EARLY RECOLLECTIONS—A FIRST LOVE.
I know of no sensations so very nearly alike, as those felt on awaking
after very sudden and profuse loss of blood, and those resulting from a
large dose of opium. The dizziness, the confusion, and the abstraction
at first, gradually yielding, as the senses became clearer, to a vague
and indistinct consciousness; then the strange mistiness, in which fact
and fiction are wrapped up—the confounding of persons, and places, and
times, not so as to embarrass and annoy—for the very debility you feel
subdues all irritation—but rather to present a panoramic picture of odd
and incongruous events more pleasing than otherwise.
Of the circumstances by which I was thus brought to a sick couch, I had
not even the most vague recollection—the faces and the dress of all
those I had lately seen were vividly before me; but how, and for what
purpose I knew not. Something in their kindness and attention had left
an agreeable impression upon my mind, and without being able, or even
attempting to trace it, I felt happy in the thought. While thus the
“hour before” was dim and indistinct, the events of years past were
vividly and brightly pictured before me; and strange, too, the more
remote the period, the more did it seem palpable and present to my
imagination. For so it is, there is in memory a species of mental
long-sightedness, which, though blind to the object close beside you,
can reach the blue mountains and the starry skies, which lie full many
a league away. Is this a malady? or is it rather a providential gift to
alleviate the tedious hours of the sick bed, and cheer the lonely
sufferer, whose thoughts are his only realm?
My school-boy days, in all their holiday excitement; the bank where I
had culled the earliest cowslips of the year; the clear but rapid
stream, where days long I have watched the speckled trout, as they swam
peacefully beneath, or shook their bright fins in the gay sunshine; the
gorgeous dragon-fly that played above the water, and dipped his bright
wings in its ripple—they were all before me. And then came the thought
of school itself, with its little world of boyish cares and emulations;
the early imbibed passion for success; the ardent longing for
superiority; the high and swelling feeling of the heart, as home drew
near, to think that I had gained the wished for prize—the object of
many an hour’s toil—the thought of many a long night’s dream; my
father’s smile; my mother’s kiss! Oh! what a very world of tender
memory that one thought suggests; for what are all our later successes
in life—how bright soever our fortune be—compared with the early
triumphs of our infancy? Where, among the jealous rivalry of some, the
cold and half-wrung praise of others, the selfish and unsympathising
regard of all, shall we find any thing to repay us for the swelling
extacy of our young hearts, as those who have cradled and loved us grow
proud in our successes? For myself, a life that has failed in every
prestige of those that prophesied favourably—years that have followed
on each other only to blight the promise that kind and well-wishing
friends foretold—leave but little to dwell upon, that can be reckoned
as success. And yet, some moments I have had, which half seemed to
realize my early dream of ambition, and rouse my spirit within me; but
what were they all compared to my boyish glories? what the passing
excitement one’s own heart inspires in the lonely and selfish solitude,
when compared with that little world of sympathy and love our early
home teemed with, as, proud in some trifling distinction, we fell into
a mother’s arms, and heard our father’s “God bless you, boy?” No, no;
the world has no requital for this. It is like the bright day-spring,
which, as its glories gild the east, display before us a whole world of
beauty and promise—blighted hopes have not withered, false friendships
have not scathed, cold, selfish interest has not yet hardened our
hearts, or dried up our affections, and we are indeed happy; but
equally like the burst of morning is it fleeting and short-lived; and
equally so, too, does it pass away, never, never to return.
From thoughts like these my mind wandered on to more advanced years,
when, emerging from very boyhood, I half believed myself a man, and was
fully convinced I was in love.
Perhaps, after all, for the time it lasted—ten days, I think—it was the
most sincere passion I ever felt. I had been spending some weeks at a
small watering-place in Wales with some relatives of my mother. There
were, as might be supposed, but few “distractions” in such a place,
save the scenery, and an occasional day’s fishing in the little river
of Dolgelly, which ran near. In all these little rambles which the
younger portion of the family made together, frequent mention was ever
being made of a visit from a very dear cousin, and to which all looked
forward with the greatest eagerness—the elder ones of the party with a
certain air of quiet pleasure, as though they knew more than they said,
and the younger with all the childish exuberance of youthful delight.
Clara Mourtray seemed to be, from all I was hourly hearing, the very
paragon and pattern of every thing. If any one was praised for beauty,
Clara was immediately pronounced much prettier—did any one sing,
Clara’s voice and taste were far superior. In our homeward walk, should
the shadows of the dark hills fall with a picturesque effect upon the
blue lake, some one was sure to say, “Oh! how Clara would like to
sketch that.” In short, there was no charm nor accomplishment ever the
gift of woman, that Clara did not possess; or, what amounted pretty
much to the same thing, that my relatives did not implicitly give her
credit for. The constantly recurring praises of the same person affect
us always differently as we go on in life. In youth the prevailing
sentiment is an ardent desire to see the prodigy of whom we have heard
so much—in after years, heartily to detest what hourly hurts our
self-love by comparisons. We would take any steps to avoid meeting what
we have inwardly decreed to be a “bore.” The former was my course; and
though my curiosity was certainly very great, I had made up my mind to
as great a disappointment, and half wished for the longed arrival as a
means of criticising what they could see no fault in.
The wished-for evening at length came, and we all set out upon a walk
to meet the carriage which was to bring the bien aime Clara among us.
We had not walked above a mile when the eager eye of the foremost
detected a cloud of dust upon the road at some distance; and, after a
few minutes more, four posters were seen coming along at a tremendous
rate. The next moment she was making the tour of about a dozen uncles,
aunts, cousins, and cousines, none of whom, it appeared to me, felt any
peculiar desire to surrender the hearty embrace to the next of kin in
succession. At last she came to me, when, perhaps, in the confusion of
the moment, not exactly remembering whether or not she had seen me
before, she stood for a moment silent—a deep blush mantling her lovely
cheek—masses of waving brown hair disordered and floating upon her
shoulders—her large and liquid blue eyes beaming upon me. One look was
enough. I was deeply—irretrievably in love.
“Our cousin Harry—Harry Lorrequer—wild Harry, as we used to call him,
Clara,” said one of the girls introducing me.
She held out her hand, and said something with a smile. What, I know
not—nor can I tell how I replied; but something absurd it must have
been, for they all laughed heartily, and the worthy papa himself tapped
my shoulder jestingly, adding,
“Never mind, Harry—you will do better one day, or I am much mistaken in
you.”
Whether I was conscious that I had behaved foolishly or not, I cannot
well say; but the whole of that night I thought over plans innumerable
how I should succeed in putting myself forward before “Cousin Clara,”
and vindicating myself against any imputation of schoolboy mannerisms
that my first appearance might have caused.
The next day we remained at home. Clara was too much fatigued to walk
out, and none of us would leave her. What a day of happiness that was!
I knew something of music, and could sing a second. Clara was delighted
at this, for the others had not cultivated singing much. We therefore
spent the whole morning in this way. Then she produced her sketch-book,
and I brought out mine, and we had a mutual interchange of prisoners.
What cutting out of leaves and detaching of rice-paper landscapes! Then
she came out upon the lawn to see my pony leap, and promised to ride
him the following day. She patted the greyhounds, and said Gipsy, which
was mine, was the prettiest. In a word, before night fell Clara had won
my heart in its every fibre, and I went to my room the very happiest of
mortals.
I need not chronicle my next three days—to me the most glorious “trois
jours” of my life. Clara had evidently singled me out and preferred me
to all the rest. It was beside me she rode—upon my arm she leaned in
walking—and, to comble me with delight unutterable, I overheard her say
to my uncle, “Oh, I doat upon poor Harry! And it is so pleasant, for
I’m sure Mortimer will be so jealous.”
“And who is Mortimer,” thought I; “he is a new character in the piece,
of whom we have seen nothing.”
I was not long in doubt upon this head, for that very day, at dinner,
the identical Mortimer presented himself. He was a fine,
dashing-looking, soldier-like fellow, of about thirty-five, and with a
heavy moustache, and a bronzed cheek—rather grave in his manner, but
still perfectly good-natured, and when he smiled showing a most
handsome set of regular teeth. Clara seemed less pleased (I thought) at
his coming than the others, and took pleasure in tormenting him by a
thousand pettish and frivolous ways, which I was sorry for, as I
thought he did not like it; and used to look half chidingly at her from
time to time, but without any effect, for she just went on as before,
and generally ended by taking my arm and saying, “Come away, Harry; you
always are kind, and never look sulky. I can agree with you.” These
were delightful words for me to listen to, but I could not hear them
without feeling for him, who evidently was pained by Clara’s avowed
preference for me; and whose years—for I thought thirty-five at that
time a little verging upon the patriarchal—entitled him to more
respect.
“Well,” thought I, one evening, as this game had been carried rather
farther than usual, “I hope she is content now, for certainly Mortimer
is jealous;” and the result proved it, for the whole of the following
day he absented himself, and never came back till late in the evening.
He had been, I found, from a chance observation I overheard, at the
bishop’s palace, and the bishop himself, I learned, was to breakfast
with us in the morning.
“Harry, I have a commission for you,” said Clara. “You must get up very
early to-morrow, and climb the Cader mountain, and bring me a grand
bouquet of the blue and purple heath that I liked so much the last time
I was there. Mind very early, for I intend to surprise the bishop
to-morrow with my taste in a nosegay.”
The sun had scarcely risen as I sprang from my bed, and started upon my
errand. Oh! the glorious beauty of that morning’s walk. As I climbed
the mountain, the deep mists lay upon all around, and except the path I
was treading, nothing was visible; but before I reached the top, the
heavy masses of vapour were yielding to the influence of the sun; and
as they rolled from the valleys up the mountain sides, were every
instant opening new glens and ravines beneath me—bright in all their
verdure, and speckled with sheep, whose tingling bells reached me even
where I stood.
I counted above twenty lakes at different levels, below me; some
brilliant, and shining like polished mirrors; others not less
beautiful, dark and solemn with some mighty mountain shadow. As I
looked landward, the mountains reared their huge crests, one above the
other, to the farthest any eye could reach. Towards the opposite side,
the calm and tranquil sea lay beneath me, bathed in the yellow gold of
a rising sun; a few ships were peaceably lying at anchor in the bay;
and the only thing in motion was a row-boat, the heavy monotonous
stroke of whose oars rose in the stillness of the morning air. Not a
single habitation of man could I descry, nor any vestige of a human
being, except that mass of something upon the rock far down beneath be
one, and I think it is, for I see the sheep-dog ever returning again
and again to the same spot.
My bouquet was gathered; the gentian of the Alps, which is found here,
also contributing its evidence to show where I had been to seek it, and
I turned home.
The family were at breakfast as I entered; at least so the servants
said, for I only remembered then that the bishop was our guest, and
that I could not present myself without some slight attention to my
dress. I hastened to my room, and scarcely had I finished, when one of
my cousins, a little girl of eight years, came to the door and said,
“Harry, come down; Clara wants you.”
I rushed down stairs, and as I entered the breakfast parlour, stood
still with surprise. The ladies were all dressed in white, and even my
little cousin wore a gala costume that amazed me.
“My bouquet, Harry; I hope you have not forgotten it,” said Clara, as I
approached.
I presented it at once, when she gaily and coquettishly held out her
hand for me to kiss. This I did, my blood rushing to my face and
temples the while, and almost depriving me of consciousness.
“Well, Clara, I am surprised at you,” said Mortimer. “How can you treat
the poor boy so?”
I grew deadly pale at these words, and, turning round, looked at the
speaker full in the face. Poor fellow, thought I, he is jealous, and I
am really grieved for him; and turned again to Clara.
“Here it is—oh! how handsome, papa,” said one of the younger children,
running eagerly to the window, as a very pretty open carriage with four
horses drew up before the house.
“The bishop has taste,” I murmured to myself, scarcely deigning to give
a second look at the equipage.
Clara now left the room, but speedily returned—her dress changed, and
shawled as if for a walk. What could all this mean?—and the whispering,
too, what is all that?—and why are they all so sad?—Clara has been
weeping.
“God bless you, my child—good by,” said my aunt, as she folded her in
her arms for the third time.
“Good by, good by,” I heard on every side. At length, approaching me,
Clara took my hand and said—
“My poor Harry, so we are going to part. I am going to Italy.”
“To Italy, Clara? Oh! no—say no. Italy! I shall never see you again.”
“Won’t you wear this ring for me, Harry? It is an old favourite of
yours—and when we meet again”—
“Oh! dearest Clara,” I said, “do not speak thus.”
“Good by, my poor boy, good by,” said Clara hurriedly; and, rushing out
of the room, she was lifted by Mortimer into the carriage, who,
immediately jumping in after her, the whip cracked, the horses
clattered, and all was out of sight in a second.
“Why is she gone with him?” said I, reproachfully, turning towards my
aunt.
“Why, my dear, a very sufficient reason. She was married this morning.”
This was my first love.