Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). 

MARY, A Fiction

L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. 

London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. 

MDCCLXXXVIII

ADVERTISEMENT. 

In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts todevelop a character different from those generally portrayed. This womanis neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie. --It would be vainto mention the various modifications of these models, as it would toremark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy theoriginals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtilespirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. 

Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willingcaptives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates thehidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenesthey represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. 

These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be anecho--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublimebeams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--orthe prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifyingprinciple, fades and dies. 

In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who hasthinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought tooweak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify theassertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in afiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derivedfrom the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; butdrawn by the individual from the original source. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Rousseau. ]

[Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being verywitty about the Paradise of Fools, &c. ]

MARY

CHAP. I. 

Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, whomarried Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence inher temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ ofthings, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such asthe generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of alarge fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of herattendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she neverimagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions ofher own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, andthe years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced intothe polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wishedto be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in amore distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, andpromised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool, ) as in duty bound. 

While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when theywooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightfulcountry, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around;for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, andafter eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: thisseasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would thenvisit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glowof health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could notenliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give thepreference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely moreagreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice wasbut the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, sorelaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. 

Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a goodopinion of her own merit, --truly, she said long prayers, --and sometimesread her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarlycalled _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mountingspirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet wouldhave been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in thisworld, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothedspirit. 

As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her Frenchwaiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes fromthe glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodilydissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rationalone can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, thestudied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at theshrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. 

When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, shetried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some otherinteresting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be morenatural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking thanthe views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonlypretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by theupper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait. --Fatalimage!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent anew kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing tothe catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornetsettling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident!She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; butthere was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered itwith her tears. --Alas! Alas!

If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me creditfor genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force thesweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautifulcheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it sointeresting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser tosettle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. 

She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who sharedher bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These shewatched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmestcaresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of_attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing forthe subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded fromvanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest Frenchexpressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attunedby tenderness. 

She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, thatis, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, andwas indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, sheread all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had shethought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as sheaccompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them bythe clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay athome. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeezeher hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee;they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretendto say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none ofthose feelings which are not easily analyzed. 

CHAP. II. 

In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the followingyear a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentimentsof maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and sheplayed with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of herrecovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on aconsumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died intheir infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of theson, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her timebetween the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, thoughon the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her stationoccur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; andwhen Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send theawkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a housewithout any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and shescarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told herstories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mothertalked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she hadlearned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in herway. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her ownmind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, andlearned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angelssometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them totunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweetand touching. 

Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was gladthat his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herselfabout them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have afine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she stillexpected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband wasvery tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated wheninebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frightenher mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than amatch for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heartthrough life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father'sfaults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with herown. --She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when shewas conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedinglypainful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger andimpatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. 

Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotionalsentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies ofpraise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, orpursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through thegloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listento the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which sheimagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends andconfidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed justnotions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom andgoodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returnedher affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a newworld. 

Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earthit was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and theapparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisitepain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondnessfor reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitiousdistress. 

She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at herfeet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concludedanimals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the capriceof man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year afteryear rolled on, her mother still vegetating. 

A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her greatattention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to hermother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick childwhile she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of deliriumstabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismalaccount; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that everynight of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when thefirst began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that ifshe was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over everypart of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. 

As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who didnot understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was onlygrown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on toexert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general hetreated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interferedwith his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, andvisibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turnhis attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, wouldwatch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, shecould not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: hermother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled herwith anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbiddentears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from thegate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she wouldgive them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence ofit, she was pinched by hunger. 

She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they werelaughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner wasshe left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were theyby being meditated on, that her character early became singular andpermanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded byher feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and theslave of compassion. 

CHAP. III. 

Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up inaffluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of herhusband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune;and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a veryscanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by adistant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice ofher. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sungin concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read toher, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just atthis juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. Shereturned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they tookno more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadnessover her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond ofsolitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though hernatural disposition was very different. 

She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her returnshe had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb;and now she had another motive to actuate her. 

As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they shouldbe written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render theirintercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling;Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend'sletters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a littlepractice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gaveforce to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she waspathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with suchenergy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. 

