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Title: Maria
Author: Mary Wollstonecraft
Date: 1798
Language: en
Topics: fiction, anarcha-feminism, feminist, anti-psychiatry
Source: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/134

Mary Wollstonecraft

Maria

PREFACE

THE PUBLIC are here presented with the last literary attempt of an

author, whose fame has been uncommonly extensive, and whose talents have

probably been most admired, by the persons by whom talents are estimated

with the greatest accuracy and discrimination. There are few, to whom

her writings could in any case have given pleasure, that would have

wished that this fragment should have been suppressed, because it is a

fragment. There is a sentiment, very dear to minds of taste and

imagination, that finds a melancholy delight in contemplating these

unfinished productions of genius, these sketches of what, if they had

been filled up in a manner adequate to the writer’s conception, would

perhaps have given a new impulse to the manners of a world.

The purpose and structure of the following work, had long formed a

favourite subject of meditation with its author, and she judged them

capable of producing an important effect. The composition had been in

progress for a period of twelve months. She was anxious to do justice to

her conception, and recommenced and revised the manuscript several

different times. So much of it as is here given to the public, she was

far from considering as finished, and, in a letter to a friend directly

written on this subject, she says, “I am perfectly aware that some of

the incidents ought to be transposed, and heightened by more harmonious

shading; and I wished in some degree to avail myself of criticism,

before I began to adjust my events into a story, the outline of which I

had sketched in my mind.” [1] The only friends to whom the author

communicated her manuscript, were Mr. Dyson, the translator of the

Sorcerer, and the present editor; and it was impossible for the most

inexperienced author to display a stronger desire of profiting by the

censures and sentiments that might be suggested.[2]

In revising these sheets for the press, it was necessary for the editor,

in some places, to connect the more finished parts with the pages of an

older copy, and a line or two in addition sometimes appeared requisite

for that purpose. Wherever such a liberty has been taken, the additional

phrases will be found inclosed in brackets; it being the editor’s most

earnest desire to intrude nothing of himself into the work, but to give

to the public the words, as well as ideas, of the real author.

What follows in the ensuing pages, is not a preface regularly drawn out

by the author, but merely hints for a preface, which, though never

filled up in the manner the writer intended, appeared to be worth

preserving.

W. GODWIN.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

THE WRONGS OF WOMAN, like the wrongs of the oppressed part of mankind,

may be deemed necessary by their oppressors: but surely there are a few,

who will dare to advance before the improvement of the age, and grant

that my sketches are not the abortion of a distempered fancy, or the

strong delineations of a wounded heart.

In writing this novel, I have rather endeavoured to pourtray passions

than manners.

In many instances I could have made the incidents more dramatic, would I

have sacrificed my main object, the desire of exhibiting the misery and

oppression, peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and

customs of society.

In the invention of the story, this view restrained my fancy; and the

history ought rather to be considered, as of woman, than of an

individual.

The sentiments I have embodied.

In many works of this species, the hero is allowed to be mortal, and to

become wise and virtuous as well as happy, by a train of events and

circumstances. The heroines, on the contrary, are to be born immaculate,

and to act like goddesses of wisdom, just come forth highly finished

Minervas from the head of Jove.

[The following is an extract of a letter from the author to a friend, to

whom she communicated her manuscript.]

For my part, I cannot suppose any situation more distressing, than for a

woman of sensibility, with an improving mind, to be bound to such a man

as I have described for life; obliged to renounce all the humanizing

affections, and to avoid cultivating her taste, lest her perception of

grace and refinement of sentiment, should sharpen to agony the pangs of

disappointment. Love, in which the imagination mingles its bewitching

colouring, must be fostered by delicacy. I should despise, or rather

call her an ordinary woman, who could endure such a husband as I have

sketched.

These appear to me (matrimonial despotism of heart and conduct) to be

the peculiar Wrongs of Woman, because they degrade the mind. What are

termed great misfortunes, may more forcibly impress the mind of common

readers; they have more of what may justly be termed stage-effect; but

it is the delineation of finer sensations, which, in my opinion,

constitutes the merit of our best novels. This is what I have in view;

and to show the wrongs of different classes of women, equally

oppressive, though, from the difference of education, necessarily

various.

CHAPTER 1

ABODES OF HORROR have frequently been described, and castles, filled

with spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to

harrow the soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed of such

stuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the mansion of despair,

in one corner of which Maria sat, endeavouring to recall her scattered

thoughts!

Surprise, astonishment, that bordered on distraction, seemed to have

suspended her faculties, till, waking by degrees to a keen sense of

anguish, a whirlwind of rage and indignation roused her torpid pulse.

One recollection with frightful velocity following another, threatened

to fire her brain, and make her a fit companion for the terrific

inhabitants, whose groans and shrieks were no unsubstantial sounds of

whistling winds, or startled birds, modulated by a romantic fancy, which

amuse while they affright; but such tones of misery as carry a dreadful

certainty directly to the heart. What effect must they then have

produced on one, true to the touch of sympathy, and tortured by maternal

apprehension!

Her infant’s image was continually floating on Maria’s sight, and the

first smile of intelligence remembered, as none but a mother, an unhappy

mother, can conceive. She heard her half speaking half cooing, and felt

the little twinkling fingers on her burning bosom—a bosom bursting with

the nutriment for which this cherished child might now be pining in

vain. From a stranger she could indeed receive the maternal aliment,

Maria was grieved at the thought—but who would watch her with a mother’s

tenderness, a mother’s self-denial?

The retreating shadows of former sorrows rushed back in a gloomy train,

and seemed to be pictured on the walls of her prison, magnified by the

state of mind in which they were viewed—Still she mourned for her child,

lamented she was a daughter, and anticipated the aggravated ills of life

that her sex rendered almost inevitable, even while dreading she was no

more. To think that she was blotted out of existence was agony, when the

imagination had been long employed to expand her faculties; yet to

suppose her turned adrift on an unknown sea, was scarcely less

afflicting.

After being two days the prey of impetuous, varying emotions, Maria

began to reflect more calmly on her present situation, for she had

actually been rendered incapable of sober reflection, by the discovery

of the act of atrocity of which she was the victim. She could not have

imagined, that, in all the fermentation of civilized depravity, a

similar plot could have entered a human mind. She had been stunned by an

unexpected blow; yet life, however joyless, was not to be indolently

resigned, or misery endured without exertion, and proudly termed

patience. She had hitherto meditated only to point the dart of anguish,

and suppressed the heart heavings of indignant nature merely by the

force of contempt. Now she endeavoured to brace her mind to fortitude,

and to ask herself what was to be her employment in her dreary cell? Was

it not to effect her escape, to fly to the succour of her child, and to

baffle the selfish schemes of her tyrant—her husband?

These thoughts roused her sleeping spirit, and the self-possession

returned, that seemed to have abandoned her in the infernal solitude

into which she had been precipitated. The first emotions of overwhelming

impatience began to subside, and resentment gave place to tenderness,

and more tranquil meditation; though anger once more stopt the calm

current of reflection when she attempted to move her manacled arms. But

this was an outrage that could only excite momentary feelings of scorn,

which evaporated in a faint smile; for Maria was far from thinking a

personal insult the most difficult to endure with magnanimous

indifference.

She approached the small grated window of her chamber, and for a

considerable time only regarded the blue expanse; though it commanded a

view of a desolate garden, and of part of a huge pile of buildings,

that, after having been suffered, for half a century, to fall to decay,

had undergone some clumsy repairs, merely to render it habitable. The

ivy had been torn off the turrets, and the stones not wanted to patch up

the breaches of time, and exclude the warring elements, left in heaps in

the disordered court. Maria contemplated this scene she knew not how

long; or rather gazed on the walls, and pondered on her situation. To

the master of this most horrid of prisons, she had, soon after her

entrance, raved of injustice, in accents that would have justified his

treatment, had not a malignant smile, when she appealed to his judgment,

with a dreadful conviction stifled her remonstrating complaints. By

force, or openly, what could be done? But surely some expedient might

occur to an active mind, without any other employment, and possessed of

sufficient resolution to put the risk of life into the balance with the

chance of freedom.

A woman entered in the midst of these reflections, with a firm,

deliberate step, strongly marked features, and large black eyes, which

she fixed steadily on Maria’s, as if she designed to intimidate her,

saying at the same time “You had better sit down and eat your dinner,

than look at the clouds.”

“I have no appetite,” replied Maria, who had previously determined to

speak mildly; “why then should I eat?”

“But, in spite of that, you must and shall eat something. I have had

many ladies under my care, who have resolved to starve themselves; but,

soon or late, they gave up their intent, as they recovered their

senses.”

“Do you really think me mad?” asked Maria, meeting the searching glance

of her eye.

“Not just now. But what does that prove?—Only that you must be the more

carefully watched, for appearing at times so reasonable. You have not

touched a morsel since you entered the house.”—Maria sighed

intelligibly.—“Could any thing but madness produce such a disgust for

food?”

“Yes, grief; you would not ask the question if you knew what it was.”

The attendant shook her head; and a ghastly smile of desperate fortitude

served as a forcible reply, and made Maria pause, before she added—“Yet

I will take some refreshment: I mean not to die.—No; I will preserve my

senses; and convince even you, sooner than you are aware of, that my

intellects have never been disturbed, though the exertion of them may

have been suspended by some infernal drug.”

Doubt gathered still thicker on the brow of her guard, as she attempted

to convict her of mistake.

“Have patience!” exclaimed Maria, with a solemnity that inspired awe.

“My God! how have I been schooled into the practice!” A suffocation of

voice betrayed the agonizing emotions she was labouring to keep down;

and conquering a qualm of disgust, she calmly endeavoured to eat enough

to prove her docility, perpetually turning to the suspicious female,

whose observation she courted, while she was making the bed and

adjusting the room.

“Come to me often,” said Maria, with a tone of persuasion, in

consequence of a vague plan that she had hastily adopted, when, after

surveying this woman’s form and features, she felt convinced that she

had an understanding above the common standard, “and believe me mad,

till you are obliged to acknowledge the contrary.” The woman was no

fool, that is, she was superior to her class; nor had misery quite

petrified the life’s-blood of humanity, to which reflections on our own

misfortunes only give a more orderly course. The manner, rather than the

expostulations, of Maria made a slight suspicion dart into her mind with

corresponding sympathy, which various other avocations, and the habit of

banishing compunction, prevented her, for the present, from examining

more minutely.

But when she was told that no person, excepting the physician appointed

by her family, was to be permitted to see the lady at the end of the

gallery, she opened her keen eyes still wider, and uttered a—“hem!”

before she enquired—“Why?” She was briefly told, in reply, that the

malady was hereditary, and the fits not occurring but at very long and

irregular intervals, she must be carefully watched; for the length of

these lucid periods only rendered her more mischievous, when any

vexation or caprice brought on the paroxysm of phrensy.

Had her master trusted her, it is probable that neither pity nor

curiosity would have made her swerve from the straight line of her

interest; for she had suffered too much in her intercourse with mankind,

not to determine to look for support, rather to humouring their

passions, than courting their approbation by the integrity of her

conduct. A deadly blight had met her at the very threshold of existence;

and the wretchedness of her mother seemed a heavy weight fastened on her

innocent neck, to drag her down to perdition. She could not heroically

determine to succour an unfortunate; but, offended at the bare

supposition that she could be deceived with the same ease as a common

servant, she no longer curbed her curiosity; and, though she never

seriously fathomed her own intentions, she would sit, every moment she

could steal from observation, listening to the tale, which Maria was

eager to relate with all the persuasive eloquence of grief.

It is so cheering to see a human face, even if little of the divinity of

virtue beam in it, that Maria anxiously expected the return of the

attendant, as of a gleam of light to break the gloom of idleness.

Indulged sorrow, she perceived, must blunt or sharpen the faculties to

the two opposite extremes; producing stupidity, the moping melancholy of

indolence; or the restless activity of a disturbed imagination. She sunk

into one state, after being fatigued by the other: till the want of

occupation became even more painful than the actual pressure or

apprehension of sorrow; and the confinement that froze her into a nook

of existence, with an unvaried prospect before her, the most

insupportable of evils. The lamp of life seemed to be spending itself to

chase the vapours of a dungeon which no art could dissipate.—And to what

purpose did she rally all her energy?—Was not the world a vast prison,

and women born slaves?

Though she failed immediately to rouse a lively sense of injustice in

the mind of her guard, because it had been sophisticated into

misanthropy, she touched her heart. Jemima (she had only a claim to a

Christian name, which had not procured her any Christian privileges)

could patiently hear of Maria’s confinement on false pretences; she had

felt the crushing hand of power, hardened by the exercise of injustice,

and ceased to wonder at the perversions of the understanding, which

systematize oppression; but, when told that her child, only four months

old, had been torn from her, even while she was discharging the

tenderest maternal office, the woman awoke in a bosom long estranged

from feminine emotions, and Jemima determined to alleviate all in her

power, without hazarding the loss of her place, the sufferings of a

wretched mother, apparently injured, and certainly unhappy. A sense of

right seems to result from the simplest act of reason, and to preside

over the faculties of the mind, like the master-sense of feeling, to

rectify the rest; but (for the comparison may be carried still farther)

how often is the exquisite sensibility of both weakened or destroyed by

the vulgar occupations, and ignoble pleasures of life?

The preserving her situation was, indeed, an important object to Jemima,

who had been hunted from hole to hole, as if she had been a beast of

prey, or infected with a moral plague. The wages she received, the

greater part of which she hoarded, as her only chance for independence,

were much more considerable than she could reckon on obtaining any where

else, were it possible that she, an outcast from society, could be

permitted to earn a subsistence in a reputable family. Hearing Maria

perpetually complain of listlessness, and the not being able to beguile

grief by resuming her customary pursuits, she was easily prevailed on,

by compassion, and that involuntary respect for abilities, which those

who possess them can never eradicate, to bring her some books and

implements for writing. Maria’s conversation had amused and interested

her, and the natural consequence was a desire, scarcely observed by

herself, of obtaining the esteem of a person she admired. The

remembrance of better days was rendered more lively; and the sentiments

then acquired appearing less romantic than they had for a long period, a

spark of hope roused her mind to new activity.

How grateful was her attention to Maria! Oppressed by a dead weight of

existence, or preyed on by the gnawing worm of discontent, with what

eagerness did she endeavour to shorten the long days, which left no

traces behind! She seemed to be sailing on the vast ocean of life,

without seeing any land-mark to indicate the progress of time; to find

employment was then to find variety, the animating principle of nature.

CHAPTER 2

EARNESTLY as Maria endeavoured to soothe, by reading, the anguish of her

wounded mind, her thoughts would often wander from the subject she was

led to discuss, and tears of maternal tenderness obscured the reasoning

page. She descanted on “the ills which flesh is heir to,” with

bitterness, when the recollection of her babe was revived by a tale of

fictitious woe, that bore any resemblance to her own; and her

imagination was continually employed, to conjure up and embody the

various phantoms of misery, which folly and vice had let loose on the

world. The loss of her babe was the tender string; against other cruel

remembrances she laboured to steel her bosom; and even a ray of hope, in

the midst of her gloomy reveries, would sometimes gleam on the dark

horizon of futurity, while persuading herself that she ought to cease to

hope, since happiness was no where to be found.—But of her child,

debilitated by the grief with which its mother had been assailed before

it saw the light, she could not think without an impatient struggle.

“I, alone, by my active tenderness, could have saved,” she would

exclaim, “from an early blight, this sweet blossom; and, cherishing it,

I should have had something still to love.”

In proportion as other expectations were torn from her, this tender one

had been fondly clung to, and knit into her heart.

The books she had obtained, were soon devoured, by one who had no other

resource to escape from sorrow, and the feverish dreams of ideal

wretchedness or felicity, which equally weaken the intoxicated

sensibility. Writing was then the only alternative, and she wrote some

rhapsodies descriptive of the state of her mind; but the events of her

past life pressing on her, she resolved circumstantially to relate them,

with the sentiments that experience, and more matured reason, would

naturally suggest. They might perhaps instruct her daughter, and shield

her from the misery, the tyranny, her mother knew not how to avoid.

This thought gave life to her diction, her soul flowed into it, and she

soon found the task of recollecting almost obliterated impressions very

interesting. She lived again in the revived emotions of youth, and

forgot her present in the retrospect of sorrows that had assumed an

unalterable character.

Though this employment lightened the weight of time, yet, never losing

sight of her main object, Maria did not allow any opportunity to slip of

winning on the affections of Jemima; for she discovered in her a

strength of mind, that excited her esteem, clouded as it was by the

misanthropy of despair.

An insulated being, from the misfortune of her birth, she despised and

preyed on the society by which she had been oppressed, and loved not her

fellow-creatures, because she had never been beloved. No mother had ever

fondled her, no father or brother had protected her from outrage; and

the man who had plunged her into infamy, and deserted her when she stood

in greatest need of support, deigned not to smooth with kindness the

road to ruin. Thus degraded, was she let loose on the world; and virtue,

never nurtured by affection, assumed the stern aspect of selfish

independence.

This general view of her life, Maria gathered from her exclamations and

dry remarks. Jemima indeed displayed a strange mixture of interest and

suspicion; for she would listen to her with earnestness, and then

suddenly interrupt the conversation, as if afraid of resigning, by

giving way to her sympathy, her dear-bought knowledge of the world.

Maria alluded to the possibility of an escape, and mentioned a

compensation, or reward; but the style in which she was repulsed made

her cautious, and determine not to renew the subject, till she knew more

of the character she had to work on. Jemima’s countenance, and dark

hints, seemed to say, “You are an extraordinary woman; but let me

consider, this may only be one of your lucid intervals.” Nay, the very

energy of Maria’s character, made her suspect that the extraordinary

animation she perceived might be the effect of madness. “Should her

husband then substantiate his charge, and get possession of her estate,

from whence would come the promised annuity, or more desired protection?

Besides, might not a woman, anxious to escape, conceal some of the

circumstances which made against her? Was truth to be expected from one

who had been entrapped, kidnapped, in the most fraudulent manner?”

In this train Jemima continued to argue, the moment after compassion and

respect seemed to make her swerve; and she still resolved not to be

wrought on to do more than soften the rigour of confinement, till she

could advance on surer ground.

Maria was not permitted to walk in the garden; but sometimes, from her

window, she turned her eyes from the gloomy walls, in which she pined

life away, on the poor wretches who strayed along the walks, and

contemplated the most terrific of ruins—that of a human soul. What is

the view of the fallen column, the mouldering arch, of the most

exquisite workmanship, when compared with this living memento of the

fragility, the instability, of reason, and the wild luxuriancy of

noxious passions? Enthusiasm turned adrift, like some rich stream

overflowing its banks, rushes forward with destructive velocity,

inspiring a sublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—These

are the ravages over which humanity must ever mournfully ponder, with a

degree of anguish not excited by crumbling marble, or cankering brass,

unfaithful to the trust of monumental fame. It is not over the decaying

productions of the mind, embodied with the happiest art, we grieve most

bitterly. The view of what has been done by man, produces a melancholy,

yet aggrandizing, sense of what remains to be achieved by human

intellect; but a mental convulsion, which, like the devastation of an

earthquake, throws all the elements of thought and imagination into

confusion, makes contemplation giddy, and we fearfully ask on what

ground we ourselves stand.

Melancholy and imbecility marked the features of the wretches allowed to

breathe at large; for the frantic, those who in a strong imagination had

lost a sense of woe, were closely confined. The playful tricks and

mischievous devices of their disturbed fancy, that suddenly broke out,

could not be guarded against, when they were permitted to enjoy any

portion of freedom; for, so active was their imagination, that every new

object which accidentally struck their senses, awoke to phrenzy their

restless passions; as Maria learned from the burden of their incessant

ravings.

Sometimes, with a strict injunction of silence, Jemima would allow

Maria, at the close of evening, to stray along the narrow avenues that

separated the dungeon-like apartments, leaning on her arm. What a change

of scene! Maria wished to pass the threshold of her prison, yet, when by

chance she met the eye of rage glaring on her, yet unfaithful to its

office, she shrunk back with more horror and affright, than if she had

stumbled over a mangled corpse. Her busy fancy pictured the misery of a

fond heart, watching over a friend thus estranged, absent, though

present—over a poor wretch lost to reason and the social joys of

existence; and losing all consciousness of misery in its excess. What a

task, to watch the light of reason quivering in the eye, or with

agonizing expectation to catch the beam of recollection; tantalized by

hope, only to feel despair more keenly, at finding a much loved face or

voice, suddenly remembered, or pathetically implored, only to be

immediately forgotten, or viewed with indifference or abhorrence!

The heart-rending sigh of melancholy sunk into her soul; and when she

retired to rest, the petrified figures she had encountered, the only

human forms she was doomed to observe, haunting her dreams with tales of

mysterious wrongs, made her wish to sleep to dream no more.

Day after day rolled away, and tedious as the present moment appeared,

they passed in such an unvaried tenor, Maria was surprised to find that

she had already been six weeks buried alive, and yet had such faint

hopes of effecting her enlargement. She was, earnestly as she had sought

for employment, now angry with herself for having been amused by writing

her narrative; and grieved to think that she had for an instant thought

of any thing, but contriving to escape.

Jemima had evidently pleasure in her society: still, though she often

left her with a glow of kindness, she returned with the same chilling

air; and, when her heart appeared for a moment to open, some suggestion

of reason forcibly closed it, before she could give utterance to the

confidence Maria’s conversation inspired.

Discouraged by these changes, Maria relapsed into despondency, when she

was cheered by the alacrity with which Jemima brought her a fresh parcel

of books; assuring her, that she had taken some pains to obtain them

from one of the keepers, who attended a gentleman confined in the

opposite corner of the gallery.

Maria took up the books with emotion. “They come,” said she, “perhaps,

from a wretch condemned, like me, to reason on the nature of madness, by

having wrecked minds continually under his eye; and almost to wish

himself—as I do—mad, to escape from the contemplation of it.” Her heart

throbbed with sympathetic alarm; and she turned over the leaves with

awe, as if they had become sacred from passing through the hands of an

unfortunate being, oppressed by a similar fate.

Dryden’s Fables, Milton’s Paradise Lost, with several modern

productions, composed the collection. It was a mine of treasure. Some

marginal notes, in Dryden’s Fables, caught her attention: they were

written with force and taste; and, in one of the modern pamphlets, there

was a fragment left, containing various observations on the present

state of society and government, with a comparative view of the politics

of Europe and America. These remarks were written with a degree of

generous warmth, when alluding to the enslaved state of the labouring

majority, perfectly in unison with Maria’s mode of thinking.

She read them over and over again; and fancy, treacherous fancy, began

to sketch a character, congenial with her own, from these shadowy

outlines.—“Was he mad?” She reperused the marginal notes, and they

seemed the production of an animated, but not of a disturbed

imagination. Confined to this speculation, every time she re-read them,

some fresh refinement of sentiment, or acuteness of thought impressed

her, which she was astonished at herself for not having before observed.

What a creative power has an affectionate heart! There are beings who

cannot live without loving, as poets love; and who feel the electric

spark of genius, wherever it awakens sentiment or grace. Maria had often

thought, when disciplining her wayward heart, “that to charm, was to be

virtuous.” “They who make me wish to appear the most amiable and good in

their eyes, must possess in a degree,” she would exclaim, “the graces

and virtues they call into action.”

She took up a book on the powers of the human mind; but, her attention

strayed from cold arguments on the nature of what she felt, while she

was feeling, and she snapt the chain of the theory to read Dryden’s

Guiscard and Sigismunda.

Maria, in the course of the ensuing day, returned some of the books,

with the hope of getting others—and more marginal notes. Thus shut out

from human intercourse, and compelled to view nothing but the prison of

vexed spirits, to meet a wretch in the same situation, was more surely

to find a friend, than to imagine a countryman one, in a strange land,

where the human voice conveys no information to the eager ear.

“Did you ever see the unfortunate being to whom these books belong?”

asked Maria, when Jemima brought her slipper. “Yes. He sometimes walks

out, between five and six, before the family is stirring, in the

morning, with two keepers; but even then his hands are confined.”

“What! is he so unruly?” enquired Maria, with an accent of

disappointment.

“No, not that I perceive,” replied Jemima; “but he has an untamed look,

a vehemence of eye, that excites apprehension. Were his hands free, he

looks as if he could soon manage both his guards: yet he appears

tranquil.”

“If he be so strong, he must be young,” observed Maria.

“Three or four and thirty, I suppose; but there is no judging of a

person in his situation.”

“Are you sure that he is mad?” interrupted Maria with eagerness. Jemima

quitted the room, without replying.

“No, no, he certainly is not!” exclaimed Maria, answering herself; “the

man who could write those observations was not disordered in his

intellects.”

She sat musing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it seemed

to glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, she thought, “Of

what use could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is

unjustly confined?—Could he aid me to escape, who is himself more

closely watched?—Still I should like to see him.” She went to bed,

dreamed of her child, yet woke exactly at half after five o’clock, and

starting up, only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window. The

morning was chill, it was the latter end of September; yet she did not

retire to warm herself and think in bed, till the sound of the servants,

moving about the house, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in

the garden that morning. She was ashamed at feeling disappointed; and

began to reflect, as an excuse to herself, on the little objects which

attract attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how

difficult it was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active

duties or pursuits.

At breakfast, Jemima enquired whether she understood French? for, unless

she did, the stranger’s stock of books was exhausted. Maria replied in

the affirmative; but forbore to ask any more questions respecting the

person to whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new subject for

contemplation, by describing the person of a lovely maniac, just brought

into an adjoining chamber. She was singing the pathetic ballad of old

Rob[3] with the most heart-melting falls and pauses. Jemima had

half-opened the door, when she distinguished her voice, and Maria stood

close to it, scarcely daring to respire, lest a modulation should escape

her, so exquisitely sweet, so passionately wild. She began with sympathy

to pourtray to herself another victim, when the lovely warbler flew, as

it were, from the spray, and a torrent of unconnected exclamations and

questions burst from her, interrupted by fits of laughter, so horrid,

that Maria shut the door, and, turning her eyes up to heaven,

exclaimed—“Gracious God!”

Several minutes elapsed before Maria could enquire respecting the rumour

of the house (for this poor wretch was obviously not confined without a

cause); and then Jemima could only tell her, that it was said, “she had

been married, against her inclination, to a rich old man, extremely

jealous (no wonder, for she was a charming creature); and that, in

consequence of his treatment, or something which hung on her mind, she

had, during her first lying-in, lost her senses.”

What a subject of meditation—even to the very confines of madness.

“Woman, fragile flower! why were you suffered to adorn a world exposed

to the inroad of such stormy elements?” thought Maria, while the poor

maniac’s strain was still breathing on her ear, and sinking into her

very soul.

Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rousseau’s Heloise; and she sat

reading with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extinguish

the light. One instance of her kindness was, the permitting Maria to

have one, till her own hour of retiring to rest. She had read this work

long since; but now it seemed to open a new world to her—the only one

worth inhabiting. Sleep was not to be wooed; yet, far from being

fatigued by the restless rotation of thought, she rose and opened her

window, just as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the long silent

shadows visible. The air swept across her face with a voluptuous

freshness that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions;

and the sound of a waving branch, or the twittering of a startled bird,

alone broke the stillness of reposing nature. Absorbed by the sublime

sensibility which renders the consciousness of existence felicity, Maria

was happy, till an autumnal scent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the

fallen leaves of the adjacent wood, made her recollect that the season

had changed since her confinement; yet life afforded no variety to

solace an afflicted heart. She returned dispirited to her couch, and

thought of her child till the broad glare of day again invited her to

the window. She looked not for the unknown, still how great was her

vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two

attendants, as he turned into a side-path which led to the house! A

confused recollection of having seen somebody who resembled him,

immediately occurred, to puzzle and torment her with endless

conjectures. Five minutes sooner, and she should have seen his face, and

been out of suspense—was ever any thing so unlucky! His steady, bold

step, and the whole air of his person, bursting as it were from a cloud,

pleased her, and gave an outline to the imagination to sketch the

individual form she wished to recognize.

Feeling the disappointment more severely than she was willing to

believe, she flew to Rousseau, as her only refuge from the idea of him,

who might prove a friend, could she but find a way to interest him in

her fate; still the personification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover

far superior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance

had been caught, even to the minutiae of the coat and hat of the

stranger. But if she lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy, his

form, she richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux’s

sentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he seemed

to have an undoubted right, when she read on the margin of an

impassioned letter, written in the well-known hand—“Rousseau alone, the

true Prometheus of sentiment, possessed the fire of genius necessary to

pourtray the passion, the truth of which goes so directly to the heart.”

Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finished Rousseau, and begun

to transcribe some selected passages; unable to quit either the author

or the window, before she had a glimpse of the countenance she daily

longed to see; and, when seen, it conveyed no distinct idea to her mind

where she had seen it before. He must have been a transient

acquaintance; but to discover an acquaintance was fortunate, could she

contrive to attract his attention, and excite his sympathy.

Every glance afforded colouring for the picture she was delineating on

her heart; and once, when the window was half open, the sound of his

voice reached her. Conviction flashed on her; she had certainly, in a

moment of distress, heard the same accents. They were manly, and

characteristic of a noble mind; nay, even sweet—or sweet they seemed to

her attentive ear.

She started back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a strange

coincidence of circumstances inspired, and wondering why she thought so

much of a stranger, obliged as she had been by his timely interference;

[for she recollected, by degrees all the circumstances of their former

meeting.] She found however that she could think of nothing else; or, if

she thought of her daughter, it was to wish that she had a father whom

her mother could respect and love.

CHAPTER 3

WHEN PERUSING the first parcel of books, Maria had, with her pencil,

written in one of them a few exclamations, expressive of compassion and

sympathy, which she scarcely remembered, till turning over the leaves of

one of the volumes, lately brought to her, a slip of paper dropped out,

which Jemima hastily snatched up.

“Let me see it,” demanded Maria impatiently, “You surely are not afraid

of trusting me with the effusions of a madman?” “I must consider,”

replied Jemima; and withdrew, with the paper in her hand.

In a life of such seclusion, the passions gain undue force; Maria

therefore felt a great degree of resentment and vexation, which she had

not time to subdue, before Jemima, returning, delivered the paper.

“Whoever you are, who partake of my fate, accept my sincere

commiseration—I would have said protection; but the privilege of man is

denied me.

“My own situation forces a dreadful suspicion on my mind—I may not

always languish in vain for freedom— say are you—I cannot ask the

question; yet I will remember you when my remembrance can be of any use.

I will enquire, why you are so mysteriously detained— and I will have an

answer.

“HENRY DARNFORD.”

By the most pressing intreaties, Maria prevailed on Jemima to permit her

to write a reply to this note. Another and another succeeded, in which

explanations were not allowed relative to their present situation; but

Maria, with sufficient explicitness, alluded to a former obligation; and

they insensibly entered on an interchange of sentiments on the most

important subjects. To write these letters was the business of the day,

and to receive them the moment of sunshine. By some means, Darnford

having discovered Maria’s window, when she next appeared at it, he made

her, behind his keepers, a profound bow of respect and recognition.

Two or three weeks glided away in this kind of intercourse, during which

period Jemima, to whom Maria had given the necessary information

respecting her family, had evidently gained some intelligence, which

increased her desire of pleasing her charge, though she could not yet

determine to liberate her. Maria took advantage of this favourable

charge, without too minutely enquiring into the cause; and such was her

eagerness to hold human converse, and to see her former protector, still

a stranger to her, that she incessantly requested her guard to gratify

her more than curiosity.

Writing to Darnford, she was led from the sad objects before her, and

frequently rendered insensible to the horrid noises around her, which

previously had continually employed her feverish fancy. Thinking it

selfish to dwell on her own sufferings, when in the midst of wretches,

who had not only lost all that endears life, but their very selves, her

imagination was occupied with melancholy earnestness to trace the mazes

of misery, through which so many wretches must have passed to this

gloomy receptacle of disjointed souls, to the grand source of human

corruption. Often at midnight was she waked by the dismal shrieks of

demoniac rage, or of excruciating despair, uttered in such wild tones of

indescribable anguish as proved the total absence of reason, and roused

phantoms of horror in her mind, far more terrific than all that dreaming

superstition ever drew. Besides, there was frequently something so

inconceivably picturesque in the varying gestures of unrestrained

passion, so irresistibly comic in their sallies, or so heart-piercingly

pathetic in the little airs they would sing, frequently bursting out

after an awful silence, as to fascinate the attention, and amuse the

fancy, while torturing the soul. It was the uproar of the passions which

she was compelled to observe; and to mark the lucid beam of reason, like

a light trembling in a socket, or like the flash which divides the

threatening clouds of angry heaven only to display the horrors which

darkness shrouded.

Jemima would labour to beguile the tedious evenings, by describing the

persons and manners of the unfortunate beings, whose figures or voices

awoke sympathetic sorrow in Maria’s bosom; and the stories she told were

the more interesting, for perpetually leaving room to conjecture

something extraordinary. Still Maria, accustomed to generalize her

observations, was led to conclude from all she heard, that it was a

vulgar error to suppose that people of abilities were the most apt to

lose the command of reason. On the contrary, from most of the instances

she could investigate, she thought it resulted, that the passions only

appeared strong and disproportioned, because the judgment was weak and

unexercised; and that they gained strength by the decay of reason, as

the shadows lengthen during the sun’s decline.

Maria impatiently wished to see her fellow-sufferer; but Darnford was

still more earnest to obtain an interview. Accustomed to submit to every

impulse of passion, and never taught, like women, to restrain the most

natural, and acquire, instead of the bewitching frankness of nature, a

factitious propriety of behaviour, every desire became a torrent that

bore down all opposition.

His travelling trunk, which contained the books lent to Maria, had been

sent to him, and with a part of its contents he bribed his principal

keeper; who, after receiving the most solemn promise that he would

return to his apartment without attempting to explore any part of the

house, conducted him, in the dusk of the evening, to Maria’s room.

Jemima had apprized her charge of the visit, and she expected with

trembling impatience, inspired by a vague hope that he might again prove

her deliverer, to see a man who had before rescued her from oppression.

He entered with an animation of countenance, formed to captivate an

enthusiast; and, hastily turned his eyes from her to the apartment,

which he surveyed with apparent emotions of compassionate indignation.

Sympathy illuminated his eye, and, taking her hand, he respectfully

bowed on it, exclaiming—“This is extraordinary!—again to meet you, and

in such circumstances!” Still, impressive as was the coincidence of

events which brought them once more together, their full hearts did not

overflow.—[4]

[And though, after this first visit, they were permitted frequently to

repeat their interviews, they were for some time employed in] a reserved

conversation, to which all the world might have listened; excepting,

when discussing some literary subject, flashes of sentiment, inforced by

each relaxing feature, seemed to remind them that their minds were

already acquainted.

[By degrees, Darnford entered into the particulars of his story.] In a

few words, he informed her that he had been a thoughtless, extravagant

young man; yet, as he described his faults, they appeared to be the

generous luxuriancy of a noble mind. Nothing like meanness tarnished the

lustre of his youth, nor had the worm of selfishness lurked in the

unfolding bud, even while he had been the dupe of others. Yet he tardily

acquired the experience necessary to guard him against future

imposition.

“I shall weary you,” continued he, “by my egotism; and did not powerful

emotions draw me to you,”—his eyes glistened as he spoke, and a

trembling seemed to run through his manly frame,—“I would not waste

these precious moments in talking of myself.

“My father and mother were people of fashion; married by their parents.

He was fond of the turf, she of the card-table. I, and two or three

other children since dead, were kept at home till we became intolerable.

My father and mother had a visible dislike to each other, continually

displayed; the servants were of the depraved kind usually found in the

houses of people of fortune. My brothers and parents all dying, I was

left to the care of guardians; and sent to Eton. I never knew the sweets

of domestic affection, but I felt the want of indulgence and frivolous

respect at school. I will not disgust you with a recital of the vices of

my youth, which can scarcely be comprehended by female delicacy. I was

taught to love by a creature I am ashamed to mention; and the other

women with whom I afterwards became intimate, were of a class of which

you can have no knowledge. I formed my acquaintance with them at the

theaters; and, when vivacity danced in their eyes, I was not easily

disgusted by the vulgarity which flowed from their lips. Having spent, a

few years after I was of age, [the whole of] a considerable patrimony,

excepting a few hundreds, I had no resource but to purchase a commission

in a new-raised regiment, destined to subjugate America. The regret I

felt to renounce a life of pleasure, was counter-balanced by the

curiosity I had to see America, or rather to travel; [nor had any of

those circumstances occurred to my youth, which might have been

calculated] to bind my country to my heart. I shall not trouble you with

the details of a military life. My blood was still kept in motion; till,

towards the close of the contest, I was wounded and taken prisoner.

“Confined to my bed, or chair, by a lingering cure, my only refuge from

the preying activity of my mind, was books, which I read with great

avidity, profiting by the conversation of my host, a man of sound

understanding. My political sentiments now underwent a total change;

and, dazzled by the hospitality of the Americans, I determined to take

up my abode with freedom. I, therefore, with my usual impetuosity, sold

my commission, and travelled into the interior parts of the country, to

lay out my money to advantage. Added to this, I did not much like the

puritanical manners of the large towns. Inequality of condition was

there most disgustingly galling. The only pleasure wealth afforded, was

to make an ostentatious display of it; for the cultivation of the fine

arts, or literature, had not introduced into the first circles that

polish of manners which renders the rich so essentially superior to the

poor in Europe. Added to this, an influx of vices had been let in by the

Revolution, and the most rigid principles of religion shaken to the

centre, before the understanding could be gradually emancipated from the

prejudices which led their ancestors undauntedly to seek an inhospitable

clime and unbroken soil. The resolution, that led them, in pursuit of

independence, to embark on rivers like seas, to search for unknown

shores, and to sleep under the hovering mists of endless forests, whose

baleful damps agued their limbs, was now turned into commercial

speculations, till the national character exhibited a phenomenon in the

history of the human mind—a head enthusiastically enterprising, with

cold selfishness of heart. And woman, lovely woman!—they charm

everywhere—still there is a degree of prudery, and a want of taste and

ease in the manners of the American women, that renders them, in spite

of their roses and lilies, far inferior to our European charmers. In the

country, they have often a bewitching simplicity of character; but, in

the cities, they have all the airs and ignorance of the ladies who give

the tone to the circles of the large trading towns in England. They are

fond of their ornaments, merely because they are good, and not because

they embellish their persons; and are more gratified to inspire the

women with jealousy of these exterior advantages, than the men with

love. All the frivolity which often (excuse me, Madam) renders the

society of modest women so stupid in England, here seemed to throw still

more leaden fetters on their charms. Not being an adept in gallantry, I

found that I could only keep myself awake in their company by making

downright love to them.

“But, not to intrude on your patience, I retired to the track of land

which I had purchased in the country, and my time passed pleasantly

enough while I cut down the trees, built my house, and planted my

different crops. But winter and idleness came, and I longed for more

elegant society, to hear what was passing in the world, and to do

something better than vegetate with the animals that made a very

considerable part of my household. Consequently, I determined to travel.

Motion was a substitute for variety of objects; and, passing over

immense tracks of country, I exhausted my exuberant spirits, without

obtaining much experience. I every where saw industry the fore-runner

and not the consequence, of luxury; but this country, everything being

on an ample scale, did not afford those picturesque views, which a

certain degree of cultivation is necessary gradually to produce. The eye

wandered without an object to fix upon over immeasureable plains, and

lakes that seemed replenished by the ocean, whilst eternal forests of

small clustering trees, obstructed the circulation of air, and

embarrassed the path, without gratifying the eye of taste. No cottage

smiling in the waste, no travellers hailed us, to give life to silent

nature; or, if perchance we saw the print of a footstep in our path, it

was a dreadful warning to turn aside; and the head ached as if assailed

by the scalping knife. The Indians who hovered on the skirts of the

European settlements had only learned of their neighbours to plunder,

and they stole their guns from them to do it with more safety.

“From the woods and back settlements, I returned to the towns, and

learned to eat and drink most valiantly; but without entering into

commerce (and I detested commerce) I found I could not live there; and,

growing heartily weary of the land of liberty and vulgar aristocracy,

seated on her bags of dollars, I resolved once more to visit Europe. I

wrote to a distant relation in England, with whom I had been educated,

mentioning the vessel in which I intended to sail. Arriving in London,

my senses were intoxicated. I ran from street to street, from theater to

theater, and the women of the town (again I must beg pardon for my

habitual frankness) appeared to me like angels.

“A week was spent in this thoughtless manner, when, returning very late

to the hotel in which I had lodged ever since my arrival, I was knocked

down in a private street, and hurried, in a state of insensibility, into

a coach, which brought me hither, and I only recovered my senses to be

treated like one who had lost them. My keepers are deaf to my

remonstrances and enquiries, yet assure me that my confinement shall not

last long. Still I cannot guess, though I weary myself with conjectures,

why I am confined, or in what part of England this house is situated. I

imagine sometimes that I hear the sea roar, and wished myself again on

the Atlantic, till I had a glimpse of you.” [5]

A few moments were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative,

when Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the “never ending, still

beginning,” task of weighing his words, recollecting his tones of voice,

and feeling them reverberate on her heart.

CHAPTER 4

PITY, and the forlorn seriousness of adversity, have both been

considered as dispositions favourable to love, while satirical writers

have attributed the propensity to the relaxing effect of idleness; what

chance then had Maria of escaping, when pity, sorrow, and solitude all

conspired to soften her mind, and nourish romantic wishes, and, from a

natural progress, romantic expectations?

Maria was six-and-twenty. But, such was the native soundness of her

constitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character

of her mind. Revolving thought, and exercised affections had banished

some of the playful graces of innocence, producing insensibly that

irregularity of features which the struggles of the understanding to

trace or govern the strong emotions of the heart, are wont to imprint on

the yielding mass. Grief and care had mellowed, without obscuring, the

bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulness which resided on her brow

did not take from the feminine softness of her features; nay, such was

the sensibility which often mantled over it, that she frequently

appeared, like a large proportion of her sex, only born to feel; and the

activity of her well-proportioned, and even almost voluptuous figure,

inspired the idea of strength of mind, rather than of body. There was a

simplicity sometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered on infantine

ingenuousness, that led people of common discernment to underrate her

talents, and smile at the flights of her imagination. But those who

could not comprehend the delicacy of her sentiments, were attached by

her unfailing sympathy, so that she was very generally beloved by

characters of very different descriptions; still, she was too much under

the influence of an ardent imagination to adhere to common rules.

There are mistakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the

strength of the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would

demonstrate its weakness, its incapacity to acquire a sane judgment. The

youths who are satisfied with the ordinary pleasures of life, and do not

sigh after ideal phantoms of love and friendship, will never arrive at

great maturity of understanding; but if these reveries are cherished, as

is too frequently the case with women, when experience ought to have

taught them in what human happiness consists, they become as useless as

they are wretched. Besides, their pains and pleasures are so dependent

on outward circumstances, on the objects of their affections, that they

seldom act from the impulse of a nerved mind, able to choose its own

pursuit.

Having had to struggle incessantly with the vices of mankind, Maria’s

imagination found repose in pourtraying the possible virtues the world

might contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an

informing soul. She, on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a

hero’s mind, and fate presented a statue in which she might enshrine

them.

We mean not to trace the progress of this passion, or recount how often

Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midst of an interesting

conversation. Jemima ever watched on the tip-toe of fear, and frequently

separated them on a false alarm, when they would have given worlds to

remain a little longer together.

A magic lamp now seemed to be suspended in Maria’s prison, and fairy

landscapes flitted round the gloomy walls, late so blank. Rushing from

the depth of despair, on the seraph wing of hope, she found herself

happy.—She was beloved, and every emotion was rapturous.

To Darnford she had not shown a decided affection; the fear of

outrunning his, a sure proof of love, made her often assume a coldness

and indifference foreign from her character; and, even when giving way

to the playful emotions of a heart just loosened from the frozen bond of

grief, there was a delicacy in her manner of expressing her sensibility,

which made him doubt whether it was the effect of love.

One evening, when Jemima left them, to listen to the sound of a distant

footstep, which seemed cautiously to approach, he seized Maria’s hand—it

was not withdrawn. They conversed with earnestness of their situation;

and, during the conversation, he once or twice gently drew her towards

him. He felt the fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet feared, to

touch the lips from which it issued; spirits of purity seemed to guard

them, while all the enchanting graces of love sported on her cheeks, and

languished in her eyes.

Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret,

and, she once more taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria stood near his

chair, to approach her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back

with solemnity, he hung down his head abashed; but lifting his eyes

timidly, they met her’s; she had determined, during that instant, and

suffered their rays to mingle. He took, with more ardour, reassured, a

half-consenting, half-reluctant kiss, reluctant only from modesty; and

there was a sacredness in her dignified manner of reclining her glowing

face on his shoulder, that powerfully impressed him. Desire was lost in

more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from insult and sorrow—to

make her happy, seemed not only the first wish of his heart, but the

most noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the

fidelity of honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulsation, could

he ever change, could he be a villain? The emotion with which she, for a

moment, allowed herself to be pressed to his bosom, the tear of

rapturous sympathy, mingled with a soft melancholy sentiment of

recollected disappointment, said—more of truth and faithfulness, than

the tongue could have given utterance to in hours! They were silent—yet

discoursed, how eloquently? till, after a moment’s reflection, Maria

drew her chair by the side of his, and, with a composed sweetness of

voice, and supernatural benignity of countenance, said, “I must open my

whole heart to you; you must be told who I am, why I am here, and why,

telling you I am a wife, I blush not to”—the blush spoke the rest.

Jemima was again at her elbow, and the restraint of her presence did not

prevent an animated conversation, in which love, sly urchin, was ever at

bo-peep.

So much of heaven did they enjoy, that paradise bloomed around them; or

they, by a powerful spell, had been transported into Armida’s garden.

Love, the grand enchanter, “lapt them in Elysium,” and every sense was

harmonized to joy and social extacy. So animated, indeed, were their

accents of tenderness, in discussing what, in other circumstances, would

have been commonplace subjects, that Jemima felt, with surprise, a tear

of pleasure trickling down her rugged cheeks. She wiped it away, half

ashamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the cause, with all the eager

solicitude of a happy being wishing to impart to all nature its

overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the first tear that

social enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She seemed indeed to breathe

more freely; the cloud of suspicion cleared away from her brow; she felt

herself, for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.

Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evanescent tints of

hope fostered by thee? A despondent gloom had long obscured Maria’s

horizon—now the sun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every

prospect was fair. Horror still reigned in the darkened cells, suspicion

lurked in the passages, and whispered along the walls. The yells of men

possessed, sometimes, made them pause, and wonder that they felt so

happy, in a tomb of living death. They even chid themselves for such

apparent insensibility; still the world contained not three happier

beings. And Jemima, after again patrolling the passage, was so softened

by the air of confidence which breathed around her, that she voluntarily

began an account of herself.

CHAPTER 5

“MY FATHER,” said Jemima, “seduced my mother, a pretty girl, with whom

he lived fellow-servant; and she no sooner perceived the natural, the

dreaded consequence, than the terrible conviction flashed on her—that

she was ruined. Honesty, and a regard for her reputation, had been the

only principles inculcated by her mother; and they had been so forcibly

impressed, that she feared shame, more than the poverty to which it

would lead. Her incessant importunities to prevail upon my father to

screen her from reproach by marrying her, as he had promised in the

fervour of seduction, estranged him from her so completely, that her

very person became distasteful to him; and he began to hate, as well as

despise me, before I was born.

“My mother, grieved to the soul by his neglect, and unkind treatment,

actually resolved to famish herself; and injured her health by the

attempt; though she had not sufficient resolution to adhere to her

project, or renounce it entirely. Death came not at her call; yet

sorrow, and the methods she adopted to conceal her condition, still

doing the work of a house-maid, had such an effect on her constitution,

that she died in the wretched garret, where her virtuous mistress had

forced her to take refuge in the very pangs of labour, though my father,

after a slight reproof, was allowed to remain in his place—allowed by

the mother of six children, who, scarcely permitting a footstep to be

heard, during her month’s indulgence, felt no sympathy for the poor

wretch, denied every comfort required by her situation.

“The day my mother, died, the ninth after my birth, I was consigned to

the care of the cheapest nurse my father could find; who suckled her own

child at the same time, and lodged as many more as she could get, in two

cellar-like apartments.

“Poverty, and the habit of seeing children die off her hands, had so

hardened her heart, that the office of a mother did not awaken the

tenderness of a woman; nor were the feminine caresses which seem a part

of the rearing of a child, ever bestowed on me. The chicken has a wing

to shelter under; but I had no bosom to nestle in, no kindred warmth to

foster me. Left in dirt, to cry with cold and hunger till I was weary,

and sleep without ever being prepared by exercise, or lulled by kindness

to rest; could I be expected to become any thing but a weak and rickety

babe? Still, in spite of neglect, I continued to exist, to learn to

curse existence, [her countenance grew ferocious as she spoke,] and the

treatment that rendered me miserable, seemed to sharpen my wits.

Confined then in a damp hovel, to rock the cradle of the succeeding

tribe, I looked like a little old woman, or a hag shrivelling into

nothing. The furrows of reflection and care contracted the youthful

cheek, and gave a sort of supernatural wildness to the ever watchful

eye. During this period, my father had married another fellow-servant,

who loved him less, and knew better how to manage his passion, than my

mother. She likewise proving with child, they agreed to keep a shop: my

step-mother, if, being an illegitimate offspring, I may venture thus to

characterize her, having obtained a sum of a rich relation, for that

purpose.

“Soon after her lying-in, she prevailed on my father to take me home, to

save the expense of maintaining me, and of hiring a girl to assist her

in the care of the child. I was young, it was true, but appeared a

knowing little thing, and might be made handy. Accordingly I was brought

to her house; but not to a home—for a home I never knew. Of this child,

a daughter, she was extravagantly fond; and it was a part of my

employment, to assist to spoil her, by humouring all her whims, and

bearing all her caprices. Feeling her own consequence, before she could

speak, she had learned the art of tormenting me, and if I ever dared to

resist, I received blows, laid on with no compunctious hand, or was sent

to bed dinnerless, as well as supperless. I said that it was a part of

my daily labour to attend this child, with the servility of a slave;

still it was but a part. I was sent out in all seasons, and from place

to place, to carry burdens far above my strength, without being allowed

to draw near the fire, or ever being cheered by encouragement or

kindness. No wonder then, treated like a creature of another species,

that I began to envy, and at length to hate, the darling of the house.

Yet, I perfectly remember, that it was the caresses, and kind

expressions of my step-mother, which first excited my jealous

discontent. Once, I cannot forget it, when she was calling in vain her

wayward child to kiss her, I ran to her, saying, ‘I will kiss you,

ma’am!’ and how did my heart, which was in my mouth, sink, what was my

debasement of soul, when pushed away with—‘I do not want you, pert

thing!’ Another day, when a new gown had excited the highest good

humour, and she uttered the appropriate dear, addressed unexpectedly to

me, I thought I could never do enough to please her; I was all alacrity,

and rose proportionably in my own estimation.

“As her daughter grew up, she was pampered with cakes and fruit, while I

was, literally speaking, fed with the refuse of the table, with her

leavings. A liquorish tooth is, I believe, common to children, and I

used to steal any thing sweet, that I could catch up with a chance of

concealment. When detected, she was not content to chastize me herself

at the moment, but, on my father’s return in the evening (he was a

shopman), the principal discourse was to recount my faults, and

attribute them to the wicked disposition which I had brought into the

world with me, inherited from my mother. He did not fail to leave the

marks of his resentment on my body, and then solaced himself by playing

with my sister.—I could have murdered her at those moments. To save

myself from these unmerciful corrections, I resorted to falshood, and

the untruths which I sturdily maintained, were brought in judgment

against me, to support my tyrant’s inhuman charge of my natural

propensity to vice. Seeing me treated with contempt, and always being

fed and dressed better, my sister conceived a contemptuous opinion of

me, that proved an obstacle to all affection; and my father, hearing

continually of my faults, began to consider me as a curse entailed on

him for his sins: he was therefore easily prevailed on to bind me

apprentice to one of my step-mother’s friends, who kept a slop-shop in

Wapping. I was represented (as it was said) in my true colours; but she,

‘warranted,’ snapping her fingers, ‘that she should break my spirit or

heart.’

