28. CHAPTER XXVIII
A TRIFLING RETROSPECT
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"Bless my heart," cries my young, volatile reader, "I shall
never have patience to get through these volumes, there
are so many ahs! and ohs! so much fainting, tears, and distress, I
am sick to death of the subject." My dear, chearful, innocent
girl, for innocent I will suppose you to be, or you would acutely
feel the woes of Charlotte, did conscience say, thus might it have
been with me, had not Providence interposed to snatch me from
destruction: therefore, my lively, innocent girl, I must request
your patience: I am writing a tale of truth: I mean to write it to
the heart: but if perchance the heart is rendered impenetrable by
unbounded prosperity,
or a continuance in vice, I expect not my
tale to please, nay, I even expect it will be thrown by with disgust.
But softly, gentle fair one; I pray you throw it not aside till
you have perused the whole; mayhap you may find something
therein to repay you for the trouble. Methinks I see a sarcastic
smile sit on your countenance.—"And what," cry you, "does the
conceited author suppose we can glean from these pages, if
Charlotte is held up as an object of terror, to prevent us from falling
into guilty errors? does not La Rue triumph in her shame,
and by adding art to guilt, obtain the affection of a worthy man,
and rise to a station where she is beheld with respect, and
chearfully received into all companies. What then is the moral
you would inculcate? Would you wish us to think that a deviation
from virtue, if covered by art and hypocrisy, is not an object
of detestation, but on the contrary shall raise us to fame and honour?
while the
hapless girl who falls a victim to her too great sensibility,
shall be loaded with ignominy and shame?" No, my fair
querist, I mean no such thing. Remember the endeavours of the
wicked are often suffered to prosper, that in the end their fall
may be attended with more bitterness of heart; while the cup of
affliction is poured out for wise and salutary ends, and they who
are compelled to drain it even to the bitter dregs, often find comfort
at the bottom; the tear of penitence blots their offences from
the book of fate, and they rise from the heavy, painful trial, purified
and fit for a mansion in the kingdom of eternity.
Yes, my young friends, the tear of compassion shall fall for the
fate of Charlotte, while the name of La Rue shall be detested and
despised. For Charlotte, the soul melts with sympathy; for La
Rue, it feels nothing but horror and contempt. But perhaps your
gay hearts would rather follow the fortunate
Mrs. Crayton
through the scenes of pleasure and dissipation in which she was
engaged, than listen to the complaints and miseries of Charlotte.
I will for once oblige you; I will for once follow her to midnight
revels, balls, and scenes of gaiety, for in such was she constantly
engaged.
I have said her person was lovely; let us add that she was
surrounded by splendor and affluence, and he must know but little
of the world who can wonder, (however faulty such a woman's
conduct,) at her being followed by the men, and her company
courted by the women: in short Mrs. Crayton was the universal
favourite: she set the fashions, she was toasted by all the gentlemen,
and copied by all the ladies.
Colonel Crayton was a domestic man. Could he be happy
with such a woman? impossible! Remonstrance was vain: he
might as well have preached to the winds, as endeavour to persuade
her from any
action, however ridiculous, on which she
had set her mind: in short, after a little ineffectual struggle, he
gave up the attempt, and left her to follow the bent of her own
inclinations: what those were, I think the reader must have seen
enough of her character to form a just idea. Among the number
who paid their devotions at her shrine, she singled one, a young
Ensign of mean birth, indifferent education, and weak intellects.
How such a man came into the army, we hardly know to account
for, and how he afterwards rose to posts of honour is like-wise strange and wonderful. But fortune is blind, and so are
those too frequently who have the power of dispensing her
favours: else why do we see fools and knaves at the very top of
the wheel, while patient merit sinks to the extreme of the opposite
abyss. But we may form a thousand conjectures on this subject,
and yet never hit on the right. Let us therefore endeavour to
deserve her smiles,
and whether we succeed or not, we shall feel
more innate satisfaction, than thousands of those who bask in
the sunshine of her favour unworthily. But to return to Mrs.
Crayton: this young man, whom I shall distinguish by the name
of Corydon, was the reigning favourite of her heart. He escorted
her to the play, danced with her at every ball, and when
indisposition prevented her going out, it was he alone who was
permitted to chear the gloomy solitude to which she was obliged
to confine herself. Did she ever think of poor Charlotte?—if she
did, my dear Miss, it was only to laugh at the poor girl's want of
spirit in consenting to be moped up in the country, while
Montraville was enjoying all the pleasures of a gay, dissipated
city. When she heard of his marriage, she smiling said, so
there's an end of Madam Charlotte's hopes. I wonder who will
take her now, or what will become of the little affected prude?
But as you have lead to the subject, I think we may as well
return to the distressed Charlotte, and not, like the unfeeling Mrs.
Crayton, shut our hearts to the call of humanity.