_Education still progressive: A widow's continence: Religious fervour:
A methodist sermon: Olivia in danger: Love dreams: Fanatic horrors:
Present disgrace, and honours delayed_
During the short period of my absence from my native home, I had been
taught two additional and essential lessons: the first, that men are
not all as good as they might be; and the second, that I was not quite
so wise as I had supposed myself. Having once been duped, the thought
occurred that it was possible I might be duped again, and I thus
acquired some small degree of what is called worldly caution. At once
to display one vice and teach another, to expose fraud and inspire
suspicion, is, to an unadulterated mind, a severe and odious lesson;
and, when repeated too often, is in danger of inculcating a mistake
infinitely more pernicious than that of credulity; that is, a
conviction that man is depraved by nature, and a total forgetfulness
that he is merely the creature of habit and accident.
Hitherto I had met disappointment; but I had found novelty; and though
it was not the novelty I expected, yet it was invigorating: it kept
me awake. The qualities for which I most valued myself no one indeed
seemed to notice. But the world was before me; I had seen but little
of it; my own feelings assured me genius and virtue had a real
existence, and sometime or another I should find them.
Among consolatory thoughts, the most animating was the recollection
of what Turl had said, that, to the possessor of fortitude and
virtue, Oxford was a place where study might be most advantageously
prosecuted; and, aided by this cheering hope, I applied myself to
books with courage and assiduity.
On the subject of reading however my mind had strong contentions with
itself: poetry, and the _belles lettres_, Homer, Horace, Virgil,
Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton, Dryden, Tasso, Ariosto, Racine, Molière,
Congreve, with a long and countless _et cætera_, were continually
tempting me to quit the barren pursuits of divinity and law, for
the study of which I had come to Oxford. Yet a sense of duty so far
prevailed that I went through a course of the fathers, pored over
the canonists, and made many resolute attacks upon the schoolmen.
Not only Aristotle but his doctors, the irrefragable, the angelic
or eagle-eyed, the subtile, the illuminated, and many more had
their peaceful folios vainly disturbed by my researches, and
my determination to understand what, alas, in its essence was
unintelligible.
In the very beginning as it were of these labours an event took place,
which gave a very serious aspect to my future fortunes, though, except
the first emotions of regret chagrin and surprise at my mother's
conduct, no present uneasiness to me. In despite of his law-suits,
my grandfather had left considerable property; which it was supposed
would descend to me. It had indeed the disadvantage of being left
under the executorship of a lawyer, who represented it to be in a
very involved and disorderly state: for, with respect to my mother,
though she had immediate possession, she declared that, agreeably
to the intention of the rector, her own subsistence excepted, she
held it only for my use. Thus, in several of her letters, she had
affectionately pressed me not to deprive myself of what was necessary
to my situation, to the appearance of a gentleman, or to the support
of the family character.
For the first two months we punctually wrote to each other once a
week. 'My dear dear Hugh' was the first phrase in all her letters;
and 'my kind and good mother' in mine: every maternal anxiety was
expressed by her, and by me every return of filial affection and duty.
At length a week came in which I received no letter. I was alarmed,
wrote to express my fears, and in a few days was answered, by the
lawyer, that my mother was in good health, but was from home on a
visit.
A month longer passed away in silence, at the end of which I wrote to
my mother, expressing my feelings and fears, and requesting an answer
under her own hand; otherwise I should come myself to see what was the
matter.
The answer arrived, I hastily opened it, and began to read. It was no
longer prefaced with 'my dear dear Hugh:' It was what follows.
'Dear Son,
'You seem impatient to hear from me, and so I sit down to write you
an account of something that has happened, which perhaps you will
think well of; I hope you will; I am sure you have no reason to think
otherwise; though, when one does things all for the best, one is not
always best thought of. But I dare say you will not think ill of your
mother, for that would not be dutiful, nor at all agreeable to what
your poor dear grandfather always taught. Nobody can suppose that I am
not come to years of discretion; and you very well know I have always
been a good and tender mother to you; and so I always shall be; and I
am sure you will not think hardly and improperly of my conduct in any
way, for that would be very unkind and unbecoming; and, if I have done
all for the best, to be hardly thought of afterwards would be very
improper indeed. Mr. Thornby [the lawyer] is a very prudent man, and
so I have acted by his advice, which you may well think cannot be
wrong; and his nephew, Mr. Wakefield, is a gentleman that nobody need
be ashamed of owning; and so, since you must be told, you may as well
be told at first as at last--I am married; which I hope and expect you
will think was a very prudent thing. I am sure when you come to know
Mr. Wakefield you will like him prodigiously. He sends his kind
blessing to you, and so I remain your ever loving mother
JANE WAKEFIELD.'
Little as I was attached to personal interest or fearful of being left
without a provision, I own this letter electrified me. Was this the
tone of affection? Had it vanished so instantly? After such strong and
reiterated professions for my sake never to have a second husband, not
only to marry but to cool intirely toward me, and to be only anxious,
in a poor selfish circumlocutory apology, for a conduct which she
herself felt to be highly reprehensible!
The lawyer too! His nephew? Not satisfied with the executorship, he
had engulphed the whole in his family, the stipend of a hundred a year
while I remained at college, and a thousand pounds for the purchase
of an advowson when I should leave it, excepted. I wondered, on
reflection, that he should even have advised the rector to this: but
it was by affecting disinterestedness that he could most effectually
secure the remainder.
But the pain these thoughts occasioned was neither debilitating nor
durable. My sanguine self-confidence, though sometimes apalled, has
all my life prevented me from being subject to fits of permanent
chagrin, or melancholy. The recollection of my mother's passionate
promises, the shortness of the time, the suddenness of the change,
the family into which she had married, and the instability of a woman
that was my mother, drew a few sighs from me, and in these my gloom
evaporated. I returned cheerfully to my books and determined to visit
home no more, but while a student to make Oxford my home, and not
incur the frequently well-merited reproach of being a _term-trotter_.
As for my companion, Hector, whatever the intentions of the Squire his
father might be, he considered Oxford only as a place of dissipation,
and loved it for nothing but because he was here first let entirely
loose, and here first found comrades that were worthy to be his peers.
Most of his time was now spent in London, or in parties such as
himself and his intimates planned. I suffered little interruption from
him: he now and then indeed gave me an indolent call; but, as there
was no parity of pursuit, nor unity of sentiment between us, there
could be but little intercourse.
Little farther remarkable happened during the three years and ten
months of my residence in this city, except the incident that
occasioned my removal. By being a constant spectator of the debauchery
of the young, and the sensuality of the old, I conceived an increasing
dislike of their manners, and sought the company of a few secluded
young men, who like myself were severe students. Toward the close
of this period I became acquainted with some who were tinged with
methodism; and, by frequently listening to their conversation, my
thoughts were turned into the same channel. The want of zeal in prayer
and every part of religious duty, the tedious and dull sermons heard
in the churches, and what methodists call preaching themselves and not
their Saviour, were the frequent topics of our animadversion.
This was a doctrine most aptly calculated to inflame an imagination
like mine, which was ardent and enthusiastic. Beside it relieved me
from a multitude of labours and cares, for, as I proceeded, Thomas
Aquinas and his subtilizing competitors were thrown by in contempt. I
had learned divinity by inspiration, and soon believed myself fit for
a reformer. The philosopher Aristotle with his dialectics and sophisms
were exchanged, for those of the philosopher Saint Paul; from whom
I learnt that he who had saving faith had every thing, and that he
who wanted it was naked of all excellence as the new born babe. This
nakedness I had discovered in myself, and in the language of the sect
was immediately clothed in the righteousness of Christ Jesus! I, in
common with my methodistical brethren, was chosen of the elect! My
name was inscribed in the book of life never to be erased! My sins
were washed away! Satan had no power over me; and to myself and my
new fraternity I applied the text, that 'the gates of hell could not
prevail against us!'
To these mysteries, which all the initiated allow are suddenly
unfolded, descending like lightening by the inspiration of the spirit
and illuminating the darkened soul, to these mysteries no man perhaps
was ever a more sudden or a more combustible kind of convert than
myself. I beamed with gospel light; it shone through me. I was the
beacon of this latter age: a comet, sent to warn the wicked. I mean, I
was all this in my own imagination, which swelled and mounted to the
very acme of fanaticism.
Under the impulse of these wild dreams, in which my soul delighted, I
was sometimes tempted to rise up a prophet, preach salvation to the
poor, and confound the wise. Persecution I must expect, but in that I
should glory: it was the badge of blessedness, the mark of election,
the signing of the covenant. Elevated to these celestial heights, with
what contempt did I look down on the doctors, proctors, and preachers
of Baal (for such were all the unenlightened) and on their dignities,
paraphernalia, and many coloured robes. What were these but the types
of Babylon? the ensigns of the scarlet whore? the purple tokens of the
beast? In the most extravagant eccentricities of mind it is remarkable
what a mixture there is of truth and falsehood, and how nearly and
frequently they approach each other.
During the height of this paroxysm, a famous gospel preacher, a divine
man, on his way from Shropshire to London, came to hold forth in the
vicinity of Oxford: not in churches, they were shut upon him, but in
the fields; not to the rich, not to the worldy wise, not to the self
righteous, they were deaf, but to the poor in spirit, to the polluted,
the hardened reprobate, who wished by faith and repentance, though
dyed in sin like scarlet, to be washed white as wool. To hear this
teacher of the word, who set up his stool near a village on the Witney
road, I repaired: I and many a moaning old woman beside; watchful,
with our chorus of amen and our sobs and groans at every divine
ejaculation, to aid the heaving motions of the spirit, and take heaven
by storm.
The elect were assembled, and with them a greater number of the
unconverted; heads were uncovered, a hymn was sung, and a long
extempore string of intercessions, praying that the Lord would lay
bare his arm and strike the guilty with terror; that Christ crucified
would be among them; that they might be washed in the blood of the
immaculate lamb; and that the holy spirit would breathe the God-man
Jesus into all hearts, with many more absurdities, was uttered.
The preacher then took his text, and chose for his subject the casting
of the buyers and sellers out of the temple. This was an opportunity
not to be lost by me. A gospel minister was indeed a _rara avis_, at
Oxford. I therefore took out my utensils and very industriously wrote
notes, that the divine breathings of the man of God might not be lost
upon me.--'Buyers and sellers,' said he, 'you must be cast out! The
tables of the money changers must be overthrown; you have defiled
the temple of the Saviour! In what do you trade? In vanity. In gold,
silver, iron, brass, houses, corn, cattle, goods, and chattels. But
gold and silver may be stolen; iron will rust; brass will break;
cattle will die; corn will mildew; houses will burn; they will tumble
about your ears! Repent, or you will quickly bring an old house over
your heads! Your goods and chattels will but kindle the fire in which
you are to burn everlastingly! What are your occupations? Why, to
hoard, and sell your souls for gain, that your heirs may squander and
buy a hot place in hell! I am not one of your fashionable fine spoken
mealy mouthed preachers: I tell you the plain truth. What are your
pastimes? Cards and dice, fiddling and dancing, guzzling and guttling!
Can you be saved by dice? No! Will the four knaves give you a passport
to heaven? No! Can you fiddle yourself into a good birth among the
sheep? No! You are goats, and goat like you may dance yourselves to
damnation! You may guzzle wine here, but you shall want a drop of
water to cool your tongue hereafter! You may guttle, while righteous
Lazarus is lying at your gate. But wait a little! He shall soon lie in
Abraham's bosom, while you shall roast on the devil's great gridiron,
and be seasoned just to his tooth!--Will the prophets say, "Come here
gamester, and teach us the long odds?"--'Tis odds if they do!--Will
the martyrs rant, and swear, and shuffle, and cut with you? No! The
martyrs are no shufflers! You will be cut so as you little expect: you
are a field of tares, and Lucifer is your head farmer. He will come
with his reapers and his sickles and his forks, and you will be cut
down and bound and pitched and carted and housed in hell. I will not
oil my lips with lies to please you: I tell you the plain truth: you
will go to hell! Ammon and Mammon and Moloch are head stoakers; they
are making Bethhoron hot for you! Prophane wretches, you daily wrangle
and brawl and tell one another--"I will see you damned first!"--But I
tell you the day will come when you will pray to Beelzebub to let you
escape his clutches! And what will be his answer?--"I will see you
damned first!'"
To this rhapsody of strange but impressive vulgar eloquence I
listened, with rapture, for nearly an hour; selecting and noting
down the passages that I thought most remarkable, many of which were
too extravagant, if repeated, to be believed. In the height of these
effusions, when the divine man was torturing his lungs to be heard by
the increasing croud, he on his stool, I seated uncapped in a cart by
his side, who should I see approach, in a phæton and pair, but Hector
Mowbray? And by his side--! Yes!--Olivia! The beauteous Olivia! no
longer a child, but tall, straight, perfectly formed; every limb in
the most captivating symmetry, every feature in the full bloom of
youth; intelligence in every look, grace in every motion, sweetness in
every smile! Attracted by curiosity, her brother arrested his course,
drew up, and placed the celestial vision full in view!
Oh, frailty of the flesh! My new made garb of righteousness dropped
from my shoulders! The old Adam, that had been dead in me, again
revived; the workings of the spirit ceased; I gazed on an apparition
which was indeed heavenly, and forgot the apostles the prophets and
the martyrs! The preacher himself was heard no more; nor more would
have been heard, had he not with all the effrontery of a fanatic
interrupted his discourse, to address himself personally to Hector
and Olivia, by which he excited sensations in me that were wholly
unexpected--'Jehu driveth furiously,' said he; 'but Jezebel was given
to the dogs! (My choler instantly began to rise) Sinners! drive not
so fast! The way is broad, and Tophet is gaping, where is weeping and
wailing and gnashing of teeth! You will be there, poor lost souls,
sooner than you expect! The way to heaven is narrow, much too narrow
for your large consciences; and, though the court is spacious, the
gate is too little for you to drive in with your coaches and six! No,
not even your vis a vis, nor your phætons neither, not so much as a
tumbril or a buggie can get past! But perhaps you think to ride up to
the gate, and there to cry, _peccavi_! and that then it will open, and
you will be admitted? But, no! no! I tell you, no! You shall never be
able to utter more than _pec, pec, pec_; and while with your mouths
open you are stammering and stuttering to get out _cavi_, Satan and
his blackguards shall come and peck you, even as crows peck carrion.
Yes, Jehu and Jezebel! Remember! I give you warning!'
If I, one of the preacher's disciples, could scarcely refrain from
falling upon him for his insolence, what must the choleric and brutal
Hector feel, hearing himself repeatedly laughed at by the delighted
unmannerly mob, during this impudent harangue? He dropped the reins,
jumped from the phæton, sprang through the croud, and began to
horse-whip the inspired man in the most furious manner.
And now an accident happened; which of all others that I can remember
gave me the most terror. Olivia sat alone In the phæton, the reins
were loose, and the fighting shouting and uproar of the divided mob
occasioned the horses to take fright They snorted, kicked, and set off
full speed; with the helpless Olivia screaming for aid! The moment
Hector left the carriage I saw what was likely to happen, leaped from
the cart where I sat, and flew like lightening after the frantic
animals. Few men were swifter of foot than I was, but they had the
start and were on the full gallop. The danger was imminent. On one
side of the road was a gravel pit, on the other the river, and before
them was a bridge, the walls of which were not breast high. A cart was
passing the bridge, and the mad horses, still on full speed, ran on
the wrong side, dashed the phæton against the cart, overturned it, and
threw Olivia over the wall into the river!
The freshes had lately come down, and the stream was both deep and
strong. I was at the foot of the bridge when she fell; and when I
reached the place she was still above water, and had passed the arch
on the other side. I instantly stripped off my coat cap and gown,
sprang into the eddy, made a few strokes, and, as happy fortune would
have it, just caught her as she was sinking!
Loaded with this precious burden, I had the strength of twenty men.
I stemmed the current and presently brought her into shallow water,
where I could find footing. I then bore her into the nearest house,
and every possible aid was immediately administered.
While I was thus employed Hector arrived, his rage boiling over anew,
at his lamed horses and broken phæton; for his inquiries concerning
his sister were short, as soon as he understood that she was not
drowned. I paid as little attention to him as he did to her, and was
disturbed only by my fears lest the fright should be productive of
fever, or still worse consequences.
Olivia had too much sincerity of heart, and too great a desire to
remove the anxiety of those around her, to be guilty of the least
affectation. She had received no injury, for the danger being over her
mind was too strong not to dispel her fears; and, after reposing an
hour and finding herself perfectly well, she insisted on coming down
and joining us at dinner. Her thanks to me in words were not profuse,
but they were emphatical. 'She was alive, and should never forget that
she owed that life to me.' This she three times repeated; once at
table, again in the post-chaise in which we returned to Oxford, and
once more when we took leave of each other in the evening.
To me this day was indeed a day of tumult. Nothing perhaps more aptly
prepares the mind for the passion of love than religious enthusiasm.
The subject of my conversation with Olivia was chiefly a revival
of former times, which seemed to be remembered by us mutually with
glowing regret, as the happiest moments of our existence: times which
I inwardly dreaded might never return.
Fanatical reveries excepted, this perhaps was the first desponding
thought I had known; at least it was the first I can distinctly
remember, and the pang that accompanied it was severe. Olivia was
so lovely, her form so enchanting, her manners so captivating, that
my eyes were riveted on her, my soul absorbed, and the faculty of
thinking arrested. Every look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the
heart, every motion of her moist coral lips gave exstacy, and every
variation of her features discovered new ineffable and angelic
beauties!
Why did the hours fly? Why was the day so short? She had only passed
through Oxford in her way to London, and was to depart in the morning.
I would gladly have persuaded her to regard her health, and not expose
herself so soon after the fright; but in vain. She felt no malady, nor
would acknowledge any; and the selfish Hector was rather inclined to
hurry her off than invite her to stay. It was years since I had seen
her, and to be torn thus suddenly from bliss unutterable? Never had I
felt a pang like this before!
In the evening, returned to my chamber and left in solitude, I sat
with my arms folded, disconsolate, motionless, and in a profound but
yet a most active trance. I remained thus for hours, ardently thinking
on Olivia, recollecting every incident of my past life in which she
had had the least part, placing all her divine perfections full in
view, and unable to detach my mind one moment from the beatific
vision.
At length by accident, I cast my eye on two books, that lay on the
mantle-piece before me: Baxter's Call to the Unconverted, and the
History of Francis Spira: two of the most terrific productions, to
such a mind at such a moment, that ever the ravings of fanaticism sent
forth. The impulse was irresistible; I opened them, read, and all
the horrors of hell came upon me. I was a backslider! Perdition was
certain! All the torments that Baxter described were devouring me, and
my soul was sinking, like the soul of Francis Spira, into sulphureous
flames, there to howl and be eternally tormented by the malignant
mocks and mows of inexorable fiends! I have since suffered many evils,
or what are called evils, and have known misfortunes such as are
supposed to be of the severest kind; but, of all the nights of my
life, not one can equal this. I fell on my knees, and attempted to
pray, but imagined the ear of mercy shut, and that I beheld the wicked
one stand ready to seize and fly away with me! My teeth began to
gnash, as if by irresistible impulse; my hair stood on end, and large
drops of sweat fell from my face! The eternal damnation, of which I
had read and heard so much, seemed inevitable; till at last, in a
torrent of phrenzy which I had not the power to controul, I began to
blaspheme, believing myself to be already a fiend!
It is by such horrible imagery that so many of the disciples of
methodism have become maniacs.
My dereliction of intellect fortunately was but of short duration:
overpowered and exhausted, I at length sunk to sleep, my head leaning
on the bed and I kneeling by its side. How long I remained thus I
cannot tell, but I awoke in a shivering fit from a dream of terror,
and found myself in the dark. I hastily undressed myself, got into
bed, and shrunk beneath the bed clothes, as if escaping from Satan,
whom imagination once more placed at my elbow, in forms inexpressibly
horrid.
The visions of the night had left too deep an impression not to be in
part revived in the morning. Thoughts however that had lately escaped
me were now called to recollection. I remembered having once believed
that God was the God of mercy; that for him to delight in the torture
of lost souls was impossible; and that I had even doubted of the
eternity of future torments. To this relief a more effectual one
was added: Olivia could not be forgotten, and my thoughts, by being
continually attracted and fixed on her, were relieved from despair,
which might otherwise have been fatal.
A week passed away in such kind of convulsive meditations, my
attachment to methodism daily declining, and at last changing into
something like aversion and horror. At the end of this period, I was
sent for in the morning by the president. The incident was alarming!
I had broken no college rules, neglected no prayers, nor been guilty
of any indecorum. I foreboded that he had heard of my methodistical
excursion. The conjecture was true: he told me it was too publicly
known to be passed over in silence; that the character of the
university had greatly suffered by this kind of heresy; that the vice
chancellor, proctors, and heads of houses had been consulted, and that
the gentlest punishment they could inflict was rustication for two
terms. It would have been much more severe, he said, but for the
respect he bore to the memory of my grandfather; who had been a doctor
of the university, a worthy pillar of the church, and his good friend.
Though I suspected my opinions, I was not so entirely convinced as
openly to renounce them, and I remained silent when he required me
to recant. But I requested him to tell me how the event had become
public? Not a gownsman was present, except Hector Mowbray; and surely
he was above the character of an informer? Especially, thought I,
in this instance! The president however was silent; I was suffered
to suppose what I pleased, and I left him with the sentence of
rustication confirmed, and my long expected academical honours
deferred. The only favour granted me was that the punishment should
not be made public.