Such is the influence of female affection upon youth: but to youth
it is not confined. It exists at all times of life wherever woman
exists. It has been my good fortune to share the friendship of many
of a very interesting class of persons, I mean _old maids_. They have
their faults, who has not? But I know well, that most of them abound
with kindness; which may be seen even by the animals by which they are
surrounded, and by their many misdirected enthusiasms.
“The inclination to goodness,” says Lord Bacon, “is imprinted deeply
in our nature, insomuch that if it issue not towards men, it will take
unto other living creatures.”
Harriet Aspin was the youngest of four sisters, who in their childhood
had all a prospect of passing through life with every advantage that
beauty and fortune can bestow. But destiny ordained it otherwise. The
extravagance of their father abridged the portion of each, and the
little Harriet had the additional affliction of personal calamities.
From a fall which her nurse occasioned, and concealed, she contracted a
great degree of deformity; and the injuries that her frame had received
from accident, were completed in what her countenance suffered from
that cruel distemper, by which beauty was so frequently destroyed,
before the happy introduction of innoculation. Her countenance and
person were wretchedly disfigured; but her mind still possessed the
most valuable of mental powers, and her heart was embellished by every
generous affection. Her friends were many: but she had passed her
fortieth year without once hearing the addresses of a single lover;
yet the fancied whisper of this enchanting passion often vibrated
in her ear; for, with a solid and brilliant understanding, she was
deeply tinctured with this credulous foible. As she advanced towards
fifty, finding her income very narrow, and her situation unpleasant,
she took shelter in the family of her favourite sister, married to a
good-natured man of easy fortune, who, though he had several children,
very readily allowed his wife to afford an asylum, and administer all
the comforts in her power to this unfortunate relation.
The good deeds of benevolence rarely pass unrewarded. The obliging
temper of Harriet, united to infinite wit and vivacity, contributed to
restore the declining health of her sister, and enlivened the house,
into which she was so kindly admitted. She endeared herself to every
branch of it; but her second nephew, whose name is Edward, became her
principal favourite, and returned her partiality with more esteem and
affection than nephews are used to feel for an old maiden aunt. Indeed,
there was a striking similarity in their characters, for they both
possessed a very uncommon portion of wit, with extreme generosity and
good-nature. Harriet had the most perfect penetration into the foibles
of every character but her own, and had the art of treating them with
such tender and salutary mirth, that she preserved her nephew from
a thousand follies, into which the giddiness of his passions would
otherwise have betrayed him; and, when he was really fallen into some
juvenile scrape, she never failed to assist him, both with secret
advice, and the private aid of such little sums of money as she always
contrived to save from her slender income, for the most generous of
purposes.
It was almost impossible not to love a maiden aunt of so engaging a
character; and Edward, whose affections were naturally ardent, loved
her, indeed, most sincerely; but his penetration discovered her foible,
and the vivacity of his spirit often tempted him to sport with it.
Hitherto, however, he had done so in the most harmless manner; but a
circumstance arose, which fully proved the danger of this ordinary
diversion. Edward, being a younger brother, was designed for the
profession of physic. He had studied at Edinburgh; and, returning from
thence to London, had brought with him a medical friend, who was a
native of Savoy, and was preparing to settle as a physician at Turin.
In the gaiety of his heart, Edward informed his aunt Harriet, that
he had provided her with a husband; and he enlarged on the excellent
qualities of his friend. The Savoyard was extremely polite, and, either
attracted by the pleasantry of her conversation, or touched with
medical pity for the striking infelicity of her distorted frame, he had
paid particular attention to Miss Aspin; for, being yet under fifty,
she had not assumed the title of “Mrs.” This particular attention was
fully sufficient to convince the credulous Harriet, that her nephew
was serious; but she was unluckily confirmed in that illusion, by his
saying to her one evening, “Well, my dear aunt, my friend is to leave
England on Monday; consider, on your pillow, whether you will pass the
Alps, to settle with him for life, and let me know your decision before
the week expires.” The sportive Edward was very far from supposing,
that these idle words could be productive of any fatal event; for
the health of his aunt was such, that he considered his proposal of
crossing the Alps full as extravagant as if he had proposed to her to
settle in the moon: but let youth and vigour remember, that they seldom
can form a just estimate of the wishes, the thoughts, and feelings of
infirmity!--Poor Harriet had no sooner retired to her chamber, than
she entered into a profound debate with a favourite maid, who used to
sleep in her room, concerning the dangers of crossing the Alps, and
the state of her health. In this debate both her heart and her fancy
played the part of very able advocates, and defended a weak cause
by an astonishing variety of arguments in its favour. They utterly
overpowered her judgment; but they could not bias the sounder sentence
of Molly, who was seated on the bench on this occasion. This honest
girl, who happened to have a real lover in England, had many motives
to dissuade her mistress from an extravagant project of settling in
a foreign country; and she uttered as many reasons to poor Harriet
against the passage of the Alps, as were urged to the son of Amilcar
by his Carthaginian friends, when he first talked of traversing those
tremendous mountains. The debate was very warm on both sides, and
supported through the greatest part of the night. The spirited Harriet
was horribly fatigued by the discourse, but utterly unconvinced by the
forcible arguments of her opponent. She even believed that the journey
would prove a remedy for her asthmatic complaints; her desire of a
matrimonial establishment was full as efficacious as the vinegar of
Hannibal, and the Alps melted before it. At the dawn of day she had
positively determined to follow the fortunes of the amiable Savoyard.
The peace of mind, which this decision produced, afforded her a short
slumber; but on waking, she was very far from being refreshed, and
found that her unhappy frame had suffered so much from the agitation
of her spirit, and the want of her usual sleep, that she was unable
to appear at breakfast. This, however, was a circumstance too common
to alarm the family; for though her cheerfulness never forsook her,
yet her little portion of strength was frequently exhausted, and her
breath often seemed on the very point of departing from her diminutive
body. Towards noon, her sister entered her chamber, to make a kind
enquiry concerning her health. It was a warm day in spring; yet
Harriet, who was extremely chilly, had seated herself in a little low
chair, by the side of a large fire. Her feet were strangely twisted
together; and, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee, she
supported her head on her right hand. To the affectionate questions of
her sister she made no reply; but, starting from her reverie, walked
with apparent difficulty across the chamber, and, saying, with a
feeble and broken voice, “I can never pass the Alps,” sunk down on the
side of her bed,--and with one deep sigh, but without any convulsive
struggle, expired. Whether the much-injured and defective organs of
her life were completely worn out by time, or whether the conflict
of different affections, which had harassed her spirit through the
night, really shortened her existence, the all-seeing author of it
can alone determine. It is certain, however, that her death, and the
peculiar circumstances attending it, produced among her relations the
most poignant affliction. As she died without one convulsive motion,
her sister could hardly believe her to be dead; and as this good lady
had not attended to the levities of her son Edward, she could not
comprehend the last words of Harriet, till her faithful servant gave a
full and honest account of the nightly conversation which had passed
between herself and her departed mistress. As her nephew, Edward, was
my intimate friend, and I well knew his regard for this singular little
being, I hastened to him the first moment that I heard she was no more.
I found him under the strongest impression of recent grief, and in the
midst of that self-accusation so natural to a generous spirit upon such
an occasion. I endeavoured to comfort him, by observing, that death,
which ought, perhaps, never to be considered as an evil, might surely
be esteemed a blessing to a person, whose unfortunate infirmities
of body must undoubtedly have been a source of incessant suffering.
“Alas! my dear friend,” he replied, “both my heart and my understanding
refuse to subscribe to the ideas, by which you so kindly try to console
me. I allow, indeed, that her frame was unhappy, and her health most
delicate; but who had a keener relish of all the genuine pleasures
which belong to a lively and a cultivated mind, and still more, of all
those higher delights, which are at once the test and the reward of a
benevolent heart? It is true, she had her foibles; but what right had I
to sport with them?--to me they ought to have been particularly sacred;
for she never looked upon mine, but with the most generous indulgence.”
“Poor Harriet!” he would frequently exclaim,--“Poor aunt Harriet!”
I have basely abridged thy very weak, but not unjoyous existence,
by the most unthinking barbarity. I will, however, be tender to thy
memory; and I wish that I could warn the world against the dangerous
cruelty of jesting with the credulity of every being who may resemble
thee.--_Hayley._