REFLECTIONS.
“AND am I indeed fallen so low,” said Charlotte, “as to be only pitied?
Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never
again possess a friend, whose face will wear a smile of joy whenever I
approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! I
know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt, or the
glance of compassion, which is depicted in the various countenances
of my own sex: they are both equally humiliating. Ah! my dear parents,
could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so
dearly loved, a poor solitary being, without society, here wearing out
her heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of
her own sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no
woman of character will appear in my company, and low as your Charlotte
is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy.”
These were the painful reflections which occupied the mind of Charlotte.
Montraville had placed her in a small house a few miles from New-York:
he gave her one female attendant, and supplied her with what money she
wanted; but business and pleasure so entirely occupied his time, that
he had little to devote to the woman, whom he had brought from all her
connections, and robbed of innocence. Sometimes, indeed, he would steal
out at the close of evening, and pass a few hours with her; and then so
much was she attached to him, that all her sorrows were forgotten while
blest with his society: she would enjoy a walk by moonlight, or sit
by him in a little arbour at the bottom of the garden, and play on the
harp, accompanying it with her plaintive, harmonious voice. But often,
very often, did he promise to renew his visits, and, forgetful of his
promise, leave her to mourn her disappointment. What painful hours
of expectation would she pass! She would sit at a window which looked
toward a field he used to cross, counting the minutes, and straining her
eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person, till blinded with tears
of disappointment, she would lean her head on her hands, and give free
vent to her sorrows: then catching at some new hope, she would again
renew her watchful position, till the shades of evening enveloped every
object in a dusky cloud: she would then renew her complaints, and, with
a heart bursting with disappointed love and wounded sensibility, retire
to a bed which remorse had strewed with thorns, and court in vain that
comforter of weary nature (who seldom visits the unhappy) to come and
steep her senses in oblivion.
Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed upon the mind of
Charlotte? The wife, whose breast glows with affection to her husband,
and who in return meets only indifference, can but faintly conceive her
anguish. Dreadfully painful is the situation of such a woman, but she
has many comforts of which our poor Charlotte was deprived. The duteous,
faithful wife, though treated with indifference, has one solid pleasure
within her own bosom, she can reflect that she has not deserved
neglect--that she has ever fulfilled the duties of her station with the
strictest exactness; she may hope, by constant assiduity and unremitted
attention, to recall her wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning
affection; she knows he cannot leave her to unite himself to another: he
cannot cast her out to poverty and contempt; she looks around her,
and sees the smile of friendly welcome, or the tear of affectionate
consolation, on the face of every person whom she favours with her
esteem; and from all these circumstances she gathers comfort: but the
poor girl by thoughtless passion led astray, who, in parting with
her honour, has forfeited the esteem of the very man to whom she has
sacrificed every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his indifference
in the fruit of her own folly, and laments her want of power to recall
his lost affection; she knows there is no tie but honour, and that, in
a man who has been guilty of seduction, is but very feeble: he may leave
her in a moment to shame and want; he may marry and forsake her for
ever; and should he, she has no redress, no friendly, soothing companion
to pour into her wounded mind the balm of consolation, no benevolent
hand to lead her back to the path of rectitude; she has disgraced her
friends, forfeited the good opinion of the world, and undone herself;
she feels herself a poor solitary being in the midst of surrounding
multitudes; shame bows her to the earth, remorse tears her distracted
mind, and guilt, poverty, and disease close the dreadful scene: she
sinks unnoticed to oblivion. The finger of contempt may point out to
some passing daughter of youthful mirth, the humble bed where lies this
frail sister of mortality; and will she, in the unbounded gaiety of her
heart, exult in her own unblemished fame, and triumph over the silent
ashes of the dead? Oh no! has she a heart of sensibility, she will stop,
and thus address the unhappy victim of folly--
“Thou had'st thy faults, but sure thy sufferings have expiated them:
thy errors brought thee to an early grave; but thou wert a
fellow-creature--thou hast been unhappy--then be those errors forgotten.”
Then, as she stoops to pluck the noxious weed from off the sod, a tear
will fall, and consecrate the spot to Charity.
For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of mercy
shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprang shall be
immortal.
My dear Madam, contract not your brow into a frown of disapprobation. I
mean not to extenuate the faults of those unhappy women who fall victims
to guilt and folly; but surely, when we reflect how many errors we are
ourselves subject to, how many secret faults lie hid in the recesses of
our hearts, which we should blush to have brought into open day (and yet
those faults require the lenity and pity of a benevolent judge, or
awful would be our prospect of futurity) I say, my dear Madam, when we
consider this, we surely may pity the faults of others.
Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who has once strayed into the
thorny paths of vice, would gladly return to virtue, was any generous
friend to endeavour to raise and re-assure her; but alas! it cannot be,
you say; the world would deride and scoff. Then let me tell you, Madam,
'tis a very unfeeling world, and does not deserve half the blessings
which a bountiful Providence showers upon it.
Oh, thou benevolent giver of all good! how shall we erring mortals
dare to look up to thy mercy in the great day of retribution, if we now
uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries,
of our fellow-creatures.