University of Virginia Library

PREJUDICES.

Byron.

On one of those small level spots, that may
be found as you toil up the steep road which,
running from Brattleboro' to Bennington, crosses
the Green Mountain, there stood, in 1820,
a little lone tenement inhabited by a woman
whose name was Ranson.

Mrs. Ranson had endured strange vicissitudes
of fortune, and it was reported her
troubles had entirely changed her character—
certain it was that she had for several years
pursued a course of conduct so extraordinary
as to excite either the wonder, pity, or censure
of all her acquaintance. Many declared her
singularities were affected to gain notoriety—
these were women—others thought her deranged—these
were mostly men—and a few
benevolent people of both sexes urged the sorrows
of a broken and contrite spirit had induced
her to relinquish the flattering but false world,

and seek a refuge from its vexations in her solitary
abode on the Hills.

I can only give an abstract of Mrs. Ranson's
story; those who regret its brevity, (if such old
fashioned readers exist in this age of literary
`shreds and patches,') may easily, by the aid
of a little imagination, invest these simple facts
with all the complex circumstances, enchanting
descriptions and interesting colloquies, of a
long romance. I am half inclined to attempt
the exploit myself. This short hand mode of
authorship is but a poor way of managing, if
one wishes to secure either profit or fame.
To manufacture a two volumed novel, hardly
requires more exertion of mind, than to write a
good sketch.

Isabelle Carrick was a native of the West
Indies. Her mother died a few days after the
girl's birth, and her father when she was twelve
years old; but in the interim he had married a
second wife, who bore him a boy. With that
ill-judging partiality which may be termed injustice
of the most cruel kind, because it completely
baffles the law and often shrouds itself
under pretexts that prevent the sufferer from
receiving even sympathy, Mr. Carrick gave his
whole property, which was very large, to his
son; only stipulating that Isabelle should be
educated and supported by her brother till
her marriage, and should she ever become a
widow, she was entitled to an annuity of one
hundred pounds a year.

When the contents of the will became known,
the maternal relations of Isabelle were highly

incensed, and they demanded she should be
given up to them. Her stepmother, who, it
was believed, had influenced her husband's
will, very readily consented to relinquish all
right over the portionless orphan; by that
means she was freed from the necessity of
educating her. Isabelle, accordingly, passed
into the family of her uncle Tolbert. Some disturbances
soon after occurring among the slave
population, rendered Mr. Tolbert's situation at
Jamaica unpleasant, and he determined to leave
the Island. His wife was an American, and
that was probably the reason that induced him
to remove to New York rather than return to
England. Isabelle, now at the interesting age
of sixteen, was such a beautiful girl that her
uncle had no doubt of establishing her advantageously
in a country where marriage was an
affair of the heart and not merely a calculation
of pecuniary advantages, even though it were
known she was portionless. Yet Mr. Tolbert
did not intend thus to test the sincerity of those
who professed to admire his niece. He had no
children; he had adopted the orphan and declared
her his heir, and it is no wonder she
was soon the star of the city. Many connoisseurs
in female charms pronounced Isabelle
Carrick to be perfect in loveliness. There is
no standard, there can be none of personal
beauty; the feelings of the heart have more influence
than rules of taste in our estimation of
the human face; yet there are countenances so
peculiarly fascinating, that criticism and comparison
are out of the question. If the beholder
has a soul susceptible of those divine impressions
of the beautiful which are among the
distinguishing characteristics that prove man
superior to his `brothers of the clod,' he acknowledges
at once the interest of such a countenance.
No human eye ever regarded a rose,
rainbow or star, and turned away disgusted;
and seldom do we find a person that can gaze
on either with perfect indifference. Such
apathy would argue a man's mind more disagreeable,
if not as dangerous, as to have `no
music in his soul'—which, according to Shakspeare,
is one of the seven deadly sins.

But Isabelle Carrick was never regarded
with indifference. The men praised and admired;
the women praised too, as loudly as the
men, but I fear there was a little envy, or at
least, a little repining mingled in their feelings
of admiration. What makes this suspicion probable,
I have been told that they always concluded
their eulogy on her beauty by saying it
was perfect, considered as a specimen of the
West Indian style—the men never made a
qualification in their panegyrics.

