The following story Mr. Ferguson used frequently to repeat: He had
finished the picture of a handsome young lady, whose numerous friends,
though they commended the piece, found each some small faults, they
thought might be corrected, which would render the likeness complete.
Mr. Ferguson, when informed of it, desired they all might meet him at a
certain hour, and being properly placed, with his pallet and brushes in
his hand, the picture before him, and the lady sitting in a just light,
he begged to be favoured with the opinions and objections of the company
present, one by one; he acquiesced with them all, and put himself in a
posture to remedy the defects, pointed out. When he had gone through the
whole he turned the picture towards them, and every one pronounced it so
finished a piece, and so perfect a likeness, that it could not be
improved. He then requested them to examine both the pencils and
canvass, which had been all along perfectly dry, and left them to draw
their own conclusions.
* * * * *
* * * *
+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
[Written by Herself.]
(Continued from our last.)
As I mean to banish prolixity from my narrative, I shall not mention the
emotions this tale excited when next we met. I could not help lamenting
my utter inability to aid his distress. A glow of grateful feelings
brightened his countenance. He caught my hand. Angelic sweetness, he
cried---your face, how true an index of your mind. In short, both
strangers to dissimulation, we soon perceived a passion, ardent,
sincere, and reciprocal. We loved with all the romantic enthusiasm of
youth, forgetting the insuperable barriers between us. We indulged our
tenderness till it grew too great to be subdued. Sitting together one
afternoon, planning future days of bliss, my hand locked in his, my soul
beaming from my eyes, we suddenly heard a rustling among some trees
behind us, and my father instantly rushed out, rage flashing from every
glance. Frantic, he tore me from Harland, and bid him begone, as he
durst not answer for what he might be tempted to do. Harland hesitated.
I saw passion kindling in his eyes. Terrified at the consequences which
might ensue, I had just power to articulate, obey him, oh obey him. My
father loaded me with every violent invective rage could suggest. To
exculpate myself from the meanness he accused me of, I divulged
Harland’s history, but he believed it not. He said it was a vile, artful
tale, calculated to deceive my unsuspecting youth, and lead me into a
connection which he would eternally have cursed me for. Good heaven! how
my soul shuddered at these words. For three days I gave myself up to
immoderate grief; the fourth, walking in an avenue cut through the wood,
I saw a little boy playing before me, I heeded him not, till I perceived
him drop a piece of paper, give me a significant sign, and run off.
I flew forward hastily, snatched it up, and retired to a chamber, where
I read the following lines from my unfortunate Harland:
“Oh, my Julia! what a cruel separation! Thus torn from thee, it fills me
with anguish--my only comfort thy society, deprived of that
too---merciless fortune! I am incoherent---I hardly know what I write.
Julia, to quit this spot, without bidding you adieu, is more than I can
support. Meet me if possible I beseech you at night, in the wood. One
parting interview---to meet perhaps; I can’t go on---Oh Julia! grant my
last request.”
I determined to comply, but could not without my maid’s assistance.
I entrusted her, and she promised to assist me. When the family were
retired to rest, she conducted me down stairs, and opening a little door
which led into the wood, said she would there watch my return.
Gently the moon dispers’d her pleasing light
And silver’d o’er the trembling lucid wave,
Fair was the view, that hail’d the wond’ring sight,
And soft the pleasure midnight silence gave.
Harland was impatiently waiting for me; at my approach he sprung
forward, oh my Julia, he cried, what goodness, what condescension, but
you are all complying sweetness. He regretted his separation; lamented
his want of fortune; now bid me for ever forget him; then assured me,
without the chearing idea of my love, life would be unsupportable.
I wept, assured him it was unalterable, that only with existence it
would cease. The moment arrived to separate. He sunk upon his knees,
besought eternal blessings on my head, tenderly embraced me, while his
voice was stifled with the emotions of his soul, and tore himself away.
I tottered home, and leaning on my maid, retired to my chamber, where I
past the remainder of the night in tears, and all the pangs of hopeless
love. Shortly after this, a gentleman arrived at the castle who was son
to a deceased friend of my father’s, his birth and fortune noble, but
his manners tainted with arrogance and ill-nature. He conceived a
partiality for me. Just powers, what has it not caused me! Sir George
still dreading the unfortunate Harland, encouraged it. He was also
really desirous of having me advantageously married. He compelled me to
listen to Mordaunt; and in short, not to dwell longer on this painful
subject, notwithstanding my prayers, my tears, my declaration of passion
for another, I was forced the altar. The horror of that moment I can’t
express; the image of Harland was continually before me; my broken vows;
his sufferings; his love; they almost bereft me of reason. Three days
after the fatal ceremony, sitting alone in my dressing-room, as the
gentlemen were out, I heard a carriage drive hastily to the door.
