CHAPTER IX.

AN APPARITION.

There was a pause, after which Gustavus, offering two of the women

an arm each, leaving the other to bring up the rear, he began a

solemn march to the scene of his grief—the mysterious spot, where

he threw down his long, lank body upon the ground, and muttered his

sorrows between his lubber lips, in accents that would have put to

flight the ugliest satyr that ever sported in a wood. He took up

his station close by the mouth of the deceptive grave, to mitigate

his sorrow and fear by a little sentiment—a coarse commodity, that

might have made another laugh, but sufficient to make him weep.

That day he might be in prison and ruined for ever; and, as for

Julia M’Iver, he would never see her again. “She has been in this

hole three days,” said he, pointing to the grave.

“Ochone! ochone!” roared the three women, crying bitterly.

Meanwhile, his heavy eye was fixed on the ground; he heard a noise,

and, looking up, what on earth should he see but the head of Julia

herself above the ground, and all the rest of her body below it?

She leered at him and the women knowingly, and laughed till the

woods rang; and, rising up out of the very hole where she had been

interred, she ran, or rather staggered to him—for she was fresh

from the still—flung herself around his neck, and hugged him

with a grasp of embrace that many a husband would give a hundred

pounds for any day. Nor was Gustavus insensible to its efficacy;

for he returned the embrace, and even cried and blubbered like

(as all sentimental writers say when they wish to express great

sensibility—that is, babyism) a child—and a very pretty child

to be sure he was. We cannot tell how long the embrace lasted.

Everything in nature has been measured but love embraces. Writers

are chary on the subject; and very knowingly, too, because they

know that it is what is called “a kittle point;” but we have no

such qualms, and so boldly assert, that Mr and Mrs M’Iver’s embrace

lasted at least three minutes.

This new apparition transcended all they had yet seen or

experienced; for how she could have lain three days and nights in

the cold earth, and risen on the fourth as drunk as she was when

she was interred, puzzled them beyond any conjuration they had

ever heard of. But Gustavus was glad to see her on any condition,

and took her straight home, to get an account from her, when she

was sober of all the wonders she had seen in the bowels of the

earth; where, in the midst of Hop and Mop, Pip and Trip, Fib and

Tib, and Jill and Jin, and all the other imps of Mab’s court, she

had doubtless been since the day on which she was let down into

the pit. Whether he or the women ever got this information or not,

we cannot say; but it is certain that he attempted no further cure

of Julia’s irregular habits, contenting himself with the evil lot

of a bad wife, which is, perhaps, the only one on earth that it is

utterly impossible to get quit of by any other means than death.

THE FIRST AND SECOND MARRIAGE.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said a venerable-looking, white-headed

man, accosting me one day, about six weeks ago, as I was walking

alone near the banks of the Whitadder; “ye are one of the authors

of the ‘Border Tales’, sir—are ye not?”

Not being aware of anything in the “Tales of the Borders” of

which I need to be ashamed, and moreover being accustomed to

meet with such salutations, after glancing at the stranger, with

the intention, I believe, of taking the measure of his mind, or

scrutinizing his motive in asking the question, I answered—“I am,

sir.”

“Then, sir,” said he, “I can tell ye a true story, and one that

happened upon the Borders here within my recollection, and which

was also within my own knowledge, which I think would make a

capital tale.”

Now, I always rejoice in hearing any tale or legend from the lips

of a grey-haired chronicler. I do not recollect the period when I

did not take an interest in such things; and a tradition of the

olden time, or a tale that pictured human nature as it is, ever

made the unceasing birr, birring of the spinning-wheel—which

the foot, belike, of an aged widow kept in perpetual motion—as

agreeable to me as the choicest music. For, what is tradition,

but the fragments which History left or lost in its progress to

eternity; and which Poetry, following in its wake, gathered up as

treasures too precious to be overwhelmed by the approaching waves

of oblivion, and, breathing upon them the influence of its own

immortal spirit, embalmed them in the hearts and in the memories

of men unto all generations? Though, therefore, it was no ancient

legend which the stranger had to relate, yet, knowing that it

might not on that account be the less interesting, I thanked him,

“and with greedy ears devoured up his discourse.”

The story which he then related to me, I shall, therefore, after

him, communicate to my readers.

You will excuse me in not mentioning the name of the town in which

the chief incidents mentioned in our story occurred. There may

be some yet living to whom some of them might not be agreeable.

I shall, therefore, speak of it as the town of H——, and other

circumstances referred to may lead you to form an idea of “its

whereabouts.”

Many years have passed—at least forty—since the period at which

our story commences; and there then dwelt in the town of H—— one

Walter Kerr. (So you will allow me to call him.) His parents were

what are generally called respectable sort of people; for the house

in which they dwelt was their own, and there were also three or

four others, all very good and respectable-looking houses (as we

say again), the rents of which they received from their tenants.

But there is no word in our language to which less respect is shewn

than the word respectability. It is prostituted every day. Is is

no matter whether a man be the proprietor of one house, one acre,

one pound, or a hundred houses, a thousand acres, and ten thousand

pounds; neither houses, acres, nor money can make him truly

respectable. As the sun, moon, and stars shed light upon the earth,

so do honesty, virtue, and strict integrity confer respectability

on the head of their possessor. I care not what a man’s situation

in life may be, nor whether he be a hewer of wood or a drawer of

water, the lord of a forest, or one who hath a fleet upon the

seas; shew me a good, a virtuous, and an upright man—and there is

a respectable man, be his rank or situation in life what it may.

The parents of Walter Kerr, however, were respectable in a better

and a truer sense of the term than that of being merely persons

of a certain property; they were Christians not only in their

profession but in their practice. Walter was by far the cleverest

of the family; and from his boyhood his parents designed him for

the pulpit, and gave him an education accordingly. Like many

parents, they thought that his cleverness was a sufficient reason

why they should bring him up to the sacred profession, without once

considering how far the seriousness of his thoughts and habits

fitted him for preparing for the office. It must be acknowledged,

however, that in this they were not singular. We find hundreds who,

without perceiving either cleverness or piety in their favourite

son, resolve to make him a minister. Yea, frequently, from his very

cradle his calling is determined. I remember having heard a good

woman say—“If I live to have another son, and he be spared to me,

I shall bring him up for the kirk!”

But the parents of Walter Kerr were possessed of more discretion;

and when they found that he was averse to their proposal of his

becoming a preacher, they abandoned the idea, though not without

reluctance, and some tears on the part of his mother. Now, Walter

was a youth of a gentle temper and an affectionate heart; but, at

the same time, he seemed formed for being what you would term a man

of business. He was shrewd, active, speculative, and calculating,

with quite a sufficient degree of caution, as ballast, to regulate

his more ardent propensities. At his own request, he was bound

apprentice to a general merchant in his native town; and before he

was twenty-one years of age, he commenced business for himself.

He began with but a small stock in trade; for his parents could

not afford a great deal to set him up. Yet he was attentive to

business; he pushed it, and his trade increased, and his stock

became more various. He had scarcely, however, been two years in

business, when he took unto himself a portionless wife. His parents

were displeased—they looked upon him as lost. Every one said

that he had done a foolish thing, and agreed that it was madness

in him to marry, at least so hastily, and before he could say that

even the goods in his shop were his own. But people are very apt

to talk a great deal of nonsense upon this subject. The important

question is not _when_ a man marries, but _who_ he marries. They

talk of a wife tying up his hands, and placing a barrier before

his prospects; in short, as bringing a blight over his worldly

expectations, like an untimely frost nipping and withering an

opening bud. Now all this is mere twaddle—a shewing off of

self-wisdom, to make known how much more wisely we have or would

have acted than the person referred to. It is one of the thousand

popular fallacies which ever float on the surface of the chit-chat

of society. A married man, young or old, is always a more sponsible

sort of character than a bachelor. If a man take unto himself

an amiable and a prudent wife, even though she bring him not a

shilling as a dowry, and although he may be young in years and a

beginner in business, he doeth well. Had he doubled his stock, his

credit and his custom, he would not have done better; for he has a

double motive to do so. He has found one to beguile his dulness,

to soothe care, to cheer him forward, and to stimulate him to

exertion; and that, too, tenderly as the breath of May fanneth

and kisseth the young leaves and flowers into life and beauty.

But all this dependeth, as hath been said, upon her amiableness

and prudence; for, if the wife whom a man taketh for “better for

worse,” possess not these indispensable requisites, he weddeth a

living sorrow, he nurseth an adder in his bosom, he giveth his

right hand to ruin.

Now, the wife of Walter Kerr possessed those qualities which

rendereth a virtuous woman as a crown of glory to her husband.

She was the daughter of a decayed farmer, and her name was Hannah

Jerdan. To her the misfortunes of her parents were not such; for,

while they had made her a stranger to luxury, they had introduced

her to the acquaintanceship of frugality and industry. At the

time she gave her hand to Walter Kerr, she was scarce twenty; and

to have looked on her, you would have thought of some fair and

lovely flower which sought the sequestered dale or the shaded

glen, where its beauties might blush unseen—young, modest, meek,

affectionate, and beautiful, man never led a lovelier bride to the

altar. Her husband soon found that whatever the world might think

or say of the step he had taken, he had done well and wisely. She

not only became his assistant in his business, and one who took

much care and anxiety from his mind, but her affection fell upon

his bosom like the shadow of an angel’s wing, that was spread over

him to guard him from evil; and he found her, too, as a monitor

whispering truth in the accents of love. If he acquired money in

trade, she taught him how to keep it and profit by it—and that is

a “secret worth knowing.” Let it not be supposed that she was one

of those miserly beings who scrape farthings together for the sake

of hoarding them. In her spirit, meanness had no place; but there

were two proverbs which she never suffered herself to forget, or

those around her to neglect, and those were, that “a penny saved

is a penny gained,” and “wilful waste makes woful want.” Nor do I

wonder that the latter saying took deep root in her heart; for, as

having experienced privation in the days of her father’s distress,

there is nothing can be more painful to those who have known and

felt what want is, than to see food, for want of which they were

once ready to perish, wasted, and that, too, perchance, while a

hunger-stricken beggar has been turned rudely from the door while

he prayed for a morsel to eat. She would not see the crumbs which

fell from the table wasted. In this her husband readily perceived

the propriety of her conduct, and he esteemed her the more as he

witnessed it; but the force of her first adage, that “a penny

saved is a penny gained,” he was slow to appreciate in its true

light. Yet for this, perhaps, there was a reason. Previous to

his marriage, he had been in the habit of spending the evening

after business hours, with a club of young tradesmen and other

acquaintances. Now, habit is the pettiest and the most imperious of

all tyrants. Even with a pinch of snuff it can make you its slave.

It renders you miserable, until you once more bend the knee before

it. But, as I have said, habit, though an imperious, is a petty

tyrant; and three weeks’ resolution, though you will have struggles

to encounter, will enable you to snap asunder the strongest chain

that ever habit forged. I do not mean the habits, the seeds of

which we acquire in infancy, and which grow with our growth and

strengthen with our strength, and which, in fact, perform a part

of our education (though we do not admit it), until they are set

down as things belonging to or ingrafted in our natures; but I

mean the habits which we acquire in after-life. And, as has been

stated, Walter Kerr had acquired a habit of attending an evening

club, of which he had been a member during the last year of his

apprenticeship; and, from the period that he commenced business up

to his marriage, and a few days after he had brought home his wife,

he attended the club as usual. He was happy in the society of his

young and fair wife; but still (as we say in the north), there was

a “craiking” within him for something to make him perfectly happy,

and that “craiking” was to attend the club as usual. Now, it was

not a club in which they either drank deep or sat late—for it was

a regulation amongst them that no man should sit in the club-room

after ten o’clock, or drink more than three glasses; but, although

they had this wholesome regulation, they had no by-law against what

many of them called “_adjournments_,” or “_sederunts_,” and at

which, though out of the club-room, the three glasses frequently

became six.

