The power of sympathy, or, The triumph of nature founded in truth |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
| 39. | LETTER XXXIX.
Mrs. HOLMES to MYRA. |
| 40. |
| 41. |
| 42. |
| 43. |
| 44. |
| 45. |
| 46. |
| 47. |
| 48. |
| 49. |
| 50. |
| 51. |
| 52. |
| 53. |
| 54. |
| 55. |
| 56. |
| 57. |
| 58. |
| 59. |
| 60. |
| 61. |
| 62. |
| 63. |
| 64. |
| 65. |
 | The power of sympathy, or, The triumph of nature |  |
LETTER XXXIX.
Mrs. HOLMES to MYRA.
I readily undertake to give
you a sketch of the history of Harriot. Her
mother's name was Maria Fawcet; her person
I yet recollect, and forgive me if I drop
a tear of pity at the recital of her misfortunes.
MY mother and Mrs. Holmes were remarkable
friends, and the intimacy, you
know, was maintained between the two families.
I was on a visit with my mother
when the destiny of Maria led her to Belleview.
I was frequently there during her
illness—and was with her in her lasst moments.
IT was the custom of Mrs. Holmes to
walk in the garden towards the close of the
day. She was once indulging her usual
walk, when she was alarmed by the complaints
of a woman which came from the
road. Pity and humanity were ever peculiar
characteristicks of my amiable parent---She
hastened to the place from whence the sound
in tears, sitting upon the ground. She inquired
the cause of her distress, with that
eager solicitude to relieve, which a sight so
uncommon would naturally occasion. It was
sometime before the distressed woman could
return an intelligible answer, and then she
with difficulty proceeded: “Your goodness,
Madam, is unmerited---you behold a stranger,
without home---without friends---and
whose misery bears her down to an untimely
grave---Life, truly is a blessing---but my
life is become burthensome, and were the
Almighty this moment to command me to
the world of spirits, methinks I could gladly
obey the summons, and rejoice in the stroke
which bade me depart from sorrow and
the world.” Moderate your grief, my
nor suffer yourself to despair, however
severe your misfortunes.
THE unfortunate woman was at length
prevailed on to accompany Mrs. Holmes into
the house, she partook of some refreshment
and retired to sleep. In a few days she
appeared to be better; but it was a temporary
recovery; she then told her story, with
frequent interruptions, in substance as follows:—
History of Maria.
“I DATE the rise of my misfortunes,”
said Maria, “at the beginning of my acquaintance
with the Honourable Mr. Harrington.—But
for his solicitations I might
have had occasion to blush at the sound of
my name—nor had a mother's pillow been
steeped in tears, too sondly prone to remember
a graceless but repenting child---We
lived happily together in the days of my father,
but when it pleased Providence to remove
him, we no longer asserted our pretentions
to that rank of life which our straitened
finances were unable to continue—
A young woman in no eligible circumstances,
has much to apprehend from the solicitations
of a man of affluence. I am now
better persuaded of this truth, than I ever
was before—for this was my unhappy situation---I
always entertained a predilection
for Mr. Harrington—he urged his passion
with protestations of sincerity and affection
---he strove—he triumphed.
“—MUST I proceed!—
“A SMILING female was the offspring of
our illicit connexion—Ah! my little Harriot!”
continued Maria, as she wiped away
a tear from her eye, “mayest thou enjoy that
happiness which is denied to thy mother.”
“OUR amour was not fated to last long—
I discovered his gay temper to be materially
altered—he was oftentimes thoughtful and
melancholy, and his visits became suddenly
shorter, and less frequent.
“I AFTERWARDS thought this change
of conduct owing to jealousy—for he once
asked me if a gentleman had called upon me
his ungenerous suspicion---He left me abruptly,
and I saw nothing of him after.
“A STROKE so unexpected fell heavy on
my heart—it awakened me to the state of
misery into which my imprudence had hurried
me.---What recompense could I expect
from my Seducer?---He had been
married two years---From the inflexibility
of his temper I had little to hope, and I
formed a determination of leaving town, for
I had now indubitable testimony of his affection
being estranged from me—half frantick,
I immediately set out---but whither I
knew not---I walked with precipitation until
Providence directed me to your hospitable
door: To your goodness, Madam, I am indebted
days: For amidst the kindness and civilities
of those around me, I feel myself rapidly
verging towards the grave. I prepare myself
for my approaching fate---and daily
wait the stroke of death with trembling expectation.”
