MARIAN AND LYDIA, PART VI.
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Twas night, a chearful fire illumined their
little cottage, but &longs;orrow &longs;till &longs;at heavy on
the heart of Dorcas—the wind blew, the cold
rain beat again&longs;t the ca&longs;ement; and where now
is my poor Marian? &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;ighing deeply.
I will &longs;ing you your favorite hymn, &longs;aid Lydia,
ki&longs;&longs;ing off a tear as it fell on her mother's
cheek, and &longs;truggling to &longs;uppre&longs;s its &longs;ympathi&longs;ing
&longs;i&longs;ter that trembled in her own eye.
She took up her guitar, &longs;he wi&longs;hed to divert her
mother's attention from the painful reflections which
then occupied her thoughts; &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed her fingers
acro&longs;s the &longs;trings, the tones were di&longs;cordant, it is
not in tune, &longs;aid &longs;he. Alas! my dear Lydia,
replied her mother, it is our minds that are not
harmonized. She under&longs;tood the meaning of her
mother's words, but, making no an&longs;wer, began to
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&longs;ing an evening hymn of thanks. The &longs;udden
trampling of a hor&longs;e interrupted her, a loud
rapping at the door alarmed them—Lydia
opened the door, a &longs;ervant entered. Dorcas
looked earne&longs;tly at him; he threw a&longs;ide his riding
coat, &longs;he knew the livery, and in&longs;tantly recognized
an old and favorite &longs;ervant of Major
Renfew.
Simon, &longs;aid &longs;he, turning pale and ri&longs;ing as
&longs;he &longs;poke, why are you here?
My dear honored lady, I come from my master,
who repents his injurious treatment of you,
and comes to do you ju&longs;tice; but let this letter
&longs;peak for him.
And where is Lady Laura, &longs;aid Dorcas, taking
the letter.
She left my ma&longs;ter &longs;ome years &longs;ince, and now
leads a life of &longs;hame.
Poor mi&longs;guided Laura, &longs;aid Dorcas, as the
broke the &longs;eal.
When &longs;he read the fir&longs;t lines joy lightened
her features, and a tran&longs;ient glow of plea&longs;ure
acro&longs;s her face; but as &longs;he proceeded
trembled, her countenance a&longs;&longs;umed a
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ly hue, and large drops of unutterable angui&longs;h,
cha&longs;ed each other down her cheeks—the letter
fell to the ground, &longs;he cla&longs;ped her hands and
rai&longs;ed her eyes towards heaven.
Omnipotent power, &longs;aid &longs;he, teach me to receive
the&longs;e tidings as I ought, thy mercies and
thy judgments go hand in hand. Oh! make me
thankful for the one and &longs;ubmi&longs;&longs;ive to the other.
Thou ha&longs;t mingled thy judgments and thy bounties
in my cup of life; le&longs;t while receiving only
benefits I &longs;hould forget the &longs;ource from whence
tho&longs;e mercies flow. Lydia, continued &longs;he, you
will receive a father's ble&longs;&longs;ing, but my poor Marian
is lo&longs;t for ever.
Two days after Major Renfew had di&longs;patched
the letter to Dorcas, he &longs;et forward for Wales,
accompanied by the Earl of Landaff; it was
nearly the clo&longs;e of the third day, they had arrived
within a few miles of the cottage, and had slackened
their pace, that a &longs;ervant might have time
to inform Dorcas of their near approach. The
Major's bo&longs;om was agitated by the mo&longs;t painful
&longs;en&longs;ations, the Earl was animated by hope. The
road was &longs;olitary, &longs;kirted on one &longs;ide by a thick
wood, from whence they &longs;everal times imagined
they heard a voice of complaint, the
his hor&longs;e and &longs;tood in the attitude of
ing.
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Ah! woe is me, &longs;aid the voice, I can get no
farther, I mu&longs;t e'en peri&longs;h here.
Landaff di&longs;mounted in&longs;tantly and ru&longs;hed into
the wood, the Major would have followed but a
&longs;udden pang &longs;eized him, he re&longs;pired with difficulty
and was forced to &longs;upport him&longs;elf again a
tree. In a few moments Landaff returned, a female
re&longs;ted on his arm, her emaciated frame but
&longs;lenderly &longs;heltered from the inclemencies of the
weather, by a tattered gown; her hair loo&longs;e and
di&longs;hevelled, her feet bare and bleeding from
wounds &longs;he had received from &longs;harp &longs;tones, as
&longs;he walked. Here is a &longs;ight of mi&longs;ery, &longs;aid the
Earl.
The Major looked at the unhappy girl, and
through the &longs;hade which extreme want, sickness,
and even di&longs;ordered rea&longs;on had ca&longs;t over
her countenance, in&longs;tantly di&longs;covered the seatures
of Marian.
Merciful heaven, he exclaimed, it is my
child.
Have you a child, &longs;aid Marian, catching at his
la&longs;t words, then for pity's &longs;ake don't for&longs;ake her.
I had a father once, I had a lover too; but you
&longs;ee how it is with me now, I am poor, very
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wretched, and I &longs;ometimes think not quite in my
right &longs;en&longs;es. I have a mother who lives somewhere
here about, I have travelled a long way in
hopes to find her, but I know not how it is, I
have eat &longs;o little, and wept &longs;o much, I was
obliged to &longs;it down and re&longs;t. Do but &longs;ee how
my poor feet bleed.
Oh! my dear child, cried the Major, you
make my heart bleed drop for drop with them;
but I am going to your mother's, and will &longs;hew
you the way.
You are a man, &longs;aid &longs;he, and I dare not tru&longs;t
you; they are all hard-hearted, cruel and treacherous.
I once, continued &longs;he, looking earnestly
in the Major's face, I once met a man,
but 'tis a long time &longs;ince, who looked and &longs;poke
as you do, only not quite &longs;o &longs;orrowful—I was
mi&longs;erable then, and he promi&longs;ed to be my friend,
but he did not mean it; he u&longs;ed me very
cruelly, I hardly know how I got from him, and
have been wandering about ever &longs;ince, &longs;ometimes
one cold &longs;tone, &longs;ometimes another has been my
pillow. I bear it as well as I can, we all mu&longs;t
&longs;uffer according to our offences.
Dear lunatic, &longs;aid the Major, what a le&longs;&longs;on
do&longs;t thou teach thy father.
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That is true, &longs;aid &longs;he, you have a child, if
it is a daughter, bring her to me, and I will teach
her &longs;uch a le&longs;&longs;on—I have it here (laying her hand
on her heart) it can never be era&longs;ed but by the
hand of death. Oh! I would tell her &longs;uch tales
of men, would teach her to beware their flattery,
to &longs;hut her&longs;elf in retirement, to pray for
humility. Oh! &longs;ye upon it, &longs;ye upon it, 'tis a
bad world, but I'll to my mother, for I am &longs;ick,
heart-&longs;ick of its &longs;ollies.
She then darted precipitately into the wood,
but had not proceeded many &longs;teps, when overcome
with fatigue, long fa&longs;ting, and the agitation
of her di&longs;ordered &longs;pirits, &longs;he &longs;unk under the
complicated evils, and fell fainting to the ground.
Renfew was too much ab&longs;orbed in his own feelings
to be able to give any orders concerning his
unhappy daughter, and could only exclaim,
“The&longs;e are thy works, oh vice; look, old Renfew,
behold the ruin of thy child, and remember
'tis the reward of thy own ingratitude, per&longs;idy
and cruelty.”
Landaff a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted the &longs;ervants in rai&longs;ing Marian,
and being then but a &longs;hort di&longs;tance from the cottage,
per&longs;uaded his uncle to ride forward, accompanied
by one &longs;ervant, while he followed with
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the other two &longs;upporting Marian between them.
And is this the peace offering I &longs;hall carry to
my afflicted Dorcas, a daughter murdered by the
inhumanity of a father, &longs;aid the Major as he
proceeded.
Dorcas had been li&longs;tening to every pa&longs;&longs;ing
breeze, and counting the minutes, chiding their
tardy progre&longs;s. The &longs;ound of hor&longs;es feet caught
her ear, &longs;he met her repentant Renfew at the
door, threw her&longs;elf into his arms, and fainted.
Lydia knelt and received a father's ble&longs;&longs;ing.
Words are too languid to de&longs;cribe the ensuing
&longs;cene, &longs;uffice it to &longs;ay, for Marian was for
a moment forgot, for a moment they were all
happy; but they were awakened from this dream
of bli&longs;s by the approach of Landaff.
Lydia &longs;tarted as &longs;he drew near the door,
Renfew &longs;truck his forehead with his hand, and
bur&longs;ting from the embraces of Dorcas, ru&longs;hed
out of the room.
Marian was beginning to recover her fen&longs;es
as they entered the cottage. Lydia thought it
was a &longs;tranger, poor and &longs;ickly, and as &longs;he lent
her arm to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t in leading her in, a tear fell
in compa&longs;&longs;ion to her weakne&longs;s and appatent
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misery. Marian &longs;unk into a chair, folded her
arms round Lydia's wai&longs;t, and gazing at her
for a moment, recollection and rea&longs;on at once
returned, &longs;he dropped her head on her bo&longs;om and
cried, it is indeed my &longs;i&longs;ter.
The voice was familiar to Dorcas. That voice
&longs;hould be the voice of Marian, &longs;aid &longs;he, but alas!
the form retains no traces of my once lovely
innocent child.
Innocence and peace are fled together, &longs;aid
Marian, grant me but pardon and let medie at your
feet; &longs;he &longs;unk upon her knees, Lydia knelt be&longs;ide
her; the afflicted mother wept over her, ble&longs;&longs;ed
and forgave her.
Enough, &longs;aid Marian, this was the only prayer
I dared to offer at the throne of grace &longs;ince I left
my home, and became acquainted with guilt and
mi&longs;ery; how it has plea&longs;ed heaven to direct me
to you I know not. I have &longs;ome faint recollection
of an horrid dream, but all things &longs;eem
fading from my memory, an icy chillne&longs;s hangs
about my heart, I feel the &longs;prings of life are
quite exhau&longs;ted.
Oh! &longs;pare her, &longs;pare my child, merciful
heaven, cried Dorcas, &longs;inking on her knees.
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It cannot be, &longs;aid the expiring &longs;ufferer, I die,
but a mother's ble&longs;&longs;ing &longs;oftens even the agonies
of death, Oh! had I but de&longs;erved it.
She rai&longs;ed her hands and eyes in a fervent
though inarticulate ejaculation to heaven, and
uttering a piercing groan expired.
Renfew heard the groan, he heard the cries of
Dorcas and Lydia—“And is &longs;he dead, &longs;aid he,
ru&longs;hing in and catching the pale cor&longs;e in his arms,
Oh! Marian! Marian! why &longs;houlde&longs;t thou pay
the forfeit of thy father's crimes? But tell me,
continued he, who was her &longs;educer; who
plunged my child into this aby&longs;s of mi&longs;ery;
teach me where to find him, that with his heart's
blood I may wa&longs;h out the &longs;tain he has entailed
upon the name of Renfew.”
Forbear, &longs;aid Dorcas, laying her hand upon
his arm, while a beam of mingled piety and
fortitude illumined her countenance, forbear,
the hand of heaven is in it, accept its ju&longs;t chastisements
with humility, and remembering only
thine own offences, blot from thy memory the
offences of others.
Renfew turned from her, folded his arms upon
his bo&longs;om, and was &longs;ilent.
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A few days after the ill-fated Marian was committed
to her parent earth, when Renfew, Dorcas,
and Lydia removed to the &longs;eat of the Earl of
Landaff, where in a &longs;hort time &longs;he reaped the full
reward of her filial duty and unremitting tenderness
to her mother, by becoming the bride of that
young nobleman. She was the ble&longs;&longs;ing of her
parents, the pride and honor of her hu&longs;band, the
friend and preceptre&longs;s of her children, who repaid
an hundred fold the plea&longs;ure &longs;he had conveyed
to Dorcas's bo&longs;om by &longs;hewing the &longs;ame
duty and affection to her.
Major Renfew purcha&longs;ed the cottage where his
wife and children had lived &longs;o many years, and
kept it in con&longs;tant repair; in the garden he had
two &longs;mall temples erected, one was almo&longs;t hid
from the eye, by thick &longs;preading cypre&longs;s and
yew trees, round who&longs;e branches twined the
deadly night-&longs;hade, and baleful ivy; within was
a tomb of black marble, over which &longs;tood Humanity
weeping; on the front of the monument
was the following in&longs;cription:
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Hither let the Daughter of Vanity repair,
Look on this &longs;ilent Monitor,
AND REMEMBER
MARIAN!
She was fair and &longs;weet as the lily, innocent as the
young lamb, but folly mi&longs;led her, vice betrayed
her, and mi&longs;ery clo&longs;ed the final awful &longs;cene,
in the Twenty-Third Year
of her Age.
Beware the voice of flattery, beware the allurements of
wealth, nor a&longs;k of thy bountiful Creator aught but
HUMILITY, VIRTUE AND CONTENT.
The other temple was built of white marble,
&longs;urrounded by the mo&longs;t beautiful flowering &longs;hrubs
and evergreens; within was Peace and Pro&longs;perity,
thowering their favors on filial piety; above covered
an Angel with a crown of gold in her
hands, round which was this heavenly promi&longs;e.
Honor thy , and thy Days &longs;hall be long in the Land.
May this promi&longs;e ever be pre&longs;ent to the remembrance
of the fair daughters of Britain!
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Still am I to complain of the &longs;hortne&longs;s of
your letters, and receive the trifling excu&longs;e,
that you have no time. Fye, my dear girls, I am
a&longs;hamed to read &longs;o very childi&longs;h an apolegy,
your want of time mu&longs;t proceed from your own
bad management, for &longs;urely no rational being
will give more to the pur&longs;uit of amu&longs;ement than
what might ju&longs;t &longs;erve to give a ze&longs;t to retirement;
and, believe me, you will find retirement alone
the &longs;ource of true happine&longs;s, and promoter of industry—
and on the contrary, an eager pur&longs;uit of
fa&longs;hionable folly, which &longs;educes you under the
&longs;emblance of plea&longs;ure, always tends to debilitate
the faculties of the mind, and lead you into habits
of idlene&longs;s and indolence at once prejudicial to
your tranquillity and intere&longs;t, not only your temporal,
but what is of far more con&longs;equence, your
&longs;piritual intere&longs;t.
If, my beloved pupils, you cannot find time
once in &longs;everal weeks to write a few lines to a
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friend, who regards you with a tenderne&longs;s nearly
maternal; tell me, and tell me truly, I entreat,
how much time you can &longs;pare to devote each day
to the Creator and giver of all good? Ah! my
young friends, I fear but a little, very little portion
is allotted for that &longs;ervice; yet tru&longs;t me it is
a &longs;ervice which cannot be neglected but by the
ungrateful and unthinking. Is there one moment
of your lives that pa&longs;&longs;es unmarked by his
ble&longs;&longs;ings? Have you not health, chearfulne&longs;s,
friends, and the mo&longs;t valuable of all ble&longs;&longs;ings, the
power to dry the tear of affliction, to comfort the
widow, protect the orphan, relea&longs;e the poor
debtor, and perform all the good works of peace
and mercy?
How &longs;hould your hearts overflow with gratitude
to that God, who thus bountifully &longs;preads around
you the means of happine&longs;s, do not then my dear
children, throw the ble&longs;&longs;ing from you, and continue
&longs;quandering your time, and trifling with
your health 'till the fir&longs;t is nearly &longs;pent, and the
latter irretrievably ruined, and you will awaken
too late to a ju&longs;t &longs;en&longs;e of your error, when your
mind, evervated by the weakne&longs;s of your frame,
vainly &longs;hall endeavour in the few remaining years
to regain tho&longs;e &longs;ources of mental delight which
ever flow from a proper exertion of the rea&longs;oning
faculties.
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When you were with me, was there ever a
day too long? I hear you readily an&longs;wer no.
Every moment was fully and plea&longs;antly employed;
true, but had we not always time for
reading, writing, mu&longs;ic, drawing, needle-work,
and every other amu&longs;ing or u&longs;eful employment.
And did we ever, my dear girls, ri&longs;e from the
&longs;weets of repo&longs;e, or retire to our chambers at
night, without remembering our duty to him
through who&longs;e mercy alone we enjoyed all tho&longs;e
ble&longs;&longs;ings? and certain I am, you were at that
time as happy as it was po&longs;&longs;ible for young people
to be; you were blithe as the woodlark, blooming
as Hebe, and innocent as the dove, who tries
his new fledged wings in little circles round its
mother's ne&longs;t.
Think not, my young friends, that I wi&longs;h to
deprive you of innocent amu&longs;ement, far from it.
In the &longs;phere where it has plea&longs;ed providence to
place you, it is certainly right that you &longs;hould
partake in moderation of all the diver&longs;ions of the
metropolis; but if tho&longs;e diver&longs;ions are too frequently
repeated, they lo&longs;e their effect, and
you return from them weary, di&longs;gu&longs;ted and dissatisfied.
But how different are the plea&longs;ures ari&longs;ing from
the amu&longs;ement to be found within our&longs;elves.
The pur&longs;uit of either of the fine arts, the &longs;tudy
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of nature, in all her varieties and beauties, the excellencies
of chri&longs;tianity, the delights ari&longs;ing from
benevolence—here are inexhau&longs;tible &longs;ources of
entertainment, rational &longs;ublime plea&longs;ure, that the
farther you pur&longs;ue it, the more enchanting appears
the pro&longs;pect, new charms ari&longs;e to your astonished
view; and though the joys of youth transiently
fleet away, you will &longs;till have plea&longs;ures
within your reach, that can render old age not
only ea&longs;y to your&longs;elf, but delightful to others.
I am no &longs;tranger to the many enticements
youth and inexperience meet with in the gay
world to allure them from the paths of rea&longs;on. I
my&longs;elf &longs;pent my youth in London, but it was
my lot to be placed in a family, where nothing
was deemed plea&longs;ure, however &longs;pecious its appearance,
that was not &longs;anctioned by rea&longs;on.
Your grandmother, my dear girls, was a woman
remarkable for the elegance of her manners
and the chearfulne&longs;s of her di&longs;po&longs;ition; yet believe
me &longs;he was as truly pious as a primitive
chri&longs;tian. Surrounded with affluence, &longs;he was
humble, benevolent, tender hearted, and ea&longs;y
of acce&longs;s to the meane&longs;t petitioner. In affliction
re&longs;igned, patient and uncomplaining.
When it was fir&longs;t my happy fate to be taken
under her protection, &longs;he was &longs;carcely twenty-&longs;ix
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years old, extremely lovely in her per&longs;on, endowed
with every accompli&longs;hment, admired
wherever &longs;he appeared, re&longs;pected by her friends,
and adored by her hu&longs;band: yet &longs;he was not
tainted by vanity, but made it her &longs;tudy to conciliate
e&longs;teem, when love and admiration &longs;hould
be no more. She paid a &longs;trict attention to her
dome&longs;tic affairs, attended per&longs;onally to the morals
and education of her children, never suffered
an hour to pa&longs;s unemployed, or a day without
paying her devotion to her maker.
This is an example I could wi&longs;h you to follow,
as it cannot fail of making you as truly
happy, as it is po&longs;&longs;ible for human nature to be.
MENTORIA.
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And &longs;o you really feel your&longs;elves mightily
offended becau&longs;e your father thinks of a second
marriage, when you &longs;hould rather rejoice
to find he has cho&longs;en &longs;o amiable a woman as Mrs.
Clairville.
You are to con&longs;ider that it is more than probable
in a few years you will all of you be &longs;ettled
in a matrimonial way,and then how extremely uncomfortable
will your father find him&longs;elf, after
being &longs;o long accu&longs;tomed to the &longs;ociety of an
amiable woman, to feel him&longs;elf at once deprived
of it, how &longs;olitary would be his hou&longs;e, how pensive
his breakfa&longs;t hours.
But you cry, you do not like a &longs;tep-mother.
Can you &longs;uppo&longs;e that Mrs. Clairville will a&longs;&longs;ume
any improper authority overyou, when &longs;he becomes
Lady Winworth?—
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Believe me, my children, while you behave
with tenderne&longs;s and propriety towards her, &longs;he
will never appear otherwi&longs;e than your friend
and companion. Be&longs;ides, you &longs;hould reflect that
your father having di&longs;charged his duty towards
you, by giving you a liberal education, and remaining
unmarried till you have attained to years
of maturity, has now an undoubted right to
plea&longs;e him&longs;elf, and chu&longs;e a companion &longs;uited to
his age and di&longs;po&longs;ition.—And &longs;hall you, the children
of his affection, who&longs;e happine&longs;s he has &longs;o
much &longs;tudied, who&longs;e felicity is the fir&longs;t wi&longs;h of his
heart, &longs;hall you ungratefully murmur at his choice,
and by your di&longs;content embitter the life of him
it is your duty to love and reverence.
No, no.—I think my dear girls know too well
the many obligations they are under to this dear
father, to attempt any thing which would be prejudicial
to his happine&longs;s. Con&longs;ider, my dear girls,
how much it will be your intere&longs;t to endeavour
to conciliate the affection and e&longs;teem of the woman
whom your father thinks proper to place in
&longs;o re&longs;pectable a &longs;ituation. You mu&longs;t regard her
as the repre&longs;entative of your decea&longs;ed parent,
and by tender a&longs;&longs;duity and attention, make her
your &longs;incere friend; &longs;uch a conduct will make
you dearer than ever to the heart of your father,
and a delightful tranquillity will diffu&longs;e it&longs;elf
through your own bo&longs;oms, con&longs;cious that to the
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utmo&longs;t of your power you have performed your
duty.
Perhaps you may tell me, there is no actual
duty due to a &longs;tep-mother. I confe&longs;s it is not
&longs;o much a duty incumbent for you to obey the
commands or &longs;ubmit implicitly to the will of
any but your natural parent, but remember my
fair friends, if you voluntarily perform an exalted
action, where perhaps it was not expected, and
could not be demanded, how much more will it
redound to your honor, than the &longs;imple discharge
of an obligation.
I am &longs;en&longs;ible that many young women have
been rendered extremely unhappy by their father's
choo&longs;ing &longs;econd wives, but then it has been
the error of judgment in his choice; where passion
has &longs;o blinded him that he could not di&longs;cover
the faults of the per&longs;on who had attracted his affection.
Perhaps &longs;he has been ignorant, ill-natured,
illiberal, or fanta&longs;tic; nay, it has been
the unhappy fate of &longs;ome girls to have for a
&longs;tep-mother, a per&longs;on in whom all tho&longs;e disagreeable
circum&longs;tances are combined. But what a
different choice has your father made, Mrs. Clairville
is elegant, accompli&longs;hed, gentle and unassuming.
She will render your father's evening
of life like the parting rays of a mild autumn
day, where though we cannot but &longs;ee the vi&longs;ible
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approach of winter, there is &longs;uch a &longs;o&longs;t &longs;erenity,
&longs;uch various beauties &longs;cattered over the pro&longs;pect,
that the reflecting mind cannot but prefer it to the
more gaudy tints that embelli&longs;h the appearance
of &longs;pring.
Your own &longs;elicity too may be augmented by
this union, as I am certain, however vanity or
folly may for a moment mi&longs;lead your understanding,
you will all &longs;incerely rejoice in an event
that will ultimately tend to in&longs;ure the mo&longs;t refined
plea&longs;ure to &longs;o good, &longs;o valuable a father, as
Lord Winworth, by uniting him to a woman,
who&longs;e highly cultivated under&longs;tanding renders her
at once the chearful rational companion, and the
di&longs;intere&longs;ted friend.
You may remember, my dear girls, how unkind
you thought me, when I po&longs;itively refu&longs;ed
to accompany you to London; perhaps you may
now perceive the ju&longs;tice of that refu&longs;al. Had
I complied with the polite invitation of your father,
and yielded my own better judgment to
your pre&longs;&longs;ing entreaties, I &longs;hould have undoubtedly
long ago forfeited, in your opinion, all
right to your affection.
Some years before Lord Winworth beheld your
truly amiable mother, he &longs;o far humbled him&longs;elf
as to make me a tender of his hand and fortune. I
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will not dwell on the rea&longs;on that urged me to refuse
an offer &longs;o very far above my de&longs;erts, lea&longs;t
my dear Mi&longs;s Winworths &longs;hould think I boa&longs;ted
of my great fortitude and re&longs;olution; believe me,
it was only an exertion of rea&longs;on, and I felt amply
compen&longs;ated for all I &longs;uffered in this &longs;elf-denial,
(for I will not deny that my heart pleaded strongly
in your father's favor) by the reflection that
I had acted with honour and propriety, and
evinced the &longs;incerity of my gratitude to my dear
benefactre&longs;s.
Affections that have been deeply impre&longs;&longs;ed on
our hearts in extreme youth, are often revived
again at the remote period of mature age, and I
feared to lo&longs;e the friend&longs;hip of my young friends,
by awakening in the bo&longs;om of their father the tenderness
he once honored me with, by profe&longs;&longs;ing—.
Before I drop this &longs;ubject, I will give you two
in&longs;tances that have fell under my own immediate
knowledge, to &longs;hew you how very po&longs;&longs;ible it is
for an ob&longs;tinate misjudging child to trifle away
both her own and father's happine&longs;s, by being wilfully
blind to the merits of his &longs;econd wife; and
al&longs;o &longs;hew how truly amiable the daughter mu&longs;t
appear, who makes the tranquillity of her parent
her chief &longs;tudy; and if her own peace is in &longs;ome
mea&longs;ure interrupted by the caprice of a &longs;tep mother,
&longs;he will &longs;eek in re&longs;ignation, piety and humility,
a &longs;weet con&longs;olation and comfort.
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Celia Markham had the misfortune to lo&longs;e her
mother at the early age of twelve. Mr. Markham
was doatingly fond of his daughter, he
placed his chief felicity in the hope of one day
&longs;eeing her the mo&longs;t amiable, accompli&longs;hed and
happy girl in England.
He had placed her at an eminent boarding
&longs;chool, but he knew too much of the world to
&longs;uppo&longs;e, a girl of her volatile di&longs;po&longs;ition, especially
when &longs;he was lovely in her per&longs;on, and
reputed heire&longs;s to a large fortune, could be &longs;o
&longs;afe any where as under the immediate protection
of a father. He had no female relation
whom he could with propriety invite to his
hou&longs;e, and he thought he could not do his daughter
a more acceptable &longs;ervice, than by choo&longs;ing
the amiable Mi&longs;s Nel&longs;on to pre&longs;ide in the place
of her departed mother.
Mi&longs;s Nel&longs;on was at that time upwards of thirty,
&longs;he had rendered her&longs;elf univer&longs;ally beloved and
re&longs;pected by all who knew her, for the innate
goodne&longs;s of her heart was con&longs;picuous in every
action. She had received a mo&longs;t liberal education,
and her mental endowments were far &longs;uperior to
the generality of what is termed accompli&longs;hed
women—yet &longs;o timid and una&longs;&longs;uming in her
manners, that tho&longs;e with whom &longs;he conver&longs;ed by
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degrees di&longs;covered her excellencies, and after
&longs;ome years acquaintance would be daily finding
&longs;omething new to admire. She had by the mo&longs;t
exemplary conduct as a daughter, convinced the
world what might be expected from her as a
wife and mother. She was uniformly humane,
pious and gentle; in per&longs;on attractive, and in
manners elegantly &longs;imple.
Such was the woman whom Mr. Markham
thought would help to form the manners, cultivate
the under&longs;tanding, and direct the &longs;tudies of
his darling Celia.
Mi&longs;s Markham no &longs;ooner was informed of her
father's intended union, than &longs;he conceived the
mo&longs;t violent and ill founded di&longs;like toward the
innocent object of his affection.
As Celia was &longs;o young, Mr. Markham never
had an idea of con&longs;ulting her on his propo&longs;ed marriage,
having therefore obtained from Mi&longs;s Nelson
leave to name an early day for the ceremony,
he wrote to his daughter an affectionate letter,
informing her how much he had &longs;tudied her happiness
in providing her &longs;o amiable a friend and
preceptre&longs;s, at the &longs;ame time reque&longs;ting her governess
to prepare her to be pre&longs;ent at the wedding.
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Celia was a girl of high &longs;pirits, her understanding
had remained entirely uncultivated, while
large &longs;ums had been expended on the far le&longs;s necessary
&longs;uperficial accompli&longs;hments of mu&longs;ic, dancing,
drawing, and fancy works. Religion &longs;he
knew but by name; it is true, there were prayers
read twice a-day in the &longs;chool, and &longs;he went with
the other ladies regularly to church twice every
Sunday, but there it re&longs;ted! There had been no pains
taken to in&longs;til into her mind a true knowledge
of what religion meant; &longs;he had not been taught
that to keep her pa&longs;&longs;ions under the controul of
rea&longs;on, to &longs;ubmit, without repining, to the will
of tho&longs;e whom heaven had placed over her; to be
meek, merciful, and ju&longs;t, and let every action of
her life be a continued work of gratitude to heaven,
and good will to her fellow creatures, was
to follow the precepts of true piety.
She had been early taught to value her&longs;elf,
upon the trifling advantages of birth and fortune,
for &longs;he &longs;aw the vi&longs;ible difference between the attention
and re&longs;pect paid by her governe&longs;s and the
teachers to her&longs;elf and tho&longs;e young ladies who
had neither of tho&longs;e advantages to recommend
them.
She was naturally vain, and that vanity was
augmented by the con&longs;tant adulation which &longs;he
daily received from tho&longs;e girls, who&longs;e meanne&longs;s
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of &longs;pirit induced them to cringe to her &longs;uperior
wealth.
From con&longs;tantly contemplating tho&longs;e fancied
endowments, &longs;he began to imagine &longs;he was born
for univer&longs;al &longs;way, had &longs;ettled it in her own mind,
that in a few years &longs;he &longs;hould be called home to
pre&longs;ide at her father's table, have the management
of the family, and partake of all the fashionable
plea&longs;ures with which the metropolis
abounds.
How great then was her di&longs;appointment when
&longs;he found all the&longs;e plea&longs;ing expectations at once
fru&longs;trated—when &longs;he found &longs;he was to be &longs;till considered
as a child, and under the controul of the
mo&longs;t dreaded of all characters, a &longs;tep-mother.—
She knew Mi&longs;s Nel&longs;on, but far from admiring
her amiable qualities, &longs;he had con&longs;idered her as a
dull, preci&longs;e, infipid old maid. She had no idea that
chearfulne&longs;s and unaffected piety con&longs;tantly inhabited
the &longs;ame brea&longs;t, nor could &longs;he conceive
that rational conver&longs;ation, &longs;tudy, u&longs;eful employment,
and innocent amu&longs;ement, could amply diversify
the &longs;cene, and be a &longs;ource of tranquil happiness
without the aid of public entertainments,
dre&longs;s, parade and folly.
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It may be ea&longs;ily conceived, that two tempers
&longs;o diametrically oppo&longs;ite would never agree.
Mr. Markham had &longs;een the&longs;e erroneous traits
in his daughter's di&longs;po&longs;ition, but he flattered
him&longs;elf, the amiable example and condescending
behaviour of Mi&longs;s Nel&longs;on would &longs;o far operate
on her temper, as to make her love and endeavour
to imitate her virtues.
It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to de&longs;cribe the rage and grief
that di&longs;played it&longs;elf in the countenance of Celia,
on the receipt of her father's letters, regarding
only what &longs;he fooli&longs;hly imagined would be prejudicial
to her own happine&longs;s. She gave vent to her
pa&longs;&longs;ion in the mo&longs;t unbecoming terms, called her
father cruel, unju&longs;t and unfeeling, and vowed &longs;he
would die &longs;ooner than call Mi&longs;s Nel&longs;on mother.
“I will go to the wedding, &longs;aid &longs;he, becau&longs;e that
woman &longs;hall not have a moment's happine&longs;s of
which it is in my power to deprive her.”
With this laudable re&longs;olution &longs;he &longs;at forward
for her father's hou&longs;e, where upon being tenderly
embraced by him, in&longs;tead of returning a cordial
&longs;alute, and wi&longs;hing him joy, &longs;he turned her face
from him and bur&longs;ting into tears, (which proceeded
more from pa&longs;&longs;ion than &longs;en&longs;ibility) &longs;aid &longs;he
was &longs;orry to find her dear mother was &longs;o &longs;oon
forgot.
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Not forgot, my beloved; replied Mr. Markham,
for I have &longs;ought a woman who is her counter-part
in every amiable quality.
They then proceeded to church, where, after
the ceremony was performed, tears and &longs;ullen curtseys
were all the gratulations Celia offered to her
new mother.
Mrs. Markham was naturally a woman of great
&longs;en&longs;ibility, &longs;he attributed Celia's melancholy to a
cau&longs;e that did honour to her own heart, and instead
of taking offence, endeavoured to &longs;oothe
and entertain her during the whole day. But
alas! the gentle Mrs. Markham knew not
the difficulty of the ta&longs;k &longs;he had undertaken.
She had known Celia &longs;ome years before her
mother's death, and always thought her an amiable,
lively girl, and judging of her disposition
by that of her parents, imagined there
would be no difficulty in modelling her according
to her own wi&longs;hes.
But the&longs;e &longs;allacious hopes were &longs;oon no more.
Celia from the day of her father's marriage took
every opportunity in her power to thwart and vex
her mother-in-law.
Though Mrs. Markam was a woman of too
much &longs;en&longs;e, to let the caprice of &longs;uch a girl ruffle
-- 055 --
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the uncommon &longs;erenity of her temper, yet was
it totally impo&longs;&longs;ible for a woman of her exquisite
&longs;en&longs;ibility, to enjoy any tolerable degree
of happine&longs;s while &longs;he &longs;aw the darling child of
the man &longs;he loved and e&longs;teemed of &longs;o &longs;roward and
perver&longs;e a di&longs;po&longs;ition.
Celia was volatile, and thoughtle&longs;s to exce&longs;s,
fond of company, and &longs;o entirely unqualified to
amu&longs;e or entertain her&longs;elf, that the mo&longs;t improper
&longs;ociety was preferred to being alone. Her mother-in-law
was of too grave and rational a turn
to afford her any plea&longs;ure by her conver&longs;ation,
and to read or work required &longs;o much attention,
that &longs;he termed it fatigue.
It was with infinite regret that Mr. Markham
di&longs;covered the little felicity he was like to enjoy
in this &longs;econd union. He &longs;aw the child of his
tendere&longs;t affection re&longs;tle&longs;s and di&longs;contented; he
&longs;aw with angui&longs;h the many fruitle&longs;s endeavours of
Mrs. Markham to reclaim and make her pur&longs;ue
the direct road to happine&longs;s.
Whenever the tender attention of this amiable
woman lead her to remon&longs;trate with Celia on the
impropriety of her conduct, and the mi&longs;erable
wa&longs;te of her time, the petulant girl would bur&longs;t
into tears, and cry, “Oh! that my dear mother
was living, I &longs;hould not then be treated thus
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cruelly, and abridged of every innocent plea&longs;ure,
by a woman, who having &longs;tolen from me my dear
father's affections, now u&longs;urps an undue authority
over both him and me.”
The&longs;e continual di&longs;putes greatly embittered
Mrs. Markham's life.—Mr. Markham was at a
lo&longs;s how to conduct him&longs;elf &longs;o as to give pain
to neither wife or daughter. In &longs;hort, the whole
family was unhappy from the capricious behaviour
of her, who&longs;e chief &longs;tudy &longs;hould have been
to promote their felicity.
Celia had her friends, her parties, and her
&longs;ecrets, in which Mrs. Markham was not allowed
to participate; the con&longs;equence was, that &longs;he at
a very early age had her lovers al&longs;o.
Among the many candidates for her favor was
a Captain Par&longs;low, he was a man of no fortune,
ignorant, conceited, and a complete coxcomb.
He &longs;oon di&longs;covered the weakne&longs;s of Celia, he
flattered her foibles, took her part again&longs;t her mother-in-law,
and, in &longs;hort, &longs;o far won on the
fooli&longs;h thoughtle&longs;s girl, that &longs;he con&longs;ented to elope
with him, and take a trip to Scotland.
By the dropping of a letter Mrs. Markham
di&longs;covered the plan; &longs;he talked to Celia in the
accents of friend&longs;hip and fond &longs;olicitude, but
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received in return, only impertinence and disrespect.
Mrs. Markham thought it her duty to acquaint
her hu&longs;band with the di&longs;covery &longs;he had made.
Grieved to the &longs;oul, he &longs;ent for his daughter, and
in the mo&longs;t pathetic terms entreated her to de&longs;i&longs;t
from &longs;o fatal a &longs;tep.
The artful Celia thought this was the time to
alienate her father's affections from his wife—&longs;he
po&longs;itively denied the whole charge, and declared
&longs;he believed it mu&longs;t be a contrivance of Mrs.
Markham's; begged if her dear father thought
her capable of &longs;uch imprudence, he would &longs;end
her abroad, and &longs;hut her in a convent. “I
know, continued &longs;he, with well di&longs;&longs;embled tears,
that you have been taught to con&longs;ider your poor
girl as an abandoned wretch, who con&longs;ulted only
her own happine&longs;s, but indeed, indeed my beloved
father, you have been deceived. I am not
the guilty creature you think me. But, alas! I
have long &longs;een my pre&longs;ence is a bar to your happiness,
&longs;end me from you, then, dear Sir; &longs;ince
it is impo&longs;&longs;ible we can both enjoy content, let
me be the victim, and may your felicity be unbounded.”
This artful &longs;peech had the de&longs;ired effect, and
Mr. Markham believing his daughter perfectly
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
innocent, began to treat the woman with coolne&longs;s
whom he imagined had attempted to create dissention
between him and his only child.
Celia &longs;aw &longs;he had now completely made her
mother-in-law unhappy, and exulted in her cruelty,
adding in&longs;ult to the already poignant sufferings
of the patient and amiable Mrs. Markham.
But Celia had not &longs;ufficient art to elude or
evade the &longs;olicitude of her admirer. Par&longs;low &longs;till
continued his devoirs, and Mi&longs;s Markham li&longs;tened
to his &longs;lattery and received his a&longs;&longs;iduities with too
much plea&longs;ure to give any room for de&longs;pair; in a
&longs;hort time &longs;he eloped. Her father was amazed,
and how much was his a&longs;toni&longs;hment increa&longs;ed
when the following letter was put into his hand.
DEAR AND HONORED SIR,
Though the &longs;tep I have taken will, I am
certain, by the generality of mankind, be
called an improper one, my own heart acquits
me of any motive but a wi&longs;h to in&longs;ure your happiness.
I have long &longs;een, with &longs;incere angui&longs;h of heart,
how much my pre&longs;ence militated again&longs;t your
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
tranquillity. I am convinced, my dear father,
Mrs. Markham is now the only obje&longs;ct of your
affection; your once tenderly beloved child has
only a &longs;econdary place in your heart.
Pardon me, my revered parent, if I &longs;ay, this
was too evident not to be di&longs;covered, and when
once di&longs;covered, too painful to be borne in &longs;ilence.
The contempt which Mrs. Markham's unju&longs;t
&longs;u&longs;picions &longs;ubject me to, not only from our acquaintance,
but even our &longs;ervants, has urged
me to make choice of a protector for my &longs;ame and
honor, nor do I &longs;cruple to add, a protector from
her unde&longs;erved malice and continual ill-nature.
Adieu, my dear father, may you be as happy
as I wi&longs;h you; forgive and think with compa&longs;&longs;ion
on your child,
CELIA MARKHAM.
The feelings of a father on the receipt of &longs;uch
a letter are more ea&longs;ily conceived than de&longs;cribed.
He had long con&longs;idered his innocent wife as a
per&longs;on who had di&longs;turbed the peace of his family,
and now that he imagined him&longs;elf convinced of
her unju&longs;t conduct towards his daughter, his displeasure
knew no bounds; rage, invective, and
bitter reproach, were all the gentle, meek, uncomplaining
&longs;ufferer, received from a hu&longs;band
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
who once fondly e&longs;teemed her. But though Mrs.
Markham complained not, the di&longs;tre&longs;s of her
mind preyed upon her delicate frame, &longs;he &longs;unk
under this unexpected misfortune, and a rapid
decline in a few months put a period to her existence.
In the mean time Celia and her hu&longs;band had
been received and forgiven by Mr. Markham;
but, alas! that too indulgent father &longs;oon discovered,
that in the lo&longs;s of his wife, he had been
bereft of every earthly comfort; his daughter rather
triumphed in, than endeavoured to &longs;oothe
his melancholy—&longs;he threw out the mo&longs;t illiberal
cen&longs;ures on the memory of the decea&longs;ed Mrs.
Markham, and having no longer any particular
end to attain by pretending violent affection to
her father, &longs;he at fir&longs;t began to &longs;light and at length
totally neglected him.
He felt, acutely felt, her unkindne&longs;s, but &longs;till
his affection led him to lavi&longs;h immen&longs;e &longs;ums to
&longs;upport the extravagance of her&longs;elf and hu&longs;band,
till unable any longer to keep them from ruin, he
gave up all but about one hundred pounds a year,
with which he retired into the country, and ended
his days in what he called peaceful ob&longs;curity.
And to the la&longs;t his prayers were offered at the
throne of grace for his ungrateful child—but alas!
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Celia, by her own conduct counteracted the effects
of tho&longs;e pious prayers. Neglected, nay de&longs;pi&longs;ed,
by her hu&longs;band, &longs;he launched into every &longs;pecies of
di&longs;&longs;ipation, and was in a few years reduced to a &longs;tate
of ab&longs;olute penury, where remor&longs;e is not the lea&longs;t
painful of her many heavy afflictions, all which &longs;he
has brought on her&longs;elf by an illiberal ob&longs;tinate
conduct; for had &longs;he rightly con&longs;idered the virtues
and amiable deportment of Mrs. Markham, &longs;he
might have contributed to the &longs;elicity of her father,
and, in the end, ultimately in&longs;ured her
own.
How different was the behaviour of Screna—
But as my letter is already of a con&longs;iderable length,
I &longs;hall re&longs;erve her &longs;tory 'till the next po&longs;t.