“My mother replied, with a whine, ‘that if any body could make me

better, it was such a clever woman as herself; though, for her own part,

she had tried in vain; but good-nature was her fault.’

“I shudder with horror, when I recollect the treatment I had now to

endure. Not only under the lash of my task-mistress, but the drudge of

the maid, apprentices and children, I never had a taste of human

kindness to soften the rigour of perpetual labour. I had been introduced

as an object of abhorrence into the family; as a creature of whom my

step-mother, though she had been kind enough to let me live in the house

with her own child, could make nothing. I was described as a wretch,

whose nose must be kept to the grinding stone—and it was held there with

an iron grasp. It seemed indeed the privilege of their superior nature

to kick me about, like the dog or cat. If I were attentive, I was called

fawning, if refractory, an obstinate mule, and like a mule I received

their censure on my loaded back. Often has my mistress, for some

instance of forgetfulness, thrown me from one side of the kitchen to the

other, knocked my head against the wall, spit in my face, with various

refinements on barbarity that I forbear to enumerate, though they were

all acted over again by the servant, with additional insults, to which

the appellation of bastard, was commonly added, with taunts or sneers.

But I will not attempt to give you an adequate idea of my situation,

lest you, who probably have never been drenched with the dregs of human

misery, should think I exaggerate.

“I stole now, from absolute necessity,—bread; yet whatever else was

taken, which I had it not in my power to take, was ascribed to me. I was

the filching cat, the ravenous dog, the dumb brute, who must bear all;

for if I endeavoured to exculpate myself, I was silenced, without any

enquiries being made, with ‘Hold your tongue, you never tell truth.’

Even the very air I breathed was tainted with scorn; for I was sent to

the neighbouring shops with Glutton, Liar, or Thief, written on my

forehead. This was, at first, the most bitter punishment; but sullen

pride, or a kind of stupid desperation, made me, at length, almost

regardless of the contempt, which had wrung from me so many solitary

tears at the only moments when I was allowed to rest.

“Thus was I the mark of cruelty till my sixteenth year; and then I have

only to point out a change of misery; for a period I never knew. Allow

me first to make one observation. Now I look back, I cannot help

attributing the greater part of my misery, to the misfortune of having

been thrown into the world without the grand support of life—a mother’s

affection. I had no one to love me; or to make me respected, to enable

me to acquire respect. I was an egg dropped on the sand; a pauper by

nature, hunted from family to family, who belonged to nobody—and nobody

cared for me. I was despised from my birth, and denied the chance of

obtaining a footing for myself in society. Yes; I had not even the

chance of being considered as a fellow-creature—yet all the people with

whom I lived, brutalized as they were by the low cunning of trade, and

the despicable shifts of poverty, were not without bowels, though they

never yearned for me. I was, in fact, born a slave, and chained by

infamy to slavery during the whole of existence, without having any

companions to alleviate it by sympathy, or teach me how to rise above it

by their example. But, to resume the thread of my tale—

“At sixteen, I suddenly grew tall, and something like comeliness

appeared on a Sunday, when I had time to wash my face, and put on clean

clothes. My master had once or twice caught hold of me in the passage;

but I instinctively avoided his disgusting caresses. One day however,

when the family were at a methodist meeting, he contrived to be alone in

the house with me, and by blows—yes; blows and menaces, compelled me to

submit to his ferocious desire; and, to avoid my mistress’s fury, I was

obliged in future to comply, and skulk to my loft at his command, in

spite of increasing loathing.

“The anguish which was now pent up in my bosom, seemed to open a new

world to me: I began to extend my thoughts beyond myself, and grieve for

human misery, till I discovered, with horror—ah! what horror!—that I was

with child. I know not why I felt a mixed sensation of despair and

tenderness, excepting that, ever called a bastard, a bastard appeared to

me an object of the greatest compassion in creation.

“I communicated this dreadful circumstance to my master, who was almost

equally alarmed at the intelligence; for he feared his wife, and public

censure at the meeting. After some weeks of deliberation had elapsed, I

in continual fear that my altered shape would be noticed, my master gave

me a medicine in a phial, which he desired me to take, telling me,

without any circumlocution, for what purpose it was designed. I burst

into tears, I thought it was killing myself—yet was such a self as I

worth preserving? He cursed me for a fool, and left me to my own

reflections. I could not resolve to take this infernal potion; but I

wrapped it up in an old gown, and hid it in a corner of my box.

“Nobody yet suspected me, because they had been accustomed to view me as

a creature of another species. But the threatening storm at last broke

over my devoted head—never shall I forget it! One Sunday evening when I

was left, as usual, to take care of the house, my master came home

intoxicated, and I became the prey of his brutal appetite. His extreme

intoxication made him forget his customary caution, and my mistress

entered and found us in a situation that could not have been more

hateful to her than me. Her husband was ‘pot-valiant,’ he feared her not

at the moment, nor had he then much reason, for she instantly turned the

whole force of her anger another way. She tore off my cap, scratched,

kicked, and buffetted me, till she had exhausted her strength,

declaring, as she rested her arm, ‘that I had wheedled her husband from

her.—But, could any thing better be expected from a wretch, whom she had

taken into her house out of pure charity?’ What a torrent of abuse

rushed out? till, almost breathless, she concluded with saying, ‘that I

was born a strumpet; it ran in my blood, and nothing good could come to

those who harboured me.’

“My situation was, of course, discovered, and she declared that I should

not stay another night under the same roof with an honest family. I was

therefore pushed out of doors, and my trumpery thrown after me, when it

had been contemptuously examined in the passage, lest I should have

stolen any thing.

“Behold me then in the street, utterly destitute! Whither could I creep

for shelter? To my father’s roof I had no claim, when not pursued by

shame—now I shrunk back as from death, from my mother’s cruel

reproaches, my father’s execrations. I could not endure to hear him

curse the day I was born, though life had been a curse to me. Of death I

thought, but with a confused emotion of terror, as I stood leaning my

head on a post, and starting at every footstep, lest it should be my

mistress coming to tear my heart out. One of the boys of the shop

passing by, heard my tale, and immediately repaired to his master, to

give him a description of my situation; and he touched the right key—the

scandal it would give rise to, if I were left to repeat my tale to every

enquirer. This plea came home to his reason, who had been sobered by his

wife’s rage, the fury of which fell on him when I was out of her reach,

and he sent the boy to me with half-a-guinea, desiring him to conduct me

to a house, where beggars, and other wretches, the refuse of society,

nightly lodged.

“This night was spent in a state of stupefaction, or desperation. I

detested mankind, and abhorred myself.

“In the morning I ventured out, to throw myself in my master’s way, at

his usual hour of going abroad. I approached him, he ‘damned me for a

b——, declared I had disturbed the peace of the family, and that he had

sworn to his wife, never to take any more notice of me.’ He left me;

but, instantly returning, he told me that he should speak to his friend,

a parish-officer, to get a nurse for the brat I laid to him; and advised

me, if I wished to keep out of the house of correction, not to make free

with his name.

“I hurried back to my hole, and, rage giving place to despair, sought

for the potion that was to procure abortion, and swallowed it, with a

wish that it might destroy me, at the same time that it stopped the

sensations of new-born life, which I felt with indescribable emotion. My

head turned round, my heart grew sick, and in the horrors of approaching

dissolution, mental anguish was swallowed up. The effect of the medicine

was violent, and I was confined to my bed several days; but, youth and a

strong constitution prevailing, I once more crawled out, to ask myself

the cruel question, ‘Whither I should go?’ I had but two shillings left

in my pocket, the rest had been expended, by a poor woman who slept in

the same room, to pay for my lodging, and purchase the necessaries of

which she partook.

“With this wretch I went into the neighbouring streets to beg, and my

disconsolate appearance drew a few pence from the idle, enabling me

still to command a bed; till, recovering from my illness, and taught to

put on my rags to the best advantage, I was accosted from different

motives, and yielded to the desire of the brutes I met, with the same

detestation that I had felt for my still more brutal master. I have

since read in novels of the blandishments of seduction, but I had not

even the pleasure of being enticed into vice.

“I shall not,” interrupted Jemima, “lead your imagination into all the

scenes of wretchedness and depravity, which I was condemned to view; or

mark the different stages of my debasing misery. Fate dragged me through

the very kennels of society: I was still a slave, a bastard, a common

property. Become familiar with vice, for I wish to conceal nothing from

you, I picked the pockets of the drunkards who abused me; and proved by

my conduct, that I deserved the epithets, with which they loaded me at

moments when distrust ought to cease.

“Detesting my nightly occupation, though valuing, if I may so use the

word, my independence, which only consisted in choosing the street in

which I should wander, or the roof, when I had money, in which I should

hide my head, I was some time before I could prevail on myself to accept

of a place in a house of ill fame, to which a girl, with whom I had

accidentally conversed in the street, had recommended me. I had been

hunted almost into a fever, by the watchmen of the quarter of the town I

frequented; one, whom I had unwittingly offended, giving the word to the

whole pack. You can scarcely conceive the tyranny exercised by these

wretches: considering themselves as the instruments of the very laws

they violate, the pretext which steels their conscience, hardens their

heart. Not content with receiving from us, outlaws of society (let other

women talk of favours) a brutal gratification gratuitously as a

privilege of office, they extort a tithe of prostitution, and harrass

with threats the poor creatures whose occupation affords not the means

to silence the growl of avarice. To escape from this persecution, I once

more entered into servitude.

“A life of comparative regularity restored my health; and—do not

start—my manners were improved, in a situation where vice sought to

render itself alluring, and taste was cultivated to fashion the person,

if not to refine the mind. Besides, the common civility of speech,

contrasted with the gross vulgarity to which I had been accustomed, was

something like the polish of civilization. I was not shut out from all

intercourse of humanity. Still I was galled by the yoke of service, and

my mistress often flying into violent fits of passion, made me dread a

sudden dismission, which I understood was always the case. I was

therefore prevailed on, though I felt a horror of men, to accept the

offer of a gentleman, rather in the decline of years, to keep his house,

pleasantly situated in a little village near Hampstead.

“He was a man of great talents, and of brilliant wit; but, a worn-out

votary of voluptuousness, his desires became fastidious in proportion as

they grew weak, and the native tenderness of his heart was undermined by

a vitiated imagination. A thoughtless career of libertinism and social

enjoyment, had injured his health to such a degree, that, whatever

pleasure his conversation afforded me (and my esteem was ensured by

proofs of the generous humanity of his disposition), the being his

mistress was purchasing it at a very dear rate. With such a keen

perception of the delicacies of sentiment, with an imagination

invigorated by the exercise of genius, how could he sink into the

grossness of sensuality!

“But, to pass over a subject which I recollect with pain, I must remark

to you, as an answer to your often-repeated question, ‘Why my sentiments

and language were superior to my station?’ that I now began to read, to

beguile the tediousness of solitude, and to gratify an inquisitive,

active mind. I had often, in my childhood, followed a ballad-singer, to

hear the sequel of a dismal story, though sure of being severely

punished for delaying to return with whatever I was sent to purchase. I

could just spell and put a sentence together, and I listened to the

various arguments, though often mingled with obscenity, which occurred

at the table where I was allowed to preside: for a literary friend or

two frequently came home with my master, to dine and pass the night.

Having lost the privileged respect of my sex, my presence, instead of

restraining, perhaps gave the reins to their tongues; still I had the

advantage of hearing discussions, from which, in the common course of

life, women are excluded.

“You may easily imagine, that it was only by degrees that I could

comprehend some of the subjects they investigated, or acquire from their

reasoning what might be termed a moral sense. But my fondness of reading

increasing, and my master occasionally shutting himself up in this

retreat, for weeks together, to write, I had many opportunities of

improvement. At first, considering money (I was right!” exclaimed

Jemima, altering her tone of voice) “as the only means, after my loss of

reputation, of obtaining respect, or even the toleration of humanity, I

had not the least scruple to secrete a part of the sums intrusted to me,

and to screen myself from detection by a system of falshood. But,

acquiring new principles, I began to have the ambition of returning to

the respectable part of society, and was weak enough to suppose it

possible. The attention of my unassuming instructor, who, without being

ignorant of his own powers, possessed great simplicity of manners,

strengthened the illusion. Having sometimes caught up hints for thought,

from my untutored remarks, he often led me to discuss the subjects he

was treating, and would read to me his productions, previous to their

publication, wishing to profit by the criticism of unsophisticated

feeling. The aim of his writings was to touch the simple springs of the

heart; for he despised the would-be oracles, the self-elected

philosophers, who fright away fancy, while sifting each grain of thought

to prove that slowness of comprehension is wisdom.

“I should have distinguished this as a moment of sunshine, a happy

period in my life, had not the repugnance the disgusting libertinism of

my protector inspired, daily become more painful.—And, indeed, I soon

did recollect it as such with agony, when his sudden death (for he had

recourse to the most exhilarating cordials to keep up the convivial tone

of his spirits) again threw me into the desert of human society. Had he

had any time for reflection, I am certain he would have left the little

property in his power to me: but, attacked by the fatal apoplexy in

town, his heir, a man of rigid morals, brought his wife with him to take

possession of the house and effects, before I was even informed of his

death,—‘to prevent,’ as she took care indirectly to tell me, ‘such a

creature as she supposed me to be, from purloining any of them, had I

been apprized of the event in time.’

“The grief I felt at the sudden shock the information gave me, which at

first had nothing selfish in it, was treated with contempt, and I was

ordered to pack up my clothes; and a few trinkets and books, given me by

the generous deceased, were contested, while they piously hoped, with a

reprobating shake of the head, ‘that God would have mercy on his sinful

soul!’ With some difficulty, I obtained my arrears of wages; but

asking—such is the spirit-grinding consequence of poverty and infamy—for

a character for honesty and economy, which God knows I merited, I was

told by this—why must I call her woman?—‘that it would go against her

conscience to recommend a kept mistress.’ Tears started in my eyes,

burning tears; for there are situations in which a wretch is humbled by

the contempt they are conscious they do not deserve.

“I returned to the metropolis; but the solitude of a poor lodging was

inconceivably dreary, after the society I had enjoyed. To be cut off

from human converse, now I had been taught to relish it, was to wander a

ghost among the living. Besides, I foresaw, to aggravate the severity of

my fate, that my little pittance would soon melt away. I endeavoured to

obtain needlework; but, not having been taught early, and my hands being

rendered clumsy by hard work, I did not sufficiently excel to be

employed by the ready-made linen shops, when so many women, better

qualified, were suing for it. The want of a character prevented my

getting a place; for, irksome as servitude would have been to me, I

should have made another trial, had it been feasible. Not that I

disliked employment, but the inequality of condition to which I must

have submitted. I had acquired a taste for literature, during the five

years I had lived with a literary man, occasionally conversing with men

of the first abilities of the age; and now to descend to the lowest

vulgarity, was a degree of wretchedness not to be imagined unfelt. I had

not, it is true, tasted the charms of affection, but I had been familiar

with the graces of humanity.

“One of the gentlemen, whom I had frequently dined in company with,

while I was treated like a companion, met me in the street, and enquired

after my health. I seized the occasion, and began to describe my

situation; but he was in haste to join, at dinner, a select party of

choice spirits; therefore, without waiting to hear me, he impatiently

put a guinea into my hand, saying, ‘It was a pity such a sensible woman

should be in distress—he wished me well from his soul.’

“To another I wrote, stating my case, and requesting advice. He was an

advocate for unequivocal sincerity; and had often, in my presence,

descanted on the evils which arise in society from the despotism of rank

and riches.

“In reply, I received a long essay on the energy of the human mind, with

continual allusions to his own force of character. He added, ‘That the

woman who could write such a letter as I had sent him, could never be in

want of resources, were she to look into herself, and exert her powers;

misery was the consequence of indolence, and, as to my being shut out

from society, it was the lot of man to submit to certain privations.’

“How often have I heard,” said Jemima, interrupting her narrative, “in

conversation, and read in books, that every person willing to work may

find employment? It is the vague assertion, I believe, of insensible

indolence, when it relates to men; but, with respect to women, I am sure

of its fallacy, unless they will submit to the most menial bodily

labour; and even to be employed at hard labour is out of the reach of

many, whose reputation misfortune or folly has tainted.

“How writers, professing to be friends to freedom, and the improvement

of morals, can assert that poverty is no evil, I cannot imagine.”

“No more can I,” interrupted Maria, “yet they even expatiate on the

peculiar happiness of indigence, though in what it can consist,

excepting in brutal rest, when a man can barely earn a subsistence, I

cannot imagine. The mind is necessarily imprisoned in its own little

tenement; and, fully occupied by keeping it in repair, has not time to

rove abroad for improvement. The book of knowledge is closely clasped,

against those who must fulfil their daily task of severe manual labour

or die; and curiosity, rarely excited by thought or information, seldom

moves on the stagnate lake of ignorance.”

“As far as I have been able to observe,” replied Jemima, “prejudices,

caught up by chance, are obstinately maintained by the poor, to the

exclusion of improvement; they have not time to reason or reflect to any

extent, or minds sufficiently exercised to adopt the principles of

action, which form perhaps the only basis of contentment in every

station.” [6]

“And independence,” said Darnford, “they are necessarily strangers to,

even the independence of despising their persecutors. If the poor are

happy, or can be happy, things are very well as they are. And I cannot

conceive on what principle those writers contend for a change of system,

who support this opinion. The authors on the other side of the question

are much more consistent, who grant the fact; yet, insisting that it is

the lot of the majority to be oppressed in this life, kindly turn them

over to another, to rectify the false weights and measures of this, as

the only way to justify the dispensations of Providence. I have not,”

continued Darnford, “an opinion more firmly fixed by observation in my

mind, than that, though riches may fail to produce proportionate

happiness, poverty most commonly excludes it, by shutting up all the

avenues to improvement.”

“And as for the affections,” added Maria, with a sigh, “how gross, and

even tormenting do they become, unless regulated by an improving mind!

The culture of the heart ever, I believe, keeps pace with that of the

mind. But pray go on,” addressing Jemima, “though your narrative gives

rise to the most painful reflections on the present state of society.”

“Not to trouble you,” continued she, “with a detailed description of all

the painful feelings of unavailing exertion, I have only to tell you,

that at last I got recommended to wash in a few families, who did me the

favour to admit me into their houses, without the most strict enquiry,

to wash from one in the morning till eight at night, for eighteen or

twenty-pence a day. On the happiness to be enjoyed over a washing-tub I

need not comment; yet you will allow me to observe, that this was a

wretchedness of situation peculiar to my sex. A man with half my

industry, and, I may say, abilities, could have procured a decent

livelihood, and discharged some of the duties which knit mankind

together; whilst I, who had acquired a taste for the rational, nay, in

honest pride let me assert it, the virtuous enjoyments of life, was cast

aside as the filth of society. Condemned to labour, like a machine, only

to earn bread, and scarcely that, I became melancholy and desperate.

“I have now to mention a circumstance which fills me with remorse, and

fear it will entirely deprive me of your esteem. A tradesman became

attached to me, and visited me frequently,—and I at last obtained such a

power over him, that he offered to take me home to his house.—Consider,

dear madam, I was famishing: wonder not that I became a wolf!—The only

reason for not taking me home immediately, was the having a girl in the

house, with child by him—and this girl—I advised him—yes, I did! would I

could forget it!—to turn out of doors: and one night he determined to

follow my advice. Poor wretch! She fell upon her knees, reminded him

that he had promised to marry her, that her parents were honest!—What

did it avail?—She was turned out.

“She approached her father’s door, in the skirts of London,—listened at

the shutters,—but could not knock. A watchman had observed her go and

return several times—Poor wretch!—[The remorse Jemima spoke of, seemed

to be stinging her to the soul, as she proceeded.]

“She left it, and, approaching a tub where horses were watered, she sat

down in it, and, with desperate resolution, remained in that

attitude—till resolution was no longer necessary!

“I happened that morning to be going out to wash, anticipating the

moment when I should escape from such hard labour. I passed by, just as

some men, going to work, drew out the stiff, cold corpse—Let me not

recall the horrid moment!—I recognized her pale visage; I listened to

the tale told by the spectators, and my heart did not burst. I thought

of my own state, and wondered how I could be such a monster!—I worked

hard; and, returning home, I was attacked by a fever. I suffered both in

body and mind. I determined not to live with the wretch. But he did not

try me; he left the neighbourhood. I once more returned to the wash-tub.

“Still this state, miserable as it was, admitted of aggravation. Lifting

one day a heavy load, a tub fell against my shin, and gave me great

pain. I did not pay much attention to the hurt, till it became a serious

wound; being obliged to work as usual, or starve. But, finding myself at

length unable to stand for any time, I thought of getting into an

hospital. Hospitals, it should seem (for they are comfortless abodes for

the sick) were expressly endowed for the reception of the friendless;

yet I, who had on that plea a right to assistance, wanted the

recommendation of the rich and respectable, and was several weeks

languishing for admittance; fees were demanded on entering; and, what

was still more unreasonable, security for burying me, that expence not

coming into the letter of the charity. A guinea was the stipulated sum—I

could as soon have raised a million; and I was afraid to apply to the

parish for an order, lest they should have passed me, I knew not

whither. The poor woman at whose house I lodged, compassionating my

state, got me into the hospital; and the family where I received the

hurt, sent me five shillings, three and six-pence of which I gave at my

admittance—I know not for what.

“My leg grew quickly better; but I was dismissed before my cure was

completed, because I could not afford to have my linen washed to appear

decently, as the virago of a nurse said, when the gentlemen (the

surgeons) came. I cannot give you an adequate idea of the wretchedness

of an hospital; every thing is left to the care of people intent on

gain. The attendants seem to have lost all feeling of compassion in the

bustling discharge of their offices; death is so familiar to them, that

they are not anxious to ward it off. Every thing appeared to be

conducted for the accommodation of the medical men and their pupils, who

came to make experiments on the poor, for the benefit of the rich. One

of the physicians, I must not forget to mention, gave me half-a-crown,

and ordered me some wine, when I was at the lowest ebb. I thought of

making my case known to the lady-like matron; but her forbidding

countenance prevented me. She condescended to look on the patients, and

make general enquiries, two or three times a week; but the nurses knew

the hour when the visit of ceremony would commence, and every thing was

as it should be.

“After my dismission, I was more at a loss than ever for a subsistence,

and, not to weary you with a repetition of the same unavailing attempts,

unable to stand at the washing-tub, I began to consider the rich and

poor as natural enemies, and became a thief from principle. I could not

now cease to reason, but I hated mankind. I despised myself, yet I

justified my conduct. I was taken, tried, and condemned to six months’

imprisonment in a house of correction. My soul recoils with horror from

the remembrance of the insults I had to endure, till, branded with

shame, I was turned loose in the street, pennyless. I wandered from

street to street, till, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, I sunk down

senseless at a door, where I had vainly demanded a morsel of bread. I

was sent by the inhabitant to the work-house, to which he had surlily

bid me go, saying, he ‘paid enough in conscience to the poor,’ when,

with parched tongue, I implored his charity. If those well-meaning

people who exclaim against beggars, were acquainted with the treatment

the poor receive in many of these wretched asylums, they would not

stifle so easily involuntary sympathy, by saying that they have all

parishes to go to, or wonder that the poor dread to enter the gloomy

walls. What are the common run of workhouses, but prisons, in which many

respectable old people, worn out by immoderate labour, sink into the

grave in sorrow, to which they are carried like dogs!”

Alarmed by some indistinct noise, Jemima rose hastily to listen, and

Maria, turning to Darnford, said, “I have indeed been shocked beyond

expression when I have met a pauper’s funeral. A coffin carried on the

shoulders of three or four ill-looking wretches, whom the imagination

might easily convert into a band of assassins, hastening to conceal the

corpse, and quarrelling about the prey on their way. I know it is of

little consequence how we are consigned to the earth; but I am led by

this brutal insensibility, to what even the animal creation appears

forcibly to feel, to advert to the wretched, deserted manner in which

they died.”

“True,” rejoined Darnford, “and, till the rich will give more than a

part of their wealth, till they will give time and attention to the

wants of the distressed, never let them boast of charity. Let them open

their hearts, and not their purses, and employ their minds in the

service, if they are really actuated by humanity; or charitable

institutions will always be the prey of the lowest order of knaves.”

Jemima returning, seemed in haste to finish her tale. “The overseer

farmed the poor of different parishes, and out of the bowels of poverty

was wrung the money with which he purchased this dwelling, as a private

receptacle for madness. He had been a keeper at a house of the same

description, and conceived that he could make money much more readily in

his old occupation. He is a shrewd—shall I say it?—villain. He observed

something resolute in my manner, and offered to take me with him, and

instruct me how to treat the disturbed minds he meant to intrust to my

care. The offer of forty pounds a year, and to quit a workhouse, was not

to be despised, though the condition of shutting my eyes and hardening

my heart was annexed to it.

“I agreed to accompany him; and four years have I been attendant on many

wretches, and”—she lowered her voice,—“the witness of many enormities.

In solitude my mind seemed to recover its force, and many of the

sentiments which I imbibed in the only tolerable period of my life,

returned with their full force. Still what should induce me to be the

champion for suffering humanity?—Who ever risked any thing for me?—Who

ever acknowledged me to be a fellow-creature?”—

Maria took her hand, and Jemima, more overcome by kindness than she had

ever been by cruelty, hastened out of the room to conceal her emotions.

