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Title: The power of sympathy: or, The triumph of nature. Founded in truth.
Author: Mrs. Perez Morton (Sarah Wentworth Apthorp)
Language: English
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The Power of Sympathy.
_VOL. I._
[Illustration]
_The impression of this Edition consists of 550 Copies, of which this
is No. 313._
[Illustration: Walt Littlefield.]
[Illustration: The STORY of _OPHELIA_. _Saml Hill. Tat._ “_O Fatal!
Fatal ‘Poison’!_”]
Edited by Walter Littlefield.
THE POWER OF SYMPATHY:
BY
MRS. PEREZ MORTON
(SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORP).
_With Frontispiece._
[Illustration]
BOSTON: PRINTED·BY·CUPPLES
& PATTERSON·AND·PUBLISHED
BY·THEM·AT·THE·BACK
BAY·BOOKSTORE·250·BOYLSTON·STREET
Copyright, 1894,
By WALTER LITTLEFIELD.
_All Rights Reserved._
THE
POWER OF SYMPATHY:
TRIUMPH OF NATURE.
FOUNDED IN _TRUTH_.
IN _TWO_ VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
Fain would he strew Life’s thorny Way with Flowers,
And open to your View Elysian Bowers;
Catch the warm Passions of the tender Youth,
And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth.
[Illustration]
PRINTED at _BOSTON_
BY ISAIAH THOMAS AND COMPANY.
Sold at their Bookstore, No. 45, NEWBURY STREET,
And at said THOMAS’S Bookstore in WORCESTER.
MDCCLXXXIX.
TO THE
YOUNG LADIES,
OF
United Columbia,
_These VOLUMES_,
Intended to represent the specious CAUSES,
AND TO
Expose the fatal CONSEQUENCES
OF
SEDUCTION;
To inspire the FEMALE MIND
With a principle of SELF COMPLACENCY
AND TO
Promote the ECONOMY of HUMAN LIFE,
=Are Inscribed,=
With Esteem and Sincerity,
By their
Friend and Humble Servant,
_The Author_.
BOSTON, _Jan. 1789_.
Editor’s Introduction.
AN errant perusal of half the pages of this little volume once caused me
to determine to eschew literary criticism in the preface I was asked to
write, and to speak of the book solely according to its historical and
hence its intrinsic value.
Continual reading here and there, and, at length, a careful examination
of the work as a whole have convinced me that several merits may be
attributed to the book which range themselves separately in my mind and
which are distinct and wholly unique characteristics. They seem to me to
be as follows: the bare antiquarian value—as a relic, rare, and old; the
historical-literary value, as an expression of the times in which it was
written; and its purely artistic worth, as a specimen of English novel
writing.
The book was published, as the title page shows, early in 1789, and the
self-acknowledged author was Mrs. Perez Morton whose maiden name was
Sarah Wentworth Apthorp. Miss Apthorp was born in Braintree in 1759, and
had, before her marriage in 1777 with Mr. Morton, gained something more
than a local reputation as a clever maker of rhymes, having contributed
many poems to the early _New England Magazine_—the first periodical
published in America. These, with additional verses and short didactic
essays, were together brought out in 1823, under the title of “My Mind
and Its Thoughts.” The edition was small, and sold entirely by
subscription. Miss Apthorp wrote over the pseudonym of “Philenia.” Her
longer poems, epics, are “Ouabi, or The Virtue of Nature: an Indian Tale
in Four Cantos,” and “Beacon Hill,” in which is told the story of the
American Revolution. This last is said to have moved Robert Treat Paine
to designate her as the “American Sappho.”
In 1788, while Mr. and Mrs. Morton were occupying the historical Taylor
mansion in Dorchester, a painful domestic tragedy occurred, which, taken
in connection with similar contingencies that were happening in the
society in which they moved, doubtless gave “Philenia” the impetus and
_raison d’être_ for the “Power of Sympathy,” published anonymously the
following year.
Although evidently written with the purest motive, the good people of
that day were not anxious to receive the lesson, probably because many
of them figured as examples. The edition was bought up and destroyed,—as
Drake remarks in his “History of Roxbury”, “so effectually suppressed
that no copy is now known to exist.” With the exception of the book now
before me, I believe this to be true.
The condition of affairs in America, immediately following the
Revolution, was not what many suppose. The people were not completely
united in raving against John Bull and his institutions. It is true the
lower classes and those of the middle class, who had been excited into
believing that delusive and, for them, hypocritical motto; “No taxation
without representation”, or who had gained or lost all through the late
fratricidal struggle, were thriving wonderfully on “spread eagle”
patriotism stimulated by “Yankee Doodle” and “Hail Columbia”—which,
today, unfortunately bandage the eyes of America’s native
civilization—and entertained a cordial hatred of England and all things
English. Later they were to sympathize with Mirabeau, with Robespierre
and others, and cry death to that French King who had so lately saved
them from the dismal caprices of George III and his ignorant and haughty
ministers. Politically, they gloried in the name of Democrat.
Nevertheless, there existed an aristocracy in America; an aristocracy
that had refrained from becoming Tory solely because personal interest
demanded that it should become rebel. Its members were English in taste
and manner, in their hearts they were Royalists. They called themselves
Federalists. To this category belonged the Hancocks, John Adams,
Hamilton, perhaps even Washington himself; and here we find the Apthorps
and the Mortons. They had a fondness for court and ceremony—thought and
culture were still colonial; they talked of the American gentleman,
while they dreamed of the English nobleman; for all that, there was a
rapidly growing strain of independence, of confidence in self. All of
which qualities have today evolved the best type of the American lady
and gentleman.
* * * * *
Early in the second half of the eighteenth century, a literary
revolution was in progress in England: sentimentalism, which so long had
been mistaken for sentiment, was given its proper place; knightly
romance was sneered at and shelved, the hale hearty laughter of Fielding
disturbed the spinsters and gossip mongers sipping their tea in the
corners; Laurence Sterne, that sentimentalist in realism, condemned in
caricature what the foolish thought he defended in truth; and Sheridan,
the hater of sham and conventionality, satirized the social deformity of
the times in drama, drawing scenes and characters from real life as
found in the famous Pump-room at Bath.
To the aristocracy—hence to the reading class—of the young American
republic this atmospheric change, toned and tempered and with an
influence less radical, was transmitted. It cried out aloud against the
sham of character, while it maintained the poetry of diction; it was
realistic in subject, romantic in method; it openly lauded the
“Sentimental Journey,” while it secretly emulated “Tom Jones”; its aim
was to portray life through truth rather than art—but the latter often
unconsciously asserted itself; its grave defect was the attempt to
commingle art and moral philosophy. In this literary atmosphere the
“Power of Sympathy” was written, in character and color colonial,
indigenous, to English soil, and true to humanity at all time.
A little more than a century ago the style of telling a story through
the medium of epistles was revived; it was thus Richardson wrote
“Clarissa Harlowe” and “Pamela,” and Fielding his “Joseph Andrews.” In
this form Mrs. Morton sought to tell her story.
Both Richardson and Fielding are famous for the amount of detail with
which they fetter some otherwise natural descriptions leaving no
opportunity for the imagination. Tedious detail we do not find in the
pages of the “Power of Sympathy”—all here is _not_ written; the
phraseology is well balanced, paragraphing is handled with consummate
skill, the chapters are for the most part short, the color suggestive;
and if detail be employed at all, it is only when the author waxes
mildly pedantic—robbed of which quality, she would not be true to the
humanity of her time.
What then can I say of her diction? Simply that it is of the best. To
say so, is seemingly audacious. The modern grammarian may dispute it.
Yet viewed against the background of her period and station, taking her
style all in all as a medium of vivid, natural expression, where the
economy of attention is second only to striking portrayal, where
elegance, simplicity, directness are ever present but never obtrusive,
there is reason enough for our remark. An examination of the suicide’s
letters alone would excuse us from all prejudice in the matter.
The “Power of Sympathy,” in facsimile form, is surely a valuable
acquisition to the antiquarian; to the student of culture, the book is
the realistic expression of life of a people and an era that are by no
means lacking in interest and importance; and to the _littérateur_, it
is not an unworthy example of more than ordinary literary art.
WALTER LITTLEFIELD.
BOSTON, JUNE 19, 1894.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_PREFACE_
NOVELS have ever met with a ready reception into the Libraries of the
Ladies, but this species of writing hath not been received with
universal approbation: Futility is not the only charge brought against
it.—Any attempt, therefore, to make these studies more advantageous, has
at least a claim upon the patience and candour of the publick.
IN NOVELS which _expose_ no particular VICE, and which _recommend_ no
particular Virtue, the fair Reader, though she may find amusement, must
finish them without being impressed with any particular idea: So that if
they are harmless, they are not beneficial.
OF the Letters before US, it is necessary to remark, that this errour on
each side has been avoided—the dangerous consequences of SEDUCTION are
exposed, and the Advantages of FEMALE EDUCATION set forth and
recommended.
[Illustration]
The Power of Sympathy.
LETTER I.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
YOU may now felicitate me—I have had an interview with the
charmer I informed you of. Alas! where were the thoughtfulness and
circumspection of my friend _Worthy_? I did not possess them, and am
graceless enough to acknowledge it. He would have considered the
consequences, before he had resolved upon the project. But you call me,
with some degree of truth, a strange medley of contradiction—the
moralist and the amoroso—the sentiment and the sensibility—are
interwoven in my constitution, so that nature and grace are at continual
fisticuffs—To the point:—
I PURSUED my determination of discovering the dwelling of my charmer,
and have at length obtained access. You may behold my Rosebud, but
should you presume to place it in your bosom, expect the force of my
wrath to be the infallible consequence.
I DECLARED the sincerity of my passion—the warmth of my affection—to the
beautiful _Harriot_—Believe me, _Jack_, she did not seem inattentive.
Her mien is elegant—her disposition inclining to the melancholy, and yet
her temper is affable, and her manners easy. And as I poured my tender
vows into the heart of my beloved, a crimson drop stole across her
cheek, and thus I construe it in my own favor, as the sweet messenger of
hope:—
“DO not wholly despair, my new friend; excuse the declaration of a poor
artless female—you see I am not perfectly contented in my
situation—(Observe, _Jack_, I have not the vanity to think this distress
_altogether_ upon my account)—Time may therefore disclose wonders, and
perhaps more to your advantage than you imagine—do not despair then.”
SUCH vulgar, uncongenial souls, as that which animates thy clay, cold
carcase, would have thought this crimson drop nothing more than an
ordinary blush. Be far removed from my heart such sordid, earth-born
ideas: But come thou spirit of celestial language, that canst
communicate by one affectionate look—one tender glance—more divine
information to the soul of sensibility than can be contained in myriads
of volumes!
HAIL gentle _God_ of _Love_! While thou rivetest the chains of thy
_slaves_, how dost thou make them leap for joy, as with delicious
_triumph_. Happy enthusiasm! that while it carries us away into
captivity, can make the heart to dance as in the bosom of content. Hail
gentle _God_ of _Love_! Encircled as thou art with darts, torments, and
ensigns of cruelty, still do we hail thee. How dost thou smooth over the
roughness and asperities of present pain, with what thou seest in
reversion! Thou banishest the _Stygian_ glooms of disquiet and suspense,
by the hope of approaching Elysium—Blessed infatuation!
I DESIRE you will not hesitate to pronounce an _amen_ to my Hymn to
Love, as an unequivocal evidence of your wish for my success.
LETTER II.
_Worthy_ to _Harrington_.
“WISH you success”—In what? Who is this lady of whom you have
been talking at such an inconsistent rate? But before you have leisure
to reply to these inquiries you may have forgotten there is such a
person, as she whom you call _Harriot_—I have seen many juvenile heroes,
during my pilgrimage of two and twenty years, easily inflamed with new
objects—agitated and hurried away by the impetuosity of new desires—and
at the same time they were by no means famous for solidity of judgement,
or remarkable for the permanency of their resolutions. There is such a
tumult—such an ebullition of the brain in their paroxisms of passion,
that this new object is very superficially examined. These, added to
partiality and prepossession, never fail to blind the eyes of the lover.
Instead of weighing matters maturely, and stating the evidence fairly on
both sides, in order to form a right judgement, every circumstance not
perfectly coincident with your particular bias, comes not under
consideration, because it does not flatter your vanity. “Ponder and
pause” just here, and tell me seriously whether you are in love, and
whether you have sufficiently examined your heart to give a just answer.
DO you mean to insinuate that your declaration of love hath attracted
the affection of the pensive _Harriot_? If this should be the case, I
wish you would tell me what you design to do with her.
LETTER III.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I CANNOT but laugh at your dull sermons, and yet I find
something in them altogether displeasing; for this reason I permit you
to prate on. “Weigh matters maturely!” Ha! ha! why art thou not arrayed
in canonicals? “What do I design to do with her?” Upon my word, my
sententious friend, you ask mighty odd questions. I see you aim a stroke
at the foundation upon which the pillar of my new system is reared—and
will you strive to batter down that pillar? If you entertain any idea of
executing such talk, I foresee it will never succeed, and advise you
timely to desist. What! dost thou think to topple down my scheme of
pleasure? Thou mightest as well topple down the pike of _Teneriffe_.
I SUPPOSE you will be ready to ask, why, if I love _Harriot_, I do not
marry her—Your monitorial correspondence has so accustomed me to
reproof, that I easily anticipate this piece of impertinence—But who
shall I marry? That is the question. _Harriot_ has no father—no
mother—neither is there aunt, cousin, or kindred of any degree who claim
any kind of relationship to her. She is companion to Mrs. _Francis_,
and, as I understand, totally dependent on that lady. Now, Mr. _Worthy_,
I must take the liberty to acquaint you, that I am not so much of a
republican as formally to wed any person of this class. How laughable
would my conduct appear, were I to trace over the same ground marked out
by thy immaculate footsteps—To be heard openly acknowledged for my bosom
companion, my daughter of the democratick empire of virtue!
TO suppose a smart, beautiful girl, would continue as companion to the
best lady in Christendom, when she could raise herself to a more
eligible situation, is to suppose a solecism—She might as well be
immured in a nunnery. Now, _Jack_, I will shew you my benevolent scheme;
it is to take this beautiful sprig, and transplant it to a more
favorable soil, where it shall flourish and blossom under my own
auspices. In a word, I mean to remove this fine girl into an elegant
apartment, of which she herself is to be the sole mistress. Is this not
a proof of my humanity and goodness of heart? But I know the purport of
your answer—So pray thee keep thy comments to thyself, and be sparing of
your compliments on this part of my conduct—for I do not love flattery.
A month has elapsed since my arrival in town. What will the revolution
of another moon bring forth?
Your &c.
LETTER IV.
Miss _Harriot Fawcet_
to Miss _Myra Harrington_.
_Boston._
I HAVE somehow bewitched a new lover, my dear _Myra_—a smart,
clever fellow too—and the youth expresses such fondness and passion that
I begin to feel afraid even to pity him—for love will certainly follow.
I own to you I _esteem_ him very much, but must I go any farther? He is
extremely generous—polite—gay—and I believe if you were to see him, your
partiality in his favor would exceed mine.
I NEVER saw my poor swain so seemingly disconcerted and abashed as he
was a few days ago—he appeared to have something very particular to
communicate, but his tongue faultered—ought not one to help out a modest
youth in such cases?
Yours &c.
LETTER V.
Miss _Myra Harrington_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
ARE the rural pleasures of _Belleview_, my dear friend, so
engaging as to debar us of the pleasure of your company forever? Do your
dear groves, and your books, still employ your meditating mind? Serious
sentimentalist as you are, let me ask, whether a Ball, a Concert or
Serenade, would not afford you the satisfaction of a contemplative walk
in your garden, listening to the love tales of the melodious inhabitants
of the air?
RAILLERY apart—when shall I take upon myself the honour to wait upon you
here?—I want to advise with you on certain points of female conduct, and
about my new dress—I have heard you say, lessons to a volatile mind
should be fresh and fresh applied, because it either pretends to despise
them, or has a tendency to degeneracy—Now you must know I am actually
degenerating for want of some of your Mentor-like lessons of
instruction. I have scarcely any opinion of my own, these fashions,
changing about so often, are enough to vitiate the best taste in the
world.
I FORGOT to tell you my brother has been at home this month; but, from
certain indubitable symptoms, I suspect the young man to be in love.
HEIGHHO! what is become of _Worthy_? The time of my liberty steals away,
for you know I was to have three or four months of liberty before I gave
myself up to his authority, and relinquished all my right and title to
the name of
_Harrington_.
LETTER VI.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
ABASHED—confounded—defeated—I waited upon my beloved with my
head well furnished with ready made arguments, to prevail on her to
acquiesce in my benevolent schemes—she never appeared so amicable—grace
accompanied every word she uttered, and every action she performed.
“Think, my love,” said I, in a tone something between sighing and tears,
and took her hand in a very cordial manner,—“Think, my love, on your
present, unhappy, menial situation, in the family of Mrs. _Francis_.” I
enlarged on the violence of my passion—expatiated most metaphysically on
our future happiness; and concluded by largely answering objections.
“Shall we not,” continued I, “obey the dictates of nature, rather than
confine ourselves to the forced, unnatural rules of —— and —— and shall
the halcyon days of youth slip through our fingers unenjoyed?”
DO you think, _Worthy_, I said this to _Harriot_?—Not a syllable of it.
It was impossible—my heart had the courage to dictate, but my rebellious
tongue refused to utter a word—it faultered—stammered—hesitated.
THERE is a language of the eyes—and we conversed in that language; and
though I said not a word with my tongue, she seemed perfectly to
understand my meaning—for she looked—(and I comprehended it as well as
if she had _said_)—Is the crime of dependence to be expiated by the
sacrifice of virtue? And because I am a poor, unfortunate girl, must the
little I have be taken from me? “No, my love,” answered I, passionately,
“it shall not be.”
OF all those undescribable things which influences the mind, and which
are most apt to persuade—none is so powerful an orator—so feelingly
eloquent as beauty—I bow to the all-conquering force of _Harriot’s_
eloquence—and what is the consequence? I am now determined to continue
my addresses on a principle the most just, and the most honourable.
HOW amiable is that beauty which has its foundation in goodness! Reason
cannot contemplate its power with indifference—Wisdom cannot refrain
from enthusiasm—and the sneering exertions of Wit cannot render it
ridiculous. There is a _dignity_ in _conscious virtue_ that all my
independence cannot bring me to despise—and if it be beauty that subdues
my heart, it is this that completes the triumph—It is here my pompous
parade, and all my flimsy subterfuges, appear to me in their proper
light. In fine, I have _weighed matters maturely_, and the alternative
is—_Harriot_ must be mine, or I miserable without her.—I have so well
weighed the matter that even this idea is a flash of joy to my
heart—But, my friend, _after the lightning comes the thunder_—my father
is mortally averse to my making any matrimonial engagement at so early a
period—this is a bar to my way, but I must leap over it.
Adieu!
LETTER VII.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to Miss _Harrington_.
_Belleview._
ALTHOUGH my attachment to _Belleview_ is not so romantick as
your airy pen has described it, I think its quiet and amusements
infinitely preferable to the bustle and parade with which you are
surrounded.
THE improvements made here by my late husband (who inherited the virtues
of his parents, who still protect me, and endeavour to console the
anguish of his loss by the most tender affection) have rendered the
charms of _Belleview_ superior in my estimation to every gilded scene of
the gay world.
IT is almost vanity to pretend to give you a description of the beauty
of the prospect—the grandeur of the river that rolls through the meadow
in front of the house, or any eulogium of rural elegance, because these
scenes are common to most places in the country. Nature is everywhere
liberal in dispersing her beauties and her variety—and I pity those who
look round and declare they see neither.
A GREAT proportion of our happiness depends on our own choice—it offers
itself to our taste, but it is the heart that gives it relish—what at
one time, for instance, we think to be humour, is at another disgustful
or insipid—so, unless we carry our appetite with us to the treat, we
shall vainly wish to make ourselves happy, “were I in a desert,” says
Sterne, “I would find wherewith in it to call forth my affections—If I
could do no better, I would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or seek
some melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade
and greet them kindly for their protection—If their leaves withered, I
would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice
along with them.”
I BELIEVE you could hardly find the way to the summer house, where we
have enjoyed many happy hours together, and which you used to call “_The
Temple_ of _Apollo_.” It is now more elegantly furnished than it
formerly was, and is enriched with a considerable addition to the
library and musick.
IN front of the avenue that leads to this place, is a figure of Content,
pointing with one hand to the Temple, and with the other to an
invitation, executed in such an antique style, that you would think it
done either by the ancient inhabitants of the country, or by the hand of
a Fairy—she is very particular in the characters she invites, but those
whom she invites she heartily welcomes.
=Rural Inscription.=
Come ye who loath the horrid crest,
Who hate the fiery front of Mars;
Who scorn the mean, the sordid breast—
Who fly Ambition’s guilty cares:
Ye who are blest with peaceful souls,
Rest Here: Enjoy the pleasures round:
Here Fairies quaffe their acorn bowls,
And lightly print the mazy ground.
Thrice welcome to this humble scene—
(To ye alone such scenes belong)
Peace smiles upon the fragrant green,
And Here the Woodland sisters throng,
And fair Contentment’s pleasing train.
Whilst in the Heav’n the stars advance,
With many a maid and many a swain,
Lead up the jocund, rural dance.
Thrice welcome to our calm retreat,
Where innocency oft hath strove
With violet blue, and woodbine sweet,
To form the votive wreath to love:
O! pardon then, our cautious pride—
(Caution, a virtue rare, I ween)
For evils with the great abide,
Which dwell not in our sylvan scene.
THESE are the scenes to which I have chosen to retreat; contented with
the suffrage of the virtuous and the good, and inattentive to the
contemptuous sneer of the giddy and the futile, for even _these_ have
the vanity to look with pity on those who voluntarily remove from
whatever agrees with _their_ ideas of pleasure. He who has no conception
of the beauties of the mind, will contemn a person aukward or
illfavoured; and one whose store of enjoyment is drawn from affluence
and abundance, will be astonished at the conduct of him who finds cause
to rejoice, though surrounded with inconvenience and penury. Hence we
judge of the happiness of others by the standard of our own conduct and
prejudices.