Adieu, my beloved pupils, once more believe
me, to be completely happy your&longs;elves, you mu&longs;t
&longs;tudy the happine&longs;s of all with whom you are connected;
for there is more real plea&longs;ure flows from
the reflection of having promoted the welfare and
tranquillity of a fellow creature, than can proceed
from the highe&longs;t &longs;elf gratifications the world can
afford. The one is like a tran&longs;ient vapour that
for a moment illumines the &longs;ky, pa&longs;&longs;es and is forgotten;
but the other, like the glorious &longs;un, glads
the whole face of nature, by its enlivening beams
through the day, and even lends its rays to the
&longs;ilver moon, to chear the horrors of approaching
-- 062 --
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night. So does the remembrance of good actions
gild the day of life, and chear the heavy night of
approaching death.
God ble&longs;s you, my dear girls, believe my
friend&longs;hip &longs;incere and unchangeable, while life's
warm fluid animates the heart of
MENTORIA.
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I have taken up my pen, without farther
preface to proceed on my promi&longs;ed &longs;tory, and
&longs;hall leave my dear Mi&longs;s Winworths to apply the
moral them&longs;elves; &longs;en&longs;ible that they do not want
&longs;en&longs;e to di&longs;cover right from wrong, and &longs;incerely
hoping they will not let folly, vanity, or illiberal
prejudices mi&longs;lead their judgment.
Mr. O&longs;borne was left a widower at a very
early age, with only one daughter, named Serena,
who, when &longs;he had the misfortune to lo&longs;e her
mother, was &longs;carcely three years old. She inherited
by the death of her mother, a genteel independence,
and was reputed heire&longs;s to her father's
fortune, which was not incon&longs;iderable.
Not long after this melancholy event Mr. O&longs;bore, being on a vi&longs;it to a friend in the country,
became acquainted with Mi&longs;s Withers.
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She was, it mu&longs;t be confe&longs;&longs;ed, beautiful in the
extreme, but that acknowledged, and there was
not another favorable circum&longs;tance to be mentioned
in her behalf. She was the daughter of
a man who enjoyed in a country town, a considerable
and lucrative po&longs;t under government; his
wife had brought him four or five thou&longs;and pounds,
which had been accumulated by her father, who
regarded not the cries of the fatherle&longs;s, or the
tears of the widow.
This woman's education had been &longs;uch as might
be expected for the child of a poor petty-fogging
lawyer, who by dint of chicanery and dirty employment,
was &longs;craping a little &longs;ordid dro&longs;s together,
and thought by leaving her a fortune, he
left her every nece&longs;&longs;ary recommendation to &longs;ecure
her advancement in life; the con&longs;equence was,
that to the mo&longs;t illiberal contracted ideas and consummate
ignorance, &longs;he added the pride and &longs;elf
conceit of a fir&longs;t-rate woman of fa&longs;hion; &longs;he was
extravagantly fond of dre&longs;s, parade, and &longs;how;
but had no idea of any difference being nece&longs;&longs;ary
between the education of a gentlewoman, and that
of a trade&longs;man's or farmer's daughter.
Brought up under &longs;uch a mother, with &longs;uch
con&longs;ined notions, Mi&longs;s Withers had been taught
to believe that the good hou&longs;ewife and
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accomplished woman, were one and the &longs;ame thing.
She perfectly under&longs;tood the art of cookery, pickling,
pre&longs;erving, and all the long &c's. nece&longs;&longs;ary
to form a complete hou&longs;e-keeper.
She could work tent-&longs;titch, tambour, and crossstitch,
make all her father's, and indeed, all the
family linen, knew the cheape&longs;t ways of going
to market, how to &longs;cold and keep her &longs;ervants in
order; in &longs;hort, had been brought up as a complete
Mrs. Notable.
But to the fine arts &longs;he was a perfect &longs;tranger.
Mu&longs;ic, dancing, or drawing, had no charms for
her, nor had &longs;he the lea&longs;t idea of the plea&longs;ures
re&longs;ulting from a well informed, elegantly cultivated
mind. Haughty, yet mean; ignorant, yet
ob&longs;tinate in her opinion, however ab&longs;urd, and
deaf to the voice of conviction.
She had been educated in the &longs;tricte&longs;t principles
of methodi&longs;m, yet was &longs;he of no fixed religion,
having been wearied in her youth by being too
rigidly obliged to conform to her parents manners;
&longs;he contracted a di&longs;like to her religious duties,
and at the time Mr. O&longs;borne fir&longs;t &longs;aw her,
was of no particular fect whatever.
She had, by the death of her mother, who had
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been extremely anxious to make her dear Jemima
a fortune, ju&longs;t come to the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of ten thousand
pounds, and was &longs;o in&longs;inuatiug in her manner,
that &longs;he was univer&longs;ally well received in all
companies, and called one of the be&longs;t kind of
girls in the world.
Mr. O&longs;borne was captivated with her lovely
per&longs;on and &longs;pecious manners, and having made
propo&longs;als to her guardians, was accepted, and the
lady, in due time, became Mrs. O&longs;borne.
She had from the fir&longs;t of her acquaintance pretended
a violent attachment to the little Serena,
I &longs;ay pretended, becau&longs;e I have been &longs;ince convinced
&longs;he regarded her with an eye of envy and
ill-nature from the moment &longs;he became her mother-in-law.
In about twelve months Mrs. O&longs;borne presented
her hu&longs;band with a little girl, and &longs;olemnly
declared, at the time of her birth, it was impossible
for her to love any child better than
&longs;he did Serena; and that it &longs;hould be her chief
&longs;tudy to make no difference between the children.
This was a declaration I, who was pre&longs;ent,
was by no means plea&longs;ed with, as I knew it was
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not in nature for a woman to love another child
&longs;o well as her own offspring—and though a
&longs;trong &longs;en&longs;e of duty, and a naturally compassionate
heart, might lead a woman to treat with the
utmo&longs;t tenderne&longs;s, a girl, deprived of her natural
parent, and thrown, as it were, on her protection;
yet it was impo&longs;&longs;ible but inclination
mu&longs;t lead her to give the preference to her own
child.
As Serena and Jemima (the name of her little
half-&longs;i&longs;ter) grew up, light and &longs;hade could not
be more oppo&longs;ite than their di&longs;po&longs;itions. Serena
was &longs;en&longs;ible, volatile, and chearful, of a bright
genius, fond of the pur&longs;uit of knowledge, yet
meek, mild and innocent as it was po&longs;&longs;ible for a
human being to be.
Jemima was &longs;ullen, proud, ob&longs;tinate, and &longs;o
&longs;tupid, that it was not in the power of any ma&longs;ters
whatever to cultivate a mind rendered impenctrable
by nature.
The excellencies which di&longs;covered them&longs;elves
in the mind and di&longs;po&longs;ition of Serena were &longs;o
many faults in the eyes of Mrs. O&longs;borne, nor did
&longs;he fail to aggravate every error to which her volatility,
or thoughtle&longs;s innocence might betray her,
into crimes, &longs;o that by degrees her father's
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affection became alienated from her, and it was almo&longs;t
impo&longs;&longs;ible for the poor girl to &longs;peak, move, or
look &longs;o as not to give offence. As &longs;he advanced
towards womanhood, her troubles increa&longs;ed—her
high &longs;en&longs;e of her religious duties was termed hypocrisy—
her &longs;trong &longs;en&longs;ibility, art; and her fine
ta&longs;te, and brilliant genius, follies, which would
in the end lead her to ruin.
When &longs;he had attained the age of &longs;ixteen, the
beque&longs;t of a large fortune obliged her father to
vi&longs;it Jamaica; he re&longs;olved to take his family with
him, and had not been there long before Mrs.
O&longs;borne was &longs;eized with one of tho&longs;e fevers incident
to the climate.
Tenderly and with the utmo&longs;t care did Serena
watch over her for many months when the disorder
had left her in a weak emaciated &longs;tate, did
&longs;he never quit her bed-&longs;ide, admini&longs;tering every
medicine, nor ever taking re&longs;t except what &longs;he
procured at intervals on a matra&longs;s in the &longs;ame apartment.
And what was the return &longs;he received?
Petti&longs;hne&longs;s, di&longs;content, and repining. Frequently
did Mrs. O&longs;borne a&longs;k, if &longs;he was brought to that
&longs;trange place to be murdered—if it was intended
&longs;he &longs;hould be poi&longs;oned—and whether Serena did
not know that the doctor de&longs;igned to kill her;
and the&longs;e expre&longs;&longs;ions were not the effect of
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delirium, but &longs;poken with a coolne&longs;s and a&longs;perity
that tore the heart of the mild affectionate girl to
whom they were addre&longs;&longs;ed.
Mrs. O&longs;borne at length recovered, when it
plea&longs;ed heaven to take her hu&longs;band from her, and
&longs;he was left involved in a di&longs;agreeable law &longs;uit,
which was finally terminated to her di&longs;advantage,
&longs;he was ca&longs;t with co&longs;ts of &longs;uit, and returned to
England with little more than five hundred pounds
remaining.
Now it was that Serena &longs;hewed her&longs;elf to be
the amiable girl I had ever thought her.
When &longs;he received her fortune, &longs;he &longs;ettled an
hand&longs;ome annuity on Mrs. O&longs;borne, and divided
the re&longs;idue between Jemima and her&longs;elf; though
at her father's death &longs;he had been, by their arts,
deprived of any advantage from his fortune, the
whole being by will left to Mrs. O&longs;borne and her
daughter, but providence had ordained that they
were not to enjoy it.
To the la&longs;t hour that &longs;he remained with her
mother-in-law, &longs;he &longs;tudied her happine&longs;s only,
enough I have been informed it was &longs;eldom in
that &longs;he received even the &longs;malle&longs;t token of
approbation. Her &longs;ociety was circum&longs;cribed, her
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amu&longs;ements abridged, her mo&longs;t innocent actions
cen&longs;ured, and the gaiety of her heart con&longs;trued
into levity, and reprimanded as vice; nay, after
the alteration in their circum&longs;tances, &longs;he was suffered
to perform the mo&longs;t menial offices: in &longs;hort,
my dear girls, her education had been confined,
her genius cramped, and had &longs;he not been a girl
of an uncommon good heart, her di&longs;po&longs;ition mu&longs;t
have been totally perverted by the con&longs;tant restraint
&longs;he lived under, and the &longs;everity with which
&longs;he was treated; while Jemima was indulged in
idlene&longs;s, her faults glo&longs;&longs;ed over, and her perver&longs;e
haughty di&longs;po&longs;ition called laudable pride. Yet
did I never hear that Serena ever u&longs;ed an unbecoming
expre&longs;&longs;ion to her mother, or made any
complaint of unkindne&longs;s.
She has been now for &longs;ome years married to a
de&longs;erving man, and &longs;till continues to treat Mrs.
O&longs;borne with the highe&longs;t re&longs;pect, and her daughter
with affection, though the ingratitude of Jemima
often appears, by her unkind neglect of
a &longs;i&longs;ter who &longs;acrificed her own intere&longs;t to the unterest
and happine&longs;s of her mother.
Serena, though happy in her matrimonial
nection, is not in affluent circum&longs;tances.
Jemima is lately married to a man of large
tune, and removed to a di&longs;tant part of England,
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where &longs;he can &longs;eldom find time to write to her
&longs;i&longs;ter, and when &longs;he does &longs;o far conde&longs;cend, it is
with &longs;uch apparent carele&longs;&longs;ne&longs;s, coldne&longs;s, and
di&longs;tance, that the warm heart of Serena is chilled
by the peru&longs;al of her letters; yet will I venture
to affirm Serena the happier woman of the
two.
I happened to mention one day the unmerited
treatment &longs;he had received, not only from them,
but from her other relations; and mark, my dear
girls, the an&longs;wer I received.
“Were I to &longs;ay their unkindne&longs;s did not give
me pain, I &longs;hould be guilty of fal&longs;ehood, becau&longs;e
I have that warm affection in my heart, which
expands it with brotherly love towards all my fellow
creatures, and never yet breathed a wi&longs;h to
the di&longs;advantage of a &longs;ingle individual. I mourn
their afflictions, and rejoice in their pro&longs;perity.
I am therefore, con&longs;cious of not de&longs;erving their
unkindne&longs;s, and wrapt in the integrity of my own
heart, from my &longs;oul pity the bo&longs;om that can harbour
malice or ill will towards any one.”
Thus, my dear Mi&longs;s Winworths, you &longs;ee how
much our own happine&longs;s depends on our strenuously
cultivating &longs;uch philanthropy of temper as
may lead us to regard our&longs;elves but as &longs;econdary
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objects; the felicity we promote for others will
return with double force to our own bo&longs;oms, and
con&longs;cious of having always regarded our fellow
creatures as our&longs;elves, we can look up with confidence
to that good providence who will never
for&longs;ake the children of obedience.
Adieu!
Your friend in &longs;incerity,
MENTORIA.
N. B. Soon after this la&longs;t letter Lord Winworth was married to
Mrs. Clairville, and the young ladies conducting them&longs;elves according
to the advice of their amiable friend, Mentoria, found in the new-made
Lady Winworth, every engaging quality that could be de&longs;ired,
to form the polite agreeable companion, the affectionate parent, and
&longs;incere friend. The corre&longs;pondence between Mentoria and her pupils
was continued for many years, but as the publication of the
whole would render this work too exten&longs;ive, be&longs;ides occa&longs;ion unnecessary
repetitions, I have &longs;elected only two more letters, with which
I &longs;hall clo&longs;e the pre&longs;ent collection; one addre&longs;&longs;ed to Mi&longs;s Gertrude,
on her marriage, and a &longs;econd to the &longs;ame lady, on the birth of a
daughter, written by her venerable friend, when &longs;he was in the la&longs;t
&longs;tage of a decline, and ha&longs;tily verging towards her place of re&longs;t, to
which &longs;he humbly looked forward with that &longs;weet confidence and heavenly
hope which ever elevates the &longs;oul of a departing Chri&longs;tian.
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I address my&longs;elf &longs;ingly to you, my dear
Gertrude, becau&longs;e the delicacy of your present
&longs;ituation demands my &longs;erious attention, and
calls up all my tenderne&longs;s.
I am inexpre&longs;&longs;ibly plea&longs;ed to find you have
made choice of &longs;o worthy a man as Sir Arthur
Fitzgerald, and that your father approves the object
of your &longs;election.
I think you have acted like a woman of &longs;en&longs;e
and prudence, and I make no doubt but you will
pre&longs;erve the &longs;ame propriety of conduct when a
wife, as has evidently characteri&longs;ed you while
&longs;ingle.
I admire that real delicacy which impelled you
to give an immediate di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ion to all tho&longs;e pretenders
who &longs;olicited your hand without being
able to influence your heart in their favor. There
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cannot be a more de&longs;picable pa&longs;&longs;ion than that insatiable
thir&longs;t for admiration, which leads a woman
to encourage indi&longs;criminately the forward
advances of every coxcomb, who &longs;hall pay them
the incen&longs;e of flattery, and be continually spreading
their lures to attract adulation, however in
their hearts they may de&longs;pi&longs;e the per&longs;on who offers
it.
I am &longs;en&longs;ible, my dear Gertrude will pardon
me, if anxious for her future happine&longs;s, I venture
to give her my advice and opinion for the preservation
of her felicity in the married &longs;tate; it has
often been remarked, that a heart is much ea&longs;ier
gained than kept, and, believe me, it is a very
judicious ob&longs;ervation.
There requires more care, attention, and solicitude,
from the wife to the hu&longs;band, than from
the mi&longs;tre&longs;s to her adoring lover. The lover being
but &longs;eldom with you, &longs;ees you only in part,
it is natural to &longs;uppo&longs;e you would neither appear
before him in a &longs;latternly dre&longs;s, or with a peevi&longs;h
a&longs;pect. Your clothes will be always put on with
neatne&longs;s, and your face dre&longs;&longs;ed in &longs;miles. On
the contrary, the hu&longs;band being always in your
company, has an opportunity of di&longs;covering every
little defect or blemi&longs;h in your per&longs;on, manners,
or di&longs;po&longs;ition, and the chief &longs;tudy of a wife &longs;hould
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be to guard again&longs;t every thing that might create
di&longs;ta&longs;te, or excite di&longs;gu&longs;t.
And in the fir&longs;t place let me recommend a mo&longs;t
&longs;crupulous regard to delicacy and neatne&longs;s.
Many young women fooli&longs;hly imagine, as &longs;oon
as they are married, they have a right to understand
and laugh at an indelicate allu&longs;ion, but from
this fault, the native purity of your mind will, I
am certain, pre&longs;erve you, &longs;ince nothing but extreme
ignorance or levity could lead any woman
to li&longs;ten with apparent plea&longs;ure, to an improper
tale, or ill timed je&longs;t.
There are too many men, nay, even among
tho&longs;e who call them&longs;elves gentlemen, who will
not &longs;cruple to &longs;hock a woman's ears with conversation
of this kind; but the look of marked disapprobation
and &longs;ilent contempt, will never fail to
&longs;ilence them, unle&longs;s they are either brutes or
fools, and to &longs;uch there is no fear of your being
expo&longs;ed.
The next thing is neatne&longs;s in your per&longs;on and
dre&longs;s and an equanimity of temper to be preserved
towards your hu&longs;band, and your &longs;ervants;—
nothing degrades a gentlewoman more than her
&longs;uffering her temper to be &longs;o far ruffled as to u&longs;e
improper language to her dependants, nor can
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any thing be more di&longs;gu&longs;ting to a man of &longs;en&longs;e
than to &longs;ee his wife give way to &longs;udden &longs;tarts of
pa&longs;&longs;ion.
To every relation and friend of your hu&longs;band,
&longs;hew a polite attention and marked preference;
&longs;hew him, that to be related to, or e&longs;teemed by
him, is a &longs;ufficient claim upon your regard—
whatever be his errors, confine the knowledge
of them to your own bo&longs;om, and endeavour, by
the milde&longs;t per&longs;ua&longs;ions, to lead him to the path
of rectitude. Di&longs;cretion mu&longs;t direct you as to
the proper &longs;ea&longs;on to offer your advice and opinions,
&longs;ince men in general are &longs;o tenacious of their prerogative,
that they &longs;tart from every thing that
has the lea&longs;t appearance of controul or opposition.
Never attempt to re&longs;train his plea&longs;ures;
if he &longs;hould be &longs;ond of company, di&longs;&longs;ipation and
expen&longs;ive amu&longs;ements, be it your &longs;tudy to detach
his mind from tho&longs;e pur&longs;uits, by endeavouring
to render his home delightful, let your face be
ever arrayed in &longs;miles at his approach, form a society
of tho&longs;e he loves and e&longs;teems mo&longs;t, exert
your various abilities to charm and entertain him,
and believe me, he who con&longs;tantly meets chearfulness
and &longs;miles at home, will &longs;eldom wi&longs;h to
&longs;eek abroad for plea&longs;ure.
Above all things never &longs;uffer any per&longs;on to
&longs;peak di&longs;re&longs;pectfully of him in your pre&longs;ence, and
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guard your heart from the lea&longs;t approach of jealousy;
&longs;hould there even be occa&longs;ion for suspicion,
be careful not to let him &longs;ee you have discovered
his di&longs;honorable conduct, and never suffer
any one, more e&longs;pecially a man, to hear you
complain.
Avoid reproaches, they in general increa&longs;e rather
than alleviate the di&longs;tre&longs;s; if patient suffering
and the mild remon&longs;trance of an afflicted uncomplaining
&longs;pirit, will not work a reformation,
reproach and di&longs;content will have no effect.
You mu&longs;t not be above attending to his intere&longs;t
&longs;o far as may lead you to in&longs;pect the expences of
your family; have &longs;tated and regular times for
examining your hou&longs;e-keeper's accounts, and being
&longs;atisfied that your trades-people are regularly
paid; and do not let trifles put you a&longs;ide from this
very nece&longs;&longs;ary point.
Let your own expences be regulated by prudence
void of par&longs;imony, and &longs;uffer not a pa&longs;&longs;ion
for finery, and a wi&longs;h to eclip&longs;e your acquaintance,
prompt you to over&longs;tep your income, or
deprive you of the inexpre&longs;&longs;ible plea&longs;ure of relieving
indigent merit.
Though I would not have you &longs;acrifice too
largely at the &longs;hrine of that idol, fa&longs;hion, I would
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have you follow her &longs;o far as may make your appearance
alway de&longs;erve the appellation of elegantly
neat; nor mu&longs;t you confine this appearance
only to your going abroad or receiving company
at home; though you were to be in the
country for months, and &longs;ee none but your husband
and &longs;ervants, never neglect the real necessary
duties of the toilet, it is a re&longs;pect due to
him, it &longs;hews a wi&longs;h to appear agreeable in his
eyes, and that you prefer his approbation to that
of all the world be&longs;ide.
There is one more circum&longs;tance I mu&longs;t mention,
although a thorough knowledge of your disposition
renders it almo&longs;t unnece&longs;&longs;ary; yet I have
&longs;een &longs;o many couples made inexpre&longs;&longs;ibly miserable
by it, that I cannot re&longs;i&longs;t my inclination to
warn you of &longs;o dangerous a conduct.
Never permit any man, however clothed with
the ma&longs;k of friend&longs;hip, to treat you with familiarity.
There are many freedoms, which to a
girl may be perfectly innocent, and yet become
almo&longs;t crimes when offered to, or received by a
married woman.
A married woman &longs;hould never &longs;uffer a man
to entertain her in a &longs;train of gallantry, a pre&longs;&longs;ure
of the hand is an affront, and an attempt at a salute
(except where the nearne&longs;s of the relation
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authori&longs;es &longs;uch a liberty) is, and &longs;hould be re&longs;ented
as an in&longs;ult.
There is a decent gravity of manner that will
at once excite admiration and re&longs;pect, and yet exclude
all improper familiarity, nor can any thing
be more ridiculous, than to &longs;ee the mi&longs;tre&longs;s of a family,
perhaps the mother of four or five children,
affecting a giddy flirting carriage, that would be
hardly excu&longs;able in a girl of &longs;ixteen—it may, in
&longs;ome in&longs;tances, proceed from an innocent gaiety
of heart, but it hardly ever fails of degenerating
into levity and imprudence, always lays a woman
open to in&longs;ult, of which &longs;he cannot complain,
becau&longs;e &longs;he evidently invited it; and too often
ends in the total lo&longs;s of honor, happine&longs;s, and reputation.
Be chearful, conde&longs;cending, and polite to
all, but let there ever be that dignity in your
manner which may keep impertinent fools, or designing
villains at a proper di&longs;tance.
Pardon the length of this epi&longs;tle, and believe
it proceeds from a friend who loves you. Remember
me affectionately to your dear &longs;i&longs;ters.—
Adieu, may every ble&longs;&longs;ing be your portion here
and hereafter.
MENTORIA.
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The news that you were &longs;afe in bed, and mother
to a daughter, my dear Gertrude, will,
believe me, give as much &longs;atisfaction to my heart,
as any &longs;ublunary plea&longs;ure po&longs;&longs;ibly can; and,
weak as I am, tottering as it were on the very
brink of a va&longs;t eternity, I cannot re&longs;i&longs;t the de&longs;ire
I feel, of once more writing to my beloved pupils,
for in addre&longs;&longs;ing Lady Fitzgerald, I &longs;uppo&longs;e myself
al&longs;o writing to her &longs;i&longs;ters.
But fir&longs;t a few words to your&longs;elf, in regard to
this dear, this precious little charge, with which
it has plea&longs;ed heaven to entru&longs;t you. May it ever
be impre&longs;&longs;ed on your mind that the future happiness
or mi&longs;ery of this child depends greatly
on the treatment &longs;he receives during her puerile
years.
Let not a too great fondne&longs;s prompt you, by
extreme indulgence, to enervate the faculties of
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her &longs;oul, or pervert her di&longs;po&longs;ition, and by &longs;o
doing render her totally unfit to bear the many
inconveniences and cro&longs;&longs;es &longs;he mu&longs;t nece&longs;&longs;arily
meet with in her pa&longs;&longs;age through life.
And on the contrary, do not, by an ill-judged
&longs;everity, drive her to mean &longs;ubterfuges, fal&longs;hoods
and deceit, through fear of your anger.—Many
an amiable girl has been totally ruined by &longs;uch
treatment; it leads them to fear but not love their
parents, it prompts them to make companions of
their &longs;ervants, and often ends in the entire perversion
of their principles.
Teach her to fear to di&longs;oblige you, but let it be
through fear of lo&longs;ing your affection, not from
the apprehen&longs;ion of puni&longs;hment. Do not be too
anxious to have your child prai&longs;ed for an early
progre&longs;s in her education; a young mind &longs;hould
not be loaded, it &longs;poils the memory, and often
occa&longs;ions a di&longs;like to &longs;tudy in more advanced life;
be&longs;ides, children accu&longs;tomed to hear them&longs;elves
commended are apt to think them&longs;elves sufficiently
wi&longs;e and accompli&longs;hed before their education
is well begun.
Do not encourage her in a love of finery, or
&longs;uffer her to be told &longs;he is hand&longs;ome, they
both be very pernicious to her future tranquillity.
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There is one thing which parents are very apt,
not only to do them&longs;elves, but to &longs;uffer their servants
to do the &longs;ame; that is, when any little
ma&longs;ter vi&longs;its at the hou&longs;e nearly of mi&longs;s's age, &longs;he
is told that he is her little hu&longs;band, and that &longs;he
mu&longs;t hold up her head and behave like a woman,
or &longs;he will never be married.
Thus is the idea of love and lovers introduced
into ther little hearts, before they are capable of
under&longs;tanding what the word means.
This is, to me, the mo&longs;t fooli&longs;h conduct in the
world, and nothing would offend me &longs;o &longs;oon, as
having &longs;uch ridiculous things &longs;aid to any child
in who&longs;e education and future pro&longs;pects I was any
ways concerned. Teach them the difference between
right and wrong, and convince their reason,
by pointing out the real way to promote their
own happine&longs;s, and merit the regard and e&longs;teem
of their friends.
Do not introduce your girl too early into public,
it will give her a ta&longs;te for di&longs;&longs;ipation: in
proper time let her partake in moderation of all
the amu&longs;ements of the metropolis, &longs;o as to prevent
the bad effects of curio&longs;ity ungratified; but
at the &longs;ame time accu&longs;tom her to find re&longs;ources
within her&longs;elf, that may, at all times, enable her
to bani&longs;h that mon&longs;ter Ennui.
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Tru&longs;t not the cultivation of her mental faculties,
or the forming of her moral character, to
any one but your&longs;elf; and as &longs;he advances towards
womanhood make her your friend and companion:
let the di&longs;tance between mother and daughter
be forgot, and by treating her with a degree
of confidence that flatters her &longs;elf-con&longs;equence,
encourage her to make your bo&longs;om the repo&longs;itory
of all her &longs;ecrets, and be ready to apply to your
better jugment to direct all her actions.
I am certain there would not be half the imprudencies
committed by girls in general, if they were
not kept at &longs;uch an awful di&longs;tance by their mothers;
that fearing either ridicule or reproof, they
dare not entru&longs;t them with their little plans and
di&longs;appointments, and relying either on the advice
of &longs;ome one as inexperienced as them&longs;elves,
or to the &longs;ugge&longs;tions of their own &longs;imple hearts,
they involve them&longs;elves in troubles, which endanger
their peace of mind and ruin their reputation,
but &longs;o it will ever be while mothers forget
they have ever been girls them&longs;elves, and make
no allowance for the volatility of youth, and the
innocent impul&longs;es of a heart unburthened by the
cares of the world.
I have written much more than I intended, but
the &longs;ubject intere&longs;ted me, and there is yet another
which dwells &longs;till nearer my heart, that is, my
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beloved Gertrude, the nece&longs;&longs;ity there is of giving
your child a proper &longs;en&longs;e of the high advantages
of early piety, but this mu&longs;t not be done by teaching
her to &longs;ay long prayers, of which &longs;he cannot
comprehend the meaning, or by making her read
books of dull theology.
It is example, my dear friend, mu&longs;t teach her
the true principles of the Chri&longs;tian Religion; let
her &longs;ee you in the act of devotion, let her curiosity
be awakened, and then, as you an&longs;wer her
que&longs;tions lead her by degrees to love, wor&longs;hip and
adore the Almighty giver of all good; convince
her of her dependence on his bounty for food,
raiment, and all the ble&longs;&longs;ings of life; teach her to
place her whole confidence in his mercy, to receive
even the &longs;malle&longs;t ble&longs;&longs;ing with gratitude, and
to bow under the heavie&longs;t affliction with patience
and humility.
But above all things, mind that your example
does not contradict you precept. What confidence
can a child place in the religion of its parent,
when the parent lives in direct oppo&longs;ition to the
principles of that religion.
Oh! my dear friend, this is the one thing
needful! this the heavenly comforter, that supports
us through life, and will cheer us in the
hour of death!
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Our duty is plainly marked and &longs;o ea&longs;y, that
when we do not perform it, we take more pains
to court mi&longs;ery, than would &longs;uffice to make us
truly happy. What can be more ea&longs;ily comprehended
even by the meane&longs;t under&longs;tanding.
“Do ju&longs;tly, love mercy, and walk humbly.”
“Love thy Creator above all things, and thy neigh
“bour as thy&longs;elf! forgive as you hope to be forgiv
“en.” And remember, “That with the &longs;ame measure
you mete, the like &longs;hall be given to you again.”
My dear young friends, think me not too serious.
I am old, and &longs;inking to the grave, I am
convinced of the nece&longs;&longs;ity of living well, if we
hope to die in peace; and &longs;olicitous for the welfare
of all dear to the family of Winworth. I
have exerted my&longs;elf to write this, which you
may con&longs;ider as my la&longs;t farewell.
God pre&longs;erve and ble&longs;s you all, may peace
reign in your hearts, and true piety direct your
actions; may you &longs;o pa&longs;s through this tran&longs;itory
life, as not to dread the approach of the me&longs;&longs;enger
that &longs;hall convey you to eternal re&longs;t.
And when, at la&longs;t, Death &longs;hall your frame de&longs;troy,
Die by &longs;ome &longs;udden &longs;udden of joy;
Peaceful &longs;leep out the &longs;abbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.
MENTORIA.
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It is much to be lamented, that in the pre&longs;ent
mode of educating females, the u&longs;eful is entirely
neglected, for the more ornamental and superficial
accompli&longs;hments.
There was a time, when, if the daughter of
a reputable trade&longs;man could read and write good
Engli&longs;h, handle her needle with neatne&longs;s and
celerity, and under&longs;tand both the theory and
practice of good hou&longs;ewi&longs;ery, &longs;he was thought
perfectly accompli&longs;hed, and &longs;o indeed &longs;he was
as tho&longs;e qalifications rendered her capable of undertaking
the management of a family.
But in the pre&longs;ent refined age, if an indu&longs;trious
trade&longs;man can afford to give his daughter, five
hundred pounds, it is immediately &longs;ettled by
Mamma, that Mi&longs;s mu&longs;t be genteelly educated.
Accordingly &longs;he is at an early age &longs;ent to a boarding-school,
where &longs;he learns to jabber bad
French, and wor&longs;e Engli&longs;h; the old-fa&longs;hion sampler,
and u&longs;eful plain-work are neglected, and
&longs;he is in&longs;tructed how to work fillagree, make
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wafer work, daub &longs;attin, and work ill proportioned
figures in cloth, which in due time are curiou&longs;ly
mounted, and hung round to ornament the parlour
of the fond but ill judging parents.
Add to the&longs;e accompli&longs;hments the very fashionable
one of jingling the keys of the harp&longs;ichord,
with great velocity, though perhaps out of time
and out of tune.
Imagine Mi&longs;s ju&longs;t returned, at the age of seventeen,
her mind puffed up with vanity, and her
head well &longs;tored with &longs;en&longs;ibility, and all the
delicate feelings to be gleaned from a circulating
library, the contents of which the has eagerly
and indi&longs;criminately peru&longs;ed, without any one
taking the pains to direct her judgment or correct
her ta&longs;te.
We will &longs;uppo&longs;e her lovely in her per&longs;on, and
attractive in her manners, &longs;he comes home, and
is idolized by her too partial mother, and &longs;poken
of by her father with pride and exultation; but
alas! &longs;he is too fine a lady to pay any attention
to the dome&longs;tic concerns of the family.
In this fooli&longs;h idea &longs;he is indulged by the mother,
who thinks her dear girl's beauty, sensibility,
and accompli&longs;hments, will undoubtedly obtain
her a match far &longs;uperior to her pre&longs;ent &longs;tation,
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and &longs;he will have no occa&longs;ion to be a good housewife.
But the&longs;e &longs;anguine wi&longs;hes are &longs;eldom if ever
realized, and we will &longs;uppo&longs;e her married to a
man who is ju&longs;t entered into a genteel and improving
line of bu&longs;ine&longs;s; her friends think it a good
match, her fortune is an acqui&longs;ition to her hu&longs;band
and they enter the career of life with all the hopes
of permanent happine&longs;s which peace and plenty
can in&longs;pire.
But what a wretched figure does this elegant
accompli&longs;hed girl make, as mi&longs;tre&longs;s of a family;
her &longs;ervants cheat and laugh at her, her acquaintance
blame her, and perhaps &longs;he may incur even
the cen&longs;ure of her hu&longs;band, for paying no more
attention to matters which &longs;o nearly concern
his intere&longs;t.
Has &longs;he children, &longs;he knows not how to make
or mend their clothes, &longs;he is always &longs;urrounded
with difficulties, from which &longs;he knows not how
to extricate her&longs;elf, and a&longs;hamed to confe&longs;s her
ignorance to any one who could in&longs;truct her in the
point &longs;he requires, &longs;he becomes peevi&longs;h and dissatisfied,
neglects even tho&longs;e accompli&longs;hments
which &longs;he formerly &longs;trove &longs;o hard to attain; becomes
negligent in her dre&longs;s, carele&longs;s in her manners,
and &longs;inks into a very blank in the creation.
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Her hu&longs;band di&longs;appointed in not &longs;eeing that
order and regularity at home which he had once
fondly hoped, no longer finds any charms in her
&longs;ociety, and &longs;eeks to forget his di&longs;appointment
either in the bottle, or at the gaming table, both
equally de&longs;tructive; and &longs;he &longs;ees inevitable ruin
approaching, without the &longs;malle&longs;t power to ward
off the blow.
Nor can the whole univer&longs;e pre&longs;ent us with an
object more truly de&longs;erving our pity, than &longs;uch
a woman in a &longs;tate of penury! She is at a lo&longs;s
how to perform even the nece&longs;&longs;ary duties of life,
&longs;he cannot exert her&longs;elf to obtain even a &longs;ingle
meal for her&longs;elf or children; &longs;he pines in obscurity,
regretting her u&longs;ele&longs;s education, and wishes
that the &longs;ums &longs;o expended, had been laid by
to encrea&longs;e her fortune, and &longs;he her&longs;elf had been
only in&longs;tructed in tho&longs;e things, which would have
tended ultimately to render her a u&longs;eful and respectable
member of &longs;ociety.
But how widely different is the lot of the
happy girl, who&longs;e parents have, not only by
precept but example, implanted in her mind the
great nece&longs;&longs;ity of rendering her&longs;elf u&longs;eful, before
the can be e&longs;teemed valuable--who perfectly understands
how to manage her family, and regulate
her &longs;ervants -- who to affability and chearfulness,
adds indu&longs;try oeconomy and piety.
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Such a woman when &longs;he marries, however
&longs;mall her fortune, brings to her hu&longs;band an inexhaustible
fund of trea&longs;ure. She is not a&longs;hamed to
inve&longs;tigate even the minute&longs;t concerns of her family;
her expences are regulated by the &longs;tricte&longs;t
rules of frugality void of par&longs;imony, with one
hand &longs;he &longs;ecures her hu&longs;band's intere&longs;t, and with
the other di&longs;pen&longs;es to the &longs;ons and daughters of
poverty, the overplus of tho&longs;e ble&longs;&longs;ings which
her own prudence has helped to &longs;ecure to her&longs;elf.
She is always &longs;trictly neat in her apparel, but
entirely free from &longs;hew or finery; her whole
family is regular, uniform and decent, her servants
re&longs;pect her, her hu&longs;band idolizes her, and
her children look up to her as their friend and
benefactre&longs;s, from who&longs;e bright example they
may learn the road to happine&longs;s.
Should even misfortune overtake her, &longs;he is &longs;till
chearful, &longs;till unembarra&longs;&longs;ed, without a murmur
&longs;he conde&longs;cends to perform even the meane&longs;t offices
for her&longs;elf, her hu&longs;band, and children; &longs;he
exerts her utmo&longs;t abilities to retrieve the pro&longs;perity
they had unfortunately lo&longs;t, &longs;he &longs;hares her husband's
care, and alleviates his concern -- and
&longs;hould their hone&longs;t efforts to regain their former
&longs;tate of affluence fail, &longs;he &longs;ets down perfectly happy
in the reflection that &longs;he had di&longs;charged, to
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the utmo&longs;t of her power, the duties of that &longs;tation,
in which it plea&longs;ed Heaven to place her.
Yet, think not I mean entirely to &longs;et a&longs;ide
tho&longs;e accompli&longs;hments, which when kept under
proper regulations, certainly tend to make the
female character more irre&longs;i&longs;tibly charming.
There are a certain cla&longs;s of women to whom
the&longs;e accompli&longs;hments are ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary,
to their filling their re&longs;pective characters with propriety.
A woman of independent fortune may with
&longs;afety indulge her ta&longs;te for mu&longs;ic, drawing, &c.
but, in the name of common &longs;en&longs;e, what has a
girl to do with the fine arts, who, perhaps, after
&longs;he leaves &longs;chool, has neither time or opportunity
to pur&longs;ue tho&longs;e &longs;tudies, unle&longs;s by &longs;o doing, &longs;he
neglects &longs;ome more u&longs;eful employment.
I acknowledge that it is not impo&longs;&longs;ible for the
u&longs;eful and ornamental branches of education to be
combined; nay, that it is even natural for a woman
of &longs;en&longs;e and di&longs;cretion to endeavour to blend
them in &longs;uch a manner, as to render them only as
foils to each other, and the woman who &longs;tudies
to unite in her&longs;elf, the attentive hou&longs;ewife, the
good mother, affectionate wife, well-informed
companion, and accompli&longs;hed woman, is
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certainly a character de&longs;erving e&longs;teem and veneration,
we look upon her almo&longs;t as a being of a &longs;uperior
order, and &longs;he is at once beloved, admired and
re&longs;pected by both &longs;exes.
As &longs;o much of the happine&longs;s of mankind depends
on the females connected in their families,
I have expatiated on the nece&longs;&longs;ity of young women
being brought up in the practice of every
dome&longs;tic virtue, more largely than I at fir&longs;t intended,
&longs;ince not only the ri&longs;ing generation, but
ages yet unborn &longs;hall venerate or execrate our
memories, according to the advice and example
we give our children.
If the daughters of the pre&longs;ent age are &longs;uffered
to remain totally ignorant of the dome&longs;tic regulations
nece&longs;&longs;ary to be ob&longs;erved in every family,
what are we to expect in the next generation,
but that the ruin which has already begun to &longs;hew
it&longs;elf in our mo&longs;t capital cities, will &longs;pread it&longs;elf
all over the kingdom, and &longs;ink it at la&longs;t in one
univer&longs;al &longs;tate of bankruptcy.
More, much more than we &longs;hould at fir&longs;t be
led to imagine, depends on the education of the
female world. What ruin, what inevitable desolation
may not an idle di&longs;&longs;ipated woman bring
on tho&longs;e who may unfortunately be attached to
her per&longs;on.
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And on the contrary, how does a &longs;en&longs;ible,
virtuous, well-informed female, exalt and ennoble
the thoughts of all who conver&longs;e with her.
Were every parent of my opinion they would
fir&longs;t, by example, plant the &longs;eeds of genuine
worth in the brea&longs;t of their daughters, and by the
tendere&longs;t care and milde&longs;t precept, cultivate each
budding virtue, 'till they blo&longs;&longs;omed in full perfection,
then ornamenting them with the elegant
accompli&longs;hments nece&longs;&longs;ary to complete the female
character, render them at once the pride and glory
of their country.
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In one of the mo&longs;t beautiful vallies that lies upon
the borders of the Ea&longs;t lived Zegdad, an inoffensive
&longs;hepherd. He had but one child, and having
been early deprived of his wife, he lavi&longs;hed
his whole &longs;tock of tenderne&longs;s on Fatima.
Though fortune had not been lavi&longs;h of her gifts
to the father ofFatima, yet he wanted not the necessaries
or comforts of life--his cottage was clean,
and furni&longs;hed with every thing u&longs;eful; his fields
&longs;upplied them with food; his flock with raiment.
Fatima was coar&longs;e in her per&longs;on, but &longs;he was
chearfull and good-natured--&longs;he ro&longs;e each morn
with the &longs;eathered &longs;ong&longs;ters, and chearfully performed
the duties of her &longs;tation; her whole &longs;tudy
was to plea&longs;e her father, and a &longs;mile from Zegdad
was at any time, ample recompence for the
&longs;evere&longs;t &longs;atigue, and like a cordial &longs;erved to revive
her drooping &longs;pirits. She would a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t, una&longs;ked,
in the mo&longs;t laborious employments, and when
the labour of the day was pa&longs;t, &longs;he would lightly
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trip over the green turf, with her young companions,
while her father played on the flagelet. The
mind of Fatima was calm as the delights of Paradise.
One day her father &longs;ent her to the grand Vizier's,
with fruit for his favorite--&longs;he was conducted
by an eunuch into the garden, where the beautiful
Semira was repo&longs;ing on a bed of ro&longs;es, clad in
all the pomp of ea&longs;tern magnificence, while two
&longs;laves were fanning her to re&longs;t.
Fatima had never before &longs;een aught but simplicity--she
was filled with wonder and a&longs;toni&longs;hment
at the &longs;urpri&longs;ing beauty and grandeur of Semira,
and as &longs;he gazed, envy and di&longs;content crept into
her hitherto guilele&longs;s heart.
She returned home with a mind totally altered
to what it was. Her rural pa&longs;times no more deligted
her--labour was now a trouble -- &longs;he had
been awitne&longs;s to the ca&longs;e and indolence of Semira.
If at any time &longs;he caught a glimp&longs;e of her per&longs;on in
the &longs;tream, &longs;he turned from it with di&longs;gu&longs;t. Her
days were joyle&longs;s, and her nights &longs;pent in bewailing
her unhappy lot.
One evening, deaf to the &longs;olicitations of her
young companions, &longs;he retired to a thick grove,
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and inattentive to the &longs;ound of the flagelet, thus
gave vent to her &longs;orrow.
Oh! wretched Fatima, unhappy maid! Why
was I born to know &longs;o hard a fate--to eat the bread
of labour, to &longs;leep upon a ru&longs;hy couch, while
Semira is &longs;urrounded with &longs;plendor, is &longs;erved by
kneeling &longs;laves, and &longs;leeps on a bed of down!
Why has nature denied me tho&longs;e ravi&longs;hing beauties,
it has &longs;o bountifully lavi&longs;hed on her, her
eyes are bright as the &longs;tars, her lips like half
blown ro&longs;es, her hand and arm like poli&longs;hed ivory.
Oh! why was I not lovely as Semira, and favorite
to the grand Vizier--in this low abject &longs;tate my
being is intolerable, I will no longer endure it
but in yon limpid &longs;tream lo&longs;e the remembrance of
my&longs;elf and Semira.
At this moment the Fairy Urganda &longs;tood before
her.
“Thy complaints are ju&longs;t, Oh! Fatima (&longs;aid
&longs;he) and if thou wilt relinqui&longs;h thy home, and
for&longs;ake thy father, thou &longs;halt enjoy the utmo&longs;t
extent of thy wi&longs;hes.”
Fatima eagerly complied with the offered terms
and the Fairy immediately &longs;prinkled her with water
at the &longs;ame time &longs;ome my&longs;tic words,
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when &longs;he was transformed into a virgin of transcendent
beauty, and found her&longs;elf in the garden
of a palace belonging to the grand Vizier.
The lovely Semira had the day before offended
her Lord, and was no longer a favorite. Fatima
attracted the notice of the Vizier--he ordered her
to be led into &longs;plendid apartments, clothed with
co&longs;tly robes, adorned with jewels, and appointed
&longs;laves to wait on her, and comply with all her
wi&longs;hes--and Fatima &longs;upplied the place of the degraded
Semira.
She now thought her&longs;elf the happie&longs;t among
the happy; but the Vizier was pa&longs;&longs;ionate, capricious,
jealous, and extremely cruel, and it was
not long before the di&longs;appointed Fatima di&longs;covered
that to be favorite to the grand Vizier, was to live
only in &longs;plendid &longs;lavery.
“But though (&longs;aid &longs;he often to her&longs;elf) though
the grand Vizier's favorite is mi&longs;erable, how
&longs;uperlatively happy mu&longs;t be the favorite Sultana
of my Lord the Emperor! Oh! could I but attain
that envied &longs;tation, how &longs;oon &longs;hould the imperious
Vizier &longs;uffer for his barbarity to me.”
Again did the bo&longs;om of Fatima &longs;uffer all the
mi&longs;eries of di&longs;content--the vaulted roofs, spacious
gardens, and rich pre&longs;ents of the Vizier, no
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longer charmed her. She fighed for the en&longs;igns
of royalty, and her pillow was nightly bedewed
with her tears.
One evening &longs;he retired to an arbour, at the extremity
of the garden, and throwing her&longs;elf on
the banks where &longs;he had fir&longs;t &longs;een Semira, thus
poured &longs;orth her complaints.
“How wretched is the fate of Fatima—
condemned to drag a hated being with a man who
&longs;tudies only his own gratification, and expects
me to be the &longs;lave of his caprice and pa&longs;&longs;ion. Oh!
could I but get from this dete&longs;ted place, I would
fly to my Lord the Emperor, and bow my &longs;elf low
in the du&longs;t before him. My charms might captivate
his royal heart, and I might reign the Empre&longs;s of
the Ea&longs;t.”
As &longs;he &longs;poke the&longs;e words, a &longs;udden light entered
the arbour, and the Fairy Urganda again &longs;tood
before her.
“Beautiful Fatima, &longs;aid &longs;he, forbear your complaints,
the prophet permits you to enjoy your
wi&longs;h, then ri&longs;e and follow me.”
The Fairy led her to the Emperor's palace, and
placed her among a number of beautiful &longs;laves,
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from among which the Emperor was next morning
to chu&longs;e a favorite.
In the morning the Emperor pa&longs;&longs;ed through the
apartment, and his choice fell on Fatima. She
was cloathed in the enfigns of royalty, led in
&longs;tate to the mo&longs;que, and in a few hours heard herself
proclaimed Empre&longs;s of the Ea&longs;t.
But Fatima had, to the idea of royalty, annexed
the ideas of youth and beauty, how &longs;urpri&longs;ed
was &longs;he then to find the Emperor, old, ugly, and
deformed in his per&longs;on, moro&longs;e in his di&longs;po&longs;ition,
and jealous in the extreme—&longs;he &longs;hrunk from
his embraces with horror, and contracted &longs;o settled
an aver&longs;ion to him, that not all the &longs;plendor
that awaited her could in the &longs;malle&longs;t degree compensate
for the many tedious hours &longs;he was obliged
to devote to him.
Among the &longs;laves that attended on Fatima, was
the artful Zynina, who had long, with envious
eyes, beheld the love of the Emperor be&longs;towed on
others, and only watched an opportunity to ingratiate
her&longs;elf in his favor, by rendering him &longs;ome
piece of &longs;ervice. To this end &longs;he cultivated the
friend&longs;hip of the new Queen, and by degrees
drew from her the rea&longs;on of her tears and dejection.
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This intelligence was in&longs;tantly conveyed to the
Emperor, with the addition of Fatima's heart being
dedicated to another. O&longs;min willing to be
convinced of the truth of Zynina's declaration,
de&longs;ired to be concealed in an apartment adjoining
the Queen's, where he might ea&longs;ily overhear any
thing that pa&longs;&longs;ed between her and the deceitful
&longs;lave, who immediately returned to her mi&longs;tre&longs;s,
and artfully renewed the conver&longs;ation.
Fatima, glad to unburthen her almo&longs;t bur&longs;ting
heart, confe&longs;&longs;ed her &longs;ettled aver&longs;ion to her Lord,
and that death it&longs;elf would be preferable to her
pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation. “Then death be thy portion,”
cried the enraged Emperor, &longs;uriou&longs;ly ru&longs;hing into
the apartment, and lifting his glittering &longs;cimitar.
Fatima fell upon her knees, and, in an agony
of terror exclaimed, “O that I was an humble cottager,
and had never known the pangs that wait
on greatne&longs;s.”
At that moment &longs;he found her&longs;elf clad in her
&longs;ormer homely apparel, &longs;tanding at the door of
her father's cottage, when the Fairy appeared
and thus addre&longs;&longs;ed her.
“Fatima, I have &longs;hewn you the vanity of human
wi&longs;hes, learn from hence to be content with the
allotments of Providence, Whatever be your
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stiuation in life, &longs;ubmit to it without repining, and
know that our holy Prophet, who ordereth all
things in this terre&longs;trial world knoweth what is
be&longs;t for mortals: Fulfil therefore the re&longs;pective
duties of thy &longs;tation, to the utmo&longs;t of thy power:
envy not the &longs;uperior lot of another, but humbly
take the ble&longs;&longs;ings within thy reach, enjoy them
and be happy.
Among the many evils that e&longs;caped from Pandora's
box, to infe&longs;t and plague mankind, I
know of none that has done more mi&longs;chief than
envy.
Good heavens! how depraved mu&longs;t be the heart
that is pained by the pro&longs;perity, merit, or beauty
of another, or rejoices in their deba&longs;ement.
Methinks, when I look round the world, I am
ready to hail each member of &longs;ociety as my brother
or &longs;i&longs;ter, I rejoice in their &longs;ucce&longs;s, acknowledge
their merit, admire their beauty, lament their
misfortunes, and &longs;hed the tear of &longs;incere compassion
over their vices. I would not a heart
ab&longs;orbed in &longs;elfi&longs;h views for the univer&longs;e.
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The man who lives only for him&longs;elf, is, in my
opinion, a mon&longs;ter of ingratitude; his life is one
continued blank, except marked by &longs;ome act of
inhumanity. If we mu&longs;t that day lo&longs;t in
which we perform no good action, what mu&longs;t we
think of a life pa&longs;&longs;ed in a continued &longs;eries of &longs;tupid
inattention to the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es or injuries of our fellow
creatures.
Hail! heaven-born charity! bright resplendent
virtue; who&longs;e dazzling rays hide from the
accu&longs;ing angel multitudes of offences, ble&longs;&longs;ed is
the heart thou do&longs;t inhabit, happy is the man
who&longs;e actions are guided by thee.
By charity I do not mean the merely &longs;haring
with tho&longs;e that need the &longs;uperabundant gifts of
fortune, though ' tis certainly our duty to alleviate
the misfortunes of others, yet by &longs;o doing we
do not fully di&longs;charge the duties of chri&longs;tianity.
Charity is that benevolence of heart, that meekness
of &longs;pirit, which leads us to judge favorably
of the actions of others, never to propagate a &longs;tory
to the injury of a neighbour's character, but to
&longs;tand forward the champion of innocence, and to
defend tho&longs;e, whom envy, malice, or revenge,
have a&longs;per&longs;ed. Con&longs;cious of its own rectitude,
&longs;u&longs;pects not the integrity of another; ever ready
to the balm of con&longs;olation into the heart
wounded by &longs;orrow; envies no per&longs;on's &longs;uperior
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lot, but takes the portion a&longs;&longs;igned by providence,
with gratitude, u&longs;es it with prudence, and gives
the overplus to the &longs;ons and daughters of poverty,
looks round the world with a &longs;mile of complacency,
and wi&longs;hes every bo&longs;om as tranquil as its own.
Yet there are people in the world who&longs;e chief
plea&longs;ure con&longs;i&longs;ts in villifying and a&longs;per&longs;ing the
characters even of their be&longs;t friends, and &longs;orry I
am to &longs;ay, tho&longs;e characters are too frequently
found among the fair &longs;ex. Would they but consider,
that while depre&longs;&longs;ing the merits of another,
they do not increa&longs;e their own, but rather attract
notice, and lead their acquaintance narrowly to
the conduct of a woman, who is &longs;o severe
upon their errors, it would certainly,
mea&longs;ure, &longs;top the unbounded licence they give
their tongues.
I do not know a more hateful character than Hecatissa,
&longs;he has indulged this evil propen&longs;ity 'till it
has become a part of her nature, and &longs;he could no
more entertain you for a few hours without a tale
of &longs;candal than &longs;he could walk over the surface
of the ocean. Many is the feeling heart
&longs;he has wounded, many a breach of friend&longs;hip
has taken its ri&longs;e from her malevolent tongue
&longs;he cares not how dear the ties &longs;he endeavours to
break, &longs;he will &longs;ow between father and
child, brother and &longs;i&longs;ter, hu&longs;band and wife, and
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exult in the mi&longs;ery &longs;he occa&longs;ions; under the fairest
&longs;emblance of friend&longs;hip, &longs;he will &longs;teal upon
the un&longs;u&longs;pecting heart, and after being treated
with unbounded confidence, like the ungrateful
&longs;erpent, &longs;ting the brea&longs;t that harbours her!
She was, when very young, by the treachery
of a near relation, thrown into a di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing situation,
from which the bounty and genero&longs;ity of a
widow lady relieved her; not &longs;atisfied with merely
admini&longs;tering to her pre&longs;ent wants, &longs;he took her
into her family, and made her companion to her
daughter.
The innocent Anna conceived a &longs;incere friendship
for her, and for many years they lived like
&longs;i&longs;ters; innumerable were the favours heaped on
Hecati&longs;&longs;a, who remained with the family; till a
worthy man, attracted by her per&longs;on and &longs;pecious
manner, made honorable propo&longs;als and married
her.
Hecati&longs;&longs;a might now have been the happie&longs;t
woman breathing--her hu&longs;band was generous,
humane, friendly, and good-natured to exce&longs;s.
He pre&longs;ented her to his family, who received her
cordially, and the poor ea&longs;y good man thought he
had in&longs;ured his own &longs;elicity, but Hecati&longs;&longs;a &longs;oon
&longs;hone forth in her own proper character.
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She planted di&longs;&longs;ention in her hu&longs;band's family,
a&longs;&longs;umed an unbecoming authority over all his
actions, and by her artful a&longs;cendancy contracted
his heart, and made him treat with di&longs;re&longs;pect the
very family who had &longs;heltered her unprotected
youth! Her vile in&longs;inuations were aimed at the
character of Anna, nor was &longs;he the only object
of her malice; every woman who po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed superior
endowments of per&longs;on or mind, was to
her a fit &longs;ubject for &longs;lander. She wi&longs;hed no per&longs;on
to be more fortunate or happy than her&longs;elf, &longs;he listened
to every malicious tale with avidity, repeated
them with plea&longs;ure, and aggravated every circumstance
which had the lea&longs;t appearance of vice or folly.
She would &longs;toop to &longs;uch meanne&longs;s, that rather
than not compa&longs;s a favorite point, &longs;he would tamper
with &longs;ervants, to obtain the &longs;ecrets of a family.
She was once on a vi&longs;it at the hou&longs;e of Serena,
&longs;he found her beloved by her &longs;ervants, re&longs;pected
by her friends, and tenderly e&longs;teemed by her husband.
Vexed to &longs;ee how &longs;uperior &longs;he was in every
re&longs;pect to her&longs;elf, &longs;he eagerly watched for &longs;ome
opportunity to le&longs;&longs;en her merit. She wre&longs;ted the
mo&longs;t innocent and even laudable actions into guilt,
&longs;he poi&longs;oned the minds of her &longs;ervants, and traduced
her reputation a&longs;&longs;uming the appearance of humility
and virtue, &longs;he endeavoured to throw on
Serena the odium of every vice which deformed
her own character.
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But Serena was not long inveloped in the cloud
Hecati&longs;&longs;a had &longs;pread over her; &longs;he continued in
the regular di&longs;charge of the duties of her &longs;tation,
paid no regard to the malicious &longs;landers &longs;he daily
heard, but, pitying the woman who could &longs;o far
forget truth and ju&longs;tice as to blacken the character
of one &longs;he pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a friend&longs;hip for, treated her
with the &longs;ilent contempt her conduct merited.
No &longs;en&longs;ible per&longs;on will &longs;cruple to affirm that Hecatissa
is mi&longs;erable. Hated and de&longs;pi&longs;ed by all her
acquaintance, her &longs;ociety is &longs;hunned like the pestilence;
and though by her con&longs;ummate art &longs;he &longs;till
impo&longs;es upon her hu&longs;band, and retains his affection,
her di&longs;content and ill-nature prevent her reaping
any plea&longs;ure in his company; &longs;he is jealous,
peevi&longs;h and unea&longs;y; in &longs;hort &longs;he has &longs;uch a legion of
torments in her own bo&longs;om, that &longs;he often applies
to a comforting cordial to rai&longs;e her depre&longs;&longs;ed &longs;pirits.
However de&longs;picable the character of Hecati&longs;&longs;a
may appear that of Prudelia is equally &longs;o. Prudelia
is a woman who pays the nice&longs;t regard to propriety
and decorum, &longs;he is ever prying into her neighbour's
conduct, and if their actions do not exactly
agree with her &longs;crupulous notions of rectitude, &longs;he
he&longs;itates not to conclude them abandoned and lo&longs;t
to every &longs;en&longs;e of virtue.
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Albert and Julia had been married near four
years, during which time they had lived in mutual
love and confidence, when their ill-fortune took
them to live in the &longs;ame &longs;treet with Prudelia. Albert
followed the &longs;ea, of con&longs;equence Julia was often
left for months together the guardian of her honor,
the mi&longs;tre&longs;s of her own actions. She was lively
in her di&longs;po&longs;ition, but her heart was the &longs;eat of pure
innocence.
Albert was gone his accu&longs;tomed voyage, when
Prudelia undertook to &longs;crutinize the conduct of
Julia.
Prudelia had vi&longs;ited her, &longs;he had been a witne&longs;s to
the innocent gaiety of her temper, &longs;he had even
pretended to admire her vivacity and good-humor,
but &longs;he whi&longs;pered among her friends, that &longs;he
thought it was highly improper for a young woman
like her, who&longs;e hu&longs;band was from home, to
receive &longs;o much company, or be &longs;o frequent in her
vi&longs;its abroad. She watched every movement of Julia,
was informed of all her vi&longs;itors names, knew what
time they came and went and even what hours &longs;he
retired to re&longs;t and aro&longs;e.
Julia was a woman of nice feelings, &longs;he was tenacious
of honor; and the bare idea of that honor being
&longs;u&longs;pected was extremely painful to her. She was
unea&longs;y at the watchful eye Prudelia kept upon her
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actions, not that &longs;he feared to have them &longs;rcutinized,
but becau&longs;e &longs;he did not think her&longs;elf obliged to be
accountable for her conduct to any per&longs;on but her
hu&longs;band. She therefore grew di&longs;tant and re&longs;erved,
and whenever Prudelia called on her, gave little
or no an&longs;wer to her many artful que&longs;tions concerning
where &longs;he had been, or how &longs;he had &longs;pent her
time.
About this time a brother of Julia's failed in business,
he retired to a hou&longs;e in the environs of West-minster,
to avoid the importunity of his creditors.
Julia was tenderly attached to her brother, &longs;he
exerted every power to &longs;erve his di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed family,
and even parted with her plate, and &longs;ome other
valuables, to rai&longs;e money to &longs;upply the pre&longs;ent
exigence.
The attorney who had the care of &longs;ettling her
brother's affairs, was frequently with her for an
hour or two together, and often &longs;he went away with
him in a coach, and was ab&longs;ent for &longs;everal days, as
the bu&longs;ine&longs;s which employed &longs;o large a &longs;hare of her
time, required &longs;ecre&longs;y, &longs;he never mentioned it to
Prudelia, nor did &longs;he when going out ever tell the
&longs;ervant where &longs;he was to be found.
One morning the attorney had breakfa&longs;ted with
her and &longs;he was gone with him to her brother,
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when Albert unexpectedly returned. The &longs;ervant
could give no account where her mi&longs;tre&longs;s was, and
Prudelia who had &longs;een him return, came over to
invite him to dine with her family.
I am &longs;orry my Julia is from home, &longs;aid he, but
there was no po&longs;&longs;ibility of her thinking to &longs;ee me to
day, as I am returned at lea&longs;t &longs;ix weeks before the
time appointed.
Why yes, replied Prudelia, with a &longs;ignificant
look, I fancy you will be a very unexpected gue&longs;t.
It will be an agreeable &longs;urprize though, &longs;aid
Albert.
Perhaps &longs;o, &longs;aid, Prudelia &longs;miling, contemptnously.
The &longs;mile, the &longs;ignificant look, alarmed Albert,
have you any rea&longs;on to think otherways, madam,
&longs;aid he? Surely Julia will be plea&longs;ed with my
return.
Oh! mo&longs;t certainly &longs;he will, replied &longs;he, &longs;miling
again; but, no doubt, &longs;he would have liked a little
more warning of your arrival.
By heavens, madam, &longs;aid Albert, your words
di&longs;tre&longs;s me beyond mea&longs;ure, you cannot mean to
glance an a&longs;per&longs;ion at the character of Julia, and
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yet what other motive can you have for tho&longs;e contemptuous
&longs;miles. Tell me, dear madam, the meaning
of the&longs;e ambiguous looks; but hold, if it is
any thing to Julia's di&longs;advantage I &longs;hall not believe
it though uttered by an angel.
Indeed, Sir, (&longs;aid Prudelia, a&longs;&longs;uming a &longs;erious
countenance, in which was blended a mixture of
pity and anger) far be it from me to injure the
reputation of any woman, or ever interfere between
man and wife, you are united for life, and 'tis
therefore your duty to bear with each others foibles,
as well as you can.
My Julia has no foibles, replied Albert, or if
&longs;he has I never di&longs;covered them.
I do not pretend to &longs;ay &longs;he has, my good friend,
but I wi&longs;h &longs;he would come home.
Albert joined the wi&longs;h, and the day pa&longs;&longs;ed on
without much farther conver&longs;ation.
As the evening advanced he grew unea&longs;y, and
when the clock &longs;truck ten, he exclaimed impatiently,
where can &longs;he be?
Patience, my good Sir, &longs;aid the artful Prudelia,
you may not perhaps &longs;ee her the&longs;e two or
three hours.
Julia was not u&longs;ed to keep &longs;uch late hours, &longs;aid
he pen&longs;ively.
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Oh! that is nothing, new connections form
new manners; &longs;he is never home much earlier, nay,
'tis very likely &longs;he may not be at home to night.
You &longs;eem to be aiming at &longs;omething, madam,
&longs;aid Albert, for heaven's &longs;ake &longs;peak out, and deliver
me from this torture of &longs;u&longs;pence.
This was the favourable moment for the vile incendiary--she
prefaced her &longs;candalous tale, with
the &longs;orrow &longs;he felt at being obliged to give his
worthy heart &longs;o much pain, &longs;aid, had Julia returned
in any tolerable time, &longs;he would have kept
the affair to her&longs;elf, but as &longs;he found he already
began to &longs;u&longs;pect &longs;omething was ami&longs;s, &longs;he thought
it was be&longs;t he &longs;hould be informed of the whole, that
he might take his mea&longs;ures accordingly.
She then informed him, that during his ab&longs;cence
Julia's extravagance had known no bounds—
that &longs;he had paid no regard to her reputation---received
the con&longs;tant vi&longs;its of one particular gentleman,
and made frequent excur&longs;ions into the country
with him, where &longs;he &longs;taid for &longs;everal days, that
to &longs;upply her extravagance and that of her paramour,
&longs;he had parted with her watch, plate, and other
valuables; and concluded with &longs;aying, her
heart bled to think &longs;o worthy a man &longs;hould be united
to a woman who knew &longs;o little how to value
her good fortune.
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Albert li&longs;tened with every mark of horror and
a&longs;toni&longs;hment, at length(&longs;tarting from his &longs;eat and
&longs;tamping his foot with vehemence)he cried, `tis
every &longs;yllable as fal&longs;e as hell, my Julia can never
have betrayed the honor I tru&longs;ted to her care, or
abu&longs;ed the confidence I repo&longs;ed in her.
'Tis well, Sir, replied Prudelia, with a look
of offended pride, you doubt my veracity, however
you will find the whole neighbourhood are
acquainted with her errors, as well as I am, nay
call your own &longs;ervant, &longs;he can a&longs;&longs;ert the truth of
what I &longs;ay.
The &longs;ervant was called, &longs;he confirmed the infamous
tale, and Albert vowed to be revenged on
his innocent wife.
Prudelia had judged rightly, Julia did not return
that night, and though Albert went home,
and retired to his apartment, he never attempted
to lye down, but traver&longs;ed the room in the utmo&longs;t
agitation of &longs;pirits during the whole night.
In the mean time Julia was enjoying, with her
brother's family, the mo&longs;t exqui&longs;ite &longs;atisfaction.
His failure was occa&longs;ioned by remittances not arriving
in proper time for him to make good &longs;ome
obligations he had entered into, the money Julia
had rai&longs;ed for him, had prevented immediate
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bankruptcy, and that day &longs;everal &longs;hips had arrived
with remittances, which would again enable
him to appear among his friends with credit.
The whole family were together at his lodgings,
and a &longs;mile of tranquillity &longs;at on every countenance.—
How very happy I &longs;hould be, &longs;aid Julia,
looking round her, if my Albert was joined in
this loved company, I &longs;hould then, at one view,
behold all that is mo&longs;t dear to me on earth.
When &longs;upper was over, the evening was far
advanced, Julia propo&longs;ed &longs;taying with them all
night, and walking home in the cool of the morning.
She retired to re&longs;t with a heart lightened of its
cares, offered up a prayer for her Albert's safety,
and &longs;unk into an undi&longs;turbed &longs;lumber, little
thinking the mi&longs;eries that awaited her in the morning.
At &longs;ix o'clock &longs;he aro&longs;e, and ki&longs;&longs;ing her little
&longs;leeping niece, who had been her bed-fellow,
&longs;tole &longs;oftly down &longs;tairs, and walked lei&longs;urely towards
home, enjoying the fre&longs;hne&longs;s of the morning,
as &longs;he walked thro' the park, and contemplating
on the happy change in her brother's affairs.
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It was near eight o'clock when &longs;he arrived at
her own door. My ma&longs;ter is come home, madam,
&longs;aid the maid, as &longs;he opened it.
Home, cried Julia, in an accent of joyful surprize,
and running eagerly up &longs;tairs, opened the
door of his apartment, and would have thrown
her&longs;elf into his arms, but he pu&longs;hed her from him
with violence, and cried by heavens, this affected
joy &longs;hall not cover your guilt; then looking at
her &longs;ternly, he added, how have you pa&longs;&longs;ed this
night, degenerate ungrateful Julia?
Julia had never been addre&longs;&longs;ed by Albert before
but in a voice of the mo&longs;t &longs;oothing tenderne&longs;s.
She &longs;taggered to the neare&longs;t chair, and faintly
exclaiming, what a horrid change is this, and
bur&longs;t into a violent flood of tears.
Albert had never &longs;een his Julia weep before,
but his heart wept with her, but he now took her
&longs;urprize for a token of guilt, and imputed her
tears to the effects of art. He therefore regarded
them not, but walked about the room in &longs;ullen
&longs;ilence.
Oh! heavens, &longs;aid Julia, what have I done to
de&longs;erve this; tell me, Albert, how have I forfeited
your affection?
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By betraying my honor, &longs;aid he fiercely, by
becoming an abandoned wanton.
Heaven is my witne&longs;s, I have done neither,
&longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;inking on her knees, Oh! Albert, kill
me in&longs;tantly, but do not &longs;u&longs;pect my fidelity. I
will ble&longs;s you with my la&longs;t breath, and dying, declare,
I never entertained even a thought to the
prejudice of your honor, or the purity of the affection
I bear to you.
Cur&longs;ed di&longs;&longs;embler, &longs;aid the enraged Albert,
and he &longs;purned her from him with his foot. She
&longs;hrieked and fell, her head &longs;truck the bed-po&longs;t,
and the blood gu&longs;hed in a torrent from her forehead.
Merciful heaven, cried he, I have murdered
her. He caught her from the ground, but found
neither &longs;en&longs;e nor breath remained. Frantic, he
rang the bell for a &longs;ervant, and &longs;ent for immediate
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance.
A &longs;urgeon examined her head, the &longs;kull was
fractured. After the wound was dre&longs;&longs;ed &longs;he opened
her eyes, and fixed them upon her hu&longs;band.
Albert, &longs;aid &longs;he, I know not who has poisoned
your mind, or how you could &longs;u&longs;pect the fidelity
of Julia. Believe me, I am innocent, in my
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cabinet you will find papers, that will unravel
any &longs;eeming my&longs;tery in my late conduct. I die,
but dying ble&longs;s you, for all your kindne&longs;s to me.
Ah! my love, 'tis not the wound I received on
my head, but that which you inflicted on my heart,
that terminates my exi&longs;tence! I loved you too
well, Albert, to feel the privation of your affetion
and live; my heart unprepared to meet your
unkindne&longs;s &longs;unk under it, &longs;truggled and broke.
She attempted to throw her arms round his
neck, but nature was exhau&longs;ted; &longs;he could only
&longs;ay, Oh! ble&longs;s him heaven — and her &longs;pirit took
its flight to the regions of eternal day.
Albert's di&longs;tre&longs;s was too great for de&longs;cription,
when he found he had by his blind pa&longs;&longs;ion, terminated
the exi&longs;tence of an innocent, valuable woman,
whom he loved with the mo&longs;t &longs;ervent affection.
A deep melancholy &longs;eized him, nor could
all the attentions of his friends rou&longs;e him from the
torpid &longs;tupor he had &longs;unk into, he grew wor&longs;e
and wor&longs;e, and ended his days in a mad-hou&longs;e.
As there are too many Prudelia's in the world,
we cannot be too cautious how we believe a malevolent
a&longs;&longs;ertion, or give way to &longs;u&longs;picion and jealousy.
N.B The Two la&longs;t Tales have formerly appeared in a .
FINIS.
