In a secret pocket of the book, which Morton did not discover without
some trouble, were one or two letters, written in a beautiful female
hand. They were dated about twenty years back, bore no 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-remember'd
night, When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd
love.
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