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.