 | Randolph |  |
EDWARD MOLTON TO THE REV. CHARLES ASHTON.
Your letter, sir, returning mine, was received, when I
was unable to reply. I made you some promises in that,
which, had you acted prudently, or with the good sense,
to be expected from a man of your age, and profession,
you would have opened, after having invited the correspondence;
to fulfil, notwithstanding the insult that you have offered
me. My letter, I shall keep by me, with the seal unbroken.
We may chance to meet again, here;—or,
perhaps, in heaven; and, if it be permitted to me, I will
then break the seal in your presence, and convict you of
what I have just charged you with. I pity you. And
here our correspondence must close. I only write now—
because I promised to make some remarks upon Mr.
Laney's book. I have performed my engagement; and
written them in a sick chamber.
They follow, precisely as if nothing had happened between
us. I let no such things disturb me. I have been
too much accustomed to them. You are not the first man,
nor the first clergyman, that I have been deceived by;—
no, nor the first, whom I have found a cold, calculating,
shrewd man; who, if his heart were ever surprised into
any one generous emotion, made haste to atone for it, by
acting, as if he had no heart at all. I will tell you of one
instance. There was a man of this character once, who
had some notion, perhaps, that I could be of use to
him. He was electioneering then for a benefice. He
went to a friend of mine—a man that was my friend, and
is yet—and will be, to my dying day—who had known me
long enough, not to shut his eyes to the light—though
that light were brought to him, in my hands;—a gentleman
too, who has not the courage to insult a brave man,
when he knows that his gown is a greater shelter to him,
than cowardice or womanhood. He asked my friend for
a letter to me. It was given, with evident reluctance;
(for the applicant was a stranger, to him,) and with these
remarks, “I will give it to you, sir. But you must expect
no dinner—no wine;—he is too poor for either—no popularity,
for he is unpopular.” Yet the man had the indelicacy
to take the letter, notwithstanding—a letter that
was only—not refused. He came to the town, where I
was; and, when he found that, what he had heard from
my friend, was true—his heart failed him. He had the
meanness to keep it a secret from his own intimate friend,
that he had a letter of introduction to me. He was
ker, think you, if he could have helped it, that the same
letter was obtained by his own importunity. No—yet such
was the fact.
I heard of his arrival. I expected to see him. On
week—ten days—two weeks passed over my head—still
he came not. I saw an intimate friend of his. “Mr.
S—,” said he, “has a “letter for you, he tells me, from
Mr. P—” he—“Ah”—said I—“a letter of introduction,
I suppose.” “A letter of introduction!” said
this most courteous gentleman, with a manner for which
he deserved to have his teeth knocked down his throat;
a favour that I should assuredly have done him, on the spot,
had I not known enough of the man, to believe that he expressed
no more surprise, than he honestly felt, at my
having presumed such a thing—what! a letter of introduction
to me!—borne by Mr. S—! The thing was
quite too ridiculous!
I was sensitive then. Poverty makes most men humble.
It makes me proud. I scorned to tell the creature
the truth;—that the letter was an introduction, and a solicited
one too.
“Tell your friend, sir,” said I, “to put the letter into the
Post Office.”
A few days after, I received it. I have it yet. Had
it been presented to me by any gentleman, in the situation
of the man, of whom I speak, I should have said, “sir,”
I thank you for your visit. I shall not return it. But
do not consider that as any mark of disrespect. At present,
my acquaintance would not be creditable to you. I
shall, therefore, not return your visit; but come and see
me, when you can. Hereafter it will be different. The time
is coming, when no man shall be ashamed of me, or of my
company. I shall treat you as well as I am able, till
we know each other. I do not ask you to dine with me
—because the people where I board; and, to whom I pay
my board, too, may have to pawn a ragged pocket-handkerchief
(which they did one day) to buy bread for us;
and I never drink wine.” This I would have said. But
he gave me no opportunity.
I felt no little bitterness toward him, at first;—but
that has now passed away, and I forgive him. He did
unwisely;—a little knowledge of the human heart, must
have let him into the secret; that, when it is sore with
the jarring of the world—quivering—cold and alone—
a gentle hand will not approach it carelessly, lest, even
the well-meant office of kindness, may be misinterpreted
for rudeness. Still less will it, when that heart is in
flower, for the first time in its solitude, for many years,
will it send a bitter and deliberate blast upon it. There
was a time, when I would have horse-whipped the man,
whatever were the colour of his coat, who did that thing.
And even since, so little of that forbearance, which I
have now, had I then, that I deliberately told the story,
among them that knew him; they did not appear surprised;
they had never suspected him of a heart—they knew
that he was full of worldly wisdom, and intrigue—prudent
electioneering intrigue, at the time;—and I meant,
if I ever met him in company, that would be wise enough
to listen, and remember, and not interfere, to tell him
the story to his teeth. But that thought, I have abandoned.
