Introductory material (continued 2)

The following morning, Mrs. Cunningham called on Mrs. Westbury, who, at the moment of her arrival happened to be in her chamber—but she instantly descended to receive her visitor. When Mrs. Westbury left the parlor a short time previous, her husband was there; but he had disappeared, and she supposed he had gone out. He was, however, in the library, which adjoined the parlor, and the door between the two rooms was not quite closed. After the compliments of the morning, Mrs. Westbury remarked—

“I was somewhat surprised to see you at Mrs. Parker's last evening.”

“Surprised! why so?”

“You recollect the conversation that took place on the subject, the morning I was at your house?”

“O, yes—I remember that Mr. Cunningham was giving a kind of dissertation on the superior pleasures of one's own chimney-corner. Really, I wish he did not love home quite so well—though I don't despair of teaching him, by and by, to love society.”

“Can it be possible that you really regret your husband's attachment to home?” asked Mrs. Westbury.

“Yes, certainly—when it interferes with my going out. A man and his wife may surely enjoy enough of each other's society, and yet see something of the world. At any rate, I shall teach Ned, that I am not to be made a recluse for any man!”

“Have you no fears, my dear Mrs. Cunningham,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that your want of conformity to your husband's taste, will lessen your influence over him?”

“And of what use is this influence,” asked Mrs. Cunningham, “unless it be exerted to obtain the enjoyments I love?”

“O, pray beware,” said Mrs. Westbury, with much feeling,—“beware lest you sacrifice your happiness for a chimera! Beware how you trifle with so invaluable a treasure as the heart of a husband!”

“Pho—pho—how serious you are growing,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Actually warning and exhorting at twenty years of age! What a preacher you will be, by the time you are forty! But now be honest, and confess that you, yourself, would prefer a ball or a party, to sitting alone here through a stupid evening with Westbury.”

“Then to speak truth,” said Julia, “I should prefer an evening at home to all the parties in the world—balls I never attend, and do not think stupidity necessary, even with no other companion than one's own husband.”

“Then why do you attend parties if you do not like them?”

“Because Mr. Westbury thinks it proper that I should.”

“And so you go to him, like miss to her papa and mamma to ask him what you must do?” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing. “This is delightful, truly! But for my part, I cannot see why I have not as good a right to expect Edward to conform to my taste and wishes, as he has to expect me to conform to his. And so Westbury makes you go, whether you like to or not?”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Westbury. “I never expressed to him my aversion to going, not wishing him to feel as if I were making a great sacrifice, in complying with his wishes.”

“Well, that is pretty, and dutiful, and delicate,” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing again. “But I don't set up for a pattern wife, and if Edward and I get along as well as people in general, I shall be satisfied. But to turn to something else. How do you like Miss Eldon?”

“I am not at all acquainted with her,” said Julia.

“You have met her several times,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

“Yes, but have never conversed with her. Her appearance is greatly in her favor; I think her very beautiful.”

“She is called so,” said Mrs. Cunningham; “but some how I don't like her looks. To tell the plain truth, I can't endure her, she is so vain, and artful, and self-complacent.”

“I have not the least acquaintance with her,” repeated Julia; “but it were a pity so lovely a face should not be accompanied by an amiable heart. Are you much acquainted with her?”

“Not personally. Indeed I never conversed with her for ten minutes in my life.”

“Then you may be mistaken in thinking her vain and artful,” said Mrs. Westbury.

“O, I've seen enough to satisfy me fully as to that point,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “When a young lady exerts herself to engross the attention of newly married men, and when she looks so self-satisfied at success, I want nothing more. She can have no delicacy of feeling—she must be a coquette of the worst kind.”

It was now Mrs. Westbury's turn to change the subject of conversation, and simply remarking—“that we should be extremely careful how we judge of character hastily”—she asked some question that drove Miss Eldon from Mrs. Cunningham's mind. Soon after the visitor departed, and Julia returned to her chamber.

In the evening when Mr. Westbury came in, he found Julia reading, but she immediately laid down her book, and resumed her work. She thought it quite as impolite to pursue the solitary pleasure of reading while her husband was sitting by, as to have done so with any other companion; and she knew no reason why he was not as much entitled to civility as a stranger, or common acquaintance. It was not long before Mr. Westbury inquired “what book had engaged her attention.” It was Dr. Russel's Palestine.

“It is a delightful work,” said Julia. “I have just read an extract from Chateaubriand, that I think one of the most elegant passages I ever met with.”

“I should like to hear it,” said Mr. Westbury. Julia opened her book, and the passage lost none of its beauty by her reading. She read the following:—

“When you travel in Judea the heart is at first filled with profound melancholy. But when, passing from solitude to solitude, boundless space opens before you, this feeling wears off by degrees, and you experience a secret awe, which, so far from depressing the soul, imparts life, and elevates the genius. Extraordinary appearances everywhere proclaim a land teeming with miracles. The burning sun, the towering eagle, the barren fig-tree, all the poetry, all the pictures of Scripture are here. Every name commemorates a mystery, every grotto announces a prediction, every hill re-echoes the accents of a prophet. God himself has spoken in these regions, dried up rivers, rent the rocks, and opened the grave. The desert still appears mute with terror, and you would imagine that it had never presumed to interrupt the silence, since it heard the awful voice of the Eternal.”

Julia closed the volume, and Mr. Westbury, after bestowing just praise on the extract she had read, took up the work, and proposed to read to her if she would like it. She thanked him, and an hour was very pleasantly spent in this manner. A little time was occupied in remarking on what had been read, when, after a short silence, Mr. Westbury inquired of Julia, “whether she saw much of Mrs. Cunningham.”

“Not a great deal,” was Julia's answer.

“She was here this morning?” said Mr. Westbury. “She was,” replied Julia.

“Do you intend to be intimate with her?” inquired Mr. Westbury.

“I have no intention about it;” said Julia—“but presume I never shall, as I fear our views and tastes will prove very discordant.”

“I am happy to hear you say so,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am not prepossessed in her favor, and greatly doubt whether an intimacy with her would be salutary. Such a person as I conceive her to be, should be nothing more than an acquaintance.”

Nothing more was added on the subject, and Julia wondered, though she did not ask, what had given her husband so unfavorable an impression of Mrs. Cunningham's character. The truth was, he overheard the conversation of the morning, which he would have frankly confessed to his wife, but for a kind of delicacy to her feelings, as he had heard her remarks as well as those of Mrs. Cunningham. He knew that it was not quite honorable to listen to a conversation without the knowledge of the parties; but he could not close the library door without betraying his proximity; he wished not to see Mrs. Cunningham; he therefore remained quiet, and heard their whole colloquy.

A few days after this circumstance occurred, an invitation to another party was received. Mr. Westbury looked at the card first, and handing it to Julia, said:

“I would have you act your pleasure with regard to accepting this invitation.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said Julia, hesitating and coloring a little—“it will be my pleasure to consult yours.”

“I have little choice about it,” said Mr. Westbury, “and if you prefer declining to accepting it, I would have you do so.”

“Shall you attend it?” asked Julia, while a shade of anxiety passed over her features.

“Certainly not unless you do,” Mr. Westbury replied.

“Then,” said Julia, “if it be quite as agreeable to you, I had a thousand times rather spend it at home, alone with”—she checked herself, colored crimson, and left the sentence unfinished.

The morning after the levee, Mrs. Westbury was favored with another call from Mrs. Cunningham.

“Why, on earth were you not at Mrs. B——'s last night?” asked she almost as soon as she entered the house. “You can imagine nothing more splendid and delightful than every thing was.”

“You were there then?” said Julia.

“Yes, certainly—though I went quite late. Edward was sick of a violent head-ache, and I was obliged to see him safely in bed before I could go; but nothing would have tempted me to miss it.”

“How is Mr. Cunningham this morning?” Julia inquired.

“Much better—though rather languid, as is usual after such an attack. But I came in on an errand this morning, and must despatch business, as I am somewhat in haste. Mrs. T—— is to give a splendid party next week—by the way, have you received a card yet?”

“I have not,” said Julia.

“Neither have I—but we both shall. I want to prepare a dress for the occasion, and came in to look at the one you wore to Mrs. Parker's, as I think of having something like it.”

Mrs. Westbury was about to ring the bell, and have the dress brought for her visitor's inspection, but Mrs. Cunningham stopt her by saying,

“No, no—do not send for it. Let me go with you to your wardrobe, I may see something else that I like.”

Mrs. Westbury complied, and they went up stairs together. Mrs. Cunningham was delightfully free in examining the articles exposed to her view, and expressed such warm admiration of many of them, such an ardent desire to possess the like, that it was rather difficult to forbear telling her they were at her service. The blond mantle, with a blue border, struck her fancy particularly, and Mrs. Westbury begged her to accept it, saying “that she should probably never wear it again, as the color was not a favorite with her husband.”

Mrs. Cunningham hastened home, delighted with her acquisition, and immediately hastened to the chamber, to which her husband was still confined by indisposition, to display to him her prize.

“See what a beautiful little affair that dear Mrs. Westbury has given me,” she cried. “How lucky for me that Mr. Westbury don't like blue, else I should not have got it, I suppose, though, she could spare this, and fifty other things, as well as not. Why, Edward, you don't know what a delightful wardrobe she has! Really, you must indulge me a little more in this way, I believe.”

“I am sure no one looks better dressed than yourself, Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham, in a languid voice.

“O, I try to make the most of every thing I have,” said Mrs. Cunningham; “but really, Edward, Mrs. Westbury has twice as much of all sorts of apparel as I have.”

“And her husband has more than four times as much property as I have,” answered Mr. Cunningham.

“Supposing he has,” said his wife, “that need make no difference in the article of dress. And then her house is so charmingly furnished—every part of it! I was in her chamber, just now, and it looks elegantly. Every thing in it is of the richest and most beautiful kind, I declare I almost envied her so many luxuries.”

“We surely have every thing necessary to comfort, my dear Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham. “Our happiness does not depend on the splendor of our furniture, but on our affection for each other. You would be no dearer to my heart, in the paraphernalia of a duchess, diamonds and all, than you are in your simple morning dress; and I hope you do not love me the less, for not being able to furnish my house in the style of Mr. Westbury's.”

“O, no—of course not,” said Mrs. Cunningham, in a tone utterly devoid of all tenderness or feeling; “but then I should not love you the less for having beautiful things, I suppose. And, really, Edward, I think one of the best ways in which a husband can show his love to his wife, is by gratifying her in dress, furniture, company, and so-forth. Talking about love don't amount to much after all!”

“He must ruin himself, then, to show his love,” said Mr. Cunningham, throwing his head back on the easy-chair, with a mingled expression of mental and bodily pain on his features.

Mrs. Cunningham, however did not look up to mark the expression of his countenance, but half-muttered in reply to his remark—

“I never knew a man who was too stingy to dress his wife decently, fail to excuse himself on the ground of necessity. How I do detest to hear a man talk of ruin, if his wife only asks for a new pair of shoes!”

Mr. Cunningham was too deeply wounded to attempt a reply; and Mrs. Cunningham, having vented something of her discontent in this gentle ebullition, flirted out of the chamber, without even casting a glance toward her sick, and now afflicted husband.

In due time Mrs. T——'s invitation was received, and this it was Mr. Westbury's wish that Julia should accept. Without manifesting the least reluctance she consented, and Mr. Westbury went so far as to thank her for her cheerful compliance with his wishes. This was a very slight courtesy, but there was something in Mr. Westbury's voice when he spoke, that went straight to Julia's heart, and she left the room to conceal the strong emotion excited by so very trivial a cause. “She certainly strives to please me, be the motive what it may,” thought Mr. Westbury, when left alone—“and though I cannot love her, honor—nay, gratitude demands that I make her as happy as circumstances will allow.” He took a pen, and hastily writing a few lines, enclosed a bank note of considerable value, and left the little packet on her work-table, that she might see it as soon as she returned. He then left the house. When Julia resumed her seat by her table, the packet was the first thing that attracted her notice. She hastily opened it, and read as follows:—

“As Mrs. Westbury is too delicate and reserved ever to make known a want, she may have many which are unthought of by him who is bound to supply them. Will she receive the enclosed, not as a gift, but as her right? Perhaps a new dress may be wanted for Mrs. T——'s levee; if not, the enclosed can meet some of those calls on benevolence, to which report says Mrs. Westbury's ear is ever open. And if Mrs. Westbury will so far overcome her timid delicacy, as freely to make known her wants whenever they occur, she will greatly oblige her husband.”

Julia pondered long on this note. It was ceremonious and cold—cold enough!—yet not so frozen as the only letter she had ever received from him. Perhaps it was his way of letting her know that he wished her to dress more elegantly and expensively. “I will not remain in doubt; I will know explicitly,” thought she—and taking a pen in her turn, she wrote the following:

“Mr. Westbury is so munificient in supplying every want, that his wife has none to make known. If there is any particular dress that would gratify Mr. Westbury's taste, Mrs. Westbury would esteem it a great favor would he name it, and it would be her delight to furnish herself accordingly. She accepts with gratitude, not as her right, but as a gift, the very liberal sum enclosed in Mr. Westbury's note.”

Julia placed her note on Mr. Westbury's reading-desk in the library, and felt an almost feverish impatience to have an answer, either verbal or written. For more than an entire day, however, she was doomed to remain in suspense, as her husband made no allusion either to his note or her own, though the one she laid on his desk disappeared on his first visit to the library. But her suspense at length terminated. On going to her chamber she observed a little box on her dressing-table. On raising it, she discovered a note that was placed beneath it. The note ran thus:—

“Mr. Westbury highly approves the elegant simplicity of Mrs. Westbury's style of dress, and in consulting her own taste, she will undoubtedly gratify his. He has but once seen her wear an unbecoming article. The contents of the accompanying box were selected, not for their intrinsic value or splendor, but because they correspond so well with Mrs. Westbury's style of dress and of beauty. If she will wear them to Mrs. T——'s, she will gratify the giver.”

Julia opened the box, and a set of beautiful pearls met her view. “How delicate, how kind, and how cold he is!” thought she. “O, how trifling the value of these gems, compared to one particle of his love!—Yet for his sake I will wear them—not as my adorning—may that ever be the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, but as proof of my desire in all things to please him, and meet his approbation.”

Mrs. T——'s rooms were well filled with the elegant and fashionable, on the evening on which her house was opened to receive company. But the heart of Julia was not in such scenes. The more she saw of fashionable life the less she liked it. Emulation, envy, detraction, and dissimulation were obtruding themselves on her notice, amid gaiety and splendor. Her conscientious scruples as to the propriety of thus mixing with the world, increased rather than diminished. “I promised,” thought she, while she was surveying the gay assembly—“I promised, in all things lawful, to obey my husband—but is this lawful for me? It is my duty—it is my pleasure to comply with all his wishes, where superior duties do not forbid; but is it allowable for me to try to please him thus? His heart is the prize at which I aim, but will ‘the end sanctify the means?’ Can I expect a blessing from above on my efforts, while my conscience is not quite clear as to the rectitude of the path I pursue? Can I not have moral courage enough to tell him my scruples? and dare I not hazard the consequences?” Julia's reflections were interrupted by the approach of Mrs. Cunningham.

“How serious you look, Mrs. Westbury,” said she. “Really, you and Mr. Cunningham would do well together, for you are both more grave in a party than any where else. Mr. Cunningham actually tries my patience by his disrelish for society. I do believe he is now quite well; yet he made indisposition an excuse for not coming with me to-night! But,” said she, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “I shall show him that I can be obstinate as well as he! He chooses to stay at home—I choose to come out—and if he will not come with me, neither will I stay with him. I should rather live in a cottage in the country, and have done with it, for there I should have nothing to expect but stupidity; but to live in the midst of elegant society, and yet be constrained to immure one's self, is intolerable, and I will not submit to it!”

Mrs. Westbury had not the pain of replying to a speech from which both her heart and her judgment revolted, as Mr. Eveleth at that moment addressed her. He soon engaged her in a conversation which was continued for an hour, and would have been continued still longer, but for a general movement of the company, which separated them. Not long after, Mr. Eveleth found himself near Miss Eldon, who was chatting with two or three gentlemen. Mr. Westbury was standing hard by, but his back was toward them, and Mr. Eveleth did not observe him.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Westbury, Miss Eldon?” Mr. Eveleth inquired.

“No, not in the least,” said Miss Eldon, “and do not wish to be. She looks altogether too fade for me.”

“Fade!” said Mr. Eveleth—“I should think that the last word that would apply to Mrs. Westbury in any way. She is certainly animated both in countenance and manner, and she talks better than any lady I ever conversed with. Her thoughts have something of masculine strength and range, delightfully modified by feminine grace and delicacy. Her manner is perfectly ladylike and gentle.”

“Every thing she says must sound well,” remarked another gentleman. “She has woman's most potent charm, in perfection—a voice whose tones are all music.”

“Perhaps it is all just as you say,” said Miss Eldon, “but really, I never saw a lady that appeared to me more perfectly insipid, or less attractive. I hope”—but the tone of Miss Eldon's voice contradicted her words—“I hope her husband sees her with your eyes, rather than mine.”

“I do—I will!” thought Mr. Westbury, who had heard all the conversation, with a variety of conflicting emotions. “Fade!” reiterated he, as Miss Eldon uttered the word,—“'Tis false!” He glanced his eyes towards Julia, who stood on the opposite side of the room, talking with a lady. She was dressed in black, a color that finely contrasted with her pearls, which proved to be very becoming. Her cheek was a little flushed, and her whole face beaming with animation. “Fade! 'tis false!” Mr. Westbury's pride was piqued. Julia was Mrs. Westbury—his wife! could he patiently hear her thus unjustly spoken of? Was there any thing noble in that mind that could thus speak of a rival? How grateful to his feelings were the remarks of Mr. Eveleth! How clearly he read the feelings of Miss Eldon in the tone of voice in which she uttered her last remark! He waited to hear no more, but moving towards a table that was spread with refreshments, filled a plate, and carried it to Julia. It was the first attention of the kind he had ever paid her, and her face was eloquent indeed, as she looked up with a smile, and said “thank you.” He stood by her for a few minutes, made some common-place remarks, even took a grape or two from her plate, and then turned away. It was one of the happiest moments of Julia's life! There was something indescribable in his manner, that a delicate and feeling woman could alone have seen or appreciated, of which Julia felt the full force.

When the party broke up, Miss Eldon contrived again to secure Mr. Westbury's arm. She saw that he purposely avoided her, whether from new-born indifference, or principle, she could not determine; but having boasted to quite a number of her confidential friends of his passion for herself, and the reluctance with which he had complied with his father's command to marry Julia, who had made the most indelicate advances—she resolved, if art or manœuvering could accomplish it, to maintain the appearance of power over him. From the first she exulted in her conquest of Mr. Westbury's heart. She admired his person—his fortune she loved; and bitter was her mortification, unbounded her displeasure, when his hand was bestowed on another. To make it appear that he still loved her; to wring the heart of his wife, and detract from her character, were now the main springs of her actions whenever she met them. The sight of Julia's pearls, which she thought should have been her own, awakened, on this evening, peculiarly bitter feelings. The hand—the heart even, of Mr. Westbury were trifles, when compared with such beautiful ornaments, except as they were the medium through which the latter were to be obtained.

A ten-minutes conversation with her ci-devant lover was all her art could accomplish during the evening at Mrs. T——'s, until she secured his arm on going out. In the entry they were detained by the crowd at the door, and looking round, they saw Mrs. Westbury, together with Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, examining a bust of Gen. Lafayette, which stood on a pedestal, near the foot of the staircase. With a smile on her beautiful features, which very slightly softened a compound expression of scorn and malignity, Miss Eldon said—

“Really, Mrs. Westbury has made a conquest! Mr. Eveleth is devoted in his attentions, and enthusiastic in his encomiums! Do you not begin to be jealous?”

“Not in the least,” Mr. Westbury replied. “The attentions and approbation of such a man as Mr. Eveleth are an honor to any lady; and Mrs. Westbury's rigid sense of virtue and propriety will prevent her ever receiving improper attentions, should any one be disposed to offer them. She has too much delicacy and refinement to court the attentions even of her own husband, much less those of the husband of another!”

Miss Eldon was stung with mortification, and dropping her head, that her face might be concealed by her hood, she said, in a voice tremulous from conflicting passions—

“How little did I ever expect to hear Frederic Westbury speak to me in a severe tone!”

“Severe! Maria—Miss Eldon? Does common justice to Mrs. Westbury sound harshly in your ear?”

“Certainly not—but your tone—your manner are not what they were, and I had hoped that no circumstances, no new engagements, would prevent your retaining a kindly feeling towards one whom—” she hesitated—“One whom I once loved,” said Mr. Westbury, finishing the sentence for her. “Yes, you well know that I once loved you.”

“Once?” interrupted Miss Eldon. “But this is man's fidelity!”

“Miss Eldon, you astonish me,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am married; my wife commands my respect—nay, my admiration; and duty, honor, every thing commands that all former ties, however tender, should be broken. Our happiness, our respectability demands that henceforth we be only common acquaintance.”

“Be it so—farewell!” said Miss Eldon, with irrepressible bitterness of expression, and snatching her hand from beneath his arm, she sprang forward and took that of her brother, who had just issued from the parlor.

“Is that—can that be Maria Eldon?” thought Mr. Westbury—“the amiable! the feeling! the refined Maria! Where has my love, my admiration, my passion for her gone? or rather, by what blindness were they at first excited? Does she wish to retain—nay, does she claim the heart of the husband of another? What perversion of principle is here!”

The crowd at the door was by this time nearly dispersed, and Mr. Westbury, advancing to the trio that still remained near the bust, drew his wife's arm within his, and bidding Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth “good night,” led her to their carriage.

“How have you enjoyed yourself this evening?” Mr. Westbury inquired, as soon as the carriage-door was closed, and the coachman had mounted his box.

“Quite as well as I ever do scenes of similar character,” Julia answered.

“Do you not then relish society?”

“Not very well in such large masses,” said Julia. “To my apprehension, very large parties counteract the purpose for which social feelings were implanted within us.”

“Then you disapprove, as well as disrelish, them?” said Mr. Westbury.

“I fear they are not quite innocent,” said Julia. “So far as my observation has extended, they have little tendency to increase benevolence, or any of the finer feelings of the heart. I have often feared, that vanity and thirst for admiration, were the causes that draw together one half of the crowd; and a vulgar love of luxuries the other.”

“Those causes surely do not influence all those who attend large assemblies,” said Mr. Westbury. “Such persons as Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, for instance, are entirely above them.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Julia. “Still I believe the rule as general as any other.”

“Does not the elegant and instructive conversation of such a man as Mr. Eveleth reconcile you to the crowd?” Mr. Westbury inquired.

“Certainly not,” said Julia. “How much more highly such conversation would be enjoyed—how much greater benefit derived from it, in a small circle. Artificial delicacy and refinement—artificial feeling—artificial good-nature—artificial friendship, are the usual compound that make up large companies. Had Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth spent this evening with us, in our quiet parlor, how much greater would have been the enjoyment! how much more profitably the time might have been occupied!”

“It might,” said Mr. Westbury. “Mr. Eveleth has great colloquial powers. His conversation is at once brilliant and instructive. I know no gentleman who equals him in this particular.”

“I cannot say quite as much as that,” said Julia, “though he certainly converses uncommonly well.”

“Who can you name that is his equal?” asked Mr. Westbury.

Julia hesitated a little, and blushed a great deal, though her blushes were unseen, as she said—“In conversational powers, I think my present companion is very rarely, if ever excelled. And why,” she added, “such gentlemen should mingle in crowds, where their talents are in a great measure lost, instead of meeting in select circles, where they could find congenial minds—minds, at least, in some degree capable of appreciating them, I cannot conceive. But I suppose my ideas of rational enjoyment, of elegant society are very singular.” She stopped short, fearing she was saying too much, but Mr. Westbury requested her to proceed. After a minute's hesitation she said—

“I think the crowded drawing room should be abandoned to those who are capable of no higher enjoyment than gossip, nonsense, flirtation, and eating oysters, confections and creams; and that people of talent, education, principle, and refinement, should associate freely in small circles, and with little ceremony. In such kind of intercourse, new friendships would be formed and old ones cemented, the mind and heart would be improved, and the demons of envy and detraction excluded. After an evening spent in such a circle, the monitor within would be at peace, and the blessing and protection of Heaven could be sought, without a feeling of shame, and self-condemnation.”

“Then your conscience is really at war with large parties?” said Mr. Westbury.

“I cannot deny that it is,” Julia answered. “Impelled by circumstances, I have striven to think they might sometimes be innocently attended, and perhaps they may; but I confess that the reproaches of my own conscience are more and more severe, every time I repeat the indulgence. Whatever they be to others, I am constrained to believe they are not innocent for me.”

Mr. Westbury made no reply, for at that moment the carriage stopped at their own door, and the subject was not again resumed.

Every party was sure to procure for Mrs. Westbury the favor of a call from Mrs. Cunningham. On the following morning, at as early an hour as etiquette would allow, she made her appearance.

“I could not stay away this morning,” she said, the moment she entered. “I am so vexed, and so hurt, that I must have the sympathy of some friendly heart; and you are a friend to every one, especially when in trouble.”

“What troubles you, Mrs. Cunningham?” Mrs. Westbury inquired.

“You recollect,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “what I said to you last night about Mr. Cunningham's indisposition. Well, as soon as I got home, I ran up stairs, of course, you know, to see how he was, expecting to find him abed and asleep. Judge how I felt, when I found my bed as I left it, and no husband in the chamber. I flew down stairs, and searched every room for him, but in vain. I then rang for Peggy, and asked ‘if she knew where Mr. Cunningham was.’ ‘La, ma'am,’ said she, ‘I'm sure I don't know. He went out just after you did. He called me to give charge about the fires, and said he was going out. I thought he had altered his mind and was going to Mrs. T——'s.’ I dismissed the girl, and went to my chamber, in an agony, as you may suppose. I declare I hardly know what I did or thought for three long hours—for it was so long before Mr. Cunningham came home! I don't know what I said to him when he came, but he was not the kind, affectionate creature, that he ever has been, for he almost harshly told me ‘to cease my upbraidings’—upbraidings! think what a word—‘for if I sought pleasure where I liked, I must not quarrel with him for doing the same!’ My dear Mrs. Westbury, I could not make him tell me where he had been, do all I could—and I have horrible surmises. What shall I do? I am sick at heart, and almost distracted.”

“Will you follow my advice, my dear Mrs. Cunningham?” said Mrs. Westbury, who truly pitied her distress, much as she blamed her.

“O, yes—I will do any thing to feel happier than I now do. Really my heart is broken,” and she burst into a passion of tears.

Mrs. Westbury attempted to soothe her, and then said—

“Forgive me, if I wound, when I would only heal. You have been a little imprudent, and must retrace your steps by conforming to the taste of your husband. He does not like crowds, and you must in part relinquish them for his sake.”

“And is not that hard?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Why should he not conform to my taste, as well as I to his? Why must men always have their own way?”

“That point it is not worth while to discuss,” said Mrs. Westbury. “Your happiness, my friend, is at stake. Can you hesitate an instant which to relinquish, those pleasures, which, after all, are so unsatisfying, or the approbation, the happiness, perhaps the heart, even, of your husband?”

“But why,” persisted Mrs. Cunningham, “need he be so obstinate? You see he could go out and stay till two in the morning! It seems as if he did it on purpose to torment me,” and she again burst into tears.