`I think,' said Miss Dutton, `that Isabelle's
cheek wants bloom. She has a fine, delicate
complexion, and it contrasts sweetly with her
profusion of curls,

Now tinge her cheek with a little “celestial
rosy red,” and she would be in appearance,
what you gentlemen esteem her, an angel.'

`But you probably recollect,' replied Edwin
Cone, `that the “rosy red” to which you allude,
was imparted by a blush, and Isabelle's cheek
wears that tinge at the least compliment or
emotion—a tinge that may be considered “celestial,”
as it proceeds from delicacy of mind,
from sentiment, and is not dependent on jocund
health, and never needs the repairs of art.'

`But then her eyes, Edwin.—Do you really
admire such black eyes? They seem too spirited
to please me. I know the Mahometans
celebrate their dark eyed Houris, but I believe
Christians usually connect the beautiful sky-color
with the idea of angels' eyes.'

Edwin Cone was very polite. He saw the
blue eyes of the fair speaker beam with the
expectation of a compliment. Could a gallant
man refuse it? With a bow and smile he declared
it would be profane to compare angels'
eyes to aught save stars, and those were always
set in blue; and that the most charming
description of woman's orb of vision he ever
saw, was—

The very next day, Isabelle Carrick learned
that Edwin Cone disliked black eyes. But
happily her heart was not at all interested in
his decision. Had John Ranson made such a
declaration, she would probably have felt very
wretched.

There is no subject on which the old and
young differ in opinion so materially as on the

qualities most likely to ensure happiness in the
married state. The aged are swayed by interest,
the youthful guided by feeling. Perhaps
it would be difficult to decide which party are
oftenest disappointed. Those matches are undoubtedly
the happiest, which have been contracted
equally from affection and prudence;
—but heroines are not very apt to consider
prudence necessary. At least, when Isabelle
Carrick married John Ranson, in opposition to
the wishes of her uncle, she did not consult her
interest—and that is to be imprudent—is it not?
An answer to that question, properly discussed,
in all its bearings, would fill a volume. I
wish some rationally moral philosopher, who
has made that wayward thing, the human
heart, his particular study, would write a treatise
on the subject.

Mr. Tolbert held true English aristocratic
ideas of love and marriage. `The faith of
true lovers,' he observed, `was of no consequence,
except “to adorn a tale.” It was
amusing to read of love in a novel, but to believe
in its reality, or that a particular fancy
for the person was necessary to make men and
women happy in marriage, was as absurd as
to credit the stories of dragons and demons,
knights and necromancers, exalted characters,
and enchanted castles, and all the materiel of
the romances of chivalry, from which the unreasonable
ideas of love had been imbibed.
The marriage most likely to ensure happiness
to the contracting parties, must be founded, like
any other bargain, on mutual interest; some

substantial benefit must be conferred on each,
by the union; and then, the knowledge that
their partnership was indissoluble, would induce
them, if they had common sense, to treat
each other with complaisance, which was all
the felicity that ought to be expected.'

Isabelle Carrick had heard these sentiments
of her uncle expressed a thousand times, and
illustrated by many anecdotes of contented
couples, who married for interest, and wretched
pairs, who wedded for fancy; but she did
not, it seems, profit much by such wise lessons
and lectures. She loved John Ranson,
although her uncle charged the said John with
being a poor man's son, and, moreover, guilty
of being obliged to earn his own livelihood,
though he had, by his industry, and application,
raised himself to the station of junior
partner in a respectable mercantile establishment.
Should such a plebeian be preferred
before Edwin Cone, whose father, descended
from a respectable English family, was possessed
of a large fortune, and gave the most
splendid dinner parties in the city?

Mr. Tolbert thought it but of small consequence
that Edward Cone was a licentious
profligate, and had broken, at least, one engagement
to marry. However, he did not command
his niece to accept of Edwin; he only
said, `you may take your choice, Isabelle. If
you marry Mr. Cone, I will give you ten
thousand pounds on the wedding day, and the
remainder of my estate at my decease—but
should you wed John Ranson, I will never give

you a shilling, though you were starving at my
gate.'

