I was invited to pass a month last summer in Buckinghamshire by a
friend, who paid annually a visit to his mother: a lady pretty far
advanced in years, but extremely chearful, sensible, and well-bred.
She lived altogether in the country, in a good old fashioned house,
which was part of her jointure; and it was to this hospitable mansion he
carried me.
The lady received me very politely, as her son's friend; and I have
great reason to be obliged to him for the introduction.
My friend and I generally dedicated our evenings to the entertainment of
this obliging Lady. She loved reading, and was a woman of an excellent
taste; but as her years rendered that employment not so easy to her as
it had been, her son and myself usually spared her the task, and read to
her such authors as she chose for her entertainment; nor was she so
confined to particular studies, as not to allow us to vary our subjects
as inclination led us.
It happened one evening, which was on the eve of the day appointed for
our departure, that we had made choice of the tragedy of Douglas for our
entertainment, when a neighbouring lady (a sensible woman) who had drank
tea with us, desired to make one of our auditors.
After the tea-table was removed, we entered on our task; my friend and I
reading alternately, to relieve each other, that we might not injure the
performance by a wearied or flat delivery.
Neither of the ladies had ever seen or read this play before; and both
gave that true testimony of nature to its merit, tears.
When we had finished the reading of it, they each in her turn bestowed
high praises on it; but the visitor lady said, that notwithstanding the
pleasure it had afforded her upon the whole, she had one great
objection to it. We were all impatient to know what it was. I think said
she, that the moral which it inculcates is a discouraging lesson,
especially to youth; for the blooming hero of this story, though adorned
with the highest virtues of humanity, truth, modesty, gratitude, filial
piety, nobleness of mind, and valour in the most eminent degree, is not
only buried in obscurity, by a severe destiny, till he arrives at
manhood, but when he emerges into light, is suddenly cut off by an
untimely death, and that at a juncture too, when we might (morally
speaking) say his virtues _ought_ to have been rewarded.
We each spoke our thoughts on the subject, as opinion led us, when the
old lady drew our attention, which she always does, whenever she
delivers her sentiments.
I should think as you do, madam, said she, if there were not too many
melancholy precedents to give a sanction to the fable of that tragedy. I
do not say but that the poet, who is at liberty to dispose as he pleases
of the works of his own creation, may as well reward and punish
according to the measures of justice in this life; it might perhaps make
a better impression, and indeed afford a more prevalent example, to the
generality of young people. I say therefore, I do not take upon me to
defend an opposite conduct upon principles of poetic justice, but surely
the poet who prefers that course, may be justified in it from every
day's experience. If we always saw virtuous people successful in their
pursuits, and their days crowned with prosperity, there would be more
force in your objection; but the direct contrary is a truth, which every
body who has lived but a moderate number of years, must have been
convinced of from their own observation. Amongst heathens indeed, who
looked no farther than _this_ life for good and evil, and whose only
incitement to virtue was the praise of men, or what _they_ called glory,
such morals might be dangerous; but surely amongst us Christians they
_cannot_, at least _ought_ not to have any ill effect.
On the contrary, I think it should serve to confirm that great lesson
which we are all taught indeed, but which we seldom think of reducing to
practice, _viz._ to use the good things of this life with that
indifference, which things that are neither permanent in their own
nature, nor of any estimation in the fight of God, deserve.
On the other hand, to consider the evils which befall us, as equally
temporary, and no more dispensed by the great ruler of all things for
punishments, than the others are for rewards; and by thus estimating
both, to look forward for an equal distribution of justice, to that
place only, where (let our station be what it will) our lot is to be
unchangeable. It is in this light that I was instructed in my early days
to consider the various portions that fall to the share of mankind;
which very often, as far as we can see, appear extremely partial; and no
doubt would really be so, were there not an invisible world where the
distributions are just and equal. From this reflection I have drawn
comfort in many trying incidents of my life; but in none more than the
unhappy fate of a lady, who was my particular friend; and who, tho' a
woman of most exemplary virtue, was, thro' the course of her whole life,
persecuted by a variety of strange misfortunes. This lady, to use your
expression, madam (addressing her friend), to all human appearance,
_ought_ at last to have been rewarded even here--but her portion was
affliction. What then are we to conclude? but, that God does not
estimate things as we do. It is ignorant, as well as sinful, to arraign
his providence. We daily see its dispensations with our own eyes, in the
various accidents of life. Why should we not then allow the poet to copy
from life, and exhibit to our view events, the probability of which are
founded on general experience?