As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and sheacquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spiritswere fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain onaccount of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now toexperience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into newsorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only feltgratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, andfriendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retracedpast scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. 

Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which theseconsequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, shefound she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mindcould not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, theoffspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, andnot perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she hasshrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of awarm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressionsseemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. 

She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then allher tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away allreflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, andexercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and herown unsettled mind. 

CHAP. IV. 

Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides thelittle bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on themthe birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in theivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situatedon the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many taleshad the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. 

When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal tothis retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observethe grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itselffrom the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, sheadmired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tintsthe gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced inexistence, and darted into futurity. 

One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layerof earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubsand wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. Aclear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocksfallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple ofSolitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the footsounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strangefeeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat sheread Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. 

At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, whosupported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In theselittle huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childishgratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she hadrelieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. 

In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweettears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them asparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, theywere rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul hadnot animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones whichlook like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving morelight to the beholders than they receive themselves. 

Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carriedher out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved orcomforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a lessinterested observer. 

In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became apart of her mind. 

Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; herCreator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they weremostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted tocontemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think ofthe voice that could still the tumultuous deep. 

These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passionsbegan to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed outthose which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. 

Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination hasstrayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, andshe would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. 

Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her owncomposing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end hervarious faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. 

She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, andthat when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, thedelusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under theinfluence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot thisconviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her withredoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, herecstacies arose from genius. 

She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; andperusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine whichpuzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time foremploying her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through aglass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectualresearches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. 

But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and sheeagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself herbaptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on hermeditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. 

The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sungwith wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She wasindeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternalpreservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; andthe recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthlypassions made it grow languid. 

These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were theluxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adoredher. 

In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, shepracticed the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over herappetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered themso entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. 

This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to thepassions. 

We will now enter on the more active field of life. 

CHAP. V. 

A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother wasattacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach theschool. 

She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her ofconsequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sentfor; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured toperfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. 

A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heirof the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two yearsyounger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequentlymet, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their differentclaims. 

While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitudeenough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm waslodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself everylittle comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support theanimal functions. 

There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; butthese her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way ofrelaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencilhe taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. 

Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode;and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, byher trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter waslost. 

This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, adelicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not beholdher without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid andirresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to makeher reflect. 

In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, andharmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. 

She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a livelyimagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressedto the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the mostviolent passions. 

Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her;she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that itdrove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tenderschemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed mostardently to put them in practice. 

Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whosedecline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of herapproaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the mostalarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; andthen first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. 

She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she hadrambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord ofher little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been dueto him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, andturn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. 

As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of theperson to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from hisforbearance. 

All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many othercreditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch fromthem all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all, " shecried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child, " pointing tothe fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care andgrief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she askedthe question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds diedaway. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself toenquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. 

Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walkedsilently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by tellingher that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; andbefore she could return him any answer, informed her that they had bothdetermined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, theceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witnessof it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. 

Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, witha vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longera sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near thehouse, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension ofthought, a thousand darted into her mind, --her dying mother, --herfriend's miserable situation, --and an extreme horror at taking--at beingforced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, thereluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. 

She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from thevery jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To havethis friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect toher family, would it not be superlative bliss?

Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they thenfled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; itfeebly pressed her's. "My child, " said the languid mother: the wordsreached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accentsdenoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you withkindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in adisregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relievethe fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone ofastonishment. 

The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwardsthe marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue ofDespair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and thenran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. 

Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, tofinish his studies at one of the foreign universities. 

Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of hernew relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile herto her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a femalecompanion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin ofthe same class. 

CHAP. VI. 

Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, andshe exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succourthe family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum veryinadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry intoexecution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. 

Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weightwith him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy andfriendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive ofoccult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen orfelt. 

After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire ofamusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would havepassed in a tranquil, improving manner. 

During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were bothimproved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting thesimple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. 

She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combiningideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But thesevarious pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all herconstitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, sheimagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. 

As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to bealone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed theircolour in possession, and proved so futile. 

She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were notcongenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree sheexpected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negativeblessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still moreso were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was notcontented. 

Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify ourheroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness onlyflourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. 

Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hecticcough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thingbut the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery wouldhave made her happy. 

Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only readbooks of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended invanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what shecould not prevent. 

As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; shewas sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was therecollection!

In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wroteformal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root inher mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She wouldthen catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save herfrom sinking into an opening grave. 

CHAP. VII. 

It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost everyspecies of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his bloodwas in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous;his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. 

Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which herpiety increased. 

Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector;but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depravedand thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for apeaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour byhis bedside. 

The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt herrepose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Herfather's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawnbreath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadfulpeal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the souland body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. 

Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! Thecompassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternalseparation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when thesurvivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--thegrave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting ofdeath!

Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired herown health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went tobed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtrudedthemselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as herexhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst ablood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, andwhen he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted onknowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was ina critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptivedisorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected. --Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. 

In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations hisdeath occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, andher own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she shouldpursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. Itwas to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. 

CHAP. VIII. 

I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship forAnn occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The societyof men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beingsof this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her firstfavourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophicturn. 

Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to theman she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air wasnecessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of theinvalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow themedical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, orthose who endeavoured to prevent her. " Full of her design, she wrotewith more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of herothers, a transcript of her heart. 

"This dear friend, " she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and thetender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternalone--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake theforsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--Iwill go. "

She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" buther heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishinghim happy. --"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as shesubscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, andsent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. 

By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained somecommon-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "Butas the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection. "

CHAP. IX. 

There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbonrather than France, on account of its being further removed from theonly person she wished not to see. 

They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. Thejourney was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by herrecovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, andwas intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin;the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after shewas gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse beforeher with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next thebeings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, shecould not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animalkind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element theyplowed. 

They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; andwhile one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure themone of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in theIrish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. 

Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where therewas a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred stayingwith a nun she had entered into conversation with. 

One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struckwith awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude andtenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst fromher--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, shesurveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. 

In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabitedeternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not anyone she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presenceof her Almighty Friend. 

The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was toconduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower ofrain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leathercurtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelterthemselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary'sprecautions. 

As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquireafter their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which hercomplaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to paytheir compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; theone a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other aninvalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. Theyentered into conversation immediately. 

People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting inseparate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann wasparticularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a littlehectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and livelyin the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought ofher, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that ifher mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. 

They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of thegentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. Theinstruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends puttinga new scheme in execution. 

Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined ingeneral conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled hersoon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and hersensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, shecaught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, thoughtheir mirth did not interest her. 

This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouragingthe cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that hadbeen condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. 

The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and playeda little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of theinstrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attentionthan she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong linesof genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which isoften found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered hisopinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. 

When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Maryalways slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; andfrequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoidsuffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their ownapartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. 

CHAP. X. 

Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility producedintimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulgedherself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes whichproduced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her toreflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like amirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them:she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it wasadopted. 

The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise toconversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continuallyintroduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they allwere surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, theRomish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researchesmade her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good andsolid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; andshe rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had somereason on their side. 

CHAP. XI. 

When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women;and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow onthem; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mentionthat they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. Thedaughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; themother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. 

They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancientfamily, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch theytook care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess'sairs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerningpropriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels whichalways hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thingthat was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had notdone before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And whenthis question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered withoutthe trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a mostharmonic dance around her. 

After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds hadreceived very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, andSpanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn?Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that theysqualled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seedssown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secludedin, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, tocaptivate Lords. 

They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if weexcept her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature;and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciouslyadhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, sometrivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; ofwhich she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionableworld so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to thesun. 

It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime ofweak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. 

One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending thetea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, witha look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name wasHenry, and said;

"Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of thiskind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that mydaughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with anyone she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for Inever suffer her to be with any one but in my company, " added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed hercountenance. 

"I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one whohas the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune. ""Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romanticcreature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of thelarge fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard theCountess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so muchadmired; but she is married. "

She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, whopicked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and thisfriend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady ofquality, is a beggar. " "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. 

"She is, however, a charming creature, " said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, andplayed the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praiseit. 

