CHAPTER XXI.
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This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
Here I can sit alone unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes
Tune my distresses and record my woes.
Oh! thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion tenantless;
Lest growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was.
Shakspeare.
The book which Washington left with our heroine
was a handsomely bound copy of Shenstone's
Poems; and the passages he had marked for her
attention she found in that most tender and simple
of all poetical effusions, the Pastoral Ballad. The
reader, I trust, will have no objection to peruse
them. They were as follows—
“Now I know what it is to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.”
“When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
I thought—but it might not be so—
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart
She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could scarcely discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
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“The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.”
Had not Maria been before convinced from the
conduct of her illustrious visiter that he loved
her, these stanzas, combined with his manner of
bidding her farewell, would have left her no room
to doubt on the subject. The circumstance grieved
her. She respected, she esteemed, she almost
revered those talents and virtues which she perceived
that he possessed in such an eminent degree;
but love was what she could not afford him.
Another object engrossed all her passion and tenderness
exclusively and unalterably; and to Washington—
to him, whom she believed to be possessed
of every quality that could ennoble man, and
whose warmest affections, she doubted not, were
now devoted to her, she could only spare ardent
friendship and heart-felt admiration. Yes—she
could, and did also, yield him pity—for loving passionately
as she herself did, she could easily imagine
how miserable she must have been, had she
loved in vain. Much, therefore, much did she
grieve for one so worthy, whom she knew must be
wretched from the same cause.
“How rejoiced I should be,” she would say to
herself, “if this excellent, this admirable young
man could place his affections on some one who
had affections at her own disposal to give him in
return. I know, alas! how much the happiness of
life depends on this; and if ever man deserved
happiness, it is he. But he is now gone; and I
trust absence, change of scene, and the bustle of
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business, may weaken the unfortunate attachment
he has here imbibed; and providence, I hope, will
throw in his way one worthy of him, and both capable
of exciting in his bosom the tenderest feelings
of love, and of returning them. Oh Charles!
thou object of my first and only love! it is my
study, it is my duty, it is my delight to be true to
thee. Thou art the chosen of my heart—a heart
that never, never will choose another.”—
Charles having encamped his men at Shanapins
town, and marked out the ground for the fort, returned
the next day to visit his Maria.
Sweet, sweet is the intercourse between two
young and virtuous lovers, who are aware of possessing,
unchangeably and entirely, each other's affections.
But although such intercourse be sweet
to them, the detail of the conversations by which
it is carried on is seldom so to others. It is the
presence of the beloved object, the thousand
nameless charms which each sees in the other, and
which no other can see, much less describe, or
even if described, could feel, far more than the
sentiments or language which they utter, that constitute
the delight, the ecstasy of their private interviews,
and their solitary rambles.
For this reason I will refrain from relating to
the reader the many conversations that now took
place between Charles Adderly and his Maria, at
their secret and confidential meetings. There
was one, however, which I shall relate, because it
touched upon a topic, of which the reader may require
some explanation, namely, the cause of that
nuptial ceremony, for which Charles so ardently
sighed, not taking place, although, with a secret
view to its accomplishment, he had brought with
him, as chaplain to the expedition, a person qualified
for its performance.
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“Why delay my happiness, my love?” said he.
“There is now no obstacle to its accomplishment—
there is no reason for its delay. You talk of
my father's sanction. Tonnaleuka has infused the
idea into your mind that it is necessary. But,
Maria, believe me, it is not. When the vows are
once uttered, you are then my wife in defiance of
human power or opposition.”
“I know.” replied Maria, “that by the institutions
of your country, your father could not dissolve
our marriage. It is not that which I dread;
but I dread the displeasure he would manifest, and
justly too, at its taking place without his knowledge
and consent. No; I never will become the
wife of any man who, by making me such, will
displease his relations.”
“But I have no reason to suppose that my father
would be displeased, at least if he knew you as I
do, I am persuaded he would not, at your becoming
his daughter.”
“But, Charles,” said she, smiling, “do you not
remember that he does not know me? or, if he
did, how are you sure that he would estimate me
as highly as you have been pleased to do? No—
he might look upon, what you have thought proper
to call my worth, in a very different light;
and in place of being an acceptable daughter-in-law,
if we were to marry under present circumstances,
the probability is, that I should be considered
by him as an intruder into his family, and
treated, and perhaps deservedly so, as such.”
“Believe me, Maria,” he returned, “that I
know my father well. I am his only son; and he
has ever been the kind consulter of my happiness.
When the sacred knot is tied, he will not seek to
dissolve it, not so much because he would know
the thing impossible, as because he would know
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that it would make me miserable, permanently and
supremely miserable!”
“But, suppose even this indulgence,” she replied,
“or rather, this forgiveness on his part to take
place, in consequence of parental tenderness, even
after you had acted disrespectfully towards him,
by marrying without his knowledge—think of it,
Charles!—would not so much goodness be a high
aggravation of your offence, in being guilty of
such disrespect to so kind a father? No, Charles,
I cannot bear, I will not consent, that you should
act so unworthily, so little like yourself—”
“Ah! too rigid, too austere girl!” he exclaimed;
“you place too much importance upon this
matter of my father sanctioning our nuptials. It
is but a trifling consideration—”
“How, Charles!” she said, interrupting him;
“O do not let me hear you call behaving disrespectfully
to your father, and such a father as, I
doubt not, yours is, a trifling consideration. Surely
your good sense and filial affection have yielded,
in this instance, to your wishes.”
“Oh Maria! understand me before you condemn
me. I respect, I honour my father, as much
as ever son did a parent. But surely, in comparison
to spending, perhaps, another long year of
privation from the bliss of calling you my own,
the taking of this step without his knowledge, under
circumstances so difficult to procure it, if it
be at all an aberration from duty, is but a trifling
one. O consent, my love! Depend upon my
assurance, that you have nothing to fear from the
measure.”
“Were I to be so weak as to comply with your
wishes,” said she, “it might indeed happen that
your father would not be absolutely inexorable.
He might not for ever cast you off from his affections
for our fault. But still, Charles, we would
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have committed a fault. We would have given a
kind and tender parent cause of offence; which
would ever afterwards be, at least to me, and let
me say, I believe also to you, a source of uneasiness.
He might forgive our error; but I am convinced
that we ourselves never should forget it.
O! let us not commit it, if we want to be truly
happy with each other. Let not impatience cause
us to do wrong. Providence may yet remove all
obstacles to our union. We may yet be happy
without being guilty; or, if we should not, let us
at least never be guilty, and then we never will
be thoroughly unhappy.”
“Lovely maiden!” exclaimed Charles, struck
with admiration at the purity of her sentiments,
although so much in opposition to his wishes;
“you are too good, too angelical in your principles,
as well as in your charms, for an erring mortal like
me. But I will be guided by you. If I have not
virtue to resist temptation to error, I will learn it
of you. You will be the monitor of my mind, as
you have been the charmer of my eyes—you will
instruct me, as you have fascinated me—you will
excite me to virtue, as you have warmed me to
love—and, in the end, make me happy in the approbation
of my own conduct, as I now am in the
admiration of yours!”
A day or two after the foregoing conversation,
Charles retired from the camp at Shanapins to a
favourite walk, for meditation, which he had discovered
on the bank of the Monongahela. It was
one of those days of sunshine which sometimes,
even in the month of January, chequer the unsteady
climate around the head of the Ohio, and
make a ramble, at that usually inclement season,
inviting. The air was considerably warm; and,
although in hollow places that were shaded from
the rays of the sun, there were still lodgements of
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unmelted ice and snow, yet the general aspect of
the country showed that there had been a thaw of
several days continuance, as in all exposed situations
the snow had disappeared, and again displayed
the surface of the earth clothed with a variegated
garment of undecaying herbage and withered
leaves. The broad, and at this time, full stream
of the river flowed majestically past, exhibiting by
reflection, the reversed images of the high and
headlong banks on either side, hanging pendulous,
with all their woods upon them, within its glassy
bosom.
Charles sat down upon a protruding fragment
of stone, which formed the basement of a high
rock that arose from the margin of the stream.
He became soon absorbed in contemplating the
charms of his Maria, and comparing the superior
happiness he should enjoy in these solitudes, with
her for his daily and faithful companion through
life, than, without her, in the midst of all the gaieties,
grandeur, pleasures, and luxuries, that ingenuity
has ever invented for the gratification of social
life. In such a situation, when impressed
with such feelings, a romantic mind can hardly refrain
from becoming poetical; and Charles, as we
have seen, had already moistened his lips at the
Castalian fount. He therefore, on this occasion,
drew out his memorandum book and pencil, and
noted down the following lines, addressed to the
Monongahela.
Fair stream! though deep in forest glooms
Thou roll'st thy Indian-haunted tide,
Upon thy bank a maiden blooms,
The gem of nature, virtue's pride!
Let others choose the joys supplied
By art, on Thames' or Liffey's shore,
Give me upon thy sylvan side,
With her to live—I ask no more.
Fair stream! though never poet's lay
Hath bade the world thy name revere.
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Though history's page refrains to say
What heroes fought and conquer'd here—
Than Tweed's or Tyber's banks, more dear,
Is thy unchanted shore to me;
And warm'd to rapture, more sincere,
I worship charms possessed by thee!
For in seclusion's peaceful shade,
Fair nature oft delights to show
Some flower or gem, or beauteous maid,
Too lovely for the world to know.
Thus woodland roses often blow,
To bless with sweets the desert wild,
And thus, from thee my raptures flow,
Maria, nature's fairest child!
He had scarcely completed these stanzas, when
he heard the sound of footsteps approaching him,
and soon the form of Tonnaleuka, whom he had
not seen since his return to the west, stood before
him.
“Hail to thee, my son!” said the prophet. “I
am glad to see thee yet safe. But thou comest in
an evil hour to visit this land, for thy safety will
be endangered. Thy enemies are vigilant and
strong, and they will soon become active. Still
thou art welcome! and I hope the great Being
will protect thee from the perils thou art doomed
to encounter.”
“Father,” replied Charles, “since my arrival,
I have longed much to see you. The dangers
you speak of, I have anticipated from the enemy.
But if they arrive not, before we have raised our
defences, I will not fear them. The season, I expect,
will till then protect us.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” said the prophet;
“the season will not protect you, neither will
your defences; and your numbers are insufficient.
But prepare your ramparts with what haste you
can. From behind them you may at least treat
for safety, if you cannot fight for victory. My
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son, I came to warn you, that you may be wary,
for your foe is stronger than you.”
“Father,” replied Charles, “you are ever kind
to me. You have been my deliverer. You
would now be my guardian. But oh! my soul is
sad, my life is weary, and I almost wish to die.
You possess the power, if any earthly being possesses
it, to procure me relief from my troubles.
May I crave your assistance, for alas! what good
will protecting me from destruction do, if my existence
is to be miserable!
“Father, I love—thou knowest it. Thou knowest
how ardently, how devotedly—ah no; thou
canst not know that. No one can know what I
feel for the loveliest, the dearest of maidens!
“Father—on revisiting the Wilderness, I rejoiced,
for I thought that she would then become my
own. I brought with me one qualified, according
to our custom, to join us in marriage. But alas,
she, at this time, refuses to unite her fate with
mine. Now, when she might make me happy,
she will not, and misfortune may interfere, alas!
I much dread it, to prevent us from ever again enjoying
such an opportunity. You, you alone, my
father, whom she reveres as a messenger of God,
can alter her determination. Oh! let me implore
thee to interfere. Let me beg thee, as thou valuest
my happiness and my regard for life, to show
her that she is unnecessarily cruel—to show her
that she is too austerely scrupulous in respect to
matters of but trifling moment, when compared
with the privation to which she condemns me.”
“Son,” replied the prophet—“I know the desire
of your heart. I also know her determination,
and I approve of it. You are too impatient,
my son, and you are wrong. She is prudent, and
I rejoice that she is so. Were she your wife,
think you, would she not be exposed during the
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coming troubles, for alas! I see them approaching
fast, to perils and calamities, from which, in her
private, obscure situation, as the daughter of Gilbert
Frazier, she will be exempt?”
“Think seriously, my son, and if you do so,
you will, if your love be for her welfare, and not
your own gratification, approve of her resolution,
and attempt not to seduce her from it.”
“Father,” replied Charles, eagerly, and greatly
agitated. “Can you—Oh, heavens! how can
you torture me, by affecting to doubt the purity,
the disinterestedness of my love for that angel!
Prefer her welfare to my own gratification! Ah!
if my heart did not tell me that I did so, I would
tear it from my body, and cast it to the wolves to
be devoured, or to the more cruel Chippeways, to
be consumed in the flames of their animosity.
But, father! could she not be my wife, and live in
security?”
“No, my son—not, at least, with equal ease
and propriety. If she were so connected with
you, she would have responsibilities upon her,
from which she is now free. Besides, I know her
objection is on account of your not possessing
the sanction of your father. She knows herself
to be pennyless, and she is not ignorant of the
value which men of the world, like your father,
place upon wealth. She has a right, therefore,
to anticipate his displeasure both to you, and to
herself, if she should encourage you to a clandestine
union.
“My son, I know all this; and can you ask me
to bid her do wrong? Nay, if you solicit her with
your eyes open to all these things, I must accuse
you of preferring your own gratification to her
welfare.
“And, hear me, my son—should your solicitations
succeed, you would soon afterwards, when
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the evils I predict should come upon you, severely
condemn your own rashness.”
“Oh, father, forbear!” cried Charles, “your
words make me wretched! Tell me what I must
do?”
“With respect to Maria,” said the prophet,
“exert patience; and with respect to your enemies,
circumspection. This is my counsel.”
“With respect to the enemy, I shall follow it,”
replied Charles, “and with respect to Maria, I
shall endeavour—yes, I shall exert patience, although
it should kill me.”
“Then, my son, receive my blessing, and may
the great father lead you safely through the perilous
times, that are drawing near! Farewell! be
prudent and be patient.”
So saying, Tonnaleuka ascended the banks, and
left Charles fixed to the spot, in a stupor of intense
feeling, compounded of admiration, disappointment,
and grief almost approaching to despair.
In a short time, however, his agitation began
to subside, and making a great effort to recover
at least the appearance of serenity, he returned
to the camp, in order to encourage his men
to expedition in forwarding the intended fortification.
END OF VOLUME I.