Darnford soon after heard his summons, and, taking leave of him, Maria

promised to gratify his curiosity, with respect to herself, the first

opportunity.

CHAPTER 6

ACTIVE as love was in the heart of Maria, the story she had just heard

made her thoughts take a wider range. The opening buds of hope closed,

as if they had put forth too early, and the the happiest day of her life

was overcast by the most melancholy reflections. Thinking of Jemima’s

peculiar fate and her own, she was led to consider the oppressed state

of women, and to lament that she had given birth to a daughter. Sleep

fled from her eyelids, while she dwelt on the wretchedness of

unprotected infancy, till sympathy with Jemima changed to agony, when it

seemed probable that her own babe might even now be in the very state

she so forcibly described.

Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima’s humanity had rather been

benumbed than killed, by the keen frost she had to brave at her entrance

into life; an appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, surely

would not be fruitless; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it

would afford her to gain intelligence of her child. This project was now

the only subject of reflection; and she watched impatiently for the dawn

of day, with that determinate purpose which generally insures success.

At the usual hour, Jemima brought her breakfast, and a tender note from

Darnford. She ran her eye hastily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded

up the rapture a fresh assurance of affection, affection such as she

wished to inspire, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from

its design. While Jemima waited to take away the breakfast, Maria

alluded to the reflections, that had haunted her during the night to the

exclusion of sleep. She spoke with energy of Jemima’s unmerited

sufferings, and of the fate of a number of deserted females, placed

within the sweep of a whirlwind, from which it was next to impossible to

escape. Perceiving the effect her conversation produced on the

countenance of her guard, she grasped the arm of Jemima with that

irresistible warmth which defies repulse, exclaiming—“With your heart,

and such dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe

of a mother’s tenderness, a mother’s care? In the name of God, assist me

to snatch her from destruction! Let me but give her an education—let me

but prepare her body and mind to encounter the ills which await her sex,

and I will teach her to consider you as her second mother, and herself

as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me—observe me closely, and

read my very soul; you merit a better fate;” she held out her hand with

a firm gesture of assurance; “and I will procure it for you, as a

testimony of my esteem, as well as of my gratitude.”

Jemima had not power to resist this persuasive torrent; and, owning that

the house in which she was confined, was situated on the banks of the

Thames, only a few miles from London, and not on the sea-coast, as

Darnford had supposed, she promised to invent some excuse for her

absence, and go herself to trace the situation, and enquire concerning

the health, of this abandoned daughter. Her manner implied an intention

to do something more, but she seemed unwilling to impart her design; and

Maria, glad to have obtained the main point, thought it best to leave

her to the workings of her own mind; convinced that she had the power of

interesting her still more in favour of herself and child, by a simple

recital of facts.

In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother, that on the morrow

she should hasten to town before the family hour of rising, and received

all the information necessary, as a clue to her search. The “Good

night!” Maria uttered was peculiarly solemn and affectionate. Glad

expectation sparkled in her eye; and, for the first time since her

detention, she pronounced the name of her child with pleasureable

fondness; and, with all the garrulity of a nurse, described her first

smile when she recognized her mother. Recollecting herself, a still

kinder “Adieu!” with a “God bless you!”—that seemed to include a

maternal benediction, dismissed Jemima.

The dreary solitude of the ensuing day, lengthened by impatiently

dwelling on the same idea, was intolerably wearisome. She listened for

the sound of a particular clock, which some directions of the wind

allowed her to hear distinctly. She marked the shadow gaining on the

wall; and, twilight thickening into darkness, her breath seemed

oppressed while she anxiously counted nine.—The last sound was a stroke

of despair on her heart; for she expected every moment, without seeing

Jemima, to have her light extinguished by the savage female who supplied

her place. She was even obliged to prepare for bed, restless as she was,

not to disoblige her new attendant. She had been cautioned not to speak

too freely to her; but the caution was needless, her countenance would

still more emphatically have made her shrink back. Such was the ferocity

of manner, conspicuous in every word and gesture of this hag, that Maria

was afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who had faithfully promised to see

her before her door was shut for the night, came not?—and, when the key

turned in the lock, to consign her to a night of suspence, she felt a

degree of anguish which the circumstances scarcely justified.

Continually on the watch, the shutting of a door, or the sound of a

foot-step, made her start and tremble with apprehension, something like

what she felt, when, at her entrance, dragged along the gallery, she

began to doubt whether she were not surrounded by demons?

Fatigued by an endless rotation of thought and wild alarms, she looked

like a spectre, when Jemima entered in the morning; especially as her

eyes darted out of her head, to read in Jemima’s countenance, almost as

pallid, the intelligence she dared not trust her tongue to demand.

Jemima put down the tea-things, and appeared very busy in arranging the

table. Maria took up a cup with trembling hand, then forcibly recovering

her fortitude, and restraining the convulsive movement which agitated

the muscles of her mouth, she said, “Spare yourself the pain of

preparing me for your information, I adjure you!—My child is dead!”

Jemima solemnly answered, “Yes;” with a look expressive of compassion

and angry emotions. “Leave me,” added Maria, making a fresh effort to

govern her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to conceal

her anguish—“It is enough—I know that my babe is no more—I will hear the

particulars when I am”—calmer, she could not utter; and Jemima, without

importuning her by idle attempts to console her, left the room.

Plunged in the deepest melancholy, she would not admit Darnford’s

visits; and such is the force of early associations even on strong

minds, that, for a while, she indulged the superstitious notion that she

was justly punished by the death of her child, for having for an instant

ceased to regret her loss. Two or three letters from Darnford, full of

soothing, manly tenderness, only added poignancy to these accusing

emotions; yet the passionate style in which he expressed, what he termed

the first and fondest wish of his heart, “that his affection might make

her some amends for the cruelty and injustice she had endured,” inspired

a sentiment of gratitude to heaven; and her eyes filled with delicious

tears, when, at the conclusion of his letter, wishing to supply the

place of her unworthy relations, whose want of principle he execrated,

he assured her, calling her his dearest girl, “that it should henceforth

be the business of his life to make her happy.”

He begged, in a note sent the following morning, to be permitted to see

her, when his presence would be no intrusion on her grief, and so

earnestly intreated to be allowed, according to promise, to beguile the

tedious moments of absence, by dwelling on the events of her past life,

that she sent him the memoirs which had been written for her daughter,

promising Jemima the perusal as soon as he returned them.

CHAPTER 7

“ADDRESSING these memoirs to you, my child, uncertain whether I shall

ever have an opportunity of instructing you, many observations will

probably flow from my heart, which only a mother—a mother schooled in

misery, could make.

“The tenderness of a father who knew the world, might be great; but

could it equal that of a mother—of a mother, labouring under a portion

of the misery, which the constitution of society seems to have entailed

on all her kind? It is, my child, my dearest daughter, only such a

mother, who will dare to break through all restraint to provide for your

happiness—who will voluntarily brave censure herself, to ward off sorrow

from your bosom. From my narrative, my dear girl, you may gather the

instruction, the counsel, which is meant rather to exercise than

influence your mind.—Death may snatch me from you, before you can weigh

my advice, or enter into my reasoning: I would then, with fond anxiety,

lead you very early in life to form your grand principle of action, to

save you from the vain regret of having, through irresolution, let the

spring-tide of existence pass away, unimproved, unenjoyed.—Gain

experience—ah! gain it—while experience is worth having, and acquire

sufficient fortitude to pursue your own happiness; it includes your

utility, by a direct path. What is wisdom too often, but the owl of the

goddess, who sits moping in a desolated heart; around me she shrieks,

but I would invite all the gay warblers of spring to nestle in your

blooming bosom.—Had I not wasted years in deliberating, after I ceased

to doubt, how I ought to have acted—I might now be useful and happy.—For

my sake, warned by my example, always appear what you are, and you will

not pass through existence without enjoying its genuine blessings, love

and respect.

“Born in one of the most romantic parts of England, an enthusiastic

fondness for the varying charms of nature is the first sentiment I

recollect; or rather it was the first consciousness of pleasure that

employed and formed my imagination.

“My father had been a captain of a man of war; but, disgusted with the

service, on account of the preferment of men whose chief merit was their

family connections or borough interest, he retired into the country;

and, not knowing what to do with himself—married. In his family, to

regain his lost consequence, he determined to keep up the same passive

obedience, as in the vessels in which he had commanded. His orders were

not to be disputed; and the whole house was expected to fly, at the word

of command, as if to man the shrouds, or mount aloft in an elemental

strife, big with life or death. He was to be instantaneously obeyed,

especially by my mother, whom he very benevolently married for love; but

took care to remind her of the obligation, when she dared, in the

slightest instance, to question his absolute authority. My eldest

brother, it is true, as he grew up, was treated with more respect by my

father; and became in due form the deputy-tyrant of the house. The

representative of my father, a being privileged by nature—a boy, and the

darling of my mother, he did not fail to act like an heir apparent. Such

indeed was my mother’s extravagant partiality, that, in comparison with

her affection for him, she might be said not to love the rest of her

children. Yet none of the children seemed to have so little affection

for her. Extreme indulgence had rendered him so selfish, that he only

thought of himself; and from tormenting insects and animals, he became

the despot of his brothers, and still more of his sisters.

“It is perhaps difficult to give you an idea of the petty cares which

obscured the morning of my life; continual restraint in the most trivial

matters; unconditional submission to orders, which, as a mere child, I

soon discovered to be unreasonable, because inconsistent and

contradictory. Thus are we destined to experience a mixture of

bitterness, with the recollection of our most innocent enjoyments.

“The circumstances which, during my childhood, occurred to fashion my

mind, were various; yet, as it would probably afford me more pleasure to

revive the fading remembrance of newborn delight, than you, my child,

could feel in the perusal, I will not entice you to stray with me into

the verdant meadow, to search for the flowers that youthful hopes

scatter in every path; though, as I write, I almost scent the fresh

green of spring—of that spring which never returns!

“I had two sisters, and one brother, younger than myself, my brother

Robert was two years older, and might truly be termed the idol of his

parents, and the torment of the rest of the family. Such indeed is the

force of prejudice, that what was called spirit and wit in him, was

cruelly repressed as forwardness in me.

“My mother had an indolence of character, which prevented her from

paying much attention to our education. But the healthy breeze of a

neighbouring heath, on which we bounded at pleasure, volatilized the

humours that improper food might have generated. And to enjoy open air

and freedom, was paradise, after the unnatural restraint of our

fireside, where we were often obliged to sit three or four hours

together, without daring to utter a word, when my father was out of

humour, from want of employment, or of a variety of boisterous

amusement. I had however one advantage, an instructor, the brother of my

father, who, intended for the church, had of course received a liberal

education. But, becoming attached to a young lady of great beauty and

large fortune, and acquiring in the world some opinions not consonant

with the profession for which he was designed, he accepted, with the

most sanguine expectations of success, the offer of a nobleman to

accompany him to India, as his confidential secretary.

“A correspondence was regularly kept up with the object of his

affection; and the intricacies of business, peculiarly wearisome to a

man of a romantic turn of mind, contributed, with a forced absence, to

increase his attachment. Every other passion was lost in this

master-one, and only served to swell the torrent. Her relations, such

were his waking dreams, who had despised him, would court in their turn

his alliance, and all the blandishments of taste would grace the triumph

of love.—While he basked in the warm sunshine of love, friendship also

promised to shed its dewy freshness; for a friend, whom he loved next to

his mistress, was the confident, who forwarded the letters from one to

the other, to elude the observation of prying relations. A friend false

in similar circumstances, is, my dearest girl, an old tale; yet, let not

this example, or the frigid caution of coldblooded moralists, make you

endeavour to stifle hopes, which are the buds that naturally unfold

themselves during the spring of life! Whilst your own heart is sincere,

always expect to meet one glowing with the same sentiments; for to fly

from pleasure, is not to avoid pain!

“My uncle realized, by good luck, rather than management, a handsome

fortune; and returning on the wings of love, lost in the most enchanting

reveries, to England, to share it with his mistress and his friend, he

found them—united.

“There were some circumstances, not necessary for me to recite, which

aggravated the guilt of the friend beyond measure, and the deception,

that had been carried on to the last moment, was so base, it produced

the most violent effect on my uncle’s health and spirits. His native

country, the world! lately a garden of blooming sweets, blasted by

treachery, seemed changed into a parched desert, the abode of hissing

serpents. Disappointment rankled in his heart; and, brooding over his

wrongs, he was attacked by a raging fever, followed by a derangement of

mind, which only gave place to habitual melancholy, as he recovered more

strength of body.

“Declaring an intention never to marry, his relations were ever

clustering about him, paying the grossest adulation to a man, who,

disgusted with mankind, received them with scorn, or bitter sarcasms.

Something in my countenance pleased him, when I began to prattle. Since

his return, he appeared dead to affection; but I soon, by showing him

innocent fondness, became a favourite; and endeavouring to enlarge and

strengthen my mind, I grew dear to him in proportion as I imbibed his

sentiments. He had a forcible manner of speaking, rendered more so by a

certain impressive wildness of look and gesture, calculated to engage

the attention of a young and ardent mind. It is not then surprising that

I quickly adopted his opinions in preference, and reverenced him as one

of a superior order of beings. He inculcated, with great warmth,

self-respect, and a lofty consciousness of acting right, independent of

the censure or applause of the world; nay, he almost taught me to brave,

and even despise its censure, when convinced of the rectitude of my own

intentions.

“Endeavouring to prove to me that nothing which deserved the name of

love or friendship, existed in the world, he drew such animated pictures

of his own feelings, rendered permanent by disappointment, as imprinted

the sentiments strongly on my heart, and animated my imagination. These

remarks are necessary to elucidate some peculiarities in my character,

which by the world are indefinitely termed romantic.

“My uncle’s increasing affection led him to visit me often. Still,

unable to rest in any place, he did not remain long in the country to

soften domestic tyranny; but he brought me books, for which I had a

passion, and they conspired with his conversation, to make me form an

ideal picture of life. I shall pass over the tyranny of my father, much

as I suffered from it; but it is necessary to notice, that it undermined

my mother’s health; and that her temper, continually irritated by

domestic bickering, became intolerably peevish.

“My eldest brother was articled to a neighbouring attorney, the

shrewdest, and, I may add, the most unprincipled man in that part of the

country. As my brother generally came home every Saturday, to astonish

my mother by exhibiting his attainments, he gradually assumed a right of

directing the whole family, not excepting my father. He seemed to take a

peculiar pleasure in tormenting and humbling me; and if I ever ventured

to complain of this treatment to either my father or mother, I was

rudely rebuffed for presuming to judge of the conduct of my eldest

brother.

“About this period a merchant’s family came to settle in our

neighbourhood. A mansion-house in the village, lately purchased, had

been preparing the whole spring, and the sight of the costly furniture,

sent from London, had excited my mother’s envy, and roused my father’s

pride. My sensations were very different, and all of a pleasurable kind.

I longed to see new characters, to break the tedious monotony of my

life; and to find a friend, such as fancy had pourtrayed. I cannot then

describe the emotion I felt, the Sunday they made their appearance at

church. My eyes were rivetted on the pillar round which I expected first

to catch a glimpse of them, and darted forth to meet a servant who

hastily preceded a group of ladies, whose white robes and waving plumes,

seemed to stream along the gloomy aisle, diffusing the light, by which I

contemplated their figures.

“We visited them in form; and I quickly selected the eldest daughter for

my friend. The second son, George, paid me particular attention, and

finding his attainments and manners superior to those of the young men

of the village, I began to imagine him superior to the rest of mankind.

Had my home been more comfortable, or my previous acquaintance more

numerous, I should not probably have been so eager to open my heart to

new affections.

“Mr. Venables, the merchant, had acquired a large fortune by unremitting

attention to business; but his health declining rapidly, he was obliged

to retire, before his son, George, had acquired sufficient experience,

to enable him to conduct their affairs on the same prudential plan, his

father had invariably pursued. Indeed, he had laboured to throw off his

authority, having despised his narrow plans and cautious speculation.

The eldest son could not be prevailed on to enter the firm; and, to

oblige his wife, and have peace in the house, Mr. Venables had purchased

a commission for him in the guards.

“I am now alluding to circumstances which came to my knowledge long

after; but it is necessary, my dearest child, that you should know the

character of your father, to prevent your despising your mother; the

only parent inclined to discharge a parent’s duty. In London, George had

acquired habits of libertinism, which he carefully concealed from his

father and his commercial connections. The mask he wore, was so complete

a covering of his real visage, that the praise his father lavished on

his conduct, and, poor mistaken man! on his principles, contrasted with

his brother’s, rendered the notice he took of me peculiarly flattering.

Without any fixed design, as I am now convinced, he continued to single

me out at the dance, press my hand at parting, and utter expressions of

unmeaning passion, to which I gave a meaning naturally suggested by the

romantic turn of my thoughts. His stay in the country was short; his

manners did not entirely please me; but, when he left us, the colouring

of my picture became more vivid—Whither did not my imagination lead me?

In short, I fancied myself in love—in love with the disinterestedness,

fortitude, generosity, dignity, and humanity, with which I had invested

the hero I dubbed. A circumstance which soon after occurred, rendered

all these virtues palpable. [The incident is perhaps worth relating on

other accounts, and therefore I shall describe it distinctly.]

“I had a great affection for my nurse, old Mary, for whom I used often

to work, to spare her eyes. Mary had a younger sister, married to a

sailor, while she was suckling me; for my mother only suckled my eldest

brother, which might be the cause of her extraordinary partiality.

Peggy, Mary’s sister, lived with her, till her husband, becoming a mate

in a West-Indian trader, got a little before-hand in the world. He wrote

to his wife from the first port in the Channel, after his most

successful voyage, to request her to come to London to meet him; he even

wished her to determine on living there for the future, to save him the

trouble of coming to her the moment he came on shore; and to turn a

penny by keeping a green-stall. It was too much to set out on a journey

the moment he had finished a voyage, and fifty miles by land, was worse

than a thousand leagues by sea.

“She packed up her alls, and came to London—but did not meet honest

Daniel. A common misfortune prevented her, and the poor are bound to

suffer for the good of their country—he was pressed in the river—and

never came on shore.

“Peggy was miserable in London, not knowing, as she said, ‘the face of

any living soul.’ Besides, her imagination had been employed,

anticipating a month or six weeks’ happiness with her husband. Daniel

was to have gone with her to Sadler’s Wells, and Westminster Abbey, and

to many sights, which he knew she never heard of in the country. Peggy

too was thrifty, and how could she manage to put his plan in execution

alone? He had acquaintance; but she did not know the very name of their

places of abode. His letters were made up of—How do you does, and God

bless yous,—information was reserved for the hour of meeting.

“She too had her portion of information, near at heart. Molly and Jacky

were grown such little darlings, she was almost angry that daddy did not

see their tricks. She had not half the pleasure she should have had from

their prattle, could she have recounted to him each night the pretty

speeches of the day. Some stories, however, were stored up—and Jacky

could say papa with such a sweet voice, it must delight his heart. Yet

when she came, and found no Daniel to greet her, when Jacky called papa,

she wept, bidding ‘God bless his innocent soul, that did not know what

sorrow was.’—But more sorrow was in store for Peggy, innocent as she

was.—Daniel was killed in the first engagement, and then the papa was

agony, sounding to the heart.

“She had lived sparingly on his wages, while there was any hope of his

return; but, that gone, she returned with a breaking heart to the

country, to a little market town, nearly three miles from our village.

She did not like to go to service, to be snubbed about, after being her

own mistress. To put her children out to nurse was impossible: how far

would her wages go? and to send them to her husband’s parish, a distant

one, was to lose her husband twice over.

“I had heard all from Mary, and made my uncle furnish a little cottage

for her, to enable her to sell—so sacred was poor Daniel’s advice, now

he was dead and gone a little fruit, toys and cakes. The minding of the

shop did not require her whole time, nor even the keeping her children

clean, and she loved to see them clean; so she took in washing, and

altogether made a shift to earn bread for her children, still weeping

for Daniel, when Jacky’s arch looks made her think of his father.—It was

pleasant to work for her children.—‘Yes; from morning till night, could

she have had a kiss from their father, God rest his soul! Yes; had it

pleased Providence to have let him come back without a leg or an arm, it

would have been the same thing to her—for she did not love him because

he maintained them—no; she had hands of her own.’

“The country people were honest, and Peggy left her linen out to dry

very late. A recruiting party, as she supposed, passing through, made

free with a large wash; for it was all swept away, including her own and

her children’s little stock.

“This was a dreadful blow; two dozen of shirts, stocks and

handkerchiefs. She gave the money which she had laid by for half a

year’s rent, and promised to pay two shillings a week till all was

cleared; so she did not lose her employment. This two shillings a week,

and the buying a few necessaries for the children, drove her so hard,

that she had not a penny to pay her rent with, when a twelvemonth’s

became due.

“She was now with Mary, and had just told her tale, which Mary instantly

repeated—it was intended for my ear. Many houses in this town, producing

a borough-interest, were included in the estate purchased by Mr.

Venables, and the attorney with whom my brother lived, was appointed his

agent, to collect and raise the rents.

“He demanded Peggy’s, and, in spite of her intreaties, her poor goods

had been seized and sold. So that she had not, and what was worse her

children, ‘for she had known sorrow enough,’ a bed to lie on. She knew

that I was good-natured—right charitable, yet not liking to ask for more

than needs must, she scorned to petition while people could any how be

made to wait. But now, should she be turned out of doors, she must

expect nothing less than to lose all her customers, and then she must

beg or starve—and what would become of her children?—‘had Daniel not

been pressed—but God knows best—all this could not have happened.’

“I had two mattresses on my bed; what did I want with two, when such a

worthy creature must lie on the ground? My mother would be angry, but I

could conceal it till my uncle came down; and then I would tell him all

the whole truth, and if he absolved me, heaven would.

“I begged the house-maid to come up stairs with me (servants always feel

for the distresses of poverty, and so would the rich if they knew what

it was). She assisted me to tie up the mattrass; I discovering, at the

same time, that one blanket would serve me till winter, could I persuade

my sister, who slept with me, to keep my secret. She entering in the

midst of the package, I gave her some new feathers, to silence her. We

got the mattrass down the back stairs, unperceived, and I helped to

carry it, taking with me all the money I had, and what I could borrow

from my sister.

“When I got to the cottage, Peggy declared that she would not take what

I had brought secretly; but, when, with all the eager eloquence inspired

by a decided purpose, I grasped her hand with weeping eyes, assuring her

that my uncle would screen me from blame, when he was once more in the

country, describing, at the same time, what she would suffer in parting

with her children, after keeping them so long from being thrown on the

parish, she reluctantly consented.

“My project of usefulness ended not here; I determined to speak to the

attorney; he frequently paid me compliments. His character did not

intimidate me; but, imagining that Peggy must be mistaken, and that no

man could turn a deaf ear to such a tale of complicated distress, I

determined to walk to the town with Mary the next morning, and request

him to wait for the rent, and keep my secret, till my uncle’s return.

“My repose was sweet; and, waking with the first dawn of day, I bounded

to Mary’s cottage. What charms do not a light heart spread over nature!

Every bird that twittered in a bush, every flower that enlivened the

hedge, seemed placed there to awaken me to rapture—yes; to rapture. The

present moment was full fraught with happiness; and on futurity I

bestowed not a thought, excepting to anticipate my success with the

attorney.

“This man of the world, with rosy face and simpering features, received

me politely, nay kindly; listened with complacency to my remonstrances,

though he scarcely heeded Mary’s tears. I did not then suspect, that my

eloquence was in my complexion, the blush of seventeen, or that, in a

world where humanity to women is the characteristic of advancing

civilization, the beauty of a young girl was so much more interesting

than the distress of an old one. Pressing my hand, he promised to let

Peggy remain in the house as long as I wished.—I more than returned the

pressure—I was so grateful and so happy. Emboldened by my innocent

warmth, he then kissed me—and I did not draw back—I took it for a kiss

of charity.

“Gay as a lark, I went to dine at Mr. Venables’. I had previously

obtained five shillings from my father, towards re-clothing the poor

children of my care, and prevailed on my mother to take one of the girls

into the house, whom I determined to teach to work and read.

“After dinner, when the younger part of the circle retired to the music

room, I recounted with energy my tale; that is, I mentioned Peggy’s

distress, without hinting at the steps I had taken to relieve her. Miss

Venables gave me half-a-crown; the heir five shillings; but George sat

unmoved. I was cruelly distressed by the disappointment—I scarcely could

remain on my chair; and, could I have got out of the room unperceived, I

should have flown home, as if to run away from myself. After several

vain attempts to rise, I leaned my head against the marble

chimney-piece, and gazing on the evergreens that filled the fire-place,

moralized on the vanity of human expectations; regardless of the

company. I was roused by a gentle tap on my shoulder from behind

Charlotte’s chair. I turned my head, and George slid a guinea into my

hand, putting his finger to his mouth, to enjoin me silence.

“What a revolution took place, not only in my train of thoughts, but

feelings! I trembled with emotion—now, indeed, I was in love. Such

delicacy too, to enhance his benevolence! I felt in my pocket every five

minutes, only to feel the guinea; and its magic touch invested my hero

with more than mortal beauty. My fancy had found a basis to erect its

model of perfection on; and quickly went to work, with all the happy

credulity of youth, to consider that heart as devoted to virtue, which

had only obeyed a virtuous impulse. The bitter experience was yet to

come, that has taught me how very distinct are the principles of virtue,

from the casual feelings from which they germinate.”

CHAPTER 8

“I HAVE perhaps dwelt too long on a circumstance, which is only of

importance as it marks the progress of a deception that has been so

fatal to my peace; and introduces to your notice a poor girl, whom,

intending to serve, I led to ruin. Still it is probable that I was not

entirely the victim of mistake; and that your father, gradually

fashioned by the world, did not quickly become what I hesitate to call

him—out of respect to my daughter.

