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Cornell University Library 
 PS 700.A1P88 1894 
 
 The power of sympathyior. The triumph of 
 
 3 1924 021 986 306 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this bool< is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021986306 
 
The Power of Sympathy. 
 
 VOL. /. 
 
The impression of this Edition consists of ^^o Copies, 
 of which this is No. vl 'O 
 
 l-ftlufet^^. 
 
'^0 Mz./al/ ^/oA Q0fUmi:/ 
 
CDttcD b^ Walter i^ittlefielD. 
 
 THE POWER OF SYMPATHY: 
 
 or, the Triumph of Nature. 
 
 Founded in Truth. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. PEREZ MORTON 
 
 (SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORP). 
 Wz'f/i Frontispiece. 
 
 BOSTON: PKlNTED'sr-CUPPLES 
 ^PATTERSON^AND-rUBLISH^ 
 ED*BY-THEM*AT*THE-BACK 
 BAY* BOOKSTORE " 250 ♦ BOYU 
 STON' STREET 
 
Copyright, 1894, 
 By Walter Littlefield, 
 
 All Rights Reset ved. 
 
THE 
 
 POWER OF SYMPATHY: 
 
 OR. THE 
 
 TRIUMPH OF NATURE. 
 
 FOUNDED m TRUTH. 
 I N TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Fain would he Itrew Life's thorny Way with Flowers, 
 And open to your View £lyfian Bowers ; 
 Catch the warm Paffions of the .tender Youth, 
 And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth. 
 
 PRINTED at BOSTON 
 
 BY ISAIAH THOMAS and Company. 
 
 Sold at their Bookftore, No. 45, Newbury Street, 
 
 And at faid Thomas's Bookftore in Worcester. 
 
 MDCCLXXXIX. 
 
TO THE 
 
 YOUNG LADIES, 
 
 . OF 
 
 XDiiitteb Columbia, 
 
 Intended to reprefent the fpecious Causes, 
 
 AND TO 
 
 Expofe- the fatal Consequences 
 
 OF 
 
 SEDUCTION; 
 
 To infpire the Female Mind 
 With a principle of Self Complacency 
 
 AND TO 
 Promote the Economy of Human Life, 
 
 With Efteerti and Sincerity, 
 By their 
 Friend and Humble Servant, 
 
 Boston, Jan. 1789. 
 
Editor's Introduction. 
 
 1 N errant perusal of half the pages of 
 this little volume once caused me to 
 determine to eschew literary criticism 
 in the preface I was asked to write, 
 and to speak of the book solely ac- 
 cording to its historical and hence its intrinsic 
 I value. 
 
 Continual reading here and there, and, at length, 
 a careful examination of the work as a whole have 
 convinced me that several merits may be attributed 
 to the book which range themselves separately in 
 my mind and which are distinct and wholly unique 
 characteristics. They seem to me to be as follows : 
 the bare antiquarian value — as a relic, rare, and 
 old ; the historical-literary value, as an expression 
 of the times in which it was written ; and its purely 
 artistic worth, as a specimen of English novel 
 writing. 
 
X Editor s Introduction. 
 
 The book was published, as the title page shows, 
 early in 1789, and the self-acknowledged author 
 was Mrs. Perez Morton whose maiden name was 
 Sarah Wentworth Apthorp. Miss Apthorp was 
 born in Braintree in 1759, and had, before her 
 marriage in 1777 with Mr. Morton, gained some- 
 thing more than a local reputation as a clever 
 maker of rhymes, having contributed many poems 
 to the early New England Magazine — the first 
 periodical published in America. These, with 
 additional verses and short .didactic essays, were 
 together brought out in 1823, under the title of 
 " My Mind and Its Thoughts." The edition was 
 small, and sold entirely by subscription. Miss Ap- 
 thorp wrote over the pseudonym of " Philenia." 
 Her longer poems, epics, are " Ouabi, or The Vir- 
 tue of Nature : an Indian Tale in Four Cantos," and 
 " Beacon Hill," in which is told the story of the 
 American Revolution. Thi's last is said to have 
 moved Robert Treat Paine to designate her as the 
 "American Sappho." 
 
 In 1788, while Mr. and Mrs. Morton were occupy- 
 ing the historical Taylor mansion in Dorchester, a 
 painful domestic tragedy occurred, which, taken in 
 connection with similar contingencies that were 
 happening in the society in which they moved. 
 
Editors Introdiiction. xi 
 
 doubtless gave " Philenia " the impetus and raison 
 d'itre for the "Power of Sympathy," published 
 anonymously the following year. 
 
 Although evidently written with the purest mo- 
 tive, the good people' of that day were not anxious to 
 receive the lesson, probably because many of them 
 figured as examples. The edition was bought 
 up and destroyed, — as Drake remarks in his 
 "History of Roxbury", "so effectually suppressed 
 that no copy is now known to exist." With the ex- 
 ception of the book now before me, I believe this to 
 be true. 
 
 The condition of affairs in America, immediately 
 following the Revolution, was not what many sup- 
 pose. The people were not completely united in 
 raving against John Bull and his institutions. It 
 is true the lower classes and those of the middle 
 class, who had been excited into believing that de- 
 .lusive and, for them, hypocritical motto ; " No taxa- 
 tion without representation," or who had gained 
 or lost all through the late fratricidal struggle, 
 were thriving wonderfully on "spread eagle" patri- 
 otism stimulated by " Yankee Doodle " and " Hail 
 Columbia " — which, today, unfortunately bandage 
 the eyes of America's native civilizatioij — and en- 
 
xii Editor s Introduction. 
 
 tertained a cordial hatred of England and all things 
 English. Later they were to sympathize with Mira- 
 beau, with Robespierre and others, and cry death to 
 that French King who had so lately saved them 
 from the dismal caprices of George III and his 
 ignorant and haughty ministers. Politically, they 
 gloried in the name of Democrat. 
 
 Nevertheless, there existed an aristocracy in 
 America ; an aristocracy that had refrained from be- 
 coming Tory solely because personal interest de- 
 manded that it should become rebel. Its members 
 were English in taste and manner, in their hearts 
 they were Royalists. They called themselves Fed- 
 eralists. To this category belonged the Hancocks, 
 John Adams, Hamilton, perhaps even Washington 
 himself ; and here we find the Apthorps and the 
 Mortons. They had a fondness for court and cere- 
 mony — thought and culture were still colonial; 
 they talked of the American gentleman, while they 
 dreamed of the English nobleman ; for all that, 
 there was a rapidly growing strain of independ- 
 ence, of confidence in self. All of which qualities 
 have today evolved the best type of the American 
 lady and gentleman. 
 
 Early in the second half of the eighteenth cen- 
 
Editors Introduction. xiii 
 
 tury, a literary revolution was in progress in Eng- 
 land : sentimentalism, which so long had been 
 mistaken for sentiment, was given its proper place ; 
 knightly romance was sneered at and shelved, the 
 hale hearty laughter of Fielding disturbed the 
 spinsters and gossip mongers sipping their tea in the 
 corners ; Laurence Sterne, that sentimentalist in 
 realism, condemned in caricature what the foolish 
 thought he defended in truth ; and Sheridan, the 
 hater of sham and conventionality, satirized the 
 social deformity of the times in drama, drawing 
 scenes and characters from real life as found in the 
 famous Pump-room at Bath. 
 
 ■ To the aristocracy — hence to the reading class 
 — of the young American republic this atmospheric 
 change, toned and tempered and with an influence 
 less radical, was transmitted. It cried out aloud 
 against the sham of character, while it maintained 
 the poetry of diction ; it was realistic in subject, 
 romantic in method ; it openly lauded the " Senti- 
 mental Journey," while it secretly emulated "Tom 
 Jones"; its aim was to portray life through truth 
 rather than art — but the latter often unconsciously 
 asserted itself ; its grave defect was the attempt to 
 commingle art and moral philosophy. In this liter- 
 ary atmosphere the " Power of Sympathy " was 
 
xiv Editor s Introduction. 
 
 written, in character and color colonial, indigenous, 
 to English soil, and true to humanity at all time. 
 
 A little more than a century ago the style of 
 telling a story through the medium of epistles 
 was revived ; it was thus Richardson wrote 
 " Clarissa Harlowe " and " Pamela," and Fielding 
 his "Jose|3h Andrews." In this fcrm Mrs. Morton 
 sought to tell her story. 
 
 Both Richardson and Fielding are famous for 
 the amount of detail with which they fetter some 
 otherwise natural descriptions leaving no oppor- 
 tunity for the. imagination. Tedious detail we do 
 not find in the pages of the. " Power of Sympathy " 
 — all here is not written ; the ■ phraseology is well 
 balanced, paragraphing is handled with consummate 
 skill, the chapters are for the most part short, the 
 color suggestive ; and if detail be employed at all, 
 it is only when the author waxes mildly pedantic — 
 robbed of which quality, she would not be true 
 to the humanity of her time. 
 
 What then can I say of her diction ? Simply that 
 it is of the best. To say so, is seemingly audacious. 
 The modern grammarian may dispute it. Yet 
 viewed against the background of her period and 
 station, taking her style all in all as a medium of 
 
Editors Introduction. xv 
 
 vivid, natural expression, where the economy of at- 
 tention is second only to striking portrayal, where 
 elegance, simplicity, directness are ever present but 
 never obtrusive, there is reason enough for our re- 
 mark. An examination of the suicide's letters alone 
 would excuse us from all prejudice in the matter. 
 
 The " Power of Sympathy," in facsimile form, is 
 surely a valuable acquisition to the antiquarian ; to 
 the student of culture, the book is the realistic ex- 
 pression of life of a people and an era that are by 
 no means lacking in interest and importance ; and 
 to the litterateur, it is not an unworthy example of 
 more than ordinary literary art. 
 
 WALTER LITTLEFIELD. 
 
 Boston, June 19, 1894. 
 
NOVELS have ever met with a ready- 
 reception into the Libraries of the Ladies, but 
 this species of writing hath not been received 
 with universal approbation: Futihty is not 
 the only charge brought against it — Any 
 attempt, therefore, to make these studies 
 more advantageous, has at least a claim upon 
 the patience and candour of the publick. 
 
 IN NOVELS which expose no particular 
 VICE, and which recommend no particular 
 Virtue, the fair Reader, though she may find 
 amusement, must finish them without being 
 impressed with any' particular idea : So that 
 if they are harmless, they are not beneficial. 
 
 OF 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 OF the Letters before US, it is necessary 
 to remark, that this errour on each side has 
 been avoided — the dangerous consequences 
 of SEDUCTION are exposed, and the 
 Advantages of FEMALE EDUCATION 
 set forth and recommended. 
 
The Power of Sympathy. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 YOU may now felicitate me — I 
 have had an interview with the charmer I 
 informed you of. Alas ! where were the 
 thoughtfulness and circumspection of my 
 friend Worthy? I did not possess them, and 
 am graceless enough to acknowledge it. He 
 would have considered the consequences, be- 
 fore he had resolved upon the project. But 
 you call me, with some degree of truth, a 
 strange medley of contradiction — the mor- 
 alist and the amoroso — the sentiment and 
 the sensibility — are interwoven in my consti- 
 tution, 
 
2 t\)t ^otoer of ^^mpatli?, 
 
 tution, so that nature and grace are at contin- 
 ual fisticuffs — To the point : — 
 
 I PURSUED my determination of discover- 
 ing the dweUing of my charmer, and have at 
 length obtained access. You may behold 
 my Rosebud, but should you presume to 
 place it in your bosom, expect the force of 
 my wrath to be the infallible consequence. 
 
 I DECLARED the sincerity of my passion — 
 the warmth of my affection — to the beautiful 
 Harriot — Believe me, Jack, she did not seem 
 inattentive. Her mein is elegant — her dis- 
 position inclining to the melancholy, and yet 
 her temper is affable, and her manners easy. 
 And as I poured my tender vows into the 
 heart of my beloved, a crimson drop stole 
 across her cheek, and thus I construe it in 
 my own favor, as the sweet messenger of 
 hope : — 
 
 "DO 
 
t\)t potofr of §>^nipatl)s, 3 
 
 " DO not wholly despair, my new friend ; 
 excuse the declaration of a poor artless 
 female — you see I am not perfectly contented 
 in my situation — (Observe, /«f^, I have not 
 the vanity to think this distress altogethei' 
 upon my account) — Time may therefore diS' 
 close wonders, and perhaps more to your 
 advantage than you imagine — do not despaii 
 then." 
 
 SUCH vulgar, uncongenial souls, as that 
 which animates thy clay, cold carcase, would 
 have thought this crimson drop nothing more 
 than an ordinary blush". Be far removed- 
 from my heart such sordid, earth-born ideas : 
 But come thou spirit of celestial language, 
 that canst communicate by one affectionate 
 look — one tender glance — more divine infor-" 
 mation to the soul of sensibility than can be 
 contained in myriads of volumes ! 
 
 HAIL gentle God oiLove! While thou 
 
 rivetest 
 
4 tljc ^oiBcr of ^^mpatlti^* 
 
 rivetest the chains of thy slaves, how dost thou 
 make them leap for joy, as with deHcious tri- 
 umph. Happy enthusiasm ! that while it 
 carries us away into captivity, can make the 
 heart to dance as in the bosom of content. 
 Hail gentle God oi Love\ Encircled as thou 
 art with darts, torments, and ensigns of cru- 
 elty, still do we hail thee. How dost thou 
 smooth over the roughness and asperities of 
 present pain, with what thou seest in rever- 
 sion ! Thou banishest the Stygian glooms of 
 disquiet and suspense, by the hope of appro- 
 aching Elysium — Blessed infatuation ! 
 
 I DESIRE you will not hesitate to pro- 
 nounce an amen to my Hymn to Love, as an 
 unequivocal evidence of your wish for my 
 success. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t:^t joiner of ^smpatt)^* 
 
 LETTER 11. 
 
 Wdriky to Harrington. 
 
 "WISH you success" — In what? 
 Who is this lady of whom you have been talk- 
 ing at such an inconsistent rate ? But before 
 you have leisure to reply to these inquiries 
 you may have forgotten there is such a per- 
 son, as she whom you call Harriot — I have 
 seen many juvenile heroes, during my pilgrim- 
 age of two and twenty years, easily inflamed 
 with new objects — agitated and hurried away 
 by the. impetuosity of new desires — and at 
 the same time they were by no means famous 
 for solidity of judgement, or remarkable for 
 the permanency of their resolutions. There 
 is such a tumult — such an ebullition of the 
 
 brain 
 
6 t^t potDer of ^^mpatlj^* 
 
 brain in their paroxisms of passion, that this 
 new object is very superficially examined. 
 These, added to partiality and prepossession, 
 never fail to blind the eyes of the lover. In- 
 stead of weighing matters maturely, and stat- 
 ing the evidence fairly on both sides, in order 
 to form a right judgement, every circum- 
 stance not perfectly coincident with your par- 
 ticular bias, comes not . under consideration, 
 because it does not flatter your vanity. "Pon- 
 der and pause " just here, and tell me seriously 
 whether you are in love, and whether you 
 have sufficiently examined your heart to give 
 a just answer. 
 
 f DO you mean to insinuate that your declar- 
 ation of love hath attracted the affection of 
 the pensive Harriot? If this should be the 
 case, I wish you would tell me what you de- 
 sign to do with her. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)t IBoiDer of ^^mpuW' 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I CANNOT but laugh at your dull 
 sermons, and yet I find something in them 
 altogether displeasing ; for this reason I per- 
 mit you to prate, on. " Weigh matters ma- 
 turely ! " Ha ! ha ! why art thou not arrayed 
 in canonicals .? " What do I design to do 
 with her t " Upon my word, my sententious 
 friend, you ask mighty odd questions. I see 
 you aim a stroke at the foundation upon 
 which the pillar of my new system is reared — 
 and will you strive to batter down that pillar ? 
 If you entertain any idea of executing such 
 talk, I foresee it will never succeed, and advise 
 
 i you 
 
8 t\)t pofcocr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 you timely to desist. What ! dost thou think 
 to topple down my scheme of pleasure ? 
 Thou mightest as well topple down the pike 
 of Teneriffe. 
 
 I SUPPOSE you will be ready to ask, why, 
 if I love Harriot, I do not marry her — Your 
 monitorial correspondence has so accustomed 
 me to reproof, that I easily anticipate this piece 
 of impertinence — But who shall I marry? 
 That is the question. Harriot has no father 
 — no mother — neither is there aunt, cousin, 
 or kindred of any degree who claim any kind 
 of relationship to her. She is companion to 
 Mrs. Francis, and, as I understand, totally de- 
 pendent on that lady. Now, Mr. Worthy, I 
 must take the liberty to acquaint you, that I 
 am not so much of a republican as formally to 
 wed any person of this class. How laughable 
 would my conduct appear, were I to trace 
 over the same ground marked out by thy im- 
 maculate 
 
^Ije |0otocr of ^^mpatlj^. 9 
 
 maculate footsteps — To be heard openly 
 acknowledged for my bosom companion, my 
 daughter of the democratick empire of virtue! 
 
 TO suppose a smart, beautiful girl, would 
 continue as companion to the best lady in 
 Christendom, when she could raise herself to 
 a more eligible situation, is to suppose a sole- 
 cism;^ — She might as well be immured in a 
 nunnery. Now, Jack, I will shew you my 
 benevolent scheme ; it is to take this beauti- 
 ful sprig, and transplant it to a more favorable 
 soil, where it shall flourish and blossom under 
 my own auspices. In a word, I mean to re- 
 move this fine girl into an elegant apartment, 
 of which she herself is to be the sole mistress. 
 Is this not a proof of my humanity and good- 
 ness of heart } But I know the purport of 
 your answer — So pray thee keep thy com- 
 ments to thyself, and be sparing of your com- 
 pliments on this part of my conduct^for I do 
 
 not 
 
lo ^l)e |0otocr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 not love flattery. A month has elapsed since 
 my arrival in town. What will the revolution 
 of another moon bring forth ? 
 
 Your &c. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)e joiner of fe^mpatt)^. 
 
 II 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Miss Harriot Fawcet 
 
 to Miss Myra Harrington. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I HAVE somehow bewitched a 
 new lover, my dear Myra — a smart, clever 
 fellow too — and the youth expresses such 
 fondness and passion that I begin to feel 
 afraid even to pity him — for love will cer- 
 tainly follow. I own to you I esteem him 
 very much, but must I go any farther } He 
 is extremely generous — polite — gay — and 
 I believe if you were to see him, your partial- 
 ity in his favor would exceed mine. 
 
 I NEVER saw my poor swain so seemingly 
 
 disconcerted 
 
12 t-\)t ^oijitt of ^^ntpatt)^. 
 
 disconcerted and abashed as he was a few 
 days ago — he appeared to have something 
 very particular to communicate, but his 
 tongue f aultered — ought not one to help out 
 a modest youth in such cases ? 
 
 Yours &c. 
 
 LETTER 
 
Z\)t poturr of ^^mpm^^* 13 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 Miss Myra Harrington to Mrs. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 ARE the rural pleasures of Belle- 
 view, my dear friend, so engaging as to debar 
 us of the pleasure of your company forever ? 
 Do your dear groves, and your books, still 
 employ your meditating mind ? Serious sen- 
 timentalist as you are, let me ask, whether a 
 Ball, a Concert or Serenade, would not afford 
 you the satisfaction of a contemplative walk 
 in your garden, listening to the love tales of 
 the melodious inhabitants of the air ? 
 
 RAILLERY apart — when shall I take upon 
 
 myself 
 
14 t\)t potDcr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 myself the honour to wait upon you here ? — .1 
 want to advise with you on certain points of 
 female conduct, and about my new dress — I 
 have heard you say, lessons to a volatile mind 
 should be fresh and fresh applied, because it 
 either pretends to despise them, or has a tend- 
 ency to degeneracy — Now you must know I 
 am actually degenerating for want of some of 
 your Mentor-like lessons of instruction. I 
 have scarcely any opinion of my own, these 
 fashions, changing about so often, are enough 
 to vitiate the best taste in the world. 
 
 I FORGOT to tell you my brother has 
 been at home this month ; but, from certain 
 indubitable symptoms, I suspect the young 
 man to be in love. 
 
 HEIGHHO ! what is become of Worthy 1 
 The time of my liberty steals away, for you 
 know I was to have three or four months of 
 
 liberty 
 
Z\)t poijatt of ^^mpatl)]?, 15 
 
 liberty before I gave myself up to his author- 
 ity, a"nd relinquished all my right and title to 
 the name of 
 
 Harrington. 
 
 LETTER 
 
1 6 t\)t |0otocr of ^^mpuW. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 Harriitgtoit to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 ABASHED —confounded — defeated — I 
 waited upon my beloved with my head well 
 furnished with ready made arguments, to pre- 
 vail on her to acquiesce in my benevolent 
 schemes — she never appeared so amicable — 
 grace accompanied every word she uttered, 
 and every action she performed. " Think, my 
 love," said I, in a tone something between 
 sighing and tears, and took her hand in a 
 very cordial manner, — " Think, my love, on 
 your present, unhappy, menial situation, in 
 the family of Mrs. Francisr I enlarged on 
 the violence of my passion — expatiated most 
 
 metaphysically 
 
t\)t |0otocr of g)^mpatl)^. 1 7 
 
 metaphysically on our future happiness ; and 
 concluded by largely answering objections. 
 " Shall we not," continued I, " obey the dic- 
 tates of nature, rather than confine ourselves 
 
 to the forced, unnatural rules of and — 
 
 and shall the halcyon days of youth slip 
 through our fingers unenjoyed ? " 
 
 DO you think, Worthy, I said this to Har- 
 riot? — Not a syllable of it. It was impossi- 
 ble — my heart had the ^courage to dictate, 
 but my rebellious tongue refused to utter a 
 word — it faultered — stammered — hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 THERE is a language of the eyes — and we 
 conversed in that language ; and though I 
 said not a word with my tongue, she seemed 
 perfectly to understand my meaning — for she 
 looked — (and I comprehended it as well as if 
 she had said) — Is the crime of dependence 
 to be expiated by the sacrifice of virtue ? 
 
 And 
 
1 8 t\)z ^oiatt of gj^mpatl)?. 
 
 And because I am a poor, unfortunate girl, 
 must the little I have be taken from me? 
 " No, my love," answered I, passionately, " it 
 shall not be." 
 
 OF all those undescribable things which in- 
 fluences the mind, and which are most apt to 
 persuade — none is so powerful an orator — 
 so feelingly eloquent as beauty — I bow to 
 the all-conquering force of Harriot's elo- 
 quence — and what is the consequence ? I 
 am now determined to continue my addresses 
 on a principle the most just, and the most 
 honourable. 
 
 HOW amiable is that beauty which has its 
 foundation in goodness ! Reason cannot con- 
 template its power with indifference — Wis- 
 dom cannot refrain from enthusiasm — and 
 the sneering exertions of Wit cannot render 
 it ridiculous. There is a dignity in conscious 
 virtue that all my independence cannot bring 
 
 me 
 
t\)t ^oiDcr of ^^mpatt)^. 19 
 
 me to despise — and if it be beauty that sub- 
 dues my heart, it is this that completes the 
 triumph — It is here my pompous parade, and 
 all my flimsy subterfuges, appear to me in 
 their proper light. In fine, I have weighed 
 ■matters maturely, and the alternative is — 
 Harriot must be mine, or I miserable without 
 her. — I have so well weighed the matter that 
 even this idea is a flash of joy to my heart — 
 But, my friend, after the lightning comes the 
 thunder — my father is mortally averse to my 
 making any matrimonial engagement at so 
 early a period — this is a bar to my way, but 
 I must leap over it. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
20 t\)t potocr of ^^mpattiv. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Miss Harrington. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 ALTHOUGH my attachment 
 to Belleview is not so romantick as your airy 
 pen has described it, I think its quiet and 
 amusements infinitely preferable to the bustle 
 and parade with which you are surrounded. 
 
 THE improvements made here by my late 
 husband (who inherited the virtues of his par- 
 ents, who still protect me, and endeavour to 
 console the anguish of his loss by the most 
 tender affection) have rendered the charms of 
 Belleview superiour in my estimation to every 
 gilded scene of the gay world. 
 
 IT is almost vanity to pretend to give you 
 
 a description 
 
t^t ^otocr of ^^mpul)^, 1 1 
 
 a description of the beauty of the prospect — 
 the grandeur of the river that rolls through 
 the meadow in front of the house, or any 
 eulogium of rural elegance, because these 
 scenes are common to most places in the 
 country. Nature is everywhere liberal in dis- 
 persing her beauties and her variety — and I 
 pity those who look round and declare they 
 see neither. 
 
 A GREAT pro portion of our happiness de- 
 pends^on om ^own choice. — it offers itself to 
 our taste, but it is the heart that gives it 
 relish — what at one time, for instance, we 
 think, to be humour, is at another disgustful 
 or insipid — so, unless we carry our appetite 
 with us to the treat, we shall vainly wish to 
 make ourselves happy, " were I in a desert," 
 says Sterne, " I would find wherewith in it to 
 call forth my affections — If I could do no 
 better, I would fasten them on some sweet 
 
 myrtle. 
 
22 t\)t ^oiatx of ^^mpatt)^. 
 
 myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to 
 connect myself to — I wbuld court their shade 
 and greet them kindly for their protection — 
 If their leaves withered, I would teach myself 
 to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would 
 rejoice along with them." 
 
 I BELIEVE you could hardly find the way 
 to the summer house, where we have enjoyed 
 many happy hours together, and which you 
 used to call " TAe Temple of Appllo." It is 
 now more elegantly furnished than it formerly 
 was, and is enriched with a considerable addi- 
 tion to the library and musick. 
 
 IN front of the avenue that leads to this 
 place, is a fig-ure of Content, pointing with 
 one hand to 'the Temple, and with the other 
 to an invitation, executed in such an antique 
 style, that you would think it done either by 
 the ancient inhabitants of the country, or by 
 
 the 
 
t\9t ^oiatt of ^^rnqpatl)^, 23 
 
 the hand of a Fairy — she is very particular 
 in the characters she invites, but those whom 
 she invites she heartily welcomes. 
 
 ISural ^Inscription. 
 
 Come ye who loath the horrid crest, 
 
 Who hate the fiery front of Mars ; 
 Who scorn the mean, the sordid breast — 
 
 Who fly Ambition's guilty cares : 
 Ye who are blest with peaceful souls. 
 
 Rest Here : Enjoy the pleasures round : 
 Here Fairies quaffe their acorn bowls, 
 
 And lightly print the mazy ground. 
 
 Thrice welcome to this humble scene — 
 
 (To ye alone such scenes belong) 
 Peace smiles upon the fragrant green, 
 
 And Here the Woodland sisters throng, 
 And fair Contentment's pleasing train. 
 
 Whilst in the Heav'n the stars advance, 
 With many a maid and many a swain. 
 
 Lead up the jocund, rural dance. 
 
 Thrice welcome to our calm retreat, 
 Where innocency oft hath strove 
 
 With 
 
24 t\)t poiatv of g)^mpatl)s. 
 
 With violet blue, and woodbine sweet, 
 To- form the votive wreath to love : 
 
 O ! pardon then, our cautious pride — 
 (Caution, a virtue rare, I ween) 
 
 For evils with the great abide, 
 
 Which dwell not in our sylvan scene. 
 
 THESE are the scenes to which I have 
 chosen to retreat; contented with the suff- 
 rage of the virtuous and the good, and inat- 
 tentive to the contemptuous sneer of the 
 giddy and the futile, for even ^Aese have fhe 
 vanity to look with pity on those who volun- 
 tarily remove from whatever agrees with ^Aetr 
 ideas of pleasure. He who has no conception 
 of the beauties of the mind, will contemn a 
 person aukward or illfavoured ; and one 
 whose store of enjoyment is drawn from afflu- 
 ence and abundance, will be astonished at the 
 conduct of him who finds cause to rejoice, 
 though surrounded with inconvenience and 
 penury. Hence we judge of the happiness of 
 
 others 
 
tl)t |0otoetr of ^pmpatl)?, 25 
 
 others by the standard of our own conduct 
 and prejudices. 
 
 FROM this misjudging race I retire, with- 
 out a sigh to mingle in their amusements, nor 
 yet disgusted at whatever is thought of suffi- 
 cient consequence to engage their pursuits. I 
 fiyfrom the tumult of the town — from scenes 
 of boisterous pleasures and riot, to those of 
 quietness and peace; " where every breeze 
 breathes health, and every sound is the echo 
 of tranquillity." — On this subject I give my 
 sentiments to you with freedom, from a con- 
 viction that I bear the world no spleen ; at 
 the same time with a degree of deference to 
 the judgement of others, from a conviction 
 that I may be a little prejudiced. 
 
