Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The Power of Sympathy.

VOL. I.

The impression of this Edition consists of 550 Copies, of which this is No. 313.

Edited by Walter Littlefield.

THE POWER OF SYMPATHY:
or, the Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth.

BY

MRS. PEREZ MORTON

(SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORP).

With Frontispiece.

BOSTON: PRINTED·by·CUPPLES

& PATTERSON·and·PUBLISHED

BY·THEM·at·THE·BACK

BAY·BOOKSTORE·250·BOYLSTON·STREET

Copyright, 1894,

By Walter Littlefield.

All Rights Reserved.

THE

POWER OF SYMPATHY:

OR, THE

TRIUMPH OF NATURE.

FOUNDED IN TRUTH.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

Fain would he strew Life’s thorny Way with Flowers,

And open to your View Elysian Bowers;

Catch the warm Passions of the tender Youth,

And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth.

PRINTED at BOSTON

by ISAIAH THOMAS and Company.

Sold at their Bookstore, No. 45, Newbury Street,

And at said Thomas’s Bookstore in Worcester.

MDCCLXXXIX.

TO THE

YOUNG LADIES,

OF

United Columbia,

These VOLUMES,

Intended to represent the specious Causes,

AND TO

Expose the fatal Consequences

OF

SEDUCTION;

To inspire the Female Mind

With a principle of Self Complacency

AND TO

Promote the Economy of Human Life,

Are Inscribed,

With Esteem and Sincerity,

By their

Friend and Humble Servant,

The Author.

Boston, Jan. 1789.

Editor’s Introduction.

AN errant perusal of half the pages of this little volume once caused me to determine to eschew literary criticism in the preface I was asked to write, and to speak of the book solely according to its historical and hence its intrinsic value.

Continual reading here and there, and, at length, a careful examination of the work as a whole have convinced me that several merits may be attributed to the book which range themselves separately in my mind and which are distinct and wholly unique characteristics. They seem to me to be as follows: the bare antiquarian value—as a relic, rare, and old; the historical-literary value, as an expression of the times in which it was written; and its purely artistic worth, as a specimen of English novel writing.

The book was published, as the title page shows, early in 1789, and the self-acknowledged author was Mrs. Perez Morton whose maiden name was Sarah Wentworth Apthorp. Miss Apthorp was born in Braintree in 1759, and had, before her marriage in 1777 with Mr. Morton, gained something more than a local reputation as a clever maker of rhymes, having contributed many poems to the early New England Magazine—the first periodical published in America. These, with additional verses and short didactic essays, were together brought out in 1823, under the title of “My Mind and Its Thoughts.” The edition was small, and sold entirely by subscription. Miss Apthorp wrote over the pseudonym of “Philenia.” Her longer poems, epics, are “Ouabi, or The Virtue of Nature: an Indian Tale in Four Cantos,” and “Beacon Hill,” in which is told the story of the American Revolution. This last is said to have moved Robert Treat Paine to designate her as the “American Sappho.”

In 1788, while Mr. and Mrs. Morton were occupying the historical Taylor mansion in Dorchester, a painful domestic tragedy occurred, which, taken in connection with similar contingencies that were happening in the society in which they moved, doubtless gave “Philenia” the impetus and raison d’être for the “Power of Sympathy,” published anonymously the following year.

Although evidently written with the purest motive, the good people of that day were not anxious to receive the lesson, probably because many of them figured as examples. The edition was bought up and destroyed,—as Drake remarks in his “History of Roxbury”, “so effectually suppressed that no copy is now known to exist.” With the exception of the book now before me, I believe this to be true.

The condition of affairs in America, immediately following the Revolution, was not what many suppose. The people were not completely united in raving against John Bull and his institutions. It is true the lower classes and those of the middle class, who had been excited into believing that delusive and, for them, hypocritical motto; “No taxation without representation”, or who had gained or lost all through the late fratricidal struggle, were thriving wonderfully on “spread eagle” patriotism stimulated by “Yankee Doodle” and “Hail Columbia”—which, today, unfortunately bandage the eyes of America’s native civilization—and entertained a cordial hatred of England and all things English. Later they were to sympathize with Mirabeau, with Robespierre and others, and cry death to that French King who had so lately saved them from the dismal caprices of George III and his ignorant and haughty ministers. Politically, they gloried in the name of Democrat.

Nevertheless, there existed an aristocracy in America; an aristocracy that had refrained from becoming Tory solely because personal interest demanded that it should become rebel. Its members were English in taste and manner, in their hearts they were Royalists. They called themselves Federalists. To this category belonged the Hancocks, John Adams, Hamilton, perhaps even Washington himself; and here we find the Apthorps and the Mortons. They had a fondness for court and ceremony—thought and culture were still colonial; they talked of the American gentleman, while they dreamed of the English nobleman; for all that, there was a rapidly growing strain of independence, of confidence in self. All of which qualities have today evolved the best type of the American lady and gentleman.

Early in the second half of the eighteenth century, a literary revolution was in progress in England: sentimentalism, which so long had been mistaken for sentiment, was given its proper place; knightly romance was sneered at and shelved, the hale hearty laughter of Fielding disturbed the spinsters and gossip mongers sipping their tea in the corners; Laurence Sterne, that sentimentalist in realism, condemned in caricature what the foolish thought he defended in truth; and Sheridan, the hater of sham and conventionality, satirized the social deformity of the times in drama, drawing scenes and characters from real life as found in the famous Pump-room at Bath.

To the aristocracy—hence to the reading class—of the young American republic this atmospheric change, toned and tempered and with an influence less radical, was transmitted. It cried out aloud against the sham of character, while it maintained the poetry of diction; it was realistic in subject, romantic in method; it openly lauded the “Sentimental Journey,” while it secretly emulated “Tom Jones”; its aim was to portray life through truth rather than art—but the latter often unconsciously asserted itself; its grave defect was the attempt to commingle art and moral philosophy. In this literary atmosphere the “Power of Sympathy” was written, in character and color colonial, indigenous, to English soil, and true to humanity at all time.

A little more than a century ago the style of telling a story through the medium of epistles was revived; it was thus Richardson wrote “Clarissa Harlowe” and “Pamela,” and Fielding his “Joseph Andrews.” In this form Mrs. Morton sought to tell her story.

Both Richardson and Fielding are famous for the amount of detail with which they fetter some otherwise natural descriptions leaving no opportunity for the imagination. Tedious detail we do not find in the pages of the “Power of Sympathy”—all here is not written; the phraseology is well balanced, paragraphing is handled with consummate skill, the chapters are for the most part short, the color suggestive; and if detail be employed at all, it is only when the author waxes mildly pedantic—robbed of which quality, she would not be true to the humanity of her time.

What then can I say of her diction? Simply that it is of the best. To say so, is seemingly audacious. The modern grammarian may dispute it. Yet viewed against the background of her period and station, taking her style all in all as a medium of vivid, natural expression, where the economy of attention is second only to striking portrayal, where elegance, simplicity, directness are ever present but never obtrusive, there is reason enough for our remark. An examination of the suicide’s letters alone would excuse us from all prejudice in the matter.

The “Power of Sympathy,” in facsimile form, is surely a valuable acquisition to the antiquarian; to the student of culture, the book is the realistic expression of life of a people and an era that are by no means lacking in interest and importance; and to the littérateur, it is not an unworthy example of more than ordinary literary art.

WALTER LITTLEFIELD.

Boston, June 19, 1894.

PREFACE

NOVELS have ever met with a ready reception into the Libraries of the Ladies, but this species of writing hath not been received with universal approbation: Futility is not the only charge brought against it.—Any attempt, therefore, to make these studies more advantageous, has at least a claim upon the patience and candour of the publick.

IN NOVELS which expose no particular VICE, and which recommend no particular Virtue, the fair Reader, though she may find amusement, must finish them without being impressed with any particular idea: So that if they are harmless, they are not beneficial.

OF the Letters before US, it is necessary to remark, that this errour on each side has been avoided—the dangerous consequences of SEDUCTION are exposed, and the Advantages of FEMALE EDUCATION set forth and recommended.

The Power of Sympathy.

LETTER I.

Harrington to Worthy.

YOU may now felicitate me—I have had an interview with the charmer I informed you of. Alas! where were the thoughtfulness and circumspection of my friend Worthy? I did not possess them, and am graceless enough to acknowledge it. He would have considered the consequences, before he had resolved upon the project. But you call me, with some degree of truth, a strange medley of contradiction—the moralist and the amoroso—the sentiment and the sensibility—are interwoven in my constitution, so that nature and grace are at continual fisticuffs—To the point:—

I PURSUED my determination of discovering the dwelling of my charmer, and have at length obtained access. You may behold my Rosebud, but should you presume to place it in your bosom, expect the force of my wrath to be the infallible consequence.

I DECLARED the sincerity of my passion—the warmth of my affection—to the beautiful Harriot—Believe me, Jack, she did not seem inattentive. Her mien is elegant—her disposition inclining to the melancholy, and yet her temper is affable, and her manners easy. And as I poured my tender vows into the heart of my beloved, a crimson drop stole across her cheek, and thus I construe it in my own favor, as the sweet messenger of hope:—

“DO not wholly despair, my new friend; excuse the declaration of a poor artless female—you see I am not perfectly contented in my situation—(Observe, Jack, I have not the vanity to think this distress altogether upon my account)—Time may therefore disclose wonders, and perhaps more to your advantage than you imagine—do not despair then.”

SUCH vulgar, uncongenial souls, as that which animates thy clay, cold carcase, would have thought this crimson drop nothing more than an ordinary blush. Be far removed from my heart such sordid, earth-born ideas: But come thou spirit of celestial language, that canst communicate by one affectionate look—one tender glance—more divine information to the soul of sensibility than can be contained in myriads of volumes!

HAIL gentle God of Love! While thou rivetest the chains of thy slaves, how dost thou make them leap for joy, as with delicious triumph. Happy enthusiasm! that while it carries us away into captivity, can make the heart to dance as in the bosom of content. Hail gentle God of Love! Encircled as thou art with darts, torments, and ensigns of cruelty, still do we hail thee. How dost thou smooth over the roughness and asperities of present pain, with what thou seest in reversion! Thou banishest the Stygian glooms of disquiet and suspense, by the hope of approaching Elysium—Blessed infatuation!

