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Page 22
Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the
river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw
vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time
such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her
own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world
in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise
from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view
of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could
not bear to see her own species sink below them.
In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the
mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did
not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the
unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her
many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all
her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until
midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that
it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought
forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things.
She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging,
and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of
listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought
of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest
respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in
the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as
if she intended living in it.
Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable
she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could
not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated,
and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living
with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not
live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not
answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she
took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more?
I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave.
CHAP. XXIII.
Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was
the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more
intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of
education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in
and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind.
One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she
resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he
informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the
bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his
habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old
mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered
shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth;
round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful
cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the
broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced
its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of
festivity.
It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or
singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet
she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the
floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a
woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the
broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children,
all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes,
exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and
others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's
groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was
petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and,
regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch,
and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was
dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want.
Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for
a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of
the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a
shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to
prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of
horror and satisfaction.
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