With her, too, I was a great favourite, because I listened with interest to her details of early happiness, and subsequent woes and privations—all of which she described to me with great animation, and the most pathetic eloquence. How much a patient listener, who has sympathy and interest to bestow on a tale of woe, will hear! and how affecting are the respect and compassion even of an artless child, to a heart that has felt the bitterness of neglect, and known what it was to pine in solitary sadness! Many a bleak day have I walked a mile to visit this blasted tree, which the storm of calamity had stripped of every leaf! and surely in the house of sorrow the heart is made better.
From this chronicle of past times I derived much information respecting our good aunt; such as she would not have given me herself. The kindness of this generous sister-in-law was, indeed, the only light that shone on the declining days of sister Susan, as she was wont affectionately to call her. What a sad narrative would the detail of this poor woman’s sorrows afford! which, however, she did not relate in a querulous manner, for her soul was subdued by affliction, and she did not “mourn as those that had no hope.” One instance of self-accusation I must record. She used to describe the family she left as being no less happy, united, and highly prosperous, than that into which she came: if, indeed, she could be said to leave it, going, as she did, for some months every year to her mother’s house, whose darling she was, and who, being only fifteen years older than herself, was more like an elder sister, united by fond affection.
She went to New-York to lie in, at her mother’s house, of her four or five first children; her mother at the same time having children as young as hers: and thus caressed at home by a fond husband, and received with exultation by the tenderest parents; young, gay, and fortunate, her removals were only variations of felicity; but gratified in every wish, she knew not what sorrow was, nor how to receive the unwelcome stranger when it arrived. At length she went down to her father’s as usual, to lie in of her fourth child, which died when it was eight days old. She then screamed with agony, and told her mother, who tried by pious counsel to alleviate her grief, that she was the most miserable of human beings; for that no one was capable of loving their child so well as she did hers, and could not think by what sin she had provoked this affliction: finally, she clasped the dead infant to her bosom, and was not, without the utmost difficulty, persuaded to part with it; while her frantic grief outraged all decorum. “After this,” said she, “I have seen my thirteen grown-up children, and my dear and excellent husband, all carried out of this house to the grave: I have lost the worthiest and most affectionate parents, brothers, and sisters, such as few ever had; and however my heart might be pierced with sorrow, it was still more deeply pierced with a conviction of my own past impiety and ingratitude; and under all this affliction, I wept silently and alone—and my outcry or lamentation was never heard by mortal.” What a lesson was this!
This once loved and much respected woman have I seen sitting in her bed, where she had been long confined, neglected by all those whom she had known in her better days, excepting aunt Schuyler, who unwieldy and unfit for visiting as she was, came out two or three times in the year to see her, and constantly sent her kindly tokens of remembrance. Had she been more careful to preserve her independence, and had she accommodated herself more to the plain manners of the people she lived among, she might, in her adversity, have met with more attention; but too conscious of her attainments, lively, regardless, and perhaps vain, and confident of being surrounded and admired by a band of kinsfolk, she was at no pains to conciliate others; she had, too, some expensive habits, which, when the tide of prosperity ebbed, could meet with little indulgence among a people who never entertained an idea of living beyond their circumstances.
Thus, even among those unpolished people, one might learn how severely the insolence of prosperity can be avenged upon us, even by those we have despised and slighted—and who, perhaps, were very much our inferiors in every respect; though both humanity and good sense should prevent our mortifying them, by showing ourselves sensible of that circumstance.
This year was a fatal one to the families of the three brothers. Jeremiah, impatient of the uneasiness caused by a wen upon his neck, submitted to undergo an operation, which being unskilfully performed, ended fatally, to the unspeakable grief of his brothers and of aunt, who was particularly attached to him, and often dwelt on the recollection of his singularly compassionate disposition, the generous openness of his temper, and peculiar warmth of his affections. He, indeed, was “taken away from the evil to come;” for of his large family, one after the other went off, in consequence of the weakness of their lungs, which withstood none of the ordinary diseases of small-pox, measles, &c. till in a few years there was not one remaining.
These were melancholy inroads on the peace of her who might truly be said to “watch and weep, and pray for all;” for nothing could exceed our good aunt’s care and tenderness for this feeble family, who seemed flowers which merely bloomed to wither in their prime; for they were, as is often the case with those who inherit such disorders, beautiful, with quickness of comprehension, and abilities beyond their age.
CHAP. XXX.
Death of Philip Schuyler—Account of his family, and of the society at