_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I HAVE just left _Harriot_—but how have I left her? In tears.
I wish I had not gone. Mrs. _Francis_ had intrusted _Harriot_ with some
trifling commission—It was not done—she had not had time to perform it.
_Harriot_ was reprimanded—Yes! by Heaven—this Mrs. _Francis_ had the
insolence to reprimand _Harriot_ in my presence—I was mortified—I walked
to the window—my heart was on fire—my blood boiled in my veins—it is
impossible to form an idea of the disorder of my nerves—_Harriot’s_ were
equally agitated—Mrs. _Francis_ saw our confusion and retired—she left
me so completely out of temper that I was forced to follow her example.
I kissed away the tear from the cheek of _Harriot_ and withdrew to my
chamber.
HERE let me forget what has passed—my irritability will not permit me—my
feelings are too easily set in motion to enjoy long quietness—my nerves
are delicately strung; they are now out of tune, and it is a hard matter
to harmonize them.
I FEEL _that I have a soul_—and every man of sensibility feels it within
himself. I will relate a circumstance I met with in my late travels
through _Southcarolina_—I was always susceptible of _touches of nature_.
I HAD often remarked a female slave pass by my window to a spring to
fetch water. She had something in her air superior to those of her
situation—a fire that the damps of slavery had not extinguished.
AS I was one day walking behind her, the wind blew her tattered
handkerchief from her neck and exposed it to my sight. I asked her the
cause of the scar on her shoulder. She answered composedly, and with an
earnestness that proved she was not ashamed to declare it—“It is the
mark of the whip,” said she, and went on with the history of it, without
my desiring her to proceed—“My boy, of about ten years old, was unlucky
enough to break a glass tumbler—this crime was immediately looked into—I
trembled for the fate of my child, and was thought to be guilty. I did
not deny the charge, and was tied up. My former good character availed
nothing. Under every affliction, we may receive consolation; and during
the smart of the whip, I rejoiced—because I shielded with my body the
lash from my child; and I rendered thanks to the Best of Beings that I
was allowed to suffer for him.”
“HEROICALLY spoken!” said I, “may He whom you call the Best of Beings
continue you in the same sentiments—may thy soul be ever disposed to
SYMPATHIZE with thy children, and with thy brethren and sisters in
calamity—then shalt thou feel every circumstance of thy life afford the
satisfaction; and repining and melancholy shall fly from thy bosom—all
thy labours will become easy—all thy burdens light, and the yoke of
slavery will never gall thy neck.”
I WAS sensibly relieved as I pronounced these words, and I felt my heart
glow with feelings of exquisite delight, as I anticipated the happy time
when the sighs of the slave shall no longer expire in the air of
freedom. What delightful sensations are those in which the heart is
interested! In which it stoops to enter into the little concerns of the
most remote ramification of Nature! Let the vain, the giddy, and the
proud pass on without deigning to notice them—let them cheat themselves
of happiness—these are circumstances which are important only to a
sentimental traveller.
HAIL _sensibility_! Sweetener of the joys of life! Heaven has implanted
thee in the breasts of his children—to soothe the sorrows of the
afflicted—to mitigate the wounds of the stranger who falleth in our way.
_Thou_ regardest with an eye of pity, those whom _wealth_ and _ambition_
treat in terms of reproach. Away, ye seekers of power—ye boasters of
wealth—ye are the _Levite_ and the _Pharisee_, who restrain the hand of
charity from the indigent, and turn with indignation from the way-worn
son of misery:—But _Sensibility_ is the good _Samaritan_, who taketh him
by the hand, and consoleth him, and poureth wine and oil into his
wounds. Thou art a pleasant companion—a grateful friend—and a
_neighbour_ to those who are destitute of shelter.—
FROM thee! Author of Nature! from thee, thou inexhaustible spring of
love supreme, floweth this tide of affection and _sympathy_—thou whose
tender care extendeth to the least of thy creatures—and whose eye is not
inattentive even though a sparrow fall to the ground.