TO MRS MONTAGUE.
TO MRS MONTAGUE.
'Amidst the reflections which press, by turns, upon my burning brain, an obscure consciousness of the prejudices upon which my character has been formed, is not the least torturing—because I feel theinveterate force of habit—I feel, that my convictions come too late!'I have destroyed myself, and you, dearest, most generous, and most unfortunate, of women! I am a monster!—I have seduced innocence, and embrued my hands in blood!—Oh, God!—Oh, God!—'Tis there distraction lies!—I would, circumstantially, retrace my errors; but my disordered mind, and quivering hand, refuse the cruel task—yet, it is necessary that I should attempt a brief sketch.'After the cruel accident, which destroyed our tranquillity, I nourished my senseless jealousies (the sources of which I need not, now, recapitulate), till I persuaded myself—injurious wretch that I was!—that I had been perfidiously and ungenerously treated. Stung by false pride, I tried to harden my heart, and foolishly thirsted for revenge. Your meekness, and magnanimity, disappointed me.—I wouldwillinglyhave seen you, not only suffer thepangs, but express therage, of a slighted wife. The simple victim of my baseness, by the artless affection she expressed for me, gained an ascendency over my mind; and, when you removed her from your house, we still contrived, at times, to meet. The consequences of our intercourse could not long be concealed. It was, then, that I first began to open my eyes on my conduct, and to be seized with remorse!—Rachel, now, wept incessantly. Her father, she told me, was a stern and severe man; and should he hear of her misconduct, would, she was certain, be her destruction. I procured for her an obscure retreat, to which I removed the unhappy girl [Oh, how degrading is vice!], under false pretences. I exhorted her to conceal her situation—to pretend, that her health was in a declining state—and I visited her, from time to time, as in my profession.'This poor young creature continued to bewail the disgrace she anticipated—her lamentations pierced my soul! I recalled to my remembrance your emphatic caution. I foresaw that, with the loss of her character, this simple girl's misfortune and degradation would be irretrievable; and I could, now, plainly distinguish the morality ofrulefrom that ofprinciple. Pursuing this train of reasoning, I entangled myself, for my views were not yet sufficiently clear and comprehensible! Bewildered, amidst contending principles—distracted by a variety of emotions—in seeking a remedy for one vice, I plunged (as is but too common), into others of a more scarlet dye. With shame and horror, I confess, I repeatedly tried, by medical drugs, to procure an abortive birth: the strength and vigour of Rachel's constitution defeated this diabolical purpose. Foiled in these attempts, I became hardened, desperate, and barbarous!'Six weeks before the allotted period, the infant saw the light—for a moment—to close its eyes on it for ever! I, only, was with the unhappy mother. I had formed no deliberate purpose—I had not yet arrived at the acme of guilt—but, perceiving, from the babe's premature birth, and the consequences of the pernicious potions which had been administered to the mother, that the vital flame played but feebly—that life was but as a quivering, uncertain, spark—a sudden and terrible thought darted through my mind. I know not whether my emotion betrayed me to the ear of Rachel—but, suddenly throwing back the curtain of the bed, she beheld me grasp—with savage ferocity—with murderous hands!—Springing from the bed, and throwing herself upon me—her piercing shrieks—'I can no more—of the rest you seem, from whatever means, but too well informed!I need not say—protect, if she survive, the miserable mother!—To you, whose heavenly goodness I have so ill requited, it would be injurious as unnecessary! I read, too late, the heart I have insulted!'I have settled the disposal of my effects—I have commanded my feelings to give you this last, sad, proof of my confidence.—Kneeling, I entreat your forgiveness for the sufferings I have caused you! I found your heart wounded—and into those festering wounds I infused a deadly venom—curse not my memory—We meet no more.'Farewel! first, and last, and only, beloved of women!—a long—a long farewel!'Montague.'
'Amidst the reflections which press, by turns, upon my burning brain, an obscure consciousness of the prejudices upon which my character has been formed, is not the least torturing—because I feel theinveterate force of habit—I feel, that my convictions come too late!