An angel won me from it. She smiled upon me;
and the sacrifice, almost the first, yea, it was the first,
of a purpose so solemnly resolved, was made—. I forgave
him—for her sake.
I have now done, Mr. Harrow. Do you see the parallel?
Had you read my letter, sir, you would have
found a gentler spirit, it may be, than you expected; and,
had you continued to think well of me, till my own lips
condemned me, I could have convinced you, that all which
you have lately heard, might be true; and yet, that I was
not very guilty. Has your charity never imagined such
a possibility? I only suggest it. I leave it to your
meditation. I scorn to win any such heart back to me.
Were you young, I should smile at your rashness, and
forgive it; but one so old, so seemingly generous, so much
above other men, in the calm of philosophy—I have no
hope of such a man, when he acts like a boy. I do not
respect you as I did. I no longer value your good opinion,
as I have.
The following remarks are for your eyes, and for Mr.
Lancy's. Whether you ever see them, I care little, now.
There was a time, when I would have written them over,
for your eyes, alone; as I would, for those of my own father.
But you are all alike, old and young—mere men;
fuller of infirmity and blindness, as you verge upon the
tremendous threshold of darkness and eternity. Do not
misunderstand me. I have written them, only in obedience
to my promise. It is no longer a pleasure for me, to
write for your eyes.
I shall not attempt to follow the author in the order of
his reasoning; but, I will examine what he, and many
others have said, upon the same subject, just as their
several theories may happen to present themselves to my
mind. The question is this: reduced to its elements.
Whence is the pleasure, that we derive from the exhibition
of tragedies?—the narration of murders?—the representation
of battles, in painting and poetry?—the sight of bloodshed
and horrour? Is it pleasure? If not, why do we
seek it with such avidity? All agree, that it is pleasure.
One man will tell you, that our pleasure is derived
from a comparison of our circumstances, with those of
the sufferer. He will say, “it is not sympathy, but selfishness.”
Is that true? If it were, this pleasure would increase, as
that difference became more striking and evident. I
am in my house, by a warm fire, where I can hear the
storm beat upon my roof, and the beach roar. I feel
pleasure. The sense of security is delightful. But if
my pleasurea rise from that sense of security;—if it be
the result of a comparison between my situation, and
that of those, who are exposed to the storm, the peasant,
or the mariner, then would it augment, in proportion as
I saw that exposure encreased. Of course, if the skies
thundered all around me, while I stood safe; and all the
winds, and all the waters raged; and I could see the apparition
of ships, drifting in the hurricane, while my
own dwelling stood unshaken, I should be the happier.
Nay, let a ship drive upon the breakers, at my feet. Let
me look out in safety, from the illuminated window of
below; as the difference between their situation
and mine, is the cause of my pleasure, that pleasure
would then be at its height. But it is not. It is not
selfishness, then. It is not a sense of security. It is not
a comparison of situations.
“It is gratitude to heaven!” another will say; “gratitude
for being sheltered and sustained, while others wander,
unsupported, in the iron tempest, over the unsteady waters.”
But no, it is not gratitude. For, if it were gratitude;
and that gratitude arose as it must have arisen,
from comparison—then, our pleasure must have been
greatest, when the difference between our situation, and
that of the sufferers, (or any sufferer,) was the greatest;
for, then would our gratitude be at its height, together
with its cause. No, it does not arise from gratitude,
for the very reason that it does not arise from comparison,
and a sense of the difference in our situations.
“It is your consciousness of security;” repeats another.
Is this true? I stand at my window, and listen to the
skies, while they roll over my head, in thunder. The earth
rocks under my feet. The lightnings of heaven blaze
upon the ocean; I see it all white with foam, and the
clouds in its bosom. Am I more secure now, than when
the skies were blue, and clear; the ocean in a sweet sleep;
and my dwelling in safety?
Beside—at this moment of peril, I see a fellow creature,
ready to perish; he is upon the very brink of the
precipice—or weltering, and blinded, upon the surge.—
I climb the precipice—I leap into the breakers—I save
him. If my pleasure were only the sense of security,
why did I relinquish it, so foolishly?—my security grew
less and less, at every step. Yet, I persisted. It was not
my sense of security, then. As little, was it selfishness;
for that would have withheld me from the peril of humanity.
Nor, was it the difference, discovered by a comparison
of situations; for had it been, I acted most unwisely,
by diminishing that difference, as I did, in exposing
my life; and, had it been that, my pleasure would
have diminished, with the difference.
“But it is your sense of danger, that thrills you;” says
a third; “and the emotion is pleasurable.” Impossible;
for if it were so, there would be no cowards. We should
seek danger with more care, than we now avoid it. Battle
would be no longer terrible to any man.
