CAVE OF FANCY.
CHAP. I.
Ye who expect conſtancy where every thing is changing, and peace in the midſt of tumult, attend to the voice of experience, and mark in time the footſteps of diſappointment, or life will be loſt in deſultory wiſhes, and death arrive before the dawn of wiſdom.
In a ſequeſtered valley, ſurrounded by rocky mountains that intercepted many of the paſſing clouds, though ſunbeams variegated their ample ſides, lived a ſage, to whom nature had unlocked her moſt hidden ſecrets. His hollow eyes, ſunk in their orbits, retired from the view of vulgar objects, and turned inwards, overleaped the boundary preſcribed to human knowledge. Intenſe thinking during fourſcore and ten years, had whitened the ſcattered locks on his head, which, like the ſummit of the diſtant mountain, appeared to be bound by an eternal froſt.
On the ſandy waſte behind the mountains, the track of ferocious beaſts might be traced, and ſometimes the mangled limbs which they left, attracted a hovering flight of birds of prey. An extenſive wood the ſage had forced to rear its head in a ſoil by no means congenial, and the firm trunks of the trees ſeemed to frown with defiance on time; though the ſpoils of innumerable ſummers covered the roots, which reſembled fangs; ſo cloſely did they cling to the unfriendly ſand, where ſerpents hiſſed, and ſnakes, rolling out their vaſt folds, inhaled the noxious vapours. The ravens and owls who inhabited the ſolitude, gave alſo a thicker gloom to the everlaſting twilight, and the croaking of the former a monotony, in uniſon with the gloom; whilſt lions and tygers, ſhunning even this faint ſemblance of day, ſought the dark caverns, and at night, when they ſhook off ſleep, their roaring would make the whole valley reſound, confounded with the ſcreechings of the bird of night.
One mountain roſe ſublime, towering above all, on the craggy ſides of which a few ſea-weeds grew, waſhed by the ocean, that with tumultuous roar ruſhed to aſſault, and even undermine, the huge barrier that ſtopped its progreſs; and ever and anon a ponderous maſs, looſened from the cliff, to which it ſcarcely ſeemed to adhere, always threatening to fall, fell into the flood, rebounding as it fell, and the ſound was re-echoed from rock to rock. Look where you would, all was without form, as if nature, ſuddenly ſtopping her hand, had left chaos a retreat.
Cloſe to the moſt remote ſide of it was the ſage's abode. It was a rude hut, formed of ſtumps of trees and matted twigs, to ſecure him from the inclemency of the weather; only through ſmall apertures croſſed with ruſhes, the wind entered in wild murmurs, modulated by theſe obſtructions. A clear ſpring broke out of the middle of the adjacent rock, which, dropping ſlowly into a cavity it had hollowed, ſoon overflowed, and then ran, ſtruggling to free itſelf from the cumbrous fragments, till, become a deep, ſilent ſtream, it eſcaped through reeds, and roots of trees, whoſe blaſted tops overhung and darkened the current.
One ſide of the hut was ſupported by the rock, and at midnight, when the ſage ſtruck the incloſed part, it yawned wide, and admitted him into a cavern in the very bowels of the earth, where never human foot before had trod; and the various ſpirits, which inhabit the different regions of nature, were here obedient to his potent word. The cavern had been formed by the great inundation of waters, when the approach of a comet forced them from their ſource; then, when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, a ſtream ruſhed out of the centre of the earth, where the ſpirits, who have lived on it, are confined to purify themſelves from the droſs contracted in their firſt ſtage of exiſtence; and it flowed in black waves, for ever bubbling along the cave, the extent of which had never been explored. From the ſides and top, water diſtilled, and, petrifying as it fell, took fantaſtic ſhapes, that ſoon divided it into apartments, if ſo they might be called. In the foam, a wearied ſpirit would ſometimes riſe, to catch the moſt diſtant glimpſe of light, or taſte the vagrant breeze, which the yawning of the rock admitted, when Sageſtus, for that was the name of the hoary ſage, entered. Some, who were refined and almoſt cleared from vicious ſpots, he would allow to leave, for a limited time, their dark priſon-houſe; and, flying on the winds acroſs the bleak northern ocean, or riſing in an exhalation till they reached a ſun-beam, they thus re-viſited the haunts of men. Theſe were the guardian angels, who in ſoft whiſpers reſtrain the vicious, and animate the wavering wretch who ſtands ſuſpended between virtue and vice.
Sageſtus had ſpent a night in the cavern, as he often did, and he left the ſilent veſtibule of the grave, juſt as the ſun, emerging from the ocean, diſperſed the clouds, which were not half ſo denſe as thoſe he had left. All that was human in him rejoiced at the ſight of reviving life, and he viewed with pleaſure the mounting ſap riſing to expand the herbs, which grew ſpontaneouſly in this wild—when, turning his eyes towards the ſea, he found that death had been at work during his abſence, and terrific marks of a furious ſtorm ſtill ſpread horror around. Though the day was ſerene, and threw bright rays on eyes for ever ſhut, it dawned not for the wretches who hung pendent on the craggy rocks, or were ſtretched lifeleſs on the ſand. Some, ſtruggling, had dug themſelves a grave; others had reſigned their breath before the impetuous ſurge whirled them on ſhore. A few, in whom the vital ſpark was not ſo ſoon diſlodged, had clung to looſe fragments; it was the graſp of death; embracing the ſtone, they ſtiffened; and the head, no longer erect, reſted on the maſs which the arms encircled. It felt not the agonizing gripe, nor heard the ſigh that broke the heart in twain.
Reſting his chin on an oaken club, the ſage looked on every ſide, to ſee if he could diſcern any who yet breathed. He drew nearer, and thought he ſaw, at the firſt glance, the uncloſed eyes glare; but ſoon perceived that they were a mere glaſſy ſubſtance, mute as the tongue; the jaws were fallen, and, in ſome of the tangled locks, hands were clinched; nay, even the nails had entered ſharpened by deſpair. The blood flew rapidly to his heart; it was fleſh; he felt he was ſtill a man, and the big tear paced down his iron cheeks, whoſe muſcles had not for a long time been relaxed by ſuch humane emotions. A moment he breathed quick, then heaved a ſigh, and his wonted calm returned with an unaccuſtomed glow of tenderneſs; for the ways of heaven were not hid from him; he lifted up his eyes to the common Father of nature, and all was as ſtill in his boſom, as the ſmooth deep, after having cloſed over the huge veſſel from which the wretches had fled.
Turning round a part of the rock that jutted out, meditating on the ways of Providence, a weak infantine voice reached his ears; it was liſping out the name of mother. He looked, and beheld a blooming child leaning over, and kiſſing with eager fondneſs, lips that were inſenſible to the warm preſſure. Starting at the ſight of the ſage, ſhe fixed her eyes on him, "Wake her, ah! wake her," ſhe cried, "or the ſea will catch us." Again he felt compaſſion, for he ſaw that the mother ſlept the ſleep of death. He ſtretched out his hand, and, ſmoothing his brow, invited her to approach; but ſhe ſtill intreated him to wake her mother, whom ſhe continued to call, with an impatient tremulous voice. To detach her from the body by perſuaſion would not have been very eaſy. Sageſtus had a quicker method to effect his purpoſe; he took out a box which contained a ſoporific powder, and as ſoon as the fumes reached her brain, the powers of life were ſuſpended.
He carried her directly to his hut, and left her ſleeping profoundly on his ruſhy couch.
CHAP. II.
Again Sageſtus approached the dead, to view them with a more ſcrutinizing eye. He was perfectly acquainted with the conſtruction of the human body, knew the traces that virtue or vice leaves on the whole frame; they were now indelibly fixed by death; nay more, he knew by the ſhape of the ſolid ſtructure, how far the ſpirit could range, and ſaw the barrier beyond which it could not paſs: the mazes of fancy he explored, meaſured the ſtretch of thought, and, weighing all in an even balance, could tell whom nature had ſtamped an hero, a poet, or philoſopher.
By their appearance, at a tranſient glance, he knew that the veſſel muſt have contained many paſſengers, and that ſome of them were above the vulgar, with reſpect to fortune and education; he then walked leiſurely among the dead, and narrowly obſerved their pallid features.
His eye firſt reſted on a form in which proportion reigned, and, ſtroking back the hair, a ſpacious forehead met his view; warm fancy had revelled there, and her airy dance had left veſtiges, ſcarcely viſible to a mortal eye. Some perpendicular lines pointed out that melancholy had predominated in his conſtitution; yet the ſtraggling hairs of his eye-brows ſhowed that anger had often ſhook his frame; indeed, the four temperatures, like the four elements, had reſided in this little world, and produced harmony. The whole viſage was bony, and an energetic frown had knit the flexible ſkin of his brow; the kingdom within had been extenſive; and the wild creations of fancy had there "a local habitation and a name." So exquiſite was his ſenſibility, ſo quick his comprehenſion, that he perceived various combinations in an inſtant; he caught truth as ſhe darted towards him, ſaw all her fair proportion at a glance, and the flaſh of his eye ſpoke the quick ſenſes which conveyed intelligence to his mind; the ſenſorium indeed was capacious, and the ſage imagined he ſaw the lucid beam, ſparkling with love or ambition, in characters of fire, which a graceful curve of the upper eyelid ſhaded. The lips were a little deranged by contempt; and a mixture of vanity and ſelf-complacency formed a few irregular lines round them. The chin had ſuffered from ſenſuality, yet there were ſtill great marks of vigour in it, as if advanced with ſtern dignity. The hand accuſtomed to command, and even tyrannize, was unnerved; but its appearance convinced Sageſtus, that he had oftener wielded a thought than a weapon; and that he had ſilenced, by irreſiſtible conviction, the ſuperficial diſputant, and the being, who doubted becauſe he had not ſtrength to believe, who, wavering between different borrowed opinions, firſt caught at one ſtraw, then at another, unable to ſettle into any conſiſtency of character. After gazing a few moments, Sageſtus turned away exclaiming, How are the ſtately oaks torn up by a tempeſt, and the bow unſtrung, that could force the arrow beyond the ken of the eye!
What a different face next met his view! The forehead was ſhort, yet well ſet together; the noſe ſmall, but a little turned up at the end; and a draw-down at the ſides of his mouth, proved that he had been a humouriſt, who minded the main chance, and could joke with his acquaintance, while he eagerly devoured a dainty which he was not to pay for. His lips ſhut like a box whoſe hinges had often been mended; and the muſcles, which diſplay the ſoft emotion of the heart on the cheeks, were grown quite rigid, ſo that, the veſſels that ſhould have moiſtened them not having much communication with the grand ſource of paſſions, the fine volatile fluid had evaporated, and they became mere dry fibres, which might be pulled by any miſfortune that threatened himſelf, but were not ſufficiently elaſtic to be moved by the miſeries of others. His joints were inſerted compactly, and with celerity they had performed all the animal functions, without any of the grace which reſults from the imagination mixing with the ſenſes.
A huge form was ſtretched near him, that exhibited marks of overgrown infancy; every part was relaxed; all appeared imperfect. Yet, ſome undulating lines on the puffed-out cheeks, diſplayed ſigns of timid, ſervile good nature; and the ſkin of the forehead had been ſo often drawn up by wonder, that the few hairs of the eyebrows were fixed in a ſharp arch, whilſt an ample chin reſted in lobes of fleſh on his protuberant breaſt.
By his ſide was a body that had ſcarcely ever much life in it—ſympathy ſeemed to have drawn them together—every feature and limb was round and fleſhy, and, if a kind of brutal cunning had not marked the face, it might have been miſtaken for an automaton, ſo unmixed was the phlegmatic fluid. The vital ſpark was buried deep in a ſoft maſs of matter, reſembling the pith in young elder, which, when found, is ſo equivocal, that it only appears a moiſter part of the ſame body.
Another part of the beach was covered with ſailors, whoſe bodies exhibited marks of ſtrength and brutal courage.—Their characters were all different, though of the ſame claſs; Sageſtus did not ſtay to diſcriminate them, ſatiſfied with a rough ſketch. He ſaw indolence rouſed by a love of humour, or rather bodily fun; ſenſuality and prodigality with a vein of generoſity running through it; a contempt of danger with groſs ſuperſtition; ſupine ſenſes, only to be kept alive by noiſy, tumultuous pleaſures, or that kind of novelty which borders on abſurdity: this formed the common outline, and the reſt were rather dabs than ſhades.
Sageſtus pauſed, and remembered it had been ſaid by an earthly wit, that "many a flower is born to bluſh unſeen, and waſte its ſweetneſs on the deſart air." How little, he exclaimed, did that poet know of the ways of heaven! And yet, in this reſpect, they are direct; the hands before me, were deſigned to pull a rope, knock down a ſheep, or perform the ſervile offices of life; no "mute, inglorious poet" reſts amongſt them, and he who is ſuperior to his fellow, does not riſe above mediocrity. The genius that ſprouts from a dunghil ſoon ſhakes off the heterogenous maſs; thoſe only grovel, who have not power to fly.
He turned his ſtep towards the mother of the orphan: another female was at ſome diſtance; and a man who, by his garb, might have been the huſband, or brother, of the former, was not far off.
Him the ſage ſurveyed with an attentive eye, and bowed with reſpect to the inanimate clay, that lately had been the dwelling of a moſt benevolent ſpirit. The head was ſquare, though the features were not very prominent; but there was a great harmony in every part, and the turn of the noſtrils and lips evinced, that the ſoul muſt have had taſte, to which they had ſerved as organs. Penetration and judgment were ſeated on the brows that overhung the eye. Fixed as it was, Sageſtus quickly diſcerned the expreſſion it muſt have had; dark and penſive, rather from ſlowneſs of comprehenſion than melancholy, it ſeemed to abſorb the light of knowledge, to drink it in ray by ray; nay, a new one was not allowed to enter his head till the laſt was arranged: an opinion was thus cautiouſly received, and maturely weighed, before it was added to the general ſtock. As nature led him to mount from a part to the whole, he was moſt converſant with the beautiful, and rarely comprehended the ſublime; yet, ſaid Sageſtus, with a ſoftened tone, he was all heart, full of forbearance, and deſirous to pleaſe every fellow-creature; but from a nobler motive than a love of admiration; the fumes of vanity never mounted to cloud his brain, or tarniſh his beneficence. The fluid in which thoſe placid eyes ſwam, is now congealed; how often has tenderneſs given them the fineſt water! Some torn parts of the child's dreſs hung round his arm, which led the ſage to conclude, that he had ſaved the child; every line in his face confirmed the conjecture; benevolence indeed ſtrung the nerves that naturally were not very firm; it was the great knot that tied together the ſcattered qualities, and gave the diſtinct ſtamp to the character.
The female whom he next approached, and ſuppoſed to be an attendant on the other, was below the middle ſize, and her legs were ſo diſproportionably ſhort, that, when ſhe moved, ſhe muſt have waddled along; her elbows were drawn in to touch her long taper, waiſt, and the air of her whole body was an affectation of gentility. Death could not alter the rigid hang of her limbs, or efface the ſimper that had ſtretched her mouth; the lips were thin, as if nature intended ſhe ſhould mince her words; her noſe was ſmall, and ſharp at the end; and the forehead, unmarked by eyebrows, was wrinkled by the diſcontent that had ſunk her cheeks, on which Sageſtus ſtill diſcerned faint traces of tenderneſs; and fierce good-nature, he perceived had ſometimes animated the little ſpark of an eye that anger had oftener lighted. The ſame thought occurred to him that the ſight of the ſailors had ſuggeſted, Men and women are all in their proper places—this female was intended to fold up linen and nurſe the ſick.
Anxious to obſerve the mother of his charge, he turned to the lily that had been ſo rudely ſnapped, and, carefully obſerving it, traced every fine line to its ſource. There was a delicacy in her form, ſo truly feminine, that an involuntary deſire to cheriſh ſuch a being, made the ſage again feel the almoſt forgotten ſenſations of his nature. On obſerving her more cloſely, he diſcovered that her natural delicacy had been increaſed by an improper education, to a degree that took away all vigour from her faculties. And its baneful influence had had ſuch an effect on her mind, that few traces of the exertions of it appeared on her face, though the fine finiſh of her features, and particularly the form of the forehead, convinced the ſage that her underſtanding might have riſen conſiderably above mediocrity, had the wheels ever been put in motion; but, clogged by prejudices, they never turned quite round, and, whenever ſhe conſidered a ſubject, ſhe ſtopped before ſhe came to a concluſion. Aſſuming a maſk of propriety, ſhe had baniſhed nature; yet its tendency was only to be diverted, not ſtifled. Some lines, which took from the ſymmetry of the mouth, not very obvious to a ſuperficial obſerver, ſtruck Sageſtus, and they appeared to him characters of indolent obſtinacy. Not having courage to form an opinion of her own, ſhe adhered, with blind partiality, to thoſe ſhe adopted, which ſhe received in the lump, and, as they always remained unopened, of courſe ſhe only ſaw the even gloſs on the outſide. Veſtiges of anger were viſible on her brow, and the ſage concluded, that ſhe had often been offended with, and indeed would ſcarcely make any allowance for, thoſe who did not coincide with her in opinion, as things always appear ſelf-evident that have never been examined; yet her very weakneſs gave a charming timidity to her countenance; goodneſs and tenderneſs pervaded every lineament, and melted in her dark blue eyes. The compaſſion that wanted activity, was ſincere, though it only embelliſhed her face, or produced caſual acts of charity when a moderate alms could relieve preſent diſtreſs. Unacquainted with life, fictitious, unnatural diſtreſs drew the tears that were not ſhed for real miſery. In its own ſhape, human wretchedneſs excites a little diſguſt in the mind that has indulged ſickly refinement. Perhaps the ſage gave way to a little conjecture in drawing the laſt concluſion; but his conjectures generally aroſe from diſtinct ideas, and a dawn of light allowed him to ſee a great way farther than common mortals.
He was now convinced that the orphan was not very unfortunate in having loſt ſuch a mother. The parent that inſpires fond affection without reſpect, is ſeldom an uſeful one; and they only are reſpectable, who conſider right and wrong abſtracted from local forms and accidental modifications.
Determined to adopt the child, he named it after himſelf, Sageſta, and retired to the hut where the innocent ſlept, to think of the beſt method of educating this child, whom the angry deep had ſpared.
[The laſt branch of the education of Sageſta, conſiſted of a variety of characters and ſtories preſented to her in the Cave of Fancy, of which the following is a ſpecimen.]
CHAP.
A form now approached that particularly ſtruck and intereſted Sageſta. The ſage, obſerving what paſſed in her mind, bade her ever truſt to the firſt impreſſion. In life, he continued, try to remember the effect the firſt appearance of a ſtranger has on your mind; and, in proportion to your ſenſibility, you may decide on the character. Intelligence glances from eyes that have the ſame purſuits, and a benevolent heart ſoon traces the marks of benevolence on the countenance of an unknown fellow-creature; and not only the countenance, but the geſtures, the voice, loudly ſpeak truth to the unprejudiced mind.
Whenever a ſtranger advances towards you with a tripping ſtep, receives you with broad ſmiles, and a profuſion of compliments, and yet you find yourſelf embarraſſed and unable to return the ſalutation with equal cordiality, be aſſured that ſuch a perſon is affected, and endeavours to maintain a very good character in the eyes of the world, without really practiſing the ſocial virtues which dreſs the face in looks of unfeigned complacency. Kindred minds are drawn to each other by expreſſions which elude deſcription; and, like the calm breeze that plays on a ſmooth lake, they are rather felt than ſeen. Beware of a man who always appears in good humour; a ſelfiſh deſign too frequently lurks in the ſmiles the heart never curved; or there is an affectation of candour that deſtroys all ſtrength of character, by blending truth and falſhood into an unmeaning maſs. The mouth, in fact, ſeems to be the feature where you may trace every kind of diſſimulation, from the ſimper of vanity, to the fixed ſmile of the deſigning villain. Perhaps, the modulations of the voice will ſtill more quickly give a key to the character than even the turns of the mouth, or the words that iſſue from it; often do the tones of unpractiſed diſſemblers give the lie to their aſſertions. Many people never ſpeak in an unnatural voice, but when they are inſincere: the phraſes not correſponding with the dictates of the heart, have nothing to keep them in tune. In the courſe of an argument however, you may eaſily diſcover whether vanity or conviction ſtimulates the diſputant, though his inflated countenance may be turned from you, and you may not ſee the geſtures which mark ſelf-ſufficiency. He ſtopped, and the ſpirit began.
I have wandered through the cave; and, as ſoon as I have taught you a uſeful leſſon, I ſhall take my flight where my tears will ceaſe to flow, and where mine eyes will no more be ſhocked with the ſight of guilt and ſorrow. Before many moons have changed, thou wilt enter, O mortal! into that world I have lately left. Liſten to my warning voice, and truſt not too much to the goodneſs which I perceive reſides in thy breaſt. Let it be reined in by principles, leſt thy very virtue ſharpen the ſting of remorſe, which as naturally follows diſorder in the moral world, as pain attends on intemperance in the phyſical. But my hiſtory will afford you more inſtruction than mere advice. Sageſtus concurred in opinion with her, obſerving that the ſenſes of children ſhould be the firſt object of improvement; then their paſſions worked on; and judgment the fruit, muſt be the acquirement of the being itſelf, when out of leading-ſtrings. The ſpirit bowed aſſent, and, without any further prelude, entered on her hiſtory.
My mother was a moſt reſpectable character, but ſhe was yoked to a man whoſe follies and vices made her ever feel the weight of her chains. The firſt ſenſation I recollect, was pity; for I have ſeen her weep over me and the reſt of her babes, lamenting that the extravagance of a father would throw us deſtitute on the world. But, though my father was extravagant, and ſeldom thought of any thing but his own pleaſures, our education was not neglected. In ſolitude, this employment was my mother's only ſolace; and my father's pride made him procure us maſters; nay, ſometimes he was ſo gratified by our improvement, that he would embrace us with tenderneſs, and intreat my mother to forgive him, with marks of real contrition. But the affection his penitence gave riſe to, only ſerved to expoſe her to continual diſappointments, and keep hope alive merely to torment her. After a violent debauch he would let his beard grow, and the ſadneſs that reigned in the houſe I ſhall never forget; he was aſhamed to meet even the eyes of his children. This is ſo contrary to the nature of things, it gave me exquiſite pain; I uſed, at thoſe times, to ſhow him extreme reſpect. I could not bear to ſee my parent humble himſelf before me. However neither his conſtitution, nor fortune could long bear the conſtant waſte. He had, I have obſerved, a childiſh affection for his children, which was diſplayed in careſſes that gratified him for the moment, yet never reſtrained the headlong fury of his appetites; his momentary repentance wrung his heart, without influencing his conduct; and he died, leaving an encumbered wreck of a good eſtate.
As we had always lived in ſplendid poverty, rather than in affluence, the ſhock was not ſo great; and my mother repreſſed her anguiſh, and concealed ſome circumſtances, that ſhe might not ſhed a deſtructive mildew over the gaiety of youth.
So fondly did I doat on this dear parent, that ſhe engroſſed all my tenderneſs; her ſorrows had knit me firmly to her, and my chief care was to give her proofs of affection. The gallantry that afforded my companions, the few young people my mother forced me to mix with, ſo much pleaſure, I deſpiſed; I wiſhed more to be loved than admired, for I could love. I adored virtue; and my imagination, chaſing a chimerical object, overlooked the common pleaſures of life; they were not ſufficient for my happineſs. A latent fire made me burn to riſe ſuperior to my contemporaries in wiſdom and virtue; and tears of joy and emulation filled my eyes when I read an account of a great action—I felt admiration, not aſtoniſhment.
My mother had two particular friends, who endeavoured to ſettle her affairs; one was a middle-aged man, a merchant; the human breaſt never enſhrined a more benevolent heart. His manners were rather rough, and he bluntly ſpoke his thoughts without obſerving the pain it gave; yet he poſſeſſed extreme tenderneſs, as far as his diſcernment went. Men do not make ſufficient diſtinction, ſaid ſhe, digreſſing from her ſtory to addreſs Sageſtus, between tenderneſs and ſenſibility.
To give the ſhorteſt definition of ſenſibility, replied the ſage, I ſhould ſay that it is the reſult of acute ſenſes, finely faſhioned nerves, which vibrate at the ſlighteſt touch, and convey ſuch clear intelligence to the brain, that it does not require to be arranged by the judgment. Such perſons inſtantly enter into the characters of others, and inſtinctively diſcern what will give pain to every human being; their own feelings are ſo varied that they ſeem to contain in themſelves, not only all the paſſions of the ſpecies, but their various modifications. Exquiſite pain and pleaſure is their portion; nature wears for them a different aſpect than is diſplayed to common mortals. One moment it is a paradiſe; all is beautiful: a cloud ariſes, an emotion receives a ſudden damp; darkneſs invades the ſky, and the world is an unweeded garden;—but go on with your narrative, ſaid Sageſtus, recollecting himſelf.
She proceeded. The man I am deſcribing was humanity itſelf; but frequently he did not underſtand me; many of my feelings were not to be analyzed by his common ſenſe. His friendſhips, for he had many friends, gave him pleaſure unmixed with pain; his religion was coldly reaſonable, becauſe he wanted fancy, and he did not feel the neceſſity of finding, or creating, a perfect object, to anſwer the one engraved on his heart: the ſketch there was faint. He went with the ſtream, and rather caught a character from the ſociety he lived in, than ſpread one around him. In my mind many opinions were graven with a pen of braſs, which he thought chimerical: but time could not eraſe them, and I now recognize them as the ſeeds of eternal happineſs: they will ſoon expand in thoſe realms where I ſhall enjoy the bliſs adapted to my nature; this is all we need aſk of the Supreme Being; happineſs muſt follow the completion of his deſigns. He however could live quietly, without giving a preponderancy to many important opinions that continually obtruded on my mind; not having an enthuſiaſtic affection for his fellow creatures, he did them good, without ſuffering from their follies. He was particularly attached to me, and I felt for him all the affection of a daughter; often, when he had been intereſting himſelf to promote my welfare, have I lamented that he was not my father; lamented that the vices of mine had dried up one ſource of pure affection.
The other friend I have already alluded to, was of a very different character; greatneſs of mind, and thoſe combinations of feeling which are ſo difficult to deſcribe, raiſed him above the throng, that buſtle their hour out, lie down to ſleep, and are forgotten. But I ſhall ſoon ſee him, ſhe exclaimed, as much ſuperior to his former ſelf, as he then roſe in my eyes above his fellow creatures! As ſhe ſpoke, a glow of delight animated each feature; her countenance appeared tranſparent; and ſhe ſilently anticipated the happineſs ſhe ſhould enjoy, when ſhe entered thoſe manſions, where death-divided friends ſhould meet, to part no more; where human weakneſs could not damp their bliſs, or poiſon the cup of joy that, on earth, drops from the lips as ſoon as taſted, or, if ſome daring mortal ſnatches a haſty draught, what was ſweet to the taſte becomes a root of bitterneſs.
He was unfortunate, had many cares to ſtruggle with, and I marked on his cheeks traces of the ſame ſorrows that ſunk my own. He was unhappy I ſay, and perhaps pity might firſt have awoke my tenderneſs; for, early in life, an artful woman worked on his compaſſionate ſoul, and he united his fate to a being made up of ſuch jarring elements, that he was ſtill alone. The diſcovery did not extinguiſh that propenſity to love, a high ſenſe of virtue fed. I ſaw him ſick and unhappy, without a friend to ſooth the hours languor made heavy; often did I ſit a long winter's evening by his ſide, railing at the ſwift wings of time, and terming my love, humanity.
Two years paſſed in this manner, ſilently rooting my affection; and it might have continued calm, if a fever had not brought him to the very verge of the grave. Though ſtill deceived, I was miſerable that the cuſtoms of the world did not allow me to watch by him; when ſleep forſook his pillow, my wearied eyes were not cloſed, and my anxious ſpirit hovered round his bed. I ſaw him, before he had recovered his ſtrength; and, when his hand touched mine, life almoſt retired, or flew to meet the touch. The firſt look found a ready way to my heart, and thrilled through every vein. We were left alone, and inſenſibly began to talk of the immortality of the ſoul; I declared that I could not live without this conviction. In the ardour of converſation he preſſed my hand to his heart; it reſted there a moment, and my emotions gave weight to my opinion, for the affection we felt was not of a periſhable nature.—A ſilence enſued, I know not how long; he then threw my hand from him, as if it had been a ſerpent; formally complained of the weather, and adverted to twenty other unintereſting ſubjects. Vain efforts! Our hearts had already ſpoken to each other.
Feebly did I afterwards combat an affection, which ſeemed twiſted in every fibre of my heart. The world ſtood ſtill when I thought of him; it moved heavily at beſt, with one whoſe very conſtitution ſeemed to mark her out for miſery. But I will not dwell on the paſſion I too fondly nurſed. One only refuge had I on earth; I could not reſolutely deſolate the ſcene my fancy flew to, when worldly cares, when a knowledge of mankind, which my circumſtances forced on me, rendered every other inſipid. I was afraid of the unmarked vacuity of common life; yet, though I ſupinely indulged myſelf in fairy-land, when I ought to have been more actively employed, virtue was ſtill the firſt mover of my actions; ſhe dreſſed my love in ſuch enchanting colours, and ſpread the net I could never break. Our correſponding feelings confounded our very ſouls; and in many converſations we almoſt intuitively diſcerned each other's ſentiments; the heart opened itſelf, not chilled by reſerve, nor afraid of miſconſtruction. But, if virtue inſpired love, love gave new energy to virtue, and abſorbed every ſelfiſh paſſion. Never did even a wiſh eſcape me, that my lover ſhould not fulfil the hard duties which fate had impoſed on him. I only diſſembled with him in one particular; I endeavoured to ſoften his wife's too conſpicuous follies, and extenuated her failings in an indirect manner. To this I was prompted by a loftineſs of ſpirit; I ſhould have broken the band of life, had I ceaſed to reſpect myſelf. But I will haſten to an important change in my circumſtances.
My mother, who had concealed the real ſtate of her affairs from me, was now impelled to make me her confident, that I might aſſiſt to diſcharge her mighty debt of gratitude. The merchant, my more than father, had privately aſſiſted her: but a fatal civil-war reduced his large property to a bare competency; and an inflammation in his eyes, that aroſe from a cold he had caught at a wreck, which he watched during a ſtormy night to keep off the lawleſs colliers, almoſt deprived him of ſight. His life had been ſpent in ſociety, and he ſcarcely knew how to fill the void; for his ſpirit would not allow him to mix with his former equals as an humble companion; he who had been treated with uncommon reſpect, could not brook their inſulting pity. From the reſource of ſolitude, reading, the complaint in his eyes cut him off, and he became our conſtant viſitor.
Actuated by the ſincereſt affection, I uſed to read to him, and he miſtook my tenderneſs for love. How could I undeceive him, when every circumſtance frowned on him! Too ſoon I found that I was his only comfort; I, who rejected his hand when fortune ſmiled, could not now ſecond her blow; and, in a moment of enthuſiaſtic gratitude and tender compaſſion, I offered him my hand.—It was received with pleaſure; tranſport was not made for his ſoul; nor did he diſcover that nature had ſeparated us, by making me alive to ſuch different ſenſations. My mother was to live with us, and I dwelt on this circumſtance to baniſh cruel recollections, when the bent bow returned to its former ſtate.
With a burſting heart and a firm voice, I named the day when I was to ſeal my promiſe. It came, in ſpite of my regret; I had been previouſly preparing myſelf for the awful ceremony, and anſwered the ſolemn queſtion with a reſolute tone, that would ſilence the dictates of my heart; it was a forced, unvaried one; had nature modulated it, my ſecret would have eſcaped. My active ſpirit was painfully on the watch to repreſs every tender emotion. The joy in my venerable parent's countenance, the tenderneſs of my huſband, as he conducted me home, for I really had a ſincere affection for him, the gratulations of my mind, when I thought that this ſacrifice was heroic, all tended to deceive me; but the joy of victory over the reſigned, pallid look of my lover, haunted my imagination, and fixed itſelf in the centre of my brain.—Still I imagined, that his ſpirit was near me, that he only felt ſorrow for my loſs, and without complaint reſigned me to my duty.
I was left alone a moment; my two elbows reſted on a table to ſupport my chin. Ten thouſand thoughts darted with aſtoniſhing velocity through my mind. My eyes were dry; I was on the brink of madneſs. At this moment a ſtrange aſſociation was made by my imagination; I thought of Gallileo, who when he left the inquiſition, looked upwards, and cried out, "Yet it moves." A ſhower of tears, like the refreſhing drops of heaven, relieved my parched ſockets; they fell diſregarded on the table; and, ſtamping with my foot, in an agony I exclaimed, "Yet I love." My huſband entered before I had calmed theſe tumultuous emotions, and tenderly took my hand. I ſnatched it from him; grief and ſurpriſe were marked on his countenance; I haſtily ſtretched it out again. My heart ſmote me, and I removed the tranſient miſt by an unfeigned endeavour to pleaſe him.
A few months after, my mind grew calmer; and, if a treacherous imagination, if feelings many accidents revived, ſometimes plunged me into melancholy, I often repeated with ſteady conviction, that virtue was not an empty name, and that, in following the dictates of duty, I had not bidden adieu to content.
In the courſe of a few years, the dear object of my fondeſt affection, ſaid farewel, in dying accents. Thus left alone, my grief became dear; and I did not feel ſolitary, becauſe I thought I might, without a crime, indulge a paſſion, that grew more ardent than ever when my imagination only preſented him to my view, and reſtored my former activity of ſoul which the late calm had rendered torpid. I ſeemed to find myſelf again, to find the eccentric warmth that gave me identity of character. Reaſon had governed my conduct, but could not change my nature; this voluptuous ſorrow was ſuperior to every gratification of ſenſe, and death more firmly united our hearts.
Alive to every human affection, I ſmoothed my mothers paſſage to eternity, and ſo often gave my huſband ſincere proofs of affection, he never ſuppoſed that I was actuated by a more fervent attachment. My melancholy, my uneven ſpirits, he attributed to my extreme ſenſibility, and loved me the better for poſſeſſing qualities he could not comprehend.
At the cloſe of a ſummer's day, ſome years after, I wandered with careleſs ſteps over a pathleſs common; various anxieties had rendered the hours which the ſun had enlightened heavy; ſober evening came on; I wiſhed to ſtill "my mind, and woo lone quiet in her ſilent walk." The ſcene accorded with my feelings; it was wild and grand; and the ſpreading twilight had almoſt confounded the diſtant ſea with the barren, blue hills that melted from my ſight. I ſat down on a riſing ground; the rays of the departing ſun illumined the horizon, but ſo indiſtinctly, that I anticipated their total extinction. The death of Nature led me to a ſtill more intereſting ſubject, that came home to my boſom, the death of him I loved. A village-bell was tolling; I liſtened, and thought of the moment when I heard his interrupted breath, and felt the agonizing fear, that the ſame ſound would never more reach my ears, and that the intelligence glanced from my eyes, would no more be felt. The ſpoiler had ſeized his prey; the ſun was fled, what was this world to me! I wandered to another, where death and darkneſs could not enter; I purſued the ſun beyond the mountains, and the ſoul eſcaped from this vale of tears. My reflections were tinged with melancholy, but they were ſublime.—I graſped a mighty whole, and ſmiled on the king of terrors; the tie which bound me to my friends he could not break; the ſame myſterious knot united me to the ſource of all goodneſs and happineſs. I had ſeen the divinity reflected in a face I loved; I had read immortal characters diſplayed on a human countenance, and forgot myſelf whilſt I gazed. I could not think of immortality, without recollecting the ecſtacy I felt, when my heart firſt whiſpered to me that I was beloved; and again did I feel the ſacred tie of mutual affection; fervently I prayed to the father of mercies; and rejoiced that he could ſee every turn of a heart, whoſe movements I could not perfectly underſtand. My paſſion ſeemed a pledge of immortality; I did not wiſh to hide it from the all-ſearching eye of heaven. Where indeed could I go from his preſence? and, whilſt it was dear to me, though darkneſs might reign during the night of life, joy would come when I awoke to life everlaſting.
I now turned my ſtep towards home, when the appearance of a girl, who ſtood weeping on the common, attracted my attention. I accoſted her, and ſoon heard her ſimple tale; that her father was gone to ſea, and her mother ſick in bed. I followed her to their little dwelling, and relieved the ſick wretch. I then again ſought my own abode; but death did not now haunt my fancy. Contriving to give the poor creature I had left more effectual relief, I reached my own garden-gate very weary, and reſted on it.—Recollecting the turns of my mind during the walk, I exclaimed, Surely life may thus be enlivened by active benevolence, and the ſleep of death, like that I am now diſpoſed to fall into, may be ſweet!
My life was now unmarked by any extraordinary change, and a few days ago I entered this cavern; for through it every mortal muſt paſs; and here I have diſcovered, that I neglected many opportunities of being uſeful, whilſt I foſtered a devouring flame. Remorſe has not reached me, becauſe I firmly adhered to my principles, and I have alſo diſcovered that I ſaw through a falſe medium. Worthy as the mortal was I adored, I ſhould not long have loved him with the ardour I did, had fate united us, and broken the deluſion the imagination ſo artfully wove. His virtues, as they now do, would have extorted my eſteem; but he who formed the human ſoul, only can fill it, and the chief happineſs of an immortal being muſt ariſe from the ſame ſource as its exiſtence. Earthly love leads to heavenly, and prepares us for a more exalted ſtate; if it does not change its nature, and deſtroy itſelf, by trampling on the virtue, that conſtitutes its eſſence, and allies us to the Deity.
