University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Harold soon recovered his senses, but he was pale,
and sick and speechless; nor was it until three days
had passed, that he had received sufficient strength to

speak calmly on the subject. Caroline, it seemed, had
been awakened by the noise of the harp, and the shriek
—and Harold could not bring himself to alarm her with
the rest, until he was satisfied in his own mind. As
soon as he was able, therefore, he went to the room,
and examined the wall. The dagger was indeed gone,
but there was the gash of its point in the wainscot,
showing that it had been thrown by a strong hand.
Desperate with ten thousand wild and fantastick apprehensions,
and ashamed to betray the weakness that
shook him, even to the eye of Caroline, he ordered his
baggage to be removed to the room for a permanent
residence.

Night approached, and with it, a preternatural coldness.
He arose and approached the harp, for the first
time since that evening, and was struck by the apparent
alteration in its appearance. The cause was soon visible—the
chords were snapped—broken, every one of
them. Could it have been by the touch of the spectre
that he had seen? A force more than mortal was certainly
required, and he remembered the deep sullen reverberation
that startled him, when no human being
was near the instrument, for he had hardly taken his
eye off of it, in his abstraction, for a moment.

In the feelings that followed—so awful and yet so
active, that they were remembered with a singular
mixture of pleasure—like danger from which we have
miraculously escaped, Harold flew for relief to the remaining
letters, that he had left in the desk—He opened
it, but they were gone! but where? and by whom?—

This was another inscrutable mystery; for he knew
that no servant would have dared to enter the apartment,
and his sister had accidentally mentioned but an
hour before, that she had not the courage to come into
it alone.

Harold sat down upon the sopha; and as he did, his
hand fell upon a bundle—he took it to the light, in the
sudden hope that it was what he had lost, but it was
not. It was well secured, and appeared to have been
preserved with great care, for it was bound up in leather

that was literally worn through, and chafed away
at the corners, like a pocket-book that has been long
used.

He opened them, and was not a little surprised to
find most of them in the hand writing of Elvira;—letters
too, with the post mark upon them, and direction.
It was inexplicable.

Among them, three, in hand writings that were new
to him, lay folded together. He opened them, and
found them all directed to Oscar.

The first was from Oxford himself, and by the date
which was partially obliterated, he was able to discover
that it was written about the same time as the last letter
of Oscar to Oxford. `You are wrong, Oscar, in
expecting that, from this moment I shall abandon you.
That I do not intend to do. I shall not easily be compelled
to do so. Could I be easily induced to abandon
you, to disavow your acquaintance, and to stifle and
smother in my heart all interest or concern for you, I
should not have wanted an excuse for doing so. But
while I say that I have not abandoned you, that I do
not intend to abandon you, that I even wish to hold a
place in your heart, in your affections and respect;—
and that I would gladly reserve a place in my own for
you, I do not, for I cannot say that I respect, as I have
respected you. What then shall I say? To pour reproaches
on your head, after you have confessed your
abuse of the best feelings of those you loved best,
would seem like determining to take vengeance on one
who has thrown himself upon my mercy. Not to speak
of your unworthy conduct, however, on the other hand,
would seem like passing as venial, what cannot be excused,
what cannot be palliated; what I can never forget—what
I cannot yet say, and say truly, I forgive.
Should I say what I think of your conduct, should I
call the language which you have held to me in relation
to Miss H. (if that is her name, for I do not pretend
to know what her name is) by its right name, I fear I
should give you occasion to suppose that I am in a violent
passion, and that I am angry with you, rather than

ashamed of your conduct. But you have degraded
yourself in my estimation, more than, one month ago,
I'would have thought it possible that you could degrade
yourself.

I have waited that, among other things (for I have
had other reasons for my delay in not answering yours
of the —) I might speak upon this subject temperately,
and with all the kindness that my regard for
you, or for the infirmities of our common nature would
claim. But I fear that I have not yet waited long
enough. I cannot suppress the conflicting emotions
that agitated me when I first read that letter, and which
rise whenever I think of the train of conduct which
that letter discloses—or purports to disclose. Whether
it is a real disclosure of your conduct, with Miss H.
and your friends, or whether it is only a fictitious—a
false slander of yourself, designed to prove to what
depth you could make your friends believe you capable
of sinking, while in fact you have not sunk at all—I
confess, I know not. Are you trying their credulity in
your confessions of guilt and shame, or were you trying
it, in your reiterated protestations of innocence and
disinterested charity. But stop—I cannot go on—whatever
you may suffer from my delay in writing, I believe
I suffer more in writing. You must wait then, a
little longer.

May — I should be glad to number Mr. —
among my friends, and to look forward to passing some
happy hours with him, in his charming family. I do
hope that that is a pleasure still in reserve for me. I
should, I am very free to confess, have looked forward
to such an event with much livelier hope, and with a
feeling partaking more of the character of a determination,
were it not that one very interesting point in
the fancy piece, that which YOUR figure would have
occupied, is thrown into so deep a shade; had it not
become so—not merely dark, but gloomy. I do not
believe that what I said of you to him, lowered you in
his estimation. It is true that, before I knew him here,

your own hand had given the deadly stab to your own
reputation. But when I saw him, I did not know that
fact, and I spoke of you, rather as one, whose good feelings,
whose chivalrous generosity had led him into imprudencies,
imprudencies which age and experience
would lead him afterwards to avoid—than as one who
would deliberately deceive his best friends, that he
might the more shamelessly insult them.

But I find I am using language which you may not
relish; and I'll stop. — — —
— — — This is an unamiable letter,
I know. I am aware that you may say `it shall
never be answered.' (Here was a marginal note in pencil—`and
if I had said so, he knew well, that it never
would have been answered, while the breath was in my
body,') still I hope you will not say so, I hope you
will answer it. I have not forgotten all that you have
done rightly, but misery was never in this world, more
directly the consequences of sin, than your present sufferings
are of your vices. This, however, I need not
tell you—you must know it—you must feel it. This is
the eternal order of things. Yours,

Oxford.

`What a letter!' cried Harold, as he finished. `I would
go a pilgrimage to see the author of it. How stern and
unforgiving at one moment, and how affectionate at
another! It is the language of a brother.'

The next that he took up was a vile, awkward scrawl,
but the deportment was noble. Upon it, was this endorsement.
`This is the only man who treated me as
I deserved when I cast myself at his feet. Had not my
temper been better than they thought it, their responses
would have made me a devil. They were exactly
calculated to drive me desperate. That I did not become
so, was only owing to the kind influence of the
woman that I loved, upon my naturally impatient and
terrible disposition.' And this was the letter.

`If my forgiveness for your fault, or my compassion
for what you suffer as its punishment, can give you
ease, be assured of both.'

But neither my pardon nor my sympathy is bestowed
unconditionally. You have been guilty—deeply guilty,
and you must abide the penalty. I ask for no more apologies,
no more disclosures. My vengeance is satisfied,
and as far as I am personally concerned, the atonement
is commensurate with the injury. Indeed I have suffered
no injury. I have been deceived; but the deception was
almost momentary.

All that I require, therefore, as a condition of pardon,
is, that you henceforth (for your own especial benefit,
not for mine) put yourself entirely under the direction
and controul of your judgment and understanding, (the
head was made for rule,) and if you ever find your heart
stepping out of its place, interfering with the orders of
its natural and lawful dictator, or murmuring against any
of its wholesome restrictions, that you treat it as a common
brawler and disturber of the peace, and a traitor and
outlaw, to be hunted and pursued, and tortured with impunity,
by any one who will think it of importance
enough to pay him for the pursuit. You will find the performance
of this condition hard at first, but time and
practice will reconcile you to it; and if they should not,
necessity, from whose law there is no appeal, will compel
you to it, however repugnant to your wishes.”

“I repeat that you have my full
and perfect pardon. I have examined your motive and
approve it. But unless you could roll back the wheels of
nature, and recall the flight of time, you had no reason
to expect any more favourable result than that which has
happened. Your letter contains many things on which I
could enlarge, if I had time.—But I trust that I have
said enough to satisfy you that I am and ever shall be
truly and sincerely your friend.— B—.”

