young lady, visited him often, for he had requested her to consider
herself his betrothed wife. They tried various methods to engage his
mind in some useful or even amusing pursuit, but he could endure nothing
that did not present novelty at every instant. The visits of the ladies
at length became irksome to him; and determining to rid himself of their
importunity, he one morning bade them carelessly farewell, and set out
for London.
Here he found that some of his old associates had been obliged, from
different causes, to decamp; but some he still found hovering round
those infamous sinks of lust and misery to which men of pleasure resort
to kill time and escape from themselves: to those pests of society, and
those haunts of dissipation, he now attached himself.
The shock he had sustained by his father’s death had greatly impaired
his health, and the mode of life he now absurdly made choice of was
rapidly destroying his constitution. After several months passed in the
senseless bustle, and deeply engaged in the _important nothings_ which
occupy so much of a rake’s time, he applied to me with a mind and body
both wofully diseased.
I must here beg to obtrude myself, not through any motive of personal
vanity, but an anxious desire faithfully to depict the errors that
caused the ruin of my once excellent and happy friend. Knowing the
expectations he had raised, and the engagements he was under to the lady
whom his uncle had recommended, I inquired whether he had made any
definitive arrangements: to this he replied, “My engagements with her
and every other woman will last while I can feel myself happy in their
society, and not an hour longer.” He freely acknowledged, that his mind
was made up never to marry, but that he neither could nor would
relinquish E. I expostulated with him seriously on the enormity of
seducing any virtuous woman; but any injury done to E. would in my
opinion be the most heinous crime he could commit, and one which, I was
convinced, God would never pardon.
My arguments produced very little effect; for he gravely replied, “I
have long been moving in a magic circle, and however full the poisoned
cup might have been which the enchantress Pleasure offered, I always
drank to the bottom. My soul is dead, and what have I now to fear?” Our
acquaintance had been of some standing, and my friendship for him was
sincere and disinterested. During the period of his cure I generally
conversed with him every day on the cruelty of his design, and the
unqualified execration with which the world would load the author of
such wanton barbarity; but nothing could turn him from his stern and
cruel purpose. “The die,” he said, “is cast;” and more than once did he
declare that, should it cost him an eternity of perdition, E. must and
should be his on his own terms.
While confined to his house by ill health, he regularly corresponded
with the young lady through his mother, both whom it was equally his
wish to deceive. His health being restored, he disclosed to me his deep
plan for the destruction of E., whose confidence in him was unlimited;
and as the assistance of a confidential friend would be indispensable,
he now implored my good offices. I assured him that I was very ready to
do him any _good_ in my power, and that I would now give a proof of my
friendship by laying the whole matter before his mother and E. that very
evening; and this pledge I carefully redeemed.
In my letter to his mother, the scheme he had formed to entrap the
innocent and confiding E. was fully developed, and they were of course
confounded and ashamed at its baseness. His plan was, to invite them
both to town, having furnished a house fit for their reception, where,
under his own roof, under the protecting eye of his amiable mother, the
laws of hospitality, the ties of heaven, and the sacred commands of God,
were to be violated and profaned. Unwilling to believe, yet hardly
knowing how to doubt my statement, they were consulting what step was
most proper to be taken, when they received a letter from F., couched in
the most dutiful and affectionate terms, inviting them both to town.
This tended to confirm their suspicions, and they decided on inclosing
to him my letter, with a request that he would explain its meaning.
On this occasion his self-possession entirely forsook him. He called on
me with the letter, and used the most unjustifiable language. Led away
by the fury of disappointed passion, he would not listen to reason; his
behaviour became indecently insulting, and I determined on withdrawing
my friendship, and discontinuing his acquaintance. Almost immediately
after this, professional avocations in the service of my country called
me out of England, and I lost sight of him for upwards of four years.
The following remarks, which I think were written about the same time,
stand in his journal: “Never was meanness equal to mine—never was
contempt expressed with more poignant insult. This is the damning
consequence of unlawful pleasure.—Pleasure do I call it?—It is pain
equal to the severest torture of hell. How intolerably slavish are the
galling chains with which sin binds her hopeless victims!”
Amid the multitude of vices by which his life was so foully stained, and
his heart so deplorably corrupted, still there were some traits in his
character that strongly demonstrated original nobleness of mind. When
brutal passion was not to be gratified, he was feelingly alive to the
tale of sorrow, and his purse was ever open to relieve the distressed,
and administer comfort to the afflicted. His style of living was
proportioned to his ample fortune, and in money matters he was always
open, liberal, and generous, sometimes so even to profuse extravagance.
But his mind, long neglected and vitiated, was now incapable of
entertaining a single virtue, or even a shattered remnant of
self-dignity. His disposition became so entirely changed, that the
original intention of nature appears to have been inverted. That
generosity which formerly excited admiration, gave place to the most
niggardly and despicable turn of mind, so that he could not bear the
idea of parting with money even to discharge his lawful debts.
Those ephemeral friends to whom crime only had attached him, now treated
him with coolness, and in many instances with the most cutting contempt.
Despised by all his former acquaintances, both sober and dissipated, he
exhibited the melancholy picture of a man possessing an excellent
understanding, a mind amply stored with elegant and useful knowledge,
and a princely fortune, isolated in the world, and scornfully driven, by
the common consent of mankind, from that society of which, had he made a
right use of his natural endowments, he would have been a distinguished
ornament.
Meanness, marked by dishonesty, was strongly exemplified in his refusing
to honour a bill which the unhappy girl he left in Scotland, as he
supposed on a death-bed, had drawn to discharge the expense of the
lodgings he had procured for her. The physician’s bill, too, he refused
to discharge. The poor forsaken creature wrote to him, describing her
situation in terms that ought to have moved the most obdurate heart; but
his, now completely imbruted, was dead to the description of her misery,
and deaf to her entreaties. She wrote again, but he would not pay the
postage of her letter. The family in which he had placed her, trusting
to the debt thus incurred for the payment of their rent, which they
could not in any other way make up, were turned out of doors, and with
them the wretched patient, now in the last stage of consumption, without
a penny to procure a morsel of bread.
In this deplorable condition, with no shelter but the canopy of heaven,
she must have perished, had not the compassion of a poor waggoner been
moved and extended to her. Through the means of this humble and humane
individual she was enabled to reach London, where languid and sinking
she sought the abode of her father, once her happy home, the scene of
youthful innocence and joy. But, alas! what a sad change!—No home was
there. Her father’s dwelling-house was now a prison! After her elopement
he used every possible endeavour to find her out, by which means he
incurred expenses, neglected his business, and ultimately became
insolvent. The benevolent waggoner did not, however, forsake her: he
procured her admission into an hospital, where, within a week, she
yielded her last breath.
