University of Virginia Library

HENRY HOWARD.

1. CHAPTER I.

Henry Howard, the hero of our tale, was a young Bostonian of fortune
and education, endowed by nature with a fine person and unexceptionable
address, character and position in society. At the period
of our tale he was twenty-seven years of age, and when, besides his
youth, his other advantages just enumerated are taken into consideration,
it is not surprising that the bright eyes and gentle regards of more
than one marriageable belle were turned towards him. But in spite of
their charms, Henry passed unscathed through the winter assemblies
and the summerings at Saratoga and Nahant, each autumn's return
finding him as free as the spring had found him.

But our hero was not a marrying man! That is, he had no mind,
as he said, to sacrifice his independence to a wife's silken restraints.
He found some others of his particular friends in the same liberty-loving
mood, and one convivial evening a few months prior to the
opening of our story, they combined to stand together in a war of resistance
against matrimony! This anti-marrying club consisted besides
Henry, of five others, all of them young men of high respectability,
and all equally opposed to the nuptial bondage. They held their
meetings once a week, and over wine and cigars strengthened each
other's resolutions, and rejoiced in their mutual independence of Hymen.

Our hero no doubt thought that this compact would render him forever
secure from the toils of matrimony, and that, armed with the
panoply of his resolutions, he might safely trust himself amid the blaze
of beauty and bid defiauce to the archery of Don Cupid. But the
little love-God had no idea of suffering a conspiracy of this kind to
exist against his legitimate power; and placing himself within the
bright eyes of a charming girl named Louise Lintot, she shot a shower
of arrows from behind her eye lashes, as from the covert of a chevaur
de frise, and penetrated his heart in a hundred places!

The result was, that Henry found himself over head in ears in love,
and after in vain trying to subdue and conquer the passion, he submitted
to it, and forgetting his resolutions and his club, he made a declaration
at the feet of his lovely conqueror! This event took place at
Portland, that city renowned for female grace and beauty, where

Harry was on a visit at the time, and so beyond the immediate protection
of his brothers in the vow; if it had been in Boston, their presence
and the fear of their ridicule possibly might have restrained him from
going so far. But the first they heard of it was from the following
letter, written by him to his friend, Charles Lester, the most inveterate
of the anti-matrimonialists, with whom he had been touring, until
Charles and his other friends left him in Portland to proceed to Boston;
for the party of anti-conjugalists had been travelling together to the
White Mountains. It will be seen, by the letter, that Harry resolved
to be precipitate and to get through with the matter before he could
receive any remonstrances from his friends:

Within a week, my dear friend, I shall be a married man!

I can see you burst into a fit of the loudest laughter at this unexpected
revelation! Joke me as much as you please, my friend; remind
me of my bitter diatribes against matrimony, and of the oaths by which
I, with you, bound ourselves never to augment the list of its victims!—
But how has it turned out? I surely have not changed my opinion; I
only act contrary from what I think! Shall I be the first one whose
actions have been in complete opposition to his words, or, at least, who
has not the courage to sustain his opinion? You already know that
my past history has been romantic and adventurous enough to make
me a fit hero for a novel or a comedy! What I am about to relate
will not lessen in your mind this idea.

I will not say that Louise is beautiful! for you yourself saw her when
here, and she appeared to you so perfect, that when you parted from
me at the depot you recommended to me careful vigilance over myself!
I have struggled like a hero! but I have finally yielded to my fate, and
in imitation of the ancient paladin knights, I have chosen to surrender
my arms to the most formidable of my enemies, MATRIMONY. Thus in
my fall, I have fallen with honor!

Indeed and in truth, my friend, it was impossible for me to resist!—
I will not bring into account by way of extenuation of my fault, the
lively desire of my poor father, who was highly displeased on discovering
my anti-conjugal ideas. This consideration, although powerful,
would not have been sufficient to determine me to this step; but I love
Louise! I confess it to my disgrace that what filial love and the tears
of my father could not achieve has been brought about effectually by
my own passion, by the egotistical desire of my own personal felicity.
In vain have I invoked and arrayed against my weakness, the remembrance
of our convivial, anti-conjugal meeting, and recalled to my aid
the ardent and once sincere repugnances I once entertained with you
and among you! In deed and in truth, my dear Charles, I still do most
cordially hate matrimony, but I love Louise more!

I have just written to my father, asking his consent. I question
whether his business added to his obstinate gout will suffer him to come
and bring it to me in person. But I am quite confident he will not long
delay a reply. There is one thing that is in my favour. Louise is the

daughter of his most intimate friend, and, as you are aware, being an
orphan my father had taken a deep intesest in her. It was, I begin to
mistrust, a trap of his to get me to call on her with the letter of introduction
he gave me! If so, I can only say I am fairly taken captive!
My father, I know, is greatly attached to her; for I have often heard
him speak of her with the most paternal interest! Therefore I know
that in marrying her I am going to make my excellent parent happy!
The idea of his joy consoles me something for the sadness—yes, for the
sadness which a certain discontent of myself causes me in the midst of
my happiness! Truly and frankly, Charles, I am the most miserable
man that ever was known. I am about to marry freely and voluntarily,
and if Louise should come to me and say, `No longer do I love you!'
I should be in utter dispair and misery, and be tempted to blow out my
brains! Nevertheless, the idea of matrimony makes my turn pale, and
before taking the first vacillating step I — Ah! my Charles! I
feel a faintness seize me at the heart. I have already shown myself a
coward in retreating from the firm resolution never to marry: and I will
not now be one also in now refusing to marry!

I have had a bad head-ache and must close. Fortunately my heart
is firm. Adieu.

`Yet ought I not to be flattered by even such a notice? If indeed
Louise loves my person, I think she ought to be happy with my love
which no ceremony will increase! How then, or why then should I
manifest joy when I see myself on the verge of a union which will not
make me love her more than I do now? Will it not be that, like all
the rest, she will be more pleased with the matrimony than with the
husband! This idea has tormented me atrociously, and has given a
lukewarmness to our interviews. I know this idea is a foolish one, be
cause I cannot doubt of the purity and of the reality of the love of
Louise for me. But I am tortured, I hardly know wherefore. I am
agitated while I write, and feel a fever in my veins.

If you were at my side, Charles, I think I should hardly dare to be
married.

[A letter from Mr. Howard, the father of our hero to Miss Lintot.]

`How can I thank you, my dear daughter — for in anticipation I
give you this name! What a fine triumph for you to have reduced my
son to a treaty to which, I know not from what false and ridiculous

ideas, he has been so adverse. I assure you that he has cost me great
solicitude, and in conquering him you have restored to me happiness
and life. I have loved you as a daughter of an old and dear friend; but
now I shall love in you equally my daughter and the tutelar angel of
my son.

[A letter from Charles Lester, to Henry Howard.]

You, yourself, have said it! you are a coward.

But you have told me no news. When we left Portland I presayed
your fall; and in order to reinforce your courage, if it was yet time,
(for I saw how it went with you the moment you sat eyes on Miss Lintot!)
or in order to make more open and apparent your perjury, I invited
thee to a banquet where alone were admitted bachelors: bachelors,
you will understand.

It was at the Cumberland Hotel! We were six! enemies all of
matrimony! and when, at that time, I hinted, in jest, that you would
be our first deserter, you cried out, exclaiming loudly, `Calumny!' and
when we alleged, in proof, your passion (apparent to all) for Louise
Lintot, you denied it, saying, `If I could be so base as to let love for
woman cause me to break my word, then should I deserve to be broken
upon the wheel as I break this glass!..' and the fragments
of the crystal fell upon the table in the midst of the thunder of our applause!

Our oaths, those oaths of which you speak in your letter, were then
renewed with all due solemnity, and when the champagne appeared,
you sang the popular song,

and we repeated and re-echoed the chorus with formidable enthusiasm.

Of the six friends that joined that day their hands and their pledges,
four are, at this moment, while I am writing you, seated in my room,
and your letter has given us a subject to laugh at for a whole rainy day!
As for the sixth, his marriage bans are being published and he is getting
ready his wedding garments! Ah, what a fall is there.

Harry! if you are a man, break through every thing, take the cars
the very evening you get this letter, come to us and repeat the oaths of
the first of July. If not, leave us and we will compose a dirge for thee,
and at our next meeting chant it over the vacant chair you once occupied
in our midst. Requiescat in pace.