There was a strange, indefinable interest awakened in

Harold's mind by these letters, and he hurried to the
third, with a tremulous hand, in the hope of understanding
more fully the event alluded to, which seemed so to
have tried the love and respect of Oscar's friends.—The
last was in his hand—an endorsement in pencil caught
his eye—“Poor Caroline! I ought to have known thee
better. Thou didst love thy brother, and he feels the
hand of the Almighty upon his brow, like another Cain,
for having broken thy heart. But—sleep on—dearest,
thy brother will soon mingle his dust with thine, and
then!—where is the angel that shall sift out the unrighteous
for punishment!—Then, I shall be spared, Caroline,
for thy sake—.”

The letter ran thus—

—“My brother,—I pity you, but blame you, not
for divulging the secret, but for committing an act “base
and dishonourable.” Had any one else dared to say that
it were possible that you could be guilty of a “base” action,
I should have contradicted the assertion in the
strongest terms. I should have found it hard to forgive
him, even for thinking it possible; and should have been
eloquent in your defence—yes, eloquent, for I should
have said that your life, so far as I knew, was a surety that
it was impossible; and that I would stake my reputation
upon your correctness of behaviour, morality, and purity
of principle. Often and often have people said to me,
your brother has a fine genius, great talents; you ought
to feel proud of him, and I have answered—“I do—too
proud, I fear, not of his talents—but of his principles. I did
not think that you had no faults, or were not liable to the
infirmities of human nature; O, no!—but I did believe,
and have often uttered that belief in the strongest terms,
that you would shrink with almost a female's sensitive
delicacy from vice.—For this, I loved and honoured you,
and forgave what else was amiss. But now I am humbled
completely—yet, I forgive you. From me, no one shall
ever know that you have erred, unless he infer it from
my silence. Would that this letter (of May —) had not
been written! I am ready to exclaim one moment; and
the next, I take it and read it again. I would forget the
contents, and awake, as from a dream—but it cannot be.

The words “a base and forbidden” act are continually
sounding in my ears. What could it be? You ought to
have told the whole, or not to have named it. The truth
may be a relief. There are a thousand conjectures what
it may be—and it is possible we may have thought you
guilty of that, which you would even now blush to commit.—

“As for Elvira, she has done right. I honour her for
her decision—she could do no less, but still, few would
have had strength to do it, as she has. I sympathize with
you sincerely—you know I do, if I say it—for I always
feel more than I express. Had I written as my feelings
at first dictated, you would have felt that you had done
wrong. You have atoned—how?—by true repentance? or by
a recompense. Oh! my still beloved brother, if you could
but feel that you are an accountable being (although not
in love, nor to any human creature)—to Him, who will
convince you that man owes obligations to some one beside
his fellow mortal, or himself, even Him, whom you
so often thank, for not having made you like other men.

“As for Elvira—you need not think that she will suffer
from the affection that she still has:—no!—she will have
much to support her, a consciousness of having acted
rightly. Did she love the face, form, mind, or beauty of
character, which ever it was—if it be impaired, her love
will be diminished. She will deeply regret and keenly feel
the disappointment, but will bless her heavenly Father
that she knew it, ere too late. If you would spare her
feelings—be silent: possibly, if your conduct should be
for the future what it ought to be, she will feel that it is
possible for you to be beloved after all. Do not sink beneath
the blow; but endeavour to acknowledge the justice
of your punishment. Do not, to revenge yourself
upon her, punish yourself by marrying one unworthy of
you.”

To this was wafered the parts of two others letters—
as follows—“Believe me, I can and do forgive thee,
dear Oscar—and I say to thee, as our Saviour said to the
woman—“go thy way, and sin no more: and I love thee

too, with all thy faults. Thou hast often made good resolutions—but
canst not keep them. They afford me but
very little comfort—.” The margin of this was entirely
written over—with these words—“This is cruel—she
forgets my character. I never made a resolution in my
life, that I did not keep, as few boys, and fewer men, ever
kept theirs. No!—she has wronged me—and I cannot
bear it from her—the world I could smile at, but that
she, who has been a mother to me—that she should doubt
my resolutions—it is hard—.”

The next and and last was rumpled and blistered, probably
with tears—and ran after this manner—“I have
delayed answering your letter, that I might not write in
anger. I forgive you, but I cannot forget immediately,
that the brother of whom I had so often boasted, who
would shield me from indelicacy, as from pestilence;
who would not allow of my reading a book, that had the
slightest impropriety in it, some years ago, would now,
at this age, recommend as a friend, entitled to all tenderness,
a woman that he personally knew to be any thing,
but a proper companion for me. I feel so thankful to
our heavenly Father, that we have escaped this degradation,
that I will not reproach you for your intention,
so happily frustrated. Had she visited here, and received
the attention that we were willing to pay to a person so recommended,
by a brother so beloved, I fear that you had
bitterly repented your deceiving us. I know and feel,
that I never could have had strength to bear the blow.
Any misfortune—the loss of health, any thing but the
loss of a good name, I could bear without repining.
My heart has pleaded for you, to the last—when our
suspicions were first aroused, I contended that you
were deceived, or that you thought her amiable and
good, when you first wrote us about her. Your letters
have undeceived us—and taught us that perfection is
not to be expected.

Under this was written—“My sister!—farewell, forever.—Poor

girl!—her fears were prophetick”—“The
sister of Oscar!”—said Harold, aloud—“then was she
mine—“Dear Caroline—would I might know thy fate before
I sleep:—I am impatient for morning.”—Saying
this, he threw himself upon the couch, but the state of his
mind prohibited all repose. He was fain to arise, and rifle
the bundle of letters, which had hitherto lain untouched,
at his side.—They were all in the hand writing of Elvira.—The
first one that he opened—and the first upon
the bundle, began thus—“I have seen him, dear Mary,
and am exceedingly disappointed. I do not like him,
and am convinced that I never shall. He is too imperious—and
then, he scarcely bestows a look upon the
rest of mankind. He is very loud and absolute in his
tone—and appears to talk, just when he pleases, without
any regard to the comfort of others. It is true that he
talks remarkably well—remarkably—but I cannot endure
his arrogance: and am really ashamed and angry, that
I yielded so far as to see him, particularly after having
excluded myself the whole evening from other visitors.
—Still he is a very extraordinary man, and although I
dislike him, and even tremble when he speaks to me, yet
I cannot get him out of my head. I am continually
comparing him with other men of his age; and have
done this so frequently in my meditations, that I am
really vexed with myself. Can he be amiable? The
natural expression of his face appears mild—and that
startling, strange, denouncing aspect, which it suddenly
puts on, may, perhaps, be caused by certain mysterious
events, of which I have heard some whispers—or perhaps
may be, what he says is very common, a habit
now, from mere indulgence in what was affectation.
Did you ever observe the sudden change of his voice—
now so clear, that your blood thrills at the sound, as at a
near clarionette; and now so deep and awful, that it takes
your breath away—and you require some moments to
recover from its effect; there is an inconceivable solemnity
in his manner at times—and yet such sudden
transitions—flashes almost of levity, that I am really
perplexed to determine, whether he is the most changeable
of human beings, and the strangest—or only a consummate
actor. You have remarked the thoughtfulness of
his brow—the intolerable brightness of his eyes. But why
need I rail about him to you;—I shall never shake your
enthusiasm in his behalf—so farewell for to night.

Can he be amiable, I ask again; I believe not. I dread
to have him for an acquaintance. He seemed strangely
indifferent to what agitates the rest of the world—and
so cold and careless in his courtesy, that I should almost
call him ill bred, were it not evidently the effect of his
haughty temper. He cannot conceal his scorn and contempt
for trivial things. His forehead, particularly when
he is listening intensely, betokens a spirit, that a woman
ought to dread. His manner is not more abrupt and
searching, than his tone and glance. These things, and a
look of fierceness at times, with a sort of intrepid self-confidence,
are all that I find remarkable in him. Neither
his person nor countenance, is striking at first
sight.