 I HOPE to be with j^ou .soon — in the 
 -meantime continue to write. 
 
 Eliza Holmes. 
 
 LETTER 
 
26 t\)t poJDtr of g>^mpat5s. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 Worthy to Harrington. 
 
 New York. 
 
 I APPLAUD your change of senti- 
 ment. Harriot is a good girl, and your con- 
 duct is extremely praiseworthy and honour- 
 able. It is what her virtues incontestibly 
 merit. — But I advise you certainly to gain 
 your father's approbation before you proceed 
 so far as to be unable to return. A contrary 
 step might terminate in the utter ruin of you 
 
 both. Direct to me at Belleview — for I 
 
 intend to stop there in my return to Boston. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^t potDfr of ^?mpatl)B, 27 
 
 LETtER IX. 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I HAVE had a conversation with 
 my father on the subject of early marriages, 
 but to no purpose — I will not be certain 
 whether he understood my drift, but all his 
 arguments are applicable to my situation. 
 One must be an adept to argue with him; 
 and interested as he thinks himself in the re- 
 sult of the debate, he can not be prevailed 
 upon to relinquish his settled opinion. I am 
 too much chagrined to write to you even the 
 heads of our conversation. I now stand upon 
 
 my old ground. 
 
 Adieu! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^jt |0oia)cr of §>^mpatl)T2, 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Worthy to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 I AM very happy at present en- 
 joying the sweets of Belleview with our excel- 
 lent friend Mrs. Holmes. To dwell in this 
 delightful retreat, and to be blest with the 
 conversation of this amiable woman, cannot 
 be called solitude. The charms of Nature 
 are here beheld in the most luxuriant variety 
 — it is here, diversified with beautiful pros- 
 pect, the late Mr. Holmes planned his garden; 
 it is elegant, but simple. My time glides off 
 my hands most happily — I am sometimes 
 indulging my solitary reflections in contem- 
 plating 
 
t\)t potocr of g)?mpatlj^. 29 
 
 plating the sublimity of the scenes around me 
 — and sometimes in conversation with JS/zsa 
 and the old people. 
 
 THE old gentleman is a man of the most 
 benevolent heart ; he continues to preach — is 
 assiduous in the duties of his profession, and 
 is the love and adrniration of his flock. He 
 prescribes for the health of the body, as well 
 as that of the soul, and settles all the little dis- 
 putes of his parish. They are contented with 
 his judgement, and he is at once their parson, 
 their lawyer, and their physician. — I often 
 read in the little building that was finished by 
 his son. He was a man of an excellent taste, 
 and I have paid my tribute to his memory^ 
 It is the same place that you used to admire, 
 and perhaps I improve more of my time in it 
 on that very account. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
30 t\)t jaoiuei; of g>^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XL 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 I SIT down to give you, my dear 
 Myra, some accounts of the visitants of to-day, 
 and their conversation. We are not always 
 distinguished by such company, but perhaps 
 it is sometimes necessary; and as it is a relax- 
 ation from thought, it serves to give us more 
 pleasure in returning to the conversation of 
 people of ideas. 
 
 MRS. Bourn assumes a higher rank in life 
 than she pretended to seven years ago. — She 
 then walked on foot — she now, by good for- 
 tune, rides in a chariot. Placed, however, in 
 
 a situation 
 
tijt potoer of ^^mpatli^. 31 
 
 a situation with which her education does not 
 altogether comport, she has nothing disagree- 
 able but her ov er assiduity to please — this is 
 sometimes disgusting, for one cannot feast 
 heartily upon honey : It is an errour which a 
 candid mind easily forgives. She sometimes 
 appears solicitous to display her mental ac- 
 complishments, and desirous to improve those 
 of her daughter ; but it is merely apparent. 
 Notwithstanding a temporary wish may arise 
 toward the attainment of this point, a habit- 
 ual vacancy nips it in the bud. . 
 
 MISS Bournis about the age of fourteen — 
 genteel, with a tolerable share of beauty, but 
 not striking — her dress was elegant, but 
 might have been adjusted to more advantage 
 — not altogether aukward in her manner, 
 nor yet can she be called graceful — she has 
 a peculiar air of drollery which takes her by 
 iits, and for this reason, perhaps, does not 
 
 avail 
 
32 ti}t poiner of g>i?ntpatti^. 
 
 avail herself of every opportunity of display- 
 ing the modesty of her sex — she has seen 
 much company, but instead of polishing her 
 manners, it has only increased her assurance. 
 
 THUS much of the characters of our com- 
 pany. After some small chat which passed as 
 we took a turn in the garden, we entered the 
 Temple. 
 
 " WHAT books would you recommend to 
 put into the hands of my daughter ? " said Mrs. 
 Bourn^ as she walked into the library — " it is 
 a matter of some importance." " It is a 
 matter of more importance," answered Wor- 
 .thy, " than is generally imaginedyjox-unless a 
 proper selection is made one would do better 
 never to read at all : — Now, Madame, as 
 much depends on the choice of books, care 
 should be taken not to put those in the way 
 of young persons, which might leave on their 
 
 minds 
 
t\)t potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 33 
 
 minds any disagreeable prejudices, or which 
 has a tendency to corrupt their friorals." — 
 " As obvious as your remark is," added Mr. 
 Holmes, " it is evidently over looked in the 
 common course of education. We wisely ex- 
 clude those persons from our conversation, 
 whose characters are bad, whose manners are 
 depraved, or whose morals are impure : but if 
 they are excluded from an apprehension of 
 contaminating our minds, how much more 
 dangerous is the company of those books, 
 where the strokes aimed at virtue are re- 
 doubled, and the poison of vice, by repeatedly 
 reading the same thing, indelibly distains the 
 young mind ? " 
 
 " WE all agree," rejoined Worthy, " that it 
 is as great a matter of virtue and prudence 
 to be circumspect in the selection of our 
 books, as in the choice of our company. — 
 But, Sir, the best things may be subverted to 
 
 an ill 
 
34 ^t ^ofnzt of ^^mpat^)^. 
 
 an ill use. Hence we may possibly trace the 
 course of the ill tendency of many of the 
 Novels extant." 
 
 _. "MOST of the Novels," returned my 
 father, " with which our female libraries are 
 over run, are built on a foundation not always 
 placed on strict morality, and in the pursuit 
 of objects not always probable or praise- 
 worthy. — Novels, not regulated on the chaste 
 principles of true friendship, rational love, 
 and connubial duty, appear to me totally un- 
 fit to form the minds of women, of friends, or 
 of wives." 
 
 " BUT, as most young people read," says 
 Mrs. Bourn — "what rule can be kii upon to 
 make study always terminate to advantage ? " 
 
 « IMPOSSIBLE," cried Miss, "for I read as 
 much as anybody, and though it may afford 
 
 amusement, 
 
t^t joiner of ^^nrpatljB. 35 
 
 amusement, while I am employed, I do not 
 remember a single word, when I lay down the 
 book." 
 
 "THIS confirms what I say of Novels," 
 cried Mr. Holmes, addressing Worthy in a joc- 
 ular manner, "just calculated to kill time — to 
 attract the attention of the reader for an hour, 
 but leave not one idea on the mind." 
 
 " I AM far from condemning every produc- 
 tion in the gross," replied Worthy; "general 
 satire against any particular class, or order of 
 men, may be viewed in the same light as a 
 satire against species — it is the same with 
 books — if there are corrupt or mortified 
 members, it is hardly fair to destroy the whole 
 body. Now I grant some Novels have a bad 
 tendency, yet there are many which contain 
 excellent sentiments — let these receive 
 their deserved reward — let those be dis- 
 countenanced; 
 
36 ti)t joiner of §>^mpatt)^. 
 
 countenanced; and if it is impossible "to 
 smite them with an apoplexy, there is a moral, 
 certainty of their dying of a consumption." — 
 But, as Mrs. Bourn observes, most young per- 
 sons read, I will recommend to those who 
 wish to mingle instruction with entertainment, 
 method and regularity in reading. To dip 
 into any book burthens the m.ind with un- 
 necessary lumber, and may rather be called a 
 disadvantage, than a benefit — The record of 
 memory is so scrawled and blotted with im- 
 perfect ideas, that not one legible character 
 can be traced. 
 
 " WERE I to throw my thoughts on this 
 subject," said my good father-in-law, as he be- 
 igan to entei; more and more warmly into the 
 ' debate — drawing his chair opposite Worthy, 
 land raising his hand with a poetical enthusi- 
 asm — "Were I to throw my thoughts on 
 this subject into an Allegory, I would describe 
 
 the 
 
t^t potBtt of ^pmpatl)^. 2>7 
 
 the human mind as an extensive plain, and 
 knowledge as the river that should water it. 
 If the course of the river be properly directed, 
 the plain will be fertilized and cultivated to 
 advantage ; but if books, which are the sources 
 that feed this river, rush into it from every 
 quarter, it will overflow its banks, and the 
 plain become inundated : When, therefore, 
 knowledge flows on in its proper channel, 
 this extensive and valuable field, the mind, in- 
 stead of being covered with stagnant waters, 
 is cultivated to the utmost advantage, and 
 1 blooms luxuriantly into a general efBorescence 
 — for a river properly restricted by high 
 banks, is necessarily progressive." 
 
 THE old gentleman brought down his 
 hands with great solemnity, and we compli- 
 mented him on his poetical exertion. " I can- 
 not comprehend the meaning of this matter," 
 said the penetrative Miss Bourn. " I will ex- 
 plain 
 
38 t^t f ototr of ^^mpatt)^. 
 
 plain it to you, my little dear," said he, with 
 good nature — " If you read with any design to 
 improve your mind in virtue and every amiable 
 accomplishment, you should be careful to read 
 methodically, .which will enable you to form an 
 estimate of the various topicks discussed in 
 company, and to bear a part in all those con- 
 versations which belong to your sex — you 
 see, therefore, how necessary general knowl- 
 edge is — what would you think of a woman 
 advanced in life, who has no other store of 
 knowledge than what she has obtained from 
 experience?" "I think she would have a 
 sorry time of it," answered Miss. 
 
 "TO prevent it in yourself," said' Mrs.' 
 Bourn to her daughter, " be assiduous to lay 
 in a good stock of this knowledge, while your 
 mind is yet free from prejudice and care." 
 
 . "HOW shall I go to work. Madam.? " en- 
 quired the delicate daughter. 
 
 MRS.' 
 
MRS. Bourn turned toward Mr. Holmes, 
 which was hint enough for the good old man 
 to proceed. 
 
 " THERE is a medium to be observed," con- 
 tinued he, " in a lady's reading ; she is not to 
 receive everything she finds, even in the best 
 books, as invariable lessons of conduct ; in 
 books written in an easy, flowing style, which 
 excel in description and the luxuriance of 
 fancy, the imagination is apt to get heated — 
 she ought, therefore, to discern with ah eye 
 of judgement, between the superficial and 
 penetrating — the elegant and the tawdry — 
 what may be merely amusing, and what may 
 be useful. General reading will not teach her 
 a true knowledge of the world. 
 
 " IN books she finds recorded the faithful- 
 ness of friendship — the constancy of true 
 love, and even that honesty is the best policy. 
 
 If 
 
40 Z\)t ^oiBer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 If virtue is represented carrying its reward 
 with it, she too easily persuades herself that 
 mankind have adopted this plan : Thus she 
 finds, when, perhaps, it is too late, that she 
 has entertained wrong notions of human 
 nature ; that her friends are deceitful — her 
 lovers false — and that men consult interest 
 oftener than honesty. 
 
 " A YOUNG lady who has imbibed her 
 ideas of the world from desultory reading and 
 placed confidence in the virtue of others, will 
 bring back disappointment, when she expected 
 gratitude. Unsuspicious of deceit, she is 
 easily deceived — from the purity of her own 
 thoughts, she trusts the faith of mankind, un- 
 til experience convinces her of her errour — 
 she falls a sacrifice to her credulity, and her 
 only consolation is the simplicity and good- 
 ness of her heart. 
 
 "THE 
 
t\)t IBotner of g>^mpatl)v. 41 
 
 " THE story of Miss Whitman* is an em- 
 phatical illustration of the truth of these ob- 
 servations. An inflated fancy not restricted 
 
 by 
 
 *THIS young lady was of a reputable family in Con- 
 necticut. In her youth she was admired for beauty 
 and good sense. She was a great reader of novels and 
 romances, and having imbibed her ideas of the char- 
 acters OF MEN, from those fallacious sources, became 
 vairj and coquettish, and rejected several offers of mar- 
 riage, in expectation of receiving one more agreeable to 
 her fanciful idea. Disappointed in her fairy hope, 
 and finding her train of admirers less solicitous for the 
 honour of her hand, in proportion as the roses of youth 
 decayed, she was the more easily persuaded to relin- 
 quish that stability which is the honour and happiness 
 of the sex. The consequences of her amour becoming 
 visible, she acquainted her lover of her situation, and a 
 HUSBAND was proposed for her, who was to receive a 
 considerable sum for preserving the reputation of the 
 lady ; but having received security for payment, he 
 immediately withdrew. She then left her friends, and 
 travelled in the stage as far as Watertown, where she 
 hired a young man to conduct her in a chaise to Salem. 
 Here she wandered alone and friendless, and at length 
 repaired to the Bell-Tavern, in Danvers, where she 
 was delivered of a lifeless child, and in about a fortnight 
 after (in July, 1788) died of a puerperal fever, age 
 about 35 years. 
 
 Before her death she amused herself with reading, 
 writing and needlework, and though in a state of anxiety, 
 preserved a cheerfulness, not so much the effect of in- 
 sensibility, 
 
42 t^e IQotoer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 by judgement, leads too often to dzsa/>pomi- 
 i^m/ and repentance. Such will be the fate 
 of those who become (to use her own words) 
 
 " Lost in the magick of that sweet employ, 
 
 " To build GAY SCENES and fashion future joy." 
 
 "WITH a good heart she possessed a poet- 
 ical imagination, and an unbounded thirst for 
 novelty; but these airy talents, not counter- 
 poised with judgement, or perhaps serious re- 
 flection 
 
 sensibility, as of patience and fortitude. She was sensi- 
 ble of her approaching fate, as appears from the follow- 
 ing letter, which was written in characters. 
 
 " MUST I die alone ? Shall I never see you 
 more ? I know that you will come, but you will come 
 too late : This is I fear, my last ability. Tears fall so, 
 I know not how to write. Why did you leave me in so 
 much distress .■■ But I will not reproach you : All that 
 was dear I left for you ; but do not regret it. — May 
 God forgive in both what was amiss : When I go from 
 hence, I will leave you some way to find me ; if I die, 
 will you come and drop a tear over my grave ? " 
 
 In the following Poem, she, like the dying Swan, 
 sings her own Elegy, and it is here added, as a sorrowful 
 instance, how often the best, and most pleasing talents, 
 
 not 
 
€^t joiner of ^pmpatt^. 43 
 
 flection, instead of adding to her happiness, 
 were the cause of her ruin." 
 
 "I 
 
 not accompanied by virtue and prudence, operate the 
 destruction of their possessor. 
 
 The description of her unfortunate passion, will re- 
 mind the critical reader of the famous ode of Sappho. 
 In genius and in misfortune, these poetical ladies were 
 similar. 
 
 " DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 " WITH fond impatience all the tedious day 
 I sigh'd, and wish'd the lingering hours away ; 
 Por when bright Hesper led the starry train, 
 My shepherd swore to meet me on the plain ; 
 With eager haste to that dear spot I flew. 
 And linger'd long, and then with tears withdrew : 
 Alone, abandon'd to love's tenderest woes, 
 Down my pale cheeks the tide of sorrow flows ; 
 Dead to all joys that fortune can bestow, 
 In vain for me her useless bounties flow ; 
 Take back each envied gift, ye pow'rs divine. 
 And only let me call FIDELIO mine. 
 
 " Ah, wretch ! what anguish yet thy soul must prove, . 
 Ere thou canst hope to lose thy care in love ; 
 And when FIDELIO meets thy tearful eye. 
 Pale fear and cold despair his presence fly ; 
 With pensive steps, I sought thy walks again, 
 And kiss'd thy token on the verdant plain ; 
 With fondest hope, thro' many a blissful bow'r. 
 We gave the soul to fancy's pleasing pow'r ; 
 
 Lost 
 
44 t.\)t potDcr of g>^mpatl)^. 
 
 " I CONCLUDE from your reasoning," 
 said I, "and it is besides, my own opinion, 
 that many fine girls have been ruined by read- 
 ing Novels." 
 
 "AND 
 
 Lost in the magick of that sweet employ, 
 To build gay scenes, and fashion future joy. 
 We saw mild peace o'er fair Canaan rise. 
 And show'r her blessings from benignant skies ; 
 On airy hills our happy mansion rose, 
 Built but for joy, no room for future woes ; 
 Sweet as the sleep of innocence, the day, 
 (By transports measur'd) lightly danc'd away ; 
 To love, to bliss, the union'd soul was given, 
 And each ! too happy, ask'd no brighter heaven. 
 
 " And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll ? 
 
 Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul ? 
 
 Can this dear earth no transient joy supply ? 
 
 Is it my doom to hope, despair and die ? 
 
 Oh ! come, once more, with soft endearments come. 
 
 Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb ; 
 
 Through favour'd walks, thy chosen maid attend. 
 
 Where well known shades their pleasing branches bend. 
 
 Shed the soft poison from thy speaking eye, 
 
 And look those raptures lifeless words deny ; 
 
 Still be, though late, reheard what ne'er could tire. 
 
 But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire ; 
 
 Still hope those scenes which love and fancy drew ; 
 
 But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new. 
 
 " Can fancy paint, can words express ; 
 Can aught on earth my woes redress ; 
 
 E'en 
 
t\)t poiuer of g>?mpatl)s. 45 
 
 " AND I believe," added Mrs. Bourn, " we 
 may trace from hence the causes of spleen in 
 many persons advanced in life." 
 
 " YOU mean old maids, Madam," cries the 
 sagacious Miss, "like my aunt Deborah — she 
 calls all men deceitful, and most women, with 
 her, are no better than they should be." 
 
 " WELL said ! " exclaimed Worthy, " the 
 recollection of chargin and former disappoint- 
 ment, sours one's temper and mortifies the 
 heart — disappointment will be more or less 
 
 severe 
 
 E'en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove 
 Thy truth, thy tenderness and love. 
 Once thou couldst every bliss inspire, 
 Transporting JOY, and gay DESIRE : 
 Now cold DESPAIR her banner rears, 
 And PLEASURE flies when she appears ; 
 Fond HOPE within my bosom dies. 
 And AGONY her place supplies : 
 O, thou ! for whose dear sake I bear, 
 A doom so dreadful, so severe. 
 May happy fates thy footsteps guide, 
 And o'er thy peaceful home preside ; 
 Nor let ELIZA'S early tomb 
 Infect thee, with its baleful gloom." 
 
46 2:ij0 potoer of ^^mpatliv. 
 
 severe in proportion as we elevate our expec- 
 tations ; for the most sanguine tempers are the 
 soonest discouraged ; as the highest building 
 is in the most danger of falling." 
 
 "IT appears from what I have said," re- 
 sumed Mr. Holmes, " that those books which 
 teach us a knowledge of the world are useful 
 to form the minds of females, and ought there- 
 fore to be studied." 
 
 I MENTIONED Rochefoucaulf s max- 
 ims. — 
 
 " DO they not degrade human nature t en- 
 quired my father. 
 
 "THIS little book," answered Worthy, "con- 
 tains much truth — and those short sketches 
 traced by the hand of judgement, present to 
 us the leading features of mankind." "But," 
 
 replied 
 
t\)t potoer of ^i^mpatlj^, 47 
 
 replied my father, " that interest should assume 
 all shapes, is a doctrine, which, in my mind, 
 represents a caricature rather than a hving 
 picture." " It is the duty of a painter to pro- 
 duce a likeness," said Worthy, — " And a skil- 
 ful one," cried my father, continuing the met- 
 aphor, " will bring the amiable qualities of the 
 heart to light ; and throw those which dis- 
 grace humanity into the shade." " I doubt," 
 rejoined Worthy, " whether this flattery will 
 answer the purpose you aim to accomplish — 
 You entertain a high opinion of the dignity of 
 huma7t nature, and are displeased at the 
 author who advances anything derogatory to 
 that dignity. Swift, in speaking of these 
 maxirhs, in one of his best poems, affirms, 
 
 "They argue no corrupted mind 
 " In him — the fault is in mankind." 
 
 "AS I began this subject," added I, "it 
 shall be ended by one observation — As these 
 
 maxims 
 
48 t\)t ^oiatt of ^^mpatljB. 
 
 maxims give us an idea of the manii'ers and 
 characters of men, among whom a young per- 
 son is soon to appear ; and as it is necessary 
 to her security and happiness that she be 
 made acquainted with them — they may be 
 read to advantage." 
 
 "THERE is another medium," said Mr. 
 Holmes, assenting to my observation, " to be 
 noticed in the study of a lady — she takes up 
 a book, either for instruction or entertainment 
 
 — the medum hes in knowing when to put it 
 down. Constant apphcation becomes labour 
 
 — it sours the temper — gives an air of 
 thoughtfulness, and frequently of absence. 
 By iminoderate reading w£-hQaxd__up— opinions 
 and become insensibly attached to them ; this 
 miserly conduct sinks us to affectation, and 
 disgustful pedantry; conversation only can rem- 
 edy this dangerous evil, strengthen the judge- 
 
 nlent, 
 
8;t)0 poioer of ^^mpatlj^. 49 
 
 ment, and make reading really useful. They 
 mutually depend, upon, and assist each other. 
 
 "A KNOWLEDGE of HISTORY which 
 exhibits to us in one view the rise, progress 
 and decay of nations — which points out the 
 advancement of the mind in society, and the 
 im.provements in the arts which adorn human 
 nature, comes with propriety under the notice 
 of a lady. To observe the origin of civiliza- 
 tion — the gradual progress of society, and 
 the refinements of manners, policy, morality 
 and religion — to observe the progress of 
 mankind from simplicity to luxury, from lux- 
 ury to effeminacy, and the gradual steps of 
 the decline of empire, and the dissolution of 
 states and kingdoms, must blend that happy 
 union of instruction and entertainment, which 
 never fails to win our attention to the pursuit 
 of all subjects. 
 
 " POETRY claims her due from the ladies. 
 
 POETRY 
 
50 t\)t |0otocr of §)^mpatl)^. 
 
 POETRY enlarges and strengthens the mind, 
 refines the taste and improves the judgement. 
 It has been asserted that women have no bus- 
 iness with sa^zre — now satire is but a branch 
 of poetry. I acknowledge, however, much 
 false wit is sent into the world, under this 
 general title ; but no critick with whom I am 
 acquainted ever called satire false wit — for as 
 long as vice and folly continue to predominate 
 in the human heart, the satirist will be consid- 
 ered as a useful member of society. I believe 
 Addiso7i calls him an auxiliary to the pulpit. 
 Suffer me to enlarge on this new idea. Satire 
 is the correction of the vices and follies of the 
 human heart ; a woman may, therefore, read 
 it to advantage. What I mean by enforcing 
 this point, is, to impress the minds of females 
 with a principle of self correction ; for among 
 all kinds of knowledge which arise from read- 
 ing, the duty of self-knowledge is a very emi- 
 nent 
 
t\)t ^oiDtv of ^^mpatl)^. 5 1 
 
 nent one ; and is at the same time, the most 
 useful and important. 
 
 "OUR ordinary intercourse with the world, 
 will present to us in a very clear point of view, 
 the fallacious ideas we sometimes entertain of 
 our own self knowledge. — We are blinded by 
 pride and self love, and will not observe our 
 own iniperfections, which we blame with the 
 greatest acrimony in other people, and seem 
 to detest with the greatest abhorrence ; so 
 that, it often happens, while we are branding 
 our neighbour for some foible, or vanity, we 
 ourselves are equally guilty. 
 
 "RIDICULOUS as this conduct must 
 appear in the eyes of all judicious people, it is 
 too frequently practised to escape observa- 
 tion. 
 
 "I WILL drop this piece of morahty, with 
 a charge to the fair reader, that whenever she 
 
 discovers 
 
52 ^\)t |0oiDer of ^^mpat^)^ 
 
 discovers satire, ridiculing or recriminating 
 the follies or crimes of mankind, that she look 
 into her own heart, and compare the strictures 
 on the conduct of others with her own feel- 
 ings." 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)t potocc of ^rntpatl)^. 53 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 In Continuation. 
 
 MY good father-in-law being 
 so strenuous in proving the ehgibihty of read- 
 ing satire, had spurn out, what he called his 
 new idea, to such a metaphysical nicety, that 
 he unhappily diminished, the number of his 
 hearers ; for Mrs. Bourn, to whom he directed 
 his discourse, had taken down a book and was 
 reading to herself, and Miss was diverting her- 
 self with the cuts in Gays Fables. 
 
 A CONSIDERABLE silence ensued, 
 which Worthy first broke, by asking Mrs. 
 Bourn what book she had in her hand. 
 
 Everyone's 
 
54 2;i)e poiaet of §)^mpatl)^. 
 
 Everyone's attention was alarmed at this im- 
 portant enquiry. Mrs. Bourn, with little diffi- 
 culty, found the title page, and began to read. 
 " A Sentimental Journey through France and 
 Italy, by Mr. Yorick." 
 
 " I DO not like the title" said Miss Bourn. 
 
 "WHY, my dear!" apostrophized the 
 mother, "you are mistaken — it is a very 
 famous book." 
 
 "WHY, my dear ! " retorted the daughter, 
 " It is sentimental — I abominate everything 
 that is sentimental — it is so unfashionable 
 too." 
 
 " I NEVER knew before," said Mr. Holmes, 
 " that wit was subject to caprice of fashion." 
 
 "WHY 'Squire Billy," returned Miss, 
 " who is just arrived from the centre of 
 
 politeness 
 
tf)e ^Doijjcr of ^^mpatl)^. 55 
 
 politeness and fashion, says the bettermost 
 genii never read any sentimental books — so 
 you see sentiment is out of date." 
 
 THE company rose to go out. — 
 
 "SENTIMENT out of date!" cries 
 Worthy, repeating the words of Miss Bourn, 
 and taking the book from her mother, as she 
 walked towards the door — " Sentiment out of 
 date — alas ! poor Yorick — may thy pages 
 never be soiled by the fingers of prejudice." 
 He continued his address to them, as they 
 went out, in the same Shandean tone — 
 ''These antisentimentalists would banish thee 
 from the society of all books ! Unto what a 
 pitiful size are the race of readers dwindled ! 
 Surely these antis have more to do with thee, 
 than the gods of the Canaanites — In charac- 
 ter and understanding they are alike — eyes 
 have they, but they see not — ears have they, 
 but they hear not, neither is there any knowl- 
 edge 
 
56 t1)z poijitt of ^^ntpatltis. 
 
 edge to be found in them." "It is hardly 
 worth while to beat it into them," said my 
 father-in-law, " so let us follow the company." 
 
 WE did so — they walked toward the 
 house, and Worthy and myself brought up 
 the rear. 
 
 I COULD not but remark, as we went on, 
 that Miss Bourn had spoken the sentiments 
 of many of her sex ; — " and whence," said I to 
 Worthy, " arises this detestation of books in 
 some of us females, and why are they enemies 
 to anything that may be called sentiment and 
 conversation : I grant it often happens there 
 is such rapidity of speeches that one may be at 
 a loss to distinguish the speakers ; but why is 
 there such a calm silence, should an unfortu- 
 nate sentiment inadvertantly — "I will tell 
 you," interrupted he, " You all read, and it is 
 from the books which engage your attention, 
 that you generally imbibe your ideas of the 
 
 principal 
 
ttje po)33tt of ^^mpatljB. 57 
 
 principal subjects discussed in company — 
 now, the books which employ your hours of 
 study, happen to be Novels ; and the subjects 
 contained in these Novels are commonly con- 
 fined to dress, balls, visiting, and the like edi- 
 fying topicks; does it not follow, that these 
 must be the subjects of your conversation ? I 
 will not dispute whether the Novel makes the 
 woman, or the woman makes the Novel ; or 
 whether they are written to engage your at- 
 tention, or flatter your vanity. I believe the 
 results will shew they depend, in some meas- 
 ure, upon each other ; and an uninformed 
 woman, by reading them, only augments the 
 number of her futile ideas. The female mind, 
 notwithstanding, is com,petent to any talk, and 
 the accomplishments of an elegant woman 
 depend on a proper cultivation of her intelli- 
 gent powers ; a barrenness — a sterility of con- 
 versation — immediately discovers where this 
 
 cultivation is wanting." 
 
