EMMA LA VELLETTE.

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BY P.

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About twenty years ago, there lived near the pretty town of Launceston, in Cornwall, an elderly maiden lady named La Vellette. She was of French origin, and had emigrated to England about the commencement of the first French Revolution. She was remarkable for the simplicity of her manner, and the amiability of her character. Exhibiting but little of that vivacity which usually characterizes her fair countrywomen, she nevertheless displayed a subdued cheerfulness, which, while it did not stimulate mirth, never tended to arrest a merry laugh or an innocent joke. In person she was small, and her features, though marked by age, and saddened by care, still bore the lingering traces of beauty. Her neat, retired, and snug little cottage, which, in summer, used to peep forth beneath a forest of honeysuckle and ivy, and her prim and Quaker-like simplicity of dress, were in happy harmony with her disposition. Living in my youthful days within a few yards of her residence, I was frequently invited with my playmates to visit her garden. Gradually I became an especial favorite; and I used to feel so much at home in her company, that I needed no invitation to pay her frequent visits. She seemed to take a high degree of interest in my amusements, and that of my companions; and when any conflicts arose from the mysteries of a game at marbles, or from the strategy in hide-and-seek, she would be the first to heal up the difficulty, and restore amicability. Another valuable trait, which, boy as I was, I could not help observing, was the unwavering resignation which she always exhibited; while on the other hand, I was remarkable for my impatience, and a somewhat irritable disposition. And when, as often I did, I laid my complaints before her, when I grieved about the loss of a favorite top, or the death of a favorite pigeon, I was always met with her sympathy, and gently chid for my discontentment. Soothing me with her mild but sorrowful smile, she would draw me to her bosom, and strive to show me the folly of grieving for an unavoidable loss, and the duty of submitting manfully to misfortune.

To her neighbors her early history was involved in some degree of obscurity. They knew she was a French emigré, that many years ago a favorite sister had died, and that she had been deprived of her parents at an early age. They had heard it rumored that she had suffered from severe misfortunes—that her connections had been people of rank, and while they all knew she enjoyed a competence, some conjectured she was even wealthy. Other stories of a romantic character were sometimes circulated, but unsupported by any degree of certainty.

My esteem for her grew with my growth, and I have reason to believe that it was reciprocated; but as I advanced in years, my visits became less frequent, from unavoidable circumstances. At length the period arrived when I was called upon to leave home for a situation in a foreign land, and as I had often felt a strong desire to become acquainted with her history, I called upon her on the day previous to my departure to take my farewell, and to see if I could have my curiosity gratified. After I had expressed this wish with all the delicacy my confusion enabled me, and had excused the request by intimating the possibility that we might never meet again, she consented to leave me a brief account after her death. And that event, she added, is not far hence. Something tells me that my pulse will soon cease to beat, and my heart to throb. I have long waited for Heaven’s messenger; I have long panted for that land “where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.” She then gave me a few words of advice, she pressed her lips upon my cheek, placed a small parcel, containing a gold watch and ring, into my hand, and then, in a broken voice, bade me farewell.

Her anticipation of death was speedily realized. I was told that, about eleven months after my departure, while reading her Bible in an arm-chair, she suddenly and silently vanished, like one of heaven’s stars, into the other world. Among her papers was a packet directed to me, in which was the following brief sketch of her early life.

I was born in the year 1770, at the village of St. Marc, near Lyons, in France. I was the youngest of three children, having had a brother and sister. My parents were connected with families of rank, and, though well-off, were not wealthy. My mother was a woman of delicate constitution, and of a most amiable disposition. She looked upon her husband as the beau-ideal of perfection, and with a mother’s partiality, she thought her children were paragons of beauty. My father was certainly a kind, handsome, and an intellectual-looking man. In after life I had opportunities for observing many families, and I do not remember any father who was fonder of his home, more devoted to his wife, or more affectionate to his children. Many years have passed, and many strange scenes have racked my mind, since I last saw his dear face; yet the recollection of his features are still as fresh upon my memory as if I had seen him to-day. He loved study and his books; and, though an aristocrat by birth, and a gentleman by fortune, he was a sincere friend of the people, and an enemy to the profligacy and oppression of the court. He was not, that I am aware of, a believer in the republicanism then advocated. He thought France was then unfit for a democratic government. He maintained that all institutions, to be permanent, must be gradual in their growth. The strong and stately oak, flourishing through centuries, slowly acquired its vigor and dimension; the animalculæ springing into life, in a moment of time, becomes as suddenly extinguished. “What my country needs,” said he, “is not a universal suffrage, but freer institutions; not a republic, but opportunities and experience to fit her for it.” He no less decried the irreligious doctrines by which liberal opinions were then so frequently accompanied. “France,” he would say, in his clear, manly voice, “will never be really free until she is religious. The reign of virtue and order must always accompany the reign of freedom. Without these requisites she may conquer, but only to be defeated; she may establish a republic, but it will be only a despotism in disguise.”

