_----Fruit----some harsh, 'tis true,
Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof;
But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some
To palates that can taste immortal truth;
Insipid else, and sure to be despised._
Cowper.
The news of my father's misfortune no sooner reached Miss Mortimer's
retirement, than she made an exertion beyond her strength, that she
might visit and comfort me. At my father's house, she learnt that I was
gone no one knew whither; but the conveyance which I had chosen enabled
her at last to trace my retreat, and she lost not a moment in following
me thither. There, with all the tenderness of love, and all the
perseverance of duty, she watched over my returning health; nor ever
quitted me by night or by day, till I was able to accompany her home.
It was on a golden summer morning that we together left my dreary
lurking-place. The sun shone forth as brightly as on the last day that I
had visited Miss Mortimer's abode; the trees were in yet fuller foliage;
and the hues of spring were ripening to the richer tints of autumn. The
river flashed as gaily in the beam, and the vessels veered as proudly to
the breeze. My friend sought to cheer my mind by calling my attention to
the bright and busy scene. But the smile which I called up to answer her
cares, came not from the heart. Cold and undelighted I turned from the
view. 'To what end,' thought I, 'should this prison-house be so adorned?
this den of the wretched and the base!' So dismal a change had a few
weeks wrought upon this goodly frame of things to me. But thus it ever
fares with those who refuse to contemplate the world with the eye of
reason and of religion. In the day of prosperity, this foreign land is
their chosen rest, for which they willingly forget their Father's house,
but when the hours of darkness come, they refuse to find in it even
accommodations fitted for the pilgrim 'that tarries but a night.'
When we had reached the cottage, and Miss Mortimer, with every testimony
of affection had welcomed me home, she led me to the apartment which was
thenceforth to be called my own. It was the gayest in my friend's simple
mansion. Its green walls, snowy curtains, and light furniture, were
models of neatness and order; and though the jessamine had been lately
pruned from the casement to enlarge my view, enough still remained to
adorn the projecting thatch with a little starry wreath.
On one side of my window were placed some shelves containing a few
volumes of history, and the best works of our British essayists and
poets; on the other was a chest of drawers, in which I found all the
more useful part of my own wardrobe, secured to me by the considerate
attention of Miss Mortimer. My friend rigidly performed her promise of
leaving my time wholly at my own command. As soon as she had established
me in my apartment, she resigned it solely to me: nor ever reminded me,
by officious attentions, that I was a guest rather than an inmate. She
told me the hours at which her meals were punctually served, giving me
to understand that when I did not choose to join them, no warning or
apology was necessary; since, if I did not appear in the family-room, I
should be waited upon in my own. These arrangements being made, she
advised me to repose myself after the fatigue of my journey, and left me
alone. Wearied out by an exertion to which my strength was yet scarcely
equal, I laid myself on a bed more inviting than the last which I had
pressed, and soon dropped asleep.
The evening was closing, when I was awakened by a strain of music so
soft, so low, that it seemed at first like a dream of the songs of
spirits. I listened, and distinguished the sounds of the evening hymn.
It was sung by Miss Mortimer; and never did humble praise,--never did
filial gratitude,--find a voice more suited to their expression. The
touching sweetness of her notes, heightened by the stillness of the
hour, roused an attention little used of late to fix on outward things.
'These are the sounds of thankfulness,' thought I. 'I saw her this
morning thank God, as if from the heart, for the light of a new day; and
now, having been spent in deeds of kindness, it is closed as it began
in an act of thanksgiving. What does she possess above all women, to
call forth such gratitude? She is poor, lonely, neglected. She knows
that she has obtained but a short reprieve from a disease which will
waste away her life in lingering torture. Good Heaven! What is there in
all this to cause that prevailing temper of her mind; that principle as
it would appear, of all her actions?--She must have been born with this
happy turn of thought. And, besides, she has never known a better
fate;--blest, that poverty and solitude have kept her ignorant of the
treachery and selfishness of man!'
The strain had ceased, and my thoughts returned to my own melancholy
fate. To escape from tormenting recollection, or rather in the mere
restlessness of pain, I opened a book which lay upon my table. It was my
mother's Bible. The first page was inscribed with her name, and the date
of my birth, written with her own hand. Below, my baptism was recorded
in the following words:--
'This eleventh of January, 1775, I dedicated my dearest child to God.
May He accept and purify the offering, though it be with fire!'
As I read these lines, the half prophetic words of my mother's parting
blessing flashed on my recollection. 'Oh, my mother!' I cried, 'couldst
thou have foreseen how bitter would be my "chastisement," couldst thou
have known, that the "fire" would consume all, would not thy love have
framed a far different prayer? Yes! for thou hadst a fellow-feeling in
every suffering, and how much above all in mine!'
I proceeded to look for some further traces of a hand so dear. The book
opened of itself at a passage to which a natural feeling had often led
the parent who was soon to forget even her child in the unconsciousness
of the grave; and a slight mark in the margin directed my eye to this
sentence: 'Can a mother forget her sucking babe, that she should not
have compassion upon the son of her womb? Yea, she may forget, yet will
not I forget thee.'
These words had often been read in my hearing, when my wandering mind
scarcely affixed a meaning to them; or when their touching condescension
was lost upon the proud child of prosperity. But now their coincidence
with the previous current of my thoughts seized at once my whole
attention. I started as if some strange and new discovery had burst upon
my understanding. Again I read the passage, and with a care which I had
never before bestowed on any part of the book which contains it. 'Is
this,' I enquired, 'an expression of the divine concern in each
individual of human kind?--No. It seems merely a national promise. Yet,
my mother has regarded it in another light; else why has she marked it
so carefully?'
It was in vain that I debated this question with myself. Such was my
miserable ignorance of all which it most behoved me to know, that I
never thought of explaining the letter of the Scriptures by resorting to
their spirit. My habitual propensities resisting every pious impression,
my mind revolted from the belief that parental love had adjusted every
circumstance of a lot which I accounted so severe as mine. To admit
this, was virtually to confess that I had need of correction; that I
had, to use Miss Mortimer's words, 'already reached that state when
mercy itself assumes the form of punishment.' Yet the soothing beauty of
the sentiment, the natural yearning of the friendless after an Almighty
friend, made me turn to the same passage again and again, till the
darkness closed in, and lulled me to a deep and solemn reverie.
'Does the Great Spirit,' thought I, 'indeed watch over us? Does He work
all the changes of this changeful world? Does He rule with ceaseless
vigilance,--with irresistible control, whatever can affect my
destiny?--Can this be true?--If it be even possible, by what strange
infatuation has it been banished from my thoughts till now? But it
cannot be so. A man's own actions often mould his destiny; and if his
actions be compelled by an extraneous energy, he is no more than a mere
machine. The very idea is absurd.' And thus, to escape from a sense of
my own past insanity, I entered a labyrinth where human reason might
stray for ever,
And find no end, in wandering mazes lost.
But the subject, perplexing as it was to my darkened understanding, had
seized upon my whole mind; and sleep fled my pillow, whilst in spite of
myself the question again and again recurred; 'If I be at the mercy of a
resistless power, why have I utterly neglected to propitiate this mighty
arbitrator? If the success of every purpose even possibly depended upon
his will, why was that will forgotten in all my purposes?'
As soon as it was day I arose; and, with the eagerness of one who would
escape from suspense, I resorted to the book which had so lately
arrested my regard. I no longer glanced over its pages in careless
haste; for it offered my only present lights upon the questions,
interesting by their novelty as well as by their importance--whether I
had been guilty of the worse than childish improvidence, which, in
attending to trifles, overlooks the capital circumstance? or whether the
Creator, having dismissed us like orphans into a fatherless world, is
regardless of our improvement, and deaf to our cry? My impatience of
doubt made me forget, for a time, that the very fact which confers upon
Scripture its authority, supposes a divine interference in human
concerns. The great truth, however, shone forth in every page. All spoke
of a vigilant witness, a universal, a ceaseless energy. Nor was this
all. I could scarcely open the book without finding somewhat applicable
to my own character or situation; I was, therefore, no longer obliged to
compel my attention, as to the concerns of a stranger; it was powerfully
attracted by interests peculiarly my own. The study, indeed, was often
painful; but yet I returned to it, as the heir to the deed which is to
make him rich or a beggar.
