The Danger of Delay.—Description of a Mansion-house in Ruins.—The History
of Charles Townley.
Mrs. Mason who always regulated her own time, and never loitered her
hours irresolutely away, had very frequently to wait for the children,
when she wished to walk, though she had desired them to be ready at a
precise time. Mary in particular had a trick of putting everything off
till the last moment, and then she did but half do it, or left it undone.
This indolent way of delaying made her miss many opportunities of
obliging and doing good; and whole hours were lost in thoughtless
idleness, which she afterwards wished had been better employed.
This was the case one day, when she had a letter to write to her father;
and though it was mentioned to her early in the morning, the finest part
of the evening slipped away whilst she was finishing it; and her haste
made her forget the principal thing which she intended to have said.
Out of breath she joined them; and after they had crossed several fields,
Mrs. Mason turning down a long avenue, bade them look at a large old
mansion-house. It was now in ruins. Ivy grew over the substantial
walls, that still resisted the depredations of time, and almost concealed
a noble arch, on which maimed lions couched; and vultures and eagles, who
had lost their wings, seemed to rest for ever there. Near it was a
rookery, and the rooks lived safe in the high trees, whose trunks were
all covered with ivy or moss, and a number of fungusses grew about their
large roots. The grass was long, and remaining undisturbed, save when
the wind swept across it, was of course pathless. Here the mower never
whet his scythe, nor did the haymakers mix their songs with the hoarse
croaking of the rooks. A spacious basin, on the margin of which water
plants grew with wild luxuriance, was overspread with slime; and afforded
a shelter for toads and adders. In many places were heaped the ruins of
ornamental buildings, whilst sun-dials rested in the shade;—and pedestals
that had crushed the figures they before supported. Making their way
through the grass, they would frequently stumble over a headless statue,
or the head would impede their progress. When they spoke, the sound
seemed to return again, as if unable to penetrate the thick stagnated
air. The sun could not dart its purifying rays through the thick gloom,
and the fallen leaves contributed to choke up the way, and render the air
more noxious.
I brought you to this place on purpose this evening, said Mrs. Mason to
the children, who clung about her, to tell you the history of the last
inhabitant; but, as this part is unwholesome, we will sit on the broken
stones of the drawbridge.
Charles Townley was a boy of uncommon abilities, and strong feelings; but
he ever permitted those feelings to direct his conduct, without
submitting to the direction of reason; I mean, the present emotion
governed him.—He had not any strength or consistency of character; one
moment he enjoyed a pleasure, and the next felt the pangs of remorse, on
account of some duty which he had neglected. He always indeed intended
to act right in every particular _to-morrow_; but _to-day_ he followed
the prevailing whim.
He heard by chance of a man in great distress, he determined to relieve
him, and left his house in order to follow the humane impulse; but
meeting an acquaintance, he was persuaded to go to the play, and
_to-morrow_, he thought, he would do the act of charity. The next
morning some company came to breakfast with him, and took him with them
to view some fine pictures. In the evening he went to a concert; the day
following he was tired, and laid in bed till noon; then read a pathetic
story, well wrought up, _wept_ over it—fell asleep—and forgot to _act_
humanely. An accident reminded him of his intention, he sent to the man,
and found that he had too long delayed—the relief was useless.
In this thoughtless manner he spent his time and fortune; never applying
to any profession, though formed to shine in any one he should have
chosen. His friends were offended, and at last allowed him to languish
in a gaol; and as there appeared no probability of reforming or fixing
him, they left him to struggle with adversity.
Severely did he reproach himself—He was almost lost in despair, when a
friend visited him. This friend loved the latent sparks of virtue which
he imagined would some time or other light up, and animate his conduct.
He paid his debts, and gave him a sum of money sufficient to enable him
to prepare for a voyage to the East Indies, where Charles wished to go,
to try to regain his lost fortune. Through the intercession of this
kind, considerate friend, his relations were reconciled to him, and his
spirits raised.
He sailed with a fair wind, and fortune favouring his most romantic
wishes, in the space of fifteen years, he acquired a much larger fortune
than he had even hoped for, and thought of visiting, nay, settling in his
native country for the remainder of his life.
Though impressed by the most lively sense of gratitude, he had dropped
his friend’s correspondence; yet, as he knew that he had a daughter, his
first determination was to reserve for her the greater part of his
property, as the most substantial proof which he could give of his
gratitude.—The thought pleased him, and that was sufficient to divert him
for some months; but accidentally hearing that his friend had been very
unsuccessful in trade, this information made him wish to hasten his
return to his native country. Still a procrastinating spirit possessed
him, and he delayed from time to time the arduous task of settling his
affairs, previous to his departure: he wrote, however, to England, and
transmitted a considerable sum to a correspondent, desiring that this
house might be prepared for him, and the mortgage cleared.
