_From the same to the same._
Some benevolent fairy, my dear Lucy, who presided at your birth, on
finding nature had done so much for you, that her intended and usual
donations would be but kindness thrown away, has graciously reserved
her gifts for me, foreseeing the hard destiny to which I was subjected.
Being condemned, like the sleeping beauty of the wood, to a hundred
years nap, it is presumable she would, had her power been equal to her
benevolent wishes, have bestowed perpetual youth on me, and a face that
in any night-cap would have been worthy of a lover at the expiration of
my captivity. But as this effort was beyond the power of her magical
wand, she has been contented with gaining permission for me to walk in
my sleep, and to seek adventures for your entertainment, and my own
relief from despair. But to my tale, lest you should fancy it a dream,
and that, far inferior to Prince Rufus's enchanted palace, cooks,
turnspits, fidlers, and beaux and belles, awakened to eat, drink, and
be merry.
Finding I began to be weary of my good friend Eolus (for one may be
tired of what is good, by having too much of it,) I determined, in
order to vary the scene, to pay a morning visit to my new friends at
the mill. "I should like," said I, "to see these boys now warmed into
life by a pinch of snuff and snow water." The whole junto took the
alarm. The roads were impassable; I should get my death of cold. I only
laughed at their prognostics, and persisted in my intention, urging
that the thaw, which has began here, had moderated the severity of
the air. Lady Maclairn, _always ready at an expedient_, recollected
that the coach-wheels wanted some repair, and her cook some corn to
be ground for the fowls; and that at all events it was better for me
to ride than to walk in the dirt. I readily conceded to this opinion,
and, being wrapped up in pelisses and shawls, to the exact resemblance
of the bag of corn, I departed. I found the little family one of
those who, according to _Deborah_, "go as they would be met, and sit
as they would be seen." Wisdom is wisdom with me, Lucy, "whether," as
my darling Sancho says, "it is in a silk purse or in a sow's ear."
There is nothing, in my opinion, more indicative of good sense than
a habit of order. But let us go on. The old lady was giving the boys
their reading-lesson when I entered, in a bible which was before them.
Susan was making a muslin gown. My entrance interrupted them; and my
notice of the children was followed by their being dismissed, but not
before the grandmother, with unaffected anxiety, dictated to them their
speech of gratitude to the dear good young lady who had saved their
lives. This ceremony performed, they with glowing cheeks retired to
enjoy, unconstrainedly, their existence. My observations were next
directed to the beautiful muslin robe Susan was trimming with very
fine edging: it was made with taste, in the _Circassian stile_, as
the fashion has named it. "It is intended for a bride who lives in
this neighbourhood," observed Susan, with a suppressed smile; "perhaps
you may have seen the young lady: she rides frequently on horseback."
Finding this insufficient for my information, she proceeded to tell
me that it was Miss Gubbins she meant, who was going to be married to
a young farmer. "Her father," added she, "knows what is to be done in
that line of business by experience: he has got a good fortune by the
plow." I instantly recollected having met _this Miss Gubbins_ on her
road; and the idea of her singularly short and corpulent person, in a
Circassian robe, was too ludicrous for my gravity. "Dear me!" observed
the old lady, who had joined in my laugh with great glee, "what would
you say to many of my daughter's best customers! I am sure they
divert me, though they make me stare. Young women whom I remember with
a flowered-cotton short cloak, now buy what they call _patent lace_,
and the straw or black silk bonnet is supplied by velvet, flowers,
and feathers. It was only yesterday that a dairy-maid was here to get
Susan to shorten the waist of her Sunday-gown, and to make it draw
round the neck with a frill like the ladies'."--"My mother makes very
free with my customers, Madam," observed Susan, smiling; "she forgets
that those who keep a stall in _vanity fair_ live by the folly of
those who buy; and to say the truth, so do I sometimes, for it is
amazing to see the money now expended by a class of people who, a few
years since were in the habits of frugality. This gown, for example,"
added she, "is one of _four_ I have made for Miss Gubbins; and you
will laugh again when I tell you that her best dress has tassels and
loops of silver." Susan folded up the robe, and made her apology for
quitting me. She was going to her _shop_ with Miss Gubbins in the
gig, which was in sight, and she left us. I mentioned my intention
of employing her to the good old lady, and engaged to speak to the
ladies of the hall, not doubting but we should want Circassian robes
with the rest of our neighbours. "You are very kind," answered Mrs.
Crofts, slightly bowing, "but pray, Madam, is it true that Miss Howard
is gone to London to serve in a milliner's shop?" I replied in the
negative, expressing my surprise at her question. "Why to be sure,"
answered she, knitting with amazing rapidity, "one can hardly believe
her aunt to be so unfeeling as to suffer such a young creature to be
thrown into the wide world _in such a way_. But after what has lately
happened, and what I know of Miss Flint, nothing of her cruelty would
surprise me! Yet I did imagine her uncle would not permit Miss Mary
to leave him for such a situation." She dropped some stitches and
turned from me to repair them, wiping her eyes at the same instant. I
now consoled her by briefly mentioning Mary's precise situation with
you; said I would read to her a part of Miss Howard's last letter to
me, and I immediately read to her Mary's account of Lucy Hardcastle's
mode of treatment. "May the Almighty shower his blessings on her and
hers for generations to come!" exclaimed the good woman in an extasy.
"May the orphan she shelters be to her a blessing! and may her cruel
aunt live to see Howard's child in no want of her protection!"--"Miss
Flint has suffered much, I fear," observed I, "from the violence of
her temper, and also from the misrepresentations of her conduct to you
as well as to others. She is truly blamable on some points, but I am
persuaded she never meant to place her niece in a situation of danger
to her innocence. I think she has feeling; I am certain she is sorry
for the late instance of her want of self-command."--"Ah, my dear
young lady!" replied Mrs. Crofts, shaking her head, "you judge by the
goodness of your nature; I have heard of Miss Cowley. My children are
not the only objects of her benevolence! But I cannot think charitably
of Miss Flint. The friend who left me this estate knew her better than
you do. Poor soul! she suffered enough by knowing her! and I have had
many a heart-ach in hearing Miss Flint's degeneracy from the angel, her
mother! If I thought it would not tire you, I would tell you by what
means I have gained a knowledge of the family, and a competency so far
beyond my expectations; for when the first Mrs. Flint saw me, I was
poor and wretched. It was the day or two after I had seen my husband
a corpse, that she came to succour me. Susan was then at my breast,
and I had a boy and a girl besides her to support. My poor husband,"
continued she, brushing away a tear, "was well known at Chelsea; he was
a boatman, and always called 'honest Frank' by the gentry; for he was
sober, diligent, and civil. He lost his precious life in endeavouring
to save a man from drowning who was intoxicated, and could do nothing
for himself. A subscription was raised for my relief. But it was _Mrs.
Flint_ who poured the oil into my wounds. She it was who raised my eyes
to God, and bade me trust to the never-failing friend of the widow
and the fatherless. She found I was expert at needle-work, and she
furnished me with plenty of it, besides assisting me with money, for
my rent and coals. I got on with comfort like this. When my daughter
Jenny was fourteen, she fixed her with an old lady, a widow, with
whom she went to live at Newcastle. Jane was a clever, active girl,
and could read and write well. Her lady became so fond of her that
she made her, as one may say, her favoured child, and when she died
left her all her clothes and linen with three hundred pounds. She was
too well trained to forget her mother in her prosperity; and on her
marrying a farmer, to whom she had been sometime engaged, I removed,
and settled at Newcastle, Jane being fixed near that town. Thus I lost
sight of Mrs. Flint, and escaped, in part, the sorrow of her death,
which happened soon after. But I shall never forget her! No, nor the
angel who used to accompany her to see us, with her pockets filled
with cakes for Frank, who was nearly of her own age. I think I now
see her putting on Susan's new shoes, and exulting over her, because
she could step alone! But she was formed for the heaven she is in!
and surely never was there beheld so perfect a beauty! I do not think
Miss Howard altogether so beautiful as her mother; for Mrs. Howard had
height, and more vivacity; but if she is as good, it will be well for
her that she has lived in this world of trial! Well, my dear young
lady, time went on with me, sometimes sunshine, sometimes cloudy; but
the widow's friend was always near me! My Susan was an apprentice to
a milliner and mantua-maker. Mr. Webster, my son-in-law, grew wealthy
every day; and acted by me like a child. Frank gave us some sorrow; he
was discontented with living at the farm, and wished to be a sailor. I
had suffered enough from water! and I could not be brought to consent.
Besides, his brother loved him, and had promised to make a man of him,
if he would continue to be diligent and sober; and this Frank was,
to his dying-day!" She dropped a tear, and proceeded. "I had just
settled myself and Susan in a well accustomed shop, when Frank secretly
left us, and for a time my sorrows were renewed. At last I received
a letter from him, and I found he had not forgotten his poor mother,
nor his gratitude to her benefactress and his own. He was actually
groom at the hall under another name, whilst I thought him exposed to
the dangers of the sea. The account he gave me of Mrs. Howard's (then
Miss Mary Flint) distressful situation, in her father's house, and
left as it were to the mercy of the merciless, quite overpowered me. I
went with Frank's letter to my daughter Webster's; and she declared,
that Frank was sent by the Almighty for the purpose of delivering this
innocent lamb, who had a hundred times been kind to him, and whose
dear mother had saved us from ruin. So we continued, Madam, with the
blessing of God, and the worthy Mr. Greenwood's assistance, to rescue
Miss Mary from her cruel sister's power; and Mr. Webster, who went
for her, conducted her in safety to his house, where for some days
she was very ill. A month's good nursing, and our love, set her up
again; and then, following Mr. Greenwood's instructions, I accompanied
her to Berwick, where Mr. Howard met us. I was not surprised, when I
saw the lover, at her preference of him; nor that Miss Flint should
want to marry him, for he was one of the handsomest men I ever set
my eyes on; but beauty was the least of Mr. Howard's advantages! You
have heard how much he was respected here, Madam, and to this hour
his name is reverenced. Well, my business was finished at Berwick and
I witnessed a marriage, which, with all its difficulties, united two
hearts and two creatures who were gazed at as being made for each
other's happiness. Mr. Howard returned to Tarefield with his wife;
and I neither repented _then_, nor have I _since_, of the part I had
in bringing them together. Let those who blasted their comforts answer
for the mischief!"--Her hands trembled, and she put aside her work
to wipe away the falling tear.--"Frank, finding that he could be no
farther serviceable to Miss Mary, returned home; but we soon after lost
sight of him again, though with contentment. He married a very good
girl, and went into partnership with her father, who was a wheelwright,
and lived many miles from us. They were, however, comfortable, till a
dreadful fever swept them away."--She paused.--"I had yet a child with
me. Susan was my anchor of hope, and again I took heart. She refused
several suitors for my sake, Madam; and her industry and good behaviour
gained her many friends. To ease the rest of a house, which suited her
increasing business, we let the first floor; and my son's attorney, a
very worthy gentleman of the name of Lloyd, knowing it to be vacant,
and that we only received one lady, recommended to us a Mrs. Barnes, a
client of his, who had recently lived near London, as a suitable lodger
for us; being a very quiet retired lady, and having no connections in
the town but his family. Little did I suspect, when she arrived, that
I was taking under my roof the wretch who had so barbarously treated
Mrs. Howard! nor could I have conceived that time and repentance could
have produced such a change in any one; for a more quiet and obliging
woman could not be found than my lodger. She was satisfied with every
thing; and we were so pleased with her, that at last we agreed to her
request, that we should provide her table for her; and for which she
paid so handsomely, that I was enabled to keep a maid-servant. She
was, in the mean time, evidently a sickly and melancholy woman, but
never, with us, a discontented one; and when, in the evening, we were
with her, in her apartment, she took delight in helping Susan in her
work, at which she was not less expert than herself. She never quitted
her room, but to go to morning prayers, and sometimes to Mr. Lloyd's;
but these visits were rare. Thus passed three years, and her increasing
fondness for Susan was returned by every endeavour on our part to
make her comfortable. But it was clear to us that she was a declining
woman, and broken down by grief. Soon after this period, she told us
one morning, as she passed through the shop, that she should go from
chapel to Mr. Lloyd's, and meant to dine with him. We both remarked,
when she returned, that she was more chatty than usual, and we renewed
our usual exhortations, to induce her to use more exercise, and try to
amuse herself: her answers were as they had always been, desponding;
and we changed the subject. That very day week, she went again to the
attorney's, and again we fancied that she returned home more cheerful.
Some few days after she went again, telling us that we should think her
a gossip; but that she should drink tea at home. We consequently waited
some little time for her; but concluding her friends had detained
her, were just set down, when she arrived in a sedan chair, and as we
thought, in a dying condition. The people who attended her, kept a
snuff-shop; and they informed me that she had been seized with a fit
in the shop, whilst waiting for some snuff. You may suppose we did all
that could be done; and in less than an hour, she was in bed, with a
doctor and a nurse to attend her, both of whom Mrs. Lloyd sent us. I
was, however, too much concerned for her, to leave her that night with
a stranger. She was hurried and confused till near morning, when she
slept, and awoke composed. We had soon the satisfaction of seeing her
better; but her melancholy was more apparent than ever; and from that
time she never left her room.--On her sending me one day to Mr. Lloyd's
on business, soon after her recovery, I asked her why she would not
take my arm and try to go herself, the morning being so pleasant. 'No,
no!' answered she with great uneasiness, 'I will never expose myself
to such another shock as I have had, I have enough on my mind without
such terrors.' On my questioning her, she owned that the sight of Mr.
Flamall had occasioned her fit. He entered into the snuff-shop with
his nephew Mr. Philip Flint, as it appeared, and she was overpowered
by seeing them. I was nearly being so, Madam, continued the good
woman, when I discovered by her discourse whom I had harboured in my
house; but I concealed my surprise; for I said to myself, assuredly
God has created in her a new heart; and it is not for me to judge her.
She wept most grievously; and from what I could gather, I thought
she had been seduced by Mr. Flamall when a young woman, and had thus
become subservient to Miss Flint's cruel purposes. She perceived my
suspicions, and redoubling her tears, told me that I was quite wide of
the mark; for that she had been always too homely for his pleasures,
though not so for purposes more base and wicked than I suspected.
'But,' added she, with a look of despair, and wringing her poor hands,
'for God's sake, do not question me farther. I cannot shew the villain
without bringing destruction on the heads of the innocent: and that I
will never do! Besides, I cannot prove the fact. All I know for certain
is, that he has ruined my poor soul!' From this time she frequently
talked of the Tarefield family; and in such a way, that I persuaded her
to open her mind to a clergyman; but she always said, that God would
bring the truth to light in his own time; she would not be the ruin of
more of her dear lady's children. She even solicited the visits of the
minister notwithstanding this; but always chose that either myself or
Susan should be present, and he was struck by her piety and submission.
She never got the better of the surprise of meeting with Flamall. The
doctor said, she died of a consumption; but I know it was of a troubled
conscience, and a broken heart; although a penitent one. I was with her
the last night she breathed in this world. I shall never forget her!
Such a dying-bed, Madam! She raved continually of Miss Flint, of Mrs.
Howard, of Mr. Flamall; then looking piteously in my face, she would
ask me twenty times 'who told me the secret.' Weary with hearing her,
I at length said, 'What secret?' '_The coffin!_ put me in! put me in,
they will not find me _there_!' said she. Another time, she called on
Mr. Philip Flint. 'Oh, do not let him hang me!' said she, struggling
and tearing off the cap on her head, 'I nursed you; I was faithful to
you; I loved you as the child of my own body! Poor child! you could
not help it!' 'Help what!' asked I. 'That Mrs. Howard died for want of
bread,' answered she. Then followed another struggle for breath. Then
she knew me, and said, 'Pray for me, I am dying. All is over with me!'
So, I soothed her; and she pressed my hand, and held it so fast I could
not get it from her. Then she whispered so low, I could understand
only these words:--'They told me it was _a deed_!' In this manner she
continued till five o'clock in the morning. When, poor, poor soul! she
sunk into her last sleep, trying to spell the word _Philip_; which she
never could do: at nine her sufferings closed.
"You will not wonder, after this account, at my opinion of Miss Flint,"
continued the good woman. "I am not the only one in this neighbourhood
who believes she has no more right to the wealth she enjoys than I
have; though but few have my reasons for this belief. However, what
I think I keep to myself, not even Susan knows what I have told you;
who, like an angel, have taken care to remove from this _vile woman_
a niece whom she hated; for the wicked can never bear the sight of
those whom they have defrauded. God is just, Madam, even in this world.
Let Miss Flint try to purchase, with her ill-gotten wealth, one sleep
like yours, when you close your eyes, thinking of the innocent lamb
you have protected! Poor wretch! poor wretch!" added she, shaking her
venerable head, "I pity her. But to proceed, you may guess at our
surprise, when we found that Mrs. Barnes had left to us every shilling
she had; and you may judge of what passed in my mind, when I found
she had signed her will that very day on which she so accidentally
met Mr. Flamall and his nephew. This estate was left me only for my
life. Susan had her legacy, in the furniture and clothes. The dear
children are my heirs. They are orphans, Miss Cowley," added she,
sinking her voice to a whisper, "poor orphans! What could I do in such
a strait! But I often think of the _price_ my poor friend gave for the
means of these children's future bread. How do I know that the wages
of sin will prosper even in the hands of the innocent?"--"Leave that
consideration," replied I, "to the Providence which directed its uses
to the innocent. Forbear to consider too minutely the retributive
justice of an all-wise Being; but in this instance of his mercy to
you, do not forget the conduct of your worthy son."--"You encourage
me," replied she, "to trust every thing that troubles me on this
subject to your better reason. I have a paper or two of poor Mrs.
Barnes's that do me no good at times. I found them by chance, and
even Susan knows not of them. I do not like to destroy them, lest it
should be improper; and yet I should be sorry to leave them for other's
finding, when I am gone. You shall see them." She turned towards a
bureau at her hand, and from a private drawer produced the papers. "I
found them _here_," said she, placing them in my hand; "put them in
your pocket, and at your leisure read them. Keep them, or destroy them
as you think fit. I am certain you are the friend of Miss Howard, and
her worthy uncle. But as I was saying," continued she, settling herself
with more composure, "this unexpected legacy and my son Webster's
going to America with his family, where, according to him, they pay
neither tithes nor taxes, induced us to take a good-accustomed shop at
Bishop's-Auckland, which has answered very well although we pay taxes
and tithes; and I shrewdly suspect my son Webster has repented selling
his farm in Old England, although Jane will not own it. I have told
you a long story, my dear young lady," continued she, "and I think you
will no longer wonder at my thinking Miss Flint '_up to any mischief_.'
But may I take the liberty of asking you whether it is true that she
rules Lady Maclairn with a rod of iron?" I satisfied her curiosity with
_discretion_. "I am glad to hear she is so considerate," replied she,
"for Mrs. Barnes always said _she_ was a _lamb_ amongst _wolves_. But
pray, how does Miss Flint bear her brother Philip's absence so long?"
I mentioned his prospects, adding, that although her spirits were
much depressed from the probability of his remaining in Jamaica with
his elder brother, who had declared his intention of making him his
heir, yet she considered his interest as something. "God be praised!"
exclaimed she, "who knows what this may do! Poor Captain Flint may,
at last, have his own; and Mrs. Howard's child will be secure of
comfort. I do not wish to see the proverb verified," added she, "which
says,'out of sight, out of mind;' because I never heard any one speak
ill of young Mr. Flint; but there is money enough to make more happy
than _one_; and whether I am right or wrong in what I think, I must
say that Captain Flint is as deserving as his young brother, and has a
just title to be considered. He was his dear mother's pride, and Mrs.
Howard's comfort! However, rich or poor, he will be reverenced here,
and happy hereafter." The carriage appeared, the corn was ground, and
your Rachel Cowley took her leave.
It were time lost to follow my train of thoughts; yours will run in the
same channel. But it delights my soul, Lucy, to contemplate the proofs
of a Providence visibly interfering in the cause of the virtuous.
Poor Frank's children! How succoured! How relieved! But I will say no
more, lest you fancy me more _superstitious_ and presumptuous than
rational, in those thoughts which at this moment occupy me. I know your
ascendency, and will repress my enthusiasm, till you decide, whether
I have been the appointed instrument of a deserving power, in its
peculiar mercy to this family; and whether, my strong affection for
Mary Howard does not originate from the same efficient cause of all
good. Be this as it may, I am grateful to my Maker for the pleasure he
has annexed to my duty; and for a heart, which knows no gratification,
that equals the sense of living to perform his will. And in what does
this consist, Lucy, if not, in loving our neighbour as ourselves, and
our Maker supremely. God bless you, my friend; I am _oppressed_, but
not _depressed_ by the reflexions of the present hour. But you know
your own
Rachel Cowley.
_Papers found by Mrs. Crofts, copied and sent to Miss Hardcastle by
her friend Rachel Cowley._
"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy
presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I make my bed
in hell, behold thou art there also. If I say, surely the darkness
shall cover me; even then the night shall be light about me!"
* * * * *
"Will no suffering for sin be accepted, no expiation admitted, but that
which would, with my ruin in this world, bring down destruction on the
innocent? Thou must suffer, my soul, the penalty of thy transgressions;
it would be to _multiply them_ to declare them. No, I will be silent.
God knoweth all things. In his own time that 'which is done in secret,
shall be proclaimed on the house tops.' Then, and then only, will it
appear that I was tempted beyond my strength, nay, even deceived! But
let me pause, and _curse_ the love of gold that made me an easy prey!"
* * * * *
"I was told I should be well here, that repose from labour was all I
wanted. I was dismissed with kindness, and loaded with the bounty of my
lady! But she could not give me what she has not, _peace_ of _mind_.
Yet, _she can sleep_! She has not dreams like mine! She can laugh at
my sufferings, and tell me, that they are fancies, and proceed from
fever. Was it _fever_ that suddenly rushed into my views at the sight
of Mrs. Howard's coffin? I knew for weeks that she was in a dying
condition, and yet I could then sleep. Was it fever that conveyed to my
astounded ears the voice of the accusing angel, whilst Mr. Flint was
speaking to his sister? She could stand the shock: I was obliged to
leave the room, benumbed with horror, and the weight of the whole earth
resting on me! Oh! had I died _then_, what miseries should I have been
spared!"
* * * * *
"I was brought up by good and pious parents. When poor and friendless,
sick and an orphan, the first Mrs. Flint sheltered me. She gave me
good wages, as well as kindness and consideration; told me, that the
small-pox, though it had injured my face, had not lessened my good
qualities or my good character; and as a proof of her opinion of my
prudence, I should be the young lady's-maid. And what was my return
for her humanity, her confidence, her unexampled sweetness of temper?
Oh conscience, conscience, bitter are thy recollections! _sharp are thy
wounds!_"
* * * * *
"I was doomed to be the author of evil to my benefactors! God abandoned
me to my wicked lust of money; the object of my senseless worship! What
scenes of misery, of ruin, of treachery, and imposition have been aided
by me!"
* * * * *
"I mean to pass over the period which passed after poor Mrs. Flint
married Sir Murdock Maclairn. Tarefield-hall was no less fatal to her
tranquillity, than to mine. But she was the victim of usurped power;
I was the willing captive of sin. I still, however, bore up against
conscience. I had laid out my ill-gotten gains in the purchase of
this mill and land; and Mr. Flamall advised me to rebuild, instead
of repairing the south end of the house, saying I should have a nest
for my old age, and be always near my good mistress. This object, for
a time, filled my thoughts. It was finished, and Miss Flint's great
pleasure seemed to render it comfortable. She observed, that my health
declined, and with great kindness listened to my plan of quitting her
service.
"I was rejoiced at this relief. In the evening my lady sent me a hamper
with wine and other articles of comfort; and a box containing household
linen, with a kind note. I was weary with my day's exertions, and
requested the miller's wife to place the trunk of linen in my bed-room;
she did so; and supported it on two chairs, in order to elevate it for
my ease, when I unpacked it. I soon repaired to my bed; a glass of
wine had raised my spirits. Whilst undressing myself, I felt a ray of
comfort. I was my own mistress; I had a competency; and by riding a
double horse, and managing myself with care, my health might return.
The good woman who attended me, encouraged these hopes, and left me
to enjoy them. But they were fleeting to a mind diseased like mine!
Some part of my gown by chance hung over the trunk, which was in my
view from the bed. The moon threw its light on the object; and my
imagination gave to it the shape and appearance of a _coffin_. Mrs.
Howard rushed into my mind, and the usual train of thought succeeded.
Feverish and sleepless, I counted the hours as they passed, till four
in the morning, when nature sunk to unquiet repose. I dreamed that I
was with my old master, that he was struggling with me, to prevent my
looking into the coffin, telling me that it was his, not Mrs. Howard's.
My force prevailed, I opened it; and saw only an infant in it, whom I
took to my bosom, for it was cold and naked; it uttered a piercing
cry, and fell into dust. I awoke: a faint sweat bedewed my whole frame,
and an oppression on my chest was for some minutes insupportable. Yet
my eyelids were heavy, and again I dosed. I was now, in imagination,
closed up in Mrs. Howard's coffin, and striving to put aside her
mouldering bones, when a voice bade me repent and live. To this
appalling admonition succeeded new terrors. I thought I was flying from
my habitation, which was falling, from the convulsion of the ground, in
a dreadful earthquake. I sought the hall; it was levelled to the dust.
Mrs. Howard, like an angel bright in glory, stood before it. She turned
towards me, and said, 'Behold! and tremble!' I started at the loudness
of her voice, and the severity of her countenance. The bed trembled
under me with my agitations. I dreaded to slumber again. The morning
sun rose bright; all nature smiled; the birds raised to heaven their
hymn of joy. I sunk on my knees: I endeavoured to send up a petition to
infinite Mercy. _My lips_ were closed and parched: _my tongue_ heart
_was dumb_. I wept bitterly; for my mind was contrite, and my soul was
humbled before an offended God. Surely these tears reached the throne
of grace! for kneeling as I was, with my bursting head supported by the
bed, I slept peaceably till I heard the _family moving below stairs_."
* * * * *
"Was this the pillow of repose for which I had given up my everlasting
peace? My soul sickens at the thought! An alms-house, a cave in the
earth is preferable to this abode! Let me fly to a spot where I am
not known. My God is a reconcilable God: my Redeemer still liveth!
The outstretched arm of infinite justice may be suspended by my
repentance; by my bitter repentance! My weakness and my ignorance
cannot produce any benefit to the injured. Alas! will it be allowed me
to plead, that these betrayed me to guilt, to cruelty, to wretchedness;
and that I cannot remedy, though wishing so to do, the least of the
mischiefs I have done?"
* * * * *
I shall make no comments, my Lucy, on these extraordinary and affecting
papers: they evidently make only a part of a more detailed confession.
But we may ask,
"What is this secret sin, this untold tale,
"That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?"