[NOTE. — The unfortunate settlement of Namenia, which was established on social principles greatly in advance of its time or even of the present age, was situated, as nearly as surveyors' records can place it, a few miles to the north of New Madrid, Missouri, the point at which its people went down being now covered by the inmost arm of the large bayou below Cairo. The colonists were victims of the earthquake of 1811, and no records remain of their life or philosophy save these few leaves from the wedding-book of Flavia Lamb. Half of the white satin back of the book is torn away, and the rest is yellowed and water-soaked, but the fly-leaf bears in imperishable violet ink an affectionate inscription in Latin to Flavia and her husband from the priest who married them, and the bride's own writing is the same as if it had been written yesterday, except that it is far more delicate and precise.]

1809.      

RESOLUTION made by Flavia Lamb on her wedding-day, June 14, 1809:

      "Since it is the fashion of all diaries that I have seen to consume much time with a bare daily record, giving no connected idea of the life described, I shall avoid this folly by remembering Cicero, whom I love. In every sentence of his I have a model for my journal. I pass through his phrases, held continually in suspense, until I reach the final verb; likewise I cannot view a human life with intelligence until all the deeds are ended. Yet I may not wait until I am dead to write my diary. I shall take the "middle way," and at the end of each year of this life about to begin I shall give a portrait of the chief events, giving its proper perspective to each, as well as I am able."

1810.      

      When Robert and I were married, a year ago, the Namenians crowded around us, after the custom, with wishes "ad multos annos," and we two were sure, as I suppose most brides and bridegrooms are, that we should be happy together all the years of our life. Others might avail themselves of the permission to become single when the year was ended; not we. The thought at that time was abhorrent to me.

      But having never been married before, I had not counted on certain eccentricities of temperament and no more, I suppose, had Robert. I have a way of singing a tune for my own pleasure by sounding merely the melody without giving forth the words. As the winds of an early fall compelled a close residence within our one-room cabin, this habit of mine became irritating to Robert. It had, perhaps, a whine-y sound in his ears, although before I left the world and became a Namenian I was once told I had much "darkness" in my voice. Yet Robert remarked to his wolf-dog, — so that I could hear him too, — "You would be unable to make so bad a noise as that if you tried, would you not, Ponto?"

      It occurred to me that Robert was nervous. To think of a nervous Namenian, and especially one who had the forest around him, as we have, was distressing to me. It evoked, I fear, a far greater departure from tranquillity than our law permits. A manner he had of thrum- ming on the table where I wanted to cook annoyed me. There were other antagonisms; I forget some of them.

      "We might as well end the matter," said Robert after an aggravating encounter of idiosyncrasies one long winter evening. "It is clear that we are unsuited for each other, and it was just for such ill-matched pairs as us that the Namenian rule was intended." I threw my arms around his neck in delight. When I had recovered my composure I gladly consented to his plan that we should allow our names in May to be placed on the list of "Conjuges Vidui," so as to be released in June. By the law we were, of course, obliged to remain in the married state for the full year.

      In the morning it was a great pleasure to awaken and remember that I was no longer tied to Robert. His face too beamed with joy. He chopped wood gayly in front of the door and piled it high, saying the while to the fireplace:

"O Cerberus, Curst wolf! Thy fury inward Turn and consume thyself."

      When I saw him so merry my spirits continued to rise. Those obstacles of the wilderness which had hitherto annoyed us we began to regard as jokes. We found amusements for the long winter evenings, and became so proficient at the game of Questions and Answers that Robert was once able to guess "Og, King of Bashan," although he had no clew save the questions to which I was bound to answer "Yes" or "No." Robert delicately refrained from speaking again of the cause of our joy, and the month of May drew silently near.

      For the first time in my life the return of the violets made me sad. On one occasion after Robert had gathered me a great bunch of them he said: "You might sing again, Flavia. I should be glad to hear you." But I had no heart for singing.

      I had determined if there should have been a child that I could not let the community take charge of it, according to the Namenian law. I would keep it myself as a token that Robert once had loved me. But, alas! there was no child. Dido's state, when the gods took Æneas from her, was not more pitiful than mine. I caught myself often repeating her words:

"Oh, that a babe of mine Should be lifted by thee as thy son; O, that a little Æneas Should play in the court"

      The revelation came through a pie. I was preparing a feast for the last day before the proclamation. I was trying to be as gay as Robert as I cut a pretty design for the top cover of the pie. But my wits were deserting me. Heedlessly I cut on the crust, "ANTE FUGAM SUBOLES" — and Robert saw what I had done.

      Then Robert looked deep into my eyes, and all at once each of us understood that the other was making believe. Robert still loved me, and I loved Robert.

      "Grief is selfish," said Robert, " and I was so sad myself that I was blind to your sadness. But" — and at last he laughed without pretence — "we'll keep that pie forever."

      Nevertheless, Robert and I did go to the public meeting next day. We were curious, that was all. The crier stood up and called for "Conjuges Vidui," and we looked around to see, expecting quite a number. But not one couple responded.

      Robert drew a droll face and looked at me. "It is a fool who never changes his mind," he whispered.