"And oft as ease and health retire,
To breezy lawn or forest-deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep;
But thou who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?"
COLLINS'S ODE ON THOMSON.
Many years are now elapsed since I took up my residence in this
sequestered hamlet. I retired to it in distaste with a world whose vices
had robbed me of the dearest treasure of my heart. Two children cheered
my solitude, and in training them up to virtue, I lost the remembrance
of half my cares. My son, when qualified, was sent to Oxford, as a
friend had promised to provide for him in the church; but my daughter
was destined to retirement, not only from the narrowness of my income,
but from a thorough conviction it was best calculated to insure her
felicity. Juliana was the child of innocence and content. She knew of no
greater happiness than that of promoting mine, of no pleasures but what
the hamlet could afford, and was one of the gayest, as well as the
loveliest, of its daughters. One fatal evening I suffered her to go,
with some of her young companions, to a rustic ball, given by the
parents of Belgrave to their tenants, on coming down to Woodhouse, from
which they had been long absent. The graces of my child immediately
attracted the notice of their son. Though young in years, he was already
a professed libertine. The conduct of his father had set him an example
of dissipation which the volatility of his own disposition too readily
inclined him to follow. His heart immediately conceived the basest
schemes against Juliana, which the obscurity of her situation prompted
him to think might readily be accomplished. From this period he took
every opportunity of throwing himself in her way. My suspicions, or
rather my fears, were soon excited; for I knew not then the real
depravity of Belgrave; but I knew that an attachment between him and my
daughter would prove a source of uneasiness to both, from the disparity
fortune had placed between them. My task in convincing Juliana of the
impropriety of encouraging such an attachment was not a difficult one.
But, alas! I saw the conviction was attended with a pang of anguish,
which pierced me to the soul.
Belgrave, from the assumed softness and delicacy of his manners, had
made an impression on her heart which was not to be erased. Every
effort, however, which prudence could suggest, she resolved to make,
and, in compliance with my wishes, avoided Belgrave. This conduct soon
convinced him it would be a difficult matter to lull my caution, or
betray her innocence. And finding all his attempts to see, or convey a
letter to her, ineffectual, he departed with his parents from Woodhouse.
Juliana heard of his departure with a forced smile; but a starting tear,
and a colorless cheek, too clearly denoted to me the state of her mind.
I shall not attempt to describe my sufferings on witnessing hers. With
my pity was mixed a degree of veneration for that virtue which, in so
young a mind, could make such exertions against a passion disapproved of
by a parent. The evening of his departure, no longer under any
restraint, she walked out alone, and instinctively, perhaps, took the
road to Woodhouse. She wandered to its deepest glooms, and there gave
way to emotions which, from her efforts to suppress them, were become
almost too painful to support. The gloom of the wood was heightened by
the shades of evening, and a solemn stillness reigned around, well
calculated to inspire pensive tenderness. She sighed the name of
Belgrave in tremulous accents, and lamented their ever having met. A
sudden rustling among the trees startled her, and the next moment she
beheld him at her feet, exclaiming, "We have met, my Juliana, never more
to part."
Surprise and confusion so overpowered her senses, as to render her for
some time unable to attend to his raptures. When she grew composed, he
told her he was returned to make her honorably his, but to effect this
intention, a journey from the hamlet was requisite. She turned pale at
these words, and declared she never would consent to a clandestine
measure. This declaration did not discourage Belgrave; he knew the
interest he had in her heart, and this knowledge gave an energy to his
arguments, which gradually undermined the resolution of Juliana.
Already, he said, she had made a sufficient sacrifice to filial duty;
surely something was now due to love like his, which, on her account,
would cheerfully submit to innumerable difficulties. As he was under
age, a journey to Scotland was unavoidable, he said, and he would have
made me his confidant on the occasion, but that he feared my scrupulous
delicacy would have opposed his intentions, as contrary to parental
authority. He promised Juliana to bring her back to the hamlet
immediately after the ceremony; in short, the plausibility of his
arguments, the tenderness of his persuasions, at last produced the
effect he wished, and he received a promise from her to put herself
under his protection that very night.