Despised and detested by all who knew him, F.’s stay in London grew
every day more irksome, and he seriously meditated a return to the
country, where he could gratify his new grovelling passion for saving
money, now indeed his ruling one, though a residence there he knew would
compel him occasionally to encounter the reproaches of his amiable
mother; and the deadly injury intended for E. made him by no means
anxious to come under her indignant glance.
The ancestors of F. had inhabited an elegant mansion for time
immemorial, and the eminent virtues by which their lives were
distinguished rendered it venerable. This mansion had fallen to him on
his uncle’s decease, and thither he determined to repair, and make it
his residence in a manner corresponding with the late change in his
disposition. He therefore made up his mind to turn hermit, and
accordingly disposed of his horses, equipages, and entire establishment;
returned to the country, and shut himself up in complete seclusion.
The _honour_ of disgracing the family name, hitherto unsullied, and of
polluting this venerable mansion, where his ancestors had long
maintained an untainted reputation, was reserved for this their
parsimonious representative; nor was he long in a state of inactivity,
notwithstanding his mode of life was so different from the splendid
hospitality which formerly rendered this residence celebrated.
In a village at a short distance lived the widow of a medical gentleman,
with three daughters, the eldest of whom was “not quite twenty.” This
interesting family managed to live genteelly and comfortably on a small
annuity, until the arrival of F., whose pestilential influence proved as
destructive, and almost as widely diffused, as the fabulous accounts of
_privileged_ travellers represent that of the Upas tree.
It would be horrible and inexpressibly painful to describe the arts he
used to ensnare these innocent, industrious and unsuspecting females. In
somewhat less than thirteen months he plunged them into guilt and
misery, and kept them all living in his house at the same time! His next
triumph was over the daughter of a clergyman, for whom he succeeded in
procuring a living in the neighbourhood, to enable him the more easily
to execute his infamous designs against innocence and peace.
The facility with which the ruin of these four young women was
accomplished, encouraged him to make another attack on the much injured
E., an attempt which must certainly be considered as a master-piece of
impudence and hardened villainy, inasmuch as he endeavoured to make his
mother an efficient agent in the destruction of her beloved and amiable
young friend. He wrote a long letter to his mother, expressing penitence
and remorse for his former behaviour to E., with an anxious desire to
make all the reparation he could; and finally, that, if she could
forgive him, he was ready to marry her when and where she pleased.
The poor mother, thinking him sincere, was very desirous of taking him
at his word, as she believed it the only chance that was likely to offer
for reclaiming him. She was persuaded in her own mind that his
disposition was originally good, and if his affections could ever be
fixed, she would fain think that he was capable of making any woman
happy; and accordingly her best offices were employed with E. in his
behalf. On the first introduction of the subject, the amiable girl
shuddered involuntarily, as if she had unexpectedly been met by some
furious beast of prey, which she apprehended would instantly destroy
her; and although she had every desire to oblige the mother of F., she
candidly declared that it was utterly impossible for her ever to look
upon him again with favour.
The mother did not, however, despair that she would be made to relent by
time and assiduity. But, while this negotiation was going on, F.’s
attention was attracted by the wife of an industrious young man who
rented a farm on his estate. They had been married only a few months,
and F. describes the wife in the following glowing terms: “She was
lovely as an angel, a perfect model of exquisite beauty, of unspotted
purity, young and modest.” But virtues like these had lost all
influence, unless to stimulate his guilty and savage appetite: to every
present incitement E. herself was now postponed. Contrary to his
expectations, her virtue was not to be easily shaken; but every repulse
and difficulty he experienced only tended to stimulate him to greater
exertions.
His thirst for money had now considerably abated, and he was fast
emerging from that obscure solitude in which he had remained upwards of
three years. His establishment was splendidly increased, his marriage
with E. was seriously talked of, and his mother had prevailed on her to
consent to see him; but, before the day fixed on for the interview had
arrived, he suddenly disappeared, and it was soon discovered that the
farmer’s wife was missing also. He had artfully managed to get the
farmer into his power, by means of a pecuniary accommodation which he
knew it would be impossible for him to discharge: he wrote an infamous
letter soon after to the deluded man, desiring him not to be uneasy
about the money, and scarcely noticing the deadly wound he had inflicted
by seducing the object of his affections,—the partner of his cares,—the
friend of his bosom.
In a few months he returned with her, and kept her in his house, _a fine
lady_, for nearly a year. Her agreeable person and artless manner had
hitherto kept alive in his bosom something like affection; but still,
like every other with whom he conversed, she was ultimately doomed to
experience his fickleness and neglect. He sent for the afflicted
husband, and told him with unblushing effrontery, that he must take her
back, as he himself was about to quit the country, and could no longer
_protect_ her. The unhappy man was about to remonstrate on the hardship
of his case, when he was effectually silenced by the other blustering
out, “You shall obey my directions, or rot in gaol.” He was forced to
comply, and take to his cheerless home a contaminated wretch, whom he
must ever behold with lacerated and abhorrent feelings.
Fortunately for those who were yet uncorrupted, this was the last
exploit of F. in the neighbourhood to which he was indebted for his
birth, and where, instead of bringing misery and ruin into the peaceful
cottage, his rank, property, and influence, ought to have constituted
him the legitimate local guardian of its general happiness, morality,
and virtue. With frigid indifference he forsook all those whom he had
debased by making them subservient to his lustful appetite, and set out
for London in quest of new adventures.
In this great metropolis he instituted and organized a system of infamy
and abomination for which it would not be easy to find an appropriate
appellation: it was, in fact, a kind of repository for vice and crime,
where the most odious scenes that could disgrace human nature were
continually acting. Not less than five _procurers_, or agents, were
employed; and the aggregate of human happiness slaughtered in this
temple of hell is truly astonishing, and would hardly be believed. The
concern became too extensive to be conducted by a single manager, and F.
yielded to the pressing solicitations of an all-accomplished young
gentleman to admit him as a partner. The expenses and pleasures were to
be mutually shared between them, and their acquaintance became matured
into as close a friendship as vice is capable of admitting.
The junior partner had four sisters in the bloom of life, to whom he
introduced F., who, after several visits, expressed his partiality for
the third, and begged permission to pay his addresses in an _honourable_
way of course. His large fortune was a sufficient inducement for
granting his request, and in somewhat less than five months he prevailed
on her to elope with him to France. Her brother, who had no knowledge of
the world, except what is to be acquired at a theatre, a gambling-house,
or a sink of vice, would not at first believe that his “_dear friend_”
F. could meditate any mischief against his family, much less the deadly
injury that was apprehended by the more sober and experienced part of
his relations. He said F. was an eccentric dog, fond of frolic, and he
had no doubt was gone to Gretna Green, whence he would return with his
sister, and marry her according to the established English custom. The
mother of the young lady was by no means of this opinion, and urged her
son to make further inquiries; which he did, and was soon convinced that
he had overrated his “dear friend’s” generosity.