I DESIRE you will not hesitate to pronounce an amen to my Hymn to Love, as an unequivocal evidence of your wish for my success.

LETTER II.

Worthy to Harrington.

“WISH you success”—In what? Who is this lady of whom you have been talking at such an inconsistent rate? But before you have leisure to reply to these inquiries you may have forgotten there is such a person, as she whom you call Harriot—I have seen many juvenile heroes, during my pilgrimage of two and twenty years, easily inflamed with new objects—agitated and hurried away by the impetuosity of new desires—and at the same time they were by no means famous for solidity of judgement, or remarkable for the permanency of their resolutions. There is such a tumult—such an ebullition of the brain in their paroxisms of passion, that this new object is very superficially examined. These, added to partiality and prepossession, never fail to blind the eyes of the lover. Instead of weighing matters maturely, and stating the evidence fairly on both sides, in order to form a right judgement, every circumstance not perfectly coincident with your particular bias, comes not under consideration, because it does not flatter your vanity. “Ponder and pause” just here, and tell me seriously whether you are in love, and whether you have sufficiently examined your heart to give a just answer.

DO you mean to insinuate that your declaration of love hath attracted the affection of the pensive Harriot? If this should be the case, I wish you would tell me what you design to do with her.

LETTER III.

Harrington to Worthy.

Boston.

I CANNOT but laugh at your dull sermons, and yet I find something in them altogether displeasing; for this reason I permit you to prate on. “Weigh matters maturely!” Ha! ha! why art thou not arrayed in canonicals? “What do I design to do with her?” Upon my word, my sententious friend, you ask mighty odd questions. I see you aim a stroke at the foundation upon which the pillar of my new system is reared—and will you strive to batter down that pillar? If you entertain any idea of executing such talk, I foresee it will never succeed, and advise you timely to desist. What! dost thou think to topple down my scheme of pleasure? Thou mightest as well topple down the pike of Teneriffe.

I SUPPOSE you will be ready to ask, why, if I love Harriot, I do not marry her—Your monitorial correspondence has so accustomed me to reproof, that I easily anticipate this piece of impertinence—But who shall I marry? That is the question. Harriot has no father—no mother—neither is there aunt, cousin, or kindred of any degree who claim any kind of relationship to her. She is companion to Mrs. Francis, and, as I understand, totally dependent on that lady. Now, Mr. Worthy, I must take the liberty to acquaint you, that I am not so much of a republican as formally to wed any person of this class. How laughable would my conduct appear, were I to trace over the same ground marked out by thy immaculate footsteps—To be heard openly acknowledged for my bosom companion, my daughter of the democratick empire of virtue!

TO suppose a smart, beautiful girl, would continue as companion to the best lady in Christendom, when she could raise herself to a more eligible situation, is to suppose a solecism—She might as well be immured in a nunnery. Now, Jack, I will shew you my benevolent scheme; it is to take this beautiful sprig, and transplant it to a more favorable soil, where it shall flourish and blossom under my own auspices. In a word, I mean to remove this fine girl into an elegant apartment, of which she herself is to be the sole mistress. Is this not a proof of my humanity and goodness of heart? But I know the purport of your answer—So pray thee keep thy comments to thyself, and be sparing of your compliments on this part of my conduct—for I do not love flattery. A month has elapsed since my arrival in town. What will the revolution of another moon bring forth?

Your &c.

LETTER IV.

Miss Harriot Fawcet

to Miss Myra Harrington.

Boston.

I HAVE somehow bewitched a new lover, my dear Myra—a smart, clever fellow too—and the youth expresses such fondness and passion that I begin to feel afraid even to pity him—for love will certainly follow. I own to you I esteem him very much, but must I go any farther? He is extremely generous—polite—gay—and I believe if you were to see him, your partiality in his favor would exceed mine.

I NEVER saw my poor swain so seemingly disconcerted and abashed as he was a few days ago—he appeared to have something very particular to communicate, but his tongue faultered—ought not one to help out a modest youth in such cases?

Yours &c.

LETTER V.

Miss Myra Harrington to Mrs. Holmes.

Boston.

ARE the rural pleasures of Belleview, my dear friend, so engaging as to debar us of the pleasure of your company forever? Do your dear groves, and your books, still employ your meditating mind? Serious sentimentalist as you are, let me ask, whether a Ball, a Concert or Serenade, would not afford you the satisfaction of a contemplative walk in your garden, listening to the love tales of the melodious inhabitants of the air?

RAILLERY apart—when shall I take upon myself the honour to wait upon you here?—I want to advise with you on certain points of female conduct, and about my new dress—I have heard you say, lessons to a volatile mind should be fresh and fresh applied, because it either pretends to despise them, or has a tendency to degeneracy—Now you must know I am actually degenerating for want of some of your Mentor-like lessons of instruction. I have scarcely any opinion of my own, these fashions, changing about so often, are enough to vitiate the best taste in the world.

I FORGOT to tell you my brother has been at home this month; but, from certain indubitable symptoms, I suspect the young man to be in love.

HEIGHHO! what is become of Worthy? The time of my liberty steals away, for you know I was to have three or four months of liberty before I gave myself up to his authority, and relinquished all my right and title to the name of

Harrington.

