THE INQUISITOR; OR, INVISIBLE RAMBLER. IN THREE VOLUMES.
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It was on a fine evening, the latter end of May,
when tired with the fatigues of the day, for &longs;he was
a milliner's apprentice, Annie obtained leave of her
mi&longs;tre&longs;s to walk out for a little air.—Her mi&longs;tre&longs;s
had a &longs;hop which &longs;he occupied, and frequently visited
during the &longs;ummer &longs;ea&longs;on, &longs;ituated on the banks
of the Thames.
Annie &longs;trayed toward the water &longs;ide. Some venerable
trees grew on the banks, forming a covert
from the &longs;un at noon; and, by their interwoven
branches, in&longs;piring a &longs;ort of plea&longs;ing melancholy in
the gray twilight of the evening.
Annie was a &longs;entimental girl—&longs;he loved &longs;olitude,
poetry, and mu&longs;ic.—With a mind &longs;oftened by the
remembrance of &longs;ome former occurrences of her life,
and &longs;pirits calmed, but not depre&longs;&longs;ed, by the &longs;olemn
&longs;ilence and &longs;erenity of every thing around her, &longs;he
wandered on, meditating on the happy &longs;tate of tho&longs;e
who were in a &longs;ituation to enjoy unmole&longs;ted the
darling plea&longs;ures of reading, meditation, and friendship.
Whether love had any &longs;hare in her thoughts at
that moment, I never could get her to con&longs;e&longs;s—but,
whether a &longs;entimental young woman, wandering in
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a &longs;olitary walk, and contemplating the works of nature,
might not naturally enough wi&longs;h for a bo&longs;om
friend to participate in her plea&longs;ures, and join in an
innocent conver&longs;ation, I leave to my fair readers to
determine—to be &longs;ure, &longs;he might wi&longs;h for a female
companion; very likely &longs;he did; but it is a point I
never could determine.
In this &longs;hady walk Annie was acco&longs;ted by Mr.
Winlove.
Mr. Winlove was a gentleman of fortune, to
who&longs;e family Annie had been recommended by a
particular friend as an innocent, well-di&longs;po&longs;ed girl.—
She frequently vi&longs;ited Mrs. Winlove—&longs;he had received
numberle&longs;s civilities from her hu&longs;band—
there could be no harm in walking two or three turns
with a married man—&longs;he accepted his proferred
arm, and they proceeded together.
I had been wi&longs;hing for an agreeable companion
in this walk, Annie, &longs;aid he.
Why did you not bring Mrs. Winlove with you?
'Tis a natural que&longs;tion; Annie, but a wife is not
always the mo&longs;t agreeable companion. I am much
better plea&longs;ed with your company than I &longs;hould be
with hers
Annie had been brought up in the &longs;tricte&longs;t principles
of virtue; &longs;he had likewi&longs;e imbibed &longs;ome
&longs;trange, ob&longs;olete notions concerning honor, piety,
integrity, and the like. She, therefore, thought it
&longs;trange that a man &longs;hould prefer the company of an
indifferent per&longs;on, to that of the woman to whom he
had vowed eternal love and con&longs;tancy.
How can you talk &longs;o incon&longs;i&longs;tently, Mr. Winlove?
&longs;aid &longs;he; &longs;urely my company cannot be preferable
to that of the woman of your choice.
Do people never marry from any other motives
than inclination?
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I have heard, indeed, &longs;aid Annie, of marriages
of intere&longs;t, where avarice, not love, lighted the hymeneal
torch; but I have too good an opinion of
Mr. Winlove to think he could be bia&longs;&longs;ed by &longs;o
&longs;ordid a motive.
How I am delighted to find that you entertain
&longs;o high an opinion of me, my dear creature; and
yet it pains me.
Oh, why am I denied the power of be&longs;towing myself
and fortune on a woman every way &longs;o amiable.
Annie was going to interrupt him, but he stopped
her, and proceeded.—
Be not offended, my &longs;weet angel, you have no
idea of the mi&longs;eries of my &longs;ituation; drawn into a
cur&longs;ed connection with a woman who has neither
beauty, merit, nor accompli&longs;hments to render her
a de&longs;irable companion—a woman for whom I have
not the lea&longs;t tenderne&longs;s, and whom I married from
a mi&longs;taken point of honor—unhappy wretch that I
am, I mu&longs;t now daily &longs;ee you, charming Annie,
lovely, amiable, accompli&longs;hed, yet obliged to earn
a &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence, when nature formed you to move in a
&longs;phere more exalted, more &longs;uited to your gentle
di&longs;po&longs;ition.—The&longs;e hands, dear girl, were not formed
for labour—he took one hand and pre&longs;&longs;ed it tenderly
to his lips.
Now, however Annie might be inclined to reprove
Mr. Winlove in the beginning of this address,
the latter part of it was &longs;o prettily mixed
with prai&longs;es of her&longs;elf, that &longs;he could not well determine
whether to be plea&longs;ed or offended—&longs;he
therefore continued &longs;ilent.
Annie was the daughter of a merchant; had
been well educated; and being &longs;uppo&longs;ed to have a
large fortune, was early introduced into the &longs;chool
of gallantry, and her ears invaded by the voice of
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adulation—&longs;he was pretty—how could &longs;he avoid
knowing it? &longs;he had heard an hundred different
men &longs;wear it; her gla&longs;s confirmed their oaths.—
She was naturally &longs;en&longs;ible; but &longs;he was vain, and a
little inclined to cequetry.—Her father died insolvent—
&longs;he was taken from a &longs;cene of grandeur, and
apprenticed to a milliner.—She was good-natured;
every body loved her—&longs;he &longs;ubmitted to her fate
without repining, and endeavoured to render herself
u&longs;eful in her new occupation.—But, alas! poor
Annie, &longs;he loved the &longs;oft numbers of a Dryden or
a Pope, much better than the &longs;tudy of the fa&longs;hions;
and would prefer &longs;pending an hour at her pen, before
the formation of the mo&longs;t elegant ornament for
the per&longs;on.
It is not to be wondered at that &longs;he was delighted
by the voice of flattery, &longs;ince &longs;he had &longs;eldom,
from her cradle, been accu&longs;tomed to any other.
Mr. Winlove was artful; he ea&longs;ily di&longs;covered
the method by which he might gain the good will
of this &longs;imple girl; and imperceptibly changed the
&longs;ubject, from admiring the beauties of her per&longs;on,
to commend the graces of her mind.—He then inquired
into the nature of her &longs;tudies; commended
her ta&longs;te in the &longs;election of authors; ventured gently
to laugh at her ideas of religion; called them
&longs;uper&longs;titious; &longs;aid &longs;he was a novice in the ways of
the world, and openly avowed a pa&longs;&longs;ion for her.
At fir&longs;t her looks plainly indicated her horror and
amazement—She trembled—&longs;hrunk from him,
and telling him &longs;he was &longs;hocked to find the per&longs;on
&longs;he had &longs;uppo&longs;ed her friend, was her bittere&longs;t enemy,
bur&longs;t into tears.
Had Annie acted with propriety &longs;he would have
in&longs;tantly left him; but he attempted to palliate his
offence—&longs;he &longs;taid to hear him.
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How can you call me your enemy, dear Annie,
&longs;aid he—though I doat on you almo&longs;t to madne&longs;s,
I would not injure you to obtain an empire. I
will curb my pa&longs;&longs;ion; it &longs;hall be pure, exalted
friend&longs;hip that warms our bo&longs;oms; we may be
friends, my &longs;weet girl; you cannot re&longs;u&longs;e me that
token of your e&longs;teem.
Let your actions teach me to e&longs;teem you, Mr.
Winlove—I will be the friend of no man who pretends
to laugh at all obligations moral and religious.
Mr. Winlove by degrees led her into a di&longs;pute—
Annie was not a match in argument with this insidious
friend; he was a &longs;ophi&longs;t; he preferred the
laws of nature; called religion prie&longs;tcraft; brought
innumerable proofs to convince her that her opinion
was fallacious, and that &longs;he was entirely ignorant
of the road to happine&longs;s, if &longs;he &longs;uppo&longs;ed it was
to be found by &longs;trictly adhering to the mu&longs;ty rules
pre&longs;cribed by the aged and captious, who, unable
any longer to enjoy the plea&longs;ures of youth, would
deprive others of their &longs;hare.
Take example, dear Annie, &longs;aid he, from the excellent
Eloi&longs;e of Rouffeau.
She had never read it.
He recommended it very &longs;trongly for her perusal.
As &longs;he returned home, pa&longs;&longs;ing a library, Mr.
Winlove purcha&longs;ed the pernicious novel, and gave
it to Annie.
She took it home—&longs;he read it—her judgment
was perverted—&longs;he believed in the reality of a platonic
pa&longs;&longs;ion—&longs;he thought &longs;he had the virtue of
an Eloi&longs;e, and Mr. Winlove the honor of a St.
Preux.
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Churchill was the next author that was recommended.
She read—&longs;he li&longs;tened to the &longs;oft language of
love, and imbibed pernicious poi&longs;on from every
page &longs;he read, and every word &longs;he heard.
Tru&longs;ting to her own &longs;trength and virtue, &longs;he
made a private a&longs;&longs;ingnation—met him—confe&longs;&longs;ed &longs;he
loved him—and was lo&longs;t.
But little now remains to be told.
A few months convinced her, that when honor
is forfeited, love cannot exi&longs;t.
Mr. Winlove for&longs;ook her.
Her reputation &longs;tained—without friends—without
peace—de&longs;pi&longs;ed and in&longs;ulted by her own &longs;ex,
pitied by the other, and renounced by her uncle,
who had bound her apprentice, &longs;he became the
a&longs;&longs;ociate of the abandoned and profligate; and reduced
to chu&longs;e the dreadful alternative of death or
infamy, became a partner in vices which once &longs;he
would have &longs;huddered but to think on.
Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1793], The inquisitor, or, Invisible rambler, volume 3 (William Gibbons, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf324v3].