I can scarcely enumerate the various delays that prevented his embarking;
and when he arrived in England, he came here, and was so childishly eager
to have his house fitted up with taste, that he actually trifled away a
month, before he went to seek for his friend.
But his negligence was now severely punished. He learned that he had
been reduced to great distress, and thrown into the very gaol, out of
which he took Townley, who, hastening to it, only found his dead body
there; for he died the day before. On the table was lying, amidst some
other scraps of paper, a letter, directed in an unsteady hand to Charles
Townley. He tore it open. Few were the scarcely legible lines; but they
smote his heart. He read as follows:—
‘I have been reduced by unforeseen misfortunes; yet when I heard of your
arrival, a gleam of joy cheered my heart—_I thought I knew your’s_, and
that my latter days might still have been made comfortable in your
society, for I loved you; I even expected pleasure; but I was mistaken;
death is my only friend.’
He read it over and over again; and cried out, Gracious God, had I
arrived but one day sooner I should have seen him, and he would not have
died thinking me the most ungrateful wretch that ever burdened the earth!
He then knocked his clinched fist against his forehead, looked wildly
round the dreary apartment, and exclaimed in a choked, though impatient
tone, You sat here yesterday, thinking of my ingratitude—Where are you
now! Oh! that I had seen you! Oh! that my repenting sighs could reach
you!—
He ordered the body to be interred, and returned home a prey to grief and
despondency. Indulging it to excess, he neglected to enquire after his
friend’s daughter; he intended to provide amply for her, but now he could
only grieve.
Some time elapsed, then he sent, and the intelligence which he procured
aggravated his distress, and gave it a severe additional sting.
The poor gentle girl had, during her father’s life, been engaged to a
worthy young man; but, some time after his death, the relations of her
lover had sent him to sea to prevent the match taking place. She was
helpless, and had not sufficient courage to combat with poverty; to
escape from it, she married an old rake whom she detested. He was
ill-humoured, and his vicious habits rendered him a most dreadful
companion. She tried in vain to please him, and banish the sorrow that
bent her down, and made wealth and all the pleasures it could procure
tasteless. Her tender father was dead—she had lost her lover—without a
friend or confident, silent grief consumed her. I have told you
friendship is only to be found amongst the virtuous; her husband was
vicious.
Ah! why did she marry, said Mary?
Because she was timid; but I have not told you all; the grief that did
not break her heart, disturbed her reason; and her husband confined her
in a madhouse.
Charles heard of this last circumstance; he visited her. Fanny, said he,
do you recollect your old friend? Fanny looked at him, and reason for a
moment resumed her seat, and informed her countenance to trace anguish on
it—the trembling light soon disappeared—wild fancy flushed in her eyes,
and animated her incessant rant. She sung several verses of different
songs, talked of her husband’s ill-usage—enquired if he had lately been
to sea? And frequently addressed her father as if he were behind her
chair, or sitting by her.
Charles could not bear this scene—If I could lose like her a sense of
woe, he cried, this intolerable anguish would not tear my heart! The
fortune which he had intended for her could not restore her reason; but,
had he sent for her soon after her father’s death, he might have saved
her and comforted himself.
The last stroke was worse than the first; he retired to this abode;
melancholy creeping on him, he let his beard grow, and the garden run
wild. One room in the house the poor lunatic inhabited; and he had a
proper person to attend her, and guard her from the dangers she wished to
encounter. Every day he visited her, the sight of her would almost have
unhinged a sound mind—How could he bear it, when his conscience
reproached him, and whispered that he had neglected to do good, to live
to any rational purpose—The sweets of friendship were denied, and he
every day contemplated the saddest of all sights—the wreck of a human
understanding.
He died without a will. The estate was litigated, and as the title to
this part could not be proved, the house was let fall into its present
state.
[Picture: Be calm, my child]
But the night will overtake us, we must make haste home—Give me your
hand, Mary, you tremble; surely I need not desire you to remember this
story—Be calm, my child, and remember that you must attend to trifles; do
all the good you can the present day, nay hour, if you would keep your
conscience clear. This circumspection may not produce dazzling actions,
nor will your silent virtue be supported by human applause; but your
Father, who seeth in secret, will reward you.