LETTER VI.

Harrington to Worthy.

Boston.

ABASHED—confounded—defeated—I waited upon my beloved with my head well furnished with ready made arguments, to prevail on her to acquiesce in my benevolent schemes—she never appeared so amicable—grace accompanied every word she uttered, and every action she performed. “Think, my love,” said I, in a tone something between sighing and tears, and took her hand in a very cordial manner,—“Think, my love, on your present, unhappy, menial situation, in the family of Mrs. Francis.” I enlarged on the violence of my passion—expatiated most metaphysically on our future happiness; and concluded by largely answering objections. “Shall we not,” continued I, “obey the dictates of nature, rather than confine ourselves to the forced, unnatural rules of —— and —— and shall the halcyon days of youth slip through our fingers unenjoyed?”

DO you think, Worthy, I said this to Harriot?—Not a syllable of it. It was impossible—my heart had the courage to dictate, but my rebellious tongue refused to utter a word—it faultered—stammered—hesitated.

THERE is a language of the eyes—and we conversed in that language; and though I said not a word with my tongue, she seemed perfectly to understand my meaning—for she looked—(and I comprehended it as well as if she had said)—Is the crime of dependence to be expiated by the sacrifice of virtue? And because I am a poor, unfortunate girl, must the little I have be taken from me? “No, my love,” answered I, passionately, “it shall not be.”

OF all those undescribable things which influences the mind, and which are most apt to persuade—none is so powerful an orator—so feelingly eloquent as beauty—I bow to the all-conquering force of Harriot’s eloquence—and what is the consequence? I am now determined to continue my addresses on a principle the most just, and the most honourable.

HOW amiable is that beauty which has its foundation in goodness! Reason cannot contemplate its power with indifference—Wisdom cannot refrain from enthusiasm—and the sneering exertions of Wit cannot render it ridiculous. There is a dignity in conscious virtue that all my independence cannot bring me to despise—and if it be beauty that subdues my heart, it is this that completes the triumph—It is here my pompous parade, and all my flimsy subterfuges, appear to me in their proper light. In fine, I have weighed matters maturely, and the alternative is—Harriot must be mine, or I miserable without her.—I have so well weighed the matter that even this idea is a flash of joy to my heart—But, my friend, after the lightning comes the thunder—my father is mortally averse to my making any matrimonial engagement at so early a period—this is a bar to my way, but I must leap over it.

Adieu!

LETTER VII.

Mrs. Holmes to Miss Harrington.

Belleview.

ALTHOUGH my attachment to Belleview is not so romantick as your airy pen has described it, I think its quiet and amusements infinitely preferable to the bustle and parade with which you are surrounded.

THE improvements made here by my late husband (who inherited the virtues of his parents, who still protect me, and endeavour to console the anguish of his loss by the most tender affection) have rendered the charms of Belleview superior in my estimation to every gilded scene of the gay world.

IT is almost vanity to pretend to give you a description of the beauty of the prospect—the grandeur of the river that rolls through the meadow in front of the house, or any eulogium of rural elegance, because these scenes are common to most places in the country. Nature is everywhere liberal in dispersing her beauties and her variety—and I pity those who look round and declare they see neither.

A GREAT proportion of our happiness depends on our own choice—it offers itself to our taste, but it is the heart that gives it relish—what at one time, for instance, we think to be humour, is at another disgustful or insipid—so, unless we carry our appetite with us to the treat, we shall vainly wish to make ourselves happy, “were I in a desert,” says Sterne, “I would find wherewith in it to call forth my affections—If I could do no better, I would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade and greet them kindly for their protection—If their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice along with them.”

I BELIEVE you could hardly find the way to the summer house, where we have enjoyed many happy hours together, and which you used to call “The Temple of Apollo.” It is now more elegantly furnished than it formerly was, and is enriched with a considerable addition to the library and musick.

IN front of the avenue that leads to this place, is a figure of Content, pointing with one hand to the Temple, and with the other to an invitation, executed in such an antique style, that you would think it done either by the ancient inhabitants of the country, or by the hand of a Fairy—she is very particular in the characters she invites, but those whom she invites she heartily welcomes.

Rural Inscription.

Come ye who loath the horrid crest,

Who hate the fiery front of Mars;

Who scorn the mean, the sordid breast—

Who fly Ambition’s guilty cares:

Ye who are blest with peaceful souls,

Rest Here: Enjoy the pleasures round:

Here Fairies quaffe their acorn bowls,

And lightly print the mazy ground.

Thrice welcome to this humble scene—

(To ye alone such scenes belong)

Peace smiles upon the fragrant green,

And Here the Woodland sisters throng,

And fair Contentment’s pleasing train.

Whilst in the Heav’n the stars advance,

With many a maid and many a swain,

Lead up the jocund, rural dance.

Thrice welcome to our calm retreat,

Where innocency oft hath strove

With violet blue, and woodbine sweet,

To form the votive wreath to love:

O! pardon then, our cautious pride—

(Caution, a virtue rare, I ween)

For evils with the great abide,

Which dwell not in our sylvan scene.

THESE are the scenes to which I have chosen to retreat; contented with the suffrage of the virtuous and the good, and inattentive to the contemptuous sneer of the giddy and the futile, for even these have the vanity to look with pity on those who voluntarily remove from whatever agrees with their ideas of pleasure. He who has no conception of the beauties of the mind, will contemn a person aukward or illfavoured; and one whose store of enjoyment is drawn from affluence and abundance, will be astonished at the conduct of him who finds cause to rejoice, though surrounded with inconvenience and penury. Hence we judge of the happiness of others by the standard of our own conduct and prejudices.

FROM this misjudging race I retire, without a sigh to mingle in their amusements, nor yet disgusted at whatever is thought of sufficient consequence to engage their pursuits. I fly from the tumult of the town—from scenes of boisterous pleasures and riot, to those of quietness and peace, “where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is the echo of tranquillity.”—On this subject I give my sentiments to you with freedom, from a conviction that I bear the world no spleen; at the same time with a degree of deference to the judgement of others, from a conviction that I may be a little prejudiced.

I HOPE to be with you soon—in the meantime continue to write.

Eliza Holmes.

LETTER VIII.

Worthy to Harrington.

New York.

I APPLAUD your change of sentiment. Harriot is a good girl, and your conduct is extremely praiseworthy and honourable. It is what her virtues incontestibly merit.—But I advise you certainly to gain your father’s approbation before you proceed so far as to be unable to return. A contrary step might terminate in the utter ruin of you both.——Direct to me at Belleview—for I intend to stop there in my return to Boston.

LETTER IX.

Harrington to Worthy.

Boston.

I HAVE had a conversation with my father on the subject of early marriages, but to no purpose—I will not be certain whether he understood my drift, but all his arguments are applicable to my situation. One must be an adept to argue with him; and interested as he thinks himself in the result of the debate, he can not be prevailed upon to relinquish his settled opinion. I am too much chagrined to write to you even the heads of our conversation. I now stand upon my old ground.

Adieu!

LETTER X.

Worthy to Myra.

Belleview.

I AM very happy at present enjoying the sweets of Belleview with our excellent friend Mrs. Holmes. To dwell in this delightful retreat, and to be blest with the conversation of this amiable woman, cannot be called solitude. The charms of Nature are here beheld in the most luxuriant variety—it is here, diversified with beautiful prospect, the late Mr. Holmes planned his garden; it is elegant, but simple. My time glides off my hands most happily—I am sometimes indulging my solitary reflections in contemplating the sublimity of the scenes around me—and sometimes in conversation with Eliza and the old people.

THE old gentleman is a man of the most benevolent heart; he continues to preach—is assiduous in the duties of his profession, and is the love and admiration of his flock. He prescribes for the health of the body, as well as that of the soul, and settles all the little disputes of his parish. They are contented with his judgement, and he is at once their parson, their lawyer, and their physician.—I often read in the little building that was finished by his son. He was a man of an excellent taste, and I have paid my tribute to his memory—It is the same place that you used to admire, and perhaps I improve more of my time in it on that very account.

Adieu!

LETTER XI.

Mrs. Holmes to Myra.

Belleview.

I SIT down to give you, my dear Myra, some accounts of the visitants of today, and their conversation. We are not always distinguished by such company, but perhaps it is sometimes necessary; and as it is a relaxation from thought, it serves to give us more pleasure in returning to the conversation of people of ideas.

MRS. Bourn assumes a higher rank in life than she pretended to seven years ago.—She then walked on foot—she now, by good fortune, rides in a chariot. Placed, however, in a situation with which her education does not altogether comport, she has nothing disagreeable but her over assiduity to please—this is sometimes disgusting, for one cannot feast heartily upon honey: It is an errour which a candid mind easily forgives. She sometimes appears solicitous to display her mental accomplishments, and desirous to improve those of her daughter; but it is merely apparent. Notwithstanding a temporary wish may arise toward the attainment of this point, a habitual vacancy nips it in the bud.

MISS Bourn is about the age of fourteen—genteel, with a tolerable share of beauty, but not striking—her dress was elegant, but might have been adjusted to more advantage—not altogether aukward in her manner, nor yet can she be called graceful—she has a peculiar air of drollery which takes her by fits, and for this reason, perhaps, does not avail herself of every opportunity of displaying the modesty of her sex—she has seen much company, but instead of polishing her manners, it has only increased her assurance.

THUS much of the characters of our company. After some small chat which passed as we took a turn in the garden, we entered the Temple.

“WHAT books would you recommend to put into the hands of my daughter?” said Mrs. Bourn, as she walked into the library—“it is a matter of some importance.” “It is a matter of more importance,” answered Worthy, “than is generally imagined, for unless a proper selection is made one would do better never to read at all:—Now, Madame, as much depends on the choice of books, care should be taken not to put those in the way of young persons, which might leave on their minds any disagreeable prejudices, or which has a tendency to corrupt their morals.”—“As obvious as your remark is,” added Mr. Holmes, “it is evidently over looked in the common course of education. We wisely exclude those persons from our conversation, whose characters are bad, whose manners are depraved, or whose morals are impure: but if they are excluded from an apprehension of contaminating our minds, how much more dangerous is the company of those books, where the strokes aimed at virtue are redoubled, and the poison of vice, by repeatedly reading the same thing, indelibly distains the young mind?”

“WE all agree,” rejoined Worthy, “that it is as great a matter of virtue and prudence to be circumspect in the selection of our books, as in the choice of our company.—But, Sir, the best things may be subverted to an ill use. Hence we may possibly trace the course of the ill tendency of many of the Novels extant.”

“MOST of the Novels,” returned my father, “with which our female libraries are over run, are built on a foundation not always placed on strict morality, and in the pursuit of objects not always probable or praiseworthy.—Novels, not regulated on the chaste principles of true friendship, rational love, and connubial duty, appear to me totally unfit to form the minds of women, of friends, or of wives.”

“BUT, as most young people read,” says Mrs. Bourn—“what rule can be hit upon to make study always terminate to advantage?”

“IMPOSSIBLE,” cried Miss, “for I read as much as anybody, and though it may afford amusement, while I am employed, I do not remember a single word, when I lay down the book.”

“THIS confirms what I say of Novels,” cried Mr. Holmes, addressing Worthy in a jocular manner, “just calculated to kill time—to attract the attention of the reader for an hour, but leave not one idea on the mind.”

“I AM far from condemning every production in the gross,” replied Worthy; “general satire against any particular class, or order of men, may be viewed in the same light as a satire against species—it is the same with books—if there are corrupt or mortified members, it is hardly fair to destroy the whole body. Now I grant some Novels have a bad tendency, yet there are many which contain excellent sentiments—let these receive their deserved reward—let those be discountenanced; and if it is impossible “to smite them with an apoplexy, there is a moral certainty of their dying of a consumption.”—But, as Mrs. Bourn observes, most young persons read, I will recommend to those who wish to mingle instruction with entertainment, method and regularity in reading. To dip into any book burthens the mind with unnecessary lumber, and may rather be called a disadvantage, than a benefit—The record of memory is so scrawled and blotted with imperfect ideas, that not one legible character can be traced.

“WERE I to throw my thoughts on this subject,” said my good father-in-law, as he began to enter more and more warmly into the debate—drawing his chair opposite Worthy, and raising his hand with a poetical enthusiasm—“Were I to throw my thoughts on this subject into an Allegory, I would describe the human mind as an extensive plain, and knowledge as the river that should water it. If the course of the river be properly directed, the plain will be fertilized and cultivated to advantage; but if books, which are the sources that feed this river, rush into it from every quarter, it will overflow its banks, and the plain become inundated: When, therefore, knowledge flows on in its proper channel, this extensive and valuable field, the mind, instead of being covered with stagnant waters, is cultivated to the utmost advantage, and blooms luxuriantly into a general efflorescence—for a river properly restricted by high banks, is necessarily progressive.”

THE old gentleman brought down his hands with great solemnity, and we complimented him on his poetical exertion. “I cannot comprehend the meaning of this matter,” said the penetrative Miss Bourn. “I will explain it to you, my little dear,” said he, with good nature—“If you read with any design to improve your mind in virtue and every amiable accomplishment, you should be careful to read methodically, which will enable you to form an estimate of the various topicks discussed in company, and to bear a part in all those conversations which belong to your sex—you see, therefore, how necessary general knowledge is—what would you think of a woman advanced in life, who has no other store of knowledge than what she has obtained from experience?” “I think she would have a sorry time of it,” answered Miss.

“TO prevent it in yourself,” said Mrs. Bourn to her daughter, “be assiduous to lay in a good stock of this knowledge, while your mind is yet free from prejudice and care.”

“HOW shall I go to work, Madam?” enquired the delicate daughter.

MRS. Bourn turned toward Mr. Holmes, which was hint enough for the good old man to proceed.

“THERE is a medium to be observed,” continued he, “in a lady’s reading; she is not to receive everything she finds, even in the best books, as invariable lessons of conduct; in books written in an easy, flowing style, which excel in description and the luxuriance of fancy, the imagination is apt to get heated—she ought, therefore, to discern with an eye of judgement, between the superficial and penetrating—the elegant and the tawdry—what may be merely amusing, and what may be useful. General reading will not teach her a true knowledge of the world.

“IN books she finds recorded the faithfulness of friendship—the constancy of true love, and even that honesty is the best policy. If virtue is represented carrying its reward with it, she too easily persuades herself that mankind have adopted this plan: Thus she finds, when, perhaps, it is too late, that she has entertained wrong notions of human nature; that her friends are deceitful—her lovers false—and that men consult interest oftener than honesty.

“A YOUNG lady who has imbibed her ideas of the world from desultory reading and placed confidence in the virtue of others, will bring back disappointment, when she expected gratitude. Unsuspicious of deceit, she is easily deceived—from the purity of her own thoughts, she trusts the faith of mankind, until experience convinces her of her errour—she falls a sacrifice to her credulity, and her only consolation is the simplicity and goodness of her heart.

“THE story of Miss Whitman[^[1]] is an emphatical illustration of the truth of these observations. An inflated fancy not restricted by judgement, leads too often to disappointment and repentance. Such will be the fate of those who become (to use her own words)

“Lost in the magick of that sweet employ,

To build GAY SCENES and fashion FUTURE JOY.”

[1]. THIS young lady was of a reputable family in Connecticut. In her youth she was admired for beauty and good sense. She was a great reader of novels and romances, and having imbibed her ideas of THE CHARACTERS OF MEN, from those fallacious sources, became vain and coquettish, and rejected several offers of marriage, in expectation of receiving one more agreeable to her fanciful idea. Disappointed in her FAIRY hope, and finding her train of admirers less solicitous for the honour of her hand, in proportion as the roses of youth decayed, she was the more easily persuaded to relinquish that STABILITY which is the honour and happiness of the sex. The consequences of her amour becoming visible, she acquainted her lover of her situation, and a HUSBAND was proposed for her, who was to receive a considerable sum for preserving the reputation of the lady; but having received security for payment, he immediately withdrew. She then left her friends, and travelled in the stage as far as Watertown, where she hired a young man to conduct her in a chaise to Salem. Here she wandered alone and friendless, and at length repaired to the Bell-Tavern, in Danvers, where she was delivered of a lifeless child, and in about a fortnight after (in July, 1788) died of a puerperal fever, age about 35 years.

Before her death she amused herself with reading, writing and needlework, and though in a state of anxiety, preserved a cheerfulness, not so much the effect of insensibility, as of patience and fortitude. She was sensible of her approaching fate, as appears from the following letter, which was written in characters.

“MUST I die alone? Shall I never see you more? I know that you will come, but you will come too late: This is I fear, my last ability. Tears fall so, I know not how to write. Why did you leave me in so much distress? But I will not reproach you: All that was dear I left for you; but do not regret it.—May God forgive in both what was amiss: When I go from hence, I will leave you some way to find me; if I die, will you come and drop a tear over my grave?”

In the following Poem, she, like the dying Swan, sings her own Elegy, and it is here added, as a sorrowful instance, how often the best, and most pleasing talents, not accompanied by virtue and prudence, operate the destruction of their possessor.

The description of her unfortunate passion, will remind the critical reader of the famous ode of Sappho. In genius and in misfortune, these poetical ladies were similar.

“DISAPPOINTMENT.

“WITH fond impatience all the tedious day

I sigh’d, and wish’d the lingering hours away;

For when bright Hesper led the starry train,

My shepherd swore to meet me on the plain;

With eager haste to that dear spot I flew,

And linger’d long, and then with tears withdrew:

Alone, abandon’d to love’s tenderest woes,

Down my pale cheeks the tide of sorrow flows;

Dead to all joys that fortune can bestow,

In vain for me her useless bounties flow;

Take back each envied gift, ye pow’rs divine,

And only let me call FIDELIO mine.

“Ah, wretch! what anguish yet thy soul must prove,

Ere thou canst hope to lose thy care in love;

And when FIDELIO meets thy tearful eye,

Pale fear and cold despair his presence fly;

With pensive steps, I sought thy walks again,

And kiss’d thy token on the verdant plain;

With fondest hope, thro’ many a blissful bow’r,

We gave the soul to fancy’s pleasing pow’r;

Lost in the magick of that sweet employ,

To build gay scenes, and fashion future joy,

We saw mild peace o’er fair Canaan rise,

And show’r her blessings from benignant skies;

On airy hills our happy mansion rose,

Built but for joy, no room for future woes;

Sweet as the sleep of innocence, the day,

(By transports measur’d) lightly danc’d away;

To love, to bliss, the union’d soul was given,

And each! too happy, ask’d no brighter heaven.

“And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll?

Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul?

Can this dear earth no transient joy supply?

Is it my doom to hope, despair and die?

Oh! come, once more, with soft endearments come,

Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb;

Through favour’d walks, thy chosen maid attend,

Where well known shades their pleasing branches bend,

Shed the soft poison from thy speaking eye,

And look those raptures lifeless words deny;

Still be, though late, reheard what ne’er could tire,

But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire;

Still hope those scenes which love and fancy drew;

But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new.

“Can fancy paint, can words express;

Can aught on earth my woes redress;

E’en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove

Thy truth, thy tenderness and love.

Once thou couldst every bliss inspire,

Transporting JOY, and gay DESIRE:

Now cold DESPAIR her banner rears,

And PLEASURE flies when she appears;

Fond HOPE within my bosom dies,

And AGONY her place supplies:

O, thou! for whose dear sake I bear,

A doom so dreadful, so severe,

May happy fates thy footsteps guide,

And o’er thy PEACEFUL home preside;

Nor let ELIZA’S early tomb

Infect thee, with its baleful gloom.”

“WITH a good heart she possessed a poetical imagination, and an unbounded thirst for novelty; but these airy talents, not counterpoised with judgement, or perhaps serious reflection, instead of adding to her happiness, were the cause of her ruin.”

“I CONCLUDE from your reasoning,” said I, “and it is besides, my own opinion, that many fine girls have been ruined by reading Novels.”

“AND I believe,” added Mrs. Bourn, “we may trace from hence the causes of spleen in many persons advanced in life.”

“YOU mean old maids, Madam,” cries the sagacious Miss, “like my aunt Deborah—she calls all men deceitful, and most women, with her, are no better than they should be.”

“WELL said!” exclaimed Worthy, “the recollection of chagrin and former disappointment, sours one’s temper and mortifies the heart—disappointment will be more or less severe in proportion as we elevate our expectations; for the most sanguine tempers are the soonest discouraged; as the highest building is in the most danger of falling.”

“IT appears from what I have said,” resumed Mr. Holmes, “that those books which teach us a knowledge of the world are useful to form the minds of females, and ought therefore to be studied.”

I MENTIONED Rochefoucault’s maxims.—

“DO they not degrade human nature?” enquired my father.

“THIS little book,” answered Worthy, “contains much truth—and those short sketches traced by the hand of judgement, present to us the leading features of mankind.” “But,” replied my father, “that interest should assume all shapes, is a doctrine, which, in my mind, represents a caricature rather than a living picture.” “It is the duty of a painter to produce a likeness,” said Worthy,—“And a skilful one,” cried my father, continuing the metaphor, “will bring the amiable qualities of the heart to light; and throw those which disgrace humanity into the shade.” “I doubt,” rejoined Worthy, “whether this flattery will answer the purpose you aim to accomplish—You entertain a high opinion of the dignity of human nature, and are displeased at the author who advances anything derogatory to that dignity. Swift, in speaking of these maxims, in one of his best poems, affirms,

“They argue no corrupted mind

In him—the fault is in mankind.”

“AS I began this subject,” added I, “it shall be ended by one observation—As these maxims give us an idea of the manners and characters of men, among whom a young person is soon to appear; and as it is necessary to her security and happiness that she be made acquainted with them—they may be read to advantage.”

“THERE is another medium,” said Mr. Holmes, assenting to my observation, “to be noticed in the study of a lady—she takes up a book, either for instruction or entertainment—the medium lies in knowing when to put it down. Constant application becomes labour—it sours the temper—gives an air of thoughtfulness, and frequently of absence. By immoderate reading we hoard up opinions and become insensibly attached to them; this miserly conduct sinks us to affectation, and disgustful pedantry; conversation only can remedy this dangerous evil, strengthen the judgement, and make reading really useful. They mutually depend upon, and assist each other.

“A KNOWLEDGE of HISTORY which exhibits to us in one view the rise, progress and decay of nations—which points out the advancement of the mind in society, and the improvements in the arts which adorn human nature, comes with propriety under the notice of a lady. To observe the origin of civilization—the gradual progress of society, and the refinements of manners, policy, morality and religion—to observe the progress of mankind from simplicity to luxury, from luxury to effeminacy, and the gradual steps of the decline of empire, and the dissolution of states and kingdoms, must blend that happy union of instruction and entertainment, which never fails to win our attention to the pursuit of all subjects.

“POETRY claims her due from the ladies. POETRY enlarges and strengthens the mind, refines the taste and improves the judgement. It has been asserted that women have no business with satire—now satire is but a branch of poetry. I acknowledge, however, much false wit is sent into the world, under this general title; but no critick with whom I am acquainted ever called satire false wit—for as long as vice and folly continue to predominate in the human heart, the satirist will be considered as a useful member of society. I believe Addison calls him an auxiliary to the pulpit. Suffer me to enlarge on this new idea. Satire is the correction of the vices and follies of the human heart; a woman may, therefore, read it to advantage. What I mean by enforcing this point, is, to impress the minds of females with a principle of self correction; for among all kinds of knowledge which arise from reading, the duty of self-knowledge is a very eminent one; and is at the same time, the most useful and important.

“OUR ordinary intercourse with the world, will present to us in a very clear point of view, the fallacious ideas we sometimes entertain of our own self-knowledge.—We are blinded by pride and self love, and will not observe our own imperfections, which we blame with the greatest acrimony in other people, and seem to detest with the greatest abhorrence; so that, it often happens, while we are branding our neighbour for some foible, or vanity, we ourselves are equally guilty.

“RIDICULOUS as this conduct must appear in the eyes of all judicious people, it is too frequently practised to escape observation.

“I WILL drop this piece of morality, with a charge to the fair reader, that whenever she discovers satire, ridiculing or recriminating the follies or crimes of mankind, that she look into her own heart, and compare the strictures on the conduct of others with her own feelings.”

LETTER XII.

Mrs. Holmes to Myra.

In Continuation.

MY good father-in-law being so strenuous in proving the eligibility of reading satire, had spurn out, what he called his new idea, to such a metaphysical nicety, that he unhappily diminished the number of his hearers; for Mrs. Bourn, to whom he directed his discourse, had taken down a book and was reading to herself, and Miss was diverting herself with the cuts in Gay’s Fables.

A CONSIDERABLE silence ensued, which Worthy first broke, by asking Mrs. Bourn what book she had in her hand. Everyone’s attention was alarmed at this important enquiry. Mrs. Bourn, with little difficulty, found the title page, and began to read. “A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, by Mr. Yorick.”

“I DO not like the title,” said Miss Bourn.

“WHY, my dear!” apostrophized the mother, “you are mistaken—it is a very famous book.”

“WHY, my dear!” retorted the daughter, “It is sentimental—I abominate everything that is sentimental—it is so unfashionable too.”

“I NEVER knew before,” said Mr. Holmes, “that wit was subject to caprice of fashion.”