University of Virginia Library

THE THESPIAN SYREN.

1. I.

It was towards the close of a cool but delightful autumn
evening, in Milan, the best part of which I had vainly
spent in searching for a friend. All at once it occurred
to me that he might beat the opera;—yet, thought I, F—
is very fastidious, and there is no particular attraction to-night.
Thus weighing the matter on my mind, I came
within sight of the Scala, and I was soon at the door of
Count G—'s box, where F— was generally to be found.
The orchestra was performing an interlude, and the foot-lights
beaming upon the beautiful classical groups depicted
on the drop. My friend was not visible, and I should
instantly have retreated, had not a side glance revealed
to me the figure of a young man, seated in the shadow of
the box curtains. Count G— was partial to Americans,
and I scrutinized the stranger, thinking it not impossible

he was a countryman, but soon recognized the countenance
of a Scotch student, with whom I had exchanged
a few words at our table-d'hote in the morning. It was
several minutes before I satisfied myself of his identity,
so different was his aspect and demeanor. He sat opposite
me, at the table, and was engaged in a most lively
conversation with a flaxen-haired daughter of Vienna,
who appeared delighted with the opportunity of reciting
the story of her travels to a new acquaintance, which she
persisted in doing, notwithstanding the obvious displeasure
of her father, a military character, who morosely devoured
his dinner beside her. Her auditor repaid the
lady's condescension with an account of the customs and
traditions of the Highlanders, in doing which the keen
air of his native hills seemed to inspire him; for from a
constrained and quiet, he gradually glided into a free and
earnest manner, and evolved enthusiasm enough to draw
sympathizing looks even from a coterie of native Italians,
his opposite neighbors. Frank Graham was now in a
totally different mood. He sat, braced in his seat, as if
under the influence of some nervous affection; his lips
when released from the restraint imposed upon them,
quivered incessantly, and—it might have been fancy—but
I thought I saw, in the dusky light, several hasty tears fall
upon the crimson drapery. There is something in the
deep emotion of a man of intellectual vigor—and such,
Graham's table-talk had proved him—which interests us
deeply. The very attempt to check the tide of feeling,
the struggle between the reason and the heart, the affective
and reflective powers, as a phrenologist would say,
awakens our sympathy. I forgot the object of my visit
to the Scala, and silently resolved to lead off my fellow-sojourner
from the memory of his disquietude, or draw
from him its cause, and, if possible, act the comforter.
With this view, I approached him carelessly, as if I had
not noticed his emotion, and proffered him the greetings
of the evening. He looked at me vacantly, a moment,
but soon rejoined with cordiality. Then rising and
drawing his cloak around him, he seized my hand and exclaimed—`Let
us leave this place, my friend.' There
was confidence implied in his tremulous tones, yet I was
half in doubt as to the propriety of alluding to his obvious
depression. It was a fine moonlight night, and we
walked side by side for several minutes, in silence.
`How long since you left home, Mr. Graham?' I inquired
by, way of beginning a colloquy. `Five minutes
ago, or thereabouts,' he replied huskily. I halted in surprise,
and gazed upon him in wonder. He stopped also,
and observing my astonishment continued in a clearer
voice, `Do not be alarmed my friend; I am perfectly
sane; literally speaking, I left Scotland five years since,
but just now your voice aroused me to a consciousness of
where and what I am. I have been carried back not only
to my country, but to my youth, to its richest hour, to
its most vivid epoch; you, by a word, dissolved the spell:
—there is the famous cathedral, this is Milan, and I am
nothing now but Frank Graham; but one memento of
my recent fairy land remains'—and he pointed to the
moon.

`Oh what mistaken kindness we sometimes practice!'

I replied; you seemed brooding over some sorrowful subject.
I thought to divert your attention. Forgive my
intrusion, for many, many injuries are fanciful and unworthy
the name, compared with that which drags a happy
idealist from his ærie in the heavens, down to life's common
and desert shore.'

