cause of your affliction, that I may sympathize with your sorrows, if I cannot alleviate them." He scarcely seemed to hear or regard me, but drawing a long, suppressed sigh, and speaking as if he were thinking aloud rather than answering me, he replied, "Yes! such was the scene on that night, the last of my nights of earthly happiness; such were the breathings of the music; so the song and the laugh went round, and so did the youth gaily weave the maze of the sportive dance! Lovely are these maidens, but how far inferior to her loveliness! Does she yet remember me? Does her pure spirit behold the grief of my waste and widowed bosom? Oh! ye gay revellers! grief may smite you in the midst of your mirth, as it has done me, and leave you too in joyless despondency, and never-ending gloom. Your festivities tell me of days when I could also be the gayest of the gay! And in the midst of all your joys, I feel that addition to my sorrow which would come upon me, were you all as I am, or rather, were all your griefs poured upon my individual heart." My dear Henry," said I, "my own friend and old companion! recollect yourself; think where you are. I am sure you would not wish to expose the state of your feelings, and your secret griefs, be their cause what it may, to the rude and curious gaze of so many strangers. Come, rouse your spirit! Be a man; and do not yield so openly to the power of sorrow! This, I can well perceive, is no place for you. Go, tell Mr W. that you are unwell; bid him good-night, and I will accompany you home. Nay, I will take no refusal," continued I, seeing him hesitate; "I see too plainly that you are unhappy; and for my own part, I assure you, that to remain any longer here at present would be no gratification to me." He suffered himself to be persuaded; and after taking our leave of the company and our kind host, we walked away together. The night was mild and calm. The faint dim edge of the waning moon was sinking languidly through the thin pale clouds, and gradually nearing through the verge of the horizon. The stars were scattered, few, large, and lustreless; not a breath of wind stirred; and the rush of the burn sounded deeper and stronger than by day. We moved along in unbroken silence. I feared to call up the emotions which I had so lately witnessed in such fearful agitation. He appeared to be suffering under an internal struggle. I could remark the restrained and measured regularity of his breathings, evidently warring with suppressed and struggling sighs. I not unfrequently felt his arm tremble within mine, as a strong shuddering passed over his whole frame. At length he suddenly stopped,-grasped my hand,-gazed upon me with a look of inexpressible emotion, and exclaiming, My only friend !"— threw himself into my arms, leant his head upon my shoulder, and burst into an unrestrained agony of tears. I am not ashamed to confess it, I wept along with him; and his heart was more relieved by the unrestrained utterance of its woe, and my deep sympathy, than it could have been by the most grave and cold moral lecture upon the unavailing nature of human sorrow. A short time brought us to the termination of our walk, during the remainder of which we had continued almost as silent as before, each being too deeply engaged in thinking to admit of much conversation. When we were about to separate, Henry broke through the restraint in which we had both continued, and spoke more freely than I had hoped for. "My dear friend," said he, "I am sensible of the extravagance of my conduct this evening; and in consideration of our long and uninterrupted friendship, I feel that I owe you an explanation of my grief, which you must have regarded as unaccountable, and extremely ill-timed. But I cannot, I dare not trust myself to do so in the way of common conversation. I could not endure to hear my own voice uttering the story of my grief. I will write a short account of it, and send it to you as a letter. This you may regard as the highest possible proof of my friendship for you, as you will then be my first, my only confidant." We then parted, after a warm and affectionate farewell, and in the space of a day or two I received the promised communication. I perused it with considerable interest, and have every reason to believe that it is a simple statement of real occurrences, and the feelings to which they gave birth. The following is a copy of my friend's letter, without addition or alteration: MY DEAR FRIEND, THE kind sympathy which you displayed, and which drew from me a promise of relating the secret cause of my grief, again comes upon me with a soothing influence and a sweet recollection, reminding me to fulfil my promise. Painful as the task may be, I feel it now my duty to perform it; nor will I shrink from it, though it will open afresh the wounds which can never be completely healed. You may recollect accompanying me on a visit to the beautiful little country retreat of my dearest friend Mrs, and you cannot have forgot her lovely daughter, concerning whom you amused yourself awhile in teasing and rallying me. At that time, I was beginning to feel an unaccountable desire to make frequent repetitions of my visits, and to lengthen them as far as propriety would allow. It was then that an attachment to that lovely girl took entire possession of my heart, stamped a bias upon my thoughts and feelings, and by its sad termination left me what I now am, and must ever be-a lonely, companionless mourner. Your temporary absence from this part of the country prevented you from knowing what I now proceed, with a sick, sick heart, to relate. I had become, by my repeated visits, a sort of privileged friend, permitted to come as often as I could conveniently do so, and spend a few hours, without any regard to formal ceremony, and without requiring to assign any ostensible reason for my visit. I had not, however, dared to ask my own heart why my walks terminated so often at, and why its pulsations became tremblingly rapid when that lovely girl met my eyes, walked beside, or conversed with me. About that time, one of the neighbours had invited a small party of his friends, chiefly young people; thither I had the supreme felicity to conduct the fair object of my silent and almost unconscious adoration. The party were all known to each other, and the utmost harmony and gladness prevailed. Dancing, as might be easily supposed, formed no small part of the evening's entertainment. In this graceful accomplishment, as in all things belonging to a finished education and a refined mind, Mary highly excelled. The joyous gaiety of all around her, and the enlivening excitement of sportive music, called forth her gentle spirits into more than usual buoyancy, and she looked, and breathed, and moved, pure and happy cheerfulness herself. But, why do I dwell on that night? why recal its glad moments to memory ? moments then enriched with pleasures never, never to be renewed, but followed by a misery unspeakable, interminable! Suffice it to say, that, at the time of separation, it was observed, with much dismay, that the weather had changed greatly for the worse. A chilling sleety rain was driving fierce and fast, with a cold, bitterly cold east-wind; and we were compelled to proceed homewards through the midst of this inclement blast, heated by the late mirthful exercise, and utterly unprovided with any means of protection. In vain did I strip myself of every disposable part of my clothing to cover her, in vain did I endeavour to shelter her from the violence of the wind and rain, by keeping myself in the direction whence it blew. Alas! alas! in spite of all my efforts, the extreme keenness of the cold, drifting, sleety rain, and the penetrating wind, assailing a frame and a constitution naturally delicate, and at that time peculiarly exposed and sensitive of their attacks, struck a chillness to her heart, and through every vein, from the effects of which she never recovered! I called next day to inquire after her health. I saw her; and by the pale, pale cheek and dim eye, the low sad tone of the voice, and the heavy breathing, I knew that she was ill, very ill indeed. When I beheld her altered looks, I felt my heart swell with a feeling now no longer ambiguous; and in a moment of deep emotion, I ventured to express, what in different circumstances I would not have dared to utter. My suit was modestly, dispassionately, but firmly checked; yet were my visits not forbidden, and I had the satisfaction of perceiving that my temerity had not drawn upon me her hatred. My visits, however, from that time, became rather less frequent, and assumed a more tender and deeply respectful character, and though I still saw her, it was generally in the presence of her mother. After a lingering and protracted illness, she appeared to have overcome the strength of the disease, and to be again in a state of gradual recovery. She herself seemed to think that she was no longer in any danger. Never shall I forget the delight which filled and overflowed my heart when I met her at a short distance from her mother's house, one mild sunny afternoon, and in a playful tone she bade me observe the power of the sun, which had called her forth like a butterfly from its shelter, to flaunt and idle in his beams. Day after day passed on; but her strength did not increase; nay, in spite of her assertions to the contrary, it seemed to diminish. I marked the anxious looks of her mother, and I feared to speak of the lovely but faded form of the daughter. A fearful conjecture haunted my mind which I dared not investigate, and could not banish. At length, one day, after her mother had continued in a long and silent fit of abstraction, into which she had gradually fallen upon Mary's leaving us, and retiring to her own room on account of fatigue, she roused herself up, and asked me what was my candid opinion concerning the state of her daughter's health?" I fear," continued she, with a voice almost choked by sorrow, "I fear my poor Mary is fallen into a rapid consumption." A long and bursting sigh, and a look of unutterable grief, was the only answer Icould make to her; and it told but too plainly that I had nothing of hope or consolation to offer. From that day forward I watched her with deep and painful anxiety; and daily was the conviction forced upon me, stronger and stronger, that her days in this life were numbered, and fast nearing their termination. Often did the afflicted mother speak to me of her dear Mary, destined to fill an untimely tomb; and often, often did I wish that it could be possible for me to purchase her health at the expense of my own. And, oh! how agonizing was it to behold a being so lovely, sinking gradually under the influence of an insidious disease, like some fair flower smitten and blight, ed in the very source of its growth, and drooping into premature decay, in the midst of its expanding beauty! But let me not dwell upon this part of my melancholy relation. I need not attempt to describe the progress of the incurable disease. Still less am I able to describe the unutterable and increasing weight of woe which overpowered my heart, as I saw her, the lovely, the gentle, the good, pining and wasting away,-dying by degrees. I feel it yet, but no power of words can ever express its hundredth part! In a short time she became so weakened as to be obliged to stay within her room, and soon after she became unable to leave her bed. Several days passed without my seeing her, during which I continued unremitting in my inquiries; but every answer served only to strengthen my fears, and banish every faint glimmering of hope. At length, after a most painful and sickening interval, I was one day told that she had requested me to be called into her room. With throbbing heart I obeyed; and entered with soft and gliding steps into that apartment where lay, never more to rise, she who was dearer to me than my own existence. Never, till the latest moment of my life, shall I forget the scene and the occurrences of that hour. They are indelibly stamped upon my memory, and can only fade when memory itself is no more, Close beside the head of her dying daughter's bed there sat the mother, in deepest affliction, yet with a countenance in which the intensity of maternal sorrow was subdued into silent, uncomplaining resignation. Grief, mortal grief, had stricken, and would have burst her heart, had it not been sustained by the consolation of religion, and soothed by the balm of heavenly piety. She wept not; but the subdued and sighing tones of her voice, and the settled sadness of her looks, spoke far more of woe than could have been done by the most copious floods of tears, and the loudest lamentations,woe which nothing could have enabled her to support but an humble acquiescence in the decrees of Providence, founded upon a firm belief of the pure and heavenly doctrines of Christianity. Gently supported by pillows, there lay the dying maiden. How changed from her lately blooming in all the glow of youth and health! Wasted almost to a shadow, and sinking under the pressure of a mortal sick ness, she was still lovely; but her beauty was of now a strange, unearthly character. Too delicately fair for this life, she seemed like an inhabitant of the aerial world. The motion of the blood was almost visible in the small blue veins wandering across her pale marble forehead; and a light emanated from her mild eyes, full of a pure, lofty, and spiritual meaning. A faint smile overspread her face when she saw me, and she bade me come forward, and asked me kindly how I was, in a soft, low, silver tone, which thrilled through my very soul. "I am glad you are come," said she; "I wished to see you, as in all probability it is the last time I ever shall in this world." I could not answer her; a thousand recollections and feelings rushed upon my heart, and overpowered me. Nay," said she, "that is unmanly; it is almost unkind: why would you increase the sadness of my dying hour, by yielding to unavailing sorrow? I had hoped that you would behave with more firmness. You make me hesitate to speak what I intended when I sent for you." With a strong effort, I restrained my agitation, and she continued: "In the presence of my mother, and as a dying woman, I may now say to you, what in no other circumstances I could have done. I have observed your attentions to me for some time past; I could not but understand them; and I may now say that they were not disagreeable to me. I have thought it my duty to say so much, because the assurance that your at VOL. XV. tachment was, though in secret, returned, is now the only recompence in my power to make you for your kindnesses. I therefore wish you that happiness with another which, had it pleased the Almighty, I might perhaps have shared. If I may yet make one request, let me beg of you, for my sake, to comfort my poor mother. I had much more to say to you, but my weakness will not permit me. Give me your hand. May the blessing of God attend you! Farewell!" As she spoke thus, she gave me her soft, slender, and almost deathcold hand, and turned upon me such a look of kindness, holy love, and tender pity, that my soul melted within me, and I could no longer control my feelings. I knelt beside the bed, pressed her hand to my heart, which rose and swelled in my breast almost to suffocation, and sobbed audibly, while the tears fell fast from my eyes, and moistened her pale and emaciated arm. For a short time I was insensible to every thing, so overwhelming was the agony of my grief. I cannot endure more, I do not think I shall endure so much, at the moment of death. I pressed her hand again and again to my lips, faltered out a broken farewell, and staggered out of the room. How I reached home, and how I passed that night, I know not. Next day I again went to make my usual inquiry. As I approached the house, it seemed covered with sadness, darkness, and silence. An undefinable dread_came over me. I dared not think, I even shuddered at the sound of my own breathings; I at last ventured to speak. It was as I might have expected, but which I had hoped, even in despite of certainty, would not yet be. The spirit which animated that fair form was fled. I got admission into the house-into the room where she lay. I saw the bodya sight which will never cease to haunt my sleeping visions, and my waking imaginings. I see it now -pale, cold, lifeless-lovely, but awful. My eyes are fixed on it, with a gaze of shuddering dread,-my soul yearns over it, yet shrinks from it with a feeling of ineffable mystery. What is it now? what was it lately? I turned away in silence, and went and hid myself in the darkest part of X a thick plantation. My thoughts, my feelings, I will not attempt to describe. I attended the funeral; I saw the coffin, that contained the body of her so deeply loved, committed to the dark and dreary grave; I heard the heavy, cold, damp mould fall, sounding drearily and sullenly over it, and I felt as if it were piled over my own breast. Every additional quantity thrown into the grave struck an additional chill into my heart—a chill which not the fairest form, nor the kindest smile of any woman, can ever remove. My affections are indeed buried in that silent abode. Since that day, I have felt that I have indeed done with all the pleasures and enjoyments of this world. Loneliness is my portion, and my heart is wedded to my remembrances, and to one soft ringlet of beautiful hair. When mirth and revelry ring around me, they remind me too powerfully of my irreparable loss, and call forth an insupportable intense recollection of that night which I accuse as the cause of my Mary's death. When friends forsake me, or the world frowns upon me, I feel myself without a sympathising heart to share and soothe my distress. In either case, in the extremes of grief occasioned by witnessing joy, or enduring injuries, I fly to the grave where my only beloved lies. It is my retreat-my only place of refuge-my quiet home. Earth has to me no beauty, no allurement, but in that lone spot, where sleeps, in an untimely tomb, she who was more than all the world to me. The soft green grass, and the gentle daisy, often watered with my tears, which deck the turf that covers her dark and narrow bed of rest, are dearer to me than all the most beautiful and far-famed productions which the whole globe of earth can afford. The light drop of dew, suspended like a tear upon the wild-flower over her grave, is to me brighter than the most costly jewel glittering on the monarch's diadem. At times, when my griefs are strongly excited, and my heart is sick and pained within me, I bend over the grave and moan aloud, while thoughts and fancies of unutterable horror come upon me. I think of the cold mouldering body below, and I feel as if my own per son were experiencing the same process of corruption, and yet possessed of all its living powers of sensation and consciousness. I feel the cold, gnawing reptiles, clustering round my heart, which shudders and thrills with morbid acuteness of feeling. I shut my eyes, and, beating my breast in desperate horror, prostrate myself upon the cold ground, and wish to be at rest at once and for ever. At other times I feel more soothed than agonized by indulging my grief. Tears may flow, but they are not the tears of bitterness ;-sighs may heave my bosom, but they are not the deep, heart-bursting sighs of utter wretchedness; and, in the midst of my sorrow, a dreamy pensiveness will grow over my mind, till, in fancy, I can hold communings with the sainted spirit of my Mary. I hear her soft and gentle voice calling me away from this land of sorrows to that home of pure peace and undisturbed repose, where the power of death shall be feared and felt no more. You lately witnessed my emotions, you have now received a simple but true relation of their cause. Pity me or blame me at your pleasure. I cannot command my feelings if I would, nor perhaps would I if I could. I once possessed a light and sportive heart; I never shall again. I could once have enjoyed the song and the dance; they now only sadden my soul, plunge me into deeper melancholy, or call forth a burst of uncontrollable anguish. My heart may rest for a little in chill torpidity, but when moved, its emotions are those of woe: My heart was calm, its griefs were still'd, stream. But from my heart, and from my brain, These feelings ne'er can banish'd be ; They slumber'd, but they wake again In one wild burst of agony. Afresh the stream of sorrow flows, My heart's deep wounds are open tore; My bosom heaves with all the woes So keenly, wildly felt before. Have I not knelt beside the grave Where my soul's hopes all buried lie, And pluck'd the weeds that o'er it wave? Then what have I to do with joy! |