The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senseslike the sweet south. " The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat byher friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tearsalmost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she hadtaken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagineshe had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled manyheavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting thiswelcome guest. --And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. 

No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered theroom she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncingAnn's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some brokenwords, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of hersense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administersome common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to thewill of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did notanswer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, whata desart will the world be to me. " "No other friend, " re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?"

Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense ofpropriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewilderedreason. --Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composedmanner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyesfollowed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strangebehaviour. 

CHAP. XII. 

The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a littletemporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, theweather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confinedthem to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when theysat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away inlistless indolence. 

The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He wasfrequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy wouldof itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found hisconversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When sheconversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves;genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. 

They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest weresinging or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them allmore attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in herdress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. 

Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew manyof the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmitiesof his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which heobserved with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in hiscompany her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. Sheincreased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. 

He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments receivedwarmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed histemper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculousceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termedgrave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at othertimes, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward tonotice. 

CHAP. XIII. 

When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: orshe would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with thesight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit thechurches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. 

One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole partydescanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soonadverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters inwhich they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--whenHenry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give theworld for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend. "

This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached herheart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--forwhom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, sostrongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrownaway--given in with an estate. 

As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and herthoughts were employed about the objects around her. 

She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicatessome passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. Shesaw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayersmay fall from the lips without purifying the heart. 

They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainlyallow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfishprinciples; how then can they be called good? The pattern of allgoodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nunsonly thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues werecarried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts werefixed:

Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those thatwere servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wivesnor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfishcreatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength tothe appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide forthe gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or didthey conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations?

In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm ofgrief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off bysensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. 

She will find that those affections that have once been called forth andstrengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, bydisappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrodethe heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for whichthere is no specific. 

The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whoseprivate distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were thesame things with her. 

The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, anddignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; butnever mean or cunning. 

CHAP. XIV. 

The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind. ". And can such servetheir Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romishceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but notconquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanizedtheir hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste isunknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they termornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence formental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. 

Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: sheturned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have beenattentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularlyso; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constantendeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospectbefore her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kindof quiet despair. 

She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they allmet in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was fullof these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tendernessthat she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuatingdisorder often gave rise to false hopes. 

A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Hermaid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouringcompting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could notraise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was verydisagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, thegirl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for hermistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time ofharvest. 

Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gaveMary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interestedabout him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which thepurity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. 

The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. Hewould sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh thatwas coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, anddid not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up toher with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, hewould try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. 

Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did shesuspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than hisappearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a personwas unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why itwas so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reasonis cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this mayhave given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, geniusevaporates. "

CHAP. XV. 

One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was veryfine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reachedit; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun camefrom behind them uncommonly bright. 

Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; butshe was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted onwalking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to herspirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so muchfatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. 

Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; herrecollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the dampground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As toherself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. 

When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for theworse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the mostimminent danger. 

All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried everyother care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraidingherself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of acrime. 

The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft ofit, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind oftranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious sheonly could be overwhelmed by it. 

She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, itwas only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to havestrayed from Ann. --Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--shedied suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room. --Thefirst string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death"disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable toreflect, or even to feel her misery. 

The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refusedto see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude hermarriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the firstmerchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, andshe determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than wasabsolutely necessary. 

She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid aparade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not toadmit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did notaffect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black waverolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast hereyes; all was impenetrable gloom. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: sheconsented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She raneagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and hiscountenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressedhers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unableto restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tearsrelieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing, ) and shesat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death;but her conversation was incoherent. 

She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfishgrief, " she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish herback now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"

Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call youfriend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tenderedinterest in whatever concerns thee. " His eyes spoke the rest. They wereboth silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I havealso been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was notworthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who nowsolicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purestbenevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart. "

"I have myself, " said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, andam dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, forthee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store. "

"Impossible, " replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted herby the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, thatshe was in love with misery. 

He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knewhim, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she tookvery little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined:and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, inorder to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me:these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I waswitness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution isnaturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in myyouth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtainsome dominion over my passions. At least, " added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection onlyrenders the tender ones more tyrannic. 