FROM this misjudging race I retire, without a sigh to mingle in their
amusements, nor yet disgusted at whatever is thought of sufficient
consequence to engage their pursuits. I fly from the tumult of the
town—from scenes of boisterous pleasures and riot, to those of quietness
and peace, “where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is the
echo of tranquillity.”—On this subject I give my sentiments to you with
freedom, from a conviction that I bear the world no spleen; at the same
time with a degree of deference to the judgement of others, from a
conviction that I may be a little prejudiced.
I HOPE to be with you soon—in the meantime continue to write.
Eliza Holmes.
LETTER VIII.
_Worthy_ to _Harrington_.
_New York._
I APPLAUD your change of sentiment. _Harriot_ is a
good girl, and your conduct is extremely praiseworthy and honourable. It
is what her virtues incontestibly merit.—But I advise you certainly to
gain your father’s approbation before you proceed so far as to be unable
to return. A contrary step might terminate in the utter ruin of you
both.——Direct to me at _Belleview_—for I intend to stop there in my
return to _Boston_.
LETTER IX.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I HAVE had a conversation with my father on the subject of
early marriages, but to no purpose—I will not be certain whether he
understood my drift, but all his arguments are applicable to my
situation. One must be an adept to argue with him; and interested as he
thinks himself in the result of the debate, he can not be prevailed upon
to relinquish his settled opinion. I am too much chagrined to write to
you even the heads of our conversation. I now stand upon my old ground.
Adieu!
LETTER X.
_Worthy_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
I AM very happy at present enjoying the sweets of _Belleview_
with our excellent friend Mrs. _Holmes_. To dwell in this delightful
retreat, and to be blest with the conversation of this amiable woman,
cannot be called solitude. The charms of Nature are here beheld in the
most luxuriant variety—it is here, diversified with beautiful prospect,
the late Mr. _Holmes_ planned his garden; it is elegant, but simple. My
time glides off my hands most happily—I am sometimes indulging my
solitary reflections in contemplating the sublimity of the scenes around
me—and sometimes in conversation with _Eliza_ and the old people.
THE old gentleman is a man of the most benevolent heart; he continues to
preach—is assiduous in the duties of his profession, and is the love and
admiration of his flock. He prescribes for the health of the body, as
well as that of the soul, and settles all the little disputes of his
parish. They are contented with his judgement, and he is at once their
parson, their lawyer, and their physician.—I often read in the little
building that was finished by his son. He was a man of an excellent
taste, and I have paid my tribute to his memory—It is the same place
that you used to admire, and perhaps I improve more of my time in it on
that very account.
Adieu!
LETTER XI.
_Mrs. Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
I SIT down to give you, my dear _Myra_, some accounts of the
visitants of today, and their conversation. We are not always
_distinguished_ by such company, but perhaps it is sometimes necessary;
and as it is a relaxation from thought, it serves to give us more
pleasure in returning to the conversation of people of ideas.
MRS. _Bourn_ assumes a higher rank in life than she pretended to seven
years ago.—She then walked on foot—she now, by good fortune, rides in a
chariot. Placed, however, in a situation with which her education does
not altogether comport, she has nothing disagreeable but her over
assiduity to please—this is sometimes disgusting, for one cannot feast
heartily upon honey: It is an errour which a candid mind easily
forgives. She sometimes appears solicitous to display her mental
accomplishments, and desirous to improve those of her daughter; but it
is merely apparent. Notwithstanding a temporary wish may arise toward
the attainment of this point, a habitual vacancy nips it in the bud.
MISS _Bourn_ is about the age of fourteen—genteel, with a tolerable
share of beauty, but not striking—her dress was elegant, but might have
been adjusted to more advantage—not altogether aukward in her manner,
nor yet can she be called graceful—she has a peculiar air of drollery
which takes her by fits, and for this reason, perhaps, does not avail
herself of every opportunity of displaying the modesty of her sex—she
has seen much company, but instead of polishing her manners, it has only
increased her assurance.
THUS much of the characters of our company. After some small chat which
passed as we took a turn in the garden, we entered the Temple.
“WHAT books would you recommend to put into the hands of my daughter?”
said Mrs. _Bourn_, as she walked into the library—“it is a matter of
some importance.” “It is a matter of more importance,” answered
_Worthy_, “than is generally imagined, for unless a proper selection is
made one would do better never to read at all:—Now, Madame, as much
depends on the choice of books, care should be taken not to put those in
the way of young persons, which might leave on their minds any
disagreeable prejudices, or which has a tendency to corrupt their
morals.”—“As obvious as your remark is,” added Mr. _Holmes_, “it is
evidently over looked in the common course of education. We wisely
exclude those persons from our conversation, whose characters are bad,
whose manners are depraved, or whose morals are impure: but if they are
excluded from an apprehension of contaminating our minds, how much more
dangerous is the company of those books, where the strokes aimed at
virtue are redoubled, and the poison of vice, by repeatedly reading the
same thing, indelibly distains the young mind?”
“WE all agree,” rejoined _Worthy_, “that it is as great a matter of
virtue and prudence to be circumspect in the selection of our books, as
in the choice of our company.—But, Sir, the best things may be subverted
to an ill use. Hence we may possibly trace the course of the ill
tendency of many of the Novels extant.”
“MOST of the Novels,” returned my father, “with which our female
libraries are over run, are built on a foundation not always placed on
strict morality, and in the pursuit of objects not always probable or
praiseworthy.—Novels, not regulated on the chaste principles of true
friendship, rational love, and connubial duty, appear to me totally
unfit to form the minds of women, of friends, or of wives.”
“BUT, as most young people read,” says Mrs. _Bourn_—“what rule can be
_hit upon_ to make study always terminate to advantage?”
“IMPOSSIBLE,” cried Miss, “for I read as much as anybody, and though it
may afford amusement, while I am employed, I do not remember a single
word, when I lay down the book.”
“THIS confirms what I say of Novels,” cried Mr. _Holmes_, addressing
_Worthy_ in a jocular manner, “just calculated to kill time—to attract
the attention of the reader for an hour, but leave not one idea on the
mind.”
“I AM far from condemning every production in the gross,” replied
_Worthy_; “general satire against any particular class, or order of men,
may be viewed in the same light as a satire against species—it is the
same with books—if there are corrupt or mortified members, it is hardly
fair to destroy the whole body. Now I grant some Novels have a bad
tendency, yet there are many which contain excellent sentiments—let
these receive their deserved reward—let those be discountenanced; and if
it is impossible “to smite them with an apoplexy, there is a moral
certainty of their dying of a consumption.”—But, as Mrs. _Bourn_
observes, most young persons read, I will recommend to those who wish to
mingle instruction with entertainment, method and regularity in reading.
To _dip_ into _any book_ burthens the mind with unnecessary lumber, and
may rather be called a disadvantage, than a benefit—The record of memory
is so scrawled and blotted with imperfect ideas, that not one legible
character can be traced.
“WERE I to throw my thoughts on this subject,” said my good
father-in-law, as he began to enter more and more warmly into the
debate—drawing his chair opposite _Worthy_, and raising his hand with a
poetical enthusiasm—“Were I to throw my thoughts on this subject into an
Allegory, I would describe the human mind as an extensive plain, and
knowledge as the river that should water it. If the course of the river
be properly directed, the plain will be fertilized and cultivated to
advantage; but if books, which are the sources that feed this river,
rush into it from every quarter, it will overflow its banks, and the
plain become inundated: When, therefore, knowledge flows on in its
proper channel, this extensive and valuable field, the mind, instead of
being covered with stagnant waters, is cultivated to the utmost
advantage, and blooms luxuriantly into a general efflorescence—for a
river properly restricted by high banks, is necessarily progressive.”
THE old gentleman brought down his hands with great solemnity, and we
complimented him on his poetical exertion. “I cannot comprehend the
meaning of this matter,” said the penetrative Miss _Bourn_. “I will
explain it to you, my little dear,” said he, with good nature—“If you
read with any design to improve your mind in virtue and every amiable
accomplishment, you should be careful to read methodically, which will
enable you to form an estimate of the various topicks discussed in
company, and to bear a part in all those conversations which belong to
your sex—you see, therefore, how necessary general knowledge is—what
would you think of a woman advanced in life, who has no other store of
knowledge than what she has obtained from experience?” “I think she
would have a sorry time of it,” answered Miss.
“TO prevent it in yourself,” said Mrs. _Bourn_ to her daughter, “be
assiduous to lay in a good stock of this knowledge, while your mind is
yet free from prejudice and care.”
“HOW shall I _go to work_, Madam?” enquired the delicate daughter.
MRS. _Bourn_ turned toward Mr. _Holmes_, which was hint enough for the
good old man to proceed.
“THERE is a medium to be observed,” continued he, “in a lady’s reading;
she is not to receive everything she finds, even in the best books, as
invariable lessons of conduct; in books written in an easy, flowing
style, which excel in description and the luxuriance of fancy, the
imagination is apt to get heated—she ought, therefore, to discern with
an eye of judgement, between the superficial and penetrating—the elegant
and the tawdry—what may be merely amusing, and what may be useful.
General reading will not teach her a true knowledge of the world.
“IN _books_ she finds recorded the faithfulness of friendship—the
constancy of _true love_, and even that honesty is the best policy. If
virtue is represented carrying its reward with it, she too easily
persuades herself that mankind have adopted this plan: Thus she finds,
when, perhaps, it is too late, that she has entertained wrong notions of
human nature; that her friends are deceitful—her lovers false—and that
men consult interest oftener than honesty.
“A YOUNG lady who has imbibed her ideas of the world from desultory
reading and placed confidence in the virtue of others, will bring back
disappointment, when she expected gratitude. Unsuspicious of deceit, she
is easily deceived—from the purity of her own thoughts, she trusts the
faith of mankind, until experience convinces her of her errour—she falls
a sacrifice to her credulity, and her only consolation is the simplicity
and goodness of her heart.
“THE story of Miss _Whitman_[1] is an emphatical illustration of the
truth of these observations. An inflated fancy not restricted by
judgement, leads too often to _disappointment_ and repentance. Such will
be the fate of those who become (to use her own words)
“Lost in the magick of that sweet employ,
To build GAY SCENES and fashion FUTURE JOY.”
Footnote 1:
THIS young lady was of a reputable family in CONNECTICUT. In her youth
she was admired for beauty and good sense. She was a great reader of
novels and romances, and having imbibed her ideas of THE CHARACTERS OF
MEN, from those fallacious sources, became vain and coquettish, and
rejected several offers of marriage, in expectation of receiving one
more agreeable to her fanciful idea. Disappointed in her FAIRY hope,
and finding her train of admirers less solicitous for the honour of
her hand, in proportion as the roses of youth decayed, she was the
more easily persuaded to relinquish that STABILITY which is the honour
and happiness of the sex. The consequences of her amour becoming
visible, she acquainted her lover of her situation, and a HUSBAND was
proposed for her, who was to receive a considerable sum for preserving
the reputation of the lady; but having received security for payment,
he immediately withdrew. She then left her friends, and travelled in
the stage as far as WATERTOWN, where she hired a young man to conduct
her in a chaise to SALEM. Here she wandered alone and friendless, and
at length repaired to the BELL-TAVERN, in DANVERS, where she was
delivered of a lifeless child, and in about a fortnight after (in
JULY, 1788) died of a puerperal fever, age about 35 years.
Before her death she amused herself with reading, writing and
needlework, and though in a state of anxiety, preserved a
cheerfulness, not so much the effect of insensibility, as of patience
and fortitude. She was sensible of her approaching fate, as appears
from the following letter, which was written in characters.
“MUST I die alone? Shall I never see you more? I know that you will
come, but you will come too late: This is I fear, my last ability.
Tears fall so, I know not how to write. Why did you leave me in so
much distress? But I will not reproach you: All that was dear I left
for you; but do not regret it.—May God forgive in both what was amiss:
When I go from hence, I will leave you some way to find me; if I die,
will you come and drop a tear over my grave?”
In the following Poem, she, like the dying SWAN, sings her own Elegy,
and it is here added, as a sorrowful instance, how often the best, and
most pleasing talents, not accompanied by virtue and prudence, operate
the destruction of their possessor.
The description of her unfortunate passion, will remind the critical
reader of the famous ode of Sappho. In genius and in misfortune, these
poetical ladies were similar.
“_DISAPPOINTMENT._
“WITH fond impatience all the tedious day
I sigh’d, and wish’d the lingering hours away;
For when bright Hesper led the starry train,
My shepherd swore to meet me on the plain;
With eager haste to that dear spot I flew,
And linger’d long, and then with tears withdrew:
Alone, abandon’d to love’s tenderest woes,
Down my pale cheeks the tide of sorrow flows;
Dead to all joys that fortune can bestow,
In vain for me her useless bounties flow;
Take back each envied gift, ye pow’rs divine,
And only let me call FIDELIO mine.
“Ah, wretch! what anguish yet thy soul must prove,
Ere thou canst hope to lose thy care in love;
And when FIDELIO meets thy tearful eye,
Pale fear and cold despair his presence fly;
With pensive steps, I sought thy walks again,
And kiss’d thy token on the verdant plain;
With fondest hope, thro’ many a blissful bow’r,
We gave the soul to fancy’s pleasing pow’r;
Lost in the magick of that sweet employ,
To build gay scenes, and fashion future joy,
We saw mild peace o’er fair Canaan rise,
And show’r her blessings from benignant skies;
On airy hills our happy mansion rose,
Built but for joy, no room for future woes;
Sweet as the sleep of innocence, the day,
(By transports measur’d) lightly danc’d away;
To love, to bliss, the union’d soul was given,
And each! too happy, ask’d no brighter heaven.
“And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll?
Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul?
Can this dear earth no transient joy supply?
Is it my doom to hope, despair and die?
Oh! come, once more, with soft endearments come,
Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb;
Through favour’d walks, thy chosen maid attend,
Where well known shades their pleasing branches bend,
Shed the soft poison from thy speaking eye,
And look those raptures lifeless words deny;
Still be, though late, reheard what ne’er could tire,
But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire;
Still hope those scenes which love and fancy drew;
But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new.
“Can fancy paint, can words express;
Can aught on earth my woes redress;
E’en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove
Thy truth, thy tenderness and love.
Once thou couldst every bliss inspire,
Transporting JOY, and gay DESIRE:
Now cold DESPAIR her banner rears,
And PLEASURE flies when she appears;
Fond HOPE within my bosom dies,
And AGONY her place supplies:
O, thou! for whose dear sake I bear,
A doom so dreadful, so severe,
May happy fates thy footsteps guide,
And o’er thy PEACEFUL home preside;
Nor let ELIZA’S early tomb
Infect thee, with its baleful gloom.”
“WITH a good heart she possessed a poetical imagination, and an
unbounded thirst for novelty; but these airy talents, not counterpoised
with judgement, or perhaps serious reflection, instead of adding to her
happiness, were the cause of her ruin.”
“I CONCLUDE from your reasoning,” said I, “and it is besides, my own
opinion, that many fine girls have been ruined by reading Novels.”
“AND I believe,” added Mrs. _Bourn_, “we may trace from hence the causes
of spleen in many persons advanced in life.”
“YOU mean old maids, Madam,” cries the sagacious Miss, “like my aunt
_Deborah_—she calls all men deceitful, and most women, with her, are no
better than they should be.”
“WELL said!” exclaimed _Worthy_, “the recollection of chagrin and
former disappointment, sours one’s temper and mortifies the
heart—disappointment will be more or less severe in proportion as we
elevate our expectations; for the most _sanguine tempers_ are the
soonest discouraged; as the highest building is in the most danger of
falling.”
“IT appears from what I have said,” resumed Mr. _Holmes_, “that those
books which teach us a knowledge of the world are useful to form the
minds of females, and ought therefore to be studied.”
I MENTIONED _Rochefoucault’s_ maxims.—
“DO they not degrade human nature?” enquired my father.
“THIS little book,” answered _Worthy_, “contains much truth—and those
short sketches traced by the hand of judgement, present to us the
leading features of mankind.” “But,” replied my father, “that _interest
should assume all shapes_, is a doctrine, which, in my mind, represents
a caricature rather than a living picture.” “It is the duty of a painter
to produce a likeness,” said _Worthy_,—“And a skilful one,” cried my
father, continuing the metaphor, “will bring the amiable qualities of
the heart to light; and throw those which disgrace humanity into the
shade.” “I doubt,” rejoined _Worthy_, “whether this flattery will answer
the purpose you aim to accomplish—You entertain a high opinion of _the
dignity of human nature_, and are displeased at the author who advances
anything derogatory to that dignity. _Swift_, in speaking of these
maxims, in one of his best poems, affirms,
“They argue no corrupted mind
In him—the fault is in mankind.”
“AS I began this subject,” added I, “it shall be ended by one
observation—As these maxims give us an idea of the manners and
characters of men, among whom a young person is soon to appear; and as
it is necessary to her security and happiness that she be made
acquainted with them—they may be read to advantage.”
“THERE is another medium,” said Mr. _Holmes_, assenting to my
observation, “to be noticed in the study of a lady—she takes up a book,
either for instruction or entertainment—the medium lies in knowing when
to put it down. Constant application becomes labour—it sours the
temper—gives an air of thoughtfulness, and frequently of absence. By
_immoderate reading_ we hoard up opinions and become insensibly attached
to them; this miserly conduct sinks us to affectation, and disgustful
pedantry; _conversation_ only can remedy this dangerous evil, strengthen
the judgement, and make reading really useful. They mutually depend
upon, and assist each other.
“A KNOWLEDGE of HISTORY which exhibits to us in one view the rise,
progress and decay of nations—which points out the advancement of the
mind in society, and the improvements in the arts which adorn human
nature, comes with propriety under the notice of a lady. To observe the
origin of civilization—the gradual progress of society, and the
refinements of manners, policy, morality and religion—to observe the
progress of mankind from simplicity to luxury, from luxury to
effeminacy, and the gradual steps of the decline of empire, and the
dissolution of states and kingdoms, must blend that happy union of
instruction and entertainment, which never fails to win our attention to
the pursuit of all subjects.
“POETRY claims her due from the ladies. POETRY enlarges and strengthens
the mind, refines the taste and improves the judgement. It has been
asserted that women have no business with _satire_—now satire is but a
branch of poetry. I acknowledge, however, much false wit is sent into
the world, under this general title; but no critick with whom I am
acquainted ever called satire false wit—for as long as vice and folly
continue to predominate in the human heart, the satirist will be
considered as a useful member of society. I believe _Addison_ calls him
an auxiliary to the pulpit. Suffer me to enlarge on this _new idea_.
Satire is the correction of the vices and follies of the human heart; a
woman may, therefore, read it to advantage. What I mean by enforcing
this point, is, to impress the minds of females with a principle of self
correction; for among all kinds of knowledge which arise from reading,
the duty of self-knowledge is a very eminent one; and is at the same
time, the most useful and important.
“OUR ordinary intercourse with the world, will present to us in a very
clear point of view, the fallacious ideas we sometimes entertain of our
own self-knowledge.—We are blinded by pride and self love, and will not
observe our own imperfections, which we blame with the greatest acrimony
in other people, and seem to detest with the greatest abhorrence; so
that, it often happens, while we are branding our neighbour for some
foible, or vanity, we ourselves are equally guilty.
“RIDICULOUS as this conduct must appear in the eyes of all judicious
people, it is too frequently practised to escape observation.
“I WILL drop this piece of morality, with a charge to the fair reader,
that whenever she discovers satire, ridiculing or recriminating the
follies or crimes of mankind, that she look into her own heart, and
compare the strictures on the conduct of others with her own feelings.”
LETTER XII.
_Mrs. Holmes_ to _Myra_.
IN CONTINUATION.
MY good father-in-law being so strenuous in proving the
eligibility of reading satire, had spurn out, what he called his _new
idea_, to such a metaphysical nicety, that he unhappily diminished the
number of his hearers; for Mrs. _Bourn_, to whom he directed his
discourse, had taken down a book and was reading to herself, and Miss
was diverting herself with the cuts in _Gay’s_ Fables.
A CONSIDERABLE silence ensued, which _Worthy_ first broke, by asking
Mrs. _Bourn_ what book she had in her hand. Everyone’s attention was
alarmed at this important enquiry. Mrs. _Bourn_, with little difficulty,
found the title page, and began to read. “_A Sentimental Journey through
France and Italy, by Mr. Yorick._”
“I DO not like the _title_,” said Miss _Bourn_.
“WHY, my dear!” apostrophized the mother, “you are mistaken—it is a very
famous book.”
“WHY, my dear!” retorted the daughter, “It is sentimental—I abominate
everything that is sentimental—it is so unfashionable too.”
“I NEVER knew before,” said Mr. _Holmes_, “that wit was subject to
caprice of fashion.”
“WHY ’Squire _Billy_,” returned Miss, “who is just arrived from the
centre of politeness and fashion, says the bettermost genii never read
any sentimental books—so you see sentiment is out of date.”
THE company rose to go out.—
“SENTIMENT out of date!” cries _Worthy_, repeating the words of Miss
_Bourn_, and taking the book from her mother, as she walked towards
the door—“Sentiment out of date—alas! poor _Yorick_—may thy pages
never be soiled by the fingers of prejudice.” He continued his address
to them, as they went out, in the same _Shandean_ tone—“_These_
antisentimentalists would banish thee from the society of all books!
Unto what a pitiful size are the race of _readers_ dwindled! Surely
these _antis_ have more to do with thee, than the gods of the
Canaanites—In character and understanding they are alike—eyes have
_they_, but they see not—ears have _they_, but they hear not, neither
is there any knowledge to be found in them.” “It is hardly worth while
to beat it into them,” said my father-in-law, “so let us follow the
company.”
WE did so—they walked toward the house, and _Worthy_ and myself brought
up the rear.
