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We now give a letter from the heroine of our tale, to her particular
friend Miss Florence Weldon, of Boston.

Portland, August 20, 184-.

`I have scarcely time, my dear friend to write you a few lines. To-morrow
will be celebrated my marriage! The ceremony will be limited
to a few friends to be present in the church; as this privacy will
be more appropriate with my condition as an orphan, especially so, as
the parents of my husband will not be present. I have already told
you that Henry, on the subject of matrimony, was a most incorrigible
rebel, whom it has been my good fortune to compel to submission.—
Yet he shows still, from time to time, symptoms of insurrection; but his
love for me represses them.

`Here ends the last letter you will ever receive from Louise Lintot!
Mrs. Howard will write you to-morrow, although it may be no more
than a word after the ceremony has been performed.

Portland, Aug. 21, 1S4-.

`I know not how I can write you, neither how I can be alive after
the abominable scene which has just taken place. I have but now returned
from church! — Insult most cruel and mortifying! Soon I
will write all to you, Florence: I have now only strength to weep!—

Portland, Aug. 21. (5, P. M.)

`You have triumphed, Charles! but at what a sacrifice! I tremble
to contemplate it!

Yes, I have conquered the enemy; I have triumphed over matrimony,
like a true knight, I have yielded on the very field of battle. If I
have been fairly slain, it is not my fault!

Listen to my dream, for such you will see it is;—Yesterday I received
your letter precisely at the hour at which we were to proceed
to church. Your cool raillery penetrated my heart, depositing there a
chilling frost, deadening the warm glow of my love! Did I need this
new instigation, when, tortured by my memories and resolutions, I
was already wavering. The hour fixed for the ceremony was as dark

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as my new suit of black broadcloth, and I seemed to be attired for my
own burial! Did I need your letter, Charles?

Louise at length appeared attired in virgin white; yet I scarcely
glanced towards her. I thought upon my dear independence, upon
the infinite delights of the life of a bachelor; and of innumerable in
estimable privileges which never appeared to me so valuable till just as
I was about to lose them forever! On crossing the vestibule of the
Church, I thought I eould see you five laughing at my expense; and
when the clergymaR began to read the words of the ceremony, I found
myself again in imagination one of the banquet of six!

Till then, absorbed in my reflections, I had stood and listened mechanically;
but when the clergyman put to me directly and roundly
the question, I had to rouse myself from my lethargy in order to hear
and respond.

`Henry will you have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live
together after God's holy ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness
and health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her so long
as ye both shall live?'

When he put this formidable compound of interrogatories to me, I
stood confounded and felt that my destiny was consummated! The
repugnance with which the scandal and infamy of a negation inspired
me was struggling in my heart with the idea of compromising myself
irrevocably with an affirmation. In this terrible state of agitation I
stood silent, while a cold sweat bathed in huge drops my forehead. I
was going to look at Louise in order to inspire myself with the courage
necessary to say `Yes!'—when suddenly I heard a street organ
without playing an air that made me start, while the clear voice of the
organist sang the song we had sung at our banquet:


`Liberty, dear Liberty!'

It was a powerful, irresistable appeal? I turned round my head to
the priest and firmly responded,

`No!'

What subsequently occurred I have scarcely any distinct recollection
of. I saw nothing—heard nothing! Before those present could recover
from their first surprise I had flown from the church—flown like
a criminal! I traversed street after street without any definite purpose,
and scarcely knowing where I was going. But, at length, composed
by the open air and having in some degree walked off my excitement,
I comprehended that it was necessary I should at once leave the town.
I turned my steps towards the depot, but found on my arrival there that
the cars had already left. I then hastened back to my hotel after two
hours wanderings, and have taken my pen to address you and let you
know what has occurred!

Ah, Charles, do not too much applaud my valor, for I have lacerated
my heart! I love Louise! I love her more than ever, and I see
that I have lost her forever! Henceforward an impassible abyss will
separate us — the remembrance of an infamous injury, an

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unpardonable affront! I have destroyed the peace and happiness of this
poor girl who has been guilty of no other fault than loving me! I am
very miserable!

It is necessary that I leave this city; although it will be only to
transfer my wretchedness without removing it. I am coming to see
you in Boston, if I can!

If I can! because, shall I have courage and resolution to exile myself
from the air which Louise breathes! she, alas, from whom I am
exiled forever!

Boston, 22d August.

Last night, I learned, my daughter, the horrible scene in the church,
and I have suffered so much, I have shed so many tears for you, that
it has been impossible for me to write to you earlier. My son is a vile
and despicable being! Not only has he deceived you in the most infamous
manner, but he has also deceived me, his father, knowing well
that this ignoble conduct would destroy my last hope, and shorten my
life. From this time I have no son; because the person to whom I
have this name is a miserable insensate and a detestable parricide!—
But you remain to me, my child, you to whom I have been accustomed
to give the sweet name of daughter. The air of the place where you
are, filled, as it must be, with memories which will be poisonous to the
wounds yet fresh in the heart, will prove injurious to you. Come, then,
to my house; come and seek the old friend of your father. I invite
you, not only for your own sake, but also I ask it for my own advantage.
Come, then, with your aunt, if you do not wish to be separated
from her; or if you prefer going into the country, say so, and I will
close my business and in spite of the bad state of my health, I will go
with you wherever you command.

Alas! I that hoped in this union a felicity so great, so perfect! let
me, Louise, enjoy at least a part of it!

Portland, Aug. 30, 184-.

`I am to-day more tranquil, my dear Florence, and I now feel that
if the conduct of Mr. Howard towards me has been most odious, his
heart is less culpable! His head has been elevated in one of those
crimes of rebellion which I have indicated to you. If, in the moment
of the fatal question, his hand had been in mine, only a `yes' would
have gone from his lips. But his disordered imagination had carried
him a hundred miles off from me at the moment: materially he was
but a step from me; morally but half a second from matrimony! The
terror of matrimony was, at the instant, more powerful than his love for
me, and he said `NO.'

But well am I avenged! Never has he given such proofs of his tenderness
as now! He looks pale and wan as if just convalescing from

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a long sickness. Twice a day he has written me excuses the most
humble, mingled with protestations the most ardent. Not daring to
present himself at the house, well knowing he would not be received,
he has taken rooms directly opposite the way, where I see him seated
all day, myself invisible, with his eyes constantly fixed upon my closed
windows. I have learned that three times he has taken tickets in the
cars for Boston, and three times his resolution has failed him and he
has remained. How he loves me! How happy we should have been!

His father is in despair; and writes me letters that make my heart
bleed. Oh, my friend, what a chance has he thrown away!

Boston, Aug. 31.
My dear Harry,

What has become of you? We have been daily looking for your arrival
and still we neither see nor hear from you! If you had blown
your brains out, we know the papers would give the intelligence and
particulars of the horrible catastrophe. But, as they are silent, the presumption
is that you are still living. So I write to you, not as to
a dead man, but one in good bodily condition. Pray, what has become
of you? We have had several club-meetings at which we expected
your presence. Your courage in saying no we have all commended
and cannot give you too much praise. It is a pity it was not given before
you got to church; for to have one of our number so nearly meshed
as to escape only from the very altar, reflects something upon the
stability and good faith of the rest of us. I write this to assure you,
that unless you report yourself to the club before three days expire, we
shall take the cars in a body and come for you; for know you, we already
begin to have doubts of your constancy; and fear that your feelings
of remorse may lead you to penitence and ultimate submission.—
We have voted you President of our club, and we believe you will render
yourself worthy of our confidence.

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