"I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--theobject is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passionhas pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections andpursuits. --I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violinI tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeitedmy esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequentlydelighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to mysoul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conceptionof. "

He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in alistening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up anirregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance andingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel somethinglike a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened tocomfort her--and was a comfort to her. 

"My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; butI with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, nothaving an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I havefrequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! hasmade many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts;and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it wouldnot be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. 

"I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spendingthis winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had beforevisited the Continent. " He then looked Mary full in the face; and, withthe most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for herfriendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and thatthe tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in thefate of a darling child, than he did in her's. "

Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that shein vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it:accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, ifnot engrossed by a particular affection. 

Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He hadexerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and hadsucceeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself fordefrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt onHenry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fatewas a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but shefelt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never askedherself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to;nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thoughtwith rapture, that there was one person in the world who had anaffection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. 

He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him byaccident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--Shecould not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's accountof himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitterrecollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she beggedforgiveness of her. 

By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went tobed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did notrefresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining herimagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from herwaking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dyingmother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. 

The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell thetruth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spiritsin motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tellher that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could beaccommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger onboard, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on thataccount--Mary did not want a companion. 

As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the firstvessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for thelonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the firstfair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in herdetermination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her oldwounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Couldshe set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise tolove one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--hersoul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mockheroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!"

There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise;her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; butless regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the firstserious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, torender life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. 

In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was verytempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every othertrifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared!

CHAP. XVII. 

In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she wentout in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her auniversal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she couldnot. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill shegot out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did notavoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed gladto contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned tothe carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. 

Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before hercomplexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks wereflushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and heowned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormanttenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by thepresent happiness of seeing, of hearing him. 

Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, todepart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow;should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus shethought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her tospend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and saton the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, andwaited for the dreaded to-morrow. 

CHAP. XVIII. 

The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and thatshe was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at theCustom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary calledup all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from thefemales her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glanceswhen she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying todraw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, sheknew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began tolaugh she could not stop herself. 

Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with suchbenignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remainedsilent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind isnot in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuadeyou; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish tomerit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongestimpulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a stepmight endanger your future peace. "

Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explainedher situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust thathe trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for meto love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to herhusband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did shenot fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Annhad been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to someremote corner to have escaped from him. 

"I intend, " said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall Ihear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine, " replied Mary. "I amwell, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the mostprecarious state. " She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann'srelations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her:during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think Ihave already determined. "

"Be not too hasty, my child, " interrupted Henry; "far be it from me topersuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thyfuture life may probably take its colour from thy present mode ofconduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; youwill not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: theobject you now shun may appear in a different light. " He paused. "Inadvising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary. "

She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yetthey can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quitea part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and formmy taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives itsstamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kindof charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenlywe may ascend. "

She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are notwavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitudewere my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can effacethem but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must becreated afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted frommy Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I couldnot bear to think that time could wear away an affection that wasfounded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt topersuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose fromcertain modifications of it. "

"Dear enthusiastic creature, " whispered Henry, "how you steal into mysoul. " She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me toadore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that heonly can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadowsof his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolderstrokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of adelusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _ofsubtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of theimagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause innature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule?have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will theynever be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accordwith the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will bethe society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthlyinfirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute greatpart of our happiness. 

"With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? canI listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuouspassions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wishto please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I ambound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could Iconsider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awfulday of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smiteme, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approveof what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I braveHis presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary toconviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could theworld give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armedagainst the feeling heart!

"Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me tosit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me foreternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reasonabout, but _feel_ in what happiness consists. "

Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, andthat these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but welldigested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, ifnot entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestureswere all persuasive. 

Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue;it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in acooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary toreveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; sheknew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, orrest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion firstenters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, tryingto be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. Theconflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit waswilling, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and lookedwretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fadeaway--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she livednot for him. 

He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dearprop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--hisattention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways ofHeaven!

The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the windcontinued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. Shetried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appearedless agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyagewith composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victoryshe had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. 

The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone withHenry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made themslip away without their having said much to each other. Henry wasafraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard butfriendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breakingout-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears withrespect to his declining health. 

