have simply aimed to be *la stella,' by 
 which you, a wise and skilful ‘nocchiero* should, 
 taking advantage of fair winds and favourable 
 tides, guide your vessel into port. But why speak 
 in figures when we perfectly understand one 
 another ? Our dear little Anne — a sweet, attrac- 
 tive creature, is she not? — was left to my guard- 
 ianship, or rather matronship, for your poor 
 uncle was so very thoughtless as to vest me with 
 no authority to control her fortune, or her choice 
 of a husband.” , 
 
 “ Bless my soul ; is it possible !” 
 
 “Too true indeed. You now perceive in what 
 embarrassing circumstances I was placed. This 
 pretty girl on my hands, with her immense and 
 unencumbered property ; nothing short of the 
 utmost prudence and energy on my part could save 
 her from being the prey of fortune hunters (alas ! 
 for poor human nature — the lady uttered this 
 without a blush), rest assured, J asper, that nothing 
 would have induced me in these perilous times to 
 cross the Atlantic but my duty to my orphan 
 niece.” 
 
 “ And the remote prospect of benefiting me, my 
 dear mother.” 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was too intent on the interesting 
 subject upon which she was entering to notice the 
 sarcasm her son had not the grace to suppress. 
 
 “ I had my anxieties,” she continued, “ I frankly 
 confess to you, I had my anxieties before I arrived, 
 about Miss Linwood, and — some few I have had 
 since — ” 
 
 Mrs. Meredith paused, and fixed her eyes on 
 Jasper. 
 
 “On my honour you have not the slightest 
 ground for them,” he said. 
 
 She proceeded. “ Miss Linwood is in some re- 
 spects a superior young person ; she has not the 
 — the — the talent of Helen Ruthven, nor the — the 
 — the grace of Lady Anne (no wonder the per- 
 plexed diplomatist hesitated for a comparative that 
 should place Isabella Linwood below these young 
 ladies) ; but as I said, she is a superior young 
 person — a remarkable-looking person, certainly ; 
 at least, she is generally thought so. I do not par- 
 ticularly like her style — tenderness and inanage- 
 ableness, like our dear Anne’s, are particularly 
 becoming in a female. Miss Linwood is too lofty- 
 one does not feel quite comfortable with her. On 
 the whole, I consider it quite fortunate you did not 
 form an attachment in that quarter— prudence 
 must be consulted— not that I would be swayed by 
 
100 the novel newspaper. 
 
 prudential considerations — certainly not — no one 
 thinks more than I do of the heart ; but when, as 
 inyoxir case, Jasper, the taste and affections accord 
 with a wise consideration of — of — ” 
 
 Fortune, my dear mother ?” 
 
 “Yes, Jasper, frankly, fortune ; I esteem it a 
 remarkable circumstance. Your own fortune may 
 or may not be large. The American portion of it 
 depends upon contingencies, and therefore it would 
 have been rash for you to have encumbered your- 
 self with a ruined family, for, as I am informed, 
 the Linwood's have but just enough to subsist 
 decently upon from day to day. It is true they 
 keep up a respectable appearance. Anne, by the 
 way, tells me they get up the most delicate 
 soupers there. It is amazing what pride will do ! 
 —what sacrifices some people make to appear- 
 ances !” 
 
 “There must be something besides mere table 
 luxuries to make these suppers so attractive to my 
 cousin.” 
 
 “Undoubtedly, for as to that, you know, we 
 have every thing that money can purchase in 
 this demi savage country ; to be sure, Anne might 
 have a foolish, girlish liking for Miss Linwood, 
 but then, I am quite confident — I hesitate, for if 
 there is any thing on which I pride myself, it is 
 being scrupulous towards my own sex in affairs 
 of the heart ; but I betray nothing, for though you 
 are perfectly free from coxcombry, you are not 
 blind, and you must have seen — ” 
 
 “Not seen, but hoped, my dear mother,” re- 
 plied Meredith, with a smile that indicated assur- 
 ance doubly sure. 
 
 “ Hope is the fitting word for you — but your 
 hope may be my certainty — I betray no secrets. 
 Anne has not been confidential, but the dear child 
 is so transparent — ” 
 
 “She seems, however, to have been rather 
 opaque in this Linwood attachment." 
 
 “ Yes, I confess myself baffled there ; you may 
 have opened a vein of coquetry, Jasper. I know 
 Dot what it means, but it can mean nothing to 
 alarm us. It is very odd, though — there is nothing 
 there to gratify her, and every thing here. This 
 very evening Governor Tryon called with the 
 young prince to propose to get up a concert for her. 
 By th^e way, a pretty youth is Prince William ! — 
 he left this|bouquet for Lady Anne. The honour- 
 able Mr. Barton and Sir Reginald were here too, 
 and the Digby's ; and there she is mewed up with 
 that old frightful Mr. Linwood. She must think, 
 Jasper, you are not sufficiently devoted to her.” 
 
 “ She shall not think so in future.” 
 
 *‘Hark, there is the carriage! — I sent her 
 word that I was not well, fn truth, her absence 
 has teased me into a head ache, and my o vn room 
 will be the best place for me.” Thus concluding 
 her tedious harangue, the lady made a hasty re 
 treat; and before Lady Anne had exchanged a 
 salutation with Meredith, and thrown aside her 
 hat and cloak, her aunt’s maid appeared with a 
 message from this “frank” lady, importing the 
 sense of Lady Anne’s kindness in coming home, 
 and informing her that prudence obliged her to 
 abstain from seeing her niece till morning. 
 
 “ I am very sorry !” said Lady Anne, heaving 
 a deep sigh, sinking down in the arm-c’aair her 
 aunt had just left, resting her elbow on it, and 
 looking pensively in the fire. 
 
 “ You need not be so deeply concerned, my 
 Srind cousin; my mother is not very ill,” said 
 
 Meredith, with difficulty forbearing a laugh at 
 the disparity between the cause and the effect on 
 his apparently sympathising cousin. 
 
 “111!” exclaimed Lady Anne, starting, “I did 
 not suppose that she was ill.” 
 
 “ Then why, in the name of Heaven, that deep 
 sigh.?” 
 
 “There are many causes of sighs, cousin 
 Jasper.” ^ 
 
 “ To you. Lady Anne, so young, so gifted, so 
 lovely, so beloved. ” 
 
 “ That should be happiness !” she replied, cover- 
 ing her face with her hands to hide the tears, that, 
 in spite of all the anti- crying tendencies of her 
 nature, gushed from her eyes. 
 
 “Those dimpled hands,’’ thought Meredith, 
 “ hiding so childishly her melting face, might 
 move an anchoret ; but they move not me. I am 
 too pampered — to know that I have been loved by 
 Isabella Linwood, with all the bitter, cursed mor- 
 tification that attends it, is worth a w'orld of such 
 triumphs as this. Poor Bessie, I remember too — 
 but, allons, I will take the good ‘ the gods pro- 
 vide,’ since I cannot have that which they deny. 
 Cousin — ” 
 
 “ Did you speak to me, Jasper ?” 
 
 “Now, by my life,” thought Meredith, “my 
 words are congealed — they will not flow to such 
 willing ears.” 
 
 “I am playing the fool,” exclaimed Lady 
 Anne, suddenly rising and dashing off her tears. 
 “Good night, Jasper — I have betrayed myself — 
 no, no, I did not mean that — pray forget my 
 weakness — I am nervous this evening for the first 
 time in my life, and I know nothing of managing 
 nerves— Good night, Jasper!” 
 
 Meredith seized her hand and held her back. 
 “ Indeed, my sweet coz, you must not go 
 now.” 
 
 “Must not go! Why not?" she replied, ex- 
 cessively puzzled by the expressive smile that ho- 
 vered on his lip?. 
 
 “ Why not ? Because you are too much of an 
 angel to shut your heart so suddenly against me, 
 after allowing me a glimpse at the paradise 
 within.” 
 
 “ What do you mean?” she asked, now be- 
 ginning, from Meredith’s manner, and from the 
 well-tutored expression of his most sentimental 
 eyes, to have some dim perception of his meaning, 
 and to be disconcerted by it. 
 
 “Dear Anne, did you not, with your own 
 peculiar, enchanting ingenuousness, say you had 
 betrayed yourself? Never was there a sweeter 
 — a more welcome treachery.’’ He fell ou 
 knee, and pressed her hand to his lips. 
 
 “ For the love of Heaven, Jasper,” she cried, 
 snatching her hand away, “ tell me what I have 
 said or dene.” 
 
 ” Nothing that you should not, dearest cousin ; 
 your betrayal, as you called it, was, I know, in- 
 voluntary, and for that the dearer.” 
 
 “Are you in earnest, Jasper?” 
 
 “In earnest! most assuredly; and do you, 
 Lady Anne, like all your sex, delight in torturing 
 your captives ? — your captive I certainly am, for 
 life.” 
 
 The truth was now but too evident to Lady 
 Anne ; but she was so unprepared for it, her mind 
 had ,beeii so wholly pre-occupied, that it seemed 
 to her the marvellous result of some absurd mis- 
 understanding. At first she blushed, and stam 
 
THE LIN WOODS, 
 
 mered, and then, following her natural bent, 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 To Meredith, this appeared a childish artifice to 
 shelter her mortification at having made, in mili- 
 tary phrase, a first demonstration. His interest 
 was stimulated by this slight obstacle ; and rallying 
 all his powers, he began a passionate declaration in 
 the good set terms “ in such cases made and pro- 
 vided,” butLadyAnne cut him off erehehad ended 
 his peroration. “ This is a most absurd business, 
 Jasper; I entreat you never to speak of it again. 
 Aunt, or somebody, or something, has misled-— mis- 
 led, you certainly are. I never in my life thought 
 of you in any other light than as a very agreeable 
 cousin, nor ever shall. I am very sorry for you, 
 Jasper ; but really, 1 am not in fault, for I never, 
 by word or look, could have expressed what I 
 never felt. Good night, Jasper.” She was run- 
 ning away, when she turned back to add, “ Pray, 
 say nothing of this to my aunt, and let us meet 
 to-morrow as we have always met before.” She 
 then disappeared, and left Meredith baffled, mor- 
 tified, irritated, and most thoroughly awakened 
 from his dreams. Her face, voice, and manner, 
 were truth itself ; and rapidly reviewing their 
 past intercourse, and carefully weighing the words 
 that had misled him, he came to the conclusion 
 that he had been partly misguided by his mother, 
 and partly the dupe of his previous impressions. 
 The measure of his humiliations was filled up. 
 
 Bvxt his vanity survived the severe and repeated 
 blow s of that evening. Vanity has a wonderful 
 tenacity of life: it resembles those reptiles that 
 feed greedily on every species of food, the most 
 delicate and the grossest, and that can subsist on 
 their own independent vitality. 
 
 CHAPTEFv XXXV. 
 
 Heart ! what’s that ? 
 
 Oh, a thing that servant-maids have, and break for 
 John the footman. 
 
 If Meredith could have borne off his charming 
 heiress cousin, bis love for Isabella might have gone 
 to the moon, or to any other repository of lost and 
 forgotten things. But, balked in that pursuit, it 
 resumed its empire over him. He passed a feveri.sb, 
 sleepless night, resolving (he past, and reconsidering 
 Is^bella,’s every word and look during their inter- 
 view of the preceding evening ; and finally, he came 
 to a conclusion not unnatural (for few persons give 
 others credit for less of a given infirmity than they 
 themselves possess), that Isabella’s vanity had been 
 wounded by the conviction that she had been, for a 
 time, superseded by Bessie Lee; and that the ground 
 he had thus lost might, by a dexterous manoeuvre, be 
 regained. Engrossed with his next move, he ap- 
 peared at breakfast-table as usual, attentive to his 
 mother, and polite to Lady Anne, who, anxious to 
 express, her good- rt ill, was more than ordinarily 
 kind ; and Mrs, Meredith concluded that if matters 
 had not gone as far as she had hoped, they were 
 going on swimmingly. The breakfast finished, Lady 
 Anne ran away from her aunt s annoying devotions 
 to the Linwoods, and Meredith retired to his own 
 room to write, after weighing and sifting each word, 
 the following note to Isabella. He did not send it,^ 
 however, till he had taken the precaution to precede 
 
 101 
 
 by a written request to Lady Anne (with whom he 
 had found out too late that honest dealing was far 
 the safest) that she would, on no account — he asked 
 it for her own sake — communicate to any one their 
 parting scene of the preceding evening. His evil 
 star ruled the ascendant, and Lady Anne received the 
 note too late. 
 
 To Miss Liriwood, 
 
 “ Montaigne says, and says truly, that ' toutes 
 passions qne se laissent gouster et digerer ne sont 
 que mediocres ;’ but how would he — how shall I 
 characterise a passion which has swallowed up every 
 other passion, desire, and affectiou of my nature — 
 has grown and tiiriven upon that which would have 
 seemed fatal to its existence ! 
 
 “ Isabella, these are not hollow phrases — you 
 know they are not ; and be not angry at my bold- 
 ness. I know your heart responds to them, and, 
 though I was stretched on the rack to obtain this 
 knowledge, I thank my tormentors. Yes, by Hea- 
 ven ! I would not change that one instant of intoxi- 
 cating, bewildering joy, vvhen, even in the presence 
 of witnesses, and such witnesses! you confessed you 
 had loved me, for ages of a common existence; 
 Thank Heaven, too, the precious confession was not 
 through the hackneyed medium of w'ords. Such a 
 sentiment is not born in your bosom to die. I judge 
 from my own inferior nature. I have loved on 
 steadily, through absence, coldness, disdain, caprice 
 (pardon me, my proud, my adored Isabella), in spite 
 of the canker and rust of delay after delay; in spite 
 of all the assaults of those temptations to which the 
 young and fortunate aie exposed. Can I estimate 
 your heart at a lower rate than my own? 
 
 “ As to that sill}^ scene last evening, though it 
 stung me at the moment, and goaded me to an un- 
 meaning impertinence, yet, on a review of it, do you 
 not perceive that we were both the dupes of a little 
 dramatic effect? and that there is no reality in the 
 matter, except so far as concerns the lost wits of the 
 crazed girl, and the very natural affliction of her 
 well-meaning brother, whose unjust and hasty indig- 
 nation towards me, being the result of false impres- 
 sions, I most heartily forgive. 
 
 “ As to poor Bessie Lee, I can only say, God help 
 her! I am most sincerely sorry for her; but neither 
 you nor I can be surprised that she should be the 
 dupe of her lively iraagiuation, and the victim of 
 her nervous temperament. I ask but one word in 
 reply. Say you will see me at any hour you choose ; 
 and, for God’s sake, Isabella, secure oar interview 
 from interruption.’’ 
 
 In halfau hour, and just as Meredith W'as sally- 
 ing forth to allay his restlessness by a walk in the 
 open air, he met his messenger with a note from Miss 
 Linwood. He turned back, entered the unoccupied 
 drawing-room, and read the following: — 
 
 “I have received your note, Jasper ; I do not 
 reply to it hastily ; hours of watchfulness and reflec- 
 tion at the bed-side of mv friend have given the 
 maturity of years to my present feeling. I have 
 loved you, I confess it now ; not by a treacherous 
 hlu.sh, hut calmly, deliberately, in my own hand- 
 writing, without faltering or emotion of any sort. 
 Yes, 1 have loved you, if a sentiment springing 
 from a most attachable nature, originating in the ac- 
 cidental intercourse of childhood, fostered by pride, 
 nurtured by flattery, and exaggerated by an excited 
 imagination, can be called love. 
 
 “ I have loved you, if a sentiment struggling with 
 doubt and distrust^ seeking for rest and finding none. 
 
THE N^VEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 102 
 
 becoming fainter and fainter in the dawning light of 
 truth, and vanishing, like an exhalation in the full 
 day, can be called love. 
 
 “ You say truly, Bessie Lee is the dupe of a too 
 lively imagination, and the victim of a nervous tem- 
 perament. To these you might have added, an ex- 
 quisitely organised frame, and a conscience too sus- 
 ceptible for a creature liable to the mistakes of 
 humanity. Oh, how despicable, how cruel, was the 
 vanity that could risk the happiness of such a 
 creature for its own gratification ! I have wept 
 bitterly over her ; I should scarcely have pitied her, 
 had she been the unresisting slave and victim of a 
 misplaced and unrequited passion. 
 
 “ After what I have written, you will perceive 
 that you need neither seek nor avoid an interview 
 with me ; that the only emotion you can now excite, 
 is a devout gratitude that our former interviews were 
 interrupted, and circumstances were made strong 
 enough to prevail over my weakness. 
 
 “ Isabell.a. Linwood. 
 
 “ P. S. — I have detained my messenger, and 
 opened my note to add, that your cousin has just 
 come in, and with a confidence befitting her frank 
 nature, has communicated to me the farce with which 
 you followed up the tragedy of last evening.’’ 
 
 Meredith felt, what was in truth quite evident, 
 that-Isabella Linwood was herself again. He ihrevv 
 the note from him in a paroxysm of vexation, disap- 
 pointment, and utter and hopeless mortification ; 
 and covering his face with his hands, he endured 
 one of those moments that occur even iu this life, 
 when the sins, follies, and failures of by-gone 
 years are felt with the vividness and acuteness of 
 the actual and present, and memory and conscience 
 are endued with supernatural energy and retributive 
 power. 
 
 What a capacity of penal suffering has the All- 
 wise infused into the moral nature of man, even the 
 weakest. 
 
 The mind is its own place, and in itself, 
 
 Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. 
 
 Meredith was roused by the soft fall of a footstep. 
 He started, and saw Helen Ruthven, who had just 
 entered, and was in the act of picking up the note 
 he had thrown down. She looked at the superscrip- 
 tion, then at Meredith. Her lustrous eyes suffused 
 with tears, and the tears formed into actual drops, 
 and rolled down her cheeks. “ Oh, happy, most 
 happy Isabella Linwood !" she exclaimed. Meredith 
 took the note from her and threw it into the fire. 
 Miss Ruthven stared at him, and lifted up her 
 hands with an unfeigned emotion of astonishment. 
 After a moment’s pause, she added, “ I still say most 
 happy Isabella Linwood. And yet, if she cannot 
 estimate the worth of thepricele.ss kingdom she sways, 
 is she most happy ? You do not answ'er me ; and you, 
 of all the world, cannot." Meredith did not reply 
 by word : but Miss Ruthven’s quick eye perceived 
 the cloud clearing from liis brow ; and she ventured 
 to try the eff’ect of a stronger light. “ I cannot com- 
 prehend this girl,” she continued ; “ she is a riddle 
 — an insolvable riddle to me. A passionless mortal 
 seems to me to approach nearer to a monster than 
 to a diviniij [deserving your idolatry, Meredith She 
 cannot be the cold, apathetic, statue-like person she 
 appears — ’ 
 
 “ A lid why not. Miss Ruthven?” 
 
 “ Simply because a passionless being cannot in- 
 spire passion — and yet — and yet, if she were a marble 
 
 statue, your love should have been the Promethean 
 touch to infuse a soul. Pardon me — pity me,.jf I 
 speak too plainly; there are moments when the 
 heart will burst the barriers of prudence — there are 
 moments of desperation, of self-abandonment. I 
 cannot be bound by those petty axioms and frigid 
 rules that shackle my sex — I cannot weigh my words 
 — I must pour out my heart, even though this pro- 
 digality of its treasures ‘ naught enriches you, and 
 makes me poor indeed !’ ” 
 
 Helen Ruthven’s broken sentences were linked 
 together by expressive glances, and eff’ective pauses. 
 She gave to her words all the force of intonation 
 and emphasis, which produce the efl’ect of polish on 
 metal, making it dazzling, without adding au iota to 
 its intrinsic value. Meredith lent a most attentive 
 ear, mentally comparing the while Miss Ruthven's 
 lavished sensibilities to Isabella’s jealous reserve. 
 He should have discriminated between the generosity 
 that gives what is nothing worth, and the fidelity that 
 watches over an immortal treasure ; but vanity wraps 
 itself in impenetrable darkness. He only felt that 
 ho was in a labyrinth of which Helen Ruthven held 
 the clew ; and that he was in the process of pre- 
 paration to follow whithersoever she willed to lead 
 him. 
 
 We let the curtain fall here; we have no taste for 
 showing off the infirm of our own sex. We were 
 willing to supply' some intimations that might be 
 available to our ingenious and all believing young 
 male friends; but we would not reveal to our fair and 
 true-hearted readers the flatteries, pretences, false 
 assumptions, and elaborate blandishments, by which 
 a hackneyed woman of the world dupes and beguiles 
 and at last (obeying the inflexible law of reaping as 
 she sows) pays the penally of her folly in a life of 
 matrimonial union without affection — a wretched 
 destiny, well fitting those who profane the sanctuary 
 of the affections with hypocritical W'orship. 
 
 While the web is spinning around Meredith, we 
 leave him with the wish that all the Helen Ruthvens 
 in the world may have as fair game as Jasper Mere- 
 dith. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Adventurous I have been, it is true. 
 
 And this fool-hardy heart would brave — nay, court, 
 In other days, an enterprise or passion; 
 
 Yea, like a witch, would whistle for a whirlwind. 
 But I have been admonished. 
 
 Our humble story treats of the concerns of indi- 
 viduals, and not of historical events. We shall not, 
 therefore, embarrass our readers with the particulars 
 of the secret mission on which Eliot Lee had been 
 sent to the city by the commander-in.chief. He 
 needed an agent, who might, as the exigency should 
 demand, be prudent or bold, wary or decided, 
 cautious or gallant, and self sacrificing. He had 
 tested Eliot Lee, and knew him to be capable of all 
 these rarely-united virtues. Eliot had confided to 
 Washington his anxieties respecting his unfortunate 
 sister, and his burning desire to go to the city, w'here 
 he might possibly ascertain her fate. Washington 
 gave him permission to avail himself of every facility 
 for the performance of his fraternal duty, consistent 
 with the public service on which he sent him. His 
 sympathies were alive to the charities of domestic 
 
THE LINWOODS, 
 
 
 life. While the military chieftain planted and 
 guarded the tree that was to overshadow his country, 
 he cherished the birds that made their nests in its 
 branches. 
 
 Eliot was instructed to seek a hiding-place in tho 
 city at a certain Elizabeth Bengin’s, a woman of 
 strong head and strong heart, whose name is pre- 
 served in history as one who, often at great personal 
 risk, rendered substantial service in the country’s 
 cause. Dame Bengin and her parrot Sylvy, who 
 seemed to preside over the destinies of the shop, and 
 did in fact lure many a young urchin into it, were 
 known to all the city. The dame herself was a thick- 
 set, rosy little body, fair, fat, and forty ; her shop 
 was a sort of thread and needle store: but as the 
 principle of division of labour had yet made small 
 progress in our young country, Mistress Bengin’s 
 wares were as multifarious as the wants of the citizens. 
 Mrs. Bengiu’s first principle was to keep a civil 
 tongue in her own and in Sylvy ’s head, she holding 
 civility (as she often said and repeated) to be the 
 mostdispo sable and mostprofitable articleinher shop. 
 It was indeed seriously profitable to her, for it sur- 
 rounded her w'ith an atmosphere of kindness, and 
 enabled her, though watched and suspected by the 
 English, to follow her calling for a long while unmo- 
 lested. 
 
 She gave Eliot an apartment in a loft over her 
 shop, to which, there being no apparent access, Eliot 
 obtained egress and ingress by removing a loose 
 board that, to the uninstructed eye, formed a part of 
 the ceiling of the shop. 
 