“I have not the least doubt,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that would you yield to Mr. Cunningham's wishes—would you let him see that you care more about pleasing him than yourself, he would cheerfully, and frequently perhaps, accommodate himself to your taste. Few men will bear being driven, and they would be objects of our contempt if they would, for authority is divinely delegated to them; but there are very few who have not generosity enough to take pleasure in gratifying the wife, who evidently strives to meet his wishes, and is willing to sacrifice her own pleasures, that she may promote his happiness.”

“But I can't see,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “why my happiness is not of as much consequence as my husband's. I can't see, why all sacrifice should be on my side!”

“Do you not perceive,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that the sacrifices you make, are made to secure your happiness, and not to destroy it?”

“I don't know,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “I can't bear to have Ned think to manage me as he would a little child, and then punish me, as he did last night, if I don't do just as he says. I don't think it fair! And I don't know as it would be of any avail, should I follow your advice. Some men will be ugly, do what you will! And why should you understand managing the men better than I do? You are two or three years younger!”

“I never studied how to manage them,” said Mrs. Westbury; “but I have thought a good deal on the best way of securing domestic happiness; and reason, observation, and the word of God teach me, that would the wife be happy and beloved, she must ‘be in subjection to her own husband.’ He may not always be reasonable, but she cannot ‘usurp authority,’ without at once warring against Heaven, and her own peace, and respectability. Think of it, my dear Mrs. Cunningham, ruminate upon it, and in your decision be careful not to let will influence you to sacrifice a greater good for a less. It is not degrading for a wife to submit to her husband. On the contrary, she never appears more lovely than when cheerfully and gracefully yielding up her own wishes, that she may comply with his. Women were not made to rule; and in my view, the wife who attempts to govern, and the husband who submits to be governed, are equally contemptible.”

“What an admirable wife you would be for a tyrant!” exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham. “I never heard the doctrine of passive obedience more strenuously inculcated. Indeed, you would make a tyrant of any man!”

“If any thing would disarm the tyrant,” said Mrs. Westbury, “I think this passive obedience would do it, if at the same time, it were a cheerful obedience. But happily, you have no tyrant to disarm. Your husband, I am satisfied, would be easily pleased. Try, my friend, for a little while, to yield to him, and see if you do not meet a rich reward.”

“Well, I will think of it,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “and perhaps shall do as you advise; for really I am very wretched now. O, dear, I do wish the men were not so obstinate! so overbearing! so selfish!”

For some time things went on very calmly with Julia. Though there was nothing tender, or even affectionate in the manner of her husband, there was a gradual alteration, sufficient to keep hope alive, and stimulate her to exertion. He spent more and more of his leisure time at home, and was at least becoming reconciled to her society. Julia's system of visiting had been partially adopted, and Mr. Westbury enjoyed it highly. Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, and a few other friends of congenial minds, had been invited to drop in occasionally without ceremony; the invitation had been complied with, and Mr. Westbury and Julia had returned a few visits of this kind. Thus many evenings had been pleasantly, and profitably spent. Another great comfort to Julia, was, that her husband had cheerfully permitted her to decline several invitations to attend large parties, and had sometimes remained at home with her himself, and even when he had thought best, on his own part, to accept the invitation, he had been absent but a short time, and had then returned to pass the remainder of the evening with his wife.

But after awhile, this faint gleam of sunshine began to fade away. A cloud of care seemed settling on Mr. Westbury's brow, he passed less and less time at home, till at length Julia scarcely saw him, except at mealtimes. “What is the matter?” thought Julia. “Am I the cause? is Miss Eldon? or is it some perplexity in his affairs?” She longed to inquire. If she had displeased him, she wished to correct whatever had given displeasure. If his sadness was in any way connected with Miss Eldon, of course she could in no way interfere; but if it originated in any cause foreign to either, she ardently desired to offer her sympathy, and share his sorrows. Day after day passed, without producing any favorable change, and Julia's feelings were wrought up to agony. She resolved, at all hazards, to inquire into the cause of his depression.

He came in late one evening, and taking a seat near the table, beside which Julia was sitting, leaned his head on his hand. Half an hour passed without a word being uttered. “Now is my time,” thought Julia. “Yet how can I do it? What can I say? A favored wife would seat herself on his knee, entwine his neck with her arms, and penetrate his very heart—but I, alas, should only disgust by such freedom?” She drew a sigh, and summoning all her courage, said, in a timid voice—

“I fear I have unwittingly offended you.”

Mr. Westbury looked up in some surprise, and assured her “that she had not.”

“You have absented yourself from home so much of late,” said Julia, “that I feared your own fireside was becoming less agreeable to you than ever.”

“Business of importance,” said Mr. Westbury, “has of late demanded all my time, and to-morrow I must start for New York.”

“For New York!” said Julia. “To be absent how long?”

“That,” said Mr. Westbury, “must depend on circumstances. I may be absent some time.”

“May I not hope to hear from you occasionally?” Julia assumed courage to ask.

“Yes—I will certainly write, from time to time.”

“He does not ask me to write,” thought Julia, with a sigh. “He is quite indifferent how she fares whom he calls his wife!”

The following morning witnessed the departure of Mr. Westbury, and Julia was left to painful conjecture as to the cause of his dejection. Three weeks passed away, in each of which she received a letter from him, comporting exactly with his manner toward her—friendly and respectful, but neither tender nor confiding.

At the close of that period Julia was one day alarmed by the unceremonious entrance of a sheriff's officer. He was the bearer of a writ of attachment, with orders to seize all the furniture.

“At whose suit do you come?” Julia asked the officer.

“At Mr. Eldon's, madam. He holds a note of some thousands against Mr. Westbury, and thinks no time is to be lost in making it secure. You have jewels of value, madam, which I was ordered to include in the attachment.”

“Will you allow me a few minutes for reflection?” said Julia, whose faculties seemed benumbed by the suddenness of the blow.

“Certainly, madam, certainly—any accommodation in my power I shall be happy to grant.”

“What can I do? what ought I to do?” thought Julia. “O, that Mr. Westbury were at home! Mr. Eveleth—yes—I will send for him; he can advise me, if the officer will only wait.”

“Will you suspend your operations for half an hour, sir,” asked Julia, “that I may send for a friend to advise and assist me?”

“Why, my time is very precious, madam, and my orders to attach were peremptory; nevertheless, half an hour will make no great difference, so to oblige you, I will wait.”

The pale and trembling Julia instantly despatched a servant for Mr. Eveleth, and in twenty minutes that gentleman arrived. He was instantly made acquainted with the business in hand, and without hesitation receipted for the furniture, and dismissed the officer. Julia felt relieved of an enormous burden, when the officer left the house—though in her trepidation she scarcely comprehended how he was induced to go, and leave every thing as it was. As soon as she was sufficiently composed and collected to take a pen, she wrote to her husband, giving an account of all that had transpired. Her letter despatched, she had nothing to do but wait in torturing suspense, till she should either see or hear from him. On the third evening, as she was sitting with her eyes resting on the carpet, alternately thinking of her husband, and of her own embarrassing situation, and at times raising her heart to heaven for strength and direction—as she was thus sitting, in deep and melancholy musing, Mr. Westbury entered the apartment. Quick as thought she sprang towards him, exclaiming—

“O, my dear husband, how glad I am that you are come! But what is the matter?” she cried, as he sank into a chair—“you are very ill!”

“I find that I am,” said Mr. Westbury. “My strength has just sufficed to fetch me home.”

Julia took his hand, and found it was burning with fever, and instantly despatching a servant for a physician, she assisted her husband to his chamber. The medical gentleman soon arrived, and pronounced Mr. Westbury in a confirmed fever. For twenty days, Julia was in an agony of suspense. With intense anxiety she watched every symptom, and administered every medicine with her own hand, lest some mistake should be made. It was in vain that the physician entreated her to take some care of herself; she could do nothing, think of nothing, but that which related to her husband. When nature was completely exhausted, she would take an hour's troubled repose, and then be again at her post. On every account, the thought of his death was terrible. “To be lost to me,” thought she, “is unutterably dreadful—but, O, it is a trifle when compared to being lost to himself! He is not fit for heaven. He has never sought the intercession of the great Advocate, through whom alone we can enter on eternal life.” How fervently did she pray that his life might be prolonged! that he might come forth from his affliction like ‘gold seven times refined!’

Mr. Westbury was exceedingly reduced, but there had been no symptom of delirium, though weakness and pain compelled him to remain almost constantly silent. Occasionally, however, he expressed his gratitude to Julia for her unremitted attentions; begged her, for his sake, to take all possible care of her own health, for if her strength should fail, such another nurse—so tender—so vigilant—could not be found. Julia entreated him to take no thought for her, as she doubted not that her heavenly Father would give her strength for the discharge of every duty. Sometimes, when he was uttering a few words of commendation, she panted to say—“Aimez moi, au lieu de me louer;” but with a sigh she would bury the thought at the bottom of her heart, and proceed in the discharge of her duties. Oftentimes she would kneel for an hour together, at his bedside, when he appeared to be sleeping, with his hand clasped in hers, dividing the time between counting his fluttering pulse, and raising her heart to heaven in his behalf.

But Julia's constitution was unequal to the task she had undertaken. Protracted fatigue and anxiety did their work, and on the day that her husband was pronounced convalescent, she was conveyed to a bed of sickness. Unlike Mr. Westbury, she was in a constant state of delirium, induced by mental anxiety, and unremitting watching. Most touchingly would she beg to go to her husband, as he was dying for want of her care. It was in vain that she was told he was better—was rapidly recovering; the impression was gone in an instant, and her mind reverted to his danger. Her physician was anxious that Mr. Westbury should visit her chamber, as soon as he could do so with safety, hoping that the sight of him might change the current of her thoughts, and remove that anxiety that greatly heightened her fever. At the end of ten days he was able to be supported to her chamber, and advancing to the bedside, he said—

“My dear Julia, I am able to come and see you.”

“Thank heaven,” said Julia, clasping her hands—and then raising her eyes, she added—“Heavenly Father, I thank thee! But how sick you look,” she continued; “O, pray go to bed, and I will come and nurse you. I shall very soon be rested, and then they will let me come.”

“I will sit by, and watch and nurse you now, Julia,” said Mr. Westbury—“so try to go to sleep—it will do you good.”

“You called me Julia,” said she, smiling; “O, how sweetly that sounded! But I will mind you, and try to sleep, for my head feels strangely.”

She closed her eyes, and Mr. Westbury sat at the head of the bed, watching her with intense interest. Presently her lips moved, and he leaned forward to hear what she was saying.

“O, should he die,” she murmured in the softest tone—“O, should he die without ever loving me!—die, without knowing how much—how fondly I loved him! And, O,” she added, in a whisper, while an expression of deep solemnity settled on her features—“O, should he die without ever loving the blessed Saviour!—that would be the most dreadful of all!”

Presently a noise in the street disturbed her, and she opened her eyes. She did not see her husband, as she had turned her face a little on the other side, and calling the nurse, she said—

“Do beg them to make less noise; they will kill my dear husband—I know just how it makes his poor head feel,” and she clasped her own with her hands.

Mr. Westbury's feelings were much moved, and his debility was such he could with difficulty restrain them. He found he must return to his own chamber, and taking his wife's hand, he said—

“I hope to be able to come and see you now, every day, my dear Julia.”

“O, do,” she said—“and always call me Julia, will you?—it sounds so kindly!”

Scenes similar to this were constantly recurring for the next ten days. Mr. Westbury continued to gain strength, though his recovery was somewhat retarded by his visits to Julia's chamber, while she was gradually sinking under the violence of her disease. The hopes, however, which her physician gave of her recovery, were not delusive. Within three weeks of the time of her seizure, a crisis took place, and the next day she was pronounced out of danger.

Soon after this, Mr. Westbury was able to attend a little to business, but all the time he was in the house, was spent in Julia's chamber. One day, after she had so far recovered her strength as to be able to sit up for an hour or two at a time, he chanced to be left alone with her.

“My dear Julia,” said he, as he took her emaciated hand, and folded it between his own—“I can never express my gratitude to you for your kind attentions to an unworthy husband; nor my thankfulness to heaven that your precious life did not fall a sacrifice to your efforts to save mine. I hope to prove by my future conduct, that I have learned to appreciate your value.”

He spoke in the softest tones of love, while his eyes were humid with tears.

“Do you, then, love me?” said Julia.

“Love you!—yes, most tenderly—with my whole heart,” said Westbury; “more than any thing—more than every thing else on earth!”

Julia leaned her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.

“Why do you weep, Julia?” said Westbury.

“O, I am so happy!” said Julia. “There wants but one thing to make my cup of blessedness quite full.”

“And what is that, dearest?”

“That you should give your first—your best affections where alone they are deserved—to your Creator.”

“I trust, my dear wife,” said Mr. Westbury, with deep feeling, “I trust that your precious intercessions for me at the throne of mercy, have been answered. My bed of sickness was a bed of reflection, of retrospection, of remorse, and, I hope, of true penitence. I feel as if in a new world; ‘old things have passed away, and all things have become new.’”

Julia clasped her hands together, leaned her face upon them, and for a long time remained perfectly silent. At length she raised her head, and said—

“Your fortune, I suppose, is gone—but what of that? It was a trifle—a toy—compared with the blessings now bestowed. A cottage—any place will be a paradise to me, possessing the heart of my husband, and he a believer!”

“My dear Julia,” said Westbury, “my fortune is unimpaired. I was in danger of sustaining great loss, through the embarrassments of my banker in New York, but all is now happily adjusted. The difficulty here, was the result of malice. Eldon was embittered against me, I doubt not, through the influence of his sister—of whom it is unnecessary to speak to you. He heard of my difficulties, and knowing that he should be perfectly safe, purchased that note against me, that he might avenge her, by increasing my embarrassments. I have been recently informed that that unhappy girl looked on your pearls with peculiar malignity. Her feelings were too bitter, and too strong for concealment. Poor girl—I fear that she and her brother are kindred in heart, as well as blood. I now look with something like terror, at the gulph into which I wished to plunge myself, and from which my dear father alone saved me. I can never be sufficiently thankful, for being turned, almost by force, from my rash and headstrong course; and for having a wife bestowed on me, rich in every mental and moral excellence—who loves me for myself, undeserving as I am, and not for my wealth.”

It was now June; and as soon as Julia's strength was equal to the fatigue, Mr. Westbury took her into the country for change of air. They were absent from the city some months, and made, in the course of the summer, several delightful excursions in various parts of the country. A few days after their return to their house in town, Julia asked Mr. Westbury “if he had seen or heard any thing of the Cunninghams.”

“I have seen neither of them,” said Mr. Westbury, “but hear sad accounts of both. Mrs. Cunningham is now with a party at Nahant. She has been extremely gay, perhaps I might say dissipated, during the whole season, and her reputation is in some danger. Cunningham has become an inveterate gamester, and I am told that his face shows but too plainly, that temperance is not among his virtues.”

“Poor creatures,” said Julia, “how I pity them for their folly—their madness!”

“I pity him most sincerely,” said Mr. Westbury, “in being united to a woman who selfishly preferred her own pleasure to her husband's happiness. Her I have not yet learned to pity. She richly deserves all she may suffer. Had she taken your advice, Julia—for most touchingly did I hear you warn her!—she might now have been happy, and her husband respectable. Now, they are both lost!—O, that every woman would learn where her true strength—her true happiness lies!—O, that she would learn, that to yield is to conquer! to submit, is to subdue! None but the utterly ignoble and abandoned, could long resist the genial influence of a cheerful, meek, patient, self-denying wife; nay—instances are not wanting, in which the most profligate have been reclaimed through the instrumentality of a consistently amiable and virtuous woman! If the whole sex, my dear Julia, would imbibe your spirit, and follow your example, the effect would soon be manifest. Men would be very different creatures from what they now are, and few wives would have occasion to complain of unkind and obstinate husbands. A vast deal is said of the influence of women on society, and they, themselves, exult in their power; but how seldom, comparatively, do they use it, to benefit themselves, or the world! Let it be a woman's first desire to make her husband good, and happy, and respectable—and seldom will she fail of attaining her object, and at the same time, of securing her own felicity!”

THE SWAN OF LOCH OICH.

A solitary wild swan may be seen on Loch Oich. It has sailed there for twenty or thirty years, in summer and winter. It had a mate, but about twenty years ago the master of a trading vessel (more wantonly barbarous than the Duke of Cumberland when he burned the old castle of Inverrgarry,) shot the bird. The Glengary swan, however, kept its solitary range. Last winter three other swans lighted on the lake; they remained a month or two, and it was thought the recluse would depart with them, but it had apparently no desire to change its wonted station. As swans have been known to live upwards of a century, we hope this faithful bird will escape accident and cruelty, and live through two or three generations more, to grace the shores of Loch Oich.

Inverness Courier.

Beautiful bird of the Scottish lake, With plumage pure as the light snow-flake, With neck of pride and a wing of grace, And lofty air as of royal race— Beautiful bird, may you long abide And grace Loch Oich in your lonely pride. Bright was the breast of the “loch,” I ween, Its crystal wave and its sapphire sheen; And bright its border of shrub and tree, And thistle-bloom in its fragrancy— When to thy side thy fair mate prest, Or skimm'd the lake with her tintless breast. But she is not! and still, to thee, Are the sunny wave and the shadowing tree, The mossy brink and the thistle flower, Dear, as to thee in that blessed hour! What is the spell o'er thy pinion thrown That binds thee here, fair bird, alone? Does the vision bright of thy peerless bride Still skim the lake and press thy side? And haunt the nook in the fir-tree's shade? And press the moss in the sunny glade? And has earth nothing, to thee, so fair, As the gentle spirit that lingers there? Oh, 'tis a wondrous, wizard spell! The human bosom its force can tell; The heart forsaken hath felt, like thine, The mystic web with its fibres twine, Constraining still in the scenes to stay, Where all it treasured had passed away. Bird of Loch Oich, 'tis well! 'tis well! You yield your wing to the viewless spell; Oh, who would seek, with a stranger eye, For blooming shores and a brilliant sky And range the earth for the hopeless art, To find a home for a broken heart? Oh, I would linger, though all alone, Where hallowed love its light has thrown, And hearth and streamlet and tree and flower, Are link'd in thought with a blessed hour; Home of my heart, those scenes should be As thy own Loch Oich, fair bird to thee.

ELIZA.

Maine.

OTTO VENIUS.

Otto Venius, the designer of “Le Theatre moral de la Vie Humaine,” illustrates Horace's “Raro antecedentem scelestum deseruit pede pœna claudo,” by sketching Punishment with a wooden leg.

DIARY OF AN INVALID.

NO. I.

ULEA HOLSTEIN—A TALE OF THE NORTHERN SEAS.

When I was at Nantucket last summer, trying the virtue of sea-bathing and sea-breezes, for a wearisome chronic disease, I used to resort to every imaginable form of innocent recreation, as a relief to the pain and ennui occasioned by my bodily indisposition. One day, as I was sitting on one of the rocks which project into the sea, observing the multitude of fishing craft that were plying about the island, my attention was arrested by the very remarkable appearance of the commander of a large whale ship. His figure was not strikingly tall or robust; but there were an energy and determination in his look, that seemed to turn his every sinew into iron; while, upon a closer observation, one might read in his upright and noble countenance, a soul of high moral bearing, and a mind unruffled by the passing vexations of life. Such a person always awakens interest, however transiently we may pass him; and although we may not stop, at the time, to define our sentiments, we are struck with something like veneration and awe, when we behold in the midst of hardship, toil, and danger, the tranquillity which marks a mind superior to the accidents of life. But this was not all. One acquainted with human nature, might see under this stern exterior, the generous nature, which would scorn to trample on the weak, or pass by the suffering. I was irresistibly drawn to make some acquaintance with this mariner, but found some difficulty in framing any excuse to accost one of appearance and accent so foreign. Accident soon accomplished the introduction, for which I had taxed my ingenuity in vain. In attempting to descend from my eminence, my decrepid limbs refused their office, and I fell headlong on a shoal of rocks, among which I was scrambling with much pain, when I felt myself raised gently, but powerfully, by a muscular arm. I turned in my distress to see by what kind hand I was assisted, when the eye of the hardy seaman met my inquiring glance. Pity and benevolence shone on his countenance, and I felt even in that moment of corporeal suffering, that the kindred tie of man—yes, of friendship, united us. His first words struck me as being of foreign accent, but his language was that of sympathy, which is read by all nations, and now flowed warm from the heart. After placing me comfortably on the sand, he hastened to his boat lying near, to bring some restoratives in which sailors have much faith. I was soon relieved by his attentions, and desiring to make some return for his kindness, inquired to whom I was indebted for assistance, and in what manner I could show my gratitude. To this the stranger replied, that the action itself brought sufficient reward, since he had been able to relieve a fellow creature. Our acquaintance began from this time, and I gradually drew from him a history of his past life, which had been one of trial and adventure. His narrative was given in our own language, which he spoke very intelligibly, having been long conversant with our seamen.

“In early life I lost my parents, who resided in one of the trading ports of Denmark; and with them perished my fair hopes of ease and affluence. When about nineteen years old, my independent spirit, being no longer contented to owe a scanty maintenance to my paternal relatives, I joined a whaling company, that were fitting out for a voyage in the Northern Ocean. My feelings, when I had resolved to bid farewell, probably forever, to all the scenes of my childhood, and break the ties that bound my youthful heart, to home, friends, and country, and to embark in the adventurous and toilsome life of a whaler, were melancholy enough and calculated to daunt the heart of the bravest; but the desire of independence nerved my courage, and I embarked in a whale ship manned by six men, and accompanied by three other vessels of larger size. The captain and half the hands had made the cruise before with great success, but the rest of us were raw recruits, and suffered much from the hardships of our new mode of life. We steered directly towards the northwest, intending to put in at the Shetland Islands, and wait for the breaking up of the ice at the north pole, when the whales are most abundant, following the increased flow of the tides. We hoped to encounter many of these monsters between these islands and Iceland, where the plan was to refit and spend a part of the summer in preparing our freight to take home. But how uncertain are human calculations! Our voyage was prosperous even beyond our hopes, for some time; we passed the stormy isles of Scotland in safety, and rode the blue billows of the Atlantic, looking ahead with great anxiety for the objects of our cruise. A few days only had elapsed, when some of our experienced harpooners saw tokens of one at a distance, and all hands were set to make ready. It is impossible to describe the excitement this notice produced, in minds so weary of the dullness of inaction, as ours were. The enormous animal was now manifest, from the whirlpool he had created around him. Our boats did not venture near until his frolic was over, and we saw his broad back even with the water. And now the skilful seamen with unerring aim darted the harpoon, and away launched and roared the whale, making the ocean heave with his throes; but our darts were in him, and after he had tried our cable's length several times, he was exhausted and became an easy conquest. This seemed a glorious achievement to me. I was so completely enraptured with the bold and perilous excitement, that I lost all the tender recollections of home, and desired only to be a renowned whaler. Our successes continued, and we mastered several whales, before we were warned that we were coming upon the region of ice. This was indicated by a hoarse crashing sound and a wide heaving of the sea, as if some body of tremendous dimensions had been thrown into it. Our commander feared we had delayed too long, and gave orders to make speedy sail for our destined port. For some time we made good headway, and all hearts were cheered, when, on the utmost verge of the horizon, we discerned the faint outline of land, which we hoped would prove to be the coast of Iceland, for which we now steered with all our press of sail. But just at this time, while we were making observation in the direction of our course, a moving mountain hove in view; at first like a cloud resting on the water, but soon the wary eye of the fisherman saw it fraught with danger, and with dread. An iceberg! an iceberg! and the panic ran through all the ranks, for our course was right in the track of the horrific apparition. To recede was impossible, as the wind would be against us; our utmost exertions were strained to clear the passage in time, for before it heaved a mountain of waters, and behind it yawned a devouring gulph. The three hours of intense interest and uncertainty which passed, seemed like one moment drawn out to eternity. But we did clear its track so as to receive only a slight shock. As soon as the danger was over a reaction followed, almost too great for human nature; our nerves from being strained to their utmost tension, were suddenly relaxed to the weakness of infancy; our first desires were for stimulants which threw us into wild excitement; and our ships exhibited one scene of revelry and recklessness. In this situation we rushed unconsciously on a reef of rocks from which escape seemed impossible. We were already in pitchy darkness, driving among the breakers, which we heard with still greater force roaring ahead. It evidently appeared that we had forsaken our passage, and were on an unknown coast where shipwreck and death awaited us. This was the situation of our ship; we could not hear a sound from the other vessels amidst the roar of waters, but we supposed that they also were beating on rocks from which it was impossible to move them. Daylight only was necessary to confirm our despair, and its first rays shone on a scene of horror too great for utterance. We beheld our ship just in the jaws of destruction, while the other three had cleared a passage, and were free of the rocks, but dared not come within the force of the breakers. In vain we held out the signal of distress; in vain they lowered their boats and attempted to stem the whirlpool. Instant destruction would have been their fate. I saw my companions clinging to the broken masts and spars; but I made no effort: I sunk under the impending weight of that power whose bounty and mercy I had forgotten or despised in my days of prosperity, and whose incensed justice and vengeance I was now to feel.

“In this state of mind, I rose up and looked calmly upon the raging deep, feeling that the ‘sweat of its great agony’ was tranquillity to the vortex that awaited me. One after another of the men were carried off, as the ship split to pieces, but I remained, with two others, on a part of the bows, which seemed rivetted to the rock. I thought a few hours at most must terminate our existence, as the waves were gaining upon our remaining planks. My fellow sufferers clung to life with the tenacity of drowning men; they ascended our quivering mast, to see if any human habitations were discernible on this unknown coast, but nothing was visible but a girdle of steep rocks. While they were straining their vision, and in the wildness of desperation piercing the loud clamor of the waters with their shrieks, three little specks appeared in the direction of the shore; they gradually came nearer, until we perceived they were fishing-boats, each guided by two men. My companions besought me to unite with them in making every possible signal of distress. Our signals were understood, and we soon saw that their object was to rescue us, for they held out a token of recognition, and rowed fast until they came within the whirl of the tides, which obliged them to fall back and try another channel. We could distinctly see that they were baffled in every attempt and almost ready to abandon us; when one of their number, with skill nearly superhuman, darted his boat between two pointed rocks, in so narrow a passage that we expected to see it dashed to pieces every moment. But his fearless courage bore him through—the next instant he sprung on our shattered planks, drew a few hurried breaths, and then informed us, in the dialect of our own land, that they had seen our signals while out fishing, and had come to our relief; but at the same time told us of the danger we must run of being dashed to pieces, in attempting to steer through the breakers. ‘But,’ said he, ‘we will trust in God and do our best; keep up a good heart, I will lash you firmly to the boat, and if you will put your hope in the Almighty Deliverer in time of peril, I will try to save you.’ He then looked fixedly in our faces to see whether we agreed to the conditions; my companions without hesitation answered, that they would venture; death was inevitable if they remained. But I, though fearing death most of all, could not resolve to feign, what I did not feel, trust and hope in God; on the contrary, I felt that his every attribute was justly arrayed against me. In anguish, I exclaimed, ‘leave me to perish, God is my enemy—I shall sink from this gulph into a lower.’ ‘Sinful dying man,’ he said, ‘would you set bounds to the mercy of the Lord? Cry, rather, Lord, save me or I perish, for now is the accepted time, this is the day of salvation.’ I caught the inspiration that glowed on his tongue—I seized his hand, saying, ‘I am ready.’ In a few moments his little boat was amidst the boiling surge, sometimes lost in the tumultuous waves, but the mariner grasped the helm with a firm hand, and shot through the jagged rocks with the rapidity of lightning. Our deliverance was hailed by the other boats with a shout of joy, which was returned by us with all our remaining strength. Our kind deliverers perceiving our bodies and spirits exhausted by the combined suffering of fear, cold, and hunger, cheered us with the warmest expressions of sympathy, and the hope of speedily enjoying all the comforts of their hospitable homes. They steered their boats into a little sheltered bay surrounded by overhanging hills. As we approached the shore, they informed us that it was the coast of their own dear Iceland, whose snow-capt mountains and green valleys, they would not exchange for any other spot in creation.