My search, however, produced nothing to elate. I read of benefits which
I had forgotten; of duties which I had neglected; of threatenings which
I had despised. The 'first and great commandment,' directed every
affection of my soul to Him who had scarcely occupied even the least of
my thoughts. The most glorious examples were proposed to my imitation,
and my heart sunk when I compared them with myself. A temper of
universal forbearance, habits of diligent benevolence, were made the
infallible marks of a character which I had no right to claim. The happy
few were represented as entering with difficulty, and treading with
perseverance, the 'strait and narrow way,' which not even self-deceit
could persuade me that I had found. That self-denial, which was enjoined
to all as an unremitting habit, was new to me almost even in name. The
'lovers of pleasure,' among whom I had been avowedly enrolled, were
ranked, by my new guide, with 'traitors and blasphemers.' The pride
which, if I considered it at all as an error, I accounted the 'glorious
fault' of noble minds, was reprobated as an impious absurdity. The
anguish of repentance,--the raptures of piety,--the 'full assurance of
hope,' were poured forth; but, with the restless anxiety of him who
obtains an imperfect glimpse of the secret upon which his all depends, I
perceived, that their language was to me the language of a foreign land.
By degrees, something of my real self was opened to my sight. The view
was terrible; but, once seen, I vainly endeavoured to avert my eye. At
midnight, and in the blaze of day, in the midst of every employment, in
defiance of every effort, my offences stood before me. With the sense of
guilt, came the fear before which the boldest spirit fails. I saw the
decree already executed which took from me the 'talent buried in the
earth;' but, the stroke which had deprived me of all, seemed only a
prelude to that more awful sentence which consigns the unprofitable
servant to 'outer darkness.' As one who starts from sleep beneath the
uplifted sword,--as he to whom the lightning's flash reveals the
precipice,--as the mother waked by the struggles of her half-smothered
babe,--so I--but what material images of horror can shadow forth the
terrors of him who feels that he is by his own act undone? In an
overwhelming sense of my folly and my danger, I often sunk into the
attitude of supplication; but I had now a meaning to unfold not to be
expressed in a few formal phrases which I had been accustomed to hurry
over. I saw that I had need of mercy which I had not deserved, and which
I had no words to ask. How little do they know of repentance who propose
to repay with it, at their own 'convenient season,' the pleasures which
they are at all hazards determined to seize!
Meanwhile, though my misfortunes could not be banished from my mind,
they no longer held their sullen reign alone. New interests had awakened
in my breast; new fears; new regrets. I felt that there is an evil
greater than the loss of fame, of fortune, or of friends; that there is
a pang compared with which sorrow is pleasure. This anguish I endured
alone. The proud spirit could pour into no human ear the language of its
humiliation and its dread. I suffered Miss Mortimer to attribute to
grief the dejection which at times overpowered me; to impatience of
deprivation, the anxious disquiet of one who is seeking rest, and
finding none. Yet I no longer shunned her society. I sought relief in
the converse of a person rich in the knowledge in which I was wanting,
impressed with the only subjects which could interest me now. Miss
Mortimer was precisely the companion best calculated to be useful to me.
She never willingly oppressed me with a sense of her superiority,--never
upbraided my cold reception of doctrines which I was not yet fitted to
receive,--never expressed surprise at my hesitation, or impatience with
my prejudices,--never aggravated my sense of the danger of my state, nor
boasted of the security of her own; but answered my questions in terms
direct and perspicuous; opposed my doubts and prejudices with meek
reason; represented the condition of the worst of mankind as admitting
of hope,--that of the best, as implying warfare.
From the first month of my residence with Miss Mortimer I may date a new
era of my existence. My mind had received a new impulse, and new views
had opened to me of my actions, my situation, and my prospects. An
important step had been made towards a change in my character. But
still it was only a step. The tendencies of nature, strengthened by the
habits of seventeen years, remained to be overcome, and this was not the
work of a month, or a year. I was not, however, of a temper long to
endure the sense of helpless misery. Encouraged by the promises which
are made to the repentant, and guided now by the example which I had
once overlooked or ridiculed, I resolved to associate myself as much as
possible, in Miss Mortimer's acts of devotion and of charity. I joined
in her family worship,--I visited her pensioners,--and industriously
assisted her in working for the poor; an employment to which she
punctually devoted part of her time. Little did I then suspect how much
the value of the same action was varied by our different motives. She
laboured to please a Father,--I to propitiate a hard Master. She was
humbly offering a token of gratitude,--I was poorly toiling for a hire.
It was now that I began to feel the effects of my former habits of life.
While my feelings were in a state of strong excitement, they held the
place of the stimulants to which I had been accustomed; and I should
have turned in disgust from the trivial interests which had formerly
engaged me. But whenever my mind settled into its more natural state, I
became sensible of a vacancy,--a wearisome craving for an undefined
something to rouse and interest me. The great truths indeed which I had
lately discovered, often supplied this want; and I had only to turn my
newly acquired powers of sight towards my own character to be awakened
into strong emotion. But compared with my new standards, my own heart
offered a prospect so little inviting, that I turned from it as often as
I dared; endeavouring to 'lay the flattering unction to my soul,' by
wilfully mistaking the resolution to be virtuous for virtue itself.
The activity of my mind had hitherto been so unhappily directed, that it
now revolted from every impulse, except such as was either pleasurable
or of overwhelming force. Besides, although nothing be more sublime than
a life of charity and self-denial in the abstract, nothing is less so in
the detail. I was unused to difficulty, and therefore submitted with
impatience to difficulties which my own inexperience rendered more
numerous. Poverty I had known only as she is exhibited in the graceful
draperies of tragedy and romance; therefore I met her real form in all
its squalor and loathsomeness, with more, I fear, of disgust than of
pity. My imaginary poor had all been innocent and grateful. Short
experience in realities corrected this belief; and when I found among
the real poor the vices common to mankind, added to those which
peculiarly belong to a state of dependence,--when I found them selfish,
proud, and sensual, as well as cunning and improvident,--I almost forgot
that alms were never meant as a tribute to the virtues of man; and that
it is absurd to pretend compassion for the bodily necessities of our
fellow-creature, while we exercise none towards the more deplorable
wants of his mind. Not knowing, however, what spirit I was of, I called
my impatience of their defects a virtuous indignation; and witnessed,
with something like resentment, the moderation of Miss Mortimer, who
always viewed mental debasement as others do bodily decrepitude, with an
averseness which inclined her to withdraw her eye, but with a pity which
stretched forth her hand to help. Yet when I beheld the ignorance, the
miseries, the crimes of beings in whom I had now, in some degree, learnt
to reverence the character of immortality, how did I lament, that, with
respect to them, I had hitherto lived in vain! How did I reproach
myself, that, while thousands of sensitive and accountable creatures
were daily within the sphere of my influence, that influence had served
only to deepen, with additional shades, the blackness of human misery
and of human guilt.
Accident served to heighten this self-upbraiding. One day when Miss
Mortimer, with the assistance of my arm, was walking round her garden,
she observed a meagre, barefooted little girl; who, reaching her sallow
hand through the bars of the wicket, asked alms in a strong Caledonian
accent. My friend, who never dismissed any supplicant unheard, patiently
enquired into a tale which was rendered almost unintelligible by the
uncouth dialect and national bashfulness of the narrator. All that we
could understand from the child was, that she was starving, because her
father was ill, and her mother prevented from working, by attendance
upon an infant who was dying of the small-pox. Miss Mortimer, who always
conscientiously endeavoured to ascertain that the alms which she
subtracted from her own humble comforts were not squandered in
profligacy, accepted of my offer to examine into the truth of this
story; and I accompanied the child to the abode of her parents.
After the longest walk which I had ever taken, my conductress ushered me
into a low dark apartment in the meanest part of Greenwich. Till my eye
was accommodated to the obscurity, I could very imperfectly distinguish
the objects which surrounded me; and, for some minutes after leaving
the gladdening air of heaven, I could scarcely breathe the vapour
stagnant in the abode of disease and wretchedness. The little light
which entered through a window half filled with boards fell upon a
miserable pallet, where lay the emaciated figure of a man; his face
ghastly wan, till the exertion of a hollow cough flushed it with
unnatural red; and his eye glittering with the melancholy brightness
which indicates hopeless consumption.
Upon a low stool, close by the expiring embers, sat a woman, vainly
trying to still the hoarse cry of an infant. On my entrance, she started
up to offer me the only seat which her apartment contained; and the poor
Scotchman, with national courtesy to a superior, would have risen to
receive me,--but he was unable to move without help. His wife, that she
might be at liberty to assist him, called upon the little girl to take
charge of her brother. Startled at seeing an infant committed to such
care, I thoughtlessly offered my services; and held out my arms for the
child. The mother, evidently pleased with what she seemed to regard as
condescension, and not aware that the being whom she was fondly
caressing could be an object of disgust to others, held the child
towards me; but at the first glance I recoiled, with an exclamation of
horror, from a creature who scarcely retained a trace of human likeness.
That dreadful plague, which the most fortunate of discoveries now
promises to banish from the earth, had disguised, or rather concealed,
every feature; and, deprived of light, of nourishment, and rest, the
sufferer scarcely retained the power to express its misery in a hoarse
and smothered wailing. The poor woman, sensibly hurt by my expression of
disgust, shed tears, while she reminded me of the evanescent nature of
beauty, and enumerated all the charms of which a few days had deprived
her boy. I had wounded where I came to heal; and all my address could
scarcely atone for an error, that increased the difficulties which my
errand already found in the decent reserve of spirits unsubdued to
beggary, and in a dialect which I could very imperfectly comprehend.
What I at length learnt of the story of these poor people may be told in
a few words; the man was a gardener, who had been allured from his
country by the demand in England for Scotchmen of his trade. Unable to
procure immediate employment, he and his family had suffered much
difficulty; till, encouraged by the name of a countryman, they had
applied to Mr Maitland. By his interest, the man had obtained the
situation of under-gardener in Mr Percy's villa at Richmond.
I started at the name of my father, but having been often deceived, I
was become cautious; and, without betraying myself, asked whether they
had ever seen Miss Percy. The woman answered that they had not; having
entered on their service the same day that their master's family removed
to town. The evil influence of Miss Percy, however, had blasted all
their hopes and comforts. She had given peremptory orders that some
delicate exotics should be forced into flower to adorn an entertainment.
Poor Campbell, deputed to take care of them, watched them all night in
the hot-house; then walked two miles to his lodging through a thick
drift of snow; breathed ever afterwards with pain; struggled against
disease; wrought hard in the sharp mornings and chilly evenings of
spring; and, when my father could no longer repay his services, was
dismissed to die, unheeded by a mistress equally selfish in the
indulgence of her sorrow as in the thoughtlessness of her prosperity.
As I listened to this tale, I found it confirmed by circumstances which
admitted not of doubt. While I looked on the death-struck figure of
poor Campbell, saw the misery that surrounded me, and felt that it was
_my_ work, my situation was more pitiable than that of any mortal,
except him who can see that he has done irreparable injury, yet see it
without a pang. When I recovered utterance, I enquired whether Campbell
had any medical assistance?--a needless question; he had not wherewith
to purchase food, much less medicine.--'But if I were once able,
madam,' said he, 'to earn what would be our passage home, I should soon
be well,--the air in Scotland is so pure, and breathes so
pleasantly!'--'You shall get home, cost what it will,' cried I, and
instantly delivered the whole contents of my purse; without considering
that it could scarcely be called mine, and that it could be replenished
only from the scanty store of her whose generosity would fain, if
possible, have made me forget that I was no longer the rich Miss Percy.
Ignorant as I was of Greenwich and its inhabitants, I next undertook to
find medical advice. By enquiring at a shop, I obtained the address of a
Mr Sidney, to whom I immediately repaired. He was a young man of a very
prepossessing appearance, tall and handsome enough for a hero of
romance. Will it be believed that, in spite of the humbling sense of
guilt which in that hour was strong upon me, my besetting weakness made
me observe with pleasure the surprise and admiration with which my
appearance seemed to fill this stranger? But vanity, though powerful in
me, was no longer unresisted. I pulled my bonnet over my face; nor once
again looked up while I conducted Sidney to the abode of his new
patient.
I cannot express the horror which I felt, when, after examining the
situation of the poor man, Sidney informed me, in a whisper, that no aid
could save his life. I turned faint; and, to save myself from sinking to
the ground, retreated to the door for air. At that moment, I overheard
Sidney ask, 'Who is that angel?' and the term, applied to one who was
little less than a murderer, sharpened the stab of conscience. I hastily
turned to proclaim my name, and submit myself to the execrations of this
injured family; but I wanted courage for the confession, and the words
died upon my lips.
The disfigured infant next engaged Sidney's attention. He discovered
that the mother had, according to what I have since found to be the
custom of her country, aggravated the dreadful disease, by loading her
unhappy child with all the clothes she could command, and carefully
defending him from the fresh air. She had even deprived herself of food,
that she might procure ardent spirits, which she compelled the hapless
being to swallow; to drive, as she expressed it, 'the small-pox from his
heart.' Yet this poor woman, so ignorant of the treatment of the most
common disorder, possessed, as I afterwards found, a knowledge of the
principles of religion, and an acquaintance with the scope of its
doctrines and precepts, which, at that time, appeared to me very
wonderful in a person of her rank. They are, however, less surprising to
me since I became a denizen of Scotland.
But to close a tale, on which its strong impression on my mind has
perhaps made me dwell too long, the boy, by means of better treatment,
recovered; his father's disease was beyond the reach of human skill. One
day, while I was in the act of holding a cordial to his lips, he fell
back; and, with a momentary struggle, expired. The little ingenious
works which I had been taught at school, were, for the first time,
employed by me to a useful purpose, when his widow and children were
enabled, by the sale of them, to procure a passage to Scotland.
I cannot express the effect which this incident had upon my mind. A new
load of guilt seemed to oppress me. I perceived that actions and habits
might have tendencies unsuspected by the agent; that the influence of a
fault,--venial, perhaps, in the eyes of the transgressor,--might reach
the character and fate of those who are not within the compass of his
thoughts; and, therefore, that the real evil of sin could be known only
to Him, by whom effects which as yet exist not are traced through their
eternal course. Thus a fearful addition of 'secret sins' was made to all
those with which conscience could distinctly charge me; and my
examinations of my past conduct were like the descent into a dismal
cavern, where every step discloses some terrifying sight, and all that
is imperfectly distinguished in the gloom is imagined to be still more
appalling.
It is true, I had resolved upon a better course of life; but my
resolutions were very partially kept; nor, had it been otherwise, could
present submission atone for past disobedience. Even my best actions,
when weighed in the right balance, were 'found wanting,' and rather in
need of forgiveness than deserving of reward. My best efforts seemed but
the sacrifice of the ignorant Indian, who vows to his god an ingot of
gold, and then gilds a worthless offering to defraud him. Nor had they,
in truth, one vestige of real worth, void as they still were of that
which gives a value to things of small account. It is the fire from
heaven which distinguishes the acceptable sacrifice.
Who that had seen me under the depression which these convictions
occasioned could have imagined that I had entered on 'ways of
pleasantness,' and 'paths of peace?' Anxious and fearful,--seeking rest,
and finding none, because remaining pride prevented me from seeking it
where alone it was to be found,--I struggled hard to escape the
convictions which were forced upon my conscience. I opposed to the
truths of religion a hundred objections which had never before occurred
to me, only because the subject was new to my thoughts; and I
recollected an infinity of the silly jests, and ridiculous associations,
by which unhappy sinners try to hide from themselves the dignity of that
which they are predetermined to despise. I remember, with amazement,
Miss Mortimer's patience in replying to the oft-refuted objection;
oft-refuted, I say, because I am certain that far more ingenuity than I
can boast would be necessary to invent, upon this subject, a cavil which
has not been answered again and again. Far from desiring me, however, to
rely upon her authority, she recommended to me such books as she thought
likely to secure my rational assent to the truth; carefully reminding
me, at the same time, that they could do no more, and that mere rational
assent fell far short of that faith to which such mighty effects are
ascribed. The direct means of obtaining a gift, she said, was to ask it;
and faith she considered as a gift.
'To what purpose,' said I to her one day, after I had laboured through
Butler's Analogy, and Macknight's Truth of the Gospel History,--'to what
purpose should I perplex myself with these books, when you own that some
of the best Christians you have ever known were persons who had never
thought of reasoning upon the evidences of their faith?'--'Because, my
dear,' answered Miss Mortimer, 'the exercise of your highest natural
faculties upon your religion is calculated to fix it in your mind, and
endear it to your affections. It is true, that piety as pure and as
efficient as any I ever knew, I have witnessed in persons who had no
leisure, and perhaps no capacity for reasoning themselves into a
conviction of the historical truth of Christianity. The author of faith
is not bound to any particular method of bestowing his gift. He may, and
I believe often does, compensate for the means which he withholds; but
this gives no ground to suppose that he will make up for those which we
neglect.'
Through Miss Mortimer's persuasion, I steadily persevered in this line
of study; and, if my understanding possesses any degree of soundness or
vigour, it is to be attributed to this discipline. My education, if the
word signify learning what is afterwards to be useful, was now properly
beginning; and every day added something to my very slender stock of
information. My friend, who was herself no mean proficient in general
literature, encouraged me to devote many of my leisure hours to books of
instruction and harmless entertainment; and our evenings were commonly
enlivened by reading history, travels, or criticism.
Leisure, like other treasures, is best husbanded when it is least
abundant; and it was no longer entirely at my command. I still retained
enough of the spirit of Ellen Percy, to hold dependence in rather more
than Christian scorn,--yet to be ashamed of openly contributing to my
own subsistence. In how many shapes does our ruling passion assail us!
If we resist it in the form of vice, it will even put on the semblance
of virtue. I firmly believed at that time, that a virtuous motive alone
induced me to escape, by means of my own labour, from all necessity for
applying to the funds of Miss Mortimer; and I forgot to enquire into the
reason why my work was always privately done, and privately disposed of.
The manufacture of a variety of ingenious trifles now become useful by
ministering to my own wants and those of others,--the share I took in
Miss Mortimer's charitable employments,--hours of devotion and serious
study, reading, and often writing abstracts of what I read,--left no
portion of my time for weariness. But had I been deprived of all bodily
employment, the very condition of my mind precluded ennui. I was full of
one concern of overwhelming importance. At one time, the truth shone
upon me, gladdening me to rapture with its brightness; at another, error
darkened my sinking soul, and I was eager in my search for light. Alas!
our infirmity loads with many a cloud the dawning even of that true
light which 'shineth more and more unto the perfect day.' The natural
warmth of my temper, and my long-confirmed habit of yielding to all its
impulses, often hurried me into little superstitious austerities,
needless scruples, and vehement disputes, which, had they been exposed
to common eyes, would have drawn upon me the derision of some, and the
suspicion of others; but fortunately Miss Mortimer had few visiters, and
my foibles were little seen, except by one who could discover errors in
religious judgment, without imputing them either to fanaticism or
hypocrisy.
My altercations, for discourse in which passion is permitted to mingle
cannot deserve the name of argument, were chiefly carried on with
Sidney; who, from the time of his assistance to the Campbells, had
become a frequent guest at Miss Mortimer's. His dispositions were
amiable, his character unblemished; but his opinions upon some lesser
points of doctrine differed widely from mine. This he happened one day
accidentally to betray; and I, with the rashness which inclines us to
fancy all lately-discovered truths to be of equal importance, combated
what I considered as his fatal heresy. Sidney, with great good-humour,
rather excited me to speak; perhaps for the same reason as he taught his
dog to quarrel with him for his glove.
Miss Mortimer never took part in our disputations, not even by a look.
'How can you,' said I to her one day, when he had just left us, 'suffer
such opinions to be advanced without contradiction?'
'I am afraid of losing my temper,' answered she with an arch smile; 'and
that I am sure is forbidden in terms more explicit than Mr Sidney's
heresy.'
'And would you have me,' cried I, instantly sensible of the implied
reproof, 'seem to approve what I know to be false?'
'No, my dear,' returned Miss Mortimer; 'but perhaps you might disapprove
without disputing; and I think it is not obscurely hinted by the highest
authority, that the modest example of a Christian woman is likely to be
more convincing than her arguments. Besides, though we are most zealous
in our new opinions, we are most steady in our old ones; therefore I
believe, that, upon consideration, you will see it best to ensure your
steadiness for the present, and to husband your zeal for a time when it
will be more likely to fail.'
When I was cool, I perceived that my friend was in the right; and, by a
strong effort, I thenceforth forbore my disputes with Sidney; to which
forbearance it probably was owing, that he soon after became my declared
admirer.