University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

I had been above three years in this family; was yet
young, fiery, and adventurous; having an uncommonly
deep acquaintance with men; with the human heart,
and with human passion; nay, an unexampled one, I
might say; for I have never, yet, met with a man of
twenty-five, so deeply read, as I was, at twenty, in
that terrible lore.

I have spoken of Caroline, frequently—and, as if by
accident; and the fact is, that I have been afraid to
speak of her. It is a melancholy subject—a painful
one; and, as I do not feel myself altogether guiltless of
her death—her destruction—I cannot think of her,
without a deep agitation here; and a strange, tremulous
motion of the eyes, as if—as if—they would weep, but
could not. I loved Caroline—fervently loved her.—
But how? Not as I ever loved any other earthly thing.
My tenderness for her was affectionate and pure; but
rather compassionate, than lofty; rather sweet and tender,
than thrilling. I cannot well describe it; but, my
belief is, now, that I loved her—because she loved me.
She was about thirteen, when I first saw her, and rather
small of her age; add to which, that she was dressed
so like a child, in a neat little grey frock, and white
apron, with her changeable deep brown hair crossed so
meekly over her forehead; and parted with such delicate
accuracy, that I only thought of her, as of a singularly
interesting child, of about ten or twelve, shamefully
maltreated in her dress. Some months wore
away, and I was the happiest of human creatures; nothing
troubled me, except the silence of my dear sister

Elizabeth—who, certainly, did not rightly fulfil the
duty of a correspondent. But why should I complain?
It is the nature of women, even of the best—for she was,
and is one of the best—to be warm and passionate
awhile, and then—reader, I leave it to you to finish
the sentence. I do not like to be severe, or bitter.—
Women part—the dearest of friends; nay, so do men—
swearing a perpetual friendship; are devoutly attentive,
for awhile, in their correspondence; grow cooler and
cooler; laying by their letters, when received, till their
glow and beauty are-gone; and all the emotion that
they first awakened, is forgotten; at last, they are ready
to reply; and then they sit down, reluctantly, as to a task,
not to be put off any longer; angry with themselves,
and willing to find any excuse for their own coldness;
write a formal, unnatural page or two, as if they were
making a speech at one, rather than conversing with
him; and bless themselves for their own courage.—
Shame on them. Friendship is a plant of a delicate
growth. It cannot be neglected with impunity. People
may love each other truly and heartily; they may
grow to each other in their devout pulsation, till they
have, literally, but one heart and one soul; yet, a little
neglect, a very little, constantly operating, as it always
will, in a geometrical proportion, acting and reacting
forever, will be sure to sunder them, at last, and deaden
all their sensibilities. A certain degree of communion—daily
communion, if possible—is necessary, between
people that are growing old together. Our appetites;
opinions; and modes of thinking; are all liable
to change. We know that. But we learn to accommodate
ourselves to this change, while it is gradual;
and while it is only gradual, like the growth of children,
or the approach of old age, upon those, with whom
we daily associate, we do not observe it, and are never
startled by it. But, that intercourse interrupted for
awhile, we meet our dearest friends, almost like strangers.
Have you not met some one that had been dear
to you many years before, after a long and trying separation;
during which, no letters came from him, to
tell the growth of his understanding, or the change of
his heart; and no intelligence whatever from them that
had seen him, and could tell how he looked and spoke?
Have you not? And did you not meet that friend, rather
as a stranger, with—if there were any rising, at
all, of the heart—a rising, like a cold spring of water,
too suddenly disturbed; than as your friend? O, it is
too true. I have bitterly experienced it. Many a cold,
unnatural hour, have I spent with them that I had loved;
them that had loved me; after a long absence, during
which, we had grown up with other inclinations;
suffered differently; been happy differently; and felt the
sunshine and wind of a different hemisphere, upon us.
The work of friendship, and often of love, when we
meet anew, is all to be done over again. We tread
cautiously, as we approach the darkened hearth; and
tremble, while we stir the ashes, lest we may find no embers
there; nay, lest we may find adders there. Some
up, or to allude to them; nor even the heart to do it, lest
will be, often, when we have not the power to touch them
sweet, thrilling reminiscences there may be; and there
we may find no answering intonation. O, it is very
trying, to find that she hath forgotten, what you but too
well remember; to find her heart silent, when yours
hath been touched and tuned to the memory of other
days. You are prepared—your hand is lifted—the apparitions
prepare to do your bidding; but you fear to
emit a sound, lest—the cold, desolate thought!—O, it
is bitter!—lest there may be no answering cadence in
the air. Their unison is done with—their echo and
sympathy are over! Such is the influence of separation
from women.

How many a lover; how many a friend, hath been
lost, by the ungentle ministering of a froward hand;
yet, it were kinder to uproot the plant at once; to snap
off every bough, though it bled perfume to reproach you;
to scatter all its blossoms, and trample them in the dirt;
than to let it perish of neglect. Give me the spoiler!
I can abide and resist her; but spare me, O heaven,
that wintry consumption; that! where we droop away
in our desolation, alone, for ever and ever—and perish,
without a tear, or a thought! No, no—the furnace rather!

No, it is not the rough wind, nor the rough hand, that
desolates the beautiful landscape of the heart—the aromatick
herbage, and blossoming of the affection; no!—
but it is the unheeding, unrelenting negligence of them
that we love.

Would you preserve the friendship of another?—your
intimacy with him?—keep him acquainted with every
alteration of your thought;—every pulsation of your
heart;—and keep yourself acquainted with his, in the
same manner. Your friendship, then, will be, if judiciously
formed at first, in age, pursuit, and character,
perpetual. If otherwise—no matter how well you may
be fitted, for that high and noble intercourse, the communion
of brave and great natures—you will be strangers,
at last, happen what will. You cannot meet, cordially,
after a long separation; it is impossible; for you
are not sure, that what was acceptable in your manner,
when you parted, may not be offensive; or, at least, unacceptable,
now that you have met again. You are
afraid to forget the years that are passed, entirely,
when you meet; though there is a natural propensity
in all our hearts, to retake and re-occupy their places,
wherever they meet them again, and in the same humour,
too; so that an old man, who goes among them,
who knew him when he was a young man, will be pretty
sure to forget that he is old; or to make them forget it;
and your manner will be cold and unnatural. This,
though he may no longer know what is natural to you,
he can detect at once. The veriest child can point out
what is unnatural, even in a stranger. And nature is
so captivating, that, when ungraceful, and repulsive
it will do, what the most gracious and winning address,
which is unnatural, will fail to do. Your friend, of course
thinks you vulgar, or affected; and you think the same
of him. For we have but one standard. He who acts
differently from that.— be it in word, manner, or dress,
is always, in our estimation, vulgar or affected—vulgar,
if he resemble the many; affected, if he resemble
the few. Neither of these things can we tolerate.—
Reader, you must pardon me. I have suffered cruelly,
frequently, by this neglect of others. It is a crime; for

it is unkindness of the most unamiable nature; it is
bruising, negligently, the heart that feels only, because
it hath been torn away from another. I cannot accuse
myself of it. No—I never lost a friend, by negligence.
If I were weary of him, I told him so. If I had wronged
him, I atoned for it; if he had wronged me, I forgave
him. No!—whatever I have lost, has been by a stern,
unbending honesty; by doing, rashly, as I would be
done by; by reasoning after this fashion—“If he cease
to be my friend, because of this—this, which I do, or
say, because I love him—his friendship was never worth
having; he was never the man that I took him for.”—
I have never yet lost one by negligence; and, if I keep
my senses, I never will. Yet, had I not been willing
to forgive almost anything, in them that I love, I had
been friendless, at this hour—this, of my loneliness
and widowhood. Thus much as an offering to the torn
and lacerated heart of one—one that knows me—it
were better than a benumbed one. It was a duty, and
I have done it; harshly, it may be, but honestly. And
now I have done—saying only this; that, when your
conscience reproaches you, for having delayed too long,
a visit, or a letter, to a friend, call to mind the difficulty,
that you have found, in renewing a correspondence, after
a long interruption, by letter; or, in answering one,
that had lain by you, till all the spirit had evaporated;
the colour faded; and the beauty was an old story; or,
in renewing a cordial, frank interchange of thought, after
a long interval, with one, whom you once knew so
well, that you popped in upon her, at all hours, without
ringing; without knocking; and without ceremony.
Your first letter is cold, laboured, artificial, and dissatisfactory,
to yourself, and to your friend; your answer
affectedly cordial, impertinent, or stupid; and your
visit, one of parade and ceremony. Bless me! where
have I wandered? Let me return. I look back for
several pages, and I find, that I was telling you of Caroline;
and that I was happy, and prodigal of my happiness,
at this time; and that it was dashed only by the
negligence of my sister, in not keeping me informed of
her health and happiness—for both were precarious, as
I shall hereafter relate to you.

At last, I discovered a strange malady of spirit upon
me; I could not sleep; my appetite failed; and I had fits
of melancholy, silent abstraction, that were new to me.
Was it love? It could not be. It was utterly unlike
aught that I had ever experienced. There were but
five or six girls, in all the world too, whom it was possible
to attribute my disorder to; namely: Olivia, Susan,
Anne, Rachel, and two or three Elizas. Thinking
in this way, of my malady—I began a review of all that
I could possibly be in love with. The first, we called
the Little Belt. She was a little, active, tight built creature;
with a warm heart; a voluble tongue, and a pleasant
voice. I had met her once, under circumstances,
sufficiently romantick, it was true. I was visiting a
pretty little country village, with a friend of mine, in
the depth of winter. His object was, to see an “old
flame” of his;—and mine—to get my ears frozen first,
and my shins roasted, afterward, under pretence of a
sleigh ride—free of expense. I saw his “flame;” and
my cold fingers were all the better for it. In her, I recognised
an old acquaintance of mine, whom I had
thought of, many and many a time, for a year or two,
before, without any hope or expectation of meeting her
on earth. I was delighted—and so was he; we sat and
talked the most delicious sentiment; he, about old times,
and his school-boy tenderness; and I, of our singular
acquaintance, until it was time to separate. In the
mean while, however, Olivia—a neighbour, who saw
that her companion had company, popped in, accidentally
upon us; though it snowed and blew, like vengeance;
and the houses were half a mile apart—without her
bonnet. This, of course, excited some consideration;
and in me, for such is my nature, when I see women
behave like fools—some reproof. She liked me the
better for it; and, while George (my friend,) a very sensible
man, then; but married now—packed off, through
the snow drift, one way, with his Eliza; I waded off,
in a contrary direction, my teeth chattering in the wind,
which would have sharpened a razor—with Olivia.
We came to the door. It was near midnight. “Wo'nt
you walk in?” said she, laughingly. Hang my picture!

—not me—I do not say, hang me—I have left off that
practice—it is very ungenteel—if I had'nt half a mind to
walk in, and stay all night—but, I hadn't “brought my
knitting work,” and spend a week with her; and I knew
well what a woman meant, in that county, when she
said—“pray sir, if you should ever come within a dozen
miles of our house, I shall depend on your staying there,
all night.” So, I did'nt go in—though there was something
in her manner, to speak seriously, that went to
my heart. I paused. My lips trembled; (not with
the cold) and I bid her farewell, as I shook her hand,
with a melancholy feeling, as if I were about to part
with her, for ever. It is sad—is'nt it? to part, for ever,
as your heart tells you, with lips and eyes, that you
have just learnt how to quicken?—that you have just
met, and been happy with. It is a dreary and uncomfortable
feeling to one, with a long walk before him, at
midnight—in a snow storm. When I travel, therefore,
with a probability of never travelling the same road
again, I never permit myself to make any acquaintance.

It is too like death, to part for ever, and ever, it may
be with aught that you have talked pleasantly with, even
in a strange land. Well!—Well!—. I parted from
Olivia—and thought of her many a time, that night;
even when I was holding one of the only two hands that
the woman had—fact—while my friend held the other.
I had not been acquainted with her two hours;—but
she was an old maid—an amiable one, though; and
when they begin to melt, like snow in the summer solstice,
there is no stopping them--the flow of their hearts,
I mean;—and—bless me!—lost again—and, in short, I
thought of Olivia, even while the hand of another woman
was heating in mine, over a slow fire—when I was
dying to go to bed—(alone I mean) or yawn in her
face. And yet, she was amiable, and I do respect her.
Just one year after this,—it was very extraordinary--I
was in a part of this world, where Captain Cook, himself,
would not have gone, in the winter, for his nose—
I'll engage. I was desolate and alone—when heaven
had compassion on me, all at once, and brought me
along side of the Little Belt, again. I was agitated and

delighted; my thrills returned; and all the sweet disorder
of love, sentimentality and romance; until, at last,
I am half ashamed to own it—I set to work upon poetry,
again; and happening, by a well managed intrigue,
to occupy the very bed room; nay, why should I not
tell the whole truth? the very bed where Olivia had slept;
—what a different matter a little difference in the tense
will make in these verbs! time is important, alike, in
grammar and love; verbs and women—is it not? --I
scribbled the walls all over, with the vilest stuff, in favour
of Olivia. But, it was too late; she had already
slipped through my fingers; and, whatever your downright
spiritualities may say, such as Sir Charles Grandison;
and Thaddeus of Warsaw; and such cattle, I
found it but cold comfort, to press even the pillow of
Olivia—alone. Yes—I hate affectation, and I may as
well own it. I tried hard to be sentimental; hard
enough—heaven knows! I hugged and squeezed the
pillow—kicked and sprawled about, in my sleep—and
made verses, all the day long—but, it would'nt come—
the fountain had run dry—and there was really so little
consolation, in freezing, of a long night, under the
same bed clothes; and in the same, that she had frozen
in; that, really—heretick that I was! apostate to love and
romance! I had a prodigious inclination to migrate into
a warmer climate—for, there was one nearer to me—in
the very next room--but, hang it, that was kept by “the
dragon of prudery” too.

Well, then—it was not Olivia, with whom I was in
love; beside, she was already married; and I was really
a fellow of too much principle to be in love with, or
catch a fever of—a married woman. No---no---it was
not Olivia.

Was it Susan then? Possibly!—Her round black
eyes, her neatly turned waist, and fine manner; together
with her untrained cordiality---the manner in which
she danced---the occasional emotion which she betrayed,
when I came near her.---Ah no---it was not Susan.
There was no delicious bobbing of my poor heart, in
my blood, like a newly caught fish, in cold water; none
of that inward titillation and trickling, as if,---I hardly

know what---it is difficult to tell, to another, who has
not felt it; and he that has, will understand me, without
my telling it. It is a sensation, as if your blood were
filtering away, drop by drop, through the little end of
your heart. And, therefore, it was not Susan!

Was it Anne?---I was puzzled, for a moment; I remembered
how I used to lie upon the sofa with her;
with my arms round her waist, for whole hours, of a
warm twilight summer evening, without uttering a
word, drawing a breath, or even daring, fool that I
was! and barbarian too---to torture any creature so---
and a woman, of all creatures---to press my lips to her
face. O, I knew little of women, then---but, I have
grown wiser of late; tenderer of disposition. I could
not be so cruel, now---I could not, to any thing, in the
shape of a woman---living or dead---sick or well. Was
it Anne? No; for, though I had felt one pang, one,
that shot through me, like a poisoned arrow, when I
had seen another, no more like me, than like—him—
(that's better than Shakspeare's Hercules, I think, or
Hamlet)---dwelt upon, with eyes full of tenderness; yet,
there was no sweltering of the heart in it---that infallible
indication of love, with me, where I have once
been goaded and scorched by jealousy.

Was it Harriot?—no—she had never cared a fig
for me; and all my love for her had only gone to the extent
of touching her hand, now and then, at back-gammon--articulating
“my dear girl!” as if by accident; and
once, poor creature, how her eyes glittered! putting my
arm, by the merest casualty in all the world, round her
beautiful waist, in a room full of people, who were
crowding about the fire place, where we stood—so as
to justifying her, in not appearing to feel it; but I saw
the colour flash through her transparent forehead--and
her sweet eyes twinkle, as if my naked arm had embraced
her. Yet—alas, alas, it was not Harriot!—
She had become a little too much of a woman, or rather,
for I think I can amend that sentence, too much of a little
woman.

Was it Rachel?—I pause at that name. My heart
stops. I cannot treat her irreverently. If ever woman

loved man truly, that woman loved me so. Yet—fool
that I was—idiot, madman that I was—I trifled with
her affection—wrung it from her, by the most dastardly,
shameful and unmanly trial; and then, reader, I do
blush, and burn; and my eyes throb unpleasantly, now.
I left her. Yes!—no woman, I am sure, ever loved man,
more devotedly—more silently; or with a truer and
holier regardlessness of self, than she loved me. I can
see her, now—her deep, dear, passionate eyes, and unsteady
complexion, (she was a brunette)—her hushed
breathing; and mournful, yet tender voice, while she sat
by me,—supported by my arm, of a long evening; in
my own chamber too, drawing her problems in geometry,
as I dictated them to her. I was her tutor; and, so
sacred was the confidence that she placed in me—that,
with every opportunity to destroy her,—I shuddered
and quaked, even at the thought of embracing her.

She was in danger, but she knew it not—in mortal
peril, often, when our cheeks touched and thrilled; and
I felt her smooth hair, blowing over my hot temples—
yet, as I hope to see heaven; and you have no idea what
a consolation there is in the thought—it is one bright
spot—almost the only one of my whole life---I never
profaned her, in thought, or word, or deed. Poor innocent;
she knew not enough of my nature, or her own,
to be thankful for it; but, day after day; night after
night; went, in the holy purity of her heart; and
sat and slept near a furnace, that might have consumed
her—nay, that would have consumed her, as it hath
many a wiser and more subtle one, but for that wonderful
artlessness and purity, in her own heart, which
kept her from even the thought of evil. Gracious heaen!
Could I have put my hand profanely upon that
girl! I know not—I cannot imagine it possible; and, to
this hour, it would seem as natural for me to spoil an
infant, with violence, as to put my lips, passionately,
to that creature's mouth, or eye lids. Yet—I
might; and, even then, in the delirium that would have
followed, she would have felt nothing but the delicious
certainty of being beloved. This was all that she sought
for; and, when her soft cheek lay upon my bosom, and

her beautiful eyes were upturned to mine, like molten
jewelry, just so that I could see the light issuing from
them, through the transparent lashes and lids; it was
only that she was very happy in the belief of—she
hardly knew what—but I know that it was pleasant to
her, to be near one that she loved.

Yet—I trifled with that girl. I sought to make her
love me. I succeeded; and, though I neither sent her,
bruised in spirit, broken in heart, nor dishonoured, to
an untimely grave, yet do I fear mightily,—O, may it
not be cast up to me, at the great day of account, for
the sake of my forbearance—I do fear that her heart was
widowed by me, for ever and ever, in mere wantonness?
that I robbed her, of her peace, her power of loving, any
other man: and left her incapable of blessing; another or,
being beloved, for all the remainder of her weary and uncomfortable
life. Bitterly do I repent of it—very bitterly:
and wonder, now, that the witchery and delight of
being loved, should so have made me, what no language
can palliate—a villain; an unprincipled villain. Many
years have passed away, since I left her. It may be,
that she is not of this earth—it may be! If I were sure
of it, I would drop upon my knees this moment, and
pray to her to pardon me; and to intercede for me;
wherever she is. Poor, dear Rachel!

I had no justification—no excuse; yet I was never
weary of humbling her. The manifestations of love,
deep and delicate as they were—were never sufficiently
convincing; and I would deliberately wring her
with doubt; palsy her whole frame, with terrour (as I
did once, under pretence of going out to fight a duel,
when she fainted, and was very sick, sick unto death,
till I returned)—and, in short, do every thing that an
abandoned murderer of innocence, and love, could have
done, except that of damning her, and trampling her
under my feet.

No—it was not Rachel. Too many years had gone
by, for that. Nor Charlotte?—no, for though I felt
prodigiously uneasy for awhile, to see her coquetting
with all the world but me;—yet I had been too amply
revenged at last by hearing from her own lips, that—
“she would marry anybody—anybody”—looking at my

ugly face, and speaking in a voice that thrilled through
and through me—at the time, “that a certain man” (the
warmest friend that I had on earth, and she knew it!)
“would recommend to her”—to think of dying for her
—in this way—no, no; I could'nt think of it.

Well then, it must be Eliza: but which Eliza?----
there were at least three or four, who had, at some time or
other, tugged at my wretched heart strings. First, there
was Eliza H— a noble, elegant creature----(hair a
little too auburn, though)--with a cultivated mind---but,
unluckily, she had never cared a fig for me, till, in the
course of much vicissitude, I had nearly lost all the natural
sensibility that I first had;---beside, she had too
pretty a sister, for a fellow to be downright in love with
any of the family. By the way, it is, depend upon it,
a confoundedly preplexing question sometimes, to carve
for yourself, in a family of loveliness and grace. While
you live, therefore, if there be more than one decent
daughter in the family, where you are in love, take care
to leave the door open, to back out at----till the last
moment. There is no knowing what may happen.---
And there is no such misfortune for a family of girls,
as to be all beautiful, and unmarried, about the same
time. They are sure to wane, perish, die, of loneliness,
and ill humour. If half of them were ugly as the
devil; another quarter just passable; and the remainder
unlike each other;---with only one beauty, the whole
might get married at last. So, depend upon it, ladies,
if there are many of you----marriageable----or, if you
are not, and you all know when you are, better than I
can tell you,----my advice to you is plainly this----to
draw lots, fairly and honourably, and blow up all your
faces with gunpowder----except one. But if that be too
terrible---take the small pox. It is your only chance,
believe me; and, a moment's reflection, will convince
you, that there would be great policy in it. A little
temporary neglect, it is true, would follow; but, you
would be pretty sure to learn to read and spell--though
you did'nt turn out your toes, as if you had the cramp,
nor talk as if----Lord help me now, for a comparison!
I am at a dead, pull—no matter. The contrast

would be sure to set off your sister to greater advantage;
the publick (especially the women) would soon see more
beauty in the family, than ever; your unblemished one;
and here, by the way, you will remember, if you are wise,
to let her be the biggest natural fool among you, if there
be any way of determining which that is----it will save
her the trouble of lisping and laughing like an artificial
simpleton; and nothing, I assure you, is half so captivating
to the creatures that are called men, as this helplessness,
when there is nothing but the difference in height---
none in the countenance at all ---to distinguish the woman
from the babe, “muling and puling” in a ball room
----your unblemished one, particularly with these accomplishments,
would be sure to get married off hand;
because, her lovers would not be distracted in their devotion
to her, by your faces; and then, you, if she have
any family pride at all, will be got rid of, one after the
other, among her husband's relations. In a few years,
too—to comfort you for this temporary self denial, you
will be, assuredly, the more agreeable of the two:--you
will have mind, in that wintry season, when the personal
beauty of all women is like the shadow that hath gone
—something, that nobody will take the trouble to run
after, even in thought.

But—is this too severe? Then hide and disfigure
yourselves, to the best of your power, if you are wise;
and leave, as you hope to be married; nay, as you hope
to be widows—only one of your number, at a time, out
—for bait—at your doors and windows. If you prefer
the gunpowder, there is this advantage in it, that
you can take what quantity you please, so as to prevent
the catastrophe of being, any two of you, of the
same ugliness:---but then, the small pox will do the
same thing, in its own way—no two of you will come
out, alike, from the seaming and scarring----and now,
one word in good faith—as you are living women, if
there are more than two pretty ones in the same family,
I do assure you, that you will all die old maids, if
you do not follow my plan; and that a sensible, high
minded man, will be the first to choose the gunpowder
face,---when the heyday of his blood is over; and he

wants a companion; a friend; a wife, for the fireside;
and a mother for his children. But why do I mention
this? Who of you would not rather be beautiful, than
wise?----beloved by many fools, than by one great
heart;--the mistress;[1] the companion for dalliance--the
—no matter what--anything that is base and sensual—
the mere plaything of men, when they are upon a level
with the brute beast. Pretty well!

No, it was not that Eliza. Could it be Eliza S—
a tall, romantick girl, so touched with theatrical romance,
that, to carry her heart and soul by storm, it
was only necessary to make love, like a man on horse-back;
in armour and blank verse; to the sound of a trumpet:
she whom, though I declare that she was a high minded
and intelligent woman; of a warm and generous, temperant;
anybody, with the name of Tekeli, or Octavian,
could have run away with, off hand;---she who, the
second time that she ever saw me, leaped, upon my honour,
it is a fact,--from the top of the stairs, down to the
bottom—sprang into my arms, and gave me such a kiss!
by Jupiter! my lips are tingling yet,—no—it was not
she—she is—poor girl, poor girl!—she was really an
excellent creature—but, alas, she is married.

I should like to see that woman again! upon my word,
I should—in the presence of her husband and babes---
anywhere indeed, except at the foot of a long staircase----in
a dark entry—with the street door open. No,
it was not that Eliza. It would be impious, to imagine
that all this fever and fuss, in my arteries, were owing to
a married woman. Nor could it have been Eliza
P—, that most affectionate of human hearts (for, at
that time, “I had not learned to love”) and did not know
her—she, whose raven tresses; and black glossy smiling
eyes, for ever letting out the “delicious secret” of
her passion. No, it was not she. But let me describe
her. She was one of the only three really modest
females, that I ever knew: and yet, were the women of

the world, whom Byron distinguishes from the women
of the town, by calling them, ladies of “un-easy virtue,”
acquainted with all our dealing with each other, they
would turn up their eyes at her modesty. Ah—how
little they know of themselves! She, too, was virtuous;
nay, she might have fallen, and been more virtuous,
nevertheless, than many a woman, whose reputation is
unimpeachable. Some preacher, I remember, once
said that the difference between a virtuous and a fallen
woman was, that the one had struggled, and the other had
not.[2] It was a beautiful thought; and never was a
thought more applicable to anybody—than this, to
Eliza. Never was woman so tempted and tried—so
secretly, incessantly, and so unwittingly. I deliberately
practised upon her; inflamed her imagination; corrupted,
or rather sought to corrupt her senses—memory
and delicacy, by continual encroachment; and yet,
I could not prevail. I do not say that I would have
profited of her self abandonment, if she had yielded—
for, I believe that I should not; but she did not know
that, and she resisted me. Therefore, do I say, that she
was, emphatically, a modest and virtuous woman--tried
and weighed. Yet she was one of them that are full
of contradiction—all that was noble and heroick, she
could have endured—but nothing that was not so, for
her love of me. But why should I complain? It is easier
for any woman to lay down her life for her husband, than
to drink brown sugar in her tea; or broil her own
steaks. Still, there was one other; a little, round faced,
cheerful-eyed girl, with a dash of smartness and piquancy
that gave uncommon zest to her manner. Could
it be she? All that I remembered, to justify me in thinking
of her, at this time, was a little twisting and broiling
of my inwards.[3] It happened once, on seeing her somewhat
kind to a young dog, that came out from London
with an apology in his mouth, for not bringing me a
superb black dress, that I had ordered; and with the
very same dress upon his own back, at the time—in
which, like all your true blooded Englishmen, who are
disqualified at home, to shoot any thing but their friends
and dunghill fowls—and, when they get to America,
are as mad and foolish, as if they were made altogether
squires and noblemen, under the qualification of our
game laws; he was out, scouring all the swamps, and
hedges, and ditches of the country, at the same time that
I was coaxing off and on, the only suit of clothes that I
had in the world, twice a day: and they were so thin that
I dared not cough or sneeze, or make much of any kind
of a noise in them; or go out in a high wind—lest I
might have to run into some house on the road, and
borrow something to come home in. Well—to return
—it happened on one bloody cold night, when I was
coming through a long street with her; at one end of
which, lived a gentleman, with whom we had been
starving and freezing for several hours—at the other—
the North Pole, Iceland, Greenland, Lapland, Siberia
and Spitzbergen; and just in the centre, a mischievous
girl, who, when it was too cold to hang her own stockings
out of the window for a signal, would put a black
girl up to it; and be serenaded, by proxy—with the
sweetest guitar in the world, and the tenderest, and
truest of hearts—but thereby hangs a tale—I only
know that she made a fellow serenade her window one
night, till all his fingers, and toes were numb—with a
guitar—and that I found out afterward; for I had a
sneaking kindness just then, for the same creature, that
she, who had appeared at the window, listening to his
plaintive, sweet roundelay-ditty-izing, heedless of wind
or weather, was a great greasy she-negro, blacker than
ten thousand devils. Well, as I was coming through
that street—with the aforesaid, (the last, aforesaid—I
should say)—Eliza—I attempted to wrap her up in my
cloak—the most comfortable thing in the world—for
me—but, somehow or other, she “was'nt agreeable;”
and, ever after that, we were on the most perfectly
polite, gentlemanly, cold blooded footing, in the whole
world. Are you tired, reader?—Can anything be more
natural? Does'nt it remind you—for you know my
aim----it is to write easily---(I wish that you could see
my manuscript!) does'nt it remind you of—

No; it was neither of these Eliza's. There was but
one more—a nameless girl; or, at least, one that was
very near losing her name, one night. There was a
camp meeting. I had heard a great deal of such things;
and was all a tilt to get into one. I love religious people;
particularly them that wear petticoats, and tumble,
and roll about, in their extacies; and them, too—if they
have sweet voices—that whoop, and halloo, and bawl,
in their devotions; there is somewhat so reverential and
composing—so august and dignified in it. So, attended
by a friend, the guitar man, (since married—so no
more of him—I never speak ill of the—married)I—rode
to the place; hitched my poor mare (m-a-r-e, reader,
or you may fancy, that I tied my own mother to a tree;
for, in the fashionable world, mère, mayor, and mare,
are all the same thing—in pronunciation, I mean;) to
a tree; and left her to the mercy of the gad-flies, that
had come to the same meeting; and, faith, they must
have been troubled with extacies, too—for the poor
creature was stung into a hard lump, when I found her
in the morning—harness and all. We could hardly
squeeze her into the shafts. This done, I went among
the evangelical. By heaven—with all my levity—all
my quick sense of the ridiculous—I found something
too frightful, in these things, for my laughter. In one
large booth, were a matter of forty or fifty people, if
legs and arms were any indicia; men and women; sweltering
and sprawling about, of a hot night; a fat man
in the middle—a justice of the peace, whom I knew—
jumping, and bawling, and shouting, until he had
worked his shirt half out, over the waistband of his
breeches; and two of his own daughters, amiable and
modest women, who—it was a mercy that they were
not, what they pretended to be—utterly transported out
of their senses—a mercy, indeed, that the delicate instinct
of modesty was not quite put out—who, whenever
they had become, to a certain degree, exposed, by
the flourishing and agitation of their own, or their

neighbours limbs, fell to drawing up their feet—
drawing in their horns—and adjusting their dresses;
but without opening their eyes; losing their place; or
stopping in their trance. In another, I found three
or four stout, vulgar looking blackguards, playing with
one of the most truly innocent and beautiful children,
that I ever saw; shouting in her ear, all at the same
time, till, in her terrour and agitation, her eyes waned,
in their faint, spiritual blue, like the hushed azure of
heaven, in dew and shadow—the colour fled—and the
sweat stood, like rose-dew, upon her mild, sweet forehead;
and this—this!—when they had plucked that child
down to the earth! this was proclaimed, to the four winds
of heaven, as another special manifestation of divine
grace! O, my blood boiled in my veins. I thought of
Susannah and the elders; and I was on the point of crying
out, avaunt, ye accursed! But, just then—faith,
it was musick to me—a pretty, little, rosy, dimpled
country girl, passed me—with two or three companions.
I followed her—and she nodded her pretty head at me,
in scorn; but, after awhile, I persuaded her to separate
from them, and walk with me. The enclosure was large;
and, in the centre, was a circular place, boarded in
with rough boards; benched with the same; and arched
with the magnificent ceiling of God—the blue midnight.
Who could spoil the innocent, in such a season,
with such a witness? Not I. The poor girl was imprudent;
but she was in the keeping of one, that never
did, and never will, harm a woman, putting her trust
in him. I led her to the centre of this boarded solitude.
It was soon to become populous. It was the place of
prayer; and the hour was close at hand. I avoided the
darkness, though I sought the solitude; and we sat
there, under the candle and starlight; and talked, lovingly,
I own, but not wickedly, or licentiously, till
the night dew had drenched her black hair. I observed
it, and gave her my pocket handkerchief; but, hardly
had she covered her head with it, than she started up,
as if a serpent had been before her, and fled. At the
same moment, two tall, stern looking men, Elders,
stood before me. They began to rebuke me, as they
would a school boy. I let them go on, patiently—very
patiently—till I found that they were overheard; and
then—O, may I never see—heaven, I was going to say
—but that were impious, just now—so, I will even say,
may I never see—the antipodes of heaven—if these men
did not shake in their shoes, before I had done! Did'nt
I give it to them? Did'nt I? What had they seen?—
What heard? How knew they—uncharitable that they
were—that I was not converting a sister, in my own
way? I was. I would defy the whole of them, to
bring tears into the eyes of a woman; or to make her
humbler; sicker at the heart; more bruised and broken;
or more sincerely penitent and ashamed—though I
knew their power, well—with the same opportunity
and time, than I, myself could. Nay, I would give them
twenty-five, at that game. How dared they judge me?
Who gave them authority? What had they seen, wrong?
Where was the woman? Confront me with her. “I
was disturbing their solemnities,” they said. Their
solemnities!—tents full of legs and arms—for nothing
else was to be seen; their hysterical sobbing and
blasphemy—for nothing else was to be heard. And
this was their religion! Why, the wild beasts have the
same. They herd and howl together; the wolves
troop; and carrion is hunted, with similar sounds; and,
in much the same manner, that these creatures stoop at
heaven—or upon their prey. It is only a natural sympathy.
Armies are panick-struck, in the same way:
one cries quarter; and all are cowards; another rushes
to the breach; and the whole follow him. A man yawns;
and all that are about him, follow the example; a woman
weeps, or laughs; and a multitude, as at the theatre,
do the same. Why? No living creature can tell.
It is sympathy; that nervous, constitutional sympathy,
which distorts your countenance, and sets you a stuttering,
when you see another convulsed; or hear him
stutter. And this—this, which the very animals hold
in common with you—this,which the weak and foolish
are most conspicuous for, is the divinity stirring within
you! Impious, indeed! The good that you have
done—ye followers of Wesley and Whitfield—is incalculable;
and it ought to be incalculable, to counterbalance
the atrocious profanation—the unutterable intemperance
and dishonour—of your worship, at camp
meetings. Have done with it—unless you would have
your daughters annually regenerated; your sons hypocrites
and religious scoundrels—the most damnable of
all scoundrels, by the way. The good that are among
you, and the wise, may be good and wise, any where;—
but the licentious and wicked, can only he so, in a camp
meeting;—there, lasciviousness is sanctified—indecency
consecrated—and prodigal exposure becomes a commendable
indifference to the world, the flesh, and the
devil—vitally evangelical.

Thus did I stand before these men—and, thus, did I
question, and amaze them, until they were fain to let
me depart in peace. But, what was I to do, for my
pocket handkerchief? It was hard enough to part with
that sweet girl; but it was the devil to lose the handkerchief.
I put myself in Othello's place; and, had half
a mind to stand up, and imprecate aloud, as I have
seen an actor since—just as if I were choking at the
waistbands—“The handkerchief!—the handkerchief!”

My acquaintance had been short with that girl; but,
I judged of her, by other women that I had known;
and I felt sure, that she would be, to the full, as willing
to see me, ugly as I was, as I should be, to see her.—
So, I walked leisurely out, before my escort—whipped
my hat round—elevated my shoulders—walked a little
lame; and re-entered with them! After prowling awhile,
I saw the flutter of a handkerchief. It was she!—it
was she!—it was it!—it was it! I leaped toward it, as
Sancho toward his ass—(mind your pronunciation.)—
I had just time to squeeze her hand—look once, lovingly
enough too, I confess, into her large eyes—and part
for ever.

No—it was not she. I turned over, in my bed. It
would not do. Was there anybody else? No. I went
over the whole list again. I had omitted some—some
dear, sweet creature—fools; but, this whirling here—
this uneasy, keen, yearning thirst, and cankering, as
if I had been bled unsparingly, while I was asleep; this

dark, dreary vacancy, and dissatisfaction. What was
it? I could not answer; at least, when I slept, I could
not. But when I awoke—women of heaven!—I was
amazed and confounded, at my own blindness. In the
night time, I had dreamt of Caroline—the child, Caroline;
and of a young man—a very handsome young
man, too—that I had seen with her, frequently, of late.
I awoke!---all at once, I awoke, like one smitten to the
heart, with a sharp knife. The secret was revealed.
I was jealous;---sore---shivering with alternate cold
and heat; and scorched, with the very air that I inhaled.
Yes, yes! I loved again! That dream! By heaven,
it were death to suffer it!