`Say you so, my friend?' returned Graham, `then you
will not laugh at an incident in the life of an enthusiast.
Come, come,' and he drew my arm within his, and quickened
his pace. The window of my room at the Albergo,
reached to the floor, and overlooked a small garden; as
we entered, I placed the lamps in a distant corner, threw
open the curtains and admitted the full light of the moon.
`Now, Heaven grant,' said I, as Frank Graham esconced
himself in a corner of the sofa, and filled his glass
from a flask of red wine—`Heaven grant that your's is a
tale of love and chivalry, for such a scene ill befits an unromantic
legend.'—`It is, indeed, a glorious night; but
who ever heard, in these days, of a poor Scotch student
essaying at tournament or holy war, except in the field of
fiction, as here,'—and he lifted `Ivanhoe' from the
table—`yet remember that this lovely orb smiles equally
upon the love-vigils of the Highland chief, as upon those
of the knights of old, and her beams must seem as romantic
to you, while I improvise a chapter of my autobiography,
as they did to Rebecca the Jewess, daughter of
Isaac of York, when the wounded knight related, at the
same witching season, his adventures in Palestine.'

2. II.

The vivid impression which our `first play' leaves upon

the mind might teach us something, if we were introspective
moralists, as to that greatly mooted point—the true
influence of the drama. Perchance from the deep and
splendid visions thus awakened to the fancy, the clear
and romantic aspect which humanity thus portrayed assumes,
we might discover no questionable affinity between
our own unsophisticated natures and the dramatic art, we
might appreciate the importance of such an institution as
the theatre to civilized man, to the dawning mind, to the
human being as such; we might with perfect consistency,
learn to rank the legitimate drama in the poetry of life.
But however this may be, there are many incidental experiences
where an universal end is pursued. About
every general object, personal associations abundantly
cling. There is deep truth in the great German writer's
remark—`every individual spirit wakes in the great
stream of multitude.' Lamb's first visit to the theatre was
powerfully associated with a plate prefixed to Rowe's
Shakspeare. This event with me, is linked with a deeper
reminiscence, for it occurred at an age of deeper susceptibility.

`I was educated at the University of St. Andrews, and
from a three years' residence there, divided between study,
solitary walks along the sea-shore, and attendance upon
prudential lectures daily delivered by the maiden aunt
with whom I resided, I was, all at once, removed to the
metropolis and entered as a law student. At Edinburgh,
I boarded with a distant relation who was a great musical
amateur. In his house there also resided a very eccentric
man, a dramatist by profession. He had an interest in

some score of plays, more or less popular, having either
composed or adapted them to the stage. The manager
of one of the principal theatres was his intimate friend,
and had exerted himself to bring out Mr. Connington's
dramas so successfully, that they were then yielding him
a very handsome income. At every meal, dramatic literature
was discussed, and the merits of various actors canvassed.
Not infrequently my kinsman, who was quite an
adept in such matters, gave imitations of the best tragedians,
by way of an evening's pastime. As you may
suppose, I soon became much interested in the subject of
these conversations. To me a new field of thought was
opened. And yet evening after evening, I declined invitations
to attend the theatre. This was thought quite surprising,
particularly as I manifested so much interest in
every thing that was going on there, and after a while took
no inconsiderable part in the dramatic conversations.
The truth was, my imagination was wrought up to the
highest pitch. My `first play' assumed an importance
in my mind, which it is difficult to describe. I came to
regard it as one of the great epochs of existence. I anticipated
its effects as nervous people sometimes fancy
the operation of some powerful nostrum, or as I can imagine
Sir Humphrey Davy looked forward to the effect
of a new gas. In consequence of this feeling, I made
great preparations for the event. I read Shakspeare with
greater attention than ever before, informed myself of the
history of the drama, read innumerable criticisms, biographies
and lectures illustrative of the whole subject, and
finally determined to be governed by circumstances as to
the occasion I should choose to make my debut as a playgoer.

`I entered our little parlor one cold, drizzly evening,
five years ago this very night, my head throbbing with six
long hours' delving into the mysteries of the law. In no
very good humor, I seated myself before the grate to
await the dinner hour. I was gazing rather moodily at
the fire, when something intercepted its rays; I looked
up, Mr. Connington was at my elbow holding a printed
bill before me. I could distinguish but one word, `Virginius.'
`Mr. Graham,' said my friend, `you must go
to-night.'—`I will,' said I, and we sat down to dinner.

`During the meal I was unusually silent. I was quite
oppressed with the thought that I was so near an end so
long anticipated. I fancied I had been too precipitate.
I felt like one standing at the entrance of a splendid
Gothic cathedral; it seemed to me that a single step
would bring me into an overpowering scene.

3. III.

`How little, my friend, can a man of acute, lively sensibilities
calculate upon the experience that awaits him!
A skilful devotee of science can predict, with a good degree
of certainty, the approach of celestial phenomena,
the existence of unseen fountains, and even the direction
of the unborn breeze; but who has the foresight to prophecy
the destiny of feeling—to indicate the next new
influence which shall arouse it, to trace its untravelled
course, or point confidently to its issue? A man conscious
of a fathomless tide of feeling within him, who throws
himself into a world of moral excitements, knows but

this, that he is doomed to feel deeply, variously, often to
suffer agony—often to enjoy delight. But the very means
he thought would prove most magnetic, may absolutely
fail to attract, and some unexpected agency, of which he
dreamed not, may approach the unguarded portal of his
soul, and take it by surprise. Such was my experience
when I trusted myself to dramatic influences. I had
thought to be subject to them as a philosopher; but while
seeking this end I was taught most emphatically to realize
my own humanity.

`The leading actress on the Edinburgh boards at the
period to which I refer, was Helen Trevor. This was
not, indeed, the name by which she was known to the
public; for being the daughter of a distinguished performer,
it was deemed expedient for her to appear under
her mother's family name, which was one of the highest in
the annals of the British stage. I first saw her in Virginia,
and never, no, never can I forget that memorable
evening. In the first act, when Virginius says to Servia,
`Go fetch her to me,' I observed all around me silent and
intent from expectation. It was not till the deafening
greetings had subsided, that I raised my eyes, and then
my cherished ideal of female beauty was realized. The
chaste dress of white muslin—the thick dark ringlets
about the neck—the simple girdle—the little satin band
around the beautiful brow—the quiet, gentle and touching
simplicity of the air and accents—all, all are before me.
How deeply I sympathised in the indignation of Virginius—how
I wept when he recited his daughter's praises!
Unfortunately, the part of Icilius was played by a novice.

Had it been otherwise, perhaps my emotions, overpowering
as they were, might have been subdued; but while all
the other characters satisfied me, his, Virginia's lover's,
the very part with which I felt myself identified, was
shamefully weak. I was absolutely maddened. The theatre
vanished from my mind. I thought of nothing,
cared for nothing but that fair young creature, and
the idea possessed me, with a frightful tenacity, that
I should one day be the true Icilius. As the play proceeded
I became more and more lost in this idea. It was
only when the wretched personator of the Roman lover
came on, that the illusion vanished. And then a bitter
and impatient hatred possessed me. I longed to clutch
the young man, and hurl him away. And when the
Roman father, in solemn and touching tones, said—
I tremblingly ejaculated, `We are, we are.' A lady in the
box thought I was faint and proffered her salts. I took
the vial mechanically, but was not recalled; for a moment
after, when the words reached my enamoured ear—
the query seemed addressed to me; unable longer to contain
what rushed to my lips, I rose, sprang upon the seat,
and shouted, `I will, I will'—but the words were broken
—I felt a hand close tightly over my mouth, and myself
lifted into the lobby, whence I was hurried, without a
word, into a hackney coach, by the dim lights of which I
discovered Mr. Connington, who had firmly grasped one
arm, while a gentleman, whom I recognised as an occupant
of the box, held the other. They evidently thought
me mad.

`This adventure was a salutary and timely lesson.
Never again did I betray any emotion. But I felt the
more. The drama which I had fancied would produce
such mighty effects on my mind, was nothing except as
it was associated with her. O my friend, you can have
no idea of what mingled ecstacy and bitterness is involved
in the love of an object of public admiration! Sometimes
I would have given worlds if Helen had been a
tradesman's daughter, living in honorable obscurity, and
then when evening came, I saw her personating the
grandest female characters of history, arrayed in an ideal
costume, uttering the noblest sentiments, and appearing
as the faithful, the self-denying, the beautiful representative
of her sex; and then, in those moments, I wished
her ever to be the same. But poor Shakspeare! where
was my reverence for him? Strange fantasy, the world
would have thought, had I written a new commentary on
his tragedies, to declare that the most eloquent line in Romeo
and Juliet was Lady Capulet's, `Nurse, where's my
daughter? call her forth to me'—and in Othello's speech,
the most awakening phrase the last, `Here comes my lady,

let her witness it.' Yet such they were to me, for
they called first upon the stage Juliet and Desdemona.

`Many weeks flew by, and my time was ostensibly divided
between Blackstone and the drama. My kinsman
frequently applauded this rare union of rational and imaginative
studies. `Few young men, cousin Frank,' he
would say, `choose so wisely. I perceive you did not
study the philosophy of the human mind, at St. Andrews,
in vain. Here you devote the day to legal investigations,
which, questionless, have a tendency to invigorate the understanding,
to create just habits of thinking, and train
the judgment; then your evenings are given to the greatest
imaginative amusement of this utilitarian age. You
cultivate a taste for the drama. Well, well, cousin, we'll
make a fine fellow of you yet.' In these remarks Mr.
Connington would coincide, neutralizing his praises
with the observation that Mr. Graham's dramatic criticisms
were, somehow or other, more vague and less to the
purpose, than before he attended the theatre.' Neither
of these sage observers of human nature, however, had
the least idea of the true state of the case. And, indeed,
it was not till late that I myself discovered with wonder
which partook strangely of regret and gladness, that it
was not Cordelia or Virginia that I loved, but Helen
Trevor.

4. IV.

`Hitherto my love had been ideal. Personal intercourse
had not revealed to me the imperfections of the
fair Thespian.—Report spoke highly of her character,
and the earnest approbation of the public sufficiently

indicated her professional genius. Strange as the
remark would seem to a mere worldly reasoner, you
my friend, will understand me, when I assert that
few attachments excelled mine in real and beautiful sentiment.
It was much like the love which we know ardent
men have cherished for a portrait, a statue, or the being
of their dreams.—Whatever the object of my affections,
in reality, was—however tainted with the alleged evil influences
of her pursuit, however intellectually endowed or
morally gifted—remember that as presented to me, she
was always the living portrait of departed worth, the renovated
image of some hallowed being, the human embodiment
of a poet's dream. Naturally favored with a classical
species of womanly beauty, displaying manners in
which feminine grace and modesty struggled with a vivid
conception of the part she was representing—you cannot
wonder that a hallow of romance was thrown around the
person of my idol. I never saw her but as the personator
of virtue. No other parts were adapted to her talents.
And thus, to my ardent fancy, she became the personification
of all that was good, and beautiful, and true.

`It was not in human nature to be long content with
such a semi-interchange of sympathy. Alas! the thought
struck me, all at once, that there had been no interchange,
that my heart had been given to one who knew me not—
that I was no more to the Thespian than the multitude
who nightly witnessed her performance. I felt foolishly
conscious of my wandering moods. I resolved, after
long and troubled musing, to come face to face with the
admired actress. And yet I feared to adventure. The

charm might be dissolved, or it might be confirmed.
What then? I should, at least, know my fate. Stripped
of the adventitious aid of her profession, she might prove
uninteresting. And then—I laughed wildly at the
thought—I should be free! Yet, in a moment I discarded
the idea. If I have been in bondage this month past,
thought I, then let me be a slave forever. It seemed to
me easier to die a victim to imaginary wo, than to return
again to barren studies or common cares. My resolution
taken, I grew impatient, yet never suffered myself
to think of what I was about to do, without realizing that
awe with which the German dramatist says all mortals
must `grasp the urn of destiny.'

