University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Would that I might obliterate the next few months of
my life from my memory! But that may not be. Well,
then, why record the events which followed? Expressly
that my example may be a warning to others. I ran
through a career of folly, which hundreds in destitute circumstances
embark in, to find in the end what I found—
disappointment and mortification. Such generally sink into
the grave, or into impenetrable obscurity, their history—
which, if once stated in candor, might deter others from
pursuing a similar course—unknown. I have no hesitation,
therefore, in recapitulating my errors, if that may be
the means, as I trust it will, of deterring some few romantic

young men or young ladies from casting themselves
into a vortex as delusive in reality as it is bright in appearance,
and which too frequently leads to destruction; while
never—no, never—does it conduct any one to the full realization
of his hopes! But “sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof,” and I will not anticipate.

For several days I wandered about the wharf in the
vicinity of the scene of my disaster. At the close of each
day the small particle of hope with which I set out in the
morning, was more and more diminished, and finally became
extinct. I grew thoughtful, silent, almost desperate.
I was calm in outward appearance, while burning meditations
consumed me within. One moment my thoughts ran
back rapidly through the past, when I had been happy
without appreciating my condition. Then I reflected how
easily I might have spared a few more dollars, and taken
passage on the Ark, where all would have been safe and
well—but this was only adding fuel to the fire. My fortune
was gone, irrecoverably gone, and why should I
draw upon the past for additional pangs? I then thought
of the future, and that was but little better. Blanche, too—
all hopes of her must be relinquished. A beggar could not
aspire to the possession of her hand. I might go back to the
hospitable wilds of Missouri, and accumulate another little
fortune; but this would be a tedious process, ever mingled
with the intolerable remembrance of what I had lost, and
what I might have enjoyed, had not misfortune overtaken
me. The very contemplation of it seemed like forcing
back the current of my life. I wanted not solitude now.
My mind was seized with a desperate frenzy, and I
could not brook deliberation. I felt that some pursuit was
necessary which would distract my thoughts, rather than
one that might lead me to brood over the past. The words

of my father occurred to me more than once; but I could
not conceive that such a calamity was the work of Providence
for some good or wise purpose. In truth, I was
tempted to reproach what I considered to be the injustice
of the Supreme Ruler of events, in permitting such a calamity
to befall me and all the rest that suffered. I could
not be convinced of the possibility of any good growing
out of such a disaster.

I resolved to pursue my journey eastward, but not to
Norfolk; and so I took passage on the next boat going up
the river. I was now more indifferent about my fate; and
never hesitated to occupy a seat at the card-table directly
over the boilers. I indulged in play, and in any other
amusement likely to keep my thoughts from running back
to the past. There was one means, however, too often
resorted to by others in similar circumstances, which I
avoided. I did not, and never could, go to the bottle.
But, as I have said, I sought mental excitement at the
card-table on the boat. At first I won, and won pretty
freely sometimes; but it happened that I invariably lost
nearly all I won before I rose from the table. Upon the
whole, my playing neither diminished nor increased to any
great extent the funds I possessed.

A small sum in still remained my pocket on reaching
Philadelphia, which, added to the amount to my credit on
the books of the firm which had made disbursements for
me, was enough to keep me from want for some time.
The calamity of which I was one of the victims had been
published in all the papers, and the loss of my trunk
formed one of the paragraphs of the narrative. The merchants
of whom I had been in the habit of purchasing
my goods, proposed, with a generosity which did them
honor, to sell me another stock entirely on credit, provided

I had any desire to try my luck again. But I
declined the offer. Then one of them offered me a liberal
salary as a salesman in his establishment. This I
acceded to. But it was not long before my new employment
became insufferably irksome.

While the novelty of my situation continued, and while
I was kept actively egaged in the business of my employers,
the time seemed to pass lightly enough: but when, in the
midst of a dull season, I sat down like the rest, my thoughts
immediately reverted to the past, and I could not avoid
making a contrast between my present condition and that
of independence and almost affluence which I had so recently
enjoyed. My employers, perceiving my fits of sadness,
and rightly conjecturing the cause, did everything in
their power to dissipate my cares, and to encourage me to
persevere in my new career. I saw their kind solicitude,
and felt grateful. I was familiar with the manners and
modes of thought of the western merchants, and every one
whose custom I was so fortunate as to draw to the house of
my employers, acceded to my wishes. There can be no
doubt, if I had continued a few years in this kind of
employment, that I would have repaired all my losses.
My acquaintance among the western merchants was very
extensive, and they would naturally have preferred to deal
with a house whose saleman had been taken from among
themselves.

