Part 11

My heart was not of rock. It was moved--melted. I should have been less than human, to have been untouched by a letter like this. All my romantic love, but so recently chilled, returned; and I thought of his image as that of an angel's. Ever impulsive, ever actuated by the passion of the moment, I made the most fervent resolutions of amendment, and panted for the hour when we should start for, together, this immortal goal! Alas! how wavering were my purposes--how ineffective my holy resolutions.

* * * * *

There was a numerous congregation gathered on the Sabbath morn, not in the simple village church, but the vaulted walls of a city dome. A stranger ascended the pulpit. Every eye was turned on him and none wandered. He was pallid, as from recent indisposition; but there was a flitting glow on his cheek, the herald of coming inspiration. There was a divine simplicity, a sublime fervor, an abandonment of self, a lifting up of the soul to heaven, an indescribable and spiritual charm, pervading his manner, that was acknowledged by the breathless attention of a crowded audience, composed of the wealth and fashion of the metropolis. And I was there, the proudest, the happiest of the throng. That gifted being was my husband. I was indemnified for all past mortifications, and looked forward to bright years of felicity, not in the narrow path we had heretofore travelled, but a wider, more brilliant sphere. My imagination placed him at the head of that admiring congregation; and I saw the lowly flock he had been lately feeding, weeping, unpitied, between the porch and the altar.

Before we bade farewell to my uncle, I had abundant reason to believe my vision would soon be realized. The church was then without a pastor. No candidate had as yet appeared in whom their opinions or affections were united. They were enthusiastic in their admiration of Mr. L----, and protested against the obscurity of his location. With such hopes gilding the future, I left the metropolis with a cheerfulness and elasticity of spirits, which my husband hailed as a surety for long years of domestic felicity. I would gladly linger here awhile. I fear to go on. You have followed me so far with a kind of complaisant interest, as a poor, vain, weak young creature, whose native defects have been enhanced by education, and who has unfortunately been placed in a sphere she is incapable of adorning. The atmosphere is too pure, too rarified. Removed at once from the valley of sin to the mount of holiness, I breathe with difficulty the celestial air, and pant for more congenial regions. Must I proceed? Your compassion will turn to detestation: yet I cannot withdraw from the task I have imposed on myself. It is an expiatory one; and oh, may it be received as such!

It was scarcely more than a week after our return. All had been peace and sunshine: so resolved was I to be all that was lovely and amiable, I even listened with apparent patience to aunt Debby's interminable hymns, and heard some of her long stories, the seventy-seventh time, without any manifest symptom of vexation. It was about sunset. We sat together in the study, my husband and myself, watching the clouds as they softly rolled towards the sinking sun, to dip their edges in his golden beams. The boughs of the elms waved across the window, giving us glimpses of the beautiful vale beyond, bounded by the blue outline of the distant hills. Whether it was the warm light reflected on his face, or the glow of the heart suffusing it, I know not, but I never saw his usually pale features more radiantly lighted up than at that moment. A letter was brought to him. I leaned over his shoulder while he opened it. From the first line I understood its import: it was the realization of my hopes. The offer was there made--more splendid, more liberal than I had dared to anticipate. I did not speak: but with cheeks burning and hands trembling with eagerness and joy, I waited till he had perused it. He still continued silent. Almost indignant at his calmness, I ejaculated his name in an impatient tone; when he raised his eyes from the paper and fixed them on me. I read there the death-blow of my hopes. They emitted no glance of triumph: there was sorrow, regret, humility, and love--but I looked in vain for more. 'I am sorry for this,' said he, 'for your sake, my dear Mary. It may excite wishes, which can never be realized. No! let us be happy in the lowlier sphere, in which an All-wise Being has marked my course. I cannot deviate from it.' 'Cannot!' repeated I: 'say, rather, you will not.' I could not articulate more. The possibility of a refusal on his part had never occurred to me. I was thunderstruck. He saw my emotion--and, losing all his composure, rose and crushed the letter in his hand. 'I could not, if I would, accept this,' he cried; 'and, were my own wishes to be alone consulted, I would not, were I free to act. But it is not so. I am bound to this place, by a solemn promise, which cannot be broken. Here, in this very house it was made, by the dying bed of the righteous, who bequeathed the people he loved to _my_ charge--_me_, the orphan he had protected and reared. "Never leave them, my son," said the expiring saint--"never leave the lambs of my flock to be scattered on the mountains." I pledged my word, surrounded by the solemnities of death: yea, even while his soul was taking its upward flight. It is recorded, and cannot be recalled.'

Did I feel the sacredness of the obligation he revealed? Did I venerate the sanctity of his motives, and admit their authority? No! Totally unprepared for such a bitter disappointment, when I seemed touching the summit of all my wishes, I was maddened--reckless. I upbraided him for having more regard to a dead guardian, who could no longer be affected by his decision, than for a living wife. I threatened to leave him to the obscurity in which he was born, and return to the friends who loved me so much better than himself. Seeing him turn deadly pale at this, and suddenly put his hand on his heart, I thought I had discovered the spring to move his resolution, and determined that I would not let it go. I moved towards the door, thinking it best to leave him a short time to his own reflections, assured that love must be victorious over conscience. He made a motion as if to detain me, as I passed--then again pressed his hand on his heart. That silent motion--never, never, can I forget it! 'Are you resolved on this?' asked he, in a low, very hoarse tone of voice. 'Yes, if you persist in your refusal. I leave you to decide.' I went into the next room. I heard him walk a few moments, as if agitated and irresolute--then suddenly stop. I then heard a low, suppressed cough, but to this he was always subject, when excited, and it caused no emotion. Yet, after remaining alone for some time, I began to be alarmed at the perfect stillness. A strange feeling of horror came over me. I remembered the deadly paleness of his countenance, and the cold dew gathered fast and thick on my brow. I recollected, too, that he had told me of once having bled at the lungs, and of being admonished to shun every predisposing cause to such a malady. Strange, that after such an entire oblivion of every thing but self, these reflections should have pressed upon me, with such power, at that moment. I seemed suddenly gifted with second sight, and feared to move, lest I should see the vision of my conscience embodied. At length, aunt Debby opened the door, and for the first time, rejoicing in her sight, _I_ entreated her to go into the library, with an earnestness that appalled her. She did go--and her first sharp scream drew me to her side. There, reclined upon the sofa, motionless, lifeless--his face, white as a snow-drift, lay my husband; his neck-cloth and vest, saturated with the blood that still flowed from his lips. Yes, he lay there--lifeless, dead, dead! The wild shriek of agony and remorse pierced not his unconscious ear. He was dead, and _I_ was his murderer. The physician who was summoned, pronounced my doom. From violent agitation of mind, a blood vessel had been broken, and instant death had ensued. Weeks of frenzy, months of despair, succeeded--of black despair. Nothing but an almighty arm thrown around my naked soul, held me back from the brink of suicide. Could I have believed in annihilation--and I wrestled with the powers of reason to convince myself that in the grave, at least, I should find rest. I prayed but for rest--I prayed for oblivion. Night and day the image of that bleeding corse was before me. Night and day a voice was ringing in my ears, '_Thou hast murdered him!_' My sufferings were so fearful to witness, the at first compassionate neighbors deserted my pillow, justifying themselves by the conviction that I merited all that I endured.

My uncle and aunt came when they first heard the awful tidings, but unable to support my raving distress, left me--after providing every thing for my comfort--with the injunction that as soon as I should be able to be removed, to be carried to their household. And whose kind, unwearied hand smoothed my lonely pillow, and held my aching brow? Who, when wounded reason resumed her empire, applied the balm of Gilead and the oil of tenderness; led me to the feet of the divine Physician, prayed with me and for me, wept with me and over me, nor rested till she saw me clinging to the cross, in lowliness of spirit, with the seal of the children of God in my forehead, and the joy of salvation in my soul? It was aunt Debby. The harsh condemner of the fashions of this world, the stern reprover of vanity and pride, the uncompromising defender of godliness and truth; she who in my day of prosperity was the cloud, in the night of sorrow was my light and consolation. The rough bark was penetrated and the finer wood beneath gave forth its fragrance. Oh! how often, as I have heard her, seated by my bedside, explaining in a voice softened by kindness, the mysteries of holiness, and repeating the promises of mercy, have I wondered, that I, who had turned a deaf ear to the same truths, when urged upon me with all an angel's eloquence, should listen with reverence to accents from which I had heretofore turned in disgust. Yet, at times, there seemed a dignity in her tones; her harsh features would light up with an expression of devout ecstacy, and I marvelled at the transforming power of christianity. Well may I marvel! I would not now, for the diadem of the east, exchange this sequestered hermitage for the halls of fashion--these hallowed shades for the canopies of wealth--or the society of the once despised and hated aunt Debby, for the companionship of flatterers. I see nothing but thorns where once roses blushed. The voice of the charmer has lost its power, though 'it charm never so wisely.' My heart lies buried in the tomb on which the sunlight now solemnly glimmers--my hopes are fixed on those regions from whence those rays depart. Had he only lived to forgive me--to know my penitence and agony--but the last words that ever fell on his ear from my lips, were those of passion and rebellion--the last glance I ever cast on him, was proud and upbraiding.

The sketch is finished--memory overpowers me.

C. L. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON AFFECTATION.

_For the benefit of all whom they may concern_.

Affectation, as defined by Johnson, is "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence,"--"affected, studied with overmuch care, or with hypocritical appearance." The terms of this definition are so revolting, that the justice of its ascription to any individual, however felt, can scarcely be expected to be acknowledged by such, because it too deeply wounds self-love, its natural parent. Studiously disguised from ourselves, it is vainly believed to be so from others. Let us compare the utmost advantages to be derived from its adoption, with its peril and its loss. Do we really hope to improve by it, those qualities, moral, intellectual or physical, with which the bounty of nature has distinctively gifted us? Or do we hope by "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence," to obtain credit with others for attributes which do not belong to us? and with the deceitful appearance of which, (_provided_ it deceive,) we shall be basely content; thus falsely laboring for the attainment of a vain shadow, when the same labor honestly bestowed, would give us the real substance of all we ought to desire, viz: that solid improvement of the heart and mind, around which ever play, as their natural consequences, the most captivating of all graces--_simplicity and truth_. Viewed simply as matter of taste, can any thing short of its vilest corruption, its lowest degradation, induce a preference for a clumsy counterfeit, a hand-maiden, who impudently usurping the place of her mistress, presumes to play high life below stairs, over her noble mistress, arrayed in her simple majesty? What monstrous perversion can prompt us to turn the latter out of doors, and hug to our bosoms so vile an intruder? With what bribes does she corrupt the loyalty of her fair advocates? With what store of "quips and quirks, and wreathed smiles?" with what rich caskets of bright gems, counterfeit or stolen; with what rare graces, unmatched by those even of her injured and abused mistress, which she boldly pronounces _fade and obsolete_? Alas! how often do such meretricious lures prove resistless to the infatuated fair one! Behold her arrayed in all the paraphernalia of the despicable traitress,--henceforth sole promptress of the drama in which she proposes to act a conspicuous part, and which she vainly flatters herself to act with that last degree of art which conceals it. Not reflecting that the whole history of dramatic art affords few such adepts, she aspires at her very first debut, to surpass even a Siddons. Discarding nature, and not sufficiently wedded to art,--what becomes of her witchery? Her smiles are grimaces--her laughter discord--her movements ridiculous antics. Her tones speak to any thing but the heart;--all is foreign to nature,--whose modesty she outrages and oversteps. She is mocked and hissed by all the world with whom she would cordially unite, were the actress other than her own _dear_ self, whom alone self-love has blinded to herself. Hers is the delusion of the silly ostrich, which in the concealment of his head, thinks to elude pursuit. But granting her the utmost success of long and carefully practised art--and that her airs and graces, her soft _languishments_, killing glances, heavenly smiles, and soul thrilling laughter, have all the witchery that such art can give, and have called forth the applause of the crowd of vulgar admirers,--will it compensate for the obvious disgust of those who have learned to detect and to despise their empty and heartless display? Will it compensate for the lowering of that proud self-esteem, which is the bright reward of truth, and the best security of virtue? Would she flourish in the empire of the heart, that bright dominion of her sex? Would she, by her look, manner and words, inspire respect, confidence and love? And shall each betray that they have been practised but to deceive? Shall she hope to speak to the heart in tones which come not from the heart? Shall she hope to engage interest for the subject of her conversation, when full not of it but of herself? For what is it that she would challenge the affections? For a being pure, single hearted, and identical,--or for one whose very identity is almost lost amidst the perpetually varying aspects and phases, under which, in her inflated vanity, she pleases to exhibit herself. How shall our love continue to pursue, and cling to that, of whose very form and essence we have no abiding assurance? In the disruption of feeling produced by such changes, we cannot but feel that we have almost lost the beloved object, and exclaim in bitterness,--alas! she is no longer what I have loved.

"Why _affectation_,--why this mock grimace? Go silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face; Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait-- All thy false mimic fooleries I hate: For thou art Folly's counterfeit--and she, Altho' right foolish, hath the better plea;-- Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

"Why that soft languish,--why that drawling tone? Art sick? art sleepy? Get thee hence; begone-- I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears.

"Can they deceive us? Can such mum'ries move? Touch us with pity, or inspire with love? No! affectation--vain is all thy art; Those eyes may wander over every part, They'll never find their passage to the heart."

Of all the diseases of the mind or the heart, affectation is the fittest subject of ridicule,--since we are ridiculous not for what we are, but for what we pretend to be. One of the arguments of the apologists for this mean and pitiful vice is,--that the ordinary conventional forms of politeness necessarily involve its commission, and that all the tutored and refined graces of polished life, are but its varying forms. Of the former, benevolence should be, if it be not always, the genuine and captivating source; and if we have it not, the assumption of a virtue which inculcates a sacrifice to the feelings of others of our own, may find a sufficient apology, perhaps, for a semblance to which society has learned to affix its value. With regard to the latter, _la belle nature_ is loveliest when embellished, not prostituted, by art, in its most vulgar form, viz: _affectation_. Neither wealth nor fashion can divest it of its character of vulgarity. One should, indeed, be too proud to be _vain_, when vanity leads to affectation,--which in its milder form, is the meanness of asking credit for what we do not possess--and in its deeper die, impels us to obtain it by dissimulation, hypocrisy and fraud. In its approaches, few vices are more insidious. Having its germ in the indiscriminate love of imitation natural to youth, vanity prompts an eager exchange of our native attributes, for what we deem attractive in others--and artifice is speedily resorted to, to give the acquisition the semblance of an original possession. One cherished appropriation is added to another, until the product becomes a complete bundle of fancied charms and perfections, entailing, however, all that anxiety of concealment, whose only tendency is to betray the theft. If the original effects of affectation have been correctly assigned, the mode and importance of prevention will sufficiently suggest themselves. Let parents beware how they suffer their children to be exposed to the contagion of this vile leprosy. Let them carefully remove from them, as from a pestilence, those infected subjects, whose resemblance they would shudder to see them. The garment of affectation once put on, like that of the fated Nessus, grows to the wearer. Should her complacency ever be so far alarmed as to make her attempt to doff it, may vainly fancy she has succeeded, by simply pulling it around, and exhibiting it under a different aspect. Should she be so fortunate as to have the most invaluable, because the rarest of friends,--one who will neither flatter, nor shrink from the task of the faithful anatomy of her heart, and the development of the fatal poison which lurks at its core, and be brought sincerely to desire its removal,--let her, while she earnestly applies to it her own rigid examinations, fervently invoke the aid of a mightier physician, who cleansing her heart, will restore her to a place a little less than the angels, of whom I am an

ADORER.

Our readers are apprised that the poet Willis has for some time past, been employed in making the grand tour of Europe--a kind of literary reconnoissance, not only for his own benefit and gratification, but also for the purpose, we suppose, of enriching the columns of the New York Mirror (of which periodical he is one of the Editors,) with the various results of his observation. With many of his letters, or "first impressions" as they are called, we acknowledge ourselves to have been much delighted. His sketches of character and scenery are generally very impressive, and whilst on the one hand he avoids the too common fault of American writers,--a wearisome profusion of words--he does not, on the other, disdain the graces of ornament, or the beauties of amplification. It appears that he is at last peeping into the concerns of our venerable ancestor, John Bull. We hope that he will give a fair and candid account of the old gentleman's virtues, as well as his faults and peculiarities, "nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice."--The following letter is very interesting.

WILLIS'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.

From the top of Shooter's Hill we got our first view of London--an indistinct, architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon, and half enveloped in a dim and lurid smoke. "That is St. Paul's!--there is Westminster Abbey!--there is the Tower of London!" What directions were these to follow for the first time with the eye!

From Blackheath, (seven or eight miles from the centre of London,) the beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued mass of buildings. The houses were amazingly small, a kind of thing that would do for an object in an imitation perspective park, but the soul of neatness pervaded them. Trellises were nailed between the little windows, roses quite overshadowed the low doors, a painted fence enclosed the hand's breadth of grass-plot, and very, oh, _very_ sweet faces bent over lapfuls of work beneath the snowy and looped-up curtains. It was all home-like and amiable. There was an _affectionateness_ in the mere outside of every one of them.

After crossing Waterloo bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. The brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air of every passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying vehicles of every description, passing with the most dangerous speed--accustomed as I am to large cities, it quite made me giddy. We got into a "jarvey" at the coach-office, and in half an hour I was in comfortable quarters, with windows looking down St. James'-street, and the most interesting leaf of my life to turn over. "Great emotions interfere little with the mechanical operations of life," however, and I dressed and dined, though it was my first hour in London.

I was sitting in the little parlor alone, over a fried sole and a mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded state of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side of the table for a clergyman. I have a kindly preference for the cloth, and made not the slightest objection. Enter a fat man, with top-boots and a hunting whip, rosy as Bacchus, and excessively out of breath with mounting one flight of stairs. Beefsteak and potatoes, a pot of porter and a bottle of sherry followed close on his heels. With a single apology for the intrusion, the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate and drank for a while in true English silence.

"From Oxford, sir, I presume," he said at last, pushing back his plate, with an air of satisfaction.

"No, I had never the pleasure of seeing Oxford."

"R-e-ally! may I take a glass of wine with you, sir?"