`Capital, capital!' exclaimed Mr. Connington, one
morning, at the breakfast-table, as he laid down the Post
and resumed his muffin. `What is it?' inquired my
cousin, taking up the paper. `Why, an excellent criticism
on the Portia we saw Monday night.' `Ah! signed
F. G., too—who can that be?' `Who should it be but
Frank Graham?' asked the dramatist, his eye brightening
at the discovery. I could not deny the authorship. Mr.
Connington hastily swallowed his last cup of tea, and as
he left the room, with a significant nod, remarked—
`Well done, master Frank; she shall know it, too; she
shall, I declare.' I was after him in an instant. `My
dear Mr. Connington,' said I, `pray be careful. If you
choose to force this hasty notice upon the attention of
Miss —, do it in a way which shall impress her favorably
as to the author. See, see, my friend, that I am not
merged in her mind with the herd of coxcomb admirers

whom I am sure she despises.' The energy with which
I spoke astonished him, but recovering quickly from his
surprise, he replied, `Why, look you, my young man;
the literary editor of this paper is the best friend her
family ever had; I mean he shall tell her. And should
you like to know her, Frank? I'll ask him to introduce
you. What say?' I could scarcely speak from agitation.
So near the object of my wishes? It seemed impossible.
Clinging to Mr. Connington's arm, I accompanied him
down to the last step, succeeding finally in hurriedly signifying
my assent. I was lost in joyful surprise, from
which I was aroused by my cousin's voice reprimanding
the porter for leaving the street door open, and hastened
in, to prepare for the expected interview.

`That long forenoon passed heavily enough. Not an
iota of legal knowledge did it bring me. The dinner
hour came. I longed to know if Mr. Connington had
seen the editor; but the conversation, for the first time
since my arrival in Edinburgh turned upon foreign politics,
and argument ensued. I thought it inexpressibly
tedious. My abstraction was noticed, which I did not
regret, since it relieved my suspense. `Frank,' said the
dramatist, `your wits seem a wool-gathering. Rally,
man!—you 're a critic, you know. I'm sorry my editorial
friend has gone to Glasgow for a fortnight. I saw
him this morning, just as he was starting. Give my
regards to Mr. Graham,' said he; `I hope to form his
acquaintance on my return—and then, as you say he's
really a fine fellow—I'll introduce him to Miss —; a
thing I would not do for many young men. The lady

has no time to waste, and hates promiscuous acquaintances.'
I was terribly disappointed. A fortnight's delay
seemed an age. A proposal of my cousin suggested
consolation.—`Frank,' said he, `I want you to know
my friend Bouvier the composer; he has a sanctum near
the painting-room of the theatre—we'll go up and see
him to-night, between the acts.'

`The platforms extending over the wings, above the
stage are called the flies. They command a view of the
actors and the orchestra. It was necessary to cross these,
on our way to the composer's studio. I looked down a
moment as we passed, and was delighted to find that while
the stage was completely under my cognizance, I myself
was invisible to the performers, unless indeed they should
take great pains to spy me out. I determined to become
intimate with the musical occupant of this curious region,
that I might at will come hither, and, unseen, behold the
Thespian. Mr. Bouvier, upon my kinsman's favorable
representation of my talents, begged me to write the
words adapted to some opera music he was preparing.
And thus was I unexpectedly furnished with a reasonable
excuse for frequenting the vicinity of the hallowed scene
of my favorite labors.