2. CHAPTER II.

We now give a letter from the heroine of our tale, to her particular
friend Miss Florence Weldon, of Boston.

`I have scarcely time, my dear friend to write you a few lines. To-morrow
will be celebrated my marriage! The ceremony will be limited
to a few friends to be present in the church; as this privacy will
be more appropriate with my condition as an orphan, especially so, as
the parents of my husband will not be present. I have already told
you that Henry, on the subject of matrimony, was a most incorrigible
rebel, whom it has been my good fortune to compel to submission.—
Yet he shows still, from time to time, symptoms of insurrection; but his
love for me represses them.

`Here ends the last letter you will ever receive from Louise Lintot!
Mrs. Howard will write you to-morrow, although it may be no more
than a word after the ceremony has been performed.

[From the same to the same, one day later.]

`I know not how I can write you, neither how I can be alive after
the abominable scene which has just taken place. I have but now returned
from church! — Insult most cruel and mortifying! Soon I
will write all to you, Florence: I have now only strength to weep!—

[Henry Howard to his friend Charles Lester.]

`You have triumphed, Charles! but at what a sacrifice! I tremble
to contemplate it!

Yes, I have conquered the enemy; I have triumphed over matrimony,
like a true knight, I have yielded on the very field of battle. If I
have been fairly slain, it is not my fault!

Listen to my dream, for such you will see it is;—Yesterday I received
your letter precisely at the hour at which we were to proceed
to church. Your cool raillery penetrated my heart, depositing there a
chilling frost, deadening the warm glow of my love! Did I need this
new instigation, when, tortured by my memories and resolutions, I
was already wavering. The hour fixed for the ceremony was as dark

as my new suit of black broadcloth, and I seemed to be attired for my
own burial! Did I need your letter, Charles?

Louise at length appeared attired in virgin white; yet I scarcely
glanced towards her. I thought upon my dear independence, upon
the infinite delights of the life of a bachelor; and of innumerable in
estimable privileges which never appeared to me so valuable till just as
I was about to lose them forever! On crossing the vestibule of the
Church, I thought I eould see you five laughing at my expense; and
when the clergymaR began to read the words of the ceremony, I found
myself again in imagination one of the banquet of six!

Till then, absorbed in my reflections, I had stood and listened mechanically;
but when the clergyman put to me directly and roundly
the question, I had to rouse myself from my lethargy in order to hear
and respond.

`Henry will you have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live
together after God's holy ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness
and health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her so long
as ye both shall live?'

When he put this formidable compound of interrogatories to me, I
stood confounded and felt that my destiny was consummated! The
repugnance with which the scandal and infamy of a negation inspired
me was struggling in my heart with the idea of compromising myself
irrevocably with an affirmation. In this terrible state of agitation I
stood silent, while a cold sweat bathed in huge drops my forehead. I
was going to look at Louise in order to inspire myself with the courage
necessary to say `Yes!'—when suddenly I heard a street organ
without playing an air that made me start, while the clear voice of the
organist sang the song we had sung at our banquet:

It was a powerful, irresistable appeal? I turned round my head to
the priest and firmly responded,

`No!'

What subsequently occurred I have scarcely any distinct recollection
of. I saw nothing—heard nothing! Before those present could recover
from their first surprise I had flown from the church—flown like
a criminal! I traversed street after street without any definite purpose,
and scarcely knowing where I was going. But, at length, composed
by the open air and having in some degree walked off my excitement,
I comprehended that it was necessary I should at once leave the town.
I turned my steps towards the depot, but found on my arrival there that
the cars had already left. I then hastened back to my hotel after two
hours wanderings, and have taken my pen to address you and let you
know what has occurred!

Ah, Charles, do not too much applaud my valor, for I have lacerated
my heart! I love Louise! I love her more than ever, and I see
that I have lost her forever! Henceforward an impassible abyss will
separate us — the remembrance of an infamous injury, an unpardonable

affront! I have destroyed the peace and happiness of this
poor girl who has been guilty of no other fault than loving me! I am
very miserable!

It is necessary that I leave this city; although it will be only to
transfer my wretchedness without removing it. I am coming to see
you in Boston, if I can!