SHE wrote to Mr. Harrington about a
week before her decease---I transcribe the
Letter:—
“TO the man for whom my bleeding
heart yet retains its wonted affection, though
the author of my guilt and misery, do I
address my feeble complaint---O! Harrington,
I am verging to a long eternity---and
my trembling hand traces the dictates of
my heart. Indisposed as I am---and unable
as I feel to prosecute this task---I however
collect all my powers to bid you a long
---a final farewell.
“OH! Harrington, I am about to depart
---for why should. I tarry here? In bitter
tears of sorrow do I weep away the night,
and the returning day but augments the
anguish of my heart, by recalling to view
the sad sight of my misfortunes. And
have I not cause for this severe anguish, at
once the sorrow and disgrace of my family?
—Alas! my poor mother!—Death shall expiate
the crime of thy daughter, nor longer
raise the blush of indignation on thy glowing
the hand of death?
“BUT what will become of my poor helpless
infant, when its mother lies forgotten
in the grave? Wilt thou direct its feet in
the path of virtue and rectitude?—Wilt
thou shelter it from the ride blasts of penury
and want?—Open your heart to
the solicitude of a mother—of a mother agonizing
for the future welfare of her child.
Let me intreat you to perform this request
—by the love which you professed for thy
Maria—by her life which you have sacrificed.
“AND wilt thou not drop a tear of pity
in the grave of thy Maria?—I know thy
soul is a soul of sensibility; but my departure
it shall not wrest a sigh from thy bosom—
rather let me live, and defy the malice and
misery of the world—But can tenderness—
can love atone for the sacrifices I have
made?—Will it blot out my errours from the
book of memory? Will love be an excuse
for my crime, or hide me from the eye of
the malignant—No, my Harrington, it will
not. The passion is unwarrantable. Be
it thine, gentle Amelia—be it thine to
check the obtruding sigh, and wipe away the
tear from his face—for thou art his wife, and
thy soul is the seat of compassion—But—for
me—
“Farewel—farewel forever!
SHE survived but a short time—and frequently
expressed a concern for her child—
but Mrs. Holmes quieted her fears by promising
to protect it. She accordingly made
inquiry after it—and it is the same Harriet
who was educated by her order, and whom
she afterwards placed in the family of Mrs.
Francis.
THE assurances of my mother were like
balm to the broken hearted Maria—“I shall
now,” said she, “die in peace.”
THE following is a copy of a letter written
by the Rev. Mr. Holmes to the Hon.
Mr. Harrington:—
“WE have a scene of distress at our house
peculiarly pathetick and affecting, and of
which you, perhaps, are the sole author—You
have had a criminal connexion with Miss
Fawcet—you have turned her upon the world
inhumanly—but chance—rather let me say
Providence, hath directed her footsteps to my
dwelling, where she is kindly entertained,
and will be so, as long as she remains in this
wilderness world, which is to be, I fear, but
a short time---And shall she not, though she
hath been decoyed from the road that leadeth
to peace, long life and happiness---
shall she not, if she return with tears of repentance
and contrition, be entitled to our
love and charity? Yes---this is my doctrine
distressed and forlorn, and in real want of the
necessities of life, must I restrain or withhold
the hand of charity---must I cease to recal
the departing spirit of them that are ready to
perish, until I make diligent inquiry into
their circumstances and character? Surely,
my friend, it is a duty incumbent on us by
the ties of humanity and fellow feeling, and
by the duty imposed on us by our holy religion,
equally to extend the hand of relief
to all the necessitous—however they may be
circumstanced in the great family of mankind.
“THE crime of Maria is not the blackest
in the annals of human turpitude; but however
guilty she might have been, the tears of
therefor.
“THUS much have I thought proper to
say in vindication of my conduct---in sheltering
under my roof a poor wanderer—who
hath strayed, but not wantonly, and who
hath now happily returned.
“ONE would imagine, there was little necessity
of making such a vindication to you;
but my sentiments always flow from the
abundance of my heart, and I am willing the
whole world should judge of those which
influence my conduct—Now, though
some men, whose charity is contracted, and
who may be denominated prudes in virtue,
might deem wrongfully of my attention to
the calamity of this frail woman—yet let
of all men, and these in particular, if I have
erred, whether it be not an errour on the
side of humanity. Would to God such
amiable errours were more frequent!—In
as much, my friend, as there is joy in heaven
over one sinner that repenteth, I may say
with assurance that I have felt an emanation
of this heavenly joy animate my heart, in
beholding this woman delighting to steer
her course heavenward.