But his voice disturbs me yet—I can hear it at midnight,
when I am all alone. I have heard many voices
that I liked better, in the trifling chit-chat of the day,
and seen many persons who were more fluent and musical
in their utterance—but never did I hear tones, that
so thrilled through and through me—nor witness such
deep solemnity of manner, or such impassioned, such unspeakable
vehemence of language,—such fine adaptedness
of energy and phrase, and tone, and look, and action,
as I have seen in him, even during our short acquaintance.
For one moment, his countenance was appalling.
Our attention was rivetted, in spite of ourselves—there
was a mortal silence in the room, of which not a soul
was sensible, until he had done speaking. But he was
accustomed to such things—he showed no emotion; and
looked as if he would have been more astonished, if we
had not been silent. He must be conscious of his powers
—his looks show it. Is he not sarcastick—bitter? Do

you not think too, in spite of his disregard for fashion
and ceremony, that a part of his contempt is affected,
and that the singular air of high fashion and dignity, that
is acknowledged to characterise him, is the consequence
of some other feeling than contempt, or hatred of the
graces and gracefulness of life. I suspect that he is
vindictive; something escaped him, whether by accident
or not, I do not pretend to say, because, much as he appears
the creature of prompt feeling, I do not believe
that we see or hear aught of his first impulses,—yet he
turned deadly pale, his lip quivered, and his dark eyes
flashed fire, as some one spoke of another who, it seems,
had wronged him.—Another remark I have made, which
of course, you, as one of his admirers, will only laugh
at—I do not believe that these sudden explosions of eloquence,
are unpremeditated. No!—his emphasis, my
dear Mary, appears too resolute—too strongly and critically
placed—and he is too ready with the best language
on all occasions, for me to believe that they are
the irregular, and spontaneous eruptions of the heart.

Is he not a great lover of paradox? That you will
not deny. And it is a notion of mine, that we witness
very few scintillations of his brain, that are immediate,
and unthought of before. It appears to me that he does
nothing, and says nothing, even when most unguarded,
without an especial design. I may do him injustice; but
such is my present opinion, for I have observed his
eyes, and they have always appeared, as if searching the
very inward thought of some person present, however
carelessly he might be looking. This is disingenuous in
him—but I cannot help the opinion. I hope that do not
wrong him; but these all appear to me as so many indicia
of his character, thrown out, by way of feeling his
company. I wish Helen and Olivia were here—we
should soon be able to fathom his character. Does he
sing? They say no. He has certainly a natural and vigorous
judgment of musick—and denounces fearlessly
the fopperies of the Italian and French school. Who are
your masters? he says, French valets and barbers—and
Italian lazaroni—or worse, shattered and tarnished nobility.

They are purely national. Of course, they cannot,
and do not tolerate the sweet, simple, touching and beautiful
melody of Scotland and Ireland. No!—they execrate
it. And you—most unnaturally join in the execration.
Be assured that it is weak—very weak to do
so. Our musick, like our dress and manners, is national;
and it would be as absurd for us to adopt the Italian and
French musick, with their affected, artificial fineries and
fopperies, to the exclusion of our own simple musick, as
it would be to abandon our fashion of dress, and adopt
theirs.” These are almost his very words. You see
how direct and unshrinking he is. But I like him the
better for that. It has an air of downright reality, and
manhood, that is not common here. I am very anxious
to hear him read—if his voice and manner be what you
say they are, then we must endeavour to make him sing.
But no—we shall not succeed—one of his last remarks,
I recollect, was on this subject—and you will smile when
you know to whom it was addressed, and when—Mr.
—had just finished his admirable song, your favourite
—Salisbury looked him in the face—and told him, in a
deliberate voice, that it was a reproach to him to sing
so well. The poor man blushed, and yet his eyes sparkled
with pleasure. It was no light matter to receive
such a compliment from this strange creature. “Are
you not ashamed,” said Philip to Alexander, who had
been playing divinely on a flute, at the table “are you
not ashamed to play so well.”—he added, addressing
himself to me, in an under voice.

Thursday.

Oscar Salisbury is a creature of contradiction. I know
not what to make of him. To day he utters a sentiment
that makes me doubt, either his principle, or his good
opinion of me: and to-morrow I find him acting like a
hero. The last time I saw him—(by the way he is very
attentive to Harriot, and even kind of late—poor girl,
she has need of it—and is welcome to it) he reprobated
the principle of gratitude. I looked at him with surprise.

“Why cultivate the sentiment,” said he—“is it not a
burden? Does not this prove it? The generous and noble
minded are ever struggling to throw it off. If the feeling
of gratitude be so agreeable, why attempt to discharge
the debt? No—it is not—and we are impatient to get
rid of the load of obligation.”—How strangely plausible
and brief!—There appears to me to be some confusion
in the terms used; but I have no patience to reason,
where such a virtue is deliberately outraged. So much
for the sentiment. Now the action that I alluded to, is
this—I am pretty well assured that he has been visited,
at his own lodgings, by a poor, unfortunate girl—who is
extremely beautiful, and distractedly in love with him—
that he spared her—and that she has since declared the
fact upon her death bed—what godlike forbearance!
The history is very touching, and when I have told you
all, you will find your favourite, beside all that you have
known of his virtues—“did good by stealth and blushed
to find it fame,” many times, when even you knew it
not.

By the way, a wicked experiment was tried upon his
honesty and self command, the other evening, by Harriot.
We had heard that he was once terribly in love with a
woman whom we knew.—Harriot introduced her name,
when all eyes were upon him. His countenance never
changed—but a slight, tremulous motion of the lip, and a
sadder tone, when he spoke, betrayed the truth to me.
He spoke of her, precisely as if he had no thought worth
concealing from us. He acknowledged that he had loved
her—and he never stood so high in my estimation, as
when he concluded with a rapid summary of her virtues
—and faults—and added in an agitated voice—“I am
afraid that she is unhappy now.” Indeed he had good
reason to think so; for we know her history, and if ever
there was a broken hearted woman on earth, she is one—
if the world tell truly.

Sunday.

I have seen him repeatedly since my last—and like

him rather better. He takes more pains to please us—
and we are, therefore, I suppose, more pleased. Several
of our old beaux have taken the alarm—they come less
frequently now—and are unspeakably silent, while he is
here; nay, two of them appear to have forsaken us entirely,
and one, I think, in consequence of a rebuke from
Oscar (for so we call him now).

Helen has been here, and we succeeded in making him
read a tragedy to us. Nor was it any very difficult matter,
for though he coloured at first, and his voice was
mightily agitated when we first heard him, yet it did not
seem so much from doubt, or diffidence, as from some
secret emotion. Does he pride himself on reading? I
believe that he does. It is certain, that his tones are the
most touching, powerful, and rich that I ever heard, in passionate
composition. Helen affects to laugh at me. She
says that he reads to her without any embarrassment:
but that his perturbation is excessive, when I am listening
to him. I have observed this too—but I do not attribute
it to the same cause that she does. Never did I hear
such delicate, melancholy, and deep modulation of tone—
I should half suspect that he was the author of every
thing that he has read to us, by the interest that he contrives
to give it, did I not know better. When he concluded,
we were all in tears!—But hush—I find that I
can talk of nothing else but Salisbury's voice—So adieu.

Monday.

What inexhaustible stores of information!—Did you
ever hear him open his lips, even to profess his ignorance
of a subject, without imparting some charm to it? We
have been discussing the comparative morality of Christians,
Turks, and Jews. He overwhelmed us all, not as
he used to, with magnificent declamation, but with temperate
argument, facts, and the most beautiful language.
He says the Jews are the most wonderfully constant people
that walk the earth; that their religion is the most
sublime and awful. What it was with Moses, it is now, he

says. The same ritual—the same ceremony, alike august
and imposing. We witness, what they of Israel did.
Ages—have passed away—centuries after centuries, and
this people, strangers all over the earth, accursed and
scorned alike, by the black man and the white, the Christian,
the Infidel, the Mahometan and the Turk—prohibited
from all the offices of humanity and policy—exceptions
to all the rules of forbearance and indulgence
among men—blasphemed and trampled on, by all nations
and kindreds and tongues—are yet so constant to their
God—that their very faces bear witness to their fidelity
and their origin:—so heroically and devoutly obedient
to their Jehovah, that their very blood and features are
a part of their religion—and their countenances are the
very countenances of them that heard the thunderings and
the lightnings of Sinai, when the Everlasting God touched
it, and it smoked. Where is there such another people?”
he asked triumphantly. And who could answer him? To
this, succeeded a picture of the Turks—“Their religion,
right or wrong,” he says, “is a religion. A Turk believes
in predestination—hence his sincerity is proved every
hour in the day; for he plucks off the festering garments
from a body dissolving with the plague, and puts them
upon himself: he rushes into battle, up to the very cannon's
mouth, or to a certain martyrdom, because it is his
religion. Do the Christians this? no. The Turks too,
when at their devotions, which are, at the least, ten times
as frequent as ours, are never to be disturbed. You may
ride over them before they will rise, unless they have
finished their appointed prayer. We call their prophet an
impostor—they call our Christ a prophet. Who of us
shows most of courtesy. Compare our honesty with theirs.
They leave their shops, full of precious merchandize,
open and unguarded, and they are never rifled—they
give untold gold into the hands of strangers, and are
never deceived. Can we say this of Christians?”—Such
is his manner—nay, I believe, almost his very words
again; for it appears to me that I cannot forget what I
have once heard him say, if it be said in that one peculiar
voice, which is altogether his own.

Forgive me. Do not rally me—I cannot bear it now.
Your reproaches are insupportable, for I feel that I deserve
them. Your prediction is accomplished!—Salisbury
—O, would that I had never seen him! All my friends
complain of me. And yet, nay, it does not appear to me
that I am so devoted to him as they say. No—no—it is
a cruel slander. I am melancholy Mary—I cannot write
you a long letter—or an intelligible one.

He has said that he once loved—and when he said so,
his eyes convinced me, that he loved yet. When I first
saw him, I had a notion, whence I do not know, that he
was engaged—I wish that you could have seen him at the
time—the recollection haunts me—his downcast eyes
—the deep, mournful tenderness of his tone—O, yes, he,
he must have loved indeed!—She is now married, and
there is a story abroad—O, I cannot believe it—I hope
it is not true—yet why does it concern me? I would always
respect Salisbury—nay, whether this story be
true or false, I must always respect him. He is so noble,
frank, and generous!

I know not what to think of him even yet. His talents
are certainly of the highest order—of that, I see the
most unquestionable evidence, in the respect manifested
to him, by men of the greatest reputation, and greatest
wisdom—he sits among them like their equal, and they
listen to him, as to one entitled to commune with them
—but he appears to be unsocial—abstracted—and too
fearfully ambitious for domestick happiness—bless me,—
where are my thoughts running to!—He has the reputation
of being vain—nay, he acknowledges that he is so
—but I am afraid, not because he thinks so, but merely
to manifest his disregard for the world. He has been
hardly used, they say—unkindly, cruelly—but he never
complains, and some appear to shudder, when they speak
of his hostility and retribution; but I do not—I think that
his mortal enemy, in his power, would have little to fear.
He is still proud, very proud, and unbending to strangers,—to
all, indeed, except the poor and bereaved; but
his manner is tender, less abrupt, and more agreeable of
late, I think. Have you ever remarked how sudden and

bold he is, in his advice;—and with what an air of
authority, he often speaks his opinion, even to the aged.
It is wrong, I think—but I am led to believe that it proceeds
from an habitual experience of the world's harsh
judgment, and uncharitable ways. He stands like a
gladiator—expecting to encounter none but foes—
sword and shield.—One trait is decidedly prominent
in his character. He never flatters, or if he do, he
never appears to flatter. You cannot but believe what
he says, even though it be new to you; for he gives a
reason—and there is always such an air of manhood
and sincerity about him, that you are convinced, whether
you will or no—it would almost seem, but good
night!—good night!—I could run on forever, but I forbear.—

Tuesday night.

People say here, and those too, that know him well
—that is, his whole life and history—that he will be a
great man. But great men, are not so easily made, for
he talks as calmly of ten or twenty years application,
night and day, as many would of ten or twenty months,
—and yet he denies that there are any great men to be
seen, in this generation. His friends are very confident
that he will be distinguished, but they tremble for him.
You never saw such devoted creatures as they are.
Their attachment is invincible, and not only that, but it
seems more like the friendship that we read of, sublime,
heroick, and steady, than like what we usually experience.
His enemies too, are as unsparing and deadly, we are
told, as his friends are enthusiastick and firm. But they
are sensibly diminishing. We hear him spoken in high
terms of now, by some who have been his enemies—
they acknowledge that they have misunderstood his character,
and wronged him. You would smile however,
to hear him justify them. He says that those who know
him, are his friends—But that his enemies, having no
opportunity of knowing, are obliged to judge of him, as
he appears,—haughty, overbearing, and repulsive, or

vindictive; they are right, therefore, he says, in disliking
him. His enemies used to lie against him once, and
censure him often, without knowing why. And now,
he says, and shows us the proof in some amusing revolutions
of opinion, that he is praised in the same way,
by those who do not, and cannot know him. Some too,
lie in his favour now; but he does not hesitate to expose
them, for it. In short, it is the publick opinion that has
changed—and, he predicts that it will continue to change,
making him alternately better, and worse than he is, for
many years. He is prepared for this; and so far as I
can judge, I should think him one whom this change of
opinion would affect, be it better or worse, less than
any other human being that I ever saw. He says that it
is impossible to flatter a man of sense; or rather that a
man cannot long entertain too high an opinion of himself;
and I believe this. But he says also, that the world
can be deceived, and are deceived constantly, respecting
a man's talents: for they, he says, are like wealth.
When is a man's property rightly valued by the world?
never. By himself it may be; and intellectual affluence
is like all other affluence, best known to the possessor.
You might as well expect a man to believe you, if you
told him that he had more money in his pocket—as that
he had more brains in his head, than he actually had.
There may be exceptions; but this, he advances, as a
general proposition.

Mary dear—tell me—is my style altered; I am told
that it is—nay, that I have caught a portion of his spirit,
and actually use, after him, not only his sentiments, but
his very language, at times. If I do—I am unconscious
of it: sorry for it, and would avoid it. Nay — for why
need I conceal it—they do tell me, for it is a fact that
I resemble him in my countenance, as I believe myself,
although I hope not, in the expression—and we have
been repeatedly taken for relations—and once for brother
and sister—they do tell me, that I have contracted
one of his worst habits—one that I would, if I might
dare to attempt it, break him of—that of knitting the
brows, and frowning, as if discontented. In him, it is

probably earnestness or abstraction, but it looks like ill
temper. Oh—another thing has just occurred to me—
There is a bitter levity in his manner sometimes, that
terrifies me. It is a strong word, Mary, but it expresses
no more than I feel. He sneers sometimes at love, and
marriage, in a way that leaves me in doubt whether he
does not regard them as a mockery. I do not like this
—it distresses me, because it makes me question his
principle—or at least, when he says, with a look that is
common to him, a severe thing on this subject, I am
led to doubt his sincerity or his principle. Some one
mentioned the marriage of Mr.—the other evening.
“Poor fellow!” said Salisbury—“I knew him—he was
a very worthy fellow!”—just in tone and look exactly, as
if it were his death. There was no smile upon his face
—when he said this—and his voice was deep and lingering.
What think you dear, of these symptoms? or have
you never heard and seen him, at such a moment? The
general impression I find is, that he speaks as he feels,
scorning all the tenderness and simplicity of life, as
childish, affected, and mawkish. But I—perhaps I am
deceived—I think that his heart is the abiding place of
the deepest tenderness—and that its emotion is like that
of deep water—at the bottom—not to be detected by
the agitation of the surface. Really!—I believe that
is one of his own thoughts. Adieu!—

* * * It is time to go to bed,
but I will venture to scribble a postscript. I open it for
that purpose. He has just left us. How very abrupt
he is! He always starts off, as if suddenly offended.
But he says it is because he dares not trust himself to
think of it—and had rather plunge, at once, than stand
shivering, forever, upon the brink. He takes out his
watch too:—if we reproach him, he says that it is the
greatest compliment to us—for it shows that he dare
not trust to his senses, in our company. He was uncommonly
serious to night—and really dignified. We had
a literary man, whom you shall know, when you come

on,—of a singularly unpretending, simple and strange
character. A conversation ensued between Oscar and
him; and I felt him—Oscar, rise every moment in my
estimation. He was calm, collected, and graceful. His
language was that of consummate self possession—I
never respected him so sincerely. Others seem to
stand in awe of him: and they wonder that I do not.
But I do not—I cannot—to me, he is gentle—Do not
laugh at me, Mary. I cannot well bear it, of late—
whether it be, that I feel conscious of deserving it, or not,
I wo'nt pretend to say, but my spirits are darkened, and
any allusion that would once have been taken kindly,
is apt now to hurt and alarm me. But no more of this
—I know your tenderness, and delicacy—and am willing
to tell you all my thoughts. What a postscript!—
And I am not half done.—I remember one of his opinions,
which Mr.—seemed particularly struck with,
and acknowledged, honestly, that it explained a circumstance
perfectly to his satisfaction, upon which, he
had frequently meditated before, without being able to
account for it. And yet it seems very simple.—Is not
that the character of a great mind, though, to make its
demonstrations so clear, that we are led to wonder at their
simplicity? We were speaking of poetry and elocution;
Mr.—reiterated the opinion that the Greek and Roman
school had furnished the greatest that had ever been
—or would ever be. My opinion upon that subject,
said Oscar, modestly (I give you nearly his very words
—) are somewhat peculiar. Is it not a matter of taste,
and opinion? now it is my taste, and my opinion that
there have been many as great musicians, orators,
statesmen, warriours, painters and poets—nay—even of
sculptors—and architects—among the nations of modern
time, as among the ancients. Of warriours and statesmen,
said his antagonist, there may have been, but
surely not of poets and orators. And would you
teach, then, said Oscar, that poetry and eloquence
are arts so rude and simple, that they are brought
to perfection, in less time than politicks and war?

They are not sciences, said Mr. A. triumphantly, I

thought—and the testimony of all nations is to this
effect—that poetry and eloquence are the natural growth
of a semi-barbarous people—thus Ossian—and Homer.—

Oscar turned his eye slowly upon him, and replied
with such effect—but no!—I will not attempt to describe
it—you ought to have seen him.—“Sir, said
he, have you ever examined that opinion? May it
not have been too hastily taken up? In the first accounts
that we hear of the East, we find that the
people were abundantly more refined than their neighbours.
And yet—where is there any poetry, like
that of the eastern people—the Orientals—at that
time too, so fervid—bold and impassioned? Among
savages, I admit, that there is a kind of poetry, as there
is a kind of eloquence, and a kind of architecture. But
why should poetry be rude, and boisterous, any more
than musick? I cannot understand it, and my belief
is, that poetry and eloquence, like all other intellectual
arts, are to be perfected by the gradual perfection
of society. And therefore if it can be shown
that musick, painting, architecture, and sculpture (of
the last, it is true, there may be a question) have improved,
or could be improved, beyond what they
were, with the Greek and Roman, I will undertake
to show that poetry and eloquence may be so too.”

“But, you have all the nations of the earth against
you, said Mr. A. Do they not all concur in preferring
Homer and Virgil, to all other poets?”

“True—but Virgil was the growth of the Augustan
age; and Cicero, and Demosthenes were no barbarians,
and that would seem to affect your doctrine, that
poetry is best in its rudeness. They prefer the statuary
and architecture of the Greeks and Romans.
But do you—honestly now—I know that you have
seen the Apollo and Venus,—do you believe that they
may not be surpassed? You hesitate. Have you never
seen a sculptured woman, done by some modern, (and
you know that sculpture is neglected more than any
other art) that pleased you better than the Venus? I

have, nay more, I can point out material disproportions
in her form. But may not this be the case—nay, is
it not—that we prefer the models of Greek and Rome,
in all arts and sciences, (and by we, I mean all the
moderns) for the same reason that an Englishman
next to them, prefers those of his own country, and
a Frenchman those of his?—

“I do not understand you—” said Mr. A.—

“I mean my dear sir, to lead your attention, indirectly,
to my object. An Englishman is prejudiced in
favour of the labours of his own countrymen—the
larger the empire of his country, the wider that prejudice
will be distributed; now, if you could extend
the dominion of Great Britain over all the world, do
you not believe that, in time, the whole world would
be likely to refer only to British models, as the only
standard of excellence, just as they would to London,
for fashion and pronunciation? Now, suppose that no
other nation had any literature—or science—would it
not be the natural consequence, after a while, that
what ever was done at London, would be consecrated,
imitated and applauded, all over the world? Here then
is my conclusion.—Greece was as an universal monarchy,
because, as to the nations of the earth, she was
the capital, and metropolis of taste. Then come the
Romans. Their empire was universal. They, reverenced,
and imitated the Greeks. No other nation did,
or could dispute with them. And in time, whatever
was written at Rome, or applauded at Rome, or
built, or done at Rome, or hallowed by Roman approbation,
came to be applauded, and imitated all over
the world, wherever the Romans were known or heard
of. The nations of the earth unite, in preferring Homer
and Virgil, because of this universal dominion, to
which they were once subject. And if Italy should
reconquer the whole world, her poets would be the
standard: if England,—hers; if France,—hers. And
the reason why no poet, or orator, or painter of modern
time is regarded, generally, as equal to the ancients,
is because, in no modern time, has there been so extensive
or so permanent an empire as the Roman in exstence;

but you have always found that, as a kingdom
extended itself, her authorities and opinions, her favourites,
in poetry and eloquence, extended their dominion
with it. Every nation in Europe may have, at
this moment, a greater than Demosthenes, or than Homer,
but until that nation extend her dominion, far
and wide, like the Roman, they will not be universally
esteemed so. Within their own limits they are
often regarded as superior to all others, and, as their
limits extend, that opinion extends.”

“But,” said I; “why do they not, if your argument
be just, why do not the people of each nation, prefer
their own orators and poets to those, even of Greece
and Rome?”

“Some of the wiser, or more daring, do so:—said
he, but the true reason why it is not universal, is this.
Go into a small town, and you will find that it has its
great man—whom it prefers to all other great men,
except some one, in preferring whom, all the country
concurs. But where is he? at the capital of the whole
country. When Rome was at its zenith, she was the
capital of all the world—all the nations of Europe
were then, but as provinces. No competition, of course,
could arise between her great men, and theirs. But
stop—I can make this plainer—and therefore I will
not finish what I had intended to—suppose Great
Britain should suddenly eclipse all other nations—and
establish at the same time an universal monarchy—
suppose that hundreds of years afterwards every one
of her provinces should become a kingdom, in all the
schools of which the ancient statues, coins, paintings,
dramas, and architecture &c. &c. &c. of Great Britain
were regarded as models, and examples;—now, cannot
you suppose, that although, in each of these kingdoms,
all these arts should be brought to greater perfection
than their models, yet nevertheless, that they
would not unite in acknowledging it. Would not jealousy,
prejudice, and infatuation prevent it? And would not
the natural consequence always be, that, in each kingdom,
the old British model would be preferred, because

all had preferred it, while its own modern imitations,
would be considered the next best? Is not this exactly
the case at present, with respect to Rome! And is it,
therefore, a conclusive proof of the superiority of the
Greeks and Romans, that all the natives of the earth
agree in acknowledging it.—I say no.”

Upon my word!—I have made a pretty postscript
indeed!—another whole sheet. But I will stop now
—with this one remark,—I have not done him justice.
He was perfectly clear, I have not remembered it so
well as I thought that I could.—

After my last long, long epistle, which I hope you
have decyphered by this time, I was determined to
indulge you with a respite.—still the same theme though
—I can neither talk, write, nor think of any thing
else.—There appears to me nothing conciliatory about
him. He takes favour as a matter of right; and is
strangely scrupulous in his speech. It seems to distress
him, to hear a word mis-pronounced; or a phrase
badly constructed. Yet he sometimes errs—in pronunciation
I mean, very rarely in a grammatical sense.
And how he renders his thanks!—his countenance
never changes, except to me. He is the favourite of
the whole household too: down to the very servants
and children; and yet, there is no soothing, nor coaxing
in his manner. And here another of his remarks
occurs to me—Show him a man in a passion, he says,
and he can always tell what he has been. Early habits
are omnipotent. Thus, men swear and talk vulgarly
when in a rage; and they who never write provincially,
often speak so. Is'nt there much truth in this? I have
applied it frequently since; and not long ago saw a
very great man wipe his nose on his cuff, very naturally—when
he had lost his artificial character, in the heat
of debate. How necessary is self possession, before
such an observer!

This morning, a friend of our uncle's came in—and
gave us a good deal of information, indirectly, respecting

Oscar. You know him—Mr. Ponsonby—a very
strong mind, and acquainted with men too, you know.
He says that Oscar Salisbury, is the most extraordinary
man of his age, that he ever met with; “I never sat
with him, ten minutes in my life,” said he, “without
hearing some remark, that proved him to be no common
man. The first time that we ever met, I remember well
that he maintained, against a whole room full, and
successfully too, for I have thought much of it, since,
and all my observation confirms his doctrine, that the
difference of genius in men was only a difference in irritability!
He, who is born with the most sensibility,
the most delicate nerves, is most liable to be affected
by all outward or inward circumstances. Women, and
infants are an example. He who is most affected in
this way, (I can remember Mr. Ponsonby's language
better than Oscar's I find!)—is least able to confine
his attention to one object; what he feels, he feels keenly,
exquisitely, thrillingly, but he never explores, never
ransacks,—never meddles with the alchymy of nature.
Hence he becomes a wit, a poet, a musician,
a painter, an orator, a statesman or a mathematician,
as he has more or less physical sensibility! How
little sensibility, thought I to myself, must Locke and
Newton have had!—and is it not true? If they had
much, would they ever have pursued their terrible metaphysicks,
as they did? No—never! The more sensibility
he has—the more irritable he is—and the more
irritable he is—the less patient he is—and the less patient,
the less likely to be profound.—What immeasurable
letters I write of late. Once, I said that a letter
ought to be brief, but Oscar says—(the deuse take
the man!—his name is eternally at the tip of my pen,
I believe)—but he says that we ought to talk as we
write—and that it would be just as absurd to think it
a merit to say, what we have to say, in the fewest possible
words, on paper—as in conversation: that the beauty
of both, is the free, natural, and unlaboured expression
of our thought, without affecting terseness or any
thing else. As well might we talk in epigram, like
the laconic Spartans.—A dieu.—

Gracious heaven! Maria—dearest—it is settled! I
cannot tell you when, or how—I am so happy; but he
has acted with the utmost gentleness and delicacy. I
should have written you immediately—but my temples
have been throbbing, nay, my very finger ends, for
a whole week:—and it is only to-day that I can guide
the pen at all.—He has many faults—some that I did
not know of, till he confessed them—great faults—but
he is so candid, so resolute, and has already done
so much in the way of reformation, that I have no
fear either for him, or for myself, were they much
more numerous and threatening! Good night!—good
night!

My hand is steadier to day; so I have re-opened
your letter, and begun again. I had a terrible dream
last night—you will laugh when you know what it is,
but really it distressed me exceedingly—and I was half
afraid to meet him this evening again, lest I should find
it confirmed. I was troubled, but he was too sharpsighted
not to discover it—although I did my best to
conceal it. At length, like a fool, I told him—never
shall I forget his look!—“I am utterly in your power—
—use it mercifully—kindly—do not destroy me—
utterly” he said—“and I had once determined never
to put myself in the power of any other woman”
—the tears rose in my eyes—and his hand shook.
But no tear was in his—he never weeps—he cannot
weep, I believe. I dreamt that he was holding my
hand—that his brow suddenly darkened, and he threw
it from him. Where was my spirit? gone—I sat as
if my heart were broke.—Nay, worse, Maria—when
I awake, I felt as if I should sit so in reality, if he
were so to wrong me. O—how I am altered, I was
unhappy, till I saw him—and never, never did I part
with him so reluctantly. O—if he be to grow to my
heart yet more closely, as I fear he will—fear, oh no!
—as I hope he will, I declare Mary, I do believe
that it would kill me to part with him. How I love
him!—yes the word is written, and I wont recall it.
I never could have spoken it—he appears to me too,

to want my love—who knows but that I may minister
to his greatness, till he may say that, but for me, he
had been less great! I have a strange foreboding too,
that he will want my love still more—nay, that it will
yet be his only consolation in this earth. Can it be!
—I would almost wish, that it might be so!—that he
might be abandoned by all the world, for a time, to
feel how entirely I would give myself up to him.
Poor Oscar!—with his spirit—so injured—as it has
been—so haughty, and so unpropitiating, he is the
very man to experience the ingratitude of them that
ought to love and reverence him.—Farewell—I cannot
write another line—my tears blot the paper.—

A vile thought has just
intruded upon me. Assist me to subdue it. I am
afraid that Oscar is a little jealous—no, not that
exactly—but there is a spice of haughty jealousy in
his disposition. I dread the consequences. If I
know him, he would show his jealousy, unlike any
other man:—it would be, by giving every opportunity
that he could, to his rival, worthy or unworthy. If
worthy, I am sure that he would, because he has told me
that he does not consider me bound to him, for one
moment longer than while I prefer him to all the
world. Nay—he will not take an engagement—for
he says that it is folly. Either it binds when affection will
not—or it does not. If it do—away with it—who
would let a woman marry him, because she was engaged?
If it do not—then it is useless.

He is something that unsteadies the mind while
it contemplates him. How he derides, and scorns, all
the ridiculous ceremonies of life! They are tricks, he
says, that patrician fools invent, like escutcheons, to
distinguish their party. And when these are counterfeited
by the plebians, or imitated, they manufacture
others, like the Free Masons. He maintains that
our civilities should always be proportioned to our own
estimate of people's value, not to that of the world,

when we meet a person: that, by treating all alike,
our greatest favours lose all value. Is it not so? Is
not distinction what we covet? and may not a friend
be as much distinguished by a smile, as by an embrace?
assuredly yes.

What amazing candour he has! I believe that I am
now mistress of every event of his past life—or
every one that he thinks of.—His heart lies naked before
me. There is much, particularly one transaction—relating
to that strange woman, of whom I wrote you,
which I could wish had never happened; but no matter—what
is past must be forgotten. O, Mary, how
I have suffered respecting her!—for a long while she
haunted me. I would dream of them—see them together—she
would break in between us—and he would
abandon me! I declare that I was afraid to shut my eyes
at last. Her very name hung, like a dead weight,
upon my heart—his emotion—their intimacy, which
he acknowledges—her passionate love for him, of
which I have the proof—the peril that he underwent,
for her—and I know not what—the thought of it
made me sick. Yes Mary,—can you believe it?—at
one time I had no wish to live; even yet, he cannot entirely
assure me, and he half complains of me, that
I will not be comforted; but I know not how it is—I
have a superstitious thrilling when I think of her: as
if she were one day to be a curse to me—a sickening
apprehension that she is yet—Yet—merciful Father
—yet!—beloved by Oscar! what he did, was right, he
says, because there was nobody to care for him, and
nobody to suffer, by any misrepresentation of the intimacy.
It was long before he knew me, you know, I
suppose. But he says that he would do the same thing
again, under the same circumstances. But then, he
adds, in his own soothing, affectionate way, “you know
Elvira, that the same circumstances never could occur
again.”

Perhaps this is jealousy in me. Oh, I hope not. I
would give up my life to see him happy; but I cannot
bear to think, for a moment, that he loves her, or that—
dear Mary, I cannot write it—

One thing, at least, is certain, although my friends
are very anxious about her, that Oscar will never permit
himself to marry, unless his heart is entirely free—and
then, I am sure, this phantom will pursue me no longer.
His godlike principles will be my protection—whatever
may happen. Good night!—

Monday Night.

He is too much addicted to argument. He makes me
unhappy by it. How dreadful it is, to hear two persons
wrangling fiercely, and continually, while all the rest are
constrained to be silent. Let me give you another specimen
of his contradiction. Mr. O— was censured
for changing his religion again. It was called a mark of
weakness—and fickleness. “It may be,” said Oscar,—
“but the weak are obstinate—so are the ignorant—the
wise change their opinions often; so do the active and
inquiring; but the obstinate and ignorant never do.”
Such is his way!

Have you ever heard him speak upon a theme that
was rousing and proportioned to his full powers? He
dwelt upon Shakspeare lately—His countenance was
pale, deadly pale, when he began—(indeed people say
that he is in a consumption—but he ridicules the thought;
I attribute it to other causes, and entreat him to be more
prudent—and go to bed, like our watchmen, betimes—
and you know that they are distinguished for their orderly
habits—) but it was crimson before he concluded, with
the excess of inspiration. I had been listening, for a long
time, to a very common-place eulogy upon the bard,
when I saw Oscar's lip was trembling—I could not forbear—I
thought that I had more command of myself—but
so it was—I touched the train, and never did I see a
poor creature so astonished as Doctor Wilson was, (for
it was he, and you know his pompous way; besides I
knew that he disliked Oscar exceedingly, and had spoken
quite disrespectfully of him.) “Shakspeare!” said
Oscar, “who can measure his might? He is a magician—and

when he puts out his hands—the clouds roll
away from the heavens—the waters tumble into foam—
and there comes upward, a subterranean musick, as if
the pillars of the earth were organ pipes, and a great
wind were among them!—” Now it was impossible
even for me to tell if he were serious—but he continued,
and I soon found that he was so, even to solemnity, unutterable
solemnity. “Shakespeare is a magician; I admit
that. But his time has past. What gives his licentiousness,
his absurdity, his obscenity, and horrible caricaturing,
effect?—What, that ribald, brutal lasciviousness,
which characterises all his portraitures of that most
beautiful and wild passion, love—(except in Miranda—)
what! but this—that ever since it was the fashion to idolize
Shakespeare, men of the greatest talents have been spending
whole lives, in giving effect and significancy to all
that he uttered—studying his words, and dwelling
upon them, and seeking their hidden and mysterious
meaning, and, still oftener, imagining what he never
thought of, as a sure means of making themselves conspicuous.
Take the vilest tragedy that was ever written
—let Garrick—Kemble—Cooke, and such men, spend
their whole lives, in giving to every word and phrase significancy
and effect, and, in time, it would be considered
preternatural. There lies the secret. A plain man, who
has never seen one of Shakespeare's tragedies performed,
laughs at our enthusiasm. He considers the whole as a
broad caricature of every passion—a caricature done by
a master—by one, at whose touch the solidest and coldest
and darkest material, became illuminated and transparent,
and shot forth flames; but nevertheless, so exaggerated,
(for the mob if you please,) that it is a caricature. Take
his Moor and Desdemona. Who, of any feeling, does
not loathe the horrible depravity of Desdemona?—it is
brutal lasciviousness!—What think we?—the idea of
our planters cohabiting with a yellow woman is shocking
to us—almost unnatural—but with a black! we should
abhor and detest him. But this is yet worse—a woman,
altogether lovely, queenlike, and gentle, loves to death
and distraction—whom?—a blackamoor! God!—if his
horrible lips should profane her forehead, even upon the
stage, the stomachs of the very mob would revolt—and
they would sicken with horrour and execration—hiss
them off the stage.

Look at Romeo and Juliet—that scene of tenderness,
too, where the lover meets his beloved in moonlight,
and silence—what does he? Is his language broken
—disordered—passionate? Oh, no—But he makes
love in a set speech, so that it has really been a serious
question, with me, whether it would not be well to consider
the whole as a travestie, like “High life below
stairs”—a valet making love to a lady's woman. You
think this blasphemy. I see you do. But read that
speech again, and tell me if you would not think as I
do, if you heard any mortal man address such stuff
to any woman.

What of Macbeth too—and his witches? O we well
deserve the sneer of that consummate scoffer, who selects
that, as the master piece of our greatest dramatist.

What of king Richard III.—and Lady Anne! Look
at it—a woman—a princess—going through the publick
street, with the body of her dead husband, youthful
and beautiful—is arrested by a monster of deformity—a
fiend—reeking hot, from the slaughter of that
husband:—he kneels to her, in the street, in the presence
of the corpse—in the face of heaven—in the very
presence too of the common soldiery—and there wins
her to prostitution—publickly! publickly! By the—I
wont swear—but if any man now, were to produce such
an outrage upon all decency and common sense, as
that, he would be lampooned as an ideot, a madman,
from one end of the country to the other: nay more
—I do contend that Shakespeare never wrote a tragedy,
no, not one, which if it were to come out now,
from any unknown author, would be tolerated for an
hour, a single hour—no actor would play it—no printer
publish it—and no human being sit out the reading
of it. Try it yourself—attempt to read it—read it
as well as you can—and you are wearied to death of

it. It excites no emotion in you—nor in your hearers.
Duncan is murdered—and a terrified attendant comes
in exclaiming—yes really—that he, he himself has just
left the murdered old man, the monarch—and that his
“silver skin was laced with his golden blood!” and so
with every play that he ever wrote. It is full of trash
—distortion in language, sentiment, and character.
And yet he, Shakespeare, has been called the high
priest of nature. Nature!—O, would you know, if there
be nature in the tremendous offspring of Shakespeare,
go and unveil them to the savage—nay, to the refined
and sublimated—(if they be not the countrymen of
Shakespeare)—and what is their answer? Shakespeare
was wonderful—he startles—terrifies—and astonishes.
But he is unnatural—tiresome—and childish; full of
obscure ribaldry, and grotesque caricatures—rhodomontade
and insupportable trick.”

“He was silent; and we were breathless. Surely, said
I, you are beside yourself. Would you leave nothing
to this “Magician?” Yes—his wand—his ministering
Ariel, with her delicate spiriting, and his imperial
conceptions of madness—nothing more—and I would
purge him, and his works seven times over, before I
would permit either to become a standard with them that I
love. What was left, would be the purest element—I
do admit,—that ever was extracted from mortality. It
would be the otto of genius.”

I laughed—for who could help it; and he was fain
to accompany me.

What extraordinary self possession he has. The
more that he has to oppose, the more proof he can
throw into action. “I never saw one, who so rose with
the occasion,” said Mr.—after he had done.

A calmer and more temperate discussion followed, between
him and the professor, whom you so respected,
you know, for his gravity and collectedness. But
even with him, he was at home. The subject was one
that I could not understand—very metaphysical—but
I observed that the professor treated him with the most
profound respect, and frequently manifested his astonishment,

by the most unequivocal tokens. You
know his fine eyes—they actually sparkled with delight
at times, while Oscar was talking to him, in his earnest
way—in a very low voice.—I tried not to listen
—but it was in vain—I can hear no voice but his, and
I am not the only one—others listen as I do, with intense
interest—and anxiety. He keeps you constantly
agitated—or rather, he can, if he please.

Farewell! dear Mary—
Elvira.

May—

A long time has passed, I admit it. O, Mary!
—I cannot—cannot tell you what I have suffered. I
have been sick, sick unto death. Twice have we been
nigh a separation—O Mary! can it be! What would
become of us—of me—!—Indeed, indeed, I know
not. He would bear it better than I—he is older—has
had experience before, in this terrible passion—and
could turn his attention, immediately, to some object
that would employ all his faculties. But I—O, I
could not. The world would be a blank to me. My
heart would stop—crumble, perish in dust and ashes,
I am sure that it would. But no—his passions would destory
him. He would fall by his own hand—I know
he would, if he should think me unworthy. I know
not why, dear Mary, but sometimes I think of him,
till I am trembling from head to foot. He is so ambitious—so
passionate.—Indeed, Mary, I have a terrible
feeling of dismay pass over my heart, like a cold
wind, at times. What shall I do? Would he survive
a separation? once, I am sure that he would not; once,
with his pride and revenge, he would have wrought
some tremendous retribution. We have spoken of
the possibility—and shuddered as we spoke—that we
might be separated; his voice was hollow with emotion
—but very tender and kind. There is no great difference
in our ages—and the probability is, therefore, that
we may die near together—perhaps, in each others arms
—O—I would not be the survivor!—I could not. He

wants me to write to him, if he go to France.—I
cannot. You know the reason of my repugnance. But
he approves of my refusal. Yet that is in character
—there is no selfishness in his love—he would rather
die, I am sure, than that I should do aught that was
imprudent. It is either consummate generalship, or
consummate love. I have been trying to interest him
in our missionary society—but he puts all that out of
my head at once—in this way. “What is your object?
—to give the bible to the heathen? The bible is a
code of laws. `Where there is no law, there is no
transgression.' Without the bible therefore, they cannot
sin against it—with it, they may. Is it wise to
send it among them then?” Is there not some fallacy
in this? I fear that there is, and yet I cannot see it—perhaps,
because it came from him!—adieu—adieu!—

May—

O, Mary, I am happy beyond expression—he has
bowed down his whole nature, imperial as it is, to
the touch of gentleness. What a strange being! I
should not be surprised if, from being the haughtiest
and sternest man of his age, he should be the meekest
and gentlest. I weep when I think of it—and he
too, can weep—I have felt his tears fall upon my hand
—I am glad of it—it gives me a better opinion of his
heart—it is true, that I thought he was strangling, and
I—I was almost distracted and blind at the time, but
he wept, and my hand felt as if it were blistered,
where his hot tears fell.—People say that love is blind.
I do not believe it Mary. It is not. Are parents
blind? No—they see all the faults of their children;
perhaps many, that others do not see, but they see
many virtues that others do not. So with a lover—he
sees all the faults of her that he loves. And why not?
Is he not always on the watch—intensely alive and active,
with every faculty? and can it be, that the cold,
and careless, and indifferent, shall see our elements
more readily than he, whose eyes are always poring
over them? Would that I could tell you all, dear, but I

cannot; I only pray that when your time comes, you
may meet with some one as gentle (I am sure that you
smile now—but to me, he is gentle) as devoted, and
as tender to you, as Salisbury is to me. I am becoming
too proud of him, I fear—Mary, I could take that
man by the hand, though he had not a friend, nor a
guinea in the world, and go out with him, before the
face of all mankind, and cry—lo! My husband!

A strange incident occurred last night,—my cheeks
burn at the thought—and I am really half ashamed to
relate it; yet this letter was begun, chiefly with the intention
of telling it. But why should I be ashamed?
—it has become a duty for me to think of such endearing
relationship—but no—I cannot go on. My
lips thrill—and my veins tingle at the thought.—

I have become more composed.
I will tell it. You heard me mention a beautiful
little boy lately, that Mr. Hammond has adopted. I
was caressing it last night, when your old acquaintance
Sir Harry Mainwaring, came in. He was introduced
to me, and as he bowed, I observed that he called me
madam. I took no notice of it, however, and he
began romping with William. Oscar sat next to me,
and I was playing with the boy's hair. “A sweet
child!” said Sir Harry, glancing at Oscar—and then
at me “you ought to be proud of him.” Oscar averted
his head, but not until his dark eyes had flashed
fire into my heart. I thought that I should have sunk upon
the floor. I could not lift my eyes, and the Baronet,
—the stupid wretch, persisted in his errour, until
aunt Harriet saw it, and benevolently relieved us.
But O, Mary, what a strange shivering came over me,
as I next met the bright eyes of Oscar—and, saw his
lips opening, as he bent toward me, and uttered
some kind remark to reassure me. To be a mother
—!—Mary—of such a cherub as that—to see a father's
heart run over, as he kissed it—O, I should be delirious
at the thought. Farewell!—farewell!—my

temples ache with the rapid irritation of my blood—I
cannot permit myself to think of such an event. And
all that I say is this—a humble prayer—that if I am
to be a mother—our Father, who is in heaven, will qualify
me to discharge the ample obligations of one—

The next letter that Harold found—was sealed with
black—his hand shook as he opened it. There was a
long interval between the dates.—Here it is.—

“It is all over!—O, Mary, Mary, he has deceived
me!—we—we are parted forever. Oscar, Oscar!
where art thou?—where am I?—would that I had
never waked!—

That woman—that dreadful woman. I had all along
such a prophetick sense of this—and now it has come
at last. O, Mary, dear—the curse has fallen. My
heart is dissolving. The preternatural dread that I
felt for her—the horrour that I had of her name—it is
all accounted for now. Mary---Mary---would you
believe it---O, I cannot write it. How spotless, how
lofty he appeared. I believed him---and now, oh my
God, my God!---it has come to this---Mary---I will
write it—I will, though my heart burst. Oscar was
guilty—There—I have written it—and yet I am
alive. I have written it—borne testimony against him
before the throne of heaven—and yet—I only feel a
sort of tightness over my breast—would that I could weep
—I'd give the world to weep. Mary dear, I am very
sick—Do you love me yet?—will you weep for me.
Do, dear Mary—it will make me happy, I am sure
it will—the earth will lie lighter on my heart. Tears!
—yes, yes—one—two—O, what a relief! only think
Mary—guilty after all—to have been touched—caressed—doated
on—by one, who has been familiar with a
wanton. O, I wish that I could laugh—I try—but I am
frightened at the echo—O, why did he tell it, Mary?

I should have been so happy else. Did he seek to rid
himself of me? O, Oscar, Oscar! thou little knowest
the heart that thou hast lost!—Wilt thou ever find
such another?—Never—never!

But one week—nay not a week—(only six days)—
hath passed—then I would have laid down my life that
he was innocent—But now—O Mary—would that thou
wast here—that I might go to sleep, forever, upon thy
bosom.—But no—I am alone—Nobody understands my
feeling. My pride is appealed to. Alas!—I have no
pride. He is disloyal—I am told—True, but then it
was before he knew me—and he tells of it himself. But
six days—and then, O, how his eyes flashed—how his
locked hands shook!—how his lips quivered, as he denounced
one who had been impure—notoriously so—
one whom he heard us speak well of. O, why did he
tell!—I cannot forgive him—he knows that I cannot. If I
did, he would despise me.—Farewell! farewell!
I know not what has become of him—but for me—I am
the veriest wretch on earth. My God! My God!
why hast thou forsaken me! O, take me away—I cannot
live—I do not wish to live another hour. Why did
I ever survive my last sickness? O, that I had died!—
O, do thou support and sustain me! Strengthen my
heart!—And, do thou spare him—poor Oscar—my
heart bleeds for thee—O, spare him, Father of Mercies!
spare his senses—!—

— Here ended the catastrophe. Harold could
read no further. He was blinded by his tears. The
mystery was solved—he shut his eyes—and contemplated
the whole anew. How like his own fate! Oscar,
the proud, the unspeakably proud Oscar, had loved—
been loved in return, to madness—to idolatry—to desolation
and death. They had been torn asunder—How,
just as he and Loena had been. Could it be—had he

not been reading the history of his own life? Whence
this mysterious resemblance? Could it be, that their
fates were alike—their destinies alike! Oscar had been
torn away from that heart to which his cleaved—and
given to the waves—was it to be his fate too? Why left
he his solitude—why? But to be wrecked and shattered
—and driven, intellect and life, forever and ever, before
the tempestuous visitations of heaven!—No wonder that
he had slain his fellow men! No—the wonder was that
that he had not made war upon the whole human family!—