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No reply was made to my question. I continued:

There is no law at all in the case, and consequently I might decline to interfere. Moreover, the old man wants to take it into Chancery, and into the Supreme Court of the United States, the places of all others where there is no possibility of taking it; but a litigation in those courts expresses his idea of the sublime in the way of a fuss generally. Down to this time the affair has been but little known, but he now wishes to give publicity to all its unhappy details. It was brought about in part by his threatening to disinherit his daughter, if she spoke again to her lover, and on finding himself disobeyed, he told her, not expecting to be believed, that she should never again cross his threshold unless she would abandon her lover's acquaintance. Law can do nothing with such a case; but I have become an amateur of sensations. I am curious to see what would be the effect upon both father and daughter of a reconciliation.

'Take pains to reconcile to her father such a creature as that?' inquired the Florentine, beginning to show some interest.

'As an amateur,' said I, 'merely as an amateur. The old man is very miserable. He has nothing to love but his money and his daughter. He tries to keep up a show of resolution, by threats of persecuting her, but I see through it. It shows him unspeakably wretched and ill at ease. He must have relief or he will die. It has run through my mind in this way. His soul and his daughter's are kindred, and although held apart by raging sin, really might do each other good. Now, my friend, suppose these two souls should be left apart, to go by different roads, aching down to darkness, in all eternity to desire and hate each other, but never meet, father and daughter wandering, unhappy, in all eternity never to meet, but to each other lost, lost, lost!' 'What can you do?' said the Florentine.

This is my plan. He never would have come to me in the matter, if he had not imagined me to possess a certain superiority. This shows that I possess the means of mastery over him. I must do as the doctors do, look wise and give him medicines. But the first thing is a blister. I will break him into my line of treatment by a test, which, if successful, will put an end to all obstinacy on his part. At precisely eight o'clock I will be seated in the office, He will come in. He will inquire how I do this morning. I will make him no answer. He will put some other question. I will not answer. After a few moments' hesitation I will light a segar for myself and offer him one. He will decline: he hates tobacco like poison. I will puff at my segar until he comes directly to his business, I will then throw away my segar, and indicate my interest. I will say I have been thinking it over. That it is a matter full of difficulty and responsibility. That I see hopes of success, but also foresee the pains it will cost. I cannot undertake it, unless he will pay me one thousand dollars immediately, and more when I want it.'

'That was not the way you treated me,' said the Florentine.

'But his case, you observe, is a case for a blister. His disease at the present moment is in his daughter. The only other vital thing about him is his money. I must put my hands in his pocket, just as blisters

are put on the feet to cure certain diseases of the head. He will groan, and protest, but he will pay me. I will exact one other condition, which, after paying one thousand dollars, will seem easy; it will be like homœopathic sugar-pellets to allopathic pills. He must agree to be governed implicitly by my advice, even if I should require him to forgive his daughter, and take her home to live with him?

'Do you think he will ever agree to that?' inquired the lady.

'He will appear,' said I, 'to protest and object, but finally to yield under a sort of compulsion. The truth is, it is above all things the course he is aching to find a pretence for. He will agree to let me carry her any messages I choose, as from him in a word, he will, in confidence with me, acknowledge himself willing to do or say any thing to win back his child. I will then promise not to humble him too much before her, and to take care to place her in a state of mind favorable to the exercise on his part of wholesome authority over her. He will almost hug me for that.'

'And what then?' said the Florentine.

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Then,' said I, 'the work is nearly accomplished. All the rest is easy. I select a bouquet of choice, fragrant flowers, not large nor with too much color, but delicate, suggestive of modesty and innocence. I go to the house where she is: I am told she is not there, or perhaps declines to see me. I say: Very well, then I will call the police; it is optional to put me to that trouble or not; and, by the way, the trouble is not much, for one is waiting to be called, just around the corner.' I am let in, and soon Miss makes her appearance. She is not yet accustomed to shame and contempt, and meets me timidly, not without a certain shrinking and confusion of manner. After preparing the way, I tell her I have recently seen her father. She bites her nails, but makes no reply. A tear begins to glisten in her eye, but whether of vexation or sorrow, of course I cannot tell. I hand her the bouquet, and say her father sent it. She looks at me with surprise and doubt, but kisses the flowers, and inquires if her father is well. I tell her he is far from well there appears to be but one step between him and the grave. His heart is broken. She will sob, weep, or go into hysterics. I will manage that she does not quit sobbing or hysterics till I have completely gained her confidence. She will then ask to be taken to her father. I will make difficulties. She shall understand it is no easy matter. I will ask if she is not happy where she is, as if I looked to the probability of her remaining. She will say she is not happy, that she is a fool, and very miserable, and might as well die and go to hell at once, as live so. That her lover has become neglectful and tyrannical, and she sees no course open to her but absolute degradation. She will promise to make any acknowledgment to her father, to get down on her knees to him, any thing, if he will take her home. She will never see her lover more. But I will say to her that she should marry him. 'He will not marry such as I am!' she will say, and then comes another flood or frenzy. Proud people do not buy cheap goods,' she will say, or something to that effect. Then I will rise from my seat and pace the room with apparent excitement of manner and say: But you are as good as he is. He ought to marry you, and he must and shall marry you. Obey me, be firm, and he shall certainly marry you.'

O Sir!' she will say, 'I am sunk very low; but I cannot accept a husband who offers or consents only upon compulsion to make me his wife. I can beg, I can starve, I can die, but that I cannot do. Oh! pardon me, Sir; that I will not for a moment think of. While there is blood in these veins, there will be life to bite a hole large enough to let life out; and so long as the pulsations of this heart may be stopped at will, so long will it revolt. No, Sir, no! any thing but that.'

But, Miss,' I will say; 'the beauty of my plan is, that he shall offer to be your husband, plead with you for the privilege, protest that he cannot live without you, and threaten to kill himself if you reject him.' She will shake her head sorrowfully, and moan, and say:

Such a thing might have been ! O my GOD! but not any more possible for me. Oh no, no, not for me.'

'To which I will reply: But I say, yes, yes; not no, no; it is possible, more than possible, it positively shall happen. The only condition, is, that you shall promise to act as I require, and then, at all hazards, not fail to fulfil your promise.'

"Do you think, Madam,' said I to the Florentine, 'that the young woman will agree to follow my advice?'

"Follow it!' said she. 'The girl will drink in the hardest conditions you can impose, as a thirsty person drinks water. She will be as docile as a pet lamb that runs frisking and bleating, to the hand that feeds it. You must not hold up such promises not to be fulfilled. You have no right to lift the poor girl to the skies only to dash her again into the pit!'

'Poor girl!' said I, 'such a creature as that!'

The Florentine was not in a mood to appreciate a joke. I proceeded to say, I would remove the girl to costly apartments, where the first object meeting her eye should be her mother's portrait, and where she should receive respectable protection. I would have her amply sup plied with new clothing, very rich, but very plain, such as might adorn a vestal. Gew-gaws and meretricious ornaments she should have none. Every former vestment should be consigned to the flames. The past should be made to seem to be really in the distance. She should see all the symbols of a new and purer life, and breathe a new atmosphere. I will tell her father about it; but as yet he shall not see her. Presently her lover begins to wonder at the change; he doubts if he was so fortunate as he supposed himself, in getting rid of her. He thinks her very beautiful, and calls to see her. She receives him with patient modesty, but will see him only in the presence of others. He calls again and again with similar results. I make it a point to meet him, and request him not to bother the young woman with calls. I tell him that she had been greatly thrown from her balance by harsh treatment from her father, and by believing herself necessary to his, her lover's happiness, but she had discovered her error. She would lead a different life hereafter. She might never return to her father, but her father would always supply her with the means of living elegantly and honestly. It was a sin and a shame to have ruined the prospects of such a girl, but his visits would be no longer tolerated. He was not worthy of her. If she ever marries, I will say, it will be some man whom she respects.

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This will only inflame him the more. He will beset her with bouquets and billet-douxs, and consume himself with sighs. In short, they will be married. It may be perhaps a private marriage; and it will not be necessary to advise the world that it did not take place when it ought to have taken place. Then her father welcomes them home. The two souls, father and daughter, shall cling more fondly than ever together, and not wander separate and sorrowful for ever. But here is Ellas-land!

I explained to your mother the urgency of the necessity that the Florentine should have rest and food. She appeared to take a good deal of interest in what I had told her, and I hoped the diversion of her thoughts would be in season. On my return in the evening I found she had slept, but had eaten little. She was reclining on a lounge. Her mind was clear, and free from excitement, but she was languid, and acknowledged herself too weary to tell me the history of her troubles at that time. During the night she had considerable head-ache, and in the morning a fever set in. Its character did not long remain doubtful. It was our old dread: that low, baffling, deceptive fever, the typhoid.

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On high,

Pours intercepted light through countless prisms
In rain-bow radiance o'er the room.
Mid-way of the far wall, over against
The entrance, perches the brazen eagle,
Our country's emblem. Conspicuously
Beneath stands WASHINGTON in statue; here,
As in history, alone, unequalled.
Europe has had her heroes, Albion
Her warrior-monarchs, and Corsica
Gave Gaul its red, far-flashing meteor:

But thou, America, young, favored land,
Hast fixed upon the firmament of fame

The cynosure of nations. 'Come hither,'

Called my friend: 'come! sit here where I have sat :
I'll tell my countrymen, when I return to Greece,
How I reclined me in the chair

Honored by WASHINGTON.'

I've never cringed

To mortal: no living wight bears spirit
Prouder than my own; but reverently
Before that chair I stood, nor dared to touch
The seat once hallowed by his presence.
Later, and up the winding stairs we took
Our toilsome way e'en to the interior
Of the clock; itself a room, its mechanism
In the centre; the four circular windows
Its four faces; to which the citizens
That throng the streets look up and see
On every side of the square tower, true
As truth itself their faithful monitor.
Down in the room below, the pendulum,
That great pulse-beat of time, swings to-and-fro.
Up, on we went, nor passed unnoticing
The bell whose iron mouth to all the land
Sang out the song of freedom! Pacific
Heard it borne along by echoing Andes;
And, kneeling on the shore, its mighty waves
Took up the tune; and ever on their march
From pole to pole, they chant it forth afar
To listening lands in solemn unison.

Higher and still more high, and then we stood

Within the open steeple. How glorious!'

Exclaimed my friend. 'How more than beautiful!

The city girt with rivers, the blue sky,

And that white building to the west away,

With gleaming columns, so like the Parthenon!

'T is almost like a morn in my far clime.

Ah! Greece, thou dear, delightful land!' She ceased,
Looked dreamily toward the College,

And tears, large tears, suffused her soft, dark eyes.

Her gentle breast heaved with a sigh, and then

I left her side, for well I knew her thoughts

Were far away, and busy with the past.
O'er the vast, irregular mass of roofs,
Chimneys, and tops of trees just visible
Between, glancing at spire and gilded dome
With crowning cross shining like a pale planet
In the sun-light, my eye roved on, and there
Far to the south, where sky and landscape meet,
Saw the blue, lordly Delaware move on,

Majestically slow, receive and bear
Rejoicing Schuylkill onward to the sea.
Delightedly I gazed and long: enjoying

The pure breeze, gladdening sun-light, and low hum
That from the busy streets below ascended
Lullingly like the far-off murmuring

Of water-fall; and thought anon of Hellas,
Unhappy, ruined Hellas: beautiful
But sad, mourning o'er her lost liberty,
Lost power, and perished glory: yet
To the fond wanderer's heart lovelier
In all her woe, than our young rising land
Of giant promise.

Ere we descended
Once more to the vast, lighted scene below,
I turned then to the calm, o'er-arching sky,
And, like the old Milesian, thanked my GOD
That I was born in such a land as this!

Way-Side, Valley-Forge, May, 1850,

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