CHAPTER I.

_Which Contains a Love-Letter_.

LET us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in the preceding portion

of this history, the development of that passion which is at once the

principle and end of our existence; that passion compared to whose

delights all the other gratifications of our nature--wealth, and power,

and fame, sink into insignificance; and which, nevertheless, by the

ineffable beneficence of our Creator, is open to his creatures of all

conditions, qualities, and climes. Whatever be the lot of man, however

unfortunate, however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he must

strike a balance in favour of existence; for love can illumine the dark

roof of poverty, and can lighten the fetters of the slave.

But, if the most miserable position of humanity be tolerable with its

support, so also the most splendid situations of our life are wearisome

without its inspiration. The golden palace requires a mistress as

magnificent; and the fairest garden, besides the song of birds and the

breath of flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot of

woman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would never have

been gained: it is her image that strings the lyre of the poet, that

animates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, and guides our

brain in the august toils of stately councils.

But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in its

dispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes a power so

vast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as when it is experienced

for the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and enchanting,

fascinating and despotic; and, whatever may be the harsher feelings that

life may develop, there is no one, however callous or constrained he may

have become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory of _first

love_.

The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end. It is

the dark conviction that feelings the most ardent may yet grow cold, and

that emotions the most constant and confirmed are, nevertheless, liable

to change, that taints the feebler spell of our later passions, though

they may spring from a heart that has lost little of its original

freshness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of the devotion

than was our first idol. To gaze upon a face, and to believe that for

ever we must behold it with the same adoration; that those eyes, in

whose light we live, will for ever meet ours with mutual glances of

rapture and devotedness; to be conscious that all conversation with

others sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless expression

of our affection; to feel our heart rise at the favoured voice; and to

believe that life must hereafter consist of a ramble through the world,

pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast;

oh! must this sweet credulity indeed be dissipated? Is there no hope for

them so full of hope? no pity for them so abounding with love?

And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when the former

votaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and engrossing can meet each

other with indifference, almost with unconsciousness, and recall with

an effort their vanished scenes of felicity, that quick yet profound

sympathy, that ready yet boundless confidence, all that charming

abandonment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness that

anticipates all our wants and all our wishes? It makes the heart ache

but to picture such vicissitudes to the imagination. They are images

full of distress, and misery, and gloom. The knowledge that such changes

can occur flits over the mind like the thought of death, obscuring

all our gay fancies with its bat-like wing, and tainting the healthy

atmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations. It is not so

much ruined cities that were once the capital glories of the world, or

mouldering temples breathing with oracles no more believed, or arches

of triumph which have forgotten the heroic name they were piled up to

celebrate, that fill the mind with half so mournful an expression of

the instability of human fortunes, as these sad spectacles of exhausted

affections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments of expired passion.

The morning, which broke sweet, and soft, and clear, brought Ferdinand,

with its first glimmer, a letter from Henrietta.

_Henrietta to Ferdinand._

Mine own! I have not lain down the whole night. What a terrible, what

an awful night! To think that he was in the heart of that fearful storm!

What did, what could you do? How I longed to be with you! And I could

only watch the tempest from my window, and strain my eyes at every flash

of lightning, in the vain hope that it might reveal him! Is he well, is

he unhurt? Until my messenger return I can imagine only evil. How often

I was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I thought it

must be useless, and might displease him! I knew not what to do. I beat

about my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, my

Ferdinand; conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you feel

the least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write to me one line,

only one line, to tell me you are well. I shall be in despair until I

hear from you. Do not keep the messenger an instant. He is on my pony.

He promises to return in a very, very short time. I pray for you, as I

prayed for you the whole long night, that seemed as if it would never

end. God bless you, my Ferdinand! Write only one word to your own

Henrietta.

_Ferdinand to Henrietta_.

Sweetest, dearest Henrietta!

I am quite well, and love you, if that could be, more than ever.

Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand! A wet jacket, and I

experienced no greater evil, does not frighten me. The storm was

magnificent; I would not have missed it for the world. But I regret it

now, because my Henrietta did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come on

to you! Your page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line.

God bless you, my Henrietta, my beloved, my matchless Henrietta! Words

cannot tell you how I love you, how I dote upon you, my darling. Thy

Ferdinand.

_Henrietta to Ferdinand._

No! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it would be silly.

We could only be together a moment, and, though a moment with you is

heaven, I cannot endure again the agony of parting. O Ferdinand! what

has that separation not cost me! Pangs that I could not conceive any

human misery could occasion. My Ferdinand, may we some day be happy! It

seems to me now that happiness can never come again. And yet I ought to

be grateful that he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess to

you before what evils I anticipated. Do you know I was so foolish that

I thought every flash of lightning must descend on your head. I dare

not now own how foolish I was. God be praised that he is well. But is he

sure that he is _quite_ well? If you have the slightest cold, dearest,

do not move. Postpone that journey on which all our hopes are fixed.

Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me; you are a man and a soldier; you

laugh at a woman’s caution.

Ohl my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you were

ill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, what exquisite

happiness, would that be!

Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous about concealing

our engagement from papa. What I have promised I will perform, fear not

that; I will never deceive you, no, not even for your fancied benefit;

but I feel the burthen of this secrecy more than I can express, more

than I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can annoy

you, especially at this moment, when I feel from my own heart how you

must require all the support and solace of unbroken fondness. I have

such confidence in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convinced

you have acted wisely; but come back as soon as you can. I know it must

be more than a week; I know that that prospect was only held out by

your affection. Days must elapse before you can reach Bath; and I know,

Ferdinand, I know your office is more difficult than you will confess.

But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to me at the

post-office, as you settled.

If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The consciousness

that you are so near makes me restless. Remember, in a few hours papa

will be here. I wish to meet him with as much calmness as I can command.

Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu! My tears are too evident. See, they

fall upon the page. Think of me always. Never let your Henrietta be

absent from your thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is! Your

guitar is on the sofa; a ghost of departed joy!

Farewell, Ferdinand! I cannot write, I cannot restrain my tears. I know

not what to do. I almost wish papa would return, though I dread to see

him. I feel the desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see you

here!

Heaven be with you, and guard over you, and cherish you, and bless you.

Think always of me. Would that this pen could express the depth and

devotion of my feelings!

Henrietta.