Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
I READILY undertake to give you a sketch of the history of
_Harriot_. Her mother’s name was _Maria Fawcet_; her person I yet
recollect, and forgive me if I drop a tear of pity at the recital of her
misfortunes.
MY mother and Mrs. _Holmes_ were remarkable friends, and the intimacy,
you know, was maintained between the two families. I was on a visit with
my mother when the destiny of _Maria_ led her to _Belleview_. I was
frequently there during her illness—and was with her in her last
moments.
IT was the custom of Mrs. _Holmes_ to walk in the garden towards the
close of the day. She was once indulging her usual walk, when she was
alarmed by the complaints of a woman which came from the road. Pity and
humanity were ever peculiar characteristicks of my amiable parent—She
hastened to the place whence the sound issued, and beheld a young woman,
bathed in tears sitting on the ground. She inquired the cause of her
distress, with that eager solicitude to relieve, which a sight so
uncommon would naturally occasion. It was sometime before the distressed
woman could return an intelligible answer, and then she with difficulty
proceeded: “Your goodness, Madam, is unmerited—you behold a stranger,
without home—without friends—and whose misery bears her down to an
untimely grave—Life is a blessing—but my life is become burthensome, and
were the Almighty this moment to command me to the world of spirits,
methinks I could gladly obey the summons, and rejoice in the stroke
which bade me depart from sorrow and the world.” Moderate your grief, my
dear woman, repine not at the will of Providence, nor suffer yourself to
despair, however severe your misfortunes.
THE unfortunate woman was at length prevailed on to accompany Mrs.
_Holmes_ into the house, she partook of some refreshment and retired to
sleep. In a few days she appeared to be better; but it was a temporary
recovery; she then told her story, with frequent interruptions, in
substance as follows:—
=History of Maria.=
“I DATE the rise of my misfortunes,” said _Maria_, “at the beginning of
my acquaintance with the Honourable Mr. _Harrington_.—But for his
solicitations I might still have lived in peace—a sister would not have
had occasion to blush at the sound of my name—nor had a mother’s pillow
been steeped in tears, too fondly prone to remember a graceless but
repenting child—We lived happily together in the days of my father, but
when it pleased Providence to remove him, we no longer asserted our
pretensions to that rank of life which our straitened finances were
unable to continue.—A young woman in no eligible circumstances, has much
to apprehend from the solicitations of a man of affluence. I am now
better persuaded of this truth, than I ever was before—for this was my
unhappy situation—I always entertained a predilection for Mr.
_Harrington_—he urged his passion with protestations of sincerity and
affection—he found my heart too slightly guarded—he strove—he triumphed.
“——MUST I proceed!
“A SMILING female was the offspring of our illicit connexion—Ah! my
little _Harriot_!” continued _Maria_, as she wiped away a tear from her
eye, “mayest thou enjoy that happiness which is denied to thy mother.”
“OUR amour was not fated to last long—I discovered his gay temper to be
materially altered—he was oftentimes thoughtful and melancholy, and his
visits became suddenly shorter, and less frequent.
“I AFTERWARDS thought this change of conduct owing to jealousy—for he
once asked me if a gentleman had called upon me—I persisted—I persisted
in avowing my abhorrence of his ungenerous suspicion—He left me
abruptly, and I saw nothing of him after.
“A STROKE so unexpected fell heavy on my heart—it awakened me to the
state of misery into which my imprudence had hurried me.—What recompense
could I expect from my Seducer?—He had been married two years—From the
inflexibility of his temper I had little to hope, and I formed a
determination of leaving town, for I had now indubitable testimony of
his affection being estranged from me—half frantick, I immediately set
out—but whither I knew not—I walked with precipitation until Providence
directed me to your hospitable door: To your goodness, Madam, I am
indebted for prolonging my existence a _few_ days: For amidst the
kindness and civilities of those around me, I feel myself rapidly
verging towards the grave. I prepare myself for my approaching fate—and
daily wait the stroke of death with trembling expectation.”
SHE wrote to Mr. _Harrington_ about a week before her decease—I
transcribe the Letter:—
“_The Hon. Mr. Harrington._
“To the man for whom my bleeding heart yet retains its wonted affection,
though the author of my guilt and misery, do I address my feeble
complaint—O! _Harrington_, I am verging to a long eternity—and it is
with difficulty I support myself while my trembling hand traces the
dictates of my heart. Indisposed as I am—and unable as I feel to
prosecute this talk—I however collect all my powers to bid you a long—a
final farewel.
“OH! _Harrington_, I am about to depart—for why should I tarry here? In
bitter tears of sorrow do I weep away the night, and the returning day
but augments the anguish of my heart, by recalling to view the sad sight
of my misfortunes. And have I not cause for this severe anguish, at once
sorrow and disgrace of my family?—Alas! my poor mother!—Death shall
expiate the crime of thy daughter, nor longer raise the blush of
indignation on thy glowing cheek.—Ought I not, therefore, to welcome the
hand of death?
“But what will become of my poor helpless infant, when its mother lies
forgotten in the grave? Wilt thou direct its feet in the path of virtue
and rectitude? Wilt thou shelter it from the rude blasts of penury and
want?—Open your heart to the solicitude of a mother—of a mother
agonizing for the future welfare of her child. Let me intreat you to
perform this request—by the love which you professed for thy _Maria_—by
her life which you have sacrificed.
“AND wilt thou not drop a tear of pity in the grave of thy _Maria_?—I
know thy soul is the soul of sensibility; but my departure shall not
grieve thee—no, my _Harrington_, it shall not wrest a sigh from thy
bosom—rather let me live, and defy the malice and misery of the
world—But can tenderness—can love atone for the sacrifices I have
made?—Will it blot out my errours from the book of memory? Will love be
an excuse for my crime, or hide me from the eye of the malignant—No, my
_Harrington_, it will not. The passion is unwarrantable. Be it thine,
gentle _Amelia_—be it thine to check the obtruding sigh, and wipe away
the tear from his face—for thou art his wife, and thy soul is the seat
of compassion—But—for me—
“Farewel—farewel forever!
MARIA.”
SHE survived but a short time—and frequently expressed a concern for the
child—but Mrs. _Holmes_ quieted her fears by promising to protect it.
She accordingly made inquiry after it—and it is the same _Harriot_ who
was educated by her order, and whom she afterwards placed in the family
of Mrs. _Francis_.
The assurances of my mother were like balm to the broken hearted
_Maria_—“I shall now,” said she, “die in peace.”
THE following is a copy of a letter written by the Rev. Mr. _Holmes_ to
the Hon. Mr. _Harrington_:—
_Belleview._
“SIR,
“WE have a scene of distress at our house peculiarly pathetick
and affecting, and of which you, perhaps, are the sole author—You have
had a criminal connexion with Miss _Fawcet_—you have turned her upon the
world inhumanly—but chance—rather let me say Providence, hath directed
her footsteps to my dwelling, where she is kindly entertained, and will
be so, as long as she remains in this wilderness world, which is to be,
I fear, but a short time—And shall she not, though she hath been decoyed
from the road that leadeth to peace, long life, and happiness—shall she
not, if she return with tears of repentance and contrition, be entitled
to our love and charity? Yes—this is my doctrine—If I behold any child
of human nature distressed and forlorn, and in real want of the
necessities of life, must I restrain or withhold the hand of
charity—must I cease to recall the departing spirit of them that are
ready to perish, until I make diligent inquiry into their circumstances
and character? Surely, my friend, it is a duty incumbent on us by the
ties of humanity and fellow-feeling, and by the duty imposed on us by
our holy religion, equally to extend the hand of relief to _all the
necessitous_—however they may be circumstanced in the great family of
mankind.
“THE crime of _Maria_ is not the blackest in the annals of human
turpitude; but however guilty she might have been, the tears of
penitence do certainly make atonement therefor.
“THUS much have I thought proper to say in vindication of my conduct—in
sheltering under my roof a poor wanderer—who hath strayed, but not
wantonly, and who hath now happily returned.
“ONE would imagine, there was little necessity of making such a
vindication to you; but my sentiments always flow from the abundance of
my heart, and I am willing the whole world should judge of those which
influence my conduct.—Now, though some men, whose charity is contracted,
and who may be denominated _prudes in virtue_, might deem wrongfully of
my attention to the calamity of this frail woman yet let me appeal to
the hearts and understandings of all men, and these in particular, if I
have erred, whether it be not an errour on the side of humanity. Would
to God such amiable errours were more frequent!—In as much, my friend,
as there is joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, I may say with
assurance that I have felt an emanation of this heavenly joy animate my
heart, in beholding this woman delighting to steer her course
heavenward.
“FROM the unhappy condition of _Maria_, I have been led to reflect on
the mischievous tendency of SEDUCTION. Methinks I view the distressing
picture in all its horrid colours:—
“BEHOLD the youthful virgin arrayed in all the delightful charms of
vivacity, modesty and sprightliness.—Behold even while she is rising in
beauty and dignity, like a lily of the valley, in the full blossom of
her graces, she is cut off suddenly by the rude hand of the Seducer.
Unacquainted with his baseness and treachery, and too ready to repose
confidence in him—she is deluded by the promises and flattery of the man
who professes the greatest love and tenderness for her welfare:—
“BUT did she understand the secret villainy of his intentions—would she
appear thus elate and joyous? Would she assent to her ruin? Would she
subscribe her name to the catalogue of infamy? Would she kiss the hand
of the atrocious dastard, already raised to give the final wound to her
reputation and peace?
“O! WHY is there not an adequate punishment for this crime, when that of
a common traitor is marked with its deserved iniquity and abhorrence!
“IS it necessary to depicture the state of this deluded young creature
after her fall from virtue? Stung with remorse, and frantick with
despair, does she not fly from the face of day, and secrete her
conscious head in the bosom of eternal forgetfulness? Melancholy and
guilt transfix her heart, and she sighs out her miserable existence—the
prey of poverty, ignominy and reproach! Lost to the world, to her
friends, and to herself, she blesses the approach of death in whatever
shape he may appear, and terminates a life, no longer a blessing to its
possessor, or a joy to those around her.
“BEHOLD her stretched upon the mournful bier!—Behold her silently
descend to the grave! Soon the wild weeds spring afresh round the
_little hillock_, as if to shelter the remains of betrayed innocence—and
the friends of her youth shun even the spot which conceals her relicks.
“SUCH is the consequence of SEDUCTION, but it is not the only
consequence. Peace and happiness fly from the nuptial couch which is
unattended by love and fidelity. The mind no longer enjoys its quiet,
while it ceases to cherish sentiments of truth and gratitude. The sacred
_ties_ of connubial duty are not to be violated with impunity; for
though a violation of those _ties_ may be overlooked by the eye of
justice, the heart shall supply a _monitor_, who will not fail to
correct those who are hardy enough to burst them asunder.——I am &c.
“W. Holmes.”
TO this Letter, Mr. _Harrington_ returned the following answer.
_Hon. Mr._ HARRINGTON to the _Rev. Mr._ HOLMES.
“PERMIT me, my ever honoured friend, to return you thanks for your late
favours—need I add—an acknowledgement for your liberality? No—your heart
supplies a source of pleasure which is constantly nourished by your
goodness and universal charity.—
“THE picture you have exhibited of a ruined female is undoubtedly just,
but that the _rude spoiler_ has his share of remorse is equally so—The
conclusion of your letter is a real picture of the situation of my
heart.
“PERHAPS you were always ignorant of the real motives that influenced
me, and gave a particular bias to my conduct.—At an early period of my
life, I adopted a maxim, that _the most necessary learning was a
knowledge of the world_, the pursuit of which, quadrating with a
volatility of disposition, presented a variety of scenes to my heated
imagination. The _éclat_ of my companions gratifying my vanity and
increasing the gale of passion, I became insensibly hurried down the
stream of dissipation. Here I saw mankind in every point of view—from
the acme of the most consummate refinement, to the most abject stage of
degradation. I soon became a ready proficient in the great school of the
world—but an alteration of conduct was soon after necessary—I was
compelled to it, not so much from the world’s abhorrence of a dissolute
course of life, as the dictates of my own heart.—It was, indeed, my
policy to flatter the world, and exhibit a fair outside—for I was in
love with _Amelia_—My licentious amour with _Maria_ was secret—she was
affectionate and tender—her manners were pleasing, but still I was
unhappy.—
“MY CAREER of dissipation, however alluring it struck my vitiated fancy,
left little satisfaction on the mind—Reflection had its turn—and the
happiness I had promised myself in connexion with the amiable _Amelia_,
I fully enjoyed in our marriage. A course of uninterrupted tranquillity
ensued, but it was of short duration. The volatility of my temper, and
the solicitude of my old associates, induced me at subsequent periods to
fall into my old vagaries. The taverns frequently found me engaged in
meannesses derogatory to the character of a gentleman. These things I
perceived affected the soul of _Amelia_—she was all meekness, gentleness
and compassion, and she never once upbraided me with my illiberal
conduct;
But let concealment, like a worm in bud,
Feed on her damask cheek.
“BLESSED be that Power who has implanted within us that consciousness of
reproach, which springs from gentleness and love!—Hail sensibility! Ye
eloquent _tears_ of _beauty_! that add dignity to human nature by
correcting its foibles—it was _these_ that corrected my faults when
recrimination would have failed of success—it was _these_ that opened
every avenue of contrition in my heart, when _words_ would have damned
up every sluice of repentance.
“IT was now I appeared fully sensible that my conduct had hitherto been
a course of disorder, and that systems of reformation, however well
planned, had been overturned by the breath of adulation, before they had
been thoroughly carried into execution—that I had been drifting upon a
sea of inconsistency, without exercising my judgement; like a ship
without a rudder, buffeted on the bosom of the ocean, the sport of winds
and waves.
“THE criminality of my connexion with _Maria_ appeared with the most
aggravated circumstances; it stung me with remorse—and I instantly
determined, however severe the conflict, to tear her from my bosom—to
see her no more.—But how was I to inform her of it?—In what manner was I
to bring about such a talk?—_Maria_ must be sacrificed to the happiness
of _Amelia_. This was all I had to perform—it was a short lesson, but it
was a hard one for me to execute.
“WITH this determination, however, I entered the apartment of
_Maria_—Duty to _Amelia_ and gratitude to _Maria_ interchangeably
agitated me—the contention was dubious—but duty prevailed, and I adhered
to my former resolution—yet how was I to tell her _this would be the
last visit_?—Conscious she had ever acted in conformity to my wishes—how
could I accuse her, without accusing myself?—I threw out a few
inconsiderate and ungrateful hints of jealousy, and left the room
abruptly. The feelings of _Maria_ must have been injured—but however her
sensibility was affected, mine was doubly so; I felt for her—I felt for
our infant, and these feelings were added to the afflictions which had
already burst upon my devoted head. A few days consideration, however,
convinced me of the impropriety and ingratitude of my behaviour to
_Maria_—I hastened to tell her of it—to place her in a situation that
should screen her from penury and malice—and to make provision for the
child—but she was not to be found. I was informed that she had suddenly
disappeared, and that a countryman had, by her order, called and taken
away the child but a few hours before. This information burst upon my
head like the voice of sudden thunder—I stood motionless, but my
agitation was too violent to be of any long duration.—
“A natural tear I shed but wip’d it soon.”
“IT was your goodness, and the humanity of your family, that sheltered
the wretched _Maria_, and provided for the helpless _Harriot_—Your
feelings are your reward.
“FROM all the variegated scenes of my past life, I daily learn some new
lesson of humanity. Experience hath been my tutor—I now take a
retrospect of my past conduct with deliberation, but not without some
serious reflection. Like a sailor, escaped from shipwreck, who sits
safely on the shore and views the horrours of the tempest; but as the
gale subsides, and the waves hide their heads in the bosom of the deep,
he beholds with greater concern the mischief of the storm, and the
dangers he hath escaped. From what innate principle does this arise, but
from _God within the mind_!—I assert it for the honour of human nature,
that no man, however dissolute, but comes back to the hour of reflection
and solemn thoughtfulness—when the actions that are passed return upon
the mind, and this _internal monitor_ sits in judgment upon them, and
gives her verdict of approbation or dislike.
“HE who listens to its call, views his character in its proper light.—I
have attended to its cry, and I see my deformity—I recall my misspent
time, but in vain—I reflect on the misery of _Maria_, and I curse my
temerity—I reflect on the state into which I have plunged a once happy
female, and am eager to apply a speedy remedy, but this is vain also:
Can I restore her that virtue—that innocence—that peace, of which I have
unmanfully robbed her?—Let us leave the melancholy subject.—
“I WILL not so far supercede the fruit of your benevolence, as to
presume to offer you any other recompense, than my sincere prayers for
your happiness.
“I have the honour to be,
“With respect,
“Yours &c.
“J. Harrington.”
THE disorder of _Maria_ was fatal and rapid—but I hasten to the last
scene of her life—it has, though I was young, made an impression on my
mind that time can not efface. I went to her, as she was seated on the
bed—virtue and harmony were blended in her aspect—she was serene and
composed—and her mein, while it expressed a consciousness of superior
worth and dignity, exhibited in our view, a striking picture of the
grandeur of the human soul—patient though afflicted—of a spirit broken,
and borne down by severe distress, yet striving to surmount all, and
aspire to heaven. In what words shall I paint to you, my dear _Myra_,
her heroism and greatness of mind? “Weep not for me,” said she,
perceiving my emotion—“Death has nothing shocking to me—I have
familiarized myself to his terrours—I feel the gradual decay of
mortality; and waiting with confidence in the Father of Mercy, I am
prepared to resign this mortal breath—I resign it in firm assurance of
the soul’s blessed immortality—Death I view as freeing me from a world
which has lost its relish—as opening new scenes of happiness—But a few
moments,” continued she, clasping my hand, “and the scene of life is
closed forever—Heaven opens on my soul—I go where all tears shall be
wiped away—I welcome death as the angel of peace.”—She uttered these
words with a placid smile of resignation—her head sunk down on the
pillow—and the next minute she was an angel.
“SOUL of the universe!” exclaimed my father-in-law—“there flew the
gentlest spirit that ever animated human dust—Great were thy
temptations—sincere thy repentance. If some human infirmity fell to thy
lot, thy tears, dear shade, have washed out thy guilt forever!”