Transcript

Mary Stukeley · December Tales

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Section one of December Tales by William h Ainsworth. This LibriVox recording is in
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the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker Mary Stukeley. My prime of youth
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is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish
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of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tears, and
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all my goods is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled,
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and yet I saw no sun, And now I live, and now my
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life is done chidiock Tichborne. I am no fatalist. But if ever individual
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was subject to the influence of a prevailing destiny, a destiny which has blighted
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his hopes and run counter to all the views and prospects of his life,
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and changed completely his situation, habits, feelings, and almost transformed him into
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a different being, I am that one. But I have no wish to
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extenuate my faults or crimes with a flimsy excuse that my actions were controlled by
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some unknown but powerfully operating cause compelling me to pursue a preordained course of existence.
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On the contrary, I am persuaded that such a doctrine is wholly inconsistent
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with the principles of religion and subversive of morality. No I feel. I
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know that I was free from the first to choose between good and evil,
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that I had a perpetual option of adopting or rejecting any given course of action.
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Unhappily, my choice was an erroneous one. Nor did I perceive my
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mistake till it could not be rectified without violent passions, and naturally disposed to
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quiet and retirement. I have been, by a concurrence of circumstances, reduced
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to a state of misery, which has dried up the natural current of my
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feelings and rendered my heart once the habitation of the tenderest emotions, a wilderness
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and place of burning sorrow. The early years of my life I pass over
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as being of no importance to my story. They passed in a regular,
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uninterrupted course of happiness. They are days that we recur to with feelings of
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pleasure and regret, days of joy that, once gone never again return for
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life's enchanted cup, but sparkles near the brim. Yet, though we dwell
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on them with feelings of rapture, they are times of which little can be
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said by the biographer of his own life. Their very serenity, and the
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uniformity of their placid delights precludes the possibility of making them part of a narration.
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Like a landscape of level country, which we look upon with pleasure,
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but without intense feelings of admiration, they present no prominent points of view on
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which a writer can dwell. It is with unusual occurrences, with narrations of
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deep misfortune or vivifying joy, the harsh rocks and dazzling beauties of the landscape
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of life that he has to deal. I was about the age when youth
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begins to be lost in manhood when I saw Mary Stukeley. I was on
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a visit at a friend's rambling one morning, among the most beautiful scenery I
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ever knew. I saw this fair creature, I saw and loved her.
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I know these first sight affections are not much in vogue at this time of
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day. I even acknowledged the justness of the ridicule, which is thrown out
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with an unsparing hand against them, like most other reasoners making an exception in
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favor of my own peculiar case, I lost no time in inquiring after the
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divinity who had engaged my heart, and learnt that She was the daughter of
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a neighboring gentleman, a widower. I learnt also that her pecuniary expectations were
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not great. But what was this to me? I had enough for us
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both, besides what lover of one and twenty ever inquired into his mistress's rent
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roll or sought for other treasures that were contained in her own lovely self.
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She had a brother about a year older than herself. I wrote to my
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parents to obtain their approbation of my choice. It was easily granted, and
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I assailed my charmer with all love's artillery of size, and entreaties and letters,
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and everything which I thought might win her smile. I was not altogether
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without success. She listened to me with patience, and I flattered myself with
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pleasure. I pressed my suit, and at last she acknowledged that she loved
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me. Beautiful visions of former happiness. Why must my reminiscences of joy be
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ever accompanied with a pang of the comparison of my past and present state?