He lost no time in following the fugitives to France, and after a few
days’ search found them in Paris. His first inquiry was, whether they
had got married? To which being answered in the negative, he insisted on
having that ceremony performed without delay. His dictatorial manner was
exceedingly offensive to F., who declared the visit both unseasonable
and impertinent, and, without further ceremony, ordered his quondam
partner out of the house.
A duel the following morning was the consequence of this interview, and
both were wounded. F. was from the first moment sensible that his wound
was mortal, and, after lingering nearly fifteen months, the apprehension
was confirmed by his death. During his confinement, remorse for his past
crimes appears to have seized and constantly agitated him, till he
became completely miserable, and life grew so insupportable to him, that
it forced him more than once to meditate self-destruction.
The tradesman, whose daughter he had seduced and abandoned in Scotland,
hearing of his situation, waited on him, and related to him the account
of her sufferings and death, as stated before. The contrition of F. for
the injury he had done the daughter, was exemplified by his conduct to
her father, whom he raised above the power of want for the remainder of
his life. He employed several persons to search for all the unhappy
women whose innocence and peace of mind he had destroyed; and every one
he discovered of that number had her sufferings alleviated, as far as
pecuniary settlements were capable of soothing her sorrow. But this he
considered very insufficient reparation, and his unhappiness till the
last moment of his life was extreme.
His concluding paragraph is a terrible picture of his feelings. He says,
“My life has been pernicious to my fellow creatures, and a foul blot on
the characteristic purity of my family. Would to God, that by my death I
could make some reparation to society!—but all is now nearly over.—What
do I say?—To me, alas! O alas! all is only beginning.—My soul is
parched, burnt, and consumed.—O God! save me from eternal death—for the
sake and merits of thy beloved son Jesus Christ. Amen.”
* * * * *
A retrospect of this man’s life and death must forcibly recall to the
virtuous mind the following beautiful and apposite observation from the
chaste pen of the enlightened Dr. Blair:
“Who but must drop a tear over human nature, when he beholds that
morning, which rose so bright, overcast with such untimely darkness;
that good humour which once captivated all hearts, that vivacity which
sparkled in every company, those abilities which were fitted for
adorning the highest stations, all sacrificed at the shrine of low
sensuality; and who was formed for running the fair career of life, in
the midst of public esteem, cut off by his vices in the _middle_ of his
course; or sunk for the whole of it into insignificancy and
contempt!—These, O sinful pleasure, are thy trophies! It is thus, that,
co-operating with the foe of God and man, thou degradest human honour,
and blastest the _fairest_ prospects of human felicity!”
In the gay and fashionable circles in life, too frequently originate
creatures like that whose progress in crime has just been sketched. Like
the cubs of the lion or tiger, harmless and playful, though sometimes
heavy and insipid, when young they are fondled and caressed, until the
hellish ferocity of their nature becomes developed and matured; when
with remorseless gripe they seize upon and destroy not only the
unsuspecting but the confiding victim.
Like most beasts of prey, the seducer is not found to be fond of a
gregarious life, although conformity to specific laws is indispensable.
The principal of these, the _law of honour_, is to be obeyed indeed with
scrupulous exactness. This law was first framed by a number of these
_elegant_ monsters, who, without having any settled or fixed design,
merely as a mark of distinction designated themselves “_men of the
world_,” and, having heroically dubbed one another in this manner,
agreed thenceforth to look down with contempt on the peaceful, moral,
and industrious habits of their less ambitious neighbours.
To deal no longer in metaphor, though the analogy may be considered both
close and applicable, it may be allowed me to make an attempt at an
explanation of this all-prevailing _law of honour_, an aristocratical
code, not less preposterous in conception than dangerous in tendency.
This iniquitous system has for too long a time served as a nursery or
hot-bed for the propagation of the most odious vices, generated and
nurtured, it may be asserted without its truth being questionable, equal
to the most sanguine expectations of its infamous supporters. At the
head of these vices stands irreligion: and when once a total disregard
for the attributes of God takes place; when this great barrier to human
presumption is trampled down; when this invaluable link, which unites
civilized man to his christian fellow, is once broken, the infatuated
votary may well consider himself fully qualified to become _a man of the
world_. Vain thing! how short-lived is his mad career!
His situation in the world very much resembles that of a leaky ship in
the middle of the ocean, without compass or rudder, gently wafted in the
wished-for direction for a short time while the propitious breeze
continues; but no sooner does this change, than she is left defenceless
to the mercy of the elements, to be driven by every wind, buffeted by
every wave, and ultimately sure to perish in the gathering storm.
As this law was made exclusively for the convenience of these
redoubtable sons of pleasure, it imposes no obligation but what tends to
facilitate that _refined_ intercourse they wish to subsist between
themselves; nor does it proscribe as criminal, or mean, any thing that
has not a similar tendency. It inculcates the unbridled indulgence of
licentious passions, which the polished rake alertly may pursue at times
when he ought to be employed in cultivating his understanding; and,
after a longer or shorter tutoring, according to his capacity, he bursts
forth upon the world a scourge and pest to society.
An anonymous writer of distinguished talent has given an account of one
of these pampered beings, which, so far as it regards the uncultivated
state of their minds, is admirably descriptive. This writer says, “There
is not in the world a more useless, idle animal than he who contents
himself with being merely a gentleman. He has an estate, therefore he
will not endeavour to acquire knowledge: he is not to labour in any
vocation, therefore he will do nothing. But the misfortune is, that
there is no such thing in nature as a negative virtue, and that absolute
idleness is impracticable. He who does no good, will certainly do
mischief; and the mind, if it be not stored with useful knowledge, will
certainly become a magazine of nonsense and trifles. Wherefore a
gentleman, though he is not obliged to rise to open his shop, or work at
his trade, should always find some means of employing his time to
advantage. If he makes no advances in wisdom, he will become more and
more a slave to folly; and he that does nothing, because he has nothing
to do, will become vicious and abandoned, or, at best, ridiculous and
contemptible.”
It seems doubtful whether it would not prove more disgusting than
interesting to the delicate mind, to be made acquainted with some of the
artful contrivances and base stratagems those _fine gentlemen_ practise
every day for the allurement of the innocent into their fatal snares.
But an attempt, perhaps, to unmask these assassins of virtue, these
prowlers after human blood, even should it not be very successful, might
still be useful to some credulous creatures, thus to apprize them of the
precipices they are standing over, and the inevitable destruction to
which they are continually exposing themselves in listening to the wily
tales of well dissembled but profane love, delivered either with all the
ardour of fervent passion, or that whining softness which practised
villains know so well how to command.
First, then, I would affirm that the character of the seducer is
cowardly, dishonourable, and base; and I defy the united sophistry of
the whole fraternity to refute the assertion. Is it not cowardly, I
would ask the most brazen of these unblushing champions, to invade the
retreats of innocence and peace, and, after trampling down virtue,
change them as it were into the abodes of infernal spirits, because the
inhabitants are poor and unprotected, and consequently without any means
of punishing the violator of their happiness? What prevents them from at
least attempting their ungenerous designs on families of rank, but the
_fear_ that a father or brother would wash away the insult with the
heart’s blood of the foul assailant? Or is it that the tinsel logic they
were taught in the school of “_honour_,” succeeds better in blindfolding
the understanding, weakening the faith, and warping the principles of
the unenlightened mind, that they thus prefer to attack poverty and
weakness, and to lay in ruins that sole refuge of the poor girl—purity
and virtue? What a dignified employment for “a man of the world”—“a man
of honour”—the last, graceless hope, perhaps, of some ancient, noble,
and _truly honourable_ family!
I think the world are pretty well agreed in their abhorrence of a
swindler, though his arts are surely not half so infamous as those of
the seducer; and the effects of the one, as they are felt in Society,
dwindle into insignificance when compared with the overpowering misery
produced by the conduct and practices of the other. The swindler at most
only deprives us of our money, which perhaps his own wants, or those of
a starving family, may urge, and for which at some future opportunity,
as instances have occurred, he may be able to make some reparation. But
the seducer places his victim out of the pale of earthly happiness, and,
it is feared, in this consigns her to eternal ruin.
What excuse can he plead? One of two only. Either, envious of her
happiness, he wantonly destroyed it, or esteemed the short-lived
gratification of his own brutal lusts equivalent to the endless torture
which he could not but have so much reason as to believe would thus be
visited on her. An elegant writer likens the hearts of these men to a
stagnant and putrifying lake, which sends forth its poisonous
exhalations to corrupt and wither every plant that grows on its banks.
“The morality of a man of the world amounts to little more than
prudence, and does not always come up to that; he is aware of the
allowance that is made for him, and sins up to the full extent of his
measure; he must be always ready to sacrifice his own life, or to take
that of another; in gaming, he must observe the strictest faith, and in
general must abstain from all vices that are neither elegant nor
interesting in their estimation: with these limits, he is let loose upon
society and public happiness, to plunder and debauch without penalty or
shame. Take for instance the happiness of a private family, as it
depends upon the unsullied dignity and spotless life of its females:—Are
there any of those whom we call men of the world, whom any thing but
fear would prevent from poisoning the heart, and laying waste the
principles and virtues, of women? Is there one who has religious
magnanimity enough to scare this licentious cruelty from his soul? Is
there one who would not blush to be suspected of such a virtue? and how
often would the indulgence of the vice meet its punishment in the anger
and the execrations of the world?”
The heart sickens in contemplating the waste of human happiness which is
produced by this deadly evil—Seduction. Almost all the scenes of
shameless depravity, and outraged decency, met with in the streets of
London, and other populous towns, are produced from this vile unhallowed
source. The hapless female who falls into the clutches of one of these
plunderers, eternally on the watch for prey, soon forgets that natural
modesty which forms the brightest gem in the character of the sex, and,
lured by the villain’s wiles, too easily slips aside from the path of
purity, and becomes consigned to ruin and disgrace, most probably for
life; for too rarely does it happen that a return to virtue dries up
this source of all misfortunes, or brings back the influence of those
virtues which innocence alone can diffuse over the soul.
The smooth-tongued seducer, like him that tempted our first mother, is
every moment at her ear with dangerous suggestions to wile away her
scruples, whilst by costly presents and too grateful favours, which he
can easily command out of his ready means, or fruitful speculations, the
poor girl is persuaded of a fixed attachment, of which no thought was
ever entertained: he nevertheless, by his crafty persuasions and false
promises, contrives fully to secure her credulity, and the unsuspecting
victim is left entirely at the mercy of this ruthless enemy to her peace
and happiness. Mercy!—Has the tiger mercy?—as well might that heavenly
attribute be expected to beam forth in full influence from a demon, as
to suppose that even for a moment that callous heart could be sensible
of mercy, or even of pity, towards his harmless prey. No—gloating over
the spoil, and exulting in his success, the licentious savage enjoys his
feast until it palls upon his gross appetite; and then neglect, insult
and base ingratitude prove to the wretched mourner how misplaced has
been her weak confidence, how false her expectations, how baseless all
her fond hopes of happiness, for which she had sacrificed her all to her
relentless destroyer.
The child of shame and remorse, devoted now to misery, no relief
appearing to alleviate her distress, no soothing sound bespeaking a
heart sympathizing in her sorrows, is totally given up to affliction:
the displeasure of relations, if she have any living, the cold neglect
of former friends, and the unfeeling scorn of the world, forbid approach
to consolation; employment in the common walks of industry even is
denied; and poverty, or the dread of actual starvation, leaves no
alternative but the last direful one—_prostitution_.
The haunts of lewd revelry are ever with open doors, and the detestable
bawds who preside over those disgusting receptacles are constantly on
the look-out for girls in such a desolate situation. The unhappy
creature quickly gets involved in the snare, sinks into the mass of
corruption, and is carried along in the odious and deadly flood of
intoxication, impiety, and uncurbed licentiousness, which adds another
and another miserable female to the herds that infest the public
streets, and walk in open day the disgrace of human nature.
“Seduction is never accomplished without the most villainous frauds,
falsehoods, and often perjuries. No man ever enticed a simple, innocent
female from the paths of virtue, without a complication of lies and
false oaths, that would have rendered him infamous in the eyes of any
virtuous person, had they been known. The injury he inflicts is
aggravated by the consideration that it admits of no reparation, and can
only terminate with the life of the wretched sufferer.”
It would perhaps be impossible to form any thing like a correct
comparative estimate of the quantum of misery endured by a creature
whose native purity of soul and moral principles have been thus ruined.
Few men, however, are so ignorant as not to know something of the
passionate fondness of a mother for her offspring; and from this some
idea may be conceived of the agonized and outrageous feelings that can
urge her to its destruction to conceal her guilt and the shame it
occasions. Will any one pretend to say that this barbarous and unnatural
murder is not often occasioned by seduction? Nay, further, let me ask,
Is not the seducer by profession very frequently provided with _drugs_,
which he hesitates not to administer to the wretch whom he has ruined,
for the purpose of producing abortion? and if they fail, have not
mechanical means been at times resorted to to effect the same damnable
purpose?
These are facts which they cannot, dare not deny. What must we think,
then, of the man who thus deliberately covers himself with innocent
blood,—who wantonly takes away the life of a creature that was utterly
incapable of ever having offered him any offence,—a life, too, of which
he himself was the guilty author, and which by every tie of nature he
was imperiously bound to cherish and protect? I do not mean to say, that
every man who commits the crime of seduction, would at that same time
also commit murder; but I do affirm, that there is no vice whatever,
that so speedily corrupts the heart, debases its inclination, and so
entirely depraves the mind, as an illegitimate intercourse between the
sexes: it is a melancholy fact, not to be controverted, that even in the
ordinary occurrences of life, the commission of one crime will often
require and lead to many more to conceal it. The seducer, therefore, of
a virtuous woman, to the enormity of that first offence, will and has
been led on from one criminal act to another for the necessity of
concealment, till murder has been added to the list of his foul
transgressions.
