University of Virginia Library

ELIZABETH LATIMER.

It is hard that, with man, talent, combined with perseverance,
should be almost omnipotent to overcome
obstacles the most numerous and formidable, while in
the hands of woman, it is often wholly useless, unless
fortunate circumstances, such as wealthy or literary
connexions, obtain for the possessor the opportunity of
gaining by its display, fortune and fame. The spirit of
enterprise that characterizes the present age, gives to
man `ample room and verge enough' to pursue any
plan that genius may suggest. The world is all before
him. From pole to pole he may choose whether to add
to the history of his species by voyages and discoveries,
or, by speculations at home, direct the movements of
argosies. In literature he has only to give to the world
the treasures of his mind, the musings of his solitude, or
the recollections of his youth, and let it but bear the
stamp of genius it will meet with an `All hail!' But it
is not so with woman. Few and rugged are the paths
by which her genius, unaided and alone, may climb even
to competence. Natural timidity, a retired education,
the fear of encountering the prejudice that has so long
condemned her to a subordinate rank of intellect, and
which, by a strange perverseness, finds a charm in the
helplessness of those beings from whom at times are
demanded self-denial and exertion, all cast a spell round
her, which is seldom broken by her single efforts. There
are not more mute, inglorious Miltons in a country
churchyard than among the number of women doomed

to the exercise of some spirit breaking, monotonous craft
in order to procure means for the support of existence.

The daughter of Neckar might find in the brilliant
circles of Paris a field for the display of her lofty powers.
Miss Edgeworth, Miss Baillie, and some few others
have been led by judicious and encouraging friends,
to break through the obstacles which society opposes
to the acquisition of female literary excellence, and to
give occasion for doubts on the question whether there
be, as the uncourteous physiologist Lawrence asserts, a
sex to the mind. Many, unwilling to yield to the public
the charms of a mind cultivated in retirement, form the
delight of a domestic circle, and impart their accomplishments
to their sons or daughters, but there are
many, a great many, who have neither father, friend,
nor brother of sufficient importance to force them, with
gentle violence before the world; who have, alas! no
domestic circle, no sons or daughters, and who, from a
reverse of fortune, feel their highest aspirations, their
brightest dreams of fancy, chilled and dispelled by anxiety
about `to-morrow's fare.'

Such an isolated being was Elizabeth Latimer, who,
at twentyfour, found herself in possession of an accomplished
mind, a memory stored with reading of the best
kind, and a judgment accustomed to exercise itself from
its earliest developement; and this, with a graceful person
and a countenance of great sweetness and intelligence,
was pretty nearly all that Elizabeth possessed.
She had been for many years the only daughter of a
merchant, who, though he did not, like some of the
merchants of this city,[1] draw his resourses from all the
ends of the earth, yet possessed enough for the indulgence
of luxury. The indications of talent which he

very early discovered in the young Elizabeth, determined
him to bestow on her an education that would save
her from adding to the number of those precocious geniuses,
who, from a misapplication of their powers, become
unfit either for the daily concerns of life, or to hold
a place among those who are gradually procuring indulgence
and respect for female intellect. With this view
he engaged a gentleman who had been a classmate of
his, and who had devoted himself to literature, to take
up his abode with him and assist him in cultivating his
daughter's mind.

`You will easily understand,' he wrote to Mr Elliot,
`with what different eyes I look upon this subject from
those with which I regarded it twenty years ago. To
have mind enough to love and obey me, and, withal,
think me supremely wise, was quite mind enough in a
wife, but I am willing to pay it greater respect since I
find it in my darling Elizabeth.

`As I am as anxious about her moral as her intellectual
education, I dread, lest, being an only child, and
surrounded by all that will tend to her gratification, she
may form habits of selfishness, against which no warnings,
no precepts will avail. A companion of her own
age would secure her from this risk, and I can think of
no one so well suited, on all accounts, to be brought up
with my little girl as your own Marianne. I need not
assure you how entirely like my own daughter she shall
be considered.'

We will not detail the progress of Elizabeth's studies.
They were such as opened her young mind to all that
was lovely in virtue and lofty and excellent in intellect.
She lived principally in the country, in a small but intelligent
circle, sufficiently enlightened to save them
from the dominion of a gossiping spirit, yet not so learned
as to allow her to acquire anything like a pedantic one.

The tranquillity of their own house had received a
startling shock when Elizabeth was about fifteen, by
Mr Latimer's bringing home a second wife, very little
more than her own age, but of entirely different temper,
habits, and tastes. It was then that Mr Latimer perceived
that he had done wisely in giving to Elizabeth
habits by which she could abstract her thoughts from
the jarrings of a stepmother, jealous of her, of her gentle
friend Marianne, of Mr Elliot, of everything that her
husband loved. But their school of trial did not last
long. Mrs Latimer only lived to present her husband
with a son, and expired, leaving all the family with just
such sensations as one feels on awaking from an uncomfortable
dream, and Elizabeth and her father heaved a
sigh of relief as they inwardly responded `Amen!' to
the clergyman of the village who came to pay them a
visit of consolation.

