“What,” said I, “is there no refuge? — Well, then,” I added, after a moment’s pause, “let them come, I am ready for them.”
“No, no,” she answered, “it must not be so. I cannot lose you thus. I love you: promise to me that I shall be your wife, and I will save you.”
“No, never; I will perish first!” was my answer; for I could not bear the thought of ruining, by one blow, all my hopes of being united to Mary. The officers were approaching the door. “Decide,” said my companion; “in a moment it will be too late.” The thought of my situation, of the ignominious death to which I should probably be doomed, rushed into my mind. I shuddered at the prospect, and, almost fainting with agitation, I promised. Eliza opened a door, which I had never before seen; it had been concealed by an old screen, which was placed before it, and we descended into a kind of cellar. “Now you are safe,” said she; “ no one but myself is acquainted with this place.” Here we remained till the noise above had, for some time, entirely ceased. At last, my companion ventured up the steps by which we had descended, and returning, assured me that the coast was clear, and I ascended into the room. We sat down, and for some time continued silent, and without looking at each other. At last, I turned my eyes towards her. She looked at me with a fixed and steady gaze, as if to pierce into the recesses of my soul. She rose; she advanced to me—” Do you remember your promise?”“ I do, and am ready to fulfil it,” was my reply. “ You are ready to fulfil it,” said she, “you are ready to give your hand when you cannot give your heart? — Be silent,” she continued, as she perceived I was about to interrupt her. “You are ready to marry a woman whom you do not, cannot love. Ay, when you love another; when—”— “This is too much!”
I exclaimed; “why am I to be thus tormented? I have promised; I am willing to perform what I have promised; what more do you require?”
“Nothing; nay, not so much. Think not that I am so vile a one; that, though a wretched and erring woman, I am so swallowed up in selfishness; that I have lost all feeling; that, though I love and avow it to you, I would make you mine, by compelling you to sacrifice all that is dear to you.” Her voice faltered; she turned away: in a moment after, collecting herself, she added, “I release you from your promise.” She sank upon a chair, and wept.
I was now placed in a situation most embarrassing to me. I saw before me a woman who loved me; for I could not doubt the truth of what she said. And yet, when she had it in her power to indulge her wishes, by compelling the performance of my promise, she had generously disdained to take advantage of it, but had left me free to follow the bent of my inclination. And what return was I to make to this behaviour? Was I to consider myself as released from my engagement, and inflict misery upon one who had watched over me, and taken so deep an interest in my fate? I could not do it. I resolved to marry her. Probably I was influenced in this determination by the improbability of ever being united to her whom my heart had chosen as its fondest object of adoration. To be the husband of Mary seemed almost out of the reach of possibility. I walked up to Eliza; I took her hand. It is useless to relate our conversation. We were married.
I was married, to whom? strange as it may appear, I never knew. Indeed, when I look over this part of my life, I am inclined to regard the whole of it as a troubled dream. But the effects which I still fatally experience, tell too plainly that it was reality, and reality alone, which has wrought so great a change in me. Eliza was a woman, certainly of very superior talents; probably of violent and irregular passions. Of these, however, I know little. During the short period of our union, her conduct was without reproach. Her faults (perhaps I am making use of too lenient an expression) were those of a strong mind, unrestrained by prudence, or the force of early restriction. The stream which, if confined within proper limits, would have moved on in gentle calmness, spreading fertility in its course; if abandoned to its unchecked violence, rushes on a sweeping torrent of destruction: so had it been with her, and such will ever be the effect when a too vigorous imagination and talented confidence urge their possessor to pass the bounds which society has imposed upon its members.
Three days after this event, the real murderer of Stukeley was discovered. I might now return in safety to my home and to my friends. But there was one to whom I could not return. That happiness I had forfeited. I determined never again to see Mary. I removed with Eliza to a small house, at a considerable distance from the place in which I had been so long immured. She excelled in painting and needle-work, and the produce of her labours maintained us both. I could not bear, however, to subsist by her exertions alone, and I resolved, when my health, which had been injured by my long confinement, was in some degree restored, to return and claim my property. It was near four months before I was able to commence my journey. I departed, however, and the next day brought me to my habitation. The congratulation of friends, the rejoicing of domestics, and other circumstances which took place at my return, are of too little importance to my narrative to be dwelt upon. In the course of a week my affairs were completely arranged, and I prepared to revisit London. It was a little past sunset when I passed the residence of Mary. What conflux of emotions thronged upon my mind! How short a time had passed over since, at this very spot, I had walked with her whom I loved; and the bower in which we had sat at evening, and watched the beautiful setting of the sun as he sunk enveloped in clouds of many a varied hue. I could not resist the temptation of again taking a look at the beloved scenes. I was beside the garden. I fastened my horse to the stump of an old tree, and sprang over the wall. I was surprised by a faint shriek. I turned round; in a moment I held Mary in my arms.
With what mingled feelings I pressed her to my breast! Joy, almost amounting to rapture, at again clasping the object of my affection; sorrow, shame, and disappointment embittered the meeting. She had heard, of course, of the discovery of the murderer of her brother, and rejoiced in the proof of my innocence. She inquired after the motives and manner of my escape, and where I had been since? I answered her questions, suppressing every circumstance relating to my wife. She pressed me to enter the house, and assured me that her friends were much interested in my fate. I suffered myself to be prevailed on. Why should I delay to complete my narration? — I loved her. ‘ Some months passed over, and we were married.
I know not what it was that thus far blunted the stings of conscience; but after this second marriage, I was miserable. In vain I found myself beloved and esteemed by all around me. I could not esteem: I could not do otherwise than hate myself. I reflected on my conduct towards Eliza; on her devotedness to me, which ought, in my eyes, to have counterbalanced all her failings. I was, indeed, most miserable; my spirits sunk; I was haunted by fearful visions; and I was weary of my: existence. Mary perceived it, and inquired anxiously into the cause of it. I evaded her questions for a considerable time; at last, I confessed the whole to her.
From that moment her health declined. To think that she had united herself to one who had behaved so basely to another of her own sex, was terrible to her. She said little; but I perceived that the blow had struck to her heart, and I detested myself as the cause of it. It seemed as if I was destined to be the destruction of all who loved, trusted, and confided in me.
One evening we were seated in the bower, where, in happier days, we had enjoyed such pure and unalloyed bliss. She had been in better health that day than for some time. We conversed with a pleasure which we had not felt for many a long and tedious day before. Towards the close of the evening she lost her vivacity, and became more thoughtful and pensive: leaning her head on my breast, she said, with a hollow voice, “I must leave you!” I was alarmed: I pressed her cheek to my lips. She attempted to rise, but sank on the ground—” I am dying!” I caught her in my arms: she was dead.
I have long been a wanderer; I have sought for rest, but in vain; the burning sting of remorse has rankled in my breast, and life has long been a burden to me. I have made many inquiries after Eliza, but in vain: peace be to
her! In her good or bad qualities, probably no one now is interested, but the wretched solitary who pens these lines. She will, with him, be forgotten. Oblivion, the refuge of the miserable, will shroud our names in its gloomy curtain.
Perhaps it might have been as well if oblivion had been suffered to fall over the events contained in this imperfect narrative, instead of adding another to the already countless records of human follies, and of human crimes: but it may serve to shew the evil effects which ensue from the first false step. They cannot be foretold, and are irremediable.
I have been loved, and now I am unknown and uncared for. I had friends, and am desolate. I have striven to bury my sorrow in the whirl of giddy pleasure; but pleasure has lost its excitement, and is succeeded by langour and disappointment. I might yet have known something like composure, but the very source of happiness was dried up — the sensibilities of my nature were blunted — the spring of the gentle affections flows no longer: apathy and despair are all that I can expect.
Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept o’er many a vanish’d scene;
As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, ‘mid the wither’d waste of life, those tears would flow to me I
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE.
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE.
Go, where the water glideth gently ever,
Glideth by meadows that the greenest be!
ON the west of the Alleghany mountains rise the branches of the Youghiogeny river. The surrounding country is fertile and woody, and presents strong attractions for the sportsman, as does also the river, which abounds in fish. These were the principal considerations which induced me, in the autumn of the year 1812, to ramble forth with my dog and gun, amid uninhabited solitudes, almost unknown to human footstep, and where nothing is heard but the rush of winds, and the roar of waters.
On the second day after my departure from home, pursuing my amusement on the banks of the river, I chanced to behold a small boat, fastened by a rope of twisted grass to the bank of the stream. I examined it, and finding it in good condition, I determined to embrace the opportunity that presented itself of extending my sport, and my fishing tackle was put in requisition. I entered into the diminutive vessel, notwithstanding the remonstrances of my four-footed companion, who, by his barking, whining, and delay in coming on board, seemed to entertain manifold objections to the conveyance by water — a circumstance which somewhat surprised me. At last, however, his scruples being overcome, he entered into the boat, and I rowed off.
My success fully equalled my expectations, and evening overtook me before I thought of desisting from my employment. But there were attractions to a lover of nature which forbade my leaving the element on which I was gliding along. I have mentioned that it was autumn; immense masses of trees, whose fading leaves hung trembling from the branches, ready to be borne away by the next gust, spread their dark brown boundary on every side. To me this time of the year is indescribably beautiful. I love to dwell upon those sad and melancholy associations that suggest themselves to the mind when Nature, in her garb of decay, presents herself to the eye: it reminds me that human pride and human happiness, like the perishing things around us, are hastening rapidly on to their decline; that the spring of life flies; that the summer of manhood passeth away; and that the autumn of our existence lingers but a moment for the winter of death, which shall close it for ever. The light winds that blew over the water, curled its surface in waves that, breaking as they fell, dashed their sparkling foam in showers around. The sun was sinking behind the mountains in the west, and shone from amidst the surrounding clouds: his last rays glittered on the waters, and tinged with a mellow and sombre lustre the embrowned foliage of the trees. The whole scene spoke of peace and tranquillity; and I envy not the bosom of that man who could gaze upon it with one unholy thought, or let one evil feeling intrude upon his meditations. As I proceeded, the beauty of the surrounding objects increased: immense oaks twisted about their gigantic branches, covered with moss; lofty evergreens expanded their dark and gloomy tops, and smaller trees and thick shrubs filled up the spaces between the larger trunks, so as to form an almost impervious mass of wood and foliage. As the evening advanced, imagination took a wider range, and added to the natural embellishments. The obscure outline of the surrounding forest assumed grotesque forms, and fancy was busy in inventing improbabilities, and clothing each ill-defined object in her own fairy guises. The blasted and leafless trunk of a lightning-scathed pine would assume the form of some hundredheaded giant, about to hurl destruction on the weaker fashionings of nature. As the motion of the boat varied the point of view, the objects would give way to another — and another — and another, in all the endless variety of lights and distances: distant castles, chivalric knights, captive damsels and attendants, dwarfs and ‘squires, with their concomitant monsters, griffins, dragons, and all the creations of romance, were conjured up by the fairy wand of fantasy. On a sudden, the moon burst forth in all her silvery lustre, and the sight of the reality effectually banished all less substantial visions; thin transparent clouds, so light and fragile, that they seemed scarce to afford a resting place for the moonbeams that trembled on them, glided along the sky; the dense masses that skirted the horizon were fringed with the same radiance, while, rising above them, the evening star twinkled amid its solitary rays. I could not be said to feel pleasure — it was rapture that throbbed in my heart at the view: my cares, my plans, my very existence were forgotten in the flood of intense emotions that overwhelmed me, at thus beholding, in their pride of loveliness, the works of the Creating Spirit.