These opinions did not seem to please many of his auditors, and he would frequently leave a political club with feelings of grief and despair. He saw no hope for his country so long as her shackles remained—and he mistrusted the wisdom of the reforms which the people desired to introduce.

My sister was about two years older than myself. She was fairer and prettier than I was, and bore a strong resemblance to my mother. She had light hair, large, clear blue eyes, and a tall and graceful figure.

My brother was five years my senior. He was in every respect, but in affection, unlike the rest of us. At an early age, I remember, he exhibited marks of a powerful frame, with an active, bold, and enthusiastic disposition. His mind, naturally good, was improved by an excellent education; and though carefully watched over by an attentive father, he could not prevent him from imbibing very extravagant notions about government, and very loose opinions upon religion.

The limits to which I purpose to confine myself, precludes the possibility of mentioning any of the incidents connected with my childhood. I shall therefore pass them by, and in the following pages, merely allude to those events which may be of interest, and I hope of profit.

Suitors made their appearance as my sister and myself approached womanhood. For some time I did not discover any one who attracted my attention. Having every comfort I desired, and parents upon whom I doated, I was in no hurry to divide my affection. But we are told that every woman must, sooner or later, fall in love—and my experience formed no exception. At a party given by a neighbor, I was introduced to a young man, who struck my attention, and who in a short time won my heart. His name was Alfred Pomiville. He was admitted on all hands to be very prepossessing; and I thought he was a model of manly beauty. My parents had formed the humane and sensible resolution of allowing their children the disposal of their own affections, reserving, of course, the right of approving or disapproving of their choice. When, therefore, my father became acquainted with my partiality for Alfred, he did not accuse me of disobedience, but endeavored to study his disposition and to ascertain his character. Measuring his feelings by mine own, I thought the more closely Alfred was studied the more he would be admired. I was therefore surprised when I found my father forming a somewhat undecided opinion of him, and entreating me to be cautious before I gave away a woman’s dearest treasure—her heart. I promised obedience to his advice; but with the characteristic weakness of most of our sex, when our affections are engaged, I speedily forgot my promise, and went on confiding and loving. In the course of a few months I observed with much pleasure that he gradually rose in my father’s estimation; with my mother he was from the first a favorite; and my brother and sister both considered him agreeable. To me he was kind and affectionate in the highest degree; he studied my smallest wish, and seemed devoted to my happiness. Within a year after our acquaintance he was recognized by my parents as my future husband, and then I saw naught but smiles and sunshine before me; then I thought, in the weakness of my heart, I had attained the summit of human happiness, and could defy misfortune.

As time flew on, the dark clouds of the Revolution advanced. It was now evident to every observing eye that a fearful storm was at hand. The most hair-brained courtier, strutting through the balconies of Versailles, heard the distant rumblings of the coming thunder and stood aghast. Even the political agitators trembled for a moment at the prospect they had created. My father therefore became more anxious, more active, and less at home. At length the storm burst. The indignant voice of fifteen millions could no longer be controled. Then followed that unparalleled era of romance and crime, of heroism and pusillanimity. Then commenced the first of a series, not yet completed, of modern popular reaction against political oppression. We had, ere this, removed to Paris, and we saw what has been called the commencement of the Revolution. But I must pass over the dreadful scenes which subsequently passed before our eyes. They have now long enjoyed an unenviable notoriety, forming alike a warning to the oppressed and their oppressors. Strange to say, after a little while, we were able to hear the awful events around us with comparative composure, so easy does our nature become accustomed to circumstances. No doubt this was in a great measure owing to the confidence we entertained of the safety of our family. My brother was one of the popular favorites, and so seemed Alfred. My father, though conservative in his republicanism, and an uncompromising opponent of infidelity, was admired by all who held his opinions, and respected by those who differed with him. Our relatives, most of whom were aristocrats in sentiments as in rank, had ere this emigrated to Germany.

The Revolution gathered force as it rolled along, and my father’s disappointment increased as he observed the acts which accompanied its progress. We now felt it was unsafe for him to remain, and at our earnest wish, he appointed an old domestic to take care of his property, and consented to leave France with us for England. Alfred accompanied us to Paris, and my parents agreed that we should be immediately united, and that he should then accompany us in our exile. A priest, an old acquaintance, who had sought for shelter under our roof from the popular excitement, was appointed to perform the marriage ceremony. The gloom which had lately hung heavily upon me now disappeared. I was confident of a speedy release from further trouble and looked forward to our future residence in England with much anxiety.