I imagined it was some obtrusive visitors who came to pay their
unwelcome compliments, when in an instant the door was thrown open, and
Harland entered, the smile of anticipating pleasure on his face. He
attempted to clasp me in his arms, but shrinking from them,
I endeavoured to fly from the room; he caught my hand and forcibly
withheld me; he looked amazed at my agitation. Speak to me, my adored
Julia, he cried, Oh why this distress?---heaven has at length removed my
sufferings---Mr. T. has at last done justice to me. I am come to claim
your hand. Sir George cannot deny me now. What bliss! what happiness in
store for us. I could hear no more; I broke from him, and in agony of
soul rending misery, wrung my hands together. We are ruined, exclaimed
I, for ever wretched. Oh Harland! forgive me. I am miserable, compulsive
power has undone me. I am, oh detest me not, already married. I might
have gone on for ever---his senses seemed annihilated, a deadly paleness
overspread his face; I was terrified; I flew to him; I attempted to take
his hand; my touch revived him. He started from me; base faithless
woman; his lips quivered, and in a phrenzy of disappointed passion he
rushed out of the house. He left me on the verge of distraction, but
when a little composed, I revolved my conduct: I considered it improper;
I was now married; those tender sensations for another man were
criminal; my virtue was strong, I determined to exert it; the lessons of
my beloved mother recurred to me. She often said, affliction was the
purifier of our passions, it refined the soul, and lifted to that
infinite Almighty power in whose hands the balm was held for healing the
wounds received on this spot.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
* * * *
+The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,+
A Story, Founded on Facts.
(Continued from our last.)
As the family of his late consort were rich and powerful Mr. Freeman
checked his libertine pursuits for a time; but the strength of habit
soon overcame the dictates of prudence, and again he listened to the
powerful calls of vice and dissipation.
A few months after Mrs. Freeman’s death he informed his friend Easton
that he would introduce him to a young creature, lovely as imagination
could form. He owned that the connection between them, being only that
of sentiment, became rather troublesome; that she had denied him the
most distant favour, and, in tears, regretted her ever giving way to a
hopeless passion which had driven her from home, and subjected her to
dangers of every kind.
“I first saw,” he continued, “this foolish girl at the neighbouring
convent---Her beauty charmed me; I gained her attention, and held many
conversations at the grate, in the course of which she informed me that,
disappointed in a love affair, and to avoid a forced marriage, she had
fled from her guardian, and sought refuge in the convent.
“I need not tell you, Easton, how love-sick girls are wrought upon.
I found more sensibility than prudence--her sorrows subsided as I
artfully dropped an answering tear, accompanied with a well-feigned
emotion. I used every means which is common with us fellows of intrigue,
and at length gained her consent to suffer me to procure her
enlargement, on my promise of protection and friendship.
“Her remove from the convent was, with some difficulty and no small
degree of danger, effected; when, expecting my reward and urging her to
be kind, she wept, said I had deceived her, and thus addressed
me:----‘Cease, Sir, to alarm, with professions of love, a poor young
creature that knows not where to fly. Ask me for my friendship and
esteem, and honour me with your’s, and I shall be as happy as my
fortunes will permit. I wished to cast myself on your protection, from a
confidence in your honour--I have done it--betray not then, oh! betray
not the trust reposed in you. If you take a violent and cruel advantage
of my situation, short will be your pleasure--but lasting your pain. You
will at once lose all the respect I now bear you, and render me
completely wretched: it is too true I am in your power, but do not, oh!
do not abuse that power, by plunging a wretch, already almost lost, into
infamy and perdition.’
“I give you her own words, Easton, for you will find her romantic in the
extreme, with all the airs of dignity and virtue about her.
I endeavoured all I could to comfort and compose her spirits, and
offered to write home to her guardian; but to this she would not
consent, as in such a case her _name_ would be exposed. ‘If,’ said she,
‘imputed guilt is to be my portion, let me, with life, lament the
effects of my imprudent flight--but there are, whom, my folly might
disgrace, should an unfeeling world cast a stigma upon me--know me,
therefore, only as--_the wretched Julia!_’
“Upon this I left her, fool enough to be somewhat affected, and what she
means to do I cannot tell; I had procured her an apartment in a private
part of the city, with a servant to attend her; but not finding in me
the father she expected, I have a strong idea that she means to play me
the slip and steal away without my knowledge, which would prove a
disappointment to both of us.
“For, Easton, as you are a fine fellow, and withal somewhat younger than
myself, as _I_ cannot succeed, I think you might venture a trial upon
your own account.”
“A friendly proposal,” exclaimed Easton, “convey me to her, and what
love, gallantry, and fine speeches can effect, depend on.”
The agreement made, they proceeded to pay a visit to the unfortunate
young lady.
The servant having given in Mr. Freeman’s name, they were conducted to
her apartment. But oh! heaven! what horror seized the heart of Easton on
beholding--_his sister_! He had left her during his travels, which had
detained him two years, under the protection of her guardian, a man of
sordid ideas, little principle, and still less humanity---but who had
cunning sufficient to carry the appearance of every good quality, and,
by the deepest dissimulation, had prevailed on the worthy Mr. Easton,
the gentleman who had given these unhappy children his name and fortune,
in his last moments to submit to him the management of the estate
bequeathed them till the youth became of age, and his sister was
disposed of in marriage.
How he had performed the will of his dying friend, respecting the young
lady, the reader has, in part, been made acquainted with---it remains
only to say, that, by his forbidding the addresses of Mr. Harcourt,
a young soldier, whose heart was as honourable as his profession, and
who sincerely loved her, and encouraging the hopes of a wretch, worn out
with infirmities and a diseased mind, he forced the unhappy Julia to
determine on flight. Her Harcourt had been called to the field, where,
by protecting his country at the hazard of his life, it was not then in
his power to defend her he held dearer than his own existence.
For a time, overcome with mutual astonishment, they both remained
silent! At length Easton, relieved by tears, embracing the sister of his
heart, exclaiming, “And have bad principles and bad men brought me to
the brink of such perdition? But Heaven is just, and at the same moment
converts my erring heart, and restores me to an almost-lost sister, whom
my future care and affection shall protect from every snare of deep-laid
villany.”
Then turning to the confounded and abashed Freeman, he uttered, “As for
you, be warned by this interposition of Providence in favour of your
undeserving friend.--- Your years and your principles do not correspond.
I had a father, gay and volatile like yourself, whose wretched story I
have heard, but whose guilt has divided his children and
him--perhaps---forever! Mournful, no doubt, has been his existence, and,
if no more, miserable his end.---But wherever he may wander, if yet
alive, oh! my sister! would not you rejoice with me in comforting his
suffering heart, and in return receive the blessings of our nameless and
interdicted parent?”
Hearing, with trembling limbs, this passionate address, Mr. Freeman
exclaims, “Who, who was your father?”
“Oh!” returned Easton, “he has lost his name in his crimes, which drove
him from his family and country---an outlawed murderer!”
For the first time, powerful conviction rushed on the heart of Freeman!
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “be more explicit, surely my children are now before
me---nor fear nor fate shall longer hide my name---’Tis _Alton_! the
miserable _Alton_, now casts his wretched load of existence before
you.”--------They both ran towards him, and owning an interposing
providence with tears of joy and gratitude, raised their _long-lost
parent_! who at once reclaimed, at once thankful to mysterious Heaven,
embraced _his children_!
It only remains to inform the reader, that the father, with his son and
daughter, took shipping for England. An honourable peace soon brought
home to love and fortune the generous Harcourt, who was at length united
to his faithful Julia.
The old guardian had paid the debt of nature, and, struck with a check
of conscience, he not only left the whole estate of the late Mr. Easton,
unimpaired, to the brother and sister, but added thereto a large portion
of his own. Application was made to an earthly throne for mercy to the
repentant father; it was extended towards him, and being now a sincere
penitent, it is to be wished and hoped that he may experience the same
mercy from a still higher power.
[[Sources:
Original: “A School for Libertines. A Story, Founded on Facts” by
Thomas Bellamy.
Possible sources include “The general magazine and impartial
review ...” (Vol. 1, July 1787); “Walker’s Hibernian Magazine”
(Sept. 1787, 483ff., appearing immediately after “Alphonso and
Marina)”; The New-York Magazine, 1795 pg. 688ff