Isabelle preferred John; and her uncle soon
after left America, in high dudgeon, railing at
the manners and customs of the people, and
declaring that his niece would never have been
guilty of such folly, in a country where a proper
respect was paid to rank; that the levelling
principles of republicanism were subversive of
all gentility, and must, while they governed
the people, effectually prevent the regulations
of good society from being understood and
adopted.

`They are all,' said he, `so perfectly canaille
in their sentiments, that Isabelle's choice
was commended in some of their highest circles,
because, forsooth, John Ranson was industrious,
enterprising, and clever;—I can
say as much of my footman.'

Fourteen years passed—Isabelle had counted
the lapse of time, only by the recurrence of
new blessings and pleasures, and to her, life
still looked bright; or, if a cloud appeared, it
was always spanned with the rainbow. She
was still lovely, and beloved; the tender, tried,
and trusted friend of her excellent husband, and
the mother of one beautiful boy. What more
can earth offer of happiness! But why dwell
on the picture?

The embargo that preceded the last American
war, occasioned the first reverse of fortune.
Mr. Ranson struggled manfully to support his
credit, for he knew that the weal and wo of
those dearer than himself, were involved in his
fate. His friends, for a time, buoyed him up;
but the struggle between the nations commenced,
and then who sympathised much for individual,
and pecuniary suffering, while the fate
of armies, and the fame of the Republic were
at hazard? But Mr. Ranson was soon released
from all inquietudes. Journeying from
Albany to Boston, the carriage in which he
travelled, was, by the horses taking fright,
precipitated down a deep chasm, where he was
instantly killed.

Hitherto, Mrs. Ranson, though she had lost,
or been abandoned by all her own relations,
and had, by injustice and prejudice, been deprived
of the fortunes to which she had been
apparently destined, yet it could hardly be
said she had endured a reverse. Can that be
termed a reverse which is not felt as a misfortune?
Even her husband's embarrassments
had not been realized by her, as he had sedulously
labored to prevent his family from suffering
privations. But she was now widowed
and destitute of property; and the friends of
her prosperity were so shocked at her misfortunes,
and the consequent change in her appearance
and behavior, that they unanimously
concluded that she did not wish for society;
and they were too well bred to intrude on her
sorrows.

The sufferings of Mrs. Ranson, and the neglect
of her city friends, induced her to apply
to the relations of her husband, and this finally
led to an arrangement, by which she consented
to remove, with her child, to a small town in
the western part of Massachusetts, and reside
with his aged parents.

Mrs. Ranson was now placed in a situation,
perhaps the most difficult and trying of any in
the world, for one of her character, and education.
She was placed in a little tattling country
village, where the system of espionage was
as perfect, and far more harassing, to those unaccustomed
to its operations, than it ever was
in Paris, when Fouche regulated the police,
under the orders of Bonaparte.

It is not in cities, or among the educated and
fashionable of a community, that national peculiarities
can be well, or truly discovered.
We must go into the remote villages, and
among the scattered settlements of the interior
of New-England, if we would discover the effect,
either for good, or for evil, which the condition,
principles, practices, and institutions of
the Puritans, have had on the Yankee character.

It has not all been for good; but our enemies
have never discovered the greatest fault. It
is not inquisitiveness, or egotism, or selfishness.
It is calculation,—a close, cold, careful
calculation. A Yankee, (I speak of the common
minded,) calculates his generosity and
sympathy, as methodically as his income; and
to waste either, on an unprofitable, or undeserving

object, would be foolish, if not wicked.
He is charitable; but it is from principle, not
feeling. Yet he is not deficient in warmth of
heart; but duty, his duty is always paramount
to his impulses. This is a good principle—the
mischief is, that `good things spoiled, corrupt
to worst.' Thus his rigid performance of duty
is made, and often conscientiously, the plea of
withholding assistance from the necessitous,
for fear of encouraging idleness; of prying into
the most secret actions and sacred griefs of
the afflicted, before pitying their sorrows, least
they should be deserved or self-incurred.

Then the Yankee, in his calculations, generally
makes his own situation, conduct, and
principles, the model for others. Accustomed
to labor himself, he calculates that every person
ought to be as constantly employed; and
compelled by his narrow income to practice
rigid prudence, he deems a more liberal expenditure,
wasteful profusion.