 From this hiding place Eliot sallied forth to exe- 
 cute his secret purposes, varying his disguises, which 
 were supplied by Mrs. Bengin, as caution distated. 
 As all sorts of persons frequented the shop, no at- 
 tention was excited by all sorts of persons coming out 
 of it. Eliot’s forced masquerading often compelled 
 him to personate various characters during the day, 
 and at the evening, with simply a cloak over his own 
 uniform, and a wallet over his arm, like those still 
 used by country doctors, and precisely, as Dame 
 Bengin assured him, like that carried by the“ doctor 
 that attended the quality,” he made his way, shel- 
 tered by the obscurity of the night, to Mrs. Archer’s, 
 where he was admitted by one of the children, whose 
 acute senses caught the first sound of his approach- 
 ing footsteps. Eliot, in spite of remonstrances from 
 his prime minister, Mrs. Bengin, had persisted in 
 appearing in his own dress at Mrs. Archer’s. In 
 vain the good dame speculated and soliloquised ; she 
 could not solve the mystery of this only disobedience 
 to her counsel. “ To be sure,” she said, “ it makes 
 a sight of difference in his looks, whether he wears 
 my tatterdemalion disguises, wigs, scratches, and 
 what not, or his own nice uniform, with his own 
 lich brown hair, waving off his sunshiny forehead 
 — a bright, pleasant, tight built looking youth he is, 
 as ever I put my two eyes upon ; and if he were 
 going to see young ladies, I should not wonder that 
 he did not want to put his light under a bushel ; but, 
 my conscience! to keep up such a brushing and 
 scrubbing— my loft is not so very linty either — just 
 to go before the widow Archer — to be sure, she is a 
 widow ; but then, there never was a man yet that 
 dared to have any courting thoughts of her, any more 
 than if she were buried in her husband’s grave; 
 and this is not the youth to be presuming.’’ 
 
 Dame Bengin knew enough of human nature to 
 have solved the mystery of Eliot’s toilet, if she had 
 been apprised of one material fact in the case. At 
 Mrs. Archer’s, watching at Bessie’s bedside, Eliot 
 always found Miss Linwood ; and though the truest, 
 
 ’1K)3 
 
 the most anxious, and tender of brothers, he was not 
 unconscious of her presence, nor unconscious that 
 her presence mingled with his sufferings for his sister 
 a most dangerous felicity. His fate was inevitable; 
 he at least thought it so ; and that fate was an intense 
 and unrequited devotion to one as unattainable to 
 him as if she were the inhabitant of another planet. 
 He did not resist his destiny by abating one minute 
 of those hours that were worth years of a drawing- 
 room intercourse. In ordinary circumstances, Isa- 
 bella’s soul would have been veiled from so new an 
 acquaintance ; but now constantly under the influ- 
 ence of strong feeling and fresh impulse, and a most 
 joyous sense of freedom, her lofty, generous, and 
 tender spirit glowed in her beautiful face, and in- 
 spired and graced every word and movement. 
 
 Her devotion to Bessie was intense ; not simply 
 from compassion nor affection, but remembering; 
 that in her self-will she had insisted, in spite of her 
 father’s disinclination, and her aunt’s most reason- 
 able remonstrances, on Bessie’s visit to the city, she 
 looked upon herself as the primary cause of her 
 friend's misfortunes, and felt her own peace of mind 
 to be staked on Bessie’s recovery. What a change 
 had the discipline of life wrought in Isabella’s cha- 
 racter ! the qualities were still the same ; the same 
 energy of purpose, the same earnestness in action, 
 the same strength of feeling, but now all flowing ia 
 the right channel, all having a moral aim, and all 
 governed by that religious sense of duty, which is to 
 the spirit iu this perilous voyage of life what the 
 compass is to the mariner. 
 
 Of Bessie’s recovery there seemed from day to day 
 little prospect. One hopeful circumstance there was. 
 The intelligent physician consulted by Mrs. Archer 
 had frankly confessed that his art could do nothing 
 for her, and had advised leaving her entirely to the 
 energies of nature. Would that this virtue of letting 
 alone were oftener imitated by the faculty ! that 
 nature were oftener permitted to manifest her power 
 unclogged, and unembarrassed by the poisons of the 
 drug-shop. 
 
 Bessie was as weak and helpless as a new-born 
 infant, and apparently as unknowing of the werld 
 about her. With few and brief exceptions, she slept 
 day and night. Her face was calm, peaceful, and 
 not inexpressive, but it was as unvarying as a pic- 
 ture. Her senses appeared no longer to be the 
 ministers of the mind ; she heard without hearing^ 
 and saw without seeing, and never attempted to speak. 
 At times her friends despaired utterly, believing that 
 her mind was extinct ; and then again they hoped it 
 was a mere suspension of her faculties, a rest pre— ^ 
 luding restoration. 
 
 While fear and hope were thus alternating a week 
 passed away. Eliot’s mission was near being accom- 
 plished. The evening of the following day was 
 appointed for the consummation of his plans. The 
 boats, with muffled oars and trusty oarsmen, were 
 in readiness, and the plan, for the secret seizure of 
 a most important personage, so well matured^ 
 that it it was all but impossible it should be baffled. 
 Tile moat brilliant result seemed certain, and well- 
 balanced as Eliot’s mind was, it was excited to 
 the highest pitch when a communication reached 
 him from head-quarters, informing him that Wash- 
 ington deemed it expedient to abandon the enterprise 
 of which he was the agent; and he was directed, if 
 possible, to cross the Hudson during the night, and 
 repair to the camp near Morristown. And thus 
 ended tlie hope of brilliant achievement and sudden 
 advancement; and he wont to pay his lust visit to 
 his sister — for the last time to see Isabella Linwood* 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 104 
 
 She met him with good news lighting her eyes. 
 ** Bessie is reviving !" she said ; “ she has pressed roy 
 h nd, and spoken my name !’’ 
 
 “ Thank God 1” replied Eliot, approaching the 
 bedside. 
 
 For the first time Bessie fixed her eye on him, 
 as if conscious at whom she was looking; then, 
 as he bent over her, she stretched out her arms, drew 
 li’s face to hers, and kissed him, feebly murmuring, 
 “ dear Eliot.” 
 
 The eflbrt exhausted her, and she reverted to her 
 usual condition. 
 
 “ This must he expected,” said Miss Linwood, 
 replying to the shade of disappointment that passed 
 over Eliot’s brow ; “ but having seen such a sign of 
 recovery, you will leave her with a light heart?” 
 
 Eliot smiled assentingly — a melancholy smile 
 enough. 
 
 “ You still, she continued, “ expect to get off to- 
 morrow evening?” 
 
 “No; my business in the city is finished, and I 
 ^0 this very night.” 
 
 “To-night! would to Heaven that Herbert were 
 going with you !” 
 
 “Notone regret for my going,” thought Eliot, 
 and he sighed involuntarily, 
 
 “ You seem,’* resumed Isabella, “ very suddenly 
 indifferent to Herbert’s fate ; you do not care to 
 know, before you go, how our plans are ripening ?” 
 
 ‘‘Indifferent to Herbert’s fate! — to aught that 
 concerns you. Miss Linwood !” 
 
 “A common-place compliment from you. Captain 
 Lee — well, as it is the first. I’ll forgive you — not so 
 ■would Herbert, for making him secondary in a 
 matter where he is entitled to the honour, as he has 
 the misery of being principal. Poor fellow — his 
 adversities have not taught him patience ; and Rose 
 tells me he is very near the illness he has feigned, 
 and that if he does not get off' by to-morrow night 
 he will fret himself into a fever.” 
 
 Have you made Lady Anne acquainted with your 
 project?” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed ! and her quick wit, loving heart, 
 .and most ingenious fingers, have been busy iu con- 
 triving and executing our preparations. She is 
 wild enough to wish to be the companion of Her- 
 bert’s flight. This is not to be thought of; but I 
 have promised her that she shall see him once more. 
 Lizzy Bengin will go with us to the boat, where, if 
 Heaven prosper us, he will be by eight to-morrow 
 evening. And then. Captain Lee, should you per- 
 suade General Washington to receive and forgive 
 him, we shall be perfectly happy again.” 
 
 “ Perfectly happy 1" echoed Eliot, in a voice most 
 discordant with the woids he uttered. 
 
 “ Oh, pardon me ! I did not mean that. It is 
 cruel to talk to you of happiness while Bessie is in 
 this uncertain condition — and most unjust it is to 
 myself, for I never shall be happy unless she is re- 
 stored and mistress of herself again.” 
 
 “ Ah, Miss Linwood, that cannot be. In her best 
 days she had not the physical and mental power re- 
 quired to make her ‘mistress of herself;’ no, it can 
 never be. If it were not for my mother, who I 
 know would wish Bessie restored to her, even though 
 she continue the vacant casket she now is, I should, 
 with most intense desire, pray God to take her te 
 himself ; there alone can a creature so sensitive and 
 fragile be safe and at peace !” ■ 
 
 “You are wrong — I am certain you are wrong. 
 There is a flexibility in our womanly nature that is 
 strength in our weakness. Bessie will perceive the 
 delusion under which she has acted and suffered, and 
 
 which had dominion over her, because, like any other 
 dream, it seemed a reality while it lasted. Yes, her 
 aflections will return to their natural channels to 
 bless us all.’’ 
 
 Eliot shook his head despondingly. 
 
 “You are faithless and unbelieving,” continued 
 Isabella; and then added, smiling and blushing, 
 “ but I reason from experience, and therefore you 
 should believe me.” 
 
 This was the first time that Meredith had been 
 alluded to. The allusion was intrepid and generous ; 
 and if a confession of past weakness, it was an assur- 
 ance of present, conscious, and all-sufficient strength. 
 That Eliot at least thought so was evident from the 
 sudden irradiation of bis countenance ; a brightness 
 misinterpreted by Isabella, who immediately added, 
 “ I have convinced you, and you will admit I was 
 not very rash in saying that we should all again be 
 perfectly happy.” 
 
 Eliot made no reply ; he walked to the extremity 
 of the room, paused, returned, gazed intently, yet 
 abstractedly at his sister, then at Isabella, and then 
 mechanically took up his hat, laid it down, and 
 again resumed it. 
 
 Isabella was perplexed by his contradictory move- 
 ments. “ You are not going so soon ?’’ she said. 
 
 He did not reply. 
 
 “ Shall I call my aunt?” she added, rising. 
 
 Eliot seized her hand, and withheld her. “ No, 
 no, not yet. Miss Linwood, I am playing the hypo- 
 crite. It is not alone my anxiety for my sister that 
 torments me — that made your prediction of happiness 
 sound to me like a knell.” 
 
 He paused, and then yielding to an irresistible 
 impulse, he impetuously threw himself at Isabella’s 
 feet. 
 
 “ Isabella Linwood, I love you — love you without 
 the presumption of the faintest, slightest hope ; before 
 we part for ever suffer me to tell you so.” 
 
 Captain Lee, youjastonish me ! you do not mean — ” 
 
 “ I know I astonish you, but I will not offend yon. 
 Is it folly — rashness — obtrusiveness, to pour out an 
 affection before you that expects nothing in return 
 — asks nothing but the satisfaction of being known, 
 and not offensive to you?” 
 
 “ O, no, no ; but you may regret.” 
 
 “ Never, never. From this moment I devote my 
 heart — I dedicate my existence to you ; insomuch as 
 God permits me to love aught beneath himself, I will 
 love you. I must now part from you for ever; but 
 wherever I go your image will attend me — that can- 
 not be denied me ; it shall defend me from temptation, 
 incite me to high resolves, pure thoughts, and good 
 deeds.” 
 
 “ Such homage might well make me proud,” re- 
 plied Isabella, “ and I am most grateful for it ; but 
 your imagination is overwrought; this is a transient 
 excitement — it will pass away.” 
 
 “ Never!” replied Eliot, rising, and recovering in 
 some degree the steadiness of his voice ; “ hear me 
 patiently; it is the only time I shall ever ask your 
 indulgence. I am not now, nor was I ever, under 
 the dominion of my imagination or my passions. I 
 have been trained in the school of exertion, of self- 
 denial, and self-subjection ; and I would not, I could 
 not Jove one who did not sway my reason, who was 
 not entitled to the homage of my best faculties. I 
 have been moved by beauty — I have been attracted 
 by the lovely — I have had ray fancies and my lik- 
 ings — what man of two-and-twenty has not? — I 
 never loved before ; never before felt a sentiment 
 that, if it were requited, would have made earth a 
 paradise to me ; but that unrequited, unsustained but 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 by its own independent vitality, I would not part with 
 for any paradise on this earth." 
 
 The flush of surprise that first overspread Isa- 
 bella's face had deepened to a crimson glow. If a 
 woman is not ofiended by such language as Eliot’s, 
 she cannot be unmoved. Isabella's was a listening 
 eye. It seemed to Eliot, at this moment, that its 
 rays touched his heart, and burned there. She 
 passed her hand over her brow, as one naturally 
 does when the brain is becoming a little blurred in 
 its perceptions. “ This is so very strange, so unex- 
 pected," she said, in the softest tone of that voice, 
 whose every tone was music to her lover's ear — “ in 
 one short week— it cannot be 1" 
 
 Isabella but half uttered her thoughts: she had 
 been misled, as most inexperienced observers are in 
 similar cases, by the tranquillity of Eliot's manner; 
 she respected and liked him exceedingly ; but she 
 thought him unexcitable, and incapable of passion. 
 Ske had yet to learn that the strongest passions are 
 reducible to the gentlest obedience, and may be so 
 subjected as to manifest their power, not in irregular 
 and rebellious movements, but only in the tasks 
 they achieve. She did not now reflect or analyse, 
 but she felt, for the first time, there was that in 
 Eliot Lee that could answer to the capacities of her 
 own soul. 
 
 " This is, undoubtedly, unexpected to you,’’ re- 
 sumed Eliot, “ but should not be strange. When 
 I first saw you I was struck with your beauty ; and 
 I thought, if I were a pagan, I should embody my 
 divinity in just such a form, and fall down and 
 worship it ; — that might have been what the world 
 calls falling in love, but it was far enough from the 
 all-controlling sentiment I now profess to you. Our 
 acquaintance has been short (I date firrther back 
 than a week) ; but in this short period I have seen 
 your mind casting oflf the shackles of early preju- 
 dices, {resisting the authority of opinion, self- recti fled, 
 and forming its independent judgments on those 
 great interests in which the honour and prosperity 
 of your country are involved. I have gloried in 
 seeiug you willing to sacriflce the pride, the exclu- 
 siveness, and all the little idol vanities of accidental 
 distinctions, to the popular and generous side. 
 
 “ Nay, hear me out, Isabella ; I will not leave 
 you till you have the reasons of my love; till you 
 admit that I have deliberately elected the sovereign 
 of my affections; till you feel, yes, feel, that my 
 devotion to you can never abate.” He hesitated, and 
 his voice faltered ; but he resolutely proceeded : 
 “ Other shackles has your power over woman’s 
 weakness enabled you to cast ofl'.” 
 
 “ Oh, no — no; do not commend me for that — 
 they fell olT.’’ 
 
 " Be it so : they could not fetter you, that is 
 enough." 
 
 ‘‘ Then,” said Isabella, somewhat mischievouslv, 
 “ I think you like me for — what most men like not 
 at all — my love of freedom and independence of 
 control.’’ 
 
 “ Yes, I do; for I think they are essential to the 
 highest and most progressive nature ; but I should 
 not love it if it were not blended with all the tender- 
 ness and softness of your sex. The lire that mounts 
 to Heaven from the altar, diffuses its gentle warmth 
 at the fireside. Think you, that, w hile you have 
 been tending my sister, I have been unmindful of 
 your kindly domestic qualities, or blind to the thou- 
 sand womanly inventions by which I see you minis- 
 tering to the happiness of these unfortunate chil- 
 dren? Have you thought rne iiiseusible to your 
 intervention for luy poor boy, Kisel, though God, iii 
 
 105 
 
 much mercy to him, willed it should be bootless? 
 
 I do homage to your genius, talent, and accom- 
 plishment, but I love your gracious, domestic, home- 
 felt virtues: I am exhausting your patience." Isa- 
 bella had covered her face, overpowered with the 
 accumulated proof that Eliot had watched her with 
 a fond lover’s eye. After a slight hesitation, he 
 proceeded to obey a most natural, if it be a weak, 
 longing. “ Allow me, if you can, one solaee, one 
 blessed thought to cheer a long life of loneliness and 
 devotion. I am bold in asking it ; but, tell me, had 
 I known you earlier, had no predilection forestalled 
 me, had no rival intervened, do you think it possible 
 that you should have returned my love?" 
 
 Some one says that all women are reared hypo- 
 crites — trained to veil their natures; Isabella Lin- 
 wood, at least, was not. She replied, impulsively 
 and frankly, " Most certainly I should.” 
 
 Eliot again fell at her feet. He ventured to take 
 her hand, to press it to his lips, to wet it with his 
 tears. “ I am satisfied,” he said ; “ now I can go ; 
 and the thought, that I might, under a happier star, 
 have been loved by Isabella Linwood, shall elevate, 
 guide, and soothe me, in all the chances and changes 
 of life.’’ 
 
 While Eliot was uttering these last words, and 
 while Isabella was absorbed in the emotions they 
 excited, the door was softly opened, and Lizzy 
 Archer, flitting across the room, said in a low voice, 
 " Oh, Captain Lee I what shall we do? — there are 
 horrid soldiers watching at both our doors for you— 
 mamma's out, and 1 could not sleep — I never sleep 
 when you are here, for fear something will happen — 
 I heard their voices at the side door ; and when I 
 came through the hall, I heard others through the 
 street door — what shall we do? — Cousiu Belle, pray 
 think — for you can always think in a minute.” 
 
 But “ Cousiu Belle’s’’ presence of mind had sud- 
 denly forsaken her; and as Eliot’s eye glanced 
 towards her, he saw she was pale and trembling* 
 A hope shot into his mind, a thought of the possi- 
 bility that if he were not now severed from her, that 
 which she had generously admitted might hava 
 been, might still be. To exclude this new-born hope 
 seemed to him like the extinction of life. Fie rapidly 
 revolved the circumstances in which he was placed. 
 He had done in the aflair intrusted to him all, and 
 even more than his commander expected ; it had 
 failed of consummation through no fault of his; he 
 was ill the American uniform, and thus captured, 
 ho might claim the rights of a prisoner of war; the 
 temporary loss of his presence in camp would be un- 
 important to the cause ; and remaining for a time 
 within reach of Isabella Linwood might result in 
 good, iufluite good, and happiness to himself. He 
 wavered ; but the fixed habit of rectitude prevailed, 
 the duty of the soldier over the almost irresistible 
 inclinations of the man : he shut out the temptation, 
 and only considered the means of escape. “ Dear 
 Lizzy,” he said^ “ if I could find my way to your sky- 
 light — I Iiavo observed the descent would not be 
 dangerous from there to the back building, and so 
 down on tho roofs of the other oHices.” 
 
 " But,’’ said Lizzy, for the little creature seemed 
 to have considered the whole ground, " if there 
 should 1)0 soldiers too at the back gate?” 
 
 “ I will avoid them, Lizzy, by going into the next 
 yard to yours, then over two or three walls, till I find 
 it safe to emerge into the street.’’ 
 
 " I can lead you to the skylight. I am very 
 glad [ am blind, so I shall not need any light; for 
 that would show you to the soldiers, who aro stand- 
 ing by the side windows of the hall door. Oh,dear„ 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 106 
 
 I hope they won’t hear my heart beat; but it does 
 beat so !” 
 
 There were other hearts there that beat almost 
 audibly besides poor Lizzy’s ; but there was no time 
 to ^indulge emotions. Eliot kissed his unconscious 
 sister; and then grasping the hand Isabella extended 
 to him, he woul.J have said, “ Farewell for ever!” 
 but his voice was choked, and the last ominous 
 word was unpronounced. His little guide led him 
 noiselessly up the stairs, through the entries, and to 
 the skylight ; and then fondly embracing him and 
 promising to give his farewells to “ mother and 
 Ned,” she parted from him, and stood fixed and 
 breathless, listening till she believed he had eluded 
 those who were lying in w'ait for him, when she 
 returned to give full vent to her feelings on Isa- 
 bella’s bosom, and to find more sympathy there than 
 she wotted of. 
 
 We shall not follow our hero through his “ im- 
 minent dangers and hair-breath ’scapes.” Suffice 
 it to say, ho did escape; and having passed the 
 Hudson in the same little boat that brought*/ Har- 
 mann Van Zandt”to the city, he eluded the British 
 station at Powles Hook, passed their redoubts, and 
 at dawn of day received at the camp at Morristown 
 the warm thanks of Washington, who estimated 
 conduct by its intrinsic merit, and not, according to 
 the common and false standard, by its results. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Good sir, good sir, you are deceived ; it is no man 
 at all ! 
 
 At any other juncture, Mr. Linwood would have 
 been restless and unappeasable under the privation 
 of Isabella s society ; but now, in his interest and 
 sympathy in Herbert’s aflairs, and in his fondness 
 for Lady Anne, he found full employment for his 
 thoughts and feelings. Lady Anne persisted in 
 considering herself Herbert’s betrothed ; and in spite 
 of her aunt, who, as her niece affirmed, had become 
 iusupportably cross and teasing, she persevered in 
 spending all her evenings with the Linwoods. The 
 charm that love imparts to those who are connected 
 with the object of a concentrated affection, was at- 
 tached to Herbert’s father and mother. Lady Anne 
 f sit the most tender anxieties for her lover ; but, sus- 
 tained by the buoyancy ef youth, and a most cheerful 
 and sanguine disposition, she was uniformly bright 
 and animated. Her sparkling eye and dimpled cheek 
 ■were happiness to Mr. Linwood ; the old love cheer- 
 fulness as the dim eye delights in brilliant colours. 
 
 Mrs. Archer, who was always in Mr. Linwood’s 
 estimation the next best to isabella, devoted her 
 evenings to him She saw, or fancied she saw, that 
 IBessie s countenance expressed a pleased conscious- 
 ness ol Isabella’s presence ; at any rate, she knew that 
 there was another countenance always lighted up by 
 it. Accordingly, she repaired every evening to Mr. 
 Linwood’s, and played rubber after rubber, performing 
 her tiresome duty vvilh such zest and zeal, that Mr. 
 Linwood pronounced her a comfortable partner and 
 respectable antagonist — “ a deal more than he could 
 say for any other worn m.’’ 
 
 While the surface of this little society remained 
 as usual, there was a strong under current at work. 
 Herbert, after his explanation with Lady Anne, was 
 resolved to leave uo eti'ort unmade to eflect his escape 
 
 from durance, and put himself in the way of those 
 brighter hours that youth and health whispered 
 might come. His first step was taken the morning 
 after his parting with Lady Anne. He enclosed the 
 permit for his visits at home, sent to him by Sir 
 Henry Clinton, to that gentleman, wdth an acknow- 
 ledgment of his kindness, but without assigning 
 any reason for declining to avail himself of it 
 farther. He was careful not to involve his honour 
 by any pretences in relation to that obligation ; it 
 was off his hands, and he thanked Heaven he was 
 now free to use whatever stratagem would avail him. 
 He feigned illness. He knew Rose would be sent 
 to inquire after liim; and he also knew that, when 
 told that he was ill, she would, by force or favour, 
 obtain access to him. Fortunately, she was ad- 
 mitted without hesitation; for Cunningham, con- 
 scious of the bad odour he was in on account of his 
 ill-treatment of the American prisoners, deemed it 
 his best policy to inflict no gratuitous hardship on 
 the son of Mr. Linwood. Rose, once admitted, 
 became first counsellor and coadjutor ; and with the 
 aid of the young ladies at home, a project was con- 
 trived, of wliich this noble creature was to be the 
 main executer. Herbert’s illness, of course, con- 
 tinued unabated; and Rose repeated her visits daily, 
 and made her last, as she hoped, the evening suc- 
 ceeding Eliot’s escape. “ Lock me in,” she said to 
 the turnkey, “ and leave me a quarter of an hour or 
 so. I want to coax Mr. Herbert to take a biscuit; 
 he’d die on your dum stufi'.” Rose had, in fact, 
 brought to Liuwood, daily, more substantial rations 
 than biscuit, and thus enabled him to gratify bis 
 appetite without endangering his reputation as au 
 invalid. He was in bed when Rose entered, and 
 out of it the moment the turnkey closed the door — 
 “ Oh, Rose, God bless you! Is all arranged?” he 
 asked. 
 
 “ Every thing, Mr. Herbert, snug as a bug in a 
 rug. The young ladies came with me to Mrs. 
 Lizzy’s and she is to be at Smith’s house with them 
 precisely at seven. It is now half past six. Mrs. 
 Lizzy’s boat, with the muffled oars, that’s got off 
 many a prisoner before you, is now waiting for you.” 
 
 “ And are my sister and Lady Anne going to 
 Smith’s house without any male attendant?” 
 
 ” Dear, yes ! they are wrapped in cloaks — nobody 
 will know them ; and Mrs. Lizzy is as good a guard 
 as horse, foot, and dragoon ; there’s not a thimbleful 
 of danger, Mr. Herbert, and they fear none, bless 
 their hearts ! To be sure. Miss Belle is no great of 
 a soldier in common, and Lady Anne will scream 
 like all nature at a mou.se; but love is a great help 
 to courage in yimng parsons!’ 
 
 While Rose was making these communications, 
 to which Herbert eagerly listened, slie was doffing 
 an extra set of lir.sey-woolsey garments, and trans- 
 ferring them to her young master, who somewhat 
 delayed their adjustment, by putting his feet first 
 into the “ cursed petticoat,” as he profanely termed 
 it. That most respectable feminine article arranged 
 to Rose’s satislaction, she put over it a short gown, 
 and a checked handkerchief over all. “ Now for 
 the beauties,’’ slie said, drawing from her pocket a 
 wig and mask, and liolding them np in either hand, 
 “ Miss Belle made one, and Lady Anne t'other.” 
 
 'I'lie mask, if it might be so called, was well 
 coloured, and bore a tolerable likeness to Rose. 
 Liuwood was enchanted. “ Which,” be exclaimed, 
 “ which did Lady Anne make. Rose?” 
 
 “ The mask.” 
 
 Linwood seized it, kissed it, and exclaimed, “ Ad- 
 mirably, admirably done!” 
 
THE LINWOODS. 107 
 
 “ It was not half the trouble the wig was,” said 
 Rose. 
 
 “ Oh, that is capital too, Rose.” 
 
 “ But you don’t carry on so about it. Laud's 
 sake! However, I suppose you love Miss Belle as 
 well, only it au’t a kiud of love that breeds an- 
 tics.” 
 
 “ True, Rose ; you may be sure I shall never love 
 anybody better than I do my sister.” 
 
 Rose was satisfitd, and proceeded to tie on the 
 mask, and adjust the fleecy locks. “ It’s a main 
 pity,” she said, ” to cover your pretty shining hair 
 with what looks like nigger’s wool, as they call it.” 
 
 “ Not a bit — not a bit, Rose. I know some wool 
 that covers a far better head than mine — more 
 capable, more discerning ; and God never created a 
 nobler heart than beats under one black skin." 
 
 “Pooh! Mr. Herbert.” Rose’s “pooh” was a 
 disclaimer; but as she put it in, she brushed a tear 
 from her eye; then tjing a mobcap and black silk 
 bonnet over the wig and throwing over his shoulders 
 her short blue broadcloth cloak, and hiding his 
 white hands in her mittens, she laughed exultingly, 
 declaring she “should not herself know him from 
 herself.” ‘‘Now you’re readied,’’ she said, “ settle 
 down as you walk — be prudent, Mr. Herbert — look 
 before you leap. Don't ansvver them dum fellow's, 
 when you get out, a word more than yes or no— I 
 never do. Do your endeavours and the Lord will 
 help you. He helps them as helps themselves — 
 hark! there comes the fellow.” 
 
 Before the turnkey opened the door she was in 
 bed, her head enveloped in the bedclothes; and 
 Herbert stood, her basket on his arm, apparently 
 waiting. No suspicion was excited, nor qr.estions 
 asked. They went out, and the door was re locked. 
 Rose raised her head to listew to their receding foot- 
 steps. The footsteps ceased, and she heard Cun- 
 ningham’s (the provost-marshal’s) voice, “Well, 
 wench,” he said, addressing, as she knew, her coun- 
 terfeit, “ how goes it with your young master?” 
 
 “ Now the Lord o' mercy help him !” she ex- 
 claimed ; ‘‘ he used to mimic June— if he only can 
 me.” ^ ^ 
 
 She did not hear Herbert’s reply; but she heard 
 Cunningham say, as if responding to it — “ Poorlier, 
 hey? I’ve got something here that wiil bring back 
 bis stomach — respects to your master — mind, 
 wench.” Again she heard Herbert’s footsteps re- 
 cede, and Cunningham enter her cell, and shut and 
 luck the door.” 
 
 ' Cunningham’s name was a terror to the whig*, 
 and to all that cared for them. The man’s excessive 
 cruelty and meanness may be inferred from the ex- 
 travagant allegations current at the time ; that he 
 was in the habit of putting the Amtaican prisoners 
 of war to death, in order to .se(iuester the rations 
 allowed them. Ho had recently reason for appre- 
 hensions that an iixpiiry would be instituted into his 
 conduct by the commander in-cliief, who certainly 
 did not authorise tinnecessary cruellies, if he neg- 
 lected to take cognisance of them. 
 
 Rose’s head was well mullled in the bedclothes, 
 when Cunningham, coining up to the bed, said, 
 “How goes it, Mr. Linwood ; bile uppermost yet? 
 Come, lift up your head, and speak, man — can’t you 
 give an answer to a civil word? Come, come, I’m 
 not Tom nor Sam to be put oil’ this way — next 
 thing you’ll bolt, and I shall have it to answer for; 
 but they sha’n'tsay I did not do the good Samaritan 
 by you. Tou won’t eat — you won't hear to the 
 doctor — the d — 1 is in yon, man; why don’t you rise 
 up? Here’s a dose you must take, anyhow — it’s 
 
 what they give in all cases, calomel and jalap— come, 
 man, if fair means won’t do, foul must.” 
 
 The patient continued obstinate, and Cunningham 
 set down the dose, which was mixed in a huge 
 coffee bowl, beside a basket of vials, containing 
 sundry nauseous medicines, designed for the poor 
 prisoners, as if bad food were not poison and tor- 
 ture enough for them. A contest began, in which 
 Cunniugham had reason to be astonished at the 
 strength of the invalid. In the scramble, Rose’s 
 head was disengaged from the bedclothes; the truth 
 was revealed, and she sprang on him like a tiger on 
 its prey. The cowardly wretch shrank back, and 
 dre.A' a knife, crying out, “ You d — d nigger !” 
 
 Rose wrested it from him, and her spirit disdain- 
 ing the assassin’s weapon, she thrustit into the wall, 
 exclaiming — “Now we’re even 1” 
 
 He sprang towards the door — she pulled him 
 hack, threw him down, put her knee on his breast, 
 and by the time he bad made one ineffectual struggle, 
 and once bellowed for help, she had added lauda- 
 num, castor oil, and ipecacuanha to the calomel and 
 jalap ; and holding his nose between the thumb and 
 finger of one hand, she presented the overflowing 
 bowl to his lips with the other. When she had con- 
 vinced him of her potentiality, by making him 
 gulp down one swallow, she mercifully withdrew 
 the draught, saying, “ If yon ofirer to move oue 
 inch, or make a sound, I’ll pour it down your throat 
 to the last drop.” 
 
 She then released him from her grasp, and while 
 he was panting and shuddering, she turned her 
 back, muttering something of stringing him up in 
 her clothes. Tlie“ clothes,” wliich she quickly dis- 
 engaged from their natural oflice, proved to he her 
 garters. As she stretched them out, trying llieir 
 strength, ‘‘ My own spinning, twisting, and knit«« 
 ting,” said she; “ tliey’ll bear the weight of twenty 
 such slim pieces as you.” 
 
 “ Are you going to liang me?” gasped out Cua« 
 ningliam. 
 
 “ Hang you ! Yes; but not harm you, if you’re 
 quiet, mind. But I'd choke you tw’ice over to give 
 Mr. Herbert time; so mind and keep your breath 
 to cool your porridge.” 
 
 She then turned him over, bound his hands behind 
 him with one garter, and made a slip noose with 
 the other, while he, like a reptile in the talons of a 
 vulture, crawled and squirmed with a hopeless re- 
 sistance. 
 
 “ There’s no use,” said Rose; “ you’re but a baby 
 in my bauds — it’s the strong heart makes the strong 
 arm.’’ 
 
 She then set him upright on Herbert’s bed, put 
 the noose round his neck, and made the other end 
 fast to an iron hook in the wall. This was just 
 achieved, when a linrried footstep was heard, fol- 
 lowed by a clattering at the door, and a call for 
 “Master Cunningham! — Master Cunningham I” 
 Rose placed her foot against the foot of the bed- 
 stead ; Cunningham understood the menace, and 
 siqipressed llie cry on his lips. The calls were rei- 
 terated. Cunningham cast one glance at Rose; 
 her loot was fixed, lici lips compressed, and her eyes 
 glaring with a resolution stern as fate. Cnnning- 
 ham felt that the alternative was silence or death, 
 and his face became convulsed between the impul.se 
 to respond and the effort to keep quiet. The knock- 
 ing and screaming were rejieated ; and then finding 
 them ineflectnal, the person went off to seek his 
 master elsewhere. Other sounds now roused Rose’s 
 generous s[)ii it, and tempted her to inflict the ven- 
 geance so well deserved ; but hers was not the mind 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 108 
 
 to be swayed by opportunity — “ convenience 
 snug." 
 
 The apartment adjoining Linwood’s was spac'o is, 
 and crammed with American prisoners. There was 
 a communicating door between them, through which 
 could be distinctly heard any sound or movement 
 louder than usual. Loring, in his customary even- 
 ing round, had entered this apartment. Loring was 
 Cunningham’s coadjutor, and is described by Ethan 
 Allen, who had himself notable e.vperience in that 
 prison, as “the most mean-spirited, cowardly, de- 
 ceitful, and destructive animal in God’s creation." 
 Rose heard Loring command the prisoners to get to 
 their beds, in his customary phrase (we retrench a 
 portion of its vulgaiity and profanity); “Kennel, 
 d — n ye — kennel, ye sons of Belial !” 
 
 At this brutal address to persons whom Rose 
 lionoured as a Catholic honours the saints, her 
 blood boiled within her. She hastily- withdrew her 
 foot from the bedpost, and strode to the extremity of 
 the narrow apartment; then turning and stretching 
 her arm towards Cunningham, ske said, with an 
 energy that made his blood curdle, “ It is not for 
 me to Veiige them, but God will. Their children 
 shall be lords in the laud, and sound out their 
 fathers’ names with ringing of bells and firing of 
 cannon, when you, and Loring, and all such car’on, 
 have died and rotted like dcgs, as ye are.” 
 
 The sounds in the adjoining apartment after a 
 while subsided, and with them Rose’s ire. She 
 seated herself to await the latest hour when she 
 could retire from the prison, and elude the suspicion 
 of the sentinel, the only person whose vigilance she 
 had to encounter. 
 
 The footsteps had ceased from the passages, and 
 sleep seemed, like rain, to have fallen on the just 
 and unjust — the keepers and their prisoners. Cun- 
 ningham, seeing Rose preparing to take her de- 
 parture, begged her, in the most abject manner, be- 
 fore she went, to release him from this frightful 
 position. 
 
 “ No, no,” she obstinately replied to his suppli- 
 cations, “ye shall hang in iffi'.PJ, to be seen and 
 scorned by our own people ; but one marcy 1 11 do 
 you ; if you’ll hold your tongue, I’ll not let out, 
 while the war lasts — while the war lasts, remember, 
 that you were strung up there by a ‘ d — d nigger — a 
 nigger woman !' ’’ 
 
 It appeared that Cunninglmm was glad to accept 
 this very small mercy, by the report which after- 
 wards prevailed, that he had only escaped a fitting 
 end through the forbearance of Mr. Herbert Lin- 
 wood. 
 
 Rose passed unmolested through the passage and 
 the outer door, which, being locked on the inside, 
 and the key in the wards, opposed no obstacle to her 
 retreat. The sentinel in the yard saw and recog- 
 nised her ; but not being the same who was on guard 
 when the first Dromio passed, he merely inferred 
 that Rose had been permitted to remain longer 
 than usual ; and kindly opening the gate, he res- 
 ponded civilly to her civil “ good night.” 
 
 Rose went home, not however to enjoy the quiet 
 sleep which should have followed so good a piece of 
 work she had achieved, but to suffer, and see others 
 suffer, the most distressful apprehensions. 
 
 CH.iPTER XXXVIir. 
 
 Let the great gods 
 
 That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads, 
 Find out their enemies now, 
 
 Isabella and Lady Anne, cloaked and hooded, re- 
 paired to Dame Bengin’s some half hour, as may 
 be remembered, before the time appointed for their 
 meeting with Linwood. This forerunning of the 
 hour w'as to allow them to take advantage of Rose’s 
 escort. It did not pass without a censure from 
 their cautious coasijutor. “ You lack discretion, 
 young ladies,” she said ; “ and I lacked it too when 
 I let you in partners in this business. My father 
 used to say, ‘ if yon want to go safe over a tottering 
 plank, always go alone.’ However, we must make 
 the best of it now : so just take this box of ribands, 
 and stand at the farther end of the counter, and 
 seem to be finding a match. It is nothing strange 
 for ladies to be tedious at that.” 
 
 The young ladies obeyed, but Lady Anne fretted 
 in an under voice at the delay ; and Isabella ven- 
 tured a remonstrance, to which Dame Bengin, an 
 autocrat in her own domain, replied,” Slie must go 
 on her own way; that full twenty minutes were left 
 to the time appointed for the meeting at Smith’s 
 hou'e, and time was money to her.” 
 
 “ I wish to Heaven I could wring the parrot’s 
 neck,” whispered Lady Anne ; “ I do believe the 
 people answer to its call.” The parrot kept up a 
 continuous scream of “ Come in — come in !” that 
 might have tormented nerves less excitable than our 
 friends’ were at this moment. 
 
 “ I surmise we are going to have a storm,” said 
 an old woman, who had stepped in for a pennj - 
 worth of cochinia for her grandchildren ; “ it’s al- 
 ways a sign of a storm when Sylvy keeps up such a 
 chattering at [nightfall.’’ Lizzy Bengin went to 
 the door, and looked anxiously at the gathering 
 clouds.” 
 
 “Come in — come in!” cried Sylvy; and, as if 
 obedient to her summons, trotted in, one after an- 
 other, half a dozen urchins. One wanted “a skein 
 of sky-blue silk for aunt Polly : not too light nor 
 too dark : considerably fine and very strong ; not 
 too slack nor too hard twisted." Lizzy Bengin 
 looked over half a dozen papers before she could 
 meet the order of her customer. 
 
 “Pray send the whole to Aunt Polly,” cried Lady 
 Anne; “ I will pay you, Bengin.” The boy stared, 
 the dame seemed not to hear her, and bade the boy 
 run home and tell Aunt Polly she hoped the skein 
 would suit. 
 
 “Twopence worth of buttor-moulds — just this 
 size, ma’am.” The indefatigable Mrs. Bengin ex- 
 plored the button-mould box. 
 
 “ Mammy wants a nail of silk a shade lighter than 
 the sample.” 
 
 Mrs. Bengin looked over her pile of silks. 
 
 “ Come in — come in!” still cried Sylvy, certainly 
 not the silent partner of the house. 
 
 “ Aunty wants a dust of snuff, and she’ll pay you 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 “ How much is a drawing of your bestbohea, Mrs. 
 Bengin ?” 
 
 “ Mrs. Lizzy, uncle John wants to know if you’ve 
 got any shoes about little Johnny’s size?” 
 
 While Mrs. Bengin, who was quite in the habit 
 
 I of securing the mint, anise, and cummin of her little 
 trade, was with the utmost composure satisfying these 
 multifarious demands, the minutes seemed ages to 
 
THE LINWOODsi 
 
 our impatient friends ; Isabella took out ber watch. 
 The dame perceived the movement, and seemed to 
 receive the impulse from it, for she was dismissing 
 the shoe inquirer with a simple negative, when in 
 came a black girl with a demand for spirits of cam- 
 phire. 
 
 “ What’s the matter, Phillis?” 
 
 “ Madam Meredith has got the hystrikes.” 
 
 Then she has my note,” whispered Lady Anne. 
 
 While the camphire was pouring out a sturdy 
 sailor- boy entered. 
 
 “Ah, is that you, Tom Smith? A hand of to. 
 bacco you’re wanting? Well, first come first served 
 —just be taking in Sylvy, while I’m getting a cork 
 to suit the vial?” 
 
 Mrs. Bengin seemed suddenly flutiered by a look 
 from Tom, and she bade the servant run home sans 
 cork. The moment Phillis had passed the threshold 
 Lizzy said, “ Speak out, Tom, there are none but 
 friends here !” 
 
 “ It’s too late, Lizzy Bengin, you’re lost !” 
 
 The inquiries and replies that followed were rapid. 
 The amount of Tom’s intelligence was that some 
 combustibles had been discovered near the magazine, 
 and that, as strange persons had recently been ob- 
 served going to and coming from Lizzy’s shop, it 
 was believed that a plot had been there contrived; 
 the commandant had issued an order for her ap- 
 prehension, and men were by this time on their way 
 to seize her. 
 
 Lizzy Bengin had so often been suspected and 
 threatened, and eluded detection, that she did not 
 now believe her good fortune had deserted her. She 
 heard Tom through, and then said,“ My boat is ready, 
 and I’ll dodge them yet.” 
 
 Isabella ventured to ask with scarcely a ray of 
 hope, “ If they might still go with her?” 
 
 “ Yes, if you’re not afeard, and v^ill be prudent. 
 Shut the shutters, Tom — lock the door after us, and 
 keep them out as long as possible, that we gain time. 
 Throw my books into the loft — don’t let ’em rum- 
 mage and muss my things, and look to S} Ivy.” Her 
 voice was slightly tremulous as she added, “ If any 
 thing happens to me, Tom, be kind to Sylvy.” 
 
 By this time her cloak and hood were on, and they 
 sallied forth. Dame Lizzy’s valour w’as too well 
 tempered by discretion to have permitted her to 
 consent to the attendance of the young ladies, if she 
 had not, after calculating the chances, been quite 
 sure that no danger would be thereby incurred. She 
 believed that her pursuers, after being kept at bay 
 by her faithful ally Tom.^would be at a loss where 
 next to seek her. The place appointed for meeting 
 Liuwood was a little un'enanted dwellii g, near the 
 water’s edge, called “ Smith’s House.” There ho 
 was to doff his disguise, and there, should there be 
 any uproar in the streets, the young ladies could re- 
 main till all was quiet. Isabella and Lady Anne 
 were in no temper to consider risks and chances. 
 Life to the latter seemed to be set on the die of seeing 
 Herbert once more. Isabella felt a full sympathy 
 with this most natural desire, and an intense eager- 
 ness to be immediately assured of her brother’s 
 escape ; so, clinging close to their sturdy friend, they 
 hastened forward. 
 
 The old woman’s interpretation of Sylvy’s cries 
 proved a true one. A storm was gathering rapidly. 
 I^rge drops of rain pattered on the pavement, and 
 the lightning flashed at intervals. But the distance 
 to the boat, lying in a nook jiist above Whitehall, 
 was short, and the moon, some .seven nights old, was 
 atill unclouded. They soon reached “ Smith’s 
 
 109 
 
 House,” and heard the joyful signal-whistle pre- 
 viously agreed on. 
 
 “ He is here !” exclaimed Isabella. 
 
 Lady Anne’s fluttering heart was on her lips, but 
 she did not speak. Herbert joined them. 
 
 “ Now kiss and part,” cried Lizzy Bengin, 
 
 The first command was superfluous ; the second 
 it seemed impossible to obe , It was no time for 
 words, and few did they mingle wiih the choking 
 sighs of parting, but these few were of the marvellous 
 coinage of the heart, and the heart was stamped 
 upon them. The storm increased, and the darkness 
 thickened. 
 
 “ Come, come — this won’t do, young folks,’’ cried 
 their impatient leader ; “ we must be off — we’ve foul 
 weather to cross the river, and then to pass the 
 enemy’s stations before daylight ; the hounds may be 
 on onr heels too — we must go.” 
 
 All felt the propriety, the necessity of this move- 
 ment. Lady Anne only begged that they might go 
 to the water’s edge and see the boat off. Dame 
 Bengin interposed no objection ; that would only 
 have caused fresh entreaties and longer delay, and 
 they set forward. The distance to the boat was not 
 above a hundred yards ; they had reached the shore, 
 Mrs. Bengin was already in the boat, and Herbert 
 speaking his last word, when they heard the voices 
 of pursuers, and the next flash of lightning revealed 
 a file of soldiers rushing towards them. Lady Anne 
 shrieked; Lizzy Bengin screamed, “ Jump in, sir, 
 or I’ll push off without you.” 
 
 “ Go,” cried Isabella, “ dear Herbert, go.” 
 
 “ I will not — I cannot, and leave you in the hands 
 of these wretches.” 
 
 “ Oh, no ! do not — do not, Herbert,” entreated 
 Lady Anne, “ take me with you.” 
 
 This was enough and iire.sistible. Herbert clasped 
 his arm around her and leaped into the boat. 
 
 “Come with us, Isabella,” screamed Lady Anne, 
 
 “ For God's sake, come. Belle,” shouted Herbert. 
 Isabella wavered fer an instant. Another glare of 
 lightning showed the soldiers within a few feet of 
 her, looking, in that lurid light, fierce and terrible 
 beyond expression. Isabella obeyed the impulse of 
 her worst fears and leaped into the boat ; ancl Lizzy, 
 who stood with her oar fixed, instantly pushed from 
 the shore. Curses hurst from the lips of their balked 
 pursuers. 
 
 “ We’ll have them yet,” exclaimed their leader; 
 “ to the Whitehall-dock, boys, and get out a boat,** 
 
 Our boat’s company was tilent, Herbert, amid a 
 host of other anxieties, was, as he felt Lady Anne’s 
 tremulous grasp, bitterly repenting this last act of 
 a rashness which he flattered himself experience had 
 cured, and Isabella was thinking of the beatitig hearts 
 at home. 
 
 Dame Bengin, composed, and alone wholly intent 
 on the present necessity, was the first to speak. 
 “ Don’t be scared, little lady,” she said ; “ sit down 
 quiet— don’t touch his arm — he’ll need all its 
 strength. Do you take the tiller. Miss Linwood— 
 mind exactly what I tell you — I know every turn in 
 the current — don’t lay out so much strength on your 
 oars. Captain Linwood — keep time to the dip of mine 
 — that will do 1” 
 
 Dame Bengin, with good reason, plumed herself 
 on her nautical skill. Her father had been a pilot, 
 and Lizzy being his only child, he had repaired as 
 far as possible what he considered the calamity of 
 her sex, by giving her the liabits of a boy. Her 
 childhood was spent on the water, and nature and 
 early training had endowed her with the masculine 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 110 
 
 spirit and skill that now did her such good service. 
 The courage and cowardice of impulse are too much 
 the result of physical condition to be the occasion of 
 either pride or shame. 
 
 The wind was rising, the lightning becoming more 
 Tivid and continuous, and the pelting cold rain 
 driving in the faces of our poor fugitives. The 
 lightning gloriously lit up a wild scene ; the bay, a 
 
 phosphoric sea ihe little islands, that seemed in 
 the hurly-burly to be dancing on the crested waves ; 
 and the shores, that Joohed like the pale regions of 
 some ghostly land. Still the little boat leaped the 
 •waves cheeringly, and still no sound of fear was 
 heard within it. There is something in the sublime 
 manifestations of power in the battling elements, that 
 either stimulates the mind of man, “stirs the feeling 
 infinite,” and exalts it above a consciousness of the 
 mortality that invests it, or crushes it under a sense 
 of its own impotence. Our little boat’s company 
 ■were a group for a painter, if a painter could kindle 
 his picture with electric light. Lizzy Bengin, her 
 short muscular arms bared, and every nerve of body 
 and mind strained, plied her oars, at each stroke 
 giving a new order to her tinskilled but most obedient 
 coadjutors. Isabella’s head was bare, her dark hair 
 hanging in masses on each side her face, her poetic 
 eye turning from “heaven to earth and earth to 
 heaven,” her face in the lurid light as pale as marble, 
 and like that marble on which the sculptor has ex- 
 pressed his own divine imaginings in the soft forms 
 of feminine beauty. Lady Anne sat at Herbert’s 
 feet, her eye fixed on his face, passively and quietly 
 awaiting her fate, not doubting that fate would be to 
 go to the bottom, but feeling that such a destiny 
 ■would be far more tolerable with her lover, than any 
 other without him. This dependence, “ love over- 
 coming the fear of death,” inspired Herbert with pre- 
 ternatural strength. His fine frank face beamed with 
 hope and resolution, and his eye, as ever and anon 
 it fell on the loving creature at his feet, was suffused 
 with a mother’s tenderness. 
 
 In the intervals of darkness they guided the boat 
 by the lights on the shores, and towards a light that, 
 kindled by a confederate of Lizzy Bengin’s for 
 Herbert’s benefit, blazed steadily , in spite of the rain, 
 a mile below Powles Hook. 
 
 They were making fair headway, when they per- 
 ceived a sail-boat put off' from Whitehall. They 
 were pursued, and their hearts sunk within them ; 
 hut Lizzy Bengin soon rallied, and lier inspiring 
 voice was heard, calculating the chances of escape. 
 
 The storm, ■’ she said, “ is in our favour — no pru- 
 dent sailor would spread a sail in such a gusty night. 
 The wind is flaw y, too, and we can manage our boat, 
 running first for one point and then for another, so 
 as to [Mizzle them ; and in some of their turns, if 
 they have not more skill than any man has shown 
 since my father's day, they’ll capsize their boat.” 
 
 We dare not attempt to de'^cvibe the chase that 
 followed ; the dexterous n anoeu ring of the little 
 hoat, now setting towards Long Island, now back to 
 the city, now for Governor’s Island, now up, and 
 then down the river. We dare not attempt it. 
 Heaven seems to have endowed a single genius of 
 our land v\iih a chartered right to all the water 
 privileges for the species of manufacture in which we 
 are engaged, and bis power but serves to set in des- 
 perate relief the weakness of his inferiors. The water 
 is not our element, and we should be sure to show 
 an “alacrity in sinking.” 
 
 Suffice it to say, it seemed that the efforts of our 
 little boat’s crew must prove unavailing ; that alter 
 JDame Bengiu’s sturdy spirit had yielded to her 
 
 woman’s nature, and she had dropped her oars, and 
 given the common signals of her sex's weakness ia 
 streaming tears and wringing hands, Herbert con* 
 tinued laboriously to row, till Lady Anne, fainting^ 
 dropped her head on his knee, and Isabella entreated 
 him to submit at once to their inevitable fate. No- 
 thing indeed now remained but to run the boat ashore, 
 to surrender themselves to their pursuers, to obtain 
 aid for Lady Anne, and secure protection to her and 
 Isabella. The resolution taken, the boat was sud- 
 denly turned ; the sail-boat turned also, but too sud- 
 denly ; the wind struck and capsized it. The bay 
 ■was in a blaze of light when the sail dipped to tho 
 water — intense darkness followed — no shriek was 
 heard. 
 
 After the first exclamations burst from the lips of 
 our friends, not a sound proceeded from them, not a 
 breath of exultation at a deliverance that involved 
 their fellow-beings in destruction. The stroke of 
 Herbert’s oars ceased, and the fugitives awaited 
 breathlessly the next flash of lightning, to enable 
 them to extend their aid, if aid cculd be given. The 
 lightning came and was repeated, hut nothing was 
 to be seen but the boat drifting away at the mercy of 
 the waves, 
 
 A few moments mure brought them to land, where, 
 beside fbeir beacon-light, stood an untenanted fish- 
 erman’s hut. in which they found awaiting them a 
 comfortable fire and substantial food. These “ crea- 
 ture comforts,’’ with rest and rekindled hope, soon 
 did their work of restoration. And the clouds clear- 
 ing away, and the stars shining out cheerily, Lizzy 
 Beugin, aware that her presence rather encumbered 
 and endangered the companions of her flight than 
 benefited them, bade them a kind good-night, and 
 sought refuge among some of her Jersey acquaint- 
 ance, true-hearted to her, and to ail their country’s 
 friends. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 Good to begin well, better to end well. 
 
 What was next to be done was as puzzling to our 
 friends as the passage of that classic trio, the fox, 
 the goose, and the corn, was to our childish in- 
 genuity. Duty aud safety were involved in Lin- 
 wood’s return to the American camp with all 
 possible expedition. General Washington was at 
 Morristown, and the American army was going 
 into winter quarters in its immediate vicinity. 
 Thither Linwood must go, and so thought Lady 
 Anne must she. “ Fate,” she said, “ had se- 
 conded her inclinations, and to contend against 
 their united force was impossible ; why should 
 she not give her hand to Herbert at once and be 
 happy, instead of returning to vex and be vexed 
 by her disappointed aunt.^ After they had made 
 sure of happiness and Heaven’s favour, for 
 Heaven would smile on the union of true and 
 loving hearts, let the world gossip to its heart’s 
 content about Linwood running off with aa 
 heiress ; he who was so far above a motive so de- 
 grading and soul-sacrificing, could afford the im- 
 putation of it, and would soon outlive it.” 
 There were both nature and truth in her reasoning, 
 and it met with her lover’s full and irrepressible 
 sympathy ; with Isabella’s too, but not with her 
 acquiescence. 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 Poor Isabella ! it was hard for one who had her 
 keen participation in the happiness of others to 
 oppose it, and to hazard by delay the loss of its 
 richest materials. There was an earnest seconding 
 of their entreaties, too, from a voice in the secret 
 depths of her heart, which whispered that Eliot 
 Lee was at Morristown; but wliat of that? ay, 
 Isabella, what of that ? Once at Morristown, 
 her return to the city might be indefinitely de- 
 layed ; innumerable obstacles might interpose, 
 and to return to her father was an imperative and 
 undeferable duty. To permit Lady Anne to pro- 
 ceed without her would be to expose her to gossip 
 and calumny. Isabella’s was the ruling spirit; 
 and after arguments, entreaties, and many tears 
 on the lady’s part, the lovers deferred to the laws 
 of propriety as expounded by her; and it was 
 agreed that Linwood should escort the ladies to 
 the outskirts of the Dutch village of Bergen, 
 which could not be more than two or three miles 
 distant; that there they should part, and thence 
 the means of returning to the city without an 
 hour s delay might easily be compassed. 
 
 Accordingly, two hours before daylight, they 
 set forth, following, through obscure and devious 
 footpaths, the general direction of Bergen. 
 Miranda truly says, “ it is the good-will to the 
 labour that makes the task easy.” Lady Anne 
 had no good-will to hers, and her footsteps v^ere 
 feeble and faltering. The day dawmed, the sun 
 rose, and as yet they saw no lanflmarks to indi- 
 cate the vicinity of Bergen. Herbert feared they 
 had missed their way ; but without communicat- 
 ing his apprehensions, he proposed the ladies 
 should take shelter in a log-hut they had reached, 
 and which he thought indicated the proximity of 
 a road, while he went to reconnoitre. 
 
 He had been gone half an hour, when Isabella 
 and Lady Anne were startled by the firing of guns. 
 They listened breathlessly. The firing was re- 
 peated, but unaccompanied by the sound of 
 voices, footsteps, or the trampling of horses. 
 
 “It is not near,” said Isabella to her little 
 friend, w^ho had clasped her hands in terror ; 
 ** Herbert will hear it and return to us, and we 
 are quite safe here.” 
 
 “ Yes ; but if he is taken — murdered, Isabella? 
 Oh, let us go and know the worst.” 
 
 “ It would be folly,” replied Isabella, “ to ex- 
 pose ourselves, and risk the possibility of missing 
 Herbert; but if you will be quiet, we will creep 
 up to that eminence,” pointing to a hill before 
 them ; “ if it is cleared on the other side, we may 
 see without being seen.” 
 
 They forthwith mounted the hill, which pre- 
 sented a view of an open country, traversed by 
 several cross-roads. The point where they inter- 
 sected, a quarter of a mile distant, at once fixed 
 their naze. A party of some thirty Americans, 
 part mounted and part on foot, were engaged in a 
 hot contest with more than an equal number of 
 the enemy. Lady Anne grasped Isabella’s arm, 
 both were silent for a moment, when a cry burst 
 from Lady Anne’s lips, “ It is — it is he! " 
 
 ^‘Who? where— w'hat mean you ?” 
 
 “ Your brother, Isabella ! — there, the foremost ! 
 on the black horse !” 
 
 “ It is he ! God have mercy on us ! — and there 
 is Eliot Lee!” 
 
 Lady Anne’s eye was riveted to Linwood. 
 
 “There are three upon him,” she screamed; 
 
 fly, fly I — Oh, why does he not fly?” 
 
 HI 
 
 “ He fights bravely," cried Isabella, covering 
 her eyes. " Heaven aid you, my brother !” 
 
 “ It’* all over,” shrieked Lady Anne, 
 
 Isabella looked again. Herbert’s Lo se had 
 fallen under him. “No, no,” she cried; “he 
 lives! he is rising!” 
 
 “But they are rushing on him— they will cut 
 him to pieces !” 
 
 Isabella sprang forward, as if she would herself 
 have gone to his rescue, exclaiming — “My bro- 
 ther, Herbert— Oh, Eliot has come to his aid ! 
 God be praised! — See, Anne! — look up. Now 
 they fight side by side !— Courage, courage, Anne 1 
 Mercy upon us why does Eliot Lee turn back ?” 
 
 “ Oh, why does not Herbert turn too ? if he 
 would but fly while he can !” 
 
 “Ah, there he comes!” exclaimed Isabella, 
 without heeding her companion’s womanly wish, 
 “urging forward those men from behind the 
 waggons — On, on, good fellows ! Ah, that move- 
 ment is working well — see, see; the enemy is 
 disconcerted ! they are falling back I thank God^, 
 thank God! See what confusion they are ini 
 they are running, poor wretches ; they are falling 
 under that back fire!’’ 
 
 The flying party had taken a road which led to 
 an enclosed meadow, and they were soon stopped 
 by a fence. This opposed a slight obstacle, but 
 it occasioned delay. The Americans were close 
 upon them ; they turned, threw down their arms, 
 and surrendered themselves prisoners. 
 
 Shortly after, Eliot Lee, his face radiant with a 
 joy that fifty victories could not have inspired, 
 stood at the entrance of the log-hut, informing 
 the ladies that Lin wood had confided them to his 
 care; Linwood himself having received a wound, 
 which, though slight, unfitted him for that office, 
 and rendered immediate surgical aid desirable to 
 him. His friend had bidden him say to Miss 
 Linwood that they had wandered far from Ber- 
 gen ; and that as they could not now get there 
 without the danger of encounleiing parties of the 
 enemy, nothing remained but to accept Captaia 
 Lee’s protection to Morristown.” 
 
 “ Do you hesitate now, Isabella? ' asked Lady 
 Anne, impatiently. 
 
 “No, my dear girl, there is now no choice 
 for us.” 
 
 “Thank Heaven for that. Nothing but ne- 
 cessity would conquer you, Isabella.” The ne- 
 cessity met a very willing submission from Isa- 
 bella ; and she was half inclined to acquiesce in a 
 whispered intimation from Lady Anne, “that it 
 was undoubtedly the will of Heaven thev should 
 go to Morristown.” They were soon seated in a 
 waggon, and proceeding forward, escorted byEiiot 
 an. I a guard, and hearing from him the following 
 explanation of his most fortunate meeting with 
 Linwood. 
 
 Eliot Lee had been sent by Washinuton, with, 
 waggons, and a detachmeat of chosen men, to 
 aftord a safe convoy for some important winter- 
 store i that had been run across from New York 
 to the Jersey shore for the use of the officers’ 
 families at Morristown. In the meantime a vi- 
 gilant enemy had sent an intimation of the land- 
 ing of these stores, and of their destination, to 
 the British station at Powles Hook, and a de- 
 tachment of men had been thence dispatched 
 with the purpose of anticipating the rightful pro- 
 prietors. 
 
 Eliot, on his route, encountered one of the 
 
112 THE NOVEL 
 
 enemy’s videttes, whom he took prisoner, and 
 who, to baffle him, told him the stores were al- 
 ready at Powles Hook. Eliot, warily distrusting 
 the information, proceeded, and directly after, 
 and just as he came in view of the enemy’s party, 
 he met Herbert issuing from the wood. A half 
 moment’s explanation was enough. The vidette 
 was dismounted, Herbert put in his place, armed 
 with his arms, and a golden opportunity afforded 
 (to which the brave fellow did full justice), to 
 win fresh laurels wherewith to grace his return . 
 to the dreaded, and yet most desired presence of 
 his commander. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Our profession is the chastest of all. The shadow 
 of a fault tarnishes our most brilliant actions. The 
 least inadvertence may cause us to lose that public 
 favour which is so bard to gain. 
 
 The quotation from a public reprimand of 
 Washington to a general officer, which forms the 
 motto to this chapter, contains the amount of his 
 reproof to Linwood in their first and private inter- 
 view. Even this reproof was softened by the 
 generous approbation his general expressed of the 
 manliness and respectful submission with which 
 he had endured the penalty of his rashness. Lin 
 wood’s heart was touched ; and obeying the 
 impulse of his frank nature, he communicated the 
 circumstances that had mitigated his captivity, and 
 gave a sort of dot and line sketch of his love-tale 
 to the awe-inspiring Washington. Oh, the miracles 
 of love ! But let not too much power be ascribed 
 to the blind god. Linwood’s false impressions of 
 Washington’s impenetrable sternness were effaced 
 by his own experience, the most satisfactory of all 
 evidence. He found that this great man, like Him 
 whom he imitated, was not strict to mark iniquity, 
 and was, whenever he could be so without the 
 sacrifice of higher duties, alive to social virtues 
 and affections. 
 
 “Well, my young friend,” he said, as Linwood 
 concluded, “ you certainly have made the most of 
 your season of affliction, and now we must take 
 care of these generous companions of your flight. 
 Our quarters are stinted, but Mrs. Washington 
 has yet a spare room, which they must occupy till 
 they can return with safety to the city, and choose 
 to do so.” 
 
 Linwood thought himself, and with good reason, 
 requited a thousand fold for all his trials. His 
 only embarrassment was relieved, and he had soon 
 after the happiness of presenting his sister and 
 Lady Anne Seton to Mrs. Washington, a most 
 benign and excellect woman, and of confiding them 
 to the hospitalities of her household. Eliot and 
 Linwood’s gallantry, in their rencounter with the 
 enemy, was marked, and advanced them in the 
 opinion of their fellow officers ; but the signal 
 favour it obtained from the ladies of Morristown, 
 must have been in part a collateral consequence 
 of the immense importance, to their domestic 
 comfort, of those precious stores which our friends 
 had secured for them. 
 
 T ueir sympathy in the romantic adventures of the 
 oung ladies was manifested in the usual feminine 
 XOQde, by a round of little parties. From stern 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 necessity, frugal entertainments, but abounding 
 in one luxury, so rare where all others now abound, 
 that it might be thought unattainable j the highest 
 luxury of social life — what is it ? 
 
 With the luggage of our heroines came encou- 
 raging accounts from Mrs. Archer of Bessie Lee’s 
 progress^ assurances of Mr. Linwood’s unwonted 
 patience, and hints that it would be most prudent 
 for her young friends to remain where they were, 
 till the excitement occasioned by their departure 
 had subsided. Still Isabella was so thoroughly 
 impressed with the filial duty of returning with^out 
 any voluntary delays, that, at her urgent request, 
 measures were immediately taken to effect it, but 
 obstacle after obstacle intervened. Sir Henry 
 Clinton was about taking his departure for the 
 south, and he put off from time to time giving an 
 official assurance of an act of oblivion in favour of 
 our romantic offenders. The rigours of that hor- 
 rible winter of 1780, still unparalleled in the 
 annals of our hard seasons, set in, and embarrassed 
 all intercommunication. 
 
 It must be confessed that Isabella bore these 
 trials with such gracious patience that it hardly 
 seemed to be the result of difficult effort. It was 
 quite natural that she should participate in the 
 overflowing happiness of her brother and friend j 
 and it was natural that, being now an eye-witness 
 of the struggles, efforts, endurance, and entire 
 self-sacrifice, of the great men that surrounded 
 her, her mind, acute in perception, and vigorous 
 in reflection, should be excited and gratified. There 
 are those who deem political subjects beyond 
 the sphere of a woman’s, certainly of a young 
 woman’s mind ; but if our young ladies were ter 
 give a portion of the time and interest they expend 
 on dress, gossip, and light reading, to the com- 
 prehension of the constitution of their country 
 and its political institutions, would they be less 
 interesting companions, less qualified mothers, or 
 less amiable women ? “ But these are dangers in 
 a woman’s adventuring beyond her customary 
 path.” There are ; and better the chance of ship- 
 wreck on a voyage of high purpose than to expend 
 life in paddling hither and thither on a shallow 
 stream, to no purpose at all. 
 
 Isabella’s mind was not regularly trained, and 
 like that of most of her sex, the access to it was 
 through the medium of her feelings. Her sym- 
 pathies were not limited to the few, the “ bright, 
 the immortal names,” that are now familiar as 
 household words to us all. She saw the same 
 virtues that illustrated them, conspicuous iu the 
 poor soldiers — in that class of men that have been 
 left out in the world’s estimate, and whose exist- 
 ence is scarcely recognised in its past history. 
 
 The winter of 1780 was characterised by Wash- 
 ington as “ the decisive moment, the most im- 
 portant America had seen.” The financial affairs 
 of the country were in the utmost disorder. The 
 currency had so depreciated that a captain’s pay 
 would scarcely furnish the shoes in which he 
 marched to battle. The soldiers were without 
 clothes or blankets, and this in our coldest winter. 
 They had been but a few days in their winter quar- 
 ters before the flour and meat were exhausted ; and 
 yet, as Washington said in a letter to Congress, 
 after speaking of the patient and uncomplaining 
 fortitude with which the army bore their suffer- 
 ings, “though there had been frequent desertions, 
 not one mutiny.” Happy was it for America 
 that, in the hegiuning of her national existence. 
 
THE LINWOODS. * 115 
 
 she thus tested the virtue of the people, and pro- 
 fiting by her experience, was confirmed in her re- 
 solution to confide her destinies to them. 
 
 Something above the ordinary standard has been 
 claimed for our heroine ; but it must be confessed 
 after all that she was a mere woman, and that the 
 main- spring of her mind’s movements was in her 
 heart. How much of Isabella’s enthusiasm in 
 the American cause was to be attributed to her 
 intercourse with Eliot Lee we leave to be deter- 
 mined by her peers. That intercourse had never 
 been disturbed by the cross-purposes, jarring sen- 
 timents, clashing opinions, and ever-annoying 
 disparities, that had so long made her life resemble 
 a troubled dream. Eliot’s world was her world ; 
 his spirit answered to hers. During that swift 
 month that had flown away at Morristown, how 
 often had she secretly rejoiced in the complete 
 severance of the chain that had so long bound her 
 to an “ alternate slave of vanity and love !” — how 
 she exulted in her freedom — freedom ! the volun- 
 tary service of the heart is better than freedom. 
 
 There were no longer any barriers to Isabella 
 and Lady Anne’s return to the city. The day was 
 fixed — it came ; and while they w ere packing their 
 trunks, and thinking of the partings that awaited 
 them. Lady Anne’s eyes streaming and Isabella’s 
 changing cheek betraying a troubled heart, a letter 
 •was handed to Lady Anne. She looked at the 
 superscription, threw it down, then resumed it, 
 broke the seal, and read it. Without speaking, 
 she mused over it for a moment, then suddenly 
 disappeared, leaving her affairs unarranged, and 
 did not return till Isabella’s trunk was locked, and 
 she was about wrapping herself in her travelling 
 furs. She reproved her little friend’s delay, 
 urged haste, suggested consolation, and offered 
 assistance. Lady Anne made no reply, but bent 
 over her trunk, where, instead of arrangement, 
 she seemed to produce hopeless confusion. “ How 
 strange,” she exclaimed, “ that Therese should 
 have sent me this fresh white silk dress !” 
 
 “Very strange ; but pray do not stay to 
 examine it now.’’ 
 
 “Bless Therese! Here is my Brussels veil 
 too 1” 
 
 “My dear child, are you out of your senses? 
 Our escort will be waiting — pray, pray make 
 haste.” 
 
 “And pray, dear Belle, don’t stand looking at 
 me — you fidget me so. Oh, I forgot to tell you 
 Captain Lee asked for you — he is in the drawing- 
 room — go down to him, please, dear Belle.” As 
 Lady Anne looked up, Isabella was struck with 
 the changed expression of her countenance ; it 
 was bright and smiling, the sadness completely 
 gone. But she did not stay to speculate on the 
 change, nor did she, it must be confessed, advert 
 to Lady Anne for the next fifteen minutes. Many 
 thoughts rushed through her mind as she de- 
 scended the stairs. She wondered, painfully won- 
 dered, if Eliot would allude to their memorable 
 parting at Mrs. Archer’s ; “ if he should repeat 
 what he then said, what could she say in reply ?” 
 When she reached the drawing-room door, she 
 was obliged to pause to gain self-command ; and 
 when she opened it, she was as pale as marble, 
 and her features had a stern composure that would 
 have betrayed her effort to any eye but Eliot’s ; 
 to his they did not. 
 
 Eliot attempted to speak the common-places of 
 such occasions, and she to answer them ; but his 
 
 sentences were lame, and her replies monosyl- 
 lables ; and they both sunk into a silence more 
 expressive of their mutual feelings. 
 
 “ Lady Anne said he asked for me— well, it was 
 but to tell me the cold had abated! and the 
 sleighing is fine ! and he trusts I shall reach the 
 city without inconvenience 1 What a poor simple» 
 ton I was, to fancy that such sudden and romantie 
 devotion could be lasting. A very little reality — - 
 a little every-day intercourse, has put the actual 
 ia the place of the ideal !” 
 
 If Isabella had ventured to lift her eye to Eliot’s 
 face at this moment, she would have read in the 
 conflict it expressed, the contradiction of her false 
 surmises ; and if her eye had met his, the conflict 
 might have ceased, for it takes but a spark to 
 explode a magazine. But Eliot had come into 
 her presence resolved to resist the impulses of his 
 heart, however strong they might be. He thought 
 he should but afflict her generous nature by a 
 second expression of his love, and his grief at 
 parting. There had been moments when a glance 
 of Isabella’s eye, a tone of her voice — a certain 
 indescribable something, which those alone who 
 have heard and seen such can conceive, had 
 flashed athwart his mind like a sunbeam, and 
 visions of bliss in years to come had passed before 
 him ; but clouds and darkness followed, and he 
 remembered that Miss Linwood was unattainable 
 to him — that if it were possible by the devotion of 
 years to win her, how should he render that de- 
 votion, pledged as he was to his country for a 
 service of uncertain length, and severed, as he 
 must be, from her by an impassable barrier of 
 circumstances ? As he had said to Isabella, he 
 had been trained in the school of self-subjection, 
 and never had he given such a proof of it as in 
 these last few moments — the last he expected ever 
 to enjoy or suffer with her. Both were so absorbed 
 in their own emotions, that they did not notice 
 the various entrances and exits of the servants, 
 who were bustling in and out, and arranging cake 
 and wine on a sideboard, with a deal of significance, 
 that would have amused unconcerned spectators. 
 A louder, more portentous bustle followed — the 
 door was thrown wide open, and both Eliot and 
 Isabella were startled from their reveries by the 
 entrance of Mrs. Washington, attended by a gen- 
 tleman in clerical robes, and followed by Linwood 
 and Lady Anne, in the bridal silk and veil that 
 Therese, with inspiration worthy a French cham- 
 bermaid, had forwarded. 
 
 “Oae word with you, Miss Linwood,” said 
 Mrs. Washington, taking Isabella apart. “ This 
 dear little girl, it seems, was left independent of 
 all control by her fond father. The honourable 
 scruples of your family have alone prevented her 
 surrendering her independence into your brother’s 
 hands. She has this morning received a letter 
 from her aunt, written in a transport of rage at 
 her son’s unexpected marriage with a Miss 
 Ruthven. I fancy it is a Miss Ruthven of the 
 Virginia family — Grenville Ruthven’s eldest 
 daughter?” 
 
 “ Yes — yes — it is, madam,” replied Isabella, 
 with a faltering voice. The emotion passed with 
 the words. 
 
 “Lady Anne’s aunt,” resumed Mrs. Wash- 
 ington, “declares her intention of immediately 
 returning to England, and renounces her niece 
 for ever. Lady Anne and your brother have re- 
 ferred their case to me; she saying, with her 
 
114 THE ^OVEL 
 
 usual playfulness, that she has turned rebel, and 
 put herself under the orders of the commander- 
 in-chief, or rather, he being this morning absent, 
 under mine. I have decided according to my 
 best judgment. There seems to be no sufficient 
 reason why they should defer their nuptials, and 
 endure the torments and perils of a protracted 
 separation. So, my dear Miss Linwood, you 
 have nothing to do but submit to my decision — 
 take your place there as bridemaid — you see your 
 brother has already stationed his friend, Cap- 
 tain Lee, beside him, as groom’ s-man — Colonel 
 Hamilton is waiting our summons to give away 
 the bride.” 
 
 At a signal from his mistress, a servant opened 
 the door to the adjoining room, and Hamilton 
 entered, his face glowing with the sympathies and 
 chivalric sentiment always ready to gush from 
 his heart when its social spring was touched. 
 Isabella had but time to whisper to Lady Anne. 
 
 “Just what I would have prayed for, had I 
 dared to hope it,” when the clergyman opened 
 his book, and performed his office. That over, 
 Mrs. Washington, as the representative of the 
 parents, pronounced a blessing on the bridal pair ; 
 and that no due ceremonial should be omitted, 
 the bridal cake was cut and distributed according 
 to established usage ; accompanied by a remark 
 from Mrs. Washington, that it must have been 
 compounded by some good hymeneal genius, as it 
 was the only orthodox plum- cake that had been, 
 or was like to be seen in Morristown, during that 
 hard winter. 
 
 Now came partings, and tears, and last kind 
 words, and messages, that were sure to find 
 their way to Mr. Linwood’s heart, and a bit of 
 wedding-cake for mamma, who would scarcely 
 have believed her son lawfully married, unless 
 she had tasted it ; and, last of all, an order for a 
 fine new suit for Rose, in compensation for that 
 so unceremoniously dropped at “ Smith’s house.” 
 
 At last, Isabella, in a covered sleigh, escorted 
 by a guard, and attended by her brother and Eliot 
 Lee, on horseback, set off for the place appointed 
 for her British friends to meet her, and there she 
 was transferred to their protection. 
 
 What Eliot endured, as he lingered for a 
 moment at Isabella’s side, cannot be expressed. 
 She felt her heart rising to her eyes and cheeks, 
 and by an effort of that fortitude, or pride, or 
 resolution, which is woman’s strength, by what- 
 ever name it may be called, she firmly said “ Fare 
 well i” 
 
 Eliot’s voice was choked. He turned away 
 without speaking; — he impulsively returned, and 
 withdrew the curtain that hung before Isabella. 
 She was in a paroxysm of grief, her head thrown 
 back, her hands clasped, and tears streaming 
 from her eyes. What a spectacle — what a blessed 
 spectacle for a self-distrusting, hopeless lover! 
 
 “Isabella!” he exclaimed, “we do not then 
 part for ever ?” 
 
 “ 1 hope not,” she replied. 
 
 The driver, unconscious of Eliot’s returning 
 movement, cracked his whip, the horses started 
 on their course, and the road making a sudden 
 turn, the sleigh instantly disappeared, leaving 
 Eliot feeling as if he had been translated to 
 another world — a world of illimitable hope, im- 
 measurable joy. 
 
 “ ‘ I hope not.’ ” Could Isabella have uttered 
 a more common-place reply ? and yet these words, 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 with the emotion that preceded them, were a key 
 to volumes — were pondered on and brooded over, 
 through summer and winter— ay, for years. 
 
 “ Ah, n’en doutons pas ! a travers les temps 
 et les espaces, les ames ont quelquefois des cor- 
 respondances mysterieuses. En vain le moude 
 reel eleve ses barrieres entre deux etres qui 
 s’aiment; habitans de la vie ideale, ils s’appa- 
 raissent dans I’absence, ils s’unissent dans la 
 mort.” 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 Boy, fill me a bumper — now join in tbe chorus, 
 
 There’s happiness still in the prospect before us; 
 
 In this sparkling glass all hostility ends, 
 
 And Britons and we will for ever be friends. 
 
 Derry down, derry down. 
 
 Old Song, 
 
 More than three years from tbe date of our last 
 chapter had passed away. The European states- 
 men were tired of the silly effort to keep grown- 
 up men in leading strings, and their soldiers were 
 w'earied with combating in fields where no laurels 
 grew for them. The Americans were eager — the 
 old to rest (rom their labours, and the young to 
 reap the fruit of their toils ; and all good and 
 wise men contemplated, with joy, the reunion of 
 two nations who were of one blood and one faith. 
 King George, firm or obstinate to the last, had 
 yielded his reluctant consent to the independence 
 of his American colonies ; and the peace was 
 signed, which was welcomed by all parties, save 
 the few Ameiican loyalists who were now to suffer 
 the consequences that are well deserved by those 
 who learn, unwillingly, and too late, that their 
 own honour and interest are identified with their 
 country’s. 
 
 The 25th of November, 1783, was, as we are 
 annually reminded, by the ringing of bells and 
 firing of cannon, a momentous day in this city of 
 New York. It was the time appointed for the 
 evacuation of the city by the British forces, and 
 the entrance of the American commander-in-chief 
 with his army. To the royalists who had re- 
 mained in the garrisoned city, attached from 
 principle, and fettered by early association, to the 
 original government, this was a day of darkness 
 and mourning. With their foreign friends went, 
 as they fancied, all their distinction, happiness, 
 and glory. We may smile at their weakness, but 
 cannot deny them our sympathy. Such men as 
 Sir Guy Carleton (Sir Henry Clinton's successor), 
 who made even his enemies love him, had a fair 
 claim to the tears of his friends ; and others 
 were there whose names grace the history of our 
 parent laud, and names not mentioned that were 
 written on living hearts, and which made partings 
 that day — 
 
 Such as press the life from out young hearts. 
 
 Though on the verge of winter, the day was 
 bright and soft. The very elements were at peace. 
 At the rising of the sun, the British flag on the 
 battery was struck. Boats were in readiness at 
 the wharves to convey the troops, and such of the 
 inhabitants as were to accompany them, down ta 
 
THE LINWOODS< 
 
 
 Staten Island, where the British ships were 
 awaiting them. At an early hour, and before the 
 general embarkation, a gentleman, much muffled, 
 and evidently sedulously avoiding observation, 
 was seen stealing through the by streets to a 
 boat, to which his luggage had already been con- 
 veyed, and which, as soon as he entered it, put oflF 
 towards the fleet. He looked soured and ab- 
 stracted, eager to depart, and yet not joyful in 
 going. His attitude w^as dejected, and his eyes 
 downcast, till some sound that betokened an ap- 
 proach to the ship roused him, when suddenly 
 looking up, he beheld, leaning over the side of the 
 vessel, an apparition that called the blood and the 
 spirit to his face. This apparition was his wife— 
 Mrs. Jasper Meredith. There she stood, bowing 
 to him, and smiling, and replying adroitly to such 
 congratulations from the officers of the ship as, 
 
 Upon my word, Mrs. Meredith, you leave the 
 country with spirit— your husband should take a 
 leaf out of your book.” 
 
 Meredith entered the ship. His wife took him 
 by the arm and led him aside. “ One word to 
 you, my dear love,” she said, “ before that cloud 
 on your brow bursts. I have known, from the 
 first, your secret intention, and your secret pre- 
 parations to go off with the fleet, and leave me 
 here to get on as I could. I took my measures to 
 defeat yours. You should know, before this 
 time of day, that I am never foiled in what I un- 
 dertake — ” 
 
 No, by Heaven, never.-” 
 
 “ There’s no use in swearing about it, my love ; 
 nor will there be any use,” she added, changing 
 her tone of irony to a cutting energy, “ in doing 
 what, as my husband — my lord and master — you 
 may do, in raising a storm here, refusing to pay 
 my passage, and sending me back to the city. 
 Officers— gentlemen, you know, all take the part 
 of an oppressed wife — you would be put to Co- 
 ventry, and make your dehul in England to great 
 disadvantage. So, my dear, make the best of it ; 
 let our plans appear to be in agreement. It is 
 in bad taste to quarrel before spectators — we 
 will reserve that to enliven domestic scenes in 
 England.” 
 
 “In England! my mother declares she will 
 never receive you there ; and I am now utterly 
 dependent on my mother.” 
 
 “ I know all that; I hare seen your mother’s 
 letters.’’ Meredith stared. “Yes, all of them, 
 and, in them all, she reiterates her governing 
 principle, that ‘ appearances must be managed.’ 
 I shall convince her that I am one of the mana- 
 gers, and the prima donna in this drama of ap- 
 pearances.” 
 
 Meredith made no reply. He saw no eligible 
 way of escape, and he was, like a captive insect, 
 paralysed in the web that enclosed him. ” You 
 are convinced, I perceive, my dear,’’ continued 
 his loving wife, “ be kind enough to give me a 
 few guineas ; I paid my last to the boatmen, and 
 it is awkward being without money.” 
 
 Meredith turned from her and walked hurriedly 
 up and down the deck ; then stopped, and took 
 out his pocket-book to satisfy her demand; but 
 his purpose was suspended by his eye falling ac- 
 cidentally on the card, on which, ten years before, 
 he had recorded Effie’s prediction. The card was 
 yellow and defaced; but like a talisman, it recalled 
 with the freshness of actual presence the long, 
 but not forgotten, past— the time when Isabella. 
 
 115 
 
 Linwood’s untamed pulses answered to his— when 
 Bessie Lee’s soft eye fell tenderly upon him—" 
 when he was linked in friendship with Herbert— « 
 when the lights of nature still burned in his soul 
 — while as yet his spirit had not passed under the 
 world’s yoke, and crouched under its burden of 
 vanity, heartlessness, and sordid ambition. His 
 eye glanced towards his wife, he tore the card in 
 pieces, and honest, bitter tears flowed down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 Bessie Lee, thou wert then avenged! Avenged? 
 Sweet Spirit of Christian forgiveness and celestial 
 love, we crave thy pardon ! Bessie Lee, restored 
 to her excellent mother, and to her peaceful and 
 now most happy home at Westbrook, was enjoy- 
 ing her renovated health and “rectified spirit.” 
 The vigorous mind of Mrs. Archer, and Isabella’s 
 frank communication of her own malady and its 
 cure had aided in the entire dissipation of Bessie’s 
 illusions, and no shadow of them remained but a 
 sort of nun like shrinking from the admiration, 
 and devotion of the other sex. She lived for 
 others, and chiefly to minister to the sick and 
 sorrowful. She no longer suffered herself ; but 
 the chord of suffering had been so strained that 
 it was weakened, and vibrated at the least touch 
 of the miseries of others. The satirist who 
 scoffs at the common fact of devotion succeeding 
 love in a woman’s heart, is superficial in the 
 philosophy of our nature. He knows not that 
 woman’s love implies a craving for happiness, a 
 dream of bliss that human character and human 
 circumstances rarely realise, and a devotedness 
 and self. negation due only to the Supreme. The 
 idol falls, and the heart passes to the true God. 
 
 All things on earth shall wholly pass away. 
 Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
 for aye. 
 
 That love of God, that sustaining, life-giving 
 principle, waxed stronger and stronger in Bessie 
 Lee as she went on in her pilgrimage. Her pil- 
 grimage was not a long one; and when it ended, 
 the transition was gentle from the heaven she 
 made on earth to that which awaited her in the 
 bosom of the Father. 
 
 We return to the shifting scenes in New York. 
 The morning was allotted to the departure of the 
 British. “Rose,” said Mr. Linwood, “ give me 
 my cloak and fur shoes, and I will go through the 
 garden to Broadway, and see the last of them — 
 God bless them!” 
 
 “ And my cloak and caleche, Rose,” said Mrs. 
 Linwood; “it is a proper respect to show our 
 friends that our hearts are with them to the last 
 — it should be a family thing. Come, Belle; and 
 you, Lady Anne, come too.” 
 
 “ With all my heart, dear mamma; but pray— 
 pray do not call me Lady Anne. I have told you, 
 again and again, that I have renounced my title, 
 and will have no distinction but that which suits 
 the country of my adoption— that which I may 
 derive from being a good wife and mother — the 
 true ‘ American order of merit.’ ” 
 
 “ As you please, my dear child ; but it is a sin- 
 gular taste.” 
 
 “ Singular to prefer Mrs. Linwood to Lady 
 Anne! Oh, no, mamma.” 
 
 Mrs. Linwood received the tribute with a 
 grateful smile, and afterwards less frequently 
 forgot her daughter in-law’s injunction. Her 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 116 
 
 affections always got the better of her vanity — 
 after a slight contest. “Rose,’’ continued Lady 
 Anne, “please put on little Herbert’s fur cap, 
 and talje him out to see the show too. Is not 
 that a pretty cap, mamma ? I bought it at 
 Xiizzy Bengin’s.’’ 
 
 “ L'zzy Bengin’s ! Has Lizzy returned ?’’ 
 
 “ Yes, indeed ; and re-opened her shop in the 
 same place, and hung up her little household 
 deity Sylvy again, who is screaming out as zeal- 
 ously as ever — ‘Come in — come in.’ Lizzy, they 
 say, is to have a pension from Congress.’’ 
 
 “The d — 1 she is!’’ exclaimed Mr. Linwood; 
 
 well, every thing is turned topsy-turvy now. 
 Come, are we not all ready ? where lags Belle ?” 
 
 Isabella entered in a very becoming hat and 
 /Cloak, adjusted with more than her usual care, 
 and her countenance brilliant with animation. 
 
 “ Upon ray word, Miss Belle,’’ said her father, 
 passing his handover her glowing cheek, “you 
 are hanging out very appropriate colours for this 
 mournful occasion.” 
 
 “The heart never hangs out false colours, 
 papa.” 
 
 “ Ah, Belle, Belle ! that I should live to see 
 you a traitor too ; but 1 do live, and bear it better 
 than I could have expected.” 
 
 “ Because, papa, it no longer seems to you the 
 evil it once did — does it?’’ 
 
 “ Yes, I’ll be hanged if it don’t, just the same ; 
 but then, Belle, I’ll tell you what it is that’s kept 
 the sap running warm and freely in this old good- 
 for-nothing trunk of mine. My child,’’ the old 
 man’s voice faltered, “ you have been true and 
 loyal to me through all this dark time of trial 
 and adversity ; you have been a perpetual light 
 and blessing to my dwelling, Belle ; and Herbert 
 —if a man serves the devil, I’d have him serve 
 him faithfully —Herbert, in temptation and sore 
 trials, has been true to the cause he chose— up to 
 the mark. This it is that’s kept me heart-whole. 
 And, Belle, if ever you are a parent, which God 
 grant, for you deserve it, you’ll know what it is 
 to have your very life rooted in the virtue of your 
 children, and to be sustained by that— yes, as 
 mine is, sustained and made pretty comfortable 
 too, even though my king has to succumb to these 
 rebel upstarts, and I have to look on and see every 
 gentleman driven out of the land to give place to 
 these tag-rag and bobtail.” 
 
 “ But, papa,” said Isabella, anxious to turn her 
 father’s attention from the various groups gather- 
 ing in the streets, and who, it was evident, were 
 only waiting, according to the previous compact, 
 for the last British boat to leave the wharf, to 
 give utterance to their joyous “ huzzas ;’’ “ but, 
 papa, you have overlooked some important items 
 in your consolations.’’ 
 
 “ I have not mentioned them ; but they are 
 main props. Anne, God bless her ! and that little 
 dog,” he shook his cane lovingly at his grandson, 
 who crowded a response, “ though he was born 
 under Washington’s flag, and sucks its independ- 
 ence and republicanism with his mother’s milk, 
 the little rascal 1” 
 
 In spite of Mr. Linwood’s habitual virtupera- 
 tion, it was evident that his cup of happiness was 
 full to overflowing, and that there was in it only 
 a few salutary bitter drops, without which there 
 is no draught commingled for human lips. 
 
 Mrs. Archer, with her children, now joined her 
 ifiends, and they were all grouped under a fine 
 
 old locust that stood just without he wall of Mr* 
 Linwood’s garden, and was among the few trees 
 that retained any foliage at this advanced season. 
 
 The last foreign regiment was passing from 
 Broadway to the Battery, in the admirable order 
 and condition of British troops ; the arms of the 
 soldiers glittering, their uniform fresh and un- 
 sullied, and that of the officers, who had seen 
 little service to deface and disarrange it, in a 
 state of preservation rather indicating a drawing- 
 room than a battle-field. Mr. Linwood gazed 
 after them, and said, sorrowfully, “ We ne’er shall 
 look upon their like again.’’ 
 
 “ I hope not,’’ muttered Rose to herself, in the 
 back-ground ; “ this a’ n’t to be the land for them 
 that strut in scarlet broadcloth and gold epaulets, 
 and live upon the sweat of working people’s 
 brows. No, thank God — and General Wash- 
 ington.” 
 
 “Ah,” said Mrs. Archer, “there is good old 
 General Knyphausen turning the key of his door 
 for the last time. Heaven’s blessing will go with 
 him, for he never turned it upon a creature that 
 needed his kindness.” The good old German, 
 crossed the street, grasped Mr. Linwood’s hand, 
 kissed the hands of the ladies, and without speak- 
 ing, rejoined his suite, and passed on. 
 
 “Who are those young gallants, Isabella,” 
 asked Mr. Linwood, “that seem riveted to the 
 pavement at Mrs. -’s door ?" 
 
 Isabella mentioned their names, and added, 
 “Miss is there, a magnet to the last mo- 
 
 ment — a hard parting that must be.” 
 
 No wonder it was deemed a “ hard parting,’’ if 
 half that is told by her contemporaries of Miss 
 ’s beauty and auxiliary charms be true ; a mar- 
 vellous tale, but not incredible to those who see 
 her as she now is, after the passage of more than 
 fifty years, vivacious, courteous, and bright-eyed. 
 
 While Lady Anne was deepening the colour on 
 Isabella’s cheek by whispering, “ Better a coming 
 than a parting lover!’’ our old friend Jupiter, 
 arm in arm with his boon companion “The 
 gen’ral,’’ was passing. 
 
 “ Where are you going in such haste, Jupe ?’’ 
 asked his ex-master, in reply to Jupiter’s respect- 
 ful salutation. 
 
 “lam ’gaged to ‘ Black Sam’ to dine with Ge- 
 neral Washington, sir.” 
 
 Mr. Linwood had been told that a/e/e was in 
 preparation at “ Black Sam’s,” the great res- 
 taurateur of his day, for General Washington and 
 his friends. He was ready to believe almost any 
 extravagance of the levelling Americans ; but the 
 agrarianism that made Jupiter a party at the fes- 
 tive board with the commander-in-chief rather 
 astounded him. “By the Lord!” he whispered 
 to Isabella, “ Herbert shall come home and eat 
 his dinner.” 
 
 “You mean, Jupe,” said Miss Linwood, with- 
 out directly replying to her father, “ that you are 
 engaged to wait on General Washington at Black 
 Sam’s ?’’ 
 
 “Sartin, Miss Isabella; did not I ’spress my- 
 self so?” 
 
 “Not precisely, Jupe ; but I understood you 
 so.” 
 
 Jupiter drew near to Miss Linwood, whom he, in 
 common with others, looked upon as the presiding 
 genius of the family, to unfold a wish that lay 
 very near his heart. But Jupe was a diplomatist, 
 And was careful not to commit himself in the 
 
THE LINWOODS. 
 
 terms of a treaty. “ Miss Belle," he said, “ I 
 hear Mrs. Herbert Liawood has got a aice char’ot 
 sent over from England, and if she wants a coach, 
 man, I don't know but I might like to come back 
 to the old place." 
 
 “Very well, Jupe, I will speak to my sister, 
 and we will consider of it.” 
 
 “Do, Miss Belle, and I’ll ’sider of it too. I 
 have not 'finitly made up ray mind to stay in New 
 York. They say there s to be such bustle and 
 racket here, building ships and stores, and all this 
 space,” pointing to the still vacant space between 
 Broadway and the river, “all this space to be co 
 vered with housen bigger than them burnt down. 
 I’m afraid there’ll be too much work and fusion 
 for me ; ’taut genteel, you know, Miss Belle, and 
 I think of ’tiring to the manor.” 
 
 “That will be wisest, Jupe; New York will no 
 longer be a place for idlers of any degree.” 
 
 Jupiter, all complacency in a classification 
 which sorted him with those whom he styled the 
 genteel, bowed and passed on. 
 
 Music was now heard from the extremity of the 
 Battery. All had embarked save the band. The 
 band, that had been the pride and delight of the 
 inhabitants, through winter and summer, now 
 struck up, for the last time, “ God save the king!” 
 Every sound was hushed, and white handkerchiefs 
 were waved from balconies, windows, and doors. 
 Mr. Lin wood uncovered his head, and the tears 
 trickled down his cheeks. As the music ceased, 
 Edward Archer, who stood wich his arm over his 
 sister’s shoulder, said, “ Oh, L’zzy, how we shall 
 miss the band !’’ 
 
 “Miss them! No, Ned; not when we get 
 back to dear breezy Beechy Hill, and hear the 
 birds, and smell the flowers, and have none to 
 hurt us nor make us afraid.” 
 
 The last boat put off from the wharf, and at the 
 next instant the “star spangled banner ’ was un- 
 furled from the flagstaff, and every bell in the city 
 poured forth its peal of welcome to the deliverer 
 of his country, who was seen, at the head of a de- 
 datchment of his army, approaching the city 
 through the Fields, then the general designation 
 of all that portion of New York beyond the 
 British palisades which traversed Broadway at 
 Chambers-street. 
 
 Those who are familiar with the location of this 
 our noble street of Broadway, the pride of the 
 metropolis, can imagine the thrilling effect of the 
 moment on the spectators. They saw the flag of 
 an independent empire waving on the Battery ; 
 beyond, the bay glittering in the meridian sun ; 
 and, floating on the bay, the ships that were to 
 convey their late masters for ever from the land 
 that had rejected them. At the upper extremity 
 of the street appeared General Washington, the 
 spotless patriot, the faultless military chieftain, 
 the father of his country, “first in war, first in 
 peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen 
 he on whom every epithet of praise has been ex- 
 hausted, and whose virtues praise never yet 
 reached. With him were his companions in arms 
 and glory, and following him his soldiers, their 
 garments worn and soiled, and their arms broken 
 and defaced. It mattered not. The period of 
 toils and hardship, of hope and fear, of seed-time, 
 was past — the harvest was to come, the abundant 
 harvest to them, their children’s chi'drea, and the 
 stranger luithin their gates. ' 
 
 The procession drew near to Wall-stiCjt, where 
 
 117 
 
 it was to turn ; a few paces lower down was the 
 locust-tree where our friends were grouped. As 
 the cavalcade approached, Mr. Linwood began to 
 show signs of fidgeting. Isabella’s arm was in 
 his. “ Let us go in, sir,’’ she said. 
 
 “ Presently, my dear, presently ; I’ll have o e 
 look at Washington. By George of Oxford ! a 
 noble figure of a naan ! Ah, but for him, the rebels 
 would never have carried the day.” 
 
 “ For him and the Lord on their side !” invo- 
 luntarily added Rose, who had advanced to give 
 her little charge the chance of a glance at his 
 father. 
 
 “The Lord on the side of such a ragged regi- 
 ment of ragamuffins ? High sons of Liberty, for" 
 sooth !” replied Mr. Linwood, chuckling at the 
 wretched appearance of the American soldiers. 
 
 “They are extremely ragged,” said Mrs. Lia- 
 wood ; “ such a contrast to our army.” 
 
 “They are, God bless them!” said Isabella, 
 “ and sacred, in my eyes, as the garments of the 
 saints, are these outward signs of their brave 
 toils.” 
 
 “ Oh,’’ exclaimed Mrs. Herbert Linwood, “ I 
 see my husband! — and there, Belle, is Colonel 
 Lee, on the very horse General Putnam gave him* 
 I wish his poor man Kisel, of whom I have so 
 often heard him speak, had lived to amble after him 
 this day. ‘ Poor fool !’ Eliot will always have 
 ‘ one part iu his heart that’s sorry yet for thee.’ ” 
 , Isabella’s eye had followed the direction of her 
 sister’s ; her cheek became suddenly pale, and she 
 reiterated her wish to her father to return into he 
 house. 
 
 “In a minute, my dear child, in a minute; 
 let’s first see them wheel into Wall- street. Who 
 is that Colonel Lee you spoke of, Anne ?” 
 
 “ Eliot Lee, sir. Did not Belle tell you how 
 he was sent with the detachment from the northera 
 army to the south, and how he behaved with such 
 gallantry at the taking of Cornwallis, that he re- 
 ceived a colonelcy immediately after from Cou-' 
 gress. Did you not tell. Belle ?’’ she added, 
 archly smiling at her sister. 
 
 The turn into Wall street was now to be made, 
 and the officers riding ahead came nearly parallel 
 to our friends. General Washington seeing, and 
 instantly recognising, Isabella Linwood and her 
 sister, saluted them. Mr. Linwood instinctively 
 doffed his hat, and bowed low to the commander 
 of the rebel army. Eliot Lee’s eye met Isabella’s, 
 and returned its brightest beam to the welcome 
 that flashed from hers. Herbert kissed his hand 
 to his friends, and stretched his arms to his boy. 
 Rose lifted the little fellow high in the air ; he was 
 inspired with the animation of the scene, and the 
 word that was then shouted forth from a thousand 
 tongues, the first he ever uttered, burst from his 
 lips — “ Huzza 1’’ 
 
 The following, and many successive evenings, 
 Eliot Lee passed with the Linwoods. Those of 
 our kind readers whose patience has brought them 
 to the close of these volume?, will not be surprised 
 that our heroine, after her conquest over a mis- 
 placed, and, as it may strictly be termed, an acci- 
 dental passion, should return with her whole heart 
 his love who deserved, if man could deserve it, 
 that treasure. 
 
 Did the course of their true love rua smooth ? 
 Yes, true love though it was, it did. The bare 
 fact that his daughter Isabella, who seemed to 
 him fit to grace a peerage, was tovedthe por- 
 
118 THE NOVEL 
 
 tionless son of a New England farmer, was at 
 first startling to Mr. Linwood. But, as few men 
 are, he was true to his theories ; and when 
 Isabella, quoting his own words on a former occa- 
 sion, frankly confessed that she had given her 
 heart to Eliot Lee, and “ that meant her respect, 
 honour, esteem, and all that one of God’s crea- 
 tures can feel for another,” he replied, fondly 
 kissing her, “Then God’s will be done, my child, 
 and give your hand too !’’ 
 
 We are aware that the champions of romance, 
 the sage expounders of the laws of sentiment, 
 maintain that there can be but one love. We will 
 not dispute with them, though we honestly be- 
 lieve, that in the capacities of loving, as in all 
 other capacities, there be diversities of gifts ; but 
 we will concede that such a sentiment as united 
 Isabella and Eliot Lee can never be extinguished ; 
 and therefore can never be repealed. It blended 
 their purposes, pursuits, hopes, joys, and sor- 
 rows ; it became a part of their spiritual natures, 
 and independent of the accidents of life. 
 
 As the cause of humanity and the advance of 
 civilisation depend mainly on the purity of the in 
 stitution of marriage, 1 shall not have written in 
 vain if I have led one mind more highly to appre- 
 ciate its responsibilities and estimate its results ; 
 its effect not only on the happiness of life, but on 
 that portion of our nature which is destined to 
 immortality: if I persuade even one of my young 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 countrywomen so to reverence herself, and so to 
 estimate the social duties and ties, that she will 
 not give her hand without her heart, nor her heart 
 till she is quite sure of his good desert who seeks 
 it. And, above all, I shall not have written in 
 vain if I save a single young creature from the 
 barter of youth and beauty for money, the merely 
 legal union of persons and fortunes multiplying 
 among us, partly from wrong education and false 
 views of the objects of life, but chiefly from the 
 growing imitation of the artificial and vicious 
 society of Europe. 
 
 It is only by entering into these holy and most 
 precious bonds with right motives and right feel- 
 ings, that licentious doctrines can be effectually 
 overthrown, and the arguments of the more re- 
 spectable advocates of the new and unscriptural 
 doctrine of divorce can be successfully opposed. 
 
 We boldly then advise our young friends so far 
 to cultivate the romance of their natures (if it be 
 romance to value the soul and its high offices above 
 all earthly consideration), as to eschew rick old 
 roue bachelors, looking-out widowers with large 
 fortunes, and idle, ignorant young heirs ; and to 
 imitate our heroine in trusting to the honourable 
 resources of virtue and talent, and a joint stock 
 of industry and frugality, in a country that is sore 
 to smile upon these qualities, and reward them 
 with as much worldly prosperity as is necessary 
 to happiness, and safe for virtue. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 One of the thousand pleasing anecdotes^related of 
 La Fayette at his last visit to America, was, that a 
 rich iron- merchant in one of our large cities was 
 presented to him, and after the customary courtesies, 
 took out his watch and showed it to La Fayette, 
 asking him if he remembered it? La Fayette seemed 
 to have an indistinct reminiscence of some circum- 
 stance connected with the watch. “ You do not 
 remember, sir,’’ said the merchant, “that at a certain 
 time and place,” (specifying both,) “ you stopped at 
 a blacksmith's shop to have your horse shod. The 
 
 smith and his family were ill, and in a most wretched 
 condition. He was obliged to be upheld while he 
 shod the horse. You told him you had no money to 
 spare, and gave him this watch. He pledged it — 
 afterwards redeemed it, and here it is, still in his 
 possession!” 
 
 As the circumstance related of La Fayette in our 
 text has no connexion with historical events, we 
 trust our friends of the legal profession will not 
 prove an alihi against us. 
 
 END OF THE LINWOODS. 
 
THE MARRIAGE BLUNDER 
 
 AN AMERICAN STORY. 
 
 I have never been able to undersfand the peculiar i 
 significaucy of the old and often quoted maxim, 
 that matches are made in heaven, as if Providence 
 had more to do with our marriages, and we our- 
 selves less, than with the other enterprises and acts 
 of our lives. The truth is, that nothing we do is 
 transacted with more deliberation than our matri- 
 monial engagements. The talk about rashness, 
 precipitancy, and blindness, in the parties between 
 whom the union is formed, is all cant, and cant of 
 the most ancient and stale kind. I wonder it is 
 not exploded in an age when old theories and long- 
 established opinions are thrown aside with as little 
 ceremony or remorse as a grave- digger shovels up 
 the bones and dust of past generations. In almost 
 every marriage that takes place, the bridegroom 
 has passed by many a fair face before he has made 
 his final election, and the bride refused many a 
 wooer. The parties are united after a courtship 
 generally of months — the fair one defers the day 
 of the nuptials from mere maiden coyness, and 
 the lover must have time to provide her a habita- 
 tion. Religious ceremonies, the forms of law, the 
 preparations for the festivity of the occasion, all 
 interposs their numerous delays. Even where the 
 parties have nothing jto do with the matter them- 
 selves, it is managed with great reflection and con- 
 trivance, with negotiations warily opened and 
 skilfully conducted on the part of their relations. 
 Why, the very making of these matches, which 
 the proverb so flippantly affirms to be made with- 
 out our agency, constitutes nearly half the occu- 
 pation of civilised society. For this the youth 
 applies himself diligently to the raakitig of his 
 fortune ; for this the maiden studies the graces and 
 accomplishments of her sex. I have known per- 
 sons who for years never thought of any other 
 subject. I have known courtships which lasted 
 through four lustres. I have known mothers who 
 for years made it the business of their lives to 
 settle their daughters. The premeditation of ma- 
 trimony influences all the fashions, amusements, 
 and employments of mankind. What a multi- 
 tude of balls and parties, and calls, and visits, and 
 journeys, are owing to this fruitful cause — what 
 managing and manoeuvring, what dressing and 
 dancing, what patching and painting, how much 
 poetry and how much prose, what quantities of mu- 
 sic, and conversation, and criticism, and scandal, 
 and civility, that otherwise would never have had 
 an existence I 
 
 The result justifies the supposition of deliberation; 
 and most marriages are accordingly made with 
 sufficient wisdom. Talk of the risk undertaken by 
 the candidate for the happiness of a conjugal life! 
 The man who marries is not so often cheated as the 
 man who buys a horse, even when the bargain is 
 driven for him by the most knowung jockey. Ten 
 are unfortunate in trade, to one who is unfortunate 
 in a wife. Marriages are comfortable and respect- 
 able things the w'orld over, with a few exceptions. 
 Ill-natured people torment each other, it is true; 
 but if thev were not married the}"^ would torment 
 somebody else, unless they retired to a hermitage; 
 while, on the other hand, good tempers are improved 
 by the domestic affections which the married state 
 calls forth. 
 
 If marriage happened to a man without his know- 
 ledge or consent ; if it came upon one unexpectedly 
 like a broken leg, or a fever, or a legacy from a rich 
 relation, or a loss by a broken bank ; if young men 
 and young w'omen w'ere to lay their heads on their 
 pillows in celibacy and wake the next morning in 
 wedlock ; if one were to have no voice in the election 
 of a wife, but were obliged to content himself with 
 one chosen for him by lot, there would, I grant, be 
 some propriety in the maxim I have mentioned. 
 But in a matter which is the subject of so much 
 discussion and deliberation as marriage, not only on 
 the part of the youth and the damsel, but of all 
 friends and acquaintances, and which is hedged 
 round with so many f«)rms and ceremonies, it is 
 nonsense to talk of any particular fatality. I re- 
 collect but two instances of people being coupled 
 together not only without their knowledge or con- 
 sent, but without even that of their friends. The 
 marriage took place on the same day, in the same 
 church, and from the misery in which the parties 
 lived, it might be inferred that the matches were 
 made any where else but in heaven. I will relate 
 the story, as it is rather a curious one, though I 
 admit not at all romantic. I would make it more 
 so if in my power, for the gratification of certain 
 persons whose fair hands will turn these pages; but 
 I have no skill in embellishing plain matters of fact. 
 
 Some years since, when 1 was at Natchitoches, 
 on the banks of the Red River, I became acquainted 
 with a French cotton planter of the name of La 
 Ruche, whose house stood at a little distance from 
 the village. He was a lively, shrivelled old gentle- 
 man, dried almost to a mummy by seventy hot 
 Louisiana summers, with a head white as snow, but 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 120 
 
 a step as light as that of the deer he hunted. He 
 loved to tell of all times, of the adventa>-es of his 
 youth, and of the history of his contemporaries and 
 the country. The novelty of these subjects stimu- 
 lated my curiosity and kindled my imsgination, and 
 it may readily be supposed that he found me a most 
 tvilling listener. For this quality of mine he took a 
 vehement liking to me, and used to invite me to his 
 plantation, where he would keep me, in spite of all 
 my excuses, for days together. La Ruche was the 
 descendant of one of the early settlers of Louisiana, 
 the younger son of an ancient Gascon family who 
 came out with La Harpe in the early part of the 
 eighteenth century, and made one of the colony which 
 he led to the banks of the Red River. The father 
 of my friend, a wealthy planter, had sent him in his 
 youth to be educated at Paris. After an absence of 
 six years, in which he acquired a competent share of 
 the graces and intelligence of that polished capital, 
 he returned to complete his education in a different 
 school, and one better suited to the state of the 
 CO intry at that period. He exchanged his silk 
 breeches for leathern ones, learned to navigate 
 the immense rivers of this region, to traffic and hold 
 talks with the Indiars, to breed and train packs of 
 hounds, to manage the spirited horses of the country, 
 to pursue and kill the deer in the merry and noisy hunt 
 hy torch light, and to bring down the fiercer bear 
 and panther. Once he had penetrated over land to 
 Mexico. Three times he had guided a skiff through 
 the difficult channels of the Great Raft, as it is 
 called, of the Red River, thirty leagues to the north 
 O*" Natchitoches, where, for eighty miles in length, 
 it drowns an immense extent of country, ove.laying 
 it with huge trunks of trees, above which wave the 
 dwarf willows and gaudy marsh flowers, and around 
 and under which creep sluggishly the innumerable 
 and intricate currents. 
 
 My friend loved to make me ride out with him, 
 and I believe he did it partly from a motive of 
 vanity, that I might see how much better a horse- 
 man he was than I. We were commonly mounted 
 on two fine mares of the Andalusian breed, fleet, 
 spirited, with prominent veins, and eyes that shot 
 fire like those of an Andalusian lady. Such rides 
 as we had in the charming month of October ! — for 
 charming it is in every region of North America. 
 "We crossed the blood-coloured stream of the Red 
 River, and visited the noble prairies between it and 
 the Washita. Let no man talk to me of the beauti- 
 ful scenery of the old world; I have seen it; it is 
 beauty on a small scale, in miniature, in little spots 
 and situations ; but if he would see beauty in its 
 magnificence and vastness, beauty approaching to 
 sublimity, yet not losing but rather heightening its 
 own peculiar character, let him visit the prairies 
 of our south-western country. Let him contem- 
 plate the long sweeping curve of primeval forest 
 with which they are bordered, where the huge, 
 Straight, columnar trunks are w’ound with gigantic 
 blossoming vines, and upheave to an immense height 
 a canopy of the thickest foliage and the deepest 
 green. Let him look far over the immense grassy 
 ocean spread before him — on the innumerable gor- 
 geous flowers that glow like gems among the ver- 
 dure — on the clumps of towering trees planted 
 over them at pleasant distances, as if for bowers 
 of refreshment — and the immense^rivers draining 
 territories large enough for empires, by which they 
 are often bounded at one extremity. Here the 
 features of the earth are in unison with those of 
 heaven; with the sky of tenderest blue, the edge 
 of whose vast circle comes down seemingly into the 
 
 very grass ; with the wind that bends all those mul» 
 titudes of flowers in one soft but mighty respiration^ 
 and w'ith the great sun that steeps the whole in bis 
 glory. 
 
 But the scene of my story lies on the western side 
 of the Red River; and I have no excuse for linger- 
 ing thus between that stream and the Washita, save 
 the surpassing amenity of these gardens of God, for 
 such they are, laid out and planted and beautified by 
 his own hand. 
 
 One day I rode out with my ancient host towards 
 the Rio Hondo, a small river wandering through 
 dark forests in a deep channel, up to which the 
 Spanish government formerly claimed when they 
 extended their pretensions to the west of the Sabine, 
 
 There,” said La Ruche, pointing to a placid sheet 
 of water, over whose border hung the peach leaved 
 willows of the country, “ there is the Spanish Lake, 
 and in a little time we shall be in the old Spanish 
 town of Adayes, about ten miles distant from 
 Natchitoches. This country is the ancient debate- 
 able ground on which the two rival colonies of 
 France and Spain met, and planted their first settle- 
 ments by the side of each other.*' A little farther 
 on, my companion gave a wave of his hand — “There,” 
 said he, “ is Adayes — the inhabitants are a good 
 sort of people, simple, hospitable, bigoted, and 
 ignorant ; but look well to that pretty silver-mounted 
 riding whip of yours, or you may chance not to carry 
 it back with you.” 
 
 I looked and saw a cluster of tall, clumsy houses, 
 plastered on the outside with mud, which, peeling off 
 in many places, showed the logs of which they were 
 built. We entered the town at a round pace, and 
 then checking our horses, passed slowly through it. 
 The inhabitants were sitting at their doors, or loiter- 
 ing about in the highway, for the weather had that 
 soft golden autumnal serenity which makes one im- 
 patient of being any where but in the open air. We 
 entered into conversation with them — they spoke 
 nothing but Spanish, but when I looked in their 
 faces, and remarked the strong aboriginal cast of 
 features, and the w’ild blackness of the eye in many 
 of them, I expected every moment to be saluted in 
 Cherokee or Choctaw. La Ruche directed my at- 
 tention to their place of worship, which stood in the 
 centre of the village. “ Look at that little church,” 
 said be, “ built far back in the last century. It has 
 four bells, two or three of which are cracked, and 
 on the religious festivals they express the public joy 
 in the most horrid jangle you ever heard. The 
 walls of the interior are adorned with several fright- 
 ful daubs of renowned saints, which assist the 
 devotion of the worshippers. Note it well, I beg 
 of you, for you are to hear a story about it to-day at 
 dinner.’’ 
 
 We left the village, and the lazy people that 
 loitered about its old dwellings. On our way to 
 Natchitoches, we passed a fine cotton plantation, 
 to which my friend called my particular attention. 
 The mansion of the proprietor, with three sharp 
 parallel roofs, and a piazza in front, stood embow- 
 ered in shades, its stuccoed walls, of a yellowish 
 colour, gleaming through the deep green leaves of 
 the catalpa, and the shivering foliage of the China 
 tree. At the back of it stood, in a cluster, the com- 
 fortable- looking cottages of the negroes, built of 
 cypress timber, before which the young woolly headed 
 imps of the plantation were gamboling and whooping 
 in the sun. Still farther back lay a coufused as- 
 semblage of pens, from some of which were heard 
 the cries and snuffling of swiue, and around them all 
 was a great enclosure for the reception of cattle, in, 
 
THE MARRIAGE BLUNDER. 
 
 'Which I saw goats walking and bleating, and geese 
 gabbling to each other and hissing at two or three 
 huge dogs that moved surlilj among them. M 7 
 companion stopped his horse, and called my notice 
 to a couple of tine trees of the botton wood species, 
 or sycamore, as they are called in the western coun- 
 try, planted near each other, before the principal 
 door of the house. They had not yet attained the 
 full size, and swelled with a lustiness and luxuriance 
 of growth that bespoke the majesty and loftiness 
 they were yet destined to attain. My friend gave 
 me to understand that there was some romantic 
 association connected with these trees. “ Ce sont 
 les monumens d’un pur et tendra amour du 
 bon vieux temps,” said he, laying his hand on his 
 heart, and looking as pathetically as a Frenchman 
 can do — “ but you shall hear more about it, as 
 ■well as about the little old church, when we are more 
 at leisure." 
 
 That day my venerable friend dined with more 
 conviviality than usual. He made me taste his 
 Chateau Margaux, his Medoc, his Lafitte, &c., for 
 these planters keep a good stock of old wines in 
 their cellars — and insisted on my doing him reason 
 in a glass of Champagne. I had never seen him 
 in such fine spirits. He told me anecdotes of the 
 French court at the close of the reign of Louis 
 the Fourteenth, and the beginning of that of his suc- 
 cessor, and sang two or three vaudevilles in a voice 
 that was but slightly cracked, and with a sharp 
 monotony of note. His eye sparkled from beneath 
 his grey eyebrows, to speak fancifully, like a bright 
 fountain from under frostwork ; and I thought I 
 could detect a faint tinge of red coming out upon 
 his parchment cheek, like the bloom of a second 
 youth. Suddenly he became grave. “ My friend,” 
 said he, solemnly, rising and reaching forward his 
 glass, and touching the brim to mine, as is the cus- 
 tom of the country — 
 
 I rose also, involuntarily, awed by the earnest gra- 
 vity of his manner. 
 
 “ My friend, let us pledge the memory of a 
 most excellent man now no more, the late worthy 
 curate of Adayes, and my ancient friend, Baltazar 
 Polo.” 
 
 I did as I was requested. “ Sit down, Mr. Her- 
 bert,” said the old man, when he had emptied his 
 glass; “sit down, I pray you,” said he, with an air 
 which instantly showed me that be had recovered 
 his vivacity— “ and I will tell you a pleasant story 
 •about that same Baltazar Polo. I have been keep- 
 ing it for you all day. 
 
 “ Baltazar Polo was a native of Valencia, in old 
 Spain, and I have heard him boast that old Gil 
 Polo, who wrote the ‘ Diana Enamorada,’ was of the 
 family of his ancestors. He was educated at the 
 University of Saragossa. Some unfortunate love 
 affair in early life, having given him a distaste for the 
 vanities of the world, he entered into holy orders, 
 ■quitted the country of his ancestors, came to New 
 Mexico, and wandered to the remote and solitary 
 little settlement of Adayes, where he sat himself 
 down to take care of the souls and bodies of the 
 simple inhabitants. He was their curate, doctor, 
 and schoolmaster. He taught the children their 
 aves, and if willing, their alphabet, said mass, helped 
 the old nurses to cure the bilious fever, proposed 
 riddles to the young people, and played with them 
 at forfeits and blindman’s buff. There his portrait 
 hangs just before you — look at it, Herbert — a good 
 looking man, was he not V' 
 
 “ It is a round, honest, jolly face,” said I, “ and 
 net devoid of expression. There is a becoming 
 
 121 
 
 chrical stoop in the shoulders, and his eyes are so 
 prominent, that my friend Spurzheira would set him 
 down for a great proficient in the languages. But 
 there is a blemish in the left eye, if I am not mis- 
 taken.” 
 
 “It was put out by a blow from an angry Cas- 
 tilian, whom he had accidentally jostled in the streets 
 of Madrid, and whom he was coaxiijg to be quiet. 
 He was the gentlest and most kindly officious of 
 human beings, full of good intentions, and ever at- 
 tempting good works, though not always successfully. 
 He was very absent, and so near-sighted with the only 
 eye he bad, that his sphere of vision was actually, I 
 believe, limited to the circle of a few inches. These 
 defects kept him continually playing at a game of 
 cross-purposes ; and if the tranquil and sleepy lives 
 of the people of Adayes had ever been disturbed by 
 any tendency to waggery, they might have extracted 
 infinite amusement from his continual blunders. I 
 have known him address a negro with an exhortation 
 intended for his master, recommending courtesy to 
 his inferiors, and good treatment and indulgence to 
 his slaves, enlarging upon the duty of allowing them 
 wholesome food and comfortable clothing, and of 
 letting them go at large during the holidays. I 
 doubt whether the black rogue was much the better 
 for this good counsel. The next moment, perhaps, 
 he would accost the lazy proprietor himself with a 
 homily on the duty of obedience and alacrity in 
 labour. He would expostulate feelingly with some 
 pretty natural coquet of the village, whose only 
 pride was in her own graceful shape, lustrous eyes, 
 and crimson petticoat, and whose only ambition was 
 to win the heart of some young beau from Natchi- 
 toches, on the folly of staking her last rag at the 
 gaming-table ; and I once heard of his lecturing an 
 unshaven, barefooted, sbirtless old Spaniard, in a 
 poncho and tattered pair of breeches, the only ones 
 he had in the world, on the wickedness of placing 
 his affections on the vanities of dress. 
 
 “ But, alas 1 there were no wags in that primitive 
 little village, and there was no wit. The boys never 
 stuffed with gunpowder the cigars which the worthy 
 Valencian used to smoke after dinner, nor did the 
 men, to make him drunk, substitute brandy for the 
 wholesome vino linto, of which, from mere absence 
 of mind, he would sometimes, in the company of 
 his friends, partake rather too genially. They never 
 thought of making any raau’s natural oddities of 
 manner or peculiarities of temper the subject of 
 merriment, any more than the cut of his face. If 
 ever they laughed, it was at what would excite the 
 laughter of children — at palpable rustic jokes and 
 broad buffoonery, at the Pruchinela, as the Spaniards 
 call Punch, from Mexico, and at the man from New 
 Orleans, wlio pulled so many yards of ribbon from 
 his mouth. On the contrary, they had as high an 
 opinion of the Reverend Father Polo’s sagacity as 
 they justly had of his goodness. Whenever there 
 was any thing in his conduct which puzzled them, 
 as was often tlie case, they ascribed it to some reason 
 too deep for scrutiny, and only became the more 
 confirmed in their notion of his unfathomable wis- 
 dom, Far from comprehending any ridicule on the 
 subject of his mistakes, they would look grave, 
 shake their solemn Spanish heads, and say they 
 would warrant Father Polo knew very well what lie 
 was about. This confidence in his superior under- 
 standing fortunately served to counteract in a good 
 degree the effects of his continual mistakes. But 
 it was not only among the people of Adayes that 
 he was loved and respected. The neighbouring 
 French planters found in him an agreeable and ia- 
 
122 the novel 
 
 structive companion, and were glad of a pretext to 
 detain him a day or two at their houses ; nor was 
 his reputation confined to this neighbourhood alone, 
 fori remember to have heard my friend Antonia de 
 Sedilla, the venerable bishop of Louisiana, speak of 
 him as a roan of great learning and piety, and once 
 in my presence the benevolent Poydras took occasion 
 to extol his humanity. 
 
 “ At the time of which I am speaking, the prettiest 
 maiden of Adayes was Teresa Paccard, the daughter 
 of a Frenchman, who had taken a wile of Spanish 
 extraction, and settled in the village. Teresa in- 
 herited mueh of the vivacity of our nation, and was 
 likewise somewhat accomplished ; for her lather had 
 made her learn a tolerable stock of phrases in his 
 native language, and often took her to visit the 
 families of the French planters; and the good 
 Baltazar had taught her to read. At the age of 
 sixteen she was an orphan, without fortune, and 
 but for the hospitality of her neighbours, without 
 a home. Not far from the village lived a young 
 Frenchman, who had emigrated thither from the 
 broad airy plains of the Avoyelles, some hundred 
 miles down the Red River, wlaere he had followed 
 the occupation of a herdsman. He had grown weary 
 of watching the immense droves of cattle and 
 horses belonging to others, and having collected a 
 lit l3 oney, emigrated to the parish of Natchi- 
 toches, bought a lew acres, and established himself 
 in the more dignified condition of a proprietor, with 
 his old father, in a rude cabin swarming with a 
 family of healthy brothers and sisters. Richard 
 Lemoine, then in his twentieth year, was one of the 
 handsomest men of the province, notwithstanding 
 his leathern doublet and small clothes, the dress of 
 the prairies. He was of Norman extraction, fair 
 haired, blue eyed, ruddy in spite of the climate, 
 broad shouldered, large limbed, with a pair of heavy 
 Teutonic wrists, of a free port and frank speech, and 
 such a horseman as even in this country of fine 
 horsemen is seldom seen. He saw Teresa — ’* 
 
 “And fell in love, of course,” said I, interrupt- 
 ing my host. 
 
 “ And fell in love, of course," resumed he; “ and 
 Teresa was not averse to his addresses. They first 
 agreed to be married, and then the young lady con- 
 suited Baltazar Polo. 
 
 “ ‘ Yes, my daughter,’ said he, ‘ with all my heart. 
 The young man is not rich, to be sure — and you are 
 poor — but you are both industrious and virtuous — 
 you love each other I suppose, and I ought not to 
 prevent you from being happy.’ 
 
 “ About the same time another courtship, not 
 quite so tender, perhaps, but more prudent and well- 
 considered, was going on between a couple of maturer 
 age and more easy circumstances. You cannot have 
 forgotten the thrifty-looking plantation I showed 
 you this morning, and the neat mansion, with the 
 two young sycamores before its door. There lived, 
 at the period of my story, and there had lived for 
 eighteen years before, Madame Labedoyere, the 
 widow of a rich planter, childless, and just on the 
 very verge of forty. She was a countrywoman of 
 yours, an Anglo-American lady, whom Labedoyere 
 found in one of your Atlantic cities, poor, progd, 
 and pretty, and transplanted to the banks of the 
 Red River to bear rule over himself and his house- 
 hold, while he contented himself with ruling his 
 field negroes. The honest man, I believe, found 
 her a little more inclined to govern than he had ex- 
 pected ; but after a short struggle for his independ 
 ence, in which he discovered that her temper was 
 best when she was suffered to take her own way, he 
 
 NEWSPAPER. 
 
 submitted with that grace so characteristic of our 
 nation, to what he could not remedy, endured the 
 married state with becoming resignation, and showed 
 himself a most obedient and exemplary husband. 
 Ten years passed away in wedlock, at the end of 
 which my friend Labedoyere regained his liberty by 
 departing for another world, where I trust he re- 
 ceived the reward of his patience. Eight years 
 longer his lady dwelt in solitary widowhood, as the 
 sole inheritor of Labedoyere’s large estates ; and the 
 features of the demure maiden had settled into those 
 of the imperious matron — a full square face, dark 
 strong eyebrows, and steady bold black eyes, while 
 her once sylphlike figure had rounded into a dignified 
 and comfortable corpulency, and her light youthful 
 step had been exchanged for the stately and swim- 
 ming gait of a duchess. 
 
 " This lady had consented to receive the addresses 
 of a rich old Frenchman, who lived two or three 
 miles distant from her house, and still further from 
 the spot where the young Richard Lemoine had 
 established himself with his old parents, and their 
 numerous progeny. Monsieur Du Lac was a little 
 old gentleman, of sixty years of age, an inveterate 
 hypochondriac, and the most fretful and irritable 
 being imaginable, with a bilious, withered face, an 
 under lip projecting so as to be the most conspi- 
 cuous feature of his countenance, and the corners 
 of his mouth drawn down with a perpetual grimace 
 of discontent. No subject could be more unpro- 
 mising for a woman of the disposition of Madame 
 Labedoyere; but she was weary of having nobody 
 but servants to govern ; besides, she was a lady of 
 spirit, and felt herself moved by the noble ambition 
 of taming so intractable a creature as Monsieur Du 
 Lac. She therefore began to treat ,him with ex- 
 treme civility and deference, inquired, with the 
 tenderest interest, the state of his health, sent him 
 prescriptions for his maladies, and good things 
 from her well-stored pantry, and whenever they 
 met, accosted him with her mildest words and 
 softest accents, and chastised the usual terrors of 
 her eye into a catlike sleepiness and languor of look. 
 The plan succeeded ; the old gentleman’s heart 
 was taken by surprise ; he reflected how invaluable 
 would be the attentions, the skill, and the sympathy 
 of so kind a friend and so accomplished a nurse 
 as Madame Labedoyere, in the midst of his in- 
 creasing infirmities ; he studied a few phrases of 
 gallantry, and offered her his hand, which, after^ 
 proper exhibition of coyness, hesitatiou, and deli-* 
 beration, on a step so important to the lady’s 
 happiness, was accepted. 
 
 “ Thus matters were arranged between the ma- 
 ture and between the youthful lovers ; they were 
 to be married, and to be happy, and honest Baltazar 
 Polo, the favourite of both young and old for 
 leagues round, was to perform the marriage cere- 
 mony. The courtship of both couples had been in 
 autumn, and now the chilly and frosty month of 
 January was over, and the rains of February had 
 set in, flooding the roads and swelling the streams 
 to such a degree that nobody ceuld think of a 
 wedding until finer weather. The weary rains of 
 February passed away also, and the sun of March 
 looked out in the heavens. March is a fine month 
 in our climate, whatever it may be in yours, Mr. 
 Herbert; it brings bright pleasant days, and soft 
 airs— now and then, it is true, a startling thunder- 
 shower ; but then, such a magnificence of young 
 vegetation, such a glory of flowers over all the 
 woods and the earth I You have not yet seen the 
 spring in Louisiana, Mr. Herbert, and 1 assure 
 
THE MARRIAGE BLUNDER, 
 
 
 you it is a sight worth a year’s residence in the 
 country. 
 
 March, as I told you, had setin ; the planters 
 began to intrust to the ground the seeds of cotton 
 and maize ; fire- flies were seen t© twinkle in the 
 evening, and the dog-wood to spread its large 
 white blossoms, and the crimson tufts of the red 
 bud to burst their winter sheaths, and the azalea 
 and yellow jessamine, and a thousand other 
 brilliant flowers, which you shall see if you stay 
 with us till spring, flaunted by the borders of the 
 streams, and filled the forests with intense fra- 
 grance; and the prairies were purple with their 
 earliest blossoms. Spring is the season of new 
 plans and new hopes — the time for men and birds 
 to build new habitations, and marry — the time for 
 those who are declining to the grave with sickness 
 and old age, to form plans for long years to come. 
 1 myself, amidst the freshness and youthfulness of 
 nature, and the elasticity of the air of this season, 
 white as my hair is, sometimes forget that I am 
 old, and almost think I shall live for ever. Mons. 
 Du Lac grew tenderer as the sun mounted higher, 
 the air blew softer, and the forests looked greener; 
 he became impatient for the marriage day, and 
 entreated the widow to defer their mutual happi- 
 ness no longer. 
 
 “ ‘Ah, my dear madam !’ said the withered old 
 gentleman, in a quaking falsetto voice, ‘let us 
 gather the flowers of existence before they are 
 faded — let us enjoy the spring of life !’ It was 
 impossible for the gentle widow to resist such 
 ardent solicitations, and she consented that the 
 nuptial rites should be delayed no longer, 
 
 “ Nearly at the same time that this tender scene 
 was passing, Richard Lemoine also, in phrase less 
 select, but by no means less impassioned, pressed 
 the lovely Teresa, and not in vain, to a speedy 
 union. Bat it was already near the close of the 
 carnival, and but two or three days intervened be- 
 fore the commencement of Lent, that long melan- 
 choly fast, in which, for the space of forty days, 
 the Catholic church forbids the happy ceremony 
 of marriage. I have often thought, that if the 
 observances of our church had been regulated 
 with a particular view to the climate of Louisiana, 
 the fast of Lent would have been put a month 
 or two earlier in the calendar ; but I am no divine, 
 and do not presume to give my profane opinion 
 upon this delicate and sacred subject. Neither 
 did the four lovers ; but it was agreed by them all 
 that they could not possibly wait until Lent was 
 over, and the only alternative was to be married 
 before it began. 
 
 In the mean time it seemed as if all the inha- 
 bitants of the parish of Nachitoches, who had the 
 misfortune to be single, had formed the resolution 
 of entering into the state of wedlock before the 
 carnival ended. They came flocking in couples of 
 various nations, ages, and complexions, to the 
 church of Adayes, to be married by the good Bal- 
 tazar Polo ; and that year was long afterwards re- 
 membered in the parish of Nachitoches, under 
 the name of I'an des noces, the year of weddings. 
 
 “ ‘ Do you know, Richard,’ said Teresa to her 
 lover, on his proposing that the wedding ceremony 
 should take place the next day, .‘ do you know 
 that Father Polo has promised, on the day after 
 t morrow, which is the last of the carnival, to 
 begin at four o’clock in the morning, and to marry 
 
 the same mass all who shall present themselves 
 l^t the Church of Adayes ? It is so awkward to be 
 
 123 
 
 married with every body staring at one ! — but if 
 we are married in company with a dozen others, 
 they cannot laugh at us, you know. Let it there- 
 fore be the day after to-morrow, dear Richard, 
 and as early in the morning as you please, for the 
 earlier we go to the church the darker it will be, 
 and I should like, of all things, to be married in 
 the dark.’ Richard could not but assent to so 
 reasonable a proposal, and departed to make his 
 little arrangements at home for the reception of 
 his bride. 
 
 “ It is somewhat remarkable that Madame 
 Labedoyere, notwithstanding she was as little 
 liable to the charge of excessive timidity and su« 
 perflous coyness as any of her sex, should also 
 have insisted on being married on the morning of 
 the last day of the carnival. Her gallant and 
 venerable suitor contended most tenderly and per- 
 severingly against this proposal, urging the pro- 
 priety of their being united in broad day-light, 
 with the decorums and ceremonies proper to the 
 occasion ; but he was forced to yield the point at 
 last, as the lady declared that unless the marriage 
 took place at the time she proposed, it must be 
 delayed until after Lent; and to this alternative 
 Mons. Du Lac was too gallant and impatient a 
 lover to agree. I believe that madame was sensi- 
 ble of the queer figure her withered, weak-legged, 
 and sour-visaged Adonis would make, as principal 
 in a marriage ceremony, and was willing he should 
 escape observation among the crowd of bride- 
 grooms whom she expected the last day of the 
 carnival would bring to the church of Adayes. 
 
 “ At length the day arrived. At half past three 
 in the morning, the sexton threw open the doors 
 of the little log church, and awoke the village with 
 a most furious and discordant peal on the cracked 
 bells. The good Baltazar Polo appeared at the 
 appointed hour, and the building began to fill with 
 the candidates for matrimony and their relatives. 
 Couple came flocking in after couple. Here you 
 might see by the light of lanterns, which the 
 negroes stood holding at the door, a young fellow 
 in a short cloak and broad-brimmed palmetto hat 
 and feathers, with a face in which were mingled 
 the features of Spain with those of the Aborigines, 
 walking with an indifferent and listless air, and 
 supporting a young woman, whose rounder and 
 more placid, though not less dark countenance, 
 was half covered by the manto, or thick Spanish 
 veil, which, however, was not drawn so closely 
 over her forehead as to hide the cluster of natural 
 blossoms she had gathered that morning and placed 
 there. There you might see a simpering fair one, 
 with a complexion somewhat too rosy for our cli- 
 mate, and a wreath of artificial flowers in her hair, 
 stepping briskly into the church on pointed toe, 
 leaning on the arm of her betrothed, whose liveli- 
 ness of look and air needed not the help of his 
 cocked hat and powdered locks, and long-skirted 
 coat of sky-blue, to tell that he was a Frenchman. 
 In others you might remark a whimsical blending 
 of costume, and a perplexing amalgamation of the 
 features of different races, that denoted their mixed 
 origin. Nearly all came protected with ample 
 clothing against the inclemency of the weather, 
 which, lately mild and serene, bad changed during 
 the course of the night to cold and damp, with a 
 strong wind, driving across the sky vast masses 
 of vapour, of a shadowy and indistinct outline. 
 Fourteen couples at length took their place in the 
 nave of the church, in two opposite rows, with. 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER, 
 
 124 
 
 sufficient space between them for the priest to 
 pass iu performing the marriage ceremony. Be- 
 hind these rows stood the friends and relations of 
 the parties, waiting for the moment when the rite 
 should be concluded, to conduct the brides to the 
 houses of the bridegrooms. The interior of the 
 church was dimly lighted by two wax tapers that 
 stood on the altar. A storm was evidently rising 
 without, the sky seemed to grow darker every 
 moment as the day advanced, the wind swept in 
 gusts round the building, and rushed in eddies 
 through the open door, waving the flame of the 
 tapers to and fro. As the flickering light played 
 over the walls, it showed on one side of the altar 
 a picture of our Lady of Grief, La Virgen de los 
 Dolores, the very caricature of sorrow, and on the 
 other a representation of the holy St. Anthony 
 tempted by evil spirits, in which the painter’s in- 
 genuity had been exerted so successfully as to 
 puzzle the most sagacious spectator to tell which 
 was the ugliest, the saint or the devils — or, indeed, 
 to distinguish the devils from the saint. Farther 
 off were one or two other pictures, whose grim 
 and shadowy faces, in the imperfect and unsteady 
 glare of the tapers, seemed to frown suddenly on 
 the walls, and then suddenly shrink into the shade. 
 The horses which the company rode, and which 
 stood about the door, held by negroes, or fastened 
 to posts and saplings, pawed and neighed, and 
 champed their huge Spanish bits, as if to give 
 their riders notice of the approaching tempest. 
 Father Polo saw, or rather was informed by the 
 friends of the parties, that there was no time to be 
 lost if he intended that the brides should reach 
 their new habitations that morning in comfort and 
 safety. He therefore passed between the rows of 
 the betrothed, performing the ceremony rapidly 
 as he went, and handing over each of the ladies, 
 as he put the wedding-ring on her finger, to the 
 friends of her husband, who conducted her out of 
 the church. Close together stood Mous. Du Lac 
 and Richard Lernoine, and opposite them Madame 
 Labedoycre and Teresa Paccard. The latter were 
 both in cloaks, a circumstance sufficient in itself 
 to cause them to be mistaken for each other by a 
 person so near sigVited as Baltazar Polo. He put 
 the ring of Mons. Du Lac on the hand of Teresa 
 Paccard, and that of Richard Lernoine on the 
 hand of Madame Labedoycre, and as they drew 
 their cloaks over their faces, preparing to face the 
 wind without, handed them to those whom he 
 supposed to be the friends of their respective 
 spouses. Madame Labedoycre was given in charge 
 to the relatives of Lernoine. They placed her on 
 a fleet horse, brought by the young mao from the 
 Avoyelles, and went off at a quick pace, attended 
 by two or three of his brothers and sisters. Teresa 
 was seated on a soft-footed ambling nag, bought 
 by Du Lac expressly for the use of his widow, and 
 departed in company with an old planter, a cousin 
 of Du Lac, a negro, who rode after them on horse- 
 back, and three or four more, who trotted on foot 
 behind them. 
 
 “In consequence of the high wind, the roaring of 
 the woods, and the haste made to escape the storm, 
 there was little conversation between the brides 
 and their attendants, and nothing occurred to make 
 them suspect the mistake until they reached the 
 habitations of the bridegrooms. 
 
 “ Teresa arrived with her escort at the place of 
 her supposed destination just as the clouds had 
 settled into a solid mass all over the sky, and were 
 
 shedding down the first drops of rain. By the 
 imperfect light — for although the sun was rising, 
 the thickness of the gathering storm still main- 
 tained a sort of twilight in the atmosphere — she 
 could distinguish a sort of vastness in the walls of 
 the building she was approaching that did not 
 agree with her ideas of the cabin of Richard, and 
 the shrubs and trees about it, waving low aud 
 sighing heavily in the violent wind, betokened the 
 site of an ancient dwelling. She had, however, 
 no time to speculate upon the matter, and the 
 temporary misgiving which these appearances 
 forced upon her, was forgotten in her eagerness 
 to obtain a shelter. Her ancient attendant, with 
 more briskness than the stiff formality of his figure 
 would have warranted her to expect, alighted and 
 assisted her from the pony ; the negro had flung 
 himself from his horse, and opened the door, and 
 Teresa in an instant was within the house. Here 
 she was met by half-a-dozen domestic negroes, 
 with shining jetty faces, grinning and welcoming 
 their new mistress with bows and curtsies. One 
 took her cloak, another ushered her into a spacious 
 apartment, a third sprang before her and placed a 
 chair, and a fourth presented a looking-glass, by 
 which to adjust her hair, disordered in the haste 
 of her ride. .She threw a hurried glance at her 
 own image, but the furniture of the room, so dif. 
 fereut from what she expected to see, more strongly 
 attracted her attention, and she quickly handed 
 back the mirror. She saw that she was sitting 
 on an arm chair, with a seat and fringes of crimson 
 silk, aud the back and legs ornamented with a 
 profusion of heavy carving and tarnished gilding.. 
 Several others of the same description were scat- 
 tered around, and a large comfortable looking 
 sofa, covered with faded damask, stood under a 
 huge looking-glass, carved and gilt after the same 
 fashion with the chairs, but unluckily cracked iu 
 its voyage from France. The glass leaned majes- 
 tically forward into the room, so as to reflect every 
 inch of a floor smoothly paved with French brick, 
 the fashion of the day. On another side of the 
 wall hung two family portraits, in big wigs and 
 bright armour. This magnificence was curiously 
 contrasted with the stout cedar table in the middle 
 of the room, with half a dozen coarse woodeu 
 chairs scattered about, and a clumsy chest of 
 drawers, the work of some rude artificer of the 
 country. The table, however, presented a most 
 sumptuous dejeuner d la/ourchcKe, coffee, claret, 
 the delicate bar-fish, trout, duck-pies, the favour- 
 ite dishes of the country, with others, which I 
 will leave you, who know something of French- 
 cookery, to imagine to yourself, served up oa massy 
 old plate. 
 
 “ ' Ah !’ said Teresa to herself, ‘ this surely 
 cannot be Richard’s house. Or is it possible that 
 he has been amusing himself with my simplicity, 
 and that he is a rich man after all.’ 
 
 “ Her doubts were of short duration. The door 
 opened, and a vinegar-faced old gentleman, with 
 an olive complexion, shrunk legs, and attenuated 
 figure, presented himself. The solemn gentleman 
 who had hitherto attended Teresa arose, and with 
 infinite solemnity announced Mons. Du Lac, the 
 bridegroom, to Madame Du Lac, the bride. The 
 poor girl turned red, and then pale, and seemed 
 ready to sink into the earth with embarrassment 
 and anxiety. The old gentleman himself stood 
 for a moment motionless with surprise, and then 
 appearing to recollect himself, he advanced and 
 
THE MARRIAGE BLUNDER. 
 
 took the hand of Teresa, who felt almost afraid to 
 withdraw it from a gentlemaa so aged that he re- 
 minded her of her grandfather. 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, madam,’ said he, coughing, ‘ forgive my 
 awkwardness — but I was so surprised. How 
 much you are changed since I saw you last even- 
 ing — you are more than twice as young, and ten 
 times more beautiful.’ 
 
 “‘Indeed, sir,’ interrupted Teresa, eagerly, 
 ‘ there is no change, I can assure you — I am the 
 same that I ever was— there is some error here — 
 something very extraordinary.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Extraordinary, roy princess 1 well may you 
 call it so ; it is one of the most extraordinary 
 things I ever witnessed in the course of my life, 
 and I have seen fifty years’ (here the old gentle- 
 man told the truth, though by no means the whole 
 truth); ‘ nothing less than a miracle could have 
 produced — and yet it may be a miracle, my dear 
 madam — the saints are so good.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Ah, sir,’ said the poor girl, ‘ do not mock 
 me, I pray you. I perceive here has been a sad 
 mistake ; let me go to my Richard, I entreat you 
 — let me go to my Richard.’ 
 
 “ As she spoke, she rose, and made an effort to 
 withdraw her hand, of which, however, the ancient 
 swain retained obstinate possession. Much as he 
 was struck with her beauty at first sight, he grew 
 more charmed with it, as he gazed upon her round 
 youthful figure, her polished forehead, her finely- 
 moulded cheeks, now flushed with an unusual crim- 
 son ; and her full black eyes, in each of which a 
 tear was gathering. He determined not to give up 
 so fine a creature, without an effort to retain her. 
 
 “ ‘ May I take the liberty of inquiring,’ said he, 
 ‘ whom you call your Richard ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ It is Richard Lemoine,’ answered the young 
 woman, ‘ who lives down by the Poplars. 1 mar- 
 ried him this morning.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I beg ten thousand pardons, madam ; but you 
 married me this morning; and here is ray ring on 
 your finger — my grandmother’s wedding-ring, with 
 the finest diamonds in the colony, and the pretty 
 motto, jasqu’a la mort, which, I hope, is a great 
 way ofl ; at least, I am sure it is, if I can get rid of 
 this troublesome cough. Ah, my adorable princess, 
 we may both imagine that there is a mistake in this 
 affair, and yet it may be all right — indeed, I am con- 
 fident it is. The kind heavens have destined us for 
 each other. I certainly expected to marry a dif 
 ferent person, but Providence has willed it other- 
 wise ; and I am most happy to submit to its dis- 
 pensations. I hope you will have as little reason to 
 complain of them as I. VYe are united, I trust, for 
 a long and happy life; and the marriage knot, you 
 know, is indissoluble Marriage is too solemn a 
 thing, madam, to be trifled with ; as, I piesume, you 
 are sensible — ’ 
 
 “Here Mens. Du Lac was obliged, by a violent fit 
 of coughing, to break olf his discourse; but Teresa 
 had sunk back into the chair, and covering her face 
 with her handkerchief, was sobbing violently. The 
 old man tried every method he could think of to 
 reconcile her to what he called her destiny, in which 
 he was zealously seconded by his friend, the old 
 planter. He made her presents of necklaces and 
 jewels, and various other fineries, wliich he had in 
 tended as nuptial gifts to the fair widow ; he en- 
 larged on the comforts of his mansion, the extent of 
 his plantation, the ease and opulence she would en- 
 joy ; vowed that his existence should be devoted to 
 her service, and that her slightest wish should be 
 ’he law of his conduct; and, finally, hinted that 
 
 125 
 
 Richard doubtless knew very well what he was- 
 about in the affair ; that he had probably intrigued 
 with the widow, and that the perfidious beings were 
 now in some snug corner, congratulating themselves 
 on the success of their wicked stratagem. Monsieur 
 Du Lac’s grave old cousin reinforced this last ar- 
 gument, by declaring his solemn belief that it was 
 true ; and it effected what none of the others could. 
 How could Teresa refuse to believe two such old, 
 and apparently honest men? The offended beauty 
 dried her tears, consented to look on the rich adorn- 
 ments for her person, presented by her venerable 
 lover, and finally sufl’ered herself to be led to her 
 seat at the head of the breakfast-table, 
 
 “,The widow, in the mean time, was more rapidly 
 conveyed to her place of destination, on the fine 
 fleet animal which Richard had brought from the 
 Avoyelles; a gentle but spirited creature, broken by 
 him for the use of his sisters. Tiiey rode so rapidly, 
 that they seemed to leave the huge low-hung clouds 
 behind them; and although Richard’s habitation 
 was at a considerably greater distance from the 
 church than that of Monsieur Du Lac, they reached 
 home quite as soon. What was the surprise of the 
 lady on entering the house ! The room into which 
 she was ushered was floored with loose planks, a 
 huge naked chimney yawned in the midst, where 
 two or three cypress-logs were smouldering; the 
 naked rafters of the ceiling were stained with 
 smoke, and a few old chests, a dozen joint stools, 
 and two clumsy arm-chairs, were the only furniture 
 of the apartment. A flaxen. headed girl assisted her 
 to take off her cloak ; and as she stood in her rust- 
 ling silk and glittering jewels, an elderly couple, a 
 white-bearded man ®f sixty, in a leathern doublet, 
 and a thin matron of ten years younger, in a coarse 
 white cotton cap, and blue cotton short gown and 
 petticoat, who had risen upon her entrance, began 
 to bow and curtsey, with an involuntary and pro- 
 found respect. 
 
 “ ‘ What a fine lady she is,’ said (he old woman 
 to her husband. 
 
 “ ‘ What an old wife Richard has got,’ whispered 
 to one of her brothers the flaxen-haired girl, who 
 had helped her off with her cloak. 
 
 “ In tlie mean time, tlie stern lady stood regarding 
 the group with a look of unutterable disdain. Her 
 bold black eyes flashed fire, as she pushed aside the 
 big arm-chair that was olFdred her. ‘ Wliere am 
 I?’ she exclaimed; ‘why am I brought to this 
 place? — I am sure this is not my husband’s house; 
 lake me thither, instantly.’ 
 
 ‘ Where is my wife?’ said Richard, who just 
 then entered the door. ‘ Who is that lady ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ That is your wife,’ answered one of the boys ; 
 
 ‘ that is the lady the minister handed us.’ 
 
 “‘And a fine lady she is?' added Richard’s 
 mother; ‘ I warraut the whole country cauuot show 
 a liner.' 
 
 “‘But I am not your wife,’ said liladain Labr. 
 doyere, li.xing her resolute eyes on Richard. ,‘I 
 demand to be taken back to my husband ; I will not 
 remain another moment in this miserable hut.’ 
 
 “‘You say true,’ replied Richard; ‘you are not 
 my wife. I married a younger, and thank Heaven, a 
 prettier woman : but you must consent to play the 
 hostage here, madam, till I get her. There is some 
 cursed bltinder in this business. You claim your 
 husband, I claim my bride — my Teresa. I declare 
 tliat you shall not stir from this house, until she is 
 restored to me.’ 
 
 “‘Ah, I see how it is, my son,’ interrupted 
 Richard’s mother ; the good one-eyed Baltazar 
 
THE NOVEL NEWSPAPER 
 
 126 
 
 has made a mistake, and given you the wrong 
 lady.’ 
 
 “‘Then, the good one-eyed Baltazar must give 
 me the right one,’ retorted Richard. ‘ What right 
 had the old blunderer to rob me of my pretty Te- 
 resa? What business had he to give her to another 
 man, and fob me off with this fine lady as you call 
 her, who is old enough to be my mother? But I 
 will go after him, and force him to make restitution 
 —if I do not, I wish I may never mount a horse 
 again. Brothers, look well to that lady with her 
 silks and jewels ; and do not let her leave the house 
 Hill I come back.’ 
 
 “ So saying, Richard flang out at the door, though 
 the rain drove in heavy torrents against the win- 
 dows : and his mother screamed out to him, that 
 he would certainly catch his death, by venturing 
 forth in such a storm. He sprang upon his horse, 
 and was soon at the curate’s; where he was admitted 
 to an instant conference with Baltazar Polo. The 
 good man tried at first to convince him, that it 
 was impossible for any mistake to have been com- 
 mitted, as he was very confidant that he had put 
 every particular ring upon the hand of the lady for 
 whom it was intended, and accurately handed the 
 brides to their respective bridegrooms. This, how. 
 ever, only served to work up into fury the exaspe. 
 ration of Richard, who asked him, if he supposed 
 that everj"^ body was as near-sighted as himself ? and 
 whether he thought he could not tell a woman of 
 forty from a girl of eighteen? The clergyman then 
 inquired of the young man, if he knew the name of 
 the person whom the lady he had left at home in- 
 tended to have married, as it is probable that Teresa 
 might have been carried to his house by mistake? 
 On this point Richard was wholly ignorant, having 
 neglected to inform himself before he set out ; nor 
 did he even know the name of the lady. He saw, 
 however, that there was a good deal of reason in 
 Baltazar’s suggestion, and departed with a deter- 
 mination to make the necessary inquiries of the un- 
 known matron. 
 
 “ It occurred to him, however, that he would not 
 leave the village of Adayes, in which Father Polo 
 resided, without first calling at the late home of 
 Teresa, to see if its inmates could tell what had be- 
 come of her. They could give him no information. 
 They had neither seen nor heard any thing of her, 
 since she left them that morning at an early hour, 
 dressed for the marriage ceremony. He then ran to 
 the church, which he entered with a vague hope that 
 he might yet find her within it. Nobody was there 
 but the-sexton, and the grim, bearded, unsympathis- 
 ing saints on the walls, who seemed to stare, in the 
 most unfeeling manner, on his anguish. There, too, 
 was the Virgen de los Dolores, still occupied with 
 her own ancient griefs, regardless of his newer and 
 keener distress. He felt as if he could have torn 
 them from the walls where they hung. Leaving the 
 church, he put his horse to its full speed, and came 
 home wet to the skin, amidst a cloud of vapour, 
 arising from the perspiration of the animal. 
 
 “ Madame Labedoyere, in the mean time, had borne 
 her detention at Richard’s house more patiently, on 
 account of the storm that was raging without ; and 
 which infallibly would have spoiled, or at least sadly 
 disordered her wedding-dress, had she ventured to 
 encounter it. Richard found her, at his return, seated 
 somewhat sullenly in the arm-chair, which she had 
 accepted on his departure ; and his mother and sisters 
 ■busied in their usual occupations, though somewhat 
 tnore silent than usual ; for they were awed by the 
 Strange lady’s imperious manner, and that splendour 
 
 of costume, which had never before been seen within 
 those walls. The lady’s refiections, in the mean time, 
 however, had not been much to Richard’s disad- 
 vantage. If he recovered Teresa, she was sure to 
 have Monsieur Du Lac restored to her; but if other- 
 wise, it struck her that the young fellow’s manly 
 frame, and blooming face, were no inadequate com- 
 pensation for the loss of the old gentleman’s pos- 
 sessions. He was poor, it is true ; but she was, in 
 fact, rich enough for them both ; and she began to 
 think, that after all she might not be so very wretched 
 in his society. 
 
 Immediately on entering, Richard inquired of the 
 lady her name, and that of the geutleman whom she 
 went to the church to marry ; and a family council 
 was held to consider what should be done, at which, 
 the stately widow graciously condescended to assist. 
 It was finally settled that Richard should proceed 
 with his father to the house of Monsieur Du Lac, to 
 induce him to restore the young bride, who had 
 doubtless been conducted thither by mistake; and in 
 case of the success of the embassy, Madame La- 
 bedoyere received an assurance that she should be 
 duly conveyed to the mansion of her venerable lover. 
 Some time elapsed in making these arrangements, 
 but at length the old gentleman and his sou set off 
 together. The father was a slow rider, and often did 
 Richard find himself far before him on the road, and 
 heard himself called upon to slacken his pace. Du 
 Lac’s house lay in a direction from the church of 
 Adayes exactly opposite to that of Richard, and con- 
 sequently at a considerable distance from the latter. 
 In vain the young man represented to old Lemoine, 
 that at the rate they were travelling it would be im- 
 possible to reach the place before nightfall. 
 
 “ ‘ No matter, Richard,’ replied the old man, ‘you 
 know I have never ridden any faster these ten years, 
 and I hope you would not have your father turn 
 jockey, and break his neck in his old age. Rein in 
 your horse, can’t you, and stop kicking him in the 
 side, and keep back along with me.’ 
 
 “ Oh, what a long journey that was for Richard! 
 They arrived at Du Lac’s house, however, while the 
 twilight was yet in the western sky. The rain was 
 over, and the thin, vapoury clouds were crimson 
 with the latest of those hues which foretell a fair day 
 on the morrew. They knocked at Du Lac’s door, 
 and it was opened by a negro, who told them that 
 his master was engaged with his new wife. 
 
 “ ‘ And who is his wife ?’ asked Richard, quickly, 
 
 “ ‘ A very handsome, and very young woman,’ said 
 the negro, in his Creole French, ‘ whom master 
 brought home with him to-day.’ 
 
 “ Richard’s heart sunk within him, when he heard 
 this answer, nor had he the voice or the courage to 
 ask any more questions ; but his father pursued the 
 inquiry. The black informed them that the bride 
 was a beautiful creature, about eighteen years of age, 
 that his master was married to her that very morning, 
 that he understood her name was Teresa, that she 
 was from the Spanish village of Adayes, that she 
 wept very much when she first came to the house, 
 but that before night she seemed very happy and con- 
 tented. 
 
 “Richard, in the mean time, listened with feelings 
 that are indescribable. ‘ Let us go home,’ said ho 
 to his father ; ‘ I see how it is ; the girl has tricked 
 me.’ The old gentleman commanded him to stay. 
 
 “ As a sort of middle course, it was finally agreed 
 to go to Baltazar Polo, to rate him soundly for what 
 he had dune, and to see if he bad any counsel to 
 offer. 
 
 “ The good pastor received them with his usual 
 
the marriage BLyNT)ER. 
 
 benignity, and listened 'mildly to their complaints. 
 * My friend,’ said he, ‘ I should the more regret the 
 error 1 have committed, did I not see in it a particu- 
 lar and benevolent providence. 1 cannot alter what 
 Heaven has done ; Madame Labedoyere is your wife, 
 and Teresa is united to M. Du Lac ; but come to 
 me to-morrow morning ; I will send for the other 
 couple, and will endeavour to adjust the matter to 
 your satisfaction.’ 
 
 “ The next morning early the four newly-married 
 people were at the house of Baltazar Polo. You 
 know, perhaps, Mr, Herbert, that by the marital law 
 of Louisiana, neither the husband has any title to 
 the real or personal property of the wife, nor ihe 
 wife to that of the husband ; and, therefore, although 
 both M. Du Lac and Madame Labedoyere were 
 rich, yet if they had died the next day, or after ten 
 years of matrimony, both their young spouses would 
 have been left as poor as they were before the mar- 
 riage. 
 
 “ ‘ We have made a great blunder,’ said the cu- 
 rate, ‘ by which the original intentions of all parties 
 have been frustrated. You,’ said he, addressing 
 himself to the old people, ‘ have been the gainers 
 by this accident, and these young folks have been the 
 losers. You must therefore make them a compensa- 
 tion. Let Mons. Du Lac settle half his large estates 
 on his young wife here, and you, madame, half yours 
 on your young husband, and on this condition the 
 marriages shall remain as they are.’ 
 
 “ None of the party seemed at first exactly pleased 
 with this arrangement; but the curate was peremp- 
 tory. Du Lac could not think of giving up Teresa ; 
 and Madame Labedoyere, when she saw the hand- 
 some Richard by the side of his withered and 
 crooked competitor, could not help congratulating 
 herself fervently on the exchange ; a notary, there- 
 fore, was sent for, the instruments of settlement 
 were executed on the spot, and the parties withdrew, 
 Teresa with Du Lac, and Richard with Madame 
 Labedoyere, now become Madame Lemoine, in 
 whose house he was to establish himself. 
 
 “ That very evening, both the young persons had 
 a sample of the disposition and temper of their 
 spouses. You know something of the custom of 
 Charivari, which prevails in all the French colonies 
 of North America. It is a way we have of cele- 
 brating odd, unequal matches. It was hardly 
 dark, when the tumult of the Charivari was heard 
 from a distance by the inmates of Madame Le- 
 moine’s dwelling. Horns winded, whistles blown, 
 tin kettles beaten with sticks, a jangle of bells, 
 and a medley of discordant voices, was heard 
 on the wind; and when the crowd came in sight, 
 torches were seen flaming and smoking over their 
 heads. As the procession drew near, it was observed 
 to be headed by two grotesque masked figures; Jlie 
 one representing a fat, staring, bold faced old 
 woman ; and the other a lubberly, foolish-looking 
 young bumpkin, who, at intervals, embraced each 
 other lovingly, and with abundance of awkward 
 gesticulations. A broad-chested fellow, marching 
 after them, thundered out a halting ballad, with a 
 chorus in which the whole procession joined, and 
 in which the names of Richard and his spouse were 
 duly commemorated. That fearless lady, however, 
 took her measures with her usual spirit; she posted 
 her negroes at the windows, gave them their orders, 
 and was fully prepared for the arrival of the party. 
 The procession at length reached the house, and 
 came to a halt before the door, when immediately 
 one dressed in a fantastic garb, much like that of a 
 clown at a theatre, and who acted as marshal of the 
 
 127 
 
 ceremonies, stepped forward, and with a wand which 
 he carried in his hand, gave a most furious rap oa 
 the door. That was the signal for the besieged to 
 ply their weapons of defence; the windows were 
 suddenly opened, vessels of dirty water were emptied 
 into the faces of the procession, sticks, rotten eggs, 
 and other missiles were thrown at them, and a couple 
 of fowling pieces were discharged over their heads. 
 They fled precipitately, leaving on the field their 
 instruments of music, which the servants afterwards 
 picked up and brought in, as trophies of the victory 
 they had obtained. 
 
 “Whether it was by the same party or not, I canuofe 
 say ; but the w'eddiiig of Mons. Du Lac was cele- 
 brated with similar honours, and under more lucky 
 auspices for those by whom they were rendered.. 
 The old gentleman submitted to the custom with so 
 bad a grace, that they were encouraged to take the 
 greater liberties; the serenadirs entered his house, 
 deafened his ears with their horrid music, drank 
 gallons of his best wine, and one of them, a strap- 
 ping yeung fellow, had even the impudence to snatch 
 a kiss from the bride. It was one o’clock in the 
 morning before these rude wassailers left the house,^ 
 and then the vexation of old Du Lac, which had 
 been so long restrained by their presence, broke 
 forth into fury. He stormed at his negroes, cursed 
 the neighbourhood, railed at every body whose 
 name was mentioned,or who came into his presence,, 
 nor did he even spare his wife. He told her he 
 wished he had married Madame Labedoyere, and 
 then none of all this trouble could have happen- 
 ed. 
 
 “Teresa was never destined to see him in good 
 humour again. He had broken on that evening 
 through that reserve of first acquaintance which 
 produces civility, even in the peevish and morose,, 
 and ever afterwards he treated her as he did the 
 other inmates of the family, with an intolerable 
 and perpetual ill-humour. In three years he 
 fretted himself into his grave, notwithstanding all 
 the pains which the gentle Teresa took to keep him 
 alive, leaving her the owner of half his possessions, 
 and the mother of two children, who inherited the 
 other half. 
 
 “ As for the matron, with whom Richard was 
 paired so much against his inclination, she could 
 never reduce the young man to that state of obe- 
 dience which she esteemed the proper relation of a 
 husband to the wife of his bosom. Richard insisted 
 firmly on maintaining his parents in comfort, and 
 educating his sisters, and she insisted as strongly 
 that he should not. He carried his intentions into 
 effect, at the expense of a daily quarrel with his 
 wife. This vain contest for supremacy preyed 
 upon her spirits and impaired her health, her portly 
 figure wasted visibly, she went into a deep decline, 
 and died at the end of five years from the time of 
 her marriage, having also borne two children to her 
 husband. 
 
 “ And now, Mr. Herbert, you anticipate the con- 
 clusion of my story. You are right — Richard 
 and Teresa were united at last, and the marriago 
 ceremony was performed in the little old church at 
 Adayes, by the benevolent curate, my right worthy 
 friend, Baltazar Polo; and never did those cracked 
 bells ring a merrier peal than at that wedding. It 
 was performed with more than usual precaution,, 
 for the good minister declared that no second mis- 
 take should be committed, if it were possible to 
 guard against it by human means. It took place 
 at broad noon, in a clear bright day, and the curate 
 wore a new pair of concave spectacles, which ho 
 
[the novel newspaper. 
 
 -108 
 
 had procured from New Orleans expressly for the 
 
 0 :casion. 
 
 “ The worthy couple are now, like myself, grown 
 old. They live on the fertile plantation which 
 formerly belonged to Madame Labedojere, where 
 
 1 showed you the two fine young button- wood trees 
 before the mansion. The children of the first 
 marriages are provided for on the ample estates of 
 the deceased parents, and Lemoine and his wife live 
 surrounded by their mutual offspring, in the serene 
 old age of a quiet and well-acted life. Some years 
 since, a French botanist, travelling in this country, 
 
 claimed the hospitality of their roof. He showed 
 them, among other matters connected with his 
 science, how the leaf of the button-tree hides in its 
 footstalk the bud of the next year’s leaf. Richard 
 told his wife, that this was an emblem of their first 
 unfortunate marriage, which, however, contrary to 
 their expectations, contained within itself the germ 
 of their present happy union, and their present 
 opulence. They adopted the tree as their favourite 
 among all the growth of the forest, and caused two 
 of them of equal size and similar shape to be planted 
 before their door.’’ 
 
 / 
 
 END OF THE MARRIAGE BLUNDER. 
 
 0 
 
 John Cunningham, Printer, Crown-court, Fleet-street, Londoa<