When Elizabeth entered into society, she carried with
her many warnings from her father to avoid the display
of acquirements which were not common to all. She
listened, determined to profit by his advice, though she
felt there was some injustice in laying this embargo upon
wit and learning. `Why,' thought she, `should miss C—
be permitted, nay, solicited, to display her playing and
singing, both excellent enough to excite envy, while all
the powers that I possess must be so sedulously concealed?
However, as there is no reasoning to any
purpose on this apparent inconsistency, I will try to resemble
the greater part of the world I am going to
mingle with;' and in imagination she behaved with perfect
discretion, occupied only in veiling the mistakes of
the ignorant, in drawing out the talents of the timid,
nicely discriminating when and with whom to talk seriously
or lightly, and gliding through society with all the
tact which only a knowledge of the world, gained by

one's own experience and much practice in that world,
can give. But poor Elizabeth found herself sadly at
loss when she encountered a bewildering number of new
faces, whose ready smiles and pliancy of expression
concealed all that was passing in the heart. She felt it
as impossible to catch the light tone of those around
her, to talk of nothing, to express rapture and enthusiasm
where she felt only indifference, as it would have
been for one of the gay circle to have shone forth as an
improvisatrice. Being perfectly unaffected and simple,
she took refuge in silence; but her speaking countenance
often betrayed the listlessness she felt, and as
the silence of persons who are known, or supposed to
be able, to talk well, is looked upon with an invidious
eye, she felt a degree of restraint, whether she spoke or
not, which prevented her ever taking much pleasure in
the amusements of the world. But there were some
whom she did please, and that in no moderate degree.
The cultivated and intelligent found a charm in her
manner that they recollected with pleasure long after
she had retired from society. She had a happy facility
of passing from subject to subject by an easy gradation,
so as never to fatigue by dwelling too long on one topic,
nor to startle by an abrupt and violent digression; an
art which is seldom well understood. We are too apt to
suppose that the same associations exist in our companion's
mind as in our own, and suddenly transport him
from sea to sky and back again, with a suddenness that
makes our conversation appear little better than cold
disjointed chat.

`That is a very charming woman,' said Mr Leslie to
his neighbour, as Elizabeth withdrew with the ladies
from a large dull dinner party; `I have not met any
one so piquante and original for a long while.'

`Who? Miss Latimer? oh, true! but I suspect she
has sharpened her wits by an acquaintance with Horace.'

`How!' rejoined Leslie; `you do not mean to say
that that pretty girl quotes Horace?'

`No; I never heard her quote at all; I must do her
that justice; but she seems to have had her eyes opened
to the follies of mankind.'

`Well, but the English satirists may have done her
that service, though I cannot recollect hearing her say
anything that touched upon her neighbour's follies.'

`Wait a little; you will every now and then hear
something that shows more reading than you at first
suspect her of. Besides, she always fatigues me by
her allusions. I do not find a half hour's chat with her
any relaxation.'

`Now I, on the contrary,' said Leslie, `have been
delighted with what you complain of. There is something,
too, very novel and attractive in her manner.
There is no effort. She gives herself up to the animation
of the moment with an absence of art or affectation that
is quite enchanting.'

`Upon my word you seem quite épris. I will tell
Mrs Leslie of you.'

`I shall tell her myself. She will be equally pleased
with her, for Mrs Leslie is as great a worshipper of
talent as I am, whether it be found in man or woman.'

Unfortunately for Elizabeth, both Mr and Mrs Leslie
were called suddenly from Boston by the death of a relative,
and the impression made on the mind of the former
was dissipated by business and a variety of scenes.
About this time Elizabeth lost her friend Marianne,
who married an English gentleman and accompanied
him to England. Mr Elliot was persuaded to join them,
and Mr Latimer found his household reduced to a small
number. But his mind seemed too much occupied to miss

his companions, and, to Elizabeth's grief, she discovered
that her father was bent upon making a fortune for
his son Louis. In vain she urged that Louis would
never want, and the possession of wealth might only
check exertion by depriving him of a stimulus to industry.
She represented to him the risk he ran by
engaging so deeply in speculations, none of which had
hitherto been successful; but Mr Latimer had the
gambling fit so strong upon him, that he looked forward
to seeing his ships riding the ocean laden with the
treasures of the Asiatic islands, and realizing the wildest
dreams of his avarice. Elizabeth deplored this for his
own and for Louis's sake. She saw how the fluctuations
of hope and despair, the pangs of suspense and repeated
disappointments, preyed upon her father's health
and spirits, and she anticipated for Louis and herself
the loss of all they had considered their own.

But these fears were transient. We seldom reflect long,
amid the enjoyments of affluence, upon their precarious
nature. She retired from the world and devoted herself
to her father, and to the education of Louis, whom she
loved with all a mother's tenderness. He was indeed a
sweet and gentle child, fond only of books and sedentary
amusements, and Elizabeth's time passed away as
happily as time passed in the exercise of duty usually
does. She was often uneasy, often tormented by vague
fears of future poverty and distress, but these were only
clouds that overshadowed her at times. Her horizon
generally was bright; but the blow anticipated fell upon
her at last. Mr Latimer had ventured the remains of
his fortune in a speculation which was to enrich Louis
and his posterity forever.

After many months' suspense the news reached Mr
Leslie that he was ruined. He did not long survive it,
and his son and daughter found themselves friendless

and poor. A few hundred dollars was all that could be
collected for them, nor had they any claims upon others.
They had but few family friends, and Elizabeth's was
not a spirit to brook dependence. Poverty at first sight
is not so frightful as when it comes near enough to lay
its cold, griping fingers on us; and, in the present excited
state of her feelings, the prospect of maintaining
herself, did not appear as difficult as she afterwards
proved it. Her idea of submission to the will of Heaven
was not confined to subduing a murmur, when death
has removed, by a stroke, the desire of our eyes. She
had been accustomed to exercise it in all the disappointments
and sorrows of her life; for who, at twentyfour,
has not tasted of the bitterness of the waters of life? A
few passages of her letter to Marianne will show how
schooled her mind had been, by being early taught of
Heaven.

