ngs. I required no relaxation to enjoy them more
perfectly, for pleasure seemed to succeed pleasure in infinite variety.
It was too glorious to last. The end was approaching, and that end was
very bitter.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

A SHORT CHAPTER AND A MISERABLE ONE--THE LESS THAT IS SAID OF IT THE
BETTER.

I had been living in the plantation nearly three months. My little
wife, for such I held her to be, had made much progress in her
education--more in my affection she could not. I had already put her
into joining hand; and I began to be as proud of her dawning intellect
as I was of her person and of her love. I had renounced my country,
and, in good faith, I had intended to have held by her for ever; and,
when I should find myself in a country where marriage with one born in
slavery was looked upon as no opprobrium, I had determined that the
indissoluble ceremony should be legally performed. To do all this I was
in earnest; but, events, or destiny, or by whatever high-sounding term
we may call those occurrences which force us on in a path we wish not to
tread, ruled it fearfully otherwise.

I religiously abstained from looking towards the ship, or even the sea;
yet, I plainly saw, by the alternations of hope, and joy, and fear, on
Josephine's sweet countenance, that something of the most vital
importance was about to take place. They could not conceal from me that
parties of men had been searching for me, because, for a few days, I had
been in actual hiding with Josephine, three or four miles up the woody
mountain. I must hurry over all this: for the recollection of it, even
at this great lapse of time, is agonising. The night before the _Eos_
sailed she would not sleep--her incessant tears, the tremulous energy
with which clasped me and held me for hours, all told the secret that I
wished not to know. All that night she watched, as a mother watches a
departing and first-born child--tearfully--anxiously--but, overcome with
fatigue, and the fierce contention of emotions, as the morning dawned,
her face drooped away from mine, her clasping arms gradually relaxed,
and, murmuring my name with a blessing, she slept. Did she ever sleep
again? May God pardon me, I know not!

I hung over her, and watched her, almost worshipping, until two hours
after sunrise. I blessed her as she lay there in all her tranquil
beauty, fervently, and, instead of my prayers, I repeated over and over
again my oath, that I would