Promote the ECONOMY of HUMAN LIFE,
=Are Inscribed,=
With Esteem and Sincerity,
By their
Friend and Humble Servant,
_The Author_.
BOSTON, _Jan. 1789_.
Editor’s Introduction.
AN errant perusal of half the pages of this little volume once caused me
to determine to eschew literary criticism in the preface I was asked to
write, and to speak of the book solely according to its historical and
hence its intrinsic value.
Continual reading here and there, and, at length, a careful examination
of the work as a whole have convinced me that several merits may be
attributed to the book which range themselves separately in my mind and
which are distinct and wholly unique characteristics. They seem to me to
be as follows: the bare antiquarian value—as a relic, rare, and old; the
historical-literary value, as an expression of the times in which it was
written; and its purely artistic worth, as a specimen of English novel
writing.
The book was published, as the title page shows, early in 1789, and the
self-acknowledged author was Mrs. Perez Morton whose maiden name was
Sarah Wentworth Apthorp. Miss Apthorp was born in Braintree in 1759, and
had, before her marriage in 1777 with Mr. Morton, gained something more
than a local reputation as a clever maker of rhymes, having contributed
many poems to the early _New England Magazine_—the first periodical
published in America. These, with additional verses and short didactic
essays, were together brought out in 1823, under the title of “My Mind
and Its Thoughts.” The edition was small, and sold entirely by
subscription. Miss Apthorp wrote over the pseudonym of “Philenia.” Her
longer poems, epics, are “Ouabi, or The Virtue of Nature: an Indian Tale
in Four Cantos,” and “Beacon Hill,” in which is told the story of the
American Revolution. This last is said to have moved Robert Treat Paine
to designate her as the “American Sappho.”
In 1788, while Mr. and Mrs. Morton were occupying the historical Taylor
mansion in Dorchester, a painful domestic tragedy occurred, which, taken
in connection with similar contingencies that were happening in the
society in which they moved, doubtless gave “Philenia” the impetus and
_raison d’être_ for the “Power of Sympathy,” published anonymously the
following year.
Although evidently written with the purest motive, the good people of
that day were not anxious to receive the lesson, probably because many
of them figured as examples. The edition was bought up and destroyed,—as
Drake remarks in his “History of Roxbury”, “so effectually suppressed
that no copy is now known to exist.” With the exception of the book now
before me, I believe this to be true.
The condition of affairs in America, immediately following the
Revolution, was not what many suppose. The people were not completely
united in raving against John Bull and his institutions. It is true the
lower classes and those of the middle class, who had been excited into
believing that delusive and, for them, hypocritical motto; “No taxation
without representation”, or who had gained or lost all through the late
fratricidal struggle, were thriving wonderfully on “spread eagle”
patriotism stimulated by “Yankee Doodle” and “Hail Columbia”—which,
today, unfortunately bandage the eyes of America’s native
civilization—and entertained a cordial hatred of England and all things
English. Later they were to sympathize with Mirabeau, with Robespierre
and others, and cry death to that French King who had so lately saved
them from the dismal caprices of George III and his ignorant and haughty
ministers. Politically, they gloried in the name of Democrat.
Nevertheless, there existed an aristocracy in America; an aristocracy
that had refrained from becoming Tory solely because personal interest
demanded that it should become rebel. Its members were English in taste
and manner, in their hearts they were Royalists. They called themselves
Federalists. To this category belonged the Hancocks, John Adams,
Hamilton, perhaps even Washington himself; and here we find the Apthorps
and the Mortons. They had a fondness for court and ceremony—thought and
culture were still colonial; they talked of the American gentleman,
while they dreamed of the English nobleman; for all that, there was a
rapidly growing strain of independence, of confidence in self. All of
which qualities have today evolved the best type of the American lady
and gentleman.
* * * * *
Early in the second half of the eighteenth century, a literary
revolution was in progress in England: sentimentalism, which so long had
been mistaken for sentiment, was given its proper place; knightly
romance was sneered at and shelved, the hale hearty laughter of Fielding
disturbed the spinsters and gossip mongers sipping their tea in the
corners; Laurence Sterne, that sentimentalist in realism, condemned in
caricature what the foolish thought he defended in truth; and Sheridan,
the hater of sham and conventionality, satirized the social deformity of
the times in drama, drawing scenes and characters from real life as
found in the famous Pump-room at Bath.
To the aristocracy—hence to the reading class—of the young American
republic this atmospheric change, toned and tempered and with an
influence less radical, was transmitted. It cried out aloud against the
sham of character, while it maintained the poetry of diction; it was
realistic in subject, romantic in method; it openly lauded the
“Sentimental Journey,” while it secretly emulated “Tom Jones”; its aim
was to portray life through truth rather than art—but the latter often
unconsciously asserted itself; its grave defect was the attempt to
commingle art and moral philosophy. In this literary atmosphere the
“Power of Sympathy” was written, in character and color colonial,
indigenous, to English soil, and true to humanity at all time.
A little more than a century ago the style of telling a story through
the medium of epistles was revived; it was thus Richardson wrote
“Clarissa Harlowe” and “Pamela,” and Fielding his “Joseph Andrews.” In
this form Mrs. Morton sought to tell her story.
Both Richardson and Fielding are famous for the amount of detail with
which they fetter some otherwise natural descriptions leaving no
opportunity for the imagination. Tedious detail we do not find in the
pages of the “Power of Sympathy”—all here is _not_ written; the
phraseology is well balanced, paragraphing is handled with consummate
skill, the chapters are for the most part short, the color suggestive;
and if detail be employed at all, it is only when the author waxes
mildly pedantic—robbed of which quality, she would not be true to the
humanity of her time.
What then can I say of her diction? Simply that it is of the best. To
say so, is seemingly audacious. The modern grammarian may dispute it.
Yet viewed against the background of her period and station, taking her
style all in all as a medium of vivid, natural expression, where the
economy of attention is second only to striking portrayal, where
elegance, simplicity, directness are ever present but never obtrusive,
there is reason enough for our remark. An examination of the suicide’s
letters alone would excuse us from all prejudice in the matter.
The “Power of Sympathy,” in facsimile form, is surely a valuable
acquisition to the antiquarian; to the student of culture, the book is
the realistic expression of life of a people and an era that are by no
means lacking in interest and importance; and to the _littérateur_, it
is not an unworthy example of more than ordinary literary art.