 "GIVE 
 
58 Z\)e poion: of ^^ntpatl)^. 
 
 " GIVE me leave," answered I, "to espouse 
 the cause of this class of females. Tell me 
 candidly, Mr. Worthy, whether that insipid 
 flattery, perhaps sacrificed at the expense of 
 truth, does not misguide many of us into er- 
 roneous paths? You declare we are hand- 
 some — and your conduct demonstrates you 
 to be more solicitous for the possession of 
 beautifiily than of fkental charms. Hence is 
 the deluded female persuaded of the fofce of 
 her fascinating powers, and vainly imagines, 
 one glance of her eye sufficient to reduce a 
 million of hearts whenever she chooses: Hei 
 aims, therefore, are confined to the decora- 
 tion of her person, and her views centre solely 
 in finishing herself in those attractive, all- 
 powerful graces, with which you declare your- 
 selves to be enchanted. How then are they 
 to be censured for neglecting to improve 
 the mind, when your adulation diverts their 
 
 attention to an external object ? " 
 
 "I JOIN 
 
t))t potoer of ^^mpatlj^. 59 
 
 "I JOIN with you," replied Worthy, "in 
 calling it insipid flattery — and the vain cox- 
 comb, the powdered beau, the insignificant 
 petit mattre, are those who make use of it. 
 Will women of real merit, and sound sense, 
 believe what is said by them to be their real 
 sentiments ? — No — There must be a con- 
 geniality in the minds of those who give and 
 receive flattery — Has not the vain coquette 
 as much, inclination to be thought a goddess, 
 as the empty admirer to declare her so? 
 
 " FLATTERY is become a kind of epidemi- 
 cal distemper: many run into it, perhaps, 
 without designing it, or only through civility. 
 There are some women who expect it — who 
 dress to be admired — and who deem it a 
 mark of impoliteness and rudeness in men, 
 who do not pay them the tribute of compli- 
 ment and adulation. A man of sense may 
 comply with their expectation — he will still 
 
 think 
 
6o t\)t pofcDcr of §>^mpatl^^. 
 
 think then; agreeable playthings, to divert 
 him at an hour of relaxation ; but I cannot 
 suppose he will entertain any serious thoughts 
 of a more per7nane7tt connection. 
 
 " MAY we not conclude these things to be 
 productive of many evils that happen in so- 
 ciety — do they not frighten all sentiment 
 from conversation — introduce affectation — 
 pride — envy — clandestine marriages — 
 elopements — division of families — and ulti- 
 mately terminate in the ruin of very many 
 innocent, but inconsiderate females ? " 
 
 By this time we had got into the house, 
 and our company soon after departed, leaving 
 us at full leisure to contemplate on the many 
 wrong ideas entertained, and fallacious steps 
 pursued by the generality of mankind, in the 
 sentimental part of female education. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)t joiner of ^^mpatljB. 6i 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 Worthy to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 A PEACEFUL, recluse life, is suited to my 
 temper — there is something in the soft 
 breath of Nature — in the delicacy of smiling 
 meadows and cultivated fields — in the sub- 
 limity of an aged wood — of broken rocks — 
 of rivers pouring along their lucid waves, to 
 which the heart always give a ready reception 
 — there is something within us congenial to 
 these scenes ; they impress the mind with 
 ideas similar to what we feel in beholding one 
 whom we tenderly esteem. 
 
 I WAS 
 
62 Z\)e |0otDer of g>^mpatt)5, 
 
 I WAS making this observation to Mrs. 
 Holmes, and she told me I was in love — 
 "These are the very scenes," said she, "which 
 your beloved Myra used to praise and admire, 
 and for which you, by a secret sympathy, en- 
 tertain the same predilection. The piece of 
 embroidery which she worked at an early age, 
 and which ornaments the Temple, I have seen 
 you gaze upon several times — you seem to 
 trace perfection in every part of it, because it 
 was executed by the hand of Myra." 
 
 I ACKNOWLEDGE I have often gazed 
 upon it (as Mrs. Holmes terms it) but did not 
 recollect it to be a piece of your work. I 
 stole an opportunity to revisit it by myself 
 and I instantly remembered it — I remem- 
 bered when you finished it, and all the happy, 
 inoffensive scenes of our childhood, returned 
 fresh upon my heart. 
 
 IT is the work Myra, said I to myself — 
 
 Did 
 
ti)e potoer of g>^mpatl)^. 63 
 
 Did not her fingers trace these beautiful ex- 
 panding flowers ?' — Did she not give to this 
 carnation its animated glow, and to this open- 
 ing rose its languishing grace ? Removed as 
 I am — continued I in a certain interiour lan- 
 guage that every son of nature possesses — 
 Removed as I am, from the amiable object of 
 my tenderest affection, I have nothing to do 
 but to admire this offspring of industry and 
 art — It shall yield more fragrance to my soul 
 than all the bouquets in the universe. 
 
 I DID not care to pursue the thought — it 
 touched a delicate string — at first, however, 
 I flattered myself I should gain some consola- 
 tion — but I lost in every reflection. 
 
 I CONSIDERED the work as coming 
 from your hand, and was delighted the more 
 with it. A piece of steel that has been rubbed 
 with a loadstone, retains the power of attract- 
 
 mg 
 
64 ti)t |0otocr of S>^mpatl)^. 
 
 ing small bodies of iron : So the beauties of 
 this embroidery, springing from your hands, 
 continue to draw my attention, and fill the 
 mind with ideas of the artist. i 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
2;t)c l^otDcr of ^^mpattj^. 65 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 HOW incompetent is the force 
 of words to express some peculiar sensations ! 
 Expression is feeble when emotions are ex- 
 quisite. 
 
 I WISH you could be here to see with 
 what ease and dignity everything comes from 
 the hand of Harriot — I cannot give a de- 
 scription equivalent to the great idea I wish 
 to convey — You will tell me I am in love — 
 What is love ? I have b,een trying to investi- 
 gate its nature — to strip it of its mere term, 
 
 and 
 
66 t\)t pomtt of g>^mpatt)^. 
 
 and consider it as it may be supported by- 
 principle — I might as well search for the 
 philosopher's stone. 
 
 EVERY one is ready to praise his mistress 
 — she is always described in her " native 
 simplicity," as " an angel " with a " placid 
 mein," "mild, animated," "altogether captivat- 
 ing,' and at length the talk of description is 
 given up as altogether " undescribable." . Are 
 not all these in themselves bare, insignificant 
 words ? The world has so long been accus- 
 tomed to hear the sound of them, that the 
 idea is lost. But to the question — What is 
 love ? Unless it is answered now, perhaps it 
 never will be. Is it not an infinitude of graces 
 that accompany everything said by Harriot ? 
 That adorn all she does .? They must not be 
 taken severally — they cannot be contem- 
 plated in the abstract. — If you proceed to 
 chymical analysis, their tenuous essence 
 
 will 
 
£\)t |0otDer of ^^mpatl)^. 67 
 
 will evaporate — they are in themselves noth- 
 ing; but the aggregate is love. 
 
 WHEN an army composed of a great 
 number of men, moves slowly on at a dis- 
 tance, nobody thinks of considering a single 
 soldier. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
68 t\)t poton: of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 Harringtoii to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 AM I to believe my eyes — my ears — my 
 heart! — and' yet I cannot be deceived. — 
 We are generally most stupid and incredu- 
 lous in what most materially concerns us. 
 We find the greatest difficulty in persuading 
 ourselves of the attainments of what we most 
 ardently desire — She loves! — I say to my- 
 self, " Harriot loves me," and I reverence my- 
 self. 
 
 I THINK I may now take upon me some 
 share of happiness — I may say I have not 
 
 lived 
 
Slje polner of ^^mpatlj?. 69 
 
 lived in vain — for all my heart holds dear is 
 mine — joy and love encompass me — peace 
 and tranquillity are before me; the prospect 
 is fair and promising as the gilded dawn of a 
 summer's day — There is none to supplant 
 me in her affections — I dread no rival, for 
 our tempers are similar, and our hearts beat 
 in unison together. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
70 t^i potoer of ^^mpatl)?. 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 LOVE softens and refines the 
 manners — polishes the asperities of aukward- 
 ness, and fits us for the society of gentle be- 
 ings. It goes further, it mends the heart, and 
 makes us better men — it gives the faint- 
 hearted an extraordinary strength of soul, and 
 renders them equal and frequently superior to 
 danger and distress. 
 
 MY passions you know are quick, my prej- 
 udices sometimes obstinate — She tells me 
 these things are wrong — This gentle repri- 
 mand is so tempered with love that I think 
 
 she 
 
2:i)e ^oiau of ^i^mpatlj^. 7 1 
 
 she commands me. I however promise a re- 
 form, and am much pleased with my improve- 
 ment. Harriot moulds my heart into what 
 form she chooses. 
 
 A LITTLE party is proposed to-morrow 
 evening and I shall attend Harriot. These 
 elegant relaxations prevent the degeneracy of 
 human nature, exhilerate the spirits, and wind 
 up this machine of ours for another revolution 
 of business. 
 
 LETTER 
 
72 tl)t J0otDer of ^smpatljB. 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 OUR little party was over- 
 thrown by a strange piece of folley. A Miss 
 
 P was introduced, a young lady of beauty 
 
 and elegant accomplishments. The whole 
 company were beginning to be cheerful — 
 business and care were disgusted at the sight 
 of so many happy countenances, and had gone 
 out from among us. Jollity and good humour 
 bade us prepare for the dance — unhappily at 
 this juncture a lady and a gentleman were en- 
 gaged in a conversation concerning Miss 
 
 P , and one of them repeated the words 
 
 " a mechanick's daughter " — it is supposed the 
 
 word 
 
t\)t ^otDcr of ^^mpatl)^. 73 
 
 word " mechanick " was repeated scornfully — 
 She heard it — thought herself insulted — and 
 indignantly retired — disorder and confusion 
 immediately took place, and the amusement 
 was put an end to for the evening. 
 
 I WISH people would consider how little 
 time they have to f rollick here — that they 
 would improve it to more advantage, and not 
 dispute for, any precedence or superiority but 
 in good nature and sociability — "a mechan- 
 ick " — and pray whence the distinction ! 
 
 INEQ UALITY among mankind is a foe 
 to our happiness — it even affects our little 
 parties of pleasure — Such is the fate of the 
 human race, one order of men lords it over 
 another ; but upon what grounds its right is 
 founded I could never yet be satisfied. 
 
 FOR this reason, I like a democratickal 
 better than any other kind of government ; 
 
 and 
 
74 t^i)t potuer of §>^mpatl)B, 
 
 and were I a Lycurgus no distinction of rank 
 should be found in my commonwealth. 
 
 IN my tour through the United States, I 
 had an opportunity of examining and com- 
 paring the different manners and dispositions 
 of the inhabitants of the several republicks. 
 Those of the southern states, accustomed to a 
 habit of domineering over their slaves, are 
 haughtier, more tenacious of honour, and in- 
 deed possess more of an aristocratick temper 
 than their sisters of the confederacy. As we 
 travel to the northward, the nature of the con- 
 stitution seems to operate on the minds of the 
 people — slavery is abolished— all men are de- 
 clared free and equal, and their tempers are 
 open, generous and communicative. It is the 
 same in all those countries where the people 
 enjoy independence and equal liberty. Why 
 then should those distinctions arise which are 
 inimical to domestick quietude .'' Or why 
 
 should 
 
^\)t potocr of §>)?mpatl)^» 75 
 
 should the noisy voice of those who seek dis- 
 tinction, so loudly reechoe in the ears of peace 
 and jollity, as to deafen the sound of the mus- 
 ick ? For while we are disputing who shall 
 lead off the dance, behold ! the instrument gets 
 out of tune — a string snaps — and where is 
 our chance for dancing ? 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
76 t^t potoer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XVIIL . 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 MY beloved has left me for 
 
 a while — she has attended Mrs. Francis in a 
 
 journey to Rhodeisland — and here am I — 
 
 anxious — solitary — alone ! — 
 
 NO thoughts, but thoughts of Harriot, are 
 
 permitted to agitate me. She is in my view 
 
 all the day long, and when I retire to rest my 
 
 my imagination is still possessed with ideas of 
 
 Harriot. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^t |0otoei: of ^^mpatlji^. 77 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 Harrington to Harriot. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 IF a wish, arising from the most tender 
 affection, could transport me to the object of 
 my love, I persuade myself that you would not 
 be troubled with reading this letter. 
 
 YOU must expect nothing like wit or 
 humour, or even common sense, from me ; wit 
 and humour are flown with you, and your re- 
 turn only can restore them. I am sometimes 
 willing to persuade myself that this is the 
 case — I, think I hear the well-known voice, 
 I look around me with the ecstacy of Orpheus, 
 but that look breaks the charm, I find my- 
 self 
 
78 t\)t ^aoiuer of ^^mpatliv. 
 
 self alone, and my Eurydice vanished to the 
 shades. 
 
 I HOPE you will not permit yourself to 
 grow envious of the beauties of Rhodeisland. 
 Of the force of their charms I am experiment- 
 ally acquainted. Wherever fortune has 
 thrown me, it has been my happiness to im- 
 agine myself in love with some divine creature 
 or other ; and after all it is but truth to de- 
 clare that the passion was seated more in 
 fancy than the heart; and it is justice to 
 acknowledge to you that I am now more prov- 
 ident of my passion, and never suffer the 
 excursion of fancy, except when I am so lib- 
 eral as to admit the united beauty of the 
 Rhodeisland ladies in competition with yours. 
 
 WHERE there are handsome women there 
 will necessarily be fine gentlemen, 'and should 
 they be smitten with yout external graces, I 
 cannot but lament their deplorable situation, 
 
 when 
 
tlje pofcDEr of ^^mpatt)^. 79 
 
 when they discover how egregiously they 
 have been cheated. What must be his disap- 
 pointment, who thought himself fascinated by 
 y-^beauty, when he finds he has unknowingly 
 
 \ been charmed by reason and virtue ! 
 
 l — 
 
 BUT this you will say contains a sentiment 
 of jealously, and is but a transcript of my 
 apprehensions and gloomy anxieties : When 
 will your preference, like the return of the 
 sun in the spring, which dispels glooms, and 
 reanimates the face of nature, quiet these 
 apprehensions? If it be not in a short time, I 
 shall proceed on a journey to find you out ; 
 until then I commit you to the care of your 
 guardian angel. 
 
 LETTER 
 
8o t\)t pofcper of gj^mpatlip. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 Harrington to Harriot. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 LAST night I went on a visit 
 to your house: It was an adventure that 
 would have done honour to the; Knight of La 
 Mancha. The moon ascended a clear, serene 
 sky, the air was still, the bells sounded the 
 solemn hour of midnight — I sighed — and 
 the reason of it I need not tell you. This 
 was, indeed, a pilgrimage ; and no Musselman 
 ever travelled barefooted to Mecca with more 
 sincere devotion. 
 
 YOUR absence would cause an insufferable 
 ennui in your friends, were it not for the art 
 
 we 
 
Z\)t pofcDcr of ^^mpatli^, 8 1 
 
 we have in making it turn to our amusement. 
 Instead of wishing you were of our party, you 
 are the goddess in whose honour we performed 
 innumerable Heathenish rites. Libations of 
 wine are poured out, but not a guest presumes ^ 
 to taste it, until they implore the name of 
 Harriot ; we hail ' the new divinity in songs, 
 and strew around the flowers of poetry. You 
 need not, however, take to yourself any ex- 
 traordinary addition of vanity on the occasion 
 as your absence will not cause any repining : 
 
 " Harriot our goddess and our grief no more." 
 
 BUT to give you my opinion on this impor- 
 tant matter, I must descend to plain truth, and 
 acknowledge I had rather adore yon 2l preseitt 
 mortal, than an absent divinity ; and therefore 
 wish for your return with more religious 
 ardour than a devout disciple of the false 
 prophet for the company of the Houri. 
 
 THANKS 
 
82 Z\)t IBotoer of g>^mpatl)^. 
 
 THANKS to the power of imagination for 
 our fanciful interview. Methought I some- 
 where unexpectedly met you — but I was 
 soon undeceived of my imaginary happiness, 
 and I awoke, repeating these verses : — 
 
 THOUGH sleep her sable pinions spread, 
 
 My thoughts still run on you ; 
 And visions hovering o'er my head, 
 
 Present you to my view. 
 
 By FANCY'S magick pencil drest, 
 
 I saw my Delia move ; 
 I clasp'd her to my anxious breast, 
 
 With TEARS of joy and love. 
 
 Methought she said — " Why thus forlorn? — 
 
 Be all thy care resign'd : " — 
 I 'woke and found my Delia gone. 
 
 But still the TEAR behind. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)t polBcr of g)^mpatl)^. 83 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 Harriot to Myra. 
 
 Rhodeisland. 
 
 WE arrived here in safety, but 
 our journey is not without incident — an inci- 
 dent which exhibits a melancholy picture of 
 the wickedness and depravity of the human 
 heart. 
 
 WHEN we came to the house of Mrs. 
 Martin, who I suppose you know is cousin to 
 Mrs. Francis, we were not a little astonished 
 at the evident traces of distress in her counte- 
 nance ; all her actions were accompanied 
 with an air of solemnity, and her former gaiety 
 of heart was exchanged for sad, serious 
 
 thoughtf ulness : 
 
84 t)t potoer of S)^mpatl)^, 
 
 thoughtfulness : She, however, put on a face 
 of vivacity upon our being introduced, but her 
 cheerfulness was foreign to the feeHngs of her 
 heart. 
 
 MR. Martm was equally agitated: he endeav- 
 oured to dispossess himself of an uncommon 
 weight of remorse, but in vain — all his dis- 
 simulation could not conceal his emotion, nor 
 his art abate the continual upbraidings of 
 conscious guilt. 
 
 MRS. Francis was anxious to enquire the 
 cause of this extraordinary change, but wisely 
 forebore adding to the distress of her friend, 
 by desiring her to explain it, in a manner too 
 precipitate. She was in a short time made 
 acquainted with the particulars of the story — 
 which is not more melancholy than un- 
 common. 
 
 SOMETIME after the marriage of Martin, 
 
 the 
 
t^t potDcr of ^^mpatli^o 85 
 
 the beautiful Ophelia, sister to Mrs. Martin, 
 returned from a European visit to her friends 
 in Rhodeisland. Upon her arrival, she re- 
 iceved a polite offer from her brother-in-law 
 of an elegant apartment of his house in 
 town, which was cheerfully accepted — Fatal 
 acceptation! He, had conceived a passion for 
 Ophelia and was plotting to gratify it. By a 
 series of the most artful attention^, suggested 
 by a diabolical appetite, he insinuated himself 
 into her affection — he prevailed upon the 
 heart of the unsuspicious Ophelia, and tri- 
 umphed over her innocence and virtue. 
 
 THIS incestuous connection has secretly 
 subsisted until the present time — it was in- 
 terrupted by a sympton which rendered it 
 necessary for Ophelia to retire mto the coun- 
 try, where she was delivered of a child, at once 
 the son and nephew of Martin. 
 
 THIS 
 
86 t^c potDer of ^^mpatlj^, 
 
 THIS event was a severe mortification to 
 the proud spirit of Shepherd, the father of 
 Ophelia. His resentment to his daughter was 
 implacable, and his revenge of the injury 
 from Martin not to be satiated. The blaze 
 of family dispute raged with unquenchable 
 fury — and poor Ophelia received other pun- 
 ishment from the hand of a vindictive father 
 than base recrimination. 
 
 THE affection of Martin how became 
 changed to the vilest hatred. 
 
 THUS doomed to suffer the blackest in- 
 gratitude from her seducer on the one hand, 
 and to experience the severity of paternal 
 vengence on the other — and before her the 
 gloomy prospect of a blasted reputation — 
 what must be the situation of the hapless 
 Ophelia ! Hope, the last resort of the 
 wretched, was forever shut out. There was 
 
 no 
 
t\)e ^otoer of g»i?mpatt)^. 87 
 
 no one whom she durst implore by the tender 
 name of father, and he, who had seduced her 
 from her duty and her virtue, was the first to 
 brand her with the disgraceful epithets of un- 
 dutiful and unchaste. 
 
 PERHAPS it was only at this time, that 
 she became fully sensible of her danger ; the 
 flattery and dissimulation of Martin might 
 have banished the idea of detection, and 
 glossed over that of criminality ; but now she 
 awoke from her dream of insensibility, she 
 was like one who had been deluded by an 
 ignis fatuus to the brink of a precipice, and 
 there abandoned to his reflection to contem- 
 plate the horrours of the sea beneath him, 
 into which he was about to plunge. 
 
 WHETHER from the promises of J/(2r/m, 
 or the flattery of her own fancy, is unknown, 
 but it is said she expected to become his wife, 
 
 and 
 
88 t\)t laotDcr of g>sinpatl)^. 
 
 and made use of many expedients to obtain a 
 divorcement of Martin from her sister : But 
 this is the breath of rumour : Allowing it to 
 be truth, it appears to be the last attempt of 
 despair ; for such unnatural exertions, with 
 the compunction attending them, represent a 
 gloomy picture of the struggle between sis- 
 terly affection and declining honour. They 
 however proved inavailable, and her efforts to 
 that end, may with propriety be deemed a 
 wretched subterfuge. 
 
 IN the mean while the rage of Shepherd 
 was augmenting. Time, instead of allaying, 
 kindled the flame of revenge in the breast of 
 the old man. A sense of the wounded hon- 
 our of his family, became every day more ex- 
 quisite ; he resolved to call a meeting of the 
 parties, in which the whole mystery should be 
 developed — that Ophelia should confront her 
 
 seducer, 
 
Z))t |0oincr of ^^mpatt)^, 89 
 
 seducer, and a thorough enquiry and expHca- 
 tion be brought about. 
 
 OPHELIA exercised all her powers to pre- 
 vent it ; she intreated her father to consent to 
 her desire, but her tears and intreaties were 
 vain. To this earnest desire of his daughter. 
 Shepherd opposed the honour of his family. 
 She replied that a procedure would publish 
 its disgrace and be subversive of his intention: 
 That she hoped to live retired from the world, 
 and^it was in his power to accept her happy 
 repentance: In extenuating, she wished not 
 to vindicate her errours, but declared herself 
 to be. penetrated with a melancholy sense of 
 her misconduct, and hoped her penitence 
 might expiate her guilt : ' She now beheld the 
 sin in the most glaring colours, the dangers to 
 which she had been exposed, and acknowl- 
 edged the effects of her temerity had im- 
 pressed her mind with sincere contrition: " All 
 
 persons," 
 
go 2;t)C ^otijcr of ^^mpatti^, 
 
 persons," continued she, " are not blest with 
 the hke happiness of resisting temptation: " she 
 intreated her father, therefore, to beheve her 
 misfortunes proceeded from credulity and not 
 from an abandoned principle — that they 
 arose more from situation than a depraved 
 heart: In asking to be restored to the favour 
 and protection of a parent, she protested she 
 was not influenced by any other motive, than 
 a wish to demonstrate the sincerity of her 
 repentance, and to establish the peace and 
 harmony of the family. 
 
 OPHELIA now became melancholy, and 
 her intentions visibly bent on the mmtner of 
 her death. As the time drew nigh, her sensi- 
 bility decame more and more exquisite: 
 What was before distress, she now averred to 
 be horrour: Her conduct bordered on insan- 
 ity. 
 
 THE 
 
Z\)t ^oiatt of ^^m^atl)^, 91 
 
 THE day was appointed to bring to a 
 settlement this unhappy business — the time 
 of hearing arrived — the parties met — the 
 presence of Ophelia was necessary — she was 
 missing — the unfortunate Ophelia died by her 
 own hand. 
 
 MRS. Shepherd Q.vA.Qx^dL\}i\^ apartment of her 
 daughter — she beheld her pale and trembling 
 
 — she saw the vial, and the cup with the re- 
 mains of the poison — she embraced her lost 
 
 — " My Ophelia ! my daughter ! return — re- 
 turn to life." 
 
 AT this crisis entered the father — he was 
 mute — he beheld his daughter struggling 
 with the pangs of dissolution — he was dumb 
 with grief and astonishment. 
 
 THE dying Ophelia was conscious of the 
 distress of her parents, and of her own situa- 
 tion — she clasped her mother's hand, and 
 
 raising 
 
92 t\)t ^oiDEr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 raising her eye to heaven, was only heard to 
 articulate "LET MY CRIME BE FOR- 
 GOTTEN WITH MY NAME. — O 
 FATAL ! FATAL POISON ! " 
 
 ADIEU! my dear Myra — this unhappy 
 affair has worked me to a fit of melancholy. 
 I can write no more. I will give you a few 
 particulars in my next. It is impossible to 
 behold the effect of this horrid catastrophe 
 and not be impressed with feelings of sympa- 
 thetick sorrow : 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^c poiDcr of ^^mpatl)^. 93 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 Harriot to Myra. 
 
 Rkodeislajzd. 
 
 HOW frail is the heart ! How 
 dirn is human foresight ! We behold the 
 gilded "bait of temptation, and know not un- 
 til taught by experience, that the admission of 
 one errour is but the introduction of calamity. 
 One mistake imperceptibly leads to another 
 — but the consequences of the whole bursting 
 suddenly on the devoted head of an unfortu- 
 nate wanderer, becomes intolerable. 
 
 HOW acute must be that torture, which 
 seeks an asylum in suicide! O SEDUC- 
 TION ! how many and how miserable are 
 
 the 
 
94 ti}t |0otoer of ^^mpatlj^, 
 
 the victims of thy unrelenting vengeance. 
 Some crimes, indeed, cease to afflict when 
 they cease to exist, but SEDUCTION opens 
 the door to a dismal train of innumerable 
 miseries. 
 
 YOU can better imagine the situation of 
 the friends of the unfortunate Ophelia than I 
 can describe it. 
 
 THE writings she left were expressive of 
 contrition for her past transaction, and an 
 awful sense of the deed she was about to exe- 
 cute. Her miserable life was insupportable, 
 there was no oblation but in death — she 
 welcomed death, therefore, as the pleasing 
 harbinger of relief to the unfortunate. She 
 remembered her once-loved seducer with pity, 
 and bequeathed him her forgiveness. — To 
 say she felt no agitation was not just, but 
 that she experienced a calmness unknown to 
 
 a criminal 
 
t^t poioer of ^^mpatlj^, 95 
 
 a criminal was certain. She hoped the fash- 
 ness of her conduct would not be construed to 
 her disadvantage — for she died in charity 
 with the world. She felt like a poor wan- 
 derer about to return to a tender parent, and 
 flattered herself with the hopes of a welcome, 
 though unbidden return. She owned the 
 way was dark and intricate, but lamented she 
 had no friend to enlighten her understanding, 
 or unravel the mysteries of futurity. She 
 knew there was a God who will reward and 
 punish : She acknowledged she had offended 
 Him, and confessed her repentance. She ex- 
 patiated on the miserable life she had suffered: 
 not that she feared detection, that was impossi- 
 ble : but that she had been doing an injury to 
 a sister who was all kindness to her : she 
 prayed her sister's forgiveness — even as she 
 herself forgave her seducer ; and that her 
 crime might not be called ingratitude, because 
 she was always sensible of her obligation to 
 
 that 
 
96 t\)t ^Boiuer of ^^mpatt)^. 
 
 that sister. She requested her parents to 
 pardon her, and acknowledged she felt the 
 pangs of a bleeding heart at the shock which 
 must be given to the most feeling of mothers. 
 She intreated her sisters to think of her with 
 pity, and died with assurance that her friends 
 would so far revere her memory as to take up 
 one thing or another, and say this belonged to 
 poor Ophelia. 
 
 O MY friend ! what scenes of anguish are 
 here unfolded to the survivours. The un- 
 happy Shepherd charged Martin with the se- 
 duction and murder of his daughter. What 
 the termination of this most horrible affair 
 will be, is not easy to foresee. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t))t l^otorr of g>^mpatl)^« 97 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 Harriot to Myra. 
 
 Rhodeisland. 
 
 WHATEVER may be the 
 other causes (if there were any besides her 
 seduction) which drove the unhappy Ophelia^ 
 temerariously to end her existence, it certainly 
 becomes us, my dear friend, to attend to them 
 — and to draw such morals and lessons of in- 
 struction from each side of the question, as 
 will be a mirrour by which we may regulate 
 our conduct and amend our lives. A prudent 
 pilot will shun those rocks upon which others 
 have been dashed to pieces, and take example 
 from the conduct of others less fortunate than 
 
 himself : 
 
98 Slje potoer of §>^mpat^)^, 
 
 himself : It is the duty of the moralist, then to 
 deduce his observations from preceding facts 
 in such a manner as may directly improve the 
 mind and promote the economy of human 
 life. 
 
 THIS may be an apology for 'sending you 
 the arguments of- Martin in answer to Shep- 
 herd, who in his rage and grief had called him 
 the murderer of his child. 
 
