A TRIFLING RETROSPECT.
“BLESS my heart,” cries my young, volatile reader, “I shall never have
patience to get through these volumes, there are so many ahs! and
ohs! so much fainting, tears, and distress, I am sick to death of the
subject.” My dear, cheerful, innocent girl, for innocent I will
suppose you to be, or you would acutely feel the woes of Charlotte,
did conscience say, thus might it have been with me, had not Providence
interposed to snatch me from destruction: therefore, my lively, innocent
girl, I must request your patience: I am writing a tale of truth: I
mean to write it to the heart: but if perchance the heart is rendered
impenetrable by unbounded prosperity, or a continuance in vice, I expect
not my tale to please, nay, I even expect it will be thrown by with
disgust. But softly, gentle fair one; I pray you throw it not aside till
you have perused the whole; mayhap you may find something therein to
repay you for the trouble. Methinks I see a sarcastic smile sit on your
countenance.--“And what,” cry you, “does the conceited author suppose
we can glean from these pages, if Charlotte is held up as an object of
terror, to prevent us from falling into guilty errors? does not La Rue
triumph in her shame, and by adding art to guilt, obtain the affection
of a worthy man, and rise to a station where she is beheld with respect,
and cheerfully received into all companies. What then is the moral
you would inculcate? Would you wish us to think that a deviation
from virtue, if covered by art and hypocrisy, is not an object of
detestation, but on the contrary shall raise us to fame and honour?
while the hapless girl who falls a victim to her too great sensibility,
shall be loaded with ignominy and shame?” No, my fair querist, I mean no
such thing. Remember the endeavours of the wicked are often suffered to
prosper, that in the end their fall may be attended with more bitterness
of heart; while the cup of affliction is poured out for wise and
salutary ends, and they who are compelled to drain it even to the bitter
dregs, often find comfort at the bottom; the tear of penitence blots
their offences from the book of fate, and they rise from the heavy,
painful trial, purified and fit for a mansion in the kingdom of
eternity.
Yes, my young friends, the tear of compassion shall fall for the fate of
Charlotte, while the name of La Rue shall be detested and despised. For
Charlotte, the soul melts with sympathy; for La Rue, it feels nothing
but horror and contempt. But perhaps your gay hearts would rather
follow the fortunate Mrs. Crayton through the scenes of pleasure and
dissipation in which she was engaged, than listen to the complaints
and miseries of Charlotte. I will for once oblige you; I will for once
follow her to midnight revels, balls, and scenes of gaiety, for in such
was she constantly engaged.
I have said her person was lovely; let us add that she was surrounded by
splendor and affluence, and he must know but little of the world who can
wonder, (however faulty such a woman's conduct,) at her being followed
by the men, and her company courted by the women: in short Mrs. Crayton
was the universal favourite: she set the fashions, she was toasted by
all the gentlemen, and copied by all the ladies.
Colonel Crayton was a domestic man. Could he be happy with such a woman?
impossible! Remonstrance was vain: he might as well have preached to the
winds, as endeavour to persuade her from any action, however ridiculous,
on which she had set her mind: in short, after a little ineffectual
struggle, he gave up the attempt, and left her to follow the bent of
her own inclinations: what those were, I think the reader must have seen
enough of her character to form a just idea. Among the number who paid
their devotions at her shrine, she singled one, a young Ensign of mean
birth, indifferent education, and weak intellects. How such a man came
into the army, we hardly know to account for, and how he afterwards rose
to posts of honour is likewise strange and wonderful. But fortune is
blind, and so are those too frequently who have the power of dispensing
her favours: else why do we see fools and knaves at the very top of the
wheel, while patient merit sinks to the extreme of the opposite abyss.
But we may form a thousand conjectures on this subject, and yet never
hit on the right. Let us therefore endeavour to deserve her smiles, and
whether we succeed or not, we shall feel more innate satisfaction, than
thousands of those who bask in the sunshine of her favour unworthily.
But to return to Mrs. Crayton: this young man, whom I shall distinguish
by the name of Corydon, was the reigning favourite of her heart. He
escorted her to the play, danced with her at every ball, and when
indisposition prevented her going out, it was he alone who was permitted
to cheer the gloomy solitude to which she was obliged to confine
herself. Did she ever think of poor Charlotte?--if she did, my dear
Miss, it was only to laugh at the poor girl's want of spirit in
consenting to be moped up in the country, while Montraville was enjoying
all the pleasures of a gay, dissipated city. When she heard of his
marriage, she smiling said, so there's an end of Madam Charlotte's
hopes. I wonder who will take her now, or what will become of the little
affected prude?
But as you have lead to the subject, I think we may as well return to
the distressed Charlotte, and not, like the unfeeling Mrs. Crayton, shut
our hearts to the call of humanity.