'I have destroyed myself, and you, dearest, most generous, and most unfortunate, of women! I am a monster!—I have seduced innocence, and embrued my hands in blood!—Oh, God!—Oh, God!—'Tis there distraction lies!—I would, circumstantially, retrace my errors; but my disordered mind, and quivering hand, refuse the cruel task—yet, it is necessary that I should attempt a brief sketch.
'After the cruel accident, which destroyed our tranquillity, I nourished my senseless jealousies (the sources of which I need not, now, recapitulate), till I persuaded myself—injurious wretch that I was!—that I had been perfidiously and ungenerously treated. Stung by false pride, I tried to harden my heart, and foolishly thirsted for revenge. Your meekness, and magnanimity, disappointed me.—I wouldwillinglyhave seen you, not only suffer thepangs, but express therage, of a slighted wife. The simple victim of my baseness, by the artless affection she expressed for me, gained an ascendency over my mind; and, when you removed her from your house, we still contrived, at times, to meet. The consequences of our intercourse could not long be concealed. It was, then, that I first began to open my eyes on my conduct, and to be seized with remorse!—Rachel, now, wept incessantly. Her father, she told me, was a stern and severe man; and should he hear of her misconduct, would, she was certain, be her destruction. I procured for her an obscure retreat, to which I removed the unhappy girl [Oh, how degrading is vice!], under false pretences. I exhorted her to conceal her situation—to pretend, that her health was in a declining state—and I visited her, from time to time, as in my profession.
'This poor young creature continued to bewail the disgrace she anticipated—her lamentations pierced my soul! I recalled to my remembrance your emphatic caution. I foresaw that, with the loss of her character, this simple girl's misfortune and degradation would be irretrievable; and I could, now, plainly distinguish the morality ofrulefrom that ofprinciple. Pursuing this train of reasoning, I entangled myself, for my views were not yet sufficiently clear and comprehensible! Bewildered, amidst contending principles—distracted by a variety of emotions—in seeking a remedy for one vice, I plunged (as is but too common), into others of a more scarlet dye. With shame and horror, I confess, I repeatedly tried, by medical drugs, to procure an abortive birth: the strength and vigour of Rachel's constitution defeated this diabolical purpose. Foiled in these attempts, I became hardened, desperate, and barbarous!
'Six weeks before the allotted period, the infant saw the light—for a moment—to close its eyes on it for ever! I, only, was with the unhappy mother. I had formed no deliberate purpose—I had not yet arrived at the acme of guilt—but, perceiving, from the babe's premature birth, and the consequences of the pernicious potions which had been administered to the mother, that the vital flame played but feebly—that life was but as a quivering, uncertain, spark—a sudden and terrible thought darted through my mind. I know not whether my emotion betrayed me to the ear of Rachel—but, suddenly throwing back the curtain of the bed, she beheld me grasp—with savage ferocity—with murderous hands!—Springing from the bed, and throwing herself upon me—her piercing shrieks—
'I can no more—of the rest you seem, from whatever means, but too well informed!
I need not say—protect, if she survive, the miserable mother!—To you, whose heavenly goodness I have so ill requited, it would be injurious as unnecessary! I read, too late, the heart I have insulted!
'I have settled the disposal of my effects—I have commanded my feelings to give you this last, sad, proof of my confidence.—Kneeling, I entreat your forgiveness for the sufferings I have caused you! I found your heart wounded—and into those festering wounds I infused a deadly venom—curse not my memory—We meet no more.
'Farewel! first, and last, and only, beloved of women!—a long—a long farewel!
'Montague.'
These are the consequences of confused systems of morals—and thus it is, that minds of the highest hope, and fairest prospect, are blasted!
The unhappy Rachel recovered her health by slow degrees. I had determined, when my affairs were settled, to leave a spot, that had been the scene of so many tragical events. I proposed to the poor girl to take her again into my family, to which she acceded with rapture. She has never since quitted me, and her faithful services, and humble, grateful attachment, have repaid my protection an hundred fold.
Mr Montague left ten thousand pounds, the half of which was settled on his daughter, the remainder left to my disposal. This determined me to adopt you wholly for my son. I wrote to your uncle to that purport, taking upon myself the entire charge of your education, and entreating, that you might never know, unless informed by myself, to whom you owed your birth. That you should continue to think meyour mother, flattered my tenderness, nor was my Emma, herself, more dear to me.