If I can! because, shall I have courage and resolution to exile myself
from the air which Louise breathes! she, alas, from whom I am
exiled forever!

[A letter from Mr. Howard, the father of our hero, to Miss Lintot.]

Last night, I learned, my daughter, the horrible scene in the church,
and I have suffered so much, I have shed so many tears for you, that
it has been impossible for me to write to you earlier. My son is a vile
and despicable being! Not only has he deceived you in the most infamous
manner, but he has also deceived me, his father, knowing well
that this ignoble conduct would destroy my last hope, and shorten my
life. From this time I have no son; because the person to whom I
have this name is a miserable insensate and a detestable parricide!—
But you remain to me, my child, you to whom I have been accustomed
to give the sweet name of daughter. The air of the place where you
are, filled, as it must be, with memories which will be poisonous to the
wounds yet fresh in the heart, will prove injurious to you. Come, then,
to my house; come and seek the old friend of your father. I invite
you, not only for your own sake, but also I ask it for my own advantage.
Come, then, with your aunt, if you do not wish to be separated
from her; or if you prefer going into the country, say so, and I will
close my business and in spite of the bad state of my health, I will go
with you wherever you command.

Alas! I that hoped in this union a felicity so great, so perfect! let
me, Louise, enjoy at least a part of it!

[A letter from Miss Lintot, to her friend Florence Weldon.]

`I am to-day more tranquil, my dear Florence, and I now feel that
if the conduct of Mr. Howard towards me has been most odious, his
heart is less culpable! His head has been elevated in one of those
crimes of rebellion which I have indicated to you. If, in the moment
of the fatal question, his hand had been in mine, only a `yes' would
have gone from his lips. But his disordered imagination had carried
him a hundred miles off from me at the moment: materially he was
but a step from me; morally but half a second from matrimony! The
terror of matrimony was, at the instant, more powerful than his love for
me, and he said `NO.'

But well am I avenged! Never has he given such proofs of his tenderness
as now! He looks pale and wan as if just convalescing from

a long sickness. Twice a day he has written me excuses the most
humble, mingled with protestations the most ardent. Not daring to
present himself at the house, well knowing he would not be received,
he has taken rooms directly opposite the way, where I see him seated
all day, myself invisible, with his eyes constantly fixed upon my closed
windows. I have learned that three times he has taken tickets in the
cars for Boston, and three times his resolution has failed him and he
has remained. How he loves me! How happy we should have been!

His father is in despair; and writes me letters that make my heart
bleed. Oh, my friend, what a chance has he thrown away!

[A letter from Charles Lester, to Henry Howard.]

What has become of you? We have been daily looking for your arrival
and still we neither see nor hear from you! If you had blown
your brains out, we know the papers would give the intelligence and
particulars of the horrible catastrophe. But, as they are silent, the presumption
is that you are still living. So I write to you, not as to
a dead man, but one in good bodily condition. Pray, what has become
of you? We have had several club-meetings at which we expected
your presence. Your courage in saying no we have all commended
and cannot give you too much praise. It is a pity it was not given before
you got to church; for to have one of our number so nearly meshed
as to escape only from the very altar, reflects something upon the
stability and good faith of the rest of us. I write this to assure you,
that unless you report yourself to the club before three days expire, we
shall take the cars in a body and come for you; for know you, we already
begin to have doubts of your constancy; and fear that your feelings
of remorse may lead you to penitence and ultimate submission.—
We have voted you President of our club, and we believe you will render
yourself worthy of our confidence.

3. CHAPTER III.

In the continuation of our story, which we have written after the
manner of a Spanish tale with a similar title, we shall proceed to give
our readers a letter from the father of Henry Howard to Miss Lintot;
as, in this way, we can better illustrate events than by giving them in
the usual order of narration.

I have just received a letter from the unhappy Henry! I will confess
to you, that, in spite of my just anger against him, it has moved me
profoundly. He repents of his conduct with the liveliest contrition,
does you merited justice, and is in fine under such deep affliction that
he has awakened my pity and sympathy in his behalf. He says he
cannot leave Portland until he has first received from your mouth that
pardon which is now the only object of his desires. He rightly conceives
that you will not wish to see him; but, notwithstanding, if to
give him some degree of repose, a single word of yours would suffice,
which, perhaps, he merits by his expiation, would you obstinately refuse
it?

I do not advise you, my daughter.—You have too much judgment
and prudence not to know precisely what is necessary in a juncture so
delicate. Consult your own sense of what is right. But think, that
upon your determination will hang, perhaps, the moral cure of that
poor youth who, if he cannot be to me the source of the felicity I had
hoped for, may not be to me so bitter a cause of affliction. Who can
tell? that this interview may not be a prelude to a reconciliation!
Pardon me, Miss Lintot my unreasonable hope may appear to you
ridiculous; but it is that of a father who loves you tenderly and who
prays for the privilege of being able to love him with you.

I confide in your heart, my daughter!

[Louise Lintot to Florence Weldon.]

`What a noble heart has Henry! How his very defects, themselves,
reveal qualities, that badly directed, have led to the gravest of faults,
but well directed would have made a wife happy. All that is wanting
in him to make him the best of husbands is decision! It is already
clear to me that he has been impelled to this inconceivable negative by
an excess of loyalty and frankness.—Foolish notions have inspired him
with fear of matrimony, fear which he knows not how to shake off. He
loves me: I am sure that he loves me with all his heart. Without me
his life will be miserable and desolate; but through the effect of habit
that word matrimony inspires him with fear, and he does not wish to
consign to me a heart where I reign, because this feeling of doubt
exists, though only in his imagination. Only that marriage is necessary,
he would live at my side as a husband most tender and loving
but matrimony exists!

It were certainly a deed of charity to cure him, as much on his own
account, as he will always be miserable, as for his father's sake whom
I love as if he were my own. Mr. Howard has hinted to me that if I
desire I can easily tie the knot broken once by the imprudence of Harry.
— I see that this may be possible: but the difficulty is in
undertaking it. As with you, Florence, I am frank, I confess to you
that the will is not wanting on my part; and if Henry should say to
me to-day:

`Forget the past, pardon my faults and give me an opportunity to
repair them,' perhaps, from friendship to his father, through charity to
him, I would let him conduct me anew to the presence of the clergyman.
But this he has not yet done; and for reasons I pointed out at
the beginning of this letter, I think will not do! He cannot find
happiness without marrying me; but he is not yet reconciled to me,
and if he were, he might not so soon be with the idea of matrimony.
It is a rare case; but it is as you see! His letters are as expansive, as
loving as I could desire; but he does not explain himself categorically;
nor does he propose anything. Now you see how peculiar my
situation is, wishing to act without the power! I will meditate upon
the matter; for it would be so gratifying to me to do a favor to that
good Mr. Howard, his father.'

[A Letter from Miss Lintot to her friend Florence Weldon.]

I have taken a great step, from which I am yet in a very disturbed
state.

Mr. Howard, Henry's father, full of ingenuity to affect the reconciliation
which he has so much at heart, enclosed to his son a letter for
me, with instructions to hand it to me in person! It was for the purpose
of affording the poor youth a pretext for taking a step for which he
had not the necessary courage.

He came, and in the absence, or with the consent of the servant, entered
my presence and tremblingly presented the letter of his father:

`Miss Lintot,' he said, `your silence and disdain are but a light punishment
for my abominable fault. Yet, must my punishment be eternal?
Will my repentance never disarm your displeasure? I was not
worthy of being your husband; but, setting aside matrimony and love,
cannot we be friends? Since with my heart or without it, you would
not dare to surrender yourself as the wife of a man prejudiced against
matrimony, and since for this reason he has renounced your love, does
it necessarily follow, (the manner of my rejection being forgiven) that
we ought always to be separated from each other, antagonists, when our
characters sympathise so perfectly?'

I was moved and cast down my eyes. He continued:

`Pardon me, Louise, and give me permission to visit you! Inasmuch
as my conscience may not be reconciled with matrimony, I swear to
you that you shall never hear from my lips a word that a sister may not
hear from her brother! Do you doubt? He, who loving as I have
loved you, has had the strength to sacrifice his love to exaggerate scruples,

ridiculous if you choose to call them, will he not have strength, if
not to conquer it, at least, to prevent its outbreak? Permit me, Louise,
permit me, for the love of Heaven, to see you sometimes! To deny
me will be to consign me again to the horrible madness which I
have endured for the last eight and twenty days, and which has only
left me since I have been in your presence. Louise, reflect, reflect
deeply before you reply!'

