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Page 3
Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional
sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of
praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or
pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the
gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen
to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she
imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and
confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just
notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and
goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned
her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new
world.
Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth
it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the
apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite
pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness
for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious
distress.
She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her
feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded
animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice
of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after
year rolled on, her mother still vegetating.
A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great
attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her
mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child
while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium
stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal
account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every
night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the
first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if
she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every
part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible.
As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did
not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only
grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to
exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he
treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered
with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and
visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn
his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would
watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she
could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her
mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her
with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden
tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the
gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would
give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of
it, she was pinched by hunger.
She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were
laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was
she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they
by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and
permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by
her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the
slave of compassion.
CHAP. III.
Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in
affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her
husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune;
and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very
scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a
distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman,
son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of
her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung
in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to
her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at
this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright,
and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She
returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took
no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness
over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of
solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her
natural disposition was very different.
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