The morning of the day fixed for my bridal at length arrived. I remember I slept very little on the preceding night. When I arose the day seemed delightfully fine, which I looked upon as a favorable omen. Habited in a plain white dress, I descended to our little parlor, where Alfred and all the family, except my father, were assembled at breakfast. The latter, I was told, was absent on business relative to our departure. The ceremony was not to take place until one, and we highly amused ourselves during the intermediate time, in projecting future schemes, and building pretty castles in the air. My sister drew a very charming picture of our English residence—Alfred gave us amusing and extravagant descriptions of the English—and I endeavored to estimate how much I should enjoy the English scenery, its picturesque cottages, its snug little gardens, and the luxury of peace and safety. And then Alfred drew me by his side, and whispered compliments in my ear, and assured me that stores of happiness awaited us. Thus pleasantly the time flew on until the clock struck one, when the priest reminded us that the hour for our wedding had arrived. At that moment a knock was heard at the door, which Annette declared was our father’s. The missal was then opened, and my sister placed the chairs in order. Then my heart began to palpitate, and a nervousness come over me which young ladies, I presume, are accustomed to experience upon such occasions. As I was advancing with Alfred toward the priest, I happened to turn my eyes to the window fronting the street, where I saw my dear father in the executioner’s cart, on its way to the guillotine!

To describe the feelings which I experienced when this dreadful sight presented itself, would be impossible. Nearly forty years have passed since then, during which I have witnessed many never-to-be-forgotten scenes, and experienced many uncommon trials, yet that moment stands out in greater prominence than any other event of my life, and even now my hand trembles and my eyes become dim as the recollection of it returns to my memory.

Upon recovering from the insensibility which the shock produced, I was met with another catastrophe, no less appalling than its predecessor—the death of my mother! It seems she also had observed my father on his way to execution, and the sudden fright operating upon a diseased heart, produced a sudden and fatal attack. Thus the hour which I fancied was to make me happy became the commencement of a series of misfortunes; the day which was to have rescued us from danger carried my father to the scaffold and fitted my mother for the grave! Truly says an old French proverb—“L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.”

My marriage was of course postponed. So soon as we were able we made preparations for the burial of our deceased parents. On the day after that duty was accomplished, tidings reached us that our estates were confiscated, adding poverty to orphanage. Collecting our little stock of money and jewels, we nevertheless determined to leave France for England. It was agreed, for it was necessary, to make our escape by different routes, so as to avoid notice and lessen the possibility of detection. It was also agreed that we should meet at a friend’s house in London. Accompanied by my sister, we reached Toulon, which was then in the hands of the royalists, where we found an English ship which carried us safely to England.

But my troubles did not end here. My sister was naturally of a weak constitution, and the fatigues of our journey, and the excitement consequent upon our losses, had greatly increased her debility, so that upon our arrival in London I found it necessary to place her under medical treatment. The family where we agreed to rendezvous were royalists, and they had left for Germany, to join the invading army against France. We were therefore in a strange country, with an imperfect knowledge of its language, friendless and almost moneyless. Oh! how different was our condition to that which we a few weeks previous had anticipated! Some time, however, elapsed before I allowed these circumstances to depress me. My nerves seemed to strengthen with the increase of my difficulties—a faculty, which I think, is peculiar to our sex, and which, alas! they are often called upon to exercise. I also buoyed myself up with the hope of the speedy arrival of my brother and Alfred, and I used every means by which they might become acquainted with our address. At last my little resources were almost exhausted, my poor sister still lingered unimproved, and I had received no news of their arrival, nor intelligence of their whereabouts. I had tried, but in vain, to obtain employment, and I almost began to despair of any relief but death. The doctor told me that medicine was of no use to my sister, and recommended nutritious diet, which I had not the means of procuring. He, and the people with whom we boarded, also importuned me for money, and payment of what I owed deprived me of all I possessed. We therefore felt it necessary to remove to a small, ill-ventilated room, in the outskirts of the city. After this my poor sister became worse. The want of proper food, of pure air, and medical advice, aggravated her disease. I fortunately, after very great exertion, obtained employment in making fancy collars, which by hard labor enabled me to earn about one shilling a day. Deducting half of that sum for rent, we had only three shillings per week to board with. With this I used to purchase oatmeal, and we converted it into what the Scotch call porridge. Annette seemed at first to like it, but her partiality for it speedily changed, and the only food she subsequently cared for, which my means enabled me to procure, was milk and toast. Her illness was also aggravated by the disorderly persons who boarded in the house, and when I entreated the landlord to command silence, he roughly told me I was welcome to leave if I felt uncomfortable. She was now so weak that removal would have extinguished the faint spark of life which remained, and I was therefore compelled to submit to this annoyance. One or two of our fellow-lodgers did take compassion on our condition, and showed us a little kindness. An old woman, named Grassett, the wife of a pensioner, sometimes visited our room, and gave us a cup of nice tea, or would wait on my sister while I worked at my collars, or endeavored to snatch a little sleep. We had also occasional visits from a pious French priest, who, though he could not alleviate our sufferings, often cheered us with his sympathy. My sister lingered on for about ten months, sometimes worse and sometimes better. On the evening of a day in the month of December she seemed livelier than I had seen her for a long time before, which afforded me a hope of her ultimate recovery. She sat up in her bed, and with her sweet voice endeavored to convince me that there were happy days in store for us, and of the strong probability of the speedy arrival of Alfred and our brother. And then she would kiss my care-worn cheeks, and smilingly assure me that I had lost none of my beauty. I assumed an assent to all she said, because I knew it would afford her pleasure.

While conversing in this manner, the postman arrived and handed me a letter. Pointing to the address which was in French, and to the writing which resembled my brother’s, she exultingly declared it was his, and playfully demanded that I should never more doubt her predictions. For a moment I fancied it was his, and the bearer of good news, but the first words, “Dear Miss,” dashed away all these expectations. I however endeavored to hide my emotion, because I was intently watched and incessantly questioned about its contents. As I read on, the particulars of my brother’s adventures became gradually unfolded—at last the finale was reached, he had been arrested within a few miles of the frontier, and then met with the fate of his father. So wrote the friend who obtained a few hurried words from him previous to his execution, and who promised him to communicate this intelligence to us. But strange to say, when I reached this dreadful part of the letter, my stupefied brain felt my sister’s arms suddenly clasped around my neck, heard her sob, as she kissed me, “poor dear Emma,” and then remain silent. In a few minutes I felt somewhat restored, I ventured a glance upon her face, and she seemed to be asleep. I removed her arms, and as I gently tried to awake her, the awful truth revealed itself that she, too, had departed. Whether it was produced by reading my brother’s fate upon my countenance, or by any physical infirmity, is to me a mystery.

Some hours must have elapsed before I returned to consciousness. I awoke as from some horrible dream, but the dreadful reality quickly returned. And as I heard the thunder roaring and the rain pouring without, and observed the gloom within, the fatal letter on the door, and my dead sister by my side, I became reckless with despair. Grief refused to pay her tribute to misfortune, my heart seemed to harden, my head seemed to burn. I fancied Heaven and earth had conspired to injure me.

A raging fever followed, accompanied with delirium, and I was told, that as I lay under its influence I would call upon my parents, my sister and my brother, and entreat them to send for me. At other times I upbraided Alfred for his absence, and then expressed a confidence in his arrival, and framed excuses for his delay. Anon I would promise to be good to him, to wait upon and watch over him, to make him happy and deserve his love.

At the moment the first gleam of reason returned, I observed persons carrying my sister’s corpse from the room, in a coffin composed of a few rough boards, which seemed to be clumsily nailed together. I recognized their object at once, and entreated that I might be allowed to give her one last kiss before they consigned her to the grave. With a little grumbling they removed the lid, and as I pressed my lips upon her cheek I truly envied her condition. I then asked for a ringlet of her hair, but I was told that they had all been cut off and sold to a hair-dresser to meet the expenses of her funeral. A choking sensation now seized me, I fell back and buried my face in the bed-clothes, and my dead sister was removed.

In a little while I felt somewhat relieved. My eyes—those safety-valves to a sorrow-stricken heart—became suffused with tears for the first time since my illness. I also now experienced that a some thing was wanting; my conscience troubled me, but I could not tell why or wherefore. I also startled myself by conjecturing that my misfortunes were intended for some wise purpose, and that that purpose had some reference to myself. I reviewed my past life, but I could not then remember any act of mine which deserved punishment; indeed, I felt a degree of complacency, because I fancied I was so much better than many whom I remembered, and had done my duty as a daughter, a sister, and as a friend. But the feelings which produced these inquiries wore off with my recovery; it was reserved for a future period to make a deeper impression.

Some of the people of the house extended a rough kind of sympathy to me, and Mrs. Grassett continued a constant attendant. One day she mentioned the death of the kind old French priest who used to visit us, and added that an English clergyman, who visited the poor in the neighborhood, had made inquiries and expressed a desire to see me. I may here mention that my father descended from a Huguenot family, and though they felt themselves obliged to conceal their opinions after the edict of Nantes, yet they continued to disseminate them privately among their household. I felt, therefore, little compunction in accepting this gentleman’s offer, particularly at that moment, when I very much needed some one with whom I could converse. On the day after I consented to see him he called upon me. His name was Bonner. In appearance he was about fifty, with a pale, expressive and benevolent face. He spoke French fluently, and alluded to my recent loss with much delicacy and feeling. Although I was then unable to comprehend all he said upon religion, I soon felt at home with his manner, and desired him to visit me as often as possible.

As soon as I regained a little strength, he recommended me to seek the situation of governess, and offered me a letter of introduction to a family with whom he had a slight acquaintance, who, he believed, were in want of one. I gladly accepted his offer. The name of the family was Curtis. The father had been a soap and candle manufacturer, but had amassed wealth by successful speculations. He was little more than forty in age—he had a stout figure, a long, narrow face, a hooked nose, sharp, deep-set eyes, and a broad mouth. His wife was a daughter of a man of family, who had become poor by extravagance, and who silenced his unmarried creditors (so Mr. Curtis once told me) by presenting them with his daughters. This occasioned him to remark, in a moment of anger, that he had purchased his wife for six hundred pounds. She had been educated as a lady—that is, she could speak French slightly, dance, sing, play on the piano, and read novels. Her daughters were three in number. The eldest, Jemima, when I first came, was sixteen; the second, Dorothea, was fourteen; and the third, Angelica, about twelve. I think they bore a greater resemblance to their father than to their mother. I will not particularize their features, because I fear I might betray ill-feeling, which I fear has already exhibited itself. I will merely observe, that though not prepossessing, they were not ugly. They had very great dislike to poverty, and much reverence for wealth and rank.

These young ladies, Mr. Curtis informed me, (for Mrs. C. rarely troubled herself about such matters,) were to be educated in music and drawing, French and Italian, from ten to four each day, and during the remainder I would be expected to occupy myself in writing for him, or in needle-work for the family. For these duties, if performed in a satisfactory manner, I should receive at the end of the year ten pounds. I thought the salary was rather small, and I feared the labor would be too laborious, but I dared not refuse to accept the offer, because I doubted my ability to obtain a better situation, and I dreaded a renewal of the privations I had undergone. I therefore consented to enter upon these duties on the following morning.

When I arrived Mr. Curtis called me apart, and observed that he had heard the French were generally familiar and gay in their manner, but he would warn me that any familiarity, or the slightest appearance of freedom toward his daughters, would be met with my immediate dismissal and forfeiture of salary. I must confess, that when I heard this injunction, a remembrance of my family mantled my cheeks with a blush of pride, and it was with difficulty that I could suppress a flood of tears which were gushing to my eyes when I conjectured the shock my poor mother would have felt had she been a listener. I assured him, however, that I hoped never to give them cause to complain of my rudeness or discourtesy.

With this promise I was directed to my bed-room, which was a garret, on the back part of the house.

It was with no little nervousness that I commenced my duties on the following morning. On entering the class-room, I found the young ladies at their lessons. They slightly returned my bow, and seemed to regard me with a good deal of curiosity. At last I summoned courage to inquire the branches they were studying, and the progress they had made, which request they complied with after a little whispering and delay. I then laid before them the system I purposed to pursue, to which they nodded an approval.

As I anticipated, I found my duties were laborious and not very agreeable. The young ladies seemed to think a governess ought not only to teach but to do. If they found a branch of arithmetic difficult, an explanation was insufficient, I was also expected to solve its problems. If a picture which they were copying ceased to be attractive, I had to complete it, and then it was exhibited to visitors as a specimen of their ability. In their music lessons I could rarely prevail upon them to follow my directions, when, I regret to say, I would exhibit a little annoyance, and then they would leave the piano, and lodge a complaint with their father.

I remember upon one occasion I was very anxious that Jemima should learn a very pretty French ballad, which had been taught me by my mother. I was, moreover, desirous that if she sang it at all, she should sing it well. I took great pains in teaching, but she seemed very indifferent about learning it. When I urged her to practice it, she became impatient, and flung the song into the fire. As it was a copy made by my sister, I could not help weeping when I saw it enveloped in flames. At this moment Mr. Curtis entered the room in company with two ladies. Jemima immediately gave him an incorrect account of the cause of my tears, and he refused to hear my explanation, and expressed his impatience in seeing a governess giving herself such airs about a valueless piece of music. His companions nodded an assent to his remarks, and sympathized with Miss Curtis for the annoyance, they were sure, I occasioned her. Perhaps I was really a little irritable at times, when I fancied they endeavored to displease me; but on the whole, I am sure, I was too easy and obliging, and I thought my heart would have broken, when I heard them speak so disparagingly of me.

I may also mention another little reminiscence of my musical experience. Mr. Curtis frequently gave dinner-parties to gentlemen exclusively. On one occasion, while sitting over their wine, one of the company expressed a desire to hear Miss Curtis on the piano. This wish was acquiesced in by the others—and they accordingly entered the drawing-room to have it gratified. She played a pot-pourri of national airs. After the music had ceased, a Scotch gentleman, who was somewhat beyond the verge of sobriety, asserted that one of the airs—the Blue Bells of Scotland—had been incorrectly played. Mr. Curtis overheard the remark, and he replied that if that was the case, the fault was mine—and he ordered that I should be immediately sent for. You may suppose I was very much astonished when I entered the room, and found it filled with strange faces, and that I was much more frightened when I heard Mr. Curtis, addressing me in a loud voice, demanding to know if I expected to be kept and paid for incorrectly teaching music to his daughters? Upon receiving a somewhat indistinct explanation, I tremblingly endeavored—holding on to a back of a chair for support—to convince him that the alterations complained of were variations, and that the fault, if any, was the composer’s, not mine. Some of the gentlemen seemed to feel for my situation, and endeavored to defend me; but this exasperated him the more, and, with a very violent expression, he ordered me to leave the room.

I ran back to my little garret, stupefied and affrighted. I believed I was the most unfortunate being in the world. I looked out upon the stars, which were now peeping through the heavens, and imploringly asked if my troubles were never to cease?

On the following morning I communicated to Mr. Curtis my desire to leave, and he replied that I might do so whenever I paid him the money he had advanced me to purchase some articles of clothing. Our agreement was, he said, that I should be paid provided I gave satisfaction; but as I had not done so, I was not entitled to any remuneration. I had no means for repaying him, I had no one to give me advice or render me assistance, and therefore I felt myself compelled to remain. The clergyman, Mr. Bonner, who recommended the situation to me, had left London for another part of England.