I retired in a few months to my present residence, sharing my heart and my attentions between my children, who grew up under my fostering care, lovely and beloved.
'While every day, soft as it roll'd along,Shew'd some new charm.'
I observed your affection for each other with a flattering presage. With the features of your father, you inherited his intrepidity, and manly virtues—even, at times, I thought I perceived the seeds of his inflexible spirit; but the caresses of my Emma, more fortunate than her mother—yet, with all her mother's sensibility—could, in an instant, soften you to tenderness, and melt you into infantine sweetness.
I endeavoured to form your young minds to every active virtue, to every generous sentiment.—You received, from the same masters, the same lessons, till you attained your twelfth year; and my Emma emulated, and sometimes outstripped your progress. I observed, with a mixture of hope and solicitude, her lively capacity—her enthusiastic affections; while I laboured to moderate and regulate them.
It now became necessary that your educations should take a somewhat different direction; I wished to fit you for a commercial line of life; but the ardor you discovered for science and literature occasioned me some perplexity, as I feared it might unfit you for application to trade, in the pursuit of which so many talents are swallowed up, and powers wasted. Yet, as to the professions my objections were still more serious.—The study of law, is the study of chicanery.—The church, the school of hypocrisy and usurpation! You could only enter the universities by a moral degradation, that must check the freedom, and contaminate the purity, of the mind, and, entangling it in an inexplicable maze of error and contradiction,poison virtue at its source, and lay the foundation for a duplicity of character and a perversion of reason, destructive of every manly principle of integrity. For the science of physic you expressed a disinclination. A neighbouring gentleman, a surveyor, a man high in his profession, and of liberal manners, to whose friendship I was indebted, offered to take you. You were delighted with this proposal, (to which I had no particular objection) as you had a taste for drawing and architecture.
Our separation, though you were to reside in the same town, cost us many tears—I loved you with more than a mother's fondness—and my Emma clung round the neck of her beloved brother, her Augustus, her playfellow, and sobbed on his bosom. It was with difficulty that you could disentangle yourself from our embraces. Every moment of leisure you flew to us—my Emma learned from you to draw plans, and to study the laws of proportion. Every little exuberance in your disposition, which, generated by a noble pride, sometimes wore the features of asperity, was soothed into peace by her gentleness and affection: while she delighted to emulate your fortitude, and to rise superior to the feebleness fostered in her sex, under the specious name of delicacy. Your mutual attachment encreased with your years, I renewed my existence in my children, and anticipated their more perfect union.
Ah! my son, need I proceed? Must I continually blot the page with the tale of sorrow? Can I tear open again, can I cause to bleed afresh, in your heart and my own, wounds scarcely closed? In her fourteenth year, in the spring of life, your Emma and mine, lovely and fragile blossom, was blighted by a killing frost—After a few days illness, she drooped, faded, languished, and died!
It was now that I felt—'That no agonies were like the agonies of a mother.' My broken spirits, from these repeated sorrows, sunk into habitual, hopeless, dejection. Prospects, that I had meditated with ineffable delight, were for ever veiled in darkness. Every earthly tie was broken, except that which bound you to my desolated heart with a still stronger cord of affection. You wept, in my arms, the loss of her whom you, yet, fondly believed your sister.—I cherished the illusion lest, by dissolving it, I should weaken your confidence in my maternal love, weaken that tenderness which was now my only consolation.