I COULD not but remark, as we went on, that Miss _Bourn_ had spoken the
sentiments of many of her sex;—“and whence,” said I to _Worthy_, “arises
this detestation of books in _some_ of us females, and why are _they_
enemies to anything that may be called sentiment and conversation: I
grant it often happens there is such rapidity of speeches that one may
be at a loss to distinguish the speakers; but why is there such a calm
silence, should an unfortunate sentiment inadvertently”—“I will tell
you,” interrupted he, “You all read, and it is from the books which
engage your attention, that you generally imbibe your ideas of the
principal subjects discussed in company—now, the books which employ your
hours of study, happen to be Novels; and the _subjects_ contained in
these Novels are commonly confined to _dress_, _balls_, _visiting_, and
the like _edifying_ topicks; does it not follow, that these must be the
subjects of your conversation? I will not dispute whether the Novel
makes the woman, or the woman makes the Novel; or whether they are
written to engage your attention, or flatter your vanity. I believe the
results will shew they depend, in some measure, upon each other; and an
uninformed woman, by reading them, only augments the number of her
futile ideas. _The female mind_, notwithstanding, _is competent to any
talk_, and the accomplishments of an elegant woman depend on a proper
cultivation of her intelligent powers; a barrenness—a sterility of
conversation—immediately discovers where this cultivation is wanting.”
“GIVE me leave,” answered I, “to espouse the cause of this class of
females. Tell me candidly, Mr. _Worthy_, whether that insipid flattery,
perhaps sacrificed at the expense of truth, does not misguide many of us
into erroneous paths? You declare we are handsome—and your conduct
demonstrates you to be more solicitous for the possession of
_beautiful_, than of _mental_ charms. Hence is the deluded female
persuaded of the force of her fascinating powers, and vainly imagines,
one glance of her eye sufficient to reduce a million of hearts whenever
she chooses: Her aims, therefore, are confined to the decoration of her
person, and her views centre solely in finishing herself in those
attractive, all-powerful graces, with which you declare yourselves to be
enchanted. How then are they to be censured for neglecting to improve
the mind, when your adulation diverts their attention to an external
object?”
“I JOIN with you,” replied _Worthy_, “in calling it insipid flattery—and
the vain cox-comb, the powdered beau, the insignificant _petit maître_,
are those who make use of it. Will women of real merit, and sound sense,
believe what is said by _them_ to be _their_ real sentiments?—No—There
must be a congeniality in the minds of those who give and receive
flattery—Has not the vain coquette as much inclination to be thought a
goddess, as the empty admirer to declare her so?
“FLATTERY is become a kind of epidemical distemper: many run into it,
perhaps, without designing it, or only through civility. There are some
women who expect it—who dress to be admired—and who deem it a mark of
impoliteness and rudeness in men, who do not pay them the tribute of
compliment and adulation. A man of sense _may_ comply with their
expectation—he will still think them agreeable _playthings_, to divert
him at an hour of relaxation; but I cannot suppose he will entertain any
serious thoughts of _a more permanent connection_.
“MAY we not conclude these things to be productive of many evils that
happen in society—do they not frighten all sentiment from
conversation—introduce affectation—pride—envy—clandestine
marriages—elopements—division of families—and ultimately terminate in
the ruin of very many innocent, but inconsiderate females?”
By this time we had got into the house, and our company soon after
departed, leaving us at full leisure to contemplate on the many wrong
ideas entertained, and fallacious steps pursued by the generality of
mankind, in the sentimental part of female education.
Adieu!
LETTER XIII.
_Worthy_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
A PEACEFUL, recluse life, is suited to my temper—there is
something in the soft breath of Nature—in the delicacy of smiling
meadows and cultivated fields—in the sublimity of an aged wood—of broken
ROCKS—of rivers pouring along their lucid waves, to which the heart
always gives a ready reception—there is something within us congenial to
these scenes; they impress the mind with ideas similar to what we feel
in beholding one whom we tenderly esteem.
I WAS making this observation to Mrs. _Holmes_, and she told me I was in
love—“These are the very scenes,” said she, “which your beloved _Myra_
used to praise and admire, and for which you, by a secret sympathy,
entertain the same predilection. The piece of embroidery which she
worked at an early age, and which ornaments the Temple, I have seen you
gaze upon several times—you seem to trace perfection in every part of
it, because it was executed by the hand of _Myra_.”
I ACKNOWLEDGE I have often gazed upon it (as Mrs. _Holmes_ terms it) but
did not recollect it to be a piece of your work. I stole an opportunity
to revisit it by myself and I instantly remembered it—I remembered when
you finished it, and all the happy, inoffensive scenes of our childhood,
returned fresh upon my heart.
IT is the work _Myra_, said I to myself—Did not her fingers trace these
beautiful expanding flowers?—Did she not give to this carnation its
animated glow, and to this opening rose its languishing grace? Removed
as I am—continued I in a certain interiour language that every son of
nature possesses—Removed as I am, from the amiable object of my
tenderest affection, I have nothing to do but to admire this offspring
of industry and art—It shall yield more fragrance to my soul than all
the _bouquets_ in the universe.
I DID not care to pursue the thought—it touched a delicate string—at
first, however, I flattered myself I should gain some consolation—but I
lost in every reflection.
I CONSIDERED the work as coming from your hand, and was delighted the
more with it. A piece of steel that has been rubbed with a loadstone,
retains the power of attracting small bodies of iron: So the beauties of
this embroidery, springing from your hands, continue to draw my
attention, and fill the mind with ideas of the artist.
Farewel!
LETTER XIV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
HOW incompetent is the force of words to express some peculiar
sensations! Expression is feeble when emotions are exquisite.
I WISH you could be here to see with what ease and dignity everything
comes from the hand of _Harriot_—I cannot give a description equivalent
to the great idea I wish to convey—You will tell me I am in love—What is
love? I have been trying to investigate its nature—to strip it of its
mere term, and consider it as it may be supported by principle—I might
as well search for the philosopher’s stone.
EVERY one is ready to praise his mistress—she is always described in her
“native simplicity,” as “an angel” with a “placid mein,” “mild,
animated,” “altogether captivating,” and at length the talk of
description is given up as altogether “undescribable.” Are not all these
in themselves bare, insignificant words? The world has so long been
accustomed to hear the sound of them, that the idea is lost. But to the
question—What is love? Unless it is answered now, perhaps it never will
be. Is it not an infinitude of graces that accompany everything said by
_Harriot_? That adorn all she does? They must not be taken
severally—they cannot be contemplated in the abstract.—If you proceed to
chymical analysis, their tenuous essence will evaporate—they are in
themselves nothing; but the aggregate is love.
WHEN an army composed of a great number of men, moves slowly on at a
distance, nobody thinks of considering a single soldier.
Adieu!
LETTER XV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
AM I to believe my eyes—my ears-my heart!—and yet I cannot be
deceived.—We are generally most stupid and incredulous in what most
materially concerns us. We find the greatest difficulty in persuading
ourselves of the attainments of what we most ardently desire—She
loves!—I say to myself, “_Harriot_ loves me,” and I reverence myself.
I THINK I may now take upon me some share of happiness—I may say I have
not lived in vain—for all my heart holds dear is mine—joy and love
encompass me—peace and tranquillity are before me; the prospect is fair
and promising as the gilded dawn of a summer’s day—There is none to
supplant me in her affections—I dread no rival, for our tempers are
similar, and our hearts beat in unison together.
Adieu!
LETTER XVI.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
LOVE softens and refines the manners—polishes the asperities
of aukwardness, and fits us for the society of gentle beings. It goes
further, it mends the heart, and makes us better men—it gives the
fainthearted an extraordinary strength of soul, and renders them equal
and frequently superior to danger and distress.
MY passions you know are quick, my prejudices sometimes obstinate—She
tells me these things are wrong—This gentle reprimand is so tempered
with love that I think she commands me. I however promise a reform, and
am much pleased with my improvement. _Harriot_ moulds my heart into what
form she chooses.
A LITTLE party is proposed tomorrow evening and I shall attend
_Harriot_. These elegant relaxations prevent the degeneracy of human
nature, exhilarate the spirits, and wind up this machine of ours for
another revolution of business.
LETTER XVII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
OUR little party was overthrown by a strange piece of folley.
A Miss P—— was introduced, a young lady of beauty and elegant
accomplishments. The whole company were beginning to be
cheerful—business and care were disgusted at the sight of so many happy
countenances, and had gone out from among us. Jollity and good humour
bade us prepare for the dance—unhappily at this juncture a lady and a
gentleman were engaged in a conversation concerning Miss P——, and one of
them repeated the words “a mechanick’s daughter”—it is supposed the word
“mechanick” was repeated scornfully—She heard it—thought herself
insulted—and indignantly retired—disorder and confusion immediately took
place, and the amusement was put an end to for the evening.
I WISH people would consider how little time they have to frollick
here—that they would improve it to more advantage, and not dispute for
any precedence or superiority but in good nature and sociability—“a
mechanick”—and pray whence the distinction!
INEQUALITY among mankind is a foe to our happiness—it even affects our
little parties of pleasure—Such is the fate of the human race, one order
of men lords it over another; but upon what grounds its right is founded
I could never yet be satisfied.
FOR this reason, I like a democratickal better than any other kind of
government; and were I a _Lycurgus_ no distinction of rank should be
found in my commonwealth.
IN my tour through the United States, I had an opportunity of examining
and comparing the different manners and dispositions of the inhabitants
of the several republicks. Those of the southern states, accustomed to a
habit of domineering over their slaves, are haughtier, more tenacious of
honour, and indeed possess more of an aristocratick temper than their
sisters of the confederacy. As we travel to the northward, the nature of
the constitution seems to operate on the minds of the people—slavery is
abolished—all men are declared free and equal, and their tempers are
open, generous and communicative. It is the same in all those countries
where the people enjoy independence and equal liberty. Why then should
those distinctions arise which are inimical to domestick quietude? Or
why should the noisy voice of those who seek distinction, so loudly
reecho in the ears of peace and jollity, as to deafen the sound of the
musick? For while we are disputing who shall lead off the dance, behold!
the instrument gets out of tune—a string snaps—and where is our chance
for dancing?
Adieu!
LETTER XVIII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
MY beloved has left me for a while—she has attended
Mrs. _Francis_ in a journey to Rhodeisland—and here am
I—anxious—solitary—alone!—
NO thoughts, but thoughts of _Harriot_, are permitted to agitate me. She
is in my view all the day long, and when I retire to rest my imagination
is still possessed with ideas of _Harriot_.
Adieu!
LETTER XIX.
_Harrington_ to _Harriot_.
_Boston._
IF a wish, arising from the most tender affection, could
transport me to the object of my love, I persuade myself that you would
not be troubled with reading this letter.
YOU must expect nothing like wit or humour, or even common sense, from
me; wit and humour are flown with you, and your return only can restore
them. I am sometimes willing to persuade myself that this is the case—I
think I hear the well known voice, I look around me with the ecstasy of
_Orpheus_, but that look breaks the charm, I find myself alone, and my
_Eurydice_ vanished to the shades.
I HOPE you will not permit yourself to grow envious of the beauties of
Rhodeisland. Of the force of their charms I am experimentally
acquainted. Wherever fortune has thrown me, it has been my happiness to
imagine myself in love with some divine creature or other; and after all
it is but truth to declare that the passion was seated more in fancy
than the heart; and it is justice to acknowledge to you that I am now
more provident of my passion, and never suffer the excursion of fancy,
except when I am so liberal as to admit the united _beauty_ of the
Rhodeisland ladies in competition with yours.
WHERE there are handsome women there will necessarily be fine gentlemen,
and should they be smitten with your _external graces_, I cannot but
lament their deplorable situation, when they discover how egregiously
they have been cheated. What must be his disappointment, who thought
himself fascinated by beauty, when he finds he has unknowingly been
charmed by reason and virtue!
BUT this you will say contains a sentiment of jealously, and is but a
transcript of my apprehensions and gloomy anxieties: When will your
preference, like the return of the sun in the spring, which dispels
glooms, and reanimates the face of nature, quiet these apprehensions? If
it be not in a short time, I shall proceed on a journey to find you out;
until then I commit you to the care of your guardian angel.
LETTER XX.
_Harrington_ to _Harriot_.
_Boston._
LAST night I went on a visit to your house: It was an
adventure that would have done honour to the Knight of _La Mancha_. The
moon ascended a clear, serene sky, the air was still, the bells sounded
the solemn hour of midnight—I sighed—and the reason of it I need not
tell you. This was, indeed, a pilgrimage; and no _Musselman_ ever
travelled barefooted to _Mecca_ with more sincere devotion.
YOUR absence would cause an insufferable _ennui_ in your friends, were
it not for the art we have in making it turn to our amusement. Instead
of wishing you were of our party, you are the goddess in whose honour we
performed innumerable _Heathenish_ rites. Libations of wine are poured
out, but not a guest presumes to taste it, until they implore the name
of _Harriot_; we hail the new divinity in songs, and strew around the
flowers of poetry. You need not, however, take to yourself any
extraordinary addition of vanity on the occasion as your absence will
not cause any repining:
“Harriot our goddess and our grief no more.”
BUT to give you _my_ opinion on this important matter, I must descend to
plain truth, and acknowledge I had rather adore you a _present_ mortal,
than an _absent_ divinity; and therefore wish for your return with more
religious ardour than a devout disciple of the false prophet for the
company of the _Houri_.
THANKS to the power of imagination for our fanciful interview. Methought
I somewhere unexpectedly met you—but I was soon undeceived of my
imaginary happiness, and I awoke, repeating these verses:—
THOUGH sleep her sable pinions spread,
My thoughts still run on you;
And visions hovering o’er my head,
Present you to my view.
By FANCY’S magick pencil drest,
I saw my DELIA move;
I clasp’d her to my anxious breast,
With TEARS of joy and love.
Methought she said—“Why thus forlorn?—
Be all thy care resign’d:”—
I ’woke and found my DELIA gone,
But still the TEAR behind.
LETTER XXI.
_Harriot_ to _Myra_.
_Rhodeisland._
WE arrived here in safety, but our journey is not without
incident—an incident which exhibits a melancholy picture of the
wickedness and depravity of the human heart.
WHEN we came to the house of Mrs. _Martin_, who I suppose you know is
cousin to Mrs. _Francis_, we were not a little astonished at the evident
traces of distress in her countenance; all her actions were accompanied
with an air of solemnity, and her former gaiety of heart was exchanged
for sad, serious thoughtfulness: She, however, put on a face of vivacity
upon our being introduced, but her cheerfulness was foreign to the
feelings of her heart.
MR. _Martin_ was equally agitated: he endeavoured to dispossess himself
of an _uncommon_ weight of remorse, but in vain—all his dissimulation
could not conceal his emotion, nor his art abate the continual
upbraidings of conscious guilt.
MRS. _Francis_ was anxious to enquire the cause of this extraordinary
change, but wisely forebore adding to the distress of her friend, by
desiring her to explain it, in a manner too precipitate. She was in a
short time made acquainted with the particulars of the story—which is
not more melancholy than uncommon.
SOMETIME after the marriage of _Martin_, the beautiful _Ophelia_, sister
to Mrs. _Martin_, returned from a European visit to her friends in
_Rhodeisland_. Upon her arrival, she received a polite offer from her
brother-in-law of an elegant apartment of his house in town, which was
cheerfully accepted—Fatal acceptation! He had conceived a passion for
_Ophelia_ and was plotting to gratify it. By a series of the most artful
attentions, suggested by a diabolical appetite, he insinuated himself
into her affection—he prevailed upon the heart of the unsuspicious
_Ophelia_, and triumphed over her innocence and virtue.
THIS incestuous connection has secretly subsisted until the present
time—it was interrupted by a symptom which rendered it necessary for
_Ophelia_ to retire into the country, where she was delivered of a
child, at once the son and nephew of _Martin_.
THIS event was a severe mortification to the proud spirit of _Shepherd_,
the father of _Ophelia_. His resentment to his daughter was implacable,
and his revenge of the injury from _Martin_ not to be satiated. The
blaze of family dispute raged with unquenchable fury—and poor _Ophelia_
received other punishment from the hand of a vindictive father than base
recrimination.
THE affection of _Martin_ now became changed to the vilest hatred.
THUS doomed to suffer the blackest ingratitude from her seducer on the
one hand, and to experience the severity of paternal vengeance on the
other—and before her the gloomy prospect of a blasted reputation—what
must be the situation of the hapless _Ophelia_! Hope, the last resort of
the wretched, was forever shut out. There was no one whom she durst
implore by the tender name of father, and he, who had seduced her from
her duty and her virtue, was the first to brand her with the disgraceful
epithets of undutiful and unchaste.
PERHAPS it was only at this time, that she became fully sensible of her
danger; the flattery and dissimulation of _Martin_ might have banished
the idea of detection, and glossed over that of criminality; but now she
awoke from her dream of insensibility, she was like one who had been
deluded by an _ignis fatuus_ to the brink of a precipice, and there
abandoned to his reflection to contemplate the horrours of the sea
beneath him, into which he was about to plunge.
WHETHER from the promises of _Martin_, or the flattery of her own fancy,
is unknown, but it is said she expected to become his wife, and made use
of many expedients to obtain a divorcement of _Martin_ from her sister:
But this is the breath of rumour: Allowing it to be truth, it appears to
be the last attempt of despair; for such unnatural exertions, with the
compunction attending them, represent a gloomy picture of the struggle
between sisterly affection and declining honour. They however proved
inavailable, and her efforts to that end, may with propriety be deemed a
wretched subterfuge.
IN the mean while the rage of _Shepherd_ was augmenting. Time, instead
of allaying, kindled the flame of revenge in the breast of the old man.
A sense of the wounded honour of his family, became every day more
exquisite; he resolved to call a meeting of the parties, in which the
whole mystery should be developed—that _Ophelia_ should confront her
seducer, and a thorough enquiry and explication be brought about.
OPHELIA exercised all her powers to prevent it; she intreated her father
to consent to her desire, but her tears and entreaties were vain. To
this earnest desire of his daughter, _Shepherd_ opposed the honour of
his family. She replied that a procedure would publish its disgrace and
be subversive of his intention: That she hoped to live retired from the
world, and it was in his power to accept her happy repentance: In
extenuating, she wished not to vindicate her errours, but declared
herself to be penetrated with a melancholy sense of her misconduct, and
hoped her penitence might expiate her guilt: She now beheld the sin in
the most glaring colours, the dangers to which she had been exposed, and
acknowledged the effects of her temerity had impressed her mind with
sincere contrition: “All persons,” continued she, “are not blest with
the like happiness of resisting temptation:” she intreated her father,
therefore, to believe her misfortunes proceeded from credulity and not
from an abandoned principle—that they arose more from situation than a
depraved heart: In asking to be restored to the favour and protection of
a parent, she protested she was not influenced by any other motive, than
a wish to demonstrate the sincerity of her repentance, and to establish
the peace and harmony of the family.
OPHELIA now became melancholy, and her intentions visibly bent on the
_manner of her death_. As the time drew nigh, her sensibility became
more and more exquisite: What was before distress, she now averred to be
horrour: Her conduct bordered on insanity.
THE day was appointed to bring to a settlement this unhappy business—the
time of hearing arrived—the parties met—the presence of _Ophelia_ was
necessary—she was missing—the unfortunate _Ophelia_ died by her own
hand.
MRS. _Shepherd_ entered the apartment of her daughter—she beheld her
pale and trembling—she saw the vial, and the cup with the remains of the
poison—she embraced her lost—“_My Ophelia!_ my daughter! return—return
to life.”
AT this crisis entered the father—he was mute—he beheld his daughter
struggling with the pangs of dissolution—he was dumb with grief and
astonishment.
THE dying _Ophelia_ was conscious of the distress of her parents, and of
her own situation—she clasped her mother’s hand, and raising her eye to
heaven, was only heard to articulate “LET MY CRIME BE FORGOTTEN WITH MY
NAME.—O FATAL! FATAL POISON!”
ADIEU! my dear _Myra_—this unhappy affair has worked me to a fit of
melancholy. I can write no more. I will give you a few particulars in my
next. It is impossible to behold the effect of this horrid catastrophe
and not be impressed with feelings of sympathetick sorrow:
LETTER XXII.
_Harriot_ to _Myra_.
_Rhodeisland._
HOW frail is the heart! How dim is human foresight! We behold
the gilded bait of temptation, and know not until taught by experience,
that the admission of one errour is but the introduction of calamity.
One mistake imperceptibly leads to another—but the consequences of the
whole bursting suddenly on the devoted head of an unfortunate wanderer,
becomes intolerable.
HOW acute must be that torture, which seeks an asylum in suicide! O
SEDUCTION! how many and how miserable are the victims of thy unrelenting
vengeance. Some crimes, indeed, cease to afflict when they cease to
exist, but SEDUCTION opens the door to a dismal train of innumerable
miseries.
YOU can better imagine the situation of the friends of the unfortunate
_Ophelia_ than I can describe it.
THE writings she left were expressive of contrition for her past
transaction, and an awful sense of the deed she was about to execute.
Her miserable life was insupportable, there was no oblation but in
death—she welcomed death, therefore, as the pleasing harbinger of relief
to the unfortunate. She remembered her once loved seducer with pity, and
bequeathed him her forgiveness.—To say she felt no agitation was not
just, but that she experienced a calmness unknown to a criminal was
certain. She hoped the rashness of her conduct would not be construed to
her disadvantage—for she died in charity with the world. She felt like a
poor wanderer about to return to a tender parent, and flattered herself
with the hopes of a welcome, though unbidden return. She owned the way
was dark and intricate, but lamented she had no friend to enlighten her
understanding, or unravel the mysteries of futurity. She knew there was
a God who will reward and punish: She acknowledged she had offended Him,
and confessed her repentance. She expatiated on the miserable life she
had _suffered_: not that she feared detection, that was impossible: but
that she had been doing an injury to a sister who was all kindness to
her: she prayed her sister’s forgiveness—even as she herself forgave her
seducer; and that her crime might not be called ingratitude, because she
was always sensible of her obligation to that sister. She requested her
parents to pardon her, and acknowledged she felt the pangs of a bleeding
heart at the shock which must be given to the most feeling of mothers.
She intreated her sisters to think of her with pity, and died with
assurance that her friends would so far revere her memory as to take up
one thing or another, and say this belonged to poor _Ophelia_.
O MY friend! what scenes of anguish are here unfolded to the survivours.
The unhappy _Shepherd_ charged _Martin_ with the seduction and murder of
his daughter. What the termination of this most horrible affair will be,
is not easy to foresee.
Adieu!
LETTER XXIII.
_Harriot_ to _Myra._
_Rhodeisland._
WHATEVER may be the other causes (if there were any besides
her seduction) which drove the unhappy _Ophelia_, temerariously to end
her existence, it certainly becomes us, my dear friend, to attend to
them—and to draw such morals and lessons of instruction from each side
of the question, as will be a mirrour by which we may regulate our
conduct and amend our lives. A prudent pilot will shun those rocks upon
which others have been dashed to pieces, and take example from the
conduct of others less fortunate than himself: It is the duty of the
moralist, then to deduce his observations from preceding facts in such a
manner as may directly improve the mind and promote the economy of human
life.
THIS may be an apology for sending you the arguments of _Martin_ in
answer to _Shepherd_, who in his rage and grief had called him the
murderer of his child.
HE reminded _Shepherd_ of his obstinacy in persisting in an explanatory
meeting, and refusing to grant _Ophelia’s_ request in suffering the
affair to subside—“Your proud spirit,” said he, “would not harken to the
gentle remonstrances of your daughter—your heart was closed to every
conciliatory proposition. Though she expressed a propensity to fly from
the eye of the world, she had hitherto appeared lulled in a kind of
happy insensibility; yet the approaching time of explanation was
terrible, it renewed the story and torture of all her misfortunes, and
the idea filled her with grief and dismay. Had you been as willing to
receive her, as she to return to you, happy would it have been for both;
but your pride was the cause of additional calamities—when the time
arrived—But why shall we harrow upon souls with the reiteration of her
sorrowful exit?—
“FROM these circumstances,” said _Martin_, “you cannot accuse me as the
_immediate_ cause of _Ophelia’s_ death; the facts are as I have stated
them—and thus was a straying, but penitent child, driven to despair and
suicide by a severe use of parental power, and a vain attempt to resent
an injury, for which it was impossible the accused party could make
compensation.”
NOTWITHSTANDING the plausibility of _Martin’s_ plea, I have little
hesitation in my mind to charge him with the _remote cause_ of the
miserable end of _Ophelia_.
HOW far parental authority may be extended, is a question which I shall
not determine; I must, however, think it depends upon the combination of
circumstances. The duty of a child to her parents will be in proportion
to the attention paid to her education. If, instead of the usual pains
bestowed by many partial parents, upon the vain parade of forming the
manners of a child, and burthening the mind with the _necessity_ of
douceurs and graces, would it not often be happier for both, to take a
small share of thought to kindle _one spark of grace_ in the heart?
HAPPY the parents, who have bestowed upon their children such an
education, as will enable them, by a principle of mediocrity, to govern
them without extorting obedience, and to reclaim them without exercising
severity.
Farewel!
LETTER XXIV.
_Harriot_ to _Myra_.
_Rhodeisland._
MRS. _Francis_ is not altogether pleased with her journey to
this part of the country—She does not delight to brood over sorrow—She
flies from the house of mourning, to scenes of dissipation—and, like the
rest of the world, bears the misfortunes of her friends with a most
christian fortitude: The melancholy aspect of affairs here, will
therefore shorten our visit—so you may expect us at _Boston_ in a few
days.
MY faithful lover (with whom I will certainly make you acquainted in a
short time) continues to write to me in very passionate and sentimental
strains. His last letter proves him to be a _tolerable maker of rhymes_
and I inclose it for your _entertainment_.
I am, my dear,
Your most affectionate Friend.
LETTER XXV.
_Myra_ to _Harriot_.
(WRITTEN BEFORE SHE HAD RECEIVED THE PRECEDING.)
_Boston._
YOUR sorrowful little history has infected me with grief.
Surely there is no human vice of so black a die—so fatal in its
consequences—or which causes a more general calamity, than that of
_seducing_ a female from the path of honour. This idea has been improved
by my brother, on the hint of your favour—as an acknowledgement for
which I inclose you his production.
(THE INCLOSED.)
=The Court of Vice.=
AN _APOLOGUE_.
VICE “on a solemn night of state,
In all her pomp of terrour sate,”
Her voice in deep, tremendous tone,
Thus issu’d from her ebon throne:
‘This night at our infernal court,
Let all our ministers resort;
Who most annoys the human race,
At our right hand shall take his place,
Rais’d on a throne—advanc’d in fame—
YE CRIMES now vindicate your claim.’
Eager for praise, the hideous host,
All spake, aspiring to the post.
PRIDE said, to gain his private ends,
He sacrific’d his dearest friends;
Insulted all with manners rude,
And introduc’d ingratitude.
’Twas he infus’d DOMESTICK hate,
And party spirit in the state;
Hop’d they’d observe his mystick plan,
Destroy’d all confidence in man;
And justifi’d his high pretentions,
By causing envy and dissentions.
INTEMPERANCE loud, demands the place,
He’d long deceiv’d the human race;
None could such right as he maintain,
Disease and death were in his train.
THEFT next appears to claim the station,
E’er constant in his dark vocation;
He thought the place might well repay,
The CRIME who labour’d night and day.
FRAUD own’d (tho’ loth to speak his praise)
He gain’d his point by secret ways;
His voice in cities had been heard,
And oft in senates been preferr’d!
Yet much derision had he borne,
Treated by honest fools with scorn;
His influence on the western shore
Was not so great as heretofore:
He own’d each side alike assail’d,
Complain’d how sadly he was rail’d,
Curst by the name in ev’ry street.
Of Paper, Tendry, Rogue and Cheat:
Yet if some honour should requite
His labour—things might still go right.
MURDER before the footstool stood,
With tatter’d robe distain’d in blood.
‘And who,’ he cry’d, with daring face,
‘Denies my title to the place?
My watchful eyes mankind survey,
And single out the midnight prey;
No cowardlike I meet the foe,
With footsteps insecure and slow,
Or cause his death by languid strife—
Boldly this dagger ends his life.
Give back, ye CRIMES, your claims resign,
For I demand the post as mine.’
AV’RICE declar’d his love of gold;
His nation, or himself he sold;
He taught the sin of PRIDE betimes;
Was foster-father of all CRIMES:
He pawn’d his life; he sak’d his soul,
And found employment for the whole:
Acknowleg’d that he gain’d his wealth,
By FRAUD, by MURDER; and by STEALTH:
On one so useful to her cause,
VICE well might lavish due applause.
The hagger’d host bow’d low the head,
The MONSTER rose, and thus she said:
‘Ye MINISTERS of VICE, draw near,
For fame no longer persevere;
No more your various parts disclose,
Men SEE, AND HATE YOU ALL AS FOES.
One yet remains among your crew,
Then rise, SEDUCTION! claim your due.
Your baleful presence quickly parts
The tie that holds the happiest hearts;
You ROB—what WEALTH can ne’er repay;
Like JUDAS with a kiss BETRAY:
Hence come the starving, trembling train,
Who prostitute themselves for gain,
Whose languid visages impart
A smile, while anguish gnaws the heart;
Whose steps decoy unwary youth,
From honour, honesty, and truth,
Which follow’d ’till to late to mend,
In ruin, and the gallows end—
Be thine the post. Besides, who knows
When all thy consequences close?
With thee, SEDUCTION! are ally’d
HORROUR, DESPAIR and SUICIDE,
You wound—but the DEVOTED heart
Feels not alone—the poignant smart:
You wound—th’ electrick pain extends
To fathers, mothers, sisters, friends.
MURDER may yet delight in blood,
And deluge round the crimson flood:
But sure his merits rank above,
Who murders in the mask of love.’
LETTER XXVI.
_Myra_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
IN one of my former letters I acquainted you that I suspected
my brother to be in love, and now Madam, I am enabled to tell you with
whom—the amiable _Harriot_.
_Harriot_ attended Mrs. _Francis_ in her journey to _Rhodeisland_, and
our young hero has, in her absence, been dreaming of his mistress; and,
in a letter to her has written a description of his visionary interview.
_Harriot_, with whom I maintain a constant correspondence, and who keeps
no secret from me, inclosed the verses in her last, when lo! the
handwriting of Master _Harrington_.
I WAS a little mortified that the young man had kept me in ignorance of
his amour all this time, and this morning determined upon a little
innocent revenge—“Tommy,” said I, as he entered the room, “here is a
piece of poetry, written by an acquaintance of mine—I want your judgment
on it”—“Poetry or rhyme,” answered he, advancing towards me, and casting
his eyes upon it—He took the letter and began to read—“Why do you blush,
young man?” said I, “_Harriot_ is a fine girl.”—
THIS produced an _éclaircissement_, and as the matter must remain
secret, for a certain weighty reason, I am to be the _confidante_.
I MUST acknowledge to you, Mrs. _Holmes_, there is a certain _je ne sais
quoi_ in my amiable friend, that has always interested her in my
favour—I have an affection for her which comes from the heart—an
affection which I do not pretend to account for—Her dependance upon Mrs.
_Francis_ hurts me—I do not think this lady is the gentle, complaisant
being, that she appears to be in company—To behold so fine a girl in so
disagreeable a situation, might at first attract my commiseration and
esteem, and a more intimate knowledge of her virtues might have ripened
them into love. Certain it is, however, that whom I admire as a friend,
I could love as a SISTER. In the feelings of the heart there can be no
dissimulation.
PLEASE to tell Mr. _Worthy_, he may continue to write, and that I will
condescend to read his letters.
Farewel!
LETTER XXVII.
_Worthy_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview_.
I AM just returned from a melancholy excursion with _Eliza_. I
will give you the history of it—We generally walk out together, but we
this time went further than usual—The morning was calm and serene—all
Nature was flourishing, and its universal harmony conspired to deceive
us in the length of the way.
WHILE we were pursuing our walk, our ears were struck with a plaintive,
musical voice, singing a melancholy tune.—“This,” said Mrs. _Holmes_,
“must be _Fidelia_—the poor distracted girl was carried off by a ruffian
a few days before her intended marriage, and her lover, in despair,
threw himself into the river,”—_Eliza_ could say no more—for _Fidelia_
resumed her melancholy strain in the following words:—
TALL rose the lily’s slender frame,
It shed a glad perfume;
But ah! the cruel spoiler came,
And nipt its opening bloom.
Curse on the cruel spoiler’s hand
That stole thy bloom and fled—
Curse on his hand—for thy true love
Is number’d with the dead.
Poor maiden! like the lily frail,
’Twas all in vain you strove;
You heard the stranger’s tender tale—
But where was thy true love?
Thou wast unkind and false to him,
But he did constant prove;
He plung’d headlong in the stream—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
’Twas where the river rolls along,
The youth all trembling stood,
Opprest with grief—he cast himself
Amidst the cruel flood.
White o’er his head the billows foam,
And circling eddies move;
Ah! there he finds a watery tomb—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
WE advanced towards the place from where the sound issued, and
_Fidelia_, who heard our approach, immediately rose from the ground; “I
was tired,” said she, “and sat down here to rest myself.”
SHE was dressed in a long white robe, tied about the waist with a pink
ribband; her fine brown hair flowed loosely round her shoulders—In her
hand she held a number of wild flowers and weeds, which she had been
gathering. “These,” she cried, “are to make a nosegay for my love.” “He
hath no occasion for it,” said _Eliza_. “Yes! where he lives,” cried
_Fidelia_, “there are plenty—and flowers that never fade too—I will
throw them into the river, and they will swim to him—they will go
straight to him”—“And what will he do with them?” I asked; “O!” said the
poor girl as she looked wistfully on them, and sorted them in her hand,
“he loves everything that comes from me—he told me so”—“He will be happy
to receive them,” cried _Eliza_. “Where he is,” said _Fidelia_, “is
happiness—and happy are the flowers that bloom there—and happy shall I
be, when I go to him—alas! I am very ill now”—“He will love you again,”
said _Eliza_, “when you find him out”—“O he was very kind,” cried she,
tenderly, “he delighted to walk with me over all these fields—but now, I
am obliged to walk alone.” _Fidelia_ drew her hand across her cheek, and
we wept with her.—“I must go,” she said, “I must go,” and turned
abruptly from us, and left us with great precipitation.
Farewel!
LETTER XXVIII.
_Worthy_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
MY melancholy meditations led me yesterday to the same place
where I had seen the distracted _Fidelia_, and walking down the hill I
again beheld her by the side of a beautiful spring—Before I could come
up to the place, she was gone—she went hastily over the field—I followed
her—after a few minutes walk, I overtook her, and we both went on
together towards a small, neat farmhouse. An old man was sitting at the
door—he gave a sigh as she passed him to go in—I asked him if she was
his daughter—“Alas!” said he, “my poor child—she has been in this state
of affliction for near a twelve month.” I enquired what cause produced
the loss of her senses—He looked down sorrowfully—the question awakened
the gloomy sensations of past evils, the recollection of which was
painful, and opened wounds afresh that were not yet healed. “She has
lost her lover,” cried the old man—“the youth was the son of one of our
neighbours—their infancy was marked by a peculiar attachment to each
other. When the young people danced together, _Fidelia_ was always the
partner of _Henry_—as they grew up their mutual tenderness ripened into
passionate affection. They were engaged to each other, and _Henry_ saved
all his little stock of money to begin the world by himself. All the
town beheld them with pleasure—they wished them success and
happiness—and from their knowledge of both their characters, were led to
hope they would one day become good members of society—but these hopes
are blasted, and they now bestow the bitterest curses on the wretch who
hath crushed their expectations—who hath deprived _Fidelia_ of her
senses, and caused the death of her lover.
“THE gay _Williams_ comes among us, and participates in our domestick
pastimes—he singles out _Fidelia_, and is assiduous in his attentions to
her—her little heart is lifted up—but her prudence rises superior to her
vanity. _Henry_ observes the operations of _Williams_ and thinks he sees
in him a powerful rival—the unhappy youth becomes melancholy—he sickens
with jealousy—the pleasures of our country are forgotten by him—his
thoughts are constantly employed on his _Fidelia_.—To complete the
measure of his promised happiness he wishes to call her his own—he
declares the desire of his soul-_Fidelia_ pledges her faith. He now sees
the accomplishment of all his wishes in reversion—his heart leaps for
joy—but—as the little paraphernalia is preparing, the ruffian hand of
the SEDUCER dashes the cup of joy from their lips—_Fidelia_ suddenly
disappears—_Williams_—the ungrateful _Williams_—betrays her to a
carriage he had prepared, and she is hurried off. _Henry_ stands
astonished—wild with grief and dismay, he appears senseless and
confounded.
“WHEN the heart is elevated by strong expectation—disappointment and
misfortune come with redoubled force.—To receive pain, when we look for
pleasure, penetrates the very soul with accumulated anguish.”
THE old man paused—He endeavoured to hide a tear that was stealing down
his cheek—and to check the violence of his passion.
I ASKED him how long his daughter was missing—“Not long,” he
answered—“the young men, enraged at the insult, arm themselves and
pursue the robber—they overtake him—_Williams_ is wounded in the
scuffle, and is carried away bleeding, by his servant—My daughter is
regained—we thank Heaven for her restoration. She enquires for her
_Henry_—alas! _Henry_ is no more! The object of his love had flown from
him, and with her the light of his soul—Darkness and grief had
encompassed him—he had no resource, no consolation, no hope—she, whom
his soul loved was stolen—was wrested from his embrace. Who was there to
administer relief?—Who was there to supply her loss?—Not one.—the light
of his reason now became clouded—he is seized by despair, and urged
forward by the torments of disappointed love, he plunges into the
river—to close his sorrows with his life.
“THE loss of _Fidelia’s_ senses followed this tragical event.
“SHE hears the fate of her lover and becomes petrified—the idea of her
sorrows—her own agitation and care for her person, are lost in the
reflection of her lover’s death.—A while she raved—but this is now
somewhat restored, and, as you see, the poor maniack strays about the
fields harmless and inoffensive.”
THE old man proceeded to inform me of the death of his wife—the idea of
one misfortune aroused in him that of another—or rather there was a
gradual progression in them, and consequently a connexion—He told me she
did not long survive the death of _Henry_. “O _Charlotte!_” he cried,
“thou wast kind and cheerful—very pleasant hast thou been unto me. I
will not cease to regret thy loss, till I meet thee in a better world.”
“OUR hearts,” continued the old man, addressing me, “are loosened from
their attachment to this world by repeated strokes of misfortune. Wisely
is it ordered thus. Every calamity severs a string from the heart—until
one scene of sorrow on the back of another matures us for eternity—Thus
are our affections estranged from this scene of misery. The cord that
detains the bird is severed in two—and it flies away.
“FORMERLY as I sat in this place—in the mild shade of the evening—when I
had returned from my labour and took _Fidelia_ on my knee, how often
have I rendered thanks to Heaven for the happiness I enjoyed, and
implored His power to make my child such another as _Charlotte_—This
sweet remembrance yet swells and agitates my heart, and in the midst of
the distress which surrounds me, I feel a consolation in tracing to you
a feeble sketch of the happy times that are passed.”
THE old man was sensibly affected—he delighted to dwell on what his
child had been—he thought of those times—and he sighed when he
contrasted them with the present.
“IN her disordered state,” continued he, “she knows me not as a father—I
spread my morsel before her, and she flies from it—she forgets the sound
of my voice—she is no longer unto me as a daughter. She who hath so
often said, she would support me with her arm, and lead me about, when I
should be old and decrepit—to her I call, but she returns me no answer.
Is not the cause of my woes, a melancholy instance of the baleful art of
the SEDUCER?—She is deprived of her reason, and knows not the weight of
her misery; and I am doubly deadened with her affliction, and the
accumulated misfortune of immature decrepitude.”
“SEDUCTION is a crime,” I observed, “that nothing can be said to
palliate or excuse.”
“AND WOE to him,” added the old man, “who shall endeavour to extenuate
it—_They have taken away my staff_”—continued he, raising a look of
imploring mercy to Heaven, while a trembling tear rolled from his
swollen eye, “_They have taken away my staff in my old age._”
FREELY did my heart share in the sorrows of the good old man—when I left
him, I prayed Heaven to compassionate his distress—and as I bent my
pensive step towards _Belleview_, I had leisure to animadvert on the
fatal tendency of SEDUCTION.
Adieu!
END OF VOL. I.
[Illustration]
The Power of Sympathy.
_VOL. II._
[Illustration]
Edited by Walter Littlefield.
THE POWER OF SYMPATHY:
or, the Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth.
BY
MRS. PEREZ MORTON
(SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORP).
_With Frontispiece._
[Illustration]
BOSTON: PRINTED·BY·CUPPLES
& PATTERSON·AND·PUBLISHED
BY·THEM·AT·THE·BACK
BAY·BOOKSTORE·250·BOYLSTON·STREET
Copyright, 1894,
By WALTER LITTLEFIELD.
_All Rights Reserved._
THE
POWER OF SYMPATHY:
OR, THE
TRIUMPH OF NATURE.
FOUNDED IN _TRUTH_.
IN _TWO_ VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
Fain would he strew Life’s thorny Way with Flowers,
And open to your View Elysian Bowers;
Catch the warm Passions of the tender Youth,
And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth.
[Illustration]
PRINTED at _BOSTON_
BY ISAIAH THOMAS AND COMPANY.
Sold at their Bookstore, No. 45, NEWBURY STREET,
And at said THOMAS’s Bookstore in WORCESTER.
MDCCLXXXIX.
The Power of Sympathy.
LETTER XXIX.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
I AM sometimes mortified to find the books which I recommend
to your perusal, are not always applicable to the situation of an
_American_ lady. The general observations of some _English_ books are
the most useful things contained in them; the principal parts being
chiefly filled with local descriptions, which a young woman here is
frequently at a loss to understand.
I SEND you a little work, entitled “_A lady of Quality’s Advice to her
Children_” which, though not altogether free from this exception, is
highly worthy of your attention. A parent who is represented struggling
with the distress of a lingering illness, bequeaths a system of
education to her offspring. I do not recommend it to you as a Novel, but
as a work that speaks the language of the heart and that inculcates the
duty we owe to ourselves, to society and the Deity.
DIDACTICK essays are not always capable of engaging the attention of
young ladies. We fly from the laboured precepts of the essayist, to the
sprightly narrative of the novelist. Habituate your mind to remark the
difference between truth and fiction. You will then always be enabled to
judge of the propriety and justness of a thought; and never be misled to
form wrong opinions, by the meretricious _dress_ of a pleasing tale. You
will then be capable of deducing the most profitable lessons of
instruction, and the design of your _reading_ will be fully
accomplished.—
HENCE you will be provided with a key to the characters of men: To
unlock these curious cabinets is a very useful, as well as entertaining
employment. Of those insidious gentlemen, who plan their advances
towards us on the _Chesterfieldian_ system, let me advise you to beware.
A prudent commander would place a double watch, if he apprehended the
enemy were more disposed to take the fort by secrecy and undermining,
than by an open assault.
I CANNOT but smile sometimes, to observe the ridiculous figure of some
of our young gentlemen, who affect to square their conduct by his
LORDSHIP’S principles of politeness—they never tell a story unless it be
very short—they talk of decorum and the _etiquette_—they detest
everything vulgar or common—they are on the rack if an old man should
let fall a proverb—and a thousand more trifling affectations, the
ridicule of which arises, not so much from their putting on this foreign
dress, as from their ignorance or vanity in pretending to imitate those
rules which were designed for an English nobleman—Unless, therefore,
they have a prospect of being called by Congress to execute some foreign
negotiation, they ought certainly to be minding their business.
THIS affectation of fine breeding is destructive to morals.
Dissimulation and insincerity are connected with its tenets; and are
mutually inculcated with the art of pleasing.
A PERSON of this character grounds his motives for pleasing on the most
selfish principle—He is polite, not for the honour of obliging you, as
he endeavours to make you believe, but that he himself might be obliged.
Suspect him, therefore, of insincerity and treachery, who sacrifices
truth to complaisance, and advises you to the pursuit of an object,
which would tend to his advantage.
ALWAYS distinguish the man of sense from the cox-comb. Mr. _Worthy_ is
possessed of a good understanding, and an exact judgement. If you are
united with him, let it be the study of your life to preserve his love
and esteem. His amiable character is adorned with modesty and a
disposition to virtue and sobriety. I never anticipate your future
happiness, but I contemplate this part of his character with pleasure.
But remember the fidelity of a wife alone, will not always secure the
esteem of a husband; when her personal attractions do not continue to
delight his eye, she will flatter his judgement. I think you are enabled
to perform this, because you are solicitous to supply your mind with
those amiable qualities which are more durable than beauty. When you are
no longer surrounded with a flattering circle of young men, and the
world shall cease to call you beautiful, your company will be courted by
men of sense, who know the value of your conversation.
I AM pleased with the conduct of some agreeable girls, and the return of
civility and attention they often make to the conceited compliments of a
certain class of beaux. These ladies wisely consider them as the
butterflies of a day, and therefore generally scorn _to break them on a
wheel_!
WHEN you are in company, when the vain and thoughtless endeavour to shew
their ingenuity by ridiculing particular orders of men, your prudence
will dictate to you not to countenance their abuse—The book I have just
mentioned, intimates, that “there are a great many things done and said
in company which a woman of virtue will neither see nor hear.”—To
discountenance levity, is a sure way to guard against the encroachment
of temptation; to participate in the mirth of a buffoon, is to render
yourself equally ridiculous. We owe to ourselves a _detestation_ of
folley, and to the world, the appearance of it. I would have you avoid
coquetry and affectation, and the observance of my maxims will never
make you a prude—Pretend, therefore, should a vain youth throw out
illiberal sarcasms against Mechanicks, Lawyers, Ministers, Virtue,
Religion, or any serious subject, not to comprehend the point of his
wit.
I HAVE seldom spoken to you on the importance of Religion, and the
veneration due to the characters of the Clergy. I always supposed your
good sense capable of suggesting their necessity and eligibility. The
Ministers of no nation are more remarkable for learning and piety than
those of this country. The fool may pretend to scorn, and the
irreligious to contemn, but every person of sense and reflection must
admire that sacred order, whose business is to inform the understanding,
and regulate the passions of mankind. Surely, therefore, that class of
men, will continue to merit our esteem and affection, while virtue
remains upon earth.
I AM always pleased with the reasonable and amiable light in which the
Clergy are placed by the author of the _Guardian_—“The light,” says he,
“in which these points should be exposed to the view of one who is
prejudiced against the names, Religion, Church, Priest, or the like, is
to consider the Clergy as so many Philosophers, the Churches as Schools,
and their Sermons as Lectures for the improvement and information of the
audience. How would the heart of _Tully_ or _Socrates_ have rejoiced,
had they lived in a nation where the law had made provision for
philosophers to read lectures of philosophy, every seventh day, in
several thousands of schools, erected at the publick charge, throughout
the whole country, at which lectures, all ranks and sexes, without
distinction, were obliged to be present, for their general improvement?”
YOU may, perhaps, think this letter too serious, but remember that
virtue and religion are the foundation of education.
Adieu!
LETTER XXX.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
YOU will observe, my dear friend, that most of the letters I
have written to you of late, on female education, are confined to the
subject of study. I am sensible of the ridicule sometimes levelled at
those who are called learned ladies. Either these ladies must be
uncommonly pedantick, or those who ridicule them, uncommonly ignorant—Do
not be apprehensive of acquiring that title, or sharing the ridicule,
but remember that the knowledge which I wish you to acquire, is
necessary to adorn your many virtues and amiable qualifications. This
ridicule is evidently a trans-Atlantick idea, and must have been imbibed
from the source of some _English_ Novel or Magazine—The _American_
ladies of this class, who come within our knowledge, we know to be
justly celebrated as ornaments to society, and an honour to the sex.
When it is considered how many of our countrywomen are capable of the
task, it is a matter of regret that _American_ literature boasts so few
productions from the pens of the ladies.
SELF complacency is a most necessary acquirement—for the value of a
woman will always be commensurate to the opinion she entertains of
herself. A celebrated European wit, in a letter to a lady, concentres
much good advice in the short rule of conduct: “REVERENCE THYSELF.”
I WAS this morning reading _Swift’s_ letter to a very young lady, on her
marriage. Although this famous writer is not celebrated for delicacy or
respect towards us, yet I wish some of his observations contained less
truth—If you are in company, says this writer, when the conversation
turns on the manners and customs of remote nations, or on books in verse
or prose, or on the nature and limits of virtue and vice, it is a shame
for a lady not to relish such discourses, not to improve by them, and
endeavour by reading and information, to have her share in those
entertainments, rather than turn aside, as is the usual custom, and
consult with the woman who sits next her, about a new cargo of fans.
HE then descends to particulars, and insists on the necessity of
orthography. Is it not a little hard, continues he, that not one
gentleman’s daughter in a thousand should be brought to read or
understand her own natural tongue, or be judge of the easiest books that
are written in it; as any one may find, who can have the patience to
hear them mangle a Play or a Novel?
IF there be any of your acquaintance to whom this passage is applicable,
I hope you will recommend the study of Mr. _Webster’s_ Grammatical
Institute, as the best work in our language to facilitate the knowledge
of Grammar. I cannot but think Mr. _Webster_ intended his valuable book
for the benefit of his countrywomen: For while he delivers his _rules_
in a pure, precise, and elegant style, he _explains_ his meaning by
_examples_ which are calculated to inspire the female mind with a thirst
for emulation, and a desire of virtue.
NO subject has been more exhausted than that of education. Many
_Utopian_ schemes have been delineated, and much speculation employed.
When I peruse these labours, and am persuaded the intention of their
authors is to promote our welfare, I feel myself prompted to a prudent
and amiable demeanour; and I suppose every woman of reason and
reflection feels the same inclination to virtue, and the same sensations
of gratitude in reading the works of those writers, the characteristicks
of whom, are sentiment, morality and benevolence.
WHAT books do you read, my dear? We are now finishing _Barlow’s_ Vision
of _Columbus_, and shall begin upon _Dwight’s_ Conquest of _Canaan_ in a
few days. It is very agreeable to read with one, who points out the
beauties of the author as we proceed. Such a one is _Worthy_.—Sometimes
Mr. _Holmes_ makes one of our party, and his notes and references to the
ancient poets are very entertaining. _Worthy_ is delighted with the ease
and freedom with which we live here. We have little concerts, we walk,
we ride, we read, we have good company—this is _Belleview_ in all its
glory.
ADIEU, my dear—I shall continue this subject no longer, though I flatter
myself you would receive my hints with satisfaction, because you must be
persuaded I love you, and so interest myself in your welfare—I need not
add that I think your conduct worthy of you. You are such a good girl
that I know not in what to direct you; for you leave me no room for
advice—continue to anticipate the desires of my heart, and secure the
high opinion you have there obtained.
Your friend forever!
LETTER XXXI.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
IF the affair of your brother and _Harriot_ be serious, and
matrimony is really on the _tapis_, do not fail to make me _previously_
acquainted with it.—I very much doubt the evidence of the verses—they
weigh little in my mind—and he is easily excused for sending them to so
fine a girl as _Harriot_.
YOUR observations on her dependence on Mrs. _Francis_ do honour to your
heart—virtue does not consist in affluence and independence—nor can it
be reflected on us by the glory of our connexions—those who pride
themselves on it, make but an indifferent figure; for in the estimation
of all sensible people—true merit is personal.
HOWEVER, my dear friend, as one who wishes for your welfare and the
happiness of your family, I advise you to discourage the proposed
connexion—and if you cannot undertake this disagreeable talk with a
_certain of success_, do not fail to acquaint me of it _speedily_.
Adieu!
LETTER XXXII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
WHAT ails my heart? I feel a void here—and yet I verge towards
my happiness—for a few days makes _Harriot_ mine—_Myra_ says I had
_better not marry her_. What could prompt her to use such an expression?
_Better not marry her._ She has repeated it several times—and with too
much eagerness—I give no heed to it—and yet, why should it affect me in
this manner? Is it an artifice to fathom the depth of my love? Such
schemes are my utter aversion—it disturbs me—I hate such artifice—You
cannot imagine how it touches my heart.
Adieu!
LETTER XXXIII.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
IT is the duty of friends to be interested in all the concerns
of one another—to join in their joys and to avert the stroke of danger.
It is the duty of a centinel to give the alarm at the approach of what
he may think such—and if the result does not prove to be a real evil—he
has but performed his duty, and the action is meritorious.
IF your exertions to countermine the connexion of your brother with
_Harriot_ should prove ineffectual (and do not fail to acquaint me with
it either way) I HAVE A TALE TO UNFOLD which may possibly forbid the
banns.
LETTER XXXIV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I FIND my temper grown extremely irritable—my sensibility is
wounded at the slightest neglect—I am very tenacious of everything, and
of everybody.
A PARTY was made yesterday to go on the water; I was omitted, and the
neglect hurt me. I inquired the cause, and what think you is the answer?
“I am no company—I am asked a question and return nothing to the point—I
am absent—I am strangely altered within a few days—I am thinking of a
different subject when I ought to be employed in conversation—I am
extravagant in my observations—I am no company.”
THEY would persuade me I am little better than a mad man—I have no
patience with their nonsensical replies—Such wiseacres do not deserve my
pity.
Farewel!
LETTER XXXV.
_Myra_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
YOUR letter is filled with such ambiguous expressions that I
am utterly at a loss to discover your meaning.
I HAVE, however, sounded him on the article of marriage, and the result
is—he loves _Harriot_ most passionately—and on account of my father’s
aversion to early marriage, will marry her privately in a few days.
THE oftener I read your letter, the more I am perplexed and astonished:
“YOU HAVE A TALE TO UNFOLD”—For Heaven’s sake then unfold it, before it
be too late—and as you dread the consequence of keeping it secret, by
disclosing it to me, you will prevent the mischief, you so much
deprecate—I am all impatience.
Adieu!
LETTER XXXVI.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I HAVE just left _Harriot_—but how have I left her? In tears.
I wish I had not gone. Mrs. _Francis_ had intrusted _Harriot_ with some
trifling commission—It was not done—she had not had time to perform it.
_Harriot_ was reprimanded—Yes! by Heaven—this Mrs. _Francis_ had the
insolence to reprimand _Harriot_ in my presence—I was mortified—I walked
to the window—my heart was on fire—my blood boiled in my veins—it is
impossible to form an idea of the disorder of my nerves—_Harriot’s_ were
equally agitated—Mrs. _Francis_ saw our confusion and retired—she left
me so completely out of temper that I was forced to follow her example.
I kissed away the tear from the cheek of _Harriot_ and withdrew to my
chamber.
HERE let me forget what has passed—my irritability will not permit me—my
feelings are too easily set in motion to enjoy long quietness—my nerves
are delicately strung; they are now out of tune, and it is a hard matter
to harmonize them.
I FEEL _that I have a soul_—and every man of sensibility feels it within
himself. I will relate a circumstance I met with in my late travels
through _Southcarolina_—I was always susceptible of _touches of nature_.
I HAD often remarked a female slave pass by my window to a spring to
fetch water. She had something in her air superior to those of her
situation—a fire that the damps of slavery had not extinguished.
AS I was one day walking behind her, the wind blew her tattered
handkerchief from her neck and exposed it to my sight. I asked her the
cause of the scar on her shoulder. She answered composedly, and with an
earnestness that proved she was not ashamed to declare it—“It is the
mark of the whip,” said she, and went on with the history of it, without
my desiring her to proceed—“My boy, of about ten years old, was unlucky
enough to break a glass tumbler—this crime was immediately looked into—I
trembled for the fate of my child, and was thought to be guilty. I did
not deny the charge, and was tied up. My former good character availed
nothing. Under every affliction, we may receive consolation; and during
the smart of the whip, I rejoiced—because I shielded with my body the
lash from my child; and I rendered thanks to the Best of Beings that I
was allowed to suffer for him.”
“HEROICALLY spoken!” said I, “may He whom you call the Best of Beings
continue you in the same sentiments—may thy soul be ever disposed to
SYMPATHIZE with thy children, and with thy brethren and sisters in
calamity—then shalt thou feel every circumstance of thy life afford the
satisfaction; and repining and melancholy shall fly from thy bosom—all
thy labours will become easy—all thy burdens light, and the yoke of
slavery will never gall thy neck.”
I WAS sensibly relieved as I pronounced these words, and I felt my heart
glow with feelings of exquisite delight, as I anticipated the happy time
when the sighs of the slave shall no longer expire in the air of
freedom. What delightful sensations are those in which the heart is
interested! In which it stoops to enter into the little concerns of the
most remote ramification of Nature! Let the vain, the giddy, and the
proud pass on without deigning to notice them—let them cheat themselves
of happiness—these are circumstances which are important only to a
sentimental traveller.
HAIL _sensibility_! Sweetener of the joys of life! Heaven has implanted
thee in the breasts of his children—to soothe the sorrows of the
afflicted—to mitigate the wounds of the stranger who falleth in our way.
_Thou_ regardest with an eye of pity, those whom _wealth_ and _ambition_
treat in terms of reproach. Away, ye seekers of power—ye boasters of
wealth—ye are the _Levite_ and the _Pharisee_, who restrain the hand of
charity from the indigent, and turn with indignation from the way-worn
son of misery:—But _Sensibility_ is the good _Samaritan_, who taketh him
by the hand, and consoleth him, and poureth wine and oil into his
wounds. Thou art a pleasant companion—a grateful friend—and a
_neighbour_ to those who are destitute of shelter.—
FROM thee! Author of Nature! from thee, thou inexhaustible spring of
love supreme, floweth this tide of affection and _sympathy_—thou whose
tender care extendeth to the least of thy creatures—and whose eye is not
inattentive even though a sparrow fall to the ground.
LETTER XXXVII.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview, 12 o’clock at night._
I CANNOT rest—this affair lies so heavy on my mind, that sleep
flies from my eye-lids. Your brother _must_ discontinue his addresses to
_Harriot_—with what should I not have to upbraid myself, if, through my
remissness—your brother marries his sister! GREAT God! of what materials
hast thou compounded the hearts of thy creatures! admire, O, my friend!
the operation of NATURE—and the power of SYMPATHY!
_Harriot_ IS YOUR SISTER! I dispatch the bearer at this late hour to
confide in your bosom the important secret!
Adieu!
LETTER XXXVIII.
_Myra_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
ACCEPT my warmest acknowledgment, my good friend, for your
kindness.—Your letter sufficiently explains your former anxiety—it has
removed all ambiguities.
YOUR servant entered hastily with the letter—and gave it me with evident
tokens of its containing a matter of importance.—My father was present—I
broke it open, not without agitation—I read it—but the shock was too
severe—it fell from my hands, and I sunk into the chair.
MY fainting was not of any duration. I opened my eyes and found my
father supporting me—but the idea of _Harriot_ was still engraven deeply
in my heart.—I inquired for my sister—the tear rolled down his cheek—it
was a sufficient answer to my inquiry.—He said nothing—there was no
necessity of his saying a word.
COULD I ask him to explain your letter? No—my heart anticipated his
feelings—the impropriety struck me at once. “_You have a tale to
unfold._” Do not delay to unfold it.
Adieu!
LETTER XXXIX.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
I READILY undertake to give you a sketch of the history of
_Harriot_. Her mother’s name was _Maria Fawcet_; her person I yet
recollect, and forgive me if I drop a tear of pity at the recital of her
misfortunes.
MY mother and Mrs. _Holmes_ were remarkable friends, and the intimacy,
you know, was maintained between the two families. I was on a visit with
my mother when the destiny of _Maria_ led her to _Belleview_. I was
frequently there during her illness—and was with her in her last
moments.
IT was the custom of Mrs. _Holmes_ to walk in the garden towards the
close of the day. She was once indulging her usual walk, when she was
alarmed by the complaints of a woman which came from the road. Pity and
humanity were ever peculiar characteristicks of my amiable parent—She
hastened to the place whence the sound issued, and beheld a young woman,
bathed in tears sitting on the ground. She inquired the cause of her
distress, with that eager solicitude to relieve, which a sight so
uncommon would naturally occasion. It was sometime before the distressed
woman could return an intelligible answer, and then she with difficulty
proceeded: “Your goodness, Madam, is unmerited—you behold a stranger,
without home—without friends—and whose misery bears her down to an
untimely grave—Life is a blessing—but my life is become burthensome, and
were the Almighty this moment to command me to the world of spirits,
methinks I could gladly obey the summons, and rejoice in the stroke
which bade me depart from sorrow and the world.” Moderate your grief, my
dear woman, repine not at the will of Providence, nor suffer yourself to
despair, however severe your misfortunes.
THE unfortunate woman was at length prevailed on to accompany Mrs.
_Holmes_ into the house, she partook of some refreshment and retired to
sleep. In a few days she appeared to be better; but it was a temporary
recovery; she then told her story, with frequent interruptions, in
substance as follows:—
=History of Maria.=
“I DATE the rise of my misfortunes,” said _Maria_, “at the beginning of
my acquaintance with the Honourable Mr. _Harrington_.—But for his
solicitations I might still have lived in peace—a sister would not have
had occasion to blush at the sound of my name—nor had a mother’s pillow
been steeped in tears, too fondly prone to remember a graceless but
repenting child—We lived happily together in the days of my father, but
when it pleased Providence to remove him, we no longer asserted our
pretensions to that rank of life which our straitened finances were
unable to continue.—A young woman in no eligible circumstances, has much
to apprehend from the solicitations of a man of affluence. I am now
better persuaded of this truth, than I ever was before—for this was my
unhappy situation—I always entertained a predilection for Mr.
_Harrington_—he urged his passion with protestations of sincerity and
affection—he found my heart too slightly guarded—he strove—he triumphed.
“——MUST I proceed!
“A SMILING female was the offspring of our illicit connexion—Ah! my
little _Harriot_!” continued _Maria_, as she wiped away a tear from her
eye, “mayest thou enjoy that happiness which is denied to thy mother.”
“OUR amour was not fated to last long—I discovered his gay temper to be
materially altered—he was oftentimes thoughtful and melancholy, and his
visits became suddenly shorter, and less frequent.
“I AFTERWARDS thought this change of conduct owing to jealousy—for he
once asked me if a gentleman had called upon me—I persisted—I persisted
in avowing my abhorrence of his ungenerous suspicion—He left me
abruptly, and I saw nothing of him after.
“A STROKE so unexpected fell heavy on my heart—it awakened me to the
state of misery into which my imprudence had hurried me.—What recompense
could I expect from my Seducer?—He had been married two years—From the
inflexibility of his temper I had little to hope, and I formed a
determination of leaving town, for I had now indubitable testimony of
his affection being estranged from me—half frantick, I immediately set
out—but whither I knew not—I walked with precipitation until Providence
directed me to your hospitable door: To your goodness, Madam, I am
indebted for prolonging my existence a _few_ days: For amidst the
kindness and civilities of those around me, I feel myself rapidly
verging towards the grave. I prepare myself for my approaching fate—and
daily wait the stroke of death with trembling expectation.”
SHE wrote to Mr. _Harrington_ about a week before her decease—I
transcribe the Letter:—
“_The Hon. Mr. Harrington._
“To the man for whom my bleeding heart yet retains its wonted affection,
though the author of my guilt and misery, do I address my feeble
complaint—O! _Harrington_, I am verging to a long eternity—and it is
with difficulty I support myself while my trembling hand traces the
dictates of my heart. Indisposed as I am—and unable as I feel to
prosecute this talk—I however collect all my powers to bid you a long—a
final farewel.
“OH! _Harrington_, I am about to depart—for why should I tarry here? In
bitter tears of sorrow do I weep away the night, and the returning day
but augments the anguish of my heart, by recalling to view the sad sight
of my misfortunes. And have I not cause for this severe anguish, at once
sorrow and disgrace of my family?—Alas! my poor mother!—Death shall
expiate the crime of thy daughter, nor longer raise the blush of
indignation on thy glowing cheek.—Ought I not, therefore, to welcome the
hand of death?
“But what will become of my poor helpless infant, when its mother lies
forgotten in the grave? Wilt thou direct its feet in the path of virtue
and rectitude? Wilt thou shelter it from the rude blasts of penury and
want?—Open your heart to the solicitude of a mother—of a mother
agonizing for the future welfare of her child. Let me intreat you to
perform this request—by the love which you professed for thy _Maria_—by
her life which you have sacrificed.
“AND wilt thou not drop a tear of pity in the grave of thy _Maria_?—I
know thy soul is the soul of sensibility; but my departure shall not
grieve thee—no, my _Harrington_, it shall not wrest a sigh from thy
bosom—rather let me live, and defy the malice and misery of the
world—But can tenderness—can love atone for the sacrifices I have
made?—Will it blot out my errours from the book of memory? Will love be
an excuse for my crime, or hide me from the eye of the malignant—No, my
_Harrington_, it will not. The passion is unwarrantable. Be it thine,
gentle _Amelia_—be it thine to check the obtruding sigh, and wipe away
the tear from his face—for thou art his wife, and thy soul is the seat
of compassion—But—for me—
“Farewel—farewel forever!
MARIA.”
SHE survived but a short time—and frequently expressed a concern for the
child—but Mrs. _Holmes_ quieted her fears by promising to protect it.
She accordingly made inquiry after it—and it is the same _Harriot_ who
was educated by her order, and whom she afterwards placed in the family
of Mrs. _Francis_.
The assurances of my mother were like balm to the broken hearted
_Maria_—“I shall now,” said she, “die in peace.”
THE following is a copy of a letter written by the Rev. Mr. _Holmes_ to
the Hon. Mr. _Harrington_:—
_Belleview._
“SIR,
“WE have a scene of distress at our house peculiarly pathetick
and affecting, and of which you, perhaps, are the sole author—You have
had a criminal connexion with Miss _Fawcet_—you have turned her upon the
world inhumanly—but chance—rather let me say Providence, hath directed
her footsteps to my dwelling, where she is kindly entertained, and will
be so, as long as she remains in this wilderness world, which is to be,
I fear, but a short time—And shall she not, though she hath been decoyed
from the road that leadeth to peace, long life, and happiness—shall she
not, if she return with tears of repentance and contrition, be entitled
to our love and charity? Yes—this is my doctrine—If I behold any child
of human nature distressed and forlorn, and in real want of the
necessities of life, must I restrain or withhold the hand of
charity—must I cease to recall the departing spirit of them that are
ready to perish, until I make diligent inquiry into their circumstances
and character? Surely, my friend, it is a duty incumbent on us by the
ties of humanity and fellow-feeling, and by the duty imposed on us by
our holy religion, equally to extend the hand of relief to _all the
necessitous_—however they may be circumstanced in the great family of
mankind.
“THE crime of _Maria_ is not the blackest in the annals of human
turpitude; but however guilty she might have been, the tears of
penitence do certainly make atonement therefor.
“THUS much have I thought proper to say in vindication of my conduct—in
sheltering under my roof a poor wanderer—who hath strayed, but not
wantonly, and who hath now happily returned.
“ONE would imagine, there was little necessity of making such a
vindication to you; but my sentiments always flow from the abundance of
my heart, and I am willing the whole world should judge of those which
influence my conduct.—Now, though some men, whose charity is contracted,
and who may be denominated _prudes in virtue_, might deem wrongfully of
my attention to the calamity of this frail woman yet let me appeal to
the hearts and understandings of all men, and these in particular, if I
have erred, whether it be not an errour on the side of humanity. Would
to God such amiable errours were more frequent!—In as much, my friend,
as there is joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, I may say with
assurance that I have felt an emanation of this heavenly joy animate my
heart, in beholding this woman delighting to steer her course
heavenward.
“FROM the unhappy condition of _Maria_, I have been led to reflect on
the mischievous tendency of SEDUCTION. Methinks I view the distressing
picture in all its horrid colours:—
“BEHOLD the youthful virgin arrayed in all the delightful charms of
vivacity, modesty and sprightliness.—Behold even while she is rising in
beauty and dignity, like a lily of the valley, in the full blossom of
her graces, she is cut off suddenly by the rude hand of the Seducer.
Unacquainted with his baseness and treachery, and too ready to repose
confidence in him—she is deluded by the promises and flattery of the man
who professes the greatest love and tenderness for her welfare:—
“BUT did she understand the secret villainy of his intentions—would she
appear thus elate and joyous? Would she assent to her ruin? Would she
subscribe her name to the catalogue of infamy? Would she kiss the hand
of the atrocious dastard, already raised to give the final wound to her
reputation and peace?
“O! WHY is there not an adequate punishment for this crime, when that of
a common traitor is marked with its deserved iniquity and abhorrence!
“IS it necessary to depicture the state of this deluded young creature
after her fall from virtue? Stung with remorse, and frantick with
despair, does she not fly from the face of day, and secrete her
conscious head in the bosom of eternal forgetfulness? Melancholy and
guilt transfix her heart, and she sighs out her miserable existence—the
prey of poverty, ignominy and reproach! Lost to the world, to her
friends, and to herself, she blesses the approach of death in whatever
shape he may appear, and terminates a life, no longer a blessing to its
possessor, or a joy to those around her.
“BEHOLD her stretched upon the mournful bier!—Behold her silently
descend to the grave! Soon the wild weeds spring afresh round the
_little hillock_, as if to shelter the remains of betrayed innocence—and
the friends of her youth shun even the spot which conceals her relicks.
“SUCH is the consequence of SEDUCTION, but it is not the only
consequence. Peace and happiness fly from the nuptial couch which is
unattended by love and fidelity. The mind no longer enjoys its quiet,
while it ceases to cherish sentiments of truth and gratitude. The sacred
_ties_ of connubial duty are not to be violated with impunity; for
though a violation of those _ties_ may be overlooked by the eye of
justice, the heart shall supply a _monitor_, who will not fail to
correct those who are hardy enough to burst them asunder.——I am &c.
“W. Holmes.”
TO this Letter, Mr. _Harrington_ returned the following answer.
_Hon. Mr._ HARRINGTON to the _Rev. Mr._ HOLMES.
“PERMIT me, my ever honoured friend, to return you thanks for your late
favours—need I add—an acknowledgement for your liberality? No—your heart
supplies a source of pleasure which is constantly nourished by your
goodness and universal charity.—
“THE picture you have exhibited of a ruined female is undoubtedly just,
but that the _rude spoiler_ has his share of remorse is equally so—The
conclusion of your letter is a real picture of the situation of my
heart.
“PERHAPS you were always ignorant of the real motives that influenced
me, and gave a particular bias to my conduct.—At an early period of my
life, I adopted a maxim, that _the most necessary learning was a
knowledge of the world_, the pursuit of which, quadrating with a
volatility of disposition, presented a variety of scenes to my heated
imagination. The _éclat_ of my companions gratifying my vanity and
increasing the gale of passion, I became insensibly hurried down the
stream of dissipation. Here I saw mankind in every point of view—from
the acme of the most consummate refinement, to the most abject stage of
degradation. I soon became a ready proficient in the great school of the
world—but an alteration of conduct was soon after necessary—I was
compelled to it, not so much from the world’s abhorrence of a dissolute
course of life, as the dictates of my own heart.—It was, indeed, my
policy to flatter the world, and exhibit a fair outside—for I was in
love with _Amelia_—My licentious amour with _Maria_ was secret—she was
affectionate and tender—her manners were pleasing, but still I was
unhappy.—
“MY CAREER of dissipation, however alluring it struck my vitiated fancy,
left little satisfaction on the mind—Reflection had its turn—and the
happiness I had promised myself in connexion with the amiable _Amelia_,
I fully enjoyed in our marriage. A course of uninterrupted tranquillity
ensued, but it was of short duration. The volatility of my temper, and
the solicitude of my old associates, induced me at subsequent periods to
fall into my old vagaries. The taverns frequently found me engaged in
meannesses derogatory to the character of a gentleman. These things I
perceived affected the soul of _Amelia_—she was all meekness, gentleness
and compassion, and she never once upbraided me with my illiberal
conduct;
But let concealment, like a worm in bud,
Feed on her damask cheek.
“BLESSED be that Power who has implanted within us that consciousness of
reproach, which springs from gentleness and love!—Hail sensibility! Ye
eloquent _tears_ of _beauty_! that add dignity to human nature by
correcting its foibles—it was _these_ that corrected my faults when
recrimination would have failed of success—it was _these_ that opened
every avenue of contrition in my heart, when _words_ would have damned
up every sluice of repentance.
“IT was now I appeared fully sensible that my conduct had hitherto been
a course of disorder, and that systems of reformation, however well
planned, had been overturned by the breath of adulation, before they had
been thoroughly carried into execution—that I had been drifting upon a
sea of inconsistency, without exercising my judgement; like a ship
without a rudder, buffeted on the bosom of the ocean, the sport of winds
and waves.
“THE criminality of my connexion with _Maria_ appeared with the most
aggravated circumstances; it stung me with remorse—and I instantly
determined, however severe the conflict, to tear her from my bosom—to
see her no more.—But how was I to inform her of it?—In what manner was I
to bring about such a talk?—_Maria_ must be sacrificed to the happiness
of _Amelia_. This was all I had to perform—it was a short lesson, but it
was a hard one for me to execute.
“WITH this determination, however, I entered the apartment of
_Maria_—Duty to _Amelia_ and gratitude to _Maria_ interchangeably
agitated me—the contention was dubious—but duty prevailed, and I adhered
to my former resolution—yet how was I to tell her _this would be the
last visit_?—Conscious she had ever acted in conformity to my wishes—how
could I accuse her, without accusing myself?—I threw out a few
inconsiderate and ungrateful hints of jealousy, and left the room
abruptly. The feelings of _Maria_ must have been injured—but however her
sensibility was affected, mine was doubly so; I felt for her—I felt for
our infant, and these feelings were added to the afflictions which had
already burst upon my devoted head. A few days consideration, however,
convinced me of the impropriety and ingratitude of my behaviour to
_Maria_—I hastened to tell her of it—to place her in a situation that
should screen her from penury and malice—and to make provision for the
child—but she was not to be found. I was informed that she had suddenly
disappeared, and that a countryman had, by her order, called and taken
away the child but a few hours before. This information burst upon my
head like the voice of sudden thunder—I stood motionless, but my
agitation was too violent to be of any long duration.—
“A natural tear I shed but wip’d it soon.”
“IT was your goodness, and the humanity of your family, that sheltered
the wretched _Maria_, and provided for the helpless _Harriot_—Your
feelings are your reward.
“FROM all the variegated scenes of my past life, I daily learn some new
lesson of humanity. Experience hath been my tutor—I now take a
retrospect of my past conduct with deliberation, but not without some
serious reflection. Like a sailor, escaped from shipwreck, who sits
safely on the shore and views the horrours of the tempest; but as the
gale subsides, and the waves hide their heads in the bosom of the deep,
he beholds with greater concern the mischief of the storm, and the
dangers he hath escaped. From what innate principle does this arise, but
from _God within the mind_!—I assert it for the honour of human nature,
that no man, however dissolute, but comes back to the hour of reflection
and solemn thoughtfulness—when the actions that are passed return upon
the mind, and this _internal monitor_ sits in judgment upon them, and
gives her verdict of approbation or dislike.
“HE who listens to its call, views his character in its proper light.—I
have attended to its cry, and I see my deformity—I recall my misspent
time, but in vain—I reflect on the misery of _Maria_, and I curse my
temerity—I reflect on the state into which I have plunged a once happy
female, and am eager to apply a speedy remedy, but this is vain also:
Can I restore her that virtue—that innocence—that peace, of which I have
unmanfully robbed her?—Let us leave the melancholy subject.—
“I WILL not so far supercede the fruit of your benevolence, as to
presume to offer you any other recompense, than my sincere prayers for
your happiness.
“I have the honour to be,
“With respect,
“Yours &c.
“J. Harrington.”
THE disorder of _Maria_ was fatal and rapid—but I hasten to the last
scene of her life—it has, though I was young, made an impression on my
mind that time can not efface. I went to her, as she was seated on the
bed—virtue and harmony were blended in her aspect—she was serene and
composed—and her mein, while it expressed a consciousness of superior
worth and dignity, exhibited in our view, a striking picture of the
grandeur of the human soul—patient though afflicted—of a spirit broken,
and borne down by severe distress, yet striving to surmount all, and
aspire to heaven. In what words shall I paint to you, my dear _Myra_,
her heroism and greatness of mind? “Weep not for me,” said she,
perceiving my emotion—“Death has nothing shocking to me—I have
familiarized myself to his terrours—I feel the gradual decay of
mortality; and waiting with confidence in the Father of Mercy, I am
prepared to resign this mortal breath—I resign it in firm assurance of
the soul’s blessed immortality—Death I view as freeing me from a world
which has lost its relish—as opening new scenes of happiness—But a few
moments,” continued she, clasping my hand, “and the scene of life is
closed forever—Heaven opens on my soul—I go where all tears shall be
wiped away—I welcome death as the angel of peace.”—She uttered these
words with a placid smile of resignation—her head sunk down on the
pillow—and the next minute she was an angel.
“SOUL of the universe!” exclaimed my father-in-law—“there flew the
gentlest spirit that ever animated human dust—Great were thy
temptations—sincere thy repentance. If some human infirmity fell to thy
lot, thy tears, dear shade, have washed out thy guilt forever!”
LETTER XL.
Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
HAVING presented you with several observations on Seduction, I
think it will not be _mal apropos_ to consider the question in another
point of view, and discover how a woman may be _accessary_ to her own
ruin—It is hardly worth while to contend about the difference between
the meaning of the terms _accessary_ and _principal_. The difference, in
fact, is small; but when a woman, by her imprudence, exposes herself,
she is _accessary_; for though her heart may be pure, her conduct is a
tacit invitation to the Seducer.
EDUCATED in the school of luxury and pride, the female heart grows
gradually torpid to the fine feelings of sensibility—the blush of
modesty wears off—the charms of elegant simplicity fade by degrees—and
the continual hurry of dissipation, supersedes the improvement of
serious reflection. Reflection is a kind of relaxation from
frolicking—it encourages the progress of virtue, and upholds the heart
from sinking to depravity.
WE may lay it down as a principle, that _that conduct which_ will bear
the test of reflection, and which creates a pleasure in the mind from a
consciousness of acting right, is virtuous: And she whose conduct will
not bear this test, is necessarily degenerating, and she is assenting to
her destruction.
LET a lady be liberal or even magnificent, according to her
circumstances or situation in life; but let the heart remain uncorrupt,
let her not be contaminated by wealth, ambition or splendour. She may
then take a happy retrospect of her conduct—her heart cannot upbraid
her—and the suffrage of her own mind is a convincing proof that she has
not strayed from the path of virtue.
HAPPY they who can thus reflect—who can recall to view the scenes that
are past, and behold their actions with reiterated satisfaction—they
become ambitious of excelling in everything virtuous, because they are
certain of securing a continual reward; For as a mighty river fertilizes
the country through which it passes and increases in magnitude and force
until it empty itself into the ocean: So virtue fertilizes or improves
the heart, and gathers strength and vigour by continual progression,
until it centre in the consummation of its desires.
DAZZLED by the glitter of splendour, and unmindful of the real charms of
economy and simplicity, the female heart sighs for the enjoyment of
fashion, and flutters to join the motley train of pleasure. But how is
it deluded by empty deceptions! Like the fruit which sprang up in the
infernal regions, beautiful to the eye, but which left upon the taste
bitter ashes, and was followed by repentance—A great quantity of this
kind of fruit presents itself to my rashly judging sex; and it
frequently happens that their hearts have as little inclination to
resist the temptation, as our general parent to refuse the fatal apple.
WE do not rouse to our aid fortitude to enable us to surmount the
temptation, but yield ourselves to a kind of voluntary slavery. Hence it
is observable, that a woman is often unhappy in the midst of
pleasures—and petulant without cause—that she is trifling in matters of
the highest importance; and the most momentous concern is considered
futile, as whim and caprice may chance to dictate.
THE progress of female luxury, however slow it may appear, unless timely
checked, works with infallible and destructive advances. The rule we at
first adopted might perhaps answer this check; for by the examination
thus recommended we behold the dangers of a continuation of such
conduct—Ruin and contempt, the invariable concomitants of vice and
immorality, proclaim their denunciations on a prosecution of it.
LET us examine the gradual steps, and the consequences of female
luxury.—A desire to be admired is the first. Behold a woman surrounded
by her worshippers, receiving the sacrifice of adulation—what was given
her at first as compliment, she now demands as her due. She finds
herself disappointed, and is mortified. The first desire still
predominating, she attaches herself to the votaries of pride, who direct
their feet in the paths of extravagance and irreligion. Thus sunk into
effeminacy and meanness, _she forfeits her virtue rather than her
pride_. Thus terminates the career of a woman, whose mind is
debilitated, and whose life is expended in the pursuit of vanity.
IT is said of some species of _American_ serpents, that they have the
power of charming birds and small animals, which they destine for their
prey. The serpent is stretched underneath a tree—it looks steadfastly on
the bird—their eyes meet to separate no more—the charm begins to
operate—the fascinated bird flutters and hops from limb to limb, till
unable any longer to extend its wings, it falls into the voracious jaws
of its enemy: This is no ill emblem of the fascinating power of
pleasure. Surrounded with temptation, and embarrassed in her
circumstances, a woman of dissipation becomes less tenacious of her
honour—and falls an easy prey to the fascinating power of the _seducer_.
HAVING traced to you, my dear _Myra_, the rise, advancement and
termination of pleasure and pride in the female heart, it appears almost
unnecessary to remark that this conduct cannot bear the test of
reflection and serious examination. We may, however, observe on the
contrary, that a woman who advances a few steps, often hurries on still
further to prevent thought. This bars the way to a return to that
conduct which can give pleasure on recollection. She behaves to herself
as the populace did formerly to women suspected of witchcraft—they were
tied neck and heels and thrown into the river; if they swam they were
hung for witches—if they sank they were acquitted of the crime, but were
drowned in the experiment: So when we only suspect our hearts of an
errour, we plunge still deeper into the sea of dissipation, to prevent
the trial of that conduct which impartial reason and judgement would
approve.
NOTWITHSTANDING I give this instance of an encouragement for virtue; yet
in all those I have mentioned is a woman _accessary_ to her ruin.
DO not imagine, my dear _Myra_, that I mean to argue against all
pleasure—Many of us set out on a principle of false delicacy and
destructive rivalship; we cannot behold a fine woman without wishing to
appear finer. A laudable emulation in the conduct of all women is
extremely praiseworthy—it stimulates them in line of their
duty—increases vivacity and good humour; and ambition, thus directed and
pursued, I beg leave to designate a female virtue, because it is
productive of the most happy consequences.
BUT it sometimes happens that particular virtues lose themselves in
their neighbouring vices, and this laudable emulation degenerates into
destructive rivalship.
A GENTEEL, handsome woman, deservedly shares the esteem and admiration
of all men; but why should this esteem and admiration, justly paid to
merit, give us disquiet? The answer is ready. That desire to be admired
so predominant in all females, by degrees works itself into the ruling
passion, and precludes from the mind the particular virtue of emulation;
for why a woman who merits the love of the world, should draw on her the
disapprobation of many of her own sex, can be accounted for, by no other
principle, than the mean, pitiful passion of envy.
THIS may possibly give rise to defamation. It is astonishing how this
practice prevails among a _few_ persons—because it is known by
experience, to prove subversive of its very intention.—The arrows of
envy recoil upon herself.
HOW foolish must that woman appear who depreciates the merit of another,
that she may appear unrivalled! She raises up the dykes of ill-nature,
and inundates the land with a flood of scandal, but unhappily drowns
herself in the event.
I LEAVE it to the result of your observation, my dear _Myra_, whether
the woman who is first to develope her stores of defamation, and through
false emulation, the first to traduce a woman of real merit and virtue,
is not also the first who becomes a scandal to herself, and consequently
the first that is condemned.
HOW opposite are the pursuits and rewards of her who participates in
every rational enjoyment of life, without mixing in those scenes of
indiscretion which give pain on recollection!—Whose chymical genius
leads her to extract the poison from the most luxuriant flowers, and to
draw honey even from the weeds of society. She mixes with the world
seemingly indiscriminately—and because she would secure to herself that
satisfaction which arises from a consciousness of acting right, she
views her conduct with an eye of scrutiny. Though her temper is free and
unrestrained, her heart is previously secured by the precepts of
prudence—for prudence is but another name for virtue. Her manners are
unruffled, and her disposition calm, temperate and dispassionate,
however she may be surrounded by the temptations of the world.
Adieu!
LETTER XLI.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
PRAY that the sun of Thursday may rise propitious—that it may
gild the face of nature with joy. It is the day that beholds thy friend
united in the indissoluble banns of _Hymen_.
Let this auspicious day be ever sacred,
No mourning, no misfortune happen on it;
Let it be marked for triumphs and rejoicings,
Let happy lovers even keep it holy,
Choose it to bless their hopes and crown their wishes.
IT is the day that gives me _Harriot_ forever.
Adieu!
LETTER XLII.
_The Hon. Mr._ HARRINGTON to the _Rev. Mr._ HOLMES.
_Boston._
YOU very well know of my amour with _Maria_, and that a
daughter was the offspring of that illicit connexion—that sixteen years
have elapsed since, by your goodness, she has lived with Mrs. _Francis_,
and let me add, daily improving in beauty and every amiable
accomplishment—but how shall we be able—how shall we pretend to
investigate the great springs by which we are actuated, or account for
the operation of SYMPATHY—my son, who has been at home about eight
weeks, has accidentally seen her, and to complete THE TRIUMPH OF
NATURE—has loved her. He is now even upon the point of marrying—shall I
proceed!—_of marrying his Sister!_—A circumstance seemingly fortuitous
has discovered this important affair—I fly to prevent incest—Do not
upbraid me with being author of my own misfortunes.—“This comes of your
libertinism,” you will say, “this comes of your adultery!”—Spare your
reflections, my friend—my heart is monitor enough—I am strangely
agitated!
Adieu!
LETTER XLIII.
_The Hon. Mr._ HARRINGTON to the _Rev. Mr._ HOLMES.
_Boston._
MY heart failed me! twenty times have I attempted to break the
matter to my son—and twenty times have I returned from the talk—I have a
friend to acquaint him how nearly connected he already is with the
object of his love. This is a new, and to me a sorrowful instance of the
force of SYMPATHY—My grief is insupportable—my affliction is greater
than I can bear—it will bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the
grave.
Farewel!
LETTER XLIV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
ALL my airy schemes of love and happiness are vanished like a
dream. Read this, and pity your unfortunate friend.
_To Mr._ T. HARRINGTON:
“SIR,
“YOU are about to marry a young lady of great beauty and
accomplishments—I beg you to bestow a few serious thoughts on this
important business—Let me claim your attention, while I disclose an
affair, which materially concerns you—_Harriot_ must not be your
wife—You know your father is averse to your early connecting yourself in
marriage with any woman—The duty we owe a parent is sacred, but this is
not the only barrier to your marriage—the ties of consanguinity prevent
it—She is your SISTER—Your father, or Miss _Harrington_, will inform you
more particularly—It is sufficient for me to have hinted it in time.—I
am, with the most perfect esteem, and sincere wishes for your happiness,
your
“UNKNOWN FRIEND, &c.”
(In continuation.)
THE gloom of melancholy in the faces of the family but too well
corroborated this intelligence—so I asked no questions—they read in my
countenance that I had received the letter, and my sister put into my
hand THE HISTORY OF MARIA.—I concealed my emotion while I read the
account—“It is a pitiful tale,” said I, as I returned it—and walked out
of the room to give vent to the agitation of my heart.
I HAVE not yet seen _Harriot_—_Myra_ has run to greet her with the new
title of _sister_. Adieu! my friend—little happiness is left for me in
this world.
LETTER XLV.
_Myra_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
IN what words shall I describe to you, my dear friend, the
misery that has suddenly overwhelmed us! It is impossible to communicate
the distressed situation of _Harriot_—Expression is inadequate to give
you an idea of our meeting.—I called her my friend—my sister—She always
loved me—but joy and affection gave way to passion—Her speech refused
its office—
Sorrow in all its pomp was there,
Mute and magnificent without a tear.
SHE had gained a sister—she had lost a lover—a burst of joy would
suddenly break from her, but it was of short duration—and was succeeded
by pangs of exquisite distress—nature was unable to support it, and she
fainted under the weight of severe conflict. Her constitution at best is
feeble; her present illness is therefore attended with more
danger—Unless a speedy alteration should take place, the physician has
little hopes of her recovery.—Heaven preserve us!
Farewel!
LETTER XLVI.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I HAVE seen her—I prest her to my heart—I called her my
Love—my _Sister_. The tenderness and sorrow were in her eyes—How am I
guilty, my friend—How is this transport a crime? My love is the most
pure, the most holy—_Harriot_ beheld me with tears of the most tender
affection—“Why,” said she, “why, my friend, my dear _Harrington_, have I
loved! but in what manner have I been culpable? HOW WAS I TO KNOW YOU
WERE MY BROTHER?—Yes! I might have known it—how else could you have been
so kind—so tender—so affectionate!”—Here was all the horrour of
conflicting passions, expressed by gloomy silence—by stifled cries—by
convulsions—by sudden floods of tears—The scene was too much for my
heart to bear—I bade her adieu—my heart was breaking—I tore myself from
her and retired.
WHAT is human happiness? The prize for which all strive, and so few
obtain; the more eagerly we pursue it, the farther we stray from the
object; Wherefore I have determined within myself that we increase in
misery as we increase in age—and if there are any happy days they are
those of thoughtless childhood.
I THEN viewed the world at a distance in perspective. I thought mankind
appeared happy in the midst of pleasures that flowed round them. I who
find it a deception, and am tempted sometimes to wish myself a child
again. Happy are the dreams of infancy, and happy their harmless
pursuits! I saw the _ignis fatuus_, and have been running after it, and
now I return from the search. I return and bring back disappointment. As
I reflect on these scenes of infantine ignorance, I feel my heart
interested, and become sensibly affected—and however futile these
feelings may appear as I communicate them to you—they are feelings, I
venture to assert, which every one must have experienced who is
possessed of a heart of sensibility.
Adieu!
LETTER XLVII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I NO longer receive satisfaction from the enjoyments of the
world—society is distasteful to me—my favorite authors I have entirely
relinquished—In vain I try to forget myself, or seek for consolation—my
repose is interrupted by distressing visions of the night—my thoughts
are broken—I cannot even think regularly.
HARRIOT is very weak—there is no hope of her life.
Adieu!
LETTER XLVIII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
MY dear friend, I have a great desire to see you—I wish you
could come home speedily—I must be short—I have some serious business to
do.
Farewel!
P. S. THEY say life is a blessing and it is our duty to improve and
enjoy it; but when life becomes insupportable and we find no blessing in
it—have we not a right to resign it?
Farewel!
LETTER XLIX.
_The Hon. Mr._ HARRINGTON to the _Rev. Mr._ HOLMES.
_Boston._
ACCUMULATED sorrows continue to break over my devoted head.
_Harriot_ is at times deprived of her reason, and we have no expectation
of her recovery—my son is deeply affected—he seems strangely disordered.
REVOLVING in my mind all these things and the unhappy affair that led to
them, the whole train of my past life returned fresh upon my mind.
Pained with the disagreeable picture, and oppressed with the weight of
my affliction, I sunk down to sleep: These circumstances had so strongly
impressed my imagination that they produced the following Dream—My blood
is chilled with horrour as I write.
METHOUGHT I suddenly found myself in a large, open field, waste and
uncultivated—here I wandered in a solitary manner for some time—grief
seized my heart at the awful appearance of the place, and I cried
aloud—“How long shall I travel here, alone and friendless—a dusky mist
swims before my sight, and the obscure horizon seems only to inclose
this dismal wild!” Having advanced a few steps, I thought a light at a
distance appeared to my doubtful view. Faint with fatigue, I approached
it, and had the satisfaction to behold a person of the most benign
aspect—a quiet serenity was painted on his brow, happiness ineffable
beamed from his Divine countenance—Joy leaped in my bosom, and in the
ecstasy of passion I endeavoured to clasp the blessed spirit to my
heart; but it vanished in my embrace.
“TEACH me, blessed shade,” said I, with a trembling voice—“Teach me to
find the habitations of men—What do I here?—Why am I doomed to explore
the barren bosom of this baleful desert?” “This,” returned the spirit,
in a voice, which, while it commanded veneration and love, struck awe
and terrour into my soul—“_This_ is not the habitation of the sons of
mortality—it is the place appointed to receive the souls of all men,
after they have resigned the bodies they animated on earth. Those who
have violated the laws of reason, humanity, religion, and have
dishonoured their God, here meet the punishment due to their crimes.
“ATTEND me, therefore, and view the condition of those thoughtless
souls, who, a few days ago, were upon earth immersed in pleasure, luxury
and vice—Regardless of futurity, and unprepared for their eternal
summons to another world—and who persisted in the delight of their own
eyes in opposition to the Divine law, and deaf to the voice of
reclaiming virtue. These, the sons of folly and riot, are smitten by the
angel of death, while they are yet drinking of the bowl of vice—while
the words of blasphemy yet dwell upon their tongues. And when their
unhappy spirits sink to these infernal regions, their surviving
companions rehearse their funeral panegyricks—the praise of one is, that
he could drink the longest—the merit of another that he could sing a
good song—a third secures his fame by being excellent in mimickry and
buffoonery.—How unhappy he must be, who leaves no other testimony of his
usefulness behind him!
“HOW different is the fate of the good man: While upon earth his life is
employed in the cause of virtue.—The happiness he bestows on those
around him is reflected back with ten-fold reward; and when he takes
rank in that happy place, where there is fullness of joy, and leaves the
world of mankind, what numbers are joined in the general concern of his
loss!—The aged, while they prepare for the same journey, delight to
dwell on his good actions—the virgin strews flowers on his grave, and
the poet consumes the midnight oil to celebrate his virtues.”
THERE was so much benignity in every word and action of my attendant,
that I found myself imperceptibly attached to him. My attention to his
discourse had prevented me from observing the progress we had made—for
we had arrived at a place encircled with high walls—A great gate, at the
command of my guide, instantly flew open—“Follow me,” said he—I
tremblingly obeyed.
MY ears were instantaneously filled with the faint cries of those here
doomed to receive the rewards of their demerits. Looking earnestly
forward, I beheld a group of unhappy wretches—I observed a person who
was continually tormenting them—he held in one hand a whip, the lashes
of which were composed of adders, and the stings of scorpions; and in
the other a large mirrour, which, when he held up to the faces of the
tormented exhibited their crimes in the most flagrant colours, and
forced them to acknowledge the justness of their punishment. “These,”
said my guide, “who are scourged with a whip of scorpions, and who start
with horrour at the reflection of their deeds upon earth, are the souls
of the Gambler—the Prodigal—the Duellist, and the Ingrate.
“THOSE whom you see yonder,” continued he, “those wasted, emaciated
spirits, are the souls of the Envious—they are doomed to view the most
beautiful fruit, which they can never taste, and behold pleasures which
they can never enjoy. This punishment is adjudged them because most of
those vile passions, by which men suffer themselves to be ruled, bring
real evil, for promised good.
“FOR this reason the all-wise Judge hath ordered the same passions still
to inflame those ghosts, with which they were possessed on earth—Observe
yon despicable crew!—behold the sin of Avrice!—those sordid ghosts are
the souls of Misers—Lo! they eye their delightful bags with horrid
pleasure; and with a ghastly smile, brood over their imaginary riches.
Unable to carry their wealth about with them, they are confined to one
spot, and in one position. This infernal joy is the source of their
tortures, for behold them start at every sound, and tremble at the
flitting of a shade. Thus are they doomed to be their own tormentors—to
pore over their gold with immortal fear, apprehension, and jealousy and
to guard their ideal wealth with tears of care, and the eyes of eternal
watchfulness.
“BEHOLD here,” continued my guide, “the miserable division of Suicides!”
“Unhappy they!” added I, “who, repining at the ills of life, raised the
sacrilegious steel against their own bosoms! How vain the reiterated
wish to again animate the breathless clay—to breath the vital air—and to
behold the cheering luminary of Heaven!”—“Upbraid me not—O my father!”
cried a voice—I looked up, and thought my son appeared among
them—immediately turning from so shocking a spectacle, I suddenly beheld
my once loved _Maria_—“O delight of my youth! do I behold thee once
more!—Let me hide my sorrows in thy friendly bosom.” I advanced towards
her—but she flew from me with scorn and indignation—“O speak! _Maria!_
speak to me!” She pointed with her finger to a group of spirits, and was
out of sight in a moment.
“LET me,” said my conductor, “prepare you for a more dreadful sight.”
The increasing melancholy, and affecting gloom of the situation,
forboded something terrifying to my soul—I looked toward the place where
_Maria_ had pointed, and saw a number of souls remote from any division
of the unhappy. In their countenances were depicted more anguish, sorrow
and despair—I turned my head immediately from this dreadful sight,
without distinguishing the nature of their torments. Quivering with
horrour, I inquired who they were—“These,” answered my guide, with a
sigh, “are the miserable race of SEDUCERS.—Repentance and shame drive
them far from the rest of the accursed. Even the damned look on them
with horrour, and thank fate their crimes are not of so deep a die.”
HE had hardly finished, when a demon took hold of me and furiously
hurried me in the midst of this unhappy group—I was so terrified that it
immediately aroused me from my sleep.—
EVEN now, while I write to you, my good friend, my hand trembles with
fear at the painful remembrance—Yet
——’Twas but a dream, but then
So terrible, it shakes my very soul.—
Farewel!
LETTER L.
_Harriot_ to _Harrington_.
_Boston._
MUST I then forget the endearments of the lover, and call you
by the name of brother? But does our friendship remain upon this
foundation? Is this all that unites us? And has there subsisted nothing
more tender—a sentiment more voluntary in our hearts? My feelings affirm
that there was. At the hour of our first interview I felt the passion
kindle in my breast. Insensible of my own weakness, I indulged its
increasing violence and delighted in the flame that fired my reason and
my senses. Do you remember our walks, our conversation, our
diversions?—The remembrance of these things fill my mind with
inconceivable torture—they seem to reproach me with unmerited
criminality—I deprecate, I detest all these scenes of gaiety and
frivolity—yet I have preserved my innocence and my virtue—what then have
I to deprecate, what have I to detest?
ALAS! how have we been forming schemes of happiness, and mocking our
hearts with unsubstantial joys. Farewel! farewel! ye gilded scenes of
imagination. How have we been deluded by visionary prospects, and idly
dwelt upon that happiness which was never to arrive. How fleeting have
been the days that were thus employed!—when anticipation threw open the
gates of happiness, and we vainly contemplated the approach of bliss;
and we beheld in reversion, the pleasures of life, and fondly promised
ourselves, one day to participate in them; when we beheld in the magick
mirrour of futurity, the lively group of loves that sport in the train
of joy. We observed in transports of delight the dear delusion, and saw
them, as it were, in bodily form pass in review before us; as the fabled
hero views the region of præexistant spirits, and beholds a race of men
yet to be born.
SUCH was our hope, but even this fairy anticipation was not irrational.
We were happy in idea, nor was the reality far behind. And why is the
vision vanished? O! I sink, I die, when I reflect—when I find in my
_Harrington_ a brother—I am penetrated with inexpressible grief—I
experience uncommon sensations—I start with horrour at the idea of
incest—of ruin—of perdition.
HOW do I lament this fatal discovery, that includes the termination of a
faithful love! I think of him whom I have resolved to be eternally
constant—and ah! how often have I resolved it in my heart. I indulge, in
idea, the recollection of his caresses—of his protestations, and of his
truth and sincerity—I become lost in a wilderness, and still I travel
on, and find myself no nearer an escape. I cherish the dear idea of a
lover—I see the danger and do not wish to shun it, because to avoid it,
is to forget it—And can I, at one stroke, erase from my mind the
remembrances of all in which my heart used to delight? Ah! I have not
the fortitude—I have not the virtue, to “forget myself to marble.” On
the contrary, I strive no longer to remember our present connexion. I
endeavour to forget—I curse the idea of a brother—my hand refuses to
trace the word, and yet
——The name appears
Already written; blot it out my tears!
AH, whence this sorrow that invests my soul! This gloom that
darkens—this fire of impassioned grief, that involves all my thoughts!
why do I rave, and why do I again abandon myself to despair! Come, O
_Harrington_! be a friend, a protector, a brother—be him, on whom I
could never yet call by the tender, the endearing title of _parent_. I
will reverence him in whom all the charities of life are united—I will
be dutiful and affectionate to you, and you shall be unto me as a
father—I will bend on the knee of respect and love, and will receive
your blessing.
WHY did you go away so soon? Why leave me when I was incapable of
bidding you adieu? When you pressed my cheek with the kiss of love, of
fraternal affection what meant its conscious glow? What meant the
ebullition of my veins, the disorder of my nerves, the intoxication of
my brain, the blood that mantled in my heart? My hand trembled, and
every object seemed to swim before my doubtful view—Amidst the struggle
of passion, how could I pronounce the word—how could I call you by the
title of brother? True—I attempted to articulate the sound, but it died
upon my tongue, and I sank motionless into your arms.
ALLIED by birth, and in mind, and similar in age—and in thought still
more intimately connected, the sympathy which bound our souls together,
at first sight, is less extraordinary. Shall we any longer wonder at its
irresistible impulse?—Shall we strive to oppose the _link of nature_
that draws us to each other? When I reflect on this, I relapse into
weakness and tenderness, and become a prey to warring passions. I view
you in two distinct characters: If I indulge the idea of one, the other
becomes annihilated, and I vainly imagine I have my choice of a brother
or—
I AM for a while calm—but alas! how momentary is that calmness; I dwell
with rapture on what fancy has represented; but is the choice regulated
by virtue? Is it prompted by reason? I recollect myself, and endeavour
to rouse my prudence and fortitude; I abhor my conduct, and wish for
obscurity and forgetfulness. Who can bear the torment of fluctuating
passion? How deplorable is the contest? The head and the heart are at
variance, but when Nature pleads how feeble is the voice of Reason? Yet,
when Reason is heard in her turn, how criminal appears every wish of my
heart? What remorse do I experience? What horrours surround me? Will my
feeble frame, already wasted by a lingering decline, support these
evils? Will the shattered, frail bark outride the tempest, and will the
waves of affliction beat in vain? Virtue, whose precepts I have not
forgotten, will assist me—if not to _surmount_, at least to _suffer_
with fortitude and patience.
OH! I fear, I fear my decaying health—If I must depart, let me beseech
you to forget me—I know the strength of your passion, and I dread the
fatal consequences my departure may occasion you.
ONCE more let me intreat you, my dear friend, to arm yourself with every
virtue which is capable of sustaining the heaviest calamity. Let the
impetuosity of the lover’s passion be forgotten in the undisturbed
quietness of the brother’s affection, and may all the blessings that
life can supply be yours—Seek for content, and you will find it, even
though we should never meet again in this world.
Adieu!
LETTER LI.
_Myra_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
THE curtain is dropped, and the scene of life is forever
closed—THE LOVELY HARRIOT IS NO MORE.
SHE is fit to appear in Heaven, for her life was a scene of purity and
innocence—If there is any consolation to be felt by a survivour, it is
in the reflection of the amiable qualities of the deceased. My heart
shall not cease to cherish her idea, for she was beautiful without
artifice, and virtuous without affectation.
See! there all pale and dead she lies;
Forever flow my streaming eyes—
There dwelt the fairest—loveliest mind,
Faith, sweetness, wit together join’d.
Dwelt faith and wit and sweetness there?
O, view the change, and drop a tear.
MY brother is exceedingly agitated—He will never support this disastrous
stroke—Nothing can attract his attention—nothing allay his grief—but it
is the affliction of reason and not of weakness—God grant that it prove
not fatal to him.
Adieu!—Adieu!
LETTER LII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
SHE is gone—she is dead—she who was the most charming, the
most gentle, is gone—You may come—you may desire to behold all that was
lovely—but your eyes will not see her.
YES! I raved—I was distracted—but now I am calm and dispassionate—I am
smooth as the surface of a lake—I shall see her again.
WHEN our spirits are disencumbered of this load of mortality, and they
wing their flight to the celestial regions, shall we not then know those
who were dear to us in this world? Shall we not delight in their
society, as we have done in this state of existence? Yes—certainly we
shall—we shall find them out in Heaven—there alone is happiness—there
shall I meet her—there our love will not be a crime—Let me indulge this
thought—it gives a momentary joy to my heart—it removes the dark mist
that swims before my eyes—it restores tranquility; but the more I
reflect on this thought—the more I long to be there—the more I detest
this world and all it contains. I sigh to fly away from it.
LETTER LIII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
INGRATITUDE is a predominant principle in the conduct of man.
The perfidious —, who owes to me his reputation and fortune, and with whom
I intrusted a great part of my property, has deceived me. The affair
will materially retard my business.
TO be unfortunate in trade is not worth a sigh—to receive inattention
and incivility does not merit a frown; but _Ingratitude_—it is this that
cuts to the quick. Yet I freely give him my pity; for what man, who
considered for a moment the inconsistency of the human heart, would hurl
the thunderbolt of indignation at the head of an ingrate? What an
important little thing is man! he contrives to over-reach his neighbour,
and mount to the enjoyment of riches, ambition and splendour; but
remember not the period of enjoyment—that his life is a day, and his
space a point!
NATURALISTS inform us of insects whose term of existence is confined to
a few hours—What is the business and importance of such a life?
WOULD not a being, whose _circle of living_ is immensity of ages,
inquire with equal propriety: “What is the importance of _man_—What
actions can he perform—What happiness can he enjoy, whose insignificant
life is circumscribed to seventy years?”—In this point of view I behold
the tinsel, the vanity and noise of the world, and the little plots and
cunning artifices of mankind to cheat and ruin one another.
INGRATITUDE, then, is constitutional, and inseparable from human nature,
but it ought not to fill us with surprize, because it is no new
discovery—It has ever been invariably the characteristick of man. Is not
the page of antiquity distained with blood of those who ought to have
received honour and adoration? Behold the brilliant race of the world’s
benefactors: Consider their benevolent actions, and regard their
ungrateful return—these benefactors, who have been sent from Heaven to
inform and entertain mankind, to defend the world from the arm of
tyranny, and to open the gates of salvation, have been despised, and
banished, and poisoned and crucified.
BEHOLD the support of the _Roman_ power, the invincible _Belisarius!_
who protected his country from the ravage of the _Huns_, and displayed
the _Roman_ eagle in every quarter of the globe! Behold him fall a
sacrifice to malice, to faction and ingratitude! Behold him cast out by
the country he had defended, and for which he had wasted his life to
protect and honour, and left alone to deplore his unfortunate condition,
when he was old, and blind, and naked and miserable!
UNFORTUNATE is the man who trusts his happiness to the precarious
friendship of the world—I every day become more of a misanthrope, and
see nothing to increase my desire of living, but your esteem and
affection. I want advice, but am too proud to let the world know I am
weak enough to be under obligation to anyone else.
THAT you may never want friends or advice, is the sincere prayer of
Yours &c.
LETTER LIV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
ALL the scenes of my past life return fresh upon my memory. I
examine every circumstance as they pass in review before me—I see
nothing to cause any disagreeable or unwelcome sensations—no terrour
upbraids—no reproaching conscience stings my bosom as I reflect on the
actions that are past. With her I expected happiness—I have expected a
vain thing—for there is none—She is gone—gone to a far country—she is
preparing a place for me—a place of unutterable bliss—But oh! an
immeasurable gulph lies between us—Who can tell the distance that
separates us? What labour—what toil—what pain must be endured in
traversing the thorny paths that lead to her blessed abode?—And will she
not receive me in those happy regions with as much joy—with as sincere a
welcome—if I cut short my journey?—And will not the Eternal Dispenser of
Good, pardon the awful deed that frees me from this world of misery—the
deed by which I obtrude myself into his divine presence?
WHY must I wait the lingering hand of the grisly messenger to summon me
to the world above?
LETTER LV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
AM I a child that I should weep?—I have been meditating on the
course of my calamities—Why did my father love _Maria_—or rather, why
did I love their _Harriot_? Curse on this tyrant custom that dooms such
helpless children to oblivion or infamy! Had I known her to have been my
sister, my love would have been regular, I should have loved her as a
sister, I should have marked her beauty—I should have delighted in
protecting it. I should have observed her growing virtues—I should have
been happy in cherishing their growth. But alas! She is gone—and I
cannot stay—I stand on the threshold of a vast eternity.
LETTER LVI.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I AM determined to quit this life. I feel much easier since my
determination. The step must not be taken with rashness. I must be
steady—calm—collected—I will endeavour to be so.—
HER eager solicitation—the anxiety she always expressed for me—When I
think she is no more, it wrings my heart with grief, and fills my eyes
with tears—
—I must go—
THE idea chills me—I am frozen with horrour—cold damps hang on my
trembling body—My soul is filled with a thousand troubled sensations—I
must depart—it must be so—My love for thee, O _Harriot!_ is dearer than
life—Thou hast first sat out—and I am to follow.—
WERE it possible that I _could live_ with her, should I be happy? Would
her presence restore peace and tranquility to my disordered mind? Ah no!
it never would _here_—it _never_ would. I will fly to the place where
she is gone—our love will there be refined—I will lay my sorrows before
her—and she shall wipe away all tears from my eyes.
WHEN the disembodied spirit flies above—when it leaves behind the
senseless clay, and wings its flight—it matters not to me what they do
with his remains.
Cover his head with a clod or a stone,
It is all one—it is all one!
LETTER LVII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
THE longer I live, and the more I see the misery of life—the
more my desire of living is extinguished. What I formerly esteemed
trifles, and would not deign to term misfortunes, now appear with a
formidable aspect—though I once thought them harmless, and innoxious to
my peace, they assume new terrours every day.—But is not this
observation general? It is—It is thus every son of human nature,
gradually wishes for death, and neglects to seek for, and improve those
comforts, which by diligent search there is a possibility of attaining.
AM I to reason from analogy? I know what has been—the afflictions I have
felt; but what is the prospect before me? The path is darkened by mists—
Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errours—
WHO is there hardy enough to try difficulties? Is not the view horrible!
My pains and anxieties have been severe—those which, if I live, I shall
suffer, may be yet more so—This idea sinks me to despair.
AS a thing becomes irksome to us, our detestation is always
increased—Whatever object is disagreeable, we pine and sicken until it
is moved out of sight. Life growing upon one in this manner—increasing
in horrour—with continual apprehension of death—a certainty of surviving
every enjoyment, and no prospect of being delivered from suspense—it is
intolerable—he will assuredly be tempted to terminate the business with
his own hand.
LETTER LVIII.
_Worthy_ to _Harrington_.
_Boston._
YOU argue as if your reason were perverted—Let your mind be
employed, and time will wear out these gloomy ideas; for it is certainly
a truth, the _love of life increases with age_—Your letters, therefore,
are predicated on the most erroneous principles.
REMEMBER the story of the old man, who had been buried in a dungeon the
greater part of his life, and who was liberated at an advanced age. He
viewed, once more, the light of the sun, and the habitations of men—he
had come into a new order of beings, but found their manners
distasteful—In the midst of the sunshine of the world he remembered the
prison, where he had wasted his life, and he sighed to be again immured
within its walls.
SUCH is our passion for life; we love it because we know it; and our
attachment becomes the more riveted, the longer we are acquainted with
it—Our prison grows familiar—we contemplate its horrours—but however
gloomy the walls that surround us, there is not one but sets a full
value on his dreary existence—there is not one but finds his partiality
for his dungeon increase, in proportion to the time he hath occupied
it—for among the race of human beings confined to this narrow spot—how
few are they who are hardy enough to break their prison?
LET us watch over all we do with an eye of scrutiny—the world will not
examine the causes that gave birth to our actions—they do not weigh the
motives of them—they do not consider those things which influence our
conduct—but as that conduct is more or less advantageous to society,
they deem it madness or wisdom, or folly or prudence—Remember this—
Adieu!
LETTER LIX.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
YOU are egregiously mistaken, argue as you will.—My
perceptions are as clear as any one’s—The burden that is at first heavy
and inconvenient, galls us as we proceed—it soon becomes intolerable, we
sink under its weight, and lie gasping in the publick way long before
night.
AS to the world—who strives to please it, will be deservedly rewarded—he
will reap his labour for his pains—Let it judge of my conduct. I despise
its opinion—_Independency of spirit_ is my motto—I think for myself.
LETTER LX.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
HOW vain is the wish that sighs for the enjoyment of worldly
happiness. Our imagination dresses up a phantom to impose on our reason:
As Pygmalion loved the work of his own hand—so do we fall in love with
the offspring of our brain. But our work illudes our embrace—we find no
substance in it—and then fall a-weeping and complain of disappointment.
Miserable reasoners are we all.
WHY should I mourn the loss of _Harriot_ any longer? Such is my
situation—in the midst of anxiety and distress, I complain of what
cannot be remedied.—I lament the loss of that which is irretrievable: So
on the sea-beat shore, the hopeless maid, unmindful of the storm,
bewails her drowned lover.
LETTER LXI.
_Worthy_ to _Harrington_.
_Belleview._
I THANK you for your letters, but I wish you had something
better for the subject of them—the sad repetition of your feelings and
sorrows, pains me exceedingly—I promise to be with you soon—perhaps
before you can receive this letter.
WHATEVER concerns my friend, most sensibly affects me—You, _Harrington_,
are the friend of my heart, and nothing has so much grieved me as the
story of your misfortunes.
IT is a maxim well received, and seems to be admitted an article in the
moral creed of mankind, “that the enjoyments of life do not compensate
the miseries.” Since, then, we are born to suffer, and pain must attend
us in all the stages of our journey, let us philosophically welcome our
companion. The most eligible plan we can adopt, is to be contented in
the condition that Providence hath assigned us. Let us trust that our
burden will not be heavier than we can bear—When we adopt this plan, and
are sensible we have this trust, our lesson is complete—we have learned
all—we are arrived to the perfection of sublunary happiness.
DO not think I am preaching to you a mere sermon of morality—let me
impress your mind with the folly of repining, and the blessing of a
contented mind.
LET me intreat you not to puzzle your brain with vain speculations—if
you are disposed to argue, do not put foolish cases that never
existed—take the light of facts, and reason from them.
WHEN we are surrounded with miseries of life—the baseness of false
friends—the malice of enemies—when we are enveloped in those anxious
fears, the result of too much sensibility, human nature feels a degree
of oppression, which, without a manly exertion of reason and this
practical philosophy, would be intolerable. I have heard you mention ST.
EVREMOND as a philosopher of this kind. Arm yourself with his prudence
and fortitude—he, though in exile—though reduced almost to penury, and
labouring under the disadvantages of a bad constitution, lived to be a
very old man; he established a course of rational pleasures—for when the
mind is employed, we regret the loss of time—we become avaricious of
life.
WHEN misfortunes come upon us without these consolations, it is hard, I
acknowledge, to buffet the storm—it is then human frailty is most
apparent—there is nothing left to hope—Reason is taken from the helm of
life—and Nature—helpless, debilitated Nature—lost to herself, and every
social duty, splits upon the rocks of despair and suicide. We have seen
several examples of this—By exploring and therefore shunning the causes,
let us avoid the catastrophe.
THE pensive and melancholy will muse over the ordinary accidents of
life, and swell them, by the power of imagination, to the heaviest
calamities. Hence we find a treacherous friend will sensibly affect some
men, and a capricious mistress will destroy a real lover: Hence people
in misfortune frequently construe the slightest inattention into neglect
and insult, and deem their best friends false and ungrateful. The sting
of ingratitude, deeply pierces the heart of sensibility.
THE passions and affections which govern mankind are very inconsistent.
Men, confined to the humble walks of life, sigh for the enjoyment of
wealth and power, which, when obtained, become loathsome—The mind
unaccustomed to such easy situation, is discontented, and longs to be
employed in those things in which it was formerly exercised.
THE greatest rulers and potentates become unhappy—they wish for the
charms of solitude and retirement, which, when attained, become more
irksome than their former condition—_Charles_ the Fifth, of _Spain_,
resolved to taste the pleasures of a recluse life, by abdicating the
throne—he soon found his imagination had deceived him, and repented of
the step he had taken. This lazy life, when compared to the business and
grandeur of a court, became tasteless and insipid.—“The day,” says a
historian, “he resigned his crown to his son, was the very day in which
he repented making him such a present.”
IT is a great art to learn to be happy in the state in which we are
placed—I advise you to mingle in the concerns of your acquaintances—be
cheerful and undisturbed, nor give yourself up to those gloomy ideas
which lend only to make you more wretched—If such obtrude themselves,
avoid being alone—I had rather been a dupe to my imagination than
sacrifice an hour’s calmness to my sensibility or understanding.
Determine to be happy, and you will be so—
God be with you!
LETTER LXII.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
WHEN we seek for diversion in any place, and there is nothing
to be found that we wish, it is certainly time to depart.
TOMORROW I go—There is nothing here that can calm the tumult of my
soul—I fly from the sight of the human countenance—I fly from the face
of day—I fly from books—Books that could always cheer me in a melancholy
moment, are now terrifying—They recall scenes to my recollection that
are past—pleasant scenes that I am never more to enjoy. They present
pictures of futurity—I just opened a book, and these words that I
read:—“The time of my fading is near, and the blast that shall scatter
my leaves. Tomorrow shall the traveller come, he that saw me in my
beauty shall come; his eyes shall search the field, but they will not
find me.”
THESE words pierce me to the quick—they are a dismal prospect of my
approaching fate.
TOMORROW I shall go—But oh! whither?—
O! MY friend, when we find nothing we desire in this world, it is time
to depart. To live is a disgrace—to die is a duty.
Farewel.
LETTER LXIII.
_Worthy_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
I ARRIVED in town last evening—you desire me to write you a
statement of affairs as I should find them here—and of my marriage with
the amiable _Myra_—I promised to obey—but how little do we know of the
termination or consequences of the most probable event!
I SAW my beloved—her eyes were yet heavy and smarting with weeping for
the death of _Harriot_—and this, once the house of joy and cheerfulness,
is turned into the house of mourning. My unfortunate friend had just
then fallen into a calm sleep, and it was impossible to see him—it was
what I very much desired—but it was the wish of the family that I should
desist for the present—he had not slept the evening before—he had been
heard walking across his chamber all the night, with little
intermission, oftentimes talking to himself in a passionate tone of
voice.
THIS melancholy account deeply affected me—and I parted from my beloved,
praying Heaven to give her consolation, and to be the support of my
disordered friend.
IT is with difficulty I bring myself to the serious and the painful
employment of being the informer of unwelcome tidings—my heart feels the
wound—vainly it tells me my friend is no more—my hand reluctantly
traces—my friend—my _Harrington_ is no more.
EARLY this morning I was surprised with a visit, from a gentleman, whom
I had formerly seen at _Myra’s_—it was the same neighbour who informed
_Harrington_ of his affinity to _Harriot_—he found a difficulty in his
utterance—he told me, with trembling lips, my young friend _Harrington_
was dead—“He has killed himself,” said I—he asked me if I had heard the
news—I told him my heart presaged it.
WHEN any uncommon event happens to us, we often have a presentiment of
it—The circumstances of his death are these:—At midnight the gentleman
heard the report of the pistol, and went into the house—he found the
unhappy youth wheltering in his blood—few signs of life remained—the
ball had entered his brain—the surgeon came, but in a few hours he was
cold. A few friends were requested to attend—and this gentleman had
called upon me, by desire of _Myra_.
IT is impossible to describe the distress of the family and connexions—I
shall leave it to your imagination.
A LETTER that he had written for me, laid unsealed upon the table, and
_The Sorrows of Werter_ was found lying by his side. I send you the
letter—it appears to have been written at intervals, and expresses the
disorder and agitation of his mind.
Adieu!
LETTER LXIV.
_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
HARRIOT is dead—and the world to me is a dreary desert—I
prepare to leave it—the fatal pistol is charged—it lies on the table by
me, ready to perform its duty—but that duty is delayed till I take my
last farewel of the best of friends.
YOUR letter is written with the impetuosity of an honest heart; it
expresses great sincerity and tenderness.
I THANK you for all your good advice—it comes too late—O _Worthy_! she
is dead—she is gone—never to return, never again to cheer my heart with
her smiles and her amiable manners—her image is always before me—and can
I forget her? No!—She is continually haunting my mind, impressing the
imagination with ideas of excellence—but she is dead—all that delighted
me is become torpid—is descended into the cold grave.
... With thee
Certain my resolution is to die;
How can I live without thee—How forego
Thy converse sweet, and love so dearly join’d,
To live again in these wild woods forlorn?
· · · · ·
... loss of thee
Will never from my heart—no! no!—I feel
The link of nature draw me.
... From thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
THOU hast sat out on a long journey—but you shall not go alone—I hasten
to overtake thee. My resolution is not to be diverted—is not to be
shaken—I will not be afraid—I am inexorable—
I HAVE just seen my father—he is dejected—sullen grief is fixed upon his
brow—he tells me I am very ill—I looked at _Myra_—she wiped her face
with her handkerchief—perhaps they did not imagine this was the last
time they were to behold me.
SHE mentioned the name of _Worthy_, but my thoughts were differently
engaged. She repeated your name, but I took no heed of it. Take her, my
_Worthy_—_Myra_ is a good girl—take her—comfort her. Let not my
departure interrupt your happiness—perhaps it may for a short time. When
the grass is grown over my grave, lead her to it, in your pensive
walks—point to the spot where my ashes are deposited—drop one tear on
the remembrance of a friend, of a brother—but I cannot allow you to be
grieved—grieve for me! Wretch that I am—why do I delay—
I WISH I could be buried by the side of her, then should the passenger
who knows the history of our unfortunate loves, say—“Here lies
_Harrington_ and his _Harriot_—in their lives they loved, but were
unhappy—in death they sleep undivided.”—Guardian spirits will protect
the tomb which conceals her body—the body where every virtue delighted
to inhabit.—
DO not judge too rashly of my conduct—let me pray you to be candid,—I
have taken advantage of a quiet moment, and written an Epitaph—If my
body were laid by her’s, the inscription would be pertinent. Let no one
concerned be offended at the moral I have chosen to draw from our
unfortunate story.
MY heart sinks within me—the instrument of death is before me—farewel!
farewel!—My soul sighs to be freed from its confinement—Eternal Father!
accept my spirit—Let the tears of sorrow blot out my guilt from the book
of thy wrath.
LETTER LXV.
_Worthy_ to Mrs. _Holmes_.
_Boston._
WE have surmounted the performance of the last scene of our
tragedy, with less difficulty and distress than I imagined. Great
numbers crowded to see the body of poor _Harrington_; they were
impressed with various emotions, for their sympathizing sorrow could not
be concealed—Indeed a man without sensibility exhibits no sign of a
soul. I was struck with admiration at the observations of the populace,
and the justness of the character they drew of the deceased, “Alas!”
said one—“poor youth thou art gone. Thou wast of a promising genius, of
violent passions, thou wast possessed of a too nice sensibility, and a
dread of shame. It is only such an one who would take the trouble to
kill himself. Ah! poor well natured, warm hearted, hot headed youth—how
my heart bleeds for you! We consider thee as the dupe of _Nature_, and
the sacrifice of Seduction.” The old father hears this, and becomes
overwhelmed with shame and sorrow.
THE jury which sat upon the body of our friend, after mature
consideration, brought in their verdict Suicide. The rigour of the law
was not executed—the body was privately taken away, and I saw it
deposited by the side of his faithful _Harriot_.
I SEND you inclosed a copy of the Monumental Inscription, as written by
_Harrington_. I found it with many loose papers. It contains the story
of our unfortunate friends, and a profitable moral is deduced from it.
THOUGH a few weeks begin to spread calm over our passions, yet the
recollection of our misfortunes will sometimes cause a momentary
agitation, as the ocean retains its swell, after the storms subsides.
Adieu!
Monumental Inscription.
THOU who shalt wander o’er these humble plains,
Where one kind grave their hapless dust contains,
O pass not on—if merit claim a tear,
Or dying virtue cause a sigh sincere.
Here rest their heads, consign’d to parent earth,
Who to one common father ow’d their birth;
Unknown this union—Nature still presides,
And Sympathy unites, whom Fate divides.
They see—they love—but heav’n their passion tries,
Their love sustains it, but their MORTAL dies.
Stranger! contemplate well before you part,
And take this serious counsel to thy heart:
Does some fair female of unspotted fame,
Salute thee, smiling, with a father’s name,
Bid her detest the fell Seducer’s wiles,
Who smiles to win—and murders as he smiles.
If ever wandering near this dark recess,
Where guardian spirits round the ether press,
Where, on their urn, celestial care descends,
Two lovers come, whom fair success attends,
O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds,
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov’d,
“O! may we NEVER LOVE AS THESE HAVE LOVED.”
[Illustration: The END.]
Notes.
FOR many reasons it has been thought best to reprint this book exactly
after the original copy, “VERBATIM ET LITERATIM ET PUNCTUATIM”; and
although the modern purist may feel offended at the archaisms of
orthography, syntax and punctuation—the last of which appears to have
been used with rhetorical and not grammatical significance—, he must
content himself with the fact that art would have lost all and science
gained nothing by the rewriting of the above pages in the diction of
today.
OUT of regard for the feelings of the descendants of the originals of
certain characters of the novel, who are living today in Boston, the
editor has decided to reveal the identity only of those of the personæ
who are already known, to a more or less extent, through the literary
history of New England. Although curiosity may turn away unsatisfied
with the volume, yet the art of it all remains through considering
Harrington, father and son, Maria and Harriot, and Mrs. Holmes nothing
more than types and not as individuals whose true biographies are
written.
VOL. I, page 83, begins the story of “Martin” and “Ophelia,” the real
characters of which were recognized at the time to be Mr. Perez Morton
and his young sister-in-law, Theodosia Francis Apthorp. In commenting on
this fact in the book, Sabin writes in his “Books relating to America”
(Vol. XV, Page 377) “This work created quite a sensation, and was
suppressed by interested parties. The names of Fanny Apthorp and Perez
Morton are not yet forgotten as connected with the matter.”
PEREZ MORTON was born at Plymouth, Nov. 13, 1751. His father settled at
Boston, and was keeper of the White Horse Tavern, opposite
Hayward-place, and died in 1793. The Son entered the Boston Latin School
in 1760, and graduated at Harvard College in 1771, when he studied law;
but the revolutionary war prevented his engaging in the practice, and he
took an active part in the cause of freedom. In 1775 he was one of the
Committee of Safety, and in the same year became deputy-secretary of the
province. After the war, he opened an office as an attorney at law, at
his residence in State-street, on the present site of the Union Bank.
In 1777 he married Sarah Wentworth Apthorp, at Quincy, noted by Paine as
the American Sappho. Mr. Morton was a leader of the old Jacobin Club,
which held meetings at the Green Dragon Tavern, and became a decided
Democrat. A political poet of Boston thus satirizes Perez Morton:
“Perez, thou art in earnest, though some doubt thee!
In truth, the Club could never do without thee!
My reasons thus I give thee in a trice,—
You want their votes, and they want your advice!
“Thy tongue, shrewd Perez, favoring ears insures,—
The cash elicits, and the vote secures.
Thus the fat oyster, as the poet tells,
The lawyer ate,—his clients gained the shells.”
MR. MORTON was Speaker of the House from 1806 to 1811, and was
attorney-general from 1810 to 1832; was a delegate from Dorchester to
the convention for revising the State constitution, in 1820, and was
vigorous in general debate. He died at Dorchester, Oct. 14, 1837. He was
an ardent patriot, an eloquent speaker, of an elegant figure and
polished manners.
THIS Mansion, (the home of “Worthy,” later the city residence of Mr.
Perez Morton) as enlarged and embellished by its honoured proprietor,
the late Charles Apthorp, Esq. was then, that is, about the middle of
the Eighteenth Century, said to be the scene of every elegance, and the
abode of every virtue. Now, (1823) its beautiful hall of entrance,
arches, sculpture, and bas-relief; the grandstair-case, and its highly
finished saloon, have been removed, or partitioned off, to accommodate
the bank and its dependencies.
THOMAS WENTWORTH Earl of Strafford, the Minister, and favourite of
Charles the First, sacrificed by that Monarch to his own personal
safety—was beheaded near the end of the reign. Charles, in his last
moments, declared that he suffered justly for having given up the Earl
of Strafford to popular fury.
THE near Relations of this Nobleman were the founders of the American
Family of Wentworth. This family being presumptive heirs to the now
extinct Title of that Earldom of Strafford.
THESE were Henry and Samuel Wentworth, the maternal uncles of the
Author, both perished before they had attained the age of twenty. The
first, on a northern voyage of curiosity and improvement, was entangled
amid floating masses of ice, and in that situation expired along with
the whole ship’s company, passengers and seamen.
HIS young brother, Samuel Wentworth, having been invited to England by
his noble relatives, was under the patronage of those, admitted as
student at the Temple; at which period he first met Miss Lane, the
object of his honourable passion, and the cause of his fatal misfortune,
the daughter of a great commercial house of that period. Her large
inheritance, by her father’s will, made dependent on the pleasure of her
mercantile brother, to the aristocracy of whose wealth, young Wentworth
could only oppose nobility of birth, accomplishment of mind and beauty
of person, possessions which the man of commerce held as nothing,
compared with the superior treasures of monied interest.
CONSEQUENTLY the love was prohibited, and the lover banished from his
mistress; who though closely imprisoned in her own apartment, found
means to preserve an epistolary connection. The correspondence
increasing the enthusiasm of restricted passion, until every possible
hope of their union being extinguished, a deadly vial was obtained, and
the contents, equally divided, were at one desperate moment swallowed by
both. Their last desire, of being buried in the same grave, was denied.
THESE frantic and too affectionate lovers, finished the short career of
their miseries on the birth day of Wentworth, being that which completed
the nineteenth year of his age. And it is not irrelevant to add, that
the brother of the lady lived to lose his immense possessions, and died
desolate and distressed; at which period, we trust, repentance came, and
forgiveness was awarded.
JOHN, the founder of the transatlantic race of Apthorp, was a man of
taste and talent in the Fine Arts; particularly those of Painting and
Architecture. A taste and talent, which has in some instance been
transmitted to his descendants even of the fifth generation.
AN ardent imagination, and an ambitious desire of mental improvement,
led him from his native country of Wales. And in England, he saw, loved,
and married, Miss Ward, a celebrated beauty, with a large fortune, whose
Portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, yet remains with her descendant. This
portrait is distinguished by the long dark eyes, which that artist
preferred and made fashionable.
THE qualities of both parents live, and are conspicuous in some of their
descendants. A highly respectable individual of these, whose superiority
of mind may possibly disdain such recollections, was, in his minority,
so transcendently handsome, that upon a Tour through the Southern
States, he was generally designated “The Eastern Angel.” As he now is,
the Genius of Canova might design that form as a model for the sublime
statue of melancholy, since his fortunes have fallen—like those of his
race—a voluntary sacrifice to the best sentiments, and the noblest
feelings of humanity, while domestic bereavements coming yet nearer to
his gracious heart have left it the prey of sorrow.
CHARLES BULFINCH, Esq. of Washington, at this time (1823,) the National
Architect, is one more evidence of the inestimable happiness of a good
descent.
THE present STONE CHAPEL (corner of School and Tremont
Streets)—originally the KING’S CHAPEL—founded by Royalty, was finished
by the generosity of individuals. Charles Apthorp, Esq. the son of John,
gave 5000l. sterling, a very large sum for the Provinces at that period,
about the middle of the eighteenth century.
HIS Marble Monument with a very fine Latin Inscription, by his Son,
still remains in the Chapel, which Monument covers the Tomb of the truly
noble-minded race of Apthorp.
How erst the shield, whose crested pride.
THE Crest, if not the whole Armorial Bearing, is thought or said to have
been conferred upon the Battle Field by Richard.
THE shield of the Apthorp arms, which bearing a MULLET or spur, in
heraldry, with truly Welsh prepossession, the family were fondly,
perhaps foolishly, wont to trace back to the Crusades.
BELLEVIEW was undoubtedly the Apthorp homestead at Quincy where Mrs.
Morton passed her youth.
IN the Rev. Mr. Holmes, Quincy antiquarians will readily recognize the
Rev. Dr. Greenleaf, whose religious and philosophical teachings
undoubtedly had great influence on the author who was to come so near
being his biographer.
[_The above notes are compiled principally from_ “MY MIND AND ITS
THOUGHTS.”—_A book referred to in the Introduction._]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. The author listed on the title page is incorrect. The correct author
was William Hill Brown.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript
character, e.g. M^r.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The power of sympathy: or, The triumph of nature. Founded in truth." ***
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