Upon accepting it, I agreed to do any writing which Mr. Curtis might require, but I by no means anticipated the quantity which he daily laid before me. In the evenings it was necessary to take the documents he gave me to copy to my chamber, where I would work without intermission until my task was completed, or until drowsiness and fatigue compelled me to rest. Often during these occasions, about the hour of midnight, the letters would swim before my eyes; the glare of my candle became unbearable, and I would feel a knocking sensation at the back of my head. At these moments my imagination was more active, and my sensibility more acute. When I heard the sound of music, of mirth and merriment in the rooms below, past scenes would present themselves in painful distinctness; the merry days of childhood, my happy home, and my kind companions. My dear mother would return and give me that look of mingled love and sympathy which a mother only can bestow. My father and brother would stand by my side, and whisper a word of encouragement, and promise happier days. My sister would come back, in her sick dress, and repeat her last words, “Poor, dear Emma!” And then the thought of Alfred would renew conflicting hopes and fears. At one moment I would fancy he was dead, and then convince myself he was alive, and conjecture a favorable cause for his non-arrival. And so I would go on, hoping and fearing, thinking and dreaming, until my candle had sunk into the socket, or my aching head made further labor impossible.

It was necessary that I should get up at an early hour every morning, because, in addition to the writing which I was unable to finish on the previous evening, I had to dress the young ladies’ hair—a more difficult undertaking than it is now. After this Mr. Curtis required me to button-up his gaiters, because his stoutness prevented him from doing it himself, and he said I did it better than any of the servants. If I had completed my writing, he would give me a nod of approbation, and sometimes promise the payment of my salary, for the period he had formerly refused it. This would give me encouragement, and make me labor cheerfully, for it held out the hope of leaving.

Heavy as my duties were, I should have felt them much lighter if my diet had been more nutritious, and my opportunities for out-door exercise more frequent. With the exception of my visits to church on Sundays, I could rarely obtain more than two half-hours for walking through the week. My stomach gradually became so weak, on account of these disadvantages, that I was frequently unable to taste the food laid before me. My meals were sent to my room. The butter I had for breakfast and tea was purchased by Mr. Curtis from one of his tenants, and was called “pot-butter.” It smelt so disagreeable, that I was forced to ask the girl to remove it from my table. I also enjoyed the privilege of the tea-leaves which came direct from the parlor, and after a time, I was indulged with fresh tea on Sundays. I considered this a great favor, because the servants had to drink milk and water. My bread was home-made, and I used to find it dark in color, and difficult of digestion. At dinner I enjoyed a joint, cold or hashed, which came from the parlor on the preceding day, and what I left was then sent to the kitchen.

The close of the first year at length arrived. I repeated to Mr. Curtis my wish to leave, because my failing health was unequal to my duties. He stared at me with apparent wonder, and then declared his astonishment at my ingratitude, and his surprise at my complaint. He endeavored to assure me that I ought to feel highly indebted to him for the shelter he had afforded me; and that my labors, for a governess, were unusually light. By way of closing the conversation, he again hinted, that if I did leave, I could not expect any salary; and when I ventured to ask the reason, he frowningly alluded to our relative position, and censured my presumption in asking him for an explanation.

I was conscious that I was undeserving such treatment, but my defenseless condition rendered resistance impossible, and I was obliged to remain another year. When I communicated this intention to Mr. Curtis, he gave me, to my surprise, half of the amount due me, and promised the remainder when my agreement terminated.

My duties continued unaltered, my health gradually grew worse, and in a few months, I was laid upon a bed of sickness. The family wanted to send me to the hospital, but the doctor assured them I was unable to bear the removal. He attributed my illness to over-exertion, and a want of out-door exercise. I had become pale and emaciated. A look of premature old age had spread itself over my countenance. My head seemed stupefied, melancholy forebodings were constantly troubling me, and I was frequently subjected to fits of crying. I had lost all appetite for food, and all love for life. Like Natalie, I longed “for the grave and nothing more.”

A great change had come over me since my former illness. The loneliness of my situation, and the recollection of my losses, had frequently drawn my attention to matters beyond the grave. I gradually felt the necessity of studying as well as reading my Bible; and I began to look forward to the Sabbath more as a day for religious instruction than as a day of rest. As the subject of religion became nearer and dearer to me, I experienced a feeling of confidence and resignation which I had never felt before. I became less irritable when misfortune assailed me, and looked upon it as intended for some wise purpose. During my present sickness, I felt very much the need of a clergyman, but for some unaccountable reason, Mr. Curtis refused to allow one to be sent for, and threatened my removal to a hospital if I mentioned my wish to the physician.

The doctor was kind and skillful. By his attention, and the diet he recommended, I was declared convalescent after the lapse of nine weeks. But when I had recovered I did not regain my former strength, and was unable to go through with my former duties. The family speedily saw this, and Mr. Curtis then informed me that my services were no longer required. He presented me with an account, in which I was credited with nine pounds for salary, on which he requested me to write a receipt. After handing it to him he returned me another, in which I was charged fourteen pounds for board, etc., during my illness. That, he remarked, extinguished the amount due me, and left a balance of five pounds in his favor, which, out of kindness, he did not intend to charge.