"We shall soon meet, " said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; shecaught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and notknowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When shewas alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The fewprecious moments I have thus thrown away may never return, " shethought-the reflection led to misery. 

She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She couldnot avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; andthe trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed hermore than can be well conceived. 

The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For awhile the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, buthe was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all hisown. 

"My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near thisspot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah!no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement!Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?"Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. 

The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to sayfarewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, andthen got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it hadnot any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without lookingat the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see thecountenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over hersight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect thelast;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of partingwith him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel ofthe boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she lookedround on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious momentswhich had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. 

She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surroundingbeauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little holewhich was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. Onthis bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unableto close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and thethird night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. 

"Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistlingwinds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lostto hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but nowthey appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me tothem. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish itover--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will onlybe marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness. --Yet surely, I amnot alone!"

Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts dartedinto her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bearthe intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it tobe composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawnacross in an agony. 

CHAP. XX. 

The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her somerefreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness orcivility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desiredhim not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when herheart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into adeath-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, onthe contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. 

The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had shestruggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. 

The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, andall the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the presentstate of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; theprisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into ayawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattledamongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would thendie away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with atremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm shewas not dismayed; she felt herself independent. 

Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help ofa glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, driftedabout, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink ofdestruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailedthe trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loudcries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, andwith ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launchedtheir boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of thesea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched theboat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased tobreathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. 

At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught thepoor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them inthanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to stillthe raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. 

Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she washauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, andsoothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit herstrength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view theangry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought ofthe Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise ofthe sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace toher troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction hadgratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. 

One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed theworld was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a newtrain of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred toher, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord GodOmnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then didshe fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He wouldbind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of greattribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book thatwas now her only confident. It was after midnight. 

"At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; theday of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed;when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. Ihave not words to express the sublime images which the barecontemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, theLord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, andsupport the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, andthe dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us fromour God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall knoweven as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and wehave this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which arebut for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, andwith fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bearthe warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he thatstriveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! Howmany are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear thegarb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should everlead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thinglike happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume topluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it isguarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way willagain be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet Icannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, andlive in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs. --I tryto pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst ofknowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object tofix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and thisfluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, andhappiness, --what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleetingconceptions ye create?"

After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of theFather of Spirits; and slept in peace. 

CHAP. XXI. 

Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit thepoor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard thatshe had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her onlysurviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of herown danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; andthen she gave way to boisterous emotions. 

Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and shetried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing thisshe encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yetshe did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfortfrom the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. 

There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium ofthe senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her somepresents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set thefaculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with theimagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during thecontention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast wasdescried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor. --She was to visitand comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should shetake up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of herunderstanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarmingapprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. 

CHAP. XXII. 

In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for somefew moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part ofthe Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to whichshe was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body withoutan informing soul. As she passed through the streets in anhackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She metsome women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellowcreatures!

Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up theriver in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she sawvulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first timesuch complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight. --Forgetting herown griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a worldin ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arisefrom viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the viewof innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and couldnot bear to see her own species sink below them. 

In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived themother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they didnot resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told theunfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and hermany other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate allher past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted untilmidnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, thatit banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature soughtforgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. 

She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind oflistless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thoughtof returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatestrespect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room inthe house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, asif she intended living in it. 

Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probableshe would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she couldnot have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not livingwith her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Notlive with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could notanswer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money shetook with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more?I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. 

CHAP. XXIII. 

Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it wasthe only employment that eased her aching heart; she became moreintimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want ofeducation. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor inand about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. 

One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house sheresided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, heinformed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for thebread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to hishabitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an oldmansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tatteredshreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth;round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautifulcornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by thebroken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forcedits way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene offestivity. 

It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, orsinging indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yetshe had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On thefloor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of awoman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for thebroken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, andothers crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother'sgroans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary waspetrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature wasdying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. 

Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband fora poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care ofthe children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at ashop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her toprescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture ofhorror and satisfaction. 

She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary toher expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesomefood had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from thegrave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of ittill she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarmingprogress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but thedisorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; andMary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, thesymptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, withoutregaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low:she wanted a tender nurse. 

