I oughtto apologize for not having written to you on the ſubject you mentioned; but, to tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, inſtead of an anſwer, I have begun a ſeries of letters on the management of children in their infancy. Replying then to your queſtion, I have the public in mythoughts, and ſhall endeavour to ſhow what modes appear to me neceſſary, to render the infancy of children more healthy and happy. I have long thought, that the cauſe which renders children as hard to rear as the moſt fragile plant, is our deviation from ſimplicity. I know that ſome able phyſicians have recommended the method I have purſued, and I mean to point out the good effects I have obſerved in practice. I am aware that many matrons will exclaim againſt me, and dwell on the number of children they have brought up, as their mothers did before them, without troubling themſelves with new-fangled notions; yet, though, in my uncle Toby's words, they ſhould attempt to ſilence me, by "wiſhing I had ſeen their large" families, I muſt ſuppoſe, while a third partof the human ſpecies, according to the moſt accurate calculation, die during their infancy, juſt at the threſhold of life, that there is ſome error in the modes adopted by mothers and nurſes, which counteracts their own endeavours. I may be miſtaken in ſome particulars; for general rules, founded on the ſoundeſt reaſon, demand individual modification; but, if I can perſuade any of the riſing generation to exerciſe their reaſon on this head, I am content. My advice will probably be found moſt uſeful to mothers in the middle claſs; and it is from them that the lower imperceptibly gains improvement. Cuſtom, produced by reaſon in one, may ſafely be the effect of imitation in the other.
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
Dublin, April 14, [1787.]
Dear ſir,
I amſtill an invalid—and begin to believe that I ought never to expect to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour to be uſeful, I grow too much intereſted for my own peace. Confined almoſt entirely to the ſociety of children, I am anxiouſly ſolicitous for their future welfare, and mortified beyond meaſure,when counteracted in my endeavours to improve them.—I feel all a mother's fears for the ſwarm of little ones which ſurround me, and obſerve diſorders, without having power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life, when it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the pleaſures I reliſh?—I allude to rational converſations, and domeſtic affections. Here, alone, a poor ſolitary individual in a ſtrange land, tied to one ſpot, and ſubject to the caprice of another, can I be contented? I am deſirous to convince you that I haveſomecauſe for ſorrow—and am not without reaſon detached from life. I ſhall hope to hear that you are well, and am yours ſincerely
Mary Wollſtonecraft.
Henley, Thurſday, Sept 13.
My dear ſir,
SinceI ſaw you, I have, literally ſpeaking,enjoyedſolitude. My ſiſter could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone, by the ſide of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and pleaſure grounds: the proſpects were of ſuch a placid kind, Icaughttranquillity while I ſurveyed them—my mind wasſtill, though active. Were I to give you an account how I have ſpent my time, you would ſmile.—I found an old French bible here, and amuſed myſelf with comparing it with ourEngliſh tranſlation; then I would liſten to the falling leaves, or obſerve the various tints the autumn gave to them—At other times, the ſinging of a robin, or the noiſe of a water-mill, engaged my attention—partial attention—, for I was, at the ſame time perhaps diſcuſſing ſome knotty point, or ſtraying from thistinyworld to new ſyſtems. After theſe excurſions, I returned to the family meals, told the children ſtories (they think mevaſtlyagreeable), and my ſiſter was amuſed.—Well, will you allow me to call this way of paſſing my days pleaſant?
I was juſt going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to ſay all I have to add to this epiſtle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, leſt my ſiſter ſhould try to prevailon me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am determined!—Your ſex generally laugh at female determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet reſolved to do, any thing of conſequence, that I did not adhere reſolutely to it, till I had accompliſhed my purpoſe, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In the courſe of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered ſome experience, and felt manyſeverediſappointments—and what is the amount? I long for a little peace andindependence! Every obligation we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new ſhackle, takes from our native freedom, and debaſes the mind, makes us mere earthworms—I am not fond of grovelling!
I am, ſir, yours, &c.
mary wollſtonecraft.
Market Harborough, Sept. 20.
My dear ſir,
Youleft me with three opulent tradeſmen; their converſation was not calculated to beguile the way, when the ſable curtain concealed the beauties of nature. I liſtened to the tricks of trade—and ſhrunk away, without wiſhing to grow rich; even the novelty of the ſubjects did not render them pleaſing; fond as I am of tracing the paſſions in all their different forms—I was not ſurpriſed by any glimpſe of the ſublime, or beautiful—though one of them imagined I would be a uſeful partner in a goodfirm. I was very much fatigued, and have ſcarcely recoveredmyſelf. I do not expect to enjoy the ſame tranquil pleaſures Henley afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful emotions are complicated with the reflections they give riſe to.
I do not intend to enter on theoldtopic, yet hope to hear from you—and am yours, &c.
mary wollſtonecraft.
Friday Night.
My dear ſir,
Thoughyour remarks are generally judicious—I cannotnowconcur with you, I mean with reſpect to the preface[67-A],and have not altered it. I hate the uſual ſmooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general ruleonlyextends to the majority—and, believe me, the few judicious parents who may peruſe my book, will not feel themſelves hurt—and the weak are too vain to mind what is ſaid in a book intended for children.
I return you the Italian MS.—but do not haſtily imagine that I am indolent. I would not ſpare any labour to do my duty—and, after the moſt laborious day, that ſingle thought would ſolace me more than any pleaſures the ſenſes could enjoy. I find I could not tranſlate the MS. well. If it was not a MS, I ſhould not be ſo eaſily intimidated; but the hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a ſtumbling-block at the firſt ſetting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing Icannot do well—and I ſhould loſe time in the vain attempt.
I had, the other day, the ſatiſfaction of again receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret[69-A].—With all a mother's fondneſs I could tranſcribe a part of it—She ſays, every day her affection to me, and dependence on heaven increaſe, &c.—I miſs her innocent careſſes—and ſometimes indulge a pleaſing hope, that ſhe may be allowed to cheer my childleſs age—if I am to live to be old.—At any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not contemplate—and my reaſon may permit me to love a female.—I now allude to ———. I have received another letter from her, and her childiſh complaints vex me—indeed they do—As uſual, good-night.
mary.
If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the ſtories; for, what are books—compared to converſations which affection inforces!—
My dear ſir,
Rememberyou are to ſettlemy account, as I want to know how much I am in your debt—but do not ſuppoſe that I feel any uneaſineſs on that ſcore. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me for a like civility,but you were a manbefore you were a bookſeller—ſo I am your ſincere friend,
mary.
Friday Morning.
I amſick with vexation—and wiſh I could knock my fooliſh head againſt the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel leſs anguiſh from ſelf-reproach! To ſay the truth, I was never more diſpleaſed with myſelf, and I will tell you the cauſe.—You may recollect that I did not mention to you the circumſtance of ——— having a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it drop from me when I converſed with my ſiſter; becauſe I knew he had a ſufficient motive for concealing it. Laſt Sunday, when his character was aſperſed, as I thought, unjuſtly, in the heat of vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the ſame time, deſired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet, laſt Tueſday, he told him all—and the boy at B——'s gave Mrs. ——— an account of it. As Mr. ——— knew he had only made a confident of me (I bluſh to think of it!) he gueſſed the channel of intelligence, and this morning came (not to reproach me, I wiſh he had!) but to point out the injury I have done him.—Let what will be the conſequence, I will reimburſe him, if I deny myſelf the neceſſaries of life—and even then my folly will ſting me.—Perhaps you can ſcarcely conceive the miſery I at this moment endure—that I, whoſe power of doing good is ſo limited, ſhould do harm, galls my very ſoul. ****** may laugh at theſe qualms—but, ſuppoſing Mr.——— to be unworthy, I am not the leſs to blame. Surely it is hell to deſpiſe one's ſelf!—I did not want this additional vexation—at this time I have many that hang heavily on my ſpirits. I ſhall not call on you this month—nor ſtir out.—My ſtomach has been ſo ſuddenly and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the deſk.
mary wollſtonecraft.
AsI am become a reviewer, I think it right, in the way of buſineſs, to conſider the ſubject. You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as the advertiſement prefixed to the Appendixplainly ſhows. The Critical appears to me to be a timid, mean production, and its ſucceſs is a reflection on the taſte and judgment of the public; but, as a body, who ever gave it credit for much? The voice of the people is only the voice of truth, when ſome man of abilities has had time to get faſt hold of thegreat noſeof the monſter. Of courſe, local fame is generally a clamour, and dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded me more amuſement, though every article almoſt wants energy and acantof virtue and liberality is ſtrewed over it; always tame, and eager to pay court to eſtabliſhed fame. The account of Necker is one unvaried tone of admiration. Surely men were born only to provide for the ſuſtenance of the body by enfeebling the mind!
mary.
Youmade me very low-ſpirited laſt night, by your manner of talking.—You are my only friend—the only perſon I amintimatewith.—I never had a father, or a brother—you have been both to me, ever ſince I knew you—yet I have ſometimes been very petulant.—I have been thinking of thoſe inſtances of ill-humour and quickneſs, and they appeared like crimes.
Yours ſincerely
mary.
Saturday Night.
I ama mere animal, and inſtinctive emotions too often ſilence the ſuggeſtions of reaſon. Your note—I can ſcarcely tell why, hurt me—and produced a kind of winterly ſmile, which diffuſes a beam of deſpondent tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was more than fancy—After ſome ſleepleſs, weariſome nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious.—Laſt Thurſday, in particular, I imagined ——— was thrown into great diſtreſs by his folly; and I, unable to aſſiſt him, was in an agony. My nerves were in ſuch apainful ſtate of irritation—I ſuffered more than I can expreſs—Society was neceſſary—and might have diverted me till I gained more ſtrength; but I bluſhed when I recollected how often I had teazed you with childiſh complaints, and the reveries of a diſordered imagination. I evenimaginedthat I intruded on you, becauſe you never called on me—though you perceived that I was not well.—I have nouriſhed a ſickly kind of delicacy, which gives me many unneceſſary pangs.—I acknowledge that life is but a jeſt—and often a frightful dream—yet catch myſelf every day ſearching for ſomething ſerious—and feel real miſery from the diſappointment. I am a ſtrange compound of weakneſs and reſolution! However, if I muſt ſuffer, I will endeavour to ſuffer in ſilence.There is certainly a great defect in my mind—my wayward heart creates its own miſery—Why I am made thus I cannot tell; and, till I can form ſome idea of the whole of my exiſtence, I muſt be content to weep and dance like a child—long for a toy, and be tired of it as ſoon as I get it.
We muſt each of us wear a fool's cap; but mine, alas! has loſt its bells, and is grown ſo heavy, I find it intolerably troubleſome.——Good-night! I have been purſuing a number of ſtrange thoughts ſince I began to write, and have actually both wept and laughed immoderately—Surely I am a fool—
mary w.
Monday Morning.
I reallywant a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that language—and I will tell you the reaſon why.—While I live, I am perſuaded, I muſt exert my underſtanding to procure an independence, and render myſelf uſeful. To make the taſk eaſier, I ought to ſtore my mind with knowledge—The ſeed time is paſſing away. I ſee the neceſſity of labouring now—and of that neceſſity I do not complain; on the contrary, I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to purſue knowledge, and draw my pleaſures from the employments that are within my reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day—I feel at this moment particularly grateful to you—without your humane anddelicateaſſiſtance, how many obſtacles ſhould I not have had to encounter—too often ſhould I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom I wiſh to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear ſir, and call friend a being I reſpect.—Adieu!
mary w.
I thoughtyouveryunkind, nay, very unfeeling, laſt night. My cares and vexations—I will ſay what I allow myſelf to think—do me honour, as they ariſe from my diſintereſtedneſs andunbendingprinciples; nor can that mode of conduct be a reflection on my underſtanding, which enables me to bear miſery, rather than ſelfiſhly live for myſelf alone. I am not the only character deſerving of reſpect, that has had to ſtruggle with various ſorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and preſent comfort.—Dr. Johnſon's cares almoſt drove him mad—but, I ſuppoſe, you would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that wiſe men ſtriving againſt theſtream, can yet be in good humour. I have done with inſenſible human wiſdom,—"indifference cold in wiſdom's guiſe,"—and turn to the ſource of perfection—who perhaps never diſregarded an almoſt broken heart, eſpecially when a reſpect, a practical reſpect, for virtue, ſharpened the wounds of adverſity. I am ill—I ſtayed in bed this morning till eleven o'clock, only thinking of getting money to extricate myſelf out of ſome of my difficulties—The ſtruggle is now over. I will condeſcend to try to obtain ſome in a diſagreeable way.
Mr. ——— called on me juſt now—pray did you know his motive for calling[82-A]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the houſe before it occurred to me in the ſtrong light it does now, or I ſhould have told him ſo—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be inſulted by a ſuperficial puppy.—His intimacy with Miſs ——— gave him a privilege, which he ſhould not have aſſumed with me—a propoſal might be made to his couſin, a milliner's girl, which ſhould not have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wiſh to ſee him again!—When I meet him at your houſe, I ſhall leave the room, ſince I cannot pull him by the noſe. I can force my ſpirit to leave my body—but it ſhall never bend to ſupport that body—God of heaven, ſave thy child from this living death!—I ſcarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very ſick—ſick at heart.——
mary.
Tueſday Evening.
Sir,
Whenyou left me this morning, and I reflected a moment—yourofficiousmeſſage, which at firſt appeared to me a joke—looked ſo very like an inſult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then the neceſſity of forcing a ſmile—when I chance to meet you—I take the earlieſt opportunity of informing you of my real ſentiments.
mary wollſtonecraft.
Wedneſday, 3 o'clock.
Sir,
Itis inexpreſſibly diſagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a ſubject, that has already raiſed a tumult ofindignantemotions in my boſom, which I was labouring to ſuppreſs when I received your letter. I ſhall nowcondeſcendto anſwer your epiſtle; but let me firſt tell you, that, in myunprotectedſituation, I make a point of never forgiving adeliberate inſult—and in that light I conſider your late officious conduct. It is not according to my nature to mince matters—I will then tell you inplain terms, what I think. I have ever conſidered you in the light of acivilacquaintance—on the word friend I lay a peculiar emphaſis—and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude andcruel, to ſtep forward to inſult a woman, whoſe conduct and miſfortunes demand reſpect. If my friend, Mr. Johnſon, had made the propoſal—I ſhould have been ſeverely hurt—have thought him unkind and unfeeling, but notimpertinent.—The privilege of intimacy you had no claim to—and ſhould have referred the man to myſelf—if you had not ſufficient diſcernment to quaſh it at once. I am, ſir, poor and deſtitute.—Yet I have a ſpirit that will never bend, or take indirect methods, to obtain the conſequence I deſpiſe; nay, if to ſupport life it was neceſſary to act contrary to my principles, the ſtrugglewould ſoon be over. I can bear any thing but my own contempt.
In a few words, what I call an inſult, is the bare ſuppoſition that I could for a moment think ofproſtitutingmy perſon for a maintenance; for in that point of view does ſuch a marriage appear to me, who conſider right and wrong in the abſtract, and never by words and local opinions ſhield myſelf from the reproaches of my own heart and underſtanding.
It is needleſs to ſay more—Only you muſt excuſe me when I add, that I wiſh never to ſee, but as a perfect ſtranger, a perſon who could ſo groſſly miſtake my character. An apology is not neceſſary—if you were inclined to make one—nor any further expoſtulations.—I again repeat, I cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have ſufficient delicacy to reſpect poverty, even where it gives luſtre to a character—and I tell you ſir, I ampoor—yet can live without your benevolent exertions.
mary wollſtonecraft.
I ſendyouallthe books I had to review except Dr. J—'s Sermons, which I have begun. If you wiſh me to look over any more traſh this month—you muſt ſend it directly. I have been ſo low-ſpirited ſince I ſaw you—I was quite glad, laſt night, to feel myſelf affected by ſome paſſages in Dr. J—'s ſermon on the death of his wife—Iſeemed (ſuddenly) tofindmyſoulagain—It has been for ſome time I cannot tell where. Send me the Speaker—andMary, I want one—and I ſhall ſoon want ſome paper—you may as well ſend it at the ſame time—for I am trying to brace my nerves that I may be induſtrious.—I am afraid reaſon is not a good bracer—for I have been reaſoning a long time with my untoward ſpirits—and yet my hand trembles.—I could finiſh a period veryprettilynow, by ſaying that it ought to be ſteady when I add that I am yours ſincerely,
mary.
If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J—'s ſ—— on his wife, be it known unto you—Iwillnot do it any other way—I felt ſome pleaſure in paying a juſt tribute of reſpect to the memory of a man—who, ſpite of his faults, I have an affection for—I ſayhave, for I believe he is ſomewhere—wheremy ſoul has been gadding perhaps;—butyoudo not live on conjectures.
Mydear ſir, I ſend you a chapter which I am pleaſed with, now I ſee it in one point of view—and, as I have made free with the author, I hope you will not have often to ſay—what does this mean?
You forgot you were to make outmy account—I am, of courſe, over head and ears in debt; but I have not that kind of pride, which makes ſome diſlike to be obliged to thoſe they reſpect.—On the contrary, when I involuntarily lament that I have not a father or brother, I thankfully recollect that I have received unexpected kindneſs from you and a few others.—So reaſon allows, what nature impels me to—for I cannot live without loving my fellow-creatures—nor can I love them, without diſcovering ſome virtue.
mary.
Paris, December 26, 1792.
I ſhouldimmediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not wiſhed to wait till I could tell you that this day was not ſtained with blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention to prevent a tumult, made me ſuppoſe that the dogs of faction would not dare to bark, much leſs to bite, however true to their ſcent; and I was not miſtaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning home with compoſed countenances, ſhouldering their arms. About nine o'clock this morning, the king paſſed by my window, moving ſilently along (excepting now and then a few ſtrokes on the drum, which rendered the ſtillneſs more awful) through empty ſtreets, ſurrounded by the national guards, who, cluſtering round the carriage, ſeemed to deſerve their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the caſements were all ſhut, not a voice was heard, nor did I ſee any thing like an inſulting geſture.—For the firſt time ſince I entered France, I bowed to the majeſty of the people, and reſpected the propriety of behaviour ſo perfectly in uniſon with my own feelings. I can ſcarcely tell you why, but an aſſociation of ideas made the tears flow inſenſibly from my eyes, when I ſaw Louis ſitting, with moredignity than I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where ſo many of his race have triumphed. My fancy inſtantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories moſt flattering to his pride, only to ſee the ſunſhine of proſperity overſhadowed by the ſublime gloom of miſery. I have been alone ever ſince; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot diſmiſs the lively images that have filled my imagination all the day.—Nay, do not ſmile, but pity me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have ſeen eyes glare through a glaſs-door oppoſite my chair and bloody hands ſhook at me. Not the diſtant ſound of a footſtep can I hear.—My apartments are remote from thoſe of the ſervants, the only perſonswho ſleep with me in an immenſe hotel, one folding door opening after another.—I wiſh I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to ſee ſomething alive; death in ſo many frightful ſhapes has taken hold of my fancy.—I am going to bed—and, for the firſt time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.
m. w.
FOOTNOTES:[67-A]To Original Stories.[69-A]Counteſs Mount Caſhel.[82-A]This alludes to a fooliſh propoſal of marriage for mercenary conſiderations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addreſſed to the gentleman himſelf.
[67-A]To Original Stories.
[67-A]To Original Stories.
[69-A]Counteſs Mount Caſhel.
[69-A]Counteſs Mount Caſhel.
[82-A]This alludes to a fooliſh propoſal of marriage for mercenary conſiderations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addreſſed to the gentleman himſelf.
[82-A]This alludes to a fooliſh propoſal of marriage for mercenary conſiderations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addreſſed to the gentleman himſelf.
[Begun to be written in the year 1787, but never completed]
Yewho expect conſtancy where every thing is changing, and peace in the midſt of tumult, attend to the voice of experience, and mark in time the footſteps of diſappointment, or life will be loſt in deſultory wiſhes, and death arrive before the dawn of wiſdom.
In a ſequeſtered valley, ſurrounded by rocky mountains that intercepted many of the paſſing clouds, though ſunbeams variegated their ample ſides, lived a ſage, to whom nature had unlockedher moſt hidden ſecrets. His hollow eyes, ſunk in their orbits, retired from the view of vulgar objects, and turned inwards, overleaped the boundary preſcribed to human knowledge. Intenſe thinking during fourſcore and ten years, had whitened the ſcattered locks on his head, which, like the ſummit of the diſtant mountain, appeared to be bound by an eternal froſt.
On the ſandy waſte behind the mountains, the track of ferocious beaſts might be traced, and ſometimes the mangled limbs which they left, attracted a hovering flight of birds of prey. An extenſive wood the ſage had forced to rear its head in a ſoil by no means congenial, and the firm trunks of the trees ſeemed to frown with defiance on time; though the ſpoils of innumerable ſummers covered the roots, which reſembledfangs; ſo cloſely did they cling to the unfriendly ſand, where ſerpents hiſſed, and ſnakes, rolling out their vaſt folds, inhaled the noxious vapours. The ravens and owls who inhabited the ſolitude, gave alſo a thicker gloom to the everlaſting twilight, and the croaking of the former a monotony, in uniſon with the gloom; whilſt lions and tygers, ſhunning even this faint ſemblance of day, ſought the dark caverns, and at night, when they ſhook off ſleep, their roaring would make the whole valley reſound, confounded with the ſcreechings of the bird of night.
One mountain roſe ſublime, towering above all, on the craggy ſides of which a few ſea-weeds grew, waſhed by the ocean, that with tumultuous roar ruſhed to aſſault, and even undermine, the huge barrier that ſtopped its progreſs;and ever and anon a ponderous maſs, looſened from the cliff, to which it ſcarcely ſeemed to adhere, always threatening to fall, fell into the flood, rebounding as it fell, and the ſound was re-echoed from rock to rock. Look where you would, all was without form, as if nature, ſuddenly ſtopping her hand, had left chaos a retreat.
Cloſe to the moſt remote ſide of it was the ſage's abode. It was a rude hut, formed of ſtumps of trees and matted twigs, to ſecure him from the inclemency of the weather; only through ſmall apertures croſſed with ruſhes, the wind entered in wild murmurs, modulated by theſe obſtructions. A clear ſpring broke out of the middle of the adjacent rock, which, dropping ſlowly into a cavity it had hollowed, ſoon overflowed, and then ran, ſtruggling tofree itſelf from the cumbrous fragments, till, become a deep, ſilent ſtream, it eſcaped through reeds, and roots of trees, whoſe blaſted tops overhung and darkened the current.
One ſide of the hut was ſupported by the rock, and at midnight, when the ſage ſtruck the incloſed part, it yawned wide, and admitted him into a cavern in the very bowels of the earth, where never human foot before had trod; and the various ſpirits, which inhabit the different regions of nature, were here obedient to his potent word. The cavern had been formed by the great inundation of waters, when the approach of a comet forced them from their ſource; then, when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, a ſtream ruſhed out of the centre of the earth, where the ſpirits, who have livedon it, are confined to purify themſelves from the droſs contracted in their firſt ſtage of exiſtence; and it flowed in black waves, for ever bubbling along the cave, the extent of which had never been explored. From the ſides and top, water diſtilled, and, petrifying as it fell, took fantaſtic ſhapes, that ſoon divided it into apartments, if ſo they might be called. In the foam, a wearied ſpirit would ſometimes riſe, to catch the moſt diſtant glimpſe of light, or taſte the vagrant breeze, which the yawning of the rock admitted, when Sageſtus, for that was the name of the hoary ſage, entered. Some, who were refined and almoſt cleared from vicious ſpots, he would allow to leave, for a limited time, their dark priſon-houſe; and, flying on the winds acroſs the bleak northern ocean, or riſing in an exhalation till they reached a ſun-beam, they thus re-viſited the haunts of men. Theſe were the guardian angels, who in ſoft whiſpers reſtrain the vicious, and animate the wavering wretch who ſtands ſuſpended between virtue and vice.
Sageſtus had ſpent a night in the cavern, as he often did, and he left the ſilent veſtibule of the grave, juſt as the ſun, emerging from the ocean, diſperſed the clouds, which were not half ſo denſe as thoſe he had left. All that was human in him rejoiced at the ſight of reviving life, and he viewed with pleaſure the mounting ſap riſing to expand the herbs, which grew ſpontaneouſly in this wild—when, turning his eyes towards the ſea, he found that death had been at work during his abſence, and terrific marks of a furious ſtorm ſtill ſpread horror around. Thoughthe day was ſerene, and threw bright rays on eyes for ever ſhut, it dawned not for the wretches who hung pendent on the craggy rocks, or were ſtretched lifeleſs on the ſand. Some, ſtruggling, had dug themſelves a grave; others had reſigned their breath before the impetuous ſurge whirled them on ſhore. A few, in whom the vital ſpark was not ſo ſoon diſlodged, had clung to looſe fragments; it was the graſp of death; embracing the ſtone, they ſtiffened; and the head, no longer erect, reſted on the maſs which the arms encircled. It felt not the agonizing gripe, nor heard the ſigh that broke the heart in twain.
Reſting his chin on an oaken club, the ſage looked on every ſide, to ſee if he could diſcern any who yet breathed. He drew nearer, and thought heſaw, at the firſt glance, the uncloſed eyes glare; but ſoon perceived that they were a mere glaſſy ſubſtance, mute as the tongue; the jaws were fallen, and, in ſome of the tangled locks, hands were clinched; nay, even the nails had entered ſharpened by deſpair. The blood flew rapidly to his heart; it was fleſh; he felt he was ſtill a man, and the big tear paced down his iron cheeks, whoſe muſcles had not for a long time been relaxed by ſuch humane emotions. A moment he breathed quick, then heaved a ſigh, and his wonted calm returned with an unaccuſtomed glow of tenderneſs; for the ways of heaven were not hid from him; he lifted up his eyes to the common Father of nature, and all was as ſtill in his boſom, as the ſmooth deep, after having cloſedover the huge veſſel from which the wretches had fled.
Turning round a part of the rock that jutted out, meditating on the ways of Providence, a weak infantine voice reached his ears; it was liſping out the name of mother. He looked, and beheld a blooming child leaning over, and kiſſing with eager fondneſs, lips that were inſenſible to the warm preſſure. Starting at the ſight of the ſage, ſhe fixed her eyes on him, "Wake her, ah! wake her," ſhe cried, "or the ſea will catch us." Again he felt compaſſion, for he ſaw that the mother ſlept the ſleep of death. He ſtretched out his hand, and, ſmoothing his brow, invited her to approach; but ſhe ſtill intreated him to wake her mother, whom ſhe continued to call, with an impatient tremulous voice. To detachher from the body by perſuaſion would not have been very eaſy. Sageſtus had a quicker method to effect his purpoſe; he took out a box which contained a ſoporific powder, and as ſoon as the fumes reached her brain, the powers of life were ſuſpended.
He carried her directly to his hut, and left her ſleeping profoundly on his ruſhy couch.
AgainSageſtus approached the dead, to view them with a more ſcrutinizing eye. He was perfectly acquainted with the conſtruction of the human body, knew the traces that virtue or vice leaves on the whole frame; they were now indelibly fixed by death; nay more, he knew by the ſhape of the ſolid ſtructure, how far the ſpirit could range, and ſaw the barrier beyond which it could not paſs: the mazes of fancy he explored, meaſured the ſtretch of thought, and, weighing all in an even balance, could tell whom nature had ſtamped an hero, a poet, or philoſopher.
By their appearance, at a tranſient glance, he knew that the veſſel muſt have contained many paſſengers, and that ſome of them were above the vulgar, with reſpect to fortune and education; he then walked leiſurely among the dead, and narrowly obſerved their pallid features.
His eye firſt reſted on a form in which proportion reigned, and, ſtroking back the hair, a ſpacious forehead met his view; warm fancy had revelled there, and her airy dance had left veſtiges, ſcarcely viſible to a mortal eye. Some perpendicular lines pointed out that melancholy had predominated in his conſtitution; yet the ſtraggling hairs of his eye-brows ſhowed that anger had often ſhook his frame; indeed, the four temperatures, like the four elements, had reſided in this little world,and produced harmony. The whole viſage was bony, and an energetic frown had knit the flexible ſkin of his brow; the kingdom within had been extenſive; and the wild creations of fancy had there "a local habitation and a name." So exquiſite was his ſenſibility, ſo quick his comprehenſion, that he perceived various combinations in an inſtant; he caught truth as ſhe darted towards him, ſaw all her fair proportion at a glance, and the flaſh of his eye ſpoke the quick ſenſes which conveyed intelligence to his mind; the ſenſorium indeed was capacious, and the ſage imagined he ſaw the lucid beam, ſparkling with love or ambition, in characters of fire, which a graceful curve of the upper eyelid ſhaded. The lips were a little deranged by contempt; and a mixture of vanity andſelf-complacency formed a few irregular lines round them. The chin had ſuffered from ſenſuality, yet there were ſtill great marks of vigour in it, as if advanced with ſtern dignity. The hand accuſtomed to command, and even tyrannize, was unnerved; but its appearance convinced Sageſtus, that he had oftener wielded a thought than a weapon; and that he had ſilenced, by irreſiſtible conviction, the ſuperficial diſputant, and the being, who doubted becauſe he had not ſtrength to believe, who, wavering between different borrowed opinions, firſt caught at one ſtraw, then at another, unable to ſettle into any conſiſtency of character. After gazing a few moments, Sageſtus turned away exclaiming, How are the ſtately oaks torn up by a tempeſt, and the bowunſtrung, that could force the arrow beyond the ken of the eye!