`The next day, at about noon—the hour I had ascertained
she would be at rehearsal, I closed a huge volume
of commentaries, snatched up my hat, and, with a beating
heart, hastened to the theatre. I entered the private door,
passed through the corridors, by the range of dressing-rooms,
and, to my joy, encountered no one until I arrived
at the top of the stairs, where stood a knot of carpenters,

planning some stage device. They stared a little at my
appearance. `Where is Mr. Bouvier's room?' I inquired.
`This way, sir,' said one of the men, conducting me
across the apartment to a little door. The moment he
retired, I gently closed it behind me, and found myself
alone upon the flies. It was sometime before, in the kind
of twilight which prevailed, I could distinctly behold the
scene upon the stage. Near the foot-lights stood a small
table, upon which three or four candles were burning
amid a mass of papers, two or three books, and a standish.
Here sat a portly man who, I afterwards learned, was the
prompter; beside him was a lad technically denominated
the call-boy; and standing about in groups, pacing in
couples to and fro, or ranged in order and reading their
several parts, were the performers. It was only now and
then that a phrase or two stole up to my ear from the
voices below, but the tones familiar to my dreams arose
not.—Suddenly the readers paused and looked round, as
if a new personage should appear. The prompter whispered
to the urchin at his side, and the boy ran towards
the green-room, shouting the name that was to me so
sacred. Presently the Thespian entered. I saw her for
the first time in the ordinary habit of her sex. Her dress
was simple, but becoming in the extreme. Her manner
of greeting the performers, and their obvious deference
towards her, confirmed me in the idea I had formed of
her lady-like demeanor in private life. Hearing some one
approach, I glided into Mr. Bouvier's room. But to this
post of observation I daily repaired. Thence I watched
every movement and caught every tone of the Thespian
O how fleetly sped the hours as I leaned in watchful reverie
over the old oaken beam, and gazed down upon the
rehearsals! The superiority of my charmer among her
mates, her self-possessed dignity under the trying circumstances
of her lot—I saw and marked from my ærie, and
fondly remembered ever. Sometimes I was tempted to
spring down into the midst of the group who were blessed
with her presence. At such moments I turned aside
and paced the platform, then looked down again, and
wrestled with my impatience till she departed, and then
hurried into the street to catch a glimpse of her beautiful
figure, as it glided through the neighboring thoroughfares
to her home.

`The fortnight elapsed; the editor returned. It was a
fine, clear morning—I remember it as if it were to-day.
I was earlier than usual at my post, and judged, from the
aspect of things below, that a quarter of an hour would
elapse before the performers would assemble. Helen
was there. I was at the office of the Post in a trice.
`Is Mr. — in?' I breathlessly asked. `He is,' was the
reply, and I was shown into the inner room.

`Good morning, sir,' I began. “I am Mr. Graham,
the gentleman whom you kindly promised to introduce to
Miss —. She is at the theatre now, sir; the rehearsal
has not commenced. Can you conveniently accompany
me at once?'

`Certainly, sir, with the greatest pleasure. I have to
see the lady myself. I brought a letter from her brother
in Glasgow.'

`How we got to the theatre, I cannot tell. One over-powering

idea possessed me. I believed this introduction
was the turning point in my destiny. I answered only
in monosyllables to the editor's warm eulogiums of the
Thespian, and ran along almost dragging him, despite
his half articulated protestations against the pedestrianism
of country-bred Scotchmen. Emerging from the glare of
mid-day into the shadowy gloom of the theatre, we stopped
to take breath and accustom our dimmed vision to the
change. My companion taking my hand, drew me between
two scenes in about the centre line of the stage,
and there we began to observe.