In the mean time, the boat sailed rapidly onwards, with a velocity so much increased, that it awakened my attention. This, however, I attributed to a rather strong breeze that had sprung up. My dog, who had, since his entrance into the boat, lain pretty quiet, began to disturb me with his renewed barkings, fawnings, and supplicating gestures. I imagined that he wished to land, and, as the air was becoming chill, I felt no objection to comply with his wishes. On looking around, however, and seeing no fit place of landing, I continued my course, hoping shortly to find some more commodious spot. Very great, however, was the dissatisfaction of Carlo at this arrangement; but, in spite of his unwillingness, he was obliged to submit, and we sailed on.
Shortly, however, my ears were assailed by a distant rumbling noise, and the agitation of my companion redoubled. For some time he kept up an uninterrupted howling, seemingly under the influence of great fear or of bodily pain. I now remarked that, though the wind had subsided, the rapidity of the boat’s course was not abated. Seriously alarmed by these circumstances, I determined to quit the river as soon as possible, and sought, with considerable anxiety, for a place where I might, by any means, land. It was in vain; high banks of clay met my view on both sides of the stream, and the accelerated motion of the boat presented an obstacle to my taking advantage of any irregularities in them, by which I might otherwise have clambered up to land. In a short time my dog sprung over the side of the boat, and I saw him, with considerable difficulty, obtain a safe landing: still he looked at me wistfully, and seemed undecided whether to retain his secure situation, or return to his master.
Terror had now obtained complete dominion over me. The rush of the stream was tremendous, and I now divined too well the meaning of the noise which I have mentioned. It was no longer an indistinct murmur; it was the roar of a cataract, and I shuddered and grew cold, to think of the fate to which I was hurrying, without hope of succour, or a twig to catch at, to save me from destruction. In a few moments I should, in all probability, be dashed to atoms on the rock, or whelmed amid the boiling waves of the waterfall. I sickened at the thought of it. I had heard of death; I had seen him in various forms; I had been in camps, where he rages; but never till no
w did he seem so terrible. Still the beautiful face of nature, which had tempted me to my fate, was the same: the clear sky, the moon, the silvery and fleecy clouds, were above me, and far high in the heaven, with the same dazzling brightness, shone the stars of evening, and, in their tranquillity, seemed to deride my misery. My brain was oppressed with an unusual weight, and a clammy moisture burst out over my limbs. I lost all sense of surrounding objects; a mist was over my eyes; but the sound of the waterfall roared in my ears, and seemed to penetrate through my brain. Then strange fancies took possession of my mind: things, of whose shape I could form no idea, would seize me, and whirl me around till sight and hearing fled: then I would start from the delusion as from a dream, and again the roar of the cataract would ring through my ears. These feelings succeeded each other with indefinite rapidity; for more than a very few minutes could not have elapsed from the time I became insensible to the time of my reaching the waterfall. Suddenly I seemed rapt along inconceivably swift, and, in a moment, I felt that I was descending, or rather driven headlong, with amazing violence and rapidity; then a shock, as if my frame had been rent in atoms, succeeded, and all thought or recollection was annihilated. I recovered in some degree to find myself dashed into a watery abyss, from which I was again vomited forth to be again plunged beneath the waves, and again cast up. As I rose to the surface, I saw the stars, dimly shining through the mist and foam, and heard the thunder of the fading river. I was often, as well as I can remember, partly lifted up from the water; but human nature could not bear such a situation long, and I became gradually unconscious of the shocks which I sustained; I heard no longer the horrible noise, and insensibility afforded me a relief from my misery.
It was long before I again experienced any sensation. At last I awoke, as it seemed to me from a long and troubled sleep; but my memory was totally ineffectual to explain what or where I was. So great had been the effect of what I had undergone, that I retained not the slightest idea of my present or former existence. I was like a man newly born, in full possession of his faculties; I felt all that consciousness of being, yet ignorance of its origin, which I imagine a creature, placed in the situation I have supposed, would experience. I know not whether I make myself intelligible in this imperfect narrative of my adventure, but some allowance will, I trust, be made, in consideration of the novel situation and feelings which I have to describe.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 830
