―364―To the Editor of the Weekly Magazine.
Sir,THE series of original letters, enclo-
sed, came by chance into my possession.
I send them to you with permission to
publish them, though without the con-
currence of the writers. Their consent
I have reason to believe would be given
if it were asked; but the distance of their
present abode, rendering that impossible,
we must dispense with it. The only
liberty I have taken is to substitute, in
some cases, fictitious for real names.
LETTER I.
to mary d——.
March 3, 1794.
I HOPE compliance with our mu-
tual promise will be as easy to
you as to me. I should find no task
more difficult than silence. You are
my sister, and not only the nearest,
but the only relation I have in the
world. Should we desert each other,
we should be desolate indeed.
The first question you will ask me,
will be, how I like my situation? I
have a great deal to say to you on
that subject, but I am half afraid to
say it. I do not, in the first place,
approve of my feelings; and secondly,
if they received my own approba-
tion, I am pretty sure they would
not obtain yours. What end can
they serve but to render you uneasy?
my melancholy is wrong, for my own
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sake; but it is likewise wrong for
yours. The story of my growing
regrets and fantastic wishes will
only deepen the gloom of your soli-
tude, which, I dare say, is too deep
already. Yet, perhaps, you would
desire me to give loose to my feel-
ings, if you knew how much my
anxieties are lessened by the mere
act of expressing them: A mysterious
circumstance that in the constitution
of our minds, that we should derive
pleasure from complaining!
I have much to say concerning
myself, and yet the short time that I
have passed in my new situation
hardly enables me to pronounce any
thing positive concerning it. On
Sunday morning, I bade you fare-
well, as the stage-boat was preparing
to leave the wharf. I was to go,
next morning, for the first time, to
Beckwith's, and was to dine at my
new lodgings. You may judge how
much a novice, such as I, must have
been affected by these incidents. To
part with you, from whom I had
hitherto been inseparable; to become
a member of a new family, every one
of which were strangers; and to enter
on a new course of life with Mr.
Beckwith: I who had passed my life
in so much tranquil luxury and liber-
ty, under the fostering wing of our
lamented parent—it was childish;
and I blush at mentioning it; but I
will confess to you that I shut myself
the whole morning in my chamber,
and wept almost without intermission.
It was proper that the fit should
thus exhaust itself: Insensibly I
found myself becoming cheerful, and
before evening had gained a tolerable
degree of composure. Mrs. Willet
was kind and considerate. She seemed
to penetrate my thoughts and was
desirous, by all the means in her
power, to make her house a pleasant
abode to me. My sensations were,
at first, embarrassing and awkward;
but I have now pretty well got over
them.
My companions are an usher at
a neighbouring school, a clerk in the
treasury, and Willet, Mrs. Willet's
son, who, you know, is a decent per-
son and a taylor of considerable note.
They treat me with great civility, and
my deportment may be said to be
polite towards them. Yet I am con-
scious to motives and reflections
which are very improper. You will
hardly believe, unless, from the simi-
larity of our circumstances, you may
have imbibed the same errors, that
when I look upon my companions,
contempt inevitably arises in my
heart. It does not shew itself, I am
confident, upon my brow. I feel
contempt, but a variety of causes
hinder me from looking scornfully.
My pride is culpable and foolish. I
am convinced of this, the same mo-
ment, as it were, in which that cul-
pable pride operates with all its force.
I despise myself for despising others.
One sentiment is in proportion to the
other, and they seem to occupy my
mind at the self same moment.
Though I cannot hinder this con-
tempt from possessing my thoughts,
I am able to exclude it from my
countenance. It makes me silent
and reserved, but they impute this to
the novelty of my situation, and to
the recluseness of my former life.
I often ask myself why I despise
these people? In what respect am I
entitled to look down upon them?
It is true, they are less knowing;
they have read, written, and reflected
less than I have; but this is not the
cause of my scorn. I imagine that
I see the full extent of their igno-
rance; but it offers itself merely as a
subject of compassion. I see how it
was that they became thus illiterate
and gross: I regard their condition,
in this respect, not as a crime but as
a misfortune. What kind of inferi-
ority, then, is it that awakens my
contempt? It lies in their profession.
An usher! a clerk! a taylor! When-
ever these images occur, some emo-
tion of contempt is sure to bear them
company. I analyze these thoughts:
I exclaim, What is there in these
professions worthy of contempt? Is
―366―
it dishonourable to labour for our own
subsistence? Who am I that dare to
plume myself upon my rank? My
father had just enough to enable him
to live comfortably without labour:
I have not enough for this purpose;
but my destiny has given me a liberal
profession. I am a student of law,
whereas they are servile mechanics.
It is impossible that I should see
the weakness of this pride with per-
fect accuracy; for in that case, would
not the passion be extinguished? I
can reason against it; I can heartily
condemn it in another; I am not con-
scious of duplicity; and yet, of this
very pride am I the slave.
I am not philosopher enough to
account for the origin of these
notions. They must have arisen from
what I have seen or what I have
read. I am persuaded that our father
committed an error when he put into
our hands the “Theatre of Educa-
tion, by Madame de Genlis.” I was
going to make the same remark with
respect to that other collection of
juvenile dramas, “The Children's
Friend,” but, perhaps, the remark
was inconsiderately made. If they
did not instil into me the prejudice of
birth and rank, they fostered it. They
taught me to make very fallacious
distinctions between those who inhe-
rit, and those who acquire by their
own efforts, the means of living; or
they tended to confirm these distinc-
tions when previously made. In this
respect their influence was hurtful;
but the good which I derived from
them, of a different kind, amply com-
pensated, perhaps, for this evil.
At present, I have not time to
write as much as I wish. Your soli-
citude to know how I like my ser-
vice, (if I must call it by that name,
and, since I am tied by an indenture,
it deserves no better,) I can easily
guess; but I am under the necessity
of stopping here. I shall write regu-
larly by Mostyn, and expect that you
will write with equal punctuality. In
this busy and populous place, I am
more alone than if I were in a
wilderness. In going to, and return-
ing from the office, I purposely take
the longer way about, in order to
avoid our old habitation. Alas!
the happy days that we spent there
are destined never to return. Adieu.
h.d. |
[To be continued.]