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and was bleating for his companions. I now recollected the boat, and swam exhausted to the shore, while every moment I imagined I saw before me the extended hand of my friend which I should never more grasp. I rowed back more than half distracted. The water, when Campbell had sunk, was between twelve and fourteen feet deep, and, as I said before, remarkably transparent. Some people are capable of sustaining life under water far longer than others, and poor Campbell was of an extremely vigorous constitution. I saw him again more distinctly, and his appearance was in the utmost degree affecting. He seemed to be yet alive, for he sat upright, and grasped with one hand the stem of a large tangle; the broad frond of which waved sometimes over him as it was moved by the tide, while he moved convulsively his other arm and one of his legs.[1] I remember well, I cried out in agony, O if I had a rope! With great exertion, and by leaning over the boat with my arm and face under water, I tried to arouse his attention, by touching his hands with the oar. I was convinced that, had there been length of rope in the boat, I could have saved him. He evidently was not quite insensible, for upon repeatedly touching his hand, he let go his hold of the angle, and after feebly and ineffectually grasping at the oar, I saw him once more stretch up his hand, as if conscious that some person was endeavouring to assist him. He then fell slowly on his back, and lay calm, and still, among the sea weed.
Unconnected ravings, and frantic cries, could alone express the unsufferable anguish I endured.—His stretched out hand!—I often, often see it still! yet it is nearly thirty-seven years ago. But the heart that would not save his friend, that saw him about to perish, yet kept aloof in his last extremity, perhaps deserves that suffering which time seems rather to increase than alleviate.
It is in vain that I reason with myself,—that I say, "all this is too true,—I hesitated to save him,—I kept aloof from him,—I answered not his last cry for help,—I refused his outstretched hand, and saw him engulphed in the cruel waters,—but yet surely this did not spring from selfish or considerate care for my own safety. Before and since I have hazarded my life, with alertness and enthusiasm, to rescue others,—no cold calculating prudence kept me back; it was an instinctive and involuntary impulse, originating from a strong early impression, and on finding myself suddenly placed in circumstances which had been long dreaded in imagination!
But all this reasoning avails nothing. I still recollect the inestimable endowments and amiable disposition of my early and only friend,—memory still dwells upon our taking leave of the city,—our passage of the Clyde,—our researches and walks in the woodlands and sequestered glens of Cowal,—our moonlight sail on Lochfine,—our ascent of the mountain,—the splendid view of the sea and islands,—and our conversation on the summit,—the first cry of alarm,—the out-stretched hand and upbraiding look,—the appearance of the sinking body,—the bleating of the goat,—my friend's dying efforts among the sea-weed!
It is nearly seven and thirty years now; yet, day or night, I may almost say, a waking hour has not passed in which I have not felt part of the suffering that I witnessed convulsing the body of my poor friend, under the agonies of a strangely protracted death. Why then, will the reader say, does the writer of this melancholy story now communicate his miseries to the public? This natural question I will endeavour to answer. The body of Campbell was found, but the distracting particulars of his fate were unknown. They were treasured in my own bosom with the same secrecy with which a catholic bigot conceals the discipline, or whip of wire, which, in execution of his private penance, is so often dyed in his blood. I avoided every allusion to the subject, when the ordinary general inquiries had been answered, and it was too painful a subject for any one to press upon me for particulars. It was soon forgotten by all but me; and a long period has passed away, if not of secret guilt, at least of secret remorse. Accident led me, about a month since, to disclose the painful state of my mind to a friend in my neighbourhood, who
- ↑ This appearance might arise form the refraction of the agitated water, as well as from the excited imagination of the narrator. Editor.