`You know, dearest Marianne, your excellent father
often cautioned us against trusting to our perceptions of
Heaven's justice. With him we were accustomed to
trace, in the records of history, the hand of Infinite Wisdom
guiding all things onward to some great end, that
should vindicate his ways to future ages. Ah! how
easy it is for the thoughtful mind to pursue this truth
through events that have passed away! how much easier
than to acknowledge it when our idols have been overthrown!
We are personal only in those things which
can do us no good. Let me now lay those lessons to
heart, and follow the obvious track which Providence
has marked out for me. It seems very plain—I must
support myself and the darling object of my lost parent's
love. The manner of doing this is very embarrassing.
My mind is full of energy, but where to bestow it, costs
me days and nights of anxious thought.'

Mr Latimer had insisted, some months before his
death, that Louis should be placed at a large public
school. Elizabeth had consented to his plan with readiness,
though it grieved her to part with the little companion
whose quickness enabled him to catch with
facility everything she taught him; but she was aware
that a public school is indispensable towards acquiring
manly habits, and that independence of ridicule, which
are necessary to all who walk the world, however retired
be the path they choose.

It was evening, and she was alone when she took
possession of two small rooms in — Street. Dull and
dreary was the aspect of everything. The window of
the little sittingroom was close to a high stone wall,
nor were light and beauty shut out from that entrance
only. From her chamber window nothing could be discerned
but a long range of warehouses. There was not
even the sight or sound of labor to cheer the prospect.
`A cobbler or a blacksmith would enliven the scene,'
thought Elizabeth, `but I hope I shall not stay here
long.' Her first attempt to escape from her new dwelling
was a letter to a lady with whom she had long
been intimate. Her plan was to open a school, and she
solicited Mrs Graham's assistance, or rather patronage,
without taking into consideration how little that lady
had to bestow. She answered Elizabeth kindly, explaining
to her that her influence was confined to five
or six families, none of whom had it in their power to
engage for their children an instructress whose accomplishments
would entitle her to a higher salary than
is given to those who teach the elementary parts of
education.

Over this first disappointment Elizabeth did not long
weep. Keeping a school is a very depressing prospect,
and she felt almost relieved by Mrs Graham's letter.

Her next application was to a lady who was desirous
of procuring a governess for her daughters—one of those
ladies whose beau idéal of a governess, is that of a being
with every talent and every virtue under heaven, combined
with a degree of humility that will endure every
insult that narrow minds bestow upon the unfortunate.
Mrs S— gave her a week's suspense, then found
her way into Elizabeth's parlour one morning, with a
`How d'ye do, Miss Latimer—for I suppose that's you.
I believe I've made you wait for an answer, but I've
been so beset. People are so anxious to get to me, as
if I could take a hundred. But, before we go any further,
we must settle one thing—you're a musician of
course?'

The color that had been deepening on Elizabeth's
cheeks, became crimson as she faintly answered, `No,
Madam.'

`No! Gracious goodness! what could you be thinking
of when you offered yourself as governess? Such a
salary as I give, and pay a music master besides!'

`Then reduce the salary,' Elizabeth began, but Mrs
S— stopped her—

`What! and get a master for the girls! What's that
to the purpose. You ought to be able to superintend
their practising. Well, that sets the matter at rest.
Good morning, Ma'm,' and Mrs S— made her exit
as abruptly as her entrance, leaving Elizabeth a foretaste
of what she afterwards suffered from other applications
and other disappointments.

One lady objected to her because she could not teach
velvet painting. It was in vain Elizabeth, who liked
the mild tones of this amateur in footstools and sofa
covers, urged the superiority of the higher branches
of painting. `That might do for artists,' said the lady,
and Elizabeth took her leave. Another expected her

to teach embroidery and shoemaking to six daughters;
but the most fatal bar to her success was the want of a
knowledge of music.

After many failures she relinquished the hope of
obtaining a situation, and turned her thoughts to her
last resource. She determined, with a heavy heart, to
offer her services as a translator to a publisher whom
she had often heard spoken of as a man of taste and
liberality. Translating is a fatiguing and inglorious
task, but she had no alternative. While she was hesitating
whether to address him by letter or apply to him
in person, Mr Warren was announced. Elizabeth knew
him well; for he had been a frequent visiter at Mr
Latimer's. He was remarkable only for his extreme
dulness, and his desire of being thought a man of genius
and learning. He picked up scraps from pocket-books
and newspapers, and wearied his friends by commonplace
remarks, uttered in a tone of oracular wisdom.
His address to Elizabeth was hesitating and confused.
He was usually wont to speak with a deliberateness
that fell upon the ear like the strokes of a hammer, but
now he spoke with a rapidity that made him quite unintelligible.
With an uneasy looking about as if he
dreaded being overheard, at last he abruptly asked her
if money had been her object in wishing to procure a
situation as governess.

`Certainly,' said Elizabeth; `what else could induce
me to undertake such an office?'

He muttered something about his sorrow at her
wanting it and his wish to serve her, then opened his
business, prefaced, however, by desiring a promise of
secrecy. Elizabeth, inwardly provoked at his solemn
foppery, promised all he required, and he then informed
his impatient auditress, that several of his literary friends
were about to establish a critical journal, in which all

the best talents of the city were to be displayed—`and
you will not be surprised,' said he, `to hear, that much
is expected from me, particularly in the department of
the belles lettres. I hope you are not surprised,' he
continued, as he saw the astonishment painted on Elizabeth's
countenance.

`No, I am never surprised at people's expectations,
and I am sure Mr. Warren will not disappoint those
formed by his well judging friends; but pray proceed.'

`Every body says to me, “Warren! now is your
time. This is the opportunity for you to show your
critical acumen. Seize the moment, Warren! and give
us something that will be read a hundred years hence.”
I am pressed on all sides, and I begin to feel that I
really ought, in justice to myself, to do something to
keep up the credit of this journal.'

`He is mad,' thought Elizabeth, `or has been in the
hands of some dexterous quizzer;' and she sighed as
she thought that he could have nothing to say that could
interest her, for she had at first hoped that he might
bring her occupation. However, Warren went on;—

`My health, you know, is delicate, and my avocations
very numerous; and from various causes I am afraid I
shall not be able to write until the spring; but, in the
mean time, my dear Miss Latimer, I will make use of
your pen. Our minds—I say it without flattery, belive
me—our minds are somewhat of the same order,
allowing for the difference of sex and education. Now,
all I ask of you is this; just give me, from time to time,
a critique upon some modern writer, and now and then
we will review an old one. I leave the choice of subjects
to you; of course you will have the advantage of
my additions and corrections. Well, what say you?
Does the scheme appear feasible? However, I see you
are taken by surprise. An hour's reflection will be

necessary. Good morning. This evening you shall
see me again.'

`He has made me laugh, at least,' said Elizabeth,
after an impatient `pshaw!' `I always thought him a
fool, but never expected such an excess of folly from
him; but it will cure me of attempting to set bounds to
the folly of a foolish man.'

Elizabeth did not, at first, give his plan a second
thought. The idea of being joined with Warren in a
work which she knew would be conducted by men of
learning and science, was absurd in the last degree, and
she began her letter to the publisher, but her reluctance
to undertake this laborious kind of occupation increased
every moment. She threw down her pen and abandoned
herself to despondency. Then, in spite of herself,
Warren's plan recurred to her. It was not as ridiculous
as she had thought. There had been, she recollected,
instances of starving authors in a garret, while the indolent
or empty were building up a reputation upon
their labors. Besides, Warren would not be the first
fool who had thrust himself into the place of wiser men.
They are to be found everywhere—in the halls of legislators,
in the cabinet of ministers. They have had their
followers and their eulogists, and we have only to look
behind the scenes to exclaim with Oxtenstiern, `Quam
parvâ sapientiâ regilur mundus!' At all events it would
not be Warren, but herself, who would write, and though
she doubted her own capacity for the task, still she
wished to try. It offered a means of accomplishing her
grand object, keeping Louis at school, and it had the
charm of privacy; for, since her unsuccessful attempts
to escape from her gloomy closets, she had shrunk into
them with a feeling more allied to love than to distaste.

By the time Warren returned, Elizabeth had so
balanced the advantages of his scheme against its objections,

as to give him the assent he expected. His
presence revived the ridiculous ideas that his proposal
had at first suggested. The tone of his voice was
expressive of extreme dulness, and there was a stupidity
about him that completely oppressed Elizabeth.
She began to be ashamed of acceding to his plan,
doubting, indeed, if any production, supposed to be his,
would obtain a reading from the editor. However, a
short time would decide her fate, and she resolved to
make the experiment. She inquired beforehand what
was to be the compensation for her trouble. He named
the probable sum.

`You rate intellectual labor very low,' said she, `but
no wonder. However, that, four or five times repeated,
will be enough for my purpose. You are aware that
you must furnish me with books. I must have a great
many authorities to bring to the field. A man like you
will be expected to be very accurate.'

He professed himself willing to be guided by her in
everything, begged her to try and catch his style, and
urged her over and over to exert herself to the utmost,
before he relieved her of his presence.

Elizabeth began her task with great animation, but
she soon found it more difficult than she had anticipated.
Her mind was full, yet she was puzzled and distressed.
She wanted the habit of writing, which, alone, according
to Lord Bacon, insures correctness. She found great
difficulty in arranging and condensing her ideas, and
preserving a degree of order, without which, even the
writings of the learned and brilliant, appear a chaotic
mass. She had to weigh well all she said, lest she
should be guilty of error or presumption. Her subject
was a comparison between the writers of the reign of
Anne and the present day. It was not without some
timidity that she expressed opinions opposed to the prevailing

cant which raves about the march of mind.
Physical science is in its glory, and philosophy has
made such magnificent presents to the arts, that knowledge
is carried with winged speed from the college to
the cottage; but mind, alas! must have its limits, must
obey the law which says, `So far shalt thou come and
no farther.'

Though Elizabeth wrote with facility, she was obliged
to refer to so many authorities, to correct and strike out
so many redundances, that she sat up a great part of
the night previous to the latest day on which Warren
was to call for her little essay. It was finished at last,
and she committed it to its trial with a beating heart.

