 | Traits of American life |  |
THE FATE OF A FAVOURITE.
Let us not break in upon him:
Oh! change beyond report, thought, or belief.”
Sampson Agonistes.
Lewis Merton was a rich man's only child,
and often pronounced, by all who visited at his father's,
the finest boy in Boston. In personal appearance
he was a fine child, and would have been
an intelligent one, had he not been injured by the
indulgence of his appetites. There is small danger
of being starved in our land of plenty; but the
danger of being stuffed is imminent, and yet hardly
a thought is bestowed on the subject by those who
direct the public sentiment. You may indulge any
childish propensity with less injury to the intellect
than that of gluttony.
Eating to excess constantly will deaden or destroy
the energies of the mind, while those of the
animal are increased, till the immortal becomes
perfectly swinish; and yet many tender, delicate
mothers, seem to think that to make their children
eat, is all that is requisite to make them great.
But eating to excess was not the only temptation
to which Lewis Merton was exposed. He was always
allowed to come to the table, because he was
an only child; and of course he could not fail to
hear his father's eulogies on the good effect of a
glass of brandy and water after dinner. Mrs. Merton
eschewed brandy as a lady would do, but she
took a little wine, for fashion's sake. Miss Temperance
Merton was a maiden lady, with a pale,
consumptive cheek, and her constitution could not
endure either brandy or wine. She only sipped
anniseed or clover-water. Lewis tasted of all. And
in addition to these indulgences, his nurse always
gave him gin and molasses for a cold; and his good
grandmother insisted that the juice of wormwood,
infused in rum, was the “sovereignest thing on
earth” for worms. But, in justice to his taste, I
must say that he never approved of her medicine.
Now, with all these temptations, is it strange
Lewis became intemperate? or that he was, in
consequence of being intoxicated, suspended for
the term of six months, during his second year at
Yale? His parents were bowed down to the dust
with grief and mortification, but their sorrows
made but little impression on their son. He had,
by the indulgence of his appetites, been rendered
that most revolting spectacle—a cold-hearted, selfish,
sottish being, in the season of life when the
should have been predominant. These impulses
may run riot, and may produce evil consequences;
but we feel even then that
Was light from heaven.”
Mr. Merton endeavoured, by every means he
could devise—some harsh ones—to correct the bad
habits of his son; and his gentle mother wept over
her dear Lewis; and while she told him repeatedly
that he was her only hope, besought him not to
break her heart by destroying himself. Had she
only conducted his early training judiciously, all
this sorrow and fear would have been spared her.
Why are not mothers more careful?
The six months of disgrace were ended, and Mr.
Merton ordered Lewis to return to Yale. He was
furnished with money for his expenses on the road,
his father determining he should have no more at
command than necessary. But Mrs. Merton made
her son a parting gift—she little dreamed it was to
be a final parting. Lewis bade them farewell with
perfect nonchalance; but instead of going to New
Haven proceeded to Hartford, from there to New
York, and then to Philadelphia. His father could
never trace him farther: though a rumour that a
young man answering to the description of Lewis
almost distracted parent to that city. But the murdered
youth proved to be the son of another, and
so Mr. Merton felt some hope that Lewis might
return. But two or three years passed without tidings,
and he relinquished the hope. Mrs. Merton
would not yet despair, though her trouble was fast
wearing away her life. The only pleasure she
seemed to enjoy was in acts of charity; and she
was accordingly applied to often on behalf of the
distressed. One case occurred during the spring of
1811, which interested her much, and for a time
seemed to steal her from the contemplation of her
own sorrows.
Application had been made to several benevolent
individuals in Boston, on behalf of a lady who, it
was stated, had come from New Orleans, expecting
to find her husband in this city; but had learned
here that he was dead, and in consequence she, too,
was near dying.
There was a degree of mystery connected with
her story, or all that could be learned, which excited
much curiosity. Moreover, she was young
and very beautiful, and the men who had seen her
were vastly interested in her favour. The ladies
were not so much dazzled by her charms; perhaps
they reflect more carefully than do the men—how
very fleeting are such advantages;—at any rate, the
blinds their judgment to defects in character, and
they were suspicious of the fair stranger. But,
finally, Mrs. Merton, and a few benevolent ladies,
who valued the life of a fellow-being more than the
pleasure of pitying a maniac, exerted themselves so
effectually, that the stranger was provided with a
comfortable apartment, at a decent boarding-house
in — street. The landlady, Miss Bruce, was a
worldly woman, shrewd, and somewhat shrewish,
but she was not absolutely hard-hearted. She professed
to pity the poor lady sincerely, and to be
ready to oblige her in every way; she was glad
she had an apartment she could spare for her accommodation—and
she was glad, though she did
not say it, that for the expenses of the first quarter
she had ample security.