This disappointment very much surprised me. My physician refused to make any charge for his attendance, and I never expected, as my illness was produced in Mr. Curtis’s service, that he would be less liberal. I was, therefore, once more thrust upon a strange world, weak, moneyless and friendless.

After I left his house, I wended my way to my former residence, for I had no where else to go to. Upon arriving I was told that my old room was occupied, and I was sent to one adjoining it. I felt very lonely that day. The scenes around forcibly brought back the recollection of my dead sister, and recalled my subsequent disappointments and my cheerless prospects. I did not know what to do, or where to go. But there was not wanting, amid this despondence, a degree of confidence in the superintendence of a Higher Power, which I formerly did not enjoy.

About nine in the evening Mrs. Grassett entered my room, and expressed her delight at my return. She said she would have called before, had she not been engaged in waiting upon a sick stranger, who occupied my former room, and who she did not think would live much longer. When I inquired about him, she replied that he was a foreigner, with an unpronounceable name, and desired that I should visit him with her, as I might be able to converse with him in his native tongue. After a moment’s consideration I consented to do so. I found the room greatly altered. The walls were actually black with dust, the plaster on the ceiling seemed on the point of falling off, the window was covered with cobwebs, and the bed-linen seemed very much in need of washing.

We found the patient asleep, his face buried in his pillow. A moment or two afterward he awoke, and asked, first in French and then in broken English, for a little water. I turned to observe his features, and notwithstanding his hollow cheeks, his distended eye-balls, and his disheveled hair, I recognized my long expected Alfred. My surprise was so great that I sprang forward, threw my arms around his neck, and alternately laughed and wept for joy.

He was suffering from typhus fever, and had been confined to his bed for eleven days. I gathered from him subsequently, that the last time he saw my brother was when we parted in Paris—that he did not hear of his death until some months after it occurred—that he had been compelled to remain in France some time after we left—that he had been in London for two or three months before I saw him, but he was unable to find me—that by some accident he had lost the money he brought with him to England, and was driven by necessity to seek for shelter in the place where I found him. I asked for some further information, not from mere curiosity, but from the interest I took in every thing which concerned him. He chided me for doing so, because it implied a want of confidence, and the fear of exhibiting that was sufficient to stop all further inquiries on my part.

The moment my surprise abated I commenced to wait upon him. I had three shillings and some odd pence in my pocket, which I placed into Mrs. Grassett’s hands, to purchase what necessaries she could with it for our patient. I now forgot all the trials which a few minutes ago weighed so heavily upon me; and with a lighter heart than I had felt for a long time before, I endeavored to put the room in order, and to add to his comfort.

Within a few days my little sum was exhausted. I then obtained fifteen shillings from a pawnbroker for a gold case in which my mother’s miniature had been set. This supported us for nearly ten days, and before the expiration of that time I succeeded, after much exertion, in obtaining collar work. I labored upon this principally during the moments Alfred slept, and earned from five to six shillings per week. With the exercise of economy, and the sale of the remaining trinkets which belonged to me and my sister, I was able to succeed pretty well, and to support Alfred somewhat comfortably.

Nearly six weeks elapsed before he recovered. His sickness made him a little irritable, and sometimes my inexperience made me displease him. My anxiety to please him sometimes confused me, and he would censure me for my stupidity.

For nearly four weeks Mrs. Grassett and myself would wait upon him in turns of twelve hours each. His sickness required unremitting attention, but I can truly say my labor about him was indeed a labor of love. The hope of sparing him one pang made the longest day seem short; and the hope that his life might be spared gave an unqualified pleasure to my exertions. Oh! how often during dark nights, when all eyes but mine were closed in sleep, have I watched his features, to seek for traces of returning health, as if my life depended upon his. Every expression of pain he exhibited had a sympathetic influence upon myself; every appearance of revival upon his looks spread a corresponding change upon mine own. And when gentle slumber had crept over him, I would kneel by his side, and in a subdued voice pour forth a supplication to Heaven, that his life might be spared. I felt as if he was the last and only link which bound me to earth.

Whenever an opportunity offered, I drew his attention to religion. Sometimes he would listen to me with attention, and at others he begged me to be silent on account of his debility.

Occasionally I tried to amuse him by singing some of our old French ballads, when the evening was too far advanced for my collar work. At other times I read interesting works, from a neighboring circulating library.

At length he became better, and we were to be married so soon as he could leave his room. Then hope once more drew back the curtains of despair. The future brightened again. During his sickness he seemed dearer to me than he ever was before. I felt as if he was now my own, to love and cherish, to live for, and, if need, to die for.

As his strength increased he agitated himself in conjecturing how he could obtain a livelihood; but I endeavored to convince him of my ability to earn a very comfortable maintenance for us both.