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
My Augustus,my more than son, around whom my spirit, longing for dissolution, still continues to flutter! I have unfolded the errors of my past life—I have traced them to their source—I have laid bare my mind before you, that the experiments which have been made upon it may be beneficial to yours! It has been a painful, and a humiliating recital—the retrospection has been marked with anguish. As the enthusiasm—as the passions of my youth—have passed in review before me, long forgotten emotions have been revived in my lacerated heart—it has been again torn withthe pangs of contemned love—the disappointment of rational plans of usefulness—the dissolution of the darling hopes of maternal pride and fondness. The frost of a premature age sheds its snows upon my temples, the ravages of a sickly mind shake my tottering frame. The morning dawns, the evening closes upon me, the seasons revolve, without hope; the sun shines, the spring returns, but, to me, it is mockery.And is this all of human life—this, that passes like a tale that is told? Alas! it is a tragical tale! Friendship was the star, whose cheering influence I courted to beam upon my benighted course. The social affections were necessary to my existence, but they have been only inlets to sorrow—yet, still, I bind them to my heart!Hitherto there seems to have been something strangely wrong in the constitutions of society—a lurking poison that spreads its contagion far and wide—a canker at the root of private virtue and private happiness—a principle of deception, that sanctifies error—a Circean cup that lulls into a fatal intoxication. But men begin to think and reason; reformation dawns, though the advance is tardy. Moral martyrdom may possibly be the fate of those who press forward, yet, their generous efforts will not be lost.—Posterity will plant the olive and the laurel, and consecrate their mingled branches to the memory of such, who, daring to trace, to their springs, errors the most hoary, and prejudices the most venerated, emancipate the human mind from the trammels of superstition, and teach it,that its true dignity and virtue, consist in being free.Ere I sink into the grave, let me behold theson of my affections, the living image of him, whose destiny involved mine, who gave an early, but a mortal blow, to all my worldly expectations—let me behold my Augustus, escaped from the tyranny of the passions, restored to reason, to the vigor of his mind, to self controul, to the dignity of active, intrepid virtue!The dawn of my life glowed with the promise of a fair and bright day; before its noon, thick clouds gathered; its mid-day was gloomy and tempestuous.—It remains with thee, my friend, to gild with a mild radiance the closing evening; before the scene shuts, and veils the prospect in impenetrable darkness.
My Augustus,my more than son, around whom my spirit, longing for dissolution, still continues to flutter! I have unfolded the errors of my past life—I have traced them to their source—I have laid bare my mind before you, that the experiments which have been made upon it may be beneficial to yours! It has been a painful, and a humiliating recital—the retrospection has been marked with anguish. As the enthusiasm—as the passions of my youth—have passed in review before me, long forgotten emotions have been revived in my lacerated heart—it has been again torn withthe pangs of contemned love—the disappointment of rational plans of usefulness—the dissolution of the darling hopes of maternal pride and fondness. The frost of a premature age sheds its snows upon my temples, the ravages of a sickly mind shake my tottering frame. The morning dawns, the evening closes upon me, the seasons revolve, without hope; the sun shines, the spring returns, but, to me, it is mockery.
And is this all of human life—this, that passes like a tale that is told? Alas! it is a tragical tale! Friendship was the star, whose cheering influence I courted to beam upon my benighted course. The social affections were necessary to my existence, but they have been only inlets to sorrow—yet, still, I bind them to my heart!
Hitherto there seems to have been something strangely wrong in the constitutions of society—a lurking poison that spreads its contagion far and wide—a canker at the root of private virtue and private happiness—a principle of deception, that sanctifies error—a Circean cup that lulls into a fatal intoxication. But men begin to think and reason; reformation dawns, though the advance is tardy. Moral martyrdom may possibly be the fate of those who press forward, yet, their generous efforts will not be lost.—Posterity will plant the olive and the laurel, and consecrate their mingled branches to the memory of such, who, daring to trace, to their springs, errors the most hoary, and prejudices the most venerated, emancipate the human mind from the trammels of superstition, and teach it,that its true dignity and virtue, consist in being free.
Ere I sink into the grave, let me behold theson of my affections, the living image of him, whose destiny involved mine, who gave an early, but a mortal blow, to all my worldly expectations—let me behold my Augustus, escaped from the tyranny of the passions, restored to reason, to the vigor of his mind, to self controul, to the dignity of active, intrepid virtue!
The dawn of my life glowed with the promise of a fair and bright day; before its noon, thick clouds gathered; its mid-day was gloomy and tempestuous.—It remains with thee, my friend, to gild with a mild radiance the closing evening; before the scene shuts, and veils the prospect in impenetrable darkness.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Punctuation, hyphenation and period spellings have been retained even where not consistent. The latter includes the name Anne, which also occurs without the final e.The changes listed below have been made and can be identified in the body of the text by a grey dotted underline: