er in my ears, and will be my
death-watch. They can have but one meaning, be sure of it--she always
expressed herself with the exactest propriety. That was one of the
things for which I loved her--shall I live to hate her for it? My poor
fond heart, that brooded over her and the remains of her affections as
my only hope of comfort upon earth, cannot brook this new degradation.
Who is there so low as me? Who is there besides (I ask) after the
homage I have paid her and the caresses she has lavished on me, so vile,
so abhorrent to love, to whom such an indignity could have happened?
When I think of this (and I think of nothing else) it stifles me. I am
pent up in burning, fruitless desires, which can find no vent or object.
Am I not hated, repulsed, derided by her whom alone I love or ever did
love? I cannot stay in any place, and seek in vain for relief from the
sense of her contempt and her ingratitude. I can settle to nothing:
what is the use of all I have done? Is it not that very circumstance
(my thinking beyond my strength, my feeling more than I need about so
many things) that has withered me up, and made me a thing for Love to
shrink from and wonder at? Who could ever feel that peace from the
touch of her dear hand that I have done; and is it not torn from me for
ever? My state is this, that I shall never lie down again at night nor
rise up in the morning in peace, nor ever behold my little boy's face
with pleasure while I live--unless I am restored to her favour. Instead
of that delicious feeling I had when she was heavenly-kind to me, and my
heart softened and melted in its own tenderness and her sweetness, I am
now inclosed in a dungeon of despair. The sky is marble to my thoughts;
nature is dead around me, as hope is within me; no object can give me
one gleam of satisfaction now, nor the prospect of it in time to come.
I wander by the sea-side; and the eternal ocean and lasting despair and
her face are before me. Slighted by her, on whom my heart by its last
fibre hung, where shall I turn? I wake with her by my side, not as my
sweet bedfellow, but as the corpse of my love, without a heart in her
bosom, cold, insensible, or struggling from me; and the worm gnaws me,
and the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a hopeless, endless
sorrow. I have lost the taste of my food by feverish anxiety; and my
favourite beverage, which used to refresh me when I got up, has no
moisture in it. Oh! cold,