On the second day after he left his room, and three days previous to that fixed for our marriage, a letter reached him from Bonn, enclosing some money, and communicating the death of his uncle, who had bequeathed to him all his property. The receipt of this news gave us much joy. I looked upon it as an unequivocal guaranty that my troubles were ended. It may have been selfish in me, but I confess I felt a little disappointment when he informed me that this communication necessitated a further delay of our marriage until his return from Germany. I fancied that as we had been separated so long we should not be parted again so quickly, but he strove to convince me that his immediate absence was necessary, and I at last cheerfully assented. He left on the day which had been fixed for our wedding, and it was agreed he should return on the following month.

Within a few days after his departure I again fell sick, arising, perhaps, from my late exertions and insufficient rest. It was accompanied with the same loss of appetite, nervous fits of crying, lowness of spirits, and occasional attacks of delirium, which I had formerly suffered from. My sane moments, however, were enlivened by pleasing anticipations of Alfred’s return; and I even felt grateful he was ignorant of my sickness, because I believed it would spare him much pain and anxiety. I did not recover so soon as I expected. My physician did not seem to understand my complaint so well as his predecessor.

Four weeks had now elapsed since Alfred departed, and I heard no news of his return. Three or four days more elapsed without intelligence, and I became alarmed. At length a letter arrived, addressed to me in his hand—and my heart throbbed with joy. I felt so delighted, that I committed, what some will call a piece of extravagance, that is, I kissed the address, because I was convinced it was his writing. I then hurriedly broke the seal and began to read the contents. The first paragraph informed me that he had taken possession of his uncle’s property, and that it was more valuable than he had supposed, and was, I fancied, conveyed in cooler language than I expected. The next paragraph had reference to matters of little importance, but as I read on, another communication rose up, which made the blood freeze in my veins, and seemed to suspend the beating of my heart. It told me that now our relative conditions were greatly changed—that he feared our dispositions were incompatible—that our marriage was impossible. As I read on with a brain throbbing and burning, with a bosom struggling between doubt and despair, I observed an invitation to reside with him, and a promise to give me a settlement if I subsequently desired a separation. I think one more paragraph concluded the letter, but I could read no further. I alternately laughed and cried. I declared it was all a vile forgery, and then something told me all was true. I declared it was a dream, but anon the dread reality stared me in the face. At last every thing seemed to disappear. For many a long day reason deserted me.

About two years after, I felt as if I had awakened from a sleep, and I found myself in a very respectably furnished room, with an elderly lady, who was apparently watching me. I had a somewhat confused remembrance of both her and the room, though I could not divine her name, nor remember how I had become acquainted with her. She also appeared as much surprised as myself, from the earnest and dubious look she directed toward me. She arose from her chair, and introduced herself as Mrs. Burnett, I hardly knew what to say, or what inquiry to make. After a moment, I ventured to ask if I was not staying in her house—to what circumstance I was indebted for that favor, and whether I had not been suffering from insanity?—for that dreadful truth gradually came to my mind. Perceiving that I was restored to reason, she answered all my inquiries, and communicated much more than I anticipated. She informed me how that my father’s old and faithful steward had by some means prevented the confiscation of his property from being executed—how that he had, a few months after my departure, disposed of it, and escaped to London with the proceeds, for the purpose of handing it to me. How that he used great exertions, after his arrival, to find me, and in the midst of them fell sick and died. Before his decease, he lodged the money in the hands of her husband, who was a banker, together with every information he could give which might lead to my discovery. That Mr. Burnett had renewed his efforts, but after several months he abandoned them as useless. That shortly after he was appointed to be one of the inspectors of a metropolitan lunatic asylum, and at one of his visits there, he found an inmate bearing my name. Upon making inquiries from the keeper, and at the house where I had boarded, (where he examined some books and papers which belonged to me,) he satisfied himself that I was the person whom he and the steward had sought for; and as he heard a favorable character of me, he removed me to his house, in the hope of affording better treatment than I was likely to receive in the asylum.

You may suppose this explanation very much surprised me; but the unexpected recovery of the proceeds of my father’s property did not produce much gratification. I was not sorry I now possessed a competence, though I did not feel glad. I felt very grateful to my deliverers, and to Him by whom my life had been spared; but it was accompanied with a recklessness and indifference about my future prospects. My disposition also seemed to have changed into a settled sadness, which has never since altogether left me.

My kind friends wished me to remain with them, but, with many thanks, I declined their invitation. I wanted to leave London, and upon that determination I came to Cornwall, and occupied the little cottage where we became acquainted.

Many years have passed since these trials happened; and as the sweetest perfumes are derived from the bitterest drugs, so these dark clouds have produced many bright and sunny days. True, they are associated with painful reminiscences, but they have been followed with incalculable advantages. Amid their severest strokes I can now recognize the hand of a just but benevolent Father. If in my subsequent career I could bear disappointment without discontent, and misfortune without repining; if I could feel resignation suppressing impatience, and contentment controlling ambition, I owe it to the struggles which I have endeavored to describe. It is in the rugged vale of tribulation that the path to human happiness is found.