We are indeed so much used to what they call poetical justice, that we
are disappointed in the catastrophe of a fable, if every body concerned
in it be not disposed of according to the sentence of that judge which
we have set up in our own breasts.
The contrary we know happens in real life; let us not then condemn what
is drawn from real life.--We may wish to see nature copied from her more
pleasing works; but a martyr expiring in tortures, is as just, though
not as agreeable, a representation of her, as a hero rewarded with the
brightest honours.
We agreed with the venerable lady in her observations; and her son
taking occasion from her mentioning that unfortunate person, who was her
friend, told her, he would take it as a particular favour, if she would
oblige me with the sight of that lady's story.
She answered, that as we had fixed up the next day for our departure,
there would not be time for me to peruse it, but that she would entrust
me with it to take it to town, that I might read it at my leisure. It is
drawn up, said she, for the most part, by the lady herself, and the
occasion of its being so was this. She and I had been intimate from our
childhood; we were play-fellows when young, and constant companions as
we grew up. We always called each other sister, and loved as well as if
we had really borne that relationship to each other. It was our
continual practice from children to keep little journals of what daily
happened to us; these, in all our short absences, were matter of great
entertainment to us; we constantly communicated them when we met, or if
we chanced to be separated by any distance, we made a mutual exchange by
the post of our little diurnal registers, having made each a solemn
promise, not to conceal an incident, or even a thought, of the least
moment, from the other; and this promise I believe was religiously kept
up during a correspondence of many years.
I had a brother about three years older than myself; a very promising
young man. He was an only son, and the darling of his parents: when he
had finished his studies, my father thought of sending him abroad, but
his fondness for him made him resolve to accompany him himself.
A better tutor or a better guide he could not have found for him; my
father was then in the prime of life, he had no other children but him
and me. My mother, as fond of me as he was of his son, and perfectly
affectionate to my father, expressed her wish to let both her and me be
of his party. She said, she thought a young lady, under proper conduct,
might improve as much by seeing foreign courts, and the various customs
of different nations, as a young gentleman.
I was then about sixteen: my father readily consented, as he perfectly
loved my mother; and we all four set out on our tour together. It was my
lot, after I had been some time abroad, to marry an English gentleman,
then resident at Vienna; this occasioned my continuing there some years,
and it was during that space of time that I had the occurrences of my
friend's life from her own hand. As she had kept up to the method we had
agreed on of communicating every thing that happened, even to trivial
matters, it generally encreased the bulk of the packets I used to
receive from her to a prodigious size: these she sent off occasionally,
at nearer or more distant periods of time, according as I gave her the
opportunity, by letting her know our motions.
I have from those selected the most material parts of her history, and
connected them so as to make one continued narrative.
There were long intervals of time between many of the most important
incidents of her life; but as the passages which intervened were either
foreign to the main scope of her story, or too trivial to be recorded,
in copying her papers they were omitted.
I have myself prefixed to her story a very brief account of the lady's
family.
Thus much, Sir, added the good lady, I thought necessary to premise to
you, for your better understanding her history, which I have never yet
shewn to any body but my son.
When I took my leave, she put the manuscript into my hands, with a
charge to be careful of it.
We returned to town, and in less than three weeks I had the
mortification to hear that this respectable old Lady, by whom I had been
entertained with so much friendship and politeness, was dead. Her son
(my friend) was on this occasion obliged to go down into
Buckinghamshire; it was some months before I saw him again, as he had a
good deal of family business to settle.
When he came back to London, I offered to return him the manuscript,
which he had quite forgot. He told me, as he had all the original
papers, _that_ copy was at my service.
I then expressed my wish that it were made public. To this he at first
objected, as he said there were several persons living, related to the
parties concerned in some of the principal events of the story, who
might take umbrage at it. I told him, that this might easily be
obviated, by changing the names both of persons and places, which I
would undertake to do throughout the whole; and I was afterwards so
urgent with him to comply with my request, that he at last yielded. With
his consent therefore I give it to the world, just as I received it,
without any alteration, excepting the proposed one of a change of
names.