The age of romance has not yet passed away, and an incident that might
have originated a Poem in the days of Ovid, or a Novel in the land of
Sir Walter, transpired in the beautiful and romantic village of
Windsor; and though it may not chime very harmoniously with the other
tones of my book, yet as it contains a moral, much needed at this
period of the world, I will gratify the reader with an account of it.
S. was one of those very common specimens of our race, on which a
graceful and captivating exterior is lavished at the expense of the
more valuable and lasting graces of the mind. Every eye that saw him
gave evidence that it was contemplating something in which there was
no blemish; and this evident satisfaction continued till he
spoke--_then_, the contrast between external beauty and mental poverty
was so great, that the charm vanished and the angel departed. For some
crime or other, he became one of the inhabitants of the prison, where
his personal charms fastened on the heart of a female who afterwards
became his wife.
This lady belonged to a respectable family and was esteemed by all her
acquaintances, and in giving herself to S. she committed the only
fault of her life.
A friend of hers was an officer of the prison, and she spent some of
her time in his family. In that place, she could see all the prisoners
every day, and there she first saw her future husband. Love is said to
be blind, and there is some reason for the opinion. Why an esteemed
and virtuous young lady, should permit herself to be captivated by a
_prisoner_, cannot be accounted for but by supposing that love can
steal the march of reason, and that wisdom and prudence are feeble
springs against the force of passion.
"Veni, vidi, vici," said the Roman Conqueror, when he had vanquished
his foes; but this victim of thoughtless passion had occasion to say
in the sequel--"I saw, I loved, and I was ruined."
She found means, after she became a _prisoner_ to his charms, to
communicate her wishes to the idol of her breast, by proxy at first,
and afterwards by personal interviews. The proxy was an old man who
used to go into the keeper's room to wash and clean the floor, and
his appearance was enough to have frightened love to distraction. But
necessity compelled them, and many a bundle of soft sighs did he carry
between these romantic lovers.
After some time she found an opportunity of taking his hand in hers,
and of telling him all that was in her heart. Willing to be loved,
though incapable of that warm emotion himself, he followed as she led,
and the sweet promises were made, which were to bind them heart and
hand for life.
And now, warm with visionary bliss, she had only to wait a _few years_
for his sentence to expire, for the consummation of her desires. _A
few years!_ Love is impatient, and to look through _years_, when
_days_ are _months_, before the anticipated joy can be realized, was
too much, and, therefore, effort must be used to get him pardoned. It
would have been cruel in the extreme, not to have pardoned the
charming idol under such circumstances, and as the Executive was
composed of feeling hearts, her desire was granted, and she took the
object of her adoration to her nuptial arms, the day that his pardon
reached him.
I have heard that she suffered much from this rash and imprudent
surrender of herself into the arms of a stranger, who had nothing but
a pretty face to recommend him, and every thing against him.
If I had any fears that _others_ would be ruined in this way, I should
dwell longer on this part of my sketches; but it will be sufficient to
say in conclusion, that marriages in which nothing but passion and
fancy are concerned, never lead to peace, and this instance is a
melancholy proof of it. Ladies ought always to act prudently in an
engagement of so much importance to their future happiness, and never
commit themselves into the arms of any man whose reputation is
stained, or who is not known to be virtuous and good. Particularly,
let it be remembered, that the graces of the mind are of priceless
value, and for the want of them, no charms of form or countenance can
atone.