Unhappy, she wandered about
the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her
aching heart; she became more intimate with misery—the misery that rises from
poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the
vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind.
One evening a man who stood
weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She
accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying,
and his children crying for the bread he could not earn.
Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and
was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of
luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with
cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering;
and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked
up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and
reverberated along the former scene of festivity.
It was crowded with
inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or
singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had
sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a
woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes
were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and
covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the
charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their
yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through
the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the
bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor
wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was
dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want.
Their state did not require
much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care
of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop
not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the
woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction.
She visited them every day,
and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began
to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw
her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she
did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such
an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but
the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled
his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the
crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she
slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were
intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse.
For some time she had
observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her
favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as
did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto
supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she
ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with
abuse.
Two months were elapsed; she
had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick—nay,
perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary,
and all the people ungrateful.
She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her
book another fragment:
"Surely life is a dream,
a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed
images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer
like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is
true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions—short-lived
delight!—ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my
present misery—yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain—why
dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why
do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the
madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe.
"Oh! reason,
thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy
assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the
death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,—a sadness
surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy—I could wish
for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes
illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now it visits not my haunts forlorn.
Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude;
from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth.
"When overwhelmed by
sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to
have pity on me; but found none!—The healing balm of
sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my
cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often
chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou
ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep,
to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which
corrode her small portion of comfort!"
She could not write any more;
she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread
itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to
fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money
to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture
for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her
husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and
see their new abode when she was able to go out.