When the
weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the
ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of
the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other
times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing
historical paintings.
One of these
visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as
the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and
talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn.
Mary did not fix on one—when Henry, with more apparent
warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with
the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your
friend."
This
delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She
then recollected that she had once sat for her picture—for whom
was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly
did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away—given in with an
estate.
As Mary
again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were
employed about the objects around her.
She visited
several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to
give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw
that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall
from the lips without purifying the heart.
They who imagine they can be religious without
governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense,
must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from
selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness
went about doing good. Wrapped up in
themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of
intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts
were fixed:
Such as
obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or
laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish
creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the
appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend
to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations?
In these
abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them
for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which
determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will
never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born
affections of the heart.
She will
find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by
disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the
heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no
specific.
The
community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private
distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things
with her.
The exercise
of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she
was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning.