"I, alone, by my active tenderneſs, could have ſaved," ſhe would exclaim, "from an early blight, this ſweet bloſſom; and, cheriſhing it, I ſhould have had ſomething ſtill to love."
In proportion as other expectations were torn from her, this tender one had been fondly clung to, and knit into her heart.
The books ſhe had obtained, were ſoon devoured, by one who had no other reſource to eſcape from ſorrow, and the feveriſh dreams of ideal wretchedneſs or felicity, which equally weaken the intoxicated ſenſibility. Writing was then the only alternative, and ſhe wrote ſome rhapſodies deſcriptive of the ſtate of her mind; but the events of her paſt life preſſing on her, ſhe reſolved circumſtantially to relate them, with the ſentiments that experience, and more matured reaſon, would naturally ſuggeſt. They might perhaps inſtruct her daughter, and ſhield her from the miſery, the tyranny, her mother knew not how to avoid.
This thought gave life to her diction, her ſoul flowed into it, and ſhe ſoon found the taſk of recollecting almoſt obliterated impreſſions very intereſting. She lived again in the revived emotions of youth, and forgot her preſent in the retroſpect of ſorrows that had aſſumed an unalterable character.
Though this employment lightened the weight of time, yet, never loſing ſight of her main object, Maria did not allow any opportunity to ſlip of winning on the affections of Jemima; for ſhe diſcovered in her a ſtrength of mind, that excited her eſteem, clouded as it was by the miſanthropy of deſpair.
An inſulated being, from the miſfortune of her birth, ſhe deſpiſed and preyed on the ſociety by which ſhe had been oppreſſed, and loved not her fellow-creatures, becauſe ſhe had never been beloved. No mother had ever fondled her, no father or brother had protected her from outrage; and the man who had plunged her into infamy, and deſerted her when ſhe ſtood in greateſt need of ſupport, deigned not to ſmooth with kindneſs the road to ruin. Thus degraded, was ſhe let looſe on the world; and virtue, never nurtured by affection, aſſumed the ſtern aſpect of ſelfiſh independence.
This general view of her life, Maria gathered from her exclamations and dry remarks. Jemima indeed diſplayed a ſtrange mixture of intereſt and ſuſpicion; for ſhe would liſten to her with earneſtneſs, and then ſuddenly interrupt the converſation, as if afraid of reſigning, by giving way to her ſympathy, her dear-bought knowledge of the world.
Maria alluded to the poſſibility of an eſcape, and mentioned a compenſation, or reward; but the ſtyle in which ſhe was repulſed made her cautious, and determine not to renew the ſubject, till ſhe knew more of the character ſhe had to work on. Jemima's countenance, and dark hints, ſeemed to ſay, "You are an extraordinary woman; but let me conſider, this may only be one of your lucid intervals." Nay, the very energy of Maria's character, made her ſuſpect that the extraordinary animation ſhe perceived might be the effect of madneſs. "Should her huſband then ſubſtantiate his charge, and get poſſeſſion of her eſtate, from whence would come the promiſed annuity, or more deſired protection? Beſides, might not a woman, anxious to eſcape, conceal ſome of the circumſtances which made againſt her? Was truth to be expected from one who had been entrapped, kidnapped, in the moſt fraudulent manner?"
In this train Jemima continued to argue, the moment after compaſſion and reſpect ſeemed to make her ſwerve; and ſhe ſtill reſolved not to be wrought on to do more than ſoften the rigour of confinement, till ſhe could advance on ſurer ground.
Maria was not permitted to walk in the garden; but ſometimes, from her window, ſhe turned her eyes from the gloomy walls, in which ſhe pined life away, on the poor wretches who ſtrayed along the walks, and contemplated the moſt terrific of ruins—that of a human ſoul. What is the view of the fallen column, the mouldering arch, of the moſt exquiſite workmanſhip, when compared with this living memento of the fragility, the inſtability, of reaſon, and the wild luxuriancy of noxious paſſions? Enthuſiaſm turned adrift, like ſome rich ſtream overflowing its banks, ruſhes forward with deſtructive velocity, inſpiring a ſublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—Theſe are the ravages over which humanity muſt ever mournfully ponder, with a degree of anguiſh not excited by crumbling marble, or cankering braſs, unfaithful to the truſt of monumental fame. It is not over the decaying productions of the mind, embodied with the happieſt art, we grieve moſt bitterly. The view of what has been done by man, produces a melancholy, yet aggrandizing, ſenſe of what remains to be achieved by human intellect; but a mental convulſion, which, like the devaſtation of an earthquake, throws all the elements of thought and imagination into confuſion, makes contemplation giddy, and we fearfully aſk on what ground we ourſelves ſtand.