But oh! how impossible to describe my agonies the ensuing morning when,
instead of my child, I found a letter in her room informing me of her
elopement; they were such as a fond parent, trembling for the fame and
happiness of his child, may conceive. My senses must have sunk beneath
them had they long continued; but Belgrave, according to his promise,
hastened back my child; and as I sat solitary and pensive in the
apartment she so often had enlivened, I suddenly beheld her at my feet,
supported by Belgrave, as his wife. So great a transition from despair
to comfort was almost too powerful for me to support. I asked my heart
was its present happiness real; I knelt, I received my child in my arms:
in those feeble arms I seemed to raise her with my heart to Heaven in
pious gratitude for her returning unsullied. Yet, when my first
transports were abated, I could not help regretting her ever having
consented to a clandestine union. I entreated Belgrave to write, in the
most submissive terms, to his father. He promised to comply with my
entreaty, yet hinted his fears that his compliance would be unattended
with the success I hoped. He requested, if this should be the case, I
would allow his wife to reside in the cottage till he was of age. Oh,
how pleasing a request to my heart! a month passed away in happiness,
only allayed by not hearing from his father. At the expiration of that
time he declared he must depart, having received orders to join his
regiment, but promised to return as soon as possible; he also promised
to write, but a fortnight elapsed and no letter arrived.
Juliana and I grew alarmed, but it was an alarm that only proceeded from
fears of his being ill. We were sitting one morning at breakfast, when
the stopping of a carriage drew us from the table.
"He is come!" said Juliana, "he is come!" and she flew to open the door;
when, instead of her expected Belgrave, she beheld his father, whose
dark and haughty visage proclaimed that he came on no charitable intent.
Alas! the occasion of his visit was too soon explained; he came to have
the ties which bound his son to Juliana broken. My child, on hearing
this, with firmness declared, that she was convinced any scheme his
cruelty might devise to separate them, the integrity, as well as the
tenderness of his son, would render abortive.
"Be not too confident of that, young lady," cried he, smiling
maliciously. He then proceeded to inform her that Belgrave, so beloved,
and in whose integrity she so much confided, had himself authorized his
intentions, being determined to avail himself of non-age, to have the
marriage broke.
Juliana could hear no more; she sunk fainting on the bosom of her
wretched father. Oh, what a situation was mine, when, as I clasped her
wildly to my heart and called upon her to revive, that heart whispered
me it was cruelty to wish she should! Alas! too soon she did, to a keen
perception of misery. The marriage was dissolved, and health and
happiness fled from her together; yet, from compassion to me, I saw she
struggled to support the burden of existence. Every remedy which had a
chance of prolonging it, I administered. But, alas! sorrow was rooted in
her heart, and it was only its removal, which was impossible, that could
have effected her recovery. Oh! how often have I stolen from my bed to
the door of her apartment, trembling, lest I should hear the last groan
escape her lips! How often have I then heard her deep convulsive sobs,
and reproached myself for selfishness at the moment for wishing the
continuance of her being, which was only wishing the continuance of her
misery! Yes, I have then said, I resign her, my Creator, unto thee. I
resign her from a certainty, that only with thee she can enjoy felicity.
But, alas! in a moment frail nature has triumphed over such a
resignation, and, prostrate on the ground, I have implored heaven,
either to spare the child, or take the father along with her.
She saw me unusually depressed one day, and proposed a walk, with a hope
that any exertion from her might recruit my spirits. But when I saw my
child, in the very bloom of life, unable to sustain her feeble frame;
when I felt her leaning on my almost nerveless arm for support, oh! how
intolerable was the anguish that rived my heart!--in vain, by soft
endearments, she strove to mitigate it. I averted my face and wept. She
motioned to go towards Woodhouse; we had got within sight of the wood,
when she complained of fatigue, and sat down. She had not been many
minutes in this situation, when she beheld, coming from the wood,
Belgrave, and a young girl whom she knew to be the steward's daughter.
The familiar manner in which they appeared conversing, left little room
to doubt of the footing on which they were. The hectic glow of Juliana's
complexion gave place to a deadly paleness. She arose and returned to
the cottage with me in silence, from whence, in less than a week, she
was borne to her grave.
Eight years, continued he, after a pause of some minutes, have elapsed
since her death, yet is her worth, her beauty, and her sufferings still
fresh in the remembrance of the inhabitants of the hamlet. In mine, oh!
Miss Fitzalan! how painfully, how pleasingly, do they still exist! No
noisome weed is allowed to intermingle in the high grass which has
overgrown her grave, at the head of which some kind hand has planted a
rose-tree, whose roses blossom, bloom, and die upon the sacred spot. My
child is gone before me to that earthly bed, to which I hoped she would
have smoothed my passage. Every spot in and about the cottage
continually recall her to my view. The ornaments of this little room
were all the work of that hand, long since mouldered into dust. In that
bed--he stopped, he groaned, and tears burst from him--in that bed,
resumed he (in a few minutes, though with a broken voice), she breathed
her last sigh; in that spot I knelt and received the last pressure of
her clay-cold lips! Of a calm night, when all is hushed to repose, I
love to contemplate that heaven, to which I have given an angel--an
angel to whom, I hope, shortly to be reunited; without such a hope,
surely of all men breathing, I should be the most wretched! Oh! how
cruel is it then, in those, who, by raising doubts of an hereafter,
attempt to destroy such a hope! Ye sons of error, hide the impious
doubts within your hearts; nor with wanton barbarity endeavor to deprive
the miserable of their last comfort. When this world presents nothing
but a dreary prospect, how cheering to the afflicted to reflect on that
future one, where all will be bright and happy! When we mourn over the
lost friends of our tenderest affections, oh! how consolatory to think
we shall be reunited to them again! How often has this thought suspended
my tears and stopped my sighs! Inspired by it with sudden joy, often
have I risen from the cold bed where Juliana lies, and exclaimed: "Oh
death! where is thy sting! Oh grave! where is thy victory!" both lost in
the certainty of again beholding my child.
Amanda shed tears of soft compassion for the fate of Juliana, and the
sorrows of her father, and felt, if possible, her gratitude to Heaven
increased, for preserving her from the snares of such a monster of
deceit and barbarity as Belgrave.
Howel relieved the anxiety she labored under about the means of
returning home, by assuring her he would not only supply her with a sum
sufficient for that purpose, but see her to Parkgate himself.
His name struck Amanda--it recalled to remembrance her Welsh friend.
She inquired, and heard that the young and tender curate was indeed the
son of her benefactor. "The softness of Henry's disposition," said his
father, "particularly qualifies him for the sacred function, which
prevents his having occasion to mingle in the concerns of the great
world. He writes me word that he is the simple shepherd of a simple
flock."
One day was all Amanda would devote to the purpose of recruiting her
strength. Nothing could prevail on her longer to defer her journey. A
chaise was accordingly procured, into which, at the first dawn of day,
she and Howel stepped, followed by the blessings of the affectionate
Eleanor, who, from her own wardrobe, had supplied Amanda with a few
necessaries to take along with her. The church-yard lay about a quarter
of a mile from the hamlet. It was only divided from the road by a low
and broken wall. Old trees shaded the grass-grown grave, and gave a kind
of solemn gloominess to the place.
"See," said Howel, suddenly taking Amanda's hand, and letting down the
glass, "see the bed where Juliana reposes."
The grave was distinguished by the rose-tree at its head. The morning
breeze gently agitated the high and luxuriant grass which covered it.
Amanda gazed on it with inexpressible sadness, but the emotions it
excited in her breast she endeavored to check, in pity to the wretched
father, who exclaimed, while tears trickled down his pale and furrowed
cheeks, "There lies my treasure."
She tried to divert him from his sorrows by talking of his son. She
described his little residence, which he had never seen. Thus, by
recalling to his recollection the blessings he yet possessed, checking
his anguish for those he had lost.
The weakness of Amanda would not allow them to travel expeditiously.
They slept one night on the road, and the next day, to her great joy,
arrived at Parkgate, as she had all along dreaded a pursuit from
Belgrave. A packet was to sail about four o'clock in the afternoon. She
partook of a slight repast with her benevolent friend, who attended her
to the boat, and with starting tears gave and received an adieu. She
promised to write as soon as she reached home, and assured him his
kindness would never be obliterated from her heart. He watched her till
she entered the ship, then returned to the inn, and immediately set off
for the hamlet, with a mind somewhat cheered by the consciousness of
having served a fellow-creature.