THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 




 
 THE 
 
 MERCHANT'S WIDOW, 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
 MRS. CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 P. PRICE, 130 FULTON STREET. 
 
 1841.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, 
 
 BY P. PRICE, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District 
 of New York. 
 
 rEREOTVPED BY J. S. REDFIELD, 
 13 Chambers Street, A'ew York.
 
 PS 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To one whom I have found ever ready to 
 aid me by his counsel, and to encourage me 
 by his sympathy my husband I would 
 affectionately dedicate this little volume. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 1188749
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW 9 
 
 II. 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE 63 
 
 III. 
 THE LONELY BURIAL U1 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF PEACE - - M

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IT is not without a feeling of diffidence, that 
 the author of the following tales appears, for 
 the first time, in the present manner, as a com- 
 petitor for public favor. She is sensible that 
 the little volume she now presents her readers 
 contains many imperfections, but she neverthe- 
 less hopes that, humble and unpretending as it 
 is, their indulgence if not their judgment will 
 discover in it more to approve than to condemn. 
 She believes that the most fastidious will be 
 able to detect nothing in its pages that militates 
 against the interest of morality and religion, 
 for it has been her constant aim not only to 
 show the deformity of vice, but to hold up vir- 
 tue in its most attractive colors. 
 
 The " Merchant's Widow" is entirely a work 
 of fancy, but it is hoped that it is not altogether
 
 b PREFACE. 
 
 an unsuccessful effort to portray the evils too 
 frequently resulting from the present injudi- 
 cious system of fashionable female education. 
 
 The story of the " Unequal Marriage " is no 
 fiction, and there are those yet living to whom 
 the principal circumstances which make up the 
 tale, are as familiar as " household words." 
 
 The opening chapter of the story of the 
 " Lonely Burial," is also but a literal and un- 
 embellished transcript of a scene, of which the 
 author was, a few years since, an actual, and 
 deeply-moved spectator. 
 
 Such as the volume is, it is humbly offered 
 to the public ; and that it may be found not 
 only interesting but instructive also, is the fer- 
 vent wish of 
 
 C. M. S. 
 
 NEW YORK, March 25th, 1841.
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Alas ! the proud are slow to feel 
 For outcasts, wretched and forlorn ! 
 
 They pass the shivering wretches by, 
 They thrust the needy from their door, 
 
 And look on want with stony eye : 
 Oh God ! have mercy on the poor !" 
 
 "A LITTLE charity, for God's sake! my chil- 
 dren are starving !" fell on my ear, in soft but 
 agonized accents, as I was, one winter evening, 
 just at dark, thridding my way through one 
 of the crowded thoroughfares of New York. My 
 course was instantly arrested by the voice of 
 distress, and, turning around, I perceived that 
 the prayer had been uttered by a female, who 
 seemed shivering alike with cold and misery. 
 Her clean, but faded calico frock was thin and
 
 10 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 old, and the scanty and threadbare shawl which 
 enveloped her shoulders, seemed fitted for the 
 temperature of summer rather, than for the keen 
 and biting cold of such a wintry day ; while 
 the light and unlined muslin bonnet which 
 covered her head, appeared intended more as a 
 strainer for the searching wind, than for a pro- 
 tection against it. 
 
 She was addressing a mild and benign ant look- 
 ing gentleman, considerably advanced in years, 
 and as she wrung her ungloved hands, which, 
 though purple with the cold, were yet small and 
 delicately formed, I saw that commiseration and 
 sympathy were at work in his bosom. He in- 
 stantly put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing 
 forth a dollar, was about presenting it to the 
 poor petitioner, when, seeming to recollect him- 
 self, he checked the impulse ; " No," said he, " I 
 do not doubt your worth or your necessity, but 
 I would rather go with you, and relieve your 
 wants at your own house. Tell me where you 
 live." 
 
 " Not far from here," answered the poor wo- 
 man. " It is just around in Mott street. It is 
 a wretched home, but come and see my poor
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 11 
 
 suffering children, and may God bless you for 
 your kindness !" 
 
 They instantly started, and, as the woman 
 turned toward me, the sight of her young and 
 lovely countenance, down which the tears were 
 fast streaming, so touched my heart, that, cold 
 and near night as it was, I could not forbear 
 following. When arrived at her dwelling, how- 
 ever, trusting that her kind-looking companion 
 would relieve her wants for that evening, I 
 deemed it most prudent to speed my way home, 
 without entering, or even addressing her. I 
 therefore carefully observed the number of the 
 door, that I might be able to find it the next 
 day, and hastened homeward. 
 
 I reached my domicil in safety, and was soon 
 seated in a warm and comfortable apartment, 
 and by a cheerful and well-filled supper table. 
 But as the hissing urn poured forth its fragrant 
 contents, the image of that poor mother, hungry 
 and fireless, and surrounded by her helpless and 
 starving children, rose up reproachfully before 
 me. I felt as if I had been selfish and unfeeling, 
 in trusting to the probability of her being re- 
 lieved by another. To be sure, he whom she
 
 12 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 had addressed, and who had accompanied her to 
 her door, looked benevolent, and would most 
 likely supply her most immediate and pressing 
 wants, but then there was a possibility that he 
 might not do so. " What if some of her chil- 
 dren should really starve, or what if one of them 
 should freeze to death this very night !" The 
 thought was too dreadful to endure. Something 
 at my heart told me I had no right to eat, when 
 I knew others whom I might have relieved were 
 dying for want of food, and, laying down my 
 knife, I felt as if another mouthful would choke 
 me. 
 
 After retiring from the tea-table, I related the 
 circumstance to a friend, and proposed that he 
 should go with me, and carry a basket of food 
 to the poor woman that evening. He readily 
 acceded to the proposal, and we were soon 
 equipped for our walk, and armed with a large 
 basket, well stored with different kinds of food, 
 such as I thought would be most comfortable for 
 the family in their present suffering condition. 
 
 The wind swept in freezing and fitful gusts 
 down the streets as we sallied forth, but wrap- 
 ping my cloak tightly about me, I thought of
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 13 
 
 being without food or fire on such a wintry 
 night, and faced the breeze without a murmur 
 at its keenness. We soon reached the miserable 
 dwelling to which we were bound, and, knock- 
 ing at the door, were after some hesitation bade 
 to come in. We entered a low and dilapidated 
 apartment, which was occupied by the woman 
 whom I had seen in the street, and three small 
 children ; the two eldest of whom were busied 
 in devouring the remnants of a loaf of bread, 
 while the mother sat rocking the youngest in 
 her arms. I saw that charity had been there 
 before me, for a small fire was burning on the 
 hearth, toward which the children occasionally 
 held out their hands, with a look of satisfaction 
 and happiness, which told more plainly than 
 words that they knew what it was to be de- 
 prived of its comfort. 
 
 4 Do not disturb yourself," said I, as the poor 
 woman was about rising at our entrance ; " we 
 will wait on ourselves. I saw you this afternoon 
 in the street, and heard your earnest appeal for 
 charity, and could not rest until I had seen 
 whether you were provided for." 
 
 We seated ourselves by the fire, and a slight 
 2
 
 14 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 flush passed over her pale and expressive coun- 
 tenance, and a tear glittered in her large, dark 
 eye, as she replied, in one of the sweetest voices 
 I ever heard, "You are very kind, madam, and 
 may God bless you, and another also in whom I 
 have found kindness and sympathy, when I was 
 almost in despair. The gentleman to whom I 
 made my appeal this afternoon, and which you 
 must have heard, has sent me fuel and food, 
 which have, I believe, saved us from freezing 
 and starvation. For I had literally not one 
 mouthful of food, or one particle of fuel, in my 
 miserable house, and no solitary means of pro- 
 curing either, when I sallied forth this afternoon, 
 for the first time in my life to beg ! Ah, I 
 can never tell what my feelings were, as I walked 
 up and down the street for a whole hour, before 
 I could summon the courage to petition a single 
 person ! I was almost frozen with the bitter 
 cold, and I knew that my poor hungry children 
 were crying at home, without fire, or a mouth- 
 ful to satisfy the ravenous cravings of hunger, 
 and yet I dared not subject myself to the re- 
 pulse, and perhaps insult I might meet, should I 
 dare to say that I was starving. Many passed
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 15 
 
 me who gave me one cold and careless glance, 
 but I felt as if they were bound up in selfishness 
 or worldly interest, and would not heed the 
 prayer of one so poor and wretched as myself; 
 and I suffered them to go on without making 
 any attempt to arrest their attention. 
 
 " At last, when hope was almost dead within 
 me, I saw a lady, richly attired, and holding by 
 the hand a little child, who was decorated with 
 all the ornaments which wealth and fashion 
 could furnish, approaching me. I remembered 
 the time when my own children were dressed 
 with equal care, and never was the bitterness of 
 my lot more keenly felt than at that cruel mo- 
 ment. But it was no time for the indulgence of 
 such feelings, and as I gazed on the delicate face 
 of the sweet child, and saw the look of affection 
 which the lady fixed upon it, hope again re- 
 vived in my bosom. ' Here is a mother? thought 
 I, ' and surely here the tale of my suffering little 
 ones must meet with sympathy and relief!' As 
 the lady reached me I held out my hands toward 
 her, but the hot tears were pouring down my 
 face, and my voice was so choked that I could 
 scarcely find utterance for my petition. But at
 
 16 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 
 
 last I succeeded in telling her my distress, and 
 that of my children, when, after listening a mo- 
 ment, she put her hand in her reticule, and draw- 
 ing forth one penny, presented it to me. 
 
 " ' Here,' said she, ' take this ! Why don't 
 you go to the poorhouse ? I have no patience 
 with beggars. Let me pass, will you 1 You 
 will frighten my child !' 
 
 " ' Ma, I am not afraid of her,' lisped the little 
 girl, ' and she may have my sixpence !' 
 
 " As she held up the little coin for my ac- 
 ceptance, my first thought was to refuse it, but 
 the second told me I had no right to do so, and 
 I suffered her to drop it into my hand. The 
 hot blood mounted to the cheeks of the mother 
 at this sight ; but ' You had better go to work 
 instead of begging,' was her only comment, and 
 she swept on without another look, leaving me 
 standing alone in all my wretchedness. ' May 
 God bless you, sweet child,' said I, gazing after 
 them for one grateful moment, ' and may you 
 never know the misery which has fallen upon 
 my own, helpless children.' 
 
 "I turned away, and looking at the trifling 
 pittance in my hand, ' What is this,' thought I,
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 17 
 
 'to provide food and fuel for my suffering 
 family, and to whom could I apply for more 1' 
 It was beginning to grow dark, and sick and 
 despairing, I was turning to go home, when I 
 met a gentleman who seemed different from any 
 other I had seen, and I resolved to make one 
 more effort. There was something kind and 
 benignant in his countenance, which encouraged 
 me, but yet it was with a feeling of desperation 
 that I approached him, and begged him for the 
 love of God to assist me. I was not deceived in 
 his looks; as you saw, he accompanied me 
 home, and gave me this fuel, and a dollar to 
 purchase provisions, with a promise to call again 
 to-morrow. God will reward him, I cannot." 
 
 Here the poor woman ended her recital, and, 
 wiping away the tears with which her face was 
 covered, arose to deposite her child which she 
 had been rocking to sleep, in a bed which stood in 
 one corner of the room. While she was thus 
 occupied, I observed the two elder children 
 casting a longing eye toward the basket I had 
 brought with me, and drying my eyes, which 
 had been wet more than once during the last 
 half hour, I uncovered it, and taking out a hand-
 
 18 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 ful of crackers, handed them to the little ones, 
 who commenced eating them with an appetite 
 which seemed not yet half-satisfied. 
 
 It was now quite late, and thinking it best to 
 defer any inquiries into the history of the unfor- 
 tunate mother, until some other time, I emptied 
 the contents of my basket upon the table, and, 
 promising to call again the next day, arose to 
 go. She accompanied us to the door, and amid 
 tears and thanks which touched our hearts, we 
 departed. The weather was colder than when 
 we left home, but the thought of having helped 
 to administer comfort to one sad heart, kept us 
 warm, and we reached our abode, glowing with 
 cheerfulness and satisfaction.
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Pleasure that comes unlooked-for, is thrice welcome ; 
 And if it stir the heart, if aught be there, 
 That may hereafter in a thoughtless hour, 
 Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among 
 The things most precious ; and the day it came, 
 Is noted as a white day in our lives." 
 
 ROGERS' Italy. 
 
 ACCORDING to my promise, the next morning I 
 sallied forth once more to visit the poor widow, 
 resolving to inquire into her history, and en- 
 deavor, if possible, to devise some means by 
 which she could, at least, aid in supporting her- 
 self and little ones. 
 
 As I reached her abode, the benevolent gen- 
 tleman who had afforded her relief the evening 
 before, was just entering. The poor woman ap- 
 peared grateful and happy to see us, and in- 
 vited us to sit down with a grace and politeness 
 which is not often equalled. While the old 
 gentleman was inquiring after her health, and
 
 20 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 petting the children, I had leisure to look about 
 me, and make such observations as I was unable 
 to do at my previous visit. The apartment, 
 which seemed to be the only one occupied by 
 its destitute tenant, though furnished in the 
 meanest and most scanty manner, was scrupu- 
 lously clean and tidy ; while the children, though 
 a good deal patched and threadbare, were free 
 from the smallest particle of dirt. But it was 
 evident from the texture not only of their gar- 
 ments, but of their mother's also, that they had 
 seen better days; and I was confirmed in this 
 opinion, by the modest propriety visible in the 
 deportment of the whole family. 
 
 "Well," said the old gentleman, "I have 
 come to see what can be done to benefit your 
 situation, and this lady, who entered with me, 
 has I hope come on the same errand. At any 
 rate she looks as if she had." 
 
 Somewhat flattered at this compliment to my 
 physiognomy, and secretly lauding his discern- 
 ment, I very readily assented to the gentleman's 
 supposition, and he went on : 
 
 " You seem to be one who would like honest 
 independence better than dependance, and I
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 21 
 
 suppose would, therefore, be glad to procure 
 some respectable employment, to enable you to 
 support yourself and these nice, modest-looking 
 little folks. I like modest children, and let me 
 tell you ma'am, it was your children more than 
 anything else that made me get up so much 
 earlier than usual this morning, and that has 
 kept my old brain harder at work thinking what 
 could be done for you, than it has worked be- 
 fore for many a day. But tell me what employ- 
 ment would you like ? What can you do that 
 would be profitable V 9 
 
 " Indeed, sir," answered the poor woman with 
 a deep sigh, " I hardly know what I could do 
 that would yield me a tolerable support. Un- 
 fortunately, I was brought up in a part of the 
 country where females are taught scarcely any- 
 thing that is useful ; and until I came to this 
 city, I had hardly learned to dress myself ; and 
 many and many an hour of bitter regret have I 
 since spent at my own helplessness." 
 
 " Shame ! folly !" exclaimed the old gentle- 
 man with a look of pity at the poor mother, 
 u shame to bring up girls in such a way ! In- 
 stead of teaching them to become useful and
 
 22 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 valuable members of society, to make mere dolls 
 and puppets of them ! Just as if riches had no 
 wings, and there was no possibility of their 
 ever being obliged to earn their own bread by 
 their own labor ! But you certainly must know 
 how to sew, or your children's clothes would 
 not be so nicely patched." 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered she, " I believe I can 
 now do plain sewing tolerably well. Necessity 
 has been a stern and uncompromising teacher, 
 and since my troubles came upon me, I have 
 endeavored, to the best of my ability, to learn 
 how to make everything I had left turn to the 
 very best advantage. And I think I have suc- 
 ceeded as well as most persons in making, by 
 industry and contrivance, a little go a great 
 way. Otherwise my children might have ap- 
 peared as ragged and neglected as those of 
 thousands of others in my situation." 
 
 " Yes, yes ;" said the old gentleman, " I see, 
 I see ! And you may thank your stars, that you 
 had the good sense and the resolution to learn 
 to work and contrive, after being brought up to 
 do nothing! But since you say you can do 
 plain sewing, and since I see that it is no' false
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 23 
 
 and idle boast, I can very easily settle that 
 matter. I know of several families who will let 
 you have work to do, and as I am a pretty ex- 
 travagant old fellow myself, I shall want you 
 to do a good deal for me, and then if this lady 
 has a mind to let you have a little, we can keep 
 you in employment the whole time. And since 
 I am on the subject, I may as well tell you that 
 it is not my way to let those who work for me 
 starve." 
 
 " I thank you, sir, I thank you !" answered the 
 grateful woman, as she wiped away the first 
 tears of joy she had shed for many a day. 
 " You have given me new life by your kind- 
 ness, and I hope I may be able to deserve it." 
 
 " Tut, tut !" exclaimed the old gentleman, 
 dashing his hand across his eyes, " it is nothing ! 
 nothing at all ! I am only going to pay you for 
 work 1 want done, and if I pay you better than 
 the shops, or than a miser, whose business is it ? 
 And now that matter arranged, if you have 
 no objections, I should like to hear a little of 
 your story, and know where you were brought 
 up." 
 
 " I can certainly have no objections," she
 
 24 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 replied, " but, to make you understand all, I 
 shall be obliged to go back a long way. You 
 will find my story a sad one, but I suppose there 
 are thousands "of others who have trodden as 
 thorny a path as myself. 
 
 " I was born and educated in Savannah. My 
 father was an opulent merchant of that city, anc 1 
 as I was an only child, he spared no pains 01 
 expense to give me every accomplishment which 
 is in the southern states, considered necessary 
 for a young lady to possess. Among these 
 accomplishments, unfortunately, nothing really 
 useful finds a place, for, in consequence of the 
 existing state of society there, employment of 
 almost every kind is considered degrading. 
 Everything is done by the blacks, while the 
 white population grow up the most helpless and 
 indolent beings imaginable. In this manner 
 was it my misfortune to be educated. I liter ' 
 ally knew not how to prepare the simplest arti- 
 cle of food which appeared upon my father's 
 table, or to hem the pocket handkerchief which 
 a slave was summoned to bring me, if I had 
 chanced to leave it in the next room. 
 
 " Thus totally unqualified for the duties of a
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 25 
 
 housekeeper, and the responsibilities of the 
 marriage state, at the age of fifteen I became 
 the wife of a merchant of Mobile, and removed 
 with him to that city. He was an amiable and 
 upright man, of the most regular business habits, 
 standing high in the estimation of his fellow- 
 citizens, and beloved and respected by all who j 
 knew him. Every one prophesied a life of 
 felicity, and with every appearance of reason, 
 for my husband was unbounded in his affection 
 and indulgence toward me ; I was devotedly 
 attached to him; we were rich in worldly goods, 
 and happiness seemed to have marked us for her 
 own. But such a state of blessedness could not 
 long continue, and sorrowful days were in store 
 for us. 
 
 " It was the time when the spirit of specula- 
 tion ran like wild-fire through our country, 
 blighting the hopes and ruining the fortunes of 
 so many. My father having amassed a fortune, 
 had long since retired from business, but he was 
 seized with the prevailing mania, aad persuad- 
 ing my husband to unite with him, they both 
 hazarded their whole property in an extensive 
 cotton speculation. At the time they made their
 
 26 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 contracts, cotton bore unusually high prices in 
 the market, but the general impression was that 
 they would be higher still, and they plunged 
 headlong into the enterprise, certain of a ready 
 sale and a splendid interest. By-and-by the 
 bubble burst. The fatal pressure of 1837 came 
 on, inextricably deranging the mercantile affairs 
 of the whole country, and while all were wish- 
 ing to sell, few were able to buy. The cotton 
 in which my husband and father had invested 
 their all, lay dead in the storehouses of Europe, 
 but their contracts must be met, and a forced 
 and ruinous sale was the consequence. 
 
 " It is needless to state the result. They 
 shared the fate of almost every merchant of 
 Mobile, and of thousands of others throughout 
 the entire country, and became bankrupts, beg- 
 gars. This sudden and unexpected blow, acting 
 upon a constitution already enfeebled by age 
 and disease, proved fatal to my poor father. 
 He never held up his head afterward. He was 
 immediately seized with a violent nervous fever, 
 and in three short weeks from the day in which 
 the failure of his cotton speculation was an- 
 nounced to him, he was in his grave.
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 27 
 
 " My husband sacrificed all, with the excep- 
 tion of a few hundred dollars, to his creditors. 
 We retrenched our expenses in every possible 
 way, or rather he did so, for I was like a help- 
 less and terrified, but passive child, incapable of 
 thinking or acting, and burdening and discoura- 
 ging my husband by my helplessness and in- 
 efficiency, instead of aiding and inspiring him 
 by my energy and courage. 
 
 " At last all was definitely arranged. Our 
 house and furniture were parted with, our slaves 
 were all sold, and our expenditures reduced to 
 the lowest possible amount. We rented a small 
 and cheap house, hired one woman to undertake 
 the management of our household affairs, and 
 assist in taking care of my two children, and we 
 lived in the cheapest and plainest style. 
 
 " But trifling as our expenditures now were, 
 we soon found that to those who had literally 
 no income, they were formidable and alarming. 
 Our little money was fast dwindling away, and 
 my husband, despairing of doing anything for 
 our support in Mobile, resolved on removing to 
 New York. He was a native of this city, and 
 had spent the earlier portion of his life here,
 
 28 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 and it was not until after the death of his pa- 
 rents that he removed to the south. He was, 
 therefore, not without the hope of meeting with 
 ultimate success in the home of his youth, for 
 his parents had left some warm friends whom 
 he hoped to discover, and who would un- 
 doubtedly interest themselves so much in his 
 behalf, as to aid his endeavors to procure some 
 honorable and profitable employment. Among 
 these friends was one who had been the play- 
 mate of his mother in her childhood, and the 
 companion of her youth, and who, it was more 
 than suspected, had for her sake always remain- 
 ed unmarried. We had learned that he had a 
 few years since returned from the East Indies, 
 with an enormous fortune, and it was on him 
 that my husband most relied for advice and 
 assistance. 
 
 " We arrived in New York, but, alas ! the 
 blight had reached here also. Business was 
 prostrated, and thousands, thrown out of em- 
 ployment, w ? ere suffering for the commonest 
 necessaries of life. The few friends whom my 
 husband was able to discover, were too much 
 absorbed in their own difficulties, to attend to
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 29 
 
 his ', and, although some promised him their 
 assistance, none rendered him the least. The 
 one on whom he most relied, the early friend of 
 his mother, was unfortunately not to be found. 
 At length, however, we learned that he had 
 been two or three years travelling in Europe, 
 and no one knew when he would return. 
 
 " Thus every hope seemed to be cut off when 
 my husband providentially obtained a clerkship 
 in a small retail dry-goods store, at the miserable 
 salary of four hundred dollars a year. But it 
 was better than nothing, and we immediately 
 arranged our affairs in accordance with it. We 
 hired the upper part of a small house, at a rent 
 of one hundred and fifty dollars a year, trusting, 
 although all the necessaries of life were then 
 enormously dear, to be able to live on the re- 
 maining two hundred and fifty. 
 
 " As keeping a domestic was entirely out of 
 the question, I was compelled to the arduous 
 and untried task of doing my own work, with- 
 out any assistance. And a bitter task did it 
 prove to me ! With the little money remaining 
 from the wreck of our property in Mobile, we 
 had purchased a few indispensable articles of
 
 30 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 furniture ; and those I contrived to manage tol- 
 erably well. But when it came to the daily rou- 
 tine of necessary but nameless household duties, 
 I was entirely in the dark. I knew not where 
 to begin, nor what to do. By rising very early, 
 my husband contrived to do our marketing ; but 
 how to dress and prepare what he furnished, I 
 knew not ; and the cheap and miserable articles 
 to which our poverty obliged us to confine our- 
 selves, were rendered still more miserable by my 
 entire ignorance of the art of cooking. For 
 many, many weeks, I can truly say, we had not 
 a meal on our table that was not spoiled by my 
 mismanagement. My husband said everything 
 by way of encouragement, assuring me I should 
 soon learn how to manage better: but I was 
 almost in despair. My children, too, began to 
 look shabby and neglected ; for, occupied as I 
 was the whole of my time in doing that which, 
 had I known how to work, need not have taken 
 but a few hours a day, I had no opportunity to 
 repair their clothes as they began to show signs 
 of wearing out ; and I drudged at my daily toil 
 with a heavy heart. 
 " At last, an old lady, a poor widow, occupy-
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 31 
 
 ing an apartment in our house, \vho saw how 
 things went on, and easily divined the cause, 
 one day came into my room as I was crying 
 over my wash-tub, my fingers bleeding in twenty 
 places, and kindly offered to assist me, and to 
 show me how to do any kind of work with 
 which 1 might be unacquainted. Never did 
 words fall more sweetly on my ear ! She seem- 
 ed like an angel sent from heaven to my relief! 
 I readily and gratefully accepted her kind offer ; 
 and before she had been with me one hour, I 
 had opened my whole heart, and told her all 
 my troubles. That day I was able, for the first 
 time, to set before my husband a well-cooked 
 and palatable dinner. My meat was, to be sure, 
 of the cheapest quality, but good old Mrs. Mor- 
 ris had contrived by her skilful management, to 
 make an excellent dish ; and never was I more 
 pleased than I was to see the relish with which 
 he partook of it. 
 
 " From that day I began to improve in my 
 spirits, and in the management of my household 
 affairs. Mrs. Morris, who was an adept at all 
 kinds of housework, and seemed to know the 
 best and easiest way of doing everything, watch-
 
 32 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 ed over and directed my awkward efforts with 
 all a mother's care and tenderness, encouraging 
 me when my spirits were sinking, and lending 
 a ready hand whenever she saw that it was 
 needed. Under a guidance so kind and efficient, 
 I soon learned to perform my work in less than 
 half the time it had formerly taken, and to per- 
 form it well. She taught me how to repair my 
 husband's and my children's clothes, and to make 
 the most of small means. As I advanced in 
 knowledge and experience, new hope seemed 
 to dawn upon me, and I began to look forward 
 with confidence to better times. But, alas ! I 
 was destined soon to learn that my misfortunes 
 were but just begun. 
 
 " My husband, who was the only clerk in the 
 store in which he was engaged, was often 
 obliged to carry parcels for customers from one 
 end of the city to the other. Long unused to 
 the rigors of a northern winter, and with a con- 
 stitution broken and enervated by a protracted 
 residence in a southern climate, he was quite 
 unfitted for such a service, particularly in the 
 bad weather to which we were that winter 
 more than usually subject. On one cold, damp,
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 33 
 
 day, when the melting snow was, at the cross- 
 ings, nearly over shoes, he was obliged to carry 
 a parcel for a lady who resided more than a 
 mile from the store. He had been for two or 
 three days more than usually unwell, and his 
 boots, unfortunately, admitting the water, he 
 was seized with a violent cold, which termina- 
 ted in an inflammation of the lungs. After a 
 long struggle, apparently between life and death, 
 he at length partially recovered. But an ob- 
 stinate and hollow cough, and a hectic flush on 
 his sunken cheeks, plainly indicated to those 
 who were more familiar with the disease than I, 
 that he was in the first stage of a consumption. 
 Eager, however, to replace, if possible, the sums 
 expended during his illness, he returned to his 
 business with renewed zeal; and I, strangely 
 blind as I was to the fatal indications of disease 
 which were but too visible to others, was again 
 filled with hope and happiness. 
 
 Two or three months went by : spring came 
 the time of buds and blossoms and it became 
 apparent, even to my unpractised eye, that the 
 health of my husband was fast declining. The 
 hollow cough had become more frequent and
 
 34 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 more violent, the hectic had deepened on his 
 sunken cheek, and his dark blue eye wore a 
 startling and unnatural brightness. I could not 
 but see that his respiration was quick and labor- 
 ed, and that his once elastic step was now feeble 
 and faltering. I was, as it were in a moment, 
 thoroughly awakened to his danger, and, in the 
 utmost alarm, urged and entreated him to relin- 
 quish his business, if it were but for a week, and 
 instantly to seek medical advice. He yielded 
 to my entreaties so far as to apply to a physi- 
 cian ; but no arguments or prayers could pre- 
 vail upon him to absent himself from his employ- 
 ment even for one day. 
 
 " * My children and my wife must have 
 bread !' he would exclaim ; ' and I cannot af- 
 ford time to be sick ! Besides, I do not consider 
 it necessary to lay by, for I apprehend no real 
 danger : the unfavorable symptoms which so 
 alarm you this cough which, I acknowledge, 
 is rather troublesome, and this temporary debil- 
 ity, are only the relics of my fever, and will all 
 wear away as soon as warm weather returns. 
 This cold, changeable climate does not seem to 
 agree with me as well as formerly. But do not
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 36 
 
 alarm yourself, my dear wife, summer will set 
 me up again !' 
 
 " Half deceived by his assurances, I ceased to 
 oppose his continued attention to business ; and 
 resolutely shutting my eyes to the reality that 
 he was every day becoming weaker and weaker, 
 I looked forward with impatient longing to the 
 appearance of summer, which I vainly fancied 
 was to prove an elixir of life to the poor in- 
 valid. 
 
 " The wished-for season at length came, but, 
 alas, it brought no healing on its wings. Instead 
 of gaining health and strength beneath its balmy 
 influence, Henry seemed hastening with re- 
 doubled rapidity to the grave. Hope died away 
 in my heart, and after again vainly endeavoring 
 to induce him to remain at home when he 
 could scarcely drag himself to the store, I went 
 myself to his employer, and entreated his assist- 
 ance in persuading my husband to give up la- 
 bor, and endeavor to regain his health. He was 
 a charitable, benevolent man, and though doing 
 but a meager business, he performed a deed of 
 kindness and generosity, which I shall never 
 forget. He not only persuaded him to give up
 
 36 THE MEPCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 business, but, although the year for which he 
 had engaged with him yet lacked more than 
 three months of its expiration, he actually in- 
 sisted on paying him for the whole period. 
 Henry at first resolutely declined the generous 
 offer, but the absolute want which was staring 
 us in the face, and the continued entreaties of 
 his kind employer, at length overcame his 
 scruples, and he yielded. 
 
 " Rest and careful nursing, seemed for a while 
 to realize our hopes, and Henry for a few days 
 appeared better. But it was only a delusive 
 amendment, and he was soon unable to leave 
 his bed for more than an hour or two in a day. 
 Our money meanwhile was rapidly fading away, 
 and it became imperiously necessary that we 
 should seek a cheaper tenement than the one 
 we then occupied. After much searching, I 
 found this one in which I now reside. It was a 
 miserable place compared with our former one, 
 but we were too poor to hesitate long, and giv- 
 ing up the pleasant dwelling where we had 
 promised ourselves so much quiet enjoyment, 
 and bidding a tearful adieu to kind Mrs. Morris, 
 who had for months been our good angel, we
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 37 
 
 removed here. Henry had not seen this place 
 until he was brought here, and it seemed as if 
 its comfortless, desolate appearance struck a 
 blight to his heart. 
 
 "'This is a sad contrast, Emily,' he exclaim- 
 ed, 'to your youthful home, and to the home 
 you had a right to expect with me. But it will 
 do for me the little while I have to live, and I 
 shall never leave it till I am borne away to my 
 last earthly dwelling.' 
 
 " I would have combated this mournful pre- 
 sentiment, but when I tried to speak, the words 
 died away upon my lips, for there was an ex- 
 pression in his eye which carried a fearful con- 
 viction of its truth to my heart. Yet I endeav- 
 ored to cheer his sinking spirits, although the 
 load upon my own, well nigh weighed me to 
 the earth. What was to become of us when the 
 prop which had so long supported us was re- 
 moved, I dared not trust myself to think. Al- 
 ready I saw myself a helpless, houseless widow, 
 surrounded by hungry little ones, who in vain 
 looked to me for a mouthful of bread, and as I 
 saw no way of relieving their wants, the world 
 grew dark around me. 
 
 4
 
 38 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 " But present evils were too pressing to permit 
 an indulgence in anticipated ones. Our money 
 was now almost gone, and I must seek some 
 means of procuring more, or absolute beggary 
 would soon be our fate. But what could I do ? 
 My husband, now almost helpless, required my 
 constant attention; my children, feeble and 
 sickly from unwholesome food and too much con- 
 finement, were a perpetual source of care and 
 anxiety, while my own health for I was soon 
 again to become a mother was extremely 
 delicate. Notwithstanding all this, however, I 
 contrived, after much difficulty, to procure a little 
 sewing from a ready-made-linen store ; but so 
 little time could I spare for the prosecution of 
 my work, and so miserable was the remunera- 
 tion I received for it when it was finished, that I 
 almost despaired. With my utmost exertions, I 
 could scarcely earn six shillings a week, and 
 what was that among so many ? But I toiled 
 on, determined to do all I could, and trust the 
 rest to God. How often, while I have sat almost 
 fainting over my midnight labor, did Henry 
 groan in anguish at the destitution which com- 
 pelled me to a toil for which I was so unequal j
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 39 
 
 and how bitterly did he lament the protracted 
 absence of that friend of his mother, from whom 
 he had anticipated so much assistance and sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 " If Edward Temple were but here," he 
 would exclaim, " I am sure that, for my mother's 
 sake, he would pity and relieve us !" 
 
 " Edward Temple !" exclaimed the old gen- 
 tleman, suddenly starting from his seat. " And 
 who, for God's sake tell me, was your hus- 
 band?" 
 
 " Henry Temple Seton," answered the poor 
 woman, surprised and startled at the abruptness 
 of the question. 
 
 " And was the maiden name of his mother 
 Amelia Mansfield ?" again demanded her ques- 
 tioner, as, his whole frame shaking with emo- 
 tion, he convulsively grasped the back of his 
 chair. 
 
 " It was," she again replied. 
 
 " And did Henry Seton die, and here ?" he 
 once more inquired, in a voice so choked and 
 husky, as to be scarcely intelligible. 
 
 "He did," was again the short and mournful 
 reply.
 
 40 THE MERCHANT'S WBDOW. 
 
 "And can it be," said the old gentleman, 
 sinking back into his chair, while the tears 
 rolled unrestrainedly down his cheeks, " can it 
 be that the only child of the wealthy, the idol- 
 ized Amelia, was brought to this "? Can it be 
 that while I was wandering through Europe, 
 almost without an object, recklessly spending 
 my thousands, that the son of her whom I would 
 have guarded as the apple of my eye, was dying 
 of want and misery in a home like this ? Oh, 
 why was I not here to save him !" 
 
 "You are then Edward Temple? Thank 
 God !" exclaimed the poor woman, starting from 
 her seat, and abruptly approaching him j but a 
 bitter recollection seemed at the same moment 
 to cross her mind, for a sudden paleness over- 
 spread her countenance, and as she turned away, 
 there was a hopeless despair in the words which 
 fell in hoarse and unnatural tones from her lips. 
 " It is too late ! it is too late ! Oh, my hus- 
 band, my dear Henry, you are gone, and what 
 avails it now ! What avails it that the friend 
 so long wished for has at last arrived, when the 
 clods of the valley are lying heavily on your 
 bosom !" and, throwing her arras over the table
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 41 
 
 "by which she had been seated, she bowed her 
 head upon them, and her groans and convulsive 
 sobs shook her whole frame. 
 
 Mr. Temple, for it was indeed he, approached 
 the weeping woman, and laying his hand kindly 
 on her shoulder, " Do not weep so bitterly," 
 said he ; " it is indeed too late for him who is 
 gone, and who was so dear to you, but it is not 
 too late for yourself, and your young orphans. 
 Look up, my dear Mrs. Seton, and be comforted. 
 You shall see better days." 
 
 Soothed by the kindness of the benevolent old 
 man, Mrs. Seton gradually resumed her calm- 
 ness. 
 
 " Oh, if he could but have lived to see this 
 hour," she exclaimed, " how would his heart 
 have blessed you, and how happy should I have 
 been ! But God willed it otherwise, and I will 
 try to be resigned." 
 
 " Ah, we cannot have everything to suit our- 
 selves," answered Mr. Temple, with a sigh ; " I 
 believe it would have made my old heart too 
 blessed to have become a father to the child of 
 my Amelia ; I call her mine, for we were 
 brought up together, and well and truly did we
 
 42 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 love each other. And though at last she chose 
 another for her husband, instead of me, yet I 
 could never find it in my heart to love her the 
 less dearly. Ah, it was a sad disappointment, 
 and I have never allowed myself to love another 
 human being since. But that time is past, and 
 these little ones who would have been so ten- 
 derly cherished by her, shall be dearly and 
 fondly cherished by me also. Come, here my 
 children," he continued, " and let me see if I 
 can trace her well-remembered likeness in any 
 of your young faces !" 
 
 He held out his hand toward them, and the 
 two children who had sat mute and tearful 
 spectators of the passing scene, timidly ap- 
 proached. He gently laid his hands upon their 
 heads, and as he gazed long and silently upon 
 them, many a youthful and long-buried memory 
 came back upon his heart, while unheeded tears 
 trickled slowly down his furrowed cheeks. 
 " Yes," said he at length, tenderly stroking the 
 bright head of the eldest, " Yes, here are the 
 same soft ringlets, and the same mild and pen- 
 sive blue eyes that so went to my heart when I 
 was but a boy. Ah, I have often seen them in
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 43 
 
 my dreams, but never until now since I last be- 
 held Amelia, have such eyes looked upon me in 
 my waking hours. I could almost fancy myself 
 a boy again, and this sweet child my early play- 
 mate. What is her name 1 I hope it is Amelia ; 
 I could not bear to call her by any other." 
 
 " Yes, it is Amelia," answered Mrs. Seton ; 
 " Henry always felt a melancholy pleasure in 
 calling her by the name of a mother, whom he 
 loved and mourned with more than filial tender- 
 ness. She was a rare specimen of a mother, 
 and Henry never could forget her loss." 
 
 " He would not have deserved to be her son, 
 if he could have forgotten her !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Temple, warmly ; and after a pause, he musing- 
 ly added : " And so he honored her memory as 
 he should do, did he 1 I wish the boy had lived 
 till my old eyes had been blest with the sight 
 of him ! But there is no use in wishing back 
 the dead ! It is better to think how we may 
 best discharge our duty toward the living. And 
 now let us have no more saddening thoughts to- 
 day : you shall finish your melancholy tale some 
 other time, but at present let us think rather 
 how we shall dispose of these dear little ones,
 
 44 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 so that their father and my Amelia, may look 
 down from heaven with a smile." 
 
 Mrs. Seton strove in vain to give utterance 
 to the feelings that were swelling at her heart, 
 and Mr. Temple, observing her inability to 
 speak, exclaimed, " Leave it all to me, leave it 
 all to me ! I am an old man, and know better 
 how to arrange these things than you do. But 
 remember I can bear no contradictions in the 
 matter; I am used to having everything my 
 own way, and if you do not want the sin of 
 breaking an old man's heart lying on your con- 
 science, you will not oppose me. But to the 
 point, I have a great, overgrown house in 
 Broadway, furnished from basement to attic 
 like a palace, and no one to look after it and 
 see that it is taken proper care of. I am an old 
 bachelor, and as I know nothing about these 
 things, have to trust everything to my house- 
 keeper. I have wished a thousand times that I 
 had a daughter to look after the poor, lonely old 
 man, and cheer his solitude, and govern his 
 servants, but Heaven never ordained so great a 
 blessing for me. Now, though you are not my 
 daughter, you were the wife of Amelia's son,
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 45 
 
 and that makes me feel almost as if you were 
 my own child. So, without any more circum- 
 locution, you must come and live with me, and 
 I shall soon learn to believe that you are my 
 daughter. Your children will fill up a gap in 
 my heart, that I thought would never be filled 
 again, and I shall grow younger every time I 
 look back at them. Do not hesitate, for my 
 heart is set upon your compliance." 
 
 A thousand varying emotions were painted 
 on the sweet expressive face of Mrs. Seton, as 
 with a faltering voice she at last attempted to 
 reply : " I feel all your great kindness, Mr. 
 Temple ; believe me, I feel it all. But how can 
 I think of burdening you with myself, and these 
 three little children ? No, it will be sufficient 
 to win the gratitude of my whole life if you 
 adhere to your first kind proposal to furnish me 
 with constant employment ; I can then support 
 myself and little ones in comfort, and " 
 
 " Support yourself!" interrupted Mr. Temple, 
 while a bright glow overspread his sallow 
 cheeks. " Can you suppose that I would think 
 for a moment of allowing the widowed daughter 
 and helpless grandchildren of Amelia Mans-
 
 46 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 field, to live on in a state of toil and dependance, 
 while I am as rich as an eastern nabob, and 
 have more money than I know what to do with 1 
 And then to talk of burdening me ! Why, have 
 I not told you that I am a lonely old man, with 
 nobody to care whether I live or die, only so far 
 as their own interests are concerned ? No, no, 
 say no more against my plan, unless you would 
 have me think you do it to heighten the favor 
 you would confer upon me, by living in my 
 house, and making an old man happier than he 
 has been since he was a boy. Give me your 
 consent, or I shall have to carry you away by 
 force !" 
 
 Who could longer withstand such kind en- 
 treaties 1 Not the w r eeping and grateful Mrs. 
 Seton ; and no sooner was a consent wrung 
 from her hesitating lips, than Mr. Temple start- 
 ed up in the utmost joy, and bidding Mrs. Seton 
 pack up such things as she wished particularly 
 to preserve, and to leave all the rest to some 
 poor neighbor, hastened away to make prepara- 
 tions for the reception of his new-found daugh- 
 ter, and to bring a carriage.
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 47 
 
 " I do not intend to give you time to change 
 your mind," said he, " so I shall be back in two 
 hours ; and perhaps this lady, whose pardon I 
 beg for having so rudely suffered her to sit un- 
 noticed all the morning, will, if she is not en- 
 gaged, have the kindness to remain with you 
 until my return." 
 
 As may be supposed, I was too much interest- 
 ed in the denouement to think of hesitating, and 
 so signifying my perfect willingness to remain, 
 Mr. Temple departed. 
 
 The next two hours were busily spent. Mrs. 
 Seton occupying herself with selecting a few 
 articles that were dear to her as memorials of 
 other days, or such as were at present quite in- 
 dispensable to the decent appearance of herself 
 and children ; while the two eldest of the little 
 ones, busied themselves with playing with the 
 younger, or in skipping about the room, delight- 
 ed at the prospect of riding in a carriage, and 
 of going to live with the dear, kind old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 When Mrs. Seton had completed her arrange- 
 ments, she sat down and penned a note to an 
 excellent but very poor woman living in another
 
 48 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 part of the house, but who was then absent 
 drudging at her daily task of washing; after 
 thanking her for the many kindnesses she had 
 received at her hands, she begged her to accept 
 of the few articles of furniture she had been 
 able to save from the grasp of the pawnbroker, 
 and the little clothing she left behind her. Then 
 telling her she should soon hear from her, she 
 bade her farewell. This note was hardly in- 
 sinuated under the door of the poor washer- 
 woman, when Mr. Temple returned with a 
 hackney-coach. 
 
 " I did not bring my own carriage," said he, 
 " lest my servants should snuff at the miserable 
 dwelling which has so long been your abode." 
 
 The kind old man was all impatience until 
 they were ready to start ; then, putting a card 
 into my hand, and saying, " You will call in a 
 few days to see how my children like their new 
 home, and give me an opportunity to thank you 
 for your kindness to them 7" we separated, 
 Mrs. Seton and her happy family to exchange 
 the miserable dwelling of poverty and sorrow, 
 for the stately abode of wealth and luxury,
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 49 
 
 And I to plod my way home full of wonder at 
 the strange events of the day. 
 
 I looked at the card, " Edward Temple, No. 
 Broadway," and recollected the dwel- 
 ling, as being one of the most splendid in that 
 noble street. 
 
 " The romance of real life is indeed stranger 
 than that of fiction !" I unconsciously exclaimed, 
 as I went dreamingly along, running against the 
 grown persons, and stumbling over the children 
 whom I encountered in my way : " who after 
 this, would disbelieve in an overruling and pro- 
 tecting Providence ?" 
 5
 
 50 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Who wants 
 
 A sequel may read on : the plain discourse 
 Which follows, may supply the place of one. 5 ' 
 
 IT was somewhat less than three weeks after 
 the important and happy alteration in the cir^ 
 cumstances of Mrs. Seton and her young orphans 
 had taken place, that, judging a sufficient period 
 had elapsed to allow the excitement and novelty 
 of change to wear off, I thought I might venture 
 to accept the invitation of Mr. Temple, and call 
 on his adopted children. 
 
 As may be supposed, I felt some delicacy on 
 the subject, and some uncertainty whether the 
 wealthy and cherished Mrs. Seton would feel 
 gratified at receiving a visit from one who had 
 seen her in the lowest depths of poverty and 
 wretchedness. It was possible she might shun 
 a contact with everything and every person 
 which would recall the memory of those days.
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 51 
 
 Nevertheless, " I will go," thought I ; " I wish 
 to see whether she is able to bear prosperity, 
 and whether her present conduct and feelings 
 belie the language so plainly expressed in her 
 sweet and modest countenance!" 
 
 I soon reached the abode of Mr. Temple ; 
 and, sending in my card by the servant who 
 answered the bell, was immediately ushered into 
 a spacious and lofty drawing-room. It was fur- 
 nished with all the elegance and splendor that 
 taste and wealth could command. I was scarcely 
 seated when Mr. Temple entered the room, lead- 
 ing the little Amelia by the hand, and introdu- 
 cing Mrs. Seton. I was warmly and cordially 
 welcomed by both Mr. Temple and his daughter; 
 .and, our first friendly greetings over, I had leis- 
 ure more particularly to observe Mrs. Seton. My 
 first impression was that I should scarcely have 
 known her, so much did she appear changed ; 
 for if I had admired her sweet countenance when 
 I found her surrounded by want and misery, I 
 was now absolutely startled at its extreme love- 
 liness. A moment's survey, however, assured 
 me that it still wore the same sweet and hum- 
 ble expression which had so interested me then,
 
 52 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 but a calm and grateful happiness had now 
 added its finishing charm; and, as I met the 
 soft and melting beams of her large dark eyes, 
 I never more sensibly felt the truth of the say- 
 ing, that there is no beautifier of the human 
 countenance like happiness. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Temple, " I am glad you 
 are come ! I was almost afraid you were offend- 
 ed at my unceremonious leave-taking the other 
 day. Emily, too, has been quite anxious on the 
 subject ; and had we known your address, we 
 should have called on you long before this time. 
 However, I comforted her and myself by the 
 thought, that a lady who would take such an 
 interest in a fellow -creature who was in distress, 
 would not be likely to take exceptions at any 
 seeming omissions in the first moments of hap- 
 piness. But how do you like my daughter's 
 looks ? for you know I have installed myself 
 in all the titles and privileges of a father and 
 grandfather. Has she not improved wonder- 
 fully in health 1 And how do you like my sweet 
 little Amelia's looks ?" he continued, tenderly 
 kissing the beautiful and happy-looking child, 
 as she sat on his lap with her head fondly nes-
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 53 
 
 tied against his bosom, and her little hand oc- 
 casionally raised to smooth his wrinkled cheek. 
 
 I was proceeding to express my delight at the 
 evident improvement in their health and appear- 
 ance, when Henry, the eldest boy, came gallop- 
 ing into the room, on " grandpapa's" gold- 
 headed cane, and bounding up to the side of the 
 old gentleman, put up his pouting lips for a 
 kiss, which having received and returned with 
 interest, he darted toward his mother, and cry- 
 ing, " And you too, ma !" gave her a rough but 
 affectionate salute on both cheeks, and galloped 
 off again as happy as a lord. As the eyes of 
 the mother and Mr. Temple, followed the 
 beautiful boy, it was difficult to determine 
 which countenance expressed the most pride 
 and pleasure. 
 
 I sat silently enjoying this domestic scene, 
 and as Mr. Temple again turned toward me, his 
 face beaming with happiness and benevolence, 
 I could not forbear congratulating him also on 
 his improved appearance. 
 
 "And why shouldn't I look well when I 
 have everything to make me do so?" answered 
 he, looking affectionately toward Mrs. Seton, 
 5*
 
 64 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 " Why, I am the happiest old man alive, and 
 have grown younger every day since I have had 
 somebody to live for and to care for me !" 
 
 Mrs. Seton seemed too happy for words, but 
 the gratitude and affection which accompanied 
 her answering look to Mr. Temple, and the 
 single tear which started from either eye, and 
 fell upon her lap, were an eloquent and gratify- 
 ing reply. 
 
 " Emily promises me," continued Mr. Temple, 
 " that she will not be inveigled away from me 
 by any other friends, and it is astonishing how 
 many there are, who, since she came to live 
 with me, and it is known that I consider her as 
 my daughter, have discovered that they always 
 felt a great and friendly interest in her. And it 
 is astonishing, too, what unaccountable difficul- 
 ties prevented them all from visiting, or taking 
 the least notice of her, during all her misfortunes 
 and poverty. Now they are all anxious to as- 
 sist her every way in their power. It all sounds 
 very fine," continued the indignant old gentle- 
 man, reddening as he proceeded, " it all sounds 
 very fine! But, thank God, she is beyond the 
 reach of ever needing their assistance ; and so I
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 56 
 
 have given them to understand. But I do not 
 wish to get angry, and so we will dismiss all 
 thought of such friends. But where is our dear 
 little Charlie 1 You have not seen him yet." 
 
 Mrs. Seton arose to ring the bell, and a ser- 
 vant instantly appearing, " Ask Mrs. Morris," 
 said Mr. Temple, " if she will have the kindness 
 to bring little Charles into the drawing-room." 
 The servant bowed and vanished, and, in a few 
 minutes, an elderly gentlewoman, plainly but 
 handsomely dressed, made her appearance, as- 
 sisting the tottering steps of Mrs. Seton's young- 
 est child, whom she led into the room. 
 
 " Allow me, madam," said Mr. Temple, 
 " to have the pleasure of introducing you to 
 Mrs. Morris, the old and tried friend of my 
 Emily. We have succeeded in persuading 
 her that we cannot get along- without her 
 assistance in managing the household and 
 teaching the children. And so she has con- 
 sented to come and spend her days with us, 
 and she has promised to teach my little Amelia 
 all she knows about work and housekeeping; 
 for, though I shall leave them all an independ- 
 ent fortune when I die, God willing, before that
 
 56 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 time comes my grandchildren shall all know- 
 how to earn their own living, so that if fortune 
 should desert them, they need not suffer as their 
 mother has done. I may appear odd in my 
 opinions, but I consider it far more respectable 
 for a young lady to be acquainted with every 
 kind of work necessary in a family than to be 
 ignorant of it. This is an old-fashioned doctrine, 
 but Mrs. Seton agrees with me, and it will be 
 the doctrine we shall act upon. It takes but a 
 short time to learn all these things, and is no 
 hindrance to the acquisition of every other ac- 
 complishment." 
 
 After admiring the little Charlie, and con- 
 versing a few minutes longer on ordinary topics 
 I arose to terminate my visit. I was warmly 
 urged to repeat it, and after promising to do so, 
 and exacting a similar promise in return, a 
 promise we have both frequently performed, I 
 departed, well pleased with the interview. 
 
 My readers will be glad to hear that the 
 benevolent shopkeeper was not forgotten, but 
 that a sum sufficient to establish him in an ex- 
 tensive business, was furnished him by Mr. 
 Temple, who seemed determined that no one
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 57 
 
 who had ever been kind to Mrs. Seton, should 
 fail of meeting a reward. 
 
 Mr. Temple, as he himself asserted, seems 
 actually to grow younger every day ; the chil- 
 dren under his judicious management, and that 
 of their mother and Mrs. Morris, continue amia- 
 ble, healthy, and happy. The good grandfather 
 as well as the mother, adhere strictly to their 
 first resolution of educating their children to be 
 useful, instead of making them mere playthings, 
 to be looked at and admired. Their notions on 
 the subject of the education of girls particularly, 
 are to-be-sure looked upon as extremely odd by 
 many of their acquaintances. 
 
 " You are giving your daughter the education 
 of a servant!" said a lady one day to Mrs. 
 Seton, as she surprised her superintending the 
 labors of her little girl who was busily employ- 
 ed in polishing the plated door-knobs, and dust- 
 ing the rich furniture of the drawing-room : 
 " you are giving your beautiful daughter the 
 education of a mere servant. Why, I beg of 
 you, do you not leave these menial employments 
 to the proper persons ?" 
 
 " I am giving her such an education as every
 
 58 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 American female should receive ; I am giving 
 her such an education as would have saved me 
 from many a sorrow, and perhaps my husband 
 from the abject poverty to which he was finally 
 reduced. I am not giving her the education of 
 a mere servant, for I intend that her mind shall 
 be stored with all that can make her an intellec- 
 tual, and accomplished woman. But I intend, 
 at the same time, that she shall be familiar with 
 everything that will make her most useful as a 
 wife, a mother, and the mistress of a family." 
 
 " But with her prospects of an immense for- 
 tune," replied the visiter, " these low employ- 
 ments will certainly never be necessary for her." 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied Mrs. Seton, "but is 
 it certain that she may not by some means lose 
 that immense fortune? My prospects were 
 once as good as hers, and yet I became reduced 
 to beggary. But, allowing that her wealth will 
 never forsake her, as a mistress of a family, it 
 will probably be necessary for her some day to 
 direct others in their employments. But how 
 can she direct others to do that of which she is 
 entirely ignorant herself? Believe me, there 
 is frequently a great deal of domestic misery
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 59 
 
 Occasioned by the ignorance of the wife, in 
 these matters which you call 'low employ- 
 ments.' It is strange what a prejudice there 
 is in the community against teaching girls to 
 work. It seems to be thought disgraceful for 
 them to know how to do anything useful. 
 Nobody thinks of bringing up boys in this man- 
 ner; a man would be thought almost an idiot, 
 who should suffer a family of sons to grow up 
 to manhood, entirely unacquainted with any kind 
 of business the helpless, useless, inefficient 
 puppets, which most girls of fashion are at the 
 present day; and is it wise then to educate 
 girls in this way? Is it just? Do you not 
 suppose that brothers sometimes, when they 
 return, weary and almost worn out, from the 
 labors of the counting-house or the shop, think 
 it rather hard, that while they always find their 
 sisters doing nothing, they should be subjected 
 to constant and daily toil 1 It would be a very 
 natural reflection, and it would be very natural 
 also, if a less kindly feeling, and less affection 
 should exist between brothers and sisters on this 
 very account." 
 " Perhaos it may be so," answered the lady,
 
 60 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 
 
 " but then there is not the same necessity for 
 girls to work, that there is for boys ; boys are 
 to become men, and men must know how to 
 earn money to support their families." 
 
 " Very true !" replied Mrs. Seton, " and girls 
 are to become women, and as women surely 
 they ought to know how to save, or to spend 
 to the best advantage, what their husbands or 
 fathers thus earn : not by extravagance, waste, 
 and idleness, so to discourage them, as to drive 
 them to dissipation, and perhaps despair. No, 
 the obligation is mutual. If it is the duty of 
 husbands to labor for the support of their fami- 
 lies, it is the equal duty of wives to render their 
 labor as easy as possible, by taking care that 
 what they earn is not idly squandered. This 
 they cannot do unless they have learned to 
 become good housewives, and to perform all 
 the duties devolving upon the mistress of a 
 family." 
 
 The visiter soon departed, to talk over with 
 her friends the strange opinions of Mrs. Seton. 
 She was too thoroughly indoctrinated in the 
 fashionable mode of education, to derive much 
 benefit from that lady's example and precepts j
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW. 61 
 
 but if there are any others, who may be in- 
 duced, by the perusal of this humble tale, to re- 
 flect seriously on the present injudicious system 
 of education among girls, and to resolve to adopt 
 a wiser course, the object for which it was 
 written is attained. 

 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Oh! how the heart 
 
 Fond, trusting woman's heart will yield itself 
 To an undoubting confidence ; and dream, 
 Till dreaming seems reality, that all 
 It looks upon in fondness, hath its own 
 Enduring principle of sacred truth 
 And meek devotedness !" 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 THE last rays of the setting sun were stream- 
 ing through a vine-mantled window, and sending 
 a flood of soft and mellow light to the remotest 
 nook of a large but somewhat antiquated apart- 
 ment. It was apparently not the abode of 
 wealth, for though the room was neat and ele- 
 gant, its furniture was of a plain and far from 
 costly character. Yet it boasted of long shelves 
 of variously-bound books, and was tastefully
 
 64 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 adorned with numerous pots of rare and beauti- 
 ful plants, whose healthy and luxuriant appear- 
 ance indicated that they had been nursed with 
 care and skill. 
 
 On a sofa near the window, were seated two 
 persons of different sexes, and evidently far 
 from being of the same age. The one was a 
 young man of almost boyish appearance, and 
 possessing a style of countenance which would 
 everywhere be called handsome, but which was 
 still wanting in that open and manly expression, 
 which indicates a noble and generous mind. 
 This deficiency, however, would hardly be ob- 
 served by the many, so rare and striking w r as the 
 beautiful softness of his complexion, and so 
 gracefully did the waving ringlets cluster around 
 his fair oval face. 
 
 The lady was apparently many years his 
 senior. She was pale, and rather inclined to 
 thinness, and had it not been for a pair of large, 
 soft, dark eyes, and a fine expansive forehead, 
 she would have been decidedly homely. Yet 
 there was an elegance in her whole contour, 
 an indescribable grace in every movement, 
 that could not fail to interest even a careless ob-
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 65 
 
 server. She was apparently engaged in botani- 
 zing an oleander blossom, for her eyes had been 
 for some time very intently fixed upon one which 
 she held in her hand, though the abstracted and 
 almost melancholy expression of her counte- 
 nance, as she carelessly plucked its delicate 
 petals, and dropped them upon her white muslin 
 dress, argued little in favor of her interest in the 
 examination. 
 
 Thus musingly employed, she seemed quite 
 unconscious that the eyes of the young man 
 were attracted to her countenance far more fre- 
 quently than to the beautiful scenery without, 
 and which he pretended to be engaged in ad- 
 miring. But so it was ; and whenever his eyes 
 rested upon her, they were lit up with an ex- 
 pression of ardent fondness and admiration which 
 could not be misunderstood. At last, however, 
 a seriousness seemed to steal over his face, and 
 gently taking the hand of his companion, 
 " Sarah," said he, in an apprehensive voice, 
 " you are very silent ; something is amiss with 
 you !" She looked up to him without answering, 
 but there was trouble and anxiety in her eye, 
 and a more mournful shadow stole over her pale
 
 66 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 and lofty brow, and she seemed evidently strug- 
 gling with strong and conflicting emotions. 
 
 "Do not look so sadly upon me, my dear 
 Sarah !" said the young man. " What is there 
 so very alarming in the thought of becoming my 
 wife ? I am sure you do not love me !" 
 
 " You do me injustice, Henry," answered the 
 lady, " you do, indeed ! I have been weak 
 and foolish enough to confess that I love you, 
 and, knowing me as you do, why should you 
 suppose that I say one thing and mean another ? 
 It is unkind and ungenerous !" 
 
 " Why then do you look so melancholy, and 
 shrink back whenever I mention the subject of 
 marriage, as if you felt an aversion to me ?" 
 
 "I have already repeatedly told you why, 
 Henry," answered Sarah, the tears starting to 
 her eyes ; " but listen patiently, and I will once 
 more explain all I feel on the subject." 
 
 " Say on, dear Sarah, and I promise you I 
 will endeavor to overturn every obstacle you 
 can contrive to array against me. There, I am 
 delighted to see that sweet smile once more, but 
 I should have liked it better if it had not been 
 accompanied by that mournful shake of the head !"
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 67 
 
 " Well, hear me, St. Leger, and I am sure you 
 will be grateful to me that I have not acceded 
 to your wishes. Look at me : have you ever 
 thought how old I am ? Why, St. Leger, I am 
 an ' old maid /' I have seen nearly thirty-one 
 years, and the most partial eyes could not 
 fail to discover that I am homely decidedly 
 homely !" 
 
 "Homely, Sarah! how can you speak so! 
 How could any call you homely with that proud 
 and noble brow, and those magnificent eyes? 
 And, in spite of your efforts to depreciate your- 
 self in my opinion, you cannot deny that you 
 know yourself to be far more polished and grace- 
 ful than the most elegant woman of your ac- 
 quaintance !" 
 
 " Nay, Henry, such language is all to no pur- 
 pose ! Hear me out ! You are scarcely over 
 twenty you are handsome, and caressed by 
 all you are fond of gayety, and, I must speak 
 out. fond of coquetting with the young and 
 beautiful. Stand before this mirror with me, 
 and observe, faint as the light now is, the wide, 
 the glaring contrast between us, See the dif- 
 ference, impossible to be concealed, in our ages
 
 68 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 and all on the wrong side, too ! Look at 
 those fair round cheeks of yours, and then at ray 
 pale and faded ones, and tell me how long it 
 would be, should you bind yourself to me, before 
 you would weary of so unfit a companion ? How 
 long before you would blush with mortification 
 as you presented me to your gay young friends 
 as your wedded wife ? And how long before 
 you would feel in the very depths of your sick 
 heart, that you had with far more propriety 
 chosen me to be your mother 1 Take time to 
 reflect on all these things, and you will feel as 
 I do, that I can never, without meriting the 
 charge of rashness and folly, be nearer to you 
 than I am now !" 
 
 She paused, almost breathless, and turning 
 away from the mirror, silently resumed her seat. 
 St. Leger followed her, and, throwing himself 
 on an ottoman at her feet, took her hand in his, 
 and, looking up in her pale and agitated coun- 
 tenance, exclaimed, "I have heard you pa- 
 tiently, Sarah, and without prejudice to the end, 
 and believe me, that I speak the language of my 
 heart, when I say that I am more deeply con-
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 69 
 
 vinced than I ever have been, that you are pre- 
 cisely fitted to ma'ke me happy, and that with- 
 out you life will be hardly worth preserving. I 
 acknowledge the truth of much that you have 
 said ; I know that I am younger than you, and, 
 it may be, handsomer, but who is there whose 
 intellect will compare with that of Sarah Wes- 
 ton? Who thinks of mere personal charms, 
 when the magic of your conversation draws ad- 
 miring circles around you? Who remembers 
 that you are not beautiful, when the rich gems 
 of thought are flashing from your eye, or pour- 
 ing in a tide of eloquence from your lips 1 No, 
 Sarah ; it is I who am not worthy to become 
 your husband ; but by basking in your sunshine, 
 I shall become more like you. I will show you 
 and the world, that I care no longer for the fol- 
 lies of the idle and the gay, but will rather 
 strive to reflect credit on your choice, by pre- 
 ferring the society of the wise and intellectual. 
 And if I ever feel proud, it will be when you 
 are hanging on my arm, and I can, in the face 
 of the world, call you my own. Oh, Sarah, 
 give all your idle fears to the winds, and tell me 
 that you have at length decided to reward all
 
 70 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 my long-tried and ardent affection by becoming 
 mine !" 
 
 The lady turned her face away without 
 answering, but the watchful eye of St. Leger 
 saw that a strong and uncontrollable emotion 
 was painted on her features, and felt that her 
 hand trembled in his. 
 
 Sarah Weston was a woman possessed of a 
 powerful and vigorous intellect, carefully im- 
 proved by cultivation, and strong and correct 
 judgment. But she was a woman still. She 
 had long been secretly attached to Henry St. 
 Leger, but had, until within a very few days, 
 so effectually succeeded in hiding it, that even 
 her lover had supposed her cold and indifferent 
 to him. But now when she heard his design 
 of resigning everything else rather than her 
 when his fond and impassioned pleadings enter- 
 ed into her heart, what wonder that she felt her 
 resolution grow weak and falter before them ? 
 Henry was not slow to perceive his advantage, 
 and well did he improve it, for before he left her 
 that evening, he had won from her a promise 
 that, ere three months had gone by, she would 
 become his wife.
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 71 
 
 Time wore on. The period which was to 
 crown the long-cherished hopes of Henry St. 
 Leger, at length arrived, and he received at the 
 altar the being whom he fondly believed was 
 to constitute the brightest gem in the circlet of 
 his earthly happiness. And Sarah, although 
 she sometimes trembled when she remembered 
 the disparity of their ages and of their natural 
 tastes, gave herself up to the happiness she 
 felt in being the chosen and cherished bride 
 of one so universally courted and admired as 
 her husband. 
 
 They had been married nearly four years, 
 and Mrs. St. Leger, happy in her lot, began to 
 feel that all her former fears in regard to their 
 union were indeed groundless. Her husband, 
 so far from ceasing to love and admire her, 
 seemed rather to increase in his affectionate 
 attentions toward her. He felt an evident 
 pride, when he introduced her into society and 
 witnessed the respect and admiration with which 
 she was everywhere received. There was, 
 however, one cloud on the bright mirror of their 
 happiness, one difficulty which marred in some 
 degree the perfection of their connubial felicity,
 
 72 THE UNEQUAL MARK1AGE. 
 
 and operated as a secret canker in the heart of 
 St. Leger. He was passionately fond of chil- 
 dren, and the idea of becoming the father of a 
 little circle of prattlers, had made up no small 
 portion of his day-dreams of domestic bliss. 
 And this anxiety was the greater, as he possess- 
 ed a large and independent fortune, and no 
 immediate heir to whom, in the event of his 
 death, he could bequeath it. The darling hope 
 of supplying this deficiency he long cherished, 
 but as he gradually felt himself obliged to re- 
 linquish all expectations on the subject, he turn- 
 ed to other sources, to find some object by which 
 to fill up that place in his heart thus left vacant. 
 He went more into society than he had done 
 since his marriage, and soon began to feel his 
 old fondness for gay amusements, and frivolous 
 companions revive. His wife, though secretly 
 regretting it, offered no objections to this, and 
 generally accompanied him without expressing 
 the least hesitation. 
 
 They one evening attended a fashionable 
 soiree at the house of a friend, and being acci- 
 dentally detained at home, until an hour some- 
 what late, they were the last who entered the
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 73 
 
 drawing-rooms. Mrs. St. Leger, was soon 
 agreeably engaged in a conversation with her 
 hostess and two or three intimate friends, and 
 it did not for some time occur to her to look 
 around and see whether her husband was as 
 pleasantly occupied as herself. She, however, 
 soon observed him seated on the opposite side 
 of the room, deeply engaged in an animated 
 conversation with a lady whom she had never 
 before seen, but by far the most beautiful one 
 in the room. As she sat silently observing 
 them, she felt that she had never beheld so 
 lovely a countenance as the one then blushing 
 beneath the admiring gaze of her husband. 
 The lady's manner, was exceedingly graceful, 
 and elegant, and her whole deportment marked 
 by a peculiar and indescribable fascination. 
 Mrs. St. Leger could not repress a sigh as she 
 sat regarding the animated pair, for she thought 
 she had never seen a couple who more fully 
 realized her ideal of youthful grace and beauty. 
 And that sigh was repeated more than once, as 
 the evening passed away, and her husband, 
 totally unlike his usual custom, had not once 
 approached her, nor for a single moment left 
 7
 
 74 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 the side of the beautiful stranger. How much 
 more bitter would that sigh have been, had she 
 been aware that the lady, who had observed her 
 entrance with her husband, and had heard them 
 announced as Mr. and Mrs. St. Leger, had said 
 to him in the course of their long conversation, 
 i( The lady whom I saw enter with you, and 
 whom I heard introduced as Mrs. St. Leger, is, \. 
 presume, your mother." 
 
 For the first time since his marriage, the cheek 
 ot the vain husband was suffused with a blush 
 of shame, as he acknowledged Sarah St. Leger 
 to be his wife. For the first time a feeling of 
 regret and mortification at the inequality of his 
 union crossed his bosom, and a sensation of 
 anger toward his innocent wife, arose in his 
 heart. Mrs. Lancaster, for that was the name 
 of the stranger, perceived the painful effect her 
 question had produced, and adroitly turned the 
 conversation to another subject. 
 
 When they reached home, St. Leger was 
 eloquent in his expressions of admiration of the 
 fascinating Mrs. Lancaster. He had learned that 
 she was a widow, that her husband had been 
 dead more than a year, and that she had re-
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 75 
 
 moved to their neighborhood, with the inten- 
 tion of making it her permanent residence. 
 
 It was not difficult for St. Leger to persuade 
 his wife that it was their duty to visit their new 
 neighbor, and they accordingly paid their re- 
 spects to her, at her own residence, the next day. 
 But if she was fascinating when abroad, how 
 much more so was she, when freed from the 
 restraints of a mixed company and in her own 
 dwelling. She seemed gratified and pleased to 
 receive her guests, and anxious to cultivate their 
 acquaintance, promising to return their visit at 
 an early opportunity. Mrs. St. Leger returned 
 home dazzled and almost overpowered with her 
 charms, but with a heaviness of heart which 
 she could scarcely conceal, while Henry com- 
 pletely intoxicated at her flattering attentions 
 to himself, could think and speak of no one 
 else. 
 
 From that day the sensitive wife felt that her 
 husband was changed toward her, and that his 
 heart was no longer hers. When in society, 
 he appeared kind as ever, and failed not to pay 
 her the same marked respect, which he had 
 always done. But it was far different from
 
 76 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 those spontaneous acts of affection which it had 
 hitherto been his happiness to manifest toward 
 her, and seemed yielded rather from duty than 
 choice. Her society appeared no longer to pos- 
 sess a charm for the gay young husband, though 
 never had she exerted herself so much to enter- 
 tain him, and render his home a happy one. 
 Day after day he absented himself more and 
 more from his own fireside, to linger, charmed 
 and enthralled, by that of the fascinating Eugenia 
 Lancaster. And so successfully had the siren 
 wove her blandishments around him, that he felt 
 restless and uneasy when not basking in the 
 sunshine of her smiles. 
 
 Often and often did the unhappy but affection- 
 ate wife, sit by her solitary hearth, counting 
 the weary and slow-moving hours, until the 
 clock told her that it was midnight, and then 
 retire to her couch before her thoughtless 
 husband returned, lest her pale cheek and 
 heavy eye, should seem to him to express even a 
 tacit reproach. 
 
 Thus time wore on, and before six months 
 had gone by, the unhappy Mrs. St. Leger could 
 no longer shut her eyes to the fact, which had
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 77 
 
 Jong been but too visible to others, that she was 
 an unloved and neglected wife ! But never by 
 one voluntary word or look did she reveal to 
 the husband, who at the altar had promised to 
 love and cherish her, but who had so illy ad- 
 hered to that promise, that his unkindness and 
 neglect were breaking her heart. It was im- 
 possible that he should fail to perceive that she 
 was fearfully changed in her appearance, but, 
 so far from assigning it to the true cause, he 
 even sometimes remarked to her that she " really 
 began to look like an old woman!" Then going 
 to the mirror, and arranging his soft, dark ring- 
 lets, and smoothing his beautifully arched eye- 
 brows, he would carelessly take his hat, and, 
 bidding her a light good-morning, leave her to 
 feel, in the bitterness of her heart, how true had 
 been her forebodings in relation to the ill-as- 
 sorted union to which she had yielded so hesi- 
 tating and reluctant a consent. Perhaps the 
 question, " Why did you marry me ?" might 
 sometimes tremble on her lips, but if so it never 
 found utterance, for the resolution to bear and 
 forbear was ever present with her. 
 
 As might naturally be expected, to so sensi-
 
 78 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 tive and frail a being, this painful situation was 
 productive of the most alarming results. Her 
 health, always delicate, gradually sunk under the 
 weight of secret and unavailing regrets, and as 
 she saw that its visible decline appeared to 
 awaken no painful emotions in the heart of her 
 estranged husband, she rather rejoiced than la- 
 mented that the end of her earthly pilgrimage 
 was not far distant. And why should she wish 
 to remain ? Life had lost its one great charm, 
 and she felt, felt too keenly, that she was no 
 longer necessary to the happiness of any human 
 being; that she stood between her husband and 
 a brighter lot^ and a sad conviction that the 
 grave was now her most fitting home, sunk 
 mournfully into her heart. 
 
 It may be asked, " Was Eugenia Lancaster 
 aware of the misery her too great intimacy with 
 Henry St. Leger occasioned his neglected, and 
 almost deserted wife 1" Justice to her requires 
 me to answer, she was not to the full extent. 
 With an unprincipled selfishness, and a wanton 
 disregard of truth, which had always somewhat 
 characterized St. Leger, and which his present 
 unhallowed course had tended more fully to de-
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 79 
 
 velop, he had persuaded her that his wife was a 
 cold and unloving being, utterly devoid of the 
 more delicate sensibilities of our nature, and 
 that, with so much indifference did she regard 
 him, she was quite incurious to know where or 
 how he spent his time when away from her, 
 provided she could enjoy the comforts and luxu- 
 ries of her home, unmolested and undisturbed. 
 Partially misled by these misrepresentations, 
 Eugenia endeavored to persuade herself that 
 there was " no real harm in trying to smooth the 
 rough and disagreeable path of a young and 
 fashionable man, who had been overreached and 
 cajoled into the folly of marrying an old woman. 
 At any rate it was no more than Mrs. St. Leger 
 ought to expect, and indeed it was a proper 
 punishment for her vanity and self-conceit, in 
 supposing herself a fitting match for her hand- 
 some, gay, young husband." Thus reasoning, 
 she hesitated not to receive the long and daily 
 visits of St. Leger, displaying all her various ac- 
 complishments, and employing her every art to 
 fascinate and beguile him, until she had at last 
 wound herself so completely around his heart, 
 that his days were spent almost exclusively
 
 80 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 with her, and it was with the utmost diffi- 
 culty that he could tear himself from her pres- 
 ence, to perform the most necessary duties 
 of life.
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 81 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Loud howled the autumn wind -. night wore away 
 Too slow, and thousands watched and wished for day ; 
 And there was one poor, lone, deserted thing, 
 Who sat and shuddered as the wild gale's wing 
 Rushed by all mournfully. All round her slept, 
 As the pale mourner gazed, and sighed, and wept ; 
 Why sits such anguish on her faded brow ? 
 Why droops her eye ? Ah, Floris, where art thou ? 
 Flown are thy hours of dear, domestic bliss 
 The fond embrace the husband's tender kiss ; 
 Blest, tranquil hours to love and virtue given, 
 Delicious joys that made thy love a heaven ! 
 Flown and for ever !" 
 
 Death's Doings. 
 
 WE will now step forward one year, and my 
 readers will accompany me to the close and 
 darkened chamber, where, on the couch of dis- 
 ease and suffering, was stretched the enfeebled 
 and attenuated form of one of the principal per- 
 sonages of my simple tale. It was Mrs. St. Leger. 
 Six months had effected a fearful change in her
 
 82 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 form and features ; for sickness and sorrow had 
 alike faithfully wrought their work, and she in- 
 deed appeared now, what her husband had long 
 since called her "an old woman." 
 
 Too miserable to wish even to struggle 
 against the encroachments of a disease she but 
 too well knew was fastening upon her, and 
 uncheered by a single expression from her hus 
 band, indicating a desire that she should seek 
 medical advice and endeavor to regain her fast- 
 failing health, she had refrained from applying 
 to a physician until no longer able to leave her 
 chamber. Somewhat roused from his culpable 
 indifference, and stung with a sense of his cruel 
 neglect, St. Leger then for the first time appear- 
 ed to evince some interest in the fate of his 
 unhappy wife. He summoned the most skilful 
 physicians to be found in the neighborhood, 
 and so far restrained himself within the bounds 
 of decency as to remain at home with her the 
 larger portion of every day. But it was for a 
 few weeks only. The time spent by the bed- 
 side of the poor invalid was gradually shortened 
 until a few irksome minutes each day was all
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 83 
 
 that were afforded her, while his hours were 
 trifled away with Eugenia. 
 
 It may appear strange that there was no one 
 to interfere in behalf of the injured wife, and 
 remonstrate with St. Leger on his unprincipled 
 course, but he was of a wealthy and aristo- 
 cratic family, and most of the inhabitants of the 
 village, being either directly or indirectly more 
 or less dependant upon him, policy, as is too 
 often the case, sealed their lips. Wealth, like 
 charity, covers a multitude of sins, and St. Leger 
 had, beside this, another mantle which covered 
 his. Conscious that his conduct must be regarded 
 with suspicion and indignation by his neighbors, 
 as he grew more bold in his devotion to Mrs. 
 Lancaster, he had assumed religion as a cloak 
 for his iniquities, and the more shameless and 
 open he became in his neglect of his suffering 
 wife, the more pious he appeared in the sanctu- 
 ary of the Lord. 
 
 Meanwhile, worn out with pain and regret, 
 and shattered by violent and frequent paroxysms 
 of palpitation of the heart, which were daily 
 becoming more alarming both in frequency and 
 violence, Mrs. St. Leger seemed on the verge of
 
 84 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 that resting-place of all her earthly hopes and 
 wishes the grave. 
 
 At the time we now behold her, a few sticks 
 of wood were burning on the hearth, for it was 
 November, and a young female attendant was 
 gliding noiselessly and anxiously about the room. 
 It was some time since the invalid had spoken, 
 and she appeared to be sleeping. At length, 
 "Marion," said a soft but feeble voice, and 
 Marion was instantly by the bed-side. " Has 
 Mr. St. Leger returned yet ?" " He has not," 
 answered the girl, the tears starting to her eyes, 
 " he has not, although Dr. Hayward particularly 
 requested him this morning to leave you as little 
 as possible, as he apprehended a crisis in your 
 disease was approaching. And indeed, ma'am," 
 she continued in a somewhat angry tone, " I do 
 not think he would have gone, if that odious 
 Mrs. Lancaster had not sent one of her messen- 
 gers requesting to see him immediately on 
 particular business. I wonder what particular 
 business she has with him so often ?" 
 
 A deep sigh was, for a few moments, Mrs. St. 
 Leger's only reply, when, turning to her maid, 
 " Marion," said she, " I have often told you how
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 85 
 
 much it displeased me to hear any term of dis- 
 respect applied to Mrs. Lancaster, and if you 
 love me and would not give me pain, you will 
 try to observe my wishes." 
 
 " And indeed, ma'am, I do try !" answered 
 the affectionate girl : " I try to obey you in every- 
 thing. But somehow when I think how that 
 woman has enticed your true and lawful hus- 
 band away from you, them bad words will slip 
 out almost unknownst to me. And I am sure, 
 ma'am, there is nobody but an angel like your- 
 self but what would be glad to hear a body 
 speak their mind of her, and wish her punished 
 into the bargain." 
 
 " But you know, Marion," answered Mrs. St, 
 Leger, " that we are commanded in the Bible 
 to do good to those who do evil to us, and to 
 leave the work of punishment to the Lord. Now, 
 if Mrs. Lancaster has been guilty of errors, and 
 I do not deny that I think she has, God who 
 seeth all things, and who suffers not the wicked 
 to go unpunished, will inflict upon her all that 
 she deserves ; and it is not for us, frail and im- 
 perfect as we are. to judge how much, or of 
 what nature that punishment should be. But I
 
 86 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 feel too weak to talk any longer ; so, Marion, if 
 you will give me my drops now, I will try to 
 get a little sleep, for 1 think it must be ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 Marion was carefully preparing the quieting 
 mixture which Mrs. St. Leger was obliged to 
 take, in order to allay the violent palpitations 
 under which she suffered, when the door of her 
 apartment opened and St. Leger softly entered. 
 He advanced to the bedside of his wife, and 
 greeted her with an unusual appearance of in- 
 terest, then seating himself by her pillow, in- 
 quired in so affectionate a manner in regard to 
 her health, that Marion was completely over- 
 come with astonishment and pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. St. Leger exerted herself to appear as 
 cheerful as possible, and when nearly an hour 
 had gone by, and her husband was still by her 
 side, there was something in the unusual cir- 
 cumstance that so reminded her of happier days, 
 that the heart of the neglected wife throbbed 
 with a buoyancy and pleasure that were all 
 unwonted, and, looking up into his face, she 
 was just about to express her grateful apprecia- 
 tion of his kindness, when putting his hand into
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 87 
 
 his pocket, he drew forth a small roll of parch- 
 ment and slowly opening it, " My dear," said he, 
 carelessly, " I have a slight favor to ask of you, 
 which I hope you will be disposed to grant, as 
 it will occasion you but a moment's trouble." 
 
 " Anything in my power, Henry, shall be 
 cheerfully granted !" answered the grateful wife, 
 "but what is it? It is long since you have 
 requested a favor of me !" 
 
 " I have been unwilling to trouble you," said 
 St. Leger ; " and now I merely wish your sig- 
 nature to this little document. Here are pen 
 and ink all ready, and I will raise you up so 
 that you can do it without fatigue." 
 
 " But what is the document ?" she inquired, 
 somewhat startled ; " I surely may be permitted 
 to read it, before signing it." 
 
 " The exertion would be too much for you," 
 answered St. Leger, in a hurried and embarrass- 
 ed tone. " It is merely a little business mat- 
 ter, and I cannot think of your fatiguing yourself 
 so unnecessarily." 
 
 " But you -can easily tell me its contents," 
 said the now alarmed wife ; " I cannot sign it 
 without knowing what it is."
 
 88 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 "Pshaw! How can you be so tiresomely 
 fastidious, and particular !" he exclaimed, en- 
 deavoring to evade her demand ; " have I not 
 told you that it is merely a little business 
 matter ?" 
 
 " You have, but I must know its nature," was 
 her firm reply. 
 
 St. Leger paused, while painful indecision, 
 and the most violent agitation, were manifested 
 in his countenance and manner. At length, 
 roughly seizing her wrist, " Sarah," said he, 
 sternly, almost fiercely, "Will you sign this 
 parchment ?" 
 
 " When you have told me its contents, I will 
 answer you," said she again firmly, but with a 
 countenance as pale as death. 
 
 " Well, then," said he, suddenly dropping her 
 hand, and assuming a bravado air, " it is a Bill 
 of Divorce, and you shall sign it !" 
 
 The unhappy wife for a moment' covered her 
 face with her pale, transparent hands, and then 
 suddenly removing them, and turning an implor- 
 ing glance upon her unfeeling husband, answer- 
 ed with a quick, gasping breath, " Henry, I 
 cannot do it !"
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 89 
 
 Again, the husband paused, and then assu- 
 ming a supplicating voice and manner, " Sarah," 
 said he, " how often have you assured me that 
 you loved me, and that my happiness was dearer 
 to you than your own. But now you refuse me 
 the only proof that I desire of your sincerity, 
 and the only favor that can contribute to my 
 happiness. Sarah, if your love is not all pre- 
 tence, convince me of the fact by signing this 
 Bill of Divorce. It is the only way by which you 
 can render me happy. Sign it," he continued, 
 relapsing into his former sternness, " for I must 
 and will marry Eugenia Lancaster !" 
 
 At these cruel words the miserable wife 
 pressed her hands tightly upon her heart, and 
 gasping forth a request that he would give her 
 until morning to reflect upon the subject, she 
 motioned her husband to leave her, and turned 
 her face to the wall. St. Leger left the room 
 without a word, and the angry and weeping 
 Marion instantly locked the door against all 
 farther intrusion. Then approaching her mis- 
 tress, tenderly and respectfully inquired what 
 she could do for her. 
 
 * Nothing, Marion !" answered the miserable 
 8
 
 90 THE UNEQUAL MARRIGE. 
 
 woman in a hoarse and unnatural voice ; " Noth- 
 ing ! Leave me to my God, and my own 
 heart ! 
 
 The affectionate and terrified girl, instantly 
 retreated toward the fire, and falling on her 
 knees, and burying her face in the cushion of an 
 invalid chair, sobbed like a grieved and heart- 
 broken child. But the voice of distress, never 
 unheeded by her kind-hearted mistress, reached 
 her ear, even amid the bitterness of her own 
 agony. " Marion," said she, soothingly and ten- 
 derly, " my kind, faithful Marion, come to me 1" 
 
 The grateful girl sprang forward, and, in a 
 voice choked with tears, sobbed out, " Oh, my 
 dear, kind mistress, it makes me so miserable to 
 think I cannot help you now in your distress !" 
 
 " I know you would do anything for me, dear 
 Marion, that lies in your power. I know all the 
 kindness of your heart, and your sympathy and 
 affection have been almost my only comfort for 
 many a long, sad month. But compose your- 
 self, and lie down and sleep ; you need it, and 
 you may have a trying day to-morrow. Do 
 not be afraid to leave me, for I am more easy 
 now."
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 91 
 
 Comforted by the kind words of her mistress, 
 Marion, after carefully smoothing her pillow, 
 obeyed, and worn out with long-watchings and 
 fatigue, was soon fast asleep. But through all 
 the long and dreary watches of that night, 
 sleep visited not the pillow of the suffering in- 
 valid. The selfish and cruel demand of her hus- 
 band, with all his late unkindness and desertion, 
 rose up in vivid and fearful colors before her. 
 Yet the thought of voluntarily divorcing herself 
 from him, shamefully as he had neglected and 
 insulted her, was more than she could bear. 
 Hour after hour she revolved and re-revolved 
 the subject in her mind, but could arrive at no 
 conclusion. Had she consulted no one but her- 
 self, decision would have been comparatively 
 easy, even though that decision might have left 
 a stigma on her own name. But she knew that 
 if she consented, and set him at liberty, imme- 
 diate marriage with Eugenia would be the con- 
 sequence, and his name would be covered with 
 infamy and disgrace. 
 
 On the other hand she felt that she was on 
 the verge of the grave, that a few short weeks, 
 perhaps days, would put a period to her suffer-
 
 92 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 ings, and bestow upon her infatuated husband 
 that liberty for which he so eagerly and madly 
 panted. He would then unite himself to that 
 fascinating being, for whom alone he now 
 seemed to live, and all would be well. This 
 then she determined should be her decision. 
 But notwithstanding her consciousness that this 
 decision was right, she shrunk from its imme- 
 diate consequences to herself. The thought 
 would rise up that she, the being whom her 
 faithless husband had almost compelled to marry 
 him the wife who had been affectionately 
 cherished in his bosom, until banished thence by 
 the alluring and voluptuous charms of another 
 that she must with her own hand either sever 
 the only link which bound her to existence, or 
 know that her death was the event most earn- 
 estly desired by him, who amid all his selfish 
 vanity and neglect, was still dearer to her than 
 all the world beside. It was a drop too much, 
 in her cup of misery. All her long-suppressed 
 feelings at length gave way. Despair seemed 
 to take hold of her she groaned and wrung 
 her hands, and, in the excess of her anguish,
 
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 93 
 
 she inwardly prayed that she might die before 
 the morning light. 
 
 Marion, awakened by the heavy groans of 
 her suffering mistress, stood bending over her, 
 utterly unable to offer her the least consolation. 
 Calmness was, however, at length, gradually 
 restored, and, as the morning dawned, she sunk 
 into a restless and disturbed slumber. After 
 about an hour she awoke, and sought to pre- 
 pare herself for the dreaded visit of her husband, 
 and the scene of violence and anger which she 
 expected, with but too much reason, to encoun- 
 ter ; for, let what would betide her, she was 
 firmly resolved to refuse every solicitation of 
 St. Leger, and to die as she had lived his 
 wife. But, notwithstanding all her efforts to 
 summon fortitude and self-possession, as the 
 trying hour drew nigh, her agitation increased 
 to a degree which filled the watchful Marion 
 with alarm and foreboding. 
 
 " Be composed, I entreat you, my dear Mrs. 
 St. Leger," said she, " this agitation will destroy 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, Marion," said the poor sufferer, pres- 
 sing her hand upon her heart, and looking up in
 
 94 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 the anxious face of her attendant with such a 
 piteous look as went to the soul of the faithful 
 girl, " Oh, Marion, I have such a pain here ; 
 but press your hand upon it, and I shall be 
 better." 
 
 Marion did as she was desired, but she had 
 scarcely done so, when all her fears were at once 
 realized. Mrs. St. Leger was seized with an 
 attack of palpitation, more violent and of longer 
 duration than she had ever before experienced. 
 She gasped and struggled for breath, a ghastly 
 paleness settled around her mouth, and the ter- 
 rified girl was on the point of alarming the house- 
 hold, but a sign from her mistress restrained her, 
 and held her still by her side. 
 
 The violence of the paroxysm at length aba- 
 ted, but it was succeeded by a state of exhaus- 
 tion from which it seemed impossible that the 
 patient could ever recover. Marion watched 
 every breath of the poor sufferer, and with all 
 the solicitude of the most tender mother over an 
 idolized child, judiciously administered those 
 little remedies which had been recommended by 
 the physician for similar attacks. Under the 
 influence of so much care, Mrs. St. Leger gradu-
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 95 
 
 ally revived, and though still alarmingly feeble 
 and languid, was soon able to give utterance to 
 her thoughts and wishes. 
 
 The dreaded hour at length arrived, and, true 
 to the appointed time, St. Leger entered the 
 chamber of the invalid. He advanced with a 
 firm and resolute step to the bed of his wife, 
 but when he looked into her altered face, and 
 her dark, sorrowful eyes were turned full upon 
 him, there was in them an expression of such 
 deep, but patient suffering, that it touched the 
 heart even of the selfish husband, and he, for a 
 moment, faltered in his unfeeling purpose. But 
 it was the hesitation of a moment only. Reso- 
 lutely banishing every feeling which could war 
 with his determination, and assuming a tone of 
 hypocritical softness ; " Sarah, my dear," said he, 
 taking her reluctant hand, " I have come, ac- 
 cording to your appointment, to inquire in what 
 manner you have decided in relation to the 
 little matter I suggested to you last evening. I 
 trust, I shall find your decision a favorable one." 
 
 " No, Henry," answered the wife, in a sub- 
 dued but calm voice, " no, Henry, it is not 
 favorable. I have carefully examined the sub-
 
 96 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 ject in every point of light, and the result of 
 that examination has been, that it is my duty 
 to refuse your request. Death will ere long 
 effect that divorce for which you are so anxious, 
 and it shall never be done by my hand. Spare 
 me, then, I entreat you, all farther solicitation 
 on the subject, and leave me to die in peace !" 
 
 Pale with suppressed rage, the baffled hus- 
 band paced the room for several minutes in pro- 
 found silence, then again advancing toward his 
 wife he fiercely exclaimed : " Madam, I be- 
 lieve this talk about dying is all pretence. I 
 have no idea but what you will live for years 
 vet. An old woman who has had the art to 
 entrap a young husband, is not likely to do him 
 so great a favor, as to die very soon. This 
 pretence shall not avail you, and I again tell you 
 that your signature to this bill I must and will 
 have. For the last time, 1 ask, will you con- 
 sent?" 
 
 Terrified by his violent and menacing air, and 
 almost bereft of her senses, the wretched wife 
 faintly shrieked, and like a frightened child 
 buried her head in the bed-clothes. But a rude 
 hand uncovered her face, and a strong grasp was
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 97 
 
 on her arm, and eyes, whose terrible expression 
 sent the life-blood curdling to her heart, were 
 glaring upon her. " Henry, I will !" she 
 shrieked forth, rather than spoke, while her 
 whole frame seemed as if shaking with the last 
 agony. Without a single word, St. Leger 
 placed the parchment before her, then raising 
 her up, and putting a pen in her pale, thin 
 fingers, significantly pointed to the place, where 
 her signature was to be affixed. The wife 
 leaned forward, and twice she attempted to in- 
 scribe her name, but twice the trembling hand 
 refused its office. The white fingers relaxed 
 their hold, and the pen was just falling upon 
 the parchment, when the unpitying husband 
 passed his arm around her waist to assist her 
 failing efforts, and placing the pen once more 
 in her powerless hand, he firmly guided it, and 
 the name was written. His great wish was 
 now accomplished, and, with a glow of tri- 
 umphant pleasure, he was just raising his head 
 to thank his abused wife for her compliance, 
 when he started as if struck by a thunderbolt. 
 A convulsion passed over the face of his victim, 
 a momentary shudder shook her frame, her 
 9
 
 98 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 head fell heavily back upon its pillow, and eyes 
 from which the life had for ever departed were 
 strangely fixed upon him, and seemed to be 
 penetrating his very soul. Death had signed 
 the divorce. 
 
 Horrorstruck at the frightful and unexpected 
 consequences of his baseness and cruelty, and 
 stung with a late and unavailing remorse, St. 
 Leger crushed the fatal parchment in his hands, 
 and rushed from the room.
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 99 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Once more I saw her, and she lay 
 
 Beyond life's dim, uncertain river, 
 A glorious mould of fading clay, 
 
 From whence the spark had fled for ever. 
 I gazed my breast was like to burst 
 
 And, as I thought of years departed, 
 The years wherein I saw her first, 
 
 When she, a girl, was lightsome-hearted ; 
 I felt the chill I turned aside 
 
 Bleak desolation's cloud came o'er me 
 And being seemed a troubled tide, 
 
 Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me." 
 
 MRS. St. Leger was borne to her last resting- 
 place with all the pomp and circumstance usual- 
 ly displayed on such occasions in the haughty 
 and aristocratic family of the St. Legers. The 
 bereaved husband, as he was by many falsely 
 called, followed with all due solemnity, as chief
 
 100 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 mourner, and the ill-fated wife was consigned to 
 that silent home, " where the wicked cease from 
 troubling, and the weary be at rest." 
 
 But let it not be supposed, because unwept by 
 him who had solemnly vowed to love and cherish 
 her, and who should have sedulously guarded 
 her from every ill, that there were none to 
 grieve for her. One so good and gentle as Mrs. 
 St. Leger, could not but have friends, and there 
 were many who, awed by her husband, had kept 
 aloof from the neglected wife, during her last 
 illness, now lamented that they had done so, 
 and wept that she was no more. And there 
 was many an humble but grateful being, whose 
 necessities her ever-active benevolence had re- 
 lieved, who felt that with her they had lost their 
 best and kindest friend, and who mourned for 
 her with a sincerity which showed how truly 
 they loved her. 
 
 The grief of Marion knew no bounds. For 
 many years she had been the friend rather than 
 the servant of her idolized mistress, and she felt 
 when she was gone, that she had little left to 
 live for. But time, the softener of every sorrow, 
 at length alleviated hers. St. Leger wished
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 101 
 
 still to retain her in his service, but she shrunk 
 from the thought of remaining with one whom 
 she, with but too much truth, regarded as the 
 cause of her mistress' death. " I cannot stay 
 with you, now my dear mistress is no more," 
 said she ; " I should be constantly reminded of 
 her, and I could not be happy. Besides, there 
 will, most likely, soon be new lords here, and 
 'new lords make new laws,' and I am too 
 much used to the gentle ways of my mistress, 
 to learn to love the proud and overbearing ones 
 of another. No, I must go ! I am sure I should 
 only be in your way, and that of the new lady 
 you will soon have ! I can earn my bread else- 
 where !" 
 
 St. Leger was at first very much irritated at 
 the refusal of Marion, and her plain and honest 
 statement of the reasons which induced it, but a 
 few moments' reflection more than reconciled 
 him. He felt that he could not always bear her 
 eye, and that he would rather never meet it 
 again. He made no farther objections to her 
 departure, and we may regard it as a singular 
 act of respect to the memory of his injured wife, 
 that he settled on the faithful girl an annuity,
 
 102 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 which placed her, for the remainder of her 
 life, beyond the necessity of toiling for a sub- 
 sistence.
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 103 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Ye 've waled aut anithei 
 
 Your bride for to be ; 
 But can her heart luve sae 
 
 As hers luvit thee ? 
 She has wit, she has beauty, 
 
 And monie braw ways ; 
 But they a' winna buy back 
 
 The peace o' past da^s !" 
 
 THREE months from the date of that cruel 
 and villanous act which consigned his much-in- 
 jured wife to an untimely grave, St. Leger be- 
 came the husband of Eugenia Lancaster. For 
 sometime after his marriage, his guilty and long- 
 indulged hopes were realized, and, in the joy of 
 calling so beautiful a creature his, he endeavor- 
 ed to forget the guilty steps which had hastened 
 the untimely and unmerited fate of the mild and 
 gentle being who had preceded her. But it is 
 easier to commit sin than it is to wash away
 
 104 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 the remembrance of it ; and the pillow of St. 
 Leger was long haunted by that last fixed and 
 fearful gaze of his wife, which had struck such 
 terror to his heart. Often, too, when yielding 
 himself to the intoxicating blandishments of Eu- 
 genia, would that signature, which had been 
 traced by the fingers of the dying, rise up before 
 him, and turn his cup of joy to bitterness. 
 
 But fearful as were these haunting memories 
 of the past, they were not the only punishment 
 of St. Leger. He soon had other causes to 
 mar the happiness of his wedded life, for ere six 
 months had elapsed, he awoke to the mortifying 
 conviction that the haughty and unprincipled 
 beauty whom he had taken to his bosom, had 
 gradually assumed over him a dominion which 
 rendered him little better than a slave. She 
 tyrannized over him with an authority that was 
 absolute and untiring pried, with a jealous 
 curiosity, into his minutest actions, and if he 
 ventured upon the slightest remonstrance, he 
 was soon silenced by an assurance from her, that 
 she intended to take good care that he did not 
 leave her for another, as he had left his former 
 wife! All these mortifications St. Leger en-
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 105 
 
 dured without a murmur, particularly when, in 
 due time, his wife crowned the grand wish of 
 his heart, by presenting him with a son. It was 
 a robust and beautiful child, and regarded by 
 St. Leger with a fondness little short of idolatry. 
 Hour after hour would he gaze upon the 
 growing charms of the noble boy, and as he 
 looked forward to the period when that child 
 would become his companion, he felt that now 
 there was indeed happiness in store for him.
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " When all the drossy feelings of the day, 
 Touched by the wand of truth, dissolve away 
 Unhallowed guilt shall in her bosom feel 
 A rack too fierce for language to reveal !" 
 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 YEARS went by, and the infant had become a 
 man. But was he the man that his father in 
 his fond day-dreams had anticipated ? Let us 
 see. 
 
 In his childhood, he had been indulged by his 
 parents in every wish of his heart, however im- 
 proper, and, profiting by the early example of 
 those parents, as he advanced to riper age, he, in 
 his turn, sought not to place any restraint upon 
 his passions, but gave himself up to an indul- 
 gence in the most lawless and ruinous vices. 
 Too late the parents became aware of the fatal 
 error which had ruined their only child. In 
 vain did they exert their tardy efforts to win him
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 107 
 
 back to virtue ; he openly scoffed at every re- 
 monstrance, and, as the wretched father beheld 
 his dissolute and headstrong son hurrying on to 
 swift destruction, until he at last laid him in an 
 untimely and dishonored grave, he bowed his 
 head beneath the stroke, overwhelmed with a 
 fearful conviction that he had never before ex- 
 perienced. The ways of Providence seemed 
 suddenly opened to his eyes, and he felt, in the 
 bitterness of his heart, that " the way of the 
 transgressor is indeed hard." 
 
 He had now leisure to take a retrospect of his 
 past life, and how did that retrospect appal his 
 heart! As he looked back through the long 
 vista of departed years, the sins of his earlier 
 manhood were as in a mirror arrayed before him, 
 while conscience, standing by, sternly heightened 
 the effect of every hideous picture. She bade 
 him look once more upon his gentle and un- 
 offending wife, as she lay stretched upon the bed 
 of disease, to which she had been brought by 
 his neglect and cruelty. He saw again that be- 
 seeching look which she bent upon him, when, 
 exhausted by his violence and her own agita- 
 tion, she had implored him to leave her to die
 
 108 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 in peace and then, more fearfully than all, rose 
 up that last dread scene, where, when he had 
 inhumanly forced his dying wife to a compliance 
 with his lawless wishes, death had interposed 
 to snatch the victim from his clutches. 
 
 He gazed upon them all, and a new light 
 seemed to break in upon his eyes. He felt that 
 the slavish and unmanly life he had lived with 
 Eugenia that the disgraceful and worthless 
 career of his idolized son, and his untimely and 
 violent death were all but so many stripes from 
 the hand of the Almighty, chastising him for 
 his former iniquities and transgressions. 
 
 Bowed down by a premature old age, haunt- 
 ed by an undying sorrow and regret, but humble 
 and penitent, the broken-hearted St. Leger soon 
 followed his son to the grave. His haughty and 
 tyrannical wife still lives, but lives isolated and 
 neglected, shunned by her former acquaintances, 
 and more wretched than the meanest beggar 
 who solicits charity at her door. 
 
 Should this imperfect sketch ever meet her 
 eyes, she will at once recognise its features, and 
 it may be that its perusal may inflict another
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 109 
 
 pang of regret and repentance upon a heart 
 which was but too long hardened and unfeeling, 
 or perhaps awake a feeling of repentance, asso- 
 ciated with a new and higher life. 
 
 I have sedulously refrained from giving the 
 names of the persons, or the scene of this im- 
 perfect tale. But, while I have been thus cautious, 
 I have felt myself justified in relating the facts, 
 deeming that they might, perhaps, furnish a 
 lesson not entirely useless. 
 
 May all, when they peruse it, remember, that 
 ends attained by wicked or unlawful means, sel- 
 dom result in good to the possessor, but are often 
 made instruments of the severest punishment. 
 May they also remember, that crime always 
 meets with its reward, and that, although the 
 retribution may be long deferred, it never fails 
 of reaching the transgressor at last. 
 10

 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Death, when we meet the spectre in our walks, 
 As we did yesterday, and shall to-morrow, 
 Soon grows familiar like most other things, 
 Seen, not observed : but death, in foreign climes, 
 When he arrests the treasures of our home, 
 Bidding them sleep and never wake again, 
 Knocks at the heart." ROGERS. 
 
 IT was April in New York, a soft, mild, 
 
 delightful day : the trees, scattered here and 
 there through the city, were beginning to 
 put forth their leaves, as if in gratitude for the 
 warm suns and genial showers of that charming 
 month. The birds, confined in their wiry dwell- 
 ings, were sending forth their cheerful strains 
 from the open windows, and stretching their 
 little throats in token of their joy at the return 
 of sunny spring, while now and then a wild-
 
 112 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 wood songster, who had tried its wings on an 
 excursion to the wilderness of dwellings, added 
 its merry tones to those of the less favored ones 
 of its race, who were debarred the privilege of 
 freedom. Everything looked gay and smiling 
 as if joy pervaded the whole earth. Yet was 
 there sorrow in the secresy of many a dwelling, 
 for while life was springing up anew throughout 
 the vegetable world, death had not forgotten his 
 mission among the sons of men. 
 
 The sun had long since past its meridian, as 
 we gathered around a new-made grave; the 
 coffin was lowered into its cold and narrow 
 receptacle, and its silent tenant at last reposed 
 in the house appointed for all living. 
 
 It was a wife and a mother to whom we 
 were rendering the last sad offices of respect 
 and affection, and as the grating and creaking 
 of the cords on the side of the coffin, as they 
 carefully removed them, announced that the 
 body was safely deposited ; the low, stifled sobs 
 of the bereaved husband, and the half-smothered 
 wail of the motherless little ones, fell in heart- 
 piercing tones on the ear. Tears were wrung 
 from eyes that had been long unused to
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 113 
 
 weeping, and a strong and kindly sympathy was 
 awakened even in the most careless heart ; for 
 all can feel how severe must be the stroke 
 which severs a mother from a family of helpless 
 children, and deprives an affectionate husband, 
 of the wife of his bosom, and the partner of his 
 paternal cares. 
 
 The first shovel-full of earth fell dull and 
 heavily upon the coffin, when the minister, 
 reverently uncovering his head, an example 
 which was imitated by all present, slowly and 
 emphatically pronounced a burial service. It 
 was a deeply interesting scene, and as the ex- 
 pressive words, " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, 
 dust to dust," broke in deep and solemn intona- 
 tions on the surrounding stillness, never shall I 
 forget the new and untold feelings that sunk 
 with them into my heart. After a few touching 
 words of consolation had been presented to the 
 mourners, a short and appropriate prayer was 
 offered up to the Father of all spirits, and the 
 grave was filled up. 
 
 The long train of relatives and friends now 
 turned sadly away from the hallowed spot, and 
 slowly left the grave-yard ; some occupied in 
 10*
 
 114 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 speaking of the merits and amiable disposition 
 of the young and lovely mother, whom they 
 were never again to behold in this world ; some 
 in discussing business prospects, or the important 
 events of the day, while others still those to 
 whom the departed was most near and dear 
 walked on in musing and tearful silence. 
 
 I stood by the side of the minister, and we 
 were turning to follow them, when our attention 
 was arrested by a little group standing in a 
 corner of the grave-yard, not far distant. It 
 consisted of an aged man and woman, who 
 appeared bowed down either with sorrow or 
 with years, a little boy apparently about four 
 years of age, and another person who seemed 
 to be an undertaker. The couple, with the 
 little boy between them, each holding him 
 by the hand, stood on one side of a little 
 grave, which the undertaker was busily engaged 
 in filling up. The task was soon completed, 
 the turf nicely smoothed over the mound, and 
 the undertaker carelessly departed. But the 
 solitary pair still lingered, apparently unable to 
 tear themselves from the spot. At last, how- 
 ever, the old man picked up two stones which
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 115 
 
 were lying near, and placing one at the head 
 and the other at the foot of the little grave, as 
 if to mark it, they, turning away with faltering 
 steps, slowly walked toward the gate. As they 
 drew near the spot where we yet remained 
 standing, we embraced the opportunity to ob- 
 serve them more narrowly. They were humbly, 
 though not meanly attired, and the fashion of their 
 garments, though not differing in a remarkable 
 degree from the fashions then in vogue in New 
 York, still had a foreign cast, and it was evi- 
 dent that they were strangers, and in a strange 
 land. 
 
 They seemed quite unconscious that any one 
 beside themselves yet remained in the church- 
 yard, so absorbed were they in their own grief, 
 and we could therefore look at them without the 
 fear of wounding their sensibility. As the 
 woman turned to look at their little charge, I 
 saw that tears were fast streaming down her 
 time-worn cheeks, which, in her desolation, she 
 sought not to wipe away ; but not so with her 
 companion, his eyes were dry and tearless, and 
 there was a sternness and rigidity mingled with 
 the deep sorrow stamped upon his features,
 
 116 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 which seemed strange and unnatural in one so 
 old. The little boy looked up with a wondering 
 eye into the face of his protectors, seeming quite 
 unable to comprehend the cause of their grief 
 and silence, or his own situation. 
 
 As we silently regarded this little group, there 
 was a forlornness in their appearance, thus en- 
 tirely unfriended and alone, that went to our 
 hearts ; for never are the kindness and sympathy 
 of friends so much needed as when w r e are lay- 
 ing our loved ones in their last narrow home. 
 But to stand alone by the grave of perhaps our 
 only friend, and, all uncheered by the sacred 
 offices of the minister of God, to assist, with our 
 own hands, in depositing that loved one in its 
 last resting-place, and then to turn away in all 
 the forlornness and desolation of utter friendless- 
 ness, seems a drop too much for human nature 
 in its weakness to endure. 
 
 We would have followed and addressed the 
 solitary mourners, who were now leaving the 
 yard, but we feared to invade the sanctity of 
 grief, even with words of consolation, lest it 
 might be attributed to an idle and unmeaning 
 curiosity. We, therefore, suffered them to pass
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 117 
 
 from our sight, as they had first met it utter 
 strangers. 
 
 Two or three months went by, but that lonely 
 burial was not forgotten. Often when we were 
 gazing after the long and imposing train of 
 mourners, as they followed some proud and 
 wealthy citizen to his long home, did the memory 
 of that solitary and grief-stricken pair, standing 
 alone and unfriended by the little grave, rise up 
 in sickening contrast before us. Often had we 
 tasked our imagination to present us some prob- 
 able conjecture as to who and what those be- 
 reaved and friendless strangers might be ; for 
 there are few so utterly alone in the world as to 
 have no one to sympathize with, and assist them 
 in an hour like that. But it was in vain that 
 we indulged in fancies which could give no clew 
 to the fact, and only left us as unsatisfied as 
 before.
 
 118 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Wanderer ! bowed with griefs and years, 
 
 Wanderer with the cheek so pale, 
 Oh, give language to those tears ! 
 Tell their melancholy tale !" 
 
 Waiiderer of Switzerland. 
 
 IT was the third day of September, when Mr. 
 Grant the clergyman who officiated at the 
 burial-service with which my tale opens was 
 solicited to visit a sick person, residing in a nar- 
 row and secluded street, at some distance from 
 his dwelling. She was a poor, childless widow, 
 occupying a garret bed-room, in a miserable 
 tenement, without relatives and without friends. 
 Chance had led her a few times to the church 
 over which Mr. Grant presided as pastor, and 
 sick and destitute, she now begged his sympathy 
 and relief. Ever ready to heed the call of the 
 needy and distressed, he obeyed the summons of 
 the poor widow, and after remaining some time
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 119 
 
 with her, and comforting her aged heart not 
 only with kind words, but kind deeds also, 
 he took leave of her and departed, leaving 
 her the happier and more cheerful for his 
 visit. 
 
 As he was passing down the narrow staircase, 
 he heard a low, stifled sobbing, which proceeded 
 from a room on the second floor, the door of 
 which was slightly ajar. He paused a few mo- 
 ments, uncertain whether to enter or pass on, 
 but a continuation of the same sounds of distress, 
 at length decided him, and opening the door, he 
 stepped into the room. 
 
 A woman considerably advanced in years, 
 and seemingly overwhelmed with grief, was 
 seated by a low bed, on which lay a young girl, 
 about nineteen years of age, and of a delicacy and 
 sweetness of countenance, not often seen. Her 
 long, fair hair, was parted over a broad, smooth 
 forehead, and, terminating in soft ringlets, hung 
 carelessly over the pillow. There was a bright 
 spot on either cheek, and a restlessness in her 
 dark, blue eye, which betokened pain and suf- 
 fering. She was apparently laboring under 
 some paralytic affection, for as she attempted to
 
 120 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 raise her hand to her head, it shook violently, 
 and fell powerless by her side, while a sharp 
 spasm for a moment contracted one side of her 
 face. In one corner of the room sat an old gen- 
 tleman, in the disconsolate attitude of utter 
 despondency; his elbows resting on his knees, 
 his face buried in his hands, and his long, gray 
 locks hanging, dank and matted, down his 
 cheeks. On a low stool by his side, his little 
 hands resting on the old man's knees, sat a pale- 
 faced boy, apparently about four years of age, 
 who was gazing earnestly and silently toward 
 the sick girl, while his little lip occasionally 
 quivered, as if with suppressed emotion, and his 
 large, black eyes were brimming with tears. 
 
 The entrance of their visiter was unobserved, 
 and he stood for a few minutes, a sympathizing 
 spectator of the sorrowful scene. 
 
 " Do not grieve so, dear mother," after a long 
 and tender gaze at her weeping parent, the sick 
 girl, in a soft, sweet voice, at length exclaimed. 
 " I am sure I am better than I was. My limbs 
 do not tremble so violently, and I feel much 
 stronger. I shall soon be able to return to my
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 121' 
 
 employment again, and then we shall all be 
 comfortable and happy once more." 
 
 A- fresh burst of tears, and a mournful shake 
 of the head, were the mother's only reply. 
 
 Mr. Grant now advanced toward the bedside, 
 and as the mother turned her face toward him, 
 he instantly recognised in her one of the friend- 
 less mourners of the lonely burial. She was 
 somewhat surprised at the sudden appearance of 
 a stranger in her apartment, but received him 
 without embarrassment, and with a courteous, 
 though homely civility, requested him to be 
 seated. 
 
 Her address aroused the old man from his 
 desponding attitude, and as he too arose to re- 
 ceive the stranger, Mr. Grant was at no loss to 
 identify him also. But, though unchanged in 
 other respects, he saw that his countenance had 
 lost the rigidity and sternness, which had char- 
 acterized it on the mournful occasion when he 
 had first beheld him. Hopeless and unresisted 
 sorrow seemed now its predominant expression, 
 and he looked at Mr. Grant, as if thinking it 
 scarcely possible that his visit could be one of 
 kindness. 
 
 11
 
 122 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 " Excuse my intrusion, sir," said Mr. Grant, 
 hastening to reply to the old man's look, " but 
 as I was passing your door, I heard sounds of 
 distress proceeding from the room, and thinking 
 that perhaps some assistance might be needed, I 
 entered to proffer my services. I am a clergy- 
 man, and you need not fear accepting them." 
 
 " Services !" exclaimed the old man, with a 
 bitter smile, " We are poor, and have no money 
 to pay you for services ! And I have been long 
 enough in this country to learn that they are 
 never rendered without the expectation of pay ! 
 No, sir, I thank you, but we cannot afford to re- 
 ceive any services;" and with another bitter 
 smile he returned to his seat in the corner of the 
 room, and again buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " You must have been very unfortunate," said 
 Mr. Grant, following the old man to his seat, 
 " if you have had reason to come to this con- 
 clusion. Nevertheless, I beg you to believe that 
 I proffer my assistance in sincerity, and without 
 the hope of reward, and whatever services you 
 may need, that are within the range of my 
 ability, they shall be cheerfully rendered."
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 123 
 
 The old man again looked up to the face of 
 Mr. Grant, but with a puzzled and doubtful ex- 
 pression, as if not more than half believing the 
 words that met his ear. 
 
 " You will pardon one, whom misfortune has 
 almost rendered desperate, if he is insensible to 
 your kindness," said the poor woman, who was 
 now at his side. " But we have been so long 
 strangers to anything like kindness, that it 
 hardly seems a reality when it is offered us. You 
 are the first one whom we have heard breathe 
 its language since we landed on the American 
 shore ; but oh, how bitterly have we often felt its 
 need!" 
 
 " What country are you from ?" inquired Mr. 
 Grant. 
 
 " We are from Scotland ; and would to God 
 it had never been our evil fortune to leave that 
 country !" she replied, the tears rolling again 
 down her cheeks. " There we were blest with 
 health, and a competence sufficient for our com- 
 fortable support. Here we have suffered all the 
 ills of poverty, sickness, and death. Disappoint- 
 ment met us at our first landing, and disappoint-
 
 124 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 ment and trouble have dogged our footsteps ever 
 since." 
 
 " Why did you leave Scotland ?" inquired 
 Mr. Grant, deeply interested. " It must have 
 required strong inducements to prompt you to 
 forsake home and country at your time of life." 
 
 " And we had strong inducements ; otherwise 
 we should never have come here," answered 
 the woman, drawing her chair nearer to her 
 sympathizing auditor, who was now seated. 
 " The Scotch are too clanish, too much attach- 
 ed to their hills and heather, to be drawn away 
 from them by light reasons. If you are willing 
 to listen to a garrulous old woman, who has not 
 had a friend to whom to open her heart for many 
 a day, it would be a relief to me to tell you our 
 story." 
 
 " Tell it without reserve, if you can trust me," 
 warmly replied Mr. Grant, " I may be better 
 able to render you assistance." 
 
 " Well, then, according to the prescribed rules 
 of most story-tellers," said the poor woman, 
 with a faint smile, " I will begin my narrative 
 by telling you our name, which is the common 
 one of Campbell. When, in our own land, we
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 125 
 
 did not belong to the poorest class, among which 
 adverse fortune has assigned us a station in 
 this country, we were then what are termed ' good 
 livers ;' that is, we had enough to eat, drink, and 
 to wear, without being obliged to labor more than 
 was conducive to our health and happiness. We 
 were married early in life, and were blest with 
 three children, one son and two daughters, one 
 of whom is the poor girl, whom you see lying 
 sick and helpless on that little bed, and the 
 other one sleeps beneath the ever-restless waters 
 of the Atlantic. We were prospered in all our 
 undertakings, and life looked fair before us. Our 
 children grew up virtuous and healthy, and, in 
 due time, we had the happiness of seeing our 
 eldest daughter married to a man, in every re- 
 spect her equal, with every prospect of happiness 
 and long life before her. 
 
 " About four years ago, our son, who was then 
 about two-and-twenty, was seized with a strong 
 desire of visiting this country. You can scarcely 
 imagine the extravagant notions that are enter- 
 tained in Europe in relation to the United 
 States. Captains of vessels, ship-owners, and 
 other interested persons, have, for years, taken 
 10*
 
 126 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 the utmost pains to spread abroad the idea, that 
 a young man has but to emigrate to this coun- 
 try, to realize at once a handsome fortune. In- 
 deed, such are the false impressions given by the 
 representations of these men, that many actually 
 suppose that money is so plenty here, that it will 
 almost fall into their pockets, without the trouble 
 of seeking it. Many and many a young man 
 has found to his cost, when he has arrived here, 
 how fatally he has been deceived. 
 
 " Our son, at the time I speak of, was engaged 
 in a profitable mercantile business in Edin- 
 borough. He had inherited a bequest of several 
 thousand dollars from an uncle, who had recently 
 died, and possessed a handsome and unencum- 
 bered capital. But he was seized with the pre- 
 vailing mania for emigration, and though his 
 father and myself said everything in our power 
 to dissuade him from the project, he was bent on 
 trying his fortune in this land of enterprise and 
 speculation. His business was soon favorably 
 disposed ; his money invested in merchandise, 
 and all other arrangements completed, when, ac- 
 companied by a young man, by the name of 
 Maurice Logan, whom he had taken into
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 127 
 
 partnership, and who was affianced and soon to 
 have been married to our poor Rose, who lies 
 there so helpless, he embarked in a mer- 
 chant vessel, and was soon on his way to the 
 United States. 
 
 " After a short and favorable voyage, they 
 landed in New York, and were soon established 
 in one of the principal streets, and doing a busi- 
 ness far more prosperous and lucrative, than in 
 their most sanguine moments they had even 
 dared to hope. Their capital was in a short 
 time doubled, and the firm of 'Campbell & 
 Logan,' soon known as one of the most prosper- 
 ous and thriving in the street. We received 
 letters from Edward, as well as Logan, every 
 two or three months, and they constantly gave 
 the most flattering accounts of their success. 
 
 "After about a year, the letters of Logan began 
 to speak of a return to Scotland, for the purpose 
 of inducing Rose to marry, and return with him 
 to his new home. It was long before the poor 
 girl could make up her mind to this arrange- 
 ment, but after a hard struggle between affec- 
 tion for her parents, and love for him, she at 
 length yielded to his urgent and continued en-
 
 128 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 treaties, and preparations were commenced for 
 her marriage and removal. 
 
 "But circumstances soon occurred to produce a 
 change in the prospects and arrangements of the 
 young couple. Hard times came on, the busi- 
 ness of the mercantile world was hopelessly de- 
 ranged, and it was thought expedient that the 
 marriage should be deferred until more fortunate 
 times. This was accordingly decided on, and all 
 preparations for a time postponed. 
 
 " Meanwhile the letters of Edward were as kind 
 and frequent as ever. He often sent us little 
 presents, and still spoke of their business as 
 good, for, although they were not making money 
 so rapidly as at first, still, so careful had been 
 their management, their losses had been com- 
 paratively small, and they were yet able to make 
 a comfortable living. 
 
 " It was at length proposed by Edward, that as 
 his residence, as well that of Logan in this coun- 
 try, would probably be permanent, we should 
 dispose of our property in Scotland, and fix our 
 abode here also. A fear that the marriage of 
 Rose would soon separate her from us perhaps 
 for life, should we remain in our own country,
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 129 
 
 weighed much in our minds in favor of acceding 
 to our son's proposition. Added to this, our 
 eldest daughter, having recently lost her hus- 
 band, had returned to us with her two small chil- 
 dren, leaving little to bind us to Scotland, save 
 the warm and natural attachment which one 
 commonly feels for his native lanfc A brief de- 
 liberation, therefore, sufficed to establish our 
 wavering resolutions, and determine us to emi- 
 grate. 
 
 " There was, however, some delay in disposing 
 of our property to good advantage, and we were 
 not able to complete our arrangements for leav- 
 ing our country so soon as we intended, or so 
 soon as Edward expected us. All was, how- 
 ever, at last ready. We set sail with a favor- 
 able wind about the middle of November, and 
 everything betokened a good passage. But at 
 that season of the year, the voyager is extremely 
 liable to frequent, and sudden changes of weather, 
 and we had been at sea about three weeks, 
 when a violent storm arose, which continued for 
 several days without intermission and without 
 abatement. Our vessel was not able to with- 
 stand its violence, and the third day after the
 
 130 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 commencement of the storm, she lay a helpless 
 and unmanageable wreck on the wide ocean. 
 Fortunately, however, the storm had by this 
 time somewhat abated, or we should most likely 
 have all been lost. We clung to the vessel as 
 long as possible, until she began to show signs 
 of sinking, when the captain ordered out the 
 boats, and the wreck was abandoned. Unfor- 
 tunately, our boats were small, and very much 
 crowded, and it being entirely uncertain how 
 long we should be obliged to remain in them, 
 the captain absolutely refused to allow anything 
 save the merest necessaries of life to be taken 
 on board. Our property which we had mostly 
 invested in goods for our son, was therefore 
 irretrievably lost, nothing being left to us but a 
 few clothes, and the little money we chanced 
 to have about us, amounting in all to but a few 
 hundred dollars. 
 
 " In less than an hour after we had abandoned 
 the wreck it went down, and we were alone on 
 the wide ocean, tossed about by the winds and 
 waves, in frail boats which threatened every 
 moment to go to pieces. Fortunately, however, 
 a vessel soon hove in sight, and we were seen
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 131 
 
 and taken on board. It proved to be an English 
 vessel bound for New York, and we were there- 
 fore happily spared the evils of being landed in 
 a foreign port. 
 
 " The second day after we entered this vessel, 
 our eldest daughter complained of illness. The 
 exposure, fatigue, and alarm occasioned by the 
 storm through which we had passed, had been 
 too much for her. Her illness rapidly increased, 
 there was no physician on board, and three days 
 before we reached New York, she was consign- 
 ed to the deep, a breathless, motionless corpse. 
 It was a terrible blow to us, though merciful 
 compared with what we have since suffered, 
 and we felt a fearful presentiment that our 
 voyage would prove, in every respect, an ill- 
 fated one. Alas! that presentiment has been 
 but too fearfully realized.
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Alone, amid their hearth-fires, 
 I watched my child's decay ; 
 Uncheered I saw the spirit light, 
 From his young eyes fade away. 
 
 " When his head sank on my bosom, 
 
 When the death-sleep o'er him fell, 
 Was there one to say ' A friend is near' ? 
 There was none ! my child, farewell !" 
 
 HEMANS. 
 
 " WE landed in New York, on the 24th of 
 December, and immediately proceeded to the 
 street and number, to which we had always 
 directed our letters to our son and Logan, ex- 
 pecting to meet them at once. You may judge 
 how bitter must have been our disappointment, 
 to learn that the firm of ' Campbell & Logan,' 
 had either broken up or removed, and the per- 
 sons who occupied the store were not able to
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL 133 
 
 give us any information concerning them. We 
 made inquiries in the neighborhood, and were 
 at last informed by a merchant, who seemed to 
 pity our distress and disappointment, that he had 
 understood they had about six months since re- 
 moved to the west. But where, he could not 
 acquaint us. 
 
 " What course to pursue in so unfortunate 
 and unexpected an emergency, we were entirely 
 at a loss to determine. Where could they have 
 gone ? We could not believe that they had left 
 the city, without leaving some letter or message 
 for us, whom they must certainly have expected. 
 But with whom could that letter or message 
 have been left? Here all was darkness and 
 uncertainty. 
 
 " We were stopping at a foreign boarding- 
 house, a miserable place, but as good as our 
 means would allow, and my husband went every 
 day to the post office, thinking that he might, 
 perhaps, at last find a letter, which would furnish 
 him with a clew to the present residence of our 
 son and Logan. But as he returned day after 
 day, and always with the same ill-success, hope 
 died away in our hearts, and my husband even
 
 134 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 began to fancy that their absence was a pre- 
 meditated and intentional plan to be rid of the 
 trouble of receiving and assisting us. I com- 
 bated this unhappy notion by every argument 
 in my power, and Rose, too, resolutely refused 
 to lend the least credence to so improbable a 
 conjecture. But in spite of her fearless defence 
 of her brother and lover, I saw that she was 
 restless and miserable. She lost her appetite, 
 her color faded, and while she affected a forced 
 and unnatural cheerfulness, I often surprised her 
 in tears. 
 
 " But we soon began to feel it necessary to 
 adopt some settled plan of living, so as to make 
 our little means hold out as long as possible. 
 We accordingly hired two small rooms at a 
 reasonable rent, and were soon settled down for 
 the winter. Constantly endeavoring to buoy up 
 herself and us with the hope of seeing or hear- 
 ing from Edward and Maurice in the spring, 
 Rose was our greatest comfort in every despond- 
 ing hour. As she was naturally of a very in- 
 genious turn, she soon contrived means to earn 
 a little money, so as to make our own little 
 funds hold out the longer. She made various
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL, 135 
 
 elegant little fancy articles, which she disposed 
 of to good advantage, at a foreign repository for 
 such articles in Broadway ; and so much were 
 they pleased with her work, that they gave her 
 constant employment, and at a very tolerable 
 price ; so that we had to draw much less on our 
 little store of money than you would have be- 
 lieved possible. 
 
 " But, unaccustomed to the close confinement 
 and constant employment of the needle, to 
 which she now resolutely subjected herself, the 
 health of poor Rose began to fail. Neverthe- 
 less, she still persisted in her arduous sedentary 
 labors, constantly affirming that she felt no ill 
 effects from it, though her slight appetite, and 
 faded cheeks, but too plainly contradicted her 
 assertions. The youngest child of our poor 
 daughter who was buried in the sea, began also 
 to show signs of severe illness. Day after day 
 the delicate boy became more and more drooping, 
 until he could no longer hold up his head. We 
 applied to a physician who lived near us, and 
 he for a time attended him ; but in spite of his 
 exertions, and our own unwearied care, he con- 
 stantly grew worse and worse, and before Feb-
 
 136 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 ruary was at an end, he was pronounced beyond 
 the hope of cure. 
 
 " Anxiety of mind, and her severe personal la- 
 bors, were meanwhile operating fatally against 
 our dear Rose, and about the middle of March, 
 she was obliged to relinquish all employment, 
 and take to her bed. We again summoned the 
 physician, but so far from benefiting, his pre- 
 scriptions seemed rather to injure her. At length 
 her disease seemed to assume a new form, and 
 she became gradually afflicted, as you see her 
 now, with a painful spasmodic affection. Her 
 limbs on one side became almost wholly useless. 
 If she attempted to walk, they would suddenly 
 fail beneath her, and if she made an effort to 
 sew, her needle would fall from her hand, and 
 her arm shake as if in convulsions. Finding that 
 all the efforts of the physician proved entirely 
 unavailing, and our rapidly sinking funds warn- 
 ing us that we could not much longer meet his 
 heavy charges for he demanded and received 
 twelve shillings for every visit he made her, and 
 an equal sum almost every week for the different 
 preparations with which he furnished us we 
 finally dismissed him.
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 137 
 
 " As it was absolutely necessary to retrench 
 our expenses in every possible way, on the first 
 of April we paid our month's rent, and removed 
 to this tenement, which we obtained at less than 
 half the price of the other. But we were hardly 
 settled in our new abode, when our little one 
 seemed rapidly sinking, and in one week more 
 he died. 
 
 "My husband, always somewhat inclined to 
 despondency of disposition, had, under the influ- 
 ence of our adverse circumstances, and the un- 
 accountable absence of our son, long been be- 
 coming much more so. A melancholy gloom 
 seemed now constantly brooding over his mind, 
 which the death of our little grandchild, deepened 
 into despair. We had kept ourselves quietly 
 aloof from our neighbors, who were mostly of a 
 low and noisy character, and having no friends 
 or acquaintances to sympathize with and assist 
 us in our bereavement, my husband absolutely 
 refused his permission, when I proposed that we 
 should call in one of our neighbors to assist in 
 the performance of the last sad duties to our 
 child, which I shrunk from undertaking alone. 
 
 " 'No,' he exclaimed, ' we have been forsaken 
 12*
 
 138 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 in a land of strangers by our own child, and 
 another who was to have been our child, and 
 strangers shall not look us in the face, and say, 
 you are under obligations to us. No, we will 
 bury our dead, as we have watched him through 
 his sickness, and seen him die alone. Say no 
 more on the subject, but make such preparations 
 as our poverty will allow, and let us carry our 
 child to his grave.' 
 
 " To you, who have never known the forlorn- 
 ness and desolation which come over his heart, 
 who feels that he has been forsaken in a land of 
 strangers, by his own child, this command of my 
 husband may appear harsh and unfeeling; but, 
 to me, who was acquainted with all the wind- 
 ings of his nature, it wore a different aspect, I 
 felt that it was the echo of a breaking heart, 
 and turning away my face to conceal my an- 
 guish from one who had enough of his own to 
 bear, I acquiesced without a dissenting word, 
 while my husband seated himself as you see 
 him now, apparently forgetful of everything 
 around him. 
 
 " Rose, who had slept while the last sad change 
 -was passing over our child, was still sleeping,
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 139 
 
 and, as I was anxious to spare her the sight of 
 everything agitating, I hastened to perform my 
 last trying duties before she should awake. 
 Softly and without a tear, I lifted the motionless 
 and still beautiful child from its bed, and bear- 
 ing it to a table in a remote corner of our only 
 room, commenced my melancholy task. I ten- 
 derly closed the dim and rayless eyes ; I care- 
 fully straightened the delicate and emaciated 
 limbs ; and, then arranging the soft and glossy 
 ringlets around its snowy brow, with a heavy 
 heart enveloped its icy form in a little robe 
 which it had worn in its happy infancy. This 
 done, I impressed a long, long kiss upon its half- 
 closed violet lips, and was preparing to cover the 
 dear object from my sight, when I was startled 
 by the soft, low call of 'mother,' and at the 
 same moment felt a hand on my dress behind. I 
 instantly turned, and there stood little James, his 
 arm encircling the neck of poor Rose, who had 
 slid softly out of bed, and had contrived to creep 
 on her hands and knees to my side. She had 
 awakened during my melancholy operations, and, 
 in an instant, comprehending the whole truth, 
 had silently crept toward me, with the intention
 
 140 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 of trying to assist me at my mournful task. She 
 was shaking more violently than 1 had ever seen 
 her, and, as I looked down into the sorrowful 
 face of the dear, helpless girl, all my long sup- 
 pressed feelings at length burst forth, and sink- 
 ing on my knees by her side, I threw my arms 
 around her waist, and wept long and bitterly. 
 My husband, aroused from his fit of grief and 
 abstraction, by my sobs, arose and drew near 
 us. He gently raised poor Rose from the floor, 
 and, with the first touch of natural feeling and 
 tenderness, he had yet discovered through all 
 that melancholy day, kindly and patiently sup- 
 ported the dear girl, while she gazed upon the 
 dead face of the sweet boy, who had been so 
 cherished by us all. 
 
 "'It is the Lord's will, and let us submit !' he 
 exclaimed, the tears rolling down his cheeks, 
 and taking the weeping and helpless Rose in his 
 arms, tenderly laid her once more upon the bed. 
 The little James, with a bewildered air, that 
 was piteous to behold, and keeping fast hold of 
 her frock, followed close behind, and, creeping 
 into bed by her side, nestled his face close to 
 hers, and lay perfectly still and silent ; and, for
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 141 
 
 several hours, no inducement could prevail upon 
 him to turn his eyes toward that part of the room 
 where lay his dead brother. 
 
 "I softly covered up the little motionless form, 
 and waiting until our daughter was composed 
 and quiet, my husband took up his hat, and left 
 the house. He soon returned, accompanied by 
 an undertaker, who resided in the neighborhood ; 
 arrangements for the burial, that same afternoon, 
 were soon made, and the undertaker left us to 
 make the necessary preparations. In about two 
 hours he came back once more ; the sad duty of 
 depositing our little one in its narrow house, 
 was reverently performed, the weeping Rose 
 had taken her last, long look, and we departed. 
 The undertaker lifted the precious burden under 
 his arm, and, walking on before us, we took our 
 remaining grandchild by the hand, and slowly 
 followed, leaving Rose to all the mournful soli- 
 tude and friendlessness of her sick room. 
 
 " Never shall I forget that melancholy walk ! 
 Even the meanest laborer, paused in his em- 
 ployment, to gaze at and pity the unfriended 
 mourners of that little procession. Many an 
 open window was filled with a wondering and
 
 142 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 sympathizing group, and many a riotous boy 
 suddenly checked his mirth, and stood respect- 
 fully aside, as we past him, in our mournful way. 
 
 "At last we reached the graveyard, and 
 while my heart was swelling with bitter anguish 
 at the thought that we were burying, as we had 
 buried its mother, without the sacred services of 
 religion, the orphan child of that loved daughter, 
 who slept in the wide waste of the Atlantic, 
 my husband, assisted by the undertaker, lowered 
 the coffin into its narrow receptacle. Then, 
 slowly uncovering his head, he clasped his hands 
 fervently together, and poured out a prayer to 
 God, more acceptable, I believe, in the sight of 
 that holy being, than many a one which has 
 fallen from the lips of the proud and titled divine. 
 The grave was then filled up, and after marking 
 the spot, and bidding a silent farewell to its lit- 
 tle tenant, we left it, and returned once more to 
 our suffering daughter and melancholy home. 
 
 Our days since that period have been past in 
 sad and wearisome monotony. No intelligence 
 of our absent son or Logan has yet reached us, 
 and we have almost ceased to expect it. Even 
 Rose no longer endeavors to cheer our hearts
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 143 
 
 by an encouraging word, while her own situa- 
 tion, so far from improving, seems rather, as 
 week after week passes over her head, to grow 
 more and more hopeless. My husband sunk in 
 utter despondency, spends the greater portion 
 of his time, as you see him now, too abstracted 
 and gloomy to heed anything that is passing 
 around him. The yearning he feels for our early 
 home, the loss of our property, the death of our 
 daughter and her orphan child, together with 
 the strange absence of our son, have been too 
 much for him, and I sometimes fear his senses 
 are fatally impaired. 
 
 " What will become of us, God only knows ! 
 for our money is now almost entirely gone. If 
 poor Rose should ever recover, which I hardly 
 dare to hope, we may yet live without appeal- 
 ing to public charity. Otherwise there can be 
 but one fate for us, for my husband is, I fear, 
 entirely unable to make an effort for our 
 support."
 
 144 THE LONELY BURIAL, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " There never was a night too dark to be followed by 
 day." Old Saw. 
 
 But Time, the destroyer, yet kindly shall bring 
 A charm for each suffering, a balm for each sting ; 
 And the tear-drops of anguish while yet in its flow 
 Is dried by the warmth of hope's heavenly glow." 
 
 THE poor mother finished her recital, and 
 wiping her tearful eyes, arose and went to the 
 bedside of her daughter who had sometime since 
 fallen asleep, and after gazing tenderly upon her 
 for a few moments, softly kissed her beautiful 
 cheek, and with a deep sigh returned to her 
 seat. " Poor girl," she exclaimed, " I fear that 
 is her death-bed!" 
 
 "I hope not!" said Mr. Grant, who had 
 been a deeply-moved auditor of the sorrowful 
 tale of Mrs. Campbell ; " I think she may be 
 cured. And if you will give me permission, I 
 will bring a skilful physician of my acquaintance 
 to examine her case."
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 145 
 
 The word physician seemed to arouse the old 
 man from his abstraction, for immediately rais- 
 ing his head, he exclaimed, "A physician! I 
 have no money to pay a physician, and if I had, 
 he would only torment her to no purpose. The 
 physicians in this country are all a set of leeches 
 they would draw the last cent from your 
 pocket, and then leave you to die without the 
 smallest remnant of pity ! I want to see no 
 more physicians !" 
 
 " You are mistaken, my dear sir ; believe 
 me you are entirely mistaken !" said Mr. Grant ; 
 " there are many, very many kind-hearted, be- 
 nevolent men who are physicians. You have 
 unfortunately since you arrived in this country 
 been acquainted only with an ignorant pre- 
 tender, not a scientific practitioner ! I, however, 
 am acquainted with a great many belonging to 
 the latter class, and I do not believe that there 
 is one among the whole number who would not 
 willingly and cheerfully attend your sick child, 
 without the slightest remuneration. Only give 
 me permission to bring the one I mentioned, and 
 if there are any charges, they shall be paid from 
 my own pocket." 
 
 13
 
 146 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 The old man gave his visiter another puzzled 
 and incredulous look, and then, as if tired of 
 the controversy, sunk once more into his former 
 abstracted attitude. 
 
 With a promise to call with the physician 
 that evening or the next day, Mr. Grant now 
 bade Mrs. Campbell a hasty farewell and de- 
 parted. But his steps were bent in another 
 direction than that of home. While listening 
 to the tale of the poor woman a thought had 
 crossed his mind, which filled him with a hope 
 he dared not venture to utter to the heart -sick 
 mother, lest it might end in disappointment. 
 
 He recollected having heard a merchant of 
 his acquaintance, some time since mention a 
 circumstance, of which he was strongly re- 
 minded by some incidents in the narration of 
 Mrs. Campbell. Two young Scotchmen, friends 
 of his, who had been for two or three years 
 engaged in a flourishing business in New York, 
 had determined on removing to St. Louis. Be- 
 fore starting, however, they had called on him, 
 leaving letters for their parents whom they 
 were expecting to arrive in this country in a 
 few months, and requesting him to look after
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 147 
 
 their welfare, and see that they were comforta- 
 bly situated in every respect, until they should 
 return to New York, the ensuing autumn for 
 goods, when they would remunerate him for 
 his trouble, and take their friends with them on 
 their return to St. Louis. They stated that 
 they had already written to their friends, giving 
 them an account of the change in their location, 
 and directing them to call on this merchant as 
 soon as they arrived in New York, and he 
 would assist them in their arrangements, until 
 their sons should themselves return to take 
 charge of them. 
 
 Now these young men might possibly have 
 no connexion with the unfortunate family from 
 which he had just separated, but still the thought 
 continually haunted him, that they were the very 
 persons who had been so long looked for, and 
 so long mourned. 
 
 Filled with the hope of removing the suffer- 
 ing of so unfortunate and interesting a family, 
 Mr. Grant hurried to the counting-room of his 
 friend to make the necessary inquiries. Fortu- 
 nately he was in, and disengaged. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Grant " said he, as the
 
 148 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 minister entered panting -with excitement, and 
 the heat of the -weather. " You seem hurried 
 and agitated, sit down and rest yourself." 
 
 " I am a good deal agitated, Mr. Ray, I con- 
 fess," answered the benevolent Mr. Grant, " for 
 I have come to make certain inquiries of you, 
 upon your answers to which a great deal of hap- 
 piness or misery depends." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Mr. Ray, " and, pray, 
 what are these questions 1 I am all attention, 
 and will answer them to the very best of my 
 abilities." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Grant, "to come to the 
 point at once, do you recollect having mention- 
 ed to me sometime since, two young friends of 
 yours, merchants and Scotchmen, who had given 
 up business in this city and removed to St. 
 Louis ?" 
 
 " Certainly !" replied Mr. Ray, " but what of 
 them ? You are not acquainted with them ?" 
 
 " No !" answered Mr. Grant; " but I will ex- 
 plain matters by-and-by. Only tell me instant- 
 ly, what were their names." 
 
 " Their names were Edward Campbell and 
 Maurice Logan," answered Mr. Ray, thinking
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 149 
 
 Mr. Grant a little beside himself to be so im- 
 patient. 
 
 " Thank God !" exclaimed the good minister 
 starting from his seat. " Thank God, it must be 
 they! Now answer me two questions more. 
 Where are they now, and when have you heard 
 from them ?' 
 
 " They are probably on their way from St. 
 Louis to New York. I had a letter from them 
 a month since, making many anxious inquiries 
 whether their friends had arrived, and saying 
 that they should probably be here by the first 
 of September. And now, if I have satisfied you, 
 tell me why you inquire." 
 
 Mr. Grant then related to his friend, the 
 main incidents of the story he had just received 
 from the lips of Mrs. Campbell, and stated his 
 own convictions that this unfortunate family 
 were the very persons for whom his young friend 
 had been so long anxiously looking. 
 
 " To be sure they must be !" answered Mr. 
 Ray. " But what can be the reason I never 
 heard of their arrival before ? For Campbell 
 expressly stated to me a few days before their 
 departure for the west, that he had written to 
 13*
 
 150 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 his parents, acquainting them with their change 
 of residence, and desiring them in the most par- 
 ticular manner to apply to me immediately on 
 their arrival, as I had promised to take charge 
 of their affairs, and attend to providing them 
 with pleasant rooms and other accommodations 
 until they should come on to meet them this 
 month. It must be that their letters were never 
 received. How unfortunate ! Here they have 
 been suffering for months all the miseries of 
 poverty, sickness, and death, and, worse than all, 
 the torturing suspicion that they were forsaken by 
 their own child. I do not wonder the old man has 
 nearly lost his senses under such a load of accu- 
 mulated miseries. It is astonishing how the 
 mother has been sustained through it all! she 
 must be a superior woman! And then that 
 sweet Rose, too ! Is there any chance for her, 
 think you ? Will she ever get well ? If she 
 does not, I am sure I do not know what poor 
 Logan will do. He is such an affectionate dis- 
 positioned fellow, it will certainly break his 
 heart. If it does not I will never forgive him. 
 Did you say that you knew a physician who you 
 thought could cure her ?"
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 151 
 
 " I did," answered Mr. Grant, smiling at the 
 eager loquacity of his friend, " and I am sure 
 she may be cured. The physician I allude to 
 had a case, I think, precisely like hers sometime 
 since, and the patient is now as well as ever. 
 But now that you have answered my inquiries 
 so much to my satisfaction, I must go and see if 
 he can go with me to visit poor Rose this even- 
 ing or to-morrow morning. And what think 
 you, will it be best to acquaint them with the 
 encouraging prospect there is of the speedy re- 
 turn of their son and Logan ? There can be no 
 danger of a mistake, can there ?" 
 
 " Tell them, certainly ; there can be no mis- 
 take whatever. And here is the letter for them, 
 which Campbell left with me when he went 
 away. It has been a great trouble to me to see 
 it in my desk so long, I assure you, and glad am 
 I to have an opportunity to transfer it to the 
 hands for which it was destined. And now I 
 think of it, if you will stop a few moments with 
 me at the Astor house, while I look over their 
 books to see whether a friend whom I am ex- 
 pecting from Chicago, and who always puts up 
 there, has arrived, I will accompany you to the
 
 152 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 Campbells'. I should like to have the pleasure 
 of delivering the letter myself, and witnessing 
 the rapture of the old people, and the silent joy 
 of poor Rose, when she learns that Logan is 
 faithful, and that she will probably soon see 
 him again." 
 
 Mr. Grant readily acceded to the proposal of 
 the good merchant, and the two gentlemen were 
 soon on their way to the Astor house. On en- 
 tering, Mr. Grant sat down to run his eye over 
 a paper, while Mr. Ray was soon engaged 
 in examining a register of the daily arrivals 
 at the Astor house. He was just rising, with 
 an expression of disappointment, from his 
 search, when his eye was attracted by some- 
 thing new, and he suddenly exclaimed, " What's 
 this ? ' Campbell & Logan, merchants, St. Louis.' 
 As I live, friend Grant, they're here now. 
 They have just arrived, this very afternoon, and 
 here are their names, in black and white, on the 
 register." 
 
 Mr. Grant started from his seat, and looking 
 over the shoulder of his companion, " Thank 
 God!" he exclaimed, "here they are, sure 
 enough ! I wonder if they are in ?" 

 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 153 
 
 "That question is soon decided," said Mr. 
 Ray, suddenly turning to the barkeeper; "Are 
 Campbell & Logan, from St. Louis, in 1" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 " They are, sir," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Show us their room, then, we wish to see 
 them," said Mr. Ray, motioning toward the 
 door. 
 
 " The gentlemen are fatigued, sir," replied 
 a servant in attendance, " and gave particular 
 directions that they should not be disturbed till 
 supper. 
 
 " Never mind ! never mind !" said Mr. Ray, 
 continuing to move toward the door. "We are 
 intimate friends, and will be responsible for your 
 breach of orders. Show us the way !" 
 
 The servant bowed, and, followed by the two 
 gentlemen, instantly led the way up the grand 
 staircase, and pausing before a door in the 
 third story, gave two or three gentle knocks. 
 "Friends, sir," said the servant, bowing to a 
 gentleman who immediately opened it. 
 
 The two gentlemen entered the room, and 
 Mr. Ray saluting his young friends with all the 
 cordiality and frankness of old and familiar ac-
 
 154 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 quaintance, was warmly and delightedly wel- 
 comed. When the first friendly greetings were 
 over, Mr. Ray presented Mr. Grant as a gentle- 
 man in whom they would soon be much in- 
 terested. 
 
 They were noble-looking young men, and in 
 the fine, bland countenance of the taller of the 
 two, Mr. Grant had no difficulty in recognising 
 the brother of poor Rose. There was the same 
 soft and confiding expression in his blue eyes 
 which characterized hers, and when he smiled 
 his features were lighted up with the same rnild 
 beauty. The other and the younger of them, 
 would, probably, by most persons have been 
 considered the handsomest. His countenance 
 was of a far more intellectual cast, than that 
 of his companion, and the bold yet tender 
 black eye, and high, broad forehead, around 
 which the short, black curls were thickly clus- 
 tered, indicated a character precisely fitted to 
 captivate so soft and confiding a creature as was 
 Rose Campbell. 
 
 " You are the very person we wished to see," 
 said Mr. Campbell, again warmly shaking the 
 hand of Mr. Ray. " To what fortunate event
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 155 
 
 are we indebted for so early a visit ? We were 
 on the point of seeking you." 
 
 " Indeed," replied his friend, " I must confess 
 you are indebted to accident, rather than design 
 for our visit, as it was quite impossible for us to 
 be aware of your arrival. Though if I did not 
 know that the age of miracles had gone by, I 
 should be somewhat inclined to ascribe our 
 meeting you at the present juncture to some 
 supernatural agency. The fact is, you are of all 
 persons in the world, the very ones we were 
 most wishing to see. You could not have come 
 at a more fortunate moment." 
 
 " And what is the particular reason for our 
 presence being so very desirable just now ? I 
 hope it is, as I suspect, that you bring us news 
 of my parents." 
 
 " You are right in your conjecture," answer- 
 ed Mr. Ray. " I have just learned from my 
 friend, Mr. Grant, who discovered them to-day 
 by a singular chance, that they are in the city, 
 and have been here since last December. I can- 
 not now give you a history of their sufferings 
 and disasters, but they have passed through 
 many, and of almost every character. It seems,
 
 156 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 your letters, announcing your removal to the 
 west, were never received, consequently, being 
 unable to find you, or learn anything from you, 
 they were placed in a most awkward predica- 
 ment. They were long buoyed up with the 
 hope that you would soon make your appear- 
 ance, but that hope at last died away, and they 
 felt as if you had forsaken them. This and his 
 other calamities, advanced as he is in years, 
 have almost broken the poor old man's heart, 
 and they have gone well nigh to the breaking of 
 your sister's. She is now very sick, and has 
 been so for a long time, though my friend con- 
 siders her case not a hopeless one, and knows 
 a physician, who, he feels confident, will under- 
 take her case. 
 
 " Added to these troubles, have been still great- 
 er ones. They were shipwrecked on their pas- 
 sage, and lost everything, except a little money, 
 which was hardly sufficient to save them from 
 starvation. Your elder sister, too frail to endure 
 the fatigue and exposure, consequent upon the 
 long and violent storm through which they 
 passed, died before they reached Nevf York, and 
 her youngest child has since followed her. Borne
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 157 
 
 down by so many sorrows, without friends, and 
 without hope, you must therefore not be surprised 
 should you find them sadly and in every way 
 changed." 
 
 The merchant, paused in his recital, too much 
 affected to say more. The young men had lis- 
 tened to him with equally strong, but variously 
 expressed emotions. The moment he had ended, 
 Logan started from his seat, and abruptly seizing 
 his hat, " Let us go to them, this moment, Ed- 
 ward !" he exclaimed, the tears rolling down 
 his manly cheeks. " To think my poor Rose 
 should be lying sick and forsaken in a foreign 
 land, with no friend to come near her, or to 
 cheer her heart, when it was wrung with the 
 thought of my desertion ; it was too, too cruel. 
 Oh, come, Edward, come now ; I shall never 
 forgive myself if I lose another moment. I 
 long to ask Rose if she can forgive my apparent 
 desertion," and, grasping the arm of Edward, 
 he was dragging him from the room. 
 
 " Stop, stop !" cried Mr. Ray, seizing his 
 arm, and forcibly detaining him, " you do not 
 yet know where to find her, and if you did, re- 
 member how sick she is, and how long she has 
 14
 
 158 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 been so. In her present weak and nervous state, 
 the agitation occasioned by the sudden surprise 
 might prove her death-warrant. You must not 
 burst in upon her without some previous prepar- 
 ation. The old gentleman, too, is unable to 
 bear the least abruptness. No, it will not do. 
 Mr. Grant and myself were just on our way to 
 visit them, when we accidentally learned your ar- 
 rival. And I think, nay, I am sure, Edward is 
 reasonable enough to agree with me, that the 
 better way will be to fulfil that intention, and 
 break the matter to them by degrees, for too 
 great joy can kill as well as too great grief. 
 You must both be satisfied to remain here, until 
 my return, which shall be as soon as possible." 
 
 " I suppose you are right," said Edward, 
 pacing the room with quick and agitated steps, 
 " though how shall I be able to submit 7 Good 
 God ! to think what dreadful calamities may re- 
 sult from the smallest accident ! Who would 
 have believed that the miscarriage of a single 
 letter, would occasion such accumulated miseries 
 to a whole family ! My poor, poor mother 1" 
 and his voice grew choked and husky, "my dear 
 old father ! my dear, sweet little Rose !"
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 159 
 
 Mr. Grant and the merchant waited until the 
 first passionate emotion of their friends had 
 somewhat subsided, and then, after a few admo- 
 nitions on the virtue of patience, which were, 
 as admonitions at such times usually are, on 
 Logan particularly, thrown away, they departed. 
 They soon reached the humble dwelling of the 
 poor family, and gently as they broke the joyful 
 intelligence of the arrival of the long-sought 
 friends, it was almost too much for them. The 
 poor old father was entirely overcome. For a 
 long time he could only rock himself backward 
 and forward in his chair, and weep and sob like 
 a grieved and heart-burdened child. " Thank 
 God !" said he, at last, in a broken voice, " my 
 son is not a heartless ingrate ! I could have 
 sooner borne to lay him in the grave, than to have 
 known him capable of forsaking his father and 
 mother in their old age, and in a foreign land ! 
 Thank God, he is not an ingrate !" 
 
 The mother's joy was expressed only by 
 silent but blissful tears, while Rose, after the 
 first speechless moment of surprise was over, 
 slid softly and unobserved from her bed, and 
 raising herself with difficulty on her knees,
 
 160 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 poured out her gratitude in joyful tears and 
 thanksgiving to God. 
 
 The careful mother soon lifted the overjoyed 
 girl once more into her bed, and gently kissing 
 her smiling and blushing cheek, " Dear girl, if 
 you were only well," said she, "our cup of 
 happiness would be too full," and with a sigh, 
 half pleasure and half pain, she turned away to 
 make room for little James, who for two or 
 three minutes had stood looking at the trans- 
 ported Rose, in utter bewilderment at her un- 
 usual energy, and look of happiness. 
 
 " What is it, aunt Rosey, dear ?" whispered 
 the little fellow, as he softly crept to the pillow 
 of his beautiful relation. 
 
 " Uncle Edward has come, dear," she answer- 
 ed affectionately, kissing his little round cheek, 
 as with a smile and a blush, she suppressed 
 another name that was trembling on her lips. 
 
 "Uncle Edward?" he exclaimed, "and I 
 hope our Maurice Logan, too ! for then you 
 will get well, and grandpa will get well, and 
 we shall all be so happy !" 
 
 " We shall indeed be happy then !" said the 
 grandmother, drawing the little boy to her side, 

 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 161 
 
 then turning to Mr. Ray, " when shall we see 
 them?" she inquired, "we cannot wait long; I 
 am sure the sight of them would be the best 
 medicine for us all." 
 
 "That is just what I think," replied the kind- 
 hearted merchant, " and as it is best while we 
 are about it, to have as many good things as 
 possible, if Mr. Grant will go and bring his 
 physician, that we may have the assurance of 
 this dear girl's recovery, I will go down to the 
 Astor house and bring mine. And then we will 
 all be happy together." 
 
 Away then went the two friends once more, 
 and Mr. Grant fortunately finding the physician 
 at home, he was by the bedside of Rose in a 
 very short time. After a careful and thorough 
 examination of the patient, his decision, for 
 which all were waiting in anxious silence, was 
 pronounced. 
 
 " The disease," said he, " under which this 
 poor girl has been so long suffering, is, though 
 an uncommon, a plain and by no means a very 
 difficult one. It is a local affection of the spine, 
 which acting upon the nerves in its vicinity, has 
 deranged the whole nervous system, and oc- 
 14*
 
 162 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 casions the spasmodic tremors under which she 
 labors. I will undertake to cure her in two 
 months." 
 
 " Thank God ! for he is merciful !" exclaim- 
 ed the father, clasping his hands with a long- 
 drawn and deep inspiration, " the night is pas- 
 sing away, and the morning begins to shine 
 forth !" and sinking back in his chair, he lifted 
 up his eyes and seemed lost in silent devotion. 
 
 But the long-tried and almost wornout mother, 
 eagerly snatching the hand of the physician, 
 wrung it convulsively, then throwing her arms 
 around her suffering daughter, wept with all the 
 abandonment of hysterical emotion. 
 
 " Mother, dear mother !" said the poor girl 
 vainly endeavoring to throw her own shaking 
 arm around her parent's neck; "think of all 
 the happiness in store for us! Edward and 
 Maurice come back, my own health and strength 
 restored, and all the comforts of a plentiful home 
 once more ! Let us forget the sorrows of the 
 past, and think only of the joys of the future. 
 Our heavenly Father is smiling upon us now, 
 dear mother, and let us thank him and be 
 grateful!"
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 163 
 
 " I do ! I do ! my child !" sobbed out the 
 weeping mother, " it is his goodness which oc- 
 casions these tears ! I have borne all the sor- 
 rows which were laid upon me without a mur- 
 mur, but I feel now as if joy were breaking my 
 heart !" 
 
 The good physician dashed away the drops 
 that were gathering in his eyes, and lifting the 
 sobbing mother from the bed, " Come, come," 
 said he, " I cannot permit this any longer. We 
 must think of the health of my patient, which 
 this agitation is by no means calculated to 
 improve !" 
 
 The thought of her child was enough for the 
 mother, and, with a strong effort at self-control, 
 she instantly subdued her emotion, and in a few 
 minutes was composed and calm as ever. The 
 physician, then giving his attention to Rose, 
 applied such remedies and gave such directions 
 as he deemed necessary, and kindly bidding the 
 now happy family farewell, took his leave.
 
 164 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy." 
 
 HARDLY had the kind-hearted physician left 
 the humble dwelling of Mr. Campbell, when Mr. 
 Ray and his two young friends entered. But to 
 describe the meeting of the long-separated 
 family, is beyond the powers of my feeble pen. 
 Those who, in a foreign land, have experienced 
 all the varied misfortunes which it had been the 
 lot of this devoted family to pass through, and 
 who have withered under all that "heart-sick 
 hope deferred," which, worse than the darkest 
 certainty, had so long weighed down the souls 
 of the almost despairing parents, and the suffer- 
 ing Rose, can alone imagine its mingled joy and 
 pain. 
 
 "My son!" "father!" "mother!" "dearest 
 Rose !" were the brief but expressive ejacula- 
 tions, which burst simultaneously from the lips 
 of all.
 
 THE LONELY BUKIAL. 165 
 
 "Let me look at him!" exclaimed the poor 
 old father, as with a weak and trembling hand, 
 he grasped the shoulder of his long-sought son ; 
 and holding him at arm's length, long and ear- 
 nestly his dim eyes wandered over his ruddy and 
 handsome features. " Let me see what changes 
 these three long, weary years have wrought in 
 him. Let me see if the fatal hand which has 
 been so unsparingly at work with my other 
 children, has past him by unscathed. Ah," con- 
 tinued he, his voice softening into tenderness, 
 while the strong workings of his countenance, 
 betrayed the inward strivings of his heart, " here 
 is the same soft blue eye, and bright cheek, the 
 same tender smile! Time and fortune have 
 dealt more gently with you, my son, than with 
 us. But, blessed be God ! we shall see happier 
 days ! Misfortune, I trust, has expended her 
 crudest shafts." 
 
 " Let me too see him !" exclaimed the fond 
 mother, impatiently throwing her arms around 
 the neck of her son, " let me find him but un- 
 changed in heart and health, and I will murmur 
 at no change in his person." But, as she ten- 
 derly gazed on his manly and beaming face,
 
 166 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 the proud and loving expression which shone in 
 her eye, told how far removed from indifference 
 was the feeling with which she regarded his 
 bright and glowing beauty. But, as she fondly 
 examined each w r ell-remembered lineament, the 
 look of pride gave place to one of mournful re- 
 gret, for the memory of the past was stealing 
 slowly back upon her heart. "You are the 
 same," she exclaimed in a subdued and touching 
 
 voice, "I see no change in you, but, with us 
 
 The links of our household chain have been 
 rudely broken since you left us, my son, and one 
 who would have joyed to see this day, has gone 
 from us. Agnes, our poor Agnes, as your friends 
 have probably told you, lies buried in the sea, 
 and her second-born has found an early grave 
 in one of the churchyards of this city. But God, 
 who does all things well, saw that it was good 
 for us to be thus afflicted, and though my heart 
 has bent beneath the blow, until I thought it 
 must surely break, I have forborne to murmur 
 at the bereavement. But I will not sadden you 
 with such remembrances, when we ought to 
 think of nothing but joy, especially as poor Rose
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 167 
 
 has been patiently waiting so long for an em- 
 brace. See how happy she looks !" 
 
 Rose was indeed happy too happy to give 
 utterance to her joy in words. She lay on her 
 pillow, her face all covered with smiles and 
 tears, fondly looking up into the eyes of Mau- 
 rice, who sat bending over her, one arm encir- 
 cling the neck of the beautiful girl, while the 
 other one served as a resting-place for his own 
 face, which presented quite as much the appear- 
 ance of an April day, as that of his more gentle 
 companion. 
 
 " Dear Rose !" whispered the young man, 
 softly touching his lips to the faintly blushing 
 cheek of the sick girl. " Dear, suffering Rose, 
 to meet you after so long a separation, and to 
 meet you thus to think how you have been 
 borne down by the united miseries of poverty, 
 sickness, desertion, and the death of those most 
 near and dear to you oh, it almost unmans 
 me. How cruel I must have appeared to you ! 
 How can I ever compensate you for all your 
 sufferings on my account, to speak nothing of 
 those endured from other causes 1 I feel as if I 
 had been the guilty occasion of all, by not re-
 
 168 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 maining in New York until your arrival. Why 
 did we trust to the uncertainty of letters, when 
 the welfare of you and yours was at stake ? 
 Oh, Rose, tell me, can you ever forgive me !" 
 
 " Do not speak so, dear Maurice !" answered 
 the weeping but happy girl, as with her own 
 trembling arm she affectionately clung to the 
 manly one which still encircled her neck. " Do 
 not speak in this manner, for you are not to 
 blame. It was all the miserable result of an 
 unfortunate combination of circumstances. Even 
 if you were to blame, how could you doubt my 
 forgiveness 1" 
 
 MauYice was just bending his cheek toward 
 the lips of Rose, to beg the seal of her forgive- 
 ness, when Edward laid his hand on his shoulder, 
 and gently putting him aside, "Come, come, 
 Maurice !" said he, with an arch smile, " you 
 have had this dear girl to yourself as long as I 
 can spare her. Give me an opportunity now to 
 whisper soft things in her ear." 
 
 Maurice instantly resigned his seat, and Ed- 
 ward enveloping the slight form of his sister in 
 a loose wrapper gently lifted her from the bed 
 and placing her on his knees, rocked her in his
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 169 
 
 arms as tenderly and affectionately as a mother 
 rocks her first-born child to rest. 
 
 "Rosy, dear Rosy," he exclaimed, fondly 
 kissing the delicate cheek which confidingly re- 
 posed within an inch of his own. "Does not 
 this remind you of " auld lyne syne j" when 
 we strayed together among the banks and braes 
 of bonny Scotland 1 How many times have I 
 taken you in my arms to carry you across some 
 brawling little stream which your timid feet were 
 afraid to ford, and how many times have I placed 
 you on my knees to rest you, when you were weary 
 with too long a ramble among our own dear hills 
 and heather. Those were blessed times, dear 
 sister, and we shall never see them again, but 
 we will try to be as happy in an adopted, as we 
 were in our own native country. I have a 
 pleasant home at the west, and our dear father 
 and mother have promised to come and enjoy it, 
 and I hope with the assistance of Maurice, to 
 persuade you to share it also. You will soon be 
 well again, or there is no truth in doctors. And 
 between us both we will teach you to love your 
 new home as fondly as you loved dear old Scot- 
 land. 
 
 15
 
 170 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 " Any home would be happy with my father 
 and mother and you and Maurice," she whis- 
 pered in a lower tone. " You recollect the song 
 we used to sing : 
 
 " "T is home where'er the heart is, 
 Where'er its loved ones dwell ; 
 
 In cities or in cottages, 
 Thronged streets or mossy dell.' 
 
 "Give your poor Rose but the assurance that 
 we shall be together, that we shall not be separ- 
 ated again, and she will be happy in the rudest 
 cabin of the west." 
 
 " That is my own Rose !" said Edward, with 
 a look of deep affection. " There spake the same 
 loving girl that used to hang around my neck 
 when we were children. We never will be 
 separated again, dear sister, Maurice and I have 
 wealth enough for us all. We are in a highly 
 lucrative business, and, by the blessing of God, 
 we can place those we love where poverty and 
 distress shall not assail them again. But I see 
 that Maurice is beginning to look envious of me, 
 and so I think it will be best to transfer you once 
 more to your couch." And with another affec-
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 171 
 
 tionate kiss, Edward gently deposited his pre- 
 cious burden on her little cot. 
 
 " And now," said Edward, " we must endeavor 
 to find a dwelling more comfortable and airy 
 than this, and one too that will accommodate a 
 larger family, for we do not intend to be separ- 
 ated from you for a single night, until Rose is 
 well, and we have you all safe under our own 
 roof in St. Louis ; and you must know, that we 
 have one of the prettiest little fairy spots in all 
 the west. Two charming cottages built just alike, 
 and I suppose it would not require a witch to 
 guess who will be mistress of one," said he, with 
 an arch smile, " a spacious and delightful garden 
 attached to each, in which we have already 
 growing, the broom, the heather, the blue-bell, 
 and other Scotch flowers enough to cheat one 
 into the belief that he is in a mimic Scotland. 
 Father will be in paradise when he is at work 
 among those dear old native plants, and the 
 smell of the fragrant heather will bring back the 
 roses again to the cheeks of this poor pining 
 girl" 
 
 The young men soon sallied out, and, assisted 
 by Mr. Grant, succeeded without difficulty in
 
 172 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 finding handsome and commodious rooms already 
 furnished, to which the united family the next 
 day removed. Rose bore the fatigues of the re- 
 moval without the least injury, and, under the 
 skilful treatment of her physician, aided by a 
 salubrious atmosphere and a buoyant feeling 
 of happiness to which she had long been a 
 stranger, rapidly improved in health and strength. 
 
 " I shall have to divide the credit of my patient's 
 recovery with you," said he, one day to Maurice 
 and Edward. " Love and happiness are doing as 
 much for her, as all my medicine. But never 
 mind, I will not quarrel with you for usurping 
 my profession ; I shall be but too happy to see 
 the dear girl restored to health again." 
 
 " Ah, happiness is a great medicine, as I can 
 "attest," said the old gentleman, who had been a 
 quiet listener to the remarks of the physician ; 
 " I feel that I am growing hale and sound again 
 beneath its influence. I think I shall soon be as 
 young as any of you, except it be my little 
 Rose. Why she begins to look as blooming as 
 any bonny highland flower in all Scotland. Well, 
 doctor,! must confess I feel it my duty to retract 
 some of the expressions I have used in relation
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 173 
 
 to the physicians of this country. Every time I 
 have looked at Rose for the last ten days, my 
 conscience has goaded me for them." 
 
 " Do not put yourself to any trouble about 
 it," said the physician, laughing, " I see that I 
 have achieved a victory over your prejudices, 
 and that is enough for so unambitious a man as 
 myself." 
 
 " Well," replied the old man, with a satisfied 
 look, " you are welcome to that victory, since 
 you have cured poor Rose. Come Rosy, dear, 
 let me see you walk as you did this morning." 
 
 Maurice instantly sprang to the side of the 
 happy girl, and gently passing one arm around 
 her waist, assisted her still unsteady steps, while 
 she walked several times up and down the 
 room. 
 
 " See, dear father; see, doctor," said she, with 
 the look and voice of a delighted child, " I can 
 walk as well as ever, with the assistance of the 
 strong arm of Maurice," and she pressed the 
 arm which encircled her, affectionately against 
 her heart. " And see how steady and firm my 
 arm is too !" she continued, taking up a glass of 
 15*
 
 174 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 water, which stood near, and holding it out 
 without spilling a drop. 
 
 " Ah, I see," said the good physician, " you 
 are giving me a very palpable hint, that my 
 services may soon be dispensed with. But I 
 shall come to see you at any rate as long as I 
 can, and so good-by for this afternoon," and 
 taking up his hat, he departed.
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 175 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "Young, chaste, and lovely pleased, yet half afraid, 
 Before yon altar droops a plighted maid, 
 Clad in her bridal robe of taintless white, 
 Dumb with the scene, yet trepid with delight ; 
 Frequent she turns her beauty-beaming eye, 
 Dimmed with a tear of happiness gone by ! 
 Then coyly views, in youth's commanding pride, 
 Her own admired one panting by her side ; 
 Like lilies bending from the noontide breeze, 
 Her bashful eyelids droop beneath his gaze ; 
 While love and homage lend their blissful power, 
 'And shed a halo round the marriage hour." 
 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 IT was a warm, bright morning, in the mid- 
 dle of beautiful October. The sun was stream- 
 ing in through the casement of a pleasant parlor, 
 
 in H street, which was redolent of the 
 
 sweet odors exhaled from numerous charming 
 exotics, which graced the flower-stands, station- 
 ed under each window. In front of the house 
 were two large horse-chestnut trees, whose rich.
 
 176 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 autumn-tinted foliage was just beginning to 
 grow sere, and fall rustling to the pavement. 
 
 It was the residence of the good physican, and 
 within that parlor was congregated a little group 
 of staid and well-dressed persons, the parents of 
 the owner of the dwelling, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Campbell whose countenances seemed beam- 
 ing with happiness and expectation. They were 
 apparently awaiting the appearance of some im- 
 portant addition to their company, while now 
 and then, a gay, sweet-looking young girl, of 
 seventeen, the daughter of the physician, would 
 flit into the room, and after glancing around for 
 a moment, hurry out again, as if on business of 
 the most mysterious importance. 
 
 "Mr. Grant is late," said Mr. Campbell, rising, 
 and walking to the window. " I wonder what 
 detains him." 
 
 These w T ords were hardly uttered when the 
 door-bell announced a new-comer, and Mr. 
 Grant entered the room, his benevolent coun- 
 tenance radiant with pleasure. He begged par- 
 don for being rather later than he had intended, 
 and, cordially and affectionately saluting the 
 company, took his seat by Mrs. Campbell.
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 177 
 
 " The day is come, then, my dear Mrs. Camp- 
 bell," said he, " for your departure for the west. 
 Well, God speed you on your journey ! I feel 
 that there is little which should make New York 
 a happy place to you, and while I regret your 
 departure, I cannot but congratulate you on the 
 circumstance. You are going to a happy home, 
 and I have no doubt that the journey will com- 
 plete the restoration of your daughter's health, 
 which is already far better than that of half the 
 young ladies of our city, who call themselves 
 well. October is generally a most delightful 
 season for travelling, and this year uncommonly 
 so. But I believe," said he, rising from his seat, 
 " our young friends are coming." 
 
 A slight bustle was heard in the back parlor, 
 when the folding-doors were thrown suddenly 
 open, and the physician appeared, ushering a 
 bridal party into the room. As they advanced 
 to the upper end of the apartment, a low mur- 
 mur of admiration at the loveliness of the bride, 
 ran round the circle. She was still delicate from 
 recent illness, but there was, nevertheless, a soft 
 glow on her cheek, which indicated renovated 
 health and vigor. She was modestly attired in
 
 178 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 white satin, which fitted closely to the graceful 
 proportions of her figure ; a wreath of orange 
 flowers, according well with the almost infantile 
 beauty of her countenance, encircled her head, 
 while a white moss rose, scarcely fairer than its 
 beautiful resting-place, trembled on her throb- 
 bing bosom. 
 
 She was leaning on the arm of her affianced 
 husband, and her soft blue eyes fell, and a blush 
 of ingenuous modesty suffused her delicate cheek, 
 as she observed the admiring gaze of all turned 
 upon her. She was followed by the bridesmaid, 
 the fair girl we have already mentioned, who 
 was attired precisely like herself, and as she 
 timidly advanced, clinging to the arm of Edward 
 Campbell, a more interesting looking creature 
 can scarcely be conceived. 
 
 They took their stations at the upper end of 
 the apartment, and Mr. Grant, after a short and 
 impressive prayer, pronounced the service which 
 was to unite in the bonds of matrimony, Maurice 
 Logan and the young and gentle Rose Camp- 
 bell. When the minister solemnly proposed the 
 question, "Maurice Logan, you receive Rose 
 Campbell, whom you hold by the right hand, as
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 179 
 
 your lawful and wedded wife, and as such you 
 promise to love, honor, respect, and support her, 
 and to perform toward her all the duties of a 
 kind, faithful, and affectionate husband, so long 
 as you both shall live?" there was a deep 
 devotedness in the look which he bent upon the 
 trusting and gentle creature at his side, and in 
 the intonations of his voice, as he distinctly and 
 fervently pronounced "I do!" which spoke 
 volumes of truth and affection. 
 
 The ceremony was soon completed, and fer- 
 vent and heart-felt were the wishes which were 
 poured forth for the happiness of the newly 
 wedded pair ; wishes which were received by 
 Rose with mingled smiles and tears, and by 
 Maurice with grateful and manly dignity. All 
 was joy and gladness, and in all that happy 
 group there was but one sad heart, and one 
 melancholy brow. It was that of Mrs. Camp- 
 bell. She indeed rejoiced in the happiness of 
 her gentle Rose, but mingled with that joy was 
 one bitter recollection which she strove in vain 
 to keep back. She remembered the equally 
 joyous bridals of her other daughter that 
 daughter whose prospects for long life and hap-
 
 180 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 piness had been unshadowed by a single doubt, 
 but who widowed and weary-hearted, had, in a 
 few short years, found an untimely and an un- 
 recorded grave in the fathomless depths of the 
 melancholy sea. 
 
 She was sitting thus buried in the memories 
 of the past, when Edward stole softly to her 
 side, and requested her to take a short walk 
 with him and his father. Wondering whither 
 their steps were to be directed, she instantly 
 complied, and they were soon in the open street, 
 and bending their course toward the churchyard, 
 in which reposed that dear child, whom in lone- 
 liness and sorrow, they had but a short time 
 since, sadly laid in its last earthly dwelling. 
 
 " Dear mother," said Edward, " there is one 
 spot which I knew you would like to visit be- 
 fore you left this part of the country, and as we 
 go this afternoon, this is our only opportunity. 
 I would not sadden poor Rose on her bridal 
 morning, and therefore gave her no hint of our 
 walk. And I should have felt some hesitation 
 in taking you to so sad a place, but I saw by 
 the mournful abstraction of your manner, that 
 your thoughts were already there."
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 181 
 
 " You were right, dear Edward," replied the 
 mother, with a grateful tear, " I was indeed 
 musing on the melancholy past, and meditating 
 how I should contrive to visit our little Sidney's 
 grave, without casting a shadow over the bright 
 sunshine of happiness we have left behind us. 
 And I thank you for the affectionate considera- 
 tion which has made the task so easy." 
 
 They had by this time reached the church- 
 yard, and the sexton, who was already waiting 
 for them, respectfully opened the gate, and bade 
 them enter. They directed their steps toward 
 the well-remembered corner, which was conse- 
 crated in the hearts of the aged pair, as the 
 resting-place of their child, but what was their 
 surprise, as they drew near, to perceive that a 
 plain white marble obelisk had been erected 
 over the grave. Ijwas surrounded by a neat 
 iron railing, and fresn green sods covered the 
 little mound. With beating hearts and over- 
 flowing eyes, they approached it, and, through 
 the tear-drops that almost blinded their vision, 
 read the following inscription : 
 16
 
 182 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 ERECTED 
 
 BY A BROTHER, 
 TO THE MEMORY OF AGNES M'INTYRE, 
 
 A NATIVE OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 WHO DIED AT SEA, DECEMBER 19, 1838. 
 AGED TWENTY-THREE YEARS. 
 
 AND TO HER INFANT SON, 
 
 Who departed this life, Jlpril 5th, 1839, and is now resting 
 
 beneath this stone. 
 
 Their bodies are separated on earth, but their spirits are 
 united in heaven. 
 
 The hearts of the long-tried mourners were 
 too full for utterance. They turned a look of 
 gratitude upon their son, and sinking on their 
 knees by the side of the little grave, poured out 
 a tribute of thanksgiving to God, for the many 
 blessings yet spared to them ; then pressing their 
 lips to the smooth and verdant mound they rose 
 and, with one sad farewell to its slumbering 
 tenant, turned away and left the spot for ever.
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 183 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Westward Ho!" 
 
 IT was a sorrowful hour for many hearts, the 
 one which witnessed the departure of the 
 Campbells for the city of the west, which was 
 destined to be their future home. And there 
 were many who would fain have deferred the 
 evil hour, and have detained them altogether, 
 for though their acquaintance with their new 
 friends had been but of brief duration, and form- 
 ed under circumstances, which to the worldly- 
 minded would have seemed anything but favor- 
 able, and would in all probability have present- 
 ed an inseparable barrier to the intimacy of 
 friendship, yet were there those around the 
 fibres of whose hearts they had so closely 
 entwined themselves, that separation seemed 
 almost too painful to be borne.
 
 184 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 Among them was the gentle daughter of the 
 good physician the fair girl who had officia- 
 ted as bridesmaid, on the eventful occasion of 
 the marriage of Rose Campbell. 
 
 Mary Grafton was an affectionate and un- 
 sophisticated creature, possessing all the kind- 
 heartedness of her father, united with just 
 enough romance of character to incline her to 
 an admiration of every person or thing which 
 was a little out of the usual order of common 
 every-day life. When, therefore, her father 
 related to her his call to visit the poor Scotch 
 girl, and the interest she and her parents had 
 excited in him, the imagination of Mary was 
 instantly and powerfully aroused, and she was 
 seized with a strong desire to visit and befriend 
 the suffering invalid. This desire she was soon 
 resolved on gratifying. She accordingly, a few 
 days after, accompanied her father on one of 
 his morning visits to the poor girl, and finding 
 in her a being precisely suited to her own tastes 
 and feelings she had given her all her warm 
 heart, and loved and treated her with the affec- 
 tion of a sister. As may be supposed Rose was 
 not backward in returning the affection of her
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 185 
 
 new and disinterested friend, and next to her 
 own family and Maurice, she loved her better 
 than any being in the world. 
 
 During her long and daily visits to Rose, 
 Mary had constant opportunities for observing 
 the amiable and affectionate disposition of Ed- 
 ward. She witnessed his unceasing devotion to 
 his sister, and admired the cheerful tenderness 
 with which, hour after hour, and day after clay, 
 he watched over and tended her. It was not in 
 the nature of so young and susceptible a creature 
 to behold such virtues unmoved, and when ad- 
 miration for the manly beauty of his person 
 was united with that of his other qualities, what 
 wonder that a feeling for the young man, 
 stronger than the warmest friendship, stole into 
 her youthful heart. But such was the case, and 
 long before the day which was to witness the 
 marriage and departure of Rose, the idea of Ed- 
 ward Campbell had assumed an ascendency in 
 the mind of Mary over every other thought and 
 feeling of her existence. 
 
 The time for their departure at length arrived, 
 and as the gentle-hearted girl hung on the neck 
 of Rose, entreating her to write often and not 
 16*
 
 186 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 to forget her, who shall say how many of tl 
 bitter tears which were poured out on the bosom 
 of the sister, were shed for her affectionate and 
 manly brother 1 Rose was as much overcome 
 at parting as her friends, and many were her 
 assurances of unchangeable affection, and her 
 promises of constant remembrance and frequent 
 correspondence. 
 
 Mary had taken leave of all her other friends, 
 and turned to say farewell to Edward. But as 
 she took his hand to speak the parting wishes, 
 the color faded from her cheek, and the words 
 died away on her lips. After a momentary 
 and unavailing struggle to overcome her emo- 
 tions, she raised her eyes to his, and saw that his 
 lips were also quivering with a vain attempt to 
 speak, and that his eyes were suffused with tears. 
 But other eyes were upon them and while his 
 more yielding companion finished by bursting 
 into tears, the young man by a strong effort 
 mastered his emotion, and wringing the little 
 trembling hand, he still held with one that, 
 trembled with equal violence, he faltered out, 
 " Mary, do not forget me !" and pressing a kiss 
 upon lips which were not withdrawn, he darted
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 187 
 
 from the house, ascended the carriage in which 
 his friends were already seated, and was in 
 another moment gone. 
 
 When the excitement of the departure of her 
 friends was over, Mary once more returned to 
 her customary avocations, but not with her cus- 
 tomary zeal and cheerfulness. It was not long 
 before her father observed a change in his once 
 lively daughter. He saw that when busy at her 
 needle, her hand would often fall listlessly on her 
 lap, and she would sit gazing on vacancy, until 
 his heart was pained at the length of her evi- 
 dently sad revery. Frequently, too, when occu- 
 pied with a book, the leaves would remain un- 
 turned, and the tears would fall fast and uncon- 
 sciously upon its pages. 
 
 But he forebore to notice this change by any 
 remark, trusting to time and her own good sense 
 to wean her from the object, which he but too 
 easily conjectured, was the cause of her melan- 
 choly musings. But her melancholy was des- 
 tined soon to be removed by other means than 
 he anticipated. 
 
 About two months after the departure of Ed- 
 ward and his family, Dr. Grafton received a let-
 
 188 THE LONELY BURIAL. 
 
 ter from the young man, enclosing a package 
 for Mary. What their contents were, I cannot 
 precisely say, but the cheek of Mary soon grew 
 as bright, and her step as elastic, as ever, while 
 her father appeared at first surprised, next rather 
 disappointed, and. finally, satisfied with the pe- 
 rusal of his. * 
 
 It was soon observed by the young friends of 
 Mary, that she was growing unusually indus- 
 trious, and that an unaccountable quantity of 
 her time was devoted to sewing; while not 
 many months elapsed before it was rumored that 
 the doctor was about to dispose of his property 
 in New York, retire from his profession, and re- 
 move to St. Louis. This excited little surprise 
 among his friends, as it was known that he had 
 amassed a fortune sufficient to render his future 
 days independent, and that he had often ex- 
 pressed a desire to visit the far west. But it 
 was not known that Edward Campbell had so- 
 licited and obtained the promise of the hand of 
 Mary Grafton in marriage. 
 
 October at length came, and with it came 
 Edward Campbell once more. His business in 
 New York was soon accomplished, and when
 
 THE LONELY BURIAL. 189 
 
 he returned to St. Louis, to the surprise of 
 Mary's friends, he returned, accompanied by a 
 new father and a new wife.
 
 THE VALLEY OF PEACE. 
 
 It was a beautiful conception of the Moravians to give to rural cemeteries 
 the appropriate name of" Valleys" or " Fields of Peace '' 
 
 OH, come, let us go to the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 There earth's weary cares to perplex us shall cease ; 
 
 We will stray through its solemn, and far-spreading shades, 
 
 Till twilight's last ray from each green hillock fades. 
 
 There slumber the friends whom we long must regret 
 
 The forms whose mild beauty we cannot forget ! 
 
 We will seek the low mounds where so softly they sleep, 
 
 And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep ; 
 
 But we will not repine that they are hid from our eyes, 
 
 For we know they still live in a home in the skies ; 
 
 But we '11 pray that, when life's weary journey shall cease, 
 
 We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears, 
 If, when weary and wasted with toil and with years, 
 No home were prepared, where the pilgrim might lay 
 Mortality's cumbering vestments away ! 
 But sadder, and deeper, and darker the gloom, 
 That would close o'er our way as we speed to the tomb, 
 If faith pointed not to that heavenly goal, 
 Where the sun of eternity beams on the soul ! 
 1 Oh, who, 'mid the sorrows and changes of time, 
 E'er dreamed of that holy, that happier clime, 
 But yearned for the hour of the spirit's release 
 For a piUow of rest in the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 Oh, come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze 
 Seems fixed on the shadows of long-vanished days
 
 192 THE VALLEY OF PEACE. 
 
 Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and wo, 
 
 And thy spirit is weary of life's garish show ! 
 
 Come here I will show thee a haven of rest, 
 
 Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast 
 
 Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care, 
 
 And the robe is ne'er folded o'er secret despair ! 
 
 Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold, 
 
 And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold ; 
 
 But a bright star has dawned through the shades of the east; 
 
 That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 Thou frail child of error ! come hither and say, 
 
 Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to stay ? 
 
 Ah, no ! in thine aspect is anguish and wo, 
 
 And deep shame has written its name on thy brow ! 
 
 Poor outcast ! too long hast thou wandered forlorn, 
 
 In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn 
 
 Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung, 
 
 And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung ! 
 
 Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears, 
 
 And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years ! 
 
 We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall all cease, 
 
 Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 The grave ! ah, the grave ! 't is a mighty strong-hold, 
 The weak, the oppressed, all are safe in its fold ! 
 There penury's toil-wasted children may come, 
 And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home ! 
 What myriads unnumbered have sought its repose, 
 Since the day when the sun on creation first rose : 
 And there, till earth's latest, dread morning shall break, 
 Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make ! 
 But beyond is a world how resplendently bright ! 
 And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light ! 
 We shall rise we shall soar where earth's sorrows shall 
 
 cease, 
 Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of Peace !


 
 
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