 HE reminded Shepherd of his obstinacy in 
 in persisting in an explanatory meeting, and 
 refusing to grant Ophelias request in suffer- 
 ing the affair to subside — " Your proud 
 spirit," said he, "would not barken to the gen- 
 tle remonstrances of your daughter — your 
 heart was closed to every conciliatory propo- 
 sition. Though she expressed a propensity 
 to fly from the eye of the world, she had 
 hitherto appeared lulled in a kind of happy 
 
 insensibility ; 
 
^e ^oloitt of g^^mpatl)?. 99 
 
 insensibility ; yet the approaching time of ex- 
 planation was terrible, it renewed the story 
 and torture of all her misfortunes, and the 
 idea filled her with grief and dismay. Had 
 you been as willing to receive her, as she to 
 return to you, happy would it have been for 
 both ; but your pride was the cause of addi- 
 tional calamities — when the time arrived — 
 But why shall we harrow upon souls with the 
 reiteration of her sorrowful exit ? — 
 
 " FROM these circumstances," said Martin^ 
 ■" you cannot accuse me as the immediate 
 cause of Ophelias death ; the facts are as I 
 have stated them — and thus was a straying, 
 but penitent child, driven to despair and sui- 
 cide by a severe use of parental power, and a 
 vain attempt to resent an injury, for which it 
 was impossible the accused party could make 
 compensation." 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING 
 
loo tljE potDcr of g)^mpatl)^. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the plausibility 
 of Martins plea, I have little hesitation in my 
 mind to charge him with the remote cause of 
 the miserable end of Ophelia. 
 
 HOW far parental authority may be ex- 
 tended, is a question which I shall not deter- 
 mine ; I must, however, think it depends upon 
 the combination Of circumstances. The duty 
 of a child to her parents will be in proportion 
 to the attention paid to her education. If, in- 
 stead of the usual pains bestowed by many 
 partial parents, upon the vain parade of form- 
 ing the manners of a child, and burthening 
 the mind with the necessity of douceurs and 
 graces, would it not often be happier for both, 
 to take a small share of thought to kindle one 
 spark of grace in the heart? 
 
 HAPPY the parents, who have bestowed 
 upon their children such an education, as will 
 
 enable 
 
€^t potoer of ^^mpatli^. loi 
 
 enable them, by a principle of mediocrity, to 
 govern them without extorting obedience, and 
 to reclaim them without exercising severity. 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
I02 t^t potoer of ^^mpu\ys» 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 Harriot to Myra. 
 
 Rhodeisland. 
 
 MRS. Francis is not altogether 
 pleased with her journey to this part of the 
 country — She does not delight to brood over 
 sorrow — She flies from the house of mourn- 
 ing, to scenes of dissipation — and, like the 
 rest of the world, bears the misfortunes of her 
 friends with a most christian fortitude : The 
 melancholy aspect of affairs here, will there- 
 fore shorten our visit — so you may expect us 
 at Boston in a few days. 
 
 MY faithful lover (with whom I will cer- 
 tainly 
 
t\)t joiner of ^^mpattj^. 103 
 
 tainly make you acquainted in a short time) 
 continues to write to me in very passionate 
 and sentimental strains. His last letter 
 proves him to be a tolerable maker of rhymes 
 and I inclose it for your entertainm,ent. 
 
 I am, my dear, 
 
 Your most affectionate Friend. 
 
 LETTER 
 
I04 tlje potoer of ^^mpat^^. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 Myra to Harriot. 
 
 (written before she had received the 
 preceding.) 
 
 Boston. 
 
 YOUR sorrowful little history has 
 infected me with grief. Surely there is no 
 human vice of so black a die — so fatal in its 
 consequences — or which causes a more gen- 
 eral calamity, than that of seducing a female 
 from the path of honour. This idea has been 
 improved by my brother, on the hint of your 
 favour — as an acknowledgement for which I 
 inclose you his production. 
 
 • (the 
 
2:i)e potoer of ^^mpatlj^. 105 
 
 , (the inclosed.) 
 t^t Court of ©tce» 
 
 An apologue. 
 
 VIQE " on a solemn night of state, 
 In all her pomp of terrour sate," 
 Her voice in deep, tremendous tone, 
 Thus issu'd from her ebon throne : 
 ' This night at our infernal court, 
 ' Let all our ministers resort ; 
 ' Who most annoys the human race, 
 ' At our right hand shall take his place, 
 ' Rais'd on a throne — advanc'd in fame — 
 * YE CRIMES now vindicate your claim.' 
 Eager for praise, the hideous host. 
 All spake, aspiring to the post. 
 
 Pride said, to gain his private ends. 
 He sacrific'd his dearest friends ; 
 Insulted all with manners rude. 
 And introduc'd ingratitude. 
 'Twas he infus'd domestick hate. 
 And party spirit in the state ; 
 Hop'd they'd observe his mystick plan, 
 
 Destroy'd 
 
io6 t\)t iBotoer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 Destroy'd all confidence in man ; 
 And justifi'd his high pretentions, 
 By causing envy and dissentions. 
 
 INTEMPERANCE loud, demands the 
 place, 
 He'd long deceiv'd the human race ; 
 None could such right as he maintain. 
 Disease and death were in his train. 
 
 THEFT next appears to claim the station, 
 E'er constant in his dark vocation ; 
 He thought the place might well repay, 
 The CRIME who labour'd night and day. 
 
 FRAUD own'd (tho' loth to speak his 
 praise) 
 He gain'd his point by secret ways ; 
 His voice in cities had been heard. 
 And oft in senates been preferr'd ! 
 Yet much derision had he borne, 
 Treated by honest fools with scorn ; 
 His influence on the western shore 
 Was not so great as heretofore : 
 He own'd each side alike assail'd, 
 Complain'd how sadly he was rail'd, 
 Curst by the name in ev'ry street. 
 
 Of 
 
tt)C jaotoer of ^^mpatlj^. 107 
 
 Of Paper, Tendry, Rogue and Cheat : 
 
 Yet if some honour should requite 
 
 His labour — things might still go right. 
 
 MURDER before the footstool stood, 
 With tatter'd robe distain'd in blood. 
 ' And who,' he cry'd, with daring face, 
 ' Denies my title to the place ? 
 ' My watchful eyes mankind survey, 
 ' And single out the midnight prey ; 
 ' No cowardlike I meet the foe, 
 ' With footsteps insecure and slow, 
 ' Or cause his death by languid strife — 
 ' Boldly this dagger ends his life. 
 'Give back, ye CRIMES, your claims resign, 
 ' For I demand the post as mine.' 
 
 AV'RICE declar'd his love of gold ; 
 His nation, or himself he sold ; 
 He taught the sin of PRIDE betimes ; 
 Was foster-father of all crimes : 
 He pawn'd his life ; he sak'd his soul. 
 And found employment for the whole : 
 Acknowleg'd that he gain'd his wealth, 
 By FRAUD, by MURDER; and by 
 STEALTH : 
 
 On 
 
io8 t\)e potocr of ^^mpatlj]?. 
 
 On one so useful to her cause, 
 VICE well might lavish due applause. 
 
 The hkgger'd host bow'd low the head. 
 The MONSTER rose, and thus she said : 
 ' Ye MINISTERS of VICE, draw near, 
 ' For fame no longer persevere ; 
 ' No more your various parts disclose, 
 
 ' Men SEE, AND HATE YOU ALL AS FOES. 
 
 ' One yet remains among your crew, 
 
 'Then rise, SEDUCTION ! claim your due. 
 
 ' Your baleful presence quickly parts 
 
 ' The tie that holds the happiest hearts ; 
 
 ' You ROB — what WEALTH can ne'er repay ; 
 
 ' Like JUDAS with a kiss betray : 
 
 ' Hence come the starving, trembling train, 
 
 ' Who prostitute themselves for gain, 
 
 ' Whose languid visages impart 
 
 ' A smile, while anguish gnaws the heart ; 
 
 ' Whose steps decoy unwary youth, 
 
 ' From honour, honesty, and truth, 
 
 ' Which follow'd 'till to late to mend, 
 
 ' In ruin, and the gallows end — 
 
 ' Be thine the post. Besides, who knows 
 
 ' When all thy consequences close ? 
 
 ' With thee, SEDUCTION ! are ally'd 
 
 ' HORROUR, DESPAIR and SUICIDE, 
 
 'You 
 
Clie pofcDcr of ^i^mpatti^. 109 
 
 ' You wound • — but the devoted heart 
 ' Feels not alone — the poignant smart : 
 ' You wound — th' electrick pain extends 
 ' To fathers, mothers, sisters, friends. 
 ' MURDER may yet delight in blood, 
 * And deluge round the crimson flood : 
 ' But sure his merits rank above, 
 ' Who murders in the mask of love.' 
 
 LETTER 
 
no t1)t ipotoer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 * 
 
 Myra to Mrs. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 IN one of my former letters I ac- 
 quainted you that I suspected my brother to 
 be in love, and now Madam, I am enabled to 
 tell you with whom — the amiable Harriot. 
 
 Harriot attended Mrs. Francis in her 
 journey to Rhodeisland, and our young hero 
 has, in her absence, been dreaming of his mis- 
 tress ; and, in a letter to her has written a 
 description of his visionary interview. Har- 
 riot, with whom I maintain a constant corres- 
 pondence, and who keeps no secret from me, 
 
 inclosed 
 
tl^t potoer of ^^mpatlis. 1 1 1 
 
 inclosed the verses in her last, when lo ! the 
 handwriting of Master Harrington. 
 
 I WAS a little mortified that the young 
 man had kept me in ignorance of his amour 
 all this time, and this morning determined 
 upon a little innocent revenge — " Tommy," 
 said I, as he entered the room, " here is a 
 piece of poetry, written by an acquaintance 
 of mine — I want your judgment on it" — 
 " Poetry or rhyme," answered he, advancing 
 towards me, and casting his eyes upon it — 
 He took the letter and began to read — 
 " Why do you blush, young man ? " said I, 
 " Harriot is a fine girl." — 
 
 THIS produced an eclaircissement, and as 
 the matter must remain secret, for a certain 
 weighty reason, I am to be the confidante. 
 
 I MUST acknowledge to you, Mrs. Holmes, 
 there is a certain/^ ne scais quoi in my ami- 
 able 
 
112 W\)t l^oiatt of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 able friend, that has always interested her in 
 my favour — I have an affection for her which 
 comes from the heart — an affection which 
 I do not pretend to account for — Her. de- 
 pendance upon Mrs. Francis hurts me — I do 
 not think this lady is the gentle, complaisant 
 being, that she appears to be in company — 
 To behold so fine a girl in so disagreeable a 
 situation, might at first attract my commisera- 
 tion and esteem, and a more intimate knowl- 
 edge of her virtues might have ripened them 
 into love. Certain it is, however, that whom 
 I admire a^ a friend, I could love as a 
 SISTER. In the feelings of the heart there 
 can be no dissimulation. 
 
 PLEASE to tell Mr. Worthy, he may con- 
 tinue to write, and that I will condescend to 
 read his letters. 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
tE^ljc potoci: of ^^mpatlis* 1 1 3 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 Worthy to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 I AM just returned from a melancholy ex- 
 cursion with Eliza. I will give you the his- 
 tory of it — We generally walk out together, 
 but we this time went further than usual — 
 The fnorning was calm and serene — all 
 Nature was flourishing, and its universal haf- 
 mony conspired to deceive us in the length of 
 the way. 
 
 WHILE we were pursuing our walk, our 
 ears were struck with a plaintive, musical 
 voice, singing a melancholy tune. — " This," 
 
 said 
 
114 ®^^ potocr of ^^rnpatl)^. 
 
 said Mrs. Holmes, " must be Fidelia — the 
 poor distracted girl was carried off by a ruf- 
 fian a few days before her intended marriage, 
 and her lover, in despair, threw himself into 
 the river," — Eliza could say no more — for 
 Fidelia resumed her melancholy strain in 
 the following words : — 
 
 TALL rose the lily's slender frame. 
 
 It shed a glad perfume ; 
 But ah ! the cruel spoiler came, 
 
 And nipt its opening bloom. 
 
 Curse on the cruel spoiler's hand 
 That stole thy bloom and fled — 
 
 Curse on his hand — for thy true love 
 Is number'd with the dead. 
 
 Poor maiden ! like the lily frail, 
 
 'Twas all in vain you strove ; 
 You heard the stranger's tender tale — 
 
 But where was thy true love ? 
 
 Thou wast unkind and false to him, 
 But he did constant prove ; 
 
 He 
 
t\)t |3otoer of ^^mpatlj^. 115 
 
 He plung'd headlong in the stream — 
 Farewel, f arewel, my love ! 
 
 'Twas where the river rolls along, 
 
 The youth all trembling stood, 
 Opprest with grief — he cast himself 
 
 Amidst the cruel flood. 
 
 White o'er his head the billows foam, 
 
 And circling eddies move ; 
 Ah 1 there he finds a watery tomb — 
 
 Farewel, farewel, my love ! 
 
 WE advanced towards the place from 
 where the sound issued, and Fidelia, who 
 heard our approach, immediately rose from 
 the ground ; " I was tired," said she, " and sat 
 down here to rest myself." 
 
 SHE was dressed in a long white robe, tied 
 about the waist with a pink ribband ; her fine 
 brown hair flowed loosely round her shoulders 
 — In her hahd she held a number of wild 
 
 flowers 
 
1 16 tl^t ^ofcDcr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 flowers and weeds, which she had been gath- 
 ering. " These," she cried, " are to make a 
 nosegay for my love." "He hath no occa- 
 sion for it," said Eliza. " Yes ! where he 
 hves," cried /^zflfe/2a, "there are plenty — and 
 flowers that never fade too — I will throw 
 them into the river, and they will swim to 
 him — they will go straight to him " — " And 
 what will he do with them ? " I asked; " O ! " 
 said the poor girl as she looked wistfully on 
 them, and sorted them in her hand, " he loves 
 everything that comes from me — he told me 
 so" — " He will be happy to receive them," 
 cried Eliza. " Where he is," said Fidelia, " is 
 happiness — and happy are the flowers that 
 bloom there — and happy shall I be, when I 
 go to him — alas ! I am very ill now " — " He 
 will love you again," said Eliza, " when you 
 find him out " — " O he was very kind," cried 
 she, tenderly, " he delighted to walk with me 
 over all these fields — but now, I am obliged 
 
 to 
 
t^t poiuer of ^^mpatljy. 1 1 7 
 
 to walk alone." Fidelia drew her hand across 
 her cheek, and we wept with her. — "I must 
 go," she said, " I must go," and turned ab- 
 ruptly from us, and left us with great precipi- 
 tation. 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
ii8 2:1)0 ^otDcc of ^^mpatl)?. 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 Worthy to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 MY melancholy meditations led me 
 yesterday to the same place where I had seen 
 the distracted Fidelia, and walking down the 
 hill I again beheld her by the side of a beauti- 
 ful spring — Before I could come up to the 
 place, she was gone — she went hastily over 
 the field — I followed her — after a few min- 
 utes walk, I overtook her, and we both went 
 on together towards a small, neat /farmhouse. 
 An old man was sitting at the door — he gave 
 a sigh as she passed him to go in — I asked 
 him if she was his daughter — " Alas ! " said 
 
 he, 
 
^\)e |0otoer of ^^mpatt)^. 1 19 
 
 he, " my poor child — she has been in this 
 state of affliction for near a twelve month." 
 I enquired what cause produced the loss of 
 her senses — He looked down sorrowfully — 
 the question awakened the gloomy sensations 
 of past evils, the recollection of which was 
 painful, and opened wounds afresh that were 
 not yet healed. '' She has lost her lover," 
 cried the old man — "the youth was the son 
 of one of our neighbours — their infancy was 
 marked by a peculiar attachment to each 
 other. When the young people danced to- 
 gether, Fidelia was always the partner of 
 Henry — as they grew up their mutual tender- 
 ness ripened into passionate affection. They 
 were engaged to each other, and Henry saved 
 all his little stock of money to begin the 
 world by himself. All the town beheld them 
 with pleasure — they wished them success and 
 happiness — and from their knowledge of 
 both their characters, were led to hope they 
 
 would 
 
I20 t\)t potoer of ^^mpatlj?. 
 
 would one day become good members of 
 society — but these hopes are blasted, and 
 they now bestow the bitterest curses on the 
 wretch who hath crushed their expectations — 
 who hath deprived Fidelia of her senses, and 
 caused the death of her lover. 
 
 "THE gay Williams comes among us, and 
 participates in our domestick pastimes — he 
 singles out Fidelia, and is assiduous in his at- 
 tentions to her — her little heart is lifted up 
 — but her prudence rises ^uperior to her van- 
 ity. Henry observes the operations of Wil- 
 liams and thinks he sees in him a powerful 
 rival — the unhappy youth becomes melan- 
 choly — he sickens with jealousy — the pleas- 
 ures of our country are forgotten by him — 
 his thoughts are constantly employed on his 
 Fidelia. — To complete the measure of his 
 promised happiness he wishes to call her his 
 own — he declares the desire of his soul — 
 
 Fidelia 
 
t\)t poinei: of §>^mpatlj^. 
 
 121 
 
 Fidelia pledges her faith. He now sees the 
 accomplishment of all his wishes in reversion 
 
 — his heart leaps for joy — but — as the little 
 paraphernalia is preparing, the rufifian hand of 
 the Seducer dashes the cup of joy from their 
 lips — Fidelia suddenly disappears — Williams 
 
 — the ungrateful Williams — betrays her to 
 a carriage he had prepared, and she is hurried 
 off. Henry stands astonished — wild with 
 grief and dismay, he appears senseless and 
 confounded. 
 
 " WHEN the heart is elevated by strong 
 expectation — disappointment and misfortune 
 come with redoubled force. — To receive pain, 
 when we look for pleasure, .penetrates the 
 very soul with accumulated anguish." 
 
 THE old man paused — He endeavoured 
 to hide a tear that was stealing down his 
 
 cheek 
 
122 t^t jBotocr of ^^mputyi, 
 
 cheek — and to check the violence of his pas- 
 sion. 
 
 I ASKED him how long his daughter was 
 missing — "Not long," he answered — "the 
 young men, enraged at the insult, arm them- 
 selves and pursue the robber — they overtake 
 him — Williams is wounded in the scuffle, 
 and is carried away bleeding, by his servant 
 
 — My daughter is regained — we thank 
 Heaven for her restoration. She enquires for 
 her Henry — alas ! Henry is no more ! The 
 object of his love had flown from him, and 
 with her the light of his soul — Darkness and 
 grief liad encompassed him — he had no re- 
 source, no consolation, no hope — she, whom 
 his soul loved was stolen — was wrested from 
 his embrace. Who was there to administer 
 rehef ? — Who was there to supply her loss? 
 
 — Not one. — the light of his reason now be- 
 came clouded — he is seized by despair, and 
 
 urged 
 
2^1)0 |0otoer of ^^mpatl)^. 123 
 
 urged forward by the torments of disappointed 
 love, he plunges into the riyer — to close his 
 sorrows with his life. 
 
 " THE loss of Fidelias senses followed this 
 tragical event. 
 
 " SHE hears the fate of her lover and be- 
 comes petrified — the idea of her sorrows — 
 her own agitation and care for her person, 
 are lost in the reflection of her lover's death. 
 — A while she raved — but this is now some- 
 what restored, and, as you see, the poor mani- 
 ack strays about the fields harmless and inof- 
 fensive." 
 
 THE old man proceeded to inform me of 
 the death of his wife — the idea of one mis- 
 fortune aroused in him that of another — or 
 rather there was a gradual progression in 
 them, and consequently a connexion — He 
 
 told 
 
1 24 t\)t potoer of g)^mpatl)^. 
 
 told me she did not long survive the death of 
 Henry. " O Charlotte I " he cried, " thdu wast 
 kind and cheerful — very pleasant hast thou 
 been unto me. I will not cease to regret thy 
 loss, till I meet thee in a better world." 
 
 " OUR hearts," continued the old man, ad- 
 dressing me, "are loosened from their attach- 
 ment to this world by repeated strokes of mis- 
 fortune. Wisely is it ordered thus. Every 
 calamity severs a string from the heart — un- 
 til one scene of sorrow on the back of a,nother 
 matures us for eternity — Thus are our affec- 
 tions estranged from this scene of misery. 
 The cord that detains the bird is severed in 
 two — and it flies away. 
 
 " FORMERLY as I sat in this place — in 
 the mild shade of the evening — when I had 
 returned from my labour and took Fidelia on 
 my knee, how often have I rendered thanks 
 
 to 
 
Z\)t laofcoer of §>^mpatl)^. 125 
 
 to Heaven for the happiness I enjoyed, and 
 implored His power to make my child such 
 another as Charlotte — This sweet remem- 
 brance yet swells and agitates my heart, and in 
 the midst of the distress which surrounds me, I 
 feel a consolation in tracing to you a feeble 
 sketch of the happy times that are passed." 
 
 THE old man was sensibly affected — he de- 
 lighted to dwell on what his child had been-^ — 
 he thought of those times — and he sighed 
 when he contrasted them with the present. 
 
 "IN her disordered state," continued he, 
 "she knows me not as a, father — I spread my 
 morsel before her, and she flies from it — she 
 forgets the sound of my voice — she is no 
 longer unto me as a daughter. She who hath 
 so tjften said, she would support me with her 
 arm, and lead me about, when I should be 
 old and decrepit — to her I call, but she re- 
 turns 
 
126 t.\)t potoer of ^pmpatl)^, 
 
 turns me no answer. Is not the cause of my 
 woes, a melancholy instance of the baleful art 
 of the SEDUCER ? — She is deprived of her 
 reason, and knows not the weight of her 
 misery ; and I am doubly deadened with her 
 affliction, and the accumulated misfortune of 
 immature decrepitude." 
 
 "SEDUCTION is a crime," I observed, 
 " that nothing can be said to palliate or ex- 
 cuse." 
 
 " AND WOE to him," added the old man, 
 " who shall endeavour to extenuate it -■ — T/tey 
 have taken away my staff'^ — continued he, 
 raising a look of imploring mercy to Heaven, 
 while a trembling tear rolled from his swollen 
 
 eye, '■ They have taken away my staff in m,y old 
 
 •it 
 age. 
 
 FREELY did my heart share in the sor- 
 rows of the good old man — when I left him, 
 
 I prayed 
 
t\)t |0oiBcr of ^smpatt)?, 127 
 
 I prayed Heaven to compassionate his dis- 
 tress — and as I "bent my pensive step towards 
 Belleview, I had leisure to animadvert on the 
 fatal tendency of SEDUCTION. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 End of Vol. I. 
 
The Power of Sympathy. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
THE POWER OF SYMPATHY 
 or, the Triumph of Nature. 
 Founded in Truth. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. PEREZ MORTON 
 
 (SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORp). 
 WM Frontispiece. 
 
 BOSTON: PKINTED-BY-CUPPLESi 
 & PATTERSON *ANi>-rUBLISH- 
 ED*BY'TMEn-AT-THE-BACK 
 BAY- BOOKSTORE * 230 • BOYU 
 STON' STREET 
 
Copyright, 1894, 
 By Walter Littlefield, 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
THE 
 
 POWER OF SYMPATHY: 
 
 OR. THE 
 
 TRIUMPH OF NATURE. 
 
 FOUNDED IN TRUTH. 
 
 I N TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. n. 
 
 Fain would he ftrew Life's thorny Way with Flowers, 
 And open to your View Elyfian Bowers ; 
 Catch the warm Pailions of the tender Touth, 
 And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth. 
 
 PRINTED at BOSTOM 
 
 BY ISAIAH THOMAS and Company. 
 
 Sold at their Bookftore, No. 45, Newbury Street, 
 
 And W faid Thomas's Bookftore in Worcester. 
 
 MDCCLXXXIX. 
 
The Power of Sympathy. 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 I AM sometimes mortified to 
 find the books which I recommend to your 
 perusal, are not always applicable to the situ- 
 ation of an American lady. The general 
 observations of some English books are the 
 most useful things contained in them ; the 
 principal parts being chiefly, filled with local 
 descriptions, which a young woman here is 
 •frequently at a loss to understand. 
 
 I SEND 
 
2 t^i)t l^oiatt of ^^mpatt)^. 
 
 I SEND you a little work, entitled ''A lady 
 of Quality's Advice to her Children " which, 
 though not altogether free from this exception, 
 is highly worthy of your attention. A parent 
 who is represented struggling with the dis- 
 tress of a lingering illness, bequeaths a system 
 of education to her offspring. I do not rec- 
 ommend it to you as a Novel, but as a work 
 that speaks the language of the heart and 
 that inculcates the duty we owe to ourselves, 
 to society and the Deity. 
 
 DIDACTICK essays are not always cap- 
 able of engaging the attention of young 
 ladies. We fly from the laboured precepts of 
 the essayist, to the sprightly narrative of the 
 novelist. Habituate your mind to remark the 
 difference between truth and fiction. You 
 will then always be enabled to judge of the 
 propriety and justness of a thought ; and 
 never be misled to form wrong opinions, by 
 
 the 
 
tirije l^otoer of ^^mpatl)^* 3 
 
 the meretricious dress of a pleasing tale. You 
 will then be capable of deducing the most 
 profitable lessons of instruction, and the de- 
 sign of your readhig will be fully accom- 
 plished. — 
 
 HENCE you will be provided with a key to 
 the characters of men : To unlock these cu- 
 rious cabinets is a very useful, as well as 
 entertaining employment. Of those insid- 
 ious gentlemen, who plan their advances 
 towards us on the Chesterfieldian system, let 
 me advise you to beware. A prudent com- 
 mander would place a double watch, if he 
 apprehended the enemy were more disposed 
 to take the fort by secrecy and undermining, 
 than by an open assault. 
 
 I CANNOT but smile sometimes, to ob- 
 serve the ridiculous figure of some of our 
 young gentlemen^ who affect to square their 
 
 conduct 
 
4 t^t ^otDer of §>^inpatl)?. 
 
 conduct by his Lordship's principles of 
 politeness — they never tell a story unless it 
 be very short — they talk of decorum and the 
 etiquette — they detest everything vulgar or 
 common — they are on the rack if an old man 
 should let fall a proverb — and a thousand 
 more trifling affectations, the ridicule of 
 which arises, not so much from their put- 
 ting on this foreign dress, as from their ignor- 
 ance or vanity in pretending to imitate those 
 rules which were designed for an English 
 nobleman — Unless, therefore, they have a 
 prospect of being called by Congress to exe- 
 cute some foreign negotiation, they ought 
 certainly to be minding their business. 
 
 THIS affectation of fine breeding is de- 
 structive to morals. Dissimulation and insin- 
 cerity are connected with its tenets ; and are 
 mutually inculcated with the art of pleasing. 
 
 A PERSON 
 
tf)t |0otoa: of ^^mpatl)^. 5 
 
 A PERSON of this character grounds his 
 motives for pleasing on the most selfish prin- 
 ciple — He is polite, not for the honour of 
 obliging you, as he endeavours to make you 
 believe, but that he himself might be obliged. 
 Suspect^him, therefore, of insincerity and 
 treachery, who sacrifices truth to complai- 
 sance, and advises you to. the pursuit of an ob- 
 ject, which would tend to his advantage. 
 
 ALWAYS distinguish the man of sense 
 from the cox-comb. Mr. Worihy is possessed 
 of a good understanding, and an exact judge- 
 ment. If you are united with him, let it be 
 the study of your life to preserve his love and 
 esteem. His amiable character is adorned 
 with modesty and a disposition to virtue and 
 sobriety. I never anticipate your future hap- 
 piness, but I contemplate this part of his 
 character with pleasure. But remember the 
 fidelity of a wife alone, will not always secure 
 
 the 
 
6 ti\t pofcDcr of §)rmpatt)^. 
 
 the esteem of a husband ; when her personal 
 attractions do not continue to delight his eye, 
 she will flatter his judgement. I think you are 
 enabled to perform this, because you are solic- 
 itous to supply your mind with those amiable 
 qualities which are more durable than beauty. 
 When you are no longer surrounded with a 
 flattering circle of young men, and the world 
 shall cease to call you beautiful, your company 
 will be courted by men of sense, who know 
 the value of your conversation. 
 
 I AM pleased with the conduct of some 
 agreeable girls, and the return of civility and 
 attention they often make to the conceited 
 compliments of a certain class of beaux. 
 These ladies wisely consider them as the 
 butterflies of a day, and therefore generally 
 scorn /o break them on a wheel ! 
 