“As I breathed its pure atmosphere, and pressed the young verdure which was just appearing from beneath the mantle of snow, which had shrouded it for many long months, I felt as if I were treading the unsullied shores of a better world. Our good fisherman conducted our failing footsteps over the wild and slippery rocks into a beautiful valley. The frosts which had locked up nature during the long winter, had yielded to the influence of the returning sun, which sent the rejoicing current through the veins of every living thing. The stunted trees put on their garniture of green in token of joy, the lichens and mosses brightened in the genial ray, and all blended in a smile of love and gratitude. We reached the cottage of the fisherman, sheltered by overhanging rocks on one side, from the icy winds; and were welcomed by its inmates with the looks and offices of kindness. They consisted of a mother and three children. The countenance of the former, notwithstanding the national peculiarity of features, was pleasing, expressing both intelligence and benevolence. The oldest of her offspring was a girl of extremely prepossessing appearance. You would not, perhaps, in your country, call her beautiful, for she had not the slender figure and the delicate features which you associate with the idea of female loveliness; but the laughing blue eye lighted up with its beam, a face which seemed the mirror of her heart; her cheek was now mantled with rosy smiles, now moistened with the tear of sympathy or affection. Her hair was light, scarcely tinged with the sunny glow, but it was in unison with her fair complexion, and curled slightly around a neck of transparent whiteness. Her age might be fourteen, but there was so much childish gaiety in her manner, that you would have supposed her much younger. Her brothers were manly, noble looking boys, several years younger than herself. Never shall I forget the compassionate look with which the matron placed a seat near the warm fire, while with gentle voice she chid the curiosity of her little group, saying, ‘the stranger is cold and tired, and we must do all we can to make him comfortable.’ They instantly retreated—but the two oldest hung over her shoulder, earnestly whispering in her ear. I guessed that I was the subject of their discourse, by hearing the mother reply in a low voice—‘Yes Ulea, you may run and milk Minny, and Korner, get the potatoes ready, and the fish too. By the time you return, he will be dry and warm, I hope.’ With delighted countenances, they shot out of the cottage, and the good woman busied herself in mending up the fire, and spreading a couch of soft skins, on which she invited me to rest my weary limbs. I attempted to speak my gratitude to heaven, and to her, but the words were stifled by the strength of my feelings, which gushed out in tears. She seemed to understand the nature of my emotions. Her tone was soothing and encouraging. ‘God is good,’ she said, ‘and not only saves us in perils, but provides a table in the desert. He puts it in the hearts of strangers to show kindness, and makes us feel that we are all brethren, the children of his care and bounty.’ ‘How,’ said I; ‘in this remote spot of creation, have you learned these heavenly precepts?’ ‘Our lives,’ she answered, ‘are crowned with blessings, and the greatest of all is, that of our dear missionary, who guides our erring footsteps in the way of duty, as he points our hopes to a brighter world.’ While she was speaking, Ulea returned, exclaiming, ‘Ah! mother, Minny seemed to know how much haste I was in, for she stood right still; and here is Korner too, with the fish and potatoes—let us set the dinner for the poor stranger.’ In a few moments the repast was on the table, and I had scarcely taken the seat provided, before my young hosts pressed me to eat of one and another dish, telling me that ‘this was the richest milk because Minny gave it, and these fish were taken by Korner's green rocks.’ I had scarcely finished a hearty meal, when Holstein (for that was the name of the good fisherman) came in, attended by our other deliverers and my two comrades, who having received their hospitality, came with them to consult whether any attempt could be made to save what remained on the wreck. Holstein thought it probable no vestige of the wreck itself was left. But the other fishermen said it might have drifted over the rocks, and still contain something valuable. Under this possibility we followed our conductors to the scene of destruction; but we found it as Holstein had predicted; only a scattered plank here and there marked the place of ruin. Emotions of awe and gratitude filled my soul, when I beheld the vortex from which heaven had rescued us; but my fellow sufferers evinced mortification and disappointment, when their last hope was extinguished, and they saw themselves thrown on the charity of strangers, even for a change of raiment. This was particularly observable in the manner of Osman, a young adventurer, who had joined our expedition from a romantic turn for novelty and excitement. He was a singular compound of opposite qualities; sometimes exhibiting the hardihood and bold daring of his father, who was a Dane, then all the impassioned sentiment joined with the frivolity of an Italian, which he was on his mother's side. Since there remained nothing more to feed this adventurous excitement, his mind seemed to dwell on the loss he had sustained, particularly that of his wardrobe and musical instruments. Notwithstanding the occasion, which was fit to call forth only feelings of a solemn nature, I could not help being interested for him, when I heard him bewailing the loss of these resources of dress and music.

“His person was very striking, calculated to engage the attention of a stranger. A tall and graceful figure was united to a face of perfect symmetry, over which the light of full dark hazel eyes shone in alternate fire and softness. Until this time I had only observed him under passions of another kind, and was astonished at the pathetic strains in which he mourned over the extinction of his prospects. The fishermen endeavored in their sincere but homely language to comfort him, proffering the only help in their power—a share in their fishing spoils and a passage to Denmark, when another whaling expedition should visit the island. His youth and apparent sensibility interested us all in his favor, and induced us to do all in our power to promote his happiness.

“It was concluded that we should each remain with our hosts, and assist in such labor as we were able to do, in making preparations for a fishing cruise. I became more and more attached to the dear members of Holstein's family. Their daily avocations were simple and homely, but their minds were pure and elevated, deriving their highest enjoyments from the contemplation of a better world.

“Ulea engaged much of my interest. She was at that most pleasing of all ages, when we see the simplicity of childhood blended with the thoughts and reflections of a riper age; when the heedless word is followed by the conscious blush, and we love while we rebuke the tongue that speaks all the heart feels.

“Time glided pleasantly away, even in Iceland. We spent the evenings and inclement days in cheerful recreation, or in reading; which is a great, and almost universal resource among these Icelanders: it is thus they pass their long wintry nights—one ‘making vocal the poetic, or historic page.’

“Osman became our constant and welcome visitor. He constructed an instrument, on which he made very sweet music; and frequently sung the sentimental airs of his country. This, joined to his talent for wild and impassioned recitation, charmed the listening ear of all, but it vibrated to the heart of Ulea. Her delight did not show itself like her brother's in noisy ecstacy, but her eyes filled with tears, and her heart throbbed with silent emotion. ‘Mother,’ she would say, ‘Osman's singing reminds me of what I have heard about the harps of the angels.’ ‘It is pretty, my child, but I had rather hear the fisherman's welcome home.’ ‘That, mother, is because our father sings it. But when Osman sings I think of a happier world than this.’ ‘You are mistaken, my dear, if you think Osman's songs have any thing good in them. I have listened to them, and I think they are only calculated to make people discontented with what God has allotted them, and to fill the mind with foolish fancies.’ ‘Ah! mother, how can you wonder that his songs are melancholy, when he is far away from all that he loves, and that he has nothing to console him for the beautiful world he has left! You know he loves to climb our steep rocks, to see the sun go down behind Hecla. I did not know how grand our volcano could look, until he pointed to it, as the sun's last beams rested on its snowy scalp. Then he told me of Italy his country, where the mountains are crowned with snow, while flowers blow in the valleys—birds sing in the branches of trees, which bear golden fruit—the air is filled with the fragrance that breathes from the vineyards, and the bowers that never wither. Then there are temples in every grove, and the ruins of ancient cities, which people come to visit from every country. Do you wonder that he was happy in that lovely land?’ ‘No doubt, the inhabitants have much to be thankful for; but not more than we have. Would you, Ulea, be willing to exchange our own loved island for Italy, with all its charms?’ ‘No, dear mother, but I only wish Iceland was like it.’ ‘This is a vain, and I fear a sinful thought, and I shall tell Osman, when you walk with him again, to talk of something more profitable.’

“The fishermen were generally occupied in building or refitting boats for the approaching expedition, in which they were assisted by our hardy comrade, while Osman and myself were left to occupy or amuse ourselves as we chose. I remarked the gradual influence he was gaining over the unconscious heart of the young Ulea. I mourned over it, for I feared that he was incapable of a deep and lasting attachment. I saw that her family were blinded by their artless confidence, to the insidious poison that threatened to destroy their happiness. I could not bear to be the first to interrupt their peace. What should I do? I revolved in my mind the whole affair, and at last resolved that I would watch the conduct of Osman narrowly, and without being suspected, penetrate the secret of his soul. With this design I mingled more frequently in his pleasures, joined the little circle when he descanted on the scenes of his early life—beautiful Italy! whose charms were always associated with female loveliness, whose atmosphere breathed of love. This was the theme of his glowing narration, and his dark eye seemed to catch inspiration from the kindling blush of Ulea. After he had sung one or two of the most melting Italian airs, I was roused from my ruminating fit by Ulea's remarking—‘Steinkoff has grown very silent of late. Osman's songs, I believe, make him sad.’ ‘Quite otherwise,’ I replied, ‘and if he will listen, I will sing a song of the olden time myself.’ They exclaimed in one voice, ‘he will, he shall!’ ‘No need for compulsion,’ he said, ‘I will hear it with pleasure.’ Without prelude I began—

Soon as the wintry blasts were o'er, The maiden roamed the vale, To hear the cheerful robin pour His sweet notes on the gale. Then he, the faithless-hearted knight, Told of his own lov'd bowers, Where birds sing in the chequered light To the bright opening flowers. And when the light of parting day Gleamed on the distant hill, She climbed the steep and rocky way, Or lingered by the rill. Then he, the faithless-hearted knight, Sung of that region bland, Where sunset paints with golden light, The skies, the sea, the land. When down the long, long night let fall Her curtains o'er the earth, And nature lay in silence, all Beneath the pall of death. Then he, the faithless-hearted knight, Spoke of his country fair— How the moon walks heaven in silv'ry light, And the breath of flowers, is the air. And he whispered the tale of love in her ear, And the maiden, believing his truth, Left the home of her childhood, but sorrow and care Fled with her, and faded her youth.

I kept my eye on Osman: I wished to read his conscience. As the strain proceeded, his glance met mine; he saw my suspicions. Conscious that they were well founded, his countenance fell—he bit his lip in anger, and revenge fired his blood. Far differently was the innocent heart of Ulea wrought on. ‘I could weep,’ she said ‘for the poor maiden. Who would have thought the fair spoken knight would be false? But I hope it is only a tale of the olden time, fair and false as the lover of whom it sings.’ ‘It may be so,’ I said; ‘but let it serve as a warning to young maidens, how they listen to tales of love.’ Osman left the cottage while I was speaking. I saw the dark cloud lower on his brow, and I resolved to bring him to an acknowledgment of his passion, while he was under the influence of resentment—an unguarded hour with us all. I found him walking hurriedly, and muttering the words, ‘Villain, he shall pay dearly for this insult.’ I accosted him in a calm voice. I told him that my design was not to irritate or insult him, but to warn him in time of the danger of a passion which was growing upon himself daily, while he could not be insensible to the influence he was gaining over the affections of an unsuspecting girl. ‘And how does it concern you, cold hearted wretch,’ he exclaimed, ‘that I have excited the sympathy, the love of the only amiable being on this desolate island? Know, that love scorns the interference of such meddlers. It is enough that we can trust each other, and woe be to him who gives his counsel unadvisedly.’ With these last words he raised his arm in menace. ‘Osman,’ I replied, ‘you know I am superior to your threats. Unless you openly declare your love to the parents of Ulea, I shall consider myself bound to guard her from your arts.’ ‘Beware,’ he exclaimed, ‘how you injure me with her, or this dagger drinks your blood.’ Saying this, he strode away, and I returned with a heavy heart to the cottage. Not that I was personally afraid of Osman; I never feared the arm of man: but I had a trying office to perform—to destroy the confidence of an amiable family, to show them that they had cherished in their bosoms a serpent, instead of a friend. It was evident that Osman wished to conceal his passion even from her who was the object of it. I determined before another interview, to endeavor to awaken her to the impropriety and danger of giving any encouragement to his attentions. The following day he did not come as usual. ‘How long the day seems,’ said Korner, ‘when Osman does not come. Ulea thinks so too, for she has not spoken a word to-day.’ ‘I have been thinking,’ replied Ulea, ‘that he looked last night as if something disturbed him. Did you observe him, Steinkoff? I hope nothing has happened.’ I said in a low tone, ‘Nothing, I believe. Suppose we walk: perhaps we may meet him.’ She sprang forward, animated with the hope; and we followed the winding path by which he generally came. I proposed that we should see which of us could first attain the top of a picturesque eminence which hung over our path, and from which there was a fine view of the neighboring cottages. She readily consented to make the trial, and arriving at the goal first, exultingly chid my loitering steps. She little knew that my real motive was to obtain a private interview with her. I began by saying, ‘Osman's gait is fleeter than mine, Ulea.’ ‘O yes,’ she said, ‘I shall never forget the charming evening we came here together;’ and a bright smile irradiated her features. ‘His society is fascinating, but it may be dangerous to you. Already he has given you a distaste to the pleasures of your childhood, and he has presented in their place the attractions of an ideal world. Beware how you lend your pure and unsuspecting ear to the seductive charms of his conversation. He has confessed to me that he loves you; that you are the only being in this island that has power to interest him.’ ‘Oh! Steinkoff, ought you not rather to pity than to blame him? He has told me, that were it not for me, he would end his miserable existence—that every one else looks coldly on him. How can I think unkindly of him? He would protect me against all harm. When I told him of my cousin Ormond, who would not go into the far Greenland seas, until my father promised him that his little pet Ulea, should be his when he returned, he only said, May that day be distant, for then you will not care for Osman. And he asked me if I should be quite happy when I should be Ormond's wife.’ ‘And what was your answer?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I did not answer at all; because I have not seen him for a long time, and he seems like a stranger to me—I wish not to think of it now.’ I could no longer repress my indignation. ‘My dear girl,’ I said, ‘trust Osman no further, he will destroy your peace, your innocence. I know him well; for present gratification he would not scruple to involve your whole family in wretchedness. I say this, because I will not see impending ruin coming on the child of my benefactor, if I can avert it.’ I saw Ulea start, while surprise and terror were painted on her countenance. I turned to ascertain the cause, and beheld Osman within a few steps of me. ‘Wretch,’ he cried, ‘have you dared to betray me? Revenge has nerved my arm, and my sword shall drink your blood, even were the form I love best between us.’ At that instant he rushed upon me; but fury blinded his sight, and his weapon missed its aim. This redoubled his wrath; he prepared for another thrust, and my superior muscular strength could not have saved me from the mortal stroke, had not Ulea in a phrenzy of despair, thrown herself between us, and received in her side the stab that was intended for me. Time can never efface the horror of that moment, when I saw her fall under the murderous stroke, and the red current pouring from her side. ‘Monster!’ I exclaimed, ‘you have verified your threat. Would to God, this were my heart's blood instead of hers!’

“I raised the lifeless girl—I pressed her to my bosom. In the agony of my soul I entreated her to speak—to say that she forgave me. But all was silent, save the ebbing pulsations of her heart. Osman had fled the moment he saw what he had done. How should I obtain assistance, or even get a little water to revive her, if life was not extinct? Necessity is fruitful of invention—I lifted the pale form, and hastened to a near rivulet—I bathed her temples—I staunched the blood with the cooling current, and bound the wound with my handkerchief. I heard a faint sigh—I thought it was her last. Imagine my joy, when she opened her eyes, awaking as from a long sleep. I whispered, ‘Speak not, it will exhaust you; I will carry you home—you will soon be better.’ She cast her eyes towards heaven, to signify that her home would soon be there. I was advancing with a quick step, when I heard the voices of the children in search of us. They stopt their merry gambols, and stood in amazement. I broke the silence by telling them that Ulea was very ill, that they must run home and tell their mother not to be alarmed, but endeavor as soon as possible to prepare a cordial and a bed, for I should reach the cottage in a few minutes. I hoped this would be some preparation for what was to follow. The mother met me at the door, with a look of anguish and of doubt. I motioned to her to be silent, while we administered some of the restorative: we then laid Ulea on the bed. I watched by her a few moments, and seeing she had fallen into a gentle sleep, I took the hand of the agonized mother, whose suppressed sobs shook her whole frame. I supported her to a retired spot, where the burst of her grief might be unheard by the languid sufferer.

“I paused to gather firmness for the disclosure; I lifted up my heart to heaven for assistance. She seized my hand convulsively—‘Tell me all—but my heart anticipates it before you speak. Oh Steinkoff! it is the hand of man, yes, of a trusted villain, that has dealt the blow. My soul has labored under a mysterious weight this day—unseen but impending evil hung over me. Oh my God! prepare me to drink the bitter cup, and to trust in thee though thou slay me.’

“I related all—my suspicions of Osman—my conversation with him, the threat he had given, and then all the incidents of the sad catastrophe. ‘Oh my child!’ exclaimed the transported parent, ‘art thou then guiltless? has he not laid mine honor in the dust? If not, I can bear all.’ I concluded by encouraging her to hope the wound was not mortal, and that speedy medical aid might relieve it.

“Korner was immediately despatched for his father, and the nearest physician. We then returned to Ulea, whom we found still sleeping, but uneasily. Her mother kissed her forehead; she waked smiling, and said, ‘Oh, mother! are you here? I thought I was passing through a dark valley to the bright world you have so often described to us. And I was not at all afraid, for a light guided me safely through. Do you know what it was? I do—it was whispered to my heart—it was the Saviour's presence! Mother, you must not weep; I rejoice, because I feel that it will be so. O! yes, I shall soon join the song of the angels—much sweeter than that I used to dream of. Mother, my heart is sinful—I loved to hear of the beauty and love of this world; but that is all passed away now. I hope God will forgive him who wished to lead me astray—and you, Steinkoff, my guardian angel on earth, with what joy shall I welcome you there.’ She saw my emotion—it excited her own: the effect I dreaded followed—the blood gushed out from her side, and she swooned away.