University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXXVI.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.

I have just left Harriot---but
how have I left her? In tears. I wish I
had not gone. Mrs. Francis had intrusted
Harriot with some trisling commission---It
was not done---she had not had time to
perform it. Harriot was reprimanded—
Yes! by Heaven---this Mrs. Francis had
the insolence to reprimand Harriot in my
presence---I was mortified---I walked to
the window---my heart was on fire---my
blood boiled in my veins---it is impossible
to form an idea of the disorder of my nerves—
Harriot's were equally agitated—Mrs. Francis
saw our consusion and retired—she left

me so completely out of temper that I was
forced to follow her example. I kissed away
the tear from the cheek of Harriot and withdrew
to my chamber.

HERE let me forget what has passed—my
irritability will not permit it—my feelings
are too easily set in motion to enjoy long
quietness—my nerves are delicately strung;
they are now out of tune, and it is a hard
matter to harmonize them.

I FEEL that I have a foul—and every man
of sensibility feels it within himself. I will
relate a circumstance I met with in my late
travels through Southcarolina—I was always
susceptible of touches of nature.

I HAD often remarked a female slave pass
by my window to a spring to fetch water.

She had something in her air superiour to
thoe of her situation—a fire that the damps
of slavery had not extinguished.

AS I was one day walking behind her,
the wind blew her tattered handkerchief from
her neck and exposed it to my sight—I asked
her the cause of the scar on her shoulder—
She answered composedly, and with an
earnestness that proved she-was not ashamed
to declare it—“It is the mark of the whip,”
said, she, and went on with the history of it,
without my desiring her to proceed---“my
boy, of about ten years old, was unlucky
enough to break a glass tumbler---this crime
was immediately inquired into---I trembled
for the fate of my child, and was thought to
be guilty. I did not deny the charge, and

was tied up. My former good character
availed nothing. Under every affliction, we
may receive consolation; and during the
smart of the whip, I rejoiced—because I
shielded with my body the lash from my
child; and I rendered thanks to the best of
beings that I was allowed to suffer for him.”

“HEROICALLY spoken!” said I, “may
he whom you call the best of beings continue
you in the same sentiments—may thy foul
be ever disposed to SYMPATHIZE with thy
children, and with thy brethren and sisters in
calamity---then shalt thou feel every circumstance
of thy life afford thee satisfaction;
and repining and melancholy shall fly from
thy bosom---all thy labours will become
easy---all thy burdens light, and the yoke
of slavery will never gall thy neck.”

I WAS sensible relieved as I pronounced
these words, and I felt my heart glow with
feelings of exquisite delight, as I anticipated
the happy time when the sighs of the slave
shall no longer expire in the air of freedom.
What delightful sensations are those in
which the heart is interested! In which it
stoops to enter into the little concerns of
the most remote ramification of Nature!
Let the vain, the giddy, and the proud pass
on without deigning to notice them—let
them cheat themselves of happiness—these
are circumstances which are important only
to a sentimental traveller.

HALL Sensibility! Sweetener of the joys of
life! Heaven has implanted thee in the
breasts of his children—to soothe the sorrows

of the afflicted—to mitigate the wounds of
the stranger who falleth in our way. Thou
regardest with an eye of pity, those whom
wealth and ambition treat in terms of reproach.
Away, ye seekers of power—ye boasters
of wealth—ye are the Levite and the Pharisee,
who restrain the hand of charity from the
indigent, and turn with indignation from the
way-worn son of misery:—But Sensibility is
the good Samaritan, who taketh him by the
hand, and consoleth him, and poureth wine
and oil into his wounds. Thou art a pleasant
companion—a grateful friend—and a
neighbour to those who are destitute of shelter.—

From thee! Author of Nature! from thee,
thou inexhaustible spring of love supreme,

floweth this tide of affection and SYMPATHY—thou
whose tender care extendeth to
the least of thy creation—and whose eye is
not inattentive even though a sparrow fall to
the ground.