This is a very lovely old book. The text is in the form of letters written to Mortara from Helen, the author. The letters are written from various locations including Oyster Bay while taking the Long Island Water Cure during 1848. The book was published in 1888 and printed at the Riverside Press, Cambridge. The book measures 5 ½ inches by 8 inches and contains 129 pages. The blue cloth cover has the title in gilt on the front and on the spine. The cover has embossed detailing and beveled edges. The cover shows signs of wear to the edges, corners (worn to the boards) and to the top and bottom of the spine (chipped at the top and frayed at the bottom). The spine is tight and the hinges are strong. The paper covering the rear hinge is split, however the hinge is still secure. The signature of a previous owner is on the front free end pages. The pages show no signs of rips or foxing. The edges of the pages are gilt. Exceptions noted, the overall condition of this old book is good plus.

Excerpt - Preface:
I have lived much that I have not written, but I have written nothing that I have not lived, and the story of this book is but a plaintive refrain wrung from the overburdened song of my life; while the tides of feeling, winding down the lines, had their sources in as many broken upheavals of my own heart.

The day that I was a bride I was a widow; and finding me thus weeping and alone, the fates stole away the light from my eyes, leaving me henceon to walk with the angels, one on either hand; who, themselves guiding, brought me ere long to a rosy glen by the sea, where resided one of lofty mien and of speech and manner courtly. Much learning he had, and many tongues he spoke. The gathered luster of all lands shone in the grace of his presence, as the charity that comes of knowing all religions lent a charm to his words, and added potency to the magic of his smile. But most he knew to heal a wounded heart, to dry away tears, and to bring smiles in their stead. Knew to gild with linings fair the clouds himself could not disperse; nor failed the subtlety of his art e’en to rally hope when hope was dead!

The name they named him was goodly; ancient and renowned. It was the name his Syriac fathers wore; and straight on down through long ancestral lines of warriors, kings, and princes, flowed the haughty Hebraic tides that crimsoned in his veins. Yet, of all his graces, modesty was the chiefest; nor ever boasted he of aught save that Honor was to him a ruling star, whose parallax held him ever to God and the right.

Such was Mortara, noblest of his line; and, having thus announced him, gentle reader, begging leave, I would fain introduce him to you as the heaven-appointed hero of my foreshadowed way.
End excerpt

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