University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
ZEMIRA'S HISTORY.

Zemira Atkinson was an only child, and her mother
dying when she was an infant, the heart of her father
seemed to rest on her alone. He did not merely love,
he idolized her, and expected from her a return of the
same extravagant affection.

She was a sweet-tempered, warm-hearted child, so gentle
that restraint of any kind seemed almost unnecessary.
Why need she be troubled with lectures, be taught she
must sometimes control her inclinations, and that the
world was fraught with disappointment! Her father
never intended she should be exposed to temptation or
sorrow. He had wealth to gratify her every wish,—he
would select her friends, direct her affections to the high-minded
and worthy, provide her amusements, encourage
her studies, and in seeing her happy, he should ensure
his own felicity. But

The web of human life is never unmingled; and let
no one fancy he or his shall be exempt from misfortune,
or infallible to error. It is the height of folly to flatter
our offspring with the hope of being good without exertions

or sacrifices; or that the whole universe will move
in unison with their wishes and for their happiness.

Among the instructors Mr. Atkinson provided for his
daughter was Mr. Charles Stuart, a young gentleman
from Massachusetts, liberally educated, of fine talents,
and whose prospects had once been brilliant. But losses
and crosses occurred, and he found himself compelled,
after leaving college, to earn money before he could complete
his studies for the profession of law; his visit to the
south was to seek employment as a preceptor in the languages.

Mr. Atkinson was highly pleased with his appearance,
and satisfied with the credentials of character and scholarship
he exhibited, and he employed him to instruct in
French and Latin, his daughter and a boy whom he had
adopted, giving Stuart a large salary.

Zemira, then not quite fifteen, was “gay as a lark,
and innocent as gay;” one of those sweet, happy, laughing
fairies, that so soon weave their spells around the
hearts of the brave or wise when their lofty souls are
saddened by care or misfortune.

Mr. Stuart instructed her with all the attention a faithful
preceptor should do; and he soon loved her with all
the ardor a young man of the most exquisite sensibility
and entirely unengaged would do. It was his first love;
he feared it would be hopeless, for he saw her father was
a proud man, and expected a proud fortune for his child.
Would he give her away to a Yankee school-master?

And Stuart considered it all, and he felt it was dishonorable
to attempt winning her affection when thus committed
to his care. A hundred times he resolved to leave
the place and the employment, and Zemira and her father.
These resolutions were always taken when absent from
his pupil; a tone, a look of hers, altered his plans in a
moment.

Then he remembered his engagement to her father, and
fancied he had power to command his own passions, and
that his secret would never be discovered; and a soft ray

of hope would fall on his path—it might be, it might be
she would be his.

He redoubled his assiduities to please and oblige Mr.
Atkinson, but the more he won his confidence, and the
better he understood his character, the less reason he saw
to hope he would give him Zemira.

With Mr. Atkinson, as with many other men, wealth
and success were criteria of merit; genius and learning
being considered as appendages only, which should perhaps
attract some notice, but which might be dispensed
with easily, and without much inconvenience.

People who derive all their consequence from wealth,
and have received their wealth by inheritance, are not
usually very generous to encourage talents, or willing to
acknowledge that, in conjunction with prudence and industry,
they may soon obtain for their possessors even a
higher station than themselves. Those who are rich can
conceive of no happiness without riches; for they are
ignorant of the satisfaction the exertion to obtain eminence
or fortune excites. But moralize for yourselves;
the reader who cannot, will never be wise. I must to
my story.

Zemira, meantime, was as unsuspecting of the passion
she had inspired, as she was of the one she entertained.
She had scarcely heard of love, and never, in her life,
thought seriously on the subject. Happy in the indulgent
affection of her father, and charmed with the lessons
of literature and wisdom imparted by her instructor,
she did not think from whence arose the exquisite bliss
she was enjoying. And when her father told her of his
plans for her future felicity, she would press his hand,
while the tear of delight trembled in her dark eye, and
exclaim:

“Why do you feel so anxious about me? I never can
be happier!”

She did not know why she so loved to have her tutor
linger in the parlor where she received her lessons; nor
why she so often studied questions to detain him; nor

why it seemed so lonely when he was away; nor why
she always counted the hours of his absence.

She did not think of loving him. He was her instructor,
and her father's friend; she ought, therefore, to feel
interested in his fortune; and he was so noble and amiable,
she must admire his sentiments and conduct.

So she would have reasoned had she been called on to
defend her partiality; but she was so insensible of her
love for Stuart, that she never framed an excuse to justify
or conceal it.

But suddenly his behavior altered. He no longer listened
to her questions with a smile, or drew his chair
nearer while giving an explanation; he came but at the
stated moment, and staid only to hear her recitation.

He entered the room with a gravity of countenance
bordering on severity, and often left it without once turning
to give any directions for the next lesson. He grew
pale, thin, and melancholy, and to all her inquiring and
sympathizing looks, only answered with a suppressed
sigh.

“What can be the matter with him?” was a question
she repeated to herself a thousand times in a day.

She feared that she had done something to offend him,
and taxed her memory for some omission of civility, some
inattention to instruction, and redoubled her diligence—
all was vain. He heeded no attentions she offered, no
arts she practiced—he was cold and indifferent.

So she believed, yet she did not mention it to her
father; for some how, though she knew not why, she
shrunk from exposing her thoughts to him. And of what
could she accuse Stuart?—he heard her lessons, he gave
her the stipulated instruction. Should she complain his
smiles were withdrawn?—would not her father say,—
“Foolish girl, what are his smiles to the heiress of Atkinson!”

At length she felt so wretched she determined to come
to an explanation, and know the reasons for his altered
behavior. It was several days after this resolution was
formed before she could gather courage to put it in execution.

He left the apartment so suddenly she could not
begin.

“The next time”—he came again and departed as before.

One day, when she had finished her recitation, she
looked up and saw he had covered his face with his
handkerchief, and she thought he wept. She burst into
tears.

Stuart gazed on her, astonished. “Zemira, why do
you weep?”

“How have I offended you?” said she.

“Offended me!” replied Stuart, incredulously.

“Yes, I know you are offended; you appear so differently
from what you did. You are silent, and look so
sad, and sometimes, I fancy, angry. Pray tell me what
I shall do to make you happy and regain your favor?”

“Good God!” burst from Stuart's heart. He seized
both her hands and pressed them to his bosom; all his
resolutions of prudence were vanquished by her pathetic
appeal, and he poured out his whole soul.

Zemira, abashed, confounded, scarce drew her breath;
frightened at his vehemence of passion, yet rejoiced that
he was not angry, that he loved her; yes, he loved her,
and at that moment she did not think she could ever
again be unhappy.

But the cloud soon returned on the brow of Stuart.
He knew the obstacles to their union, and his nice sense
of honor condemned the declaration he had made, as a
violation of the confidence with which her father had
entrusted this lovely girl to his instruction. He released
her hands, started from his seat, and regarding her a
moment, said, in a tone rendered touching by sorrow.—

“Zemira, I must leave you, even now leave you. Your
father never will consent to our union, and to stay and
endeavor to win your love and then be compelled to part,
would only add to my sufferings. Farewell! I must go
far and endeavor to forget you. The attempt, I feel, will
be vain, yet I ask you not to regret me. You are surrounded
with blessings; let not my remembrance ever

prevent your enjoying them. I would not plant one care
in your happy heart. Farewell, farewell!”

He was leaving the apartment. She started up. “Stay,
Stuart, stay one moment, I entreat you.”

He turned, saw her quivering lip, her pale cheek,
sprung and caught her as she was falling to the floor.

“Zemira, Zemira,” he exclaimed almost wildly, as he
bore her to a window.

As he pronounced her name she opened her eyes, and
looking up faintly said, “Do you still intend to leave
me?”

“Why should I stay?” inquired he mournfully.

“For my sake,” she replied, covering her blushing face
with her hand.

Stuart could scarcely credit his hearing. The violence
of his emotion shook his frame. He endeavored to reason,
to reflect, but passion conquered.

Again he urged his love and found he was beloved.
Zemira could not dissemble; she was artlessness itself;
though nature had “wrought in her so,” that she had
never given him any suspicion of her attachment till his
declaration demanded a return.

“Can I, Zemira, flatter myself with the hope you will
be mine?” whispered Stuart.

Her smile might have imparted hope to despair itself,
while she replied, “Ask my father; if he consents, I
shall not refuse. And he will consent; for he has often
declared he lived only to contribute to my happiness.”

Stuart shook his head. “I am a poor man, my love,
and the rich see no merit in such.”

“You wrong my father,” she replied; “he loves and
respects you. He has wealth enough for us both, and
why should he care from which party the abundance is
supplied. Oh, when he finds his consent is necessary to
my happiness, he will not withhold it.”

The cold snows that wrap the frozen earth, like the
shroud of nature, are not more unlike the soft dews which
sparkle on the bosom of the summer rose, than are the
feelings of selfish age and generous youth. The dews

and snows are both exhaled from the same source, they
descend from the same skies; yet who can discover their
similitude?

Stuart felt their difference on his heart, as slowly he
walked down the broad avenue to seek Mr. Atkinson,
who had retired to his garden. He saw him in an arbor.

There are but few men, and I do not believe there ever
was a true lover, but trembled when approaching the
guardian of his fair one with an intention of asking consent.
And Stuart trembled, but he told his errand like
a man.

“Zemira,” said the old gentleman, regarding the petitioner
with an eye of lightning, “Zemira, you say, has
accepted your suit if I will consent?”

“She has.”

Mr. Atkinson paused a moment, as if to deliberate, and
Stuart hoped, though the paleness of the father's face, the
paleness of rage, forbade him to indulge it. But suspense
was not long; Mr. Atkinson only paused to gather
strength to express his wrath, and then it burst forth like
the thunder of a torrent!

It is unnecessary, and would be painful to record his
language—the ravings of a bedlamite are not more frantic.
He poured his curses on the ingratitude and arts of
Stuart, and on the weakness and simplicity of his daughter.
Epithets the most opprobrious and contempt the most
galling, seemed inadequate to convey the bitterness of
his soul; and no efforts on the part of Stuart to appease
or moderate his anger, were of the least avail, till
exhausted by his own violence he was compelled to stop
to recover breath.

“You have heaped your reproaches on me,” said
Stuart, when he could speak, “but they shall not move
me, for God and my own conscience will witness I do not
deserve them.”

“You deserve the gallows,” cried the furious father,
“and I doubt not you will yet grace it. Such dissimulation
and ingratitude will not go unpunished. But go,
go from me; I will not listen to any apology. I owe you

for your last quarter—there is the money; take it, and
never let me see your face again. You may send for
your clothes, but never presume to darken my doors
yourself.” As he ended he threw the money at Stuart,
walked hastily out of the arbor and proceeded to the
house.

Mr. Stuart was a man of strong and ardent passions,
but they were usually subjected to the control of reason;
and his own disappointment was forgotten while he
sighed to think a man—an old man—should exhibit such
an ungovernable and furious spirit.

“I pity him,” thought he; “my own sun, darkened as
it is by misfortune, is bright to his. There are scorpions
in his bosom, whose sting is more keen than the gripe of
poverty. My sorrows have arisen from casualties I could
not avoid; his misery is the result of his own wilfulness
and folly.”

As Mr. Stuart could devise no expedient either to conciliate
Mr. Atkinson or see Zemira again without encountering
him, which he did not like to do in her presence,
fearing unpleasant consequences might ensue, he had no
alternative but to obey the bidding of his employer and
depart.

The devoted lover, who has experienced a similar
doom of banishment from his mistress, and only he, can
conceive what his grief must have been. There are but
few such despairing swains in our land of liberty and
equality, and therefore should I draw the picture ever so
touching and true, it could neither excite sympathy by
its tenderness, nor admiration for its justness.

Stuart went to the house of an eminent merchant in
the city, who had shown him many civilities, and on
whose counsels he thought he might depend, and asked
his advice what course to pursue.

Mr. Lee respected and loved Stuart; and besides,
being a brother free mason, he felt bound to assist him.

After listening to Stuart's history of his love and grief,
he said,—“If you have any hope of obtaining Mr. Atkinson's
consent, there is but one course—you must acquire

wealth, and a pretty large sum too, as that only
will be a passport to his favor. It is strange,” continued
Mr. Lee,—“and yet it is true—that we usually find the
greater a man's stores, the more inordinate are his desires,
especially if he consider wealth necessary to rank
and character. Property here has such an effect much
more than at the north; because wherever slavery is established,
to labor will be disreputable for a free white
man, and while this prejudice operates on the minds of
a community, the wealth that will exempt from exertion
becomes absolutely indispensable. You must, therefore,
endeavor to push your fortune; and were you willing to
hazard the perils of the sea, I could employ you in a
lucrative situation.”

“I should not fear the danger—the distance might
appal me more,” replied Stuart; “but where would you
send me?”

“My agent in New York is now fitting out one of my
vessels for a voyage to the Mediterranean: I want a superintendent
on whose capacity and faithfulness I can
rely. If you would undertake the business, you shall
have an opportunity of some advantageous speculations,
and besides I will allow you a liberal compensation.”

“And leave the country without seeing Zemira—without
letting her know my destination and entreating her
to be faithful?”

“Why no, my dear sir; for in that case, I fear you
would be tempted to drown your sorrows, not in the
flowing bowl, but in the briny deep. Yet, if Mr. Atkinson
has really said and sworn you shall not see Zemira
again, it will be very difficult for you to obtain an interview.
He is one of those characters who always make
it a point of honor and conscience to keep their word,
thinking by that means to pass off their dogged obstinacy
for manly perseverance. Now the man who tells me he
never alters his opinion, I immediately set down for a
very ignorant or a very obstinate fellow—certainly a very
disagreeable one; and such has always been the social
character of Mr. Atkinson.”

“Then you are proving that for me to see and converse
with Zemira is an impossibility?” said Stuart,
thoughtfully.

“O, no,” replied Mr. Lee, laughing. “who would ever
attempt to prove impossibilities to a lover? I was only
stating some of the difficulties you must encounter; then
intending to offer my mediation in the affair, and should
the issue be successful, the more credit would be mine.
That, I believe, is the usual management of skilful diplomatists.
I do not know what influence I might possess
with Mr. Atkinson; our acquaintance has never been an
intimate one. Yet, if you please, I will call on him, and
shall doubtless learn something of his intentions, and
perhaps be able to convince him of your merits.”

Stuart gladly accepted the proposal; and after Mr.
Lee had seen his guest accommodated to pass the time
of his absence pleasantly, he departed on his embassy.