It was among such a scrupulously calculating
people, that Mrs. Ranson was fated to
dwell; and she fixed the attention of the whole
community. Her appearance, dress, conversation,
manners, and principles, were all in
turn, scrutinized; even her thoughts and feelings
were guessed at, and her plans and future
prospects, made the frequent subject of that
kind of commiseration, which seems to proceed
from a hope, that the evils thus conjured up,
like Banquo's shadowy kings, to frown in review,
will be fully realized.

`O la!' said Mrs. Pratt, as she took her

seat at the table of her neighbour Dustin, where
she regularly drank her tea every week;—`O
la! I declare I never was so shocked in my
life. Mrs. Cutter heard her say so.'

`Who? what?' inquired Mr. Dustin.

`Gracious! Mr. Dustin, have you not heard
it?' said Mrs. Pratt. `Well, I declare, I
never meant to mention the thing; I would
not have it get about among the people for all
the world, for I really believe the woman does
as well as she knows how. Only think! she
could not be brought up like a Christian, away
there in the West Indies. We must have
charity for such folks.'

`Oh, you are talking of Mrs. Ranson, I
see,' said Mr. Dustin.

`Yes, I have just been telling your wife;
but pray never mention it,—or if you do, never
say I told you,—that Mrs. Ranson says she
thinks our meetings are very dull, and she had
rather read prayers at home, than hear our
minister preach. And then she always wants
a parade for dinner, because they used to have
great dinners in the city. I wonder if she
thinks that is the way to keep the Sabbath day
holy?'

`Does she do anything, I wonder?' said
Mrs. Dustin.

`No, indeed—not she,' replied Mrs. Pratt.
`Why, she has her black woman, to wait upon
her; and there's her child, brought up in idleness;
that great boy, nearly fifteen, who wears
his ruffles every day, and they say, never did
any work in his life.'

`I wonder how she thinks they are to be
maintained,' said Mr. Dustin. `Old Mr. Ranson
has but little property, and his wife is
very unwell. They cannot support such an
idle, expensive family.'

`Oh, she doesn't think about it,' replied
Mrs. Pratt.

`Such grand folks never seem to think about
expenses. They have never calculated how
to get a living. But I fear she will have to
put out her boy, and work herself, before she
dies.'

`I suppose she expects people will assist
her,' said Mr. Dustin. `And the widow and
fatherless should always be remembered.'

`I suppose she does; but I am afraid the
poor woman will be disappointed,' said Mrs.
Pratt. `People that work as hard as we do,
cannot feel it our duty to support a family in
idleness. She ought to put out that great boy,
and have him taught to work, and then he
might help maintain her.'

`They say she married against her uncle's
consent,' said Mrs. Dustin. `It is no wonder
she does not prosper.—She might have had all
his estate, if she had only tried to please him.'

`She looks to me like a woman who is very
set in her own way, and very haughty,' said
Mrs. Pratt. `I called to see her the day after
she arrived, for I thought it my duty to visit the
unfortunate, and the stranger, and I meant to
like her, if I could, for I really pitied her; but
she took no notice of me, and hardly spoke

while I was there. I cannot waste my time
to visit such proud folks.'

Mrs. Ranson had a kind and generous disposition,
but she was very sensitive, and her
refined and delicate mind, though bowed with
affliction, was not, in the least, divested of
those feelings of independence, and superiority,
which persons always accustomed to affluence,
and to the humble attendance of slaves,
must necessarily imbibe. She was shocked at
the grossness of the villagers, and irritated at
what she thought their unfeeling interference
in her private concerns; but, especially, the
idea that her son ought to be confined to labor,
was an indignity, an outrage, on all propriety,
that she never could pardon.

The two parties were soon completely at
variance, and the villagers, by dint of clamors,
if not reasons, were, as is usual, victorious.
They convinced old Mr. Ranson, that his
grandson John would certainly be ruined, if
he was not taught to work. But the lad was
as tenacious of his patrician privileges as his
mother, and rather than don the `every-day
clothes' of a plough boy, he besought her to
allow him to enlist as a soldier.

He was nearly fifteen, and tall of his age,
and soldiers were, at that time, so much needed,
that officers could not be very particular in
the qualifications of recruits. It was a trying
scene for Mrs. Ranson; but finally, the pride
and prejudices of the woman prevailed over
the tenderness and apprehensions of the mother.

She knew her son would be more exposed
to danger with the musket; but then he
would escape the contamination of the spade.
The field of glory, or the corn field! Could
one of her education and feelings prefer the
latter? She would let him go and serve his
country, and leave his fate with that Power
who watches the orphan. She could humble
herself before God, and intercede for her child,
but she could not endure to see him degraded
before men, as in her estimation he would be,
if he labored.

The lad departed, and but a few weeks elapsed
before a stranger came to the village and
inquired for Mrs. Ranson. He was a messenger
from the executors of her uncle Tolbert.
That gentleman had on his death bed, bequeathed
his immense property to the son of
Mrs. Ranson; but still wishing to manifest
some displeasure against his niece, he ordained
that if the boy died before he attained the
age of eighteen, the estate should all go to a
distant relative in England. After that period,
should he die without heirs, the personal property,
which was very considerable, was to be
his mother's. The messenger hastened with
all possible speed to Buffalo, where the troops,
in which young John Ranson served, were stationed;
but before he arrived, the battle of
Chippewa had been fought, and the brave boy,
who signalized himself more than once during
the action, was numbered with the dead!

Who shall picture the mother's grief! It

excited for a short time, the concern and consternation
of the villagers! They knew it
was their clamors which induced Mrs. Ranson
to send her son from her—they felt condemned;
yet still, most of them pertinaciously maintained
that not withstanding the wealth which the
boy would have inherited had he lived, it would
nevertheless have been an excellent thing for
him, had he learned to work.

It is painful to dwell on the sorrows of the
desolate hearted, but it is more painful still to
witness the cold, unfeeling manner with which
those sorrows are ofttimes treated by the ignorant
and prejudiced. The regret of the villagers
was of short continuance. Mrs. Pratt began
her round of visiting, and by the time she
had drank tea with all the principal families
in the neighbourhood, which was about three
weeks, she had convinced them that Mrs. Ranson
was not at all to be pitied; that her troubles
were but a just chastisement for her pride
and obstinacy; and that it was doubtless a
mercy that her son was taken away, as she
would now have no earthly dependence, and
would probably soon be brought to a proper
sense of her follies, and then she would see that
everything had been ordered for the best.

But there was one benevolent family in the
village. One man and woman who pitied and
assisted Mrs. Ranson, without censuring her.
There were doubtless others of similar generosity;
but these persons were the only ones
she would acknowledge as benefactors. That

inflexible perseverance in a favorite point when
persuaded that duty sanctions the course pursued,
which is so characteristic of the Yankees,
and which Mrs. Ranson thought so inhuman
while employed to convince her that her son
ought to work, she found, when displayed in
her service, was equally zealous. Mr. Lawrence
was a merchant, but he did not square
his humanity by the rule of `loss and gain.'
He learned from the tenor of Mrs. Ranson's
father's will, that, as a widow, she was entitled
to an hundred pounds per annum, and he never
ceased his inquiries, and exertions, till he
had succeeded in establishing her claim, and
providing for the regular payment of her annuity.
He delivered into her hands the documents,
and told her the only reward for his
trouble which he desired was to see her restored
to tranquillity. But though she did justice
to the nobleness and humanity of Mr. Lawrence,
and loved his wife like a sister, she
could not be persuaded to return to society:
The fate of her husband and son, but especially
the latter, preyed on her heart, and almost
overwhelmed her reason. She felt that she
had yielded to her own prejudices when she
consented he should go to the battle. Self-accusation
made her wretched. She blamed
the people, it is true, but that did not atone or
justify her own error. Had there been a convent
in the country, she would undoubtedly
have devoted herself to the penance of a monastic
life. She finally had a small house prepared
as near as possible to the spot where
her husband perished; and there, accompanied
only by her faithful negro woman who had attended
her from infancy, she resided in 1820.
Pale and wasted, but still beautiful, she seemed,
as she was described by the traveller, arrayed
in her mourning habiliments, wandering
among the lonely hills, or seated on the overhanging
cliffs, like a spirit sent to warn him of
some danger in the path before him. She was
the victim of prejudices. But let it be remembered,
that though we may be excessively
annoyed by the prejudices of others, we shall
never be quite wretched if we do not yield
ourselves to the guidance of our own.