For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the samerespect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more wereexpected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in thewoman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as herfinances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try toearn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. 

Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He wassick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and allthe people ungrateful. 

She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, shewrote in her book another fragment:

"Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feeljoy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularlysusceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturousemotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shewmy present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and mybrain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why dothoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappearleave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. 

"Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when Imost need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, anddrive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me, --asadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey ofapathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimesillumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my hauntsforlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been woundedby ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. 

"When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for someone to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy isdenied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. Ihave not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary?Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see herstruggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrodeher small portion of comfort!"

She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from allhuman society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did notmake her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for thepoor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herselfand children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a largegarden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had beenbred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their newabode when she was able to go out. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all naturebegan to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and alittle robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of hisbest songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, andtried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her;she consented. 

Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps tothe habitation she had rendered comfortable. 

Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when shehad last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds piercedher through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adornedthe trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without beingmuch exhausted and while she rested there, observed the childrensporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tearsthanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowednot only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollectionsthe affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again toplay, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, triedto account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. 

"Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul issusceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it lastunmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of thoseparadisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion ofreason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. 

"It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us torelish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed withtenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of agood action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hailthe returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when theflowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice ofmusic is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul isdisposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared tothat of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted theunfortunate?

"Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but theseraptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved bywhat strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of natureescape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections. --But itis only to be felt; it escapes discussion. "

She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which wasrendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian oflife, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Maryout, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of herartless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had acapacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imaginationwas lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light oftruth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, andher tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicitynever threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man oflearning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently makeher forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. 

This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good natureinduced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had anotherinducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivationof mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such aneffect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well asbooks; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary'scompany he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine;and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play thingsthat render life tolerable. "

He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er hadfelt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it madethe body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness;but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member ofsociety. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having anysolid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, orrather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him tohunt down pleasure, he was discontented. 

Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received atinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painfulquietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yetlearned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. 

"There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as youdissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasoningsconcerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what itcould consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed foraction, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they areeither so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as tooverleap all bounds. 

"Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shapeor other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue;and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and eventhinking of virtue. 

"Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the waywardfeelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, ifnot transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heartdiligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. 

"It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcilehim to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and astill more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn toseek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuouspropensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentriccharacters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelationresembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too oftenis the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as toforce the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander inconfusion. "

CHAP. XXV. 

A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed byperplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: theservant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry;she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a longone; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented hissailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquirieswere added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they wereexpressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as itstopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival andillness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--sheread the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurtby--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. Shewrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on herthe next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of hisletter. 

Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; shetried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to runbefore to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come;certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiouslywished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectationon the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. 

To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the booksthey read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least ahundred times. --Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that shewas trying to decypher Chinese characters. 

After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the risingsun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard thestreet door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting thehours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escapedthe approaching interview. 

With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when shebeheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which theformality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournfulpresentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, andlooking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!"

"I am very far from well; but it matters not, " added he with a smile ofresignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother isa tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee. "

Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wishedinvoluntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. Sheenquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had beenvery ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear boughtexperience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she wassure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see ifhe assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried toavoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise ofvisiting her the next day. 

Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herselfto think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw hispale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she triedto retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. 

Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fadeaway, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreckbehind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as ifto drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; allwas not well there. 

Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrivalof a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure:Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver ithimself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced aconversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution tookits rise almost equally from benevolence and love. 

She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: herfears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informedher that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular tovisit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appearedchildish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in themasquerades, and such burlesque amusements. 

These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled herto herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced somethinglike a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when shereflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to theseemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, orforce us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and thatthe most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. 

One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty;her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power ofcomforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. 

Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of Hisbenevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to herown inclinations?

These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined tobear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--andtenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry'saffection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was onlya vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of thefollowing week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certainconsciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subjectwhich he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain aplace in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family wereagain in a declining way. 

Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but thefollowing week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to informher, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whomhe had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreigncountry; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which wouldinfallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Marycould not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffusedher face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefitsthrough the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them fromHenry was exquisite pleasure. 

As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, inthe metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on hisfixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. Hecould not think of going far off, but chose a little village on thebanks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to hismother. 

They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take hisviolin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased hismother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendshipfirst possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments ofhumanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar onesprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. 

The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillnessthat had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oarsplying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a notunpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to havesought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of survivinghim. --She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he feltthem; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury ofwretchedness. --As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry waswet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will killthee, and I shall not die with thee!

This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injuredhim, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps itwas not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Marytry to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worseand worse. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by newinstances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortuneshad often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, sherambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, shediscovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She sawHenry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. 

"I did not, " said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary;but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommonportion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts inthe world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear tothee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of myheart. --I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thouart the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imaginedexisted only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompassme--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothedthe rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to addto thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, thatwe could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee fromthe assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum inthese arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thygriefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt herthrobbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed theconversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do Ifeel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is sopure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thyvirtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--"

"Talk not of comfort, " interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with theeand Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She graspedhis hand. 

"There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voicefaultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almostsuffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walkedslowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they couldnot say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; tospare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. 

When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till itgrew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, shecrept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyesto heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, withoutmarking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her presentstate of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God ofMercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what alabyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and whata number lie still before me. 

Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening tohim, soothing his cares. --Would he not smile upon me--call me his ownMary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and sheheaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolleddown her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed tothink, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason wasalmost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, wererunning into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are myefforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness. --YetI will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry andmotionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. 

She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters. --No wherecould she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it isnot my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complyingwith my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect toassociate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxedcountenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt therain, and turned to her solitary home. 

Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she enteredthe house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhaustednature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and athousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. 

Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sundart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgottento draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre;the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked;her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by oneobject. 

Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from theWindow, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night'sscene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these armsshield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world. "The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy;but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and theremnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to comeafter that?

CHAP. XXVIII. 

Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mothercalled on her. 

"My son is worse to-day, " said she, "I come to request you to spend notonly this day, but a week or two with me. --Why should I conceal anything from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shallbe childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talkedthus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again awidow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?"

This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt mostforcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooththe wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forcedtears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondnessmade me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made mycrime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss mychild--my only child!"

When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; butduring the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry'sgoodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; thedisplay of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human natureprevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in amore genial clime. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declaredhe never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certainhe could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured byopiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, andsoftened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sighdid she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. Shewould boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray ofhope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her headwhere she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--shecould not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heavenbe done. 

While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but onetender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make himbelieve he was resigned, than really to be so. 

She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union whichwas to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort fromit; she rose above her misery. 

His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyesappeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it wasa fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was notnow solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched forhis last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulentemotion. 

The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time onlyattended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscienceincreased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregardedby thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee. --" Theoppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. 

She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened hiseyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gavea look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted?

Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not acomplete wretch! The words almost choked her. 

He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. Atlast, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me diein her arms. 

Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he wasobliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leanedtowards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of itsprison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the lastsigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, shecalmly cried. 

The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; thehand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light froman opened window discovered the pale face. 

She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down onthe floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which containedthe body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderfulrapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. Shesat till midnight. --Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, anddesired those who watched the body to retire. 

She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame thedictates of despair. --She prayed most ardently to be supported, anddedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she hadcommitted the spirit she almost adored--again--and again, --she prayedwildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--herhead swum--she sunk--

CHAP. XXX. 

Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry beganto be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her ownhealth a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of hertorpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--aduty love made sacred!--

They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place theyquickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither ofthem could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road waspleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fieldsand commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behindthan if they had been waves of the sea. 

Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man whotook so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. Herenewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as hehad heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him tobe a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in hisnative country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasonsof Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, ifhe ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to herfriend. 

This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, andinformed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was notable, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode ofconduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she haddropped his correspondence. 

He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approachedher unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spiteof previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed onto promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. 

The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the strugglewas almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; timemellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husbandwould take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantlyfeel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, thatthe earth would open and swallow her. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; buther nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She thenretired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threwthe estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this wayto dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. 

These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all herformer woes would return and haunt her. --Whenever she did, or said, anything she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoidthinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed toher heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence andreligion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle forresignation; and the former rendered life supportable. 

Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments ofsolitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thoughtshe was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, norgiving in marriage.