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MIRANDA.
A Moral Tale.
“Come, gentle hope, in flow’ry vest,
Pour thy sweet balm o’er all my sense;
Lull each anxiety to rest,
And chear the-mind of Innocence.
“Shroud from my sight this urgent gloom,
And paint the morrow’s chearful ray;
Or soon this corpse shall meet the tomb,
Fall’n, like a rose, ere noon of day.”
Such were the plaintive accents that smote my ear, as I wandered,
musing, by the banks of the Mersey. The words had something in them
which arrested my attention; but the melancholy cadence with which they
were sighed forth, elicited the sympathetic tear of sorrow. I could not
discover from whom the ditty proceeded; I advanced, therefore,
cautiously, to the place whence the sounds issued, that I might view the
distressed mourner, who had already so powerfully engaged my
commiseration.
She sat on the cold ground, under a shade of willows; distress spoke in
her countenance; the fountain of her tears appeared exhausted; and her
grief, unable to overflow and vent itself at her eyes, convulsed her
throbbing breast. Her form contained every thing that elegance and
beauty can combine; her features were regular, and expressive; her eyes
large and black, but sorrow had robbed them of their vivid flashes; and
her dress was the remains of gentility.
I stood awhile in silent admiration; and was so enwrapt in the
contemplation of the fair distressed, that I had not hitherto noticed a
little dog, which she had in her lap, and viewed with all the tender
languishment of love. I was about to address her, when she again began
to sing--
“Fair truth and constancy shall prove
The pillars of Miranda’s love;
The main shall sooner float in air----”
Here an involuntary sneeze, on my part, caused the unhappy maid, to espy
me, and break off her strains of woe.
She arose, and clasped her little care in her arms, tenderly but
deliciously exclaiming--“They shall not hurt thee, my Henry! these
murderers shall not come near thee! Rest on thy Miranda’s bosom, and
forget thy fears in her love!”
I approached nearer. She looked at me with earnestness; and saw the big
drop rolling down my cheeks, and my whole frame almost motionless with
grief. The delirium which she had just experienced immediately left her:
she advanced near me--“And do you pity me and my love?”
“Thou lovely fair one,” said I, “though I am unacquainted with thy
miseries, and the source from whence they flow; yet, let my tears
witness my heart felt commiseration.”
“Is there, then, one soul left,” said she, “that feels for poor Miranda;
that feels for her father, and her lover?”
Here she sighed, and cast a tender look on her little companion.
A paleness overshadowed her cheeks, her lips quivered, and she seemed
about to relapse into her former delirium; when I diverted her
attention, by turning it to the beauty of the landscape, and the
serpentine windings of the river.
I offered my arm; which she accepted with that unsuspicious modesty,
that a heart pure and conscious of it’s innocence inspires. “Where do
you live Miranda?” said I. She started at hearing her name from a
stranger, having forgot that she had mentioned it; but, quickly
recollecting herself--“At the foot of yon farthest hill, you see several
clumps of trees around an humble cottage; at present,” replied she,
sighing, “I live, or rather die, there!” I desired leave, to see her
home: she thanked me for my kindness, and consented.
“Miranda,” said a grief-worn personage, whom, at our entrance into the
cot, I perceived laid on a poor but cleanly couch--“Miranda, you shall
not add to my heap of miseries by staying in the fields so late; I am
alarmed, at such times, for your safety.”
At the sound of the voice, and at the appearance of the old lady, I felt
a tumultuous palpitation of the heart, and a more deeply sympathizing
sorrow, than I could account for. She had not discovered me before: she
now perceived me motionless at the sight of this little mansion of
sorrow. She alledged, in excuse for her inattention to me, her
solicitude for her daughter. A youth of about twelve years old raised
her up from the couch; a girl some years older sat languidly at her
feet. A little wood composed their fire, which was at present their only
light: it’s inconstant glimmerings served only to exaggerate sights of
woe.
Such were my presentments on this occasion, that I involuntarily
conceived there must exist some unknown connection of destiny or
consanguinity between myself and the sufferers. I therefore desired with
eagerness, to be made acquainted with their history.
On turning from Miranda, to whom I made this request, I beheld the
mother’s eyes fastened on me: a glistening tear impearled them: she
shook her head, as if disappointed, and poured forth a rending sigh.
Again my heart throbbed within my breast; but I recollected the desire I
had expressed to Miranda, whom I perceived now composed, and ready to
satisfy my curiosity.
“The zeal, Sir, with which you appear to interest yourself in our
afflictions, entitles your request to attention. By complying, however,
I shall again pourtray in lively colours, to my own and my wretched
parent’s sight, those miseries which have by time acquired a mellower
tint. Hard is the fate of the inferior order of clergymen! How many are
the difficulties that surround them! The labourer, who by his toil is
able to support his family, enjoys comparatively the happiness of a
prince. The scanty pittance allowed them by the church, will oft times
scarcely procure food for themselves and their family. You will join
with us, no doubt, in lamenting, that in England, in this most happy and
heaven-favoured isle, there should exist so intolerable and just a
ground of complaint. Nay, even policy, one might imagine, would direct
them to abolish such a neglect of Christ’s ministers: for, as no
government can flourish, so it cannot long stand, without religion for
its basis. The common people chiefly respect externals, and fancy
themselves at liberty to deride the thread-bare coat, how great and how
many virtues soever its wearer may possess. When the expounders of
religion fall into disesteem, religion itself does not long escape;
till, at length, all laws, divine and human, are totally neglected and
despised. But, whither am I carried on? Excuse my wandering, Sir: such
considerations ever arise, when I reflect on our condition.”
“The justness of your remarks, Miss,” said I, “precludes the necessity
of an apology.”
“You, no doubt,” continued she, “conjecture, from what I have said, that
my father was a clergyman; your conjecture, Sir, is right. That good man
is one of the best and most neglected of the clerical profession. He was
thirty years curate of the neighbouring village; where his name was ever
heard with raptures, so long as he retained the capacity of supplying
their wants. But--O this ungrateful world!--when he was no longer able
to assist them, they thought themselves freed from former obligations,
and at liberty to laugh him to scorn, and insult his misery!”
The old lady sighed; a tear started into her eye; she looked towards
Heaven, and was again calm.
“The widow, to whom he was a husband; the orphan, who had found in him
the tenderness of a father; were the first to aggravate his sorrows, by
that blackest of all vices, ingratitude. One only poor widow exhibited a
grateful heart----But again I wander! His yearly income was forty
pounds, allowed him for doing the whole duty of the church, by a rector
whose laziness procured near two thousand. With this small income we
lived in happy frugality, many years: but the good man’s heart
overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and this scanty pittance,
though sufficient for our expences, and for small beneficences, was very
inadequate to the demands of wretchedness. He borrowed, therefore, a sum
of money, from a tradesman, to liberate from prison one who craved his
assistance. About this time, the son of the rector returned from the
university; a youth--Good Heavens!--a youth whose form, whose mind,
whose heart, were----”
[To be continued.]
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+Mrs. RADCLIFFE.+
This lady’s novels have a bewitching interest. The power of painting the
terrible and the mysterious is hers, in an eminent degree, but her
sketches of landscape, though always indicating a skilful painter, are
too numerous and minute. They may be called the miniature pictures of
nature. Whether in the vales of Arno, or among the craggs of the
Appennines, unsatisfied with general description, she chooses to note
every spire of grass, and every shrub of the rocks. In the labyrinthian
scenes of her castles and her forests, the attentive critic may discern
a degree of finesse and stage trick, which, often repeated, offends,
rather than surprises. When curiosity pants to discover the secrets of a
desolate chamber, or a ruinated abbey, some, perhaps many, impediments
may be judiciously thrown in Fancy’s way. But the rusty and bloody key,
the glimpse of fancied apparitions, the perplexed path and the
impracticable stair case, occur so often in Mrs. Radcliffe’s midnight
rambles, that they soon lose their power of deception. But let pruning
criticism lop what it may, the laurels of this lady cannot be injured.
Her style pure, harmonious and forcible, might be a model, even to
masculine writers. In the exhibition of the nicer, and less obvious
shades of character, she has caught the strength and the spirit of
TACITUS and SHAKESPEARE. The family of La Lue is an enchanting group,
not less agreeable from its resemblance to the La Roche of Mackenzie;
and the fierceness of Montoni, and the fears of Emily St. Aubert, are
admirably contrasted.
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_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
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