XXX.

They fre

was

DAYS elapsed, and I saw more and more to confirm my belief that Neal and Bell were lovers. quently met, and she cast around him such intoxicating charms that his head at last became giddy, his affiance wavered, and he was heard to express the wish that he might marry her and me together. Then he imagined that he had never heard of me, and Arabel his first and only love. Then he fancied me dead, and himself planting roses over my yet moist grave, and going home with a sad countenance to kiss and wear, for a lonely hour in his chamber, the slippers I had wrought in roses with my dying hands; and, by-and-by, getting so reconciled to his bereavement that he could wear those dear slippers out on the veranda of his hotel, and sit down in company, with his coat thrown back on his shoulders and his thumbs in his vest, and enjoy a mild cigar, and find consolation in his thoughts of Arabel. Then old loves returned, and he was all the more for Mercy Winthrop, and calling on Heaven to forgive his truant heart. Then his brain whirled round and round, and his heart panted for a more romantic bliss. New intoxications fired and raised him; a relapse succeeded;

he pitied and he loved me; again he was seized with new distractions; and he changed his manner toward me and demanded a dismission.

I knew of his asked me to go his departure, I

I discovered the change when it lurked only in his eye, or appeared in a stiffened smile, yet I concealed my suspicions-I was going to say even from my own heart. I hoped they were false, and desired the day to come when I might be his honored wife. But my suspicions were confirmed, by his neglect to visit me on setting out alone for his tour of the lakes. intentions, for he had informed me, and along. But, for a fortnight previous to had not seen him, nor received a word. The hour of that event I had only learned by accident two days after, and I was quite prepared for such a letter (if any) as he addressed me from Oswego. The letter was written, he informed me, to redeem a promise made some time ago. It was a long one, and seemed to have been designed to solace me and cool off my affection, while he "took the liberty to set before me another object for my heart's embrace." He touched upon the theme of first love, and argued its "folly" and "illusion" as eloquently as ever he had protested that first love was heavenly, and true, and without change. He did not close without informing me that "our engagement was made before either of us considered the actual nature of the vows, or on what the loftiest yearnings of our souls were placed." That “I had risked everything in giving such unreserved love to him."

That a separation was better before than after the unfortunate nuptials were consecrated." That "far better

men than himself admired me, and would rejoice to make me happier than he feared he could render one of my peculiar nature;" and, in short,-as others had written a hundred times before-" whatever might be the result of that letter, he could never forget the pleasure he had taken in my society-that my love for him would remain a bright spot on his memory forever, and he should never cease to esteem me highly as a friend, nor cease to wish me well."

I happened to be one of those beings whose hearts may be more easily broken than bent,—I must foolishly confess, since he has passed to his account, and cannot be flattered by my weakness,-and, while I expected such a letter, if any, its coldness froze me so suddenly, I verily thought I could not survive. Tell me, ye who laugh at my folly, for I am bravely over it now, and no word of yours shall wound me,-tell me, how could I at that time have borne my disappointment differently, and made up for all that vanished love? How could I have gone to work, with the hand of a heartless changeling, coolly untied the knots of that sacred attachment, and fastened my heart again to any man on earth? The possibility of the thing was a mystery which I did not try to solve. Delirium or death at that time was easier for a nature and for ties like mine. I spent the day in my chamber, and in what a state of mind (under pretence of sick-headache) I leave the reader to imagine. But it was only one day of solitude and sackcloth; for my pride soon returned, and I was ashamed of myself that I had mourned for the desertion of one whom I ought to have been glad to

abandon before it was too late. Then there arose a pity for the misfortune of his fortune, and, O, what tender, girlish love reached forth and snatched back his image to my bosom! Then my heart throbbed with anger, and my cheeks burned with indignation, and I was chafed and insulted by the baseness of a soul that would attempt such consolations for me, while he declared his love for another; (I smile now as I recall the perfect tempest of indignation and scorn that my maiden heart was then able, with so little conscious effort to raise, and what smilings and what poutings rose in succession, as love blew hot or cold,) and I crumpled the insolent letter in my hand, tore it to pieces, and paced the room, I dare say, as romantically and with as queenly pride as the heroine of any novel. Then, of course, I melted down and sobbed and sighed. I searched my library for a book which might apply to my case, and express my mingled emotions. I read Lady Byron's reply to her lord's "Fare thee well," and found not my anodyne there. I opened the "Sorrows of Werter," and shut it before I finished the first chapter. I went to Amelia's table and took "Alonzo and Melissa," but that was intolerable, and I dashed it on the floor. I took down Irving, and read with fresh interest his "Pride of the Village," but found I was neither so unhappy nor so resigned as that heroine, and received little comfort from her case. Then a poetical inspiration seized me, as I believe it does most persons in that situation, and I perpetrated three or four delightfully bitter stanzas "On Man's Inconstancy," and I remember each stanza had eight lines of common metre, and began with

"Oh!" and ended with "Man's Inconstancy." And so I ran on, pretty much, I suspect, as a hundred of my readers (if I have so many) have done at the romantic turn of life; very soon relenting and pitying poor Derby for his weakness, and for the sad and desolate life I was certain he must live; and at last I tossed his detested image from me, and, with pride and resentment, returned him a merited reply. I had the satisfaction of hearing that it arrested his romantic progress, and made him ineffably wretched for more than a week. But Arabel returned to his thoughts, and his own pride compelled him to send me a cold and final answer.

He commenced his letter with a description of scenery, which he ventured to suggest I would heartily enjoy. He knew I would not be disappointed in Niagara Falls, if I was with the Erie Canal, or Montezuma marshes. If I could pass under the cataract, I was braver than he; but he had no doubt my emotions would be sublime, if I maintained my balance, and did not tumble over and down to the dark and roaring abyss below. (Perhaps along here, as I read, I fancied for once that it would be a sweet relief to go there and "tumble over into that dark and roaring abyss," but I solemnly protest, I have not the faintest remembrance of it, though I did suspect that cruel Neal wrote the line to suggest such a tragic impulse). From that he went on to calculate "the time it would take for the rocks to crumble away to Lake Erie, and what a deluge would overwhelm New York and Canada, when Lake Erie, Huron, Michigan, Superior, and even the Lake of the Woods came pouring down through