The finest feather in a seducer’s plume, and on which he most prides
himself, is the facility and indifference with which he can abandon his
degraded victim. In this respect, indeed, it must be allowed that all of
them evince considerable coolness and dexterity, consigning them in a
month, or sometimes less, to rags, hunger, and infamy, leaving to perish
the unhappy objects, whose confidence they had gained by solemn
declarations and plighted oaths of love and regard, with the most sacred
promises of never-failing protection.
Who can withhold the heartfelt, justly-merited tribute of approbation,
from the poor industrious parents who are seen struggling cheerfully
with want, enduring the chilling blasts of winter, and, after toiling
through the day, retiring at night to a miserable ill-covered pallet, to
stifle the cravings of hunger; and all borne without a murmur, that thus
they may save a pittance to procure for a beloved child the blessing of
ever so little knowledge, and thus infuse into her young mind a love of
virtue? Who would dare the presumption that these humble honest people
do wrong in cherishing the fond hope that she may contribute something
hereafter towards the support of their declining years? Or would the
seducer rather advise the mind of the child to remain unenlightened,
that she might the more blindly fall into his snares? In that, will any
man, however depraved and hardened in wickedness, lay his hand on his
breast, and answer fairly, whether he does not think the ruin of such an
innocent being a more heinous crime than murder, in almost any of the
aggravated circumstances in which it has hitherto been exposed to public
abhorrence? Will not the shame and sorrow of the parents be infinitely
more afflictive than if they had seen their child deposited in the
silent grave, if but unpolluted? And finally, will not the friends of
human happiness sympathize more with the heart-broken parents, than if a
robber had carried away the whole of their little property, and even
left them without the last remains of sustenance—a morsel of bread?
That amiable Christian philosopher and excellent moralist, Dr. Paley,
has expressed his sentiments on this subject in pointed and forcible
terms. “Upon the whole,” says he, for I must be allowed to quote them,
“if we pursue the effects of seduction through the complicated misery
which it occasions; and if it be right to estimate crimes by the
mischief they knowingly produce; it will appear something more than mere
invective to assert, that not one half of the crimes for which men
suffer death, by the laws of England, are so flagitious as this.”
There are cold-blooded mortals in the world, self-denominated sages or
philosophers, who can excuse and even sanction the most disgraceful
excesses, under the specious plea of what they term reasonable allowance
for youthful levity—the summer of life, when all the passions flow
impetuously through the free channels of the vital system, though, like
other violent streams, if left to themselves they will soon become
exhausted and dried up. If this sophistical mode of reasoning deserve
not the name of genuine philosophy, it claims at least the peculiar
merit of novelty.
Is it not fair to infer, that persons who advocate principles so hostile
to the true interests of society, have themselves been profligates
through life, and are still in reality the enemies of mankind? Does it
follow, that because the vices of early life in themselves have in a
premature old age brought on their punishment, other fountains are to be
suffered to exhaust themselves in like wickedness? Whence, it may be
asked, has any man derived the right to destroy the happiness of his
fellow creature? or what reparation will he be able to make for
unprovoked injuries so wantonly inflicted, so irreparably endured?
But unfortunately the perpetration of such crimes is not confined, in
virtuous indignation it must not be concealed, to the young alone; they
are practised also by men whose hoary locks and tottering steps would
beguile one in charitable thought to hope, that sentiments of a far
different nature should influence them to prepare for that other world,
on the verge of which they seem already standing. So great indeed is the
general regard I have for grey hairs, that it sometimes amounts to
veneration. How much more congenial, then, would it prove to screen the
foibles of that so much honoured period, than to expose any of those
failings from which no part of our earthly existence is entirely free!
But when we see an old man voluntarily stripping himself of the dignity
of years, and meanly descending from that eminence on which reverence
and regard had placed him, to vicious indulgences which exhausted nature
and the many infirmities of a debilitated frame render him incapable
even of enjoying,—when we see him, I say, still hovering around those
criminal gratifications which poison his every sober joy, and of which
he cannot now, except in prurient imagination, be a partaker, what can
or should save him from just contempt and merited indignation?
How many are there in high life, several of whom I could mention, (and
were it done, it would be perhaps but the discharge of a christian
duty,) who live in a state of unconcealed adultery,—fathers of families
taking up with women young enough to be their daughters! At the present
moment of writing, I know of two men who have grand-daughters some years
older than two country girls they have under protection, as it is
called, and whom they doubtless pay enormously for pampering their
feeble appetites, and feeding their silly vanity. Can reformation of the
young be reasonably expected, while the old continue to set such an
example?
Suppose some of the sparks of the present day, who infest and dishonour
every place of public amusement, were to commit the utmost extravagance,
even to indulge in a seraglio, how awkwardly would the fathers of many
of them remonstrate, themselves in the daily practice of like crimes,
differing only in degree? In obscene conversation, too, such antiquated
sinners have left their juvenile rivals far behind. What indeed can be
more shockingly disgusting, than to contemplate an old wretched offender
of this description seated at his own table, entertaining a large
company of old and young with the infamous exploits of his licentious
villainy? Silence and shame should displace the boasting that proves him
only dead to principle and character.
It is an evil of no inconsiderable magnitude, that vice, be it ever so
odious, will find some one or other of rank to countenance, if not to
flatter it. On what rational principle shall we attempt to account for
the reception which the most notorious seducers find in society of the
first distinction, where they are not only allowed to make their
appearance, but are generally treated with polite and even marked
civility, not unfrequently the kindest attention, too, paid them by
females who have been considered eminent for religion, piety, and moral
virtue? What is to be said of such conduct, particularly when many who
in this manner appear to make themselves partisans of seduction, are
themselves mothers of lovely daughters, on whose loss of happiness those
monsters would revel without a single feeling of remorse, and reduce to
the same degraded level with all the rest of their credulous victims,
some one or other of whom, perhaps, might have that very day been
abandoned to shame, poverty, and misery?
An able writer of deserved celebrity has well observed, that “the
confederacy amongst women of character to exclude from their society
kept mistresses and prostitutes, contributes more perhaps to discourage
that condition of life, and prevents greater numbers from entering into
it, than all the considerations of prudence and religion put together.”
Why, in the name of justice, should these unhappy objects, who are too
often only deluded agents, be excluded from society, while the real
authors of their errors, the men who have betrayed, and still keep them
enslaved in the vilest thraldom, are received and countenanced without
opprobrium or animadversion?
It is really with infinite reluctance and painful feelings that a single
reprehensive glance should be cast at any part of the conduct of my fair
countrywomen, and nothing but an anxious wish to see every female, rich
or poor, mantled in the pure robes of captivating virtue and modesty,
could induce me to assume the presumptuous language of reproof; but when
the ruin of an innocent soul is threatened, who can be silent and offend
not?
Britain is the only nation, perhaps, that can boast (as enviously
conceded even by sister countries) of women in whom are united the three
uncommon qualities of beauty, talents, and virtue. Who would not, then,
have them nobly maintain this dignified superiority? Let their morals
not be corrupted by the frivolous example of their volatile neighbours.
Let them unanimously drive from their presence the notorious and
plausible rake, who, however he may flatter, would betray and destroy.
If enthusiasm can be applauded in any case, it is where the glory of a
nation is the object; and let it never be forgotten, that from the
earliest periods of the world, those countries have always been the
greatest where the female character was the most virtuous and unsullied.
PROSTITUTION.
If we refer to the most obvious consequences attendant on the crime of
seduction, we shall observe, that in almost every case the victim is
reduced to the dreadful necessity of seeking a desultory and precarious
subsistence by _prostitution_, which can never fail to expose the
ill-fated object to a degree of wretchedness too painful for sensibility
and virtue to picture even in imagination.
Before pronouncing a sweeping sentence, however, of unqualified
condemnation on the horrid life these miserables lead, it would be just
to pause a little, and inquire whether an alternative is left to
them.—Forsaken and disowned by their relations; cruelly deserted by
their seducers; shunned and despised by those who formerly were proud,
perhaps, to cultivate their acquaintance; they stand, as it were, alone
in the world, an awful memento of the loathsomeness of sin.
If to this state of unhappy feeling be added the resistless calls of
hunger, the effects of cold and wet on a delicate frame, but thinly
clad, and ill-protected against the severity of season, with the
melancholy prospect of being compelled to perish in the streets, we may
have some idea of their deplorable condition. But even this picture,
dark and dreary as it is, presents a faint image only of the
indescribable gloom, terror, and dismay, which lower over the
tempestuous visitations of the heart-rending conflict of shame, want,
and misery!
What exquisite, what pure felicity must enliven his heart, who in this
extremity of vice can become the instrument, with the divine aid, of
restoring to a sense of religion and virtue, and of bringing back and
restoring to her family, in the spirit of forgiveness and
reconciliation, a poor deluded young female, ere her mind has been
depraved in vicious intercourse with the abandoned of her sex, who
vengefully in turn have become seducers, and practise upon man the same
vile arts by which they themselves had been betrayed! If any period
indeed of their wretched career be favourable for reformation, this
appears to be the most propitious; and surely the salvation, the
happiness of a fellow creature are objects too sacred, too glorious to
be given up without at least an effort. But too often, unfortunately, is
this opportunity suffered to slip by; for the benevolent few, who would
promptly and joyfully extend the hand to save, know not the dangerous
situation in which the object of such benevolence is placed, while the
general mass of mankind looks on indifferent as to the destructive
consequences inevitably to result!
Is it not as humiliating as distressing to reflect, that for one who has
true greatness of soul sufficient to pity and assist such a poor
bewildered girl, there are a hundred heartless sensualists that would
take advantage of her misfortunes, and plunge her still deeper in a foul
guilt? But she is not allowed long to hesitate between virtue and vice.
Some veteran harpy not far off, ready to satisfy her keen hunger with a
tempting feast, and cover her naked, shivering limbs with decent dress,
soon fairly enlists her under the banners of _prostitution_, where she
is compelled to endure insults the most degrading, to hear oaths and
imprecations, and suffer obscenity the most revolting, to which a little
time speedily familiarizes her.
Endowed perhaps by nature, for better purposes, with talent, she becomes
easily a proficient in all the arts and tricks of practised criminality;
she gains the favour and confidence of her mistress, or more properly
her gaoler, who sends her forth to levy contributions on all whom she
can entangle in her toils, particularly spread with malicious enmity for
the open generosity of unguarded youth. In this manner bankers’ clerks,
apprentices to shop-keepers and tradesmen, and other young men in trust,
are often entrapped, and lavish away money which these females induce
them to pilfer from their masters or parents: neglect of business, or
other irregularity, at length rouses the suspicion of the hitherto
confiding employer, who now deems it necessary to resolve on dispensing
with the young man’s further services, and turns him upon the world to
live as he can. How often has it happened, that a desperate effort to
regain that respectability thus justly forfeited, brings him to an
untimely and disgraceful end, or consigns him to distant exile for life!
Hence arises another pitiable waste of parental affection.
Many a valuable young man has thus been lost to his family and the
world: nor is the fate of the poor unhappy females generally much more
enviable. Some of them, it is true, do occasionally succeed in obtaining
settlements from old dotards; and others in appearance enjoy all the
conveniences of ease, luxury and affluence; but truth will allow the
suggestion, that there is not one in a thousand who does not on some
occasion or other experience every sorrow and anguish that can
contribute to fill up life’s bitterest cup. Where is there, or ever has
been, a woman of this abandoned class, who did not feel at some sad hour
of reflection most acutely the degradation of her state? Which of them
has not in the cravings of hunger, houseless and friendless, in feelings
of heart-consuming and unavailing sorrow, tacitly acknowledged the
slavish chains and bondage in which she was inextricably trammelled and
held down by sin?
A lingering sense of shame, perhaps, drives some other of those unhappy
and forlorn beings to a lodging of such a description as suits her
scanty means. There, in a room which is seldom half furnished, the
degraded and desolate object, with a forced and pitiable cheerfulness
badly harmonizing with the settled marks of sorrow in her countenance,
induces the visits of companions of the other sex, unknowing or careless
that, by this wretched means of obtaining to herself a subsistence, she
is leading him, in whom centre the cherished hopes, perhaps, of some
respectable family, from the paths of duty into future and unavoidable
iniquity. Thoughtless youths of this description find it easy to purloin
money and articles from home, to secure the good opinion of their
attractive mistress. The still unhappy creature, though above the dread
of want, puts on a new character, becomes prudent from necessity, and
loses no chance of improving her present harvest.
Too often, however, will pity say, the picture is reversed. Some low,
designing wretch, struggling with want and subsisting by the meanest
schemes, contrives to gain the fair one’s notice, is permitted to visit,
and by dint of assiduities and moving representations of his altered
fortunes, in a well tissued tale of distress he wins her compassion; and
the generous girl (for the generosity of the confiding female heart is
boundless) admits the plausible miscreant to her table, and shares with
him her purse; nor has the worthless vagabond the slightest sense of
shame or compunction in subsisting wholly on her miserable gains. Soon,
then, she begins to feel misfortune keenly; her favouring visitors fail,
the sources of her sad emolument are dried up; her clothes and trinkets
go to the pawnbroker’s; her ingrate _protegé_, no longer to batten on
her miserable resources, robs her; and the unfeeling landlord, or his
vociferous drunken wife, pretends now for the first time to have found
out her way of life, and, under the pretence of conscientious
abhorrence, turns her into the street without an article save what is on
her person.