Mrs. Marie L. was the name by which the stranger
was known. She would give no other name;
nor would she give the address of any person at
the South as her agent or acquaintance.
The story she told was simply this: she had
parted with her husband about six months before,
when he sailed for Boston, she agreeing to follow
him after a certain time, which she accordingly
did. That when she arrived here she went to the
house where she had been directed, and was told
her husband had never been there, but that a package
some weeks, left by a man who appeared to be a
sailor. On opening the package, Mrs. L. found it
contained her husband's apparel, his watch and
miniature, and a letter from a person signing himself
Job Short, and stating that J. L. died on board
the vessel in which he sailed from New Orleans,
and that with his dying breath he had conjured
him, Job Short, to convey the intelligence to Mrs.
L., who would be found in Boston. Who this man
was, or to what vessel he belonged, Mrs. L. did not
know. These were some of the mysteries of the
matters, and they gave rise to a variety of conjectures.
It was thought strange Mrs. L. did not investigate
the subject more thoroughly. Some people
surmised her husband might have left money,
which the sailor had appropriated to himself; and
some pronounced the whole affair a hoax. But
these last had never seen Mrs. L.—certainly they
had never seen her weeping over her husband's
picture, and holding his watch hour after hour,
with her eyes rivetted on the movement of the
hands, as if she were numbering the minutes that
must intervene before she should meet him in
eternity.
The affair awakened more interest at the time
than we should now think it possible a friendless,
pennyless wanderer could excite; but then it must
Who does not know the power of the mysterious
to create the magnificent? There is nothing contemptible
connected with a secret.
But weeks and months passed, and Mrs. L.'s
story began to lose its novelty. No one, it is true,
had discovered any thing amiss in her deportment,
or indeed had discovered any more than her first
appearance indicated, namely, that she was a beautiful,
but broken-hearted young creature. Many
were dissatisfied with her silence and mystery.
They called her ungrateful for refusing to repose
confidence in her friends; distrusted the purity of
her motives—till, finally, she was neglected, and as
more fashionable charities presented themselves,
forgotten. All but Mrs. Merton and one more
withdrew their names as contributors to her support
at the expiration of the first quarter. These
two continued their aid till the babe to which Mrs.
L. had given birth, a few weeks after her establishment
at her lodgings in — street, was ten months
old; they then informed their protegee that their
duty to others rendered it impossible they could
support her longer; recommended her to try what
she could do with her needle—promised to assist
her in the sale of her work, and bade her good
morning.
It was one of those beautiful mornings in June,
dreary, easterly storm; to the sick or desponding,
the smile of an angel could hardly be more welcome
than such a bright day, following a week of
gloom. Marie sat by her open window, which
commanded a view of the harbour, and she was
gazing intently on the sparkling waters, watching
the vapours as they melted away, or rose upward
like the curtain of a theatre, showing the green
islands in all their variety of forms, with a distinctness
of outline never observed after the sun has
passed the meridian. Such a revealing of the beauties
of nature, as the shadows of night and storms
are rolled away from the earth, communicates a
serenity to the mind; and rarely is a heart so abandoned
to grief, as not to feel its soothing influence.
The mind of Mrs. L. was probably buoyed up by
the hope which the bland scene before her inspired,
for she listened, without any apparent emotion, to
the declaration of the ladies that they could assist
her no longer; and she saw them depart, yet gave
no symptom of feeling, except it might have been
thought, that the fond caress she bestowed on her
infant boy was prompted by the instinctive impulse
with which the desolate-hearted cling to their last
comfort.
“I declare I think we have done enough for that
woman,” said Miss Perry, one of the ladies. “How
Mrs. Merton.”
“I am not yet quite satisfied with myself,” replied
Mrs. Merton. “I know Mrs. L. does not
appear so deeply affected by kindness as some do;
but it is not always those who say `thank you,' the
most eagerly, that are really the most grateful for
an obligation. Mrs. L. has doubtless enjoyed prosperity
and the hope of a proud fortune, and to such
there is a feeling of mortification attending the reception
of charity, which often makes them shrink
from the open acknowledgment of favours. But
their hearts bless you.” She added, after a long
pause, “I wish I knew the history of Mrs. L.; if
she is only unfortunate, I am half inclined to offer
her a home in my own house, if it were only for
the sake of her lovely babe.”
“He is a fine child,” said the other.
“O, yes—he reminds me often of my own; and
he may now be an object of charity—poor Lewis!
How tenderly he was reared! Ah! we mothers,
when watching our little ones, and gratifying their
every want, little think what hardships and sufferings
they may be fated to endure. Poor Lewis!—
he never had a wish unattended to. I used to indulge
him in every thing. And now, perhaps, he
is in want of all things.”
She was endeavouring to dry the tears, that always
Miss Bruce made her appearance.
“We have concluded we can do no more for
your lodger,” said Miss Perry.
“What in mercy will become of her, then? she
can do nothing for herself,” said the landlady.
“O, she must try,” replied Miss Perry. “And,
at the worst, she will not starve, you know, as
there is provision made for all paupers.”
Miss Bruce knew that well enough; but her
pride and interest made it important that Mrs. L.
should be supported at her house by the ladies, as
she was thereby a gainer in money, as well as the
credit of benevolence, in keeping the poor unfortunate
stranger. So she determined to make an effort
to interest Mrs. Merton still further in behalf of
the sufferer.
“Poor soul! her heart will break if she is sent to
the alms-house; for the other day, when I named
there was a place where the poor and strangers
were sent and taken care of, she shrieked, and said
she would rather die in the street than go there.
And when I urged her to tell the reason of her
horror of the place, she said she had lately dreamed,
three several times, of being in a large building,
which they told her was a hospital; and that a
lady, who resembled Mrs. Morton, came and took
her babe away from her, and she thought she was
as to believe in dreams; indeed, she is just like a
child herself; and how can she be otherwise—poor
thing, only seventeen. And, she says herself, she
has never done any thing, and does not understand
any thing, only to play a little on the harp and
work embroidery. I am really afraid she will die
if she has to leave my house, for I have always been
kind to her, and she feels quite at home with me.
It seems unchristian to turn her away, yet I do
not see how I can support her wholly at my own
expense. There is her babe, too; and she cannot
part with that—it would break her heart, for she
loves her child as well as a rich mother would.
She must keep her child; and if I was only rich,
she should keep it.”
Mrs. Merton was rich; she professed to be a
Christian; she had been a mother, and the appeal
came home to her heart. She beckoned Mrs.
Bruce to her, and putting a fifty dollar note in her
hand, said in a whisper, “take care of the unfortunate
lady, and I will pay you.”
One of the most distinguishing and beautiful features
in the Christian religion, is its sympathy
with human sufferings. It is throughout a system
of charity, which would seem to imply that such a
spirit will always, on earth, find exercise for its
benevolence; and, therefore, that a perfect equality
Nor, unless human nature could be differently modified,
is it probable such equality (if practicable)
would make the world better or happier. The
purest virtues and the noblest powers of mind are
called into exercise by causes and emergencies
which could not occur were there none poor, or
weak, or dependent among mankind. Certain it
is that, till the perfection of the “social system”
shall make “all evil but a name,” the world must
prize highly those charities that alleviate misery,
even though they may not all be performed from
the single motive of doing good to others. We
must not expect people will be wholly disinterested.
The individual who does a kind action, has
a right to expect, at least, such a recompense as the
approbation of his own conscience will bestow,
and this he cannot enjoy unless his generosity has
been judiciously exerted. The charities thus performed
are twice blest—they bind the rich and
poor in fellowship: the poor is saved from despair,
for he knows, should his own exertions fail, he
has a resource in the compassion of his brother:
the rich is prevented from glorying in the wealth
of which he feels he is but the steward. And this
divine philosophy of doing good, and being content,
is taught by Christianity.
If those who profess to obey its laws only acted
would soon be “the highest style of man.” The
fault is not in the system, but in its followers, that
there is any cavil respecting the beneficial influence
of Christianity in the character of men. The
religion of the Bible is so truly republican in its
spirit, that our people should prize its truths as the
basis of their happy government. Christianity
does not, it is true, enjoin a perfect equality in
temporal wealth, but it enforces the charity which
provides for the wants of all; it represses pride,
exalts the humble, and opens the gates of heaven
to the poor as widely as to the rich.
These truths Mrs. Merton felt as she walked
homeward; and they silenced all boastings. “I
shall carry none of my wealth to the narrow house,”
said she. “This desolate young creature we have
just left, will there be as rich as I.”
“You are gloomy to-day,” said Miss Perry.
“No, not gloomy, but rational. I am thinking
of the disappointments of life; and how foolish
it is to set our affections on the world. My poor
boy! how I did build my hopes on him. I trust
my heart is not all selfish, and yet so deeply am I
affected by whatever reminds me of the wretchedness
he may be suffering, that I never relieve a
fellow-being without something like a prayer that
my wanderer, too, may find mercy. It seems but
boy as Mrs. L. now calls her's. She must love
him, for he is her all; and she shall keep him with
her. I have directed Miss Bruce to take care of
them.”
Miss Bruce did take care of them; but it was
in that managing style which makes profit and the
pretence of charity go hand in hand. She reasoned
with herself, that if she informed Mrs. L. funds
were to be furnished for her support, she might
grow difficult to please; whereas, if she kept the
money in her own hands, and provided for her
lodger as if she were a dependant, no such difficulties
would occur. And so she kept the money,
and permitted Marie to think she owed her support
entirely to the charity of her landlady. And
the timid young creature became so fearful of
offending Miss Bruce, lest she should lose the favour
of her only friend, that she did not complain,
though the servants frequently treated her with
neglect and indignity; and she even refrained from
eating enough to satisfy her appetite, because Miss
Bruce so often repined at the expenses of her
household. And when the gentle girl felt her
strength daily wasting, she bore her pain and sorrows
in silence, lest, if it were known she was
indisposed, she should be sent to the hospital.
Miss Bruce had all the advantage she could desire
absent; she had accompanied her husband to the
South, and thence to Washington, where they were
detained till the following February.
It was a few days after the arrival of the Constitution
from her successful cruise in the Pacific,
where her brave commander and crew had won
such honours for their country's flag, that Mr.
Merton and his lady returned to Boston. They
found the people in the city in a tumult of congratulations
and joy. Though the war was not in all
parts of the republic equally popular, there was not
an American heart but throbbed exultingly, when
the gallant deeds of our naval heroes were the subject
of discussion. Mrs. Merton heard the praises
bestowed on the young officers with a feeling allied
to envy. With Lady Randolph, she might have
exclaimed—
would fashion strange visions. Might not her
Lewis be engaged in defending his country, and
striving by some noble act to wipe off the blot
from his character? And might he not be successful,
and finally return, covered with laurels? Sad
and subdued as was her spirit, she caught the enthusiasm
which hailed our navy as the defence and
with the navy became interesting to her feelings.
The United States' Marine Hospital had been for
a number of years established at Charlestown; but
so little importance had been attached to the institution,
that it was hardly known, except to its immediate
officers and managers. The propensity
of the Americans, the Bostonians in particular, to
be ardent in their zeal, is proverbial; their most
inveterate foe would never accuse them of lukewarmness.
They are always either hot or cold;
and, in relation to the navy, the excitement was
many degrees above fever heat. Among other
plans to express the high esteem entertained towards
the brave men who had so successfully met
the enemy, it was named, in a party of ladies, that,
if the war continued, it would be a good thing to
have an association like the Sœur de Charité in
Paris, to visit the hospitals and attend the wounded.
The idea was particularly grateful to Mrs. Merton;
she found her most tranquil hours were those devoted
to doing good, and, while she envied mothers
who had worthy sons, she felt a deep commiseration
for those who had unfortunate or miserable
ones.
“They tell me there has been about a dozen poor
fellows removed from the Constitution to the Marine
Hospital,” said she to her husband—“and
should like to go and see them; and perhaps we
may do something to alleviate their sufferings.
We can, at least, show that we pity their misfortune
and honour their courage. Perhaps they all
have mothers; and if I could, by assisting the son,
save the heart of the parent from desolation”—
She did not finish her remarks; but her husband
knew all that was in her mind, and he consented to
go. They found several of the sailors suffering
under terrible wounds, but their courage bore them
“stiffly up”—their exulting boasts of the actions
they had fought, and their eulogies on “Old Iron
Sides,” as their attendants said, were the chief subjects
of conversation, and that they hardly made a
complaint of the pain of their wounds; it was only
the confinement from duty that they cared for.
Mrs. Merton was conversing with the attending
physician, as she slowly traversed the gallery to
visit the room of the last invalid, when the doctor
remarked that the patient she was about to see was
dying with the consumption, brought on by intemperance.
Whether the word awoke associations
connected with her own son in her mind, or whether
the instinct of the mother's heart whispered
that it was he, we cannot know. Nature speaks
often in a mysterious manner; it spoke to her, for,
in the sunken, wasted, cadaverous, death-struck
handsome and almost haughty countenance, in
young manhood's first glow, which she had engraven
on her memory as the image of her child.
Mr. Merton stood near the pallet, and was gazing
compassionately on the poor wretch; he did not
recognize his son—but the moment the eyes of
Mrs. Merton met those of the invalid, she sent
forth a shriek that thrilled through the nerves of
all around, and rushing to the bed, she sunk on her
knees, murmuring, “Lewis, dear Lewis, my son.”
“My mother,” he pronounced with difficulty,
hiccoughing as he spoke.
“You forgive me then all the sorrow I have
caused you, my parents,” said the poor dying man,
after he had taken a restorative. “There is another
I would ask to forgive me. I have sinned
deeply. I have betrayed innocence that trusted
me—I have abandoned my wife!”
“Your wife! Lewis?”
“Yes; I stole a beautiful girl from her guardian,
and married her against his consent, by which she
forfeited her fortune. I soon grew tired of the
restraint her presence imposed—I cared for nobody
but myself; and I contrived a plausible story to
persuade her to allow me to sail for Boston and
obtain the forgiveness of my parents for my hasty
marriage, before she should arrive. I had no intention
myself to any fear of restraint or advice in the
career I was pursuing. I sailed for South America
—but I sent a package, which, if my wife did proceed
to Boston, would convince her I was dead.”
“And what did you think would become of
her?”
“I did not think about it, nor care much. She
promised not to reveal the marriage without my
consent, and she only knew me by the name of
Lewis. I hoped the charitable people would provide
for her; and if I was suspected of being the
man she called her husband, her story would only
confirm what I wished my friends to believe—that
I was dead.”
“Why should you wish to torture us with that
fear?”
“Mother,” said the dying young man—“mother,
I would spare your feelings—perhaps I only
am to blame. But since I have been confined by
this sickness, and have been debarred from intemperance,
I have reflected much on the causes that
ruined me. And I felt that if you had not indulged
my appetites so completely in my childhood,
I should never have been so selfishly abandoned.
And if my father had not checked me so
sternly, when I only obeyed the impulses he had
given to my inclinations, I should not have left
as though I had been unjustly treated. You had
made me what I was, and then you blamed me for
my conduct. I know you did all for my good, but
it was evil to me. Forgive me the griefs I have
caused you, as I forgive you for the temptations to
which you exposed me.”
“And may God forgive us all,” said the weeping
mother—“but, Lewis, what was your wife's
name?”
“Marie—Marie de Longueville.”
Mrs. L. was immediately sent for; she came,
exhausted and pale, but quite calm. Why attempt
to describe the scene? The death of Lewis—the
death-like swoon of his injured wife—the deep
grief of the mourning parents!—yet there was a
consolation to his mother, she had seen her Lewis,
and she held in her arms his son. The infant she
considered her own, and it was soon to be wholly
consigned to her care. The poor Marie died the
next day.
Mrs. Merton (the name is fictitious) would not
like to be recognized; but she wishes to impress on
the minds of the ladies, for whom my work is
especially designed, two maxims: the first is, never
to pamper the appetites of your child, nor, by your
example, give the habits of the young a tendency
to evil; the second, always obey, as far as possible,
suffering infancy. By neglecting the first, Mrs.
Merton lost her son; by observing the second, she
has gained her grandson, the youth who is now the
comfort and support of her declining years, and
who bids fair to be an honour to his country.
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