I had brought the manuscript in my pocket. It was one of a series
written years ago, when my pen, now sluggish and perhaps feeble,
because I have not much to hope or fear, was driven by stronger
external motives, and a more passionate impulse within, than I am
fated to feel again. Three or four of these tales had appeared in
the "Token," after a long time and various adventures, but had
encumbered me with no troublesome notoriety, even in my birthplace.
One great heap had met a brighter destiny: they had fed the flames;
thoughts meant to delight the world and endure for ages had perished
in a moment, and stirred not a single heart but mine. The story now to
be introduced, and another, chanced to be in kinder custody at the
time, and thus, by no conspicuous merits of their own, escaped
destruction.
The ladies, in consideration that I had never before intruded my
performances on them, by any but the legitimate medium, through the
press, consented to hear me read. I made them sit down on a moss-grown
rock, close by the spot where we chose to believe that the death
tree had stood.
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