LETTER I. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
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You may now felicitate me—
I have had an interview with the charmer I
informed you of. Alas! where were the
thoughtfulne&longs;s and circum&longs;pection of my
friend Worthy? I did not po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s them, and
am gracele&longs;s enough to acknowledge it.
He would have con&longs;idered the consequences,
before he had re&longs;olved upon the
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project. But you call me, with &longs;ome degree of
truth, a &longs;trange medley of contradiction—
the morali&longs;t and the amoro&longs;o—the sentiment
and the &longs;en&longs;ibility—are interwoven in
my con&longs;titution, &longs;o that nature and grace
are at continual fi&longs;ticuffs.—To the
point:—
I PURSUED my determination of discovering
the dwelling of my charmer, and
have at length obtained acce&longs;s. You may
behold my Ro&longs;ebud, but &longs;hould you presume
to place it in your bo&longs;om, expect
the force of my wrath to be the infallible
con&longs;equence.
I DECLARED the &longs;incerity of my passion—
the warmth of my affection—to the
beautiful Harriot—Believe me, Jack, &longs;he
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did not &longs;eem inattentive. Her mein is elegant—
her di&longs;po&longs;ition inclining to the melancholy,
and yet her temper is affable, and
her manners ea&longs;y. And as I poured my
tender vows into the heart of my beloved,
a crim&longs;on drop &longs;tole acro&longs;s her cheek, and
thus I con&longs;true it in my own favour, as the
&longs;weet me&longs;&longs;enger of hope:—
“DO not wholly de&longs;pair, my new friend;
excu&longs;e the declaration of a poor artle&longs;s female—
you &longs;ee I am not perfectly contented
in my &longs;ituation—[Ob&longs;erve, Jack, I have
not the vanity to think this di&longs;tre&longs;s altogether
upon my account]—Time therefore may
di&longs;clo&longs;e wonders, and perhaps more to your
advantage than you imagine—do not despair
then.”
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SUCH vulgar, uncongenial &longs;ouls, as that
which animates thy clay cold carca&longs;e, would
have thought this crim&longs;on drop nothing
more than an ordinary blu&longs;h! Be far removed
from my heart, &longs;uch &longs;ordid, earthborn
ideas: But come thou &longs;pirit of celestial
language, that can&longs;t communicate by
one affectionate look—one tender glance—
more divine information to the &longs;oul of sensibility,
than can be contained in myriads of
volumes!
HAIL gentle God of Love! While thou
rivete&longs;t the chains of thy &longs;laves, how do&longs;t
thou make them leap for joy, as with delicious
triumph. Happy enthu&longs;ia&longs;m! that
while it carries us away into captivity, can
make the heart to dance as in the bo&longs;om of
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content. Hail gentle God of Love! Encircled
as thou art with darts, torments, and
en&longs;igns of cruelty, &longs;till do we hail thee.
How do&longs;t thou &longs;mooth over the roughne&longs;s
and a&longs;perities of pre&longs;ent pain, with what
thou &longs;ee&longs;t in rever&longs;ion! Thou bani&longs;he&longs;t the
Stygian glooms of di&longs;quiet and &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e, by
the hope of approaching Ely&longs;ium—Ble&longs;&longs;ed
infatuation!
I DESIRE you will not he&longs;itate to pronounce
an amen to my Hymn to Love, as
an unequivocal evidence of your wi&longs;h for
my &longs;ucce&longs;s.
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LETTER II. WORTHY to HARRINGTON.
NEWYORK.
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“Wish you &longs;ucce&longs;s!”—In
what? Who is this lady of whom you have
been talking at &longs;uch an incon&longs;i&longs;tent rate?
But before you have lei&longs;ure to reply to the&longs;e
inquiries, you may have forgotten there is
&longs;uch a per&longs;on, as &longs;he whom you call Harriot—
I have &longs;een many juvenile heroes,
during my pilgrimage of two and twenty
years, ea&longs;ily inflamed with new objects—
agitated and hurried away by the impetuosity
of new de&longs;ires—and at the &longs;ame time
they were by no means famous for &longs;olidity
of judgment, or remarkable for the permanency
of their re&longs;olutions. There is &longs;uch
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a tumult—&longs;uch an ebullition of the brain in
the&longs;e paroxi&longs;ms of pa&longs;&longs;ion, that this new
object is very &longs;uperficially examined. The&longs;e,
added to partiality and prepo&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, never
fail to blind the eyes of the lover. In&longs;tead
of weighing matters maturely, and &longs;tating
the evidence fairly on both &longs;ides, in order to
form a right judgment, every circum&longs;tance
not perfectly coincident with your particular
bias, comes not under con&longs;ideration, because
it does not flatter your vanity. “Ponder
and pau&longs;e” ju&longs;t here, and tell me feriously
whether you are in love, and whether
you have &longs;ufficiently examined your heart
to give a ju&longs;t an&longs;wer.
Do you mean to in&longs;inuate that your declaration
of love hath attracted the affection
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of the pen&longs;ive Harriot? If this &longs;hould be
the ca&longs;e, I wi&longs;h you would tell me what you
de&longs;ign to do with her.
LETTER III. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
I CANNOT but laugh at your
dull fermons, and yet I find &longs;omething in
them not altogether di&longs;plea&longs;ing; for this
rea&longs;on I permit you to prate on. “Weigh
matters maturely!” Ha! ha! why art thou
not arrayed in canonicals! “What do I design
to do with her?” Upon my word, my
&longs;ententious friend, you a&longs;k mighty odd
que&longs;tions. I &longs;ee you aim a &longs;troke at the
foundation upon which the pillar of my
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new &longs;y&longs;tem is reared—and will you &longs;trive
to batter down that pillar? If you entertain
any idea of executing &longs;uch a ta&longs;k, I forefee
it will never &longs;ucceed, and advi&longs;e you timely
to de&longs;i&longs;t. What! do&longs;t thou think to topple
down my &longs;cheme of plea&longs;ure? Thou mightest
as well topple down the pike of Teneriffe.
I SUPPOSE you will be ready to a&longs;k, why,
if I love Harriot, I do not marry her—
Your monitorial corre&longs;pondence has &longs;o
accu&longs;tomed me to reproof, that I ea&longs;ily anticipate
this piece of impertinence—But who
&longs;hall I marry? That is the que&longs;tion. Harriot
has no father—no mother—neither is
there aunt, cou&longs;in, or kindred of any degree
who claim any kind of relation&longs;hip to
her. She is companion to Mrs. Francis,
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and, as I under&longs;tand, totally dependent on
that lady. Now, Mr. Worthy, I mu&longs;t take
the liberty to acquaint you, that I am not
&longs;o much of a republican as formally to
wed any per&longs;on of this cla&longs;s. How laughable
would my conduct appear, were I to
trace over the &longs;ame ground marked out by
thy immaculate foot&longs;teps—To be heard
openly acknowledging for my bo&longs;om companion,
any daughter of the democratick
empire of virtue!
To &longs;uppo&longs;e a &longs;mart, beautiful girl, would
continue as a companion to the be&longs;t lady in
Chri&longs;tendom, when &longs;he could rai&longs;e her&longs;elf to
a more eligible &longs;ituation, is to &longs;uppo&longs;e a folecism—
She might as well be immured in
a nunnery. Now, Jack, I will &longs;hew you
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my benevolent &longs;cheme; it is to take this
beautiful &longs;prig, and tran&longs;plant it to a more
favourable foil, where it &longs;hall flouri&longs;h and
blo&longs;&longs;om under my own au&longs;pices. In a word,
I mean to remove this fine girl into an elegant
apartment, of which &longs;he her&longs;elf is to be
the fole mi&longs;tre&longs;s. Is not this a proof of my
humanity and of heart? But I
know the purport of your an&longs;wer—So pray
thee keep thy comments to thy&longs;elf, and be
&longs;paring of your compliments on this part of
my conduct—for I do not love flattery. A
month has elap&longs;ed &longs;ince my arrival in town.
What will the revolution of another moon
bring forth?
Your &c.
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LETTER IV. Mi&longs; s HARRIOT FAWCET to Mi&longs; s MYRA HARRINGTON.
BOSTON.
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I have &longs;omehow bewitched a
new lover, my dear Myra—a &longs;mart, clever
fellow too—and the youth expre&longs;&longs;es &longs;uch
fondne&longs;s and pa&longs;&longs;ion that I begin to feel
afraid even to pity him—for love will certainly
follow. I own to you I e&longs;teem him
very much, but mu&longs;t I go any farther? He
is extremely generous—polite—gay—and I
believe if you were to &longs;ee him, your partiality
in his favour would exceed mine.
I NEVER &longs;aw my poor &longs;wain &longs;o seemingly
di&longs;concerted and aba&longs;hed as he was a few
days ago—he appeared to have &longs;omething
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very particular to communicate, but his
tongue faultered—ought not one to help
out a mode&longs;t youth in &longs;uch ca&longs;es?
Your &c.
LETTER V. Mi&longs; s MYRA HARRINGTON to Mrs. HOLMES.
BOSTON.
Are the rural plea&longs;ures of Belleview,
my dear friend, &longs;o engaging as to debar
us of the plea&longs;ure of your company
forever? Do your dear groves, and your
books, &longs;till employ your meditating mind?
Serious &longs;entimentali&longs;t as you are, let me a&longs;k,
whether a Ball, a Concert or Serenade,
would not afford you the &longs;atisfaction of a
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contemplative walk in your garden, listening
to the love tales of the melodious inhabitants
of the air?
RAILLERY apart—when &longs;hall I take upon
my&longs;elf the honour to wait upon you
here?—I want to advi&longs;e with you on certain
points of female conduct, and about my
new dre&longs;s—I have heard you &longs;ay, le&longs;&longs;ons to
a volatile mind &longs;hould be fre&longs;h and fre&longs;h applied,
becau&longs;e it either pretends to de&longs;pi&longs;e
them, or has a tendency to degeneracy—
Now you mu&longs;t know I am actually degenerating
for want of &longs;ome of your Mentor
like le&longs;&longs;ons of in&longs;truction. I have &longs;carcely
any opinion of my own, the&longs;e fa&longs;hions,
changing about &longs;o often, are enough to vitiate
the be&longs;t ta&longs;te in the world.
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I FORGOT to tell you my brother has
been at home this month; but, from certain
indubitable &longs;ymptoms, I &longs;u&longs;pect the
young man to be in love.
HEIGHHO! what is become of Worthy?
The time of my liberty &longs;teals away, for you
know I was to have three or four months
of liberty before I gave my&longs;elf up to his authority,
and relinqui&longs;hed all my right and
title to the name of
Harrington.
LETTER VI. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
ROSTON.
Abashed—confounded—defeated—
I waited upon my beloved with my
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head well furni&longs;hed with ready made arguments,
to prevail on her to acquie&longs;ce in my
benevolent &longs;cheme—&longs;he never appeared &longs;o
amiable—grace accompanied every word &longs;he
uttered, and every action &longs;he performed.
“Think, my love,” &longs;aid I, in a tone something
between &longs;ighing and tears, and took
her hand in a very cordial manner—
“Think, my love, on your pre&longs;ent, unhappy,
menial &longs;ituation, in the family of Mrs.
Francis.” I enlarged on the violence of my
pa&longs;&longs;ion—expatiated mo&longs;t metaphy&longs;ically on
our future happine&longs;s; and concluded by
largely an&longs;wering objections. “Shall we
not,” continued I, “obey the dictates of nature,
rather than confine our&longs;elves to the
forced, unnatural rules of—and—and
&longs;hall the halcyon days of youth &longs;lip through
our fingers unenjoyed?”
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Do you think, Worthy, I &longs;aid this to Harriot?—
Not a &longs;yllable of it. It was impossible—
my heart had the courage to dictate,
but my rebellious tongue refu&longs;ed to utter
a word—it faultered—&longs;tammered—hesitated.—
THERE is a language of the eyes—and we
converfed in that language; and though I
&longs;aid not a word with my tongue, &longs;he &longs;eemed
perfectly to under&longs;tand my meaning—for
&longs;he looked—(and I comprehended it as well
as if &longs;he had &longs;aid)—“Is the crime of dependence
to be expiated by the &longs;acrifice of
virtue? And becau&longs;e I am a poor, unfortunate
girl, mu&longs;t the little I have be taken from
me?” “No, my love,” an&longs;wered I, passionately,
“it &longs;hall not.”
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OF all tho&longs;e unde&longs;cribable things which
influence the mind, and which are mo&longs;t apt
to per&longs;uade—none is &longs;o powerful an orator—
&longs;o feelingly eloquent as beauty—I bow to
the allconquering force of Harriot's eloquence—
and what is the confequence?—I
am now determined to continue my addresses
on a principle the mo&longs;t ju&longs;t, and the mo&longs;t
honourable.
