The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Here I gazed, with a strange and awful feeling of astonishment, on the immense plain of waters, from which I was separated only by a few boards, and listened, with pleasure, to the rustling of the waves by the side of the vessel, as she cut through the deep. How great, I thought, must be the ingenuity of that being who can pass in safety over this mighty expanse! But I was shortly to see that ingenuity exerted for purposes, and in a manner, from which the soul revolts.

  “One night, when the crew had retired to their hammocks, I had been talking to my friend; I had dropped a few words of anger against my neglectful Eleanor. He sighed deeply; and once, I thought, he was weeping; but I attributed it to his compassion. On a sudden, we were alarmed by a loud call from the mast-head, and a bustling confusion on the deck. I sprang up, for I was then almost recovered from my illness, and went to inquire into the cause of the tumult. One of the sailors pointed out to me a dusky object, which floated on the waves, at a considerable distance, and told me that it was an Algerine vessel, which was bearing down upon us. The uproar had, by this time, subsided, and every one was called to his post. My sensations, at this instant, were almost indescribable. In a few moments, I should be called upon to face death, and, perhaps, to deprive others of existence. This interval, as it were, between life and death, was filled with an awful feeling; it was not fear, nor hope, but a confused mixture of both, which was augmented and sustained by the silence which prevailed; for the first shot dissipated all feelings but those of energy and activity. The hostile vessel now approached, hove to, and summoned us to surrender. A broadside was the reply; and, in a moment, all was smoke, fire, and destruction. The enemy were much superior to us in strength, and, at length, they boarded us. We fought hand to hand. It would be in vain to describe the horrors of the scene; they can only be imagined by those who have witnessed them. Their captain happened to come near me; I aimed a blow at him, with all my force, which he parried, and my sword broke short in my hand. The barbarian lifted his sword to strike me; when my friend, whom I had not seen during the action, sprang between us, and received the stroke which was aimed for me. I caught him as he fell; but that dying shriek — that last expiring glance — that soft pressure — told me all: — it was Eleanor! —

  Noble, generous, self-devoted being, who, while I was upbraiding her with neglect, had braved all the dangers of a sea life to follow me, to nurse me, to watch me, and last, worst, and bitterest, — to die for me!

  “I have little else to relate. We were taken, and afterwards retaken by an American, by whom we were well treated, and carried to New York, where we had some clothes and other necessaries given us. Some of my companions remained there, but I wished to return to my native country. I worked for some time as a joiner, a trade to which I had once been a little accustomed in England; and, at length, gained sufficient to pay for my passage to England. I was landed here without money or friends. My fatigue had also worsened my health, which I had not perfectly recovered, so that I was unable to gain any thing by labour. I had, therefore, subsisted on charity; in soliciting which, I was so fortunate as to meet with you, Sir, who have so kindly relieved me.”

  Here his narrative concluded, and I will hasten to the conclusion of mine. I conveyed him home, restored him to his parents, and was amply rewarded with their boundless gratitude. He is now in an eligible situation, which does not require any great bodily exertion; he is comfortable; and, could he forget the unhappy fate of his Eleanor, he might be happy.

  THE MUTINY.

  Away! murderous dogs!

  THE MUTINY.

  — O God!

  Had you but seen his pale, pale blanched cheek!

  He would not eat. — O Christ!

  THE BERYL.

  IN the summer of the year 18 — , I was the only passenger on board the merchantman, Alceste, which was bound to the Brazils. One fine moonlight night, I stood on the deck, and gazed on the quiet ocean, on which the moon-beams danced. The wind was so still, that it scarcely agitated the sails, which were spread out to invite it. I looked round; it was the same on every side — a world of waters: not a single object diversified the view, or intercepted the long and steady glance which I threw over the ocean. I have heard many complain of the sameness and unvarying uniformity of the objects which oppose themselves to the eye of the voyager. I feel differently; I can gaze for hours, without weariness, on the deep, occupied with the thought it produces; I can listen to the rush of the element as the vessel cleaves it, and these things have charms for me which others cannot perceive.

  I heard, on a sudden, a noise, which seemed to proceed from the captain’s cabin, and I thought I could distinguish the voices of several men, speaking earnestly, though in a suppressed tone. I cautiously drew near the spot from whence the noise arose, but the alarm was given, and I could see no one. I retired to rest, or rather to lie down; for I felt that heavy and foreboding sense of evil overpower me, which comes we know not how or wherefore; and I could not sleep, knowing that there had been disputes between the captain and his men, respecting some point of discipline, and I feared to think what might be the consequences. I lay a long time disturbed with these unpleasant reflections; at last, wearied with my thoughts, my eyes closed, and I dropped to sleep. But it was not to that refreshing sleep which recruits the exhausted spirits, and by a while “steeping the senses in forgetfulness,” renders them fitter for exertion on awakening. My sleep was haunted with hideous and confused dreams, and murder and blood seemed to surround me. I was awakened by convulsive starts, and in vain sought again for quiet slumber; the same images filled my mind, diversified in a thousand horrid forms. Early in the morning, I arose, and went above, and the mild sea breeze dispelled my uneasy sensations.

  During the whole of the day nothing seemed to justify the fears that had tormented me, and every thing went on in its regular course. The men pursued their occupations quietly and in silence, and I thought the temporary fit of disaffection was passed over. Alas! I remembered not that the passions of men, like deep waters, are most to be suspected when they seem to glide along most smoothly. Night came on, and I retired to rest more composed than on the preceding evening. I endeavoured to convince myself that the noises I had heard were but the fancies of a disturbed imagination, and I slept soundly. Ill-timed security! About midnight I was awakened by a scuffling in the vessel. I hastened to the spot; the captain and one of his officers were fighting against a multitude of the ship’s crew. In a moment after I saw the officer fall. Two fellows advanced to me, and, dapping pistols to my breast, threatened instant death, if I stirred or spoke. I gazed on the bloody spectacle; the bodies, which lay around, swimming in gore, testified that the mutineers could not have accomplished their aim with impunity. I was horror-struck; a swimming sensation came over my eyes, my limbs failed me, and I fell senseless.

  When I recovered, I found myself lying on a bed. Every thing was still. I listened in vain for a sound; I lay still a considerable time; at last, I arose and walked about the ship, but could see no one. I searched every part of the vessel; I visited the place of slaughter, which I had, at first, carefully avoided; I counted nine dead bodies, and the coagulated blood formed a loathsome mass around them; I shuddered to think I was desolate — the companion of death. “Good God!” said I, a and they have left me here alone!” The word funded like a knell to me. It now occurred to me, it was necessary the bodies should be thrown overboard. I took up one of them, dragged it to the side, and plunged it into the waves; but the dash of the heavy body into the sea, reminded me more forcibly of my loneliness. The sea was so calm, I could scarcely hear it ripple by the vessel’s side. One by one I committed the bodies to their watery grave. At last my horrible task was finished. My next work was to look for the ship’s boats, but they were gone, as I expected. I could not bear to remain in the ship; it seemed a vast tomb for me. I resolved to make some sort of raft, and depart in it. This occupied two or three days; at length it was completed, and I succeeded in setting it afloat.
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  I lowered into it all the provision I could find in the ship, which was but little, the sailors having, as I imagined, carried off the remainder. All was ready, and I prepared to depart. I trembled at the thought of the dangers I was about to encounter. I was going to commit myself to the ocean, separated from it only by a few boards, which a wave might scatter over the surface of the waters. I might never arrive at land, or meet with any vessel to rescue me from my danger, and I should be exposed, without shelter, and almost without food. I half resolved to remain in my present situation; but a moment’s reflection dispelled the idea of such a measure. I descended; I stood on my frail raft; I cut the rope by which it was fastened to the ship. I was confused to think of my situation; I could hardly believe that I had dared to enter alone on the waste of waters. I endeavoured to compose myself, but in vain. As far as I could see, nothing presented itself to my view but the vessel I had left; the sea was perfectly still, for not the least wind was stirring. I endeavoured, with two pieces of board, which supplied the place of oars, to row myself along; but the very little progress I made alarmed me. If the calm should continue, I should perish of hunger. How I longed to see the little sail I had made, agitated by the breeze! I watched it from morning to night; it was my only employment; but in vain. The weather continued the same. Two days passed over; I looked at my store of provisions; it would not, I found, last above three or four days longer, at the farthest. They were quickly passing away. I almost gave myself up for lost. I had scarcely a hope of escaping.

  On the fourth day since my departure from the ship, I thought I perceived something at a distance; I looked at it intently — it was a sail. Good heavens! what were my emotions at the sight! I fastened my handkerchief on a piece of wood, and waved it, in hopes that it would be observed, and that I should be rescued from my fearful condition. The vessel pressed on its course; I shouted; — I knew they could not hear me, but despair impelled me to try so useless an expedient. It passed on — it grew dim — I stretched my eyeballs to see it — it vanished — it was gone! I will not attempt to describe the torturing feelings which possessed me, at seeing the chance of relief which had offered itself destroyed. I was stupefied with grief and disappointment. My stock of provisions was now entirely exhausted, and I looked forward with horror to an excruciating death.

  A little water, which had remained, quenched my burning thirst. I wished that the waves would rush over me. My hunger soon became dreadful, but I had no means of relieving it. I endeavoured to sleep, that I might, for a while, forget my torments; and my wearied frame yielded for a while to slumber. When I awoke I was not, however, refreshed; I was weak, and felt a burning pain at my stomach. I became hourly more feeble; I lay down, but was unable to rise again. My limbs lost their strength; my lips and tongue were parched; a convulsive shuddering agitated me; my eyes seemed darkened, and I gasped for breath.

  The burning at my stomach now departed; I experienced no pain; but a dull torpor came over me; my hands and feet became cold; I believed I was dying, and I rejoiced at the thought. Presently I lost all thought and feeling, and lay, without sense, on a few boards, which divided me from the ocean. In this situation, as I was afterwards informed, I was taken up by a small vessel, and carried to a seaport town. I slowly recovered, and find that I alone, of all who were on board the vessel in which I had embarked, had escaped death. The crew, who had departed in the boats, after murdering the captain, had met their reward — the boats were shattered against a rock.

  THE CHURCH-YARD.

  Mar. Hark! the bells, John.

  John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

  Mar. I know it.

  John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village,

  In the sweet shire of Devon;

  JOHN WOODVIL.

  Those are the bells.

  THE CHURCH-YARD.

  That spirit is never idle that doth waken

  The soul to sights, and contemplations deep;

  Even when from out the desert’s seeming sleep

  A sob is heav’d, that hut the leaves are shaken!

  CORNWALL.

  AMONG my stated rambles there is one which I retread with pleasure, unalloyed by repetition; — it is a path which leads to a church-yard; and here I have lingered for hours, unwearied, occupied by the reflections produced by surrounding objects. The spot of which I speak is situated on an eminence, which commands a lovely prospect. I have been seated on my favourite seat, a large mossy stone, over which a spreading beech throws its shade, when the close of day was approaching: — there was the stone church, with its sombre, ivy-grown walls and steeple; the thick leafy grove, with its music-breathing inhabitants; the green hill, and the little murmuring rivulet, that wandered at its bottom, over its pebble-gemmed bed, dashing its light spray over its violet banks; the white-washed cottage and barn, with the horse-shoe nailed over the door, the lingering relic of drooping faith in demonology; the spreading fields, and clump of trees, and thinly scattered habitations; and, farther on, the majestic windings of the river, beyond which dim hills raised their eternal barrier, to close all further view; and, most beautiful of all, the deep, gentle shade of evening, sinking and reddening on hill, and plain, and valley: — it is then that the soul, emancipated from earthly thoughts and earthly hopes, holds closer sympathy with the scenes around, and holier visionings flit before the mind; and what spot could better harmonize with such thoughts than the one I have described?

  A church-yard is, of all places, the one most calculated to call up those feelings which, abstracted from the pleasures, are uncontaminated with the evils, of the world: in the evening, too, the charm is stronger — on every side lie “relics of mortality” — the fantastic or fearful shapes, which the gloom lends to indistinct objects —

  Like a demon thing,

  Or shadow hovering,

  give a mysterious awe to this ultima Thule of human schemes; and the doubtful certainty (if the expression may be used) of shortly becoming a companion of the mouldering dust, and hideous corruption beneath us, doubtful as to its period, but certain as it regards the event, is fraught with deep, though fearful and appalling interest. Am I wrong in saying, that this is the place — the school — the theatre for a poet? Is it not here that the casualties of rank and station are destroyed? — and is it not the work of the poet, also, to overlook these accidental distinguishments? — to develop the rise of simple and unadorned loveliness? — and to see, and properly to estimate, the intrinsic excellence of things and actions?

  Death is your only sure balance in which to weigh the real worth or importance of individuals; the magic girdle, that fits none but those whose deeds have been pure — the wild steed, that none can manage, but those who encounter him undismayed — the infallible touchstone of greatness or power; — he is like the gust, which blows away the thistle-down of splendour and vanity, and exposes the nakedness which lies beneath; — he is the best of friends, who relieves us from our cares — our greatest enemy, who bereaves us of that we love best — our life; in short, he is the most paradoxical of things, who is every day present, but never seen — the most unwelcome of visitors, who, whenever he comes, is an unwished-for guest.

  I am fond of a church, particularly an old one; it is, as it were, the home for the soul; the refuge from the world; and I am fond of its venerable antique gloom — its painted windows — its monuments, which speak of “the dead, and their house, the grave” — and of its music: — there is an awful, solemn beauty in church music, which stills each unhallowed thought — each wish that speaks of earth — and throws its calm of holiness over the mind: the deep roll of the organ — the thrilling, enthusiasm-creating sound of human voices, trembling to the throne of eternity, which, when I think of, I reflect, with complacency upon the abodes of monkish superstition —

  Those deep solitudes and awful cells,

  Where heavenly, pensive Contemplation dwells,

  And ever-musing Melancholy reigns! —

 
and could almost wish that I had been an inhabitant of them. Blest with peace, and undisturbed with vice and folly — Pshaw! pshaw! I am dreaming: and these are the dreams of a poet, doomed to wake an essay writer.

  But there is another ornament to a church — the greatest, perhaps, in my estimation — its bells — its organs of speech, with which it calls together fellow-worshippers.

  I love these eloquent inanimations — these metallic tractors of the soul, whose vibrations call up into view the past, which is fled; the present, which dies in its existence; and the future, which will fade away like its predecessors: that simple stroke of two pieces of metal gives me an infinity of ideas — the burst into life, and quick sinking into nothing — the reiteration of the strokes, one succeeding another, in measured intervals — all speak of the mutability of every thing earthly, and the rapid succession of beings, which bloom, and perish, and are forgotten.

  I cannot admire the Mahometan custom of employing the human voice as a substitute for bells: methinks the invitation, which calls to such exercises of devotion, should be addressed to the mind in some sound which may awaken suitable thoughts, not spoken in the every-day dialect of business and pleasure. An English steeple will continue, in my thinking, to be very preferable to a Turkish minaret.