MY NATIVE LAND.
I had received several letters from my parents since my return; they
were both well, and urged me to procure a furlough and go home to
see them. It was some time before I could accomplish this; but at
length it was effected, and having taken a seat on the coach, I set
off on my journey home. On reaching Dublin I luckily found a vessel
prepared to sail for Irvine, and securing a passage, I embarked next
morning. The wind being favourable, we set sail, and were soon fairly
in the Channel, holding on our course; the breeze continued steady
all that day, and by night we had run a long way down the coast.
Feeling little inclination to sleep, about midnight I came on deck.
Considering the season of the year, it was a delightful night: the
moon shed her silver radiance o’er reposing nature, like the smile
of a fond mother over her sleeping infant, and as I gazed on her,
sailing through the blue expanse of heaven, with her attendant train
of myriads of sparkling orbs, I felt my mind soar beyond this earth
and all its concerns.
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to fly away,
And mix in their eternal ray.
While I leaned over the ship’s bow, watching the moonbeams dancing on
the glassy bosom of the deep—my ear soothed with the rippling of the
vessel, as she urged her way through the waters,—I felt as if shut
out from the world, and emancipated from its laws and control. At sea
is the place for reflection and contemplation—there the memory, as if
secure in her privacy, unlocks and draws forth her secret treasures,
and broods over them with miser care.
Before me the softened outline of the distant coast of Scotland could
be seen, its rugged points bursting through the gauzy film with which
they were enveloped; but the well known rock of Ailsa stood forth in
bold relief, its giant mass towering proudly above the waves, alike
defying their fury and the hand of time. The sight of that rock,
which the emigrant associates with the farewell to his country,
called forth in my bosom a tide of recollections. When I last saw it,
I was returning as now, from one of my wild adventures in search of
happiness and fame; the result of both were nearly equal—misery and
disappointment; the last, however, had been the most severe lesson,
and I was now, like the prodigal son, retracing my way from a far
country, where I had been glad, literally, to feed on the husks which
formed the food of the swine. My past life glided in review before
my mind, and I could not help exclaiming, What a fool have I been? I
have bartered every privilege which was my birthright, in the pursuit
of wild and vain dreams of renown and happiness. Setting aside the
misery and hardship I have endured, has not the last six years of my
life been a blank? That period of time employed in my education at
home, what might I not have been? but my doom is fixed, I have sealed
it myself—there was distraction in the thought.
That day I landed at Irvine, and resolved to pursue my journey
homeward without stopping. As I travelled along, I felt that
tumultuous fluttering and overflowing of the heart, and buoyancy of
tread, which every sensitive being must have felt on re-visiting the
land of his birth, after years of separation from all that was dear
to him. The sun was setting when I reached the wood of Curcarth. It
had been the haunt of many of my childish wanderings; there I had
often roved, unconscious of where I was going. My soul, awed with the
deep shade that the trees cast around, I trod as if on holy ground,
while the ceaseless hum of its insect inhabitants, mingled with the
wail of the cushat, cherished the deep pensive feeling which the
scene had excited in my bosom. It was here that I first learned to
commune with my own heart, and my imagination first soared into the
realms of faëry. Near its margin was the stream, on whose banks I
have lain listening to its murmuring, my gaze fixed on the world,
portrayed in its transparent bosom so beautiful, so bright, I could
scarcely believe it was not some world of spirituality, some realm
of bliss. The scene was changed—winter had stripped it of all its
attractions—the blast howled through the leafless trees—and the
stream that had meandered so sweetly through the verdant plain, was
now roaring down its channel with impetuous force. The scene was
changed; but he who looked on it was not less so.
Morning of life! too soon o’ercast,
Young days of bliss, too dear to lose;
Ah! whither have thy visions past
That brighten’d all my childish views?
For never yet when poets muse,
Or maidens dream in bowers alone,
Were glorious visions more profuse,
Ah! whither have those visions gone?[17]
I was roused from one of memory’s sweetest dreams, by the distant
sound of bells—they were those of my native city—I had often heard
them at the same hour—they spoke of wo, devotion, and joy, and
scenes long gone by. In this softened state of feeling I entered the
town, and, heedless of the throng, I hurried on to the home of my
parents—reached the house—threw myself into their arms, and the first
tumult of feeling over, I sat at the fireside, with my father on the
one side, and my mother at the other, gazing affectionately upon me,
while I talked of all I had seen, and all I had felt.
Being tired after my journey, my mother suggested the propriety of my
going to rest; and the tender hand that had often smoothed my pillow,
again performed that office. I could not help comparing my situation
with the nights that I had lain exposed to the storm, with the cold
earth for my bed; and I felt a lively impulse of gratitude—worth a
thousand formal prayers—to the Divine Being, who had watched over,
and protected me through every danger, and brought me in safety back
to my home and my parents.
While my mind was occupied in these reflections, my mother again
entered my chamber to see if I wanted anything. ‘Are you asleep,
Joseph’—my eyes were shut, and I did not reply. She stood over me
with the light in her hand gazing on my weather-beaten countenance.
‘My poor wanderer!’ she ejaculated, ‘what must you have endured
since I last saw you. Danger and death has surrounded you, fatigue
and hunger attended your steps; but yet you have been kindly dealt
with, mercifully preserved. I return thee thanks, thou Almighty giver
of every good, for thy bounteous mercy to my poor boy—O guide him to
thyself!’ She stooped to kiss my forehead—her warm tears fell upon my
face—my emotions became too strong for concealment, and afraid that
she had disturbed my sleep, she softly left the room.
Those who have felt the rude storms of adversity, and the endearing
kindness of a mother, will appreciate my feelings on this occasion.
FOOTNOTES:
[17] This expression of my feelings may appear, to some, like bombast
or affected feeling—I care not. I appeal to those who have felt an
enthusiastic love of nature; if it touches a responding chord in
their bosoms, I am satisfied.