 WHEN you are in company, when the vain 
 
 and 
 
Zift potocr of ^^mpatlj^. 7 
 
 and thoughtless endeavour to shew their inge- 
 nuity by ridiculing particular orders of men, 
 your prudence will. dictate to you not to coun- 
 tenance their abuse — The book I have just 
 mentioned, intimates, that " there are a great 
 many things done and said in company which 
 a woman of virtue will neither see nor hear." 
 — To d iscountenance levity, is a sure way to 
 guard against the encroachment of tempta- 
 tion; to parcipitate in the mirth of a buffoon, 
 is to render yourself equally ridiculous. We 
 owe to ourselves a detestation of folley, and to 
 the world, the appearance of it. I would have 
 you avoid coquetry and affectation, and the 
 observance of my maxims will never make 
 you a prude — Pretend, therefore, should a 
 vain youth throw out illiberal sarcasms against 
 Mechanicks, Lawyers, Ministers, Virtue, Re- 
 ligion, or any serious subject, not to compre- 
 hend the point of his wit. 
 
 HAVE 
 
8 ®lj0 |3otoer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 I HAVE seldom spoken to you on the im- 
 portance of Religion, and the veneration due 
 to the characters of the Clergy. I always sup- 
 posed your good sense capable of suggesting 
 their necessity and eligibility. The Ministers 
 of no nation are more remarkable for learning 
 and piety than those of this country. The 
 fool may pretend to scorn, and the irreligious 
 to contemn, but every person of sense and 
 reflection must admire that sacred order, 
 whose business is to inform the understand- 
 ing, and regulate the passions of mankind. 
 Surely, therefore, that class of men, will con- 
 tinue to merit our esteem and affection, while 
 virtue remains upon earth. 
 
 I AM always pleased with the reasonable 
 and amiable light in which the Clergy are 
 placed by the author of the Guardian — " The 
 light," says he, " in which these points should 
 be exposed to the view of one who is preju- 
 diced 
 
tKlje poiDtt of ^pmpat^?. 9 
 
 diced against the names, Religion, Church, 
 Priest, or the Hke, is to consider the Clergy as 
 so many Philosophers, the Churches as 
 Schools, and their Sermons as Lectures for 
 the improvement and information of the au- 
 dience. How would the heart of Tully or Soc- 
 rates have rejoiced, had they lived in a nation 
 where the law had made provision for philoso- 
 phers to read lectures of philosophy; every 
 seventh day, in several thousands of schools, 
 erected at the publick charge, throughout the 
 whole country, at which lectures, all ranks 
 and sexes, without distinction, were obliged 
 to be present, for their .general improve- 
 ment ? " 
 
 YOU may, perhaps, think this letter too| 
 serious, but remember that virtue and religion 
 are the foundation of education. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 LETTER 
 
10 <t\)t potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 YOU will observe, my dear 
 friend, that most of the letters I have written 
 to you of late, on female education', are con- 
 fined to the subject of study. I am sensible 
 of the ridicule sometimes levelled at those 
 who are called learned ladies. Either these 
 ladies must be uncommonly pedantick, or 
 those who ridicule them, uncommonly igno- 
 rant — Do not be apprehensive of acquiring 
 that title, or sharing the ridicule, but remem- 
 ber that the knowledge which I wish you to 
 acquire, is necessary to adorn your many vir- 
 tues 
 
t.\)t potoer of ^^mpatlj^. 1 1 
 
 tues and amiable qualifications. This ridicule 
 is evidently a trans-Atlantick idea, and must 
 have been imbibed from the source of some 
 English Novel or Magazine — The American 
 ladies of this class, who come within our 
 knowledge, we know to be justly celebrated 
 as ornajnentsjto^society, and an honour to the 
 sex. . When it is considered how many of our 
 countrywomen are capable of the task, it is 
 a matter of regret that American literature 
 boasts so few productions from the pens of the 
 ladies. 
 
 SELF complacency is a most necessary 
 acquirement — for the value of a woman will 
 always be commensurate to the opinion she 
 entertains of herself. A celebrated European 
 wit, in a letter to a lady, concentres much 
 good advice in the short rule of conduct: 
 " Reverence Thyself." 
 
 I WAS 
 
1 2 t\)t ^o\sizt of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 I WAS this morning reading Swift's letter 
 to a very young lady, on her marriage. Al- 
 though this famous writer is not celebrated 
 for delicacy or respect towards us, yet I wish 
 • some of his observations contained less truth 
 — If you are in company, says this writer, 
 when the conversation turns on the manners 
 and customs of remote nations, or on books in 
 verse or prose, or on the nature and limits of 
 virtue and. vice, it is a shame for a lady not to 
 relish such discourses, not to improve by 
 them, and endeavour by reading and informa- 
 tion, to have her share in those entertain- 
 ments, rather than turn aside, as is the usual 
 custom, and consult with the woman who sits 
 next her, about a new cargo of fans. 
 
 HE' then descends to particulars, and insists 
 on the necessity of orthography. Is it not a 
 little hard, continues he, that not one gentle- 
 man's daughter in a thousand should be 
 
 brought 
 
t^e ^oiDtt of ^^mpatl)^. 13 
 
 brought to read or understand her own natu- 
 ral tongue, or be judge of the easiest books 
 that are written in it ; as any one may find, 
 who can have the patience to hear them man- 
 gle a Play or a Novel ? 
 
 IF there be any of your acquaintance to 
 whom this passage is applicable, I hope you 
 will recommend the study of Mr. Webster s 
 Grammatical Institute, as the best work in our 
 language to facilitate the knowledge of Gram- 
 mar. I cannot but think Mr. Webster in- 
 tended his valuable book for the benefit of his 
 countrywomen: For while he delivers his 
 rules in a pure, precise, and elegant style, he 
 explains his meaning by examples which are 
 calculated to inspire the female mind with a 
 thirst for emulation, and a desire of virtue. 
 
 NO subject has been more exhausted than 
 that of education. * Many Utopian schemes 
 
 have 
 
14 t^t potoer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 have been delineated, and much speculation 
 employed. When I peruse these labours, and 
 am persuaded the intention of their authors is 
 ta^jzomote ou-F-welfare, I feel myself prompted 
 to a prudent and amiable demeanour ; and I 
 suppose every woman of reason and reflection 
 feels the same inclination to virtue, and the 
 same sensations of gratitude in reading the 
 works of those writers, the characteristicks of 
 whom, are sentiment, morality and benevo- 
 lence. 
 
 WHAT books do you read, my dear ? We 
 are now finishing Barlow s Vision of Colum- 
 bus, and shall begin upon DwigMs Conquest 
 of Canaan in a few days. It is very agreeable 
 to read with one, who points out the beauties 
 of the author as we proceed. Such a one is 
 Worthy. — Sometimes Mr. Holmes makes one 
 of our party, and his notes and references to 
 the ancient poets are very entertaining. 
 
 Worthy 
 
ti^ potoer of §>vmpatt)^. 15 
 
 Worthy is delighted with the ease and freedom 
 with which we Hve here. We have little 
 concerts, we walk, we ride, we read, we have 
 good company — this is Belleview in all its 
 glory. 
 
 ADIEU, my dear — I shall continue this 
 subject no longer, though I flatter myself you 
 would receive my hints with satisfaction,' be- 
 cause you must be persuaded I love you, and 
 so interest myself in your welfare — I need 
 not add that I think your conduct worthy of 
 you. You are such a good girl that I know 
 not in what to direct you ; for you leave me 
 no room for advice — continue to anticipate 
 the desires of my heart, and secure the high 
 opinion you have there obtained. 
 
 Your friend forever ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
1 6 ^l)E l^oioer of §>^mpat|)^» 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 IF the affair of your brother 
 and Harriot be serious, and matrimony is 
 really on the tapis, do not fail to make me 
 previously acquainted with it. — I very much 
 doubt the evidence of the verses — they 
 weigh little in my mind — and he is easily ex- 
 cused for sending them to so fine a girl as 
 Harriot. 
 
 YOUR observations on her dependence on 
 Mrs. Francis do honour to your heart — virtue 
 does not consist in affluence and indepen- 
 dence 
 
tlft laotoer of §>^mpatt)v» 17 
 
 / 
 
 dence — nor can it be reflected on us by the 
 glory of our connexions — those who pride 
 themselves on it, make but an indifferent fig- 
 ure ; for in the estimation of all sensible peo- 
 ple — true merit is personal. 
 
 HOWEVER, my dear friend, as one who 
 wishes for your welfare and the happiness of 
 your family, I advise you to discourage the 
 proposed connexion — and if you cannot un- 
 dertake this disagreeable talk with a certain of 
 success^ do not fail to acquaint me of it speedily. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
1 8 €^t potDfr of ^^xttpuif^. 
 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 WHAT ails my heart ? I feel 
 a void here — and yet I verge towards my 
 happiness — for a few days makes Harriot 
 mine — Myra say I had better not marry her. 
 What could prompt her to use such an ex- 
 pression ? Better not marry her. She has 
 repeated it several times — and with too much 
 eagerness — I give no heed to it — and yet, 
 why should it affect me in this manner? Is it 
 an artifice to fathom the depth of my love? 
 
 Such 
 
Z\)e |0otDer of g>Bmpatl)?. 19 
 
 Such schemes are my utter aversion^— it dis- 
 turbs me — I hate such artifice — You cannot 
 imagine how it touches my heart. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
20 &it potoer of ^^mpW^* 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 IT is the duty of friends to be in- 
 terested in all the concerns of one another — 
 to join in their joys and to avert the stroke of 
 danger. It is the duty of a centinel to give 
 the alarm at the approach of what he may 
 think such — and if the result does not prove 
 to be a real evil — he has but performed his 
 duty, and the action is meritorious. 
 
 IF your exertions to countermine the con- 
 nexion of your brother with Harriot should 
 
 prove 
 
turtle potocr of ^smpatl)?. 2 1 
 
 prove ineffectual (and do not fail to acquaint 
 me with it either way) I have a tale to 
 UNFOLD which may possibly forbid the 
 banns. 
 
 LETTER 
 
22 t\)t ^poiuer of ^^mpat|i^» 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 Harringtori to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I FIND my temper grown ex- 
 tremely irritable — my sensibility is wounded 
 at the slightest neglect — I am very tenacious 
 of everything, and of everybody. 
 
 A PARTY was made yesterday to go on 
 the water ; I was omitted, and the neglect 
 hurt me. I inquired the cause, and what 
 think you is the answer ? "I am no company 
 — I am asked a question and return nothing 
 to the point — I am absent — I am strangely 
 altered within a few days — I am thinking of 
 
 a different 
 
2:t)e potDcr of ^vtttpatl)^« 23 
 
 a different subject when I ought to be em- 
 ployed in conversation — I am extravagant in 
 my observations — I am no company." 
 
 THEY would persuade me I am little 
 better than a mad man — I have no patience 
 with their nonsensical replies — Such wise- 
 acres dp not deserve my pity. 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
2 4 2:t)c potocr of ^^mpatl)?. 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 Myra to Mrs. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 YOUR letter is filled with such 
 ambiguous expressions that I am utterly at a 
 loss to discover your meaning. 
 
 I HAVE, however, sounded him on the 
 article of marriage, and the result is — he 
 loves Harriot most passionately — and on 
 account of my father's aversion to early mar- 
 riage, will marry her privately in a few days. 
 
 THE oftener 1 read your letter, the more 
 .1 am perplexed and astonished : " You 
 
 HAVE 
 
Z\)t poiuer of ^^mpatlj^. 25 
 
 HAVE A TALE TO UNFOLD " — For Heavcn's 
 sake then unfold it, before it be too late 
 — and as you dread the consequence of 
 keeping it secret, by disclosing it to me, you 
 will prevent the mischief, you so much depre- 
 cate — I am all impatience. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
26 ^^t ipotoei: of ^^mpatliB. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I HAVE just left Harriot — but 
 how have I left her ? In tears. I wish I had 
 not gone. Mrs. Francis had intrusted Har- 
 riot with some trifling commission — It was 
 not done — she had not had time to perform 
 it. Harriot was reprimanded — Yes ! by 
 Heaven — this Mrs. Francis had the insolence 
 to reprimand Harriot in my presence — I was 
 mortified — I walked to the window — my 
 heart was on fire — my blood boiled in my 
 veins — it is impossible to form an idea of the 
 disorder of my nerves — Harriot's were 
 
 equally 
 
Z\)t laotoer of ^^nqjatt)^* 27 
 
 equally agitated — Mrs. Francis saw our con- 
 fusion and retired — she left me so completely 
 out of temper that I was forced to follow her 
 example. I kissed away the tear from the 
 cheek of Harriot and withdrew to my ( 
 chamber. 
 
 HERE let me forget what has passed — 
 my irritability will not permit me — my feel- 
 ings are too easily set in motion to enjoy long 
 quietness — my nerves are delicately strung; 
 they are now out of tune, and it is a hard 
 matter to harmonize them. 
 
 I FEEL that I have a soul — and every man 
 of sensibility feels it within himself. I will re- 
 late a circumstance I met with in my late 
 travels through Southcarolina — I was always 
 susceptible of touches of nature. 
 
 I HAD often remarked a female slave pass 
 
 b' 
 
2 8 ^\)t )SotDer of ^^mpatl^^. 
 
 by my window to a spring to fetch water. 
 She had something in her air superior to 
 those of her situation — a fire that the damps 
 of slavery had not extinguished. 
 
 AS I was one day walking behind her, the 
 wind blew her tattered handkerchief from her 
 neck and exposed it to my sight. I asked 
 her the cause of the scar on her shoulder. 
 She answered composedly, and with an earn- 
 estness that proved she was not ashamed to 
 declare it — " It is the mark of the whip," 
 said she, and went on with the history of it, 
 without my desiring her to proceed— " My 
 -boy, of about ten years old, was unlucky 
 enough to break a glass tumbler — this crime 
 was immediately looked into — I trembled for 
 the fate of my child, and was thought to be 
 guilty. I did not deny the charge, and was 
 tied up. My former good character availed 
 nothing. Under every affliction, we may re- 
 ceive 
 
tKIje pototx of §>^mpatft^. 29 
 
 ceive consolation; and during the smart of 
 the whip, I rejoiced — because I shielded with 
 my body the lash from my child ; and I rend- 
 ered thanks to the Best of Beings that I was 
 allowed to suffer for him." 
 
 " HEROICALLY spoken ! " said I, " may 
 He whom you call the Best of Beings continue 
 you in the same sentiments — may thy soul 
 be ever disposed to _ sympathize with thy 
 children, and with thy brethren and sisters in 
 calamity — then shalt thou feel every circum- 
 stance of thy life afford the satisfaction ; and 
 repining and melancholy shall fly from thy 
 bosom — all thy labours will become easy — 
 all thy burdens light, and the yoke of slavery 
 will never gall thy neck." 
 
 I WAS sensibly relieved as I pronounced 
 these words, and I felt my heart glow with 
 feelings of exquisite delight, as I anticipated 
 
 the 
 
30 23)0 jaotoer of g>^mpatl)iJ» 
 
 the happy time when the sighs of the slave 
 shall no longer expire in the air of freedom. 
 What delightful sensations are those in which 
 the heart is interested! In which it stoops to 
 enter into the little concerns of the most re- 
 mote ramification of Nature ! Let the vain, 
 the giddy, and the proud pass on without 
 deigning to notice them — let them cheat 
 themselves of happiness — these are circum- 
 stances which are important only to a senti- 
 mental traveller. 
 
 HAIL sensibility 1 Sweetener of the joys 
 of life ! Heaven has implanted thee in the 
 breasts of his children — to soothe the sor- 
 rows of the afiflicted — to mitigate the wounds 
 of the stranger who falleth in our way. Thou 
 regardest with an eye of pity, those whom 
 wealth and ambition treat in terms of reproach. 
 Away, ye seekers of power — ye boasters of 
 wealth — ye are the Levite and the Pharisee, 
 
 who 
 
®l)e potoer of §)^mpatl)^, 31 
 
 who restrain the hand of charity from the in- 
 digent, and turn with indignation from the 
 way-worn son of misery : — But Sensibility is 
 the good Samaritan, who taketh him by the 
 hand, and. consoleth him, and poureth wine 
 and oil into his wounds. Thou art a pleas- 
 ant companion — a grateful friend — and a 
 neighbour to those who are destitute of shel- 
 ter. — 
 
 FROM thee! Author of Nature! from] 
 thee, thou inexhaustible spring of love su- 
 preme, floweth this tide of affection and sym- 
 pathy — thou whose tender care extendeth to 
 the least of thy creatures — and whose eye is 
 not inattentive even though a sparrow fall to i 
 the ground. 
 
 LETTER 
 
32 t\)t poiner of gj^mpatli^. 
 
 LETTER XXXVII. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview, 1 2 d clock at night. 
 
 I CANNOT rest — this affair 
 lies so heavy on my mind, that sleep flies 
 from my eye-lids. Your brother must discon- 
 tinue his addresses to Harriot — with what 
 should I not have to upbraid myself, if, through 
 my remissness — your brother marries his 
 sister ! GREAT God ! of what materials hast 
 thou compounded the hearts of thy creatures ! 
 admire, O, my friend! the operation of NA- 
 TURE— and the power of SYMPATHY ! 
 
 Harriot 
 
tf)e potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 33 
 
 HarriotlS YOUR SISTER! I dispatch 
 the bearer at this late hour to confide in your 
 bosom the important secret ! 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
34 ^bt potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Myra to Mrs. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 ACCEPT my warmest acknowl- 
 edgment, my good friend, for your kindness. 
 — Your letter sufficiently explains your 
 former anxiety — it has removed all ambi- 
 guities. 
 
 YOUR servant entered hastily with the 
 letter — and gave it me with evident tokens 
 of its containing a matter of importance. — 
 My father was present — I broke it open, not 
 without agitation — I read it — but the shock 
 was too severe — it fell from my hands, and I 
 sunk into the chair. 
 
 MY 
 
t^t poiuer of S>^mpatt)^. 35 
 
 MY fainting was not of any duration. I 
 opened my eyes and found my father support- 
 ing me — but the idea of Harriot was still 
 engraven deeply in my heart. — I inquired 
 for my sister — the tear rolled down his 
 cheek— it was a sufficient answer to my in- 
 quiry. — He said nothing — there was no ne- 
 cessity of his saying a word. 
 
 COULD I ask him to explain your letter? 
 No — my heart anticipated his feelings — the 
 impropriety struck me at once. " You have a 
 tale to unfold." Do not delay to unfold it. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
36 Z\)t J3otoer of ^^mpatl)?. 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 I READILY undertake to give 
 you a sketch of the history of Harriot. Her 
 mother's name was Maria Fawcet; her per- 
 son I yet recollect, and forgive me if I drop a 
 tear of pity at the recital of her misfortunes. 
 
 MY mother and Mrs. Holmes were remark- 
 able friends, and the intimacy, you know, was 
 maintained between the two families. I was 
 on a visit with my mother when the destiny 
 of Maria led her to Belleview. I was fre- 
 quently 
 
ti)t |0otoer of g>^mpatl))?. 37 
 
 quently there during her illness — and was 
 with her in her last moments. 
 
 IT was the custom of Mrs. Holmes to walk 
 in the garden towards the close of the day. 
 She was once indulging her usual walk, when 
 she was alarmed by the complaints of a 
 woman which came from the road. Pity and 
 humanity were ever peculiar characteristicks 
 of my amiable parent — She hastened to the 
 place whence the sound issued, and beheld a 
 young woman, bathed in tears sitting on the 
 ground. She inquired the cause of her dis- 
 tress, with that eager solicitude to relieve, 
 which a sight so uncommon would naturally 
 occasion. It was sometime before the dis- 
 tressed woman could return an intelligible 
 answer, and then she with difficulty pro- 
 ceeded : " Your goodness. Madam, is unmer- 
 ited — you behold a stranger, without home 
 — without friends — and whose misery bears 
 
 her 
 
38 Z\)t ^Botoet: of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 her down to an untimely grave — Life is a 
 blessing — but my life is become burthen- 
 some, and were the Almighty this moment to 
 command me to the world of spirits, methinks 
 I could gladly obey the summons, and rejoice 
 in the stroke which bade me depart from sor- 
 row and the world." Moderate your grief, 
 my dear woman, repine not at the will of 
 Providence, nor suffer yourself to despair, 
 however severe your misfortunes. 
 
 THE unfortunate woman was at length 
 prevailed on to accompany Mrs. Holmes into 
 the house, she partook of some refreshment 
 and retired to sleep. In a few days she 
 appeared to be better ; but it was a tem- 
 porary recovery ; she then told her story, 
 with frequent interruptions, in substance as 
 follows : — 
 
 J^tstorp 
 
t\)z |0otDcr of ^SJKpatl)^. 39 
 
 J^istor^ of sparta. 
 
 " I DATE the rise of my misfor- 
 tunes, "said Maria, " at the beginning of my 
 acquaintance with the Honourable Mr. Har- 
 rington. — But for his soHcitations I might 
 still have lived in peace — a sister would not 
 have had occasion to blush at the sound of my 
 name — nor had a mother's pillow been 
 steeped in tears, too fondly prone to remem- 
 ber a graceless but repenting child — We 
 lived happily together in the days of my 
 father, but when it pleased Providence to re- 
 move him, we no longer asserted our preten- 
 sions to that rank of life which our straitened 
 finances were unable to continue. — A young 
 woman in no eligible circumstances, has much 
 to apprehend from the solicitations of a man 
 of affluence. I am now better persuaded of 
 
 this 
 
40 t\)t laotDer of g)^mpatl)?. 
 
 this truth, than I ever was before — for this 
 was my unhappy situation — I always enter- 
 tained a predilection for Mr. Harrington — 
 he urged his passion with protestations of 
 sincerity and affection — he found my heart 
 too slightly guarded — he strove — he tri- 
 umphed. 
 
 MUST I proceed! 
 
 "A SMILING female was the offspring 
 of our illicit connexion — Ah ! my little Har- 
 riot ! " continued Maria, as she wiped away a 
 tear from her eye, " mayest thou enjoy that 
 happiness which is denied to thy mother." 
 
 " OUR amour was not fated to last long — 
 I discovered his gay temper to be materially 
 altered — he was oftentimes thoughtful and 
 melancholy, and his visits became suddenly 
 shorter, and less frequent. 
 
 "I AFTERWARDS 
 
&)t potDer of ^^mpatl)^. 41 
 
 " I AFTERWARDS thought this change 
 of conduct owing to jealousy — for he once 
 asked me if a gentleman had called upon me 
 — I persisted — I persisted in avowing my 
 abhorrence of his ungenerous suspicion — He 
 left me abruptly, and I saw nothing of him 
 after. 
 
 "A STROKE so unexpected fell heavy on 
 my heart — it awakened me to the state of 
 misery into which my imprudence had hurried 
 me. — What recompense could I expect from 
 my Seducer ? — He had been married two 
 years — From the inflexibility of his temper I 
 had little to hope, and I formed a determina- 
 tion of leaving town, for I had now indubi- 
 table testimony of his affection being es- 
 tranged from me — half frantick, I immedi- 
 ately set out — but whither I knew not — I 
 walked with precipitation until Providence 
 directed me to your hospitable door: To 
 
 your 
 
42 ^Ije IBotuei: of ^^mpatt)^. 
 
 your goodness, Madam, I am indebted for pro- 
 longing my existence a/^w days: For amidst 
 the kindness and civilities of those around me, 
 I feel myself rapidly verging towards the 
 grave. I prepare myself for my approaching 
 fate — and daily wait the stroke of death with 
 trembling expectation." 
 
 SHE wrote to Mr. Harrington about a 
 week before her decease — I transcribe the 
 Letter : — 
 
 " The Hon. Mr. Harrington. 
 
 "To the man for whom my bleeding 
 heart yet retains its wonted affection, though 
 the author of my guilt and misery, do I ad- 
 dress my feeble complaint — O ! Harrington^ 
 I am verging to a long eternity — and it is 
 with difficulty I support myself while my 
 trembling hand traces the dictates of my 
 
 heart 
 
heart. Indisposed as I am — and unable as I 
 feel to prosecute this talk — I however collect 
 all my powers to bid you a long — a final fare- 
 wel. 
 
 " OH ! Harrington, I am about to depart 
 — for why should I tarry here ? In bitter 
 tears of sorrow do I weep away the night, 
 and the returning day but augments the an- 
 guish of my heart, by recalling to view the sad 
 sight of my misfortunes. And have I not 
 cause for this severe anguish, at once sorrow 
 and disgrace of my family ? — Alas ! my poor 
 mother ! — Death shall expiate the crime of 
 thy daughter, nor longer raise the blush of 
 indignation on thy glowing cheek. — Ought 
 I not, therefore, to welcome the hand of 
 death ? 
 
 "But what will become of my poor helpless 
 infant, when its mother lies forgotten in the 
 
 grave } 
 
44 tK^ie ipotoer of ^rntpatl)^* 
 
 grave ? Wilt thou direct its feet in the path 
 of virtue and rectitude? Wilt thou shelter it 
 from the rude blasts of penury and want ? — 
 Open your heart to the solicitude of a mother 
 — of a mother agoni^ng for the future wel- 
 fare of her child. Let me intreat you to per- 
 form this request — by the love which you 
 professed for thy Maria — by her life which 
 you have sacrificed. 
 
 " AND wilt thou not drop a tear of pity in 
 the grave of thy Maria ? — I know thy soul 
 is the soul of sensibility ; but my departure 
 shall not grieve thee — no, my Harrington, 
 it shall not wrest a sigh from thy bosom — 
 rather let me live, and defy the malice and 
 misery of the world — But can tenderness — 
 can love atone for the sacrifices I have made.'' 
 -^ Will it blot out my errours from the book 
 of memory ? Will love be an excuse for my 
 crime, or hide me from the eye of the malig- 
 nant 
 
^\)e potocr of g>^tni)atl)^« 45 
 
 nant — No, my Harrington, it will not. The 
 passion is unwarrantable. Be it thine, gentle 
 Amelia — be it thine to check the obtruding 
 sigh, and wipe away the tear from his face — 
 for thou art his wife, and thy soul is the seat 
 of compassion — But — for me — 
 
 " Farewel — farewel forever ! 
 MARIA." 
 
 SHE survived but a short time — 
 and frequently expressed a concern for the 
 child — hut Mrs. Holmes quieted her fears by 
 promising to protect it. She accordingly 
 made inquiry after it — and it is the same 
 Harriot who was educated by her order, and 
 whom she afterwards placed in the family of 
 Mrs. Francis. 
 
 The assurances of my mother were like 
 
 balm 
 
46 Z\)t poiDtt: of ^^mpatl)?, 
 
 balm to the broken hearted Maria — "I shall 
 now," said she " die in peace." 
 
 THE following is a copy of a letter written 
 by the Rev. Mr. Holmes to the Hon. Mr. , 
 Harrington : — 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 " WE have, a scene of distress at 
 our house peculiarly pathetic k and affecting, 
 and of which you, perhaps, are the sole au- 
 thor — You have had a criminal connexion 
 with Miss Fawcet — you have turned her 
 upon the world inhumanly — but chance — 
 rather let me say Providence, hath directed 
 her footsteps to my dwelling, where she is 
 kindly entertained, and will be so, as long as 
 she remains in this wilderness world, which is 
 to be, I fear, but a short time — And shall 
 
 she 
 
t.\)t poiurr of S>^mpatl)^. 47 
 
 she not, though she hath been decoyed from 
 the road that leadeth to peace, long Hfe, and 
 happiness — shall she not, if she return with 
 tears of repentance and contrition, be entitled 
 to our love and charity? Yes — this is my 
 doctrine — If I behold any child of human 
 nature distressed and forlorn, and in real want 
 of the necessities of life, must I restrain or 
 withhold the hand of charity — must I cease 
 to recall the departing spirit of them that are 
 ready to perish, until I make diligent inquiry 
 into their circumstances and character ? 
 Surely, my friend, it is a duty incumbent on 
 us by the ties of humanity and fellow-feeling, 
 and by the duty imposed on us by our holy 
 religion, equally to extend the hand of relief 
 to fls// ^Ae necessitous — however they may be 
 circumstanced in the great family of mankind. 
 
 "THE crime of Maria is not the blackest 
 in the annals of human turpitude ; but how- 
 ever 
 
48 ^\)t potoer of g>^mpatti^, 
 
 ever guilty she might have been, the tears of 
 penitence do certainly make atonement there- 
 for. 
 
 "THUS much have I thought proper to 
 say in vindication of my conduct — in shelter- 
 ing under my roof a poor wanderer — who 
 hath strayed, but not wantonly, and who hath 
 now happily returned. 
 
 "ONE would imagine, there was little nec- 
 essity of making such a vindication to you ; 
 but my sentiments always flow from the 
 abundance of my heart, and I am willing the 
 whole world should judge of those which in- 
 fluence my conduct. — Now, though some 
 men, whose charity is contracted, and who 
 may be denominated prudes in virtue, might 
 deem wrongfully of my attention to the cal- 
 amity of this frail woman yet let me appeal 
 to the hearts and understandings of all men, 
 
 and 
 
Z\)t poiucr of §>?mpatl)i?, 49 
 
 and these in particular, if I have erred, 
 whether it be not an errour on the side of 
 humanity. Would to God such amiable 
 errours were more frequent! — In as much, 
 my friend, as there is joy in Heaven over one 
 sinner that repenteth, I may say with assur- 
 ance that I have felt an emanation of this 
 heavenly joy animate my heart, in beholding 
 this woman delighting to steer her course 
 heavenward. 
 
 " FROM the unhappy condition of Maria, 
 I have been led to reflect on the mischievous 
 tendency of SEDUCTION. Methinks I 
 view the distressing picture in all its horrid 
 colours : — 
 
 "BEHOLD the youthful virgin arrayed in 
 all the delightful charms of vivacity, modesty 
 and sprightliness. — Behold even while she is 
 rising in beauty and dignity, like a lily of the 
 
 valley. 
 
50 t^t potoei: of ^^mpatti^. 
 
 valley, in the full blossom of her graces, she 
 is cut off suddenly by the rude hand of the 
 Seducer. Unacquainted with his baseness 
 and treachery, and. too ready to repose confi- 
 dence in him — she is deluded by the prom- 
 ises and flattery of the man who professes 
 the greatest love and tenderness for her wel- 
 fare : — 
 
 " BUT did she understand the secret vil- 
 lainy of his intentions — would she appear 
 thus elate and joyous ? Would she assent to 
 her ruin ? Would she subscribe her name to 
 the catalogue of infamy ? Would she kiss 
 the hand of the atrocious dastard, already 
 raised to give the final wound to her reputa- 
 tion and peace ? 
 
 " O ! WHY is there not an adequate pun- 
 ishmeWt for this crime, when that of a com- 
 mon 
 
tETlje poiDer of ^^mpatlj^. 51 
 
 mon traitor is marked with its deserved iniq- 
 uity and abhorrence ! 
 
 "IS it necessary to depicture the state of 
 this deluded young, creature after her fall 
 from virtue ? Stung with remorse, and fran- 
 tick with despair, does she not fly from the 
 face of day, and secrete her conscious head in 
 the bosom of eternal forgetfulness ? Melan- 
 choly and guilt transfix her heart, and she 
 sighs out her miserable existence — the prey 
 of poverty, ignominy and reproach ! Lost 
 to the world, to her friends, and to herself, 
 she blesses the approach of death in whatever 
 shape he may appear, and terminates a life, 
 no longer a blessing to its possessor, or a joy 
 to those around her. 
 
 '•BEHOLD her stretched upon the mourn- 
 ful bier ! — Behold her silently descend to the 
 grave ! Soon the wild weeds spring afresh 
 
 round 
 
52 Z\)t potoer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 round the /i^^k hillock, as if to shelter the 
 remains of betrayed innocence — and the 
 friends of her youth shun even the spot which 
 conceals her relicks. 
 
 " SUCH is the consequence of SEDUC- 
 TION, but it is not the only consequence. 
 Peace and happiness fly from the nuptial 
 couch which is unattended by love and fidelity. 
 The mind no longer enjoys its quiet, while it 
 ceases to cherish sentiments of truth and 
 gratitude. The sacred ties of connubial duty 
 are not to be violated with impunity; for 
 though a violation of those ties may be over- 
 looked by the eye of justice, the heart shall 
 supply a monitor, who will not fail to correct 
 those who are hardy enough to burst them 
 asunder. I am &c. 
 
 " W. Holmes." 
 
 TO 
 
®l)e potoer of ^^mpatti^, 53 
 
 TO this Letter, Mr. Harrington returned 
 the following answer. 
 
 Hmi. Mr. Harrington to the Rev. Mr. 
 Holmes. 
 
 " PERMIT me, my ever honoured friend, 
 to return you thanks for your late favours — 
 need I add — an acknowledgement for your 
 liberality ? No — your heart supplies a source 
 of pleasure which is constantly nourished by 
 your goodness and universal charity. — 
 
 "THE picture you have exhibited of a 
 ruined fernale is undoubtedly just, but that 
 the rude spoiler has his share of remorse is 
 equally so — The conclusion of your letter is 
 a real picture of the situation of my heart. 
 
 " PERHAPS you were always ignorant of 
 the real motives that influenced me, and gave 
 
 a particular 
 
54 t\)e poiner of §»^mpatl)^. 
 
 a particular bias to my conduct. — At an 
 early period of my life, I adopted a maxim, 
 that ^^e most necessary learning was a knowl- 
 edge of the worlds the pursuit of which, quad- ' 
 rating with a volatility of disposition, pre- \ 
 sented a variety of scenes to my heated im- 
 agination. The eclat of my companions grat- 
 ifying my vanity and increasing the gale of 
 passion, I became insensibly hurried down 
 the stream of dissipation. Here I saw man- 
 kind in every point of view — from* the acme 
 of the most consummate refinement, to the 
 most abject stage of degradation. I soon be- 
 came a ready proficient in the great school of 
 the world — but an alteration of conduct was 
 soon after necessary — I was compelled to it, 
 not so much from the world's abhorrence of a 
 dissolute course of life, as the dictates of my 
 own heart. — It was, indeed, my policy to 
 flatter the world, and exhibit a fair outside — 
 for I was in love with Amelia — My licentious 
 
 amour 
 
t\)t pototi: ot ^^mpatl)^. 55 
 
 amour with Maria was secret — she was 
 affectionate and tender — her manners were 
 pleasing, but still I was unhappy. — 
 
 "MY CAREER of dissipation, however 
 alluring it struck my vitiated fancy, left little 
 satisfaction on the mind — R.eflection had its 
 turn — and the happiness I had promised my- 
 self in connexion with the amiable Amelia^ 
 I fully enjoyed in our marriage. A course of 
 uninterrupted tranquillity ensued, but it was 
 of short duration. The volatility of myi 
 temper, and the solicitude of my old associ- 
 ates, induced me at subsequent periods to fall 
 into my old vagaries. The taverns frequently 
 found me engaged in meannesses derogatory 
 to the character of a gentleman. These 
 things I perceived affected the soul of Amelia 
 — she was all meekness, gentleness and com- 
 passion, and she never once upbraided me 
 with my illiberal conduct ; 
 
 But 
 
56 ti)t potoer of §>^mpatt)i?. 
 
 But let concealment, like a worm in bud, 
 Feed on her .damask cheek. 
 
 " BLESSED be that Power who has im- 
 planted within us that consciousness of re^ 
 proach, which springs from gentleness andi 
 love! — Hail sensibility! Ye eloquent ^ears 
 of beauty ! that add dignity to human nature 
 by correcting its foibles — it was these that 
 corrected my faults when recrimination 
 would have failed of success — it was these 
 that opened every avenue of contrition in my 
 heart, when words would have damned up 
 every sluice of repentance. 
 
 "IT was now I appeared fully sensible 
 that my conduct had hitherto been a course 
 of disorder, and that systems of reformation, 
 however well planned, had been overturned 
 by the breath of adulation, before they had 
 been thoroughly carried into execution — 
 that I had been drifting upon a sea of incon- 
 sistency. 
 
ttje |0oiDcr of ^^mpatl))?, 57 
 
 sistency, without exercising my judgement; 
 like a ship without a rudder, buffeted on the 
 bosom of the ocean, the sport of winds and 
 waves. 
 
 "THE criminaHty of my connexion with 
 Maria appeared with the most aggravated 
 circumstances ; it sturig me with remorse — 
 and I instantly determined, however severe 
 the conflict, to tear her from my bosom — to 
 see her no more. — But how was I to inform 
 her of it.'' — In what manner was I to bring 
 about such a talk ? — Maria must be sacrificed 
 to the happiness of Amelia. This was all I 
 had to perform — it was a short lesson, but 
 it was a hard one for me to execute. 
 
 " WITH this determination, however, I 
 entered the apartment of Maria — Duty to 
 Amelia and gratitude to Maria interchange- 
 ably agitated me — the contention was dubi- 
 ous 
 
58 t\)t ^oixitt of §>Bmpat^^. 
 
 ous — but duty prevailed, and I adhered to 
 my former resolution — yet how was I to tell 
 her ^Azs would be the last visit ? — Conscious 
 she had ever acted in conformity to my 
 wishes — how could I accuse her, without 
 accusing myself ? — I threw out a few incon- 
 siderate and ungrateful hints of jealousy, and 
 left the room abruptly. The feelings of 
 Maria must have been injured — but how- 
 ever her sensibility was affected, mine was 
 doubly so ; I felt for her — I felt for our in- 
 fant, and these feelings were added to the 
 afflictions which had already burst upon my 
 devoted head. A few days consideration, 
 however, convinced me of the impropriety 
 and ingratitude of my behaviour to Maria — 
 I hastened to tell her of it — to place her in a 
 situation that should screen her from penury 
 and malice — and to make provision for the 
 child — but she was not to be found. I was 
 informed that she had suddenly disappeared, 
 
 and 
 
^t)0 potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 59 
 
 and that a countryman had, by her order, 
 called and taken away the child but a few- 
 hours before. This information burst upon 
 my head like the voice of sudden thunder — I 
 stood motionless, but my agitation was too 
 violent to be of any long duration. — 
 
 " A natural tear I shed but wip'd it soon." 
 
 •'IT was your goodness, and the humanity 
 of your family, that sheltered the wretched 
 Maria, and provided for the helpless Harriot 
 — Your feelings are your reward. 
 
 " FROM all the variegated scenes of my 
 past life, I daily learn some new lesson of 
 humanity. Experience hath been my tutor — 
 I now take a retrospect of my past conduct 
 with deliberation, but not without some seri- 
 ous reflection. Like a sailor, escaped from 
 shipwreck, who sits safely on the shore and 
 views the horrours of the tempest; but as 
 
 the 
 
6o Z\)t potoer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 the gale subsides, and the waves hide their 
 heads in the bosom of the deep, he beholds 
 with greater concern the mischief of the 
 storm, and the dangers he hath escaped. 
 From what innate principle does this arise, 
 but from God within the mhzd ! — I assert it 
 for the honour of human nature, that no man, 
 however dissolute, but comes back to the 
 hour of reflection and solemn thoughtfulness 
 — when the actions that are passed return 
 upon the mind, and this internal monitor sits 
 in judgment upon them, and gives her verdict 
 of approbation or dislike. 
 
 "HE who listens to its call, views his char- 
 acter in its proper light. — I have attended to 
 its cry, and I see my deformity — I recall my 
 mispent time, but . in vain — I reflect on the 
 misery of Maria, and I curse my temerity — 
 I reflect on the state into which I have 
 plunged a once happy female, and am eager 
 
 to 
 
t-^t potDcr of ^^ntpatl)?. 6i 
 
 to apply a speedy remedy, but this is vain 
 also : Can I restore her that virtue — that 
 innocence — that peace, of which I have un- 
 manfully robbed her ? — Let us leave the mel- 
 ancholy subject. — 
 
 " I WILL not so far supercede the fruit of 
 your benevolence, as to presume to offer you 
 any other recompense, than my sincere pray- 
 ers for your happiness. 
 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 
 " With respect, 
 " Yours &c. 
 " J. Harrington." 
 
 THE disorder of Maria was fatal 
 and rapid — but I hasten to the last scene of 
 her life — it has, though I was young, made 
 an impression on my mind that time can not 
 efface. I went to her, as she was seated on 
 
 the 
 
62 tirijc l^oloitt of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 the bed — virtue and harmony were blended 
 in her aspect — she was serene and composed 
 — and her mein, while it expressed a con- 
 sciousness of superior worth and dignity, ex- 
 hibited in our view, a striking picture of the 
 grandeur of the human soul — patient though 
 afiflicted. — of a spirit broken, and borne down 
 by severe distress, yet striving to surmount 
 all, and aspire to heaven. In what words 
 shall I paint to you, my dear Myra, her hero- 
 ism and greatness of mind? " Weep not for 
 me," said she, perceiving my emotion — 
 " Death has nothing shocking to me — I have 
 familiarized myself to his terrours — I feel the 
 gradual decay of mortality ; and waiting with 
 confidence in the Father of Mercy, I am pre- 
 pared to resign this mortal breath — I resign it 
 in firm assurance of the soul's blessed immor- ' 
 tality — Death I view as freeing me from a. 
 world which has lost its reHsh — as opening 
 new scenes of happiness — But a few mo- 
 ments,"' 
 
Zf)t potDfi; of g)^mpatl)p. 63 
 
 ments," continued she, clasping my hand, 
 "and the scene of Hfe is closed forever — 
 Heaven opens on my soul — I go where all 
 tears shall be wiped away — I welcome death 
 as the angel of peace." — She uttered these 
 words with a placid smile of resignation — 
 her head sunk down on the pillow — and the 
 next minute she was an angel. 
 
 "SOUL of the universe!" exclaimed my 
 father-in-law — "there flew the gentlest spirit 
 that ever animated human dust — Great were 
 thy temptations — sincere thy repentance. 
 If some human infirmity fell to thy lot, thy 
 tears, dear shade, have washed out thy guilt 
 forever ! " 
 
 LETTER 
 
64 tl^t potoer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 Mrs. Holmes to Myra. 
 
 Belleview. 
 
 HAVING presented you with 
 several observations on Seduction, I think it 
 will not be mal apropos to consider the ques- 
 tion in another point of view, and discover 
 how a woman may be accessary to her own 
 ruin — It is hardly worth while to contend 
 about the difference between the meaning of 
 the terms accessary 2X\.di principal. The differ- 
 ence, in fact, is small ; but when a woman, by 
 her imprudence, exposes herself, she is acces- 
 sary ; for though her heart may be pure, her 
 conduct is a tacit invitation to the Seducer. 
 
 EDUCATED 
 
€})t ^oiatt of ^smpatl)^* 65 
 
 EDUCATED in the school of luxury and 
 pride, the female heart grows gradually torpid 
 to the fine feelings of sensibility — the blush 
 of modesty wears off — the charms of elegant 
 simplicity fade by degrees — a,nd the continual 
 hurry of dissipation, supersedes the improve- 
 ment of serious reflection. Reflection is a 
 kind of relaxation from frolicking — it encour- 
 ages the progress of virtue, and upholds the 
 heart from sinking to depravity. 
 
 WE may lay it down as a principle, that 
 ^Aa^ conduct which will bear the test of reflec- 
 tion, and which creates a pleasure in the mind 
 from a consciousness of acting right, is virtu- 
 ous: And she whose conduct will not bear 
 this test, is necessarily degenerating, and she 
 is assenting to her destruction. 
 
 LET a lady be liberal or even magnificent, 
 according to her circumstances or situation in 
 
 life; 
 
66 t^e :potoer of ^^ntpatlj^. 
 
 life ; but let the heart remain uncorrupt, let 
 her not be contaminated by wealth, ambition 
 or splendour. She may then take a happy 
 retrospect of her conduct — her heart cannot 
 upbraid her — and the suffrage of her own 
 mind is a convincing proof that she has not 
 strayed from the path of virtue. 
 
 j^APPY they who can thus reflect — who 
 can recall to view the scenes that are past, 
 and behold their actions with reiterated satis- 
 faction — they become ambitious of excelling 
 in everything virtuous, because they are cer- 
 tain of securing a continual reward; For as a 
 mighty river fertilizes the country through 
 which it passes and increases in magnitude 
 and force until it empty itself into the ocean: 
 So virtue fertilizes or improves the heart, and 
 gathers strength and vigour by continual pro- 
 gression, until it centre in the consummation 
 of its desires. 
 
 DAZZLED 
 
tCtjc l^otoer of ^^mpatlj^. 67 
 
 DAZZLED by the -glitter of splendour, 
 and unmindful of the real charms of economy 
 and simplicity, the female heart sighs for the 
 enjoyment of fashion, and flutters to join the 
 motely train of pleasure. But how is it de- 
 luded by empty deceptions ! Like the fruit 
 which sprang up in the infernal regions, beau- 
 tiful to the eye, but which left upon the taste 
 bitter ashes, and was followed by repentance 
 — A great quantity of this kind of fruit pre- 
 sents itself to my rashly judging sex; and it 
 'frequently happens that their hearts have as 
 little iftclination to resist the temptation, as 
 our general parent to refuse the fatal apple. 
 
 WE do not rouse to our aid fortitude to 
 enable us to surmount the temptation, but 
 yield ourselves to a kind of voluntary slavery. 
 Hence it is observable, that a woman is often 
 unhappy in the midst of pleasures — and pet- 
 ulant without cause — that she is trifling in 
 
 matters 
 
68 t\)t poiuer of §)^mpatljp. 
 
 matters of the highest importance; and the 
 most momentous concern is considered futile, 
 as whim and caprice may chance to dictate. 
 
 THE progress of female luxury, however 
 slow it may appear, unless timely checked, 
 works with infallible and destructive advances. 
 The rule we at first adopted might perhaps 
 answer this check ; for by the examination 
 thus recommended we behold the dangers 
 of a continuation of such conduct — Ruin and 
 contempt, the invariable concommitants of 
 vice and immorality, proclaim their denuncia- 
 tions on a prosecution of it. 
 
 LET us examine the gradual steps, and the 
 
 I consequences of feraale luxury. — A desire to 
 
 1 be admired is the first. Behold a woman 
 
 ; surrounded by her worshippers, receiving the 
 
 sacrifice of adulation — what was given her at 
 
 first as compliment, she now demands as her 
 
 due 
 
t})t |9otoer of ^^mpatti^* 69 
 
 due. She finds herself disappointed, and is 
 mortified. The first desire still predominat- 
 ing, she attaches herself to the votaries of 
 pride, who direct their feet in the paths of 
 extravagance and irreligion. Thus sunk into 
 effeminacy and meanness, she forfeits her vir- 
 tue rather than her pride. Thus terminates 
 the career of a woman, whose mind is debili- 
 tated, and whose life is expended in the pur- 
 suit of vanity. 
 
 IT is said of some species of American ser- 
 pents, that they have the power of charming 
 birds and small animals, which they destine 
 for their prey. The serpent is stretched un- 
 derneath a tree — it looks steadfastly on the - 
 bird — their eyes meet to separate no more — 
 the charm begins to operate — the fascinated 
 bird flutters and hops from limb to limb, till 
 unable any longer to extend its wings, it falls 
 into the voracious jaws of its en^my : This is 
 
 no 
 
70 tl)t |0ofcD0r of ^^mpatt)^. 
 
 no ill emblem of the fascinating power of 
 pleasure. Surrounded with temptation, and 
 embarrassed in her circumstances, a woman of 
 dissipation becomes less tenacious of her hon- 
 our — and falls an easy prey to the fascinat- 
 ing power of the seducer. 
 
 HAVING traced to you, my dear Myra, 
 the rise, advancement and termination of 
 pleasure and pride in the female heart, it 
 appears almost unnecessary to remark that 
 this conduct cannot bear the test of reflection 
 and serious examination. We may, however, 
 observe on the contrary, that a woman who 
 advances a few steps, often hurries on still 
 further to prevent thought. This bars the 
 way to a return to that conduct which can 
 give pleasure on recollection. She behaves to 
 herself as the populace did formerly to women 
 suspected of witchcraft — they were tied neck 
 and heels and thrown into the river ; if they 
 
 swam 
 
t\ft potoei- of ^^mpatl)^. 71 
 
 swam they were hung for witches — if they 
 sank they were acquitted of the crime, but 
 were drowned in the experiment : So when 
 we only suspect our hearts of an errour, we 
 plunge still deeper into the sea of dissipation, 
 to prevent the trial of that conduct which 
 impartial reason and judgement would ap- 
 prove. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING I give this in- 
 stance of an encouragement for virtue ; yet in 
 all those I have mentioned is a woman acces- 
 sary to her ruin. 
 
 DO not imagine, my dear Myra, that I 
 mean to argue against all pleasure -^ Many 
 of us set out on a principle of false delicacy 
 and destructive rivalship ; we cannot behold 
 a fine woman without wishing to appear 
 finer. A laudable emulation in the conduct 
 of all women is extremely praiseworthy — it 
 
 stimulates 
 
72 t^e ^ofcoer of gj^mpatlii?, 
 
 stimulates them in line of their duty — in- 
 creases vivacity and good humour; and am- 
 bition, thus directed and pursued, I beg leave 
 to designate a female virtue, because it is pro- 
 ductive of the most happy consequences. 
 
 BUT it sometimes happens that particular 
 virtues lose themselves in their neighbour- 
 ing vices, and this laudable emulation degen- 
 erates into destructive rivalship. 
 
 A GENTEEL, handsome woman, deser- 
 vedly shares the esteem and admiration of all 
 men ; but why should this esteem and admira- 
 tion, justly paid to merit, give us disquiet ? 
 The answer is ready. That desire to be ad- 
 mired so predominant in all females, by de- 
 grees works itself into the ruling passion, and 
 precludes from the mind the particular virtue 
 of emulation ; for why a woman who merits 
 the love of the world, should draw on her the 
 
 disapprobation 
 
^\}t potoet of ^^mpatl)^, 73 
 
 disapprobation of many of her own sex, can 
 be accounted for, by no other principle, than 
 the mean, pitiful passion of envy. 
 
 THIS may possibly give rise to defamation. 
 It is astonishing how this practice prevails 
 among a./ew persons — because it is known 
 by experience, to prove subversive of its very 
 intention. — The arrows of envy recoil upon 
 herself. 
 
 HOW foolish must that woman appear 
 who depreciates the merit of another, that 
 she may appear unrivalled ! She raises up 
 the dykes of ill-nature, and inundates the 
 land with a flood of scandal, but unhappily 
 drowns herself in the event. 
 
 I LEAVE it to the result of your observa- 
 tion, my dear Myra, whether the woman who 
 is first to develope her stores of defamation, 
 
 and 
 
74 ^t)f |0otoer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 and through false emulation, the first to tra- 
 duce a woman of real merit and virtue, is not 
 also the first who becomes a scandal to her- 
 self, and consequently the first that is con- 
 demned. 
 
 HOW opposite are the pursuits and re- 
 wards of her who . participates in every ra- 
 tional enjoyment of life, without mixing in 
 those scenes of indiscretion which give pain 
 on recollection! — Whose chymical genius 
 leads her to extract the poison from the most 
 luxuriant flowers, and to draw honey even 
 from the weeds of society. She mixes with 
 the world seemingly indiscriminately — and 
 because she would secure to herself that satis- 
 faction which arises from a consciousness of 
 acting right, she views her conduct with an 
 eye of scrutiny. Though her temper is free 
 and unrestrained, her heart is previously se- 
 cured by the precepts of prudence — for pru- 
 dence 
 
fflje potoer of §>^mpatl)y, 75 
 
 dence is but another name for virtue. Her 
 manners are unruffled, and her disposition 
 calm, temperate and dispassionate, however 
 she may be surrounded by the temptations of 
 the world. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
76 t^e ^Botoer of §»smpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XLI. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 PRAY that the sun of Thurs- 
 day may rise propitious — that it may gild 
 the face of nature with joy. It is the day that 
 beholds thy friend united in the indissoluble 
 banns of Hymen. 
 
 Let this auspicious day be ever sacred, 
 No mourning, no misfortune happen on it ; 
 Let it be marked for triumphs and rejoicings. 
 Let happy lovers even keep it holy, 
 Choose it to bless their hopes and crown their 
 wishes. 
 
 IT 
 
t^t ^(tiatt of g>^mpatl)y. 77 
 
 IT is the day that gives me Harriot for- 
 ever. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
78 tlTlje pototr of ^^mpat^i^. 
 
 LETTER XLII. 
 
 The Hon. Mr. Harrington to the 
 Rev. Mr. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 YOU very well know of my 
 amour with Maria, and that a daughter was 
 the offspring of that illicit connexion — that 
 sixteen years have elasped since, by your 
 goodness, she has lived with Mrs. Francis,. 
 and let me add, daily improving in beauty and 
 every amiable accomplishment — but how 
 shall we be able — how shall we pretend to 
 investigate the great springs by which we 
 are actuated, or account for the operation of, 
 SYMPATHY/ — my son, who has been at home 
 
 about 
 
s t\)e potoer of ^^mpatlj^. 79 
 
 about eight weeks, has accidentally seen her, 
 and to complete the triumph of nature — 
 has loved her. He is now even upon the 
 point of marrying — shall I proceed ! — of mar- 
 rying his Sister! — A circumstance seem- 
 ingly fortuitous has discovered this impor- 
 tant affair — I fly to prevent incest — Do not 
 upbraid me with being author of my own 
 misfortunes. — "This comes of your libertin- 
 ism," you will say, " this comes of your adul- 
 tery!" — Spare your reflections, my friend — 
 my heart is monitor enough — I am strangely 
 agitated ! 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
8o tift potDcr of ^^mjpatl)]J. 
 
 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 TAe Hon. Mr. Harrington to the 
 Rev. Mr. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 MY heart failed me ! twenty 
 times have I attempted to break the matter to 
 my son — and twenty times have I returned 
 frorh the talk — I have a friend to acquaint him 
 how nearly connected he already is with the 
 object of his love. This is a new, and to me 
 a sorrowful instance of the force of sympathy 
 — My grief is insupportable — my affliction 
 is greater than I can bear — it will bring 
 down my grey hairs with sorrow to the 
 grave. 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^t IpotDcr of ^^mpatl))?. 8i 
 
 LETTER XLIV. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 ALL my airy schemes of love 
 and happiness are vanished Hke a dream. 
 Read this, and pity your unfortunate friend. 
 
 To Mr. T. Harrington : 
 
 "SIR, 
 
 "YOU are about to marry a young 
 lady of great beauty and accomplishments — 
 I beg you to bestow a few serious thoughts 
 on this important business — Let me claim 
 your attention, while -I disclose an affair, 
 which materially concerns you — Harriot 
 
 must 
 
82 tlTljE poijytt of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 must not be your wife — You know your 
 father is averse to your early connecting your- 
 self in marriage with any woman — The duty 
 we owe a parent is sacred, but this is not the 
 only barrier to your marriage — the ties of 
 consanguinity prevent it — Shciis your SIS- 
 TER — Your father, or Miss Harrington, 
 will inform you more particularly — It is suffi- 
 cient for me to have hinted it in time. — I am, 
 with the most perfect esteem, and sincere 
 wishes for your happiness, your 
 
 " Unknown friend, &c." 
 (In continuation.) 
 
 THE gloom of melancholy in 
 the faces of the family but too well corrobora- 
 ted this intelligence — so I asked no ques- 
 tions — they read in my countenance that I 
 had received the letter, and my sister put into 
 my hand The History of Maria. — I con- 
 cealed 
 
t\}t potoer of §>^mpatt)^. 83 
 
 cealed my emotion while I read the account 
 — " It is a pitiful tale," said I, as I returned it 
 : — and walked out of the room to give vent 
 to the agitation of my heart. 
 
 I HAVE not yet seen Harriot — Myra 
 has run to greet her with the new title of sis- 
 ter. Adieu ! my friend — little happiness is 
 left for me in this world. 
 
 LETTER 
 
84 t\)t potoer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XLV. 
 
 Myra to Mrs. Hohnes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 IN what words shall I describe 
 to you, my dear friend, the misery that has 
 suddenly overwhelmed us ! It is impossible to 
 communicate the distressed situation of Har- 
 riot — Expression is inadequate to give you 
 an idea of our meeting. — I called her my 
 friend — my sister — She always loved me — 
 , but joy and affection gave way to passion — 
 Her speech refused its office — 
 
 Sorrow in all its pomp was there, 
 Mute and magnificent without a tear. 
 
 SHE had gained a sister — she had lost a 
 
 lover 
 
t\)t |0otoer of ^^mpatliB. 85 
 
 lover — a burst of joy would suddenly break 
 from her, but it was of short duration — and 
 was succeeded by pangs of exquisite distress 
 
 — nature was unable to support it, and she 
 fainted under the weight of severe conflict. 
 Her constitution at best is feeble; her present 
 illness is therefore attended with more danger 
 
 — Unless a speedy alteration should take 
 place, the physician has little hopes of her re- 
 covery. — Heaven preserve us ! 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
86 t\)t potoer of §>?tnpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER XLVI. 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I HAVE seen her — I prest 
 her to my heart — I called her my Love — 
 my Sister. The tenderness and sorrow were 
 in her eyes — How am I guilty, my friend — 
 How is this transport a crime ? My love is 
 the most pure, the most holy — Harriot be- 
 held me with tears of the most tender affec- 
 tion — " Why," said she, " why, my friend, my 
 dear Harrington, have I loved ! but in what 
 manner have I been culpable? How was I to 
 
 KNOW YOU WERE MY BrOTHER ? YcS ! I 
 
 might have known it — how else could you 
 
 have 
 
Z^t potoer of ^^mpatlj?. 87 
 
 have been so kind — so tender — so affection- 
 ate ! " — Here was all the horrour of conflict- 
 ing passions, expressed by gloomy silence — 
 by stifled cries — by convulsions — by sudden 
 floods of tears — The scene was too much for 
 my heart to bear — I bade her adieu — my 
 heart was breaking — I tore myself' from her 
 and retired. 
 
 WHAT is human happiness? The prize 
 for which all strive, and so few obtain ; the 
 more eagerly we pursue it, the farther we 
 stray from the object ; Wherefore I have de- 
 termined within myself that we increase in 
 misery as we increase in age — and if there 
 are any happy days they are those of thought- 
 less childhood. 
 
 I THEN viewed the world at a distance in 
 perspective. I thought rjiankind appeared 
 happy in the midst of pleasures that flowed 
 
 round 
 
88 t\)t potDcr of §>smpatt)B. 
 
 round them. I who find it a deception, and 
 am tempted sometimes to wish myself a child 
 again. Happy are the dreams of infancy, and 
 happy their harmless pursuits ! I saw the 
 ignis fatuus^ and have been running after it, 
 and now I return from the search. I return 
 and bring back disappointment. As I reflect 
 on these scenes of infantine ignorance, I feel 
 my heart interested, and become sensibly 
 affected — and however futile these feelings 
 may appear as I communicate them to you — 
 they are feelings, I venture to assert, which 
 every one must have experienced who is pos- 
 sessed of a heart of sensibility. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)e potoer of ^^m^atlj^. 89 
 
 LETTER XLVII 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I NO longer receive satisfaction 
 ■fronn the enjoyments of the world — society is 
 distasteful to me — my favorite authors I have 
 entirely relinquished — In vain I try to forget 
 myself, or seek for consolation — my repose is 
 interrupted by distressing visions of the night 
 — my thoughts are broken — I cannot even 
 think regularly. 
 
 HARRIOT is very weak — there is no 
 hope of her life. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
90 Z^t |0otDer of g>^mpatti^. 
 
 LETTER XLVIII. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 MY dear friend, I have a great 
 desire to see you — I wish you could come 
 home speedily — I must be short — I have 
 some serious business to do. 
 
 Farewel ! 
 P. S. THEY say life is a blessing 
 and it is our duty to improve and enjoy it ; 
 but when life becomes insupportable and we 
 find no blessing in it — have we not a right to 
 resign it ? 
 
 Farewel! 
 
 LETTER 
 
€^e poiiott of ^^mpatl)^, 91 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 
 TAe Hon. Mr. Harrington to the 
 Rev. Mr. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 ACCUMULATED sorrows con- 
 tinue to break over my devoted head. Har- 
 riot is at times deprived of her reason, and 
 we have no expectation of her recovery — my 
 son is deeply affected — he seems strangely 
 disordered. 
 
 REVOLVING in my mind all these things 
 and the unhappy affair that led to them, the 
 whole train of my past life returned fresh 
 upon my mind. Pained with the disagree- 
 able picture, and oppressed with the weight 
 
 of 
 
92 t^t^oinet of ^]?mpatl)S, 
 
 of my affliction, I sunk down to sleep : These 
 circumstances had so strongly impressed my 
 imagination that they produced the following 
 Dream — My blood is chilled with horrour as 
 I write. 
 
 METHOUGHT I suddenly found myself 
 in a large, open field, waste and uncultivated 
 
 — here I wandered in a solitary manner for 
 some time — grief seized my heart at the aw- 
 ful appearance of the place, and I cried aloud 
 
 — "How long shall I travel here, alone and 
 friendless — a dusky mist swims before my 
 sight, and the obscure horizon seems only to 
 inclose this dismal wild ! " Having advanced 
 a few steps, I thought a light at a dis- 
 tance appeared to my doubtful view. Faint 
 with fatigue, I approached it, and had the sat- 
 isfaction to behold a person of the most be- 
 nign aspect — a quiet serenity was painted 
 on his brow, happiness ineffable beamed 
 
 from 
 
t})t l^otoei: of ^^tnpatl)^, 93 
 
 from his Divine countenance — Joy leaped in 
 my bosom, and in the ecstasy of passion I en- 
 deavoured to clasp the blessed spirit to my 
 heart; but it vanished in my embrace, 
 
 " TEACH me, blessed shade," said I, with 
 a trembling voice — " Teach me to find the 
 habitations of men — What do I here? — Why 
 am I doomed to explore the barren bosom of 
 this baleful desert ? " " This," returned the 
 spirit, in a voice, which, while it commanded 
 veneration and love, struck awe and terrour 
 into my soul — " TAzs is not the habitation of 
 the sons of mortality — it is the place ap- 
 pointed to receive the souls of all men, after 
 they have resigned the bodies they animated 
 on earth. Those who have violated the laws 
 of reason, humanity, religion, and have dis- 
 honoured their God, here meet the punish- 
 ment due to their crimes. 
 
 "ATTEND me, therefore, and view the 
 
 condition 
 
94 ^¥ pototr of g>^mpatl)^. 
 
 condition of those thoughtless souls, who, a 
 few days ago, were upon earth immersed in 
 pleasure, luxury and vice — Regardless of 
 futurity, and unprepared for their eternal 
 summons to another world — and who per- 
 sisted in the delight of their own eyes in op- 
 position to the Divine law, and deaf to the 
 voice of reclaiming virtue. These, the sons 
 of folly and riot, are smitten by the angel of 
 death, while they are yet drinking of the 
 bowl of vice — while the words of blasphemy 
 yet dwell upon their tongues. And when 
 their unhappy spirits sink to these infernal 
 regions, their surviving companions rehearse 
 their funeral panegyricks — the praise of one 
 is, that he could drink the longest — the 
 merit of another that he could sing a good 
 song — a third secures his fame by being ex- 
 cellent in mimickry and buffoonery. — How 
 unhappy he must be, who leaves no other 
 testimony of his usefulness behind him ! 
 
 "HOW 
 
tl^t ^oiott of ^^mpatl)^. 95 
 
 "HOW different is the fate of the good 
 man : While upon earth his hfe is employed 
 in the cause of virtue. —The happiness he 
 bestows on those around him is reflected back 
 with ten-fold reward ; and when he takes rank 
 in that happy place, where there is fullness of 
 joy, and leaves the world of mankind, what 
 numbers are joined in the general concern of 
 his loss ! — The aged, while they prepare for 
 the same journey, delight to dwell on his 
 good actions — the virgin strews flowers on 
 his grave, and the poet consumes the mid- 
 night oil to celebrate his virtues." 
 
 THERE was so much benignity in every 
 word and action of my attendant, that I found 
 myself imperceptibly attached to him. My 
 attention to his discourse had prevented me 
 from observing the progress we had made — 
 for we had arrived at a place encircled with 
 high walls — A great' gate, at the command of 
 
 my 
 
96 Z\)t poiDcr of ^^mpatl)^* 
 
 my guide, instantly flew open — " Follow 
 me," said he — I tremblingly obeyed. 
 
 MY ears were instantaneously filled with 
 the faint cries of those here doomed to re- 
 ceive the rewards of their demerits. Looking 
 earnestly forward, I beheld a group of un- 
 happy wretches — I observed a person who 
 was continually tormenting them — he held 
 in one hand a whip, the lashes of which were 
 composed of adders, and the stings of scor- 
 pions; and in the other a large mirrour, which, 
 when he held up to the faces of the ^tormented 
 exhibited their crimes in the most flagrant 
 colours, and forced them to acknowledge the 
 justness of their punishment. " These," said 
 my guide, " who are scourged with a whip of 
 scorpions, and who start with horrour at the 
 reflection of their deeds upon earth, are the 
 souls of the Gambler — the Prodigal — the 
 Duellist, and the Ingrate. 
 
 "THOSE 
 
t^t potDcr of ^^mpatl)^. 97 
 
 " THOSE whom you see yonder," contin- 
 ued he, "those wasted, emaciated spirits, 
 are the souls of the Envious — they are 
 doomed to view the most beautiful fruit, 
 which they can never taste, and behold pleas- 
 ures which they can never enjoy. This pun- 
 ishment is adjudged them because most of 
 those vile passions, by which men suffer them- 
 selves to be ruled, bring real evil, for prom^ 
 ised good. 
 
 " FOR this reason the all-wise Judge hath 
 ordered the same passions still to inflame 
 those ghosts, with which they were possessed 
 on earth — Observe yon despicable crew ! — 
 behold the sin of Avrice ! — those sordid 
 ghosts are the souls of Misers — Lo! they eye 
 their delightful bags with horrid pleasure ; 
 and with a ghastly smile, brood over their 
 imaginary riches. Unable to carry their 
 wealth about with them, they are c'onfined to 
 
 one 
 
98 titlje jaoiuer of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 one spot, and in one position. This infernal 
 joy is the source of their tortures, for behold 
 them start at every sound, and tremble at the 
 flitting of a shade. Thus are they doomed to 
 be their own tormentors — to pore over their 
 gold with immortal fear, apprehension, and 
 jealousy and to guard their ideal wealth with 
 tears of care, and the eyes of eternal watchful- 
 ness. 
 
 " BEHOLD here," continued my guide, 
 "the miserable division of Suicides !" " Un- 
 happy they ! " added I, " who, repining at the 
 ills of life, raised the sacrilegious steel against 
 their own bosoms ! How vain the reiterated 
 wish to again animate the breathless clay — to 
 breath the vital air — and to behold the 
 cheering luminary of Heaven!" — "Upbraid 
 me not — O my father!" cried a voice — I 
 looked up, and thought my son appeared 
 among them — immediately turning from 
 
 so 
 
t))z l^ointv of g>smpatlj^« 99 
 
 so shocking a spectacle, I suddenly beheld my 
 once loved Maria — "O delight of my youth! 
 do I behold thee once more ! — Let me hide 
 my sorrows in thy friendly bosom." I ad- 
 vanced towards her — but she flew from me 
 with scorn and indignation — " O speak ! 
 Maria ! speak to me ! " She pointed with 
 her finger to a group of spirits, and was out 
 of sight in a moment. 
 
 " LET me," said my conductor, " prepare 
 you for a more dreadful sight." The increas- 
 ing melancholy, and affecting gloom of the 
 situation, forboded something terrifying to 
 my soul — I looked toward the place where 
 Maria had pointed, and saw a number of 
 souls remote from any division of the un- 
 happy. In their countenances were depicted 
 more anguish, sorrow and despair — I turned 
 my head immediately from this dreadful 
 sight, without distinguishing the nature of 
 
 their 
 
loo Z\)t ^oinet of ^^ntpat^i^, 
 
 their torments. Quivering with horrour, I 
 inquired who they were — " These," answered 
 my guide, with a sigh, " are the miserable 
 race of SEDUCERS. — Repentance and 
 shame drive them far front the rest of the 
 accursed. Even the damned look on them 
 with horrour, and thank fate their crimes 
 are not of so deep a die." 
 
 HE had hardly finished, when a demon 
 took hold of me and furiously hurried me' in 
 the midst of this unhappy group — I was so 
 terrified that it immediately aroused me from 
 my sleep. — 
 
 EVEN now, while I write to you, my good 
 friend, my hand trembles with fear at the 
 painful remembrance — Yet 
 
 — 'Twas but a dream, but then 
 
 So terrible, it shakes my very soul.— 
 
 Farewel ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^t jaotocr of ^?mpatl)^. loi 
 
 LETTER L. 
 Harriot to Harrington. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 MUST I then forget the en- 
 dearments of the lover, and call you by the 
 name of brother? But does our friendship 
 remain upon this foundation ? Is this all 
 that unites us ? And has there subsisted 
 nothing more tender — a sentiment more 
 voluntary in our hearts ? My feelings affirm 
 that there was. At the hour of our first in- 
 terview I felt the passion kindle in my breast. 
 Insensible of my own weakness, I indulged 
 its increasing violence and delighted in the 
 flame that fired my reason and my senses. 
 
 Do 
 
I02 Q3^l)c ipofcoei: of g)^mpatl)s. 
 
 Do you remember our walks, our conversa- 
 tion^, our diversions ? — The remembrance of 
 these things fill my mind with inconceivable 
 torture — they seem to reproach me with un- 
 merited criminality — I deprecate, I detest all 
 these scenes of gaiety and frivolity — yet I 
 have preserved my innocence and my virtue 
 — what then have I to deprecate, what have 
 I to detest ? 
 
 ALAS! how have we been forming 
 schemes of happiness, and mocking our 
 hearts with unsubstantial joys. Farewel ! 
 farewell ye gilded scenes of imagination. 
 How have we been deluded by visionary 
 prospects, and idly dwelt upon that happiness 
 which was never to arrive. • How fleeting 
 have been the days that were thus employed ! 
 — when articipation threw open the gates of 
 happiness, and we vainly contemplated the 
 approach of bliss ; and we beheld in reversion, 
 
 the 
 
Z^e potoer of ^^mpatti^. 103 
 
 the pleasures of life, and fondly promised our- 
 selves, one day to participate in them ; when 
 we beheld in the magick mirrour of futurity, 
 the lively group of loves that sport in the 
 train of joy. We observed in transports of 
 delight the dear delusion, and saw them, as it 
 were, in bodily form pass in review before us; 
 as the fabled hero views the region of preeex- 
 istant spirits, and beholds a race of men yet 
 to be born. 
 
 SUCH was our hope, but even this fairy 
 anticipation was not irrational. We were 
 happy in idea, nor was the reality far behind. 
 And why is the vision vanished ? O ! I sink, 
 I die, when I reflect — when I find in my 
 Harrington a brother — I am penetrated 
 with inexpressible grief — I experience un- 
 common sensations — I start with horrour at 
 the idea of incest — of ruin — of perdition. 
 
 HOW do I lament this fatal discovery, 
 
 that 
 
I04 t^t potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 that includes the termination of a faithful 
 love! I think of him whom I have resolved 
 to be eternally constant — and ah ! how often 
 have I resolved it in my heart. I indulge, in 
 idea, the recollection of his caresses — of his 
 protestations, and of his truth and sincerity — 
 I become lost in a wilderness, and still I travel 
 on, and find myself no nearer an escape. I 
 cherish the dear idea of a lover — I see the 
 danger and do not wish to shun it, because to 
 avoid it, is to forget it — And can I, at one 
 stroke, erase from my mind the remembrances 
 of all in which my heart used to delight.? Ah! 
 I have not the fortitude — I have not the vir- 
 tue, to "forget myself to marble." On the 
 contrary, I strive no longer to remember our 
 present connexion. I endeavour to forget — 
 I curse the idea of a brother — my hand re- 
 fuses to trace the word, and yet 
 
 The name appears 
 
 Already written ; blot it out my tears ! 
 
 AH, 
 
Z\)e ^oijatt of ^gmpatl)^. 105 
 
 AH, whence this sorrow that invests my 
 soul ! This gloom that darkens — this fire 
 of impassioned grief, that involves all my 
 thoughts ! why do I rave, and why do I 
 again abandon myself to despair ! Come, 
 O Harrington ! be a friend, a protector, a 
 brother — be him, on whom I could never yet 
 call by the tender, the endearing title of par- 
 ent. I will reverence him in whom all the 
 charities of life are united — I will be dutiful 
 and affectionate to you, and you shall be unto 
 me as a father — I will bend on the knee of re- 
 spect and love, and will receive your blessing. 
 
 Why did you go away so soon ? Why 
 leave me when I was incapable of bidding 
 you adieu ? When you pressed my cheek 
 with the kiss of love, of fraternal affection 
 what meant its conscious glow ? What meant 
 the ebullition of my veins, the disorder of my 
 nerves, the intoxication of my brain, the blood 
 
 that 
 
io6 &)t poioer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 that mantled in my heart ? My hand trem- 
 bled, and every object seemed to swim before 
 my doubtful view — Amidst the struggle of 
 passion, how could I pronounce the word — 
 how could I call you by the title of brother ? 
 True — -I attempted to articulate the sound, 
 but it died upon my tongue, and I sank 
 motionless into your arms. 
 
 ALLIED by birth, and in mind, and sim- 
 ilar in age — and in thought still more inti- 
 mately connected, the sympathy which bound 
 our souls together, at first sight, is less extra- 
 ordinary. Shall we any longer wonder at 
 its irresistible impulse ? — Shall we strive to 
 oppose the /mk 0/ nature that draws us to 
 each other .'' When I reflect on this, I re- 
 lapse into weakness and tenderness, and be- 
 come a prey to warring passions. I view you 
 in two distinct characters : If I indulge the 
 idea of one, the other becomes annihilated, 
 
 and 
 
tf)t potorr of ^^mpatl)^. 107 
 
 and I vainly imagine I have my choice of a 
 brother or — 
 
 I AM for a while calm ^ — but alas ! how 
 momentary is that calmness ; I dwell with 
 rapture on what fancy has represented; but 
 is the choice regulated by virtue ? Is it 
 prompted by reason ? I recollect myself, and 
 endeavour to rouse my prudence and forti- 
 tude ; I abhor my conduct, and wish for ob- 
 scurity and forgetfulness. Who can bear the 
 torment of fluctuating passion ? How de- 
 plorable is the contest? The head and the 
 heart are at variance, but when Nature pleads 
 how feeble is the voice of Reason ? Yet, 
 when Reason is heard in her turn, how crim- 
 inal appears every wish of my heart ? What 
 remorse do I experience ? What horrours 
 surround me ? Will my feeble frame, already 
 wasted by a lingering decline, support these 
 evils ? Will the shattered, frail bark outride 
 
 the 
 
io8 t\)t potDer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 the tempest, and will the waves of afifliction 
 beat in vain ? Virtue, whose precepts I have 
 not forgotten, will assist me — if not to sur- 
 mount, at least to suffer with fortitude and 
 patience. 
 
 OH ! I fear, I fear my decaying health — 
 If I must depart, let me beseech you to forget 
 me — I know the strength of your passion, 
 and I dread the fatal consequences my depar- 
 ture may occasion you. 
 
 ONCE more let me intreat you, my dear 
 friend, to arm yourself with every virtue 
 which is capable of sustaining the heaviest 
 calamity. Let the impetuosity of the lover's 
 passion be forgotten in the undisturbed quiet- 
 ness of the brother's affection, and^.may all 
 the blessings that life can supply be yours — 
 Seek for content, and you will find it, even 
 
 though 
 
tW }poijott of ^T^mpatl)?. 1 09 
 
 though we should never meet again in this 
 world. 
 
 Adieu! 
 
 LETTER 
 
I lo t^t poton: of g>^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 
 Myra to Mrs. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 THE curtain is dropped, and 
 the scene of life is forever closed — The 
 Lovely Harriot is no More. 
 
 SHE is fit to appear in Heaven, ^or her 
 life was a scene of purity and innocence — If 
 there is any consolation to be felt by a sur- 
 vivour, it is in the reflection of the amiable 
 qualities of the deceased. My heart shall not 
 cease to cherish her idea, for she was beauti- 
 ful without artifice, and virtuous without 
 affectation. 
 
 Seel 
 
turtle jaotoer of ^^mpatljv. 1 1 1 
 
 See ! there all pale and dead she lies ; 
 Forever flow my streaming eyes — 
 There dwelt the fairest — lovliest mind, 
 Faith, sweetness, wit together join'd. 
 
 Dwelt faith and wit and sweetness there ? 
 O, view the change, and drop a tear. 
 
 MY brother is exceedingly agitated — He 
 will never support this disastrous stroke — 
 Nothing can attract his attention — nothing 
 allay his grief — but it is the affliction of rea- 
 son and not of weakness — God grant that it 
 prove not fatal to him. 
 
 Adieu ! — Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
1 1 2 Z\)e jaotDcr of ^^mpat^iB. 
 
 LETTER LII. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 SHE is gone — she is dead — she 
 who was the most charming, the most gentle, 
 is gone — You may come — you may desire 
 to behold all that was lovely — but your eyes 
 will not see her. 
 
 YES ! I raved — I was distracted — but 
 now I am calm and dispassionate — I am 
 smooth as the surface of a lake — I shall 
 see her again. 
 
 WHEN our spirits are disencumbered of 
 this load of mortality, and they wing their 
 
 flight 
 
2;i)e potoer of g)^mpatl)^« 1 13 
 
 flight to the celestial regions, shall we not 
 then know those who were dear to us in this 
 world ? Shall we not delight in their society, 
 as we have done in this state of existence ? 
 Yes — certainly we shall — we shall find 
 them out in Heaven — there alone is happi- 
 ness — there shall I meet her — there our 
 love will not be a crime — Let me indulge 
 this thought — it gives a momentary joy to 
 my heart — it removes the dark mist that 
 swims before my eyes — it restores tranquil- 
 ity ; but the more I reflect on this thought — 
 the more I long to be there — the more I de- 
 test this world and all it contains. I sigh to 
 fly away from it. 
 
 LETTER 
 
1 14 tKljt poiucr of S>^mpatl)^. 
 
 LETTER LIII. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 INGRATITUDE is a predominant 
 principle in the conduct of man. The perfid- 
 ious — , who owes to me his reputation and 
 fortune, and with whom I intrusted a great 
 part of my property, has deceived me. The 
 affair will materially retard my business. 
 
 TO be unfortunate in trade is not worth a 
 sigh — to receive inattention and incivility 
 does not merit a frown ; but Ingratitude — 
 it is this that cuts to the quick. Yet I freely 
 give him my pity ; for what man, who con- 
 sidered for a moment the inconsistency of 
 the human heart, would hurl the thunderbolt 
 
 of 
 
2;i)e potoec of ^^mpatl)^, 115 
 
 of indignation at the head of an ingrate ? 
 What an important little thing is man ! he 
 contrives to over-reach his neighbour, and 
 mount to the enjoyment of riches, ambition 
 and splendour ; but remember not the period 
 of enjoyment — that his life is a day, and his 
 space a "point ! 
 
 NATURALISTS inform us of insects 
 whose term of existence is confined to a few 
 hours — What is the business and importance 
 of such a life ? 
 
 WOULD not a being, -whost circle of living 
 is immensity of ages, inquire with equal pro- 
 priety: "What is the importance of man — 
 What actions can he perform — What happi- 
 ness can he enjoy, whose insignificant life is 
 circumscribed to seventy years?" — In this 
 point of view I behold the tinsel, the vanity 
 and noise of the world, and the little plots 
 
 and 
 
ii6 Z^t pottjer of S)?mpatti^. 
 
 and cunning artifices of mankind to cheat 
 and ruin one another. 
 
 INGRATITUDE, then, is constitutional, 
 and inseparable from human nature, but it 
 ought not to fill us with surprize, because it 
 is no new discovery — It has ever been invar- 
 iably the characteristick of man. Is not the 
 page of antiquity distained with blood of 
 those who ought to have received honour and 
 adoration ? Behold the brilliant race of the 
 world's benefactors : Consider their benevo- 
 lent actions, and regard their ungrateful re- 
 turn — these benefactors, who have been sent 
 from Heaven to inform and entertain man- 
 kind, to defend the world from the arm of 
 , tyranny, and to open the gates of salvation, 
 have been despised, and banished, and pois- 
 oned and crucified. 
 
 BEHOLD the support of the Roman 
 power, the invincible Belisarius ! who pro- 
 tected 
 
t^t poioer of ^^ntpatl)?. 1 1 7 
 
 tected his country from the ravage of the 
 Huns, and displayed the Roman eagle in 
 every quarter of the globe ! Behold him fall 
 a sacrifice to malice, to faction and ingrati- 
 tude ! Bfehold him cast out by the country 
 he had defended, and for which he had wasted 
 his life to protect and honour, and left alone 
 to deplore his unfortunate condition, when he 
 was old, and blind, and naked and miserable ! 
 
 UNFORTUNATE is the man who trusts 
 his happiness to the precarious friendship of 
 the world — I every day become more of a 
 misanthrope, and see nothing to increase my 
 desire of living, but your esteem and affection. 
 I want advice, but am too proud to let the 
 world know I am weak enough to be under 
 obligation to anyone else. 
 
 THAT you may never want friends or 
 advice, is the sincere prayer of 
 
 Yours &c. 
 
 LETTER 
 
1 1 8 t^t ^o\Dtt of ^^mpatljB. 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 ALL the scenes of my past life 
 return fresh upon my merriory. I examine 
 every circumstance as they pass in review be- 
 fore me — I see nothing to cause any disa- 
 greeable or unwelcome sensations — no ter- 
 rour upbraids — no reproaching conscience 
 stings my bosom as I reflect on the actions 
 that are past. With her I expected happi- 
 ness — I have expected a vain thing — for 
 there is none — She is gone — gone to a far 
 country — she is preparing a place for me — 
 a place of unutterable blisS — But oh ! an im- 
 measurable 
 
Z^t potner of ^^mpatl)^. 119 
 
 measurable gulph lies between us — Who can 
 tell the distance that separates us? What 
 labour — what toil — what pain must be en- 
 dured in traversing the thorny paths that lead 
 to her blessed abode ? — And will she not 
 receive me in those happy regions with as 
 much joy — with as sincere a welcome — if 
 I cut short my journey? — And will not the 
 Eternal Dispenser of Good, pardon the awful 
 deed that frees me from this world of misery 
 — the deed by which I obtrude myself into 
 his divine presence ? 
 
 WHY must I wait the lingering hand of 
 the grisly messenger to summon me to the 
 world above ? 
 
 LETTER 
 
I20 Z))t potoer of S>^mpat^^. 
 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 AM I a child that I should 
 weep? — I have been meditating on the 
 course of my calamities — Why did my father 
 love Maria — or rather, why did I love their 
 Harriot? Curse on this tyrant custom that 
 dooms such helpless children to oblivion or 
 infamy! Had I known her to have been my 
 sister, my love would have been regular, I 
 should have loved her as a sister, I should 
 have marked her beauty — I should have de- 
 lighted in protecting it. I should have 
 observed her growing virtues^ — I should have 
 been happy in cherishing their growth. 
 But alas ! She is gone — and I cannot stay 
 — I stand on the threshold of a vast eternity. 
 
 LETTER 
 
ti)t ^omx of ^^mpat^^, 12 1 
 
 LETTER LVI. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I AM determined to quit this 
 life. I feel much easier since my determina- 
 tion. The step must not be. taken with rash- 
 ness. I must be steady — calm — collected — 
 I will endeavour to be. so. — 
 
 HER eager solicitation — the anxiety she 
 always expressed for me — When I think she 
 is no more, it wrings my heart with grief, and 
 fills my eyes with tears — 
 
 — I must go — 
 
 THE idea chills me — I am frozen with 
 
 horrour 
 
122 tift |0otDfr of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 horrour — cold damps hang on my trembling 
 body — My soul is filled with a thousand 
 troubled sensations — I must depart — it 
 must be so — My love for thee, O Harriot ! 
 is dearer than life — Thou hast first sat out 
 — and I am to follow. — 
 
 WERE it possible that I could live with 
 her, should I be happy ? Would her presence 
 restore peace and tranquility to my disor- 
 dered mind ? Ah no ! it never would here — 
 it never would. I will fly to the place, where 
 she is gone — our love will there be refined 
 — I will lay my sorrows before her — and she 
 shall wipe away all tears from my eyes. 
 
 WHEN the disembodied spirit flies above — 
 ■when it leaves behind the senseless clay, and 
 wings its flight — it matters not to me what 
 they do with his remains. 
 
 Cover his head with a clod or a stone, 
 It is all one — it is all one ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^t |3oiiifr of ^^mpat^^. 123 
 
 LETTER LVII. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 THE longer I live, and the 
 more I see the misery of life — the more my 
 desire of living is extinguished. What I for- 
 merly esteemed trifles, and would not deign 
 to term misfortunes, now appear with a for- 
 midable aspect — though I once thought 
 them harmless, and innoxious to my peace, 
 they assume new terrours every day. — But 
 is not this observation general .? It is — It is 
 thus every son of human nature, gradually 
 wishes for death, and neglects to seek for, 
 and improve those comforts, which by dili- 
 gent search there is a possibility of attaining. 
 
 AM 
 
124 ^IJf potocr of ^^mpattiy. 
 
 AM I to reason from analogy ? I know 
 what has been — the afflictions I have felt; 
 but what is the prospect before me ? The 
 path is darkened by mists — 
 
 Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errours — 
 
 WHO is there hardy enough to try difficul- 
 ties ? Is not the view horrible ! My pains 
 and anxieties have been severe — those 
 which, if I live, I shall suffer, may be yet 
 more so — This idea sinks me to despair. 
 
 AS a thing becomes irksome to us, our de- 
 testation is always increased — Whatever 
 object is disagreeable, we pine and sicken 
 until it is moved out of sight. Life growing 
 upon one in this manner — increasing in hor- 
 rour — with continual apprehension of death 
 — a certainty of surviving every enjoyment, 
 and no prospect of being delivered from sus- 
 pense — it is intolerable — he will assuredly 
 be tempted to terminate the business with 
 
 his own hand. 
 
 LETTER 
 
tf)t potoer of ^rmpatl)?. 1 2 5 
 
 LETTER LVIII. 
 
 Worthy to Harrington. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 YOU argue as if your reason 
 were perverted — Let your mind be em- 
 ployed, and time will wear out these gloomy 
 ideas ; for it is certainly a truth, the love of 
 life increases with age — Your letters, there- 
 fore, are predicated on the most erroneous 
 principles. 
 
 REMEMBER the story of the old man, 
 who had been buried in a dungeon the greater 
 part of his life, and who 'was liberated at an 
 advanced age. He viewed, once more, the 
 
 light 
 
126 ®l)e polnei: of S>^mpatl)^. 
 
 light of the sun, and the habitations of men — 
 he had come into a new order of beings, but 
 found their manners distasteful — In the 
 midst of the sunshine of the world he remem- 
 bered the prison, where he had wasted his 
 life, and he sighed to be again immured 
 within its walls. 
 
 SUCH is our passion for life ; we love it 
 because we know it; and our attachment be- 
 comes the more riveted, the longer we are 
 acquainted with it — Our prison grows 
 familiar — we contemplate its horrours — but 
 however gloomy the walls that surround us, 
 there is not one but sets a full value on his 
 dreary existence — there is not one but finds 
 his partiality for his dungeon increase, in pro- 
 portion to the time he hath occupied it — for 
 among the race of human beings confined to 
 this narrow spot — how few are they who are 
 hardy enough to break their prison ? 
 
 LET 
 
tl^t jQotoer of ^^mpatl)^. 127 
 
 LET us watch over all we do with an eye 
 of scrutiny — the world will not examine the 
 causes that gave birth to our actions — they 
 do not weigh the motives of them' — they do 
 not consider those things which influence our 
 conduct — but as that conduct is more or less 
 advantageous to society, they deem it mad- 
 ness or wisdom, or folly or prudence — Re- 
 member this — 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
128 t^t ^oiiaet of S)Bmpatl)?, 
 
 LETTER LIX. 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 YOU are egregiously mistaken, 
 argue as you will. — My perceptions are as 
 clear as any one's — The burden that is at 
 first heavy and inconvenient, galls us as we 
 proceed — it soon becomes intolerable, we 
 sink under its weight, and lie gasping in the 
 publick way long before night. 
 
 AS to the world — who strives to please 
 it, will be deservedly rewarded — ;he will reap 
 his labour for his pains — Let it judge of my 
 conduct. I despise its opinion — Independency 
 of spirit is my motto— I think for myself. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)e fototr of ^^mpatl)^. 129 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 HOW vain is the wish that 
 sighs for the enjoyment of worldly happiness. 
 Our imagination dresses up a phamton to 
 impose on our reason : As Pygmalion loved 
 the work of his own hand — so do we fall in 
 love with the offspring of our brain. But 
 our work illudes our embrace — we find no 
 substance in it -and then fall a-weeping 
 and complain of disappointment. Miserable 
 reasoners are we all. 
 
 WHY should I mourn the the loss of Har- 
 riot 
 
1 30 t^t ^oinet of ^^mpat^ip. 
 
 rio^ any longer ? Such is my situation — in 
 the midst of anxiety and distress, I com- 
 plain of what cannot be remedied. — 1 lament 
 the loss of that which is irretrievable : So on 
 the sea-beat shore, the hopeless maid, unmind- 
 ful of the storm, bewails her drowned lover. 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)t |0otoei: of ^^mpatl)?. 1 3 1 
 
 LETTER LXI. 
 
 Worthy to Harrington. 
 
 Bellevtew. 
 
 I THANK you for your letters, 
 but I wish you had something better for the 
 subje.ct of them — the sad repetition of your 
 feelings and sorrows, pains me exceedingly — 
 I promise to be with you soon — perhaps be- 
 fore you can receive this letter. 
 
 WHATEVER concerns my friend, most 
 sensibly affects me — You, Harrington^ are 
 the friend of my heart, and nothing has so 
 much grieved me as the story of your mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 IT 
 
132 tE'\)e poiotv of ^^mpatlj^. 
 
 IT is a maxim well received, and seems to 
 be admitted an article in the moral creed of 
 mankind, " that the enjoyments of life do not 
 compensate the miseries." Since, then, we 
 are born to suffer, and pain must attend us 
 in all the stages of our journey, let us philoso- 
 phically welcome our companion. The most 
 eligible plan we can adopt, is to be contented 
 in the condition that Providence hath as- 
 signed us. Let us trust that our burden will 
 not be heavier than we can bear — When we 
 adopt this plan, and are sensible we have 
 this trust, our lesson is Complete — we have 
 learned all — we are arrived to the perfection 
 of sublunary happiness. 
 
 DO not think I am preaching to you a 
 mere sermon of morality — let me impress 
 your mind with the folly of repining, and the 
 blessing of a contented mind. 
 
 LET me intreat you not to puzzle your 
 
 brain 
 
t^t ^omt of §)^mpatt)s. 133 
 
 brain with vain speculations — if you are dis- 
 posed to argue, do not put foolish cases that 
 never existed — take the light of facts, and 
 reason from them. 
 
 WHEN we are surrounded with miseries 
 of life — the baseness of false friends — the 
 malice of enemies — when we are inveloped 
 in those anxious fears, the result of too much 
 sensibility, human nature feels a degree of 
 oppression, which, without a manly exertion 
 of reason and 'this practical philosophy, 
 would be intolerable. I have heard you men- 
 tion St. Evremond as a philosopher of this 
 kind. Arm yourself with his prudence and 
 fortitude — he, though in exile — though re- 
 duced, almost to penury, and labouring under 
 the disadvantages of a bad constitution, lived 
 to be a very old man ; he established a course 
 of rational pleasures — for when the mind is 
 employed, we regret the loss of time — we 
 become avaricious of life. 
 
 WHEN 
 
134 ^l)f potoer of ^^mpatl)^, 
 
 WHEN misfortunes come upon us without 
 these consolations, it is hard, I acknowledge, 
 to buffet the storm — it is then human frailty 
 is most apparent — there is nothing left to 
 hope — Reason is taken from the helm of 
 life — and Nature — helpless, debilitated 
 Nature — lost to herself, and every social 
 duty, splits upon the rocks of despair and 
 suicide. We have seen several examples of 
 this — By exploring and therefore shunning 
 the causes, let us avoid the catastrophe. 
 
 THE pensive and melancholy will muse 
 over the ordinary accidents of life, and swell 
 them, by the power of imagination, to the heav- 
 iest calamities. Hence we find a treacherous 
 friend will sensibly affect some men, and a 
 capricious mistress will destroy a real lover : 
 Hence people in misfortune frequently con- 
 strue the slightest inattention into neglect 
 and insult, and deem their best friends false 
 
 and 
 
t^t potoer of ^^mpatlip. 1 3 5 
 
 and ungrateful. The sting of ingratitude, 
 deeply pierces the heart of sensibility. 
 
 THE passions and affections which govern 
 mankind are very inconsistent. Men, con- 
 fined to the humble walks of life, sigh for the 
 enjoyment of wealth and power, which, when 
 obtained, become loathsome — The mind un- 
 accustomed to such easy situation, is discon- 
 tented, and longs to be employed in those 
 things in which it was formerly exercised. 
 
 THE greatest rulers and potentates become 
 unhappy — they wish for the. charms of soli- 
 tude and retirement, which, when attained, 
 become more irksome than their former con- 
 dition — Charles the Fifth, of Spain, resolved 
 to taste the pleasures of a recluse life, by ab- 
 dicating the "throne — he soon found his im- 
 agination had deceived him, and -repented of 
 the step he had taken. This lazy life, when 
 
 compared 
 
136 &)t poioer of ^ympatl)^, 
 
 compared to the business and grandeur of a 
 court, became tasteless and insipid. — " The 
 day," says a historian, " he resigned his crown 
 to his son, was the very day in which he re- 
 pented making him such a present." 
 
 \ IT is a great art to learn to be happy tin the 
 \ state in which we are placed — I advise you 
 to mingle in the concerns of your acquain- 
 tances — be cheerful and undisturbed, nor 
 give yourself up to those gloomy ideas which 
 lend only to make you more wretched — If 
 such obtrude themselves, avoid being alone — 
 I had rather been a dupe to my imagination 
 than sacrifice an hour's calmness to my sensi- 
 bility or understanding. Determine to be 
 happy, and you will be so — 
 
 God be with you ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
&)t potocr of ^^mpatl)^. 137 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 WHEN we seek for diversion 
 in any place, and there is nothing to be found 
 that we wish, it is certainly time to depart. 
 
 TOMORROW I go— There is nothing 
 here that can calm the tumult of my soul — I 
 fly from the sight of the human countenance 
 ^ I fly from the face of day — I fly from 
 books — Books that could always ch^er me in 
 a melancholy moment, are now terrifying — 
 They recall scenes to my recollection that are 
 past - — pleasant scenes that I am never more 
 
 to 
 
138 tE^lje ipotuec of ^rmpatlj?. 
 
 to enjoy. They present pictures of futurity 
 — I just opened a book, and these words that 
 I read: — "The time of my fading is near, 
 and the blast that shall scatter my leaves. 
 Tomorrow shall the traveller come, he that 
 saw me in my beauty shall come ; his eyes 
 shall search the field, but they will not find 
 me." 
 
 THESE words pierce me to the quick — 
 they are a dismal prospect of my approaching 
 fate. 
 
 ' TOMORROW I shall go — But oh! 
 whither .'' — 
 
 O ! MY friend, when we find nothing we 
 desire in this world, it is time to depart. To 
 live is a disgrace — to die is a duty. 
 
 Farewel . 
 
 LETTER 
 
t\)e |0otDcr of ^^mpat^^. 139 
 
 * LETTER LXIII. 
 
 V 
 
 Worthy to Mrs. Hohnes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 I ARRIVED in town last eve- 
 ning — you desire rpe to write you a state- 
 ment of affairs as I should find them here — 
 and of my marriage with the amiable Myra — 
 I promised to obey — but how little do we 
 know of the termination or consequences of 
 the most probable event ! 
 
 I SAW my beloved — her eyes were yet 
 heavy and smarting with weeping for the 
 death of Harriot — and this, once the house 
 of joy and cheerfulness, is turned into the 
 
 house 
 
I40 t\)t potocr of ^^mpatljy. 
 
 house of mourning. My unfortunate friend 
 had just then fallen into a calm sleep, and it 
 was impossible to see him ^ it was what I 
 very much desired — but it was the wish of 
 the family that I should desist for the present 
 — he had not slept the evening before — he 
 had been heard walking across his chamber 
 all the night, with little intermission, often- 
 times talking to himself in a passionate tone 
 of voice. 
 
 THIS melancholy account deeply affected 
 me — and I parted from my beloved, praying 
 Heaven to give her consolation, and to be 
 the support of my disordered friend. 
 
 IT is with difficulty I bring myself to the 
 serious and the painful employment of being 
 the informer of unwelcome tidings — my heart 
 feels the wound — vainly it tells me my friend 
 is no more — my hand reluctantly traces — 
 my friend — my Harrington is no more. 
 
 EARLY 
 
Z))t l^oiotv of ^^mpatt)^, 141 
 
 EARLY thismdrhing I was surprised with 
 a visit, from a gentleman, whom I had form- 
 erly seen at Myrds — it was the same neigh- 
 bour who informed Harrington of his affinity 
 to Harriot — he found a difficulty in his 
 utterance — he told me, with trembling lips, 
 my young friend Harrington was dead — 
 " He has killed himself," said I — he asked 
 me if I had heard the news — I told him my 
 heart presaged it. 
 
 WHEN any uncommon event happens to 
 us, we often have a presentiment of it — The 
 circumstances of his death are these : — At 
 midnight the gentleman heard the report of 
 the pistol, and went into the house — he 
 found the unhappy youth wheltering in his 
 blood — few signs of life remained — the ball 
 had entered his brain — the surgeon came, 
 but in a few hours he was cold. A few 
 friends were requested to attend — and this 
 
 gentleman 
 
142 tf)t ^otDcr of §>)?mpatl)^. 
 
 gentleman had called upon me, by desire of 
 Myra. 
 
 IT is impossible to describe the distress of 
 the family and connexions — I shall leave it 
 to your imagination. 
 
 A LETTER that he had written for me, 
 laid unsealed upon the table, and The Sorrows 
 of Werter was found lying by his side. I 
 send you the letter — it appears to have been 
 written at intervals, and expresses the dis- 
 order and agitation of his mind. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
t^t ^oiatt of ^^mpatl)^. 143 
 
 LETTER LXIV. 
 
 Harrington to Worthy. 
 
 HARRIOT is dead --and the 
 world to me is a dreary desert — I prepare to 
 leave it^ the fatal pistol is charged — it lies 
 on the table by me, ready to perform its duty 
 — but that duty is delayed till I take my last 
 farewel of the best of friends. 
 
 YOUR letter is written with the impetu- 
 osity of an honest heart ; it expresses great 
 sincerity and tenderness. 
 
 I THANK you for all your good advice — 
 it comes too late — O Worthy ! she is dead — 
 she is gone — never to return, never again 
 to cheer my heart with her smiles and her 
 
 amiable 
 
144 ®l)^ poiDcr of ^^mpatlji?. 
 
 amiable manners — her image is always be- 
 fore me — and can I forget her ? No ! — She 
 is continually haunting my mind, impressing 
 the imagination with ideas of excellence — 
 but she is dead — all that delighted me is be- 
 come torpid — is descended into the cold 
 grave. 
 
 With thee 
 
 Certain my resolution is to die ; 
 How can I live without thee — How forego 
 Thy converse sweet, and love so dearly join'd, 
 To live again in these wild woods forlorn? 
 
 loss of thee 
 Will never from my heart — no ! no ! — I feel 
 The link of nature draw me. 
 
 From thy state 
 Mine never shall be parted, bHss or woe. 
 
 THOU hast sat out on a long journey — 
 but you shall not go alone — I hasten to 
 
 overtake 
 
^l)t potoer of g>^miJatt)s. 145 
 
 overtake thee. My resolution is not to be 
 diverted — is not to be shaken — I will not 
 be afraid — I am inexorable — 
 
 I HAVE just seen my father — he is de- 
 jected — sullen grief is fixed upon his brow — 
 he tells me I am very ill — I looked at Myra 
 
 — she wiped her face with her handkerchief 
 
 — perhaps they did not imagine this was 
 the last time they were to behold me. 
 
 SHE mentioned the name of Worthy, but 
 my thoughts were differently engaged. She 
 repeated your name, but I took no heed of it. 
 Take her, my Worthy — Myra is a good girl 
 
 — take her — comfort her. Let not my de- 
 parture interrupt your happiness — perhaps 
 it may for a short time. When the grass is 
 grown over my grave, lead her to it, in your 
 pensive walks — point to the spot where my 
 ashes are deposited — drop one tear on the,. 
 
 remembrance 
 
146 W\)t potoer of ^^mpatl)^. 
 
 remembrance of a friend, of a brother — but 
 I cannot allow you to be grieved — grieve 
 for me ! Wretch that I am — why do I delay — 
 
 I WISH I could be buried by the side of 
 her, then should the passenger who knows 
 the history of our unfortunate loves, say — 
 " Here lies Harrington and his Harriot — in 
 their lives they loved, but were unhappy — in 
 death they sleep undivided." — Guardian 
 spirits will protect the tomb which conceals 
 her body — the body where every virtue 
 delighted to inhabit. — 
 
 DO not judge too rashly of my conduct — 
 let me pray you to be candid, — I have taken 
 advantage of a quiet moment, and written an 
 Epitaph — If my body were laid by her's, the 
 inscription would be pertinent. Let no one 
 concerned be offended at the. moral I" havfi 
 chosen to draw from our unfortunate story. 
 
 MY 
 
Z^e ^olaott of ^ympatlj^. 147 
 
 MY heart sinks within me — the instru- 
 ment of death is before me — farewel ! f are- 
 wel! — My soul sighs to be freed from its 
 confinement — Eternal Father! accept my 
 spirit — Let the tears of sorrow blot out my 
 guilt from the book of thy wrath. 
 
 LETTER 
 
148 tift l^otorr of ^^mpntfys. 
 
 LETTER LXV. 
 Worthy to Mrs. Holmes. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 WE have surmounted the per- 
 formance of the last scene of our tragedy, 
 with less difficulty and distress than I imag- 
 ined. Great numbers crowded to see the 
 body of poor Harrington; they were im- 
 pressed with various emotions, for their sym- 
 pathizing sorrow could not be concealed — 
 Indeed a man without sensibility exhibits no 
 sign of a soul. I was struck with admiration 
 at the observations of the populace, and the 
 justness of the character they drew of the de- 
 ceased, " Alas ! " said one — '- poor youth thou 
 
 art 
 
Z\)t |0otQcr of ^^mpatl)^. 149 
 
 art gone. Thou wast of a promising genius, 
 of violent passions, thou wast possessed of a 
 too nice sensibility, and a dread of shame. It 
 Is only such an one who would take the 
 trouble to kill himself. Ah ! poor well na- 
 tured, warm hearted, hot headed youth — how 
 my heart bleeds for you ! We consider thee 
 as the dupe of Nature, and the sacrifice of 
 Seduction." The old father hears this, and 
 becomes overwhelmed with shame and 
 sorrow. 
 
 THE jury which sat upon the body of our 
 friend, after mature consideration, brought in 
 their verdict Suicide. The rigour of the law 
 was not executed -^ the body was privately 
 taken away, and I saw it deposited by the 
 side of his faithful Harriot. 
 
 I SEND you inclosed a copy of the Monu- 
 mental Inscription, as written by Harrington. 
 
 I found 
 
I50 tl^e poSder of g>^mpat^r« 
 
 I found it with many loose papers. It con- 
 tains the story of our unfortunate friends, and 
 a profitable moral is deduced from it. 
 
 THOUGH a few weeks begin to spread 
 calm over our passions, yet the recollection of 
 our misfortunes will sometimes cause a mo- 
 mentary agitation, as the ocean retains its 
 swell, after the storms subsides. 
 
 Adieu! 
 
 sponumental 31nsicrt)ptton, 
 
 THOU who shalt wander o'er these humble plains, 
 Where one kind grave their hapless dust contains, 
 O pass not on — if merit claim a tear. 
 Or dying virtue cause a sigh sincere. 
 Here rest their heads, consign'd to parent earth. 
 Who to one common father ow'd their birth ; 
 Unknown this union — Nature still presides, 
 And Sympathy unites, whom Fate divides. 
 
 They 
 
tift IBofcoer of ^^mpatt)^. 151 
 
 They see — they love — but heav'n their passion, tries, 
 
 Their love sustains it. but their mortal dies. 
 
 Stranger ! contemplate well before you part, 
 
 And take this serious counsel to thy heart : 
 
 Does some fair female of unspotted fame, 
 
 Salute thee, smiling, with a father's name, 
 
 Bid her detest the fell Seducer's wiles, ■" 
 
 Who smiles to win — and murders as he smiles. 
 
 If ever wandering near this dark recess. 
 
 Where guardian spirits round the ether press , 
 
 Where, on their urn, celestial care descends, 
 
 Two lovers come, whom fair success attends. 
 
 O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, 
 
 And drink the falling tears each other sheds. 
 
 Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, 
 
 " O ! may we never love as these' have loved." 
 
 \Jrft^^ 
 
Notes. 
 
 For many reasons it has been thought best to reprint 
 this book exactly after the original copy, "verbatim et 
 LITERATIM ET PUNCTUATiM " ; and although the modern 
 purist may feel offended at the archaisms of orthography, 
 syntax and punctuation — the last of which appears to 
 have been used with rhetorical and not grammatical sig- 
 nificance — , he must content himself with the fact that art 
 would have lost all and science gained nothing by the 
 rewriting of the above pages in the diction of today. 
 
 Out of regard for the feelings of the descendants of 
 the originals of certain characters of the novel, who are 
 living today in Boston, the editor has decided to reveal 
 the identity only of those of the personae who are 
 already known, to a more or less extent, through the lit- 
 erary history of New England. Although curiosity 
 may turn away unsatisfied with the volume, yet the art 
 of it all remams through considering Harrington, father 
 and son, Maria and Harriot, and Mrs. Holmes nothing 
 more than types and not as individuals whose true bi- 
 ographies are written. ^ 
 
 Vol. I, page 83, begins the story of " Martin " and 
 " Ophelia," the real characters of which were recognized 
 
 at 
 
154 Notes. 
 
 at the time to be Mr. Perez Morton an(f)his young 
 sister-inrlaw, Theodosia Francis Apthorp. In comment- 
 ing on this fact in the book, Sabin writes in his " Books 
 relating to America" (Vol. xv, Page 377) " This work 
 created quite a sensation, and was suppressed by inter- 
 ested parties. The names of Fanny Apthorp and 
 Perez Morton are not yet forgotten as connected with 
 the matter." 
 
 Perez Morton was born at Plymouth, Nov. 13, 175 1. 
 His father settled at Boston, and was keeper of the 
 White Horse Tavern, opposite Hayward-place, and died 
 in 1793. The Son entered the Boston Latin School in 
 1760, and graduated at Harvard College in 1771, when 
 he studied law ; but the revolutionary war prevented his 
 engaging in the practice, and he took an active part in 
 the cause of freedom. In 1775 he was one of the 
 Committee of Safety, and in the same year became 
 deputy-secretary of the province. After the war, he 
 opened an office as an attorney at law, at his residence 
 in State-street, on the present site of the Union Bank. 
 
 In 1777 he married Sarah Wentworth Apthorp, at 
 Quincy, noted by Paine as the American Sappho. Mr. 
 Morton was a leader of the old Jacobin Club, which held 
 meetings at the Green Dragon Tavern, and became a 
 decided Democrat. A political poet of Boston thus 
 satirizes Perez Morton : 
 
 " Perez, thou art in earnest, though some doubt thee ! 
 In truth, the Club could never do without thee ! 
 My reasons thus I give thee in a trice,— 
 You want their votes, and they want your advice ! 
 
 "Thy 
 
Notes. 155 
 
 " Thy tongue, shrewd Perez, favoring ears insures, — 
 The cash elicits, and the vote secures. 
 Thus the fat oyster, as the poet tells, 
 The lawyer ate, — his clients gained the shells." 
 
 Mr. Morton was Speaker of the House from 1806 
 to 1811, and was attorney-general from 1810 to 1832; 
 was a delegate from Dordhester to the convention for 
 revising the State constitution, in 1820, and was vigo- 
 rous in general debate. He died at Dorchester, Oct. 
 14, 1837. He was an ardent patriot,, an eloquent 
 speaker, of an elegant figure and polished manners. 
 
 This Mansion, (the home of " Worthy," later the city 
 residence of Mr. Perez Morton) as enlarged and embell- 
 ished by its honoured proprietor, the late Charles Ap- 
 thorp, Esq. was then, that is, about the middle of the 
 Eighteenth Century, said to be the scene of every ele- 
 gance, and the abode of every virtue. Now, (1823) its 
 beautiful hall of entrance, arches, sculpture, and base- 
 relief ; the grandstair-case, and its highly finished saloon, 
 have been removed, or partitioned off, to accommodate 
 the bank and its dependencies. 
 
 Thomas Wentworth Earl of Strafford, the Minister, 
 and favourite of Charles the First, sacrificed by that 
 Monarch to his own personal safety -— was beheaded 
 near the end of the reign. Charles, in his last moments, 
 declared that he suffered justly for having given up the 
 Earl of Strafford to popular fury. 
 
 The near Relations of this Nobleman were the 
 founders of the American Family of Wentworth. This 
 
 family 
 
156 Notes. 
 
 family being presumptive heirs to the now extinct Title 
 of that Earldom of Strafford. 
 
 These were Henry and Samuel Wentworth, the ma- 
 ternal uncles of the Author, both perished before they 
 had attained the age of twenty. The first, on a northern 
 voyage of curiosity and improvement, was entangled 
 amid floating masses of ice,. and in that situation ex- 
 pired along with the whole ship's company, passengers 
 and seamen. 
 
 His young brother, Samuel Wentworth, having been 
 invited to England by his noble relatives, was under the 
 patronage of those, admitted as student at the Temple ; 
 at which period he first met Miss Lane, the object of 
 his honourable passion, and the cause of his fatal mis- 
 fortune, the daughter of a great commercial house of 
 that period. Her large inheritance, by her father's will, 
 made dependent on the pleasure of her mercantile 
 brother, to the aristocracy of whose wealth, young Went- 
 worth could only oppose nobility of birth, accomplish- 
 ment of mind and beauty of person, possessions which 
 tl'je man of commerce held as nothing, compared with 
 the superior treasures of monied interest. 
 
 Consequently the love was prohibited, and the 
 lover banished from his mistress ; who though closely 
 imprisoned in her own apartment, found means to pre- 
 serve an epistolary connection. The correspondence 
 encreasing the enthusiasm of restricted passion, until 
 every possible hope of their union being extinguished, 
 a deadly vial was obtained, and the contents, equally 
 divided, were at one desperate moment swallowed by 
 both. Their last desire, of being buried in the same 
 grave, was denied. 
 
 These 
 
Notes. 157 
 
 These frantic and too affectionate lovers, finisfied the 
 short career of their miseries on the birth day of Went- 
 worth, being that which completed the nineteeth year of 
 his age. And it is riot irrelevant to add, that the 
 brother of the lady lived to lose his immense posses- 
 sions, and died desolate and distressed ; at which 
 period, we trust, repentance came, and forgiveness was 
 awarded. 
 
 John, the founder of the transatlantic race of Ap- 
 thorp, was a man of taste and talent in the Fine Arts ; , 
 particularly those of Painting and Architecture. A 
 taste and talent, which has in some instance been trans- 
 mitted to his descendants even of the iifth generation. 
 
 An ardent imagination, and an ambitious desire of 
 mental improvement, led him fr©m his native country of 
 Wales. And in England, he saw, loved, and married, 
 Miss Ward, a celebrated beauty, with a large fortune, 
 whose Portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, yet remains with her 
 descendant. This portrait is distinguished by the long 
 dark eyes, which that artist preferred and made fashion- 
 able. 
 
 The qualities of both parents live, and are conspic- 
 uous in some of their descendants. A highly respect- 
 able individual of these, whose superiority of mind may 
 possibly disdain such recollections, was, in his minority, 
 so transcendantly handsome, that upon a Tour through 
 the Southern States, he was generally designated " The 
 Eastern Angel." As he now is, the Genius of Canova 
 might design that form as a model for the sublime 
 
 statue of melancholy, since his fortunes have fallen 
 
 like those of his race — a voluntary sacrifice to the best 
 
 sentiments. 
 
158 Notes. 
 
 sentiments, and the noblest feelings of humanity, while 
 domestic bereavements coming yet nearer to his gracious 
 heart have left it the prey of sorrow. 
 
 Charles Bulfinch, Esq. of Washington, at this 
 time (1823,) the National Architect, is one more evidence 
 of the inestimable happmess of a good descent. 
 
 The present Stone Chapel (corner of School and 
 Tremont Streets) — >originally the King's Chapel — 
 founded by Royalty, was finished by the generosity of 
 individuals. Charles Apthorp, Esq. the son of John, gave 
 5 cool, sterling, a very large sum for the Provinces at that 
 period, about the middle of the eighteenth century. 
 
 His Marble Monument with a very fine Latin Inscrip- 
 tion, by his Son, still remains in the Chapel, which 
 Monument covers the Tomb of the truly noble-minded 
 race of Apthorp. 
 
 How erst the shield, whose crested pride. 
 
 The Crest, if not the whole Armorial Bearing, is 
 thought or said to have been conferred upon the Battle 
 Field by Richard. 
 
 The shield of the Apthorp arms, which bearing a 
 mullet or spur, in heraldry, with truly Welsh prepos- 
 session, the family were fondly, perhaps foolishly, wont 
 to trace back to the Crusades. 
 
 Belleview was undoubtedly the Apthorp homestead 
 at Quincy where Mrs. Morton passed her youth. 
 
 In 
 
Notes. 159 
 
 In the Rev. Mr. Holmes, Quincy antiquarians will 
 readily recognize the Rev. Dr. Greenleaf, whose religious 
 and philosophical teachings undoubtedly had great in- 
 fluence on the author who was to come so near being 
 his biographer. 
 
 \The above notes are compiled principally from 
 "My Mind AND Its Thoughts." — a book referred 
 to in the Introduction^