University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

Lady! Have you thought of what I said?—I left off,
too abruptly in the last chapter. And you, sir, have
you never gone to church, or into some company, where
she, that you loved, was sure to be found?---prepared
yourself for the trial---met her----and trembled?---approached
her, and froze her and yourself too, with your
own self collectedness; stood near her, and talked with
all your heart and soul, about what you did not care
one fig for, merely to astonish her; or to prove that you
had not lost your self possession?---while you knew that
your voice went to her heart?---I have. Have you never
lavished your attention upon them, that she, whom
you loved yet, more than all that lived and breathed
upon the earth, might not sleep so very sweetly, in the
coming night?----If you have, you are a scoundrel and
a fool. I have Have you never put your head upon
the pillow----after you had thought, till your temples
were sore; and felt as if, even the pillow, were a truss
of iron---as your conscience awoke, and whispered to
you, in the darkness, to come to judgment!--and Love, the
“naked new born babe”—with blue eyes running away,
in water---sat by you, clinging to your agitated heart
with his little hot lips?--I have. Have you never attempted
to find some heroick, great reason for your cruelty
and feebleness? and, at last, persuaded yourself, that the
kindest thing in all this world, which you could do to

the torn plant, that you had reft of all its blossoms;
the gentle creature, whom you had visited like a mortal
poison---was to leave them both, for ever and ever:
and that the one, might be bound up; at another season
might flower again, with its fragrant waxen blossoms;
and the other, if it were utterly neglected, and left to
the merciless wind, might soon be healed?—I have—I
have persuaded myself that the truest evidence of love,
which I could give to a woman, when we were apart for
ever—was not to exasperate her, nor to pursue her;
but when my heart was sweltering with a sense of her
proximity, and all its tenderness wrought within it, like
subterranean waters, all striving to gush out, in their
feeling of blessedness—as if I knew not, that such a woman
lived upon this earth: and why? Her wounded
pride, I said to myself, will restore her; and she will be
driven to look about her for another; some other, that
may be permanently dear to her. We cannot meet
again! Why should I seek to preserve my place in her
love? It will only make her wretched; and disqualify
her, for ever, for being happy with another. Thus did
I reason, many a time and oft, when I was weary of
living, and ready to bury myself alive, for the woman
of my heart. It was her happiness—hers alone, that I
cared for. It mattered little, to me—very little, how
it was promoted. Would my life make her happier—I
would live: my death?—O, I would lie down, willingly,
and wait there, till my ashes were all that was left of
me.

And yet-what a fearful spirit of contradiction and vicissitude
is this! I have set by her—very near her, too;
when Hope started up, all at once, before me, like a new
fledged cherub, with the wings of a butterfly. She
was mute. “It is in awe,” thought I—“the words
would die away upon her lips; love is making musick
in her heart tho'.” But she spoke! where then was
her awe?—“O, that was an effort to conceal it—it was
a proof of her wisdom.” But she wandered, and was
disordered in her thought; and her words were not very
beautifully arranged. A sure symptom to me, that she
was disordered where I most wished her to be; that

she was not, with all her effort, entirely mistress of
herself. Alas!—even this delusion perished with the
other. Her manner became more steady; she was
fluent and firm in her utterance—nay, even eloquent,
and very feeling. “The inspiration of love!” I was
sure—“nothing else could have done it.” Had I ever
seen her so ready to manifest her power; and yet, so apparently
unconscious of it? never. It was done then;
either intentionally, to captivate me, and to demonstrate
that she could be at ease, even with me; or unintentionally,
which was yet more flattering!” But her voice
trembled—her argument faltered. “Love, almighty
love?” thought I. “She cannot get on, nature will triumph—hath
triumphed.” But, she remembered herself
almost immediately. “Gracious heaven! what a
mind! what self possession!” I exclaimed, inwardly.
She smiled—“it was a smile of encouragment.” She
was pensive—“it is the sweet melancholy of love.'—
She laughed; “it was only a natural effort to conceal her
emotion.”—She was serious—“how could she be otherwise,
with one so dear to her, in the same room!” Her
seriousness went away; and I was delighted with her
playfulness. “It was the hilarity of innocence; the
festivity of the blessed!” Her hand touched mine—
“it thrilled. I was sure that it had happened designedly.
She had sought it—for the pleasure of touching
me!” But mine touched hers; and she withdrew it, perhaps,
just as if a serpent had fallen on it. “The electricity
of love!”—I thought. “She could not abide it;
her very blood could not, unpreparedly!” But, it may
be, that she did not so suddenly snatch it away—but
only withdrew it, coldly. “It was an artificial manner,
the properest in the world, to disguise her real
feelings.” She trifled with me—“it was an evidence
that my nearness did not distress her; that she was happy
in my company.” She was reserved—“it was impossible
for one much in love, I knew, to trifle.” She
listened to me, without opening her lips, or lifting her
eyes. “How truly was she devoted to me!”—but, anon,
she did lift her eyes, and join freely in the conversation.
Still, there were comfort and sustenance to my
love—happen what would! How ingenious we are, in
deluding ourselves!—how wonderfully so, in torturing
others. I have experienced both. In love—at one time,
nothing could happen, nothing; that did not yield aliment
to my hope. At another, nothing, that did not
give nutriment to my fear. In the first place, I was
sure that I deserved to be happy; and, in the latter, that
I did not. Women are yet more ingenious; especially
in their sorrow. Do their husbands watch every movement
and tone—“it is” (if the devil Jealousy, or Distrust
be once awake) “to conceal the alteration of their
hearts—to Iull their once beloved one—in compassion.”
Are they not so very attentive?—“they are neglectful.”
Does the husband fail in an engagement?—“it is what
he would never have done, before they were married; no
never, never!” Does he keep it scrupulously?—“It is affectation;
done to blind her; or treating her, like a spoilt
child, rather than a rational companion; or done, less
out of tenderness, for her; than out of a holy regard for
his own word.” Do I speak bitterly? I feel it—I feel
it! I have loved—been beloved—had an angel for my
wife—yet such was her temper. My days were sunless,
my nights—O, I would not that my worst enemy should
be worn away, by such inward watching, as I have been,
while my own Emma lay upon my arm—the lamp shining
upon her parted lips, all night long—when, if I
moved---she awoke, and clung to me; and trembled,
and wept, as if she were truly about to lose me, for ever!

No----no---not yet, not yet. There is time enough
for all that. My boyhood is not yet told. That over,
I shall be at liberty to tell what a father and a husband
both suffered, who loved truly, tenderly, faithfully;
yet doubted, all but the innocence of his own wife; and
was doubted in turn even, it may be, of his own innocence.

But Caroline—let me return to her. Our reserve,
with occasional lapses of tenderness, had continued for
nearly a year more; and I was already preparing, to
return to my home, with the intention of going to the
East Indies, as an adventurer. But a cloud was gathering,
upon the face, that I most loved; there was a growing

melancholy, and sorrow; and one evening that we
were alone, Hezekiah told me, evidently with some unwillingness,
that he had lately met with a very extraordinary
man, from my country, who knew me.

As he said this, he fixed his old eyes upon me---and,
I could see that there was something wrong in them.

I coloured---not with guilt, but with surprise---and,
perhaps, with a little anger.

“Of what name?” said I, in a trembling voice.

“I cannot remember it. It was accidentally that I met
him. And, when I learnt where he was from, I happened
to mention thy name. And he told me much of
thee.”

“Unfavourable, I am sure,” said I, haughtily.

“Yes---” answered the old man.

I was thunderstruck. I arose from my seat. “Where
is he to be found?” said I. “I must see him.”

“Be calm, William. He has promised to meet thee;
and he will keep his promise. When we are together,
face to face, I shall confront him with thee. Till then,
let us say no more about it.”

I bowed; and, taking a candle from the mantle piece,
was about to light it.

“To bed William, so early?” said Hezekiah.

“No—” said I. “Not to bed—to my room, only.
I have matters there, that shall be no longer neglected.”

“I shall see thee, tomorrow?” said Hezekiah, in a
doubtful, and far less cordial tone, than usual.

What could it mean! I turned pale. I felt that I
was sinking. It was a small room; and, in going out,
I should have to pass Caroline, who sat fronting me.
I attempted it; but, I thought that I should never get
to her—never! It was like running in my sleep, with
a murderer after me.

She lifted her face. She was pale as death; and, I
am sure,—aye, perfectly sure, that she had been weeping.

Hezekiah arose. “William,” said he, with a manner,
unlike aught that I had ever seen before in him—
I could not have believed him capable of such great
dignity—and Caroline, as if dreading, I know not

what, appeared about to leave us. “No, my child,”
said the old man, “thee may abide here yet. I have no
secret from thee. Thy old father cannot begin now, to
cover his heart, before his only daughter. No, Caroline—stay
thee here. Tomorrow evening will he the
evening of trial. Till then, we ought to suspend our
judgment. In the mean time, I have only one word to
say to thee, William. I have trusted thee—I have
heard thy story; watched over thee; taken thee, as my
own child, into my own family. I cannot believe that
thou wilt abuse my confidence. I—.”

“Abuse your confidence!”—said I, as soon as I could
draw my breath. What is the meaning of this?—Speak!
Who has dared to slander me? What have I done?
Bring me, face to face, with the wretch, that has visited
you—let me but face him, and I will trample him in
the dust.—I—.”

“Would that prove thy innocence?” said Hezekiah.

O, I thought that my heart would burst. I turned
again, to go.

“Thee will surely meet him?” said the old man, rather
doubtfully. “Meet him,” said Caroline, “meet
him! O, that he will.”

The words, I heard not—I know not how they reached
me—there was no sound, no look—but, the next
thing that I knew, I was holding her to my bosom—my
lips to her eye-lids; and my heart gushing
out, all over. I recollected myself. I blushed and
stammered, for a moment;—then, I went to the father;
and I placed my hands, one upon each shoulder.

“I know not what you suspect;—I care not,” said I.
“You may believe that I will destroy myself. I shall
not. You may believe that I will run away. Your
change of colour shows that you do. I shall not.
You may believe that I dare not meet him. You are
mistaken. You are an old man—a man of much experience.
Yet, you do not know my heart so well as
that child. She will tell you—she did tell you, that I
shall meet this stranger—whoever, or whatever he may
be. You have doubted me.—Enough.—It does not
cancel all my obligation—but—(my voice trembled)—

but, it has done no little, toward discouraging me, in the
way of virtue, self denial; and—(love, I would have
said, but I could not.) You are moved. It is too late.
Tomorrow night, I shall meet that man. He can tell
you nothing, if he tell the truth, so bad as I have already
told you, of myself. Some particulars, he may
tell you. I would have told you the same—nay, some
that he cannot tell—some, that no other beings, than
God and his angels, are acquainted with. I have used
no concealment. I have acknowledged that there was
blood upon my hands, and blackness in my heart: but,
I have never sought, and never avoided, with any especial
care, to distress you with the particulars. Would
that you had done more wisely. It is terrible to—to—
to part, now—I—I—.”

“To part!”—said Hezekiah—catching my hands—
“To part!”—whispered Caroline, raising her head from
the table—“to—to part!”—

Her voice died away, in a low murmur.

“To part!”—said I, firmly. “There is no help for
it, now. I have foretold this. I have cautioned you
against it, again and again. For three whole years,
have I said, “beware how you doubt me; come to me, if
you would know anything; and you shall know it all,
all, even to the most secret transgression of my
thought. But do not doubt me.—I did not say why.
I could not, then. But, now I do. It is no longer safe
for us to meet together. One, or the other, would soon
perish. You have discouraged me. You have taught
me, that there is no hope for me. Happen what will!
years of self denial may have worn away! years of contrition,
sorrow and perseverance!—yet, my character
is gone—my hold upon your heart is gone—in the very
first breath of a stranger—an unknown man—a—.
No matter. Tomorrow night, I shall meet him. Farewell.
Till then, I shall not leave my room That
over—that—it is hard to think of—but, it must be
—farewell, to you all, for ever!”

“I shall never forget your love, or your respect; nor,
will you, yours, for me. I will compel you to respect me;
all of you; all that know me; all that have known me;

with all my infirmity, and wickedness, to the last hour
of my life!”

Eunice had entered, unperceived. She held her
handkerchief up to her face—and tried, many times, to
speak—but, could not. I turned to Caroline—while
her father and mother sat down. in two rocking chairs,
near each other, and turned their faces away; each,
holding by the other's hand. They knew me. They
already knew enough of me, to feel that there was no
hope left. They were inconsolable—utterly—and
speechless.

I went to Caroline. I took her hands. She leaned
her forehead upon my arm; while I stood up, and held
her as she sat. It was some minutes, before I could utter
a word—and then, all my heart ran out, at my
lips and eyes.

“Caroline!”—said I—“speak to your mother—to
your father. Tell them that I am innocent. I know
not what may have troubled them—what they may
have heard; some thought of you, or me, perhaps—but,
speak to them. Tell them that I am innocent. Tell
them that. till this hour, and in their presence—my lips
never touched thee—my arm never embraced thee.
Thou art the child of their old age, Caroline; and, when
I am away—O, do not weep so bitterly—do not—when
there is none left, to do me justice, there is one, one, I
am sure, whom I have mightily wronged, that will do
it. Wilt thou not, Caroline? (Her hand contracted,
convulsively—and mine was drenched with her tears;
and her lips,—oh, I can feel them yet, upon it!)—
Wilt thou forget and forgive me?—Farewell!—Thou
shalt have no cause to repent of thy—thy—. No,
dear, I will not, cannot say it. Farewell.”

I took her up in my arms, as I said this—she was lifeless—and
laid her upon the bosom of her mother. I
never saw her there, afterward, till she was upon her
death bed.

What a night, I passed! More than half of it was upon
my knees. What!—and was there no peace for me?
none, till the cold grave had hut over me? Were the
follies of my boyhood—the nameless things, that I had

done, and told—and repented of—were they to haunt
me, eternally? and interpose, like apparitions, just
when I was nearest to being happy! Was this the retribution
of heaven? Had my conscience slumbered?
O, I knew not. But, I knew this—this: and it was a
comfort to me, that God hath entrusted the happiness
of man to his own keeping. That night, I reviewed
my conduct. I thought, of all that I had said, or done,
in that family of love. There were many foolish things;
some indiscretions; some childish and hasty things,
for which I was sorry, and had atoned; but none, no—
not one, of wickedness! This then, I was sure, would
preserve me, in their veneration, when I was gone.
They would try to forget me; but, they could not. All
that was good in my nature, would be embalmed in
their hearts. All that was evil, would be forgotten, or
thought less unkindly of. I had parted with her too—
parted—God of heaven! can it be true!—parted!—
and with whom?—with Caroline—and for ever! And
how? My heart smote me. But, my pride arose, like
Lucifer, the jewels melting upon his forehead; and, with
that regal aspect, which hath ever characterised it, took
the attitude of dominion anew. I would sacrifice my
life for Caroline—but, not my self respect. No—we were
apart. And how? Just as it should be. We had
parted at night; in tears—the first kiss of love, upon
our young lips;—the first fever of passion in our young
veins—and, all the night long, she would lie, and meditate
and dream about it— with all the night through,
and darkness, solitude and silence, for the impression to
deepen itself! Would she ever forgive me?—No—
never—never!

I would leave a farewell letter for her. She would
preserve it; and hereafter go to it, all alone; and sit by
it; and weep over it, as over some precious thing inurned;
and, every year, there would be a holier tenderness
in her thought of me. I would leave, as I always do,
the truth of my heart before her;—and my last words
should be what all her future experience would confirm.
I did so. I sat down, and wrote her a letter,
that had she lived to this hour, she would have loved
me for having written.

But who was the stranger?—Did he really know me;
and dare to say these things? No—it was impossible.
It must be some one, who did not know me: some one, who
had heard a report only of my evil nature, and believed
it, from its generality. Could I blame him?—No. But he
was upon ticklish ground. A false step might dash him to
atoms. I made up my mind immediately. “If he be malicious
and meddlesome; or a liar, I will make an example
of him, upon the spot,” said I. “But, if he be truly a
friend of this family, repeating only what he has heard,
—and I can tell that by his forehead and eyes, while
he is repeating it, I will forgive him.”

Early in the morning, some one tapped at my door.
A note was given to me. I opened it—it fell from my
hand. It was the writing of Caroline herself. My
glance ran hurriedly over the first sentence—the first,
only—and I was like one struck blind. It was some
minutes before I could command myself. Never, never,
in all my life, did I feel so sudden and deadly a chill
at my heart—as at that moment. It seemed to stop
all at once, with a sudden jar. A sort of giddy, rushing,
sensation in my head—and then, a strange faintness
followed. That Caroline should write to me—
Caroline, whose timidity was so spiritual and delicately
interwoven with her very thought, that—O, it was
past belief! Once only, had I seen the trace of her pencil
before. It was accidental. I had given her a little
book, of exceeding value to me, as the gift of a
friend, but I had given it to her delicately; and she had
misunderstood it as a loan. Some time after, she returned
it to me—in such a way, that—O, it were idle to
tell how my heart heaved. It had been so happy, so
very happy, till that moment—and that—the cup was
dashed with poison, at the very instant when my lips
were burning with the first taste of it. I was mute,
disordered, haughty and absent—unable to maintain a
conversation with anybody, yet, too proud to yield
forgetting myself every moment, yet constantly, and
earnestly mingling in all that was said—I left the
room. I opened the book, at a folded leaf, a single
line was underscored—it was in her hand. I knew it

—I felt it—as if it had been scored upon my heart. A
single word too, was there—O, how much it told of
what she thought.

But this! I took up the note again. It ran thus.—
“I have made several attempts to tell you candidly, the
exact state of my feeling, but find it impossible.”

This was the sentence that shook me—down to the
dust. I had parted, and wept and prayed—upheld, by
the certainty that I was beloved. Yet, at the very
first glance. I foresaw, in this note, that I had been deceiving
myself. It was unmanly to yield. I took up
the paper again. I read it. It was very cautious—but
why is it, that love will be heard! buried, darkened and
mute. It is but a buried exhalation—buried, and heaped
up embers—and that inward musick. which, but touch
the earth, where they are hidden, and they all come
out anew, in their agitation, fragrance, warmth and
melody!

The note continued—after this fashion.

“Therefore, contrary to my resolution, which you,
so often, have heard me express, I am compelled to put
my thought on paper. I hope that you will pardon
me. I think that you entirely deceive yourself respecting
Miss A—.”

(Stay. reader—Here is something untold, I find—a
tale of sorrow and of—shame. Be patient a while, and
I will tell it.)

“I think (that) you love her; indeed, I am sure (that)
you do.”

“I think—that, perhaps, some of my friends have persuaded
you into a belief, that I am more worthy of
your affection, than I really am. I do not think that
you have known me long enough, to judge of my character.
I never, never would consent to marry any
one, unless I were sure that I possessed his undivided
HEART. If God spare me my dear father, his society
with the love that I have for study, will, in some measure,
compensate me for the attention of a kind and affectionate
husband.”[1]

You have loved several, as ardently as you now think
(that) you love me. On analyzing my character, I
am sure (that) you will discover some things, (that)
you cannot like. I have not that strength of mind,
which I have so often heard you admire. I have consulted
no one upon this subject, not even my parents.
They attribute my seriousness to indisposition—let
them think so. I am really sick. I beg of you, as a
proof of your friendship for me---do not, by your conduct,
lead them to suppose (that) anything unpleasant
has passed between us. I feel that I am doing wrong
in writing, without the consent of my parents. If I
were to ask them, I should have to give my reason for
acting so. I cannot do that. I find it impossible for
me to speak to you; and it is necessary that you should
know my true sentiments.”

(Here my pulse stopped again—the letter was a riddle
to me. What did it mean?—I could not understand
it; and yet, the allusions were plain enough.—
But here I was palsied anew—as if death had put his
hand upon my heart, once more, in sport—I could feel
it rotting away under his touch—but it was only for a
moment.)

“Continue to treat me, as usual, until after my father
goes to L—: then I can write to him. what it would
be difficult for me to tell him—my determination of never
marrying. He shall, by my representation, believe
it is from the love of my study---adieu!—If tomorrow
be pleasant, will you walk with us?—may heaven
bless you!—C.”

Tomorrow!—walk with her!—what is the meaning
of all this? am I mad? or am I deceived? Can it be her
writing, or, it may be, that she is trifling with me—
does she think me such an idiot, as to walk with her tomorrow,
after what has happened to night. O, no—I
would not exchange the sweet recollection of that parting,
for all the rapture of possession!

I threw my eyes upon the date. Gracious Heaven!
could it be possible!—they danced in their sockets. The
paper was a week old. I rung the bell violently and,
when the pasteboard humpkin who gave it to me, appeared,
asked him, as composedly as I could, when he
received it. “He could not rightly tell,” he said,
holding his quaker arms down, stiffly by his side, with the
palms nearly turned wrongside out; and not a pucker
in his face, the rascal! “may be a week”—may be ten
days—may be—”

“Hell and the devil!” said I.

“Oh my!”—said the stupid dolt—wiping his lips with
his great paws, and staring at me, as if he had not
“rightly understood me.”

Why did not you give it to me, directly?

“Why, I lost it,” he answered, with the same imperturble
gravity, “I gived it to thee, as soon as I found
it agin.”

What could I say to the Jackass? “Begone—dolt.”

I sat down and thought. “Here then,” said I, “is
the riddle explained. Here then, is the cause of her
last seriousness and sickness. What must she have
thought of my silence? Tomorrow! when was it?—I
began to recall the time, and found that she had been
particularly troubled and silent a day or two, probably,
after the letter had been written; and then, rather
haughty. It was all explained now. I sat down and
wrote a few lines, ending, if I remember right, somewhat
in this way, “and now, farewell, farewell, forever,
Caroline. May you meet with some one, whom
you may love with all your heart and soul; some one
having all of my good qualities, and none of my bad
ones; and one too, that has always been what man
ought to be.”

The day wore away very gloomily. I had secured
my passage in the evening stage; my trunks were all
packed, and the hour of trial was fast at hand.

Still there was a continual, deep yearning, and sorrow
here, for Caroline. I felt that it would nearly
break my own heart to leave her, and yet, I never
would consent to marry any woman whose father had

doubted me. And she too, had she not doubted me?
where then would be my safety, were I to marry her?
nothing would be left to me, nothing but to see—O
God, have I not seen it!—the mother of my babe dying,
day by day, of a broken heart, with the same malady
of doubt and death! And here, one word of Miss A—.
I had been once, in New Haven, and, while waiting for
the steam boat to arrive, I sallied out, to take a bath.
The Museum and bathing house were under the same
roof. No. I am mistaken—in part—my memory is
bad of late; but this I do remember, that I left the tavern
to go into a bath, and that I came home without
having been in it, and with having been in the Museum.
At the Museum, I met with two women, accompanied
by a country bean, strangers; one of whom had something
particularly striking in her manners, and pleasant
in her voice. I tried to get an opportunity of
speaking to her; and, as people in these small towns are
not very scrupulous, (in private) with strangers—I succeeded.
After paying her some little attention, we
separated. and I passed rather an uneasy night; for
really, there never was a more inflammable nature than
mine; and thought a good deal of her, wishing, all the
while, that I could manage to delay my journey a day
or two, and find her out. But no—that was impossible.
I was travelling by express, as I always have
been, all my life, and always shall be, to the devil, I
dare say, through all eternity—at least.

Hardly had I set my foot into the cabin of the steam
boat, the next morning, than I encountered these two
identical ladies! I was delighted, as you may readily
believe. The father, of this one, was with her; and the
other, a black-eyed, saucy little wretch. with more
mischief in her heart than you would think her whole
body could well hold, stuck to her side, like a plaster of
burgundy pitch, for the same purpose too, I imagine;
to strengthen her.

All went on very pleasantly, very—for I had the
pleasure of hearing Miss A. (I had found out her name)
abuse one of my most particular friends. for a whole
hour; and then we talked about novels, plays, poems,
&c. &c. of all which, I was just about as well qualified

to talk, as the Cham of Tartary; and she, perhaps, not
quite so well as I. But no matter for that: we talked
and talked, till we were perfectly satisfied with ourselves,
and tolerably, with each other.

But the father was a shrewd, hard-looking, sour,
thin man; and he had kept his eyes upon me, with a
marvellous steadiness for a long time, not permitting
me to approach his daughter's jewelry when he was
near. without a good deal of management: and when
we arrived at New York, he honoured me with one of
the civillest hints in the world that, his daughter could
do very well; very well, indeed, without any more attention
from me. I remonstrated—He was her father,
to be sure, but, I informed him that he was old and tired
of the city! and this was her first visit—that there were
ten thousand things to be seen—the lions and fish—
and lawyers and mayor, and Dr. Mitchell, “and so
forth,” and that it would worry him to death, to gad
about with a young frolicksome girl—that, to me, it
was all—.

But the old fellow interrupted me—He “knew a
few,” and not a very few neither; and if my modesty
would have permitted me to interpret his looks into
language, when I had finished my speech, my notion
is, that they would have stood about thus, on paper,
“Why, rot me, if thou art not the very otto of
impudence.”

It was in vain to parley with such a man. He was
one of the cast-iron creatures of our revolution, who
having been in many battles, like some of our mud forts,
had caught their trick, of growing stronger and more
impenetrable by bullet and ball. A smart cannonade
of half an hour, was worth a new line of entrenchments
to either.

So—(we were at the house then,) he was holding
the door open, for me to go out—I bid him a most reverential
good morning, and vanished. He soon followed
me; and I re-entered; after having led him out of
the way; took his daughter under my arm, and—did'nt
we have a pleasant time. By Jupiter; you would
have thought us surveyors or tax gatherers;—we were
to be found in every lane and alley in the city; and

were returning, the happiest of God's creatures, I verily
believe, when—.

Oh, the devil!—there was the old man himself—the
old One, I ought to say. It was just at a corner. I
crossed myself, and prepared for a somerset: and he,
as if doubting the evidence of all his own, dear old senses,
stood staring at her awhile—and then, as if he
were afraid, if he did'nt secure her then, that I should
get her, in spite of his gums—(for he had no teeth,) he
hustled her under his arm—growled at me, like an old
mastiff, upon whose tail somebody had trodden, at his
own fire place; and set off, at a square trot.

I never saw the woman after that. My acquaintance
with her was a pleasant one, but entirely innocent;
yet, somehow or other, the story of it had reached
me again, blackened and distorted most shamefully: so
indeed, that I felt no little sorrow and remorse for
what I had done. I had told Caroline of it; but, rather
as a frolick, than as a more serious matter; yet she, still
apprehensive that there was something in it yet untold
—had thought of it so much, that, at the very name of
Miss A—, she would actually turn pale. That was
all—all, upon my honour.