  That evening, when the feast of strawberries Had been partaken, and the happy three Sat down together, Linda asked: "And now, May I not hear the rest?"—"To-morrow, Linda, You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now, That brain of yours must tranquillize itself Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night, Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,' And songs that most affront the dainty ear A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair, Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine, Imagine you are rocking me to sleep, As in those far-off days." Replied the mother: "O the dear days! yet not more dear than these! For frugal Linda brings along with her All of her past; the infant's purity, The child's confiding love, and now, at last, The maiden's free and quick intelligence! Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure In heart shall carry an immortal youth Into the great to-come. That little song— Well I remember the delightful time When 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen, I noted down the words, while, by your crib, Your father sat, and you, with little fists Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will, Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles That with them went! 'Twas at the mellow close Of an autumnal day, and we were staying In a secluded village, where a brook Babbled beneath our window, and the hum Of insects soothed us, while a louder note From the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then, Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone And startle laughter." Here the matron paused; Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch, The ivory keys, sang I. Murmur low, little rivulet flowing! II.For to sleep our dear Linda is going; All good little lambs be reposing, For Linda one eyelid is closing. O frogs! what a noise you are making! III.O crickets! now don't keep her waking! Stop barking, you little dog Rover, Till Linda can get half-seas over. Little birds, let our word of love reach you,— IV.Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you; On her little white coverlet lying, To sleep our dear Linda is trying. Hush! sing just as softly as may be; Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby! Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,— Murmur low, little rivulet flowing! The next day, when the heat kept all at home, And they were gathered in the library, Where fitfully a lazy southern breeze Would stir the languid curtains, Percival Said, turning to the mother: "Mary, now Your story best will supplement my own; Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then; My life is but the affluent to yours, In which it found its amplitude and rest. "My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father, A prosperous merchant, gave to business His time and active thoughts, and let his wife Rule all beside with rigor absolute. My maiden name was Mary Merivale. There were eight daughters of us, and of these I was the fourth. We lived in liberal style, And did not lack the best society The city could afford. My heedful mother, With eight undowered girls to be disposed of, Fearfully healthy all, and clamorous For clothes and rations, entered on a plan To which she steadily adhered: it was, To send the younger fry to boarding-schools, And keep one virgin only, at a time, And she the oldest, on her hands to marry. So they came forward in their order: Julia, And Isabel, and Caroline; until I was dragged forth from maps and lexicons, Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and put Candidate Number Four, upon the list. Of a poor woman, Percival had been Thrown down, an arm been broken, and the pain Had made him faint. My nervous laugh of joy, When I was sure that this was the extreme Of injury, betrayed my reckless heart, And Kenrick had my secret. Percival Was soon himself; the broken limb was set, And I, engaged to stay another week To wait on the new patient—nothing loath. "The day of his departure, Kenrick drew me Aside, and, in a whisper, said, 'He loves you!' 'Loves me?' With palms held tightly on my breast To keep my heart down, I repeated, 'Loves me?' 'Twas hard to credit. 'Pardon me,' said Kenrick, 'If by communication of your secret, I changed the desolation of his life To sudden bloom and fragrance, for a moment.' 'A moment only?'—'Soon his scruples rose: It cannot be! he said; two mountains lie Between my fate and hers.—Two bubbles rather! Retorted I; let's take their altitude.— One is my age.—That mountain is already Tunnelled or levelled, since she sees it not.— The other is that infamous decree Against me at the period of my suit, Granting the guilty party a divorce, But me prohibiting to wed again.— Well, that decree (I answered bitterly) Would have with me the weight of a request That I'd hereafter quaff at common puddles And not at one pure fount; I'd heed the bar As I would heed the grass-webbed gossamer; I'd sooner balk a bench of drivellers Than outrage sacred nature.—If that bench Could have you up for bigamy, what then?— The dear old dames! they should not have the means To prove it on me: for the pact should be 'Twixt me and her who would accept my troth Freely before high heaven and all its angels: Witnesses which the sheriff could not summon, Could not, at least, produce.—But, Kenrick, you Do not consider all the risk and pain; The social stigma, and, should children come, The grief, the shame, the disrepute to them.— To which I answered: God's great gift of life, Coming through parentage select and pure, To me is such a sacred, sacred thing, So precious, so inestimably precious, That your objections seem of small account; Since only stunted hearts and slavish minds Could visit on your children disrepute, Who fitly could ignore such Brahmanism, Since they'd be born, most probably, with brains. "'When the neglect of form, if 'tis neglected, Is all in honor, purged of selfishness, Where shall the heart and reason lay the blame? But understand me: Would I cheapen form? Nay, I should fear that those who would evade it, Without a reason potent as your own, Trifled with danger. But I cannot make A god of form, an idol crushing me. Unlike the church, I look on marriage as A civil contract, not a sacrament, Indissoluble, spite of every wrong; The high and holy purposes of marriage Are not fulfilled in instances where each Helps to demoralize or blight the other; Let it then stand, like other contracts, on A basis purely personal and legal. "'Oh! how we hug the fictions we are born to! Challenging never, never testing them; Accepting them as irreversible; Part of God's order, not to be improved; Placing the form above the informing spirit, The outward show above the inward life; A hollow lie, well varnished, well played out, Above the pure, the everlasting truth; Fancying Nature is not Nature still, Because repressed, or cheated, or concealed; Juggling ourselves with frauds a very child, Yet unperverted, readily would pierce! "'Consider my own case: a month ago, See me a maniac, rushing forth to find A wife who loved me not; my heart all swollen With rage against the man to whom I owed Exposure of her falsehood; ah, how blind! To chase a form from which the soul had fled! If I grew sane at length, you, Percival, And the mere presence of our little nurse Have brought me light and healing. I am cured, Thank Heaven, and can exult at my release. "'Here I paused. Percival made no reply, But sat like one absorbed. I paced the floor Awhile, and then confronting him resumed: Your scruples daunt you still; well, there's a way To free you from the meshes of the law: On my return, I'll go to Albany, Where war's financial sinews, as you know, Are those of legislation equally; I'll have a law put through to meet your case; To strip away these toils. I can; I will!— Percival almost stunned me with his No! Make me a gutter, adding more pollution To the fount of public justice? Never! No! I would not feed corruption with a bribe, To win release to-morrow. Such a cure Would be, my friend, far worse than the disease.— Then there's no way, said I; and so, farewell! The carriage waits to take me to the station.— I shall not say farewell until we part Beside the carriage-door, said he: you'll take Your leave of Mary?—Yes, I go to seek her.— And this, Miss Mary, is a full report Of all that passed between my friend and me.' "Here Kenrick ended. He had been, methought, Thus copious, in the hope his argument Would make me look as scornfully as he On obstacles that Percival would raise. I thanked him for his courtesy, and then, Not without some emotion, we two parted. When the last sound of the retiring wheels Was drowned in other noises, Percival Came in, and found me waiting in the parlor. 'Now let me have a talk with you,' he said. So, in the little parlor we sat down. I see it now, all vividly before me! The carpet—ay, its very hues and figures: The chandelier, the sofa, the engraving Of Wellington that hung above the mantel; The little bookcase, holding Scott and Irving, And Gibbon's Rome, and Eloisa's Letters; And, in a vase, upon the marble stand, An opening rose-bud I had plucked that day— Type of my own unfolding, rosy hope! "Said Percival: 'We'll not amuse each other With words indifferent; and we'll allow Small opportunity for hearts to speak: We know what they would utter, might we dare To give them audience. Let Reason rule. What I propose is this: that we now part— Part for two years; and when that term shall end, If we are still in heart disposed as now, Then can we orient ourselves anew, And shape our course as wary conscience bids. Till then, no meeting and no correspondence! "'Now for conditions more particular: You have a sister—Mrs. Hammersley— Julia, I think you said,—an elder sister, Resident here, and in society, But fretted by her lord's extravagance And her own impecuniosity. You at her house shall be a visitor, But not without the means of aiding her; And who but I can now supply the means? Here's the dilemma: how can you be free If you're my debtor? Yet you must be free, And promise to be free; nor let my gift Sway you one jot in trammelling your heart. Two years you'll spend with Mrs. Hammersley; Accepting all Society can offer To welcome youth and beauty to its lap; Keeping your heart as open as you can To influences and impressions new; For, Mary, bear in mind how young you are! So much for you. On my part, I'll return To my own country, and endeavor there Once more to rectify the wretched wrong That circumscribes me. I shall fail perhaps— But we can be prepared for either issue.' "Here he was silent, and I said
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