 address, and were subscribed only by
initials. Without having time to peruse them accurately, Morton perceived that
they contained the elegant yet fond expressions of female affection directed
towards an object whose jealousy they endeavoured to soothe, and of whose hasty,
suspicious, and impatient temper the writer seemed gently to complain. The ink
of these manuscripts had faded by time, and, notwithstanding the great care
which had obviously been taken for their preservation, they were in one or two
places chafed so as to be illegible.
    »It matters not« (these words were written on the envelope of that which had
suffered most), »I have them by heart.«
    With these letters was a lock of hair wrapped in a copy of verses, written
obviously with a feeling which atoned, in Morton's opinion, for the roughness of
the poetry, and the conceits with which it abounded, according to the taste of
the period: -
 
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright,
As in that well-remembered night,
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whispered love.
Since then, how often hast thou pressed
The torrid zone of this wild breast,
Whose wrath and hate hath sworn to dwell
With the first sin which peopled hell!
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! -
O, if such clime thou canst endure,
Yet keep thy hue unstained and pure,
What conquest o'er each erring thought
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
I had not wandered wild and wide,
With such an angel for my guide;
Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me
If she had lived, and lived to love me.
Not then this world's wild joys had been
To me one savage hunting-scene,
My sole delight the headlong race.
And frantic hurry of the chase,
To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,
Then from the carcass turn away;
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
And soothed each wound which pride inflamed; -
Yes, God and man might now approve me,
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!
 
As he finished reading these lines, Morton could not forbear reflecting with
compassion on the fate of this singular and most unhappy being, who it appeared,
while in the lowest state of degradation, and almost of contempt, had his
recollections continually fixed on the high station to which his birth seemed to
entitle him; and, while plunged in gross licentiousness, was in