But what is it, then, that gives us the deep and beautiful
emotion, that we experience at such a season of peril?
It is not, that we are pleased to be in danger; but, that a
sense of danger wakens our spirits and faculties; puts us
to thinking of our dependence, and of God's power. In
a calm, blue day, we feel a sleepiness in our serenity.
We do not so much feel, as breathe. We are not conscious
of safety, till in danger. So, we think nothing of
health, till it is about to depart from us. Do we love
sickness, because our eyes are brighter in sickness?
No—but we have learnt to value health, because we have
but little left. So, we love safety, in proportion as it is
diminished. The storm comes up, while we are reposing,
half asleep, under the trees. Till there was danger,
there was no safety to us; for we saw it not, felt it not.
It is, therefore, the sense of security, which is one ingredient,
in the beautifully compound feeling that we have
at such a moment.
But, as that feeling of security diminishes, and the
danger becomes more alarming, we are troubled, and
terrified. The mind is frightened from her contemplation.
The spirit's devout breathing of gratitude is followed
by supplication. She is terrified from her devotion.
That we are pleased with a degree of danger, is certain.
There is something warlike and agitating in what
is dangerous: hence athletick sports, racing, hunting,
fencing—tilt and tournament. But the moment, when that
peril is so great, as to prevent our faculties from moving
loftily;—the moment that the activity of thought is palsied;
the lights of the imagination dimmed, by the nearness
of the peril, or its magnitude, that moment our
pleasure ceases. Danger is pleasant, just exactly to that
point, and no further, where the chief play of the mind
is produced,—or rather, the most intense excitement of
this will be endured to an inconceivable extent, where
we know that it is in our own power to withdraw, when
we please, from the danger.
Another fact, somewhat mysterious at first, but found
in analogy, with the commonest operation of the mind,
is this;—that, in proportion as the quantity of our safety
decreases, the value encreases. Diminish the quantity,
and the quality improves. Our health is another example.
Riches may be another. Few men will part from
their last dollar. But many risk their last thousands
every hour; and part, without emotion, from many thousands.
We feel sensible of our security, and of its value, only
when about to lose it. I have a friend, a wife or
child, no matter which; but the blessing is inestimable.
I say this. I feel it. Yet—touch that friend with sickness.
Let death approach that wife. Let pestilence
breathe upon the mouth of my babe. With what distracting
tenderness, I now doat upon it. How different are
my feelings! We only feel the chord that is tugged at.
Were my pleasure the growth of security, I should be
more an d more miserable as that security diminished.
But I am out; and when all that is so dear to me is in delicate
health, I love her but the more tenderly for it. Were
this not an appointment of heaven,---in its affection, the
sick bed would be deserted—the chamber of sorrow
would become a hermitage;—the desolate and bereaved
would be left—abandoned and alone.
Thus far, I have spoken of many theories, advocated
by Hume, the Abbe du Bos, Fontinelle, Campbell, &c.
without distinguishing them; but I may now be more
particular, for a time.
The Abbe du Bos contends, that such pleasures are
sought, like gambling, to awaken us from ennui. It matters
not what the emotion be, says he;—the stronger it
is, the better. The more afflicting and disagreeable certain
spectacles may be, in themselves, the more acceptable
they are, because more efficient in relieving the soul
from that oppression, which is so insupportable to its energies.
But this, I believe, is hardly true. Beyond a
avoided by the most diseased appetite. What woman,
though half dead with the vapours, could see a man broken,
alive, upon the wheel; or even an amputation performed,
with pleasure?
Fontinelle says, that pleasure and pain differ not much
in their cause. Pleasure, pushed too far, becomes pain.
Pain, a little moderated, becomes pleasure. Take the
example of tickling. Thus, too, there is a soft and
agreeable sorrow, which is only pain diluted. But, can
this be true? Says another—a cramp is painful; at what
time does it become agreeable? A great disappointment
disturbs and grieves us—yet, who is pleased with a slight
one? A great insult enrages us—at what time is an insult
agreeable?
Hume subverts the doctrine, while endeavouring to uphold
it. He maintains, that our pleasure, at the representation
of a tragedy, arises out of the aggravation of
natural misery, which we see. But, if this were true,
the most extravagant caricatures of misery, would be
most delightful to us;—and, if it be the art of the poet, I
would ask what pleasure we can receive, when that art
is visible; and our pleasure arises from the aggravation
of certain sufferings? If we see that they are aggravavated,
are we not angry at the trick;—and if we do not,
how know we, that exaggeration is the cause of our
pleasure?
Doctor Campbell follows them all; and, at last, gives
his own, which makes the pleasure in question to consist
in a certain self-complacency that we feel, in finding ourselves
so kind hearted;—next, a beautiful compound,
which is somewhat unintelligible to me; and then—but
I have somewhat to say of my own notions, on the subject;
and will leave Dr. Campbell to the author.
We are more interested in terrifick and calamitous
events, because of their unfrequency; and because they excite
a livelier and more vehement sensibility. The scenery
of a tragedy, if warlike and turbulent, is the same.—
It has less the air of vulgar life, too. And sorrow impresses
itself more durably upon the heart than joy.—
Sorrow leads us to contemplation; suffering, and the aspect
our heart. But joy leads us abroad—and we forget
it. We laugh at farces, and forget them. We weep at
tragedies; and our memory never lets go its hold upon
them.
Beside, pleasant skies, good health, perfect security,
the drama of common life, excite no reflection; or, if any,
reflections that are unfavourable to enjoyment. We see
others happy; and it often obtrudes our own sorrow upon
us, with more force;—others, in health, and strength, and
beauty, and we feel doubly unhappy, in our weakness
and deformity, as something marked out for the peculiar
displeasure of heaven. Not so, at exhibitions of another
character; then, we run, with avidity, over what we have
to be thankful for, and delight in displaying it. In the
former case, envy and discontent, are often awakened;
in the latter, gratitude and submission.
At tragedies, the sickness and deformities of another,
remind us of our own good health, or person. The mind
delights in finding and imagining parallels.
Thus, bright skies, and pleasant scenery, excite painful
emotions. Stormy skies, and the face of calamity,
excite pleasurable emotions. The latter are remembered
longest, and, consequently, give most pleasure.
And the sum of my whole theory, is this. Whatever
gives a brisker circulation to the animal spirits; or, to
the intellectual spirits, without agitating the mind so
much, that it cannot think, is pleasurable; be it danger,
storm and darkness, or tragedy. It must have the faculty
of exciting reflection, without disturbing us. We
must be sufficiently awake to compare, without being
terrified by the conclusion. And the simple definition
that I would give, is this—the pleasure that we experience,
is only a hurry of feeling. It is derived from the
disposition that we have, in common with race horses, to
keep up with whatever we see; and outrun all that we
can!
And, whatever excites the mind to the greatest activity,
without overwhelming it, is the most pleasurable to it,
for a time. But, beware how you overwork it, by repetition,
or continuity. The faculties, physical and intellectual,
trifled with. If you will preserve the freshness of sensation,
the tone of the instrument, you must keep the
chords and nerves in gentle but continual exercise.
I ought not to forget, however, that there is a pleasure
in seeing theatrical representations, totally apart from
this. What is naturally disagreeable, and even disgusting,
in itself, may become beautiful, exactly in proportion
as it is naturally represented. Morland's hogs,
for example, wallowing in filth. So, too, a murder upon
the stage may gratify us, in proportion to its faithfulness,
which, if perpetrated before our eyes, in reality,
would drive us distracted.
Our pleasure, in these cases, it will be perceived,
grows out of admiration and love for human talent, and
the faculty of imitation;—and has nothing to do with a
wicked or corrupt heart, or beastly imagination.
I have now done, Mr. Ashton; but, as we are probably
about to part, forever, I cannot say farewell—no, I cannot,
in the spirit with which I began. I am near my
grave. You, perhaps, are near yours; for you are an
old man, Mr. Ashton, and cannot be long for this world.
We may meet, sooner than we expect. What shall I
say to you, then? This, and this only. “Man! I was
worthy of your good opinion—here is my heart—read—
there is my judge—do I tremble?” No, Mr. Ashton—I
would not tremble, not before my Maker, in aught that
relates to you. You have nothing to complain of. But
why need I say this? It will all appear there. The sins
that I have done—they are in his book. He will do justly
with me; and I shall prostrate myself, that he may.—
But, in that book, there will be found no sin against you.
However, we are about to part. I feel no animosity, or
but little, toward you. I am not sorry that you returned
the letter, as you did, unopened. It has left the fame
of one, that is yet dear to me, in my keeping; and there
it shall be, until this heart be dust and ashes. But, why
did you return my offering so unkindly? Could you not
bear to be loved by me? I had no father—none;—nought
but a poor, desolate mother? I went to you, with my
Is it wise to turn such fountains as gush here, into fountains
of bitterness? It is not. Old man, you have sinned.
You have shaken my reverence for age. Yet, I
could have forgiven it. I could have remembered our
common infirmities—your liability to imposition—the
generosity of your nature. Yes, I could have appealed
to that—I could—but I scorned to do so. No!—you had
doubted me, insulted me, and cast me off, when my vindication
was in your hand. Yet—sir, I forgive you.—
Farewell, forever.
| Randolph | |