A LETTER.
I had letters from home that my father had been in bad health
for some time, and I now received one, saying, that no hope was
entertained of his recovery, and if a furlough could be procured,
to come home without delay, as he had expressed an anxious wish to
see me. I lost no time in making the necessary application, and
being successful, I went in search of a vessel. I found one that
had put in to Dublin through contrary winds, and was now ready to
sail the moment it was fair. I was impatient to get forward; but as
there was some prospect of the wind coming round in our favour, I
took lodging in a house on the quay. I had been acquainted with the
people who kept it, as they had lived in Wexford previous to their
coming to Dublin. Having mentioned the vessel that I intended to
take my passage by, Mrs L—— asked her husband if that was the vessel
Eliza was going in. On his replying in the affirmative, ‘I am glad
of it,’ said she, ‘our friend may be able to pay her some attention
on board, and perhaps be of some service to her when she lands at
Glasgow. I know I can trust you with her story,’ said she to me; ‘and
when you hear it, I am sure you will feel as much interest in the
fate of the poor creature as I do.’ Without following Mrs L—— through
all the various digressions and windings of her story, I have taken
the liberty to relate it, according to the knowledge I afterwards had
an opportunity of acquiring:—
Eliza R—— was the daughter of a respectable farmer in the county of
——. She was the eldest of the family, and considered the beauty of
the small village she lived in. There was a soft loveliness about her
features, and a benignity beaming in her mild blue eyes, expressive
of purity and peace within. Her modesty and goodness of heart had
made her a favourite with all her neighbours; and she was so retired
and correct in her conduct, and unremitting in her religious duties,
that she was looked upon as a superior being. Eighteen years of
Eliza’s life had passed away without any event occurring to disturb
its even current. Many of the young men of the village would
willingly have proposed for her hand; but they were restrained by an
awe which her beauty and conduct had inspired.
It was about this time that a gentleman belonging to the revenue
department, whose business led him to the coast, came down from
Dublin; and there being no house of public entertainment, he begged
a lodging for the short time he had to stop from Michael R——. It
was instantly granted; and he had scarcely become an inmate of the
house when he cast his eyes on Eliza, and his heart was inflamed
with a passion which he determined, if possible, to gratify.
Her modest, retiring disposition left him little room to make
familiarity with her; but observing that she was a rigid attendant
on mass, he feigned a devotion which he did not feel, and by this
pretence had an opportunity of escorting her to chapel. His person
and manners were prepossessing, and his language fluent. But it
is unnecessary to enter into a detail of the measures he took to
accomplish his purpose; suffice it to say, that he won the heart of
the too confiding Eliza,—he had sworn to make her his wife, and she
believed him,—all was arranged between them,—he was to go to Dublin,
and settle his affairs, provide a house for her reception, and
return to marry her and conduct her home. The unsuspecting parents
saw his partiality for her, and felt proud of it; they little knew
the serpent they were fostering in their bosom. Poor Eliza parted
from him in the faith of a speedy return, and dreamed of years of
happiness, which, alas! she was never to enjoy.
The time of his promised return elapsed, and day after day rolled on
without him making his appearance. She now began to feel dreadful
anxiety,—she had received no direction how to write, and had no
means of learning anything concerning him. He must be sick, thought
she, or some accident has befallen him, or he would be here; and she
grieved that she knew not where to seek him, that she might tend and
watch over him. She was soon doomed to be undeceived—a neighbour, who
had been at Dublin, called upon her father with some articles which
he had employed him to purchase. ‘When you were in Dublin,’ said
Michael, ‘did you see anything of the gentleman who lodged with us
before you went away?’
‘That I did,’ replied the visitor, ‘I took a parcel for him from Mr
W——’s.’
‘He told us he was to be back here again in a week; but something
unlooked for has kept him, for we haven’t seen a sight of him since.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be able to come at present,’ said Billy, ‘for
when I was in Dublin his wife was very ill.’
‘His wife!’ exclaimed Eliza, who had been an attentive listener to
the conversation.
‘Ay, his wife,’ said Billy; ‘he was married about two years ago to a
lady belonging to B——.’
Eliza heard no more; she had summoned up all her energy to meet
the confirmation of the dreadful news; but the struggle was too
much—nature gave way, and she sunk lifeless from her chair. They ran
to her assistance, and having raised her, succeeded by slow degrees
in bringing her back to life. On recovering, she felt that she
was ruined for ever; but the necessity of keeping her own secret,
acted as a counterpoise to despair, and induced her to smother her
feelings. Her parents were not surprised at her fainting, for they
were aware of his attentions, and they could feel for her situation;
but they had no knowledge of the extent of her misery. She was
partially recovering from the effects of her grief, when she found
herself in a way which she could not long hope to conceal. Her agony
of mind now became excessive; she could not endure that her disgrace
should be known in the neighbourhood, and she determined on leaving
her home, and travelling to some distant part of the country. Packing
up her clothes, and taking some money with her, she travelled to the
nearest port, where she embarked for Dublin, and having found Mrs
L——, to whom she was related, she confided to her the story which
I now give to the reader. But not being able to procure any means
of subsistence, and hearing that employment was more likely to be
had in Glasgow than any other place, she resolved on going there,
where, far from any one who knew her, she might drag out a miserable
existence: and for this purpose she had taken her passage in the
vessel I intended to go with. I was introduced to her by Mrs L——;
but she shrunk from observation, and seemed to feel uneasy at being
observed. Seeing this, I did not obtrude myself on her notice; but I
could not see her ‘pale wasted cheek, and brimfu’ e’e, or hear her
heart-bursting sighs,’ without lamenting over this wreck of human
happiness.
The wind remaining contrary for two or three days, I felt so uneasy
that I determined on proceeding by coach; but previous to doing so, I
recommended Eliza to the care of my friend B——, who was waiting his
passage by the same vessel, his term of service having expired. The
sequel, which I may as well relate here, was communicated to me in a
letter from him a few days after my arrival at home:—
‘Two days after you left us, we sailed from Dublin harbour, in
company with two other vessels bound for Glasgow. The wind being
fair, we had ran down the coast a good way before dark; but as
the night came on, the weather got hazy, and the wind veered more
to westward, blowing very fresh, and continued increasing: by ten
o’clock it was a perfect storm. All hands had been on deck from the
time it grew dark, and as we had been rather pinched for room, the
passengers turned into the vacant berths; but I had never any liking
to being below in bad weather, and remained on deck. The night looked
frightful—the mist was such, that we could not see the vessel’s
length a-head—and the wind blowing fearfully in upon the shore. The
captain had never been on the coast before, and seemed to have no
confidence in his knowledge of it, and in his confusion lost sight
of every precaution. I was well aware of our danger, and mentioned
it to the captain. “I can’t help it,” was his answer, “I can see no
light—to lie-to, I would inevitably drift—and to tack with this wind
would be impossible; all I can do is to keep the vessel close to the
wind—perhaps it may clear up.” I saw there was little hope, and my
mind turned to the poor creatures in the cabin, who were lying sick
in the berths; if there was any chance for them, it must be on deck,
and going below for the purpose of getting them up, I found Eliza in
dreadful agony, the pains of premature labour had seized her through
excessive sickness. I endeavoured to persuade her to come up, but she
could not stir. I overheard one of the sailors on deck sing out that
he saw a light. “Thank God!” said I, “we may be saved yet.” “Is there
danger?” said Eliza. I could not conceal it. “You had better try to
get up on deck, I will assist you; if you have any chance of being
saved it will be there.” “O, no!” said she; “let me remain, I do
not wish to be saved; God will have mercy on me, and the waves will
cover my shame!” Hearing a great bustle I ran up the ladder,—“Lord
have mercy on us,” said one of the sailors, “we are all lost.” “How?
how?” said I. “Don’t you see the breakers a-head.” I did see them too
plainly: we were close upon them. I ran down to the cabin, and partly
by force, partly by entreaty, got Eliza out of her berth; and getting
her in my arms, I got to the foot of the companion ladder. I was
half-way up the ladder, when a crash that would have roused the dead
pealed in my ear, mingled with the despairing shriek of the crew. The
shock threw me back on the cabin floor, and my head coming in contact
with the iron ring of the hatch, I was rendered for a few moments
insensible. The stern of the vessel had been torn asunder, and it
now yawned beneath me; the water rushed in—I remember no more. I was
saved, miraculously saved; but Eliza escaped from the censure of an
unfeeling world.’
Poor Eliza had indeed escaped from the censure of the world; but her
seducer still lives: if he is not lost to every feeling, his remorse
must be great. Poor B—— had a narrow escape with his life: when the
vessel went to pieces, he had clung to a piece of the wreck, and was
washed ashore on it; but he and one of the crew were all that were
saved.