O happy, happy daughters of virtue! when you contrast your situation
with that of this frail and wretched sister, be grateful to Heaven for
the blessings you enjoy; guard your every step with prudent vigilance,
lest at any moment you be tempted to go astray from the ways of
“pleasantness and peace.” Perhaps the misfortune of this wretched girl
has drawn her from a state once as delightful as your own; education and
the seeds of early virtue may have been implanted in her bosom, and were
lovely in their growth, until blasted by the seducer: observe now her
once beautiful form, worn down and emaciated by want and sickness, nay
worse, tainted with that destructive disease which is ever attendant on
such a course; see her, in short, pining and wasting away under
multiplied sorrows, and sinking rapidly into a premature grave!
Yet, even before that relief arrives, her wretchedness is too probably
increased by associating with depraved females of the same class; (for
how can she avoid those amongst whom she must live?) their habit of
drinking spirits becomes familiar to her; the delusive poison affords a
temporary relief, but hastens on a painful, lingering death, which takes
place, perhaps, in some forsaken shed, or unfurnished weatherbeaten
room: there, without fire, light or comfort of any kind, there see the
emaciated, diseased, starving, and desolate being sigh out the last
breath of a miserable life;—no friend is nigh to comfort—no accustomed
voice is heard to sooth or cheer her last awful moments of existence,
or, by once pronouncing her name, to seek assurance that as yet her soul
may not have taken flight!
In this faint sketch, which, mark! is from very life, I have endeavoured
to point out some of the innumerable evils which follow the baneful
footsteps of those flagitious traders in female virtue and happiness.
How many a poor sorrowing female, who has once listened to the
destructive tempter, and suffered her good sense to be blinded by
seductive art, has been obliged to tread in such a painful road of
thorns, debasement and affliction!
From the humble, bashful servant-maid, who has been seduced by the
fellow servant, in order to win her over to a diabolical design laid by
another as low in infamy if not condition as himself, for the ruin of
her young mistress, and which too often through her persevering wicked
agency becomes successful, up to the dashing woman of pleasure,
maintaining a proud establishment by the base traffic and barter of
female innocence,—all is a bloated mass of wickedness and falsehood.
Most unhappy indeed, and lamentable, is the lot of those innocent,
unpolluted girls who are drawn within the incantations of such
licentious syrens, smiling but to destroy, while their execrable purpose
is always enveloped in blandishments and charms, to lull the
apprehensions of the modest and virtuous victim, led along as
unsuspecting of danger as the lamb that licks the slaughtering knife.
The humble but industrious and virtuous girl apprenticed to a
respectable dress-maker is marked down by another class of prowlers,
more showy, specious and experienced. These, to dazzle at once the eyes
of the hapless virgin, make a grand display of equipage, servants in
livery, splendid house and luxurious table; the softest protestations,
the most alluring promises, and apparently fondest expressions possible,
are ever at hand. Thus, with the aid of presents, and by force of
ever-renewed compliments, against which how few female minds can be duly
guarded! the giddy creature in an unlucky moment forgets all the
precepts of an anxious mother, and of a revered father whose grey hairs
and sacred profession should have protected from the insult,—all vanish
before the wily tempter’s skill, and disappear until woful experience
opens the eyes of the infatuated girl to a sense of her lost reputation,
and despair prepares her for the worst, the dernier fate of those in
such condition.
Turn, inhuman destroyer!—take the last look at your heart-bleeding
victim before you leave her to utter destruction. If a spark of honour,
of even self-regard, lurk yet among your base unbridled passions, pause
for a moment,—let recollection flash on the youthful days of your
amiable wife;—such a villain as you have now become would have separated
her life from yours:—You have daughters—cast a father’s look on them,
and judge from your own feelings, if a father’s feelings can be yours,
what you must have inflicted, in the disgrace of that ruined girl, who,
now fallen and by you debased, clings around your feet, upon the hearts
of a peaceful, respectable, and hitherto happy family.
Can this man make any recompense for his barbarous crime? He titles as a
Lord; but vain are his immense treasures, his glittering equipages, to
restore her lost innocence: no—no effort of his can sooth the remorse of
her whom his guilt has made so miserable. Poor is the refuge from a
worrying conscience, in the thought that ample provision has been made
for the sorrower’s support, whose early death will relieve her at once
from his odious bounty and her intolerable misery.
Endless as distressing would be the undertaking to particularize the
detestable variety of iniquity thus practised; or to enumerate all the
suicides, child-murders, and secret crimes which hence originate, in all
their turpitude. Of this one deplorable fact I have had assurance in the
case of the female convicts late under my care on board the Morley, who
invariably acknowledged, when on the subject of their misfortunes, that
_seduction first led the way to guilt_, and that the baneful career in
which the sentence of the law had arrested them, might be decidedly
dated from the fatal moment of their fall from virtue.
To arrest the progress of female prostitution, various expedients and
measures have been proposed, and as numerous arguments urged in favour
of their efficacy. The most ingenious British writer on the subject
seems to be Dr. Colquhoun, whose zealous labours have long indeed been
meritoriously directed to his country’s benefit. While his active
vigilance has in many cases been successfully devoted to the
investigation and repression of crime, his opinions in the main are
correct and luminous.
In the remedy, however, which he proposes for female prostitution, his
love of police system appears to me to have carried him beyond his
depth, further perhaps than he intended. The measure he recommends is
modestly covered by a few superficial, ingenious arguments, but, when
divested of this learned covering, presents an appearance not very
satisfactory to an English eye, and to that of stern virtue is even
truly frightful—_granting to prostitutes legal licenses_!
The learned Doctor first endeavours to soften the scruples of his timid
readers by argument both speculative and specious; after which he
gravely asks, “Where then is the objection?” and then immediately
answers his own question, “In vulgar prejudice only.” He continues, “By
those of inferior education, whose peculiar habits and pursuits have
generated strong prejudices, this excuse may be pleaded; but by the
intelligent and well-informed it will be viewed through a more correct
medium.”
It might have the appearance of presumptuous temerity to oppose an
opinion to this sweeping dogma of the learned Doctor; for, agreeably to
his definition, I must confess that I am one of those _of inferior
education and vulgar prejudices_ whom he so designates. It may however
be permitted me candidly to state, that I have viewed his proposition in
every possible light, and have had some few opportunities of observing
the effects of such a system, but somewhat modified, in several parts of
the world; and that, after reflection as close and intense as my mind is
capable of giving to any subject, I have decidedly formed an opinion,
that the result of such an arrangement would be the very reverse of what
he pronounces. It would, I firmly believe, be impossible for ingenuity
to invent any thing that could contribute more effectually to vitiate
the public opinion, and entirely extinguish the moral principle, than
the open toleration or licensing of public brothels.