HOW amiable is that beauty which has its
foundation in goodne&longs;s! Rea&longs;on cannot
contemplate its power with indifference—
Wi&longs;dom cannot refrain from enthu&longs;ia&longs;m—
and the &longs;neering exertions of Wit cannot
render it ridiculous. There is a dignity in
confcious virtue that all my impudence cannot
bring me to de&longs;pi&longs;e—and if it be beauty
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that &longs;ubdues my heart, it is this that completes
the triumph—It is here my pompous
parade, and all my flim&longs;y &longs;ubterfuges, appear
to me in their proper light. In fine, I have
weighed matters maturely, and the alternative
is—Harriot mu&longs;t be mine, or I mi&longs;erable
without her.—I have &longs;o well weighed the
matter that even this idea is a fla&longs;h of joy
to my heart—But, my friend, after the lightning
comes the thunder—my father is mortally
aver&longs;e to my making any matrimonial engagement
at &longs;o early a period—this is a bar
in my way, but I mu&longs;t leap over it.
Adieu!
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LETTER VII. Mrs. HOLMES to Mi&longs; s HARRINGTON.
RELLEVIEW.
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Although my attachment
to Belleview is not &longs;o romantick as your airy
pen has de&longs;cribed it, I think its quiet and
amu&longs;ements infinitely preferable to the busfle
and parade with which you are surrounded.
THE improvements made here by my
late hu&longs;band (who inherited the virtues of
his parents, who &longs;till protect me, and endeavour
to con&longs;ole the angui&longs;h of his lo&longs;s
by the mo&longs;t tender affection) have rendered
the charms of Belleview &longs;uperiour in my
e&longs;timation to every gilded &longs;cene of the gay
world.
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IT is almo&longs;t vanity to pretend to give you
a de&longs;cription of the beauty of the pro&longs;pect—
the grandeur of the river that rolls through
the meadow in front of the hou&longs;e, or any
eulogium on rural elegance, becau&longs;e the&longs;e
&longs;cenes are common to mo&longs;t places in the
country. Nature is every where liberal in
di&longs;pen&longs;ing her beauties and her variety—
and I pity tho&longs;e who look round and declare
they &longs;ee neither.
A GREAT proportion of our happine&longs;s
depends on our own choice—it offers it&longs;elf
to our ta&longs;te, but it is the heart that gives it
a reli&longs;h—what at one time, for in&longs;tance, we
think to be humour, is at another di&longs;gu&longs;tful
or in&longs;ipid—&longs;o, unle&longs;s we carry our appetite
with us to the treat, we &longs;hall vainly wi&longs;h to
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make our&longs;elves happy. “Was I in a defart,”
&longs;ays Sterne, “I would find wherewith
“in it to call forth my affections—If I could
“do no better, I would fa&longs;ten them on
“&longs;ome &longs;weet myrtle, or &longs;eek &longs;ome melan
“choly cypre&longs;s to connect my&longs;elf to—I
“would court their &longs;hade and greet them
“kindly for their protection—If their leaves
“withered, I would teach my&longs;elf to mourn,
“and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice
“along with them.”
I BELIEVE you could hardly find the way
to the &longs;ummer hou&longs;e, where we have enjoyed
many happy hours together, and
which you u&longs;ed to call “The Temple of
Apollo.” It is now more elegantly furnished
than it formerly was, and is enriched
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with a con&longs;iderable addition to the library
and mu&longs;ick.
IN front of the avenue that leads to this
place, is a figure of CONTENT, pointing
with one hand to the Temple, and with the
other to an INVITATION, executed in &longs;uch
an antique &longs;tyle, that you would think it
done either by the ancient inhabitants of
the country, or by the hand of a Fairy—&longs;he
is very particular in the characters &longs;he invites,
but tho&longs;e whom &longs;he invites &longs;he heartily
welcomes.
Rural Inscription.
COME YE who loath the horrid cre&longs;t,
Who hate the fiery front of Mars;
Who &longs;corn the mean—the &longs;ordid brea&longs;t—
Who fly AMBITION's guilty cares:
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Ye who are ble&longs;t with peaceful &longs;ouls,
Re&longs;t HERE: Enjoy the plea&longs;ures round;
Here Fairies quaffe their acorn bowls,
And lightly print the mazy ground.
Thrice welcome to this humble &longs;cene—
(To YE alone &longs;uch &longs;cenes belong)
Peace &longs;miles upon the fragrant green,
And HERE the WOODLAND SISTERS throng,
And fair CONTENTMENT's plea&longs;ing train,
Whil&longs;t in the Heav'n the &longs;tars advance,
With many a maid and many a &longs;wain,
Lead up the jocund, rural dance.
Thriee welcome to our calm retreat,
Where INNOCENCY oft hath &longs;trove,
With violet blue, and woodbine &longs;weet,
To form the votive wreath to LOVE:
O! pardon then, our cautious pride—
(Caution, a virtue rare, I ween)
For evils with the great abide,
Which dwell not in our &longs;ylvan &longs;cene.
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THESE are the &longs;cenes to which I have
cho&longs;en to retreat; contented with the &longs;uffrage
of the virtuous and the good, and inattentive
to the contemptuous &longs;neer of the giddy
and the futile, for even the&longs;e have the vanity
to look with pity on tho&longs;e who voluntarily
remove from whatever agrees with their
ideas of plea&longs;ure. He who has no conception
of the beauties of the mind, will contemn
a per&longs;on aukward or illfavoured; and
one who&longs;e &longs;tore of enjoyment is drawn from
affluence and abundance, will be a&longs;toni&longs;hed
at the conduct of him who finds cau&longs;e to
rejoice, though &longs;urrounded with inconvenience
and penury. Hence we judge of the
happine&longs;s of others by the &longs;tandard of our
own conduct and prejudices.
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FROM this misjudging race I retire, without
a &longs;igh to mingle in their amu&longs;ements,
nor yet di&longs;gu&longs;ted at whatever is thought of
&longs;ufficient con&longs;equence to engage their pursuits.
I fly from the tumult of the town—
from &longs;cenes of boi&longs;terous plea&longs;ure and riot,
to tho&longs;e of quietne&longs;s and peace, “where
every breeze breathes health, and every
&longs;ound is the echo of tranquillity.”—On this
&longs;ubject I give my &longs;entiments to you with
freedom, from a conviction that I bear the
world no &longs;pleen; at the &longs;ame time with a
degree of deference to the judgment of
others, from a conviction that I may be a
little prejudiced.
I HOPE to be with you &longs;oon—in the mean
time continue to write.
Eliza Holmes.
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LETTER VIII. WORTHY to HARRINGTON.
NEWYORK.
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
I applaud your change of
&longs;entiment: Harriot is a good girl, and your
conduct is extremely prai&longs;eworthy and
honourable. It is what her virtues incontestibly
merit.—But I advi&longs;e you certainly
to gain your father's approbation before
you proceed &longs;o far as to be unable to return.
A contrary &longs;tep might terminate in the utter
ruin of you both.—Direct to me at
Belleview—for I intend to &longs;top there in my
return to Bo&longs;ton.
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LETTER IX. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
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I have had a conver&longs;ation with
my father on the &longs;ubject of early marriages,
but to no purpo&longs;e—I will not be certain
whether he under&longs;tood my drift, but all
his arguments are applicable to my situation.
One mu&longs;t be an adept to argue with
him; and intere&longs;ted as he thinks him&longs;elf in
the re&longs;ult of the debate, he cannot be prevailed
upon to relinqui&longs;h his &longs;ettled opinion.
I am too much chagrined to write you even
the heads of our conver&longs;ation. I now &longs;tand
upon my old ground.
Adieu!
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LETTER X. WORTHY to MYRA.
BELLEVIEW.
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
I am very happy at pre&longs;ent enjoying
the &longs;weets of Belleview with our excellent
friend Mrs. Holmes. To dwell in
this delightful retreat, and to be ble&longs;t with the
conver&longs;ation of this amiable woman, cannot
be called &longs;olitude. The charms of Nature
are here beheld in the mo&longs;t luxuriant
variety—it is here, diver&longs;ified with a beautiful
pro&longs;pect, the late Mr. Holmes planned
his garden; it is elegant, but &longs;imple. My
time glides off my hands mo&longs;t happily—I
am &longs;ometimes indulging my &longs;olitary reflections
in contemplating the &longs;ublimity of the
&longs;cenes around me—and &longs;ometimes in conversation
with Eliza and the old people.
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THE old gentleman is a man of a mo&longs;t
benevolent heart; he continues to preach—
is a&longs;&longs;iduous in the duties of his profe&longs;&longs;ion,
and is the love and admiration of his flock.
He pre&longs;cribes for the health of the body, as
well as that of the &longs;oul, and &longs;ettles all the
little di&longs;putes of his pari&longs;h. They are contented
with his judgment, and he is at once
their par&longs;on, their lawyer, and their physician.—
I often read in the little building
that was fini&longs;hed by his &longs;on. He was a
man of an excellent ta&longs;te, and I have paid
my tribute to his memory—It is the &longs;ame
place that you u&longs;ed to admire, and perhaps
I improve more of my time in it on that
very account.
Adieu!
-- 037 --
LETTER XI. Mrs. HOLMES to MYRA.
BELLEVIEW.
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
I sit down to give you, my dear
Myra, &longs;ome account of the vi&longs;itants of today,
and their conver&longs;ation. We are not
always di&longs;tingui&longs;hed by &longs;uch company, but
perhaps it is &longs;ometimes nece&longs;&longs;ary; and as
it is a relaxation from thought, it &longs;erves to
give us more plea&longs;ure in returning to the
conver&longs;ation of people of ideas.
MRS. Bourn a&longs;&longs;umes a higher rank in life
than &longs;he pretended to &longs;even years ago.—She
then walked on foot—&longs;he now, by good fortune,
rides in a chariot. Placed, however,
in a &longs;ituation with which her education
does not altogether comport, &longs;he has nothing
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di&longs;agreeable but her over a&longs;&longs;iduity to plea&longs;e—
this is &longs;ometimes di&longs;gu&longs;ting, for one cannot
fea&longs;t heartily upon honey: It is an errour
which a candid mind ea&longs;ily forgives. She
&longs;ometimes appears &longs;olicitous to di&longs;play her
mental accompli&longs;hments, and de&longs;irous to
improve tho&longs;e of her daughter; but it is
merely apparent. Notwith&longs;tanding a temporary
wi&longs;h may ari&longs;e towards the attainment
of this point, a habitual vacancy nips
it in the bud.
MISS Bourn is about the age of fourteen—
genteel, with a tolerable &longs;hare of beauty, but
not &longs;triking—her dre&longs;s was elegant, but
might have been adju&longs;ted to more advantage—
not altogether aukward in her manners,
nor yet can &longs;he be called graceful—
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&longs;he has a peculiar air of drollery which takes
her by fits, and for this rea&longs;on, perhaps, does
not avail her&longs;elf of every opportunity of displaying
the mode&longs;ty of her &longs;ex—&longs;he has &longs;een
much company, but in&longs;tead of poli&longs;hing her
manners, it has only increa&longs;ed her assurance.
THUS much of the characters of our
company. After &longs;ome &longs;mall chat which pa&longs;&longs;ed
as we took a turn in the garden, we entered
the Temple.
“WHAT books would you recommend
to put into the hands of my daughter?”
&longs;aid Mrs. Bourn, as &longs;he walked into the library—
“it is a matter of &longs;ome importance.”
“It is a matter of more importance,”
-- 040 --
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answered Worthy, “than is generally imagined,
for unle&longs;s a proper &longs;election is made, one
would do better never to read at all:—Now,
Madam, as much depends on the choice of
books, care &longs;hould be taken not to put tho&longs;e
in the way of young per&longs;ons, which might
leave on their minds any di&longs;agreeable prejudices,
or which has a tendency to corrupt
their morals.”—“As obvious as your remark
is,” added Mr. Holmes, “it is evidently
overlooked in the common cour&longs;e of
education. We wi&longs;ely exclude tho&longs;e persons
from our conver&longs;ation, who&longs;e characters
are bad, who&longs;e manners are depraved,
or who&longs;e morals are impure; but if they are
excluded from an apprehen&longs;ion of contaminating
our minds, how much more dangerous
is the company of tho&longs;e books, where
-- 041 --
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the &longs;trokes aimed at virtue are redoubled,
and the poi&longs;on of vice, by repeatedly reading
the &longs;ame thing, indelibly di&longs;tains the
young mind?”
“WE all agree,” rejoined Worthy, “that
it is as great a matter of virtue and prudence
to be circum&longs;pect in the &longs;election of our
books, as in the choice of our company.—
But, Sir, the be&longs;t things may be &longs;ubverted
to an ill u&longs;e. Hence we may po&longs;&longs;ibly
trace the cau&longs;e of the ill tendency of many
of the Novels extant.”
“MOST of the Novels,” interrupted my
father, “with which our female libraries are
overrun, are built on a foundation not always
placed on &longs;trict morality, and in the
-- 042 --
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pur&longs;uit of objects not always probable of
prai&longs;eworthy.—Novels, not regulated on the
cha&longs;te principles of true friend&longs;hip, rational
love, and connubial duty, appear to me totally
unfit to form the minds of women, of
friends, or of wives.”
“BUT, as mo&longs;t young people read,” &longs;ays
Mrs. Bourn—“what rule can be bit upon
to make &longs;tudy always terminate to advan-tage?”
“IMPOSSIBLE,” cried Mi&longs;s, “for I read
as much as any body, and though it may
afford amu&longs;ement, while I am employed, I
do not remember a &longs;ingle word; when I lay
down the book.”
-- 043 --
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“THIS confirms what I &longs;ay of Novels,”
cried Mr. Holmes, addre&longs;&longs;ing Worthy in a
jocular manner, “ju&longs;t calculated to kill time—
to attract the attention of the reader for
an hour, but leave not one idea on the
mind.”
“I AM far from condemning every production
in the gro&longs;s,” replied Worthy;
“general &longs;atire again&longs;t any particular cla&longs;s,
or order of men, may be viewed in the &longs;ame
light as a &longs;atire again&longs;t the &longs;pecies—it is the
&longs;ame with books—If there are corrupt or
mortified members, it is hardly fair to destroy
the whole body. Now I grant &longs;ome
Novels have a bad tendency, yet there are
many which contain excellent &longs;entiments—
let the&longs;e receive their de&longs;erved reward—let
-- 044 --
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tho&longs;e be di&longs;countenanced; and if it is impossible
“to &longs;mite them with an apoplexy, there
is a moral certainty of their dying of a
con&longs;umption.”—But, as Mrs. Bourn observes,
mo&longs;t young per&longs;ons read, I will therefore
recommend to tho&longs;e who wi&longs;h to mingle
in&longs;truction with entertainment, method
and regularity in reading. To dip into any
book burthens the mind with unnece&longs;&longs;ary
lumber, and may rather be called a disadvantage,
than a benefit—The record of
memory is &longs;o &longs;erawled and blotted with imperfect
ideas, that not one legible character
can be traced.”
“WERE I to throw my thoughts on this
&longs;ubject,” &longs;aid my good father-in-law, as he
began to enter more warmly into the debate
-- 045 --
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—drawing his chair oppo&longs;ite Worthy, and
rai&longs;ing his hand with a poetical enthu&longs;ia&longs;m—
“Were I to throw my thoughts on this
&longs;ubject into an Allegory, I would de&longs;cribe
the human mind as an exten&longs;ive plain, and
knowledge as the river that &longs;hould water it.
If the cour&longs;e of the river be properly directed,
the plain will be fertilized and cultivated
to advantage; but if books, which are
the &longs;ources that feed this river, ru&longs;h into it
from every quarter, it will overflow its
banks, and the plain will become inundated:
When, therefore, knowledge flows on in
its proper channel, this exten&longs;ive and valuable
field, the mind, in&longs;tead of being covered
with &longs;tagnant waters, is cultivated to the
utmo&longs;t advantage, and blooms luxuriantly
into a general efflore&longs;cence—for a river
-- 046 --
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properly re&longs;tricted by high banks, is nece&longs;&longs;arily
progre&longs;&longs;ive.”
THE old gentleman brought down his
hand with great &longs;elemnity, and we complimented
him on his poetical exertion. “I
cannot comprehend the meaning of this
matter,” &longs;aid the penetrative Mi&longs;s Bourn.
“I will explain it to you, my little dear,”
&longs;aid he, with great good nature—“If you
read with any de&longs;ign to improve your mind
in virtue and every amiable accompli&longs;hment,
you &longs;hould be careful to read methodically,
which will enable you to form an e&longs;timate
of the various topicks di&longs;cu&longs;&longs;ed in company;
and to bear a part in all tho&longs;e conver&longs;ations
which belong to your &longs;ex—you &longs;ee, therefore,
how nece&longs;&longs;ary general knowledge is—
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
what would you think of a woman advanced
in life, who has no other &longs;tore of knowledge,
than what &longs;he has obtained from experi-ence?”
“I THINK &longs;he would have a &longs;orry time
of it;” an&longs;wered Mi&longs;s.
“TO prevent it in your&longs;elf,” &longs;aid Mrs.
Bourn to her daughter, “be a&longs;&longs;iduous to lay
in a good &longs;tock of this knowledge, while
your mind is yet free from prejudice and
care.”
“HOW &longs;hall I go to work, Madam,” enquired
the delicate daughter.
MRS. Bourn turned towards Mr. Holmes,
which was hint enough for the good old
man to proceed.
-- 048 --
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“THERE is a medium to be ob&longs;erved,
continued he, in a lady's reading; &longs;he is
not to receive every thing &longs;he finds, even in
the be&longs;t books, as invariable le&longs;&longs;ons of conduct;
in books written in an ea&longs;y, flowing
&longs;tyle, which excel in de&longs;cription and the luxuriance
of fancy, the imagination is apt to
get heated—&longs;he ought, therefore, to di&longs;cern
with an eye of judgment, between the superficial
and the penetrating—the elegant
and the tawdry—what may be merely amusing,
and what may be u&longs;eful. General
reading will not teach her a true knowledge
of the world.
“IN books &longs;he finds recorded the faithfulness
of friend&longs;hip—the con&longs;tancy of true
love, and even that hone&longs;ty is the be&longs;t
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policy. If virtue is repre&longs;ented carrying its reward
with it, &longs;he too ea&longs;ily per&longs;uades her&longs;elf
that mankind have adopted this plan: Thus
&longs;he finds, when, perhaps, it is too late, that
&longs;he has entertained wrong notions of human
nature; that her friends are deceitful—her
lovers fal&longs;e—and that men con&longs;ult intere&longs;t
oftener than hone&longs;ty.
“A YOUNG lady who has imbibed her
ideas of the world from de&longs;ultory reading,
and placed confidence in the virtue of others,
will bring back di&longs;appointment, when &longs;he
expected gratitude. Un&longs;u&longs;picious of deceit,
&longs;he is ea&longs;ily deceived—from the purity of her
own thoughts, &longs;he tru&longs;ts the faith of mankind,
until experience convinces her of her
errour—&longs;he falls a &longs;acrifice to her credulity,
-- 050 --
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and her only con&longs;olation is the &longs;implicity and
goodne&longs;s of her heart.
“THE &longs;tory of Mi&longs;s Whitman[1] is an
emphatical
illu&longs;tration of the truth of the&longs;e
ob&longs;ervations. An inflated fancy, not
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
restricted by judgment, leads too often to disappointment
and repentance. Such will be
the fate of tho&longs;e who become (to u&longs;e her
own words)
“Lo&longs;t in the magick of that &longs;weet employ,
“To build gay &longs;cenes and fa&longs;hion future joy.”
“WITH a good heart &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a poetical
imagination, and an unbounded thir&longs;t for
novelty; but the&longs;e airy talents, not counterpoised
with judgment, or perhaps &longs;erious
-- 052 --
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reflection, in&longs;tead of adding to her happine&longs;s,
were the cau&longs;e of her ruin.”
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“I CONCLUDE from your rea&longs;oning,” &longs;aid
I, “and it is, be&longs;ides, my own opinion, that
many fine girls have been ruined by reading
Novels.”
-- 054 --
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“AND I believe,” added Mrs. Bourn
“we may trace from hence the cau&longs;es of
&longs;pleen in many per&longs;ons advanced in life.”
“YOU mean old maids, Madam,” cries
the &longs;agacious Mi&longs;s, “like my aunt Deborah—
&longs;he calls all the men deceitful, and mo&longs;t
women, with her, are no better than they
&longs;hould be.”
“WELL &longs;aid exclaimed Worthy, “the
recollection of chagrin and former disappointment,
&longs;ours one's temper and mortifies
the heart—di&longs;appointment will be more or
le&longs;s &longs;evere in proportion as we elevate our
expectations; for the mo&longs;t &longs;anguine tempers
are the &longs;oone&longs;t di&longs;couraged; as the highe&longs;t
building is in the mo&longs;t danger of falling.”
-- 055 --
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“IT appears from what I have &longs;aid resumed
Mr. Holmes, “that tho&longs;e books which
teach us a knowledge of the world are u&longs;eful
to form the minds of females, and ought
therefore to be &longs;tudied.”
I MENTIONED Rochefoucault's maxims.—
“DO they not degrade human nature?”
enquired my father.
“THIS little book,” an&longs;wered Worthy,
“contains much truth—and tho&longs;e
&longs;hort &longs;ketches traced by the hand of judgment,
pre&longs;ent to us the leading features of
mankind.” “But,” replied my father,
“that intere&longs;t &longs;hould a&longs;&longs;ume all &longs;hapes, is a doctrine,
which, in my mind, repre&longs;ents a caricature
rather than a living picture.” “It is
-- 056 --
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the duty of a painter to produce a likene&longs;s,”
&longs;aid Worthy.—“And a &longs;kilful one,” cried
my father, continuing the metaphor, “will
bring the amiable qualities of the heart to
light; and throw tho&longs;e which di&longs;grace humanity
into the &longs;hade.” “I doubt,” rejoined
Worthy, “whether this flattery will
an&longs;wer the purpo&longs;e you aim to accompli&longs;h—
You entertain a high opinion of the dignity
of human nature, and are di&longs;plea&longs;ed at the author
who advances any thing derogatory to
that dignity. Swift, in &longs;peaking of the&longs;e
maxims, in one of his be&longs;t poems, affirms,
“They argue no corrupted mind
“In him—the fault is in mankind.”
“AS I began this &longs;ubject,” added I, “it &longs;hall
be ended by one ob&longs;ervation—As the&longs;e maxims
give us an idea of the manners and
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characters of men, among whom a young person
is &longs;oon to appear; and as it is nece&longs;&longs;ary
to her &longs;ecurity and happine&longs;s that &longs;he be
made acquainted with them—they may be
read to advantage.”
“THERE is another medium,” &longs;aid Mr.
Holmes, a&longs;&longs;enting to my ob&longs;ervation, “to be
noticed in the &longs;tudy of a lady—&longs;he takes up
a book, either for in&longs;truction or entertainment;
the medium lies in knowing when
to put it down. Con&longs;tant application becomes
labour—it &longs;ours the temper—gives an
air of thoughtfulne&longs;s, and frequently of absence.
By immoderate reading we hoard up
opinions and become in&longs;en&longs;ibly attached to
them; this mi&longs;erly conduct &longs;inks us to affectation,
and di&longs;gu&longs;tful pedantry; conver&longs;ation
-- 058 --
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only can remedy this dangerous evil, strengthen
the judgment, and make reading really
u&longs;eful. They mutually depend upon, and
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t each other.
“A KNOWLEDGE of HISTORY which exhibits
to us in one view the ri&longs;e, progre&longs;s and
decay of nations—which points out the advancement
of the mind in &longs;ociety, and the
improvements in the arts which adorn human
nature, comes with propriety under the
notice of a lady. To ob&longs;erve the origin of
civilization—the gradual progre&longs;s of &longs;ociety,
and the re&longs;inements of manners, policy, morality
and religion—to ob&longs;erve the progression
of mankind from &longs;implicity to luxury,
from luxury to effeminacy, and the gradual
&longs;teps of the decline of empire, and the
-- 059 --
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dissolution of &longs;tates and kingdoms, mu&longs;t blend
that happy union of in&longs;truction and entertainment,
which never fails to win our attention
to the pur&longs;uit of all &longs;ubjects.
“POETRY claims her due from the ladies.
POETRY enlarges and &longs;trengthens the mind,
refines the ta&longs;te and improves the judgment.
It has been afferted that women have no
bu&longs;ine&longs;s with &longs;atire—now &longs;atire is but a
branch of poetry. I acknowledge, however,
much fal&longs;e wit is &longs;ent into the world, under
this general title; but no critick with whom
I am acquainted ever called &longs;atire fal&longs;e wit—
for as long as vice and folly continue to predominate
in the human heart, the &longs;atiri&longs;t
will be con&longs;idered as a u&longs;eful member of
&longs;ociety. I believe Addi&longs;on calls him an
-- 060 --
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auxiliary to the pulpit. Suffer me to enlarge
on this new idea. Satire is the correction
of the vices and follies of the human
heart; a woman may, therefore, read it to
advantage. What I mean by enforcing this
point, is, to impre&longs;s the minds of females
with a principle of &longs;elf correction; for among
all kinds of knowledge which ari&longs;e
from reading, the duty of &longs;elf knowledge is
a very eminent one; and is at the &longs;ame
time, the mo&longs;t u&longs;eful and important.
OUR ordinary intercour&longs;e with the world,
will pre&longs;ent to us in a very clear point of
view, the fallacious ideas we &longs;ometimes entertain
of our own &longs;elf knowledge.—We are
blinded by pride and &longs;elf love, and will not
ob&longs;erve our own imperfections, which we
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blame with the greate&longs;t acrimony in
other people, and &longs;eem to deteft with the
greate&longs;t abhorrence; &longs;o that it often happens,
while we are branding our neighbour for
&longs;ome foible, or vanity, we our&longs;elves are
equally guilty.
“RIDICULOUS as this conduct mu&longs;t appear
in the eyes of all judicious people, it is
too frequently practi&longs;ed to e&longs;cape observa-tion.
“I WILL drop this piece of morality,
with a charge to the fair reader, that whenever
&longs;he di&longs;covers a fatire, ridiculing or recriminating
the follies or crimes of mankind,
that &longs;he look into her own heart, and compare
the &longs;trictures on the conduct of others
with her own feelings.”
n1[1] THIS young lady was of a reputable family in Connecticut.
In her youth &longs;he was admired for beauty and
good &longs;en&longs;e. She was a great reader of novels and romances,
and having imbibed her ideas of the characters of
men, from tho&longs;e fellacious &longs;ources, became vain and coquetish,
and rejected &longs;everal offers of marriage, in expectation
of receiving one more agreeable to her fanciful idea.
Di&longs;appointed in her Fairy hope, and finding her
train of admirers le&longs;s &longs;olicitous for the honour of her
hand, in proportion as the ro&longs;es of youth decayed, &longs;he was
the more ea&longs;ily per&longs;uaded to relinqui&longs;h that &longs;tability which
is the honour and happine&longs;s of the &longs;ex. The consequences
of her amour becoming vi&longs;ible, &longs;he acquainted her
lover of her &longs;ituation, and a hu&longs;band was propo&longs;ed for
her, who was to receive a con&longs;iderable &longs;um for pre&longs;erving
the reputation of the lady; but, having received security
for the payment, he immediately withdrew. She then
left her friends, and travelled in the &longs;tage as far as Watertown,
where &longs;he hired a young man to conduct her in a
chai&longs;e to Salem. Here &longs;he wandered alone and friendle&longs;s,
and at length repaired to the Bell-Tavern, in Danvers,
where &longs;he was delivered of a lifele&longs;s child, and in about a
fortnight after (in July, 1788) died of a puerperal fever,
aged about 35 years.
Before her death &longs;he amu&longs;ed her&longs;elf with reading, writing
and needlework, and though in a &longs;tate of anxiety, preserved
a cheerfulne&longs;s, not &longs;o much the effect of insensibility,
as of patience and fortitude. She was &longs;en&longs;ible of
her approaching fate, as appears from the following letter,
which was written in characters.
“MUST I die alone? Shall I never &longs;ee you more? I
know that you will come, but you will come too late:
This is, I fear, my la&longs;t ability. Tears fall &longs;o, I know not
how to write. Why did you leave me in &longs;o much dissstress?
But I will not reproach you: All that was dear I
left for you; but do not regret it.—May God forgive in
both what was ami&longs;s: When I go from hence, I will leave
you &longs;ome way to find me; if I die, will you come and
drop a tear over my grave?”
In the following Poem, &longs;he, like the dying Swan, fings
her own Elegy, and it is here added, as a &longs;orrowful instance,
how often the be&longs;t, and mo&longs;t plea&longs;ing talents, not
accompanied by virtue and prudence, operate the destruction
of their po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;or.
The de&longs;cription of her unfortunate pa&longs;&longs;ion, will remind
the critical reader of the famous ode of Sappbo. In genius
and in misfortune, the&longs;e poetical ladies were similar.
“DISAPPOINMENT.
“WITH fond impatience all the tedious day
I figh'd, and wi&longs;h'd the lingering hours away;
For when bright He&longs;per led the &longs;tarrytrain,
My &longs;hepherd &longs;wore to meet me on the plain;
With eager ha&longs;te to that dear &longs;pot I flew,
And linger'd long, and then with tears withdrew:
Alone, abandon'd to love's tendere&longs;t woes,
Down my pale cheeks the tide of &longs;orrow flows;
Dead to all joys that fortune can be&longs;tow,
In vain for me her u&longs;ele&longs;s bounties flow;
Take back each envied gift, ye pow'rs divine,
And only let me call Fidelio mine.
“Ah, wretch! what angui&longs;h yet thy &longs;oul mu&longs;t prove,
Ere thou can&longs;t hope to lo&longs;e thy care in love;
And when Fidelio meets thy tearful eye,
Pale fear and cold de&longs;pair his pre&longs;ence fly;
With pen&longs;ive &longs;teps, I &longs;ought thy walks again,
And ki&longs;s'd thy token on the verdant plain;
With fonde&longs;t hope, thro' many a bli&longs;sful bow'r,
We gave the &longs;oul to fancy's pleafing pow'r;
Lo&longs;t in the magick of that &longs;weet employ,
To build gay &longs;cenes, and fa&longs;hion future joy,
We &longs;aw mild peace o'er fair Canäan rife,
And &longs;how'r her ble&longs;&longs;ings from benignant &longs;kies;
On airy hills our happy man&longs;ion ro&longs;e,
Built but for joy, no room for future woes;
Sweet as the &longs;leep of innocence, the day,
(By tran&longs;ports mea&longs;ur'd) lightly danc'd away;
To love, to bli&longs;s, the union'd &longs;oul was given,
And each! too happy, a&longs;k'd no brighter heaven.
“And mu&longs;t the hours in cea&longs;ele&longs;s angui&longs;h roll?
Will no &longs;oft &longs;un&longs;hine cheer my clouded &longs;oul
Can this dear earth no tran&longs;ient joy &longs;upply?
Is it my doom to hope, de&longs;pair and die?
Oh! come, once more, with &longs;oft endearments come,
Bur&longs;t the cold pri&longs;on of the &longs;ullen tomb;
Through favour'd walks, thy cho&longs;en maid attend,
Where well known &longs;hades their plea&longs;ing branches bend,
Shed the &longs;oft poi&longs;on from thy &longs;peaking eye,
And look tho&longs;e raptures lifele&longs;s words deny;
Still be, though late, reheard what ne'er could tire,
But, told each eve, fre&longs;h plea&longs;ures would in&longs;pire;
Still hope tho&longs;e &longs;cenes which love and fancy drew;
But, drawn a thou&longs;and times, were ever new.
“Can fancy paint, can words expre&longs;s;
Can aught on earth my woes redre&longs;s
E'en thy &longs;oft &longs;miles can
cea&longs;ele&longs;s prove
Thy truth, thy tenderne&longs;s and love.
Once thou could&longs;t every bli&longs;s in&longs;pire,
Tran&longs;porting JOY, and gay DESIRE:
Now cold DESPAIR her banner rears,
And PLEASURE flies when &longs;he appears;
Fond HOPE within my bo&longs;om dies,
And AGONY her place &longs;upplies:
O, thou! for who&longs;e dear &longs;ake I bear,
A doom &longs;o dreadful, &longs;o &longs;evere
May happy fates thy foot&longs;teps guide,
And o'er thy peaceful home pre&longs;ide
Nor let Eliza's early tomb
Infect thee, with its baleful gloom.”
-- 062 --
LETTER XII. Mrs. HOLMES to MYRA.
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
In Continuation.
My good father-in-law being &longs;o
&longs;trenuous in proving the eligibility of reading
&longs;atire, had &longs;pun out, what he called his
new idea, to &longs;uch a metaphyfical nicety, that
he unhappily dimini&longs;hed the number of his
hearers; for Mrs. Bourn, to whom he directed his di&longs;cour&longs;e, had taken down a book
and was reading to her&longs;elf, and Mi&longs;s was
diverting her&longs;elf with the cuts in Gay's Fables.
A CONSIDERABLE &longs;ilence en&longs;ued, which
Worthy fir&longs;t broke, by a&longs;king Mrs. Bouru
what book &longs;he had in her hand. Every
-- 063 --
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one's attention was alarmed at this important
enquiry. Mrs. Bourn, with little difficulty,
found the title page, and began to
read, “A Sentimental Journey through France
and Italy, by Mr. Yorick.”
“I DO not like the title,” &longs;aid Mi&longs;s Bourn.
“WHY, my dear!” apo&longs;trophized the
mother, “you are mi&longs;taken—it is a very famous
book.”
“WHY, my dear!” retorted the daughter,
“It is &longs;entimental—I abominate every
thing that is &longs;entimental—it is &longs;o unfashionable
too.”
“I NEVER knew before,” &longs;aid Mr.
Holmes, “that wit was &longs;ubject to the caprice
of fa&longs;hion.”
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“WHY 'Squire Biily,” returned Mi&longs;s,
“who is ju&longs;t arrived from the centre of politeness
and fa&longs;hion, &longs;ays the bettermo&longs;t genil
never read any &longs;entimental books—&longs;o you
&longs;ee &longs;entiment is out of date.”
THE company rofe to go out.—
“SENTIMENT out of date!” cries Worthy,
repeating the words of Mi&longs;s Bourn, and
taking the book from her mother, as &longs;he
walked towards the door—“Sentiment out
of date—alas! poor Yorick—may thy pages
never be foiled by the fingers of prejudice.”
He continued his addre&longs;s to the book, as they
went out, in the &longs;ame Shandean tone—“The&longs;e
anti&longs;entimentali&longs;ts would bani&longs;h thee from
the &longs;ociety of all books! Unto what a pitiful
&longs;ize are the race of readers dwindled!
-- 065 --
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Surely the&longs;e antis have no more to do with thee,
than the gods of the Canaanites—In character and under&longs;tanding they are alike—eyes
have they, but they &longs;ee not—ears have they,
but they hear not, neither is there any knowledge
to be found in them.” “It is hardly
worth while to beat it into them,” &longs;aid
my father-in-law, “&longs;o let us follow the company.”
WE did &longs;o—they walked towards the
hou&longs;e, and Worthy and my&longs;elf brought up
the rear.
I COULD not but remark, as we went on,
that Mi&longs;s Bourn had &longs;poken the &longs;entiments
of many of her &longs;ex;—“and whence,” &longs;aid
I to Worthy, “ari&longs;es this dete&longs;tation of books
in &longs;ome of us females, and why are they
-- 066 --
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enemies to any thing that may be called sentiment
and conver&longs;ation: I grant it often
happens there is &longs;uch rapidity of &longs;peeches that
one may be at a lo&longs;s to di&longs;tingui&longs;h the speakers;
but why is there &longs;uch a calm &longs;ilence,
&longs;hould an unfortunate &longs;entiment inadvertantly—
“I WILL tell you,” interrupted he, “You
all read, and it is from the books which engage
your attention, that you generally imbibe
your ideas of the principal &longs;ubjects discussed
in company—now, the books which
employ your hours of &longs;tudy, happen to be
Novels; and the &longs;ubjects contained in the&longs;e
Novels are commonly confined to dre&longs;s, balls,
vi&longs;iting, and the like edifying topicks; does it
not follow, that the&longs;e mu&longs;t be the &longs;ubjects
-- 067 --
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of your conver&longs;ation? I will not di&longs;pute
whether the Novel makes the woman, or the
woman makes the Novel; or whether they
are written to engage your attention, or
flatter your vanity. I believe the re&longs;ult will
&longs;hew they depend, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure, upon
each other; and an uninformed woman,
by reading them, only augments the number
of her futile ideas. The female mind, notwithstanding,
is competent to any ta&longs;k, and the
accompli&longs;hments of an elegant woman depend
on a proper cultivation of her intelligent
powers; a barrennefs—a &longs;terility of
conver&longs;ation—immediately di&longs;covers where
this cultivation is wanting.”
“GIVE me leave,” an&longs;wered I, “to efpouse
the cau&longs;e of this cla&longs;s of females. Tell
-- 068 --
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me candidly, Mr. Worthy, whether that insipid
flattery, perhaps &longs;acrificed at the expense
of truth, does not mi&longs;guide many of
us into erroneous paths? You declare we
are hand&longs;ome—and your conduct demonstrates
you to be more &longs;olicitous for the possession
of beautiful, than of mental charms.
Hence is the deluded female per&longs;uaded of
the force of her fa&longs;cinating powers, and
vainly imagines one glance of her eye sufficient
to reduce a million of hearts whenever
&longs;he choo&longs;es: Her aims, therefore, are
confined to the decoration of her per&longs;on, and
her views centre &longs;olely in fini&longs;hing her&longs;elf in
tho&longs;e attractive, allpowerful graces, with
which you declare your&longs;elves to be enchanted.
How then are they to be cen&longs;ured for neglecting
to improve, and to adorn the mind,
-- 069 --
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when your adulation diverts their attention
to an external object?”
“I JOIN with you,” replied Worthy, “in
calling it in&longs;ipid flattery—and the vain coxcomb,
the powdered beau, the in&longs;ignificant
petit maitre, are tho&longs;e who make u&longs;e of it.
Will women of real merit, and &longs;ound &longs;en&longs;e,
believe, what is &longs;aid by them to be their real
&longs;entiments?—No—There mu&longs;t be a congeniality
in the minds of tho&longs;e who give and
receive flattery—Has not the vain coquette
as much inclination to be thought a godde&longs;s,
as the empty admirer to declare her &longs;o?
“FLATTERY is become a kind of epidemical
di&longs;temper; many run into it, perhaps,
without de&longs;igning it, or only through civility.
There are &longs;ome women who expect it—
-- 070 --
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who dre&longs;s to be admired—and who deem it
a mark of impolitene&longs;s and rudene&longs;s in men,
who do not pay them the tribute of compliment
and adulation. A man of &longs;en&longs;e may
comply with their expectation—he will &longs;till
think them agreeable playthings, to divert
him at an hour of relaxation; but I cannot
&longs;uppo&longs;e he will entertain any ferious
thoughts of a more permanent connexion.
“MAY we not conclude the&longs;e things to
be productive of many evils that happen in
&longs;ociety—do they not frighten all &longs;entiment
from conver&longs;ation—introduce affectation—
pride—envy—clande&longs;tine marriages—elopements—
divi&longs;ion of families—and ultimately
terminate in the ruin of very many innocent,
but inconfiderate females?”
-- 071 --
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BY this time we had got into the hou&longs;e,
and our company &longs;oon after departed, leaving
us at full lei&longs;ure to contemplate on the
many wrong ideas entertained, and fallacious
&longs;teps pur&longs;ued by the generality of mankind,
in the &longs;entimental part of female education.
Adieu!
LETTER XIII. WORTHY to MYRA.
BELLEVIEW.
A PEACEFUL, reclu&longs;e life, is
&longs;uited to my temper—there is &longs;omething in
the &longs;oft breath of Nature—in the delicacy of
&longs;miling meadows and cultivated fields—in
the &longs;ublimity of an aged wood—of broken
-- 072 --
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rocks—of rivers pouring along their lucid
waves, to which the heart always gives a
ready reception—there is &longs;omething within
us congenial to the&longs;e &longs;cenes; they impre&longs;s
the mind with ideas &longs;imilar to what we feel
in beholding one whom we tenderly esteem.
I WAS making this ob&longs;ervation to Mrs.
Holmes, and &longs;he told me I was in love—
“The&longs;e are the very &longs;cenes,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“which your beloved Myra u&longs;ed to prai&longs;e
and admire, and for which you, by a &longs;ecret
&longs;ympathy, entertain the &longs;ame predilection.
The piece of embroidery which &longs;he worked
at an early age, and which ornaments the
Temple, I have &longs;een you gaze upon &longs;everal
times—you &longs;eem to trace perfection in every
-- 073 --
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part of it, becau&longs;e it was executed by the
hand of Myra.”
I ACKNOWLEDGE I have often gazed
upon it (as Mrs. Holmes terms it) but did
not recollect it to be a piece of your work.
I &longs;tole an opportunity to revi&longs;it it by my&longs;elf,
and I in&longs;tantly remembered it—I remembered
when you fini&longs;hed it, and all the happy,
inoffen&longs;ive &longs;cenes of our childhood, returned
fre&longs;h upon my heart.
IT is the work of Myra, &longs;aid I to my&longs;elf—
Did not her fingers trace the&longs;e beautiful,
expanding flowers?—Did not &longs;he give to
this carnation its animated glow, and to this
opening ro&longs;e its langui&longs;hing grace? Removed
as I am—continued I in a certain interiour
language that every &longs;on of nature
-- 074 --
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possesses—Removed as I am, from the amiable
object of my tendere&longs;t affection, I have nothing
to do but to admire this offspring of industry
and art—It &longs;hall yield more fragrance
to my &longs;oul than all the boquets in the
univer&longs;e.
I DID not care to pur&longs;ue the thought—it
touched a delicate &longs;tring—at fir&longs;t, however,
I flattered my&longs;elf I &longs;hould gain &longs;ome confolation—
but I lo&longs;t in every reflection.
I CONSIDERED the work as coming from
your hand, and was delighted the more with
it. A piece of &longs;teel that has been rubbed
with a load&longs;tone, retains the power of attracting
&longs;mall bodies of iron: So the beauties
of this embroidery, &longs;pringing from your
-- 075 --
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hands, continue to draw my attention, and
fill the mind with ideas of the arti&longs;t.
Farewel!
LETTER XIV. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
How incompetent is the force of
words to expre&longs;s &longs;ome peculiar &longs;en&longs;ations!
Expre&longs;&longs;ion is &longs;eeble when emotions are exquisite.
I WISH you could be here to &longs;ee with
what ea&longs;e and dignity every thing comes
from the hand of Harriot—I cannot give a
de&longs;cription equivalent to the great idea I
-- 076 --
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wi&longs;h to convey—You will tell me I am in
love—What is love? I have been trying to
inve&longs;tigate its nature—to &longs;trip it of its mere
term, and con&longs;ider it as it may be &longs;upported
by principle—I might as well &longs;earch for the
philo&longs;opher's &longs;tone.
EVERY one is ready to prai&longs;e his mi&longs;tre&longs;s—
&longs;he is always de&longs;cribed in her “native
&longs;implicity,” as “an angel” with a “placid
mein” “mild, animated” “altogether captivating,”
and at length the ta&longs;k of description
is given up as altogether “undescribable.”
Are not all the&longs;e in them&longs;elves bare
in&longs;ignificant words? The world has &longs;o long
been accu&longs;tomed to hear the &longs;ound of them,
that the idea is lo&longs;t. But to the que&longs;tion—
What is love? Unle&longs;s it is an&longs;wered now,
-- 077 --
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perhaps it never will be. Is it not an infinitude
of graces that accompany every thing
&longs;aid by Harriot? That adorn all &longs;he does?
They mu&longs;t not be taken &longs;everally—they cannot
be contemplated in the ab&longs;tract.—If you
proceed to a chymical analy&longs;is, their tenuous
e&longs;&longs;ence will evaporate—they are in themselves
nothing, but the aggregate is love.
WHEN an army compo&longs;ed of a great number
of men, moves &longs;lowly on at a di&longs;tance,
nobody thinks of con&longs;idering a &longs;ingle soldier.
Adieu!
-- 078 --
LETTER XV. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
Am I to believe my eyes—my
ears—my heart!—and yet I cannot be deceived.—
We are generally mo&longs;t &longs;tupid and
incredulous in what mo&longs;t materially concerns
us. We find the greate&longs;t difficulty,
in per&longs;uading our&longs;elves of the attainment of
what we mo&longs;t ardently de&longs;ire—She loves!—
I &longs;ay to my&longs;elf, Harriot loves me, and I
reverence my&longs;elf.
I THINK I may now take upon me &longs;ome
&longs;hare of happine&longs;s—I may &longs;ay I have not
lived in vain—for all my heart holds dear is
mine—joy and love encompa&longs;s me—peace
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
and tranquillity are before me; the pro&longs;pect
is fair and promi&longs;ing as the gilded dawn of
a &longs;ummer's day—There is none to &longs;upplant
me in her affection—I dread no rival, for
our tempers are &longs;imilar, and our hearts beat
in uni&longs;on together.
Adieu!
LETTER XVI. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
Love &longs;oftens and refines the
manners—poli&longs;hes the a&longs;perities of aukwardness,
and fits us for the &longs;ociety of gentle beings.
It goes further, it mends the heart,
and makes us better men—it gives the
-- 080 --
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fainthearted an extraordinary &longs;trength of &longs;oul,
and renders them equal and frequently
&longs;uperiour to danger and di&longs;tre&longs;s.
MY pa&longs;&longs;ions you know are quick, my prejudices
&longs;ometimes ob&longs;tinate—She tells me
the&longs;e things are wrong—This gentle reprimand
is &longs;o tempered with love that I think
&longs;he commends me. I however promi&longs;e a
reform, and am much plea&longs;ed with my improvement.
Harriot moulds my heart into
what form &longs;he choofes.
A LITTLE party is propo&longs;ed tomorrow
evening, and I &longs;hall attend Harriot. The&longs;e
elegant relaxations prevent the degeneracy
of human nature, exhilerate the &longs;pirits, and
wind up this machine of ours for another
revolution of bu&longs;ine&longs;s.
-- 081 --
LETTER XVII. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
Our little party was overthrown
by a &longs;trange piece of folly. A Mi&longs;s P—
was introduced, a young lady of beauty and
elegant accompli&longs;hments. The whole company
were beginning to be cheerful—business
and care were di&longs;gu&longs;ted at the &longs;ight of
&longs;o many happy countenances, and had gone
out from among us. Jollity and good humour
bade us prepare for the dance—unhappily
at this juncture a lady and gentleman
were engaged in a conver&longs;ation concerning
Mi&longs;s P—, and one of them repeated
the words “a mechanick's daughter”—
it is &longs;uppo&longs;ed the word “mechanick” was
-- 082 --
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repeated &longs;cornfully—She heard it—thought
her&longs;elf in&longs;ulted—and indignantly retired—
Di&longs;order and confu&longs;ion immediately took
place, and the amu&longs;ement was put an end to
for the evening.
I WISH people would con&longs;ider how little
time they have to frolick here—that they
would improve it to more advantage, and
not di&longs;pute for any precedence or &longs;uperiority
but in good nature and &longs;ociability—“a mechanick—
and pray whence this distinction!
INEQUALITY among mankind is a &longs;oe to
our happine&longs;s—it even affects our little
parties of plea&longs;ure—Such is the fate of the
human race, one order of men lords it over
-- 083 --
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another; but upon what grounds its right
is founded I could never yet be &longs;atisfied.
FOR this rea&longs;on, I like a democratical
better than any other kind of government:
and were I a Lycurgus no di&longs;tinction of rank
&longs;hould be found in my commonwealth.
IN my tour through the United States, I
had an opportunity of examining and comparing
the different manners and di&longs;po&longs;itions
of the inhabitants of the &longs;everal republicks.
Tho&longs;e of the &longs;outhern &longs;tates, accu&longs;tomed to
a habit of domineering over their &longs;laves, are
haughtier, more tenacious of honour, and
indeed po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s more of an ari&longs;tocratick temper
than their &longs;i&longs;ters of the confederacy.
As we travel to the northward, the nature
of the con&longs;titution &longs;eems to operate on the
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minds of the people—&longs;lavery is aboli&longs;hed—
all men are declared free and equal, and
their tempers are open, generous and communicative.
It is the &longs;ame in all tho&longs;e
countries where the people enjoy independence
and equal liberty. Why then &longs;hould
tho&longs;e di&longs;tinctions ari&longs;e which are inimical to
dome&longs;tick quietude? Or why &longs;hould the
noi&longs;y voice of tho&longs;e who &longs;eek di&longs;tinction, &longs;o
loudly reecho in the ears of peace and jollity,
as to deafen the &longs;ound of the mu&longs;ick For
while we are di&longs;puting who &longs;hall lead off the
dance, behold! the in&longs;trument gets out of
tune—a &longs;tring &longs;naps—and where is our
chance for dancing?
-- 085 --
LETTER XVIII. HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
BOSTON.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
My beloved has left me for a
while—&longs;he has attended Mrs. Francis in a
journey to Rhodei&longs;land—and here am I—
anxious—&longs;olitary—alone!—
NO thoughts, but thoughts of Harriot, are
permitted to agitate me. She is in my view
all the day long, and when I retire to re&longs;t
my imagination is &longs;till po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed with ideas of
Harriot.
-- 086 --
LETTER XIX. HARRINGTON to HARRIOT.
BOSTON.
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
If a wi&longs;h, ari&longs;ing from the mo&longs;t
tender affection, could tran&longs;port me to the
object of my love, I per&longs;ude my&longs;elf that
you would not be troubled with reading this
letter.
YOU mu&longs;t expect nothing like wit or humour,
or even common &longs;en&longs;e, from me; wit
and humour are flown with you, and your
return only can re&longs;tore them. I am sometimes
willing to per&longs;uade my&longs;elf that this is
the ca&longs;e—I think I hear the well known
voice, I look around me with the ec&longs;tacy of
Orpheus but that look breaks the charm, I
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find my&longs;elf alone, and my Eurydice vani&longs;hed
to the &longs;hades.
I HOPE you will not permit your&longs;elf to
grow envious of the beauties of Rhodei&longs;land
Of the force of their charms I am experimentally
acquainted. Whereever fortune
has thrown me, it has been my happine&longs;s
to imagine my&longs;elf in love with &longs;ome divine
creature or other; and after all it is but
truth to declare that the pa&longs;&longs;ion was &longs;eated
more in fancy than the heart; and it is justice
to acknowledge to you that I am now
more provident of my pa&longs;&longs;ion, and never suffer
the excur&longs;ion of fancy, except when I am
&longs;o liberal as to admit the united beauty of the
Rhodei&longs;land ladies in competition with
yours.
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WHERE there are hand&longs;ome women there
will nece&longs;&longs;arily be fine gentlemen, and &longs;hould
they be &longs;mitten with your external graces, I
cannot but lament their deplorable &longs;ituation,
when they di&longs;cover how egregiou&longs;ly they
have been cheated. What mu&longs;t be his dis-appointment,
who thought him&longs;elf fascinated
by beauty, when he finds he has un-knowingly
been charmed by rea&longs;on and
virtue!
BUT this you will &longs;ay contains a &longs;entiment
of jealou&longs;y, and is but a tran&longs;cript of my ap-prehensions
and gloomy anxieties: When
will your pre&longs;ence like the return of the fun
in the &longs;pring, which di&longs;pels glooms, and re-animates
the face of nature, quiet the&longs;e ap-prehensions.
If it be not in a &longs;hort time, I
-- 089 --
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&longs;hall proceed on a journey to find you out;
until then I commit you to the care of your
guardian angel.
LETTER XX. HARRINGTON to HARRIOT.
BOSTON.
Last night I went on a vi&longs;it to
your hou&longs;e: It was an adventure that would
have done honour to the Knight of La
Mancha. The moon a&longs;cended a clear, serene
&longs;ky, the air was &longs;till, the bells &longs;ounded
the &longs;olemn hour of midnight—I &longs;ighed—and
the rea&longs;on of it I need not tell you. This
was, indeed, a pilgrimage; and no Mu&longs;&longs;elman
ever travelled barefooted to Mecca with more
&longs;incere devotion.
-- 090 --
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YOUR ab&longs;ence would cau&longs;e an in&longs;ufferable
ennui in your friends, were it not for the art
we have in making it turn to our amu&longs;ement.
In&longs;tead of wi&longs;hing you were of our party,
you are the godde&longs;s to who&longs;e honour we
perform innumerable Heatheni&longs;h rites. Libations
of wine are poured out, but not a
gue&longs;t pre&longs;umes to ta&longs;te it, until they implore
the name of Harriot; we hail the new divinity
in &longs;ongs, and &longs;trew around the flowers
of poetry. You need not, however, take to
your&longs;elf any extraordinary addition of vanity
on this occa&longs;ion, as your ab&longs;ence will not
cau&longs;e any repining:
“Harriot, our godde&longs;s and our grief no more.”
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BUT to give you my opinion on
this important matter, I mu&longs;t de&longs;cend to
plain truth, and acknowledge I had rather
adore you a pre&longs;ent mortal, than an ab&longs;ent
divinity; and therefore wi&longs;h for your return
with more religious ardour than a devout
di&longs;ciple of the fal&longs;e prophet for the company
of the Houri.
THANKS to the power of imagination for
one fanciful interview. Methought I somewhere
unexpectedly met you—but I was
&longs;oon undeceived of my imaginary happine&longs;s,
and I awoke, repeating the&longs;e ver&longs;es:—
THOUGH &longs;leep her &longs;able pinions &longs;pread,
My thoughts &longs;till run on you;
And vi&longs;ions hovering o'er my head,
Pre&longs;ent you to my view.
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By FANCY's magick pencil dreft
I &longs;aw my Delia move;
I cla&longs;p'd her to my anxious brea&longs;t,
With TEARS of joy and love.
Methought &longs;he &longs;aid—“Why thus forlorn?—
Be all thy care refign'd:”—
I'woke and found my Delia gone,
But &longs;till the TEAR behind.
LETTER XXI. HARRIOT to MYRA.
RHODEISLAND
We arrived here in &longs;afety, but our
journey is not without incident—an incident
which exhibits a melancholy picture of the
wickedne&longs;s and depravity of the human
heart.
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WHEN we came to the hou&longs;e of Mrs. Martin,
who, I &longs;uppo&longs;e you know is cou&longs;in to
Mrs. Francis, we were not a little a&longs;toni&longs;hed
at the evident traces of di&longs;tre&longs;s in her countenance;
all her actions were accompanied
with an air of &longs;olemnity, and her former
gaiety of heart was exchanged for &longs;ad, serious
thoughtfulne&longs;s: She, however, put on
a face of vivacity upon our being introduced,
but her cheerfulne&longs;s was foreign to the feelings
of her heart.
MR. Martin was equally agitated; he endeavoured
to di&longs;po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s him&longs;elf of an uncommon
weight of remor&longs;e, but in vain—all his
di&longs;&longs;imulation could not conceal his emotion,
nor his art abate the continual upbradings of,
con&longs;cious guilt.
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MRS. Francis was anxious to enquire the
cau&longs;e of this extraordinary change, but wifely
forebore adding to the di&longs;tre&longs;s of her
friend, by de&longs;iring her to explain it, in a
manner too precipitate. She was in a &longs;hort
time made acquainted with the particulars
of the &longs;tory—which is not more melanoholy
than uncommon.
SOMETIME after the marriage of Martin,
the beautiful Ophelia, &longs;i&longs;ter to Mrs. Martin,
returned from an European vi&longs;it, to her
friends in Rhodei&longs;land. Upon her arrival,
&longs;he received a polite offer from her brotherin-law
of an elegant apartment at his hou&longs;e in
town, which was cheerfully accepted—Fatal
acceptation! He had conceived a pa&longs;&longs;ion for
Ophelia and was plotting to gratify it. By
-- 095 --
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a &longs;eries of the mo&longs;t artful attentions, suggested
by a diabolical appetite, he in&longs;inuated
him&longs;elf into her affection—he prevailed upon
the heart of the un&longs;u&longs;picious Ophelia, and
triumphed over her innocence and virtue.
THIS ince&longs;tuous connexion has &longs;ecretly
&longs;ub&longs;i&longs;ted until the pre&longs;ent time—it was interrupted
by a &longs;ymptom which rendered it
nece&longs;&longs;ary for Ophelia to retire into the country,
where &longs;he was delivered of a child, at
once the &longs;on and nephew of Martin.
THIS event was a &longs;evere mortification to
the proud &longs;pirit of Shepherd, the father of
Ophelia. His re&longs;entment to his daughter
was implacable, and his revenge of the injury
from Martin not to be &longs;atiated The
blaze of family di&longs;pute raged with
-- 096 --
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unquenchable fury—and poor Ophelia received other
puni&longs;hment from the hand of a vindictive
father than bare recrimination.
THE affection of Martin now became
changed to the vile&longs;t hatred.
THUS doomed to &longs;uffer the blacke&longs;t ingratitude
from her &longs;educer on the one hand,
and to experience the feverity of paternal vengeance
on the other—and before her the gloomy
pro&longs;pect of a bla&longs;ted reputation—what
mu&longs;t be the &longs;ituation of the haple&longs;s Ophelia!
Hope, the la&longs;t re&longs;ort of the wretched, was
forever &longs;hut out. There was no one whom
&longs;he dur&longs;t implore by the tender name of father,
and he who had &longs;educed her from her
duty and her virtue, was the fir&longs;t to brand her
with the di&longs;graceful epithets, of undutiful
and uncha&longs;te.
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PERHAPS it was only at this time, that
&longs;he became fully &longs;en&longs;ible of her danger; the
flattery and di&longs;&longs;imulation of Martin might
have bani&longs;hed the idea of detection, and glossed
over that of criminality; but now &longs;he
awoke from her dream of in&longs;en&longs;ibility, &longs;he
was like one who had been deluded by an
ignis fatuus to the brink of a precipice, and
there abandoned to his reflection to contemplate
the horrours of the &longs;ea beneath him,
into which he was about to plunge.
WHETHER from the promi&longs;es of Martin,
or the flattery of her own fancy, is unknown,
but it is &longs;aid &longs;he expected to become his wife,
and made u&longs;e of many expedients to obtain
a divorcement of Martin from her &longs;i&longs;ter:
But this is the breath of rumour.
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Allowing it to be truth, it appears to be the la&longs;t
attempt of de&longs;pair; for &longs;uch unnatural exertions,
with the compuction attending them,
repre&longs;ent a gloomy picture of the &longs;truggle between
&longs;i&longs;terly affection and declining honour.
They however proved unavailable,
and her efforts to that end, may with propriety
be deemed a wretched &longs;ubterfuge.
IN the mean while the rage of Shepherd
was augmenting. Time, in&longs;tead of allaying,
kindled the flame of revenge in the
brea&longs;t of the old man. A &longs;en&longs;e of the
wounded honour of his family, became
every day more exqui&longs;ite; he re&longs;olved to
call a meeting of the parties, in which the
whole my&longs;tery &longs;hould be developed—that
Ophelia &longs;hould confront her feducer, and a
-- 099 --
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thorough enquiry and explication he
brought about.
OPHELIA exerci&longs;ed all her powers to prevent
it; &longs;he intreated her father to con&longs;ent
to her de&longs;ire, but her tears and intreaties
were vain. To this earne&longs;t de&longs;ire of his
daughter, Shepherd oppo&longs;ed the honour of
his family. She replied that &longs;uch a procedure
would publi&longs;h its di&longs;grace and be subversive
of his intention: That &longs;he hoped to
live retired from the world, and it was in
his power to accept her happy repentance:
In extenuating, &longs;he wi&longs;hed not to vindicate
her errours, but declared her&longs;elf to be penetrated
with a melancholy &longs;en&longs;e of her miscondu
ct, and hoped her penitence might expiate
her guilt: She now beheld in the
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mosglaring colours, the dangers to which &longs;he had
been expo&longs;ed, and acknowledged the effects
of her temerity had impre&longs;&longs;ed her mind with
&longs;incere contrition: All per&longs;ons, continued
&longs;he, are not ble&longs;t with the like happine&longs;s of
re&longs;i&longs;ting temptation; &longs;he intreated her father,
therefore, to believe her mis&longs;ortunes
proceeded from credulity and not from an
abandoned principle—that they aro&longs;e more
from &longs;ituation than a depraved heart: In
a&longs;king to be re&longs;tored to the favour and prote
ction of a parent, &longs;he prote&longs;ted &longs;he was not
influenced by any other motive, than a wi&longs;h
to demon&longs;trate the &longs;incerity of her repentance,
and to e&longs;tabli&longs;h the peace and harmony
of the family.
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OPHELIA now became melancholy, and
her intentions vi&longs;ibly bent on the manner of
her death. As the time drew nigh, her sensibility
became more exquifite: What was
before di&longs;tre&longs;s, &longs;he now averred to be horrour:
Her conduct bordered upon insanity.
THE day was appointed to bring to a settlement
this unhappy bu&longs;ine&longs;s—the time of
hearing arrived—the parties met—the presence
of Ophelia was nece&longs;&longs;ary—&longs;he was missing—
the unfortunate Ophelia died by her
own hand.
MRS. Shepherd entered the apartment of
her daughter—&longs;he beheld her pale and trembling—
&longs;he &longs;aw the vial, and the cup with the
remains of the poi&longs;on—&longs;he embraced her
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lo&longs;t child—“My Ophelia! my daughter!
return—return to life.”
AT this cri&longs;is entered the father—he was
mute—he beheld his daughter &longs;truggling
with the pangs of di&longs;&longs;olution—he was dumb
with grief and a&longs;toni&longs;hment.
THE dying Ophelia was con&longs;cious of the
di&longs;tre&longs;s of her parents, and of her own situation—
&longs;he cla&longs;ped her mother's hand, and
rai&longs;ing her eye to heaven, was only heard to
articulate “let my crime be forgotten
with my name.—O fatal! fatal
poison!”
ADIEU! my dear Myra—this unhappy affair
has worked me into a fit of melancholy.
I can write no more. I will give you a few
particulars in my next. It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to
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behold the effects of this horrid cata&longs;trophe
and not be impre&longs;&longs;ed with feelings of sympathetick
&longs;orrow.
LETTER XXII. HARRIOT to MYRA.
RHODEISLAND.
How frail is the heart! How dim
is human fore&longs;ight! We behold the gilded
bait of temptation, and know not until taught
by experience, that the admi&longs;&longs;ion of one errour
is but the introduction of calamity.
One mi&longs;take imperceptibly leads to another—
but the con&longs;equences of the whole bursting
&longs;uddenly on the devoted head of an unfortunate
wanderer, becomes intolerable.
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How acute mu&longs;t be that torture, which &longs;eeks
an a&longs;ylum in &longs;uicide! O seduction! how
many and how mi&longs;erable are the victims of
thy unrelenting vengeance. Some crimes,
indeed, ceafe to afflict when they ceafe to
exi&longs;t, but SEDUCTION opens the door to a
di&longs;mal train of innumerable mi&longs;eries.
YOU can better imagine the &longs;ituation of
the friends of the unfortunate Ophelia than
I can de&longs;cribe it.
THE writings &longs;he left were expre&longs;&longs;ive of
contrition for her pa&longs;t tran&longs;action, and an
awful &longs;en&longs;e of the deed &longs;he was about to execute.
Her mi&longs;erable life was insupportable,
there was no oblation but in death—&longs;he
welcomed death, therefore, as the plea&longs;ing
harbinger of relief to the unfortunate. She
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remembered her once loved &longs;educer with
pity, and bequeathed him her forgivene&longs;s—
To &longs;ay &longs;he felt no agitation was not ju&longs;t, but
that &longs;he experienced a calmne&longs;s unknown
to a criminal was certain. She hoped the
ra&longs;hne&longs;s of her conduct would not be construed
to her di&longs;advantage—for &longs;he died in
charity with the world. She felt like a poor
wanderer about to return to a tender parent,
and flattered her&longs;elf with the hopes of a welcome,
though unbidden to return. She
owned the way was dark and intricate, but
lamented &longs;he had no friend to enlighten her
under&longs;tanding, or unravel the my&longs;teries of
futurity. She knew there was a God who
will reward and puni&longs;h: She acknowledged
&longs;he had offended him, and confe&longs;&longs;ed her
repentance. She expatiated on the
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miserable life &longs;he had &longs;uffered, not that &longs;he feared
detection, that was impo&longs;&longs;ible; but that &longs;he
had been doing an injury to a &longs;i&longs;ter who was
all kindne&longs;s to her; &longs;he prayed her &longs;i&longs;ter's
forgivene&longs;s—even as &longs;he her&longs;elf forgave her
&longs;educer; and that her crime might not be
called ingratitude, becau&longs;e &longs;he was always
&longs;en&longs;ible of her obligation to that &longs;i&longs;ter. She
reque&longs;ted her parents to pardon her, and acknowledged
&longs;he felt the pangs of a bleeding
heart at the &longs;hock which mu&longs;t be given to
the mo&longs;t feeling of mothers. She intreated
her &longs;i&longs;ters to think of her with pity, and died
with a&longs;&longs;urance that her friends would &longs;o far
revere her memory as to take up one thing
or another, and &longs;ay this belonged to poor
Ophelia
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O MY friend! what &longs;cenes of angui&longs;h
are here unfolded to the &longs;urvivours. The
unhappy Shepherd charged Martin with the
&longs;eduction and murder of his daughter.
What the termination of this mo&longs;t horrible
affair will be, is not ea&longs;y to fore&longs;ee.
Adieu!
LETTER XXIII. HARRIOT to MYRA.
RHODEISLAND.
Whatever may be the
other cau&longs;es (if there were any be&longs;ides her
&longs;eduction) which drove the unhappy Ophelia,
temerariou&longs;ly to end her exi&longs;tence, it certainly
becomes us, my dear friend, to attend
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to them—and to draw &longs;uch morals and lessons
of in&longs;truction from each &longs;ide of the
que&longs;tion, as will be a mirrour by which we
may regulate our conduct and amend our
lives. A prudent pilot will &longs;hun tho&longs;e rocks
upon which others have been da&longs;hed to
pieces, and take example from the conduct
of others le&longs;s fortunate than him&longs;elf: It is
the duty of the morali&longs;t, then, to deduce his
ob&longs;ervations from preceding facts in &longs;uch a
manner as may directly improve the mind
and promote the economy of human life.
THIS may be an apology for &longs;ending you
the arguments of Martin in an&longs;wer to Shepherd,
who in his rage and grief had called
him the murderer of his child.
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HE reminded Shepherd of his ob&longs;tinacy in
per&longs;i&longs;ting in an explanatory meeting, and
refu&longs;ing to grant Ophelia's reque&longs;t in suffering
the affair to &longs;ub&longs;ide—“Your proud spirit,”
&longs;aid he, “would not hearken to the
gentle remon&longs;trance of your daughter—your
heart was clo&longs;ed to every conciliatory proposition.
Though &longs;he expre&longs;&longs;ed a propensity
to fly from the eye of the world, &longs;he had
hitherto appeared lulled in a kind of happy
in&longs;en&longs;ibility; yet the approaching time of
explanation was terrible, it renewed the &longs;tory
and torture of all her misfortunes, and the
idea filled her with grief and di&longs;may. Had
you been as willing to receive her, as &longs;he to
return to you, happy would it have been for
both; but your pride was the cau&longs;e of additional
calamities—when the time arrived
-- 110 --
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—But why &longs;hall we harrow up our &longs;ouls
with the reiteration of her &longs;orrowful
exit?—
“FROM the&longs;e circum&longs;tances,” &longs;aid Martin,
“you cannot accu&longs;e me as the immediate
cau&longs;e of Ophelia's death; the facts are as I
have &longs;tated them—and thus was a &longs;traying,
but penitent child, driven to de&longs;pair and
&longs;uicide by a &longs;evere u&longs;e of paternal power, and
a vain attempt to re&longs;ent an injury, for which
it was impo&longs;&longs;ible the accu&longs;ed party could
make compen&longs;ation.”
NOTWITHSTANDING the plau&longs;ibility of
Martin's plea, I have little he&longs;itation in my
mind to charge him with the remote cau&longs;e of
the mi&longs;erable end of Ophelia.
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HOW far parental authority may be extended,
is a que&longs;tion which I &longs;hall not determine;
I mu&longs;t however think it depends upon
the combination of circum&longs;tances. The
duty of a child to her parents will be in proportion
to the attention paid to her education.
If, in&longs;tead of the u&longs;ual pains bestowed
by many partial parents, upon the vain
parade of forming the manners of a child,
and burthening the mind wiht the nece&longs;&longs;ity of
the douceurs and the graces, would it not
often be happier for both, to take a finall
&longs;hare of thought to kindle one &longs;park of grace
in the heart?
HAPPY the parents, who have be&longs;towed
upon their children &longs;uch an education, as
will enable them, by a principle of
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mediocrity, to govern them without extorting obedience,
and to reclaim them without exercising
&longs;everity.
Farewel!
LETTER XXIV. HARRIOT to MYRA.
RHODEISLAND.
Mrs. Francis is not altogether
&longs;atisfied with her journey to this part of the
country—She does not delight to brood
over &longs;orrow—She flies from the hou&longs;e of
mourning, to &longs;cenes of di&longs;&longs;ipation, congenial
to her temper and di&longs;po&longs;ition—and, like
the re&longs;t of the world, bears the misfortunes of
her friends with a mo&longs;t chri&longs;tian fortitude:
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The melancholy a&longs;pect of affairs here, will
therefore &longs;horten our vi&longs;it—&longs;o you may expe
ct us at Bo&longs;ton in a few days.
MY faithful lover (with whom I will certaily
make you acquainted in a &longs;hort time)
continues to write to me in very pa&longs;&longs;ionate
and fentimental &longs;trains. His laft letter
proves him to be a tolerable maker of rhymes,
and I inclo&longs;e it[2] for your entertainment.
I am, my dear,
Your mo&longs;t affectionate Friend.
n2[2] See Letter XX.
-- 114 --
LETTER XXV. MYRA to HARRIOT. (Written before &longs; he had received the preceding. )
BOSTON.
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
Your &longs;orrowful little hi&longs;tory has
infected me with grief. Surely there is no
human vice of &longs;o black a die—&longs;o fatal in its
confequences—or which cau&longs;es a more general
calamity, than that of &longs;educing a female
from the path of honour. This idea has
been improved by my brother, on the hint
of your favour—as an acknowledgment for
which I inclo&longs;e you his production.
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[The Inclo&longs;ed.]
The Court of Vice.
An APOLOGUE.
VICE “on a &longs;olemn night of &longs;tate,
In all her pomp of terrour &longs;ate,”
Her voice in deep, tremendous tone,
Thus i&longs;&longs;u'd from her ebon throne:
`This night at our infernal court,
`Let all our mini&longs;ters refort;
`Who mo&longs;t annoys the human race,
`At our right hand &longs;hall take his place,
`Rais'd on a throne—advanc'd in fame—
`Ye CRIMES now vindicate your claim.'
Eager for prai&longs;e, the hideous ho&longs;t,
All &longs;pake, a&longs;piring to the po&longs;t.
PRIDE &longs;aid, to gain his private ends,
He &longs;acrific'd his deare&longs;t friends;
Infulted all with manners rude,
And introduc'd ingratitude.
'Twas he infus'd dome&longs;tick hate,
And party &longs;pirit in the &longs;late;
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Hop'd they'd ob&longs;erve his my&longs;tick plan,
De&longs;troy'd all confidence in man;
And ju&longs;tify'd his high pretentions,
By caufing envy and diffentions.
INTEMP'RANCE loud, demands the place,
He'd long deceiv'd the human race;
None could &longs;uch right as he maintain,
Di&longs;ea&longs;e and death were in his train.
THEFT next appears to claim the &longs;tation,
E'er con&longs;tant in his dark vocation;
He thought the place might well repay,
The crime who labeur'd night and day.
FRAUD own'd (tho' loth to &longs;peak his prai&longs;e)
He gain'd his point by &longs;ecret ways;
His voice in cities had been heard,
And oft in &longs;enates been preferr'd!
Yet much deri&longs;ion had he borne,
Treated by hone&longs;t fools with &longs;corn;
His influence on the we&longs;tern &longs;hore
Was not &longs;o great as heretofore:
He own'd each &longs;ide alike a&longs;&longs;ail'd
Complain'd how &longs;adly he was rail'd,
Cur&longs;t by the name in ev'ry &longs;treet,
Of Paper, Tendry, Rogue and Cheat:
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Yet if &longs;ome honour &longs;hould requite
His labour—things might &longs;till go right.
MURDER before the foot&longs;tool &longs;tood,
With tatter'd robe di&longs;tain'd in blood.
`And who,' he cry'd, with daring face,
`Denies my title to the place?
`My watchful eyes mankind furvey,
`And &longs;ingle out the midnight prey;
`Not cowardlike I meet the foe,
With foot&longs;teps infecure and &longs;low,
`Or cau&longs;e his death by languid &longs;trife—
`Boldly this dagger ends his life.
`Give back, ye CRIMES, your claims re&longs;ign
`For I demand the po&longs;t as mine.
AV'RICE declar'd his love of gold;
His nation, or him&longs;elf he fold;
He taught the &longs;in of PRIDE betimes;
Was fo&longs;ter-father of all crimes:
He pawn'd his life; he &longs;tak'd his &longs;oul,
And found employment for the whole:
Acknowledg'd that he gain'd his wealth,
By FRAUD, by MURDER and by STEALTH:
On one &longs;o u&longs;eful in her cau&longs;e,
VICE well might lavi&longs;h due applau&longs;e.
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The hagger'd ho&longs;t bow low the head,
The Mon&longs;ter rofe, and thus &longs;he &longs;aid:
`Ye mini&longs;ters of VICE, draw near,
`For fame no longer per&longs;evere;
`No more your various parts di&longs;clo&longs;e,
`Men &longs;ee, and hate you all as foes.
`One yet remains among your crew,
`Then ri&longs;e, SEDUCTION! claim your due.
`Your baleful pre&longs;ence quickly parts
`The tie that holds the happie&longs;t hearts;
`You rob—what wealth can ne'er repay;
`Like Judas with a ki&longs;s betray:
`Hence come the &longs;tarving, trembling train,
`Who pro&longs;titute them&longs;elves for gain,
`Who&longs;e lanquid vi&longs;ages impart
`A &longs;mile, while angui&longs;h knaws the heart;
`Who&longs;e &longs;teps decoy unwary youth,
`From honour, hone&longs;ty, and truth,
`Which follow'd 'till too late to mend,
`In ruin, and the gallows end—
`Be thine the po&longs;t. Be&longs;ides, who knows
`Where all thy con&longs;equences clo&longs;e?
`With thee, SEDUCTION! are ally'd
`HORROUR, DESPAIR and SUICIDE.
`YOU wound—but the devoted heart
`Feels not alone—the poignant &longs;mart:
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`YOU wound—th' electrick pain extends
`To fathers, mothers, &longs;i&longs;ters, friends.
`MURDER may yet delight in blood,
`And deluge round the crim&longs;on flood;
`But fure his merits rank above,
`Who murders in the ma&longs;k of love.'
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LETTER XXVI. MYRA to Mrs. HOLMES.
BOSTON.
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In one of my former letters I
acquainted you that I &longs;u&longs;pected my brother
to be in love, and now, Madam, I am enabled
to tell you with whom—the amiable
Harriot.
HARRIOT attended Mrs. Francis in her
journey to Rhodei&longs;land, and our young hero
has, in her ab&longs;ence, been dreaming of his
mi&longs;tre&longs;s; and, in a letter to her has written
a de&longs;cription of his vi&longs;ionary interview.
Harriot, with whom I maintain a con&longs;tant
corre&longs;pondence, and who keeps no &longs;ecret
from me, inclo&longs;ed the ver&longs;es in her laft,
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when lo! the hand writing of Ma&longs;ter Har-rington.
I WAS a little mortified that the young
man had kept me in ignorance of his amour
all this time, and this morning determined
upon a little innocent revenge—“Tommy,”
&longs;aid I, as he entered the room, “here is a
piece of poetry, written by an acquaintance
of mine—I want your judgment on it”—
“Poetry or rhyme,” an&longs;wered he, advancing
towards me, and ca&longs;ting his eye on it—He
took the letter and began to read—“Why
do you blu&longs;h, young man?” &longs;aid I, “Har-riot
is a fine girl.”—
THIS produced an eclairci&longs;&longs;ement, and as
the matter mu&longs;t remain &longs;ecret, for a certain
weighty rea&longs;on, I am to be the confidante.
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I MUST acknowledge to you, Mrs. Holmes,
there is a certain je ne &longs;çais quoi in my amiable
friend, that has always intere&longs;ted me in her
favour—I have an affection for her which
comes from the heart—an affection which I
do not pretend to account for—Her depend-ance
on Mrs. Francis hurts me—I do not
think this lady is the gentle, complaifant
being, that &longs;he appears to be in company—
To behold &longs;o fine a girl in &longs;o di&longs;agreeable a
&longs;ituation, might at fir&longs;t attract my commifer-ation
and e&longs;teem, and a more intimate know-ledge
of her virtues might have ripened them
into love. Certain it is, however, that whom
I admire as a friend, I could love as a SISTER.
In the feelings of the heart there can be no
di&longs;&longs;imulation.
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PLEASE to tell Mr. Worthy, he may con-tinue
to write, and that I will conde&longs;cend to
read his letters.
Farewel!
LETTER XXVII. WORTHY to MYRA.
BELLEVIEW.
I AM ju&longs;t returned from a melan-choly
excur&longs;ion with Eliza. I will give you
the hi&longs;tory of it—We generally walk out
together, but we this time went further than
u&longs;ual—The morning was calm and &longs;erene—
all Nature was flouri&longs;hing, and its univer&longs;al
harmony con&longs;pired to deceive us in the
length of the way.
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WHILE we were pur&longs;uing our walk, our
ears were &longs;truck with a plaintive, mu&longs;ical
voice, &longs;inging a melancholy tune.—“This,”
&longs;aid Mrs. Holmes, “mu&longs;t be Fidelia—the
poor di&longs;tracted girl was carried off by a ruf-fian
a few days before her intended marriage,
and her lover, in de&longs;pair, threw him&longs;elf into
the river”—Eliza could &longs;ay no more—for
Fidelia refumed her melancholy &longs;train in the
following words:—
TALL rofe the lily's &longs;lender frame,
It &longs;hed a glad perfume;
But ah! the cruel &longs;poiler came,
And nipt its opening bloom.
Cur&longs;e on the cruel &longs;poiler's hand
That &longs;tole thy bloom and fled—
Cur&longs;e on his hand—for thy true love
Is number'd with the dead.
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Poor maiden! like the lily frail,
'Twas all in vain you &longs;trove;
You heard the &longs;tranger's tender tale—
But where was thy true love?
Thou wa&longs;t unkind and fal&longs;e to him,
But he did con&longs;tant prove;
He plunged headlong in the &longs;tream—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
'Twas where the river rolls along,
The youth all trembling &longs;tood,
Oppre&longs;t with grief—he ca&longs;t him&longs;elf
Amid&longs;t the cruel flood.
White o'er his head the billows foam,
And circling eddies move;
Ah! there he finds a watery tomb—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
WE advanced towards the place from
whence the &longs;ound i&longs;&longs;ued, and Fidelia, who
heard our approach, immediately ro&longs;e from
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the ground; “I was tired,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “and &longs;at
down here to re&longs;t my&longs;elf.”
SHE was dre&longs;&longs;ed in a long white robe, tied
about the wai&longs;t with a pink ribband; her
fine brown hair flowed loo&longs;ely round her
&longs;houlders—In her hand &longs;he held a number
of wild flowers and weeds, which &longs;he had
been gathering. “The&longs;e,” &longs;he cried, “are
to make a no&longs;egay for my love.” “He
hath no occa&longs;ion for it,” &longs;aid Eliza. “Yes!
where he lives,” cried Fidelia, “there are
plenty—and flowers that never fade too—I
will throw them into the river, and they will
&longs;wim to him—they will go &longs;traight to him”—
“And what will he do with them?” I a&longs;ked.
“O!” &longs;aid the poor girl as &longs;he looked wistfully
on them, and forted them in her hand,
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“he loves every thing that comes from me—
he told me &longs;o”—“He will be happy to receive
them,” cried Eliza—“Where he is,”
&longs;aid Fidelia, “is happine&longs;s—and happy are
the flowers that bloom there—and happy
&longs;hall I be, when I go to him—alas! I am
very ill now”—“He will love you again,”
&longs;aid Eliza, “when you find him out”—“O
he was very kind,” cried &longs;he, tenderly, “he
delighted to walk with me over all the&longs;e
fields—but now, I am obliged to walk
alone.” Fidelia drew her hand acro&longs;s
her cheek, and we wept with her.—
“I mu&longs;t go,” &longs;he &longs;aid, “I mu&longs;t go,” and
turned abruptly from us, and left us with
great precipitation.
Farewel!
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LETTER XXVIII. WORTHY to MYRA.
BELLEVIEW.
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My melancholy meditations led
me ye&longs;terday to the &longs;ame place where I had
&longs;een the di&longs;tracted Fidelia, and walking down
the hill I again beheld her by the &longs;ide of a
beautiful &longs;pring—Before I could come up to
the place, &longs;he was gone—&longs;he went ha&longs;tily
over the field—I followed her—after a few
minutes walk, I overtook her, and we both
went on together towards a &longs;mall, neat, farm
hou&longs;e. An old man was &longs;itting at the door—
he gave a &longs;igh as &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed by him to go
in—I a&longs;ked him if &longs;he was his daughter—
“Alas!” &longs;aid he, “my poor child—&longs;he has
been in this &longs;tate of affliction for near a twelve
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month.” I inquired what cau&longs;e produced
the lo&longs;s of her &longs;en&longs;es—He looked down sorrowfully—
the que&longs;tion awakened the gloomy
&longs;en&longs;ations of pa&longs;t evils, the recollection of
which was painful, and opened wounds afre&longs;h
that were not yet healed. “She has lo&longs;t
her lover,” cried the old man—“the youth
was the &longs;on of one of our neighbours—their
infancy was marked by a peculiar attachment
to each other. When the young people
danced together, Fidelia was always
the partner of Henry—as they grew up their
mutual tendernefs ripened into pa&longs;&longs;ionate
affection. They were engaged to each
other, and Henry &longs;aved all his little &longs;tock of
money to begin the world by him&longs;elf. All
the town beheld them with plea&longs;ure—they
wi&longs;hed them &longs;ucce&longs;s and happine&longs;s—and
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from their knowledge of both their charac-ters,
were led to hope they would one day
become good members of &longs;ociety—but the&longs;e
hopes are bla&longs;ted, and they now be&longs;tow the
bittere&longs;t cur&longs;es on the wretch who hath
cru&longs;hed their expectations—who hath de-prived
Fidelia of her &longs;en&longs;es, and cau&longs;ed the
death of her lover.
“THE gay Williams comes among us, and
participates in our dome&longs;tick pa&longs;times—he
&longs;ingles out Fidelia, and is affiduous in his at-tentions
to her—her little heart is lifted up—
but her prudence ri&longs;es &longs;uperiour to her
vanity. Henry ob&longs;erves the operations of
Williams and thinks he &longs;ees in him a power-ful
rival—the unhappy youth becomes me-lancholy—
he &longs;ickens with jealou&longs;y—the
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plea&longs;ures of our country are forgotten by
him—his thoughts are continually employed
on his Fidelia.—To complete the measure
of his promi&longs;ed happine&longs;s he wi&longs;hes to call
her his own—he declares the de&longs;ire of his
&longs;oul—Fidelia pledges her faith. He now
fees the accompli&longs;hment of all his wi&longs;hes in
rever&longs;ion—his heart leaps for joy—but—as
the little paraphernalia is preparing, the ruffian
hand of the Seducer da&longs;hes the cup of joy
from their lips—Fidelia &longs;uddenly di&longs;appears—
Williams—the ungrateful Williams—betrays
her to a carriage he had prepared, and
&longs;he is hurried off. Henry &longs;tands a&longs;toni&longs;hed—
wild with grief and di&longs;may, he appears
&longs;en&longs;ele&longs;s and confounded.
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“WHEN the heart is elevated by &longs;trong
expectation—di&longs;appointment and misfortune
come with redoubled force—To receive
pain, when we look for plea&longs;ure, penetrates
the very &longs;oul with accumulated anguish.”
THE old man pau&longs;ed—He endeavoured
to hide a tear that was &longs;tealing down his
cheek—and to check the violence of his passion.
I ASKED him how long his daughter was
mi&longs;&longs;ing—“Not long,” he an&longs;wered—“the
young men, enraged at the in&longs;ult, arm
them&longs;elves and pur&longs;ue the robber—they
overtake him—Williams is wounded in the
&longs;cuffle, and is carried away bleeding, by his
&longs;ervant—My daughter is regained—we
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thank Heaven for her re&longs;toration. She enquires
for her Henry—alas! Henry is no
more! The object of his love had flown from
him, and with her, all the light of his &longs;oul—
Darkne&longs;s and grief had encompa&longs;&longs;ed him—
he had no re&longs;ource, no con&longs;olation, no hope—
&longs;he whom his &longs;oul loved was &longs;tolen—was
wre&longs;ted from his embrace. Who was there
to admini&longs;ter relief?—Who was there to
&longs;upply her lo&longs;s?—Not one.—The light of
his rea&longs;on now became clouded—he is seized
by de&longs;pair, and urged forward by the torments
of di&longs;appointed love, he plunges into
the river—to clo&longs;e his &longs;orrows with his
life.
“THE lo&longs;s of Fidelia's &longs;en&longs;es followed this
tragical event.
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“SHE hears the &longs;ate of her lover and becomes
petri&longs;ied—the idea of her &longs;orrows—
her own agitation and care for her per&longs;on,
are lo&longs;t in the reflection of her lover's death.—
A while &longs;he raved—but is now &longs;omewhat
re&longs;tored, and, as you &longs;ee,the poor maniack
&longs;trays about the fields harmle&longs;s and inoffenfive.”
THE old man proceeded to inform me of
the death of his wife—the idea of one misfortune
arou&longs;ed in him that of another—or
rather there was a gradual progre&longs;&longs;ion in
them, and con&longs;equently a connexion—He
told me &longs;he did not long &longs;urvive the death
of Henry. “O Charlotte!” he cried, “thou
wa&longs;t kind and cheerful—very plea&longs;ant ha&longs;t
thou been unto me. I will not cea&longs;e to
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regret thy lo&longs;s, till I meet thee in a better
world.”
“OUR hearts,” continued the old man,
addre&longs;&longs;ing me, “are loo&longs;ened from their attachment
to this world by repeated &longs;trokes
of misfortune. Wi&longs;ely is it ordered thus.
Every calamity &longs;evers a &longs;tring from the
heart—until one &longs;cene of &longs;orrow on the back
of another, matures us for eternity—Thus
are our affections e&longs;tranged from this &longs;cene
of mi&longs;ery. The cord that detains the bird
is &longs;evered in two—and it &longs;lies away.
“FORMERLY as I &longs;at in this place—in
the mild &longs;hade of the evening—when I had
returned from my labour and took Fidelia on
my knee, how often have I rendered thanks
to Heaven for the happine&longs;s I enjoyed, and
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implored his power to make my child &longs;uch
another as Charlotte—This &longs;weet remembrance
yet &longs;wells and agitates my heart, and
in the mid&longs;t of the di&longs;tre&longs;s which &longs;urrounds
me, I feel a con&longs;olation in tracing to you a feeble
&longs;ketch of the happy times that are pasted.”
THE old man was &longs;en&longs;ibly affected—he
delighted to dwell on what his child had
been—he thought of tho&longs;e times—and he
fighed when he contra&longs;ted them with the
pre&longs;ent.
“IN her di&longs;ordered &longs;tate,” continued he,
“&longs;he knows me not as a father—I &longs;pread my
mor&longs;el before her, and &longs;he &longs;lies from it—&longs;he
forgets the &longs;ound of my voice—&longs;he is no
longer unto me as a daughter. She who
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hath &longs;o often &longs;aid, &longs;he would &longs;upport me
with her arm, and lead me about, when I
&longs;hould be old and decriped—to her I call,
but &longs;he returns me no an&longs;wer. Is not the
cau&longs;e of my woe, a melancholy in&longs;tance of
the baleful art of the SEDUCER?—She is
deprived of her rea&longs;on, and knows not the
weight of her mi&longs;ery; and I am doubly
burdened with her affliction, and the accumulated
misfortune of immature decripitude.”
“SEDUCTION is a crime,” I ob&longs;erved,
“that nothing can be &longs;aid to palliate or
excu&longs;e.”
“AND wo to him,” added the old man,
“who &longs;hall endeavour to extenuate it—
They have taken away my &longs;taff”—continued
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he, rai&longs;ing a look of imploring mercy to Heaven,
while a trembling tear rolled from his
&longs;wollen eye, “They have taken away my &longs;taff
in my old age.”
FREELY did my heart &longs;hare in the sorrows
of the good old man—when I left him,
I prayed Heaven to compa&longs;&longs;ionate his diftress—
and as I bent my pen&longs;ive &longs;tep towards
Belleview, I had lei&longs;ure to animadvert on the
fatal tendency of SEDUCTION.
Adies!
END of VOL. I.
