Neal, John, 1793-1876 [1823], Seventy-six, volume 2 (Joseph Robinson, Baltimore) [word count] [eaf294v2].

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Seventy-six . . .

Front Matter Front matter Covers, Edges and Spine Preliminaries Title Page Acknowledgment Main text CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. BOOKNeal, John, 1793-1876Seventy-six . . . BaltimoreJoseph Robinson2000--20001823Literature OnlineZ000015807Prepared for The Electronic Archive of Early American Fiction at the University of Virginia Library. Sponsored by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the University of Virginia. Page images have been included from the print version. URL: http: //etext. lib. virginia. edu/eaf/PS 2459 . N28 S4 1823148591950PS 2459 . N28 S4 1823bTaylor 1823 . N43 S4 The Clifton Waller Barrett Library of American Literature The Mrs. Robert C. Taylor Collection of Popular American Fiction University of Virginia Special CollectionsAnn Arbor, MI--Charlottesville, VA, University of Virginia--Bell & Howell Information and Learning Company, 2000--2000 Page 154. 'As women wish to be, who love their lords. 'ONE afternoon, when I had been at home about a month ; and was sitting up, altogether better and stronger, than I had hoped to be for a long season; (it was the first of May; the windows were all open, and the fresh air blew in, loaded, with the perfume of the month, ) as Clara sat by me; and we were travelling back, in our thought, many a day, she asked me, with a slight emotion passing over her face, if I rememberedthat corner, pointing to one at her left. We were in her father's house. The corner, to which she pointed, was that, where I had met her, and parted, in that remorseless spirit, which had well nigh been so fatal to me. 'Yes, Clara, ' I said; 'too well, do I remember it— come nearer love. I could shed tears now, to think of my own insensibility. How little I knew your value, then. ''Or of your own. 'Why—yes, Clara, I confess, that I was very ignorant of my own nature ; and I do hope that I have become a little wiser, and a little better, since that day. 'A sweet little girl here entered, with intelligence that 'mother Weston' had come. I felt Clara's hand tremble in my own. Her fine eyes changed colour a little; her lids drooped, and she leaned forward, in a confusion, that thrilled my blood. Page 155. I released her hand; and spared all remark, while she stepped out of the room, in silence. I looked after her. I locked my hands, convulsively, upon my bosom. My heart heaved with thankfulness; I felt a strange religious tumult within me. I was about to be a father. Was there not room. for thanksgiving? —to see the little innocent, a part of our own being, ready to melt again, into its original element, frail and beautiful as infancy. O, my heart reeled with a delightful, yet, almost painful emotion, as I thought on it—the peril—the agony—the fruit! Woman, dear woman! thou, without whom, we have notrue pleasure; no touch of humanity; no feeling of purity or tenderness; with what sorrow and pain, art thou the partner of our joy! On thee, lies the curse: thou art the one, upon whose tender and delicate sensibilities all the agony abideth! Ah, woman! when can we do enough for thee. Thy very being is a life of dependence, helplessness and travail ; what hast thou, but by the concession of man! no power—no pride of thine own—no rank, or name, or influence, but what we grant to thee: no pleasures of thine own; many pains, many wringing pains, more terrible than any death, of which man may conceive: And we, O we have many pleasures of our own, apart from thee: no pains in which thou canst not participate; and—O woman! woman! he that does not tremble, inwardly, and feel his heart melt, like that of a man defending his own mother, or child or wife, or dear one from dishonour —when thou art mentioned irreverently, is—what can I say more? unable to know thee—unfit to comfort thee! God have compassion on such a man. My revery was interrupted here, by the return of Clara, blushing to the eyes; and' bearing two or three letters in her hand, while the prestilent old woman kept close at her heels, congratulating her, till she was ready to sink into the floor. Poor Clara! she had not yet learnt the mystery of gossiping, over candle or tea-cups. Page 156. The first that I took, was from Archibald. It was hastily written; and as follows: 'Mother, ' said Clara 'please to ask Lucia to come in, for a moment. ''And the other ladies?' said mother Weston. 'Yes, if you please. There should be no secret. 'A few minutes after, in tripped, not quite so much on tip-toe, as she was wont, the delicate, little Ellen, with a remarkably loose dress, and a prodigious shawl, (though it was a warm day, ) about her, and took her seat, just where she could see most, and be least seen. And Mary—her step was less affectedly light than Ellen's; but her countenance was sad; and tears were in her sweet eyes, as she sat alone, and looked, thoughtfully, upon the other dear creatures. Poor Mary!'Letters, ' said Ellen, pouting; 'letters, I am told —none for me, I suppose—but—''Ah, child; every letter is for each and all of us. It matters little to whom it is directed. All the privilege that I know, is, that of paying the postage. ''And breaking the seal, ' said she. ' O, there is no pleasure in this world, like breaking the seal of a letter from one that you love. It is like looking into his naked heart—shutting out all the world, and—''Selfish creature!' said Clara. 'Aye! sister, ' said Lucia, passing her pale hand over her pale face; 'but who, is not selfish, with some treasure? who would share her endearment, with another? No, our dearest things, are most our own. Some blessings are given to be shared—some not. ''Well, well ! let us hear the letter. ''Well then, ' said I, hiding the other letters under my pillow; 'the first is from Archibald. It begins: Dear brother'Why do we not hear from you? We have been, and are yet, exceedingly anxious, and cannot learn a syllable of your situation, or that of the family; although we, (I say we, because Rodman, and Copely, and I, ) have all written, again and again. 'Page 157. 'No crying, ladies, ' said I, 'these misfortunes are common to the times. Our letters will all come together. Recollect the peril of conveyance—the liability to interception, accident and delay. ''Pray go on, ' said Lucia, timidly, and doubtfully. 'I write you to day, that you may be under no alarm respecting us, if the news of a smart affair should come to you, , in which we have just been engaged. Copely has joined the horse, and we are all under the command of Colonel Washington. Yesterday we encountered. Tarleton's cavalry—'What date is it ?' said Ellen, impatiently. 'March 28th, (1780, )' I replied. '--And fairly beat them off the field. Washington is a fiery fellow; a little rash I think; but it told well on this occasion. Arthur is the idol of the whole troop—A sob from Mary. '—He performed prodigies of valour yesterday; but received a terrible cut—A faint cry from Mary—and a confirmed one, of sympathy, from all the others. '—Through hiscap; but escaped unharmed. We are constantly engaged, night and day. ''I shall write you more particularly, if I can, before the express departs. ''Express indeed!' said Ellen ' anick name I suppose. ''Hush madam, hush ; here is something to interest all of us. 'But she was not so easily quieted. She had seen me thrust something under the pillow; and had slipped her little white hand after it, so slily, that I did not discover the movement, until she had the bundle of letters in her possession, and was skipping into the middle of the room—as light as ever—and, had she not turned suddenly pale, in the height of her festivity, and caught at a chair, as she passed, I might have mistaken her for the yellow haired romp, that I had first met, in that very room. The poor creature had nearly fainted; Page 158. but still, she had sufficient presence of mind, to tear open the envelope ; and litter the whole floor with letters; throwing them about, first one way, and then the other, like a mad creature, as fast as she read the superscription; until, at last, while the other wife was timidly peeping after them, without the power to move, uttered a faint cry, pressed one to her lips--staggered to a chair, and fell into an hysterical fit of sobbing. The letter dropped from her hand. 'Give it to me, Clara, ' said I--'we must prepare these spirits, for their ministering, by gentler gradations. ''I thought, ' said the extravagant creature, (Ellen) shaking her fist at me, as soon as she could speak, while the tears ran down, like trickling silver, from her open eyes--'I thought so! I knew it! I knew it. But go on. ''No; there isyour letter, Ellen; your's Mary; and, there is one for you Lucia. 'I could not forbear remarking the difference of their manner, as they proceeded to open their letters. Ellen was all in a flutter, from head to foot; she tore it open —sat down—jumped up—read a few lines—cried— dropped it—picked it up—clapped her hand; and, finally, ran out of the room with it, stopping every two or three steps--and looking at it, as a mother would, at a new found babe—and then hurrying on. Lucia—on the contrary—arose, with compressed lips; no visible emotion in her countenance; but, with one hand holding all the while, by the curtains of my bed, as if to steady her, reached out the other, for the prize; and, when I gave it to her, the dark of her eyes shot fire--not a passionate or haughty fire, but a sweet mournful lustre, that I loved to look upon; and her heavy lashes gleamed in it, like wet silk in the star light. She began to read. She paused. Her red lips turned ashy pale--trembled; and she put her white, thin hand to her forehead, as if to clear away the mist. 'God forever bless and protect thee!' she said, justPage 159. audibly, and left-the room; not, like a queen, as she was wont, stately and assured; but, like a helpless, lofty minded woman, sorrowing to death. Clara's eyes followed, her; and overflowed, as she went out, with the compassionate working of her heart. 'I know not the meaning of this, ' said she, to me, 'do you ?''Not a syllable. I sometimes feel angry with them both, ' said I—I and wonder if they have common sense. 'They have notcommon sense, ' said Clara. 'They love each other?''You can answer better for Archibald, than I; butshe loves him more than any earthly thing, ' said Clara. 'Then why torture him so, eternally?' said I—'I do not understand it; I cannot; I do not profess to understand it, ' was her reply. 'There is something strangely mysterious in their deportment. I believe that he loves her devoutly. Iknow that she loves him, with all the elevation and sincerity of her nature; that she wails day and night, for her transgression; nay, that Archibald was never dearer to her, than when he treated her so coldly—who could brook it? who! that was so sought after, idolised and wondered at— as he did, about the time of her acquaintance with Clinton. ''Clinton!' said I—'You speak very composedly of him. I have dreaded to mention his name, even to you. ''There was no reed of any such caution, ' she replied. 'I always knew Clinton; his deportment and fate were foreseen by me. ''But how did she bear it?' said I—'Better than any human being would have believed. I have never been satisfied about their acquaintance. There was some treachery in it. Clinton had seen Lucia before. ''What! before he came here, wounded?''Wounded!—yes, he might be wounded—and bruised —but his arm was not broken. 'Page 160. 'I am glad that you mentioned that, ' said I—'I have always felt a desire to penetrate that mystery. So, his arm was not broken?''No, ' said Clara--'my father discovered it, some days before your departure. And we have since had reason to believe that his adventure with the enemy, which brought him to our habitation, was a preconcerted affair. 'I do not understand you, dear. ''I do not mean, ' said she, 'that he made an arrangement, beforehand, to be shot at, by the enemy; or wounded, or taken prisoner; but, the truth, I believe, to bethis—that he had seen Lucia at Philadelphia, and given her no little trouble there; that he put his life at hazard, when we first knew him, to see her again, by venturing beyond his videttes; and that he escaped a court martial, by the most fortunate concurrance of circumstances—the inroad of the Hessians, and the loss of some men—and the recruits that he carried in. ''But why were we not informed of this before?''It was not till the illness of Clinton, at our house, the second time, that the whole truth came out; and, then, he was so humbled and penitent, under the rejection of Lucia, which seemed utterly inconceivable to him—there was so many highhearted, noble qualities about him—you were so unforgiving, when once awakened —and your brother so terrible in his wrath, that, after a deep and continued consultation, of many a night, we resolved to keep the whole a secret; particularly as—O, my husband, it pains me to the very heart, when I reflect on all that we so childishly put at hazard, then. ''Say no more about it, love, ' said I—embracing her with one arm, and wiping away the tears from her lovely eyes, with her own hair. 'We were children then; misfortune had not met us; calamity had not visited us; our hearts were full only with the wine of life; the lees had not been tasted. 'Page 161. 'Poison! death! we should say—for I felt all the bitterness and distress of both, during our separation, ' said Clara. 'Many and many a night, dear, have I awoke, in a profuse sw eat, as cold and dreadful as that of the tomb; my very hair drenched with it, as with the night dew; and often, often have Lucia and I gone, arm and arm, over the apartments where we had spent our sweetest hours, with a feeling of mournful, tender solemnity, that kept our eyes flowing, and hearts weeping, while the cold night wind blew, literally, through and through us. ''How did she bear the death of Clinton?''How ! I can hardly tell; not at all as I expected. It was not with wailing and bitterness; not With exultation; but with a look and movement—such as I should have, looked for in a wife, whose husband had been unworthy of her high nature—dying afar off. She was very ill for many days—very; but she made no complaint, and kept away from observation, as much as possible. After a few weeks, she was able to mention his name, and talk of him; though, at first, with deep emotion, and, not unfrequently, with a passionate weeping, as I would of one who had irretrievably lessened himself in my opinion, and cruelly humbled me. ''I confess, ' she added—faltering—'I confess that there is something unaccountable and dark in the sudden alienation of her heart from Archibald, that, to my mind, has never been sufficiently explained, by her resentment for his coldness; the fascination of Clinton; nor even by the natural waywardness of woman. I allow much to her pride; much to wounded self-love; still more to her desire of humbling Archibald; but all cannot, does not satisfy me. The suddenness, and violence or her attachment, has no example in her whole life. It is at war with all our experience of her. Young as she was; haughty as she was; there had always been an ingenuousness—a sort of heroick feeling of truth and honour about her, in all that she said or thought, or did, which took the judgment captive, Page 162. Change, she might; but she could not change capriciously. She had loved Archibald ; she might love another; but I have always thought, and always shall think, that she neverdid love another. ''What!' I exclaimed, 'not love another, when, she permitted Clinton's arms to encircle her waist, even in the presence of my noble, broken hearted brother. ''True, I remember that; and were she any other than the girl she is, I should say thatthat explained her conduct; but I cannot say so of Lucia. She would not permit the arms of a man to encircle her waist, merely to break the heart of another. Some women might. I have seen the time when I would. You are startled; but it is very true. Ihave had a more unmanageable, a more wicked and resolute spirit than Lucia. But, here is one thing that I cannot forbear to mention; have you never observed it? Did you never, at the time? that her endearment appeared constrained; that, when she appeared most nearlyhis, and his alone, surrendering herself utterly and unreservedly to his love—that her wild eyes deepened in their blackness—deep as night—and that a slight shuddering was, oftentimes, visible upon her high, white forehead, when he approached her. ''Never, ' I replied. 'You have not! well, I confess, that I am surprised; for it was visible to the very servants; and, I overheard Margery say, once, when she had entered the room, and found Lucia weeping, while Clinton was standing over her, and holding her hand to his heart, that she was sure that Miss Lucia didnot love him. ' ' Did'nt I see her?' she said, in confirmation, 'turn away her face, when he entered—and push him away, just because she heard Archibald's voice in the court yard?''Yes, my dear husband, it is very true; there is something strangely mysterious, and perplexing in their love—and, could I permit myself to believe in spells and witchery, that would be the easiest way of accounting for what, in no other way, I can account for—thePage 163. commencement, continuation, and end of her acquaintance with Clinton. ''Does she ever speak of him, now?''Often. ''And with what spirit?''With that of compassion, and tenderness—colouring to the eyes, often; and then, turning deadly pale— but, not with love. No, it isnot with love!—it is some other feeling, as deep, perhaps—a—as terrible—andas wasting—a compound of—I hardly know what to call it—but, at times, there is a look of horrour, shame and remorse, with it. ''No wonder, poor girl! she rifled and spoiled the bravest heart that—but, here she is. 'Lucia here entered, with the letter in her hand. 'Read that, ' said she, 'my dear brother, and tell me, what there is left to disturb one, who is so loved, by one so worthy of a woman's love!'I heard her voice, with pleasure—it was deep, and beautiful—and I could not forbear pressing her pale hand to my heart. 'Lucia, Lucia! there is only one being upon this earth, worthy of Archibald—only one, worthy of Lucia Arnauld. 'She put her hand to her heart, as if a sudden contraction had followed the words—and, the sweat started out upon her temples. I saw it—Isaw it!—Her white forehead, looked, instantly, as if a yew branch, loaded with the night dew, had been shaken over it. ''What said he?' she continued, timidly—'inyour letter?'Clara smiled, and appeared waiting for my answer. I had quite forgotten the letter; and, after hunting it up, found where I had left off, and re-commenced. 'Arthur will tell you, what I felt rather unwilling to communicate, that—'I lowered my voice, and ran over three or four lines to myself. 'Read on, ' said Clara—'ah! how pale you look?Page 164. what does he say?—tears!—my husband!—my husband!'I had dropped the letter. 'I cannot bear to repeat it, ' said I, mustering what strength I could, and leaning my, face upon her shoulder —'but, it must be told. Clara—Lucia—dear Lucia, are you prepared?''I believe so, ' she replied, in a low, steady voice. 'He has told the whole to me, I believe. What does he say there?—any thing of a consultation?''Yes. ''Please to read it, then—I any prepared. 'I took up the letter, and read as follows: 'That I have been very ill—very—and, that the nature of my malady has taken a decided character. Prepare yourself, my dear brother; bear it like a man. I cannot live many months—perhaps, not till another summer. I am in a consumption. I believed this, some time ago—but, I have hitherto kept it a secret, knowing its evil effect. My mother's family have all died of that sad, broken hearted complaint. ''Poor, dear Archibald, ' said Clara, covering her face, with her hands. 'O, Archibald, Archibald!' whispered Lucia, just audibly. 'Deep thought, ' (said the letter) 'will produce the consumption: anxiety; melancholy; distress of mind; or lowness of spirits. And what, dear John, is more likely to bring on lowness of spirits; melancholy and distress of mind, than the belief that you are dying, night and day, by an inevitable death. Hence is it, that whole families die of the consumption. I do not believe, that it is hereditary, or in the chest, or blood, or lungs. No! but it is in the mind. One dies, and the others are successively siezed with thoughtful, dark, and disconsolate dreaming—their whole breathing is but a continual reprieve—they are worn to death, by their own thought, and charge it to their parents. No, brother, I have kept it a secret, till—till —my hand does not tremble, brother—till there is noPage 165. hope. —I look back upon my past life, with a strange, melancholy wonder---much that I have done, appears to have been done by some other Archibald Oadley; and not by me. So young; so tender hearted, as I was---a boy, but the other day, and now dying, with grey hairs in my head, (it is a fact, brother)---of old age---premature old age, and a shattered frame; substance and being, body and spirit shaken to the dust. For one thing only, do I reproach myself— nay, for two—two, above all others---the blood of Clinton, is one---my stubbornness to Lucia, is another. But for them, I could sleep quietly; and, mayhap, die very quietly---but they haunt me, with a continually encreasing darkness and threatening. —I cannot sleep now, at all. I walk all the day long, to and fro, in the camp, when we are encamped; and ride, all the day long, when not encamped---but, without knowing or caring, where I am, or what I have done. I walk in my sleep, too---that distresses me. I know not what may happen---the sentinels are trusty, and I am ashamed to communicate the truth. You would not believe me, I suppose, should I tell you, what is very true--- that, after the battle, yesterday, I fell asleep upon my horse, while my men were returning from the pursuit; and might very easily have been taken prisoner. At times, there is a lethargy, pleasanter than sleep---a drowsiness, like that of sorrow and love---as if I were sleeping upon the bosom of some dear one, that besets me---and my heart overflows and—but no, — shame on these emotions. I have written to Lucia. Bid her bear up---bid her be comforted. We shallsoon meet again---again! where our hearts may beat renewedly, forever and ever; purified and blessed. '`Purified!' echoed the sweet martyr, faintly dropping her arm, over the bed; and falling upon her face— `purified!—I—' a long and continued shuddering followed, in which the bed, itself, vibrated, and the whole room trembled. `But the other, ' said Clara, wiping her eyes and reaching me Copely's letter. Page 166. It was very brief, and to the following effect; but, just as I opened it, in came the two brides; one, flushed with a beautiful confusion, the other laughing and crying, all in a breath; and rallying Mary, with a significance that I dared not understand; till the sweet girl burst into tears—partly of shame, partly of sorrow; and Ellen threw herself upon her neck, crying, `hush! hush, love—forgive me. I was cruel—childish—indelicate and—hush—all in good time. We shall be a houseful, nevertheless, (in a low voice) by the time that he comes. 'She did not mean that I should hear this; but it touched Clara, who coloured, and withdrew her hand from the pillow, against which I was leaning, to give a reproof to Ellen, that nobody should understand but thewomen folks. Copely'snote. `Rodman would have written you; but, he has just finished a letter to his wife; and he cannot manage the pen for another line. The broad sword has cramped his hand. He deputises me to give his love to you all; and to say toyou, Oadley—and toour's andyour's—heaven have mercy on all of them, and particularly, onmine andreform her—if it be not too late. '`He be hanged!' cried Ellen, pettishly. `Prepare yourself—be a man. Your brother encountered and slew two officers, with his own hand, yesterday— and took, with Jasper, of whom more by and by, and five more of the troop, twelve of the enemy prisoners; and then went to sleep in the saddle. Be a man, I say, again. Your brother cannot live long. His hours are numbered. `Gracious God!' cried Ellen, `if Chester Copely be trifling now, I shall hate him forever. '`O, Ihope that he is!' said Mary, in a voice like a lone instrument, breathing to the wind. `His hours are numbered. A consultation has been held, since my last, for we are unwilling to lose him— but, there is no hope. Am I abrupt? I fear so. But— you are a man—your brother is a man. He has noPage 167. wife—no children—no beloved one—no, I am wrong, he has an angel to leave behind him. '`Not long, ' said Clara, kissing her sister's forehead— `no, no, not long, I am sure. '`Would that you could see him! (said the letter. ) He never looked so well in his life. His temples are transparent. Every movement of his heart is visible in his eyes. ' We all turned to Lucia, at these words; it was a description ofher appearance. `Poor fellow! he has just left me, treading firmly the road that leads to the chambers of death. Why delay it? why conceal it? It fell uponme, like a thunderclap. It might fall upon you so. We have done our best to prepare you; at least, I have, for, while there was any hope, he kept his situation a secret. But my course has been different. I have told you the worst. You must not blame me, however, that my last letter was not alarming. When that was written, I began to have hope—I have none, now. '`Thelast! O! we are illy prepared yet, ' said Clara. `Would that it had arrived before this. Such blows are terrible—I—'`Jasper is dead—dead, poor fellow. I saw him fall; but Archibald has just given me a particular account of the transaction, with an air of pleasantry, that made me scold him. `I saw him, ' said he, when the bullet struck his heart; he was at full speed. Yet he kept on, for a whole minute, and went completely through two divisions of the broadsword, as I am a living man, before he fell: the saddle turned, and the horse broke away from under him—the saddle-cloth shot to ribbons, and dripping with blood. I found the poor fellow, cut all to pieces; his helmet shaved away; his uniform shot to tatters—and the blood gushing out at his shoulders. He died desperately. `But I expected it, ' said Archibald, `for, in his jocular way, I heard him, the morning before the attack, while newly arranging a part of the troop, in consequence of sickness and continual battle, I heard him order all the ladies in the front rank. 'Page 168. `The ladies!' said Ellen—`what the deuse does the fellow mean?'`The mares, ' I replied. `Jasper always called them the ladies of the troop—most of them were blooded. '`But why put them in the front rank?'`For many reasons. ' I said, smiling at the question, so innocently asked, and wishing, from my soul, that I had not read the passage aloud; for Copely was full of such jokes, `the fire and quickness of females, are proverbial; the competition that would be produced; the gallantry that it would provoke—the—'`Read on, ' said Ellen, impatiently—dropping her eyes; `read on; what does the creature say next?'`Nothing—except that I am to stand—here, read it yourself—godfather to—'`I won't!' she cried, jumping up, in a pet, and running out of the room. `Why, what possesses the poor woman?' said Mary, her sweet, innocent lips parting so quietly. Clara smiled; and handed her the letter—which senther out of the room, just as fast. `Pray, what is the meaning of all this nonsense?' said Lucia, with that calm, beautiful propriety, which grew upon her every hour, till her death. `I cannot pretend to misunderstand it. The feelings of the man— the father! are natura: and why? Sister Clara, I am ashamed ofyou; yes dear, of you. Young as I am, I have that within me, that cannot play tricks, even where they are looked for. I do not like Copely's levity. The thought should solemnize him; the peril of his wife—so delicate and frail, as her tenement is, that should make him speak seriously. But perhaps he would give it, the least insupportable air that he could; and affect a pleasantry, while his heart is breaking, to amuse others. Nay, sister—am I not right? What is there to redden at? What to be ashamed of? I know not what a mother's feelings are, it is true. I know not what it is, to feel the stirring of life within me; a life that is to make me altogether my husband's, here and hereafter: but I do knowthis, that I shouldPage 169. neither toil at concealment, nor deplay, in such a situation, where it was not areproach. Still less would I affect such tremours; or, if they were not affected, would I indulge them before my husband, or before any body that had eyes. '`Lucia!' said Clara, blushing all over; `you astonish me. I shall be offended, if this conversation continue. '`Shame on you, then—shame on you! the woman, in your situation, whose nerves will not permit such a conversation; whose temper will not permit it, had better die barren. I am serious. This is no sudden thought. I know what I say. I have meditated upon it. I love delicacy, I trust that, whatever be my faults, I have not that of indelicacy at my door; but I detest prudery and affectation. You are already a mother, Clara—and must think and act like one. Your own health, and that of your babe demand it. '`By heavens, Lucia, you are a noble creature, ' said I, kissing her; `I am glad of this conversation. It will be the better for poor Clara. Hitherto, the theme has been a forbidden one between us two; yes, —between the father and mother! at a moment so critical too, when she is most in want of all sympathy and encouragement. No Clara; give me your hand—there, thank you! I love you unspeakably, as you know. I love modesty. I revere this delicate timidity; this bashful sensibility; but, it has gone too far—to an extent, dear, unworthy of one so thoughtful and firm as you. Your sweet sister has said wisely. These agitations and tremours may have a worse tendency than we dream of. Let us learn to think of the event without stammering; to be prepared for it. One kiss! there— there! Now go to Lucia, and let me see you kissher. 'Clara did, while the tears danced in her full eyelids, and thanked her. Our arms entwined altogether, in one dear, thrilling embrace; and the tears of the two sisters fell upon my face, like a warm, summer shower, in a pleasant wind— just at the shutting in of day light. Page 170. Woman!—the companion of our bed side—from our cradle to our grave!—our ministering angel!—our nurse!—our consolation, in all sorrow and trial —from the first beating of life within us—to the last, the very last, upon the bed of death—thou art the sweet fountain, and nourishment of all our holiest being—and of all our most immortal nature and quality!Z3000158281 2 CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. Back matter ERRATA.