`Is she here?' I asked faintly. Just then Helen appeared,
slowly walking up the stage, intent upon a manuscript.
She was dressed in a simple gown of black silk,
and over her neck was carelessly flung a shawl of richly
wrought lace of the same color. As she walked, the light
from a very high upper window fell directly upon her features;
and ever and anon, she lifted her full expressive
eye from the paper, and repeated to herself, as if to make
trial of her memory. When she came parallel with
us, my companion whispered her name. She turned towards
us; he stepped forward, and was instantly recognized
and kindly greeted. A few expressions passed between
them among which such words as—`news,' `cold,'
`Glasgow,' and others of an import so common-place
that they seemed to mock the solemn interest of my feelings,
when my companion beckoned me forward. I
approached with my hat in my hand and my heart in my
throat. `Miss —, this is the gentleman of whom I
spoke to you,—Mr. Francis Graham, of —.' `I

am happy to see you, Mr. Graham,' returned the Thespian,
with a smile that thrilled me, and an accent that
seemed heavenly. I bowed repeatedly. I looked my
veneration and tenderness. I could not speak.

5. V.

`I had passed the Rubicon, and thenceforth obeyed
the impulse of my feelings fearlessly and freely. Every
night found me behind the wings. The best oranges
that searching could procure in Edinburgh, the fairest
roses of the public gardens, did I lay, as votive offerings,
on the shrine of my idolatry. Five memorable times I
attended the Thespian to her home. On three memorable
evenings I sat beside her, in the midst of her family.
I was abundantly content. If any thing had been necessary
to deepen my interest, it was afforded by the acquaintance
I now formed with her character. She followed
her profession uncomplainingly, for the sake of those dependent
for support upon her toils. During a morning
walk to Salisbury crags, I resolved on the succeeding
night to offer my hand to the Thespian. I determined
to marry her openly; to lead her before the public on her
farewell benefit. As I strolled back to the city, I was
composing the poetical address which I determined she
should speak on this occasion, when the door of my law
office, which I had mechanically reached, interrupted my
muse. I gravely entered, took down the proper
volume in course, opened it at the right place, and seating
myself before the extended page, fixed my eyes intently

upon it, and was soon lost in—dreaming of Helen
Trevor.

`It was a lovely afternoon, the one preceding the evening
of my intended declaration. I was in my chamber,
cutting the dead leaves from some wild flowers, just
brought me from the country. Helen was to play Ophelia
that night, and these were destined for her `fennells,
columbines, and rue, her violets and daises.' There
was a noise in the passage. A sudden foreboding oppressed
me. The door slowly opened, and in walked
my old aunt, the Professor of Moral Philosophy in
the University at St. Andrews, my cousin and Mr. Connington.
There was an awful gravity in their countenances.
The flowers dropped from my hands; I was
aghast with astonishment and anxiety. The intruders silently
seated themselves. `Nephew,' said my aunt, in
the old lecture tone, but with unwonted severity of manner,
`I need not ask for whom those foolish weeds are designed;
I know all, sir. The disrespect you have shown
for the honor of your family, my honored kinsman has informed
me of. I warned him never to reprimand you,
but always to notify me of your misdemeanors. This he
has done, in season, happily, to prevent farther mischief.
Your learned friend, here,—and she pointed to the professor—starts
to-morrow for France. We have decided
that he shall be the companion of your travels. Prepare
to accompany him, sir.'

`Suffice it to add, that I was forced from Edinburgh
without being permitted to see the Thespian. Nearly
five years have I been on the continent. Knowledge I

have devotedly pursued, but I was born to live and joy
in feeling. I have never entered a theatre since my departure
from home, till to night, the anniversary of my
`first play.' I ventured, and you saw how I was over-come,
ay, and lured into repeating, for the first time during
my exile, the tale you have so patiently heard.'

`Receive my earnest thanks, and all my sympathy,' I
replied; `but what became of the Thespian?'—`She went
to America, and report says she is there married.'

`One query more ere you go'—for he had risen to depart—`deep
as is your grief, you evidently have a theory
that supports you. I have seen you cheerful—what is it?
He smiled, and taking a miniature edition of Childe Harold
from his pocket, said, `It is written here;' then
grasping my hand, he repeated with great force and pathos,
the following lines: