But Edward saw that his father, who was advanced in years, looked upon a separation from his son as an eternal one, and the thought gave so much pain, that Edward gave up the idea of expatriation. Shortly after, however, the misunderstanding with Major Dawson took place, and Fanny and Edward were as much severed as if dwelling in different zones. Under such circumstances, those lines were peculiarly precious, and many a kiss had Edward impressed upon them, though Augusta thought them fitter for the exercise of her teeth than her lips. In fact, Edward did little else than think of Fanny; and it is possible his passion might have degenerated into mere love-sickness, and enfeebled him, had not his desire of proving himself worthy of his mistress spurred him to exertion, in the hope of future distinction. But still the tone of tender lament pervaded all his poems, and the same pocket-book whence the verses which caused so much commotion fell contained the following also, showing how entirely Fanny possessed his heart and occupied his thoughts:--
When the sun sinks to rest, And the star of the west Sheds its soft silver light o'er the sea; What sweet thoughts arise, As the dim twilight dies-- For then I am thinking of thee! Oh! then crowding fast Come the joys of the past, Through the dimness of days long gone by, Like the stars peeping out, Through the darkness about, From the soft silent depth of the sky.
And thus, as the night Grows more lovely and bright With the clust'ring of planet and star, So this darkness of mine Wins a radiance divine From the light that still lingers afar. Then welcome the night, With its soft holy light! In its silence my heart is more free The rude world to forget, Where no pleasure I've met Since the hour that I parted from thee.
But we must leave love verses, and ask pardon for the few remarks which the subject tempted, and pursue our story.
The first prompting of Augusta's anger, when she had recovered her burst of passion, was to write “_such a letter_” to Furlong--and she spent half a day at the work; but she could not please herself--she tore twenty at least, and determined, at last, not to write at all, but just wait till he returned and overwhelm him with reproaches. But, though she could not compose a letter, she composed herself by the endeavour, which acted as a sort of safety-valve to let off the superabundant steam; and it is wonderful how general is this result of sitting down to write angry letters: people vent themselves of their spleen on the uncomplaining paper, which silently receives words a listener would not. With a pen for our second, desperate satisfaction is obtained with only an effusion of ink, and when once the pent-up bitterness has oozed out in all the blackness of that fluid--most appropriately made of the best galls--the time so spent, and the “letting of words,” if I may use the phrase, has cooled our judgment and our passions together; and the first letter is torn: 't is _too_ severe; we write a second; we blot and interline till it is nearly illegible; we begin a third; till at last we are tired out with our own angry feelings, and throw our scribbling by with a “Pshaw! what's the use of it?” or, “It's not worth my notice;” or, still better, arrive at the conclusion, that we preserve our own dignity best by writing without temper, though we may be called upon to be severe.