“FROM the unhappy condition of Maria,
I have been led to reflect on the mischievous
tendency of SEDUCTION. Methinks I
view the distressing picture in all its horrid
colours.—
“BEHOLD the youthful virgin arrayed
in all the delightful charms of vivacity, modesty
and sprightliness—Behold even while
she is rising in beauty and dignity, like a lily
of the valley, in the full blossom of her
graces, she is cut off suddenly by the rude
hand of the Seducer. Unacquainted with
his beseness and treachery, and too ready to
repose confidence in him—she is deluded
by the promises and flattery of the man who
professes the greatest love and tenderness for
her welfare:—But did she understand the
secret villainy of his intentions—would
she appear thus elate and joyous? Would
she assent to her ruin? Would she subscribe
her name to the catalogue of infamy? Would
she kiss the hand of the atrocious dastard,
already raised to give the final wound to her
reputation and peace?
“O! WHY is there not an adequate punishment
for this crime, when that of a common
traitor is marked with its deserved iniquity
and abhorrence!
“IS it necessary to depicture the slate of
this deluded young creature after her fall
from virtue? Stung with remorse, and frantick
with despair, does she not fly from the
face of day, and secrete her conscious head in
the bosom of eternal forgetfulness? Melancholy
and guilt transfix her heart, and she
sighs out her miserable existence—the prey
of poverty, ignominy and reproach! Lost
to the world, to her friends, and to herself,
she blesses the approach of death in whatever
shape he may appear, that terminates a life,
no longer a blessing to its possessour, or a joy
to those around her.
“BEHOLD her stretched upon the mournful
bier!—Behold her silently descend to the
grave!—Soon the wild weeds spring afresh
round the little hillock, as if to shelter the remains
of betrayed innocence—and the
friends of her youth shun even the spot which
conceals her relicks.
“SUCH is the consequence of SEDUCTION,
but it is not the only consequence. Peace
and happiness fly the nuptial couch which is
unattended by love and fidelity. The mind
no longer enjoys its quiet, while it ceases to
cherish sentiments of truth and gratitude.
The sacred ties of connubial duty are not to
be violated with impunity; for though a
violation of those ties may be overlooked by
the eye of justice, the heart shall supply a
who are hardy enough to burst them asunder.—I
am, &c.
TO this Letter, Mr. Harrington returned
the following Answer.
Holmes.
“PERMIT me, my ever honoured
friend, to return you thanks for your late favours—need
I add—an acknowledgment
for your liberality? No—your heart supplies
a source of pleasure which is constantly
nourished by your goodness and universal
charity.—
“THE picture you have exhibited of a ruined
female is undoubtedly just, but that the
so—The conclusion of your letter is a real
picture of the situation of my heart.
“PERHAPS you was always ignorant of
the real motives that influenced me, and
gave a particular bias to my conduct—At
an early period of my life, I adopted a maxim,
that the most necessary learning was a knowledge
of the world, the pursuit of which, quadrating
with a volatility of disposition, presented
a variety of scenes to my heated imagination.
The eclat of my companions
gratifying my vanity and increasing the gale
of passion, I became insensibly hurried down
the stream of dissipation. Here I saw mankind
in every point of view—from the
acme of the most consummate refinement,
soon became a ready proficient in the great
school of the world—but an alteration of
conduct was soon after necessary—I was
compelled to it, not so much from the
world's abhorrence of a dissolute course of
life, as the dictates of my own heart—It
was, indeed, my policy to flatter the world,
and exhibit a fair outside—for I was in love
with Amelia—My licentious amour with
Maria was secret—she was affectionate and
tender—her manners were pleasing, but still
I was unhappy.—
“MY career of dissipation, however alluring
it struck my vitiated fancy, left little satisfaction
on the mind—Reflection had its
turn—and the happiness I had promised myself
I fully enjoyed in our marriage. A course
of uninterrupted tranquillity ensued, but it
was of short duration. The volatility of
my temper, and the folicitude of my old associates,
induced me at subsequent periods
to fall again into my old vagaries. The
taverns frequently found me engaged in
meannesses derogatory to the character of
a gentleman. These things I perceived affected
the foul of Amelia—she was all meekness,
gentleness and compassion, and she
never once upbraided me with my illiberal
conduct:
“BLESSED he that power who has implanted
within us that consciousness of reproach,
love!—Hail sensibility! Ye eloquent tears
of beauty! that add dignity to human nature
by correcting its foibles—it was these that
corrected my faults when recrimination
would have failed of success—it was these
that opened every avenue of contrition in
my heart, when words would have dammed
up every fluice of repentance.
“IT was now I appeared fully sensible
that my conduct had hitherto been a
course of disorder, and that systems of reformation,
however well planned, had
been overturned by the breath of adulation,
before they had been thoroughly
carried into execution—that I had been
drifting upon a sea of inconsistency, without
a rudder, buffetted on the bosom of the ocean,
the sport of winds and waves.