What a different face next met his view! The forehead was ſhort, yet well ſet together; the noſe ſmall, but a little turned up at the end; and a draw-down at the ſides of his mouth, proved that he had been a humouriſt, who minded the main chance, and could joke with his acquaintance, while he eagerly devoured a dainty which he was not to pay for. His lips ſhut like a box whoſe hinges had often been mended; and the muſcles, which diſplay the ſoft emotion of the heart on the cheeks, were grown quite rigid, ſo that, the veſſels that ſhould have moiſtened them not having much communication with the grand ſource of paſſions, the fine volatile fluid had evaporated, and they became mere dry fibres, which mightbe pulled by any miſfortune that threatened himſelf, but were not ſufficiently elaſtic to be moved by the miſeries of others. His joints were inſerted compactly, and with celerity they had performed all the animal functions, without any of the grace which reſults from the imagination mixing with the ſenſes.
A huge form was ſtretched near him, that exhibited marks of overgrown infancy; every part was relaxed; all appeared imperfect. Yet, ſome undulating lines on the puffed-out cheeks, diſplayed ſigns of timid, ſervile good nature; and the ſkin of the forehead had been ſo often drawn up by wonder, that the few hairs of the eyebrows were fixed in a ſharp arch, whilſt an ample chin reſted in lobes of fleſh on his protuberant breaſt.
By his ſide was a body that had ſcarcely ever much life in it—ſympathy ſeemed to have drawn them together—every feature and limb was round and fleſhy, and, if a kind of brutal cunning had not marked the face, it might have been miſtaken for an automaton, ſo unmixed was the phlegmatic fluid. The vital ſpark was buried deep in a ſoft maſs of matter, reſembling the pith in young elder, which, when found, is ſo equivocal, that it only appears a moiſter part of the ſame body.
Another part of the beach was covered with ſailors, whoſe bodies exhibited marks of ſtrength and brutal courage.—Their characters were all different, though of the ſame claſs; Sageſtus did not ſtay to diſcriminate them, ſatiſfied with a rough ſketch. He ſaw indolence rouſed by a love ofhumour, or rather bodily fun; ſenſuality and prodigality with a vein of generoſity running through it; a contempt of danger with groſs ſuperſtition; ſupine ſenſes, only to be kept alive by noiſy, tumultuous pleaſures, or that kind of novelty which borders on abſurdity: this formed the common outline, and the reſt were rather dabs than ſhades.
Sageſtus pauſed, and remembered it had been ſaid by an earthly wit, that "many a flower is born to bluſh unſeen, and waſte its ſweetneſs on the deſart air." How little, he exclaimed, did that poet know of the ways of heaven! And yet, in this reſpect, they are direct; the hands before me, were deſigned to pull a rope, knock down a ſheep, or perform the ſervile offices of life; no "mute, inglorious poet" reſtsamongſt them, and he who is ſuperior to his fellow, does not riſe above mediocrity. The genius that ſprouts from a dunghil ſoon ſhakes off the heterogenous maſs; thoſe only grovel, who have not power to fly.
He turned his ſtep towards the mother of the orphan: another female was at ſome diſtance; and a man who, by his garb, might have been the huſband, or brother, of the former, was not far off.
Him the ſage ſurveyed with an attentive eye, and bowed with reſpect to the inanimate clay, that lately had been the dwelling of a moſt benevolent ſpirit. The head was ſquare, though the features were not very prominent; but there was a great harmony in every part, and the turn of the noſtrils and lips evinced, that the ſoul muſt havehad taſte, to which they had ſerved as organs. Penetration and judgment were ſeated on the brows that overhung the eye. Fixed as it was, Sageſtus quickly diſcerned the expreſſion it muſt have had; dark and penſive, rather from ſlowneſs of comprehenſion than melancholy, it ſeemed to abſorb the light of knowledge, to drink it in ray by ray; nay, a new one was not allowed to enter his head till the laſt was arranged: an opinion was thus cautiouſly received, and maturely weighed, before it was added to the general ſtock. As nature led him to mount from a part to the whole, he was moſt converſant with the beautiful, and rarely comprehended the ſublime; yet, ſaid Sageſtus, with a ſoftened tone, he was all heart, full of forbearance, and deſirous to pleaſe every fellow-creature;but from a nobler motive than a love of admiration; the fumes of vanity never mounted to cloud his brain, or tarniſh his beneficence. The fluid in which thoſe placid eyes ſwam, is now congealed; how often has tenderneſs given them the fineſt water! Some torn parts of the child's dreſs hung round his arm, which led the ſage to conclude, that he had ſaved the child; every line in his face confirmed the conjecture; benevolence indeed ſtrung the nerves that naturally were not very firm; it was the great knot that tied together the ſcattered qualities, and gave the diſtinct ſtamp to the character.
The female whom he next approached, and ſuppoſed to be an attendant on the other, was below the middle ſize, and her legs were ſo diſproportionablyſhort, that, when ſhe moved, ſhe muſt have waddled along; her elbows were drawn in to touch her long taper, waiſt, and the air of her whole body was an affectation of gentility. Death could not alter the rigid hang of her limbs, or efface the ſimper that had ſtretched her mouth; the lips were thin, as if nature intended ſhe ſhould mince her words; her noſe was ſmall, and ſharp at the end; and the forehead, unmarked by eyebrows, was wrinkled by the diſcontent that had ſunk her cheeks, on which Sageſtus ſtill diſcerned faint traces of tenderneſs; and fierce good-nature, he perceived had ſometimes animated the little ſpark of an eye that anger had oftener lighted. The ſame thought occurred to him that the ſight of the ſailors had ſuggeſted, Men and women are all in their proper places—this female was intended to fold up linen and nurſe the ſick.
