Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author

by Caroline Lee Hentz

"You have often asked me to tell you where I lived when I was a little child; whether my home was a gray cottage like ours, in the woods; and whether I had a mother whom I loved as dearly as you loved me. I have told you that my first feeble life-wail mingled with her dying groan, and you wondered how one could live without a mother's love.

"I was born in that rugged fortress, whose embattled walls are washed by the majestic Bay of Chesapeake. My father held a captain's commission in the army, and was stationed for many years at this magnificent, insulated bulwark. My father, at the time of my mother's death, was a young and gallant officer, and I was his only child. It is not strange that he should marry again; for the grief of man seldom survives the allotted period of mourning, and it was natural that he should select a gay and brilliant woman, for the second choice is generally a striking contrast to the first. My mother, I am told, was one of those gentle, dove-like, pensive beings, who nestled in her husband's heart, and knew no world beyond. My step-mother loved the world and its pleasures better than husband, children, and home. She had children of her own, who were more the objects of her pride than her love. Every day, they were dressed for exhibition, petted and caressed, and then sent back to the nursery, where they could not interfere with the pleasures of their fashionable mamma. Could I expect those tender cares which the yearning heart of childhood craves, as its daily sustenance? She was not harsh or despotic, but careless and indifferent. She did not care for me; and provided I kept out of her way, she was willing I should amuse myself in the best manner I pleased. My father was kind and caressing, when he had leisure to indulge his parental sensibilities; but he could not sympathize in my childish joys and sorrows, for I dared not confide them to him. He was a man, and, moreover, there was something in the gilded pomp of his martial dress, that inspired too much awe for childish familiarity. I used to gaze at him, when he appeared on military parade, as if he were one of the demi-gods of the ancient world. He had an erect and warlike bearing, a proud, firm step, and his gold epaulette with its glittering tassels flashing in the sunbeams, his crimson sash contrasting so splendidly with the military blue, his shining sword and waving plume,—all impressed me with a grandeur that was overpowering. It dazzled my eye, but did not warm my young heart.

"As I grew older, I exhibited a remarkable love of reading, and as no one took the trouble to direct my tastes, I seized every book which came within my reach and devoured it, with the avidity of a hungry and unoccupied mind. My father was a gentleman of pure and elegant taste, and had he dreamed that I was exposed, without guardianship, to dangerous influences, he would have shielded and warned me. But he believed the care of children under twelve years of age devolved on their mother, and he was always engrossed with the duties of a profession which he passionately loved, or the society of his brother officers, usually so fascinating and convivial.

"I used to take my book, which was generally some wild, impassioned romance, and wandering to the ramparts, seat myself by the shining pyramids of cannon-balls; and while the blue waves of the Chesapeake rolled in murmuring music by, or, lashed by the ocean wind, heaved in foaming billows, roaring against the walls, I yielded myself to the wizard spell of genius and passion. The officers as they passed would try to break the enchantment by gay and sportive words, but all in vain. I have sat there, drenched by the salt sea-spray, and knew it not. I was called the little bookworm, the prodigy, the dream-girl, a name you have inherited, my darling Gabriella; and my father seemed proud of the reputation I had established. But while my imagination was preternaturally developed, my heart was slumbering, and my soul unconscious of life's great aim.

"Thus unguarded by precept, unguided by example, I was sent from home to a boarding-school, where I acquired the usual education and accomplishments obtained at fashionable female seminaries. During my absence from home, my two step-sisters, who were thought too young to accompany me, and my infant step-brother, died in the space of one week, smitten by that destroying angel of childhood, the scarlet fever.

"I had been at school two years when I made my first visit home. My step-mother was then in the weeds of mourning, and of course excluded herself in a measure from gay society; but I marvelled that sorrow had not impaired the bloom of her cheek, or quenched the sparkle of her cold, bright eye. Her heart was not buried in the grave of her children,—it belonged to the world, to which she panted to return.

"But my father mourned. There was a shadow on his manly brow, which I had never seen before. I was, now, his only child, the representative of his once beloved Rosalie, and the pure, fond love of his early years revived again in me. I look back upon those two months, when I basked in the sunshine of parental tenderness for the first, the only time, as a portion of my life most dear and holy. I sighed when I thought of the years when we had been comparatively so far apart, and my heart grew to his with tender adhesiveness and growing love. The affections, which my worldly step-mother had chilled and repressed, and which the death of his other children had blighted, were now all mine, renovated and warmed.

"Oh, Gabriella! very precious is a father's love. It is an emblem of the love of God for the dependent beings he has created; so kind, so protecting, so strong, and yet so tender! Would to God, my poor, defrauded child, you could have known what this God-resembling love is,—but your orphanage has been the most sad, the most dreary,—the most unhallowed. Almighty Father of the universe, have mercy on my child! Protect and bless her when this wasting, broken heart no longer beats; when the frail shield of a mother's love is taken from her, and she is left alone—alone—alone. Oh! my God, have pity—have pity! Forsake her not!"

The paper was blistered with the tears of the writer. I dropped it on the grave, unable to go on. I cast myself on the grass-covered mould, and pressed it to my bosom, as if there was vitality in the cold clods.

"Oh, my mother!" I exclaimed, and strange and dreary sounded my voice in that breathing stillness. "Has God heard thy prayers? Will he hear the cries of the fatherless? Will he have pity on my forsaken youth?"