But now my evil star seemed to be in the ascendant. I
resolved not to remain, and announced my determination to
the firm. They parted with me reluctantly, after offering
an increase of salary, and a prospective interest in the profits
of the house. At that time there were few, perhaps
not any, young men from the far west in Market street—
and the brief time I was there, sufficed to show the advantages

to be derived from a true knowledge of western character.

When I abandoned my employment, I had still a few—
and only a few—hundred dollars. I took an attic room in
my boarding-house, that I might be undisturbed in my
inevitable meditations. There I shut myself up for some
days—a prey to grief and melancholy. I had just sense
enough left to find out pretty soon that this mode of life
could afford no remedy for a mind diseased; and so I sought
distraction in the drawing-room of the establishment, where
I always found lively and gay company, music, and all
the inexhaustible diversions of accomplished female society.
I attended the ladies to concerts, to the theatre,
and other places of amusement—but rarely to church. Yet
even this kind of life did not long beguile me. I thought
often of the indispensable necessity of providing for my
future support, and as my present supply of money was
gradually diminishing, my anxiety increased. I hoped
something would turn up in my behalf—I cared not what;
while the idea of returning to any ordinary business pursuit,
never occurred to me without being speedily dismissed
with contempt.

I was rapidly approaching lunacy, and my course was
only accelerated by the habit I had contracted of daily
perusing and re-perusing the works of Lord Byron, in the
solitude of my chamber. To one in my desperate circumstances,
whose course of reading had been pretty extensive
in the flowery paths of light literature, and whose nature
was, perhaps, in an unusually high degree, tinged with the
dangerous hue of romance, the flights of that unparalleled
genius in the world of passion were the least likely of
any others that could have fallen into my hands, to bring

me to my senses. They increased my madness, my recklessness,
and desperation.

From his impassioned verse, I turned to the noble poet's
letters, and was particularly struck with the vast amount
of money he boasted of receiving for his MSS. I gloated
over the page, until the sums set down seemed to rise up
in heaps of glittering gold before me, and invite my hand
to seize upon them, that I might resume my career of prosperity
which had been so abruptly checked. Why could
I not write poetry, too, and also realize such enormous
wealth? Such was the presumptuous interrogatory I dared
to propound to myself. Byron had his woes, and I had
mine—and there the similarity ended. But I did not pursue
the comparison any farther. The idea had seized upon
me, and fired my excited mind. I thought of nothing now
but the emoluments and the glory of a literary career. Of
its disappointments and miseries, Byron made no mention,
and they did not occur to me.

I seized my pen and perpetrated several stanzas, which
were offered to a family newspaper. They were accepted,
and printed with some commendations. This was almost
fatal to me; for it made me believe that I was really possessed
of genius, and at once banished from my mind all
suggestions of pursuits of another nature. My pen alone
was henceforward to constitute my sole means of support,
notwithstanding I had received nothing for my stanzas. I
understood, however, that such bagatelles were considered
as gratuitous contributions; and, filled with thoughts of the
immensity of fortune and fame I was to acquire in the future,
I had every disposition to be liberal with the publishers.
But there was one thing which surprised me. I
discovered, upon enlarging my literary acquaintance—for
there is a sort of free masonry among the novitiate literati,

as well as among men of acknowledged talents—that there
was a prodigious number of scribblers of verse and prose in
the city, both male and female, and that not one of them, as
far as I could learn, had made a fortune by the pen. Nor had
many of them even a very exalted niche in the temple of
fame. But still they never ceased to write. How they
lived, was to me a great mystery.

But Byron had not acquired his fame and amassed his
fortune by writing sonnets and tales for the papers and
magazines—and neither would I attempt it. I would not
deal in such small matters. And above all, my infatuated
mind now shrunk with horror from the contemplation of
any of the dray-horse, honest business pursuits of the day—
and particularly from the recollection of the time when I
sold goods by the retail in a hen-house, out in the western
wilds. I would as soon have proclaimed that I had been a
counterfeiter or a burglar, as to have intimated that I had
once measured goods by the yard. So far had been my
progress in this very prevalent species of insanity.

I lost no time in purchasing several quires of foolscap
paper to begin with. I determined to write a long poem,
which of course I resolved should be a great one. I was
not precisely certain what description of a poem it should
be; and in truth, I was hardly able to distinguish between
an epic and an elegy. It should be original, wild, rambling,
bold, startling; in short, it was to be different from
anything that had preceded it, and beyond the imitation of
any who were to come after me. My first and greatest
difficulty was to fix upon a title; and it was a very great
difficulty, for I had not adopted any particular subject to
constitute its body. I sat for an hour with my pen suspended
over the page, racking my perturbed mind for a
title, and finally adopted “the Rover.” This would give

me scope enough. I might go whithersoever I pleased; and
so I did. I dived into the past and soared into the future;
traversed our own country, and crossed the great ocean to
compliment Byron, Shakspeare, and all the renowned
literary worthies. It was a tribute which I felt was due
from me. I hallowed Washington, and immortalized all
the heroes of the revolution. I dwelt especially upon the
emotions of my own heart, and described with minuteness
of detail the impression made by matters and things in
general, on my own mind.

The first day and night I accomplished about twenty
Spenserian stanzas, and then threw myself down to rest, but
not to sleep, for my mind was a boiling caldron of disjointed
images and fragmentary fancies. I thought the
true inspiration was upon me, and I perused what I had
written with delight. Of course others would derive a
similar delight from its perusal; and judging by this criterion,
I felt assured of success—of fame and fortune. My
next ridiculous impulse was to spring up and count the
lines of one of Byron's cantos, which had been at first published
separately, and then refer to the time which it took
him to write it. I made an exact computation, and was
gratified to find that I could write as fast as the great poet
had written.

I counted the days and weeks which would be consumed
in the composition, and then estimated the delay of printing
and binding. Time was now an object to me. I longed
to read the commendations of the press, to realize the golden
harvest, and enjoy the super-eminent distinction in the
world which my visions depicted. And above all I sighed
for the bright day to come when, with my fortune retrieved,
and my merits on the tongues of all, I might present myself
before Blanche, like some triumphant hero of romance,

and proudly claim her hand, with the full approbation of
her appeased uncle. These were the thoughts that incited
me, and which kept my pen in motion. The matter of the
work was left to the inspiration of the moment, and was to
flow from my pen like words from the mouths of the apostles.
When forced to take a modicum of exercise, to relieve
the pains and cramps of my inactive limbs, I walked
the streets with a conscious superiority. Whenever any
one would stare at me, attracted by my abstracted gaze, I
thought it might be one who had heard of the great work I
was writing, or had, perhaps, when I was absent, found
access to my manuscript, and now regarded me with wonder
and admiration. Such are the ridiculous fancies of
merely moon-stricken scribblers; and it would surprise any
one to have a correct knowledge of the astonishing number
of this class of subjects that daily wander about the streets
of our principal cities, “hoping against hope.”

Well, it was not many weeks before my great work was
done. I had passed my perihelion, and now wished to
attract the gaze of the mortals below. I consumed three
whole days revising and transcribing my production. I
then sat down and wrote a polite note to an eminent publisher,
stating that I had a poem ready for the press, which
I desired him to issue. The very next day I had his reply.
The note was brought in to me while I was talking to the
young ladies in the parlor. I held it in my hand, repressing
my anxiety to hasten away to the printers with my
manuscript, not doubting that such was the import of the
reply. The young ladies desired me to read it, but I declined,
merely intimating that the subject to which it related
was one of no importance. I had, somehow or other, the
prudence, or the luck, to keep my correspondence with
publishers a profound secret.

I opened the note in the privacy of my chamber. It
was brief, and to the point. He simply declined making
any additional engagements, in consequence of the precarious
condition of the business of the country, &c. &c. I
thought this was very strange. He had not read my production;
and how could he know but that it might improve
his business? I had never supposed, for a moment, that
the publisher who got my work would run any risk; and
surely a man could not enter into too many engagements
which paid him a profit. I felt quite indignant, and wrote
to another publisher. His answer was similar to that of
the first. I wrote to others, and still it was the same.
They all declined. I thought surely there must be a combination
to suppress native merit! It was inconceivable to
me why they should decline my poem without reading it.
How could they know it would not make their fortunes as
well as mine? They knew nothing about my capabilities;
I might be a genius equal in every respect to Byron, and
they might see the day when they should regret having
declined to publish my work. Such was my hallucination.
But it is precisely the same with hundreds of young gentlemen
and ladies at this day. There is a fascination
in this description of delusion surpassing ordinary comprehension.
Every poetic aspirant in this country, and
in most countries, is deluded with the belief that he is
gifted above all others, and that he is destined to encircle
his brows with an unparalleled halo of glory. He may be
told, and it may be demonstrated beyond the possibility of
contradiction, that not one perpetrator of poetry in a thousand
succeeds in Europe, and that not a single one in this
country has ever yet realized sufficient means from the
profits of his pen (the poetic pen) to support his family;
yet he will not hesitate a moment to relinquish all other

modes of making a living, and take the desperate chance
of winning a substantial triumph which all other poets have
failed to achieve!

Such was my case, indubitably; for while I was writing
to the different publishers in the several cities, two of my
brothers arrived from the West, to purchase fresh supplies
of goods, and offered me most advantageous terms, if I
would only give up my mad project and accompany them
back to Missouri. I refused peremptorily. I told them
my lot was cast, and henceforth I would follow the course
my star pointed out. Fate had bereft me of the fortune I
had amassed in the pursuit of business, and might do it
again if I returned to the West. No—I was resolved to make
my way through the world by my wits, or fall in the attempt;
and I hinted to them the possibility of my succeeding
some day in surpassing them all in the pursuit of wealth
in my peculiar way, and then it would be a subject of
bitter reflection to them that they had attempted to dissuade
me. I borrowed some money of them, and we parted.

There was one publisher who desired to see my work and
ascertain its merits. Upon this being intimated to me, I
took my manuscript to him, and he placed it in the hands
of a lady of some literary taste and judgment, who perused
it and gave her opinion of its merits. This lady was doubtless
an admirer of Byron, and must have been, to some
extent, a partaker of the same kind of enthusiasm which
actuated me. If she still lives, I hope she will pardon this
expression, when she learns the extent of suffering in which
her praises contributed to involve me. At the time they
were communicated to me, I could have fallen down at her
feet and worshiped her. If I had been the possessor of
millions, they would have been at her service. But I
never met her. And the fact that she never approached

my presence, or afforded an opportunity for me to approach
her, only heightened my admiration of her. It drove more
deeply into my soul the fatal conviction that I was a poet,
for it evinced the fact that she was wholly disinterested
in her commendations.

The following is a verbatim copy of her note to the publisher:—

“This poem I have attentively perused; it is extremely
interesting; it shows a quick imagination and a brilliant
intellect. The writer without doubt is a gentleman of profound
talent, and is destined at no distant period to shine a
bright star in the literary hemisphere.

“I fully appreciate its worth, but am ill calculated to give
it a deserving opinion.”

The name of course I suppress, because it was not my
fortune to realize her prediction. Had I succeeded, it
would have been the study of my life how to please and
serve that lady; for she seemed to be the only friend I had
in the wide world. She alone seemed to appreciate my
talents, and to encourage my lofty aspirations.

The bookseller was very naturally influenced by the
frank expression of such unbounded encomiums. He
promptly agreed to be the publisher, and the poem was
placed without delay in the hands of the printer, who executed
his part of the work in a faultless manner. It was
completed in due time, (although my impatience made the
necessary delay seem like a cruelty,) and delivered to the
publisher. I marked every step of its progress through
the press, through the hands of the binder, to the house
of the publisher. I even saw the boy take the presentation
copies, with the advertisements, to the different newspaper
offices; and then I returned to my garret to ruminate
on what was to follow. That night I could not sleep. My

mind was filled with fancies and anticipations which kept
me in a fever of excitement. My name was not to the
poem, it was true; but would not the poem itself be the
subject of conversation in every polite circle the next day?
What would the critics write about it? I felt willing
to compound for a share of denunciation mingled with
plaudits. That my poem would be praised by some of the
editors, I did not doubt, inasmuch as the only individual
to whom it had been submitted, had felt herself constrained
to express so favorable an opinion of its merits. There
could have been no partiality to sway her judgment, for
she did not know the author. But that some would condemn
it, was a matter of course. Still, I looked forward to
their condemnation with much complacency—for had not
Byron himself been assailed by the Edinburgh reviewers?

The morning came at last, and I took my place at the
table, modestly and diffidently. I presumed the company
had seen the morning papers. Most of them had learned
that I had a poem in press, from seeing the proof sheets
brought in by the printer's boy. I ventured to peep at their
faces, but did not observe that their eyes were on me.
And when the usual conversation began, it was all about
Robinson and Helen Jewett, instead of my immortal
poem.

I made no inquiries, but rose from the table, and taking
an umbrella, (it was raining,) wended my way stealthily to
a public reading-room, where they kept the papers, as well
as oysters and liquors. I trembled as I approached the file of
the “U. S. Gazette.” I strove to affect a careless indifference
as, glancing over its columns, I looked at the heads of
the editorial articles. With a palpitating heart, and a perspiring
brow, I read over every paragraph without noticing
a line about my production. I then shifted my position to

the “Philadelphia Gazette,” and with the same result. It
was the same with all, except the “Inquirer,” which mildly
noticed the reception of the work. This was all very strange
to me, then—but subsequently it seemed natural enough. I
felt a cold pain at my heart as I withdrew; but it was only
momentary. It occurred to me that to read a poem of some
sixty pages, and to review it properly, required some little
time. I then turned back and examined the advertising
columns of the papers, where I found the work set forth by
its title in all of them. I returned to my room, expecting
to enjoy the praises I had so fondly anticipated, the next
day. But the next and the next came and passed away
like the first. For weeks I continued to frequent the reading-rooms,
and never saw another notice, commendatory or
condemnatory, of my work. This was a most astounding
and unexpected result. Where was my fame? Where
the mint of gold that was to compensate for my lonely labor
by the flickering light of the midnight taper? For some
time I was plunged more deeply than ever in the darkness
of despair. I ascertained that but few copies were sold,
and that even these were called for mostly by the miserable
poetic tenants of other garrets, who had met with a similar
fate.

This ecstacy of folly still exists in all our cities, while
none reap the full fruition of their illusory hopes. This
narrative of my own pitiable case is painful to give, and
it would never have been undertaken, had I not believed it
might deter others from pursuing a similar career, inevitably
to end in harsh regret and stinging mortification.

I would not be understood as deprecating all attempts at
poetic success. I would merely warn the young, the ardent,
the inexperienced and the incapable, against relying
upon a fondly hoped-for success as the means of support.

But those who, in addition to ample means of subsistence,
possess sufficient leisure, I should certainly not feel disposed
to dissuade from indulging such fancies to a limited extent,
if they really believe they have, what I firmly believe
I had—genius. I would also warn literary ladies and gentlemen
against pronouncing hasty opinions upon the merits
of the productions submitted for their perusal. I need not
be particularly careful to warn the publishers; they know
their own business best.

Still, I was not cured of my fatal hallucination. After
floundering some time in the depths of despondency, I rose
full-fledged from the ashes of my first immolation. Perhaps
I had mistaken the appropriate field for the exercise
of my genius. That I had genius, and of a high order,
too, I still did not doubt. Perhaps all the editors and
poets on the continent, as well as the publishers, were not,
as I was at first inclined to believe, in actual combination
against me. My work might not really possess the merit I
thought it possessed. Besides, the admirers of poetry were
select and few in number, compared with the readers of
other descriptions of composition. I would make another
effort. It should be in prose—a novel—in short, the “Wanderings
of —.” I chose Fielding for my model, and set
to work with all the ardor and rapidity of a new impulse.
I supposed the taste of the majority of readers to be the
same that it was when “Tom Jones” was published; else,
thought I, why is that work reprinted and circulated so extensively?
So I succeeded in rivaling both Fielding and
Smollett in licentiousness and vulgarity, but was minus
their wit, their humor, and their philosophy. I felt a sort
of resentment against the public for its neglect to buy my
poem; and was otherwise mad enough in all conscience.
I described some of the worst scenes occurring among the

most groveling portions of humanity, without the slightest
stint of their phraseology, or of their depraved actions.

The work was completed in an incredible short space of
time. It was printed, and failed. The independent public
were not to be inveigled into the expenditure of money to
enable me to be revenged on them.

Thus ended my second step as a man of the world and
author, after the abandonment of my legitimate pursuit.
Each step was a manifest descent and departure from the
condition of independence and happiness that I had once
enjoyed. But still I looked with a sullen eye steadfastly
downward. I had not yet the first impulse to turn back,
or to look upward. I was conscious of being thwarted—
of being miserable and destitute; but still I braved my
sad predicament with a firmness and determination worthy
of a better cause.

I now floated upon the waves of time, like a dismasted
ship, a mere wreck, and reckless whether the winds should
waft me outward, or drive me headlong upon the breakers.
I never felt, however, the slightest inclination to
perpetrate dishonest or dishonorable acts: the counsels and
example of my pious parents had secured me against
the approach of such evil temptations. But I became
prodigal of my existence, and by nourishing the miseries
which consumed me, was, by a slow but sure process,
laying violent hands upon my own life. Abject dependence
on the charity of others, utter destitution, vagabondism!
the very thought of such a condition—and such was the
inevitable tendency of my course—pierced my heart like a
dagger! I no longer found refreshment in quiet slumber.
Incessant dreams disturbed my rest. The horrors of bitter
and unsuccessful struggles uniformly filled my visions, and
I awoke to prefer the reality of the infliction to its hideous
aspect.

I grew weak and pale, and began to look for the end.
I supposed I should die; but even this conviction did not
produce any disposition to retrace my steps. I had defied
the worst that fate could do, and still felt a determination
to resist even unto death. I knew not precisely what
I resisted; but I was convinced that I contended against
something; and as I felt that something had ill used me,
I desired to have the victory or death. Such is sometimes
the perverseness and haughtiness of our nature, even when
we have not the means of obtaining food and clothing.

Some forty dollars, now, comprised my entire stock of
money. It would be mere folly to try my pen again. It
was true my last work, in spite of its many absurdities and
its immoral tendency, had been reviewed rather favorably
by several sympathizing critics; still it failed to produce me
any substantial benefit to compensate for the labor of composition;—though
this was, in fact, a small matter. I could
not remain in Philadelphia. I was not willing to die where
my poor works had been so prematurely buried. Nor could
I live where I would be pointed out as a disappointed and
unsuccessful author. And yet I knew not whither to go, nor
what to do. With no promise of employment, no engagement
on which to rely, I resolved to go to another city. I
came to this resolution one night during a solitary and aimless
stroll through one of the public squares. I say a solitary
walk among the crowd, and I say the truth; for there
is a painful sense of utter loneliness in mingling with a
multitude of fellow-beings, when none of them notice you.
More cheerful by far would be the scene in the solitude of
some impenetrable desert; for there the company of one's
own fancies and meditations might be enjoyed without limitation.
But to a person in my condition, one's own thoughts
are his enemies and assailants, and I sought distraction.

I had never injured any mortal on earth; had never perpetrated
any description of crime; and yet, the thought that
I should be reduced to such a state of misery almost rent
the heart that indulged it.

Having formed a determination to leave the city the
next morning, I walked briskly in the direction of my
boarding-house, to make preparations for the journey. As
I passed along Chestnut street, I happened to cast my eyes
towards the brilliant saloon of one of the fashionable hotels,
which was filled with gay strangers. I paused abruptly,
for I beheld through the open window the friend of my
youth, the object of my adoration—Blanche. I stood and
gazed. She was sitting on a sofa, arrayed in lawns, laces,
jewels, and surrounded by an admiring crowd. But the
one who was the most diligent in his attentions, was a
young gentleman of fine stature, and noble brow. I had
struggled to teach myself to regard Blanche as one lost to
me forever. She was involved in the failure of my literary
projects. All my bright hopes were crushed together.
Blanche was relinquished with the rest. But in relinquishing
her, the idea had not occurred to me that she might be
appropriated by any one else.

I stood immovable as a statue, and gazed on that fair,
but maddening scene. Gradually one after another—
the dreadful uncle among the rest—retired from my view,
and Blanche and her young gallant were left alone to continue
their half-whispered conversation. She happened to
look out in the direction of the place where I was standing,
and I supposed my eyeballs gleamed upon her like orbs
of fire. She started, and rose. What were the words addressed
to her by the gentleman at her side, or what she
replied, I could not hear. But I saw her ineffectual attempt
to smile, with lips as pale as marble, and I supposed

she was striving to conceal the true cause of her excitement.
She came, followed by her attendant, towards
the window. I retreated across the street, and ascended the
steps of the arcade. When I turned, I saw them standing
on the iron balcony. Blanche had not lost sight of me.
Her eyes were doubtless still fixed upon the dim outline of
my form, when I paused within the shadow of one of the
arches. She could not be sure, but she evidently appeared
to think, that it was myself she gazed upon. She was
abstracted, while her friend seemed to become more assiduous
in his attentions. It was a place well adapted for a
tender declaration, and I fancied that he was availing himself
of the opportunity. Presently, I saw him make a profound
bow, and withdraw from her presence, leaving her
alone. She did not turn her head when his parting words
were addressed to her, but continued to gaze in the direction
of my position. Something whispered to me that she
had given my stranger rival his quietus, even while I
looked upon her. I felt a measure of relief from this conviction,
but did not dare to approach her. She knew of my
loss of fortune, but not of my present degradation. I could
not present myself in such a predicament. She might
scorn to recognize one who had thus abandoned himself—
and I scorned to be either an object of pity, or a wretch to
make her a participator in my misfortunes. Resolving to
address her a letter, taking my final leave of her, at no distant
day, I embraced an opportunity, when a company of
six or eight came by, to mingle with the crowd, and pursue
my lonely walk. After going some distance, I turned
aside, and observed that she still stood alone upon the balcony,
and that she still kept her face in its original position.
There I left her, and returned to the privacy of my
dreary room.

The next morning I took passage for another city. But
all cities were alike to me now, as I carried with me the
source of my misery. More than once I was seized with
utter despair, and hoped that death would put an end to
my sufferings before my scanty supply of money was entirely
gone. I took cheap lodgings, so as to prolong my
means of payment until I should meet with some unexpected
good fortune, or sink quietly into the grave.

Once or twice a precarious description of employment,
(I still rejected all other modes of making a living than with
my pen—determined to be a literary martyr)—which a
generous and gifted literary friend, who still watched my
downward course, and desired my ultimate success, threw
in my way. These were the mere fitful resuscitations preceding
eventual literary death.

Time dragged on in this manner, until spring, the season
that brought the western merchants eastward. It once occurred
to me that I might replenish my finances, by seeking
them out. Not one, I felt sure, would refuse to lend me a
moderate sum of money. I had never known one to refuse.
But now I had reached the lowest round of my downward
course, and why should I desire a prolongation of my
misery? I determined that I would do nothing myself, but
leave all to chance. And while I sat in my gloomy apartment,
and came to this conclusion, I felt a strange kind of
relief in my recklessness of the present, oblivion of the
past, and contempt of the future. I even laughed aloud
in the maniacal ecstasy of my strange exemption from the
tortures which had hitherto incessantly preyed upon my
mind. I then took up my pen to bid a final adieu to
Blanche—I could not bear the thought of writing to my
mother. No, the letter to Blanche should be my last act.
I wrote fervently. I described everything just as it had

occurred. I told her how I had long admired, and then how
deeply I had loved her; not omitting to state my intention to
have declared myself in form, and solicited her hand, when
the fatal catastrophe scattered my money and my hopes to
the winds. I filled the sheet with my half-subdued ravings,
and closed with an eternal adieu. That she might not
know my address, I determined to dispatch the letter by a
private hand to Philadelphia, where it should be mailed.

I have said that I could not bear the thought of writing to
my mother. But my letter to Blanche, by touching a mysterious
connecting link in my memory, produced some sad,
but not altogether painful fancies. The joys of my childhood
rose in retrospection; and father, mother, Blanche,
were with me again. It was a moving panorama, and I
followed the vision. I re-perused the letters of Blanche,
which I still preserved. Once more my heart was partially
imbued with those Christian influences she always strove to
inculcate; and this led to the death-bed scene of my father
—his dying words—and my meditations at his grave.

I tore open the sealed letter and added a postscript—a
faithful transcript of my sudden emotions, and concluded
by declaring that I would immediately seek the counsel of
some pious clergyman, and be guided by his advice; but
reiterated my intention never to presume to thrust my unworthy
self again in her presence.

The counsel of the pious minister was freely accorded
me, and I determined as soon as I could become prepared,
to seek admission into the church, and die, as my
Christian father had done, with a full conviction of an
eternal future, and a firm hope of a happy existence in it.
A star, a far-off star of hope, now beamed upon my heart.
Its twinkling rays, at first feeble, and scarcely perceptible,
seemed to increase daily, until my heart became at length

fully illuminated with its glorious light. It was the star of
Bethlehem. My desires, my purposes, my disposition, all
were undergoing a change; and my state of abject misery
was being converted into a condition of hope, faith and
happiness. Hope, that I might be enabled to retrieve the
past; faith, that I had discovered the means of doing so;
happiness, in the conviction that if I performed my duty,
no evils could overwhelm me here, or assail me in the
life to come.

One day I was most unexpectedly confronted in the
street by my old friend, Elijah Sage. My first impulse
was to avoid him; but the next moment better thoughts
prevailed. He might know my history if he desired it.
But he had evidently heard it from others.

“Luke,” said he, taking my hand, “I have a message,
as well as some information, for you. But you must first
promise me to get in the cars, which will start in fifteen
minutes for Philadelphia; and that, when there, you will
proceed directly to the counting-room of Messrs. Y.S. & K.
Will you promise?”

“I cannot,” said I.

“Why not?”

“To tell you the truth,” I continued, “I have not the
money I once possessed, and it is prudent for me to observe
due economy in my expenditures. You know, as a
merchant, I should consider whether there is any profit
likely to be realized from the undertaking.”

Elijah stared at me a moment, astonished at my calmness
and my smile; and then pulling out his pocket-book,
told me to take what I wanted. I refused, and he stared
again.

“How much have you?” he asked.

“Five dollars, after paying my board.”

“That will do,” said he, putting his pocket-book back.
Then I stared at him. “That will be sufficient to carry
you to Philadelphia. I say you will not lose by the trip.”

“Then I promise,” said I. “But what is this information?
What message have you?”

“You will find, at the counting-room named, a letter for
you from Norfolk, Va., marked `immediate and important.'
The message is from your brother Joseph, who is there.
He says—”

“Never mind what he says, Elijah!” I replied, hurrying
away abruptly, without waiting for the message. I
paid the good old landlady the last stiver that I owed her,
and soon found myself on the way to Philadelphia, thinking
of nothing but the letter. What could Blanche say in
reply to my final adieu? Would her letter also contain a
final adieu? Such thoughts alone occupied my mind.

Six hours sufficed to annihilate the space. I was met
at the front door of Y. S. & K.'s establishment, by Joseph,
and several western acquaintances. I rushed through them,
after brief salutations, and did not pause until I clutched
the letter. Then I strove to make my way out with as
little ceremony as I had observed on entering, but I was
forcibly detained by Joseph.

“Luke,” said he, “are you mad?”

“I will be, Joseph, I fear, if you keep me a minute
from reading this letter,” said I, struggling to depart.

“Why not sit down and read it here?” he inquired.

“No, I must be alone,” said I.

“Now, Luke,” said he, “I think I can make you forget
all about the letter.”

“You can't,” said I.

“I can,” said he. “Your trunk has been found, and I
have brought it on with me, with your money safe.”

“You can't!” I still repeated. “But now I shall go
to your hotel instead of my old garret. Drive to the City
Hotel!” said I, springing into a hackney coach, and vanishing
with the letter in my hand.

When I was alone in my room, with trembling hands I
broke open the seal of the epistle.

When Joseph, and several of my acquaintances from
the west, came to the hotel to look after me, they found me
at the door, about to get into a hack.

“Where are you going, Luke?” asked Joseph.

“To Norfolk,” said I.

“What for?”

“To be married!” said I, boldly. “And I want you,
and all of you, to go with me.”

“Pshaw!” said he. “I'm afraid you are mad, past recovery.”

“But I am not, though. I must be off. Will you go
with me?”

“Why,” said he, “if you are really going to be married,
I am under an obligation to accompany you. You may

perhaps, recollect that you went to my wedding.” I did
recollect it—the immersion and the toothache were indelible
remembrancers.

“But,” he continued, “you have not money enough to
pay the parson, nor to pay your expenses thither, nor to
buy a wedding suit. Miss Blanche, they say, has some
little fortune; but would it not be indelicate to draw upon
her purse so soon?”

This speech brought me to my senses. It was a sensible
speech, and the plain truth. My entire wardrobe was
on my person, and there were only one or two dollars in
my pocket. So I gave up the trip for the present, and
made preparations to set out the next day.

I soon overhauled my trunk full of dollars. They were
black and rusty enough from the effects of their submersion.
Only one hundred dollars had been claimed as a
reward for fishing them up. After taking out a sufficient
sum to answer my purposes, I had the rest deposited in the
Philadelphia Bank, with a request for Mr. T., the cashier,
to invest the balance for sixty days, at six per cent., taking
good collateral security.

We arrived in safety at Norfolk, and I was again with
Blanche. * * * * * * Our silly speeches and actions I
will suppress, as matters too personal to be laid before the
public.

The very next day, at sunrise, the wedding party was
assembled before the chancel in the church, while the whole
town seemed to be present as witnesses. Every pew below,
and every seat in the galleries above, appeared to be
occupied. My old counselor and friend, Mr. T., gave me
away, while the terrible uncle officiated for Blanche. The
minister, in his sacerdotal garments, advanced and solemnly
performed the rites.

The moral of the past may be summed up in these simple
words: