“Come, come,” said I, perceiving he was melancholy, though I myself laboured under all the horrors he expressed——“come, let us not think; all will yet be well: I foresee it will; and you must know I have something of the prophet in my nature——perhaps the second sight.” I then told him my presentiments on leaving Goa, which much astonished him——still more when I acquainted him with the formal acts I had done in consequence thereof, by Mr. Henshaw’s advice, and with his privity.
In fact, our joy at meeting was reciprocally great, and in some respect cheered us for the time under all our miseries in hand, and the dreary prospect of those yet to come.
Perceiving that he stood as much in need of relief as I did when the Lascar relieved me by dividing his cloth, I took mine off, tore it in two, and gave him half of it: you may well conceive our misery from this, if other circumstances were wanting; that such a thing as a rag of linen, not worth six pence, was a very material accommodation to us both.
LETTER XLVIII.
Your Letter, occasioned by the account of my shipwreck and subsequent disaster, gave me, my amiable boy! as great pleasure as those disasters gave me pain. Your account, too, of John’s bursting into tears on the reading of it to him, had almost a similar effect upon myself: and I trust in the Almighty Disposer of Events, that that excellent turn of mind will be so fashioned by the education I give you, as to make it the source of boundless gratification and true greatness (by which I mean goodness) here, and of never-fading felicity hereafter. You say you cannot account for it, but you found more happiness at my escape, than misery at my misfortunes. I hail that circumstance as the strongest mark of perfect excellence of disposition. A great Moral Philosopher has laid it down as a maxim, that it is the surer mark of a good heart to sympathise with joy than with sorrow; and this instance only comes in aid of that opinion of you which my fond hopes have always nourished.
At the same time I must declare to you, that my pleasure at escaping shipwreck was by no means as great as the agony my mind underwent at the prospect now before me was poignant. I have already said; and indeed with truth, that I should have with much greater pleasure embraced death: I, who had been already some years in India, and had opportunities of hearing, as well from my Father as from other Officers in the Service, what the disposition of the Tyrant in whose power I had now fallen was, knew too well the horrors of my situation to feel anything like hope. The unmerciful disposition of Hyder, and all those in authority under him, and the cruel policy of the Eastern Chiefs, making the life of any one, particularly a British prisoner, at the best a precarious tenure, I did not know the moment when death might be inflicted upon me with perhaps a thousand aggravating circumstances: and at all events, the affairs which demanded my presence in India so very importunately as to urge me to all the fatigues and hardships of a passage over land, were, of themselves, sufficient to make my mind uneasy; but the abject state of want and nakedness in which it seemed I was likely to remain, struck a deep and damp horror to my heart, and almost unman’d me.
Mr. Hall and I, however, endeavoured with all our might to stem the headlong torrent of our fate——Melancholy preyed deeply and openly upon him, while I concealed mine, and endeavoured to cheer the sinking spirits of that noble youth, who, I perceived, was the prey rather of extreme sensibility than feebleness of mind. All the horrors of shivering nakedness, though, to a mind delicate like his, and a person reared in the lap of luxury, sufficiently goading, appeared as nothing when compared with one loss he had sustained in the depredations with which shipwreck is constantly followed up. In the cruel suspense between life and death, which I have already described, previous to my getting on shore, this amiable young man had secured and treasured next his heart, as the inseparable companion of his fate, a miniature portrait of a young Lady: it hung round his neck, and was, by the unfeeling villains who seized him on his landing, taken away. This cruel deprivation was an incessant corrosive to his mind——the copious source of anguish to his heart——the hourly theme of the most pathetic, afflicting exclamations. “Had I,” he would cry, “oh! had I had but the good fortune to have gone to the bottom while yet it hung about my neck, I should have been happy: but now, separated from the heavenly original, and bereft of the precious image, what is life? what would be life were I yet sure of it? What pleasure, what common content, has the world left for me? None——oh! none, none! Never shall this heart again know comfort!”
I did every thing I could to console him, and, as far as I could, prevent him from dwelling on those gloomy subjects. Our conversations were interesting and pathetic; but, alas! the picture, at every pause, chased away the slight impressions of the preceding converse: no sufferings of the body could countervail that loss——no consolation mitigate it; and amidst the horrid reflections which unparalleled calamity imposed upon his mind, the loss of that one dear relic rose paramount to all——and as every thought began, so it ended, with the picture.