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the president of the assembly, and that he was himself trying to re-assure me, by making the interpreter tell me "I had nothing to fear now, as I was close to him." I do not think the information did much for me, for, clean and venerable as the old man was, I should have been more relieved to have learned that I was a hundred miles away from him.

As soon as the disturbance which this little episode had caused was passed, the governor husband that it was necessary gravely told my he should write a letter to the Emperor of Morocco, admitting the legality of his capture, and stating that neither he himself, nor any of his crew, had been ill-used. A pointed cane was then presented to him as the instrument

wherewith he was to effect this deed of exoneration; but the captain did not find either the instrument or the order to his liking. He, therefore, adroitly managed to get permission that the letter should be written from the consul's house, to which we were to go to wait the emperor's pleasure concerning us. But the consul was made responsible for the letter being written in accordance with the governor's order; and he was further directed to despatch it for its destination, by a special courier, at daybreak. With this final determination the court of inquiry broke up, and consigned us to the care of our Jewish friend of the blue cloak. It was at least a relief to find we were not to go with any of the flannel grave-clothes.*

: my

ADELAIDE.

BEING FRAGMENTS FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY.

(Communicated by the Author of " Olive," "The Head of the Family," &c.)

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I HAVE been married seven weeks. I do not rave in girlish fashion about my perfect happiness-I do not even say I love my husband. Such words imply a separate existence-a gift consciously bestowed on one being from another. I feel not thus: husband is to me as my own soul. Long, very long, it is since I first knew this. Gradually, not suddenly, the great mystery of love overshadowed me, until at last I found out the truth, that I was my own no more. All the world's beauty I saw through his eyes -all the world's goodness and greatness came reflected through his noble heart. In his presence I was as a child: I forgot myself, my own existence, hopes, and aims. Everywhere -at all times and all places-his power was

upon me.

He seemed to absorb and inhale

my whole soul into his, until I became like a cloud melting away in sunshine, and vanishing from the face of heaven.

All this reads very wild and mad; but, oh! Laurence--Laurence! none would marvel at it who had once looked on thee! Not that he is a perfect Apollo-this worshipped husband of mine: you may meet a score far handsomer. But who cares? Not I! All that is grand, all that is beautiful, all that makes a man look godlike through the inward shining of his godlike soul,-I see in my Laurence. His eyes, soft, yet proud-his wavy hair-his hand that I sit and clasp-his strong arm that I

To be continued.

lean on-all compose an image wherein I see no flaw. Nay, I could scarce believe in any beauty that bore no likeness to Laurence. Thus is my husband-what am I? His wife and no more. Everything in me is only a reflection of him. Sometimes I even marvel that he loved me, so unworthy as I seem: yet, when heaven rained on me the rich blessing of his love, my thirsty soul drank it in, and I felt that had it never come, for lack of it I must have died. I did almost die, for the joy was long in coming. Though-as I know now-he loved me well and dearly; yet for some reason or other he would not tell me so. The veil might never have fallen from our hearts, save for one blessed chance. I will relate it. I love to dream over that brief hour, to which my whole existence can never show a parallel.

We were walking all together-my sisters, Laurence Shelmerdine, and I-when there came on an August thunder-storm. Our danger was great, for we were in the midst of a wood. My sisters fled; but I, being weak and illalas! my heart was breaking quietly, though he knew it not-I had no strength to fly. He was too kind to forsake me: so we stayed in an open space of the wood, I clinging to his arm, and thinking-God forgive me!-that if I could only die then, close to him, encompassed by his gentle care, it would be so happyhappier far than my life was then. What he thought, I knew not. He spoke in hurried, broken words, and turned his face from me all the while.

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We looked at one another, Laurence and I: then, with a great cry, our hearts-long-tortured-sprang together. There never can be such a meeting, save that of two parted ones, who meet in heaven. No words were spoken, save a murmur-" Adelaide!" "Laurence!"but we knew that between us two there was but one soul. We stood there-all the while the storm lasted. He sheltered me in his arms, and I felt neither the thunder nor the rain. I feared not life nor death, for I now knew that in either I should never be divided from him.

Ours was a brief engagement. Laurence wished it so; and I disputed not -I never disputed with him in anything. Besides, I was not happy at home-my sisters did not understand him. They jested with me because he was grave and reserved--even subject to moody fits sometimes. They said, "I should have a great deal to put up with; but it was worth while, for Mr. Shelmerdine's grand estate atoned for all." My Laurence! as if I had ever thought whether he were rich or poor! I smiled, too, at my sisters' jests about his melancholy, and the possibility of his being "a bandit in disguise." None truly knew him-none but I! Yet I was half afraid of him at times; but that was only from the intensity of my love. I never asked him of his for me-how it grew or why he had so long concealed it: enough for me that it was there. Yet it was always calm: he never showed any passionate emotion, save one night-the night before our wedding day.

I went with him to the gate myself, walking in the moonlight under the holly trees. I trembled a little; but I was happy-very happy. He held me long in his arms ere he would part with me-the last brief parting ere we would have no need to part any more. I said, looking up from his face unto the stars, "Laurence, in our full joy, let us thank God, and pray Him to bless us."

His heart seemed bursting: he bowed his proud head, dropped it down upon my shoulder, and cried, "Nay, rather pray Him to forgive me. Adelaide, I am not worthy of happinessI am not worthy of you."

He, to talk in this way! and about me! but

I answered him soothingly, so that he might feel how dear was my love-how entire my trust.

He said, at last, half mournfully, "You are content to take me then, just as I am; to forgive my past—to bear with my present-to give hope to my future. Will you do this, my love, my Adelaide ?"

I answered, solemnly, "I will." Then, for the first time, I dared to lift my arms to his neck; and as he stooped I kissed his forehead. It was the scal of this my promise, — which may God give me strength to keep evermore!

We were laughing to-day-Laurence and I -about first loves. It was scarcely a subject for mirth; but one of his bachelor friends had been telling us of a new-married couple, who, in some comical fashion, mutually made the discovery of each other's "first loves." I said to my husband, smiling happily, "that he need have no such fear." And I repeated, half in sport, the lines--

"He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast

Like a rich wreck-her first love, and her last.'

So it was with your poor Adelaide." Touched by the thought, my gaiety melted almost into tears. But I laughed them off, and added, "Come, Laurence, confess the same. You never, never loved any one but me?"

He looked pained, said coldly, "I believe I have not given cause- -" then stopped. How I trembled; but I went up to him, and whispered, "Laurence, dearest, forgive me." He looked at me a moment, then caught me passionately to his breast. I wept there a little-my heart was so full. help again murmuring that love me? you do love me ?"

Yet I could not question--" You

"I love you as I never before loved woman. I swear this in the sight of heaven. Believe it, my wife!" was his vehement answer. I hated myself for having so tried him. My dear, my noble husband! I was mad to have a moment's doubt of thee.

Nearly a year married, and it seems a brief day: yet it scems, also, like a lifetime as if I had never known any other. My Laurence! daily I grow closer to himheart to heart. I understand him better-if possible, I love him more: not with the wild worship of my girlhood, but with something dearer more home-like. I would not have him an "angel," if I could. I know all his little faults and weaknesses quite well-I do not shut my eyes on any of them; but I gaze

openly at them, and love them down. There is love enough in my heart to fill up all chasms -to remove all stumbling-blocks from our path. Ours is truly a wedded life: not two jarring lives, but an harmonious and complete

one.

I have taken a long journey, and am somewhat dreary at being away, even for three days, from my pleasant home. But Laurence was obliged to go, and I would not let him go alone; though, from tender fear, he urged me to stay. So kind and thoughtful he was too. Because his engagements here would keep him much from me, he made me take likewise my sister Louisa. She is a good girl, and a dear girl; but I miss Laurence; I did especially in my walk to-day, through a lovely, wooded country, and a sweet little village. I was thinking of him all the time; so much so, that I quite started when I heard one of the village children shouted after as "Laurence."

Very foolish it is of me-a loving weakness I have not yet got over-but I never hear the name my husband bears without a pleasant thrill; I never even see it written up in the street without turning again to look at it. So, unconsciously, I turned to the little rosy urchin, whom his grandam honoured by the name of "Laurence."

A pretty, sturdy boy, of five or six years old—a child to glad any mother. I wondered had he a mother! I stayed and asked.—I always notice children now. Oh! wonderful, solemn mystery sleeping at my heart, my hope— my joy--my prayer! I think, with tears, how I may one day watch the gambols of a boy like this; and how, looking down in his little face, I may see therein my Laurence's eyes. For the sake of this future-which God grant !—I went and kissed the little fellow who chanced to bear my husband's name. I asked the old woman about the boy's mother. "Dead! dead five years." And his father? A sneer-a muttered curse-bitter words about "poor folk" and "gentle-folk." Alas! alas! I saw it all. Poor, beautiful, unhappy child!

My heart was so pained, that I could not tell the little incident to Laurence. Even when my sister began to talk of it, I asked her to cease. But I pondered over it the more. I think, if I am strong enough, I will go and sce the poor little fellow again to-morrow. One might do some good-who knows?

To-morrow has come-to-morrow has gone. What a gulf lies between that yesterday and its to-morrow!

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Louisa and I walked to the village-she very much against her will. "It was wrong, and foolish," she said; one should not meddle with vice." And she looked prudent and stern. I tried to speak of the innocent child of the poor dead mother; and the shadow of motherhood over my own soul taught me compassion towards both. At last, when Louisa was half angry, I said I would go, for I had a secret reason which she did not know.-Thank heaven those words were put into my lips!

So, we went. My little beauty of a boy was not there; and I had the curiosity to approach the cottage where his grandmother lived. It stood in a garden, with a high hedge around. I heard a child's laugh, and could not forbear peeping through. There was my little favourite, held aloft in the arms of a man, who stood half-hidden behind a trec.

"He looks like a gentleman: perhaps it is the wretch of a father!" whispered Louisa. Sister, we ought to come away." And she walked forward indignantly.

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But I still stayed-still looked. Despite my horror of the crime, I felt a sort of attraction: it was some sign of grace in the man that he should at least acknowledge and show kindness to his child. And the miserable mother! I, a happy wife, could have wept to think of her. I wondered, did he think of her, too? He might; for, though the boy laughed and chattered, lavishing on him all those pet diminutives which children make out of the sweet word "father," I did not hear this father answer by a single word.

Louisa came to hurry me away. "Hush!" I said: "one moment, and I will go."

The little one had ceased chattering: the father put it down, and came forth from his

covert.

Heaven! it was my husband!

I think I should then have fallen down dead, save for one thing-I turned and met my sister's eyes. They were full of horror-indignation-pity. She, too, had seen.

Like lightning there flashed across me all the future: my father's wrath-the world's mockery-his shame.

I said—and I had strength to say it quite calmly—“Louisa, you have guessed our secret; but keep it-promise!"

She looked aghast-confounded.

You see," I went on, and I actually smiled, "you see, I know all about it, and so does Laurence. It is a friend's child."

May heaven forgive me for that lie I told: it was to save my husband's honour.

Day after day, week after week, goes by, and yet I live-live, and living, keep the horrible secret in my soul. It must remain there buried for ever, now.

It so chanced, that after that hour I did not see my husband for some weeks: Louisa and I were hastily summoned home. So I had time to think what I was to do.

I knew all now-all the mystery of his fits of gloom-his secret sufferings. It was remorse, perpetual remorse. No marvel! And for a moment my stern heart said, "Let it be so." I, too, was wronged. Why did he marry me, and hide all this? O vile! O cruel! Then the light broke on me: his long struggle against his love-his terror of winning mine. But he did love me half-maddening as I was, I grasped at that. Whatever blackness was on the past, he loved me now-he had sworn it66 'more than he ever loved woman."

I was yet young: I knew little of the wickedness of the world; but I had heard of that mad passion of a moment, which may seize on a heart not wholly vile, and afterwards a whole lifetime of remorse works out the expiation. Six years ago! he must have been then a mere boy. If he had thus erred in youth, I, who knew his nature, knew how awful must have been the repentance of his manhood. On

any humbled sinner I would have mercyhow much rather must I have mercy on my husband?

I had mercy. Some, stern in virtue, may condemn me; but God knoweth all.

He is I believe it in my soul-he is a good man now, and striving more and more after good. I will help him--I will save him. Never shall he know that secret, which out of pride or bitterness might drive him back from virtue, or make him feel shame before me.

I took my resolution-I have fulfilled it. I have met him again, as a faithful wife should meet her husband: no word, no look, betrays, or shall betray, what I know. All our outward life goes on as before: his tenderness for me is constant-overflowing. But oh! the agony, worse than death, of knowing my idol fallenthat where I once worshipped, I can only pity, weep, and pray.

He told me yesterday he did not feel like the same man that he was before his marriage. He said I was his good angel: that through me he became calmer, happier, every day. It was true: I read the change in his face. Others read it too. Even his aged mother

told me, with tears, how much good I had done to Laurence. For this, thank God!

My husband! my husband! At times I could almost think this horror was some delirious dream, cast it all to the winds, and worship him as of old. I do feel, as I ought, deep tenderness compassion. No, no! let me not deceive myself: I love him; in defiance of all I love him, and shall do evermore.

Sometimes his olden sufferings come over him; and then I, knowing the whole truth, If he feel my very soul moved within me. had only told me all: if I could now lay my heart open before him, with all its love and pardon; if he would let me comfort him, and speak of hope, of heaven's mercy-of atonement, even on earth. But I dare not-I dare not.

Since, from this silence which he has seen fit to keep, I must not share the struggle, but must stay afar off,—then, like the prophet who knelt on the rock, supplicating for Israel in the battle, let my hands fall not, nor my prayer cease, until heaven sendeth the victory.

Nearer and nearer comes the hour which will be to me one of a double life, or of death. Sometimes, remembering all I have lately suffered, there comes to me a heavy foreboding. What, if I, so young, to whom, one little year ago, life seemed an opening paradise--what, if I should die-die and leave him, and he never know how deeply I have loved-how much I have forgiven?

Yes; he might know, and bitterly. Should Louisa tell-But I will prevent that.

In my husband's absence, I have sat up half the night writing; that, in case of my death, he may be made acquainted with the whole I have truth, and hear it from me alone. poured out all my suffering—all my tenderI have implored him, for the love of heaven, for the love of me, that he would in every way atone for the past, and lead for the future a righteous life; that his sin may be forgiven, and that, after death, we may meet in joy evermore.

ness:

I have been to church with Laurence-for the last time, as I think. We knelt together, and took the sacrament. His face was grave, but peaceful. When we came home, we sat in our beautiful little rose-garden: he, looking so content-even happy ;-so tender over me-so full of hope for the future. How should this be, if he had on his soul that awful sin? All seemed a delusion of my own creating: I doubted even the evidence of my

own senses. I longed to throw myself on his bosom, and tell him all. But then from some inexplicable cause, the olden cloud came over him; I read in his face, or thought I read, the torturing remorse which at once repelled me from him, and yet drew me again, with a compassion that was almost stronger than love.

I thought I would try to say, in some passing way, words that, should I die, might afterwards comfort him, by telling him how his misery had wrung my heart, and how I did not scorn him, not even for his sin.

"Laurence," I said, very softly, "I wish that you and I had known one another all our lives -from the time we were little children."

"Oh! that we had! then I had been a better and a happier man, my Adelaide!" was his answer.

"We will not talk of that. Please God, we may live a long and worthy life together; but if not-"

He looked at me with fear. "What is that you say? Adelaide, you are not going to die? you, whom I love, whom I have made happy, you have no cause to die."

Oh, agony! he thought of the one who had cause-to whose shame and misery death was better than life. Poor wretch! she, too, might have loved him. Down, wife's jealousy! down, woman's pride! It was long, long ago. She is dead; and he-Oh! my husband! may God forgive me according as I pardon you!

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I said to him once more, putting my arm round his neck, leaning so that he could only hear, not see me. 'Laurence, if I should die, remember how happy we have been, and how dearly we have loved one another. Think of nothing sad or painful; think only that, living or dying, I loved you as I have loved none else in the world. And so, whatever chances, be content."

He seemed afraid to speak more, lest I should be agitated; but as he kissed me, I felt on my cheek tears-tears that my own eyes, long sealed by misery, had no power to shed. I have done all I wished to do. I have set my house in order. Now, whichever way God wills the event, I am prepared. Life is not to me what it once was: yet, for Laurence's sake, and for one besides-Ah! now I dimly guess what that poor mother felt, who, dying, left her child to the mercy of the bitter world. But, heaven's will be done. I shall write here no more-perhaps for ever.

It is all past and gone. I have been a mother-alas! have been; but I never

knew it. I woke out of a long blank dreama delirium of many weeks-to find the blessing had come, and been taken away. ONE only giveth-ONE only taketh. Amen!

For seven days, as they tell me, my babe lay by my side-its tiny hands touched mineit slept at my breast. But I remember nothing-nothing! I was quite mad all the while. And then-it died-and I have no little face to dream of-no memory of the sweetness that has been: it is all to me as if I had never seen my child.

If I had only had my senses for one day— one hour if I could but have seen Laurence when they gave him his baby boy. Bitterly he grieves, his mother says, because he has no heir.

My first waking fear was horrible. Had I betrayed anything during my delirium? I think not. Louisa says I lay all the time silent, dull, and did not even notice my husband, though he bent over me like one distracted. Poor Laurence! I see him but little now they will not suffer me. It is perhaps well: I could not bear his grief and my own too: I might not be able to keep my secret safe.

I went yesterday to look at the tiny mound -all that is left to me of my dream of motherhood. Such a happy dream as it was, too! How it comforted me, many a time: how I used to sit and think of my darling that was to come to picture it lying in my armsplaying at my feet-growing in beauty-a boy, a youth, a man! And this-this is allthis little grave.

Perhaps I may never have another child. If so, all the deep love which nature teaches, and which nature has even now awakened in my heart, must find no object, and droop and wither away, or be changed into repining. No! please God, that last shall never be: I will not embitter the blessings I have, by mourning over those denied.

But I must love something, in the way that I would have loved my child. I have lost my babe; some babe may have lost a mother. A thought comes--I shudder-I tremble yet I follow it. I will pause a little, and then

In Mr. Shelmerdine's absence, I have accomplished my plan. I have contrived to visit the place where lives that hapless child—my husband's child.

I do believe my love to Laurence must be such as never before was borne to man by woman. It draws me even towards this little

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