What could I do when my heart cried pardon, when I held even in
my hand the supplicating letter he had brought me from his father?—
To grant it would be to resist my own self-love: to refuse it was repugnant
to another love! A capitulation was necessary! — and a singular
idea suddenly flashed ugon my mind.

`Mr. Howard,' I said to Harry, `after what has occurred it is impossible
for me to preserve the least relation with you. I have receieved
an affront, and while it remains uneffaced —.'

`My repentance—my excuses—'

`It is not sufficient. You have outraged my feelings by indignantly
responding `No,' before the clergymen and the witnesses present. I
wish to stand in a precisely equal position. Consent to return with
me to the church once more: there you shall respond `Yes,' and I
publicly before the same minister and the same witnesses will return a
round `No!' Then the affront will be reciprocal, the revenge equal to
the injury, and, as you men say, honor will be satisfied! Afterwards
we can, if you desire it, meet accordingly as our relatives may consent.
And since, then, nothing requires we should be husband and wife, at
least nothing shall impede our being good friends.'

Now know, my dear Florence, that this proposition, although made
in a serious tone of voice, was irresistably accompanied by a certain
smiling air; my smile encouraged Harry, he accepted also smiling,
and made the contract in the presence of my aunt.

To-morrow morning this odd affair will be arranged, unless something
intervenes now unforseen. I will astonish you, certainly; but I
mean to carry out to the end my idea.

Adieu, as ever,

We give below the letter from Mr. Howard, of which Henry was
the bearer

Since yesterday I have been in bed with a fever. My malady proceeds
from the heart! I can scarcely write you these few lines. The
breaking off of the marriage upon which I had set my heart was too severe
a blow for an old man, broken in health like me. The hope of
seeing the union take place would have sustained me, and my health
would have been better for it; but now I feel only quiet and repose
can restore me. Take compassion on me, and be pitiful to my
poor boy; for in being merciful to him, you are blessing me. Adieu.

[A letter from Henry Howard, to Charles Lester.]

I know not whether I am sleeping or waking; but it appears to me
that I dream! I told you in my last of the singular compact I had made
with Louise. Yesterday was the day fixed; and I went to her house,
resolved to perform my part, if she still was in earnest, as I thought she
proposed it but in jest. The creature was serious!

She was dressed in the same white robes, and her virgin veil was disposed
so bewitchingly, yet modestly. — Heavens! how beautiful
she was, my friend; a thousand times more lovely than on the first day!

We entered the carriage and reached the church. The clergyman
began to read the service, and when he put to me the question he had
put on the former occasion I answered `Yes' with a smile upon my lips.
When he put the same question to Louise my heart throbed with violence....
I glanced with enamoured eyes upon my beautiful
companion, and the `no' we had prepared beforehand all at once appeared
to me to be a species of blasphemy and culpable sacriledge!—
But I had no time to reflect.

Louise appeared deeply moved, and the clergyman had to repeat the
interrogation.

Louise raised her head, looked him full in the face and responded in
a firm voice:

`Yes.'

We were married?

To tell you what my sensations were at that moment is superior to
my powers. A movement of Louise to hand me a paper caused me to
return to myself. It was a lerter from my father she had just a few
minutes before the hour received, and which decided her to change one
article of our programme in order to save the infirm old gentleman's
life—as she averred!

Uneasy, Louise watched the expression of my face as I finished reading
the letter.... I let drop a tear upon the paper, caught her
hand and pressed it to my lips!..... My wife is divine!

Within a quarter of an hour we were on on our way to the house of
her aunt, and in an hour we started in the cars for Boston to my father!
As soon as he embraces us in his arms he will be cured.

With regard to you, my friends anti-conjugal, you cannot complain
of me; because, if I am married, it has not been my fault. I have been
made a husband by surprise, and in the only thing wherein I fail in my
compact with you is in being very contented with my lot. I have not
been false to celibacy; it is matrimony that has played me a trick!

I am then married!!! You may pity me, my friend, pity me all of
you.... I am the most fortunate of men.