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Yet though I reflect on it with the severest pain, there are thoughts connected
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with the subject which I dwell upon, if not with pleasure, yet with
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something approaching to it. I cannot help feeling a complaisant emotion at remembering that
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a being like Mary did not think me unworthy her esteem and affection. I
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love to think of the walks we have had together, when the mournful rustling
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of winds among the trees and long grass, and the lengthening shadows told us
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the approach of evening. I cannot forget the feelings with which I then looked
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upon the beauties of nature. My heart had not then lost its facility of
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receiving such impressions. It was not blunted with the attacks of grief, nor
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jaundiced with the bitterness of disappointment. Those were happy days when, with her
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hand clasped in mine and her beautiful eyes beaming love, we wandered o'er plains
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and valleys, where streamy mountains swell their shadowy grandeur, o'er the narrow dell,
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where moldering piles and forests intervene, mingling with darker tints the living green
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no circling hills, the ravished eye to bound heaven, Earth, and ocean
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blazing all around. Such was my first love, and their feelings in a
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first love which no subsequent attachment can yield the realization of those visions that the
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imagination has long been wont to create, and the mind to dwell upon the
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floating and indistinct ideas or beautiful from their very undefinedness of rapture and confidence and
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happiness which the warmth of youthful feeling infuses into youthful hearts. The novelty of
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the emotion, the exquisite vibration of hope and fear, and joy and sadness,
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the devotedness with which the soul is giving up to one object and one
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passion conspire to give charms to the dream of first love, which are but
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faintly shadowed in a subsequent attachment. The day was fixed for our marriage.
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I anticipated it as may be conceived with ecstatic joy. I thought my bliss
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was certain, Alas how soon was I to find the futility of such hopes.
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The evening before the appointed day, I walked out alone to enjoy uninterrupted
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the pleasure of my varied emotions. Mary was at home, reading a new
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work I had procured for her. It was a lovely summer's evening. The
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sun had set, the day had been intensely hot, and the lightning blazed
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from the sky in vivid sheets. I gazed on it with pleasure as it
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flashed from the ether and was reflected on the rippling waves of the river which
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ran beside me. On the banks of the stream, dark evergreens lifted their
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frowning tops, mingled with the lighter green of the willow and the beach.
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A lovely country spread itself around me in every direction, and the view was
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terminated by the dusky blue mountains that rose in dim majesty, scarcely distinguishable from
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the clouds that rolled on their tops. I stood to look on the scene
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and enjoy the freshness of the air. I was filled with pleasant musings.
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I was in a state of what might be called affluence. I was a
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lover and beloved, and the next day was to crown my happiness. How
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little I imagined what tomorrow would bring forth, that I should be a fugitive
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and a wanderer. While I was thus engaged, a female passed by me
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at a little distance. She was above the middle, size of a commanding
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appearance and the most expressive countenance I think I ever beheld. She was not,
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perhaps what many might call beautiful, but I never knew any one who
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possessed so much the power of interesting. At a first look, her face
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was rather pale, but the features were striking, and her dark eye threw
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a vivid intelligence over their expression. Her black hair was curled in ringlets that
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clustered about her temples, and one lock waved down upon a beautifully shaped neck.
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There was perceivable, too, a lurking trance of darker passions, which
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seemed to be disguised under a habitually assumed look of softness. By her dress,
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she appeared below the middle station of society, but there was a dignity,
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an ease in her manner, which repelled the idea. I certainly,
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for the time forgot the subjects of which I had been thinking. Even Mary's
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image slept from my mind. As she was pursuing her road, her foot
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slipped and she fell. I flew to assist her and inquired if her fall
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had done her injury. She complained of having sprained her ankle, and I
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offered my arm, which, after some excuses and apologies, she accepted.
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I really cannot tell how it was, but I felt a strange emotion at
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being thus situated. I was pleased. I certainly ought not then to have
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been pleased, at least peculiarly pleased by the society of any woman but one,
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I said. I was pleased, but it was a pleasure mixed with
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something like fear. There was something unaccountable about her, at least I thought
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so, which prevented me from feeling so at ease as I had always been
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with other females. A great part of this might be the fruit of imagination,
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for I had always a great inclination for the marvelous, and had spent
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many an hour in my younger days in framing plots of castles and giants,
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sphinxes, hippogriffes, and knights and ladies, all mighty, terrific and wonderful.
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As I thought, then, forms that bore a shadowy likeness to those
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fabled things that sprung of old from men's imaginings. Each looked a fierce reality,
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or seemed nourished among the wonders of the deep and wilder than the poet
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ever dreamed. As we walked along, we conversed on various subjects. Her
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discourse was interesting, fluent, and animated, perhaps too much so, for
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it was interspersed with remarks whose general truth and well directed pungency, scarcely atoned
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for their freedom and boldness, which I did not altogether admire. Perhaps she
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perceived this, for she changed the style of her conversation, and I began
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to listen to her with considerable delight. It may be mentioned as an instance
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of my absence of mind whilst in her company, that I forgot to think,
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far less to inquire where we were going. Indeed, I seemed to
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be in a dream, a dream, the awakening from which has been terrible.
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We arrived at a spot the most delightful I ever beheld. The earth
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sank into a kind of natural basin, the sides of which were covered with
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the highest green and enameled with the loveliest flowers. Hairbells, daisies, wee
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crimson tipped flowers, and innumerable others of all colors gushed out in profusion.
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Water lilies waved their graceful heads on the brink of a spring that bubbled from
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the bottom of the spot, and, oozing away through the long grass and
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weeds which impeded its progress, trickled down its narrow channel. With almost imperceptible
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murmurings, my companion complained of increased pain occasioned as she thought. By walking.
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We sat down on a large stone which seemed to have lain there undisturbed
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by ages. A large oak spread over its branching arms, the massy growth
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of twice a hundred years, to which the ivy clung and twined about in
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fantastic wreathings. The magic of the spot, the light whispering of the winds
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through the quivering leaves, the gurgling of the brook as it boiled in mimic
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rage over the stones and other obstacles which presented themselves to its course. The
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perfume of the air. The witching hour, joined with a strange feeling of
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inquietude, the cause of which I feared to search into. Overpowered my senses
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and unhinged my faculties. A thought of Mary intruded itself on me for the
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first time. I felt it an intrusion, and strove to banish it.
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Meanwhile, my companion had remained silent. At last, she spoke in a
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sportive manner to me on the cause of my abstraction. I did not answer.
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In plucking a flower from the ground, she offered it to me.
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I snatched at it. I caught her hand in mine. She smiled and
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I was at her feet. I was startled by the approach of a footstep.
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I looked up, and to my confusion, beheld the brother of Mary.
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He had never been favorable to my passion for his sister, and I
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feared the worst consequences from his rage and dislike to me. I fled to
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him. He passed on and strove to avoid me, but I followed and
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overtook him. I said something about explanations, sir. He replied, I
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wish for no further explanations. The thing explains itself. Meanwhile, I wish
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at present to be alone. I wish you a good night. I remonstrated
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with him, and he replied in terms which, however warm, were I
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must confess authorized by my conduct to be brief. Our quarrel became serious.
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He gave me a challenge. I accepted it, and we parted. I
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rushed home and state of madness. At the gate, I met Mary.
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She laughed and playfully attempted to stop me, but I passed by with a
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violence that allowed no time for converse. I flew to my room, and,
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flinging myself into a chair, gave myself up to the flood of passion.
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And misery that overwhelmed me. And when I reflected it was misery I
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had been seduced. I could not think by what evil influence from the allegiance
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I owed to Mary, to her who tomorrow should become my wife, and
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ere the nuptial hour should arrive, I might be the murderer, where fallen
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by the hand of her brother. At any rate, it was probable,
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almost certain, that he would disclose what he knew it might be. Nay,
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was it not likely that she should feel indignant at my conduct and cast
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me off as unworthy of her? I was filled with agonizing apprehensions. The
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tumult of my mind was dreadful. In about an hour would be the time
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at which I was to meet Mary's brother. I took out my pistols and
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loaded them, and was almost ready to use them to put an end to
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my existence. Whilst I was thus employed, I heard a gentle rap at
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the door. I went and opened it and found Mary. I went back,
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and she followed me. The first thing she saw was my pistols,
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which I had forgotten to conceal. What are these for? Was her question,
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pointing to them. I was so confounded that for some time I could
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make no answer. At last, I said that I had been cleaning them.
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I looked at her. Her eyes were swollen and inflamed with weeping,
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and I cursed myself for bringing misery on her. She held out her hand
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to me, what ails you you seem unwell? I took her hand,
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Mary forgive me, and I clasped her in my arms and wept over her
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in convulsive sorrow. She was alarmed at my behavior, and earnestly entreated me
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to tell her the cause of it. I became more calm. She spoke
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with me for some time, and I had resolved to disclose the whole to
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her. When the clock striking reminded me of my engagement. I threw myself
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on her neck, talked something incoherently about her brother, and snatching up my
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pistols, I broke from her. I rushed, in a state of desperation
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towards the place appointed for our meeting. When passing through a grove which sheltered
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the back of the house, some one caught me by the arm. I
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looked, and it was the detested being, the woman through whom I had
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brought myself into my present situation. I would rather have met with the sight
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of a basilisk. I endeavored to get away, but she commanded me to
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stay, and I obeyed. You hate me, she said, I have
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been unwillingly the cause of your quarrel with the brother of your intended wife.
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Nay, be patient, I am here to serve you. I overheard all.
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I know where you are going. It is now in vain. He
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is dead, dead, I exclaimed, Who is dead? Speak woman Stukeley.
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For some time I could not speak. Horror and amazement deprived me of
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all power of utterance. Tell me how was this, Who did it?
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When? Or where was it? Immediately after I had overheard the conversation between
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you and him, she continued, I left the spot. In an hour
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after that time, he was found murdered. No robbery had been committed on
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his person, His watch and what money he had were safe. Suspicion has
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fallen on you and on me. And why ask nothing? She replied.
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Time presses in a short time. You will, unless you save yourself by
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flight, be apprehended. The evidence is strong against you. Some one heard
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you quarrel. He was seen with no one else. As you returned,
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you passed by the dead Man's hill, as they call it, a place
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out of the common road, and near where the body was found. Your
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strange behavior when you arrived at the house was noticed by the servants. Whether
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you are guilty or not, you know best. I've told you what I
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have heard, But haste. Every moment brings increasing danger. There are horses
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in the stable. She dragged me on, for I was so bewildered with
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the dreadful information that I possessed scarcely any power over myself. We stopped at
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the stable door. She left me, and in a few moments brought forth
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a horse, which she herself saddled and bridled. No, said I I
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will not fly. I am innocent and fear nothing. This is mere madness.
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She rejoined. Fly for the present Hereafter you may return. The real
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murderer will probably be discovered. Circumstances now overpower you, and you must yield
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to them. In the state of confusion in which I was, I was
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easily prevailed upon to do anything that is your safest road. Go to London.
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There you may be safe. Inquire for John Bell, the basket maker
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in blank Street. I will overtake you, conceal yourself, but you will
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want money. Take this, and she put a purse, seemingly well furnished
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into my hand. I endeavored to thank her. I forgot what evil she
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had been the cause of. To me, say nothing, she interrupted,
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Remember the misery I have brought upon you, perhaps, she added, you
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will not forget that I have endeavored to atone for it. There was something
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in her words and manner that touched me. Some one comes, she said,
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begone farewell. She disappeared, and I pursued as swiftly as I could
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the road she had pointed out to me. In the evening of the next
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day, I arrived at the metropolis faint and weary with exertion. My first
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course was to inquire for the place to which I had been directed. I
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found it with considerable difficulty. It was a small, dirty, uncomfortable house,
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but any place of refuge was acceptable. I inquired if I could have
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lodgings here. The man eyed me narrowly, and, beckoning to his wife,
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I supposed to look well after me. He went into a back room,
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from which he soon returned and asked me in. I entered and found,
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to my surprise the woman whom I had left when I departed from p
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She perceived my astonishment and said, you see, I am a quick traveler.
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I came by a nearer but more public road than you, which is
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the reason of my being here before you. She then ordered in some refreshment,
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which we ate together. We spoke little, and I shortly retired for
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the night. I retired, but not to rest, for the tumult of
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my thoughts effectually precluded sleep. Two days before I was happy. All my
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wishes were about to be crowned with fulfillment, and I had scarce a hope
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or desire for more. And now how different was my state? I was
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a fugitive and a wanderer, a proclaimed felon, branded as a murderer,
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compelled to shun society and to hide myself from the light of day. And
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Mary, what would she think of my conduct? I was charged with the
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murder of her brother. I had fled from justice, and of course my
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guilt would be proclaimed. And would she too think me a villain? Would
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she banish me from her memory? Or think of me only with hatred and
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abhorrence? These were questions I feared to answer. Appearances were strongly against me,
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And though hope whispered that Mary would frame excuses for my conduct and disbelieve
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the story of my guilt. Yet it was possible, it was most probable
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that it would be otherwise. From Mary. My thoughts turned to her,
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who had been the cause of this misery. There certainly was something in her
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that excited not mere interest. It was not admiration, for she was rather
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to be feared than admired. It was something which powerfully attracted my thoughts towards
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and kept her idea almost continually in view. I was unable to discover why
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she had taken any interest in me. For that she did so, her
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conduct made evident. Why should she follow me, assist and conceal me?
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What could I be to her? Before that fatal day, I had never,
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to my knowledge so much as seen her. I ran over the events
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of the evening. When I saw her, I could scarcely think that accident
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alone had produced the meeting which had led to such important consequences. Then the
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murder of Mary's brother, happening at that exact time, and attended with such
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circumstances, flexed me. Such were the thoughts which for a long time prevented
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me from reposing in slumber. At last I slept, but my sleeping were
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more dreadful than my waking hours. Horrid visions thronged around me. Now I
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saw the murdered stukely struggling with some one whose features I could not perceive,
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and crying out for vengeance against his murderer. Then the vision would appear,
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and in its place was Merry, pale and frantic, seeking for him who
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had injured her. These and a thousand other fantasies of a like nature rose
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up to my distempered fantasy. At last morning came and drove them away,
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But it was only to be succeeded by real and heartfelt miseries. For near
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a month I continued here, during the whole of which I saw no one
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but the man of the house, his wife, and Eliza, for so
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she desired me to call her. The conduct of this last was singular to
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all my inquiries as to her motives for attending to me, et cetera.
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She gave me none but general answers, which afforded me no information. Her
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behavior was contrary to my expectation, particularly delicate and seemingly that of a woman
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accustomed to the higher ranks of society. Let it be not imagined that any
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affection for her existed in my breast. All feelings of that nature were swallowed
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up in the attachment, which, although hopeless, I still nourished for Mary.
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At last, a circumstance occurred which explained in some manner the motives of
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her conduct. One morning, whilst I was sitting in my wretched chamber,
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I was alarmed by a noise below, as of several persons quarreling. I
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started up, and in a moment after Eliza rushed into the room. You
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are lost, she exclaimed, Here are the officers of justice. What said
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I? Is there no refuge? Well, then I added, after a
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moment's pause, let them come. I am ready for them. No,
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no, she answered, it must not be so. I cannot lose you.
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Thus, I love you. Promise to me that I shall be your
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wife, and I will save you. No, never I will perish.
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For was my answer, for I could not bear the thought of ruining by
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one blow all my hopes of being united to marry. The officers were approaching
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the door. Decide, said my companion. In a moment, it will
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be too late. The thought of my situation, of the ignominious death to
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which I should probably be doomed rushed into my mind. I shuddered at the
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prospect, and almost fainting with agitation, I promised. Eliza opened a door
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which I had never before seen. It had been concealed by an old screen
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which was placed before it, and we descended into a kind of cellar.
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Now you are safe, said she. No one but myself is acquainted with
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this place. Here we remained till the noise above had for some time entirely
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ceased. At last, my companion ventured up the steps by which we had
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descended, and, returning, assured me that the coast was clear, and
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I ascended into the room. We sat down, and for some time continued
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silent and without looking at each other. At last I turned my eyes towards
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her. She looked at me with a fixed and steady gaze, as if
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to pierce into the recesses of my soul. She rose. She advanced to
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me, do you remember your promise? I do, and am ready to
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fulfill it. Was my reply. You are ready to fulfill it, said
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she. You are ready to give your hand when you cannot give your heart.
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Be silent, she continued, as she perceived I was about to interrupt
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her. You are ready to marry a woman whom you do not cannot love
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I when you love another. When this is too much, I exclaimed,
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Why am I being thus tormented? I've promised, I am willing to perform
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what I have promised. What more do you require? Nothing? Nay,
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not so much? Think not that I am so vile a one that though
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a wretched and erring woman, I am so swallowed up in selfishness, that
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I have lost all feeling that, though I love and avow it to you,
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I would make you mine by compelling you to sacrifice all that is dear
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to you. Her voice faltered, she turned away. In a moment.
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After collecting herself, she added, I release you from your promise. She
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sank upon a chair and wept. I was now placed in a situation most
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embarrassing to me. I saw before me a woman who loved me, for
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I could not doubt the truth of what she said. And yet, when
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she had it in her power to indulge her wishes by compelling the performance of
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my promise, she had generously disdained to take advantage of it, but had
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left me free to follow the best of my inclination. And what return was
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I to make this behavior. Was I to consider myself as released from my
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engagement and inflict misery upon one who had watched over me and taken so deep
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an interest in my fate. I could not do it. I resolved to
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marry her. Probably I was influenced in this determination by the improbability of ever
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being united to her, whom my heart had chosen as its fondest object of
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adoration. To be the husband of Mary seemed almost out of the reach of
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possibility. I walked up to Eliza. I took her hand. It is
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useless to relate our conversation. We were married. I was married to whom,
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strange as it may appear, I never knew. Indeed, when I
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look over this part of my life, I am inclined to regard the whole
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of it as a troubled dream. But the effects, which I still fatally
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experience, tell too plainly that it was reality and reality alone which has wrought
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so great a change in me. Eliza was a woman, certainly of very
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superior talents, probably of violent and irregular passions. Of these, however,
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I know little. During the short period of our union, her conduct was
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without reproach. Her faults, perhaps I am making use of too lenient an
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expression, were those of a strong mind unrestrained by prudence or the force of
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early restriction. The stream, which, if confined within proper limits, would
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have moved on in gentle calmness, spreading fertility in its course, if abandoned
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to its unchecked violence, rushes on a sweeping torrent of destruction. So had
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it been with her, and such will ever be the effect when a too
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vigorous imagination and talented confidence urge their possessor to pass the bounds which society has
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imposed upon its members. Three days after this event, the real murderer of
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Stukeley was discovered. I might now return in safety to my home and to
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my friends. But there was one to whom I could not return. That
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happiness I had forfeited. I determined never again to see Mary. I removed
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with Eliza to a small house at a considerable distance from the place in which
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I had been so long immured. She excelled in painting and needlework, and
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the produce of her labors maintained us both. I could not bear, however,
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to subsist by her exertions alone, and I resolved when my health,
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which had been injured by my long confinement, was in some degree restored to
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return and claim my property. It was near four months before I was able
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to commence my journey. I departed, however, and the next day brought
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me to my habitation. The congratulation of friends, the rejoicing of domestics,
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and other circumstances which took place at my return are of too little importance to
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my narrative to be dwelt upon. In the course of a week, my
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affairs were completely arranged, and I prepared to revisit London. It was a
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little past sunset when I passed the residence of Mary. What conflicts of emotions
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thronged upon my mind? How short a time had passed over since at this
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very spot I had walked with her, whom I loved, and the bower
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in which we had sat at evening and watched the beautiful setting of the sun
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as he sunk enveloped in clouds of many a varied hue. I could not
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resist the temptation of again taking a look at the beloved scenes. I was
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beside the old tree and sprang over the wall. I was surprised by a
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faint shriek. I turned round. In a moment. I held Mary in
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my arms, with what mingled feelings, I pressed her to my breast,
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joy almost amounting to rapture, at again clasping the object of my affection.
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Sorrow, shame, and disappointment embittered the meeting. She had heard, of
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course, of the discovery of the murder of her brother, and rejoiced in
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the proof of my innocence. She inquired after the motives and manner of my
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escape, and where I had been since. I answered her questions, suppressing
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every circumstance relating to my wife. She pressed me to enter the house and
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assured me that her friends were much interested in my fate. I suffered myself
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to be prevailed on. Why should I delay to complete my narration? I
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loved her. Some months passed over, and we were married. I know
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not what it was that thus far blunted the stings of conscience. But after
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this second marriage I was miserable in vain. I found myself beloved and esteemed
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by all around me. I could not esteem. I could not do otherwise
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than hate myself. I reflected on my conduct towards Eliza, on her a
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devotedness to me, which ought in my eyes, to have counterbalanced all her
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failings. I was indeed most miserable. My spirits sunk. I was haunted
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by fearful visions, and I was weary of my existence. Mary perceived it
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and inquired anxiously into the cause of it. I evaded her questions for a
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considerable time. At last I confessed the whole to her. From that moment
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her health declined. To think that she had united herself to one who had
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behaved so basely to another of her own sex was terrible to her. She
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said little that I perceived that the blow had struck to her heart, and
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I detested myself as the cause of it. It seemed as if I was
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destined to be the destruction of all who loved, trusted, and confided me.
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One evening, we were seated in the bower, where in happier days
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we had enjoyed such pure and unalloyed bliss. She had been in better health
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that day than for some time. We conversed with a pleasure which we had
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not felt for many a long and tedious day before. Towards the close of
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the evening, she lost her vivacity and became more thoughtful and pensive. Leaning
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her head on my breast, she said, with a hollow voice, I
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must leave you. I was alarmed. I pressed her cheek to my lips.
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She attempted to rise, but sink on the ground. I am dying.
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I caught her in my arms. She was dead. I have long
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been a wanderer. I have sought for rest, but in vain the burning
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sting of remorse has wrinkled in my breast, and life has long been a
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burden to me. I have made many enquiries after Eliza, but in vain,
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peace be to her in her good or bad qualities. Probably no one
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now is interested, but the wretched solitary who pens these lines, she will
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with him be forgotten. Oblivion, the refuge of the miserable, will shroud
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our names and its gloomy curtain. Perhaps it might have been as well if
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oblivion had suffered to fall over the events contained in this imperfect narrative, instead
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of adding another to the already countless records of human follies and of human crimes.
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But it may serve to show the evil effects which ensue from the first
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false step. They cannot be foretold and are irremediable. I have been loved,
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and now I am unknown and uncared for. I had friends and am
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desolate. I have striven to bury my sllow in the whirl of giddy pleasure,
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But pleasure has lost its excitement and is succeeded by languor and disappointment.
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I might yet have known something like composure, but the very source of happiness
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was dried up. The sensibilities of my nature were blunted. The spring of
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the gentle affections flows no longer. Apathy and despair are all that I can
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expect. Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I
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have been, or weep as I could once have wept? O'er many a
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vanished scene, as springs and deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they
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be so mid the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
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End of Section one, Mary Stukeley