Great was the astonishment of the editor when Warren
presented himself in his library with a manuscript
of an imposing size in his hand. Greater still at sight
of the subject; and it rose to its highest pitch after
reading the first few sentences. He knew little of
Warren, but he had always heard his name used as a
synonym with dulness, and he was betrayed into abruptly
exclaiming, `Mr Warren! I had no idea—I mean I
did not expect—Mr Warren, is this yours?'

The blush of guilt flew to poor Warren's face, but
Mr Leslie hastened to apologize. `Leave it with me
for an hour or two,' said he, `and you shall hear from
me to-morrow.'

Elizabeth had, once before, charmed Mr Leslie by
the playfulness of her conversation and the occasional
accuteness of her remarks. There was a nameless
something in her style that pleased him, and he accepted
Warren's production without hesitation, determining,
at the same time, to vindicate him from the charge of
ignorance and stupidity.

As soon as Warren received what gave him a delight
which he felt in the same degree with Harpagon—that

of `touching something,' he hastened in a transport of
generosity to divide it with Elizabeth. It was more than
she had hoped for, and the consciousness of possessing
the means of contributing to her own support, gave an
exhilaration to her spirits to which she had long been a
stranger. She walked to the school where Louis was
making a progress that repaid her for parting with him,
and paid, with a thrill of delight, the first fruits of her
industry to his master.

Dr B—'s seminary was a mile out of town, and the
fresh air of the country, the song of the birds, the very
sight of the sky, made her heart glow again with hope
and peace. She had something to look forward to.
Louis would, one day, reward her toils. She should
one day recount to him how, for his sake, she had conquered
the indolence and love of leisure which she foresaw
would be a stumblingblock in his way. To see
Louis kindling at the tale of her difficulties and promising
to repay them all, to hear him spoken of with distinction,
and to witness his happiness and success in
life, now formed her daily reveries. Her pen often fell
from her hand while indulging in these dreams. Dreams
they were indeed.

She continued to supply Warren with materials for
the fame he was acquiring, though there were times
when Mr Leslie strongly doubted his positive assertions
that he was the author of the manuscripts. There was
a taste, an elegance in their style, and a sensibilty that
he felt never came from the coarse mind of Warren.
However, he had no means of elucidating the point, and
gave it up, hoping that accident might one day or other
expose the deception.

In the mean time, Warren, who began to find the
sums he received from Mr Leslie extremely convenient
for his own purposes, began to reduce Elizabeth's share

to a third, and then a fourth of the whole. `She cannot
want much,' he argued with his conscience, `living in
those little garrets. I do n't see how she can possibly
spend five dollars in six months, and always plainly
dressed too. I really think I give her more than enough.
I dare say she can manage a little to great advantage.'

People who are extravagant on themselves, are often
wonderfully ingenious in devising plans of economy for
others. Elizabeth was surprised at this falling off; but,
in the simplicity of her heart, she never suspected him
of such a pitiless fraud. `I have overrated my own productions,'
said she, `and yet I certainly think I have
improved. I have studied the rules of good writing;
I read with a deeper spirit of observation; it is strange
my pieces should appear of less value to the publishers
in proportion as they seem to me more spirited and
better finished. Perhaps they are thought studied. I
myself find a sameness in them.'

Among the many causes she was attributing her
diminished resources to, the true one never occurred to
her. She knew, of course, from Warren's imposing on
Mr Leslie and the public, that he was not a man of
much principle. Indeed, a fool cannot have strict principles.
He cannot distinguish sufficiently between right
and wrong; but, in the broad path of honesty, she
thought he might find his way.

A year passed on, and she found that she had just
enough to defray Louis's school expenses, and nothing
to lay by towards sending him to college. Her health,
too, was impaired by constant application, and her spirits
crushed by the unvaried sameness of her employment.
Sweet is the sleep of the laboring man; but it must be
that labor which feels the breath of heaven fan the
brow—alternate motion and rest. But when, after a
whole day has been passed in mental exercise, the

fevered head is laid upon its pillow and the stretched
and burning eyelids refuse to close, when the glare of
white paper, or interminable rows of letters dance before
the throbbing eyeballs, and one idea haunts the
brain till its repetition becomes maddening—these, these
are the pains and penalties of mind that make us wish
to have been born among those whose hands alone are
employed to procure their daily bread.

Elizabeth had been accustomed to study and reflection,
but there is something very different between study
in a large and airy chamber where light and shade are
pleasantly blended, when the first sensations of fatigue
may be dissipated by exercise or conversation, and
leaning incessantly over a flat, low table, by the side of
a little window where light is struggling with darkness.
She felt her health languish, her head ached incessantly,
but still she went on for several months, indulging herself
now and then with a walk to Dr B—'s, and an
evening spent at Mrs Graham's. This lady had often a
little circle of friends around her, whose society would
have been of service to Elizabeth's spirits, but she
shrunk from company, and, with an irritability peculiar
to the unfortunate, who feel lonely, neglected, and
unappreciated, often repulsed those who wished to be
kind to her.

`My temper is growing savage,' said she, one evening,
while she was putting on her hat to go to her friend's;
`I believe I answered that kind and lovely looking
woman who spoke so sweetly to me the last time I was
at Mrs Graham's, with a canine growl. But alas! I
felt a horrid kind of envy at seeing a creature so happy
and apparently so beloved by every one present. Her
happiness did not seem to be put on for the occasion,
but the abiding expression of her face, and while I was
contrasting her situation with mine, to hear her speak

to me with that easy, confiding tone of voice, that came
from a heart at ease—oh! she would have forgiven me
if she had seen the wretchedness of mine!' and Elizabeth
sat down and wept in penitence at having given
way to such feelings.

She hoped to meet Mrs Leslie again, and was disappointed
to find Mrs Graham alone. She dared not
speak of Mrs Leslie, for she felt her voice falter as she
thought of her. Yet she tried to induce Mrs Graham
to begin the subject. But as she was drawing a portrait
of gentleness and beauty which made her friend
exclaim, `Why one would think you were acquainted
with Mrs Leslie,' Mr Graham came in, and, after
expressing his pleasure at seeing Elizabeth, whose absence
from his little parties had pained him, he turned
to Mrs Graham and asked her if she had any idea to
whom she was indebted for the pleasure of her morning's
reading.

`No,' said she; `I am glad you remind me of it, for
I thought of Elizabeth while I was reading. It is,' she
continued, turning to her friend, `a very well written
essay upon simplicity, real and affected; and contrasts
the strong, manly simplicity of Crabbe with the childish,
unmeaning prattle of Wordsworth, in almost the same
words which I have heard you make use of in arguing
with Marianne.'

Elizabeth trembled. She suspected Mr Graham alluded
to her, but he went on; `I would ask you to
guess the author, but I should be weary of seeing you
puzzled. Know, then, that Warren—Philip Augustus
Warren—is the principal contributor to Mr Leslie's
journal.'

`Now, I am not surprised,' said his wife, `for it is
impossible to make me believe such a tale. You forget
we both know Warren, and know that he is ignorant as

well as dull. I question much if he knows what poetry
is, unless he attaches some idea of rhyme to it.'

`I thought so myself, but listen. This morning I was
talking with Mr Leslie, who was in his library, where,
to my surprise, I found Warren taking down books and
turning over leaves with quite the air of an author.
Something was said about the miseries of authors;—
“They are no longer pecuniary miseries,” said Leslie.
“The times are changed since Dryden wrote prologues
for two guineas apiece.” Here Warren turned briskly
round, exclaiming, “Two guineas! bless me! times are
changed. Why, Mr Leslie, I receive more than triple
that sum for some of my humble contributions to your
journal.” I looked at Leslie with as much amazement
as if I had heard him proclaim himself the emperor of
China; but Leslie did not look surprised, he only said,
“Very true.” I waited a long time for Warren to go
away, that I might understand this mystery, and at
length I learned that he regularly carries Mr Leslie
every month a paper for his magazine. He pointed
them out to me in some of the numbers, and I assure
you they were the same I have frequently heard you
admire.'

`Even now,' said Mrs Graham, `I do not believe it.
He is vain as well as foolish, and he has either stolen
those pieces, or hired some one to write them.'

`That is what I hinted to Leslie; but he told me that
he had once offended Warren by expressing his own
doubts on the subject, and that his assurances of their
being his were so positive that he felt he had no right
to accuse him of falsehood till he had proved it. One
thing that disgusted me in Warren was his counting up
the money he had received, and muttering every now
and then, “Dryden wrote prologues for two guineas!
Why, I have made two hundred dollars in the last six

months.” That entirely convinced me that he is speculating
in the talents of some one he keeps concealed.'

It is impossible to describe Elizabeth's indignation at
learning how she had been deceived. She did not hesitate
a moment how to act. Warren was to call the
next morning for some manuscripts that she had ready
for him, and she determined to speak to him of the
baseness of his conduct, and break with him at once.
But there is something in the mere presence of a fool
that blunts our most eloquent reproaches. It would be
absurd, she thought, to talk to him of defrauding the
orphan; it will be enough to tell him he has acted dishonestly,
and that I will no longer `lend him my pen.'

Warren turned pale at her stern inquiry whether he
had fulfilled his promise of giving her whatever he
should receive from the editor. He solemnly declared
that he had done so, but Elizabeth stopped him short by
repeating, word for word, the conversation that had passed
in Mr Leslie's library. `Now, Mr Warren, after
this, it is impossible that I can continue to give up time
and health for you. You know the object of my labor;
you know my anxiety to procure for Louis the advantages
of a good education, and you have enriched yourself
at my expence. Find somewhere else a pen that
will be at your service; mine writes not another word
for you.'

It was in vain Warren entreated, promised, swore.
He even knelt to conjure her to retract. He offered to
refund, to pay most liberally; but she was inexorable,
and he was obliged to depart, cursing his own folly for
boasting of making more by his pen than Dryden by
his prologues.

And now, what was to become of Elizabeth? She
thought of sending her papers to Mr Leslie, but that
would instantly betray Warren, and she had promised

him to be silent. She was strongly tempted, but resisted.
`He has behaved ill to me, certainly,' said she,
`but I must not, on that account, forget my own principles.
It is the spirit of retaliation that makes dishonesty
travel on like a snowball. I must not think of
such redress, but what am I to do? The Grahams have
already proved their inability to assist me. However,
“God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” and, hurrying
to her room, Elizabeth put on her bonnet and set
out for the publisher to offer herself as a translator.'

The courteousness of her reception encouraged her,
but he looked dubious as to the success of her plan.
`Translations did not take,' he said; `at present—almost
every body read French, and the best novels were
already translated.'

`But,' said Elizabeth, hurriedly, `I do not confine myself
to French or to novels. I know several languages
and have the habit of writing. Let me undertake any
work that you will risk the publication of; and if you
are not satisfied I will give it up.'

For several minutes she waited in suspense while he
knit his brows, tapped upon the table, and gave evident
signs of hesitation. At length, he said, `Well, Madam,
there is a work of Herder's that you may try.'

`May try!' Elizabeth rose, then sat down again.
At last, summoning all her fortitude, she said, `My
object is neither amusement nor reputation, Sir. I
simply write for my support, and came to know if you
would give me occupation, with a moderate compensation.'

Mr C— was touched by the look of pain and weariness
on her countenance, and agreed immediately to give
her a hundred dollars for an elegant translation. The
sum sounded magnificent, and she retraced her steps
with a lightened heart.

But her task proved tedious and difficult. The extreme
attention it required fatigued her mind. There
were subjects for verbal criticism that required a great
deal of thought, and, in the present state of her health,
thought and study completely overpowered her. Eighteen
months of seclusion and application, uncheered by
success, and rendered still more painful by the privations
to which poverty is liable, had destroyed the vigor of
her mind and injured a frame that had never been robust.
There were times when she felt such a dying
away of her mental powers that she feared her faculties
were leaving her. She sought to revive her sinking
spirits by going oftener to Mrs Graham's, and by frequent
walks to Dr B—'s, but the exertion now became
a toil, and panting for breath she would sit on a bank at
some distance from the school, hoping that chance or
sport might lead her darling in that direction. One
evening he did discover her, and rushing into her arms
reproached her for her long absence.

`You must ask leave to come and see me, Louis. This
walk is not a short one, you know, and I am apt to be tired.'

Louis looked at her and attempted to speak, but turned
his head away and burst into tears. Elizabeth
soothingly inquired into his distress, and found that he
wished to be taken from school.

`Oh! do not deny me, dearest Elizabeth. It is for
me you look so thin and pale. Instead of living in
comfort, you are spending all you have upon me. Now
take me from school and bind me to some trade. Do n't
look so shocked! I have been reading the Life of
Franklin, and if he, from being an apprentice to a printer,
rose to be such a great man, why should I despair? Do,
dear sister, bind me to a printer. It is the best trade—
at least, the most agreeable trade I can think of, and
some years hence I may repay all your goodness.'

`Louis—Louis—dear, generous boy! do not pain me
by such language. You can requite me better by applying
to your studies, than by tryng the uncertainty of
rising from obscurity into eminence. You forget Dr
Franklin had a wonderful mind, and lived in times to
draw forth powerful energies. The probability is, dear
Louis, that, if you are a printer at fifteen, you will still
be a printer at thirty; but another time we will speak
of this. The sun is setting and I have far to walk.'

It was with feeble steps she regained her dwelling,
and, with a reluctant pen, resumed her task, which became
daily more difficult. Her headaches were so
frequent and so intense that she frequently spent whole
days in correcting the mistakes of the preceding ones.
The very attitude necessary for writing gave her pain,
but she felt that she could not stop, and some days after
the time appointed by Mr C— she walked with a
beating heart to his house with her translation.

She was shown into a parlour at the back of the book
shop, where she sat absorbed in her own feelings, unconscious
that she had drawn the attention of a gentleman
who entered some moments after her, and who
stood gazing with painful interest upon her anxious and
excited countenance, which he was sure he had seen
before, but could not recollect when or where.

And, indeed, Elizabeth was changed since he had
seen her last. The calm, high, meditative brow was
now contracted by pain, and care had dug caves for
those once placid eyes. She sat leaning her head upon
her wasted hand, lost in her own anxious thoughts till
Mr C— came in.

`Ah! you have brought the translation. However,
I have changed my mind since you were here last.'

Elizabeth, who had learned to anticipate injustice,
lost all self-command, and clasping her hands, burst
into a passion of tears.

`Nay, do not suppose,' said Mr C—, distressed at his
own abruptness, `that I have forgotten our agreement.
I have no idea of depriving you of the price of your
labors.'

He unlocked a desk and took out bills which he put
into her hand, saying, `I only meant to tell you that I
have deferred the publication of this work for a few
months, as there are so many new books in the press.'

Elizabeth hardly heard him. All she thought of was
to be at home and alone. Yet still the future occurred
to her. She offered her address to Mr C—, saying, in
a voice of hopelessness, `Should you have occasion to
employ any one in the drudgery of literature, in copying,
correcting'—she paused, feeling as if she were
soliciting charity. The card dropped from her fingers
and she hurried away.

Mr Leslie, for it was he who had been an unobserved
spectator of Elizabeth's distress, took up the manuscript
that lay on the table.

`A singular young person, that,' said the bookseller;
`I must try and find her some employment. Yet I cannot
understand how such an elegant and accomplished woman
should be in such extreme distress. But what
astonishes you?' for, as soon as Leslie had cast his
eyes on the handwriting, he recognised that of Warren's
manuscripts. Everything was the same—the folding
of the paper, the very silk with which it was fastened.
There could be no doubt as to her being the charming
writer he had so long wished to discover.

`Latimer!' he exclaimed; `surely, this must be the
daughter of him who was involved in the ruin of B—
and T—.'

Upon making inquiries, Mr Leslie found that she
who was now struggling with poverty and neglect, had
once been among the favorites of fortune. He described

to his wife the scene in Mr C—'s parlour, and she
readily joined with him in the wish to serve Elizabeth.

But it was too late to serve or save. She had returned
to her lodgings, and throwing herself upon her bed
gave way to utter despondency. A low fever had been
for some time hanging about her, and she now lay down,
expecting to rise no more. Oh! that sinking of the
heart, when, after struggling with ill fortune, we find
ourselves at the very spot from which we set out, like
the shipwrecked wretch, who, after buffetting the waves
through a long night of darkness, sees himself at morning
in the midst of a shoreless ocean, with hope and
strength exhausted.

Elizabeth had not moved from the spot where she had
first thrown herself, when her landlady announced Mr
Leslie. His name excited no emotion. She rose mechanically,
and went down.

Leslie had been examining the books which crowded
her little apartment, and everything he saw convinced
him that he was right in his suspicions. He delicately
stated to her his discovery, and expressed a wish to remove
her to a station where her talents might procure
for her competency and respect. The words sounded
like mockery to Elizabeth. Her mind was in that state
of abandonment and depression, that, had the honors
and riches of the world been within her grasp, she would
not have extended her hand.

Mr Leslie proceeded to offer her the superintendence
of the education of six young ladies, all of that age when
a desire to learn saves the teacher an infinity of trouble.
She was about to decline, but the thought of Louis
roused her. She lifted her languid head, and attempted
to thank Mr Leslie. `Yet give me a short interval of
rest before I begin any new employment. It will be but
short, for now I feel as if the prospect of accomplishing

the first wish of my heart, will give me new life and
spirits. It is not to contribute to my own necessities
that I have struggled with misfortune, but I have a
brother dependant upon me—a boy of such uncommon
abilities, that I feel it would be neglecting one of Heaven's
best gifts, were I to repress them by devoting him
to an employment better suited to his circumstances.'

`This indeed,' thought Leslie, `is woman's love!
This is woman's pure, self-sacrificing spirit! That which
has supported the sage in his dungeon, the martyr at the
stake, and many a misnamed hero, is not wanting here.
She is satisfied with her motive, looking forward to a
reward so uncertain as the promise of talent in boyhood,
a promise as deceitful as the winds or waters.'

He left Elizabeth with excited hopes, that prevented
her from feeling for some hours the fever that was preying
upon her. But the hour of reaction came. All
night the wild images of delirium danced before her
tortured eyes, and on the morrow, when Mrs Leslie
called to invite her to her house, Elizabeth's ear was
deaf to the soft voice that tried to awaken consciousness.

As soon as she was well enough to bear removal, Mrs
Leslie carried her into the country, where the sight of
the green hills and slopes made her feel as if she could
again brush the dew from their summits; but even
Nature—beautiful Nature—once so beloved, and, during
her long, gloomy hours in — Street, so anxiously
pined after, failed to restore elasticity to her step. It was
autumn—a season she had always loved, better even than

But now, those softly shaded days, which once filled her
heart with a pensiveness that she would not have exchanged
for mirth, gave a chill to her frame as though
the season had been December.

Elizabeth felt that her race was run; but the heart,
where despondency had long made its cheerless abode,
was now soothed by the new and welcome feelings of
gratitude and love.

Mrs Leslie was one of those benevolent beings who
seize upon our affection as their right. The heart gave
itself up to her with perfect confidence. The greatest
sceptic as to the existence of virtue could not look upon
her open, candid countenance without feeling staggered,
nor witness the happiness she diffused around her, by
the influence of a heavenly disposition upon the daily
events of life, without feeling that the source from
whence they flowed was pure. One felt in her presence
that something good was near, yet there was no parade
of goodness about Mrs Leslie—not obvious, not obtrusive,
and only seen

`Look, dear Elizabeth,' said she to her languid, pale
companion, as they were returning from an excursion
to some of the beautiful villages on the Connecticut;
`Look! that is Mount Holyoke. He overlooks my
native village. I hope the time is not far off when we
shall climb his rugged sides together.'

Elizabeth shook her head. `Do not deceive me.
I feel that ere long I shall be in the presence of God.
And yet I cannot say I die without regret, for I am yet
young, and youth, even though oppressed with care,
shrinks back at sight of the grave. Yet, as I feel drawing
nearer to it, much of the fear that it once excited,
subsides, and, perhaps, before my last hour comes, I
may cease to think even on Louis. Poor Louis! if
I could have lived a few years longer—but God's will
be done.'

Mrs Leslie wept. She understood how dreadful
was the uncertainty of Elizabeth's mind as to Louis,
and she lost no time in consulting her husband about
removing the only weight from her heart. He willingly
agreed to her benevolent proposal, and that very evening
Elizabeth was made happy by his assuring her that
Louis should receive the same advantages of education
as his own son. She could only weep and press their
hands. `My generous friends! may his future life
thank you! may he rise up with your own and call
you blessed!'

Elizabeth lingered only a month longer. The Leslies
would not part with her, and their attachment grew
stronger as the object of it was fading before their eyes.
There were times when all her delightful powers seemed
renewed; when the treasures of her memory and
imagination charmed away the winter evening; but the
flushed cheek and glittering eye warned them that the
lamp of life was burning fast away.

One evening she left the drawingroom earlier than
usual. Mrs Leslie saw, with alarm, the extreme paleness
of her countenance, and, after a few moments'
hesitation, followed her to her chamber. She paused a
minute at the door, for Elizabeth had sunk on her knees
at the foot of the bed. One arm hung by her side; her
head had fallen on the other, which she had flung
across the bed. Mrs Leslie trembled as she saw her
motionless, then rushed forward—but the hand she
grasped was icy cold. The spirit had quitted its earthly
tabernacle forever.