With regard to the “sederunts,” however, Hannah had no cause

to complain of her husband; for he never had been one of those

who formed them. Neither did she murmur, or consider herself

neglected, on account of his attending the club; for she reasoned

with herself, that, after the cares, toils, and business of the

day, he required some relaxation; and although her company might

be more agreeable to him than any other, yet she knew that the

beauty and the fragrance of a flower does not increase by for ever

looking upon it, and on it only, but that our admiration of the

flower increases, as we pass over the weeds which we behold around

us. Yet, she thought that every night was too much—more than

relaxation required; and she thought, also, that a shilling a-night

was six shillings in the week (for let it not be thought that a

club, of which Walter Kerr was a member, met on the Sabbath),

and that six shillings a-week was nearly sixteen pounds in the

year—a sum that might frequently be of use when accounts became

due, and money was difficult to get in. She therefore delicately

and tenderly endeavoured to break her husband from the habit he

had acquired; but she attempted it in vain. He believed himself

to be one of the most frugal and industrious tradesmen in the

town; and nothing but bringing the fact plainly and broadly before

him, seemed sufficient to convince him that there was aught of

expensiveness in his habits. But his wife, more delicately and

efficiently, did so convince him. They were talking together of

many things, and their conversation lent wings to the short hours,

when, an opportunity offering, she related to him an anecdote,

which brought home to himself his nightly attendance at the club;

and, as I know the story to be no allegory, nor child of the brain,

but a fact, I shall relate it to you.

“In a town,” said she, “not many miles south of the Border,

there dwelt a man who was by trade a mechanic, and who was the

father of seven children. For sixteen years he had never wanted

employment (when he chose to work), and his earnings averaged from

five-and-thirty shillings to two pounds a-week. But, with a number

of associates, he was in the habit of attending, daily and nightly,

what they termed their house of call. In the morning, as he went to

his labour, he could not pass it without having what he called his

‘_nipper_,’ or what some of the good people in Scotland call their

‘_morning_,’ which, being interpreted, meaneth a glass of gin,

rum, or whisky.” (For gentle as Hannah was, there was a sprinkling

of the wag in her character.) “At mid-day,” she added, “he had to

give it another call; and to pass it on returning from his work at

night was out of the question. Sometimes, and not unfrequently,

when he called in for his ‘nipper’ in the morning, he sat down—in

a room which had two windows, looking east and west--and forgot to

rise until, after he had seen from the one window the sun rising,

he beheld it set from the other. But it was the force of habit—it

had grown in upon him, as he said; and what could the poor man do?

He beheld his wife broken-hearted, going almost in rags, and their

affection had changed into bickerings and reproaches. His children,

too, were half-starved, ill-clad, and unschooled; and for what

education they got, he thought not of paying the schoolmaster—he

felt nothing in hand for his money, and therefore could not see

the force of the debt. But the poor man could not help it. It was

true he earned about two pounds a-week, but which way the money

went he could not tell. He did not, as he thought, deserve the

reproaches of his wife. His ‘morning’ was only fourpence, his call

at mid-day the same, and his evening pipe and glass a shilling or

eighteenpence—that, he thought, was nothing, for a man working so

hard as he did; and when he did take a day now and then, he said

that was not worth reckoning, for his clay could not keep together

without moisture; and as for the glass or two which he took on a

Sunday, why, they were not worth mentioning. Thus he could see no

cause for the unhappiness of his wife, the poverty of his house,

and the half-nakedness of his family. He had to ‘do as other people

did, or he might leave their society;’ and he attributed all to bad

management somewhere, but not on his part. But one Sunday morning

he had lingered in their house of call longer than his companions,

and he was sitting there when the churchwardens and parish-officers

went their rounds, and came to the house. To conceal him from them

there, and avoid the penalty—

“‘Tom,’ said the landlady, ‘here the wardens a-comin’. If they find

thee here, lad, or meet thee goin’ out, thou wilt be fined, and me

too; and it may give my hoose a bad name. Coom up stairs, and I

will shew thee through the hoose, while they examine the tap and

the parlour.’

“So saying, Tom the mechanic followed the hostess from room to

room, wondering at what he saw; for the furniture, as he said to

himself, was like a nobleman’s, and he marvelled how such things

could be; and while he did so, he contrasted the splendour he

beheld around him with the poverty and wretchedness of his own

garret. And, after shewing him through several rooms, she at

last, with a look of importance, ushered him into what she called

_the drawing-room_—but, now-a-days, drawing-rooms have become as

common as gooseberries, and every house with three rooms and a

kitchen has one. Poor Tom the mechanic was amazed as he beheld the

richly-coloured and fancy-figured carpet; he was afraid to tread on

it—and, indeed, he was told to clean his feet well before he did

so. But he was more astonished when he beheld a splendid mirror,

with a brightly gilded and carved frame, which reached almost

from the ceiling to the floor, and in which he beheld his person,

covered with his worn-out and un-holiday-like habiliments, from top

to toe, though they were his only suit. Yet more was he amazed,

when the ostentatious mistress of the house, opening what appeared

to him a door in the wall, displayed to him rows of shining silver

plate. Ha raised his eyes, he lifted up his hands—‘Lack! Ma’am!’

says he, ‘how d’ye get all these mighty fine things?’

“And the landlady, laughing at his simplicity, said—‘Why, lad, by

fools’ pennies to be sure.’

“But the words ‘fools’ pennies’ touched his heart as if a sharp

instrument had pierced it; and he thought unto himself, ‘I am one

of those fools;’ and he turned away and left the house with the

words written upon his conscience; and, as he went, he made a vow

unto himself that, until that day twelve months, he would neither

enter the house he had left, nor any other house of a similar

description—but that on that day twelve months he would visit it

again. When he went home, his wife was surprised at his homecoming;

for it was seldom he returned during the day. He had two shillings

left; and taking them from his pocket, he gave them to one of his

daughters, desiring her to go out and purchase a quartern loaf and

a quantity of tea, sugar, and butter. His wife was silent from

wonder. He took her hand and said—‘Why, thou seemest to wonder

at me, old lass; but I tell thee what—I have had a lesson this

mornin’ that I shan’t forget; and when thou findest me throwing

away even a penny again, I will give thee liberty to call me by any

name thou likes.’

“His wife was astonished, and his family were astonished; and in

the afternoon he took down the neglected and dust-covered Bible,

and read a chapter aloud—though certainly not from any correct

religious feeling. But he had made the resolution to reform, and he

had learned enough to know that reading his Bible was a necessary

and excellent helper towards the accomplishment of his purpose. It

was the happiest Sabbath his family had ever spent; and his wife

said that, even on her wedding Sunday, she was not half so happy.

“But, the day twelve months from that on which he had seen the

splendid furniture, the rich, carpet, the gorgeous mirror, and the

costly plate, arrived. It was a summer morning, and he requested

his wife and children to dress before seven o’clock. During the

last twelve months, his wife and his children had found it a

pleasure to obey him, and they did so readily. He took the arm of

his wife in his, and each of them led a younger child by the hand,

while the elder walked hand in hand before them; and they went

on until they came unto his former house of call; and standing

opposite it, he said unto his wife—

“‘Now, old woman, thou and the little ones will go in here with me

for five minutes, and thou shalt see something that will please

thee.’

“So they went into the house together, and Tom the mechanic found

his old associates seated around the room as he was wont to see

them twelve months before, just as though they had been fixtures

belonging to the establishment: and as he, with his wife and

children, entered, his former companions rose, and exclaimed in

wonder—‘Ha! Thomas! what wind has blown thee here?’ For, though

they called him merely _Tom_ before, he had _Thomas_ from them now.

And, as the landlady entered and saw a well-dressed man and woman,

with seven clean and well-dressed children around them, in her

tap-room, she wondered exceedingly; for their appearance contrasted

strangely with that of her other customers amongst whom they were

seated.

“‘Why, don’t you know me, Ma’am?’ inquired Thomas, observing her

look of curiosity and wonderment.

“‘Why, I can hardly say as how I do, sir,’ she replied; ‘and yet I

am sure I have seen you somewhere.’

“‘That you have, Ma’am,’ answered he; ‘I am your old customer, Tom

Such-an-one.’

“‘Lack me! is it possible!—and so you are! Why, what a change

there is upon thee! thou art quite a gentleman turned. And is this

lady thy wife, and these thy children? Well, now! how smart you

have them all! How in the world do you manage it?’

“‘O Ma’am,’ said Tom the mechanic, ‘nothing in the world is more

easy—the _fools’ pennies_ which I before gave to buy your fine

carpets, your mirror, and your silver plate, _I now keep in my own

pocket_.’ So saying, he bowed to her, and wishing her good morning,

with his wife’s arm in his, they and their children left the house

and returned home. Such,” added Hannah, “is the true story of Tom

the mechanic.”

The anecdote told upon her husband; and when she had concluded, he

arose and took her hand, and said—

“You were right, love. I see it now—the story of Tom the mechanic

has convinced me that a penny saved is a penny gained: and I shall

remember it.”

Walter Kerr did remember it; and from that day he ceased his

nightly visits to the club. The world prospered with him; and in

a short time there was not a more thriving or a more respected

merchant in the town of H—— than Walter Kerr. Every one began

to say that he was greatly indebted for his good fortune to the

excellent management of his wife. Even his parents at length

admitted that his marrying Hannah Jerdan was the most fortunate

thing that ever their son Walter did; and he himself said that she

had been worth to him her weight in gold.

They had two children. Their first-born was a boy, and his name was

Francis; and their daughter they had called Jacobini, after an only

brother of Hannah’s and of whom nothing had been heard for many

years. No poet in his waking dreams of domestic bliss hath pictured

a happier pair than were Walter Kerr and his gentle Hannah. She was

unto him as a guardian spirit, an affectionate counsellor, and a

friend that sticketh closer than a brother. And as their children

grew up in beauty before them, like fair flowers in spring,

stealing day by day into loveliness, so grew their joy.

But, within eight years after his marriage, an unbidden

guest—who entereth alike the palace and the cottage, whose eye

pierceth through the deepest gloom of the dungeon, as he smiteth

the prisoner and saith, “There is no darkness like unto my

darkness”—placed his noiseless foot upon the threshold of the

prosperous merchant, and with his cold and poisoned finger touched

the bosom of the wife and mother.

Walter Kerr beheld his young, his beautiful, and excellent wife

laid upon her dying bed, with the last breath of life quivering on

her lips. His agony was the wildness, the bitterness of despair.

He hung over her, he wrung his hands, he smote them on his bosom,

he wept. He was as one who hath no hope, and on whom misery—deep,

desolating, everlasting misery—had fallen. He would not, he could

not be comforted.

“My own!—my own!” he exclaimed; “I cannot, cannot part with her!”

His was the extremeness of grief. An hour had arrived of the

approach of which he had never thought, or if he had ever imagined

that it would come, he had thought of it as belonging to a day that

was far, far distant, and which might come when age would lead them

together gently to the grave.

The young, the dying wife, stretched forth her trembling and feeble

hand; and as he raised it to his fevered lips—

“Weep not, dear Walter,” she said falteringly; “but, oh! when I am

gone, be kind to my dear children. And should you—” she added, but

her voice failed, and tears mingled with the cold dews of death

upon her cheeks. But in a few moments she again added—“Walter,

should you marry another, for my sake see that she be as a mother

to our children.”

“O Hannah!” he sobbed. Her words entered his agonized bosom like a

barbed instrument, adding sorrow to sorrow, and pain to pain. He

thought of her and of her only, and from the idea of another his

soul revolted.

She called her children to her bedside, and she endeavoured to

raise herself upon her elbow. She kissed them—she called them by

their names—her last tears fell upon their cheeks and blended with

theirs, and she bestowed upon them a dying mother’s blessing. She

took their little hands, and placing them in her husband’s, gazed

tenderly and imploringly on his face, and sinking back upon her

pillow, with a deep sigh, her gentle spirit sought the world which

is beyond death.

It was a melancholy sight to behold Walter Kerr with his young son

and almost infant daughter in his hands, standing weeping over

their mother’s grave, while the awful, the mortal words, “ashes to

ashes, dust to dust,” were pronounced, and the sound of the cold

red earth falling on the coffin rang rudely on his ears.

For many months there walked not on the earth a more sorrowful

widower. His heart, his hopes, his joys, seemed buried in the

grave of her who had been his wife. His sole consolation was in

his children, and he doted over them with more than a father’s

fondness. But he was still a young man, he was yet a prosperous

one, and he had obtained the reputation of being wealthy.

His wife had been dead somewhat more than four years, when there

came to reside in H—— a fair and fashionable maiden, whose name

was Harriet Scott. She soon obtained the reputation of being the

greatest beauty in the town, and was the favourite toast of every

bachelor; amongst whom, if she did not conquer many hearts, she

conquered many eyes; and if she had not lovers, she had manifold

admirers. She was the daughter of an old military man, a major,

belonging to some royal veteran battalion. Beautiful she certainly

was; but she was vain as beautiful; and her father’s pay was all

that stood between her and poverty.

There are but few men, and especially mercantile men, who are used

to calculate and consider consequences, that are found guilty of

the folly of offering their hand to a poor and fashionable woman.

What fascination the gay and beautiful Miss Scott threw over our

young and rich widower—

“What dreams, what charms,

What conjurations, or what mighty magic”—

I cannot tell. The gossips of H——, at their tea parties, said

she had “set her cap” at him. But I am not much acquainted with

the witchcraft of “setting a cap,” or how much the term implies.

This I know, that when Walter Kerr first saw Miss Harriet Scott,

he thought, what every person said, “that she was very beautiful,”

though he also thought that she was a vain girl, conscious of her

own attractions, and much too fond of dress and display. But, after

he had seen her frequently, and she spoke with him familiarly, and

that, too, in a voice which was almost as sweet as her face was

beautiful—and when he saw, or thought he saw, that she smiled on

him more frequently and more sweetly than on any one else—he began

to think that she was an interesting girl, and by no means the vain

creature he had at first imagined her to be. It is dangerous when

a man begins to think a woman interesting. As their acquaintance

grew, he discovered that she had no vanity whatever.

“She is,” thought he unto himself, “the fairest and gentlest being

I have met with since—I laid my Hannah in the dust,” he would have

continued; but, as the thought arose in his bosom, a tear gathered

in his eyes, a low sigh escaped from him, and a glow overspread his

face.

Every day, however, the beautiful Miss Scott became more

interesting in the eyes of the thriving merchant, and his wealth

more and more attractive to her; till in an evil hour he offered

her his hand, and with a sweet blush, like the shadow of a rose

leaf on a lily, the proposal was accepted.

His neighbours said, that, if his first wife had enabled him to

make a fortune, he had got one who would spend it now. And they had

not been husband and wife many months, until events began to shew

that there was some truth in what their neighbours said. The dress

of Mrs Kerr was gayer and far more costly than it had ever been

as Miss Scott; though it was, from its extravagance, a subject of

conversation, or what was called “a town’s talk,” then; and even

Walter could not avoid contrasting, in his own mind, the showy and

expensive attire of his living spouse with the plain and modest

neatness of her who was not. She was kind enough to the children

for a time; and she called them “the little creatures,” and “Kerr’s

children.” But she saw them seldom. “Not,” she said, “that she

disliked them, but that she could not be troubled with children

being much about her.”

She was not long, however, in beginning to hint that it was rather

derogatory in a Major’s daughter to have become the wife of a

provincial shopkeeper. The smell of the goods, too, shocked her

nerves, and injured her health.

“The smell from the shop hurt your nerves, dear!” said her

husband—and the apartments they inhabited were immediately

over the shop and warehouse—“the smell from the shop hurt

you!”—continued he—“that is very strange! My poor Hannah never

complained of such a thing, and I’m sure many a hundred times has

she stood in it from morning to night.”

“Don’t talk to me, sir, of your Hannah, if you please,” added she;

“if I threw myself away upon you, I was not to be insulted with

odious comparisons about your Hannah.”

“Odious, indeed!” thought Walter, with a sigh; but he durst not

express what he thought; for before this he had begun to discover

the inflammable materials which his wife’s temper was made of.

“I tell you, Kerr,” added she, “the effluvia from your shop is

insupportable. It shocks my nerves continually—it is killing me

altogether.”

“Truly, my dear,” rejoined he, “I am at a loss to understand ye.

Really every other person you meet talks about their nerves, and

being nervous, now-a-days. But since I can remember, there were no

such words in use—that is, as they are now applied. For, when we

spoke of anything being nervous, we meant something that was strong

and powerful, such as a nervous sermon, or a nervous speech in

the House of Commons; and if we spoke of a man of nerve, it was a

strong-bodied or a strong-minded man that we meant. But now-a-days

the meaning is quite reversed; and when a person is spoken of as

being nervous, or very nervous, it is always in reference to some

silly shaking body, that has no nerve at all. And it is my candid

opinion, dear, that nobody in this country ever complained of being

troubled with the nerves until spirit-drinking and hot tea-drinking

came so much in vogue!”

“O you savage!—you barbarian!” screamed Mrs Kerr, who seemed to

have been struggling with a hysteric which now came upon her. We

have seen people who have a convenient habit of assuming this

pride-produced malady, and Mrs Kerr was now trying the effect of

the experiment upon her husband; and the violence of the pretended

paroxysm increased as he manifested the more and more tenderness

and anxiety to soothe her; and when she had caused him to believe

that he had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness—“Kerr,”

said she, “we must, if you do not intend to kill me, leave this

horrid house.”

“Leave the house, dear!” said he in surprise—“where could we go?”

“Go!” she replied—“Why don’t you take or build a respectable

house out of the town, where a person could receive their friends.

You cannot expect any genteel person to call upon us here, to be

suffocated with the fumes of your nasty shop and warehouse.”

Walter was once more tempted to speak of his poor Hannah, and

was about to say, that the most genteel people in the town and

neighbourhood had visited her, without once hinting that there was

anything disagreeable to them arising from the proximity of the

shop and warehouse, or from the mixed goods which they contained.

But it is a common saying, and a good one, that “second thoughts

are best;” and Walter Kerr thought twice, and when he did so, he

perceived that to speak of his dear and buried Hannah again, to her

who now was to him as she was, would only be throwing oil upon a

flame. He forebore and was silent.

I think—and so perhaps many of my readers will think—that, though

a shrewd man, he was of too complying a temper. He was ready to

sacrifice too much for what is called _ease_ and _peace_. But

in so doing, he was only like many others, whom you will find

ready to say—“Oh, we are willing to do anything for the sake of

peace.” And no doubt this is a very good spirit; but it may be

carried too far. It is quite as possible for a man to be in error

by enduring too much as by allowing too little. There is a middle

path in everything; and it is always the safest, and generally the

best. Extremes are always bad—so bad, indeed, that they are like

two wild bulls running to encounter each other, and meeting on a

common path, they thrust their horns into the foreheads of each

other, and thus forcibly and painfully become as one body, to the

obstruction of the thoroughfare. But, that Walter Kerr was too fond

of yielding, will be proved from the circumstances of his having

purchased a few acres of ground, and commenced the building of a

country-house, about three miles out of H——, within three months

after the conversation which I have related between him and Mrs

Kerr took place.

Well, the house was finished, and a very neat, and I may say

elegant-looking house it was. They had a garden behind it.

Immediately in front was a parterre, tastefully laid out in plots;

and between the parterre and the highway was a shrubbery, which,

from the number of poplar and other rapid-growing trees in it, was

no doubt intended, in a few years, to have the designation of “a

plantation” or “a wood.” But, after the villa was built, Mrs Kerr

discovered that new furniture was necessary for their new house.

“In truth, Harriet, my dear,” said Mr Kerr, “I can in no way see

that new furniture is necessary. Ye will consider it would be

extremely expensive. All that we have is strong and durable; I can

see no fault with it.”

He would have added, “It was all of my Hannah’s choosing;” but

every day the power of Harriet, her fashionable successor, had

increased; and, although Walter knew not whence that power came, he

was but too conscious of its existence; and he spoke not what he

wished to have said.

To his last remarks she replied—“O Kerr! Kerr! when shall I get

you to forget your low-life shop and counter? Why did I marry a

man that has no ideas beyond saying ‘Thank you—I am much obliged

to you,’ to every petty penny customer! And a man of your fortune,

too!—Oh, meanness!—Kerr, I am ashamed of you.”

He stood out for a considerable time; but, for “the sake of peace,”

he had already yielded to building the villa; and what was once

done, was more easily done again—therefore he agreed to fit it up

with new furniture. The building and the furnishing of the house

cost Mr Kerr no small sum; and his name did not stand at the bank

as worthy of credit to the amount that it once did. In his moments

of solitude he thought of these things, and sighed.

Yet this was not all: when they had taken possession of the house,

and Mrs Kerr had it, and the new and splendid furniture, with

the garden, the parterre, and the shrubbery, there was something

still wanting—and that was, a genteel _approach_ to the house.

Its present entrance was, as Mrs Kerr said, “no better than a gate

to a cow park—as vulgar as the abominable shop and warehouse;

and enough to prevent any genteel person from coming near them.”

Indeed, she could not ask them while they had such an _approach_.

Yield once to a woman’s caprice, and you may yield always. Two

instances in which he yielded have been mentioned, and he yielded a

third time.

“Now,” thought he, “Harriet will surely be satisfied. I have built

her a fine house, and fitted it up with fine furniture, and I have

made her an avenue to it that a nobleman might enter. Oh, if my

dear departed Hannah could look up, and see the folly into which

I have been drawn, she would shake her head, and say—‘Walter,

Walter!’—And well she might.”

And as Walter Kerr thought thus, he burst into tears.

But his wife was not content. The house, the garden, the shrubbery,

the parterre, and the approach were not enough. She wanted her

genteel friends about her, now that she was in a situation to

receive them; and she brought them about her. She treated them,

she feasted them. They were there not only one day in the week,

but every day, by dozens and by scores. Our unfortunate merchant

became a cipher in his own house and at his own table. He had

formerly considered what are called genteel people as a rare sort

of individuals, to be met with occasionally; but he now found them

plentiful as gooseberries in August. They surrounded him like

locusts. They were

“Thick as autumnal leaves in Vallombrosa.”

And what surprised him most was, that first one and then another

said to him, during dinner (in accordance with the absurd

practice which still prevails)—“Mr Kerr, I shall be happy to drink

a glass of wine with you;” and scarce had he swallowed one glass

(for he always took off his heeltaps), until another said the same

thing, and another and another, as though they had entered into

concert to fire a regular _feu-de-joie_ at his head; and he thought

it a very hard thing that he could not take a glass of wine in his

own house, without caring, or being told whether those who ate and

drank at his expense, were happy at his drinking or not. Moreover,

they acted as though they considered him honoured by their eating

and drinking; and he saw their respect lavished on his genteel

better half, while he was passed over as a sort of nobody. These

were almost every-day doings, and he began to find that they were

making fearful inroads on his cash account; in short, he discovered

that if he had acquired a fortune rapidly during the life of his

first wife, he was spending it as rapidly now.

One day, after a close examination into his books (and it was

a very beautiful day, but there had been wet weather for some

time before, and the roads were bad and disagreeable to walk

upon), he returned home with the determination of saying unto

his wife—“Harriet, it is impossible for me to stand the course

of extravagance we are now pursuing. I shall be very happy to

entertain your friends occasionally; but really this treating of

them every week, I might almost say every day, is too much for any

man in business to stand. Look at my profits and expenditure during

the last three years.” And he had a statement drawn out.

But, as I have said, this was only a speech which he intended to

deliver in the presence of his wife. Scarce had he sat down in

the parlour where she was, until he perceived, from her looks and

manner, that there was a coming storm; and he knew that the address

which he had prepared would be ill-timed. He therefore sat in

silence; but she did not long follow his example.

“Kerr,” said she, “I don’t know whether you mean to kill me, or

what you mean to do; but I am kept here, mewed up like a prisoner.”

“Me keep you mewed up, dear!” said he; “ye certainly know that ye

have full scope and liberty to do as ye please—ye are mistress of

your own actions.”

“Me mistress of my own actions!” exclaimed she; “me go where I

please!—what do ye mean? _How_ can I go any where? Would you have

me to go wading through the mire to visit any respectable person?”

“Certainly not, my dear!” said he; “but ye can take a fine day for

your visits, when it is dry under foot.”

“O you brute!” exclaimed the delicate Mrs Kerr, “when shall I teach

you to know anything? When shall I get your ideas carried beyond

your counter? Is it not disgraceful to see you trudge, trudging

into the town every day, like some poor beggar that had to work for

his bread?”

“Beggars dinna work, hinny,” said he—“but do not be in a passion.”

“Passion!” cried she; “I tell you what, Kerr—if you continue to

disgrace me as you have done, I shall never set my foot upon the

outside of your threshold again. Why don’t you get a carriage?”

“A carriage!” he exclaimed, as though a thunderbolt had startled

him in its flight.

“Yes! a carriage,” she resumed—“I ask you, why don’t you get one?

Don’t tell me you can’t afford it. I know better.”

“I cannot tell what ye know, love,” said Mr Kerr; “but a carriage

is out of the question.”

“It is not out of the question,” she resumed; “and question or no

question, you must have one. Do you suppose I am to be kept here

like a nun all my life?”

More conversation of a similar character passed between them;

but it ended in this, that within two months Walter Kerr had a

coachman, a carriage, and a pair of horses.

But in noticing the doings of the second Mrs Kerr, I have

overlooked the situation of the children of poor Hannah. I have

seen stepmothers who have been as kind to the children entrusted

to their care—I have thought even more so—than if they had

been their own. But such, the reader will already have imagined,

was not the treatment of the children of Hannah Jerdan. Within

twelve months from their father’s marriage, they became subjected

to daily, almost hourly scenes of cruel, petty, and capricious

persecution.

But they endured their hard treatment and murmured not. In the

society of each other they were happy—they spoke of their

mother and wept. To Jacobini she was as a dream-mother—like the

“dream-children” of poor matchless ELIA.

But Francis remembered his mother; and by that name he could never

be brought to call her who had now taken her place. Mrs Kerr,

indeed, though she had no children of her own, was wont to say—

“Don’t let _the creatures_ call me mother.”

Time had passed on until Francis was a boy, or, perhaps, I should

say a youth, of nearly fourteen, and Jacobini was approaching

twelve. Now, it occurred, that, at the time I refer to, she had

offended her stepmother, in what way I know not; but, according to

the statement of the latter, it was an every-day offence—although

Jacobini was a gentle child, docile as her mother was. But Mrs

Kerr was in an evil humour, and, after having caused her favourite

serving-maid to beat the child in her presence, not satisfied with

the punishment she had received, she began to chastise her herself.

The cries of little Jacobini reached the ears of her brother, who

was amusing himself in the garden. Although generally a quiet, he

was a bold and passionate boy. He rushed towards the house—he

burst into the room where his stepmother was gratifying her

cruelty and hatred on his helpless sister—he rushed forward.

“Woman!” he cried, in the manner of one whose reason has left him,

“if you strike my sister, I will strike you!”

“Boy!” she exclaimed, in a frenzy; and struck not only his sister

again, but him too, and applied epithets to both, which, for the

sake of human nature, it is as well not to repeat.

I have said that he was bold and passionate—he was also a tall

and strong boy for his years. He grasped her more fiercely, and as

she continued to vent her rage on both, and to strike at both, he

dashed her to the floor, and exclaimed again—

“Woman! if you strike my sister, I will strike you!”

At that moment his father entered the house. Hysterics again came

to plead the cause of Mrs Kerr. Walter had seen enough. He seized

hold upon his son. He chastised him—unmercifully he did so; for

he also, on occasions, was a man of violent passions; but, as with

augmented rage he struck his son, the boy, while he submitted

patiently to his chastisement, gazed in his face with a tearless

and stern eye, and when he had exhausted his rage and strength, the

boy turned on him and said—“Are you done, sir? I shall tell my

mother this!—MY mother!”

When Walter Kerr heard the words—“I shall tell _my mother_,” and

especially the words—“MY mother”—pronounced by his son, and the

emphatic manner in which they were pronounced, he trembled—his

heart filled—he burst into tears, and, stretching out his hand, he

said—“Francis!”

But the boy exclaimed—“No!” refused the offered hand, and rushed

out of the room.

Throughout the day he was not again seen; and after many days of

diligent search after him had been made, it was ascertained that he

had entered on board of a foreign trading vessel from Newcastle.

Twelve months passed, and the vessel again arrived in Newcastle;

but the captain stated that the astonishing boy (as he termed

Francis) had left him, he knew not for why, nor for where, while

they were upon the coast of Africa, where many vessels were.

The tidings fell sadly on the heart of Walter Kerr; but he had

other evils to contend with. He had lost his son; and with his

villa, his grounds, his carriage, and his visiters, he had lost

the half of his fortune. But the ambition of Mrs Kerr was not yet

satisfied. Her husband did not possess landed property sufficient

to think of being a Justice of the Peace for the county; yet she

thought it would give her additional importance were he chief

magistrate in the town of H——. I will not say that Mr Kerr had

not a sprinkling of ambition in his composition himself, and he

more readily agreed that he should aspire to the honour of being

elevated to the bench, than to any other whim that she had proposed

to him. Therefore, after bestowing the necessary and customary

(though illegal) fees on the corporators, which made another

fearful inroad on his monied property, Mr Kerr had the honour and

gratification of being elected chief magistrate of the town of

H——.

“Now,” thought he, “Harriet will surely have reached the height of

her ambition; she will be content now.”

But he was mistaken. She not only discovered that the idea of a

magistrate standing behind a counter, and working amongst bales

of goods, or casks of sundry liquors, was intolerable, but she

declared that the effluvia which he brought with him from his

warehouse on his hands and garments, was quite as obnoxious as

though she still lived over it. And further, she added, that you

might as well attempt to wash the Ethiopian white as wash it away.

It rendered her incapable of taking her dinner every day.

Once again, Walter Kerr gave way, “for the sake of peace.” He gave

a share in his business to a shopman who had been with him for

many years, and became a sleeping partner himself. Jacobini was now

a lovely girl of seventeen; but her persecution had increased with

her years, until it became insupportable. She was treated not only

as a servant but as a slave. Her father beheld what she endured,

and he thought of the dying injunction of his Hannah, and sighed;

but his interposition tended only to increase the sufferings which

his daughter endured.

Jacobini possessed all the meekness and patience which had

characterised her mother; but she was persecuted beyond their

endurance. She tied up a few of her clothes, the plainest that she

had, and with the little money which she had been enabled to gather

together, she left her father’s house at the dead of night, and,

wandering towards the next town, took her journey to London, where,

through the instrumentality of a friend of her mother’s, she was in

a few days hired as child’s-maid to a merchant in the city.

Her gentle disposition and acquirements soon rendered her a

favourite with the family; and when they ascertained her history,

she became as one of them.

About this time there was a young man, one William Jerdan, came

from India to be initiated in the mysteries of business by her

master. It was soon evident that he was no uninterested beholder

of the gentleness and beauty of Jacobini. There was, perhaps,

something of the ardent temperament of the clime in which he was

born in his composition; and he suddenly made a declaration of his

affection with an enthusiasm which, while it perhaps pleased, at

the same time intimidated the retiring and the timid Jacobini. She

therefore listened not to his words, and sought to avoid him. But

the more her reserve grew, and the more she endeavoured to shun

his presence, the more earnest became his entreaties, and the more

ardent his declarations of affection. Thus several months passed,

and there was a whisper in her heart, that she could love him, that

she _did_ love him; but she endeavoured to conquer it. She had

often corresponded with her brother, and given him an account of

all that she had endured since the day of his departure. He was now

commander of a large vessel trading between India and the States

of America. She had written to him on the day after her arrival in

London; and about eight months afterwards received from him the

following letter. It was addressed to the care of the friend who

had procured her the situation:

“_New York, August 15th, 18—._

“MY DEAR SISTER,—I cannot describe to you what were my feelings on

receiving your letter, which communicated to me the tidings that

you also had been forced to flee from our father’s house. It is

perhaps sinful in me to do so, but I cannot avoid hating the woman

whom our father would have us to call mother; not on account of her

conduct to me (though it was cruel enough), for I always despised

her—but, O Jacobini! it was because she was so unlike _our_

mother, whom I remember better than you can, and whom I suppose you

will now resemble as she lives in my memory—for all who saw you

said, you ‘were her picture;’ but it is because of her cruelty to

you that I hate her. The thought that you have been compelled to

fly more than three hundred miles from our father’s house, and that

your only hope is becoming the servant of our equals! Sister, when

I received your letter and read this, it cost me a sleepless night;

I cried like a child—and sailors do not shed tears for trifles.

Yea, though I am no Catholic, I prayed that _our_ mother’s spirit

might watch over you and protect you, my sister! But I cannot

endure the thought of your being a menial in the house of any one.

With this, therefore, you will receive a draft for £100 upon the

agents of my owners, payable at sight. The moment that you get it

cashed, leave service, or I shall be angry.

“But now, my own sister, I have something else to tell you of.

You know that our dear mother had a brother called James, and

after whom you were named. He went to sea when but a boy, and was

not again heard of. It was rumoured, and believed, that he and

his shipmates were taken by pirates, and that they became a part

of them. The story was not true. Eighteen months ago, I was in

Bengal, and had dealings with a merchant, who, hearing the Scottish

or rather the Border accent on my tongue, asked me from whence I

came. I informed him; and he then, with a degree of curiosity,

inquired who was my father, who my mother. When I spoke of our

father—‘I remember him well,’ he said; ‘Wat Kerr—why, he was my

school and class-fellow!’ But when I told him of our mother, and

who she was, there was a visible paleness on his sun-burnt face;

sweat stood in drops upon his brow, he gasped in his eagerness to

hear me, and exclaimed—‘Youth! youth! does your mother live?’

‘Oh, no!’ I answered; and the tears gushed into my eyes, sister.

‘Come to me! come to me! my sister’s child!’ he cried, and he threw

his arms around my neck. Jacobini, it was our uncle—our mother’s

brother. And when I had told him all, and how and why I had left

the house, and spoke of you, and of your being named after him—‘If

I live,’ said he, ‘for two years more, I shall see my little niece,

my namesake—she shall be my daughter.’ He had been many years a

prisoner, and on obtaining his liberty became a sort of secretary

to a nabob in India. He had written repeatedly to his parents;

but he received no answer, for ere then they were dead; and his

sister—our mother—he knew not whether she lived, where she was,

or by what name she might be found. He is now a widower, and has

an only son, nearly my age. Our cousin, Jacobini, is a noble,

kind-hearted fellow. I should have loved him though he had been no

relative of mine, from the moment I became acquainted with him. His

name is William, and before this reaches you, he will be in London

where you are; for, when I last left Bengal, he was preparing to go

to London, to be thoroughly instructed in the rules of business.

He was to be in the house of one Mr L——, in Throgmorton Street.

By inquiring there, you will easily find him; and the moment you

receive this, call upon him—he will rejoice in having found

you—he will protect you until I see you, which will be in the

course of next year; for, after again going to Bengal, I have a

voyage to make to England; and our uncle has promised to accompany

me. Therefore, within twelve months, we shall meet again. Remember

me to my cousin when you find him, which you will easily do. You

may shew him this letter; and when he has seen it, I am sure you

will find in him a warm and a steadfast friend, and one who will

not endure the degradation of your remaining an hour in a state of

servitude.

“Farewell, dear and only sister, until we meet; and if you ever

hear from our father, tell him that I yet live, that I think of

him, and love him—but, O Jacobini! the _woman_ that rules his

house, renders it impossible that I can again enter it. Write to

him that I shall meet him in London next year, but he must not

bring _her_. Again, farewell, dear sister—wait upon our cousin

with this letter; it will be an agreeable surprise—and I am, ever,

your affectionate brother,

“FRANCIS KERR.”

Such was the letter which Jacobini received from her brother. But

it would be a vain task to describe her feelings, on its perusal.

From it she found that her lover and cousin—he whom she _did_

love, though she shewed it not, and whom she sought to avoid—was

one and the same person. She was commanded to shew the letter to

_him_!

“To _him_!” said Jacobini; “I cannot.” And yet while she so said

she wept with joy. She went not to him—nor needed she; for, as

was his wont, within an hour he threw himself in her way—for he

watched her every movement. She had never spoken to him unkindly

(for it was not in her nature), but always coldly. She had the

letter in her hand, and she was weeping over it when he saw her.

“Why does my Jacobini weep?” said he: “if aught distresses you, why

refuse the friendship and the hand of one who is ready to bear your

sorrows and protect you?”

“William,” she said, falteringly—and it was the first time she had

called him by that name—“read, read this.” And she put the letter

into his hands.

He took it—his eyes eagerly glanced over it; but before he had

finished it, he flung his arms round her neck, and exclaimed—“My

cousin!—my Jacobini!—mine!”

Her face fell upon his bosom, and she wept. Few words were spoken

between them; but they understood each other. He took her hand in

his, and still holding the letter, he led her to the room of her

master and his mercantile instructor. They were both in tears as

they approached him.

“Master William,” said the merchant, with a look of surprise,

“what’s the meaning of this?”

William put the letter which his fair cousin had received into his

hands. The merchant perused it.

“Miss Kerr,” said he, “I am sorry that I was not sooner acquainted

with your history. If you will, you shall still remain in my

house, as a friend, but not as a menial. My opinion of your cousin

William, though I say it before him, agrees with your brother’s.

Whatever his faults are, they belong to his head, not to his heart,

and a little experience will correct them. I believe I have seen

more between you, at least on his part, Jacobini, than your brother

knows. But hitherto, while I discouraged, I was not displeased at

the affection which I saw my young _protegé_ manifested towards

you. And when my friend, your uncle and his father,” (for he spoke

to Jacobini), “arrives in England, I shall rejoice not only in

being able to introduce to him his niece, but in recommending a

daughter.”

As the merchant spoke, William and Jacobini hung their heads, and

tears and blushes were on their cheeks together.

She remained in the house; and I need hardly say, that her cousin

now looked upon her as his betrothed; and in the same manner did

she regard him.

Before twelve months went round, her brother and her uncle

arrived in London. It would be a vain task in me to picture their

interview—to describe their joy—to pourtray their surprise. The

reader will imagine it more vividly. Why should I tell how the

brother wept upon the neck of his sister, and how her tears fell on

his bosom; or how the merchant drew her uncle aside, and in a few

words told him the affection that existed between his son and his

niece, and of the worth of both. Nor need I tell how James Jerdan,

after listening to the merchant, came forward with a full heart,

and in one hand taking the hand of his niece, and in the other that

of his son, joined them, saying—“Bless my children!”

Within a month, the indissoluble knot was tied between William and

Jacobini, and they went down to Scotland to spend their honeymoon,

her brother accompanying them; but her father-in-law refused to go

with them, as he thought his presence might not be acceptable to

her who was now the wife of his late sister’s husband.

Jacobini had never heard from her father, though she had often

written to him, since she left his house. But from the day that

she departed, ruin had followed fast upon him. When he left his

business, because his wife was ashamed of it, business became

ashamed of him. Her extravagance increased, and his property

decreased. His villa, his carriage, his all that never should

have belonged to him, became a jest among his neighbours. He was

declared a bankrupt—he was cast into prison. The villa and the

surrounding grounds were sold, the carriage was sold, and his wife

went to reside with her father, who was then upon his death-bed.

When Jacobini, her husband, and her brother, arrived in H——,

they found their father a captive in a prison-house. They entered

the prison to see him; and when he beheld them, he knew only his

daughter. But they all, they each embraced him; they called him

“FATHER!” and the poor man wept, even as a child weeps. He spoke of

their mother—he entreated their forgiveness; but his son and his

daughter clung around his neck, and cried—“Say nothing, father!”

They sent for his solicitor. His son and his son-in-law paid his

debts in the prison. They led him out in their arms. They sent for

his wife, the gay Miss Scott, that was their cruel stepmother, her

father had died about a week before, and she was left destitute,

having ruined her husband.

“I will support my father,” said Francis; “but I will have nothing

to do with maintaining _that woman_.”—for she had been sent for

against his wish.

“Then I will support her,” said Jacobini—“William, will not you?”

she added, addressing her husband. “Let bygones be bygones—she is

my father’s wife—she must have cared for me before I could have

cared for myself.”

“Yes, love, yes, we will support her,” said her husband.

They did as they had said. Walter Kerr lived in comfort on an

annuity which his children allowed him; and his wife, while she

partook of it, repented because of her extravagance, and because of

her cruelty to those from whose bounty she was now fed. Jacobini

went with her husband and her father-in-law to India, where in

a few years a happy family gamboled around them, and Francis

increased in wealth, but lived a bachelor, and left his property to

his sister’s children.

THE DISSOLVED PLEDGE.

“Hold hard!” said the coachman, as he gathered up his reins, and

flourished his whip—and away lumbered the heavy afternoon coach,

for the South, from the door of the coach office. It was full

inside, with only one outside passenger. After it was fairly out of

the town, and the road had become comparatively clear of carts and

carriages, the coachman, after two or three quiet, reconnoitering

glances at the gentleman who occupied the box-seat, tucked the

apron comfortably over his knees, and having settled himself

to his own satisfaction, began to weary of so long a silence,

and endeavoured to break the spell by the novel and interesting

remark—“It’s a fine afternoon, sir.”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

“Fine horses these, sir.”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.

“Queer fish this,” muttered the coachman to himself. “I wonder if

he can say No. I’ll try him once more. Take snuff, sir?” said he,

thrusting the mull under the nose of his victim.

“No, I thank you,” followed by an impatient rustling of his cloak,

and a restless movement on the seat.

The coachman gave up the matter in despair, and was obliged to

content himself with holding agreeable converse with his cattle, in

which he certainly had the best of it, as they bore all he chose to

inflict, in silence.

The man of few words was a youth of one or two-and-twenty, of

pleasing and gentlemanly exterior; and, although the _coachman_

looked with great contempt upon one who would not take snuff,

and who did not admire his favourite horses, we hope he will

prove an object of greater interest to our readers, as he is to

be the hero of our story. Poor fellow! no wonder that he wore

such an air of sadness and abstraction, and that he shrank from

the well-meant, though obtrusive advances of the knight of the

whip. Most of us have experienced—and who that has experienced

can ever forget?—the feelings of mingled sorrow and hope with

which we have, for the first time in our lives, turned our backs

upon the home of our childhood, and were fairly launched, on our

own responsibility, into the untried ocean of life. How fondly

did our thoughts rest upon the much-loved scenes we were leaving

behind us! how vividly did we recall each look and action of those

nearest and dearest to our hearts! and how perseveringly did we

cling to our sorrowful yet pleasing recollections, shutting our

eyes and ears to the vulgar sights and sounds of every-day life

around us, and shrinking from communication with our fellow-men,

as if our sorrow were “a thing apart,” too sacred to be unveiled

to the eyes of others. Such were the feelings of young Edward

Malcolmson, our silent friend. _He_ was leaving, for the first

time, a mother he tenderly loved, sisters who doted on him, and,

last, though not least, he was leaving one who was dearer to him

than them all—one whom he _then_ thought, as most of us have

thought once in our lives, he would never, never forget—the

joy of his heart, the light of his eyes (as the poets word it),

his first, his only love. No wonder, then, that he flapped his

travelling cap down over his ears, folded his arms on his breast,

and, fixing his eyes upon the footboard, sat the very image of

determination—to be miserable. Night was closing around, but the

darkness was congenial to his feelings; he could now indulge them

unobserved, and he abandoned himself to them without control. He

felt the same kind of listlessness and prostration of mental energy

which those experience who suffer from sea-sickness; so much so,

that when a sudden gust of wind whisked his cap off his head, he

was too completely victimised even to mention his loss to the

coachman.—“Let it go! What do I care? O Jessy!”

The latter part of this effusion he unconsciously uttered aloud.

“That’s the name of my near wheeler, sir,” said the coachman,

glad to hear dummy speak at last, and still more delighted

to have an opportunity of hearing _himself_. What a strange

mixture of inconsistencies is the creature man! This ludicrous

and unexpected appropriation of his beloved one’s name, tickled

Edward Malcolmson’s fancy; and he who the moment before had

thought himself the most miserable dog in existence, burst into

an extravagant fit of laughter. The coachman was delighted with

the success of his random remark; and it was with a chuckle of

unaffected, kind-hearted pleasure, that he exclaimed—

“It does my heart guid to hear ye laugh. Naething like it, sir, for

keeping a body gaucie an’ comfortable.”

The ice was broken; the conversation was kept up for some time—at

first only in monosyllables, on Edward’s part; but he could not

long resist the contagion of the man’s persevering merriment,

and he gradually shook off the weight which had before almost

overpowered his spirit. Sorrow gave way to hope for the future,

and, with all the sanguine buoyancy of youth, he already, in fancy,

began business for himself, in an extensive way, as a builder—of

castles in the air. Those castles in the air, those bubbles of

fancy, how soon do they crumble away, and burst amid the jostling

realities of life! How soon are our eyes opened to their hollowness

and vanity! The visions of early hope are like the rainbow—bright

and beautiful it appears before us, spanning half the heavens

with its brilliant arch, and fading even while we gaze upon it.

Fleeting, yet delightful dreamings of fancy! whither have ye fled?

Gone, with the buoyant spirits and unchilled affections of youth;

and we, the seared and world-hardened, sigh when we look back to

you, to think that ye have proved to be but delusions. But a truce

to sentiment; it is time that we should introduce our hero to our

readers, to do which satisfactorily, we must glance backwards to

a period some thirty years anterior to the date of our story, and

give some account of his parents.—Mrs Malcolmson was the widow of

a substantial tradesman in Edinburgh, who had been dead for some

years, having left her in tolerably comfortably circumstances, with

two daughters and one son, the Edward of our story. She was a woman

of manners and education far superior to her husband’s station in

life—the only daughter of an Irish family of distinction, in the

neighbourhood of Cork, and moving in the first circles there. She

had been attracted by the personal appearance and agreeable manners

of a young subaltern in a regiment quartered in that city. Philip

Denby was a man well calculated to catch the fancy of a young and

romantic girl. To great personal attractions, he united the most

polished, yet unaffected manners; was highly accomplished, and

was blessed, moreover, with an excellent disposition. But, with

all these advantages, young Denby had one drawback—a drawback of

no slight importance in the eyes of worldly-minded mammas, and of

their prudent daughters—he was poor. They were all loud in his

praise—so elegant, so delightful, so interesting! They all agreed

in thinking that no man dressed better, made a more _distingué_

figure in a ball-room, or a more agreeable one in general society;

but then, poor fellow, what would all that do for him?—he had

nothing but his pay to depend upon. The consequence was, that,

though the “admired of all admirers,” the young subaltern was

looked upon as a “detrimental;” and the mammas, while they were

eager to have so handsome an _officer_ to grace their parties, were

unwearying in their warnings and admonitions to their daughters,

to beware of any serious entanglement with so poor a _man_. In

general, these hints were not thrown away; but there was one, and

she was the best and loveliest of the circle, who turned a deaf

ear to them all. She listened only to the whisperings of her own

heart, which told her that Philip Denby, poor in purse, was rich

in all the qualities which adorn a man. Philip had long admired

Ellen O’Connor, but as he would have admired a star in the distant

sky—so great was the disparity which, to his sensitive mind, there

appeared to be between their respective stations in life. She was

the beautiful and only child of rich and purse-proud parents,

and entitled to look forward to an alliance with the rich and

high-born; while he, though a gentleman by birth, and so far her

equal, had nothing but his profession to depend upon. Hitherto he

had escaped, “fancy free,” from all the dangers which surrounded

him in the shape of bright eyes and beautiful forms; he felt

flattered by the attentions which were everywhere paid him by the

young and fair; but the very general popularity he enjoyed, was the

best safeguard of his heart; all smiled upon him, and he in return

smiled upon all, without feeling particular regard for any. He had

come to the magnanimous resolution, that he was too poor to marry

a poor woman, and too proud to marry a rich one—and he was in a

fair way to become a regular male flirt, when he first met Ellen

O’Connor. We will not attempt to enter into a description of Miss

O’Connor’s beauty, particularly as it lay more in expression than

in feature; such as it was, however, all Philip’s philosophy sank

before it, like snow before a sunbeam. We shall merely remark, that

she had eyes dark as her raven hair, with the light of a bright,

and joyous, and confiding spirit flashing through them; the rest we

leave to the imagination of our readers—for

“Who has not felt how feebly words essay

To fix one spark of beauty’s heavenly ray?”

Our limits will not allow us to enter into particulars. If

this were a novel, instead of a tale of real life, we might

follow the course of their love, step by step, and expatiate

upon the stolen glances, the tender _tête-à-têtes_, and all the

sentimental etceteras which usually form the burden of a tale of

love—fortunately for our readers, we must, perforce, spare them

the infliction. Suffice it, that their mutual attachment soon

became the subject of common remark and conversation; and, at last,

those who were most interested, and, as usual, most blind, were

enlightened by the hints and charitable warnings of sundry busy,

good-natured friends. Dire was the wrath of old O’Connor, when his

eyes were opened to the truth: he cursed his own blind folly, for

having allowed matters to go so far; cursed (but not aloud, he was

too prudent for that) the wife of his bosom, for having been as

blind as himself; and cursed every red coat that ever was made,

and every unfortunate wight who had ever worn one. At length he

remembered the legitimate object of his wrath, and hastened out

of the house in search of Denby. Fortunately for them both—for

Philip was not a man to bear unmerited abuse with patience—he

failed in his object; Philip was not to be found at his lodgings,

at the reading rooms, or at the billiard-table, for the best of all

reasons—that he was seated beside Ellen O’Connor, not five minutes

after her father had left her. While the one was leaving the house

in one direction, the other was arriving at it by another. Philip

found her in tears; and, in answer to his impassioned and alarmed

inquiries, she gave him an account of the scene she had just

witnessed, and implored him, if he had any affection for her, to

bear patiently the intemperance which, she feared, her father would

indulge in if they should meet. He calmed her fears on that score,

and they had a long and interesting conversation, the result of

which was, the conviction that it was impossible for them to live

without each other. What arguments the philosopher, Denby, made use

of, we know not; but the result was, that, in three days, Ellen

O’Connor eloped from her father’s house in his company. Some weeks

passed gaily and happily over the heads of the young couple; but

they were soon awakened from their dream of love and bliss, by the

sterner realities of life. The story of old O’Connor’s aversion to

the match, and his loud and angry invectives against his daughter,

had gone abroad, and Philip’s creditors became pressing in their

demands for payment. Ruin stared them in the face; and Ellen,

whose fear of meeting her justly-incensed father had hitherto

prevented her from seeking his forgiveness, was determined to

brave the interview she dreaded. With a faltering step she sought

her father’s dwelling; and her heart smote her, when she thought

how happy that home had been, till she introduced sorrow and

disappointment there. The house was shut up—the family had left

it in charge of a single servant, who delivered to Ellen a letter

that had been left for her by her father, in case of her return.

It contained merely the following words:—“Ungrateful girl! As you

have sown so must you reap: you are an outcast from my home and

heart for ever! Never presume to approach this house again.” With

eyes blinded with tears, and a heart swelling with anguish, she

returned to her husband, who was anxiously awaiting the result of

her visit.

“Well, dearest?” said he.

“He has rejected me for ever, Philip!” sobbed she, as she threw

herself into his arms.

“Grieve not, my love!” said Denby, while his anxious look and

heavy sigh betrayed how much he himself needed consolation—“are

we not all in all to each other?” And, as he embraced his young

and lovely wife, he forgot, for a moment, the world and all its

cares. By the sale of his commission, he contrived to raise money

enough to pay his trifling debts, and to support himself and

his wife for some months in strict economy; but that temporary

supply diminishing rapidly, he was obliged to apply to some of his

numerous friends to exert their interest, or open their purses in

his favour. Disappointment followed all his applications; and,

harrassed in mind and wearied in body, he lay down on the bed of

sickness and sorrow, from which he never rose again. He just lived

long enough to see and bless his newly-born infant, leaving his

wife to struggle with poverty and grief. Mrs Denby’s sorrow was at

first excessive; and serious fears were, for some time, entertained

by her medical man, for her life; but youth and a good constitution

carried her through. She was a woman of warm and passionate

feelings, and her grief soon exhausted itself by its violence.

Besides, it is one of the blessings of poverty, that it allows no

time for brooding over sorrow, but calls for active and constant

exertion, to ward off the evils it entails. In her distress—for

she was left almost destitute—she again applied to her father;

but he continued inexorable, and sternly refused to see her. His

example was followed by the rest of her family connections, all of

whom were, or affected to be, indignant at her conduct. A maternal

uncle, however, pitying her destitution, promised to settle a small

annuity upon her, and to bring up and provide for her infant son,

on condition that she would never interfere with his education, and

would leave the country within six months.

Severe as these conditions were, she at last agreed to them,

though to do so cost her many a bitter tear; but, when she thought

of her own destitute condition, and of the brighter prospects which

the proposed arrangement would open to her son, she struggled

to suppress the fond yearnings of a mother’s affection, and to

close with an offer which she hoped would be for her boy’s future

benefit. It was with an agonised heart she tore herself from her

little Philip, whose uncle received him with the greatest delight,

and solemnly promised to be to him as a father. She then bade adieu

for ever to her native land, after having again ineffectually

endeavoured to obtain her father’s forgiveness. In two years’ time,

she was again a wife and a mother. Mr Malcolmson, a respectable

Scottish tradesman, when on a visit to some friends in Cork, had

accidentally seen the young widow, at the time when her late

bereavement, and her family’s cruel rejection of her, excited

universal sympathy and commiseration; and when he afterwards met

her in Edinburgh, where she was living in humble seclusion, he

contrived to form her acquaintance; and, in a few months, made her

a formal offer of his hand and fortune. Mrs Denby received his

addresses with graceful and grateful acknowledgments; but told him

that she had no heart to bestow, that her affections were buried in

the grave with her husband, and that she could never love another.

“If you cannot _love_ me as your husband,” replied he, “you may

respect and esteem me—you may look upon me as your friend, your

guardian, your protector—as one whose pride and pleasure it will

be to anticipate all your desires, and to shield you from all

annoyances.” In her union with the worthy and amiable Malcolmson,

Ellen Denby was blessed with a recompense for all her past

distresses: for ten years he was to her the kindest of husbands,

the most affectionate of friends; and the only unhappy moment

she experienced during her union, was that on which it was about

to be dissolved for ever. He left her comfortably provided for,

with three children—two girls, and a boy, the hero of our tale.

Edward Malcolmson, at the time of his father’s death, was a boy

of excellent dispositions; and, as he grew up, he amply fulfilled

the promise of his childhood. He was a young man of solid rather

than brilliant talents; mild and gentlemanly in his manners; slow

to form plans, but persevering and determined in following them

out. He had received a medical education, and had distinguished

himself by his close application to his studies, and by his rapid

progress in professional acquirements. Through the interest of some

of his late father’s friends, he had obtained an appointment on

the Bengal establishment; and was, at the time of the commencement

of our story, on his way to London, there to join the ship that

was to convey him abroad. Mrs Malcolmson’s nearest neighbour in

Edinburgh, was a widow lady, named Martin, who, like herself, was

living in comfortable, though not affluent circumstances. Her only

daughter, Jessie, was her mother’s darling, and well deserved the

affection which was lavished upon her. She was about the same age

as Edward Malcolmson, and, without being absolutely lovely, there

was a charm in her simple, unaffected manners, and in the ingenuous

expression of her countenance, which, added to an uncommonly fine

figure and sweet voice, gave her the advantage over others who

far excelled her in mere beauty of feature. Between her mother

and Mrs Malcolmson, the closest intimacy had existed for several

years; indeed, they had lived so secludedly, that they had hardly

any acquaintances beyond the circle of their own families. The

consequence was, that the young people were almost constantly in

each other’s society; and their parents remarked, with pleasure,

the mutual attachment which seemed to be springing up between

them. They did, indeed, feel a warmer regard for each other than

is often the result of such constant and close intimacy; for it is

but too often the case with human character as it is with the face

of nature—“’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.” But it

was not till the time of Edward’s departure approached, that they

became mutually aware how dear they were to each other. The morning

before leaving Edinburgh, young Malcolmson called to bid adieu to

his friends. Mrs Martin happened to be out walking, and Jessie

was sitting alone in the parlour, when Edward was ushered in. She

turned pale when she saw him; for her heart sunk at the prospect of

their approaching separation.

“Jessie,” said he, after they had sat in silence some minutes, “I

have come to bid you farewell.”

“I feared so,” said she, striving in vain to repress her tears.

“Do not—do not cry, dear Jessie,” exclaimed he, starting up, and

seizing her hand, while his own eyes were dimmed with tears—“I

cannot bear to witness your distress.”

“Would you have me look happy and cheerful, when my old friend and

companion is going to leave me, perhaps never to return?”

“Companion, Jessie! friend!—these are cold words to me, whose

whole heart is yours; who live but in the light of your smile;

who love you as I have never before loved human being, and never

shall love again. Jessie! dear Jessie! tell me that I do not love

in vain; give me one word of hope to cheer me during my painful

absence. Will you not answer, dearest?”

She turned her tearful eye up to his face, and then, hiding her

blushing cheek upon his arm, she murmured—

“What would you have me say, Edward? We have been dearer to each

other than brother and sister; we have been dreaming a pleasant

dream, and now we are awakening from it; we are about to part,

perhaps never to meet again.”

“Oh, yes, dearest! we shall meet again. The world is all before

me, and I have youth and energy to carry me through it. Only tell

me that, if fortune favours my exertions, you will smile upon me;

and the hope of one day calling you mine, will cheer me under

misfortune, and encourage me to renewed efforts. Only tell me that

you will not forget me, and I here vow, as soon as I have obtained

a competency, to return and claim you for my bride.”

“Make no rash promises, Edward! We are both young, and have neither

of us seen much of the world, or of others. You know what your

favourite song says—

‘Change o’ fowk and change o’ scene

May gar thy fancy jee.’”

“Never, Jessie, never!”

But we will not weary our readers with any more of this easily

imagined effusion. They parted under a mutual agreement of fidelity

to each other: how well they adhered to it remains to be shewn.

We will not follow Edward Malcolmson on ship-board, nor attempt

to describe that most uninteresting of all uninteresting things,

a _pleasant_ passage; but will merely state that he arrived in

safety at Calcutta, where he soon rendered himself conspicuous by

his active discharge of the duties imposed upon him. His zeal and

talent attracted the notice of the ruling powers, and he obtained a

lucrative appointment at the Presidency, the salary of which, added

to the liberal fees he received in private practice, soon enabled

him to clear off the debts he had unavoidably contracted at his

outset, and to lay the foundation of a rapidly increasing fortune.

The habits of his previous life rendered it an easy task for him

to unite the most careful economy with a liberal and gentlemanly

expenditure. He had been early taught that true economy consists in

restraining our desire for the _superfluities_, not in debarring

ourselves from the enjoyment of the _comforts_ of life. His careful

regulation of his expenses, and his indifference to show and parade

enabled him, on proper occasions, to give greater scope to the

natural generosity of his disposition than he otherwise could have

done. Esteemed for the steadiness and consistency of his character,

and beloved for his kind and amiable qualities, he soon became

one of the most popular men of his class in Calcutta, besides

having deservedly acquired the reputation of being one of the most

skilful. Fortune had thus far favoured him beyond his most sanguine

expectations; and, in so expressing ourselves, we do no injustice

to his merits; for how often are the most splendid talents lost

to the world, even when seconded by persevering energy, for want

of opportunity for their display? At a comparatively early age,

he had nearly attained the summit of his profession; he had far

outstripped those who had started with him in the race for wealth

and distinction; he was generally and deservedly beloved and

respected—and yet he was not happy. “Change o’ fowk, and change o’

scene,” _had_ made a great alteration in those feelings which, with

the fond enthusiasm of youth, he had thought would remain unshaken

for ever; and the recollection of his engagement to Jessie Martin,

which was once his greatest solace, now hung like a cloud over his

spirits. For two or three years, her image had been ever present to

his thoughts, and had formed his principal incentive to exertion;

but Time had been gradually dimming his memory of the past. He

began almost unconsciously to regret having so inconsiderately

shackled the freedom of his inclinations, and, when he gazed on the

many lovely forms around him, he wished he had followed Jessie’s

advice, not to bind himself by a formal promise, until he had seen

more of the world and of the people in it. The engagement had been

made, however, and true to his principles, he was determined to

adhere to it, although, to do so, he was obliged resolutely and

firmly to avoid the society of one who had begun to usurp Jessie’s

place in his affections. He had written home from time to time,

giving a full account at first of his flattering prospects, and

of the hope that cheered him on in his path; and now, after a

lapse of eight years since his arrival in India, he wrote to say

that fortune had so far favoured him, that he considered himself

justified in thinking of making a change in his condition. He told

not of his cool and altered feelings—he considered it his duty

to conceal them, and to adhere to his engagement, even at the

sacrifice of his happiness; and he wrote to claim the fulfilment of

Jessie’s promise, and to beg her, if her feelings remained the same

towards him, to come out to him by the first opportunity. Time had

been busy also with Jessie. Long separation had gradually weakened

her affection for Edward; and a freer intercourse with the world

and with society, had produced its natural effect—a love of change

and variety. She had been much and generally admired, and, although

very guarded in her behaviour, and cool and distant in her manners

to the young men who flocked around her, had received several

very advantageous offers, which she had instantly and decidedly

rejected, as she considered herself in honour bound to adhere to

her early engagement. Her feelings towards Edward had, however,

lost their freshness and warmth, and had gradually acquired a tone

of indifference; and although she had formed no other particular

attachment, she grieved to think that she could not participate in

the constancy of affection which _seemed_ to pervade his letters to

her. Thus were they mutually deceived, and each looked forward with

anxiety and alarm to the period of their meeting, which was now not

far distant, as Jessie had received Edward’s invitation, and had

announced her intention of taking her passage in the _Lady Flora_

which was shortly to sail for Calcutta. It was with but little of

the joy of a bride-expectant, that she began her preparations for

her voyage; for she was conscious that she had none of that feeling

of devoted attachment to her betrothed which a woman ought to have

towards the man whom she is to vow at the altar, to “love honour,

and obey.”

We must leave her to complete her arrangements, and recall the

readers’ attention to one who must, by this time, we fear, almost

have escaped from their recollection—young Philip Denby, whom

we left in Ireland, under the guardianship of his uncle. The

lovely child had grown up a handsome and promising youth, and had

endeared himself to his uncle by his grateful and affectionate

disposition. He had received all the advantages which wealth and

liberality could bestow, and, though avowedly the intended heir to

his uncle’s handsome fortune, had been brought up in the strictest

habits of business and regularity. His gay, light-hearted,

joyousness of spirit, his frank and engaging manners—had made

him a general favourite; but, fortunately for him, he had been

taught to regulate his conduct by strict principle, and he always

kept in mind that the best mode of retaining the good opinion

of others, is by continuing to deserve it. He was not, as is

too often the case, spoiled by the attention he met with; but

it had, on the contrary, the good effect of stimulating him to

persevere in the path of duty. He knew nothing of his mother but

by the letters which she periodically wrote to inquire after his

welfare, and often and deeply did he lament the family feud which

separated them; but he had, from his earliest years, looked upon

his uncle as a father, and was obliged, in duty, to conform to his

prejudices. Old O’Connor never forgot nor forgave his daughter’s

indiscretion. He had been proud of her—proud of her beauty and

of her accomplishments—and had looked forward with delight to

the prospect of one so favoured by nature and fortune forming a

brilliant alliance; for, like most men with little minds and long

purses, he sighed for what wealth alone could not bestow—good

family connection. In this dearest hope of his heart, she had

disappointed him; and his wounded pride had converted what little

affection he once had had for her, into the bitterest enmity. This

feeling extended even to his innocent grandson, whom he refused

on all occasions to notice, remarking that an “ill bird must have

an ill brood.” But we will say no more of him or his prejudices:

such feelings are as monstrous and unnatural, as, fortunately,

they are rare. Mr Morton, Philip’s uncle, had made his fortune in

the East Indies, and had still an interest in a large mercantile

house in Calcutta, which place he had twice visited during his

protegé’s school days, and while he was pursuing his studies at

college, under the surveillance of an old and esteemed friend. It

was Mr Morton’s intention once more to visit the East; but a severe

attack of illness had shattered his constitution, and obliged him

to give up all hopes of prosecuting his intention. Philip had

attained the age of two-and-thirty, when alarming accounts were

received of the instability of several of the great commercial

houses in India. This news excited old Morton’s fears; and his

anxiety on the subject had a fatal effect upon his nerves, shaken

and debilitated by previous illness. He felt that he had not long

to live, and, in expectation of approaching dissolution, he made

his will, by which he left all he was possessed of to Philip, on

condition that he took the name of Morton. He earnestly enjoined

Philip to hasten to Calcutta, and, as his representative, to

assist, to the utmost of his ability, the house with which he was

connected, in the distress which he foresaw was impending over it.

Before Philip could prepare to comply with his wishes, however, the

old man became so alarmingly ill that his life was despaired of,

and, though he rallied wonderfully for a time, a relapse, brought

on by incautious exposure to the air, proved fatal, and Philip was

left a second time fatherless. Sadly and sincerely did he mourn the

loss of his affectionate and liberal protector—his earliest, his

kindest, his constant friend. As soon as circumstances would allow,

he hastened to fulfil his deceased uncle’s wishes, and, crossing

the Channel, after a rapid equipment for his voyage, he hurried

down to Portsmouth to join a ship on the point of sailing for

Calcutta. The passengers were all on board, and the vessel was only

waiting for a fair wind to proceed to sea. Two days afterwards,

they were dashing along down Channel, with a favourable wind, with

a bright sky over their heads, and with the cheering hope of a good

passage. The animated and novel scene excited Philip’s admiration,

and cheered his spirits. The bright and beautiful face of Nature,

under an aspect so new to him; the sunbeams glancing from the

crested waves; the white foam breaking under the vessel’s bow; the

exhilarating sense of rapid motion, as the water hissed and rustled

alongside; the rapidly-receding landmarks on the shore; and the

joyous faces of the crew—all conspired to distract his thoughts

for a while from the grief which had weighed down his spirits.

Several of the gentlemen passengers were on deck, enjoying the

beauty of the scene; but none of the ladies, of whom he heard there

were three or four on board, had yet made their appearance. At

eight o’clock, the steward announced, “Spirits on the table, sir;”

but Philip heeded him not. Now that the first excitement of novelty

was over, his thoughts reverted to the home he had so lately left,

and to the dear and valued benefactor he should never see again;

and he leaned sorrowfully over the gangway, to indulge his mournful

retrospections. From these reveries he was soon roused, by the

sound of suppressed voices close to him; and, on turning round

to see whence it proceeded, he perceived, through the dim light,

the figures of two of the crew stretched at full length on the

deck, close to the foremost quarter-deck carronade, and under the

lee of the bulwark. Now that his attention was awakened, he could

distinctly hear every word of their conversation, which amused and

interested him greatly, and which he considered himself perfectly

justified in benefiting by, as he had given them fair warning of

his proximity, by observing to them, “It’s a fine night, lads.”—and

receiving the answer, “Yes, sir, it is.”

“My eyes, Bill!” said one of the recumbents, “ain’t this here a

fine breeze?”

“Wait till ye sees the end on’t, Jem,” replied the other; “it’s my

notion ye’ll change your tune before long.”

“Mayhap I may, Bill; but I hates to be watching the weather-glass

of evil. What makes you so down in the mouth?”

“I’ll tell ye what, Jem—I don’t like this here move at all. I

never seed no good come of sailing on a Friday. Why couldn’t the

skipper have kept her fast by the nose for another day, ’stead of

running in the very teeth of mischief in this way? I wonders as how

the Admiralty doesn’t give an order agin sailing on sich an unlucky

day.”

“Why, sure, Bill, you don’t call sich a breeze as this unlucky? If

this is what you call Friday’s luck, I hope I may always sail on a

Friday.”

“Well, we’ll see, Jem; but, if so be as you doesn’t think that

there’s bad luck in a Friday, you’re out of your latitude, that’s

all.”

“Watch, man the royal cluelines!” interrupted the men in their

confab, and startled all the watch to their feet. The breeze

was gradually freshening, and the small masts were beginning to

complain; but the night was clear, and cold, and beautiful—and

Philip retired to his cot, laughing at the superstitious fears

of the sailor, but, at the same time, unconsciously almost to

himself, affected by them. The breeze continued steady till they

had cleared the Channel, and were standing to the south, when it

began gradually to die away and draw a-head; and, on the night

of the third day from their departure, the scene was completely

changed. Thick, heavy masses of cloud had been gathering to the

southward all the afternoon; cloud after cloud rearing its dark

head, and then remaining stationary, like an army assembling all

its forces before being put in motion. Towards night, the breeze

began to freshen from the southward, and the clouds to rise slowly

and sullenly, as if compelled unwillingly to tear themselves

from their resting-place on the horizon, while the light “scud”

drove rapidly across, high up in the heavens. A large, dull halo

surrounded the moon, and her light struggled dimly and ominously

through the watery and angry-looking vapours that flitted across

it. Everything portended a coming storm; the ship herself seemed to

be aware of the approaching conflict, plunging and rolling as if in

ineffectual efforts to make her escape; while her timbers groaned

and creaked, as she tossed about in the confused sea, and seemed to

utter mournful cries, as the wind moaned in hollow gusts through

her rigging. All the small sails were taken in, and soon the loud

order to “reef topsails” was heard, followed by the rattling of

blocks, the flapping of sails, and the loud cheers of the sailors,

as they plied their dangerous trade aloft. The double-reefed

topsails were soon set, the yards braced sharp up, and the ship

stood away to the westward, throwing thick sprays over her bow,

and trembling from stem to stern, as she plunged heavily into the

sea, and, rising again, poured whole torrents of water from her

head. Philip felt an excitement he had never before experienced, as

he gazed on the scene around him. The wild, threatening sky; the

angry waves, like wild beasts lashing themselves into fury; the

gradually-freshening gale, howling as if in search of its prey; and

the moon herself—the mild, placid moon—scowling down upon the

turmoil below, with a frown upon her brow—all united to form a

picture of gloom and desolation, which accorded well with his own

feelings. He stayed on deck till near the end of the first watch,

and was just going down to his cabin, when the second mate, whose

watch it was, said to him—

“You must be cold and wet, Mr Morton. If you will wait a few

minutes, till I am relieved, I shall be glad of your company in my

cabin, to smoke a cigar over a glass of grog, for it is of little

use turning in. This night’s work is not over yet, or I’m much

mistaken.”

“Thank you,” replied Morton; “I shall be happy to join you.”

As soon as the deck was relieved, they dived below, to the snugly

fitted-up cabin of the second mate, where they soon forgot the

clouds above, while enveloped in clouds of their own raising below.

“It is the fashion, Mr Morton,” said Hardy, the officer, “among

many of the sticklers for propriety, to rail at the use of what

they have no relish for themselves, and to denounce smoking as

a low and ungentlemanly practice; but, in spite of all their

squeamish objections, I know nothing more soothing and refreshing,

after a night of toil and excitement like this, than a mild and

genuine Havannah. Surely Nature would not be so lavish of her

blessings, if it had not been intended that we were to enjoy them

in moderation.

“Ah! I thought so—no rest for the wicked,” continued he, starting

up, as the shrill pipe of the boatswain rose far above the noise

of the storm; “there it is! ‘All hands down top-gallant masts and

yards!’ Finish your cigar, Mr Morton, and douce the glim when you

have done. I must be off.”

“I will go, too,” said Morton; “I am too much excited to sleep.”

The night was now pitch dark, the wind had increased to a strong

gale, and the ship was rolling “gunnels to,” in the long heavy sea;

bright flashes of lightning, every now and then, threw a momentary

glare over the gloomy heavens, and the thunder rolled in loud and

long-continued peals.

“Didn’t I tell you, Jem, what ’ud come of sailing on a Friday? and

we haven’t seen the end on’t yet,” said Bill Halliday, one of the

men we before mentioned, as he was running up the main rigging, and

a flash of lightning shewed him his messmate beside him.

“Oh, never say ‘die,’ while there’s a shot in the locker, Bill;

we’ll weather many a Friday’s sailing yet.”

Just then the ship gave a heavy lurch to windward; Jem heard a loud

and startling cry close beside him, and, looking downwards through

the darkness, a sudden flash shewed him his messmate struggling

for life on the surface of the water; he had slipped his foot,

poor fellow, and, amid the roar of the waters and the howling of

the gale, the noise of his plunge was unheard by those on deck.

His messmate, trembling with horror, raised the cry of “A man

overboard!” but, alas! in vain; in such a night and such a sea,

it would have been madness to risk the lives of the many for the

one. The next flash lighted the sea far and near, and all eyes were

anxiously bent upon the water; but nothing was visible but the dark

heaving mass, with the white foam driving over its surface; the

ravenous waves had done their work quickly and mercifully.

Soon after this, as if satisfied with this sacrifice to its fury,

the gale began gradually to moderate; and, before next night, the

ship was again “all a-taunto,” and standing to the southward, with

a leading wind, under single-reefed topsails, and topgallantsails.

The following day, the weather was so fine, and the water so

smooth, that the ladies, who had not hitherto ventured out of

their cabins, made their appearance at the cuddy table. At dinner,

Morton was seated nearly opposite to a remarkably fine _turkey_,

and his eyes were constantly wandering in that direction, but

whether for the purpose of admiring _its_ beauties, or those of a

young lady seated behind it, it was difficult to distinguish. His

contemplation however, either of the dead or the living beauty,

seemed to have diverted his thoughts from the indulgence of his

appetite.

“Mr Morton, a glass of wine?” said the captain; “you seem to be

contented with _looking_ at that fine turkey.”

“Beautiful creature!” replied he.

“Won’t you send your plate over for some of it?”

“With all my heart,” sighed he, looking most languishingly in the

direction of the turkey.

“Why, Mr Morton,” said Hardy, “you said before dinner that you had

an excellent appetite; you are not giving proof of it now—I am

afraid you are not well.”

Morton coloured to the eyes, and gave a faint laugh. The fact was,

that he was _not_ well; he had just been seized with a violent

attack of a rather uncommon complaint, called “love at first

sight.” He felt confused, he scarcely knew why, and he fancied

everybody was noticing his confusion, which made him ten times

worse. He laughed when he ought to have looked grave, and looked

grave when he ought to have laughed, and was guilty of a thousand

awkwardnesses, which attracted towards him the observation he

wished to avoid. He strove manfully to look up the table, and down

the table, and in every direction but that in which he wished to

look; but his eyes would, somehow or another, have their own way

in spite of him, and always contrived, at last, as naturally as

possible, to direct their glances towards the neighbourhood of the

turkey. It was with a feeling of positive relief he saw the ladies

retire from the table; and no sooner were they gone than he became

a rational man again, though rather more abstracted and silent than

he had been before dinner.

“That was rather a nice-looking girl sitting opposite to me at

dinner,” remarked he, hesitatingly and inquiringly, to his friend

Hardy, after they rose from table. “Do you know who she is?”

“I have heard her name, but I forget it just now,” said the

sailor; “but she is a devilish fine woman; I wonder the captain did

not introduce you to her.”

“Why, so he did; but he spoke so indistinctly that I could not

catch the name.”

At one bell in the second dog-watch (half-past six), the band made

their appearance on deck; and no sooner were the lively strains

of the music heard, than the ship’s company, always ready for “a

lark,” came swarming up the hatchways, and the decks soon resounded

with the sounds of the “fantastic,” but anything but “light” toe.

“Come, gentlemen,” said Captain Dickens to his passengers, “won’t

you follow the good example the men are setting you? Can’t you

persuade the ladies to dance? Mr Morton, here is a fair lady for

you to try your powers of persuasion upon,” looking at one who was

walking beside him, and who made a movement of assent in reply to

Morton’s bow.

It was the fair one who had attracted so much of his attention at

dinner. As the captain resigned her to his charge, Morton blushed,

and stammered, and wished himself a hundred miles off, although he

was in the very situation which, a few minutes before, he thought

he could give worlds to occupy. What fools does love make of wise

men! At last, the preliminaries were satisfactorily arranged, and

the dance commenced; and, before its conclusion, the partners were

mutually pleased with each other.

“Well, Mr Morton,” said the captain, “I hope you enjoyed your

dance?”

“Very much indeed,” replied he; “I hope you do not feel fatigued,

Miss Martyr.”

“Miss who?” said the captain, laughing; “you are surely not going

to make a _martyr_ of your partner.”

“If I have made a mistake, Captain Dickens, you ought to make the

_amende honorable_ for me, for you spoke so indistinctly that I

misunderstood you.”

“I shall be happy to make the only reparation in my power, by

re-introducing you clearly and distinctly to Miss Martin.”

Yes, Miss Martin—our old, and we hope not uninteresting friend,

Jessie Martin; and the scene of the introduction was the

quarter-deck of the _Lady Flora_. At eight o’clock, the band struck

up “God save the King,” and the party separated for the night—the

ladies retiring to their cabins, and the gentlemen adjourning to

the cuddy, to discuss their grog. For several successive nights,

however, by some strange coincidence, Morton always happened to be

just making his appearance at the top of the companion ladder, as

Miss Martin was emerging from the cuddy-door, to take her evening

promenade. Of course, common politeness required that he should

offer his arm to support her, because the ship had a good deal of

motion, or because, if there were none just then, there might be by

and by. Jessie was much pleased with her new acquaintance, when the

first embarrassment of his manner wore off. This she attributed to

that kind of _mauvaise honte_ which a man acquires from a life of

seclusion, or from a limited intercourse with society. Perfectly

free from personal vanity, she had not the most remote idea that

it had any connection with her own attractions; but she soon had

cause to alter her opinion. She was surprised at his varied and

extensive store of knowledge, and delighted with his lively and

animated manner of imparting it. He had evidently mixed a great

deal in society, and his conversation abounded in amusing and

interesting anecdotes of celebrated characters whom it had been

his good fortune to have associated with. There was something

particularly gratifying to a mind like Jessie’s, in being selected

as the friend of one who appeared in every way so estimable; and

his silent, yet constant and brother-like attention to her comfort

and wishes, excited her feelings of grateful regard. Thus they

went on for some time together, he becoming day after day more and

more deeply enamoured, and she unconsciously increasing his love

for her, by the frank and natural confidence of her manner towards

him. At last, a hint from Mrs Jameson, the lady under whose charge

she had been placed, opened her eyes to the danger and impropriety

of so close an intimacy with one who, she felt, was daily

making rapid advances in her good opinion, and whose increasing

admiration of her was beginning to be but too evident. She called

to mind, what she blamed herself for having so long kept out of

view—her delicate position as the affianced bride of another,

and saw, in its true colours, the double treachery she would be

guilty of in further encouraging, or rather in not repelling,

the attentions of a new admirer. It was doing great violence to

her feelings gradually to withdraw from her companionship with

Morton, particularly as she must have been blind indeed not to

remark the pain which her apparent coldness inflicted upon him;

but, when she had once made up her mind as to the propriety of the

course she had adopted, she steadily and firmly persevered in it.

Philip, surprised at the change in her manner, wearied himself with

conjectures as to its cause, and feared that some inadvertent act

or expression of his might have given her offence; but it was in

vain he taxed his memory; he could not recall any instance in which

his conscience could reproach him for having overstepped the bounds

of respectful and polite attention.

At last, no longer able to bear the pain of uncertainty, he

resolved at once boldly to venture on a step, upon the result of

which he felt that his future happiness depended. Mrs Jameson had

long noticed Morton’s growing love for Jessie, and, knowing the

peculiar situation in which her young protegé was placed, had, as

we before remarked, advised her to adopt a more distant carriage

towards him; but, at the same time, charmed with Morton’s amiable

and estimable character, and feeling for the disappointment which

awaited him, she herself redoubled her attentions towards him.

Emboldened by the kind interest of her manner, Morton resolved on

making her his confidante, and accordingly revealed to her, that

which she had, with woman’s quickness, long since discovered—the

secret of his love.

“I have long feared this, Mr Morton,” replied she; “feared it,

because I feel the greatest interest in you, and because I know

that there exists an insuperable obstacle to the fulfilment of your

hopes.”

“Insuperable! do not say insuperable, Mrs Jameson! I know that the

shortness of my acquaintance with Miss Martin hardly warrants my

presuming to address her; but will not time and the most devoted

attachment work a change in my favour? Oh, let me see her! let me

plead my own cause before her, and, if unsuccessfully, let me at

least have the melancholy satisfaction of hearing my sentence from

her own lips?”

“An interview would only be distressing to you both, Mr Morton. I

am not at liberty to say more; but I know that the result will be

unfavourable to your wishes.”

Morton’s importunity, however, prevailed; the kind-hearted friend,

melted by the sight of his distress, promised to procure him a

private interview with Miss Martin. Great was Jessie’s agitation

when she received Mrs Jameson’s communication. She had resolutely

and firmly avoided meeting Morton, ever since her eyes had been

opened to the nature of her feelings towards him, which she

considered it her bounden duty to repress, as a proper sacrifice

to principle; but the struggle was a severe one—the arrow rankled

deeper than she suspected. She was sitting alone, when Morton,

by Mrs Jameson’s invitation, entered the cabin. A crimson flush

overspread her cheek, which as quickly left it again. She was

looking very pale, and received him with visible agitation. It was

in a tremulous and low tone of voice, that Morton first began to

address her; but, as he proceeded, his countenance glowed, and his

words followed each other in such a rapid and fervent torrent, that

she in vain attempted to interrupt him. He described the impression

her first appearance had made upon his heart, the charm he had

experienced in her society, and the gradual, yet rapid growth of

his admiration and esteem upon a closer acquaintance with her

character. He dwelt long and deeply upon the grief her apparent

estrangement had occasioned him, begged her to forgive him if he

had in any way given her cause of offence, explained to her his

circumstances and views in life, and ended by laying his heart and

fortune at her feet.

“Mr Morton,” replied she, “I would fain have spared myself and

you the pain of this meeting; but I owed it to you, to make some

reparation for the error into which I have unfortunately led you;

otherwise, I would have deputed my friend to take upon her a duty

so distressing to my own feelings. Severely do I now blame myself

for having so inconsiderately indulged in the pleasure which your

society afforded me. I mistook your feelings. I looked upon you as

a friend, and I forgot how near akin friendship is to love. Forgive

me, Mr Morton!—I never can be yours—I am the affianced bride of

another.”

“Affianced!” exclaimed Morton, pressing his hand upon his brow, and

absolutely gasping with oppression of feelings. “O heaven! I did

not expect this, Miss Martin. But is your heart in the engagement?”

Jessie burst into tears. “Urge me no farther, Mr Morton—my fate

is in the hands of another. Henceforth, we must be as strangers to

each other—Adieu!” And she glided into an inner apartment. Morton

gazed after her for a moment, and then with a heavy heart left the

cabin. His friend Hardy found him sitting, with his face buried in

his hands upon the table, and eagerly and affectionately inquired

the cause of his distress. Morton related to him all that had

passed, and ended with saying—“And now, there is no more happiness

for me in this world.”

“My dear fellow,” said his friend, “I give you joy.”

“Give me joy, Hardy! I did not expect this from you! Instead of

sympathising with me, you rejoice in my disappointment!”

“I rejoice, but not in your disappointment. Mark my words, Morton!

The girl loves you, and, though at present, appearances are against

you, do not be downcast—many a more broken boat has reached the

land. If my suspicions are correct, depend upon it, a girl of

Miss Martin’s principles will not be guilty of the treachery of

deceiving the man who claims her hand, into the belief that he

possesses her heart.”

During the remainder of the voyage, Jessie strictly adhered to her

resolution, and Philip had too much respect for the woman he loved,

to endeavour to shake it. It was soon evident to Mrs Jameson, who

sincerely sympathised with him, that he was not the only sufferer;

but that it was a grievous trial to them both; and, while she

truly pitied them both, she could not but admire and respect the

high sense of principle by which they were mutually actuated. The

thought of the approaching termination of the voyage, which was

by all else on board looked forward to with delight, was to them

like the haunting recollection of a frightful dream, which they

strove to drive from their minds; for, unhappy as they now were,

it was bliss compared to the thought of being separated for ever.

At length, the high land about Ganjam was seen from the masthead,

and, two days afterwards, a strange sail hove in sight, which,

on a nearer approach, proved to be a brig, with the pilot flag

fluttering aloft. “All hands shorten sail!” was soon the cry, and

“Up there, topmen!” In a few minutes, the lofty canvass was taken

in, and the active topmen were busily employed in rolling it up;

while the _Lady Flora_, with her maintopsail to the mast, scarcely

moved through the water, as she gracefully rose and fell, or, as

a popular authoress expresses it, “curtseyed,” as if saluting the

approaching stranger, which shortened sail as she came near, and

rounded to on the opposite tack. A double-banked boat, manned with

Lascars, shoved off from the brig, and the pilot soon made his

appearance on board. The purser of the _Flora_, with letters and

despatches for Calcutta, returned in the boat to the brig, which

immediately made all sail for Kedgeree; and the _Lady Flora_,

under easy canvass, followed at a distance in her wake. In the

evening, the ship was brought to an anchor, at which time the brig

was, lower masts down, a-head. Next morning, the _Flora_ got under

way, and was soon snug at anchor off Kedgeree, where she was to

discharge some of her cargo, before proceeding up the river. In the

meantime, her letters had been forwarded by “dawk” to Calcutta.

In three days’ time, a schooner-rigged budgerow was seen coming

down the river, which anchored inshore of the _Flora_, and hailed

her for a boat. A cutter was immediately despatched to her, which

soon returned with a stranger sitting in the stern sheets. Jessie

Martin had been sadly and listlessly employed, all the morning,

in making preparations for landing, arranging, and directing her

trunks; but her work proceeded slowly; for, in spite of her better

reason, her thoughts dwelt mournfully on her approaching separation

from Morton, when a knock was heard at the cabin door, and, as if

to reproach her with her inconstancy, the lover of her youth stood

before her. Jessie had, for months, been anticipating with dread,

her meeting with Edward Malcolmson, and had, as she thought, nerved

herself to go through the trial with firmness; but, now it had

come upon her, she was taken unawares. The surprise was too great

for her; she felt a mortal sickness creeping over her, and, turning

deadly-pale, fell fainting into her chair. Malcolmson ran to her

assistance, and, sprinkling some water on her forehead, restored

her to consciousness, when she hid her face in her hands, and burst

into tears.

“Jessie,” said Malcolmson, surprised at her agitation, “this is an

unexpected reception. Am I an object of dread to you? I came here,

ready and willing to fulfil my promise, and to claim you as my

bride, and you seem to shrink from me, as if I were hateful in your

sight.”

“Oh, no!—not hateful, Edward. My heart owns you as an old and dear

friend. There,” said she, putting her hand into his, “there is the

hand I promised you! But, as it is to be so, would that we had

never parted!”

“What do I hear?” said he, in a tone which surprised her; “you say,

here is my hand! Is your heart not with it, Jessie?”

“Edward,” answered she, “this is no time for dissimulation. We are

about to take a step on which our happiness or misery for life

depends. You will despise me, Edward, but I dare not deceive you.

My hand is yours, if you desire it; but my heart is another’s.”

And, thus saying, she looked fearfully in his face, to see what

effect her confession would have upon him. To her great surprise,

a flush of gratification spread over his countenance, and he

exclaimed—