The Doctor surely must have forgotten that indulgence in this sin, more
than any other, prepares the mind for the admission of every vice, and
is generally the forerunner of the most diabolical and desperate
depravity in vulgar life; and in the higher walks even leads to
dissoluteness, profligacy, and total disregard of moral and religious
obligations: or would he venture with confidence “to prescribe rules
‘_Thus far shall you go, and no further_?’” Under the superintendence
even of so able a magistrate as himself, would it be possible to apply
this rule? But of this I am confident, that no plain honest man who
wishes to promote the cause of morality, and the general welfare of his
country, will ever desire to see this experiment tried in England.
In support of the propriety of this salutary measure, the Doctor adduces
examples drawn from Holland, Italy, and India. In the first of those
countries my own observation has been rather limited, though quite
sufficient to convince me, that under no circumstances or modifications
whatever could the Doctor’s expectations of the system in its
consequences be realized. That the morals of the people of that country
were formerly as pure, or “the purest of any in Europe,” as he states, I
am nothing loth to admit; but that their corruption and degeneracy have
been in a great measure occasioned by this very sanction, or connivance,
cannot, I think, be disputed.
In Italy, it is true, the system has had a wider range, and its effects
have been fully developed. The Doctor’s intercourse with that country
must have been limited indeed, else he would have known, that long
established habits of libertinism had indisposed and incapacitated the
majority of them for all useful intellectual pursuits; and that their
minds generally were too enervated to give birth to, much less sustain,
any of those noble virtues which only and irresistibly command
admiration.
Of the Italian women it is really an ungracious and painful task to be
compelled at all to speak: but although I cannot in justice give them my
unqualified approbation; and although censure, if it deserve that name,
be given in gentleness, yet it must be declared that that prompt and
resolute decision against guilt, and its indulgence, which forms so
amiable a portion of the English character, is not often, I fear, to be
met with in the women of Italy.
Against the opposition which he expected would be raised against his
favourite plan, the Doctor urges “_Plus apud me ratio valebit quam vulgi
opinio_;” but in proposing Italy, where morals and chastity have long
dwindled to a name, and are now deplored as nearly extinct, as a model
for British imitation, does he keep in sight the best part of his own
maxim?
The introduction of Italian manners and customs amongst our females,
might certainly gratify the utmost wish of _the man of the world_, and
every professed rake or libertine; but it would be leaving the husband
most probably no other security for his wife’s fidelity than the want of
a paramour and suitable opportunity. The people of that country are
notoriously licentious, practising without a blush, in open day, the
most immoral and disgraceful excesses. I regret as deeply as any one,
the vicious propensities of our own countrywomen, which it is grievous
to observe are so extensively a subject for reprehension: yet it is far
from gratifying or honouring to our nature, to entertain a conviction
which follows from the lamentable fact, that the degradation of female
chastity is, beyond all proportion, greater in Italy than it is at home.
I shall detain the reader with only a remark or two on the unhappy class
of females in India, to whom the Doctor alludes as being devoted to
indiscriminate intercourse, but whose morals in other respects, he says,
are strictly guarded, and whose minds are not susceptible of that degree
of depravity which prevails in Europe. It is with much reluctance, and
no small degree of diffidence, that I feel it necessary to differ from
one whose shining talents have contributed so eminently to the public
good. However, as I have reason to presume that he never was in India,
he must have had his information from a second, who probably had his
from a third, and who most likely felt himself authorized to take
advantage of the traveller’s privilege. Be this as it may, I am well
assured that the purity he speaks of as there existing, is no where to
be found, and that the behaviour of prostitutes in that country is
marked by all the depravity of mind, and corruptness of manners, that
can tend to imbrute the feeling, and fill the mind of the observer with
the most sickening disgust.
But allowing the Doctor’s notion of the subject to be correct, and
admitting all the force of his political maxim, “_Qui non vetat peccare
cum possit, jubet_,”—still, I think, it would be extremely difficult,
and attended with the utmost danger, to apply them to practice[32]. If
the positive commands of God, and the awful denunciations of his wrath,
can be violated and disregarded in one case, what is there to ensure
obedience and respect to them in any other? In the 13th chapter 4th
verse of the Hebrews it is declared, “whoremongers and adulterers God
will judge.” If the Legislature can grant a license to commit this crime
with impunity, and thus far neither judges nor condemns, why may it not
also, as moral principle alone is concerned, give one for committing
murder, or any other deadly sin? In short, what would there be then to
defer from trampling on the Decalogue, or the Bible itself, provided the
countenance of Government, upon some view of mere policy, could be
obtained in the shape and denomination of a license?
Having thus expressed an entire and unqualified disapprobation of any
measure that could be construed into a public sanction of brothels, and
their wretched inmates, it may be expected that I should myself
substitute some efficient proposition on the subject. I should indeed
consider such a task a duty, and feel pleasure in its performance, as
far as my competency might extend, were I not fully satisfied that there
are many, very many, in the country, whose zeal and abilities more
eminently qualify them for a disquisition so important, while their
political influence is such as to give them a hope, to me not in
prospect, of successfully advocating the cause of innocence, virtue,
religion, and social happiness.
-----
Footnote 31:
A Government order _now_ exists, requiring the Surgeon Superintendent
of every convict ship to establish a school, and perform divine
worship regularly during the voyage.
Footnote 32:
The above observations were written during the voyage to New South
Wales, when the Author was ignorant of the heavy loss sustained by the
public in the death of that highly talented Magistrate.
THE END.
Printed by R. and A. TAYLOR.
Shoe Lane London.
ERRATA.
Page 21, line 7 from bottom, for _banisheh_ read _banished_
67, line 12 from bottom, for _the many_ read _them any_
71, line 12 from top, for tA. M. read A. M. Same line for
_weathe_ read _weather_
114, line 9 from top, for _human heart_ read _human beast_
241, line 7 for SORRELL read SORELL
296, line 14 from bottom, for _th mmonness_ read _the commonness_
343, line 1 for _ha_ read _had_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DECEMBER, 1822.
NEW AND IMPORTANT WORKS,
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THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Moved advertising from first four pages to the end.
2. Changed ‘births’ to ‘berths’ on p. 22.
3. Changed ‘consistently’ to ‘consistent’ on p. 34.
4. Changed ‘bing’ to ‘being’ on p. 105.
5. Changed ‘to’ to ‘the’ on p. 192.
6. Changed ‘cel’ to ‘feel’ on p. 310.
7. Changed ‘he’ to ‘be’ on p. 335.
8. Corrected errors mentioned in ‘ERRATA.’
9. Silently corrected typographical errors.
10. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
11. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
12. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.
13. Superscripts are denoted by a carat before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.