From my own Apartment, October 17.
After the mind has been employed on contemplations suitable to its
greatness, it is unnatural to run into sudden mirth or levity; but
we must let the soul subside, as it rose, by proper degrees. My late
considerations of the ancient heroes impressed a certain gravity upon my
mind, which is much above the little gratification received from starts
of humour and fancy, and threw me into a pleasing sadness. In this state
of thought I have been looking at the fire, and in a pensive manner
reflecting upon the great misfortunes and calamities incident to human
life, among which there are none that touch so sensibly as those which
befall persons who eminently love, and meet with fatal interruptions
of their happiness when they least expect it. The piety of children to
parents, and the affection of parents to their children, are the effects
of instinct; but the affection between lovers and friends is founded
on reason and choice, which has always made me think the sorrows of
the latter much more to be pitied than those of the former. The
contemplation of distresses of this sort softens the mind of man, and
makes the heart better. It extinguishes the seeds of envy and ill-will
towards mankind, corrects the pride of prosperity, and beats down all
that fierceness and insolence which are apt to get into the minds of the
daring and fortunate.
For this reason the wise Athenians, in their theatrical performances,
laid before the eyes of the people the greatest afflictions which
could befall human life, and insensibly polished their tempers by
such representations. Among the moderns, indeed, there has arisen a
chimerical method of disposing the fortune of the persons represented,
according to what they call poetical justice; and letting none be
unhappy but those who deserve it. In such cases, an intelligent
spectator, if he is concerned, knows he ought not to be so, and can
learn nothing from such a tenderness, but that he is a weak creature,
whose passions cannot follow the dictates of his understanding. It is
very natural, when one is got into such a way of thinking, to recollect
these examples of sorrow which have made the strongest impression upon
our imaginations. An instance or two of such you will give me leave to
communicate.
A young gentleman and lady of ancient and honourable houses in Cornwall
had from their childhood entertained for each other a generous and noble
passion, which had been long opposed by their friends, by reason of the
inequality of their fortunes; but their constancy to each other, and
obedience to those on whom they depended, wrought so much upon their
relations, that these celebrated lovers were at length joined in
marriage. Soon after their nuptials the bridegroom was obliged to go
into a foreign country, to take care of a considerable fortune, which
was left him by a relation, and came very opportunely to improve their
moderate circumstances. They received the congratulations of all the
country on this occasion; and I remember it was a common sentence in
everyone's mouth, "You see how faithful love is rewarded."
He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home every post fresh accounts
of his success in his affairs abroad; but at last, though he designed
to return with the next ship, he lamented in his letters that "business
would detain him some time longer from home," because he would give
himself the pleasure of an unexpected arrival.
The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every evening on the
sea-shore, near which she lived, with a familiar friend, her husband's
kinswoman, and diverted herself with what objects they met there, or
upon discourses of the future methods of life, in the happy change of
their circumstances. They stood one evening on the shore together in a
perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of the sun, the calm face
of the deep, and the silent heaving of the waves, which gently rolled
towards them, and broke at their feet, when at a distance her kinswoman
saw something float on the waters, which she fancied was a chest, and
with a smile told her, "she saw it first, and if it came ashore full of
jewels she had a right to it." They both fixed their eyes upon it, and
entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck, the cousin still
asserting her right, but promising, "if it was a prize, to give her a
very rich coral for the child which she was then expecting, provided she
might be godmother." Their mirth soon abated when they observed upon
the nearer approach that it was a human body. The young lady, who had
a heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many melancholy
reflections on the occasion. "Who knows," said she, "but this man may
be the only hope and heir of a wealthy house; the darling of indulgent
parents, who are now in impertinent mirth, and pleasing themselves with
the thoughts of offering him a bride they had got ready for him? or,
may not he be the master of a family that wholly depended upon his life?
There may, for aught we know, be half-a-dozen fatherless children and a
tender wife, now exposed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he
have promised himself in the different welcome he was to have from her
and them! But let us go away; it is a dreadful sight! The best office we
can do is to take care that the poor man, whoever he is, may be decently
buried." She turned away, when the wave threw the carcass on the shore.
The kinswoman immediately shrieked out, "Oh, my cousin!" and fell upon
the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her friend, when she saw her
own husband at her feet, and dropped in a swoon upon the body. An old
woman, who had been the gentleman's nurse, came out about this time to
call the ladies in to supper, and found her child, as she always called
him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman both lying dead by
him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her young master to life, soon
awaked the friend from her trance, but the wife was gone for ever.
When the family and neighbourhood got together round the bodies, no one
asked any question, but the objects before them told the story.
Incidents of this nature are the more moving when they are drawn by
persons concerned in the catastrophe, notwithstanding they are often
oppressed beyond the power of giving them in a distinct light, except we
gather their sorrow from their inability to speak it.
I have two original letters, written both on the same day, which are
to me exquisite in their different kinds. The occasion was this. A
gentleman who had courted a most agreeable young woman, and won her
heart, obtained also the consent of her father, to whom she was an only
child. The old man had a fancy that they should be married in the same
church where he himself was, in a village in Westmoreland, and made them
set out while he was laid up with the gout at London. The bridegroom
took only his man, the bride her maid: they had the most agreeable
journey imaginable to the place of marriage, from whence the bridegroom
writ the following letter to his wife's father:--
"Sir,
"After a very pleasant journey hither, we are preparing for the happy
hour in which I am to be your son. I assure you the bride carries it, in
the eye of the vicar who married you, much beyond her mother though he
says your open sleeves, pantaloons, and shoulder-knot made a much better
show than the finical dress I am in. However, I am contented to be the
second fine man this village ever saw, and shall make it very merry
before night, because I shall write myself from thence,
"Your most dutiful son,
"T. D.
"March 18, 1672.
"The bride gives her duty, and is as handsome as an angel. I am the
happiest man breathing."
The villagers were assembling about the church, and the happy couple
took a walk in a private garden. The bridegroom's man knew his master
would leave the place on a sudden after the wedding, and seeing him
draw his pistols the night before, took this opportunity to go into his
chamber and charge them. Upon their return from the garden, they went
into that room, and, after a little fond raillery on the subject of
their courtship, the lover took up a pistol, which he knew he had
unloaded the night before, and, presenting it to her, said, with the
most graceful air, whilst she looked pleased at his agreeable flattery,
"Now, madam, repent of all those cruelties you have been guilty of to
me; consider, before you die, how often you have made a poor wretch
freeze under your casement; you shall die, you tyrant, you shall die,
with all those instruments of death and destruction about you, with that
enchanting smile, those killing ringlets of your hair--" "Give fire!"
said she, laughing. He did so, and shot her dead. Who can speak his
condition? but he bore it so patiently as to call up his man. The poor
wretch entered, and his master locked the door upon him. "Will," said
he, "did you charge these pistols?" He answered, "Yes." Upon which, he
shot him dead with that remaining. After this, amidst a thousand broken
sobs, piercing groans, and distracted motions, he writ the following
letter to the father of his dead mistress:--
"Sir,
"I, who two hours ago told you truly I was the happiest man alive am
now the most miserable. Your daughter lies dead at my feet, killed by my
hand, through a mistake of my man's charging my pistols unknown to me.
Him I have murdered for it. Such is my wedding day. I will immediately
follow my wife to her grave, but before I throw myself upon my sword, I
command my distraction so far as to explain my story to you. I fear my
heart will not keep together till I have stabbed it. Poor good old man!
Remember, he that killed your daughter died for it. In the article of
death, I give you my thanks and pray for you, though I dare not for
myself. If it be possible, do not curse me."