“THE criminality of my connexion with
Maria appeared with the most aggravated
circumstances; it stung me with remorse—
and I instantly determined, however fevere
the conflict, to tear her from my bosom—to
see her no more.—But how was I to inform
her of it?—In what manner was I to bring
about such a task?—Maria must be sacrificed
to the happiness of Amelia. This was
all I had to perform—it was a short lesson,
but it was a hard one for me to execute.
“WITH this determination, however, I
entered the apartment of Maria—Duty to
Amelia and gratitude to Maria interchangeably
duty prevailed, and I adhered to my
former resolution—yet how was I to tell her
this would be the last visit?—Conscious she
had ever acted in conformity to my wishes
—how could I accuse her, without accusing
myself?—I threw out a few inconsiderate,
and ungrateful hints of jealousy, and left the
room abruptly. The feelings of Maria
must have been injured—but however her
sensibility was affected, mine was doubly so;
I felt for her—I felt for our infant, and
these feelings were added to the afflictions
which had already burst upon my devoted
head. A few days consideration, however,
convinced me of the impropriety and ingratitude
of my behaviour to Maria—I hastened
that should screen her from penury and malice—and
to make provision for the child—
but, she was not to be found. I was informed
that she had suddenly disappeared, and
that a countryman had, by her order, called
and taken away the child but a few hours
before. This information burst upon my
head like the voice of sudden thunder—I
stood motionless, but my agitation was too
violent to be of any long duration.—
“IT was your goodness, and the humanity
of your family, that sheltered the wretched
Maria, and provided for the helpless Harriot
—Your feelings are your reward.
“FROM all the variegated scenes of my
past life, I daily learn some new lesson of humanity.
Experience hath been my tutor—
I now take a retrospect of my past conduct
with deliberation, but not without some serious
reflection: Like a sailor escaped from
shipwreck, who sits safely on the shore and
views the horrors of the tempest; but as
the gale subsides, and the waves hide their
heads in the bosom of the deep, he beholds
with greater concern the mischief of the
storm and the dangers he hath escaped.
From what innate principle does this arise,
but from the God within the mind!—I assert
it for the honour of human nature, that no
man, however dissolute but comes back to
the hour of reflection and solemn thoughtfulness
return upon the mind, and this internal monitor
sits in judgment upon them, and gives
her verdict of approbation or dislike.
“HE who listens to its call, views his character
in its proper light—I have attended to
its cry, and I see my deformity—I recal my
mispent time, but in vain—I reflect on the
misery of Maria, and I curse my temerity—
I reflect on the state into which I have plunged
a once happy female, and am eager to
apply a speedy remedy, but this is vain also:
Can I restore her that virtue—that innocence
—that peace, of which I have unmanfully
robbed her?—Let us leave the melancholy
subject.—
“I WILL not so far supersede the fruit of
your benevolence, as to presume to offer you
any other recompense, than my sincere
prayers for your happiness.
“With respect,
“Your &c.
THE disorder of Maria was fatal and
rapid—but I hasten to the last scene of her
life—it has, though I was young, made an
impression on my mind that time cannot
efface. I went to her, as she was seated on
the bed—virtue and harmony were blended
in her aspect—she was serene and composed—
and her mien, while it expressed a consciousness
of superiour worth and dignity, exhibited
of the human soul—patient, though
afflicted—of a spirit broken, and borne down
by severe distress, yet striving to surmount
all, and aspire to heaven. In what words
shall I paint to you, my dear Myra, her heroism
and greatness of mind? “Weep not
for me,” said she, perceiving my emotion—
“Death has nothing shocking to me—I have
familiarized myself to his terrours—I feel
the gradual decay of mortality; and waiting
with confidence in the father of mercy,
I am prepared to resign this mortal breath—
I resign it in firm assurance of the soul's blessed
immortality—Death I view as freeing me
from a world which has lost its relish—as
opening new scenes of happiness—But a
few moments,” continued she, clasping my
opens on my soul---I go
where all tears shall be wiped away---I welcome
death as the angel of peace.”—She
uttered these words with a placid smile of
resignation---her head sunk down on the
pillow---and the next minute she was an
angel.
“SOUL of the universe!” exclaimed my
father-in-law—“there flew the gentlest spirit
that ever animated human dust---Great were
thy temptations---sincere thy repentance.
If some human infirmity fell to thy lot, thy
tears, dear shade, have washed out thy guilt
forever!”
| The power of sympathy, or, The triumph of nature | |