Anxious to obſerve the mother of his charge, he turned to the lily that had been ſo rudely ſnapped, and, carefully obſerving it, traced every fine line to its ſource. There was a delicacy in her form, ſo truly feminine, that an involuntary deſire to cheriſh ſuch a being, made the ſage again feel the almoſt forgotten ſenſations of his nature. On obſerving her more cloſely, he diſcovered that her natural delicacy had been increaſed by an improper education, to a degree that took away all vigour from her faculties. And its baneful influence had had ſuch an effect on her mind, that few traces of the exertions of it appeared on her face, though the fine finiſh of her features, and particularly the form of the forehead, convinced the ſage that her underſtanding might have riſen conſiderably above mediocrity, had the wheels ever been put in motion; but, clogged by prejudices, they never turned quite round, and, whenever ſhe conſidered a ſubject, ſhe ſtopped before ſhe came to a concluſion. Aſſuming a maſk of propriety, ſhe had baniſhed nature; yet its tendency was only to be diverted, not ſtifled. Some lines, which took from the ſymmetry of the mouth, not very obvious to a ſuperficial obſerver, ſtruck Sageſtus, and they appeared to him characters of indolent obſtinacy. Not having courage to form an opinion of her own, ſhe adhered, with blind partiality, to thoſe ſhe adopted, which ſhe received in the lump, and, as they always remained unopened, of courſe ſhe only ſaw the even gloſs on the outſide. Veſtiges of anger were viſible on her brow, and the ſage concluded, that ſhe had often been offended with, and indeed would ſcarcely make any allowance for, thoſe who did not coincide with her in opinion, as things always appear ſelf-evident that have never been examined; yet her very weakneſs gave a charming timidity to her countenance; goodneſs and tenderneſs pervaded every lineament, and melted in her dark blue eyes. The compaſſion that wanted activity, was ſincere, though it only embelliſhed her face, or produced caſual acts of charity when a moderate alms could relieve preſent diſtreſs. Unacquainted with life, fictitious, unnatural diſtreſs drew the tears that were not ſhed for real miſery. In its own ſhape, human wretchedneſs excites a little diſguſt in the mind thathas indulged ſickly refinement. Perhaps the ſage gave way to a little conjecture in drawing the laſt concluſion; but his conjectures generally aroſe from diſtinct ideas, and a dawn of light allowed him to ſee a great way farther than common mortals.
He was now convinced that the orphan was not very unfortunate in having loſt ſuch a mother. The parent that inſpires fond affection without reſpect, is ſeldom an uſeful one; and they only are reſpectable, who conſider right and wrong abſtracted from local forms and accidental modifications.
Determined to adopt the child, he named it after himſelf, Sageſta, and retired to the hut where the innocent ſlept, to think of the beſt method of educating this child, whom the angry deep had ſpared.
[The laſt branch of the education of Sageſta, conſiſted of a variety of characters and ſtories preſented to her in the Cave of Fancy, of which the following is a ſpecimen.]
A formnow approached that particularly ſtruck and intereſted Sageſta. The ſage, obſerving what paſſed in her mind, bade her ever truſt to the firſt impreſſion. In life, he continued, try to remember the effect the firſt appearance of a ſtranger has on your mind; and, in proportion to your ſenſibility, you may decide on the character. Intelligence glances from eyes that have the ſame purſuits, and a benevolent heart ſoon traces the marks of benevolence on the countenance of an unknown fellow-creature; and not only the countenance, but the geſtures, thevoice, loudly ſpeak truth to the unprejudiced mind.
Whenever a ſtranger advances towards you with a tripping ſtep, receives you with broad ſmiles, and a profuſion of compliments, and yet you find yourſelf embarraſſed and unable to return the ſalutation with equal cordiality, be aſſured that ſuch a perſon is affected, and endeavours to maintain a very good character in the eyes of the world, without really practiſing the ſocial virtues which dreſs the face in looks of unfeigned complacency. Kindred minds are drawn to each other by expreſſions which elude deſcription; and, like the calm breeze that plays on a ſmooth lake, they are rather felt than ſeen. Beware of a man who always appears in good humour; a ſelfiſh deſign too frequently lurks in the ſmiles the heartnever curved; or there is an affectation of candour that deſtroys all ſtrength of character, by blending truth and falſhood into an unmeaning maſs. The mouth, in fact, ſeems to be the feature where you may trace every kind of diſſimulation, from the ſimper of vanity, to the fixed ſmile of the deſigning villain. Perhaps, the modulations of the voice will ſtill more quickly give a key to the character than even the turns of the mouth, or the words that iſſue from it; often do the tones of unpractiſed diſſemblers give the lie to their aſſertions. Many people never ſpeak in an unnatural voice, but when they are inſincere: the phraſes not correſponding with the dictates of the heart, have nothing to keep them in tune. In the courſe of an argument however, you may eaſily diſcover whether vanity or convictionſtimulates the diſputant, though his inflated countenance may be turned from you, and you may not ſee the geſtures which mark ſelf-ſufficiency. He ſtopped, and the ſpirit began.
I have wandered through the cave; and, as ſoon as I have taught you a uſeful leſſon, I ſhall take my flight where my tears will ceaſe to flow, and where mine eyes will no more be ſhocked with the ſight of guilt and ſorrow. Before many moons have changed, thou wilt enter, O mortal! into that world I have lately left. Liſten to my warning voice, and truſt not too much to the goodneſs which I perceive reſides in thy breaſt. Let it be reined in by principles, leſt thy very virtue ſharpen the ſting of remorſe, which as naturally follows diſorder in the moral world, as pain attends on intemperance in thephyſical. But my hiſtory will afford you more inſtruction than mere advice. Sageſtus concurred in opinion with her, obſerving that the ſenſes of children ſhould be the firſt object of improvement; then their paſſions worked on; and judgment the fruit, muſt be the acquirement of the being itſelf, when out of leading-ſtrings. The ſpirit bowed aſſent, and, without any further prelude, entered on her hiſtory.
My mother was a moſt reſpectable character, but ſhe was yoked to a man whoſe follies and vices made her ever feel the weight of her chains. The firſt ſenſation I recollect, was pity; for I have ſeen her weep over me and the reſt of her babes, lamenting that the extravagance of a father would throw us deſtitute on the world. But, though my father was extravagant, and ſeldomthought of any thing but his own pleaſures, our education was not neglected. In ſolitude, this employment was my mother's only ſolace; and my father's pride made him procure us maſters; nay, ſometimes he was ſo gratified by our improvement, that he would embrace us with tenderneſs, and intreat my mother to forgive him, with marks of real contrition. But the affection his penitence gave riſe to, only ſerved to expoſe her to continual diſappointments, and keep hope alive merely to torment her. After a violent debauch he would let his beard grow, and the ſadneſs that reigned in the houſe I ſhall never forget; he was aſhamed to meet even the eyes of his children. This is ſo contrary to the nature of things, it gave me exquiſite pain; I uſed, at thoſe times, to ſhow him extreme reſpect. Icould not bear to ſee my parent humble himſelf before me. However neither his conſtitution, nor fortune could long bear the conſtant waſte. He had, I have obſerved, a childiſh affection for his children, which was diſplayed in careſſes that gratified him for the moment, yet never reſtrained the headlong fury of his appetites; his momentary repentance wrung his heart, without influencing his conduct; and he died, leaving an encumbered wreck of a good eſtate.
As we had always lived in ſplendid poverty, rather than in affluence, the ſhock was not ſo great; and my mother repreſſed her anguiſh, and concealed ſome circumſtances, that ſhe might not ſhed a deſtructive mildew over the gaiety of youth.
So fondly did I doat on this dear parent, that ſhe engroſſed all my tenderneſs; her ſorrows had knit me firmly to her, and my chief care was to give her proofs of affection. The gallantry that afforded my companions, the few young people my mother forced me to mix with, ſo much pleaſure, I deſpiſed; I wiſhed more to be loved than admired, for I could love. I adored virtue; and my imagination, chaſing a chimerical object, overlooked the common pleaſures of life; they were not ſufficient for my happineſs. A latent fire made me burn to riſe ſuperior to my contemporaries in wiſdom and virtue; and tears of joy and emulation filled my eyes when I read an account of a great action—I felt admiration, not aſtoniſhment.
My mother had two particular friends, who endeavoured to ſettle her affairs; one was a middle-aged man, a merchant; the human breaſt never enſhrined a more benevolent heart. His manners were rather rough, and he bluntly ſpoke his thoughts without obſerving the pain it gave; yet he poſſeſſed extreme tenderneſs, as far as his diſcernment went. Men do not make ſufficient diſtinction, ſaid ſhe, digreſſing from her ſtory to addreſs Sageſtus, between tenderneſs and ſenſibility.
To give the ſhorteſt definition of ſenſibility, replied the ſage, I ſhould ſay that it is the reſult of acute ſenſes, finely faſhioned nerves, which vibrate at the ſlighteſt touch, and convey ſuch clear intelligence to the brain, that it does not require to be arranged by the judgment. Such perſons inſtantly enter into the characters of others, and inſtinctively diſcern what will give pain to every human being; their own feelings areſo varied that they ſeem to contain in themſelves, not only all the paſſions of the ſpecies, but their various modifications. Exquiſite pain and pleaſure is their portion; nature wears for them a different aſpect than is diſplayed to common mortals. One moment it is a paradiſe; all is beautiful: a cloud ariſes, an emotion receives a ſudden damp; darkneſs invades the ſky, and the world is an unweeded garden;—but go on with your narrative, ſaid Sageſtus, recollecting himſelf.
She proceeded. The man I am deſcribing was humanity itſelf; but frequently he did not underſtand me; many of my feelings were not to be analyzed by his common ſenſe. His friendſhips, for he had many friends, gave him pleaſure unmixed with pain; his religion was coldly reaſonable, becauſe he wanted fancy, and he did not feel the neceſſity of finding, or creating, a perfect object, to anſwer the one engraved on his heart: the ſketch there was faint. He went with the ſtream, and rather caught a character from the ſociety he lived in, than ſpread one around him. In my mind many opinions were graven with a pen of braſs, which he thought chimerical: but time could not eraſe them, and I now recognize them as the ſeeds of eternal happineſs: they will ſoon expand in thoſe realms where I ſhall enjoy the bliſs adapted to my nature; this is all we need aſk of the Supreme Being; happineſs muſt follow the completion of his deſigns. He however could live quietly, without giving a preponderancy to many important opinions that continually obtruded on my mind; not having an enthuſiaſtic affection for his fellow creatures, he did them good, without ſuffering from their follies. He was particularly attached to me, and I felt for him all the affection of a daughter; often, when he had been intereſting himſelf to promote my welfare, have I lamented that he was not my father; lamented that the vices of mine had dried up one ſource of pure affection.
The other friend I have already alluded to, was of a very different character; greatneſs of mind, and thoſe combinations of feeling which are ſo difficult to deſcribe, raiſed him above the throng, that buſtle their hour out, lie down to ſleep, and are forgotten. But I ſhall ſoon ſee him, ſhe exclaimed, as much ſuperior to his former ſelf, as he then roſe in my eyes above his fellow creatures! As ſhe ſpoke, a glowof delight animated each feature; her countenance appeared tranſparent; and ſhe ſilently anticipated the happineſs ſhe ſhould enjoy, when ſhe entered thoſe manſions, where death-divided friends ſhould meet, to part no more; where human weakneſs could not damp their bliſs, or poiſon the cup of joy that, on earth, drops from the lips as ſoon as taſted, or, if ſome daring mortal ſnatches a haſty draught, what was ſweet to the taſte becomes a root of bitterneſs.
He was unfortunate, had many cares to ſtruggle with, and I marked on his cheeks traces of the ſame ſorrows that ſunk my own. He was unhappy I ſay, and perhaps pity might firſt have awoke my tenderneſs; for, early in life, an artful woman worked on his compaſſionate ſoul, and he united his fate to a being made up of ſuch jarring elements, that he was ſtill alone. The diſcovery did not extinguiſh that propenſity to love, a high ſenſe of virtue fed. I ſaw him ſick and unhappy, without a friend to ſooth the hours languor made heavy; often did I ſit a long winter's evening by his ſide, railing at the ſwift wings of time, and terming my love, humanity.