University of Virginia Library

1. RECITAL.
THE FIRESIDE.

Various misfortunes had determined me to
visit the new world. Far advanced in the path
of life, my wishes were few. I sought only gold
enough to retire to some humble recess; and
hoped for no other pleasure, than to find at
last, some being capable of friendship, that I
might sometimes unburthen my heart, by expressing
my real sentiments.

After many commercial adventures, I found
myself in P—d, the most northern capital
of the still new American republic. I sadly
followed my affairs, finding little to interest
one whose feelings had not yet recovered their
tone after many and severe afflictions.

Burleigh, a merchant of middle age, heard
me refuse an invitation for the evening, on the
plea of not speaking sufficient English to be
tolerable in the company of ladies. On the
following night he said to me, “come to my
house; my wife sings and speaks French; and,
perhaps in this part of the world, there are not

many like her.” The evening was cold; and
books had already fatigued me; I followed him
to his house, merely because it was indifferent
to me whither I went.

Snow fell fast upon our heads as we entered
the door of Burleigh, and the light of his warm
saloon gave me a feeling like pleasure.

No group of cold matrons or gay laughing
girls were awaiting me. One female alone appeared,
dressed in white, and sitting on a crimson
sofa, drawn near to the fire. She was
teaching an evening hymn to a fair curly-haired
child, who sat upon her knee in all the loveliness
of infancy.

The room was furnished in good taste, and
in a style of luxurious convenience rare even
in the richer dwellings of those semi-anglo regions.
Tapers of wax stood upon a table where
books and some loose music lay scattered.

The lady arose at my entrance, held her fair
boy by the hand, and courtsied with that mixture
of diffidence and expectation which bespeaks
the keenest sensibility. “Idomen,”
said my conductor, “I have brought to you a
stranger, from the country you wish to see;—
show him your books, and entertain him as
well as you can.”

Idomen, despite of her maternity, had an air
of extreme youth, and blushed as she spoke in
my language; yet I soon drew her into conversation,
and perceived in her a fervor and taste

for the elegant arts, not commonly found even
in the most classic countries.

I took the child upon my knee; played with
his soft hair, and told his mother that, despite
the coldness of the climate, I was reminded of
Venus and her son, in the island of Cyprus.—
“But where?” said she, as the colour of her
cheek became brighter, “where are Apollo and
Adonis?”

After tea and cakes had been served, Madame
Burleigh, at the request of her husband,
sang a few songs in French, which she told me
had been learned at Quebec; and said also,
that she had been to Philadelphia.[1]

Pleased with her warmth and artlessness, I
proposed visiting her daily, and reading with
her the works of some favorite masters, in my
language. She cast a doubtful glance at her
husband, who bade her accept my offer.

The following morning I returned; Idomen
had already lying on her table, “Atala,” and
“Letres sur la mytologie.” I had brought
with me a volume of Jean Jaques Rosseau, and
turned to that lyrical scene, so charming to artists
of the higher order, “Pygmalion ou la statue
qui s'anime.”—The readiness with which it
was translated surprised me; but the feeling
which it caused to be disclosed filled me with
compassion.

It was long since any being had interested
me like this; I cultivated the favor of Burleigh,
and often played with him at cards and draughts
while Idomen was busied with her child or the
affairs of her household; but while thus engaged
with the husband, I never forbore to observe
every action of his gentle companion.

This young and dutiful woman, calmly as
she seemed to pass her life, was a being full of
passions; yet these passions had never been
awakened. The perfect serenity which reigned
upon her fair forehead, was like that of the
ocean on a still summer morning,—alas! for
the storms that might arise. It was pleasing
to observe the harmlessness of her thoughts upheld
as they were by a sentiment which enabled
her to make the most difficult sacrifices,
without murmur or a shade of petulance.

Formed in every nerve for the refinements
of pleasure, she cheerfully undertook the most
wearisome employments; and deprived herself
whole weeks, even of the consolations of music.

Still, a natural taste or perception of the
beautiful caused Idomen to make the most of
those advantages which nature had in kindness
bestowed upon her; and her dress always varied
from the fashion of the day, enough to be
in good conformity with the style of her countenance
and figure. Idomen wished to please,
she wished to be beautiful; but every engraving
or description which from childhood had

fallen into her eager hands had been absolutely
devoured, and both memory and fancy were so
filled with an exquisite ideal, that she thought
humbly and even despondingly of her own attractions.

In the circle which surrounded this woman
there was not one being whose thoughts bore
the slightest affinity to those which filled her
own intellect. Her husband it was true, loved
her to the utmost of his nature; he even overrated
her accomplishments, and was proud
when he saw her admired. But Burleigh was
sensual, unskilled in the mysteries of the heart;
and Idomen, though ministering to his pleasures,
became often the object of his petulance.

Many of her hours had been passed in weeping;
she felt that she was not happy, but never
thought of repining; for she had yet to learn
that happiness existed, unless in those scenes of
fiction, which beguiled her hours of loneliness.

In the circle where Burleigh lived, married
women were not used to receive the least attention
from any other than their husbands.—
Occupied with the cares of their household,
they dreamed of nothing beyond it; and generally
on becoming wives, laid aside every art
or accomplishment which, while maidens, they
had begun to cultivate. The innocent amusements
of Idomen were so often looked upon
with blame, that she rather concealed than displayed
them.

The matrons of her neighborhood said, “so
much of books and singing leads to idleness.”
From mere natural docility and the painfulness
of censure, Idomen did as they directed;
and often sat whole weeks, making those household
articles, which to them, was sufficient
employment.

But imagination sought refuge from inanity;
for the heart will still pant, though the
hands and person are enchained. Madam Burleigh,
while thus restricted, composed many
flowing verses, which when the task was done,
were written on scraps of paper with her pencil.

By praises and gentle attentions, I won entirely
her confidence, and my conversation
had, for her at least, the charm of a first friendship.
The mind, accustomed to find solace
only in itself, is long in gaining confidence
sufficient to pour forth its thoughts even to the
ear of kindness; yet still I succeeded in obtaining
a few glances at the soul of this woman.

Burleigh, she told me, had educated and protected
her, at a period when her family, by a
reverse of fortune, were in a state of dismay
and embarrassment. A loved and accomplished
sister, who was now no more, had shared
with her mother, she said, the care of her in-infancy,
and given her the name Idomène, as it
is written in French, but she was called in

her family Idomen. “And is your husband,”
I said, “your only relative now?” “I have,”
she returned, “an uncle and cousins; but they
are in distant countries, and absorbed in the
toils of commerce. My husband has been to
me, in the place both of father and brother;
and duty and gratitude demand that I should
serve and obey him in everything.”

Tears fell from her eyes as she spoke; and
the melancholy firmness of her accents was
sadly and singularly in contrast with her
soft sunny complexion, and the expression,
sometimes almost voluptuous, of her ever varying
countenance.

A prince, thought I, might be proud of thee,
Idomen, for a daughter; but, in scenes where
thy lot seems cast, to be what thou art is a
misfortune.

The North American republic at that time,
was agitated by a war with the mother country,
whose language it will speak forever.

My uncertain fortune called me to this island—“of
fruits and flowers, and soft breezes”
said Ambrosio del Monte, as he rose and quitted
his hammock, plucking from the vine of
the grenadilla, a superb flower, which had the
sun shone instead of the moon, would have
looked like a purple coronet. (10) Dalcour smiled
and spoke to him in Spanish. The young
man called to his negro and strolled slowly toward
the piazza, while lights in the rustic hall

began to glimmer through the foliage and blossoms.

The courteous host proceeded:—“I did not
tell Idomen I would return, but promised myself
to visit again the cold but picturesque region
where she lived. My parting was sad
and regretful, but I left her in the bosom of affluence.

“I had traversed so much of the world, that
few objects were new to me. To reflect on
the events of my life, was like opening a Sibylline
volume, of which the worst oracles were
fulfilled. Yet the innocent being who had
crossed my path so lately, held now, a large
space in the fields of my imagination; I felt for
her, I knew not what of pity and solicitude;
but, son of casualty as I was, how could I benefit
one to whom the gifts of fortune were not
entirely denied?

“In this island I formed a friendship with
one of your country. The broken ties of exile,
the conflicting interests and vicissitudes which
follow in the train of commerce, have all less
effect on the German than on men of other
countries; accustomed to reflection, his mind
becomes his world. Governed by laws created
for himself, the calm expansion of his soul
remains pure and unbroken; even amidst the
selfish mass who wrangle and wound each
other, at every step around him. In the midst
of every thing which can blacken and pollute,

a native integrity remains fresh and unsullied
in his bosom; as dew contained in the cup of
that flower to which travellers fly for refreshment
amid the marshes of Florida,[2] or as the
cool clear draft contained in those vines which
hang pendant from the forest trees of Cuba,
when the vertic rains cease to fall. [3]

In a German I confided,—the little wealth
won from the wreck of my fortunes was placed
in the hands of a German, and thiretreat
which has called forth your praises was chosen
for me by a German.