Maria was blessed with kind and doting parents, who, in the plenitude of their regards for her welfare, were inexorably solicitous that her whole youth might be devoted to the acquirement of knowledge. Themselves ignorant of the common rudiments of education, of course they were incapable of selecting the best methods of instruction. Knowledge, they imagined, came from the school-house. It was manufactured there by some peripatetic old bachelor. To school, then, Maria must go, armed with a spelling-book, at first, and afterwards, an arithmetic: and at school the golden, unreturning hours of her youth rolled into the lap of oblivion, until time had notched her fourteenth year upon his dial. And now there was to be a change in her tuition. Arrangements were completed for her attendance at the high school in Brunswick, an interesting little village, some seventy-five miles distant. The day of departure, for the first time, from beneath the paternal roof, was an important event in her life. It was at hand. She bore it with but little apparent emotion, and brushed from her cheek but a single tear.

“Adieu, ye pensive shades and early joys! I will not say farewell. They tell me there is a recompense for every sacrifice—but my swelling heart—”

The remainder of the sentence was not uttered. The clock struck nine, and the rattling of wheels announced the coach for Brunswick. On this occasion it was full of passengers of high and low degree, from far and near—all strangers. The driver was belated and impatient. In a few moments all was in readiness, and Maria opened the wicket gate, which seemed to swing reluctantly upon its hinges, and entered the coach.

Along they went, at full gallop, leaving grove, and meadow, and friend, and every cherished thing, behind. It was a July morning. The air was soft and fragrant, and merrily the birds rang out their joyful songs. Though ladened with heaviness of spirit, Maria could not but be pleased with the new sights that met her view, and the sounds that saluted her ears.

“And this is the world, the great and wicked world, of which I have heard so much—so long desired to see. How enchanting! And how favored are they who can travel it all over! Such fortunes and pleasures are not mine; they never can be, for I am poor and helpless. But it must be so. Well, I will be contented with a humbler lot: there are millions who are even less fortunate. It is my destiny: I am satisfied.”

These were silent reflections. On and on they rode. Now they ascended a mountain, now launched into a valley, and jolted across a pole-bridge. At length the tall pines laid their shadows on the earth, and other thoughts came into her mind—other emotions into her heart. Day’s parting smile played upon the green foliage, and soon the mellow light announced a golden sunset. Half an hour after this, the driver reined his wearied horses up to a dilapidated hotel, in front of which dangled an old sign, bearing the words, “Half-way House.” They all alighted, to tarry for the night.

This place is known, to this day, by the appellation of the “Lucky Basin,” a title which it then bore. Now (as then) there may be seen some eight or ten slab-sided houses, the largest and best of which is the hotel. Here might have been found, at that time, a very select community, whose reigning queen was a shrivelled old Quakeress who, during twenty years, and until death made a requisition upon her bony frame, enjoyed a world-wide reputation as a fortune-teller. And really a good old dame was she, in head and in heart; for it appeared that not only the name, but the good fortune of the place, was attributable to her fame; that, but for her, the poverty-stricken habitations thereabouts, with their inmates, would have gone to perdition long before. She was respected and venerated, of course, and loaded with caresses, praises, and blessings, by the whole circle of her dependent neighbors—and she was surely a true philosopher’s stone to them, in her own person, even if there was no virtue in that green pebble which the old lady pretended to have received by spiritual bequest, and which was always wrapped in a shiny covering.

It would be out of our province here to enter into any lengthened commentary on fortune-telling. This much we will allow—that when we hear of any helpless woman turning her wits to account in that manner, thereby delighting the countless votaries of curiosity, and earning a lucrative livelihood for herself at the same time, we rejoice heartily, for her sake. Now no one of “the profession” ever made sharper guesses than Quakeress Jemima Soule, (that was her name,) and deep was the frequent surprise thereat. And it was sometimes truly marvellous that her predictions were fulfilled with such exactness. She was honored with visits from many seemingly intelligent persons, some residing more than three hundred miles distant. And when we consider the excitement produced upon those who lived in her own vicinity, or not farther away than a day’s ride, we need not wonder at the fact that Lucky Basin was thronged with anxious, and often bewitching faces, at a rate of not less than three thousand a year.

And let it not be supposed that her visiters were only from among the poorer classes of society. Her widely-spread fame frequently excited deep anxiety among many wealthy persons, who never failed, in their visits, to reward her with gold: and thus was she enabled to extend the sphere of her unostentatious benevolence, and to secure the fervent blessings of the unfortunate.

Maria regarded the present opportunity of being able to see the renowned Seeress, and of having her own fortune read from the book of fate, with inexpressible delight. As soon as the supper was over, away she hurried, with impatient step, to the humble dwelling of Jemima, gave a low tap at the door, and was admitted, without question or ceremony, and motioned to a chair. Several others were present, but none indulged in conversation. To some, the moment and the scene were of much sublimity; to others, inimitably farcical. A part of those present suppressed a rude giggle as it fell to their turn to be ushered, one by one, into the presence-chamber of the Oracle—while others brushed a trembling tear-drop from their cheeks, as they tottered fearfully to the door. It was Maria’s turn at last. All the others had been served, and were gone. On entering the apartment, (which was a three-cornered one,) she encountered the venerable matron, who had risen to meet her. “Daughter of earth,” said the Oracle, “thy hand.” It was given tremblingly, and Maria followed the Seeress to a low stool, (which was by the side of Jemima’s own seat,) and sat down. Fifteen minutes in silence, the blood shot eyes of Jemima being riveted upon the fair girl. Then came a suppressed groan, at which Maria involuntarily shuddered. “Daughter,” said the Seeress, “if the ways of the Lord thy God were as our ways, he were cruel to thee.” “Why so, good Mother?” “Hush! I write.” Jemima then took from a glass case a leaf of fine gilt-edged paper, turned her back towards Maria, and, after consulting the green stone in a yellow box that had strange hieroglyphics scratched all over it, she laid hold of a pen made from a raven’s quill, and wrote the following words: “To love so young—A Lamb and a Wolf—SO YOUNG—A Killing Frost—Destitution—Marriage—Crime—There is Blood—Death.”[3]

It was doubled, and strongly sealed with wax. Then turning her form and face towards the girl, she thus spake: “Daughter, I have written—but before I give it thee, there is a condition. Thee must promise not to open this until thou hast looked upon the sun of thy eighteenth year. Dost agree to the terms?” “I? No, indeed—I cannot,” said Maria, bursting into a laugh, “delay would make me so anxious to know what it contained, that I should die of curiosity, long before the time.” “Daughter, thou art a child of destiny—God wills it. It is hard—but there is a heaven hereafter. Agree to the condition, or the flames will devour the record. Promise, child, before thy God.” A short pause. Maria faltered; her cheeks turned to an ashy paleness; she tried to speak; her heart leaped up to her throat. “I promise,” was all that she could say. “It is thine,” said the Seeress, taking a piece of silver from the hand in which she placed the paper. “Daughter, good night.” And Maria rose immediately, left the dwelling, and hastened back to the hotel. But she came not as she went. There was a change in her whole nature from that moment. The plastic hand of the Divinity remoulded, as it were, her features. She gazed upon the letter, turned it over and over, with ill-concealed anxiety—and then, in the first involuntary burst of indignation at the conditions, cursed the Seeress and the hour of her own birth.

This was disappointment in most provoking shape. The same night a dream disturbed her slumbers. We will relate it, as nearly as memory serves us, in her own language.

THE DREAM.

“A spirit came to me during a fearful tempest, and tendered me wings. I accepted them with feelings, if not with words, of gratitude. She flew, and beckoned me to follow. I then flew with her to the brow of a rocky cliff, where we both alighted. Here we were joined by a troop of my companions and kindred, who immediately struck up a chorus which rang through the arch of heaven, and brought back echoes still more musical. Methought I heard the voice of Gabriel mingling those answering sounds. I clapped my hands with an ecstasy of joy, when lo! all was silent, save the growling tempest beneath. They were gone. I dropped my head and wept. Then a horrible voice accosted me from the cavern below:—‘Thou wert my friend; thou art my enemy—begone!’ I reeled in the dread gloom that enveloped me, and uttered a scream for mercy. At that instant the lightning opened to me a fiery path. My wings lifted me up, and again, though now alone, I flew.

“On and on—there was no rest. At length I espied a sunny island, a thousand leagues at sea. I alighted, and walked, and ran, and danced upon the velvet grass—or methought I was alone at last. Alone, alone! where temptation could not assail me, nor the flatterer’s words beguile! Alone before God, and in prayer! But, as I knelt, that awful voice cried out to me again:—‘Thou wert my friend; thou art mine enemy—begone!’ Where was the source of this awful mandate? It came from the earth; it came on the winds. Then my soul drank from the waters of affliction, and despair gnawed at my brain. The voice came again, but with other words—‘To love so young!—a lamb and a wolf—so young!—a killing frost—destitution—marriage crime—there is blood!—death!’ How little I suspected these words (to me so thrilling) were the very same which the Seeress had just interwoven with my eternal destiny! Alone, and yet alone! Oh now for a friend—ONE MORTAL FRIEND—to support and guide me! Truly, none can estimate the value of human sympathy but they who are destitute of its consolations!

“At this instant a youth saluted me, and clasped me in his arms. His smile was sweet, and in his demeanor there was such an appearance of deep affection for me that, in my ecstasy, I did not, could not, resist his embrace. ‘I am thine!—thine forever!’ he whispered, ‘I have known thee from childhood!—I furnished thee with wings!’ As he spoke, Love’s sweet delirium took possession of my soul, and I was conscious only of intense, unearthly delight. After the vividness of this rapture had subsided, we sank into slumber, imparadised in each other’s arms.

“When I awoke, the youth was gone. I thought he would return, and was satisfied. But he came not. Then the air was filled with hisses. Ten thousand angry serpents could not have uttered a noise so dreadful. I thought my lover’s name was Theodore, and called to him, when, awful presence! a legion of demons rose up at the sound of his name! They were a black, bony, frightful throng, and they greeted me with a terrible shout of exultation. They danced round and round me,