“But, to hasten to the more busy scenes of my life. Mr. Venables and my

mother died the same summer; and, wholly engrossed by my attention to

her, I thought of little else. The neglect of her darling, my brother

Robert, had a violent effect on her weakened mind; for, though boys may

be reckoned the pillars of the house without doors, girls are often the

only comfort within. They but too frequently waste their health and

spirits attending a dying parent, who leaves them in comparative

poverty. After closing, with filial piety, a father’s eyes, they are

chased from the paternal roof, to make room for the first-born, the son,

who is to carry the empty family-name down to posterity; though,

occupied with his own pleasures, he scarcely thought of discharging, in

the decline of his parent’s life, the debt contracted in his childhood.

My mother’s conduct led me to make these reflections. Great as was the

fatigue I endured, and the affection my unceasing solicitude evinced, of

which my mother seemed perfectly sensible, still, when my brother, whom

I could hardly persuade to remain a quarter of an hour in her chamber,

was with her alone, a short time before her death, she gave him a little

hoard, which she had been some years accumulating.

“During my mother’s illness, I was obliged to manage my father’s temper,

who, from the lingering nature of her malady, began to imagine that it

was merely fancy. At this period, an artful kind of upper servant

attracted my father’s attention, and the neighbours made many remarks on

the finery, not honestly got, exhibited at evening service. But I was

too much occupied with my mother to observe any change in her dress or

behaviour, or to listen to the whisper of scandal.

“I shall not dwell on the death-bed scene, lively as is the remembrance,

or on the emotion produced by the last grasp of my mother’s cold hand;

when blessing me, she added, ‘A little patience, and all will be over!’

Ah! my child, how often have those words rung mournfully in my ears—and

I have exclaimed—‘A little more patience, and I too shall be at rest!’

“My father was violently affected by her death, recollected instances of

his unkindness, and wept like a child.

“My mother had solemnly recommended my sisters to my care, and bid me be

a mother to them. They, indeed, became more dear to me as they became

more forlorn; for, during my mother’s illness, I discovered the ruined

state of my father’s circumstances, and that he had only been able to

keep up appearances, by the sums which he borrowed of my uncle.

“My father’s grief, and consequent tenderness to his children, quickly

abated, the house grew still more gloomy or riotous; and my refuge from

care was again at Mr. Venables’; the young ‘squire having taken his

father’s place, and allowing, for the present, his sister to preside at

his table. George, though dissatisfied with his portion of the fortune,

which had till lately been all in trade, visited the family as usual. He

was now full of speculations in trade, and his brow became clouded by

care. He seemed to relax in his attention to me, when the presence of my

uncle gave a new turn to his behaviour. I was too unsuspecting, too

disinterested, to trace these changes to their source.

“My home every day became more and more disagreeable to me; my liberty

was unnecessarily abridged, and my books, on the pretext that they made

me idle, taken from me. My father’s mistress was with child, and he,

doating on her, allowed or overlooked her vulgar manner of tyrannizing

over us. I was indignant, especially when I saw her endeavouring to

attract, shall I say seduce? my younger brother. By allowing women but

one way of rising in the world, the fostering the libertinism of men,

society makes monsters of them, and then their ignoble vices are brought

forward as a proof of inferiority of intellect.

“The wearisomeness of my situation can scarcely be described. Though my

life had not passed in the most even tenour with my mother, it was

paradise to that I was destined to endure with my father’s mistress,

jealous of her illegitimate authority. My father’s former occasional

tenderness, in spite of his violence of temper, had been soothing to me;

but now he only met me with reproofs or portentous frowns. The

house-keeper, as she was now termed, was the vulgar despot of the

family; and assuming the new character of a fine lady, she could never

forgive the contempt which was sometimes visible in my countenance, when

she uttered with pomposity her bad English, or affected to be well bred.

“To my uncle I ventured to open my heart; and he, with his wonted

benevolence, began to consider in what manner he could extricate me out

of my present irksome situation. In spite of his own disappointment, or,

most probably, actuated by the feelings that had been petrified, not

cooled, in all their sanguine fervour, like a boiling torrent of lava

suddenly dash ing into the sea, he thought a marriage of mutual

inclination (would envious stars permit it) the only chance for

happiness in this disastrous world. George Venables had the reputation

of being attentive to business, and my father’s example gave great

weight to this circumstance; for habits of order in business would, he

conceived, extend to the regulation of the affections in domestic life.

George seldom spoke in my uncle’s company, except to utter a short,

judicious question, or to make a pertinent remark, with all due

deference to his superior judgment; so that my uncle seldom left his

company without observing, that the young man had more in him than

people supposed.

“In this opinion he was not singular; yet, believe me, and I am not

swayed by resentment, these speeches so justly poized, this silent

deference, when the animal spirits of other young people were throwing

off youthful ebullitions, were not the effect of thought or humility,

but sheer barrenness of mind, and want of imagination. A colt of mettle

will curvet and shew his paces. Yes; my dear girl, these prudent young

men want all the fire necessary to ferment their faculties, and are

characterized as wise, only because they are not foolish. It is true,

that George was by no means so great a favourite of mine as during the

first year of our acquaintance; still, as he often coincided in opinion

with me, and echoed my sentiments; and having myself no other

attachment, I heard with pleasure my uncle’s proposal; but thought more

of obtaining my freedom, than of my lover. But, when George, seemingly

anxious for my happiness, pressed me to quit my present painful

situation, my heart swelled with gratitude—I knew not that my uncle had

promised him five thousand pounds.

“Had this truly generous man mentioned his intention to me, I should

have insisted on a thousand pounds being settled on each of my sisters;

George would have contested; I should have seen his selfish soul;

and—gracious God! have been spared the misery of discovering, when too

late, that I was united to a heartless, unprincipled wretch. All my

schemes of usefulness would not then have been blasted. The tenderness

of my heart would not have heated my imagination with visions of the

ineffable delight of happy love; nor would the sweet duty of a mother

have been so cruelly interrupted.

“But I must not suffer the fortitude I have so hardly acquired, to be

undermined by unavailing regret. Let me hasten forward to describe the

turbid stream in which I had to wade—but let me exultingly declare that

it is passed—my soul holds fellowship with him no more. He cut the

Gordian knot, which my principles, mistaken ones, respected; he

dissolved the tie, the fetters rather, that ate into my very vitals—and

I should rejoice, conscious that my mind is freed, though confined in

hell itself, the only place that even fancy can imagine more dreadful

than my present abode.

“These varying emotions will not allow me to proceed. I heave sigh after

sigh; yet my heart is still oppressed. For what am I reserved? Why was I

not born a man, or why was I born at all?”

CHAPTER 9

“I RESUME my pen to fly from thought. I was married; and we hastened to

London. I had purposed taking one of my sisters with me; for a strong

motive for marrying, was the desire of having a home at which I could

receive them, now their own grew so uncomfortable, as not to deserve the

cheering appellation. An objection was made to her accompanying me, that

appeared plausible; and I reluctantly acquiesced. I was however

willingly allowed to take with me Molly, poor Peggy’s daughter. London

and preferment, are ideas commonly associated in the country; and, as

blooming as May, she bade adieu to Peggy with weeping eyes. I did not

even feel hurt at the refusal in relation to my sister, till hearing

what my uncle had done for me, I had the simplicity to request, speaking

with warmth of their situation, that he would give them a thousand

pounds a-piece, which seemed to me but justice. He asked me, giving me a

kiss, ‘If I had lost my senses?’ I started back, as if I had found a

wasp in a rose-bush. I expostulated. He sneered: and the demon of

discord entered our paradise, to poison with his pestiferous breath

every opening joy.

“I had sometimes observed defects in my husband’s understanding; but,

led astray by a prevailing opinion, that goodness of disposition is of

the first importance in the relative situations of life, in proportion

as I perceived the narrowness of his understanding, fancy enlarged the

boundary of his heart. Fatal error! How quickly is the so much vaunted

milkiness of nature turned into gall, by an intercourse with the world,

if more generous juices do not sustain the vital source of virtue!

“One trait in my character was extreme credulity; but, when my eyes were

once opened, I saw but too clearly all I had before overlooked. My

husband was sunk in my esteem; still there are youthful emotions, which,

for a while, fill up the chasm of love and friendship. Besides, it

required some time to enable me to see his whole character in a just

light, or rather to allow it to become fixed. While circumstances were

ripening my faculties, and cultivating my taste, commerce and gross

relaxations were shutting his against any possibility of improvement,

till, by stifling every spark of virtue in himself, he began to imagine

that it no where existed.

“Do not let me lead you astray, my child, I do not mean to assert, that

any human being is entirely incapable of feeling the generous emotions,

which are the foundation of every true principle of virtue; but they are

frequently, I fear, so feeble, that, like the inflammable quality which

more or less lurks in all bodies, they often lie for ever dormant; the

circumstances never occurring, necessary to call them into action.

“I discovered however by chance, that, in consequence of some losses in

trade, the natural effect of his gambling desire to start suddenly into

riches, the five thousand pounds given me by my uncle, had been paid

very opportunely. This discovery, strange as you may think the

assertion, gave me pleasure; my husband’s embarrassments endeared him to

me. I was glad to find an excuse for his conduct to my sisters, and my

mind became calmer.

“My uncle introduced me to some literary society; and the theatres were

a never-failing source of amusement to me. My delighted eye followed

Mrs. Siddons, when, with dignified delicacy, she played Califta; and I

involuntarily repeated after her, in the same tone, and with a

long-drawn sigh,

‘Hearts like our’s were pair’d—not match’d.’

“These were, at first, spontaneous emotions, though, becoming acquainted

with men of wit and polished manners, I could not sometimes help

regretting my early marriage; and that, in my haste to escape from a

temporary dependence, and expand my newly fledged wings, in an unknown

sky, I had been caught in a trap, and caged for life. Still the novelty

of London, and the attentive fondness of my husband, for he had some

personal regard for me, made several months glide away. Yet, not

forgetting the situation of my sisters, who were still very young, I

prevailed on my uncle to settle a thousand pounds on each; and to place

them in a school near town, where I could frequently visit, as well as

have them at home with me.

“I now tried to improve my husband’s taste, but we had few subjects in

common; indeed he soon appeared to have little relish for my society,

unless he was hinting to me the use he could make of my uncle’s wealth.

When we had company, I was disgusted by an ostentatious display of

riches, and I have often quitted the room, to avoid listening to

exaggerated tales of money obtained by lucky hits.

“With all my attention and affectionate interest, I perceived that I

could not become the friend or confident of my husband. Every thing I

learned relative to his affairs I gathered up by accident; and I vainly

endeavoured to establish, at our fire-side, that social converse, which

often renders people of different characters dear to each other.

Returning from the theatre, or any amusing party, I frequently began to

relate what I had seen and highly relished; but with sullen taciturnity

he soon silenced me. I seemed therefore gradually to lose, in his

society, the soul, the energies of which had just been in action. To

such a degree, in fact, did his cold, reserved manner affect me, that,

after spending some days with him alone, I have imagined myself the most

stupid creature in the world, till the abilities of some casual visitor

convinced me that I had some dormant animation, and sentiments above the

dust in which I had been groveling. The very countenance of my husband

changed; his complexion became sallow, and all the charms of youth were

vanishing with its vivacity.

“I give you one view of the subject; but these experiments and

alterations took up the space of five years; during which period, I had

most reluctantly extorted several sums from my uncle, to save my

husband, to use his own words, from destruction. At first it was to

prevent bills being noted, to the injury of his credit; then to bail

him; and afterwards to prevent an execution from entering the house. I

began at last to conclude, that he would have made more exertions of his

own to extricate himself, had he not relied on mine, cruel as was the

task he imposed on me; and I firmly determined that I would make use of

no more pretexts.

“From the moment I pronounced this determination, indifference on his

part was changed into rudeness, or something worse.

“He now seldom dined at home, and continually returned at a late hour,

drunk, to bed. I retired to another apartment; I was glad, I own, to

escape from his; for personal intimacy without affection, seemed, to me

the most degrading, as well as the most painful state in which a woman

of any taste, not to speak of the peculiar delicacy of fostered

sensibility, could be placed. But my husband’s fondness for women was of

the grossest kind, and imagination was so wholly out of the question, as

to render his indulgences of this sort entirely promiscuous, and of the

most brutal nature. My health suffered, before my heart was entirely

estranged by the loathsome information; could I then have returned to

his sullied arms, but as a victim to the prejudices of mankind, who have

made women the property of their husbands? I discovered even, by his

conversation, when intoxicated that his favourites were wantons of the

lowest class, who could by their vulgar, indecent mirth, which he called

nature, rouse his sluggish spirits. Meretricious ornaments and manners

were necessary to attract his attention. He seldom looked twice at a

modest woman, and sat silent in their company; and the charms of youth

and beauty had not the slightest effect on his senses, unless the

possessors were initiated in vice. His intimacy with profligate women,

and his habits of thinking, gave him a contempt for female endowments;

and he would repeat, when wine had loosed his tongue, most of the

common-place sarcasms levelled at them, by men who do not allow them to

have minds, because mind would be an impediment to gross enjoyment. Men

who are inferior to their fellow men, are always most anxious to

establish their superiority over women. But where are these reflections

leading me?

“Women who have lost their husband’s affection, are justly reproved for

neglecting their persons, and not taking the same pains to keep, as to

gain a heart; but who thinks of giving the same advice to men, though

women are continually stigmatized for being attached to fops; and from

the nature of their education, are more susceptible of disgust? Yet why

a woman should be expected to endure a sloven, with more patience than a

man, and magnanimously to govern herself, I cannot conceive; unless it

be supposed arrogant in her to look for respect as well as a

maintenance. It is not easy to be pleased, because, after promising to

love, in different circumstances, we are told that it is our duty. I

cannot, I am sure (though, when attending the sick, I never felt

disgust) forget my own sensations, when rising with health and spirit,

and after scenting the sweet morning, I have met my husband at the

breakfast table. The active attention I had been giving to domestic

regulations, which were generally settled before he rose, or a walk,

gave a glow to my countenance, that contrasted with his squallid

appearance. The squeamishness of stomach alone, produced by the last

night’s intemperance, which he took no pains to conceal, destroyed my

appetite. I think I now see him lolling in an arm-chair, in a dirty

powdering gown, soiled linen, ungartered stockings, and tangled hair,

yawning and stretching himself. The newspaper was immediately called

for, if not brought in on the tea-board, from which he would scarcely

lift his eyes while I poured out the tea, excepting to ask for some

brandy to put into it, or to declare that he could not eat. In answer to

any question, in his best humour, it was a drawling ‘What do you say,

child?’ But if I demanded money for the house expences, which I put off

till the last moment, his customary reply, often prefaced with an oath,

was, ‘Do you think me, madam, made of money?’—The butcher, the baker,

must wait; and, what was worse, I was often obliged to witness his surly

dismission of tradesmen, who were in want of their money, and whom I

sometimes paid with the presents my uncle gave me for my own use.

“At this juncture my father’s mistress, by terrifying his conscience,

prevailed on him to marry her; he was already become a methodist; and my

brother, who now practised for himself, had discovered a flaw in the

settlement made on my mother’s children, which set it aside, and he

allowed my father, whose distress made him submit to any thing, a tithe

of his own, or rather our fortune.

“My sisters had left school, but were unable to endure home, which my

father’s wife rendered as disagreeable as possible, to get rid of girls

whom she regarded as spies on her conduct. They were accomplished, yet

you can (may you never be reduced to the same destitute state!) scarcely

conceive the trouble I had to place them in the situation of

governesses, the only one in which even a well-educated woman, with more

than ordinary talents, can struggle for a subsistence; and even this is

a dependence next to menial. Is it then surprising, that so many forlorn

women, with human passions and feelings, take refuge in infamy? Alone in

large mansions, I say alone, because they had no companions with whom

they could converse on equal terms, or from whom they could expect the

endearments of affection, they grew melancholy, and the sound of joy

made them sad; and the youngest, having a more delicate frame, fell into

a decline. It was with great difficulty that I, who now almost supported

the house by loans from my uncle, could prevail on the master of it, to

allow her a room to die in. I watched her sick bed for some months, and

then closed her eyes, gentle spirit! for ever. She was pretty, with very

engaging manners; yet had never an opportunity to marry, excepting to a

very old man. She had abilities sufficient to have shone in any

profession, had there been any professions for women, though she shrunk

at the name of milliner or mantua-maker as degrading to a gentlewoman. I

would not term this feeling false pride to any one but you, my child,

whom I fondly hope to see (yes; I will indulge the hope for a moment!)

possessed of that energy of character which gives dignity to any

station; and with that clear, firm spirit that will enable you to choose

a situation for yourself, or submit to be classed in the lowest, if it

be the only one in which you can be the mistress of your own actions.

“Soon after the death of my sister, an incident occurred, to prove to me

that the heart of a libertine is dead to natural affection; and to

convince me, that the being who has appeared all tenderness, to gratify

a selfish passion, is as regardless of the innocent fruit of it, as of

the object, when the fit is over. I had casually observed an old,

meanlooking woman, who called on my husband every two or three months to

receive some money. One day entering the passage of his little

counting-house, as she was going out, I heard her say, ‘The child is

very weak; she cannot live long, she will soon die out of your way, so

you need not grudge her a little physic.’

“‘So much the better,’ he replied,’ and pray mind your own business,

good woman.’

“I was struck by his unfeeling, inhuman tone of voice, and drew back,

determined when the woman came again, to try to speak to her, not out of

curiosity, I had heard enough, but with the hope of being useful to a

poor, outcast girl.

“A month or two elapsed before I saw this woman again; and then she had

a child in her hand that tottered along, scarcely able to sustain her

own weight. They were going away, to return at the hour Mr. Venables was

expected; he was now from home. I desired the woman to walk into the

parlour. She hesitated, yet obeyed. I assured her that I should not

mention to my husband (the word seemed to weigh on my respiration), that

I had seen her, or his child. The woman stared at me with astonishment;

and I turned my eyes on the squalid object [that accompanied her.] She

could hardly support herself, her complexion was sallow, and her eyes

inflamed, with an indescribable look of cunning, mixed with the wrinkles

produced by the peevishness of pain.

“Poor child!’ I exclaimed. ‘Ah! you may well say poor child,’ replied

the woman. ‘I brought her here to see whether he would have the heart to

look at her, and not get some advice. I do not know what they deserve

who nursed her. Why, her legs bent under her like a bow when she came to

me, and she has never been well since; but, if they were no better paid

than I am, it is not to be wondered at, sure enough.’

“On further enquiry I was informed, that this miserable spectacle was

the daughter of a servant, a country girl, who caught Mr. Venables’ eye,

and whom he seduced. On his marriage he sent her away, her situation

being too visible. After her delivery, she was thrown on the town; and

died in an hospital within the year. The babe was sent to a

parish-nurse, and afterwards to this woman, who did not seem much

better; but what was to be expected from such a close bargain? She was

only paid three shillings a week for board and washing.

“The woman begged me to give her some old clothes for the child,

assuring me, that she was almost afraid to ask master for money to buy

even a pair of shoes.

“I grew sick at heart. And, fearing Mr. Venables might enter, and oblige

me to express my abhorrence, I hastily enquired where she lived,

promised to pay her two shillings a week more, and to call on her in a

day or two; putting a trifle into her hand as a proof of my good

intention.

“If the state of this child affected me, what were my feelings at a

discovery I made respecting Peggy—?” [7]

CHAPTER 10

“MY FATHER’S situation was now so distressing, that I prevailed on my

uncle to accompany me to visit him; and to lend me his assistance, to

prevent the whole property of the family from becoming the prey of my

brother’s rapacity; for, to extricate himself out of present

difficulties, my father was totally regardless of futurity. I took down

with me some presents for my step-mother; it did not require an effort

for me to treat her with civility, or to forget the past.

“This was the first time I had visited my native village, since my

marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the busy

world, with a heavy weight of experience benumbing my imagination, to

scenes, that whispered recollections of joy and hope most eloquently to

my heart! The first scent of the wild flowers from the heath, thrilled

through my veins, awakening every sense to pleasure. The icy hand of

despair seemed to be removed from my bosom; and—forgetting my

husband—the nurtured visions of a romantic mind, bursting on me with all

their original wildness and gay exuberance, were again hailed as sweet

realities. I forgot, with equal facility, that I ever felt sorrow, or

knew care in the country; while a transient rainbow stole athwart the

cloudy sky of despondency. The picturesque form of several favourite

trees, and the porches of rude cottages, with their smiling hedges, were

recognized with the gladsome playfulness of childish vivacity. I could

have kissed the chickens that pecked on the common; and longed to pat

the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported on it. I gazed with

delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky that it should be in

motion, at the moment I passed by; and entering the dear green lane,

which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known rookery

gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active soul,

which only served to heighten the lustre of the luxuriant scenery. But,

spying, as I advanced, the spire, peeping over the withered tops of the

aged elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the

churchyard, and tears of affection, such was the effect of my

imagination, bedewed my mother’s grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional

feelings. I wandered through the church in fancy, as I used sometimes to

do on a Saturday evening. I recollected with what fervour I addressed

the God of my youth: and once more with rapturous love looked above my

sorrows to the Father of nature. I pause—feeling forcibly all the

emotions I am describing; and (reminded, as I register my sorrows, of

the sublime calm I have felt, when in some tremendous solitude, my soul

rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe) I insensibly breathe

soft, hushing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to sully with a sigh,

a contentment so extatic.

“Having settled my father’s affairs, and, by my exertions in his favour,

made my brother my sworn foe, I returned to London. My husband’s conduct

was now changed; I had during my absence, received several affectionate,

penitential letters from him; and he seemed on my arrival, to wish by

his behaviour to prove his sincerity. I could not then conceive why he

acted thus; and, when the suspicion darted into my head, that it might

arise from observing my increasing influence with my uncle, I almost

despised myself for imagining that such a degree of debasing selfishness

could exist.

“He became, unaccountable as was the change, tender and attentive; and,

attacking my weak side, made a confession of his follies, and lamented

the embarrassments in which I, who merited a far different fate, might

be involved. He besought me to aid him with my counsel, praised my

understanding, and appealed to the tenderness of my heart.

“This conduct only inspired me with compassion. I wished to be his

friend; but love had spread his rosy pinions and fled far, far away; and

had not (like some exquisite perfumes, the fine spirit of which is

continually mingling with the air) left a fragrance behind, to mark

where he had shook his wings. My husband’s renewed caresses then became

hateful to me; his brutality was tolerable, compared to his distasteful

fondness. Still, compassion, and the fear of insulting his supposed

feelings, by a want of sympathy, made me dissemble, and do violence to

my delicacy. What a task!

“Those who support a system of what I term false refinement, and will

not allow great part of love in the female, as well as male breast, to

spring in some respects involuntarily, may not admit that charms are as

necessary to feed the passion, as virtues to convert the mellowing

spirit into friendship. To such observers I have nothing to say, any

more than to the moralists, who insist that women ought to, and can love

their husbands, because it is their duty. To you, my child, I may add,

with a heart tremblingly alive to your future conduct, some

observations, dictated by my present feelings, on calmly reviewing this

period of my life. When novelists or moralists praise as a virtue, a

woman’s coldness of constitution, and want of passion; and make her

yield to the ardour of her lover out of sheer compassion, or to promote

a frigid plan of future comfort, I am disgusted. They may be good women,

in the ordinary acceptation of the phrase, and do no harm; but they

appear to me not to have those ‘finely fashioned nerves,’ which render

the senses exquisite. They may possess tenderness; but they want that

fire of the imagination, which produces active sensibility, and positive

virtue. How does the woman deserve to be characterized, who marries one

man, with a heart and imagination devoted to another? Is she not an

object of pity or contempt, when thus sacrilegiously violating the

purity of her own feelings? Nay, it is as indelicate, when she is

indifferent, unless she be constitutionally insensible; then indeed it

is a mere affair of barter; and I have nothing to do with the secrets of

trade. Yes; eagerly as I wish you to possess true rectitude of mind, and

purity of affection, I must insist that a heartless conduct is the

contrary of virtuous. Truth is the only basis of virtue; and we cannot,

without depraving our minds, endeavour to please a lover or husband, but

in proportion as he pleases us. Men, more effectually to enslave us, may

inculcate this partial morality, and lose sight of virtue in subdividing

it into the duties of particular stations; but let us not blush for

nature without a cause!

“After these remarks, I am ashamed to own, that I was pregnant. The

greatest sacrifice of my principles in my whole life, was the allowing

my husband again to be familiar with my person, though to this cruel act

of self-denial, when I wished the earth to open and swallow me, you owe

your birth; and I the unutterable pleasure of being a mother. There was

something of delicacy in my husband’s bridal attentions; but now his

tainted breath, pimpled face, and blood-shot eyes, were not more

repugnant to my senses, than his gross manners, and loveless familiarity

to my taste.

“A man would only be expected to maintain; yes, barely grant a

subsistence, to a woman rendered odious by habitual intoxication; but

who would expect him, or think it possible to love her? And unless

‘youth, and genial years were flown,’ it would be thought equally

unreasonable to insist, [under penalty of] forfeiting almost every thing

reckoned valuable in life, that he should not love another: whilst

woman, weak in reason, impotent in will, is required to moralize,

sentimentalize herself to stone, and pine her life away, labouring to

reform her embruted mate. He may even spend in dissipation, and

intemperance, the very intemperance which renders him so hateful, her

property, and by stinting her expences, not permit her to beguile in

society, a wearisome, joyless life; for over their mutual fortune she

has no power, it must all pass through his hand. And if she be a mother,

and in the present state of women, it is a great misfortune to be

prevented from discharging the duties, and cultivating the affections of

one, what has she not to endure?—But I have suffered the tenderness of

one to lead me into reflections that I did not think of making, to

interrupt my narrative—yet the full heart will overflow.

“Mr. Venables’ embarrassments did not now endear him to me; still,

anxious to befriend him, I endeavoured to prevail on him to retrench his

expences; but he had always some plausible excuse to give, to justify

his not following my advice. Humanity, compassion, and the interest

produced by a habit of living together, made me try to relieve, and

sympathize with him; but, when I recollected that I was bound to live

with such a being for ever—my heart died within me; my desire of

improvement became languid, and baleful, corroding melancholy took

possession of my soul. Marriage had bastilled me for life. I discovered

in myself a capacity for the enjoyment of the various pleasures

existence affords; yet, fettered by the partial laws of society, this

fair globe was to me an universal blank.

“When I exhorted my husband to economy, I referred to himself. I was

obliged to practise the most rigid, or contract debts, which I had too

much reason to fear would never be paid. I despised this paltry

privilege of a wife, which can only be of use to the vicious or

inconsiderate, and determined not to increase the torrent that was

bearing him down. I was then ignorant of the extent of his fraudulent

speculations, whom I was bound to honour and obey.

“A woman neglected by her husband, or whose manners form a striking

contrast with his, will always have men on the watch to soothe and

flatter her. Besides, the forlorn state of a neglected woman, not

destitute of personal charms, is particularly interesting, and rouses

that species of pity, which is so near akin, it easily slides into love.

A man of feeling thinks not of seducing, he is himself seduced by all

the noblest emotions of his soul. He figures to himself all the

sacrifices a woman of sensibility must make, and every situation in

which his imagination places her, touches his heart, and fires his

passions. Longing to take to his bosom the shorn lamb, and bid the

drooping buds of hope revive, benevolence changes into passion: and

should he then discover that he is beloved, honour binds him fast,

though foreseeing that he may afterwards be obliged to pay severe

damages to the man, who never appeared to value his wife’s society, till

he found that there was a chance of his being indemnified for the loss

of it.

“Such are the partial laws enacted by men; for, only to lay a stress on

the dependent state of a woman in the grand question of the comforts

arising from the possession of property, she is [even in this article]

much more injured by the loss of the husband’s affection, than he by

that of his wife; yet where is she, condemned to the solitude of a

deserted home, to look for a compensation from the woman, who seduces

him from her? She cannot drive an unfaithful husband from his house, nor

separate, or tear, his children from him, however culpable he may be;

and he, still the master of his own fate, enjoys the smiles of a world,

that would brand her with infamy, did she, seeking consolation, venture

to retaliate.

“These remarks are not dictated by experience; but merely by the

compassion I feel for many amiable women, the outlaws of the world. For

myself, never encouraging any of the advances that were made to me, my

lovers dropped off like the untimely shoots of spring. I did not even

coquet with them; because I found, on examining myself, I could not

coquet with a man without loving him a little; and I perceived that I

should not be able to stop at the line of what are termed innocent

freedoms, did I suffer any. My reserve was then the consequence of

delicacy. Freedom of conduct has emancipated many women’s minds; but my

conduct has most rigidly been governed by my principles, till the

improvement of my understanding has enabled me to discern the fallacy of

prejudices at war with nature and reason.

“Shortly after the change I have mentioned in my husband’s conduct, my

uncle was compelled by his declining health, to seek the succour of a

milder climate, and embark for Lisbon. He left his will in the hands of

a friend, an eminent solicitor; he had previously questioned me relative

to my situation and state of mind, and declared very freely, that he

could place no reliance on the stability of my husband’s professions. He

had been deceived in the unfolding of his character; he now thought it

fixed in a train of actions that would inevitably lead to ruin and

disgrace.

“The evening before his departure, which we spent alone together, he

folded me to his heart, uttering the endearing appellation of

‘child.’—My more than father! why was I not permitted to perform the

last duties of one, and smooth the pillow of death? He seemed by his

manner to be convinced that he should never see me more; yet requested

me, most earnestly, to come to him, should I be obliged to leave my

husband. He had before expressed his sorrow at hearing of my pregnancy,

having determined to prevail on me to accompany him, till I informed him

of that circumstance. He expressed himself unfeignedly sorry that any

new tie should bind me to a man whom he thought so incapable of

estimating my value; such was the kind language of affection.

“I must repeat his own words; they made an indelible impression on my

mind:

“‘The marriage state is certainly that in which women, generally

speaking, can be most useful; but I am far from thinking that a woman,

once married, ought to consider the engagement as indissoluble

(especially if there be no children to reward her for sacrificing her

feelings) in case her husband merits neither her love, nor esteem.

Esteem will often supply the place of love; and prevent a woman from

being wretched, though it may not make her happy. The magnitude of a

sacrifice ought always to bear some proportion to the utility in view;

and for a woman to live with a man, for whom she can cherish neither

affection nor esteem, or even be of any use to him, excepting in the

light of a house-keeper, is an abjectness of condition, the enduring of

which no concurrence of circumstances can ever make a duty in the sight

of God or just men. If indeed she submits to it merely to be maintained

in idleness, she has no right to complain bitterly of her fate; or to

act, as a person of independent character might, as if she had a title

to disregard general rules.

“But the misfortune is, that many women only submit in appearance, and

forfeit their own respect to secure their reputation in the world. The

situation of a woman separated from her husband, is undoubtedly very

different from that of a man who has left his wife. He, with lordly

dignity, has shaken of a clog; and the allowing her food and raiment, is

thought sufficient to secure his reputation from taint. And, should she

have been inconsiderate, he will be celebrated for his generosity and

forbearance. Such is the respect paid to the master-key of property! A

woman, on the contrary, resigning what is termed her natural protector

(though he never was so, but in name) is despised and shunned, for

asserting the independence of mind distinctive of a rational being, and

spurning at slavery.’

“During the remainder of the evening, my uncle’s tenderness led him

frequently to revert to the subject, and utter, with increasing warmth,

sentiments to the same purport. At length it was necessary to say

‘Farewell!’—and we parted—gracious God! to meet no more.”

CHAPTER 11

“A GENTLEMAN of large fortune and of polished manners, had lately

visited very frequently at our house, and treated me, if possible, with

more respect than Mr. Venables paid him; my pregnancy was not yet

visible, his society was a great relief to me, as I had for some time

past, to avoid expence, confined myself very much at home. I ever

disdained unnecessary, perhaps even prudent concealments; and my

husband, with great ease, discovered the amount of my uncle’s parting

present. A copy of a writ was the stale pretext to extort it from me;

and I had soon reason to believe that it was fabricated for the purpose.

I acknowledge my folly in thus suffering myself to be continually

imposed on. I had adhered to my resolution not to apply to my uncle, on

the part of my husband, any more; yet, when I had received a sum

sufficient to supply my own wants, and to enable me to pursue a plan I

had in view, to settle my younger brother in a respectable employment, I

allowed myself to be duped by Mr. Venables’ shallow pretences, and

hypocritical professions.

“Thus did he pillage me and my family, thus frustrate all my plans of

usefulness. Yet this was the man I was bound to respect and esteem: as

if respect and esteem depended on an arbitrary will of our own! But a

wife being as much a man’s property as his horse, or his ass, she has

nothing she can call her own. He may use any means to get at what the

law considers as his, the moment his wife is in possession of it, even

to the forcing of a lock, as Mr. Venables did, to search for notes in my

writing-desk—and all this is done with a show of equity, because,

forsooth, he is responsible for her maintenance.

“The tender mother cannot lawfully snatch from the gripe of the gambling

spendthrift, or beastly drunkard, unmindful of his offspring, the

fortune which falls to her by chance; or (so flagrant is the injustice)

what she earns by her own exertions. No; he can rob her with impunity,

even to waste publicly on a courtezan; and the laws of her country—if

women have a country—afford her no protection or redress from the

oppressor, unless she have the plea of bodily fear; yet how many ways

are there of goading the soul almost to madness, equally unmanly, though

not so mean? When such laws were framed, should not impartial lawgivers

have first decreed, in the style of a great assembly, who recognized the

existence of an etre supreme, to fix the national belief, that the

husband should always be wiser and more virtuous than his wife, in order

to entitle him, with a show of justice, to keep this idiot, or perpetual

minor, for ever in bondage. But I must have done—on this subject, my

indignation continually runs away with me.

“The company of the gentleman I have already mentioned, who had a

general acquaintance with literature and subjects of taste, was grateful

to me; my countenance brightened up as he approached, and I unaffectedly

expressed the pleasure I felt. The amusement his conversation afforded

me, made it easy to comply with my husband’s request, to endeavour to

render our house agreeable to him.

“His attentions became more pointed; but, as I was not of the number of

women, whose virtue, as it is termed, immediately takes alarm, I

endeavoured, rather by raillery than serious expostulation, to give a

different turn to his conversation. He assumed a new mode of attack, and

I was, for a while, the dupe of his pretended friendship.

“I had, merely in the style of badinage, boasted of my conquest, and

repeated his lover-like compliments to my husband. But he begged me, for

God’s sake, not to affront his friend, or I should destroy all his

projects, and be his ruin. Had I had more affection for my husband, I

should have expressed my contempt of this time-serving politeness: now I

imagined that I only felt pity; yet it would have puzzled a casuist to

point out in what the exact difference consisted.

“This friend began now, in confidence, to discover to me the real state

of my husband’s affairs. ‘Necessity,’ said Mr. S——; why should I reveal

his name? for he affected to palliate the conduct he could not excuse,

‘had led him to take such steps, by accommodation bills, buying goods on

credit, to sell them for ready money, and similar transactions, that his

character in the commercial world was gone. He was considered,’ he

added, lowering his voice, ‘on ‘Change as a swindler.’

“I felt at that moment the first maternal pang. Aware of the evils my

sex have to struggle with, I still wished, for my own consolation, to be

the mother of a daughter; and I could not bear to think, that the sins

of her father’s entailed disgrace, should be added to the ills to which

woman is heir.

“So completely was I deceived by these shows of friendship (nay, I

believe, according to his interpretation, Mr. S—— really was my friend)

that I began to consult him respecting the best mode of retrieving my

husband’s character: it is the good name of a woman only that sets to

rise no more. I knew not that he had been drawn into a whirlpool, out of

which he had not the energy to attempt to escape. He seemed indeed

destitute of the power of employing his faculties in any regular

pursuit. His principles of action were so loose, and his mind so

uncultivated, that every thing like order appeared to him in the shape

of restraint; and, like men in the savage state, he required the strong

stimulus of hope or fear, produced by wild speculations, in which the

interests of others went for nothing, to keep his spirits awake. He one

time professed patriotism, but he knew not what it was to feel honest

indignation; and pretended to be an advocate for liberty, when, with as

little affection for the human race as for individuals, he thought of

nothing but his own gratification. He was just such a citizen, as a

father. The sums he adroitly obtained by a violation of the laws of his

country, as well as those of humanity, he would allow a mistress to

squander; though she was, with the same sang froid, consigned, as were

his children, to poverty, when another proved more attractive.

“On various pretences, his friend continued to visit me; and, observing

my want of money, he tried to induce me to accept of pecuniary aid; but

this offer I absolutely rejected, though it was made with such delicacy,

I could not be displeased.

“One day he came, as I thought accidentally, to dinner. My husband was

very much engaged in business, and quitted the room soon after the cloth

was removed. We conversed as usual, till confidential advice led again

to love. I was extremely mortified. I had a sincere regard for him, and

hoped that he had an equal friendship for me. I therefore began mildly

to expostulate with him. This gentleness he mistook for coy

encouragement; and he would not be diverted from the subject. Perceiving

his mistake, I seriously asked him how, using such language to me, he

could profess to be my husband’s friend? A significant sneer excited my

curiosity, and he, supposing this to be my only scruple, took a letter

deliberately out of his pocket, saying, ‘Your husband’s honour is not

inflexible. How could you, with your discernment, think it so? Why, he

left the room this very day on purpose to give me an opportunity to

explain myself; he thought me too timid—too tardy.

“I snatched the letter with indescribable emotion. The purport of it was

to invite him to dinner, and to ridicule his chivalrous respect for me.

He assured him, ‘that every woman had her price, and, with gross

indecency, hinted, that he should be glad to have the duty of a husband

taken off his hands. These he termed liberal sentiments. He advised him

not to shock my romantic notions, but to attack my credulous generosity,

and weak pity; and concluded with requesting him to lend him five

hundred pounds for a month or six weeks.’ I read this letter twice over;

and the firm purpose it inspired, calmed the rising tumult of my soul. I

rose deliberately, requested Mr. S—— to wait a moment, and instantly

going into the counting-house, desired Mr. Venables to return with me to

the dining-parlour.

“He laid down his pen, and entered with me, without observing any change

in my countenance. I shut the door, and, giving him the letter, simply

asked, ‘whether he wrote it, or was it a forgery?’

“Nothing could equal his confusion. His friend’s eye met his, and he

muttered something about a joke—But I interrupted him—‘It is

sufficient—We part for ever.��

“I continued, with solemnity, ‘I have borne with your tyranny and

infidelities. I disdain to utter what I have borne with. I thought you

unprincipled, but not so decidedly vicious. I formed a tie, in the sight

of heaven—I have held it sacred; even when men, more conformable to my

taste, have made me feel—I despise all subterfuge!—that I was not dead

to love. Neglected by you, I have resolutely stifled the enticing

emotions, and respected the plighted faith you outraged. And you dare

now to insult me, by selling me to prostitution!—Yes—equally lost to

delicacy and principle—you dared sacrilegiously to barter the honour of

the mother of your child.’

“Then, turning to Mr. S——, I added, ‘I call on you, Sir, to witness,’

and I lifted my hands and eyes to heaven, ‘that, as solemnly as I took

his name, I now abjure it,’ I pulled off my ring, and put it on the

table; ‘and that I mean immediately to quit his house, never to enter it

more. I will provide for myself and child. I leave him as free as I am

determined to be myself—he shall be answerable for no debts of mine.’

“Astonishment closed their lips, till Mr. Venables, gently pushing his

friend, with a forced smile, out of the room, nature for a moment

prevailed, and, appearing like himself, he turned round, burning with

rage, to me: but there was no terror in the frown, excepting when

contrasted with the malignant smile which preceded it. He bade me ‘leave

the house at my peril; told me he despised my threats; I had no

resource; I could not swear the peace against him!—I was not afraid of

my life!—he had never struck me!’

“He threw the letter in the fire, which I had incautiously left in his

hands; and, quitting the room, locked the door on me.

“When left alone, I was a moment or two before I could recollect

myself—One scene had succeeded another with such rapidity, I almost

doubted whether I was reflecting on a real event. ‘Was it possible? Was

I, indeed, free?’—Yes; free I termed myself, when I decidedly perceived

the conduct I ought to adopt. How had I panted for liberty—liberty, that

I would have purchased at any price, but that of my own esteem! I rose,

and shook myself; opened the window, and methought the air never smelled

so sweet. The face of heaven grew fairer as I viewed it, and the clouds

seemed to flit away obedient to my wishes, to give my soul room to

expand. I was all soul, and (wild as it may appear) felt as if I could

have dissolved in the soft balmy gale that kissed my cheek, or have

glided below the horizon on the glowing, descending beams. A seraphic

satisfaction animated, without agitating my spirits; and my imagination

collected, in visions sublimely terrible, or soothingly beautiful, an

immense variety of the endless images, which nature affords, and fancy

combines, of the grand and fair. The lustre of these bright picturesque

sketches faded with the setting sun; but I was still alive to the calm

delight they had diffused through my heart.

“There may be advocates for matrimonial obedience, who, making a

distinction between the duty of a wife and of a human being, may blame

my conduct.—To them I write not—my feelings are not for them to analyze;

and may you, my child, never be able to ascertain, by heart-rending

experience, what your mother felt before the present emancipation of her

mind!

“I began to write a letter to my father, after closing one to my uncle;

not to ask advice, but to signify my determination; when I was

interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Venables. His manner was changed. His

views on my uncle’s fortune made him averse to my quitting his house, or

he would, I am convinced, have been glad to have shaken off even the

slight restraint my presence imposed on him; the restraint of showing me

some respect. So far from having an affection for me, he really hated

me, because he was convinced that I must despise him.

“He told me, that ‘As I now had had time to cool and reflect, he did not

doubt but that my prudence, and nice sense of propriety, would lead me

to overlook what was passed.’

“‘Reflection,’ I replied, ‘had only confirmed my purpose, and no power

on earth could divert me from it.’

“Endeavouring to assume a soothing voice and look, when he would

willingly have tortured me, to force me to feel his power, his

countenance had an infernal expression, when he desired me, ‘Not to

expose myself to the servants, by obliging him to confine me in my

apartment; if then I would give my promise not to quit the house

precipitately, I should be free—and—.’ I declared, interrupting him,

‘that I would promise nothing. I had no measures to keep with him—I was

resolved, and would not condescend to subterfuge.’

“He muttered, ‘that I should soon repent of these preposterous airs;’

and, ordering tea to be carried into my little study, which had a

communication with my bed-chamber, he once more locked the door upon me,

and left me to my own meditations. I had passively followed him up

stairs, not wishing to fatigue myself with unavailing exertion.

“Nothing calms the mind like a fixed purpose. I felt as if I had heaved

a thousand weight from my heart; the atmosphere seemed lightened; and,

if I execrated the institutions of society, which thus enable men to

tyrannize over women, it was almost a disinterested sentiment. I

disregarded present inconveniences, when my mind had done struggling

with itself,—when reason and inclination had shaken hands and were at

peace. I had no longer the cruel task before me, in endless perspective,

aye, during the tedious for ever of life, of labouring to overcome my

repugnance—of labouring to extinguish the hopes, the maybes of a lively

imagination. Death I had hailed as my only chance for deliverance; but,

while existence had still so many charms, and life promised happiness, I

shrunk from the icy arms of an unknown tyrant, though far more inviting

than those of the man, to whom I supposed myself bound without any other

alternative; and was content to linger a little longer, waiting for I

knew not what, rather than leave ‘the warm precincts of the cheerful

day,’ and all the unenjoyed affection of my nature.

“My present situation gave a new turn to my reflection; and I wondered

(now the film seemed to be withdrawn, that obscured the piercing sight

of reason) how I could, previously to the deciding outrage, have

considered myself as everlastingly united to vice and folly! ‘Had an

evil genius cast a spell at my birth; or a demon stalked out of chaos,

to perplex my understanding, and enchain my will, with delusive

prejudices?’

“I pursued this train of thinking; it led me out of myself, to expatiate

on the misery peculiar to my sex. ‘Are not,’ I thought, ‘the despots for

ever stigmatized, who, in the wantonness of power, commanded even the

most atrocious criminals to be chained to dead bodies? though surely

those laws are much more inhuman, which forge adamantine fetters to bind

minds together, that never can mingle in social communion! What indeed

can equal the wretchedness of that state, in which there is no

alternative, but to extinguish the affections, or encounter infamy?’”

CHAPTER 12

“TOWARDS midnight Mr. Venables entered my chamber; and, with calm

audacity preparing to go to bed, he bade me make haste, ‘for that was

the best place for husbands and wives to end their differences. He had

been drinking plentifully to aid his courage.

“I did not at first deign to reply. But perceiving that he affected to

take my silence for consent, I told him that, ‘If he would not go to

another bed, or allow me, I should sit up in my study all night.’ He

attempted to pull me into the chamber, half joking. But I resisted; and,

as he had determined not to give me any reason for saying that he used

violence, after a few more efforts, he retired, cursing my obstinacy, to

bed.

“I sat musing some time longer; then, throwing my cloak around me,

prepared for sleep on a sopha. And, so fortunate seemed my deliverance,

so sacred the pleasure of being thus wrapped up in myself, that I slept

profoundly, and woke with a mind composed to encounter the struggles of

the day. Mr. Venables did not wake till some hours after; and then he

came to me half-dressed, yawning and stretching, with haggard eyes, as

if he scarcely recollected what had passed the preceding evening. He

fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then, calling me a fool, asked ‘How

long I intended to continue this pretty farce? For his part, he was

devilish sick of it; but this was the plague of marrying women who

pretended to know something.’

“I made no other reply to this harangue, than to say, ‘That he ought to

be glad to get rid of a woman so unfit to be his companion—and that any

change in my conduct would be mean dissimulation; for maturer reflection

only gave the sacred seal of reason to my first resolution.’

“He looked as if he could have stamped with impatience, at being obliged

to stifle his rage; but, conquering his anger (for weak people, whose

passions seem the most ungovernable, restrain them with the greatest

ease, when they have a sufficient motive), he exclaimed, ‘Very pretty,

upon my soul! very pretty, theatrical flourishes! Pray, fair Roxana,

stoop from your altitudes, and remember that you are acting a part in

real life.’

“He uttered this speech with a self-satisfied air, and went down stairs

to dress.

“In about an hour he came to me again; and in the same tone said, ‘That

he came as my gentleman-usher to hand me down to breakfast.

“‘Of the black rod?’ asked I.

“This question, and the tone in which I asked it, a little disconcerted

him. To say the truth, I now felt no resentment; my firm resolution to

free myself from my ignoble thraldom, had absorbed the various emotions

which, during six years, had racked my soul. The duty pointed out by my

principles seemed clear; and not one tender feeling intruded to make me

swerve: The dislike which my husband had inspired was strong; but it

only led me to wish to avoid, to wish to let him drop out of my memory;

there was no misery, no torture that I would not deliberately have

chosen, rather than renew my lease of servitude.

“During the breakfast, he attempted to reason with me on the folly of

romantic sentiments; for this was the indiscriminate epithet he gave to

every mode of conduct or thinking superior to his own. He asserted,

‘that all the world were governed by their own interest; those who

pretended to be actuated by different motives, were only deeper knaves,

or fools crazed by books, who took for gospel all the rodomantade

nonsense written by men who knew nothing of the world. For his part, he

thanked God, he was no hypocrite; and, if he stretched a point

sometimes, it was always with an intention of paying every man his own.’

“He then artfully insinuated, ‘that he daily expected a vessel to

arrive, a successful speculation, that would make him easy for the

present, and that he had several other schemes actually depending, that

could not fail. He had no doubt of becoming rich in a few years, though

he had been thrown back by some unlucky adventures at the setting out.’

“I mildly replied, ‘That I wished he might not involve himself still

deeper.’

“He had no notion that I was governed by a decision of judgment, not to

be compared with a mere spurt of resentment. He knew not what it was to

feel indignation against vice, and often boasted of his placable temper,

and readiness to forgive injuries. True; for he only considered the

being deceived, as an effort of skill he had not guarded against; and

then, with a cant of candour, would observe, ‘that he did not know how

he might himself have been tempted to act in the same circumstances.’

And, as his heart never opened to friendship, it never was wounded by

disappointment. Every new acquaintance he protested, it is true, was

‘the cleverest fellow in the world; and he really thought so; till the

novelty of his conversation or manners ceased to have any effect on his

sluggish spirits. His respect for rank or fortune was more permanent,

though he chanced to have no design of availing himself of the influence

of either to promote his own views.

“After a prefatory conversation,—my blood (I thought it had been cooler)

flushed over my whole countenance as he spoke—he alluded to my

situation. He desired me to reflect—‘and act like a prudent woman, as

the best proof of my superior understanding; for he must own I had

sense, did I know how to use it. I was not,’ he laid a stress on his

words, ‘without my passions; and a husband was a convenient cloke.—He

was liberal in his way of thinking; and why might not we, like many

other married people, who were above vulgar prejudices, tacitly consent

to let each other follow their own inclination?—He meant nothing more,

in the letter I made the ground of complaint; and the pleasure which I

seemed to take in Mr. S.‘s company, led him to conclude, that he was not

disagreeable to me.’

“A clerk brought in the letters of the day, and I, as I often did, while

he was discussing subjects of business, went to the piano forte, and

began to play a favourite air to restore myself, as it were, to nature,

and drive the sophisticated sentiments I had just been obliged to listen

to, out of my soul.

“They had excited sensations similar to those I have felt, in viewing

the squalid inhabitants of some of the lanes and back streets of the

metropolis, mortified at being compelled to consider them as my

fellow-creatures, as if an ape had claimed kindred with me. Or, as when

surrounded by a mephitical fog, I have wished to have a volley of cannon

fired, to clear the incumbered atmosphere, and give me room to breathe

and move.

“My spirits were all in arms, and I played a kind of extemporary

prelude. The cadence was probably wild and impassioned, while, lost in

thought, I made the sounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.

“Pausing for a moment, I met Mr. Venables’ eyes. He was observing me

with an air of conceited satisfaction, as much as to say—‘My last

insinuation has done the business—she begins to know her own interest.’

Then gathering up his letters, he said, ‘That he hoped he should hear no

more romantic stuff, well enough in a miss just come from boarding

school;’ and went, as was his custom, to the counting-house. I still

continued playing; and, turning to a sprightly lesson, I executed it

with uncommon vivacity. I heard footsteps approach the door, and was

soon convinced that Mr. Venables was listening; the consciousness only

gave more animation to my fingers. He went down into the kitchen, and

the cook, probably by his desire, came to me, to know what I would

please to order for dinner. Mr. Venables came into the parlour again,

with apparent carelessness. I perceived that the cunning man was

overreaching himself; and I gave my directions as usual, and left the

room.

“While I was making some alteration in my dress, Mr. Venables peeped in,

and, begging my pardon for interrupting me, disappeared. I took up some

work (I could not read), and two or three messages were sent to me,

probably for no other purpose, but to enable Mr. Venables to ascertain

what I was about.

“I listened whenever I heard the street-door open; at last I imagined I

could distinguish Mr. Venables’ step, going out. I laid aside my work;

my heart palpitated; still I was afraid hastily to enquire; and I waited

a long half hour, before I ventured to ask the boy whether his master

was in the counting-house?

“Being answered in the negative, I bade him call me a coach, and

collecting a few necessaries hastily together, with a little parcel of

letters and papers which I had collected the preceding evening, I

hurried into it, desiring the coachman to drive to a distant part of the

town.

“I almost feared that the coach would break down before I got out of the

street; and, when I turned the corner, I seemed to breathe a freer air.

I was ready to imagine that I was rising above the thick atmosphere of

earth; or I felt, as wearied souls might be supposed to feel on entering

another state of existence.

“I stopped at one or two stands of coaches to elude pursuit, and then

drove round the skirts of the town to seek for an obscure lodging, where

I wished to remain concealed, till I could avail myself of my uncle’s

protection. I had resolved to assume my own name immediately, and openly

to avow my determination, without any formal vindication, the moment I

had found a home, in which I could rest free from the daily alarm of

expecting to see Mr. Venables enter.

“I looked at several lodgings; but finding that I could not, without a

reference to some acquaintance, who might inform my tyrant, get

admittance into a decent apartment—men have not all this trouble—I

thought of a woman whom I had assisted to furnish a little haberdasher’s

shop, and who I knew had a first floor to let.

“I went to her, and though I could not persuade her, that the quarrel

between me and Mr. Venables would never be made up, still she agreed to

conceal me for the present; yet assuring me at the same time, shaking

her head, that, when a woman was once married, she must bear every

thing. Her pale face, on which appeared a thousand haggard lines and

delving wrinkles, produced by what is emphatically termed fretting,

inforced her remark; and I had afterwards an opportunity of observing

the treatment she had to endure, which grizzled her into patience. She

toiled from morning till night; yet her husband would rob the till, and

take away the money reserved for paying bills; and, returning home

drunk, he would beat her if she chanced to offend him, though she had a

child at the breast.

“These scenes awoke me at night; and, in the morning, I heard her, as

usual, talk to her dear Johnny—he, forsooth, was her master; no slave in

the West Indies had one more despotic; but fortunately she was of the

true Russian breed of wives.

“My mind, during the few past days, seemed, as it were, disengaged from

my body; but, now the struggle was over, I felt very forcibly the effect

which perturbation of spirits produces on a woman in my situation.

“The apprehension of a miscarriage, obliged me to confine myself to my

apartment near a fortnight; but I wrote to my uncle’s friend for money,

promising ‘to call on him, and explain my situation, when I was well

enough to go out; mean time I earnestly intreated him, not to mention my

place of abode to any one, lest my husband—such the law considered

him—should disturb the mind he could not conquer. I mentioned my

intention of setting out for Lisbon, to claim my uncle’s protection, the

moment my health would permit.’

“The tranquillity however, which I was recovering, was soon interrupted.

My landlady came up to me one day, with eyes swollen with weeping,

unable to utter what she was commanded to say. She declared, ‘That she

was never so miserable in her life; that she must appear an ungrateful

monster; and that she would readily go down on her knees to me, to

intreat me to forgive her, as she had done to her husband to spare her

the cruel task.’ Sobs prevented her from proceeding, or answering my

impatient enquiries, to know what she meant.

“When she became a little more composed, she took a newspaper out of her

pocket, declaring, ‘that her heart smote her, but what could she do?—she

must obey her husband.’ I snatched the paper from her. An advertisement

quickly met my eye, purporting, that ‘Maria Venables had, without any

assignable cause, absconded from her husband; and any person harbouring

her, was menaced with the utmost severity of the law.’

“Perfectly acquainted with Mr. Venables’ meanness of soul, this step did

not excite my surprise, and scarcely my contempt. Resentment in my

breast, never survived love. I bade the poor woman, in a kind tone, wipe

her eyes, and request her husband to come up, and speak to me himself.

“My manner awed him. He respected a lady, though not a woman; and began

to mutter out an apology.

“‘Mr. Venables was a rich gentleman; he wished to oblige me, but he had

suffered enough by the law already, to tremble at the thought; besides,

for certain, we should come together again, and then even I should not

thank him for being accessary to keeping us asunder.—A husband and wife

were, God knows, just as one,—and all would come round at last.’ He

uttered a drawling ‘Hem!’ and then with an arch look, added—‘Master

might have had his little frolics—but—Lord bless your heart!—men would

be men while the world stands.’

“To argue with this privileged first-born of reason, I perceived, would

be vain. I therefore only requested him to let me remain another day at

his house, while I sought for a lodging; and not to inform Mr. Venables

that I had ever been sheltered there.

“He consented, because he had not the courage to refuse a person for

whom he had an habitual respect; but I heard the pent-up choler burst

forth in curses, when he met his wife, who was waiting impatiently at

the foot of the stairs, to know what effect my expostulations would have

on him.

“Without wasting any time in the fruitless indulgence of vexation, I

once more set out in search of an abode in which I could hide myself for

a few weeks.

“Agreeing to pay an exorbitant price, I hired an apartment, without any

reference being required relative to my character: indeed, a glance at

my shape seemed to say, that my motive for concealment was sufficiently

obvious. Thus was I obliged to shroud my head in infamy.

“To avoid all danger of detection—I use the appropriate word, my child,

for I was hunted out like a felon—I determined to take possession of my

new lodgings that very evening.

“I did not inform my landlady where I was going. I knew that she had a

sincere affection for me, and would willingly have run any risk to show

her gratitude; yet I was fully convinced, that a few kind words from

Johnny would have found the woman in her, and her dear benefactress, as

she termed me in an agony of tears, would have been sacrificed, to

recompense her tyrant for condescending to treat her like an equal. He

could be kind-hearted, as she expressed it, when he pleased. And this

thawed sternness, contrasted with his habitual brutality, was the more

acceptable, and could not be purchased at too dear a rate.

“The sight of the advertisement made me desirous of taking refuge with

my uncle, let what would be the consequence; and I repaired in a hackney

coach (afraid of meeting some person who might chance to know me, had I

walked) to the chambers of my uncle’s friend.

“He received me with great politeness (my uncle had already prepossessed

him in my favour), and listened, with interest, to my explanation of the

motives which had induced me to fly from home, and skulk in obscurity,

with all the timidity of fear that ought only to be the companion of

guilt. He lamented, with rather more gallantry than, in my situation, I

thought delicate, that such a woman should be thrown away on a man

insensible to the charms of beauty or grace. He seemed at a loss what to

advise me to do, to evade my husband’s search, without hastening to my

uncle, whom, he hesitating said, I might not find alive. He uttered this

intelligence with visible regret; requested me, at least, to wait for

the arrival of the next packet; offered me what money I wanted, and

promised to visit me.

“He kept his word; still no letter arrived to put an end to my painful

state of suspense. I procured some books and music, to beguile the

tedious solitary days.

‘Come, ever smiling Liberty, ‘And with thee bring thy jocund train:’

I sung—and sung till, saddened by the strain of joy, I bitterly lamented

the fate that deprived me of all social pleasure. Comparative liberty

indeed I had possessed myself of; but the jocund train lagged far

behind!”

CHAPTER 13

“BY WATCHING my only visitor, my uncle’s friend, or by some other means,

Mr. Venables discovered my residence, and came to enquire for me. The

maid-servant assured him there was no such person in the house. A bustle

ensued—I caught the alarm—listened—distinguished his voice, and

immediately locked the door. They suddenly grew still; and I waited near

a quarter of an hour, before I heard him open the parlour door, and

mount the stairs with the mistress of the house, who obsequiously

declared that she knew nothing of me.

“Finding my door locked, she requested me to open it, and prepare to go

home with my husband, poor gentleman! to whom I had already occasioned

sufficient vexation.’ I made no reply. Mr. Venables then, in an assumed

tone of softness, intreated me, ‘to consider what he suffered, and my

own reputation, and get the better of childish resentment.’ He ran on in

the same strain, pretending to address me, but evidently adapting his

discourse to the capacity of the landlady; who, at every pause, uttered

an exclamation of pity; or ‘Yes, to be sure—Very true, sir.’

“Sick of the farce, and perceiving that I could not avoid the hated

interview, I opened the door, and he entered. Advancing with easy

assurance to take my hand, I shrunk from his touch, with an involuntary

start, as I should have done from a noisome reptile, with more disgust

than terror. His conductress was retiring, to give us, as she said, an

opportunity to accommodate matters. But I bade her come in, or I would

go out; and curiosity impelled her to obey me.

“Mr. Venables began to expostulate; and this woman, proud of his

confidence, to second him. But I calmly silenced her, in the midst of a

vulgar harangue, and turning to him, asked, ‘Why he vainly tormented me?

declaring that no power on earth should force me back to his house.’

“After a long altercation, the particulars of which, it would be to no

purpose to repeat, he left the room. Some time was spent in loud

conversation in the parlour below, and I discovered that he had brought

his friend, an attorney, with him.[8]

“The tumult on the landing place, brought out a gentleman, who had

recently taken apartments in the house; he enquired why I was thus

assailed?[9] The voluble attorney instantly repeated the trite tale. The

stranger turned to me, observing, with the most soothing politeness and

manly interest, that ‘my countenance told a very different story.’ He

added, ‘that I should not be insulted, or forced out of the house, by

any body.’

“‘Not by her husband?’ asked the attorney.

“‘No, sir, not by her husband.’ Mr. Venables advanced towards him—But

there was a decision in his attitude, that so well seconded that of his

voice, [10] They left the house: at the same time protesting, that any

one that should dare to protect me, should be prosecuted with the utmost

rigour.

“They were scarcely out of the house, when my landlady came up to me

again, and begged my pardon, in a very different tone. For, though Mr.

Venables had bid her, at her peril, harbour me, he had not attended, I

found, to her broad hints, to discharge the lodging. I instantly

promised to pay her, and make her a present to compensate for my abrupt

departure, if she would procure me another lodging, at a sufficient

distance; and she, in return, repeating Mr. Venables’ plausible tale, I

raised her indignation, and excited her sympathy, by telling her briefly

the truth.

“She expressed her commiseration with such honest warmth, that I felt

soothed; for I have none of that fastidious sensitiveness, which a

vulgar accent or gesture can alarm to the disregard of real kindness. I

was ever glad to perceive in others the humane feelings I delighted to

exercise; and the recollection of some ridiculous characteristic

circumstances, which have occurred in a moment of emotion, has convulsed

me with laughter, though at the instant I should have thought it

sacrilegious to have smiled. Your improvement, my dearest girl, being

ever present to me while I write, I note these feelings, because women,

more accustomed to observe manners than actions, are too much alive to

ridicule. So much so, that their boasted sensibility is often stifled by

false delicacy. True sensibility, the sensibility which is the auxiliary

of virtue, and the soul of genius, is in society so occupied with the

feelings of others, as scarcely to regard its own sensations. With what

reverence have I looked up at my uncle, the dear parent of my mind! when

I have seen the sense of his own sufferings, of mind and body, absorbed

in a desire to comfort those, whose misfortunes were comparatively

trivial. He would have been ashamed of being as indulgent to himself, as

he was to others. ‘Genuine fortitude,’ he would assert, ‘consisted in

governing our own emotions, and making allowance for the weaknesses in

our friends, that we would not tolerate in ourselves.’ But where is my

fond regret leading me!

“‘Women must be submissive,’ said my landlady. ‘Indeed what could most

women do? Who had they to maintain them, but their husbands? Every

woman, and especially a lady, could not go through rough and smooth, as

she had done, to earn a little bread.’

“She was in a talking mood, and proceeded to inform me how she had been

used in the world. ‘She knew what it was to have a bad husband, or she

did not know who should.’ I perceived that she would be very much

mortified, were I not to attend to her tale, and I did not attempt to

interrupt her, though I wished her, as soon as possible, to go out in

search of a new abode for me, where I could once more hide my head.

“She began by telling me, ‘That she had saved a little money in service;

and was over-persuaded (we must all be in love once in our lives) to

marry a likely man, a footman in the family, not worth a groat. My

plan,’ she continued, ‘was to take a house, and let out lodgings; and

all went on well, till my husband got acquainted with an impudent slut,

who chose to live on other people’s means—and then all went to rack and

ruin. He ran in debt to buy her fine clothes, such clothes as I never

thought of wearing myself, and—would you believe it?—he signed an

execution on my very goods, bought with the money I worked so hard to

get; and they came and took my bed from under me, before I heard a word

of the matter. Aye, madam, these are misfortunes that you gentlefolks

know nothing of,—but sorrow is sorrow, let it come which way it will.

“‘I sought for a service again—very hard, after having a house of my

own!—but he used to follow me, and kick up such a riot when he was

drunk, that I could not keep a place; nay, he even stole my clothes, and

pawned them; and when I went to the pawnbroker’s, and offered to take my

oath that they were not bought with a farthing of his money, they said,

‘It was all as one, my husband had a right to whatever I had.’

“‘At last he listed for a soldier, and I took a house, making an

agreement to pay for the furniture by degrees; and I almost starved

myself, till I once more got before-hand in the world.

“‘After an absence of six years (God forgive me! I thought he was dead)

my husband returned; found me out, and came with such a penitent face, I

forgave him, and clothed him from head to foot. But he had not been a

week in the house, before some of his creditors arrested him; and, he

selling my goods, I found myself once more reduced to beggary; for I was

not as well able to work, go to bed late, and rise early, as when I

quitted service; and then I thought it hard enough. He was soon tired of

me, when there was nothing more to be had, and left me again.

“I will not tell you how I was buffeted about, till, hearing for certain

that he had died in an hospital abroad, I once more returned to my old

occupation; but have not yet been able to get my head above water: so,

madam, you must not be angry if I am afraid to run any risk, when I know

so well, that women have always the worst of it, when law is to decide.’

“After uttering a few more complaints, I prevailed on my landlady to go

out in quest of a lodging; and, to be more secure, I condescended to the

mean shift of changing my name.

“But why should I dwell on similar incidents!—I was hunted, like an

infected beast, from three different apartments, and should not have

been allowed to rest in any, had not Mr. Venables, informed of my

uncle’s dangerous state of health, been inspired with the fear of

hurrying me out of the world as I advanced in my pregnancy, by thus

tormenting and obliging me to take sudden journeys to avoid him; and

then his speculations on my uncle’s fortune must prove abortive.

“One day, when he had pursued me to an inn, I fainted, hurrying from

him; and, falling down, the sight of my blood alarmed him, and obtained

a respite for me. It is strange that he should have retained any hope,

after observing my unwavering determination; but, from the mildness of

my behaviour, when I found all my endeavours to change his disposition

unavailing, he formed an erroneous opinion of my character, imagining

that, were we once more together, I should part with the money he could

not legally force from me, with the same facility as formerly. My

forbearance and occasional sympathy he had mistaken for weakness of

character; and, because he perceived that I disliked resistance, he

thought my indulgence and compassion mere selfishness, and never

discovered that the fear of being unjust, or of unnecessarily wounding

the feelings of another, was much more painful to me, than any thing I

could have to endure myself. Perhaps it was pride which made me imagine,

that I could bear what I dreaded to inflict; and that it was often

easier to suffer, than to see the sufferings of others.

“I forgot to mention that, during this persecution, I received a letter

from my uncle, informing me, ‘that he only found relief from continual

change of air; and that he intended to return when the spring was a

little more advanced (it was now the middle of February), and then we

would plan a journey to Italy, leaving the fogs and cares of England far

behind.’ He approved of my conduct, promised to adopt my child, and

seemed to have no doubt of obliging Mr. Venables to hear reason. He

wrote to his friend, by the same post, desiring him to call on Mr.

Venables in his name; and, in consequence of the remonstrances he

dictated, I was permitted to lie-in tranquilly.

“The two or three weeks previous, I had been allowed to rest in peace;

but, so accustomed was I to pursuit and alarm, that I seldom closed my

eyes without being haunted by Mr. Venables’ image, who seemed to assume

terrific or hateful forms to torment me, wherever I turned.—Sometimes a

wild cat, a roaring bull, or hideous assassin, whom I vainly attempted

to fly; at others he was a demon, hurrying me to the brink of a

precipice, plunging me into dark waves, or horrid gulfs; and I woke, in

violent fits of trembling anxiety, to assure myself that it was all a

dream, and to endeavour to lure my waking thoughts to wander to the

delightful Italian vales, I hoped soon to visit; or to picture some

august ruins, where I reclined in fancy on a mouldering column, and

escaped, in the contemplation of the heart-enlarging virtues of

antiquity, from the turmoil of cares that had depressed all the daring

purposes of my soul. But I was not long allowed to calm my mind by the

exercise of my imagination; for the third day after your birth, my

child, I was surprised by a visit from my elder brother; who came in the

most abrupt manner, to inform me of the death of my uncle. He had left

the greater part of his fortune to my child, appointing me its guardian;

in short, every step was taken to enable me to be mistress of his

fortune, without putting any part of it in Mr. Venables’ power. My

brother came to vent his rage on me, for having, as he expressed

himself, ‘deprived him, my uncle’s eldest nephew, of his inheritance;’

though my uncle’s property, the fruit of his own exertion, being all in

the funds, or on landed securities, there was not a shadow of justice in

the charge.

“As I sincerely loved my uncle, this intelligence brought on a fever,

which I struggled to conquer with all the energy of my mind; for, in my

desolate state, I had it very much at heart to suckle you, my poor babe.

You seemed my only tie to life, a cherub, to whom I wished to be a

father, as well as a mother; and the double duty appeared to me to

produce a proportionate increase of affection. But the pleasure I felt,

while sustaining you, snatched from the wreck of hope, was cruelly

damped by melancholy reflections on my widowed state—widowed by the

death of my uncle. Of Mr. Venables I thought not, even when I thought of

the felicity of loving your father, and how a mother’s pleasure might be

exalted, and her care softened by a husband’s tenderness.—‘Ought to be!’

I exclaimed; and I endeavoured to drive away the tenderness that

suffocated me; but my spirits were weak, and the unbidden tears would

flow. ‘Why was I,’ I would ask thee, but thou didst not heed me,—‘cut

off from the participation of the sweetest pleasure of life?’ I imagined

with what extacy, after the pains of child-bed, I should have presented

my little stranger, whom I had so long wished to view, to a respectable

father, and with what maternal fondness I should have pressed them both

to my heart!—Now I kissed her with less delight, though with the most

endearing compassion, poor helpless one! when I perceived a slight

resemblance of him, to whom she owed her existence; or, if any gesture

reminded me of him, even in his best days, my heart heaved, and I

pressed the innocent to my bosom, as if to purify it—yes, I blushed to

think that its purity had been sullied, by allowing such a man to be its

father.

“After my recovery, I began to think of taking a house in the country,

or of making an excursion on the continent, to avoid Mr. Venables; and

to open my heart to new pleasures and affection. The spring was melting

into summer, and you, my little companion, began to smile—that smile

made hope bud out afresh, assuring me the world was not a desert. Your

gestures were ever present to my fancy; and I dwelt on the joy I should

feel when you would begin to walk and lisp. Watching your wakening mind,

and shielding from every rude blast my tender blossom, I recovered my

spirits—I dreamed not of the frost—‘the killing frost,’ to which you

were destined to be exposed.—But I lose all patience—and execrate the

injustice of the world—folly! ignorance!—I should rather call it; but,

shut up from a free circulation of thought, and always pondering on the

same griefs, I writhe under the torturing apprehensions, which ought to

excite only honest indignation, or active compassion; and would, could I

view them as the natural consequence of things. But, born a woman—and

born to suffer, in endeavouring to repress my own emotions, I feel more

acutely the various ills my sex are fated to bear—I feel that the evils

they are subject to endure, degrade them so far below their oppressors,

as almost to justify their tyranny; leading at the same time superficial

reasoners to term that weakness the cause, which is only the consequence

of short-sighted despotism.”

CHAPTER 14

“AS MY MIND grew calmer, the visions of Italy again returned with their

former glow of colouring; and I resolved on quitting the kingdom for a

time, in search of the cheerfulness, that naturally results from a

change of scene, unless we carry the barbed arrow with us, and only see

what we feel.

“During the period necessary to prepare for a long absence, I sent a

supply to pay my father’s debts, and settled my brothers in eligible

situations; but my attention was not wholly engrossed by my family,

though I do not think it necessary to enumerate the common exertions of

humanity. The manner in which my uncle’s property was settled, prevented

me from making the addition to the fortune of my surviving sister, that

I could have wished; but I had prevailed on him to bequeath her two

thousand pounds, and she determined to marry a lover, to whom she had

been some time attached. Had it not been for this engagement, I should

have invited her to accompany me in my tour; and I might have escaped

the pit, so artfully dug in my path, when I was the least aware of

danger.

“I had thought of remaining in England, till I weaned my child; but this

state of freedom was too peaceful to last, and I had soon reason to wish

to hasten my departure. A friend of Mr. Venables, the same attorney who

had accompanied him in several excursions to hunt me from my hiding

places, waited on me to propose a reconciliation. On my refusal, he

indirectly advised me to make over to my husband—for husband he would

term him—the greater part of the property I had at command, menacing me

with continual persecution unless I complied, and that, as a last

resort, he would claim the child. I did not, though intimidated by the

last insinuation, scruple to declare, that I would not allow him to

squander the money left to me for far different purposes, but offered

him five hundred pounds, if he would sign a bond not to torment me any

more. My maternal anxiety made me thus appear to waver from my first

determination, and probably suggested to him, or his diabolical agent,

the infernal plot, which has succeeded but too well.

“The bond was executed; still I was impatient to leave England. Mischief

hung in the air when we breathed the same; I wanted seas to divide us,

and waters to roll between, till he had forgotten that I had the means

of helping him through a new scheme. Disturbed by the late occurrences,

I instantly prepared for my departure. My only delay was waiting for a

maid-servant, who spoke French fluently, and had been warmly recommended

to me. A valet I was advised to hire, when I fixed on my place of

residence for any time.

“My God, with what a light heart did I set out for Dover!—It was not my

country, but my cares, that I was leaving behind. My heart seemed to

bound with the wheels, or rather appeared the centre on which they

twirled. I clasped you to my bosom, exclaiming ‘And you will be

safe—quite safe—when—we are once on board the packet.—Would we were

there!’ I smiled at my idle fears, as the natural effect of continual

alarm; and I scarcely owned to myself that I dreaded Mr. Venables’s

cunning, or was conscious of the horrid delight he would feel, at

forming stratagem after stratagem to circumvent me. I was already in the

snare—I never reached the packet—I never saw thee more.—I grow

breathless. I have scarcely patience to write down the details. The

maid—the plausible woman I had hired—put, doubtless, some stupefying

potion in what I ate or drank, the morning I left town. All I know is,

that she must have quitted the chaise, shameless wretch! and taken (from

my breast) my babe with her. How could a creature in a female form see

me caress thee, and steal thee from my arms! I must stop, stop to

repress a mother’s anguish; lest, in bitterness of soul, I imprecate the

wrath of heaven on this tiger, who tore my only comfort from me.

“How long I slept I know not; certainly many hours, for I woke at the

close of day, in a strange confusion of thought. I was probably roused

to recollection by some one thundering at a huge, unwieldy gate.

Attempting to ask where I was, my voice died away, and I tried to raise

it in vain, as I have done in a dream. I looked for my babe with

affright; feared that it had fallen out of my lap, while I had so

strangely forgotten her; and, such was the vague intoxication, I can

give it no other name, in which I was plunged, I could not recollect

when or where I last saw you; but I sighed, as if my heart wanted room

to clear my head.

“The gates opened heavily, and the sullen sound of many locks and bolts

drawn back, grated on my very soul, before I was appalled by the

creeking of the dismal hinges, as they closed after me. The gloomy pile

was before me, half in ruins; some of the aged trees of the avenue were

cut down, and left to rot where they fell; and as we approached some

mouldering steps, a monstrous dog darted forwards to the length of his

chain, and barked and growled infernally.

“The door was opened slowly, and a murderous visage peeped out, with a

lantern. ‘Hush!’ he uttered, in a threatning tone, and the affrighted

animal stole back to his kennel. The door of the chaise flew back, the

stranger put down the lantern, and clasped his dreadful arms around me.

It was certainly the effect of the soporific draught, for, instead of

exerting my strength, I sunk without motion, though not without sense,

on his shoulder, my limbs refusing to obey my will. I was carried up the

steps into a close-shut hall. A candle flaring in the socket, scarcely

dispersed the darkness, though it displayed to me the ferocious

countenance of the wretch who held me.

“He mounted a wide staircase. Large figures painted on the walls seemed

to start on me, and glaring eyes to meet me at every turn. Entering a

long gallery, a dismal shriek made me spring out of my conductor’s arms,

with I know not what mysterious emotion of terror; but I fell on the

floor, unable to sustain myself.

“A strange-looking female started out of one of the recesses, and

observed me with more curiosity than interest; till, sternly bid retire,

she flitted back like a shadow. Other faces, strongly marked, or

distorted, peeped through the half-opened doors, and I heard some

incoherent sounds. I had no distinct idea where I could be—I looked on

all sides, and almost doubted whether I was alive or dead.

“Thrown on a bed, I immediately sunk into insensibility again; and next

day, gradually recovering the use of reason, I began, starting

affrighted from the conviction, to discover where I was confined—I

insisted on seeing the master of the mansion—I saw him—and perceived

that I was buried alive.—

“Such, my child, are the events of thy mother’s life to this dreadful

moment—Should she ever escape from the fangs of her enemies, she will

add the secrets of her prison-house—and—”

Some lines were here crossed out, and the memoirs broke off abruptly

with the names of Jemima and Darnford.

APPENDIX

THE performance, with a fragment of which the reader has now been

presented, was designed to consist of three parts. The preceding sheets

were considered as constituting one of those parts. Those persons who in

the perusal of the chapters, already written and in some degree finished

by the author, have felt their hearts awakened, and their curiosity

excited as to the sequel of the story, will, of course, gladly accept

even of the broken paragraphs and half-finished sentences, which have

been found committed to paper, as materials for the remainder. The

fastidious and cold-hearted critic may perhaps feel himself repelled by

the incoherent form in which they are presented. But an inquisitive

temper willingly accepts the most imperfect and mutilated information,

where better is not to be had: and readers, who in any degree resemble

the author in her quick apprehension of sentiment, and of the pleasures

and pains of imagination, will, I believe, find gratification, in

contemplating sketches, which were designed in a short time to have

received the finishing touches of her genius; but which must now for

ever remain a mark to record the triumphs of mortality, over schemes of

usefulness, and projects of public interest.

CHAPTER 15

DARNFORD returned the memoirs to Maria, with a most affectionate letter,

in which he reasoned on “the absurdity of the laws respecting matrimony,

which, till divorces could be more easily obtained, was,” he declared,

“the most insufferable bondage.” Ties of this nature could not bind

minds governed by superior principles; and such beings were privileged

to act above the dictates of laws they had no voice in framing, if they

had sufficient strength of mind to endure the natural consequence. In

her case, to talk of duty, was a farce, excepting what was due to

herself. Delicacy, as well as reason, forbade her ever to think of

returning to her husband: was she then to restrain her charming

sensibility through mere prejudice? These arguments were not absolutely

impartial, for he disdained to conceal, that, when he appealed to her

reason, he felt that he had some interest in her heart.—The conviction

was not more transporting, than sacred—a thousand times a day, he asked

himself how he had merited such happiness?—and as often he determined to

purify the heart she deigned to inhabit—He intreated to be again

admitted to her presence.

He was; and the tear which glistened in his eye, when he respectfully

pressed her to his bosom, rendered him peculiarly dear to the

unfortunate mother. Grief had stilled the transports of love, only to

render their mutual tenderness more touching. In former interviews,

Darnford had contrived, by a hundred little pretexts, to sit near her,

to take her hand, or to meet her eyes—now it was all soothing affection,

and esteem seemed to have rivalled love. He adverted to her narrative,

and spoke with warmth of the oppression she had endured.—His eyes,

glowing with a lambent flame, told her how much he wished to restore her

to liberty and love; but he kissed her hand, as if it had been that of a

saint; and spoke of the loss of her child, as if it had been his

own.—What could have been more flattering to Maria?—Every instance of

self-denial was registered in her heart, and she loved him, for loving

her too well to give way to the transports of passion.

They met again and again; and Darnford declared, while passion suffused

his cheeks, that he never before knew what it was to love.—

One morning Jemima informed Maria, that her master intended to wait on

her, and speak to her without witnesses. He came, and brought a letter

with him, pretending that he was ignorant of its contents, though he

insisted on having it returned to him. It was from the attorney already

mentioned, who informed her of the death of her child, and hinted, “that

she could not now have a legitimate heir, and that, would she make over

the half of her fortune during life, she should be conveyed to Dover,

and permitted to pursue her plan of travelling.”

Maria answered with warmth, “That she had no terms to make with the

murderer of her babe, nor would she purchase liberty at the price of her

own respect.”

She began to expostulate with her jailor; but he sternly bade her “Be

silent—he had not gone so far, not to go further.”

Darnford came in the evening. Jemima was obliged to be absent, and she,

as usual, locked the door on them, to prevent interruption or

discovery.—The lovers were, at first, embarrassed; but fell insensibly

into confidential discourse. Darnford represented, “that they might soon

be parted,” and wished her “to put it out of the power of fate to

separate them.”

As her husband she now received him, and he solemnly pledged himself as

her protector—and eternal friend.—

There was one peculiarity in Maria’s mind: she was more anxious not to

deceive, than to guard against deception; and had rather trust without

sufficient reason, than be for ever the prey of doubt. Besides, what are

we, when the mind has, from reflection, a certain kind of elevation,

which exalts the contemplation above the little concerns of prudence! We

see what we wish, and make a world of our own—and, though reality may

sometimes open a door to misery, yet the moments of happiness procured

by the imagination, may, without a paradox, be reckoned among the solid

comforts of life. Maria now, imagining that she had found a being of

celestial mould—was happy,—nor was she deceived.—He was then plastic in

her impassioned hand—and reflected all the sentiments which animated and

warmed her.[11]

CHAPTER 16

ONE morning confusion seemed to reign in the house, and Jemima came in

terror, to inform Maria, “that her master had left it, with a

determination, she was assured (and too many circumstances corroborated

the opinion, to leave a doubt of its truth) of never returning. I am

prepared then,” said Jemima, “to accompany you in your flight.”

Maria started up, her eyes darting towards the door, as if afraid that

some one should fasten it on her for ever.

Jemima continued, “I have perhaps no right now to expect the performance

of your promise; but on you it depends to reconcile me with the human

race.”

“But Darnford!”—exclaimed Maria, mournfully—sitting down again, and

crossing her arms—“I have no child to go to, and liberty has lost its

sweets.”

“I am much mistaken, if Darnford is not the cause of my master’s

flight—his keepers assure me, that they have promised to confine him two

days longer, and then he will be free—you cannot see him; but they will

give a letter to him the moment he is free.—In that inform him where he

may find you in London; fix on some hotel. Give me your clothes; I will

send them out of the house with mine, and we will slip out at the

garden-gate. Write your letter while I make these arrangements, but lose

no time!”

In an agitation of spirit, not to be calmed, Maria began to write to

Darnford. She called him by the sacred name of “husband,” and bade him

“hasten to her, to share her fortune, or she would return to him.”—An

hotel in the Adelphi was the place of rendezvous.

The letter was sealed and given in charge; and with light footsteps, yet

terrified at the sound of them, she descended, scarcely breathing, and

with an indistinct fear that she should never get out at the garden

gate. Jemima went first.

A being, with a visage that would have suited one possessed by a devil,

crossed the path, and seized Maria by the arm. Maria had no fear but of

being detained—“Who are you? what are you?” for the form was scarcely

human. “If you are made of flesh and blood,” his ghastly eyes glared on

her, “do not stop me!”

“Woman,” interrupted a sepulchral voice, “what have I to do with

thee?”—Still he grasped her hand, muttering a curse.

“No, no; you have nothing to do with me,” she exclaimed, “this is a

moment of life and death!”—

With supernatural force she broke from him, and, throwing her arms round

Jemima, cried, “Save me!” The being, from whose grasp she had loosed

herself, took up a stone as they opened the door, and with a kind of

hellish sport threw it after them. They were out of his reach.

When Maria arrived in town, she drove to the hotel already fixed on. But

she could not sit still—her child was ever before her; and all that had

passed during her confinement, appeared to be a dream. She went to the

house in the suburbs, where, as she now discovered, her babe had been

sent. The moment she entered, her heart grew sick; but she wondered not

that it had proved its grave. She made the necessary enquiries, and the

church-yard was pointed out, in which it rested under a turf. A little

frock which the nurse’s child wore (Maria had made it herself) caught

her eye. The nurse was glad to sell it for half-a-guinea, and Maria

hastened away with the relic, and, reentering the hackney-coach which

waited for her, gazed on it, till she reached her hotel.

She then waited on the attorney who had made her uncle’s will, and

explained to him her situation. He readily advanced her some of the

money which still remained in his hands, and promised to take the whole

of the case into consideration. Maria only wished to be permitted to

remain in quiet—She found that several bills, apparently with her

signature, had been presented to her agent, nor was she for a moment at

a loss to guess by whom they had been forged; yet, equally averse to

threaten or intreat, she requested her friend [the solicitor] to call on

Mr. Venables. He was not to be found at home; but at length his agent,

the attorney, offered a conditional promise to Maria, to leave her in

peace, as long as she behaved with propriety, if she would give up the

notes. Maria inconsiderately consented—Darnford was arrived, and she

wished to be only alive to love; she wished to forget the anguish she

felt whenever she thought of her child.

They took a ready furnished lodging together, for she was above

disguise; Jemima insisting on being considered as her house-keeper, and

to receive the customary stipend. On no other terms would she remain

with her friend.

Darnford was indefatigable in tracing the mysterious circumstances of

his confinement. The cause was simply, that a relation, a very distant

one, to whom he was heir, had died intestate, leaving a considerable

fortune. On the news of Darnford’s arrival [in England, a person,

intrusted with the management of the property, and who had the writings

in his possession, determining, by one bold stroke, to strip Darnford of

the succession,] had planned his confinement; and [as soon as he had

taken the measures he judged most conducive to his object, this ruffian,

together with his instrument,] the keeper of the private mad-house, left

the kingdom. Darnford, who still pursued his enquiries, at last

discovered that they had fixed their place of refuge at Paris.

Maria and he determined therefore, with the faithful Jemima, to visit

that metropolis, and accordingly were preparing for the journey, when

they were informed that Mr. Venables had commenced an action against

Darnford for seduction and adultery. The indignation Maria felt cannot

be explained; she repented of the forbearance she had exercised in

giving up the notes. Darnford could not put off his journey, without

risking the loss of his property: Maria therefore furnished him with

money for his expedition; and determined to remain in London till the

termination of this affair.

She visited some ladies with whom she had formerly been intimate, but

was refused admittance; and at the opera, or Ranelagh, they could not

recollect her. Among these ladies there were some, not her most intimate

acquaintance, who were generally supposed to avail themselves of the

cloke of marriage, to conceal a mode of conduct, that would for ever

have damned their fame, had they been innocent, seduced girls. These

particularly stood aloof.—Had she remained with her husband, practicing

insincerity, and neglecting her child to manage an intrigue, she would

still have been visited and respected. If, instead of openly living with

her lover, she could have condescended to call into play a thousand

arts, which, degrading her own mind, might have allowed the people who

were not deceived, to pretend to be so, she would have been caressed and

treated like an honourable woman. “And Brutus[12] is an honourable man!”

said Mark-Antony with equal sincerity.

With Darnford she did not taste uninterrupted felicity; there was a

volatility in his manner which often distressed her; but love gladdened

the scene; besides, he was the most tender, sympathizing creature in the

world. A fondness for the sex often gives an appearance of humanity to

the behaviour of men, who have small pretensions to the reality; and

they seem to love others, when they are only pursuing their own

gratification. Darnford appeared ever willing to avail himself of her

taste and acquirements, while she endeavoured to profit by his decision

of character, and to eradicate some of the romantic notions, which had

taken root in her mind, while in adversity she had brooded over visions

of unattainable bliss.

The real affections of life, when they are allowed to burst forth, are

buds pregnant with joy and all the sweet emotions of the soul; yet they

branch out with wild ease, unlike the artificial forms of felicity,

sketched by an imagination painful alive. The substantial happiness,

which enlarges and civilizes the mind, may be compared to the pleasure

experienced in roving through nature at large, inhaling the sweet gale

natural to the clime; while the reveries of a feverish imagination

continually sport themselves in gardens full of aromatic shrubs, which

cloy while they delight, and weaken the sense of pleasure they gratify.

The heaven of fancy, below or beyond the stars, in this life, or in

those ever-smiling regions surrounded by the unmarked ocean of futurity,

have an insipid uniformity which palls. Poets have imagined scenes of

bliss; but, sencing out sorrow, all the extatic emotions of the Soul,

and even its grandeur, seem to be equally excluded. We dose over the

unruffled lake, and long to scale the rocks which fence the happy valley

of contentment, though serpents hiss in the pathless desert, and danger

lurks in the unexplored wiles. Maria found herself more indulgent as she

was happier, and discovered virtues, in characters she had before

disregarded, while chasing the phantoms of elegance and excellence,

which sported in the meteors that exhale in the marshes of misfortune.

The heart is often shut by romance against social pleasure; and,

fostering a sickly sensibility, grows callous to the soft touches of

humanity.

To part with Darnford was indeed cruel.—It was to feel most painfully

alone; but she rejoiced to think, that she should spare him the care and

perplexity of the suit, and meet him again, all his own. Marriage, as at

present constituted, she considered as leading to immorality—yet, as the

odium of society impedes usefulness, she wished to avow her affection to

Darnford, by becoming his wife according to established rules; not to be

confounded with women who act from very different motives, though her

conduct would be just the same without the ceremony as with it, and her

expectations from him not less firm. The being summoned to defend

herself from a charge which she was determined to plead guilty to, was

still galling, as it roused bitter reflections on the situation of women

in society.

CHAPTER 17

SUCH was her state of mind when the dogs of law were let loose on her.

Maria took the task of conducting Darnford’s defence upon herself. She

instructed his counsel to plead guilty to the charge of adultery; but to

deny that of seduction.

The counsel for the plaintiff opened the cause, by observing, “that his

client had ever been an indulgent husband, and had borne with several

defects of temper, while he had nothing criminal to lay to the charge of

his wife. But that she left his house without assigning any cause. He

could not assert that she was then acquainted with the defendant; yet,

when he was once endeavouring to bring her back to her home, this man

put the peace-officers to flight, and took her he knew not whither.

After the birth of her child, her conduct was so strange, and a

melancholy malady having afflicted one of the family, which delicacy

forbade the dwelling on, it was necessary to confine her. By some means

the defendant enabled her to make her escape, and they had lived

together, in despite of all sense of order and decorum. The adultery was

allowed, it was not necessary to bring any witnesses to prove it; but

the seduction, though highly probable from the circumstances which he

had the honour to state, could not be so clearly proved.—It was of the

most atrocious kind, as decency was set at defiance, and respect for

reputation, which shows internal compunction, utterly disregarded.”

A strong sense of injustice had silenced every motion, which a mixture

of true and false delicacy might otherwise have excited in Maria’s

bosom. She only felt in earnest to insist on the privilege of her

nature. The sarcasms of society, and the condemnations of a mistaken

world, were nothing to her, compared with acting contrary to those

feelings which were the foundation of her principles. [She therefore

eagerly put herself forward, instead of desiring to be absent, on this

memorable occasion.]

Convinced that the subterfuges of the law were disgraceful, she wrote a

paper, which she expressly desired might be read in court:

“Married when scarcely able to distinguish the nature of the engagement,

I yet submitted to the rigid laws which enslave women, and obeyed the

man whom I could no longer love. Whether the duties of the state are

reciprocal, I mean not to discuss; but I can prove repeated infidelities

which I overlooked or pardoned. Witnesses are not wanting to establish

these facts. I at present maintain the child of a maid servant, sworn to

him, and born after our marriage. I am ready to allow, that education

and circumstances lead men to think and act with less delicacy, than the

preservation of order in society demands from women; but surely I may

without assumption declare, that, though I could excuse the birth, I

could not the desertion of this unfortunate babe:—and, while I despised

the man, it was not easy to venerate the husband. With proper

restrictions however, I revere the institution which fraternizes the

world. I exclaim against the laws which throw the whole weight of the

yoke on the weaker shoulders, and force women, when they claim

protectorship as mothers, to sign a contract, which renders them

dependent on the caprice of the tyrant, whom choice or necessity has

appointed to reign over them. Various are the cases, in which a woman

ought to separate herself from her husband; and mine, I may be allowed

emphatically to insist, comes under the description of the most

aggravated.

“I will not enlarge on those provocations which only the individual can

estimate; but will bring forward such charges only, the truth of which

is an insult upon humanity. In order to promote certain destructive

speculations, Mr. Venables prevailed on me to borrow certain sums of a

wealthy relation; and, when I refused further compliance, he thought of

bartering my person; and not only allowed opportunities to, but urged, a

friend from whom he borrowed money, to seduce me. On the discovery of

this act of atrocity, I determined to leave him, and in the most decided

manner, for ever. I consider all obligations as made void by his

conduct; and hold, that schisms which proceed from want of principles,

can never be healed.

“He received a fortune with me to the amount of five thousand pounds. On

the death of my uncle, convinced that I could provide for my child, I

destroyed the settlement of that fortune. I required none of my property

to be returned to me, nor shall enumerate the sums extorted from me

during six years that we lived together.

“After leaving, what the law considers as my home, I was hunted like a

criminal from place to place, though I contracted no debts, and demanded

no maintenance—yet, as the laws sanction such proceeding, and make women

the property of their husbands, I forbear to animadvert. After the birth

of my daughter, and the death of my uncle, who left a very considerable

property to myself and child, I was exposed to new persecution; and,

because I had, before arriving at what is termed years of discretion,

pledged my faith, I was treated by the world, as bound for ever to a man

whose vices were notorious. Yet what are the vices generally known, to

the various miseries that a woman may be subject to, which, though

deeply felt, eating into the soul, elude description, and may be glossed

over! A false morality is even established, which makes all the virtue

of women consist in chastity, submission, and the forgiveness of

injuries.

“I pardon my oppressor—bitterly as I lament the loss of my child, torn

from me in the most violent manner. But nature revolts, and my soul

sickens at the bare supposition, that it could ever be a duty to pretend

affection, when a separation is necessary to prevent my feeling hourly

aversion.

“To force me to give my fortune, I was imprisoned—yes; in a private

mad-house.—There, in the heart of misery, I met the man charged with

seducing me. We became attached—I deemed, and ever shall deem, myself

free. The death of my babe dissolved the only tie which subsisted

between me and my, what is termed, lawful husband.

“To this person, thus encountered, I voluntarily gave myself, never

considering myself as any more bound to transgress the laws of moral

purity, because the will of my husband might be pleaded in my excuse,

than to transgress those laws to which [the policy of artificial society

has] annexed [positive] punishments.—While no command of a husband can

prevent a woman from suffering for certain crimes, she must be allowed

to consult her conscience, and regulate her conduct, in some degree, by

her own sense of right. The respect I owe to myself, demanded my strict

adherence to my determination of never viewing Mr. Venables in the light

of a husband, nor could it forbid me from encouraging another. If I am

unfortunately united to an unprincipled man, am I for ever to be shut

out from fulfilling the duties of a wife and mother?—I wish my country

to approve of my conduct; but, if laws exist, made by the strong to

oppress the weak, I appeal to my own sense of justice, and declare that

I will not live with the individual, who has violated every moral

obligation which binds man to man.

“I protest equally against any charge being brought to criminate the

man, whom I consider as my husband. I was six-and-twenty when I left Mr.

Venables’ roof; if ever I am to be supposed to arrive at an age to

direct my own actions, I must by that time have arrived at it.—I acted

with deliberation.—Mr. Darnford found me a forlorn and oppressed woman,

and promised the protection women in the present state of society

want.—But the man who now claims me—was he deprived of my society by

this conduct? The question is an insult to common sense, considering

where Mr. Darnford met me.—Mr. Venables’ door was indeed open to me—nay,

threats and intreaties were used to induce me to return; but why? Was

affection or honour the motive?—I cannot, it is true, dive into the

recesses of the human heart—yet I presume to assert, [borne out as I am

by a variety of circumstances,] that he was merely influenced by the

most rapacious avarice.

“I claim then a divorce, and the liberty of enjoying, free from

molestation, the fortune left to me by a relation, who was well aware of

the character of the man with whom I had to contend.—I appeal to the

justice and humanity of the jury—a body of men, whose private judgment

must be allowed to modify laws, that must be unjust, because definite

rules can never apply to indefinite circumstances—and I deprecate

punishment upon the man of my choice, freeing him, as I solemnly do,

from the charge of seduction.

“I did not put myself into a situation to justify a charge of adultery,

till I had, from conviction, shaken off the fetters which bound me to

Mr. Venables.—While I lived with him, I defy the voice of calumny to

sully what is termed the fair fame of woman.—Neglected by my husband, I

never encouraged a lover; and preserved with scrupulous care, what is

termed my honour, at the expence of my peace, till he, who should have

been its guardian, laid traps to ensnare me. From that moment I believed

myself, in the sight of heaven, free—and no power on earth shall force

me to renounce my resolution.”

The judge, in summing up the evidence, alluded to “the fallacy of

letting women plead their feelings, as an excuse for the violation of

the marriage-vow. For his part, he had always determined to oppose all

innovation, and the newfangled notions which incroached on the good old

rules of conduct. We did not want French principles in public or private

life—and, if women were allowed to plead their feelings, as an excuse or

palliation of infidelity, it was opening a flood-gate for immorality.

What virtuous woman thought of her feelings?—It was her duty to love and

obey the man chosen by her parents and relations, who were qualified by

their experience to judge better for her, than she could for herself. As

to the charges brought against the husband, they were vague, supported

by no witnesses, excepting that of imprisonment in a private madhouse.

The proofs of an insanity in the family, might render that however a

prudent measure; and indeed the conduct of the lady did not appear that

of a person of sane mind. Still such a mode of proceeding could not be

justified, and might perhaps entitle the lady [in another court] to a

sentence of separation from bed and board, during the joint lives of the

parties; but he hoped that no Englishman would legalize adultery, by

enabling the adulteress to enrich her seducer. Too many restrictions

could not be thrown in the way of divorces, if we wished to maintain the

sanctity of marriage; and, though they might bear a little hard on a

few, very few individuals, it was evidently for the good of the whole.”

CONCLUSION

BY THE EDITOR

VERY FEW hints exist respecting the plan of the remainder of the work. I

find only two detached sentences, and some scattered heads for the

continuation of the story. I transcribe the whole.

I. “Darnford’s letters were affectionate; but circumstances occasioned

delays, and the miscarriage of some letters rendered the reception of

wished-for answers doubtful: his return was necessary to calm Maria’s

mind.”

II. “As Darnford had informed her that his business was settled, his

delaying to return seemed extraordinary; but love to excess, excludes

fear or suspicion.”

The scattered heads for the continuation of the story, are as follow.

[13]

I. “Trial for adultery—Maria defends herself—A separation from bed and

board is the consequence—Her fortune is thrown into chancery—Darnford

obtains a part of his property—Maria goes into the country.”

II. “A prosecution for adultery commenced—Trial—Darnford sets out for

France—Letters—Once more pregnant—He returns—Mysterious

behaviour—Visit—Expectation—Discovery—Interview—Consequence.”

III. “Sued by her husband—Damages awarded to him—Separation from bed and

board—Darnford goes abroad—Maria into the country—Provides for her

father—Is shunned—Returns to London—Expects to see her lover—The rack of

expectation—Finds herself again with child—Delighted—A discovery—A

visit—A miscarriage—Conclusion.”

IV. “Divorced by her husband—Her lover

unfaithful—Pregnancy—Miscarriage—Suicide.”

[The following passage appears in some respects to deviate from the

preceding hints. It is superscribed] “THE END.

“She swallowed the laudanum; her soul was calm—the tempest had

subsided—and nothing remained but an eager longing to forget herself—to

fly from the anguish she endured to escape from thought—from this hell

of disappointment.

“Still her eyes closed not—one remembrance with frightful velocity

followed another—All the incidents of her life were in arms, embodied to

assail her, and prevent her sinking into the sleep of death.—Her

murdered child again appeared to her, mourning for the babe of which she

was the tomb.—‘And could it have a nobler?—Surely it is better to die

with me, than to enter on life without a mother’s care!—I cannot

live!—but could I have deserted my child the moment it was born?—thrown

it on the troubled wave of life, without a hand to support it?’—She

looked up: ‘What have I not suffered!—may I find a father where I am

going!—Her head turned; a stupor ensued; a faintness—‘Have a little

patience,’ said Maria, holding her swimming head (she thought of her

mother), ‘this cannot last long; and what is a little bodily pain to the

pangs I have endured?’

“A new vision swam before her. Jemima seemed to enter—leading a little

creature, that, with tottering footsteps, approached the bed. The voice

of Jemima sounding as at a distance, called her—she tried to listen, to

speak, to look!

“‘Behold your child!’ exclaimed Jemima. Maria started off the bed, and

fainted.—Violent vomiting followed.

“When she was restored to life, Jemima addressed her with great

solemnity: ‘——- led me to suspect, that your husband and brother had

deceived you, and secreted the child. I would not torment you with

doubtful hopes, and I left you (at a fatal moment) to search for the

child!—I snatched her from misery—and (now she is alive again) would you

leave her alone in the world, to endure what I have endured?’

“Maria gazed wildly at her, her whole frame was convulsed with emotion;

when the child, whom Jemima had been tutoring all the journey, uttered

the word ‘Mamma!’ She caught her to her bosom, and burst into a passion

of tears—then, resting the child gently on the bed, as if afraid of

killing it,—she put her hand to her eyes, to conceal as it were the

agonizing struggle of her soul. She remained silent for five minutes,

crossing her arms over her bosom, and reclining her head,—then

exclaimed: ‘The conflict is over!—I will live for my child!’”

A few readers perhaps, in looking over these hints, will wonder how it

could have been practicable, without tediousness, or remitting in any

degree the interest of the story, to have filled, from these slight

sketches, a number of pages, more considerable than those which have

been already presented. But, in reality, these hints, simple as they

are, are pregnant with passion and distress. It is the refuge of barren

authors only, to crowd their fictions with so great a number of events,

as to suffer no one of them to sink into the reader’s mind. It is the

province of true genius to develop events, to discover their

capabilities, to ascertain the different passions and sentiments with

which they are fraught, and to diversify them with incidents, that give

reality to the picture, and take a hold upon the mind of a reader of

taste, from which they can never be loosened. It was particularly the

design of the author, in the present instance, to make her story

subordinate to a great moral purpose, that “of exhibiting the misery and

oppression, peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and

customs of society.—This view restrained her fancy.” [14] It was

necessary for her, to place in a striking point of view, evils that are

too frequently overlooked, and to drag into light those details of

oppression, of which the grosser and more insensible part of mankind

make little account.

THE END.

[1] A more copious extract of this letter is subjoined to the author’s

preface.

[2] The part communicated consisted of the first fourteen chapters.

[3] A blank space about ten characters in length occurs here in the

original edition [Publisher’s note].

[4] The copy which had received the author’s last corrections breaks off

in this place, and the pages which follow, to the end of Chap. IV, are

printed from a copy in a less finished state. [Godwin’s note]

[5] The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in a former

instance, appears to have been an after-thought of the author. This has

occasioned the omission of any allusion to that circumstance in the

preceding narration. EDITOR. [Godwin’s note]

[6] The copy which appears to have received the author’s last

corrections, ends at this place. [Godwin’s note]

[7] The manuscript is imperfect here. An episode seems to have been

intended, which was never committed to paper. EDITOR. [Godwin’s note]

[8] In the original edition the paragraph following is preceded by three

lines of asterisks [Publisher’s note].

[9] The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria, in an early

stage of the history, is already stated (Chap. III.) to have been an

after-thought of the author. This has probably caused the imperfectness

of the manuscript in the above passage; though, at the same time, it

must be acknowledged to be somewhat uncertain, whether Darnford is the

stranger intended in this place. It appears from Chap. XVII, that an

interference of a more decisive nature was designed to be attributed to

him. EDITOR. [Godwin’s note]

[10] Two and a half lines of asterisks appear here in the original

[Publisher’s note].

[11] Two and a half lines of dashes follow here in the original