Call woman—angel, goddess, what you will—
With all that fancy breathes at passion's call,
With all that rapture fondly raves—and still
That one word—Wife—outvies—contains them all.
It is a word of music which can fill
The soul with melody, when sorrows fall
Round us, like darkness, and her heart alone
Is all that fate has left to call our own.
Her bosom is a fount of love that swells,
Widens, and deepens with its own outpouring,
And, as a desert stream, for ever wells
Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring,
Dry up its very blood, and man rebels
Against his being!—When despair is lowering,
And ills sweep round him, like an angry river,
She is his star, his rock of hope for ever.
Yes; woman only knows what 'tis to mourn
She only feels how slow the moments glide
Ere those her young heart loved in joy return
And breathe affection, smiling by her side.
Hers only are the tears that waste and burn—
The anxious watchings, and affection's tide
That never, never ebbs!—hers are the cares
No ear hath heard, and which no bosom shares
Cares, like her spirit, delicate as light
Trembling at early dawn from morning stars,
Cares, all unknown to feeling and to sight
Of rougher man, whose stormy bosom wars
With each fierce passion in its fiery might;
Nor deems how look unkind, or absence, jars
Affection's silver cords by woman wove,
Whose soul, whose business, and whose life is—Love.
I left the verses upon the table, that she might find them when she entered, and that they might whisper to her that I at least appreciated her excellence, however little I might have merited it.
Lewis, even in my solitary cell, I feel the blush upon my cheek, when I think upon the next part of my history. My hand trembles to write it, and I cannot now. Methinks that even the cold rocks that surround me laugh at me derision, and I feel myself the vilest of human things. But I cannot describe it to-day—I have gone too far already, and I find that my brain burns. I have conjured up the past, and I would hide myself from its remembrance. Another day, when my brain is cool, when my hand trembles not, I may tell you all; but, in the shame of my own debasement, my reason is shaken from its throne.
Here ended the first part of the Hermit's manuscript; and on another, which ran thus, he had written the words—
"MY HISTORY CONTINUED."
I told you, Lewis, where I last broke off my history, that I left the verses on the table for the eye of my Catherine. I doubted not that I would devise some plan of matchless wisdom, and that, with the money so unexpectedly come into my possession, I would redeem my broken fortunes. I went out into the streets, taking the purse with me, scarce knowing what I did, but musing on what to do. I met one who had been a fellow-gambler with me, when at the University.
'Ha! Fleming!' he exclaimed, 'is such a man alive! I expected that you and your Prince would have